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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Art, and Science.
Vol. V.--NEW-YORK, MARCH 1, 1852--No. III.
[Illustration]
THE AZTECS AT THE SOCIETY LIBRARY.
For several weeks the attention of the curious has been more and more
attracted to a remarkable ethnological exhibition at the Society
Library. Two persons, scarcely larger than the fabled gentlemen of
Lilliput, (though one is twelve or thirteen and the other eighteen years
of age), of just and even elegant proportions, and physiognomies
striking and peculiar, but not deficient in intellect or refinement,
have been visited by throngs of idlers in quest of amusement,
wonder-seekers, and the profoundest inquirers into human history. Until
very recently, Mexico was properly described as _Terra Incognita_. The
remains of nations are there shrouded in oblivion, and cities, in their
time surpassing Tadmor and Thebes, untrodden except by the jaguar and
the ocelot. A few persons, indeed, attracted by uncertain rumors of
ancient grandeur in Palenque, have visited her temples and tombs--
There to track
Fallen states and empires o'er a land
Which was the mightiest in her high command,
And is the loveliest--
but no one has been found to read the hieroglyphics of Tolteca, to
disclose the history of the dwellers in Anahuac, to make known the
annals of the rise and fall of Tlascala, Otumba, Copan, or Papantla. In
the great work of Lord Kingsborough are collected many important remains
of Mexican and Aztec art and learning; Mr. Prescott has combined with a
masterly hand the traditions of the country; and Mr. Stevens and Mr.
Squier have done much in the last few years to render us familiar with
the more accessible and probably most significant ruins which illustrate
the civilization of the race subdued by the Spaniards; but still Central
America is unexplored. In the second volume of the work of Mr. Stevens,
he mentions that a Roman Catholic priest of Santa Cruz del Quiche told
him marvellous stories of a "large city, with turrets white and
glittering in the sun," beyond the Cordilleras, where a people still
existed in the condition of the subjects of Montezuma. He proceeds:
"The interest awakened in us, was the most thrilling I ever
experienced. One look at that city, was worth ten years of an
every-day life. If he is right, a place is left where Indians
and a city exist, as Cortez and Alvarado found them; there are
living men who can solve the mystery that hangs over the ruined
cities of America; who can, perhaps, go to Copan and read the
inscription on its monuments. No subject more exciting and
attractive presents itself to any mind, and the deep impression
in my mind will never be effaced. Can it be true? Being now in
my sober senses, I do verily believe there is much ground to
suppose that what the Padre told us is authentic. That the
region referred to does not acknowledge the government of
Gautamala, and has never been explored, and that no white man
has ever pretended to have entered it; I am satisfied. From
other sources we heard that a large _ruined_ city was visible;
and we were told of another person who had climbed to the top
of the sierra, but on account of the dense clouds rising upon
it, he had not been able to see any thing. At all events, the
belief at the village of Chajul is general, and a curiosity is
aroused that burns to be satisfied. We had a craving desire to
reach the mysterious city. No man if so willing to peril his
life, could undertake the enterprise, with any hope of success,
without hovering for one or two years on the borders of the
country, studying the language and character of the adjoining
Indians, and making acquaintance with some of the natives. Five
hundred men could probably march directly to the city, and the
invasion would be more justifiable than any made by Spaniards;
but the government is too much occupied with its own wars, and
the knowledge could not be procured except at the price of
blood. Two young men of good constitution, and who could afford
to spend five years, might succeed. If the object of search
prove a phantom, in the wild scenes of a new and unexplored
country, there are other objects of interest; but, if real,
besides the glorious excitement of such a novelty, they will
have something to look back upon through life. As to the
dangers, they are always magnified, and, in general, peril is
discovered soon enough for escape. But, in all probability, if
any discovery is made, it will be made by the Padres. As for
ourselves, to attempt it alone, ignorant of the language, and
with the mozos who were a constant annoyance to us, was out of
the question. The most we thought of, was to climb to the top
of the sierra, thence to look down upon the mysterious city;
but we had difficulties enough in the road before us; it would
add ten days to a journey already almost appalling in the
perspective; for days the sierra might be covered with clouds;
in attempting too much, we might lose all; Palenque was our
great point, and we determined not to be diverted from the
course we had marked out."--_Vol. ii., p. 193-196._
Mr. Stevens appears to have had some confidence in the Padre's
statement, and expresses a belief that the race of the aboriginal
inhabitants of Central America is not extinct, but that, scattered
perhaps and retired, like our own Indians, into wildernesses which have
never been penetrated by white men--erecting buildings of "lime and
stone," "with ornaments of sculpture, and plastered," "large courts,"
and "lofty towers, with high ranges of steps," and carving on tablets of
stone mysterious hieroglyphs, there are still in secluded cities
"unconquered, unvisited, and unsought aborigines." It is stated in a
pamphlet before us, that such a city was discovered in 1849 by three
adventurous travellers, and that one of them succeeded in bringing to
New York two specimens of its diminutive and peculiar inhabitants--the
persons now being exhibited in Broadway. Of the credibility of this
account we express no opinion, but the "Aztec Children" have the
phrenological and general appearance of the ancient Mexican sculptures,
and may well be regarded for their probable origin, their physical
structure, or their mere appearance, as among the "most wonderful
specimens of humanity." We assent to the following paragraph by Mr.
Horace Greeley, whose testimony agrees with the common impressions they
have produced:
"I hate monstrosities, however remarkable, and am rather
repelled than attracted by the idea of their truthfulness.
Assuming that there is a propensity in human nature--an
'organ,' as the phrenologists would phrase it--that finds
gratification in the inspection and scrutiny of Joice Heths,
Woolly Horses, and six-legged Swine, I would rather have it
gratified by fabricated and factitious than by natural and
veritable productions, and would rather not share in the
process from which that gratification is extracted. There is a
superabundance of ugliness and deformity which one is obliged
to see, without running after and nosing any out. It was,
therefore, with some reluctance that I obeyed a polite
invitation to visit the Aztec children, and ratify or dispute
the commendations hitherto bestowed on them, in these columns
and elsewhere. I did not expect to find ogres nor any thing
hideous, but, among all similar exhibitions, remembering with
pleasure only Tom Thumb, I could not hope to find gratification
in the sight of two dwarf Indians. But I was disappointed.
These children are simply abridgements or pocket editions of
Humanity--bright-eyed, delicate-featured, olive-complexioned
little elves, with dark, straight, glossy hair,
well-proportioned heads, and animated, pleasing countenances.
That their ages are honestly given, and that the boy weighs
just about as many pounds as he is years old (twenty), while
the girl is about half his age and three pounds lighter, I see
no reason at all for doubting. That they are human beings,
though of a low grade morally and intellectually, as well as
diminutive physically, there can be no doubt; and they are not
freaks of Nature, but specimens of a dwindled, minnikin race,
who almost realize in bodily form our ideas of the 'brownies,'
'bogles,' and other fanciful creations of a more superstitious
age. Their heads, unlike those of dwarfs, are small and not
ill-looking, but with very low foreheads and a general
conformation strongly confirmatory of certain fundamental
assertions of Phrenology. Idiotic they are not; but their
intellect and language are those of children of three or four
years, to whom their gait also assimilates them; but they have
none of childhood's reserve or shyness, are inquisitive and
restless, and articulate with manifest efforts and difficulty.
To children of three to six or eight years, their incessant
pranks and gambols must be a source of intense and unfailing
delight. The story that they were procured from an unknown,
scarcely approachable Aboriginal City of Central America called
_Iximaya_, situated high among the mountains and rarely visited
by civilized man, may be true or false; but that they are
natives of that part of the world, I cannot doubt. To the
moralist, the student, the physiologist, they are subjects
deserving of careful scrutiny and thoughtful observation; while
to those whose highest motive is the gratification of
curiosity, but especially to children, they must be objects of
vivid interest."
A DAY AT CHATSWORTH.
THE PRISON OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, AND PALACE OF THE DUKES OF
DEVONSHIRE.
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE GATES.]
Among the most magnificent of the palatial homes of England--indeed one
of the most rich and splendid residences occupied in all the world by an
uncrowned master--is Chatsworth, in Derbyshire, the most beautiful
district in the British islands. With some abridgment we transfer to the
_International_ an account of a recent visit to Chatsworth, by Mrs. S.
C. HALL, with the illustrations by Mr. FINHALT, from the January number
of the London _Art-Journal_. Our agreeable authoress, after some general
observations respecting the attractions of the neighborhood, proceeds:
"We are so little proud of the beauties of England, that the
foreigner only hears of Derbyshire as the casket which contains
the rich jewel of CHATSWORTH. The setting is worthy of the gem.
It ranks foremost among proudly beautiful English mansions; and
merits its familiar title of the Palace of the Peak. It was the
object of our pilgrimage; and we recalled the history of the
nobles of its House. The family of Cavendish is one of our
oldest descents; it may be traced lineally from Robert de
Gernon, who entered England with the Conqueror, and whose
descendant, Roger Gernon, of Grimston, in Suffolk, marrying the
daughter and sole heiress of Lord Cavendish in that county, in
the reign of Edward II., gave the name of that estate as a
surname to his children, which they ever after bore. The study
of the law seems to have been for a long period the means of
according position and celebrity to the family, Sir William
Cavendish, in whose person all the estates conjoined, was Privy
Councillor to Henry VIII., Edward VI., and Mary; he had been
Gentleman-Usher to Wolsey; and after the fall of the great
Cardinal, was retained in the service of Henry VIII. He
accumulated much wealth, but chiefly by his third marriage,
with Elizabeth, the wealthy widow of Robert Barley, at whose
instigation he sold his estates in other parts of England, to
purchase lands in Derbyshire, where her great property lay.
Hardwick Hall was her paternal residence, but Sir William began
to build another at Chatsworth, which he did not live to
finish. Ultimately, Elizabeth became the wife of George Talbot,
Earl of Shrewsbury; she was one of the most remarkable women of
her time, and the foundress of the two houses of Devonshire and
Newcastle. Her second son, William, by the death of his elder
brother in 1616, after being created Baron Cavendish, of
Hardwick, was in 1618 created Earl of Devonshire. It was
happily said of him, 'his learning operated on his conduct, but
was seldom shown in his discourse.' His son, the third Earl,
was a zealous loyalist; like his father, remarkable for his
cultivated taste and learning, perfected under the
superintendence of the famous Hobbes of Malmesbury. His eldest
son, William, was the first Duke of Devonshire; the friend of
Lord Russell, and one of the few who fearlessly testified to
his honor on his memorable trial. Wearied of courts, he retired
to Chatsworth, which at that time was a quadrangular building,
with turrets in the Elizabethan taste; and then, 'as if his
mind rose upon the depression of his fortune,' says Kennett,
'he first projected the now glorious pile of Chatsworth;' he
pulled down the south side of 'that good old seat,' and rebuilt
it on a plan 'so fair an august, that it looked like a model
only of what might be done in after ages.' After seven years,
he added the other sides, 'yet the building was his least
charge, if regard be had to his gardens, water-works, statues,
pictures, and other the finest pieces of Art and Nature that
could be obtained abroad or at home.' He was highly honored
with the favor and confidence of William III. and his successor
Anne. Dying in 1707, his son William, who was Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland, spent the latter part of his life at Chatsworth,
dying there in 1755. It is now the favorite country residence
of his great grandson, the sixth Duke and ninth Earl of
Devonshire.
"The Duke's tastes, as evinced at Chatsworth, are of the purest
and happiest order;--and are to be found in the adornments of
his rooms, the shelves of his library, the riches of his
galleries of art, and the rare and beautiful exotic marvels of
his gardens and conservatories. Charles Cotton, in his poem,
the _Wonders of the Peak_, wrote, two centuries ago, of the
then Earl of Devonshire--and no language can apply with
greater truth to the Duke who is now master of Chatsworth:
"But that which crowns all this, and does impart
A lustre far beyond the pow'r of Art,
Is the great Owner; He, whose noble mind
For such a Fortune only was design'd.
Whose bounties, as the Ocean's bosom wide,
Flow in a constant, unexhausted tide
Of Hospitality, and free access,
Liberal Condescension, cheerfulness,
Honor and Truth, as ev'ry of them strove
At once to captivate Respect and Love:
And with such order all perform'd, and grace,
As rivet wonder to the stately place."
[Illustration: THE EMPEROR FOUNTAIN.]
"Although carriages are permitted to drive from the railway
terminus at Rowsley, to the pretty and pleasant inn at Edenson,
by a road which passes directly under the house, the stranger
should receive his first impressions of Chatsworth from one of
the surrounding heights. It is impossible to convey a just idea
of its breadth and dignity; the platform upon which it stands
is a fitting base for such a structure; the trees, that at
intervals relieve and enliven the vast space, are of every rich
variety, the terraces nearly twelve hundred feet in
extent--'the emperor fountain' throwing its jet two hundred and
seventy feet into the air, far overtopping the avenue of
majestic trees, of which it forms the centre. The dancing
fountain, the great cascade, even the smaller fountains
(wonderful objects any where, except here, where there are so
many more wonderful) sparkle through the foliage; while all is
backed by magnificent hanging woods, and the high lands of
Derbyshire, extending from the hills of Matlock to Stony
Middleton. And the foreground of the picture is, in its way,
equally beautiful; the expansive view, the meadows now broken
into green hills and mimic valleys, the groups of fallow deer,
and herds of cattle, reposing beneath the shade of
wide-spreading chestnuts, or the stately beech--all is harmony
to perfection; nothing is wanting to complete the fascination
of the whole. The enlarged and cultivated minds which conceived
these vast yet minute arrangements, did not consider minor
details as unimportant; every tree, and brake, and bush; every
ornament, every path, is exactly in its right place, and seems
to have ever been there. Nothing, however great, or however
small, has escaped consideration; there are no bewildering
effects, such as are frequently seen in large domains, and
which render it difficult to recall what at the time may have
been much admired; all is arranged with the dignity of order;
all, however graceful, is substantial; the ornaments sometimes
elaborate, never descend into prettiness; the character of the
scenery has been borne in mind, and its beauty never outraged
by extravagance. All is in harmony with the character which
nature in her most generous mood gave to the hills and valleys;
God has been gracious to the land, and man has followed in the
pathway He has made.
[Illustration: THE TEMPLE CASCADE.]
[Illustration: THE WELLINGTON ROCK AND CASCADE.]
"A month at Chatsworth would hardly suffice to count its
beauties; but much may be done in a day, when eyes and ears are
open, and the heart beats in sympathy with the beauties of
Nature and of Art. It is, perhaps, best to visit the gardens of
Chatsworth first; they are little more than half a mile to the
north of the park; and there Sir Joseph Paxton is building his
new dwelling, or rather adding considerably to the beauty and
convenience of the old. In the Kitchen-Gardens, containing
twelve acres, there are houses for every species of plant, but
the grand attraction is the house which contains the Royal Lily
(Victoria Regia), and other lilies and water-plants from
various countries. It will be readily believed that the
flower-gardens are among the most exquisitely beautiful in
Europe; they have been arranged by one of the master minds of
the age, and bear evidence of matured knowledge, skill, and
taste; the nicest judgment seems to have been exercised over
even the smallest matter of detail, while the whole is as
perfect a combination as can be conceived of grandeur and
loveliness. The walks, lawns, and parterres are lavishly, but
unobtrusively, decorated with vases and statues; terraces occur
here and there, from which are to be obtained the best views of
the adjacent country; 'Patrician trees' at intervals form
umbrageous alleys; water is made contributory from a hundred
mountain streams and rivulets, to form jets, cascades, and
fountains, which, infinitely varied in their 'play,' ramble
among lilies, or--it is scarcely an exaggeration to say--fling
their spray into the clouds, and descend to refresh the topmost
leaves of trees that were in their prime three centuries ago.
The most striking and original of the walks is that which leads
through mimic Alpine scenery to the great conservatory; here
Art has been most triumphant; the rocks, which, have been all
brought hither, are so skilfully combined, so richly clad in
mosses, so luxuriantly covered with heather, so judiciously
based with ferns and water-plants, that you move among or
beside them in rare delight at the sudden change which
transports you from trim parterres to the utmost wildness of
natural beauty. From these again you pass into a garden, in the
centre of which is the conservatory, always renowned, but now
more than ever, as the prototype of the famous Palace of Glass,
which, in this _Annus Mirabilis_, received under its roof six
millions of the people of all nations, tongues, and creeds. In
extent, the conservatory at Chatsworth is but a pigmy compared
with that which glorifies Hyde Park: but it is filled with the
rarest Exotics from all parts of the globe--from 'farthest
Ind,' from China, from the Himalayas, from Mexico; here you see
the rich banana, Eschol's grape hanging in ripe profusion
beneath the shadow of immense paper-like leaves; the feathery
cocoa-palm, with its head peering almost to the lofty arched
roof; the far-famed silk cotton-tree, supplying a sheet of
cream-colored blossoms, at a season when all outward vegetable
gayety is on the wane: the singular milk-tree of the
Caraccas--the fragrant cinnamon and cassia--with thousands of
other rare and little-known species of both flowers and fruits.
The Italian Garden--opposite the library windows, with its
richly colored parterres, and its clustered foliage wreathed
around the pillars which support the statues and busts
scattered among them, and hanging from one to the other with a
luxurious verdure which seems to belong to the south--is a
relief to the eye sated with the splendors of the palatial
edifice.
[Illustration: THE ROCK-WORK.]
"The water-works, which were constructed under the direction of
M. Grillet, a French artist, were begun in 1690, when a pipe
for what was then called 'the great fountain' was laid down;
the height of twenty feet to which it threw water being, at
that time, considered sufficiently wonderful to justify the
hyperbolical language of Cotton:
'--should it break or fall, I doubt we should
Begin to reckon from the second flood.'
It was afterward elevated to fifty feet, and then to
ninety-four feet; but it is now celebrated as the most
remarkable fountain in the world; it rises to the height of two
hundred and sixty-seven feet, and has been named the _Emperor
Fountain_, in honor of the visit of the Emperor of Russia to
Chatsworth in 1844. Such is the velocity with which the water
is ejected, that it is shown to escape at the rate of one
hundred miles per minute; for the purpose of supplying it, a
reservoir, or immense artificial lake, has been constructed on
the hills, above Chatsworth, which is fed by the streams around
and the springs on the moors drains being cut for this purpose,
commencing at Humberly Brook, on the Chesterfield Road, two
miles and a half from the reservoir, which covers eight acres;
a pipe winds down the hill side, through which the water
passes; and such is its waste, that a diminution of a foot may
be perceived when the water-works have been played for three
hours. Nothing can exceed the stupendous effect of this column,
which may be seen for many miles around, shooting upwards to
the sky in varied and graceful evolutions. From this upper lake
the waterfalls are also supplied, which are constructed with so
natural an effect on the hill side, behind the water-temple,
which reminds the spectator of the glories of St. Cloud. From
the dome of this temple bursts forth a gush of water that
covers its surface, pours through the urns at its sides, and
springs up in fountains underneath, thence descending in a long
series of step-like falls, until it sinks beneath the rocks at
the base, and--after rising again to play as 'the dancing
fountain' is conveyed by drains under the garden and
park,--being emptied into the Derwent.[1] But we may not forget
that our space is limited: to describe the gardens and
conservatories of Chatsworth would occupy more pages than we
can give to the whole theme; suffice it that the taste and
liberality of the Duke of Devonshire, and the skill and
judgment of Sir Joseph Paxton, have so combined Nature and Art
in this delicious region, as to supply all the enjoyment that
may be desired or is attainable, from trees, shrubs, and
flowers seen under the happiest arrangement of countries,
classes, and colors.
[Illustration: THE GREAT CONSERVATORY.]
[Illustration: THE ITALIAN GARDEN.]
"The erection of the present house is narrated by Lysons, who
says, the south front was begun to be rebuilt on the 12th of
April, 1687, and the great hall and staircase covered in about
the middle of April, 1690; the east front was begun in 1693,
and finished in 1700; the south gallery was pulled down and
rebuilt in 1703; in 1704, the north front was pulled down; the
west front was finished in 1706; and the whole of the building
not long afterwards completed, being about twenty years from
the time of its commencement. The architect was Mr. William
Talman, but in May, 1692, the works were surveyed by Sir
Christopher Wren.
"On entering--the Lower Hall or Western Lodge contains some
very fine antique statuary, and fragments which deserve the
especial attention of the connoisseur. Among them are several
which were the treasured relics of Canova and Sir Henry
Englefield, and others found in Herculaneum, and presented by
the King of Naples to 'the beautiful' Duchess of Devonshire. A
corridor leads thence to the Great Hall, which is decorated
with paintings by the hand of a famous artist in his
day--Verrio--celebrated by Pope for his proficiency in
ceiling-painting. The effect of the hall is singularly good,
with its grand stair and triple arches opening to the principal
rooms. The sub-hall, behind, is embellished by a graceful
fountain, with the story of Diana and Actaeon, and the abundance
of water at Chatsworth is sufficient for it to be constantly
playing, producing an effect seldom attempted within doors. A
long gallery leads to the various rooms inhabited by the Duke,
the walls being decorated with a large number of fine pictures
by the older masters of the Flemish and Italian schools. In the
billiard-room are Landseer's famed picture of Bolton Abbey in
the Olden Time, with charming specimens of Collins, and other
British painters.
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE HALL]
"The chapel is richly decorated with foliage in carved
woodwork, which has been erroneously attributed to Grinling
Gibbons. It was executed by Thomas Young, who was engaged as
the principal carver in wood in 1689, and by a pupil of his,
Samuel Watson, a native of Heanor, in Derbyshire, whose claim
to the principal ornamental woodcarving at Chatsworth is set
forth in verses on his tomb in Heanor Church.
"Over the Colonnade on the north side of the quadrangle, is a
gallery nearly one hundred feet long in which have been hung a
numerous and valuable collection of drawings by the old
masters, arranged according to the schools of art of which they
are examples. There is no school unrepresented, and as the eye
wanders over the thickly-covered wall, it is arrested by
sketches from the hands of Raffaelle, Da Vinci, Claude Poussin,
Paul Veronese, Salvator Rosa, and the other great men who have
made Art immortal. To describe these works would occupy a
volume; to study them a life; it is a glorious collection
fitly displayed.
[Illustration: THE SCULPTURE GALLERY.]
"The old state-rooms, which form the upper floors of the south
front, occupy the same position as those which were
appropriated to the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots during her
long residence here. There is, however, but little to see of
her period; if we except some needlework at the back of a
canopy representing hunting scenes, worked by the hand of the
famous Countess of Shrewsbury, popularly known as 'Bess of
Hardwick.'
"The gallery, ninety feet by twenty-two, originally constructed
for dancing, has been fitted up by the present Duke as a
library. Among the books which formed the original library at
Chatsworth, are several which belonged to the celebrated
Hobbes, who was many years a resident at the old hall. The
library of Henry Cavendish, and the extensive and valuable
collection at Devonshire House have aided to swell its stores.
Thin quartos of the rarest order, unique volumes of old poetry,
scarce and curious pamphlets by the early printers, first
editions of Shakspeare, early pageants, and the rarest dramatic
and other popular literature of the Elizabethan era, may be
found in this well-ordered room--not to speak of its great
treasure, the _Liber Veritalus_ of Claude.
[Illustration: QUEEN MARY'S BOWER.]
"The statue gallery, a noble room erected by the present Duke,
contains a judiciously-selected series of sculptures. The gem
of the collection is the famous seated statue of Madame
Bonaparte, mother of Napoleon, by Canova. The same style
characterizes that of Pauline Borghese, by Campbell. Other
works of Canova are here--his statue of Hebe, and Endymion
sleeping; a bust of Petrarch's Laura, and the famous Lions,
copied by Benaglia from the colossal originals on the monument
of Clement XIV., at Rome. Thorwaldsen is abundantly represented
by his Night and Morning, and his bas-reliefs of Priam
Petitioning for the Body of Hector, and Briseis, taken from
Achilles by the Heralds. Schadow's Filatrice, or Spinning Girl,
and his classic bas-reliefs are worthy of all admiration. The
English school of sculpture appears to advantage in Gibson's
fine group, Mars and Cupid, and his bas-relief of Hero and
Leander--Chantry's busts of George IV. and
Canning--Westmacott's Cymbal Plaery--Wyatt's Musidora, and many
others.
"Our visit to the mansion may conclude with a brief notice of
one of its most interesting relics. Queen Mary's Bower is a sad
memorial of the unhappy Queen's fourteen years' imprisonment
here. It has been quaintly described as 'an island plat, on the
top of a square tower, built in a large pool.' It is reached by
a bridge, and in this lonely island-garden did Mary pass many
days of a captivity, rendered doubly painful by the jealous
bickerings of the Countess of Shrewsbury, who openly complained
to Elizabeth of the Queen's intimacy with her husband; an
unfounded aspersion, which Mary's urgent solicitations to
Elizabeth obliged the Countess to retract, but which led to
Mary's removal from the Earl's custody to that of Sir Amias
Pawlet.
[Illustration: THE HUNTING TOWER.]
"To the Hunting-Tower on the hill above the house, the ascent
is by a road winding gracefully among venerable trees, planted
'when Elizabeth was Queen,' and occasionally passing beside a
fall of water, which dashes among rocks from the moors above.
The tower stands on the edge of the steep and thickly-wooded
hill; it is built on a platform of stone, reached by a few
steps; it is one of the relics of old Chatsworth, and is a
characteristic and curious feature of the scene. Such towers
were frequently placed near lordly residences in the olden
time, for the purpose 'of giving the ladies of those days an
opportunity of enjoying the sport of hunting,' which, from the
heights above, they saw in the vales beneath. The view from the
tower is one of the finest in England. The house and grounds
below, embosomed in foliage, peep through the umbrage far
beneath your feet; the rapid Derwent courses along through the
level valley. The wood opposite crowns the rising ground, above
Edensor--the picturesque and beautiful village within whose
humble church many members of the noble family are buried. The
village itself may be considered as a model of taste; it
resembles a group of Italian and Gothic villas, the utmost
variety and the most picturesque styles of architecture being
adopted for their construction, while the little flower-gardens
before them are as carefully tended as those at Chatsworth
itself. Upon the hills above are traces of Roman encampments,
and from the summit you look down upon the beautiful village
of Bakewell, and far-famed Haddon Hall--the antique residence
of the dukes of Rutland, an unspoiled relic of the sixteenth
century. Looking toward the north, the eye traverses the
fertile and beautiful valley of the Derwent, with the quiet
little villages of Pilsley, Hassop, and Baslow, consisting of
groups of cottages and quiet homesteads, speaking of pastoral
life in its most favorable aspect. The eye, following the
direction of the stream, is carried over the village of Calver,
beyond which the rocks of Stony Middleton converge and shut in
the prospect, with their gates of stone; amid distant trees,
the village of Eyam, celebrated for its mournful story of the
plague, and the heroism of its pastor, is embosomed. The ridge
of rock stretches around the plain to the right, and upon the
moors are traces of the early Britons in circles of stones and
tumuli, with various other singular and deeply-interesting
relics of 'the far off past.' Turning to the south, the
prospect is bounded by the hills of Matlock; the villages of
Darley-le-Dale, and Rowsley, reposing in mid-distance; the
entire prospect comprising a series of picturesque mountains,
fertile plains, wood, water, and rock, which cannot be
surpassed in the world for variety and beauty. The noble domain
in the foreground forming the grand centre of the whole:
"'This palace, with wild prospects girded round,
Where the scorn'd Peak rivals proud Italy.'
"It was evening when we ascended this charming hill, and stood
beneath the shadow of its famous Hunting Tower. The sun had
just set, leaving a landscape of immense extent sleeping
beneath rose-colored clouds; the air was balmy and fragrant
with the peculiar odor of the pine-trees which topped the
summit of the promontory on which we stood. We were told of
Taddington Hill--of Beeley Edge--of Brampton Moor--of Robin
Hood's bar--of Froggat Edge--until our eyes ached from the
desire to distinguish the one from the other. There was Tor
this, and Dale that, and such a hall and such a hamlet; but the
stillness by which we were surrounded had become so delicious
that we longed to enjoy it in solitude.
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE ACROSS THE DERWENT.]
"What pen can tell of the beams of light that played on the
highlands, when, after the fading of that gorgeous sunset, the
valley became steeped in a soft blue-gray color, so tender, and
clear and pure, that it conveyed the idea of 'atmosphere' to
perfection. Then, as the shadows, the soothing shadows of
evening, increased around us, the woods seemed to melt into the
mountains; the rivers veiled their course by their misty
incense to the heavens--wreath after wreath of vapor creeping
upwards; and as the distances faded into indistinctness, the
bold headlands seemed to grow and prop the clouds; the heavens
let down the pall of mystery and darkness with a tender, not
terrific, power; earth and sky blended together, softly and
gently; the coolness of the air refreshed us, and yet the
stillness on that high point was so intense as to become almost
painful. As we looked into the valley, lights sprung up in
cottage dwellings; and then, softly on a wandering breeze, came
at intervals the tolling of a deep bell from the venerable
church at Edensor, a token that some one had been summoned to
another home--perhaps in one of those pale stars that at first
singly, but then in troops, were beaming on us from the pale
blue sky.
"While slowly descending from our eyrie, amid the varied
shadows of a most lustrous moonlight, our eyes fell upon the
distant wood which surrounded Haddon Hall; its massive walls,
its mouldering tapestries, its stately terrace, its quaint
rooms and closets, its protected though decayed records of the
olden time, its minstrel gallery--were again present to our
minds; and it was a natural and most pleasing contrast--that of
the deserted and half-ruined house, with the mansion happily
inhabited, filled with so many art-treasures, and presided
over by one of the best gentlemen a monarch ever ennobled and a
people ever loved."
[Illustration: THE MOORISH SUMMER HOUSE.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A quaint whim of the olden time is constructed near one of the
walks; it is the model of a willow-tree in copper, which has all the
appearance of a living one, situated on a raised mound of earth. From
each branch, however, water suddenly bursts, and also small jets from
the grassy borders around. It was considered a good jest some years ago
to delude novices to examine this tree, and wet them thoroughly by
suddenly turning on the water above and around them. This tree was
originally made by a London plumber in 1693; but it has been recently
repaired by a plumber in the neighborhood of Chesterfield, under the
direction of Sir Joseph Paxton.
MEN AND WOMEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
We have _Louis Quinze_ chairs in our parlors, Louis Quinze carving and
gilding about our mirrors, our ladies (in a double sense, of grace and
utility), sweep past us in the streets or rustle in the ball-room in
Louis Quinze brocades, with the boddice, if not the train, of pattern
identical with that of Madame de Pompadour, as depicted in the excellent
portrait before us in Mr. Redfield's elegant volumes, and we are, if
scandal does not lie more than usual, making very practical acquaintance
with Louis Quinze morals. It may be as well, therefore, to become more
familiar with a period we find it so convenient to imitate. The great
events of French history since 1789, their rapid sequence and ever
varying character, have thrown into the shade the previous annals of the
kingdom. Especially has this been the case with the period immediately
preceding the days of terror. This period has been dispatched in a few
sentences, in the opening chapters of works on the French Revolution--in
some vague generalities on its profligacy and chaotic infamy. We have
had glimpses, through the _Oeil de Boeuf_, at groups of exquisite
gentlemen and gay ladies; abbes who wrote every thing but sermons, and
were free from the censure of not practising what they preached since
they did not preach at all; generals who fought a campaign as
deliberately and ceremoniously as they danced a minuet; statesmen whose
diplomacy was more of the seraglio than the council; painters who
improved on nature, applying the same tricks of art to the landscape as
with powders to their curls; and simpering lips of the Marquise, and
poets whose highest flights were a sonnet to Pompadour, or a pastoral to
a sheep-tending Phillis. Our casual observations of all these people,
however, have been vague and slight, for few have probably had patience
to follow these worthies to their retirement, and look over their
shoulders at the memoirs which every mother's son and daughter of the
set, from the prime minister to the cook, found--it is impossible to
tell how--time to scribble down for the edification of posterity. In the
volumes of Arsene Houssaye before us, these gay but unsubstantial
shadows take flesh and blood, and become the _Men and Women_--the living
realities of the Eighteenth Century. We have here the most piquant
adventures of the _Memoirs_ and the choicest _mots_ of the _Anas_,
culled from the hundreds of volumes which weigh down the shelves of the
French public libraries. Not only indeed have we the run of the _petites
soupers_ of Versailles, but we may wander at will in the coulisses of
the Grand Opera, picking up the latest gossip of Camargo or Sophie
Arnold, enter the foyer of the classic Theatre Francaise, or adjourn to
the Cafe Procope to hear the last joke of Piron, or the latest news from
Fernay. And better than all these, we may mount, _au cinquieme, au
sexieme_, to the lofty yet humble garret of the author or the artist,
and there find, in an age of sickening heartlessness, refreshing scenes
of household sincerity, patient endurance of hardship, showing that even
that depraved age was not utterly devoid of the heroic and the pure. M.
Houssaye is no rigid moralist, he employs no historic pillory, and often
displays the painful flippancy of the modern French school on religious
points, but he does honor to these better traits of humanity when he
meets them. And we are not sure but that the morality of the work is the
more impressive for the absence of the didactic. Here is little danger
of our falling in love with vice, seductive as she appears in the annals
of Louis XV., for we see the rotten canvas as well as the brilliant
scene. We remember with the gaudy blossoms of 1740-60, the ashen fruit
of 1789-'95. It is as hard to select extracts from M. Houssaye's volumes
on account of the _embarras des richesses_, as it would be to choose a
gem or two for our drawing-room from a gallery of Watteau and Greuze, or
a row of Laucret's _passets_. Much as the reader, we doubt not, will
enjoy those we have picked for him, he will still find equal or greater
pleasure in those we have left untouched.
Here are the first steps in the ascent of Madame de Pompadour to that
"bad eminence" she attained of virtual though virtueless Queen of
France. The entire sketch is the best life of this celebrated woman with
which we are acquainted:
"Madame de Pompadour was born in Paris, in 1720. She always
said it was 1722. It is affirmed, that Poisson, her father, at
least the husband of her mother, was a sutler in the army; some
historians state that he was the butcher of the Hospital of the
Invalides, and was condemned to be hung; according to Voltaire,
she was the daughter of a farmer of Ferte-sous-Jouarre. What
matters it, since he who was truly a father to her was the
farmer-general, Lenormant de Tourneheim. This gentleman,
thinking her worthy of his fortune, took her to his home, and
brought her up, as if she had been his own daughter. He gave
her the name of Jeanne-Antoinette. She bore till she was
sixteen years of age this sweet name of Jeanne. From her
infancy, she exhibited a passion for music and drawing. All the
first masters of the day were summoned to the hotel of
Lenormant de Tourneheim. Her masters did not disgust Jeanne
with the fine arts of which she was so fond. Her talent was
soon widely known. Fontenelle, Duclos, and Crebillon, who were
received at the hotel as men of wit, went about every where,
talking of her beauty, her grace, and talent.
"Madame de Pompadour was an example of a woman that was both
handsome and pretty; the lines of her face possessed all the
harmony and elevation of a creation of Raphael's; but instead
of the elevated sentiment with which that great master animated
his faces, there was the smiling expression of a Parisian
woman. She possessed in the highest degree all that gives to
the face brilliancy, charm, and sportive gayety. No lady at
court had then so noble and coquettish a bearing, such delicate
and attractive features, so elegant and graceful a figure. Her
mother used always to say, 'A king alone is worthy of my
daughter.' Jeanne had an early presentiment of a throne! at
first, from the ambitious longings of her mother; afterward,
because she believed that she was in love with the king. 'She
confessed to me,' says Voltaire, in his memoirs, 'that she had
a secret presentiment that the king would fall in love with
her, and that she had a violent inclination for him.' There is
a time in life when destiny reveals itself. All those who have
succeeded in climbing the rugged mountain of human vanity
relate that, from their earliest youth, dazzling visions
revealed to them their future glory.
"Well, how was the throne of France to be reached, the very
idea of which made her head turn? In the mean time, full of
genius, always admired, and always listened to, she
familiarized herself with the life of a beautiful queen; she
saw at her feet all the worshippers of the fortune of her
father; she gathered about her poets, artists, and
philosophers, over whom she already threw a royal protection.
"The farmer-general had a nephew, Lenormant d'Etioles. He was
an amiable young man, and had the character and manners of a
gentleman; he was heir to the immense fortune of the
farmer-general, at least, according to law. Jeanne, on her
side, had some claim to a share of this fortune. It was a very
simple way of making all agreed, by marrying the young people.
Jeanne, as we have seen, was already in love with the king; she
married D'Etioles without shifting her point in view:
Versailles, Versailles, that was her only horizon. Her young
husband became desperately enamored of her; but this passion of
his, which amounted almost to madness, she never felt in the
least. She received it with resignation, as a misfortune that
could not last long.
"The hotel of the newly-married couple,
_Rue-Croix-des-Petits-Champs_, was established on a lordly
footing; the best company in Paris left the fashionable
_salons_ for that of Madame D'Etioles until that time, there
had never been such a gorgeous display of luxury in France. The
young bride hoped by this means to make something of a noise at
court, and thus excite the curiosity of the king. Day after day
passed away in feasts and brilliant entertainments. Celebrated
actors, poets, artists, and foreigners, all made their
rendezvous at this hotel, the mistress of which was its life
and ornament; all the world went there, in one word, except the
king."
The painters are among the pleasantest personages of Mr. Houssaye's
book, as they generally are in whatever society or whatever time we find
them, all the world over. Watteau is familiar to us all, if not from his
works, at second-hand in engravings, or those dainty little china
shepherdesses and shepherds which we have seen on our grandmothers'
mantel-pieces, and which are again emerging from the glass corner
cupboard to the rosewood and mirrored etagere. The following passages
descriptive of his early life, are full of animation:
"He was born in 1684, at the time the king of France was
bombarding Luxembourg. His family was poor, as a matter of
course. He was put to school just long enough not to learn any
thing. He was never able to read and write without great
difficulty, but it was not in that his strength lay. He learned
early to discover genius in a picture, to copy with a happy
touch the gay face of Nature. There had been painters in his
family, among others, a great uncle, who had died at Antwerp,
without leaving any property. The father of Watteau had little
leaning toward painting; but he was one of those who let men
and things here below take their course. Watteau, therefore,
was permitted to take his. Now Watteau was born a painter. God
had given him the fire of genius, if not genius. His first
master was chance, the greatest of all masters after God. His
father lived in the upper story of a house with its gable-end
to the street. Watteau had his nose out of the window oftener
than over a book; he loved to amuse himself with the varied
spectacle of the street. Sometimes it was the fresh-looking
Flemish peasant-girl, driving her donkey through the
market-place, sometimes the little girls of the neighborhood,
playing at shuttlecock during the fine evenings. Peasant-maid
and little child were traced in original lines in the memory of
the scholar; he already admired the indolent _naivete_ of the
one, the prattling grace of the other. He had his eye also on
some smiling female neighbor, such as are to be found every
where; but the most attractive spectacle to him was that of
some strolling troop of dancers or country-players. On
fete-days sellers of elixirs, fortune-tellers, keepers of bears
and rattlesnakes, halted under his window. They were sure of a
spectator. Watteau suddenly fell into a profound revery at the
sight of Gilles and Margot upon the stage; nothing could divert
his attention from this amusement, not even the smile of his
female neighbor: he smiled at the grotesque coquetries of
Margot; he laughed till out of breath at the quips of Gilles.
He was frequently seen seated in the window, his legs out, his
head bent, holding on with difficulty, but not losing a word or
a gesture. What would he not have given to have been the
companion of Margot, to kiss the rusty spangles of her robe, to
live with her the happy life of careless adventure? Alas! this
happiness was not for him. Margot descended from the boards,
Gilles became a man as before, the theatre was taken down,
Watteau still on the watch; but by degrees he became sad; his
friends were departing, departing without him, with their gauze
dresses, their scarfs fringed with gold, their silver lace,
their silk breeches, and their jokes.--"Those people are truly
happy," said he, "they are going to wander gayly about the
world, to play comedy wherever they may be, without cares and
without tears!"--Watteau, with his twelve-year-old eyes, saw
only the fair side of life. He did not guess, be it understood,
that beneath every smile of Margot there was a stifled tear.
Watteau seems to have always seen with the same eyes; his
glance, diverted by the expression and the color, did not
descend as far down as the soul. It was somewhat the fault of
his times. What had he to do while painting queens of comedy,
or dryads of the opera, with the heart, tears, or divine
sentiment?
"After the strollers had departed, he sketched on the margins
of the 'Lives of the Saints,' the profile of Gilles, a gaping
clown, or some grotesque scene from the booth. As he often shut
himself up in his room with this book, his father, having
frequently surprised him in a dreamy and melancholy mood,
imagined that he was becoming religious. He, however, soon
discovered that Watteau's attachment to the folio was on
account of the margin, and not of the text. He carried the book
to a painter in the city. This painter, bad as he was, was
struck with the original grace of certain of Watteau's figures,
and solicited the honor of being his master. In the studio of
this worthy man, Watteau did not unlearn all that he had
acquired, although he painted for pedlers, male and female
saints by the dozen. From this studio he passed to another,
which was more profane and more to his taste. Mythology was the
great book of the place. Instead of St. Peter, with his eternal
keys, or the Magdalen, with her infinite tears, he found a
dance of fauns and naiads, Venus, issuing from the waves, or
from the net of Vulcan. Watteau bowed amorously before the gods
and demigods of Olympus; he had found the gate to his Eden. He
progressed daily, thanks to the profane gods, in the religion
of art. He was already seen to grow pale under that love of
beauty and of glory which swallows up all other loves. On his
return from a journey to Antwerp, his friends were astonished
at the enthusiasm with which he spoke of the wonders of art. He
had beheld the masterpieces of Rubens and Vandyke, the
ineffable grace of Murillo's _Virgins_, the
ingenuously-grotesque pieces of Teniers and Van Ostade, the
beautiful landscapes of Ruysdael. He returned with head bent
and eyes fatigued, and his mind filled with lasting
recollections.
"He was not twenty when he set out for Paris with his master.
The opera, in its best days, enlisted the aid of all painters
of gracefulness. At the opera, Watteau threw the lightning
flashes of his pencil right and left: mountains, lakes,
cascades, forests, nothing dismayed him, not even the Camargos,
whom he had for models. He ended by taming himself down to this
cage of gayly-singing and fluttering birds. A dancing-girl, who
had not much to do, deigned to grant the little Flemish dauber,
the favor of sitting for her portrait. Fleming as he was,
Watteau made the progress of the portrait last longer than the
scornfulness of Mademoiselle la Montagne. This was not all: the
portrait was considered so graceful in the dancing-world, that
sitters came to him every day, on the same terms.
"He left the opera with his master, as soon as the new
decorations were finished. Besides Gillot, the great designer
of fauns and naiads had returned there more flourishing than
ever. The master returned to Valenciennes, Watteau remained at
Paris, desiring to depend upon his fortune, good or bad. He
passed from the opera into the studio of a painter of
devotional subjects, who manufactured St. Nicholases for Paris
and the provinces, to suit to the price. So Watteau
manufactured St. Nicholases, 'My pencil,' he said, 'did
penance.' The opera always attracted him; there he could give
free scope to all the extravagance of his fancy, to all the
charming caprices of his pencil; but at the opera, his master
and himself had given way to Gillot; and the latter was not
disposed to give way to any body."
An allegro morceau from the life of Gretry:
A MONK OF A BAD PATTERN.
"Other adventures also occurred, to convince Remacle that his
fellow-travellers were worthy of him. Ever in dread of the
before-mentioned officers, the old smuggler forced them to make
a _detour_ of some leagues, to see, as he said with a
disinterested air, a superb monastery, where alms were bestowed
once a week on all the poor of the country. On entering the
great hall, in the midst of a noisy crowd, Gretry saw a fat
monk, mounted on a platform, who was angrily superintending
this Christian charity. He looked as if he would like rather to
exterminate his fellow-creatures than aid them to live; he was
just bullying a poor French vagabond who implored his aid. When
he suddenly saw the noble face of Gretry he approached the
young musician.--'It is curiosity which brings you here,' he
remarked with vexation.--'It is true,' said Gretry, bowing;
'the beauty of your monastery, the sublimity of the scenery,
and the desire of contemplating the asylum where the
unfortunate traveller is received with so much humanity, have
drawn us from our route. In beholding you, I have seen the
angel of mercy. All the victims of sorrow should bless your
edifying gentleness. Tell me, father, do you make as many happy
every day as I have just witnessed?'
"The monk, irritated by this bantering, begged Gretry to return
whence he came.--'Father,' retorted Gretry, 'have the
evangelists taught you this mode of bestowing alms, giving with
one hand and striking with the other?'--A low murmur was heard
through the hall; the monk not knowing what to say, complained
of the toothache; the cunning student lost no time, but running
up to him with an air of touching compassion, 'I am a surgeon,'
he said, as he forced him down on the bench. The monk tried to
push him off, but he held on well. 'It is Heaven which has
directed me to you, father.' Willing or not, the monk had to
open his mouth. 'Courage, father, the great saints were all
martyrs! the Saviour was crucified; and you may at least let me
pull out a tooth.' The monk struggled: 'Never, never!' he
exclaimed. The student turned with great coolness toward the
bystanders, who were all laughing in their sleeves. 'My
friends,' (he addressed crippled travellers, mountain-brigands,
and poor people of every class,) 'my friends, for the love of
God, who suffered, come and hold this good father: I do not
want him to suffer any longer!'
"The beggars understood the joke; four of them separated from
the group, and came to the surgeon's aid. The monk struggled
furiously, but it was no use to kick and scream; he had to
submit, Gretry was not the last to come to his friend's aid;
the malicious student seized the first tooth he got hold of,
and wrenched the head of the monk by a turn of his elbow, to
the great joy of the beggars, who saw themselves revenged in a
most opportune manner. 'Well, father, what do you think of it?'
asked Gretry, after the operation; 'I am sure you do not now
suffer at all!'--The monk shook with rage; the other monks
attracted by his cries, soon arrived, but it was too late."
The following is among the most touching of narratives. It is
exquisitely delivered:
GRETRY'S THREE DAUGHTERS
"Gretry was therefore happy. Happy in his wife and children, in
his old mother, who had come to sanctify his house, with her
sweet and venerable face. Happy in fortune, happy in
reputation. The years passed quickly away! He was one day very
much astonished to learn that his daughter Jenny was fifteen.
Alas! a year afterward the poor child was no longer in the
family, neither was happiness. But for this sad history we must
return to the past. Gretry, during his sojourn at Rome, in the
spring-time of his life, was fond of seeking religious
inspiration in the garden of an almost deserted convent. He
observed one day, in the summer-house, an old monk of venerable
form, who was separating seeds with a meditative air, and at
the same time observing them with a microscope. The
absent-minded musician approached him in silence. 'Do you like
flowers?' the monk asked him. 'Very much,' 'At your age,
however, we only cultivate the flowers of life; the culture of
the flowers of earth is pleasing only to the man who has
fulfilled his task. It is then almost like cultivating his
recollection. The flowers recall the birth, the natal land, the
garden of the family, and what more? You know better than I who
have thrown to forgetfulness all worldly enjoyments!' 'I do not
see, father,' replied Gretry, 'why you separate these seeds
which seem to me to be all alike. 'Look through this
microscope, and see this black speck on those which I place
aside; but I wish to carry the horticultural lesson still
further.' He took a flower-pot, made six holes in the earth,
and planted three of the good seeds, and three of the spotted
ones. 'Recollect that the bad ones are on the side of the
crack, and when you come and take a walk, do not forget to
watch the stalks as they grow.'
"Gretry found a melancholy charm in returning frequently to the
garden of the convent. As he passed, he each time cast a glance
on the old flower-pot. The six stems at first shot up, each
equally verdant. The spotted seeds soon grew the longest, to
his great surprise. He was about to accuse the old monk of
having lost his wits; but what was afterwards his sorrow, when
he saw his three plants gradually fading away in their
spring-time! With each setting sun a leaf fell and dried up,
while the leaves of the other stems thrived more and more with
every breeze, every ray of the sun, every drop of dew. He went
to dream every day before his dear plants, with exceeding
sadness. He soon saw them wither away, even to the last leaf.
On the same day the others were in flower.
"This accident of nature was a cruel horoscope. Thirty years
afterward poor Gretry saw three other flowers alike fated, fade
and fall under the wintry wind of death. He had forgotten the
name of the flowers of the Roman convent, but in dying he still
repeated the names of the others. They were his three
daughters, Jenny, Lucile, and Antoinette. 'Ah!' exclaimed the
poor musician, in relating the death of his three daughters,
'I have violated the laws of nature to obtain genius. I have
watered with my blood the most frivolous of my operas, I have
nourished my old mother, I have seized on reputation by
exhausting my heart and my soul; Nature has avenged herself on
my children! My poor children, I foredoomed them to death!'
"Gretry's daughters all died at the age of sixteen. There is
something strange in their life and in their death, which
strikes the dreamer and the poet. This sport of destiny, this
freak of death, this vengeance of Nature, appears here invested
with all the charms of romance. You will see.
"Jenny had the pale, sweet countenance of a virgin. On seeing
her, Greuze said one day, 'If I ever paint Purity, I shall
paint Jenny.' 'Make haste!' murmured Gretry, already a prey to
sad presentiments. 'Then she is going to be married?' said
Greuze. Gretry did not answer. Soon, however, seeking to blind
himself, he continued: 'She will be the staff of my old age;
like Antigone, she will lead her father into the sun at the
decline of life.'
"The next day Gretry came unexpectedly upon Jenny, looking more
pale and depressed than ever. She was playing on the
harpischord, but sweetly and slowly. As she was playing an air
from _Richard Coeur-de-Lion_, in a melancholy strain, the
poor father fancied that he was listening to the music of
angels. One of her friends entered. 'Well, Jenny, you are going
to-night to the ball?' 'Yes, yes, to the ball,' answered poor
Jenny, looking toward heaven; and suddenly resuming, 'No, I
shall not go, my dance is ended.' Gretry pressed his daughter
to his heart, 'Jenny, are you suffering?' 'It is over!' said
she.
"She bent her head and died instantly, without a struggle! Poor
Gretry asked if she was asleep. She slept with the angels.
"Lucile was a contrast to Jenny; she was a beautiful girl, gay,
enthusiastic, and frolicksome, with all the caprices of such a
disposition. She was almost a portrait of her father, and
possessed, besides, the same heart and the same mind. 'Who
knows,' said poor Gretry, 'but that her gayety may save her.'
She was unfortunately one of those precocious geniuses who
devour their youth. At thirteen she had composed an opera which
was played every where, _Le Marriage d'Antonio_. A journalist,
a friend of Gretry, who one day found himself in Lucile's
apartment, without her being aware of it, so much was she
engrossed with her harp, has related the rage and madness which
transported her during her contests with inspiration, that was
often rebellious. 'She wept, she sang, she struck the harp with
incredible energy. She either did not see me, or took no notice
of me; for my own part, I wept with joy, in beholding this
little girl transported with so glorious a zeal, and so noble
an enthusiasm for music.'
"Lucile had learned to read music before she knew her alphabet.
She had been so long lulled to sleep with Gretry's airs, that
at the age when so many other young girls think only of hoops
and dolls, she had found sufficient music in her soul for the
whole of a charming opera. She was a prodigy. Had it not been
for death, who came to seize her at sixteen like her sister,
the greatest musician of the eighteenth century would, perhaps,
have been a woman. But the twig, scarcely green, snapped at the
moment when the poor bird commenced her song. Gretry had Lucile
married at the solicitation of his friends. 'Marry her, marry
her,' they incessantly repeated; 'if Love has the start of
Death, Lucile is safe.' Lucile suffered herself to be married
with the resignation of an angel, foreseeing that the marriage
would not be of long duration. She suffered herself to be
married to one of those artists of the worst order, who have
neither the religion of art nor the fire of genius, and who
have still less heart, for the heart is the home of genius. The
poor Lucile saw at a glance the desert to which her family had
exiled her. She consoled herself with a harp and a harpsichord;
but her husband, who had been brought up like a slave, cruelly
took delight, with a coward's vengeance, in making her feel all
the chains of Hymen. She would have died, like Jenny, on her
father's bosom, amidst her loving family, after having sung her
farewell song; but thanks to this barbarous fellow, she died in
his presence, that is to say, alone. At the hour of her death,
'Bring me my harp!' said she, raising herself a little. 'The
doctor has forbidden it,' said this savage. She cast a bitter,
yet a suppliant look upon him. 'But as I am dying!' said she.
'You will die very well without that.' She fell back on her
pillow. 'My poor father,' murmured she, 'I wished to bid you
adieu on my harp; but here I am not free except to die!'
Lucile, it is the nurse who related the scene, suddenly
extended her arms, called Jenny with a broken voice, and fell
asleep like her for ever.
"Antoinette was sixteen. She was fair and smiling like the
morn, but she was fated to die like the others. Gretry prayed
and wept, as he saw her growing pale; but death was not stopped
so easily. _Cruel that he is, he stops his ears, there is no
use to pray to him!_ Gretry, however, still hoped. 'God,' said
he, 'will be touched by my thrice bitter tears.' He almost
abandoned music, in order to have more time to consecrate to
his dear Antoinette. He anticipated all her fancies, dresses,
and ornaments, books and excursions,--in a word, she enjoyed to
her heart's desire every pleasure the world could afford. At
each new toy she smiled with that divine smile which seems
formed for heaven. Gretry succeeded in deceiving himself; but
she one day revealed to him all her ill-fortune in these words,
which accidentally escaped from her: 'My godmother died on the
scaffold: she was a godmother of bad augury, Jenny died at
sixteen, Lucile died at sixteen, and I am now sixteen myself.'
The godmother of Antoinette was the queen Maria Antoinette.
"Another day, Antoinette was meditating over a pink at the
window. On seeing her with this flower in her hand, Gretry
imagined that the poor girl was suffering herself to be carried
away by a dream of love. It was the dream of death! He soon
heard Antoinette murmur; '_I shall die this spring, this
summer, this autumn, this winter!_' She was at the last leaf.
'So much the worse,' she said; 'I should like the autumn
better.' 'What do you say, my dear angel?' said Gretry,
pressing her to his heart. 'Nothing, nothing! I was playing
with death; why do you not let the children play?'
"Gretry thought that a southern journey would be a beneficial
change; he took his daughter to Lyons, where she had friends.
For a short time she returned to her gay and careless manner.
Gretry went to work again, and finished _Guillaume Tell_. He
went every morning, in search of inspiration, to the chamber of
his daughter, who said to him one day, on awaking: 'Your music
has always the odor of a poem; this will have that of wild
thyme.'
"Towards autumn, she again lost her natural gayety. Gretry took
his wife aside--'You see your daughter,' said he to her. At
this single word, an icy shudder seized both. They shed a
torrent of tears. The same day they thought of returning to
Paris. 'So we are to go back to Paris', said Antoinette; 'it is
well. I shall rejoin there those whom I love.' She spoke of her
sisters. After reaching Paris, the poor, fated girl concealed
all the ravages of death with care; her heart was sad, but her
lips were smiling. She wished to conceal the truth from her
father to the end. One day, while she was weeping and hiding
her tears, she said to him with an air of gayety: 'You know
that I am going to the ball to-morrow, and I want to appear
well-dressed there. I want a pearl necklace, and shall look for
it when I wake up to-morrow morning.'
"She went to the ball. As she set out with her mother, Rouget
Delisle, a musician more celebrated at that time than Gretry,
said rapturously: 'Ah, Gretry, you are a happy man! What a
charming girl! what sweetness and grace!' 'Yes,' said Gretry,
in a whisper, 'she is beautiful and still more amiable; she is
going to the ball, but in a few weeks we shall follow her
together to the cemetery!' 'What a horrible idea! You are
losing your senses!' 'Would I were not losing my heart! I had
three daughters; she is the only left to me, but already I must
weep for her!'
"A few days after this ball, she took to her bed, and fell into
a sad but beautiful delirium. She had found her sisters again
in this world; she walked with them hand in hand; she waltzed
in the same saloon; she danced in the same quadrille; she took
them to the play: all the while recounting to them her
imaginary loves. What a picture for Gretry! 'She had,' he says
in his _Memoirs_, some serene moments before death.--She took
my hand, and that of her mother, and with a sweet smile, 'I see
well,' she murmured, 'that we must bear our destiny; I do not
fear death; but what is to become of you two?' She was propped
up by her pillow while she spoke with us for the last time. She
was laid back, then closed her beautiful eyes, and went to join
her sisters!
"Gretry is very eloquent in his grief. There Is in this part of
his Memoirs a cry which came from his heart, and wrings our
own. 'Oh, my friends,' he exclaims, throwing down the pen, 'a
tear, a tear upon the beloved tomb of my three lovely flowers,
predestined to die, like those of the good Italian monk.'"
A MODEL TRAVELLER.
One of the most readable of living travellers is certainly our own
BAYARD TAYLOR, who is now somewhere in the interior of the African
continent, and whose letters in the _Tribune_ are every where perused
with the greatest satisfaction. Worthy to be named along with him is the
German, FREDERICK GERSTAeCKER, whose adventures form one of the most
interesting features in that cyclopediac journal, the Augsburg
_Allgemeine Zeitung_. It is now some two years since Gerstaecker set out
upon his present explorations. The backwoods of the United States
furnished a broad field for his love of a wild and changeful life, and
gave full play to his passion for the study of human character in all
its out of the way phases. His accounts of these regions were touched
with the most vivid colors; not Cooper nor Irving has more truly
reproduced the grand and savage features of American scenery, or the
reckless generous daring of the rude backwoodsman, than Gerstaecker,
writing, from some chance hut, his nocturnal landing place on the shore
of some mighty river in Nebraska or Arkansas. Next we hear of him in
South America, and then in California, passing a winter among the miners
of the remotest districts, digging gold, hunting, trafficking, fighting
in case of need like the rest, and every where sending home the most
lively daguerreotypes of the country, the people, and his own adventures
among them. Finally, having seen all that was in California, he takes
passage for the Sandwich Islands, where he remains long enough to
exhaust all the romance remaining, and to gather every sort of useful
information. From there he set out upon an indefinite voyage on board of
a whaler going to the Southern seas in search of oil. Chance, however,
brings him up at Australia: and he at once sets about travelling through
the settled portions of the Continent, taking the luck of the day every
where with exhaustless good humour, and never getting low spirited, no
matter how untoward the mishaps encountered. Less elegant and poetic
than Taylor, he dashes ahead with a more perfect indifference to
consequences, and a more utter reliance on coming out all right in the
end. In his last letter, he gives an account of a voyage in a canoe from
Albury, on the upper waters of Hume River, down to Melbourne, at its
mouth. He had got out of funds, and was thus obliged to set out on this
route contrary to the advice of the settlers at Albury, who represented
to him that the danger of being killed and eaten by the natives along
shore, who had never come in contact with whites, was inevitable, and
that they would be sure to destroy him before he reached his
destination. This was, however, only an additional inducement to the
trip. While making preparations for it, he fell in with a young
fellow-countryman in the settlement, who desired to make the same
journey, and who was willing to encounter the risks of the river rather
than pay the heavy expenses of the trip by land. They accordingly
proceeded to dig a canoe out of a caoutchouc tree, furnished themselves
with paddles, a frying-pan, blankets, some crackers, sugar, salt, tea,
and powder, and embarked. The river was shallow, and full of windings
and sandbanks, sunken caoutchouc trees had planted the stream with
frequent snags, and often heavy masses of fallen timber, still adhering
to the earth at its roots, and thus preserving its vitality, and
flourishing with all the luxuriance of a primitive tropical forest,
covered the only part of the channel where the water was deep enough to
admit of the passage of their canoe. Thus they toiled on day by day,
often getting out into the water to help their vessel over shallows, or
to pick up the ducks that Gerstaecker shot, which furnished the only meat
for their daily meals. Cloudy or fair, cold or warm, rain or sunshine,
found Gerstaecker still in the same flow of spirits, and the notes of his
daily experiences show him bearing ill-luck almost as gaily as good.
After they had gone some 400 miles, however, their journey by the river
came to a sudden end by the oversetting of their canoe, and the loss of
almost all their equipments. Gerstaecker saved his rifle and the
ammunition that was upon his person; but the remaining powder was
spoiled, and the provisions and part of the blankets and clothing were
carried away by the current. The canoe sunk, but by holding upon the
rope as they jumped out upon the overhanging trunks of trees, the
voyagers succeeded in dragging it up again, and freeing it from water.
Then one of them dived to the bottom, and managed to bring up the
frying-pan and tea-canister. They also recovered part of their blankets,
and then, with the frying-pan for their sole paddle, renewed their
voyage till they found a good camping-place, where they built a roaring
fire to dry themselves, and finally discovered that in the operations of
the day each had utterly ruined his shoes, so that they were afterwards
forced to go barefoot. In this way they continued for some days,
paddling with their frying-pan, and going ashore to get a duck
occasionally shot by Gerstaecker. This was often exceedingly painful,
from the stubble of the grass along the banks, burnt over by fires
accidentally set by the natives. Luckily, through the whole they did not
come in contact with the savages at all. At last they reached a
settlement, where they swapped their canoe for a couple pair of shoes,
and started on foot for the rest of the way. Gerstaecker had for some
time desired to get rid of his companion, who was wilful, and by no
means a helper in their difficulties. They now came to Woolshed, a place
180 miles distant from Melbourne, whence there were two roads to their
destination; the one was perfectly free from the savages, the other was
dangerous. Here Gerstaecker separated from his companion, giving him the
safe road, and, with his rifle on his arm and his knapsack slung upon
his shoulders, struck off alone into the forest-path light-hearted as a
boy, and sure, whatever might happen, of enjoying a fresher and
healthier excitement in that journey through the woods of Australia than
the dwellers in crowded cities enjoy in all their lives.
A MYSTERIOUS HISTORY.
Paris, says the _Independence Belge_, the leading journal of Brussels,
is now occupied not with politics so much as with ghost stories. At the
theatres, the _Vampyre_ and the _Imagier de Harlaem_, feed this appetite
for supernatural horrors. Among other incidents of that kind, says the
_Independance_, the following narrative was told to the company in the
_salon_ of an aristocratic Polish lady by the Comte de R----. He had
promised to tell a recent adventure with an inhabitant of the other
world, and when the clock struck midnight he began, while his auditors
gathered around him in breathless attention. His story we translate for
the _International_:--
At the beginning of last December, one of his friends, the Marquis de
N., came to see him. "You know, Count," said the Marquis, "what an
invincible repugnance I feel against returning to my chateau in
Normandy, where I had last summer the misfortune to lose my wife. But I
left there in a writing desk some important papers, which now happen to
be indispensable in a matter of family business. Here is the key; do me
the kindness to go and get the papers, for so delicate a mission I can
only intrust to you." M. de R. agreed to the request of his friend, and
set out the following day. He stopped at a station on the Rouen
railroad, whence a drive of two hours brought him to his friend's house.
He stopped before it, and a gardener came out and spoke with him through
the latticed iron gate, which he did not open. The Count was surprised
at this distrust, which even a card of admission from the proprietor of
the chateau did not overcome. Finally, after a brief absence, which
seemed to have been employed in seeking the advice of some one within,
the gardener came back and opened the gate. When the Count entered the
court-yard he saw that the blinds on the hundred windows of the chateau
were all closed, with one exception, where the blind had fallen off and
lay upon the ground. As he afterwards discovered, this window was
exactly in the middle of the chamber where his commission was to be
executed.
The Count's attention had been excited by his singular reception, and he
carefully observed every thing. He noticed a small stove-pipe leading
into a chimney. "Is the house inhabited?" he inquired. "No," replied the
gardener, gruffly, as he opened a door upon a side stairway, which he
mounted before the Count, opening at each story the little apertures for
light in the queer old fashioned front of the chateau.
In the third story, the gardener stopped, and pointing to a door, said,
"There." And without adding a word he turned about and went down stairs.
The Count opened the door and found himself in a dark ante-chamber. The
light from the stairway was sufficient, however, for him to distinguish
a second door, which he opened, and through which he went into the
apartment lighted from the window whence the blind had fallen. The
appearance of the room was cold, bare, and deserted. On the floor stood
a vacant bird-cage. The writing-desk indicated to the Count by his
friend, stood directly opposite the window. Without further delay, the
Count went directly up to the desk and opened it.
As he turned the key, the lock creaked very loudly, but at the same
moment he was aware of another and a different sound--that of a door
opening. The Count turns, and in the centre of an obscure side-room,
whose door was open, he sees a white figure, with its arms stretched
toward him.
"Count!" exclaims a low but most expressive voice, "you come to rob me
of Theodore's letters? Why?"
(Theodore is not the name of the proprietor of the chateau, at whose
request the Count had come.)
"Madame!" exclaims M. de R., "who are you?"
"Do you not know me, much as I must be altered?"
"The Marchioness!" exclaims the Count, astounded and even terrified.
"Yes, it is me. We were friends once, and now you come to add terribly
to my sufferings! Who sends you? My husband? What does he yet desire? In
mercy leave me the letters!"
While she said this, the figure made signs to the Count to come nearer.
He obeyed, forcing from his mind every suggestion that the apparition
was supernatural, and finally convinced that the Marchioness stood
before him living, under some strange mystery. He followed her into the
second room.
She was dressed in a robe, or more properly, a shroud of a gray color.
Her beautiful hair, which had for years been the envy of all other
women, fell in disorder upon her shoulders. The vague light, which came
in from the adjoining room, was just enough for the Count to remark the
extraordinary thinness and deathly pallor of the Marchioness.
Hardly had he come near her, when she said to him, quickly, almost with
vehemence:
"I suffer from incredible pains in my head. The cause is in my
hair,--for eight months it has not been combed. Count, do me this
service--comb it!"
After she had sat down, she reached a comb to M. de R., who
involuntarily obeyed her. She did not speak again, and he did not dare
to. As he confesses, he was greatly agitated. Without doubt he performed
his office of waiting-maid badly, for from time to time the lady uttered
a slight murmur of complaint.
Suddenly she rose, said "Merci!" and vanished in the gloom at the end of
the chamber. The Count waited a few moments, vainly stretching his
senses, but saw and heard nothing more. Then he resolved to return into
the first room. When his eyes fell upon the writing-desk, he perceived
that its contents were in the greatest confusion. However, he found the
family papers that he had been sent for. After he had closed the desk
again he waited a few moments; he called, but there was no answer.
Finally he went down stairs, and as he said himself, with steps that did
not linger.
There was no one in the court-yard. Before the iron gate was the
coachman ready to start. M. de R. saw no reason for tarrying longer. On
the returning way, as he was seeking to collect his thoughts upon the
strange event in the chateau, he perceived that his clothes were covered
with the Marchioness's hair.
He stopped at Rouen, and two days after returned to Paris. It was the
third of December. He sought for the Marquis, but could not find him. It
is now thought he must have fallen in the firing on the Boulevard
Montmartre, where his club is situated.
Such is the narrative which M. de R. had promised to tell in the _salon_
of the old Polish lady, where he was waited for till midnight. He came
just as the company were about separating, and showed the hairs of the
Marchioness. One of them lies on the table before me.
EDWARD EVERETT AND DANIEL WEBSTER.
The some time expected new edition of _The Speeches, Forensic Arguments,
and Diplomatic Papers_ of DANIEL WEBSTER, has just appeared, in six
large and beautifully printed volumes, from the press of Little & Brown,
of Boston. The editorial supervision of the work was undertaken by
EDWARD EVERETT, who has prefixed to the first volume a brief memoir of
the illustrious statesman, orator, and author, from the beginning and
the end of which we copy a few important paragraphs. Respecting the past
and present collections of these great compositions, Mr. Everett says:
"The first collection of Mr. Webster's speeches in the Congress
of the United States and on various public occasions, was
published in Boston in one volume octavo, in 1830. This volume
was more than once reprinted, and in 1835 a second volume was
published, containing the speeches made up to that time, and
not included in the first collection. Several impressions of
these two volumes were called for by the public. In 1843 a
third volume was prepared, containing a selection from the
speeches of Mr. Webster from the year 1835 till his entrance
into the cabinet of General Harrison. In the year 1848 appeared
a fourth volume of diplomatic papers, containing a portion of
Mr. Webster's official correspondence as Secretary of State.
The great favor with which these volumes' have been received
throughout the country, and the importance of the subjects
discussed in the Senate of the United States after Mr.
Webster's return to that body in 1845, have led his friends to
think that a valuable service would be rendered to the
community by bringing together his speeches of a later date
than those contained in the third volume of the former
collection, and on political subjects arising since that time.
Few periods of our history will be entitled to be remembered by
events of greater moment, such as the admission of Texas to the
Union, the settlement of the Oregon controversy, the Mexican
war, the acquisition of California and other Mexican provinces,
and the exciting questions which have grown out of the sudden
extension of the territory of the United States. Rarely have
public discussions been carried on with greater earnestness,
with more important consequences visibly at stake, or with
greater ability. The speeches made by Mr. Webster in the
Senate, and on public occasions of various kinds, during the
progress of these controversies, are more than sufficient to
fill two new volumes. The opportunity of their collection has
been taken by the enterprising publishers, in compliance with
opinions often expressed by the most respectable individuals,
and with a manifest public demand, to bring out a new edition
of Mr. Webster's speeches in uniform style. Such is the object
of the present publication. The first two volumes contain the
speeches delivered by him on a great variety of public
occasions, commencing with his discourse at Plymouth in
December, 1820. Three succeeding volumes embrace the greater
part of the speeches delivered in the Massachusetts Convention
and in the two houses of Congress, beginning with the speech on
the Bank of the United States in 1816. The sixth and last
volume contains the legal arguments and addresses to the jury,
the diplomatic papers, and letters addressed to various persons
on important political questions.
"The collection does not embrace the entire series of Mr.
Webster's writings. Such a series would have required a larger
number of volumes than was deemed advisable with reference to
the general circulation of the work. A few juvenile
performances have accordingly been omitted, as not of
sufficient importance or maturity to be included in the
collection. Of the earlier speeches in Congress, some were
either not reported at all, or in a manner too imperfect to be
preserved without doing injustice to the author. No attempt has
been made to collect from the cotemporaneous newspapers or
Congressional registers, the short conversational speeches and
remarks made by Mr. Webster, as by other members of Congress,
in the progress of debate, and sometimes exercising greater
influence on the result than the set speeches. Of the addresses
to public meetings it has been found impossible to embrace more
than a selection, without swelling the work to an unreasonable
size. It is believed, however, that the contents of these
volumes furnish a fair specimen of Mr. Webster's opinions and
sentiments on all the subjects treated, and of his manner of
discussing them. The responsibility of deciding what should be
omitted and what included, has been left by Mr. Webster to the
friends having the charge of the publication, and his own
opinion on details of this kind has rarely been taken."
This incompleteness, we think, will be regretted by all the parties most
deeply interested, as well as by the public generally. Mr. Webster does
not often repeat himself, and no man who has said or written so much has
said or written so little that is undeserving a place in literature or
in history. The next paragraph introduces us to Mr. Webster's
birthplace, and to his father:
"The interval between the peace of 1763 and the breaking out of
the war of the Revolution, was one of excitement and anxiety
throughout the Colonies. The great political questions of the
day were not only discussed in the towns and cities, but in the
villages and hamlets. Captain Webster took a deep interest in
those discussions. Like so many of the officers and soldiers of
the former war, he obeyed the first call to arms in the new
struggle. He commanded a company chiefly composed of his own
townspeople, friends, and kindred, who followed him through the
greater portion of the war. He was at the battle of White
Plains, and was at West Point when the treason of Arnold was
discovered. He acted as a Major under Stark at Bennington, and
contributed his share to the success of that eventful day. In
the last year of the Revolutionary war on the 18th of January,
1782, Daniel Webster was born, in the home which his father had
established on the outskirts of civilization. If the character
and situation of the place, and the circumstances under which
he passed the first year of his life, might seem adverse to the
early cultivation of his extraordinary talent, it still cannot
be doubted that they possessed influences favorable to
elevation and strength of character. The hardships of an infant
settlement and border life, the traditions of a long series of
Indian wars, and of two mighty national contests, in which an
honored parent had borne his part, the anecdotes of Fort
William Henry, of Quebec, of Bennington, of West Point, of
Wolfe, and Stark, and Washington, the great Iliad and Odyssey
of American Independence,--this was the fireside entertainment
of the long winter evenings of the secluded village home.
Abroad, the uninviting landscape, the harsh and craggy outlines
of the hills broken and relieved only by the funereal hemlock
and the 'cloud-seeking' pine, the lowlands traversed in every
direction by unbridged streams, the tall, charred trunks in the
cornfields, that told how stern had been the struggle with the
boundless woods, and, at the close of the year, the dismal
scene which presents itself in high latitudes in a thinly
settled region, when
'The snows descend; and, foul and fierce,
All winter drives along the darkened air'--
these are circumstances to leave an abiding impression on the
mind of a thoughtful child, and induce an early maturity of
character."
Of his early professional life, and of some of his contemporaries, Mr.
Everett says:
"Immediately on his admission to the bar, Mr. Webster went to
Amherst, in New Hampshire, where his father's court was in
session; from that place he went home with his father. He had
intended to establish himself at Portsmouth, which, as the
largest town and the seat of the foreign commerce of the State,
opened the widest field for practice. But filial duty kept him
nearer home. His father was now infirm from the advance of
years, and had no other son at home. Under these circumstances
Mr. Webster opened an office at Boscawen not far from his
father's residence, and commenced the practice of the law in
this retired spot. Judge Webster lived but a year after his
son's entrance upon the practice of his profession; long
enough, however, to hear his first argument in court, and to be
gratified with the confident predictions of his future success.
"In May, 1807, Mr. Webster was admitted an attorney and
counsellor of the Superior Court in New Hampshire, and in
September of that year, relinquishing his office in Boscawen to
his Brother Ezekiel, he removed to Portsmouth, in conformity
with his original intention. Here he remained in the practice
of his profession for nine successive years. They were years of
assiduous labor, and of unremitted devotion to the study and
practice of the law. He was associated with several persons of
great eminence, citizens of New Hampshire or of Massachusetts,
occasionally practising at the Portsmouth bar. Among the latter
were Samuel Dexter and Joseph Storey; of the residents of New
Hampshire, Jeremiah Mason was the most distinguished.
"During the greater part of Mr. Webster's practice of the law
in New Hampshire, Jeremiah Smith was Chief Justice of the
state, a learned and excellent judge, whose biography has been
written by the Rev. John H. Morrison, and will well repay
perusal. Judge Smith was an early and warm friend of Judge
Webster, and this friendship descended to the son, and glowed
in his breast with fervor till he went to his grave. Although
dividing with Mr. Mason the best of the business of Portsmouth,
and indeed of all the eastern portion of the State, Mr.
Webster's practice was mostly on the circuit. He followed the
Superior Court through the principal counties of the state, and
was retained in nearly every important cause. It is mentioned
by Mr. March, as a somewhat singular fact in his professional
life, that, with the exception of the occasions on which he has
been associated with the Attorney-General of the United States
for the time being, he has hardly appeared ten times as junior
counsel. Within the sphere in which he was placed, he may be
said to have risen at once to the head of his profession; not,
however, like Erskine and some other celebrated British
lawyers, by one and the same bound, at once to fame and
fortune. The American bar holds forth no such golden prizes,
certainly not in the smaller states. Mr. Webster's practice in
New Hampshire, though probably as good as that of any of his
contemporaries, was never lucrative. Clients were not very
rich, nor the concerns litigated such as would carry heavy
fees. Although exclusively devoted to his profession, it
afforded him no more than a bare livelihood. But the time for
which he practised at the New Hampshire bar was probably not
lost with reference to his future professional and political
eminence. His own standard of legal attainment was high. He was
associated with professional brethren fully competent to put
his powers to their best proof, and to prevent him from
settling down in early life into an easy routine of ordinary
professional practice. It was no disadvantage under these
circumstances (except in reference to immediate pecuniary
benefit), to enjoy some portion of that leisure for general
reading, which is almost wholly denied to the lawyer of
commanding talents, who steps immediately into full practice in
a large city."
The memoir, which extends through nine chapters, comprising a survey of
the intellectual and political life of Mr. Webster, down to the last
year, ends as follows:
"Such, in a brief and imperfect narrative, is the public life
of Mr. Webster, extending over a period of forty years, marked
by the occurrence of events of great importance. It has been
the aim of the writer to prevent the pen of the biographer from
being too much influenced by the partiality of the friend.
Should he seem to the candid not wholly to have escaped that
error, (which, however, he trusts will not be the case,) he
ventures to hope that it will be forgiven to an intimacy which
commenced in the youth of one of the parties and the boyhood of
the other, and which has subsisted for nearly half a century.
It will be admitted, he thinks, by every one, that this career,
however inadequately delineated, has been one of singular
eminence and brilliancy. Entering upon public life at the close
of the first epoch in the political history of the United
States under the present Constitution, Mr. Webster has stood
below none of the distinguished men who have impressed their
character on the second.
"There is a class of public questions in reference to which the
opinions of most men are greatly influenced by prejudices
founded in natural temperament, early associations, and real or
supposed local interest. As far as such questions are
concerned, it is too much to hope that, in times of high party
excitement, full justice will be done to prominent statesmen by
those of their contemporaries who differ from them. We greatly
err, however, if candid men of all parties, and in all parts of
the country, do not accord to Mr. Webster the praise of having
formed to himself a large and generous view of the character of
an American statesman, and of having adopted the loftiest
standard of public conduct. They will agree that he has
conceived, in all its importance, the position of the country
as a member of the great family of nations, and as the leading
republican government. In reference to domestic politics it
will be as generally conceded, that, reposing less than most
public men on a party basis, it has been the main object of his
life to confirm and perpetuate the great work of the
constitutional fathers of the last generation. By their wisdom
and patriotic forethought we are blessed with a system in which
the several states are brought into a union so admirably
composed and balanced,--both complicated and kept distinct with
such skill,--as to seem less a work of human prudence than of
Providential interposition. Mr. Webster has at all times been
fully aware of the evils of anarchy, discord, and civil war at
home, and of utter national insignificance abroad, from which
the formation of the Union saved us. He has been not less
sensible to the obstacles to be overcome, the perils to be
encountered, and the sufferings to be borne, before this
wonderful framework of government could be established. And he
has been persuaded that, if destroyed, it can never be
reconstructed. With these views, his life has been consecrated
to the maintenance in all their strength of the principles on
which the Constitution rests, and to the support of the system
created by it.
"The key to his whole political course is the belief that, when
the Union is dissolved, the internal peace, the vigorous
growth, and the prosperity of the states, and the welfare of
their inhabitants, are blighted for ever, and that, while the
Union endures, all else of trial and calamity which can befall
a nation may be remedied or borne. So believing, he has pursued
a course which has earned for him an honored name among those
who have discharged the duty of good citizens with the most
distinguished ability, zeal, and benefit to the country. In the
relations of civilized life, there is no higher service which
man can render to man, than thus to preserve a wise
constitution of government in healthful action. Nor does the
most eloquent of the statesmen of antiquity content himself
with pronouncing this the highest human merit. In that
admirable treatise on the Republic, of which some precious
chapters have been restored to us after having been lost for
ages, he does not hesitate to affirm, that there is nothing in
which human virtue approaches nearer the divine, than in
establishing and preserving states."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Miss Mitford, in her pleasant _Reminiscences of a Literary Life_, gives
the following sketch of this charming poetess:
"My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about
fifteen years ago. She was certainly one of the most
interesting persons that I had ever seen. Every body who then
saw her said the same; so that it is not merely the impression
of my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate
figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a
most expressive face, large, tender eyes, richly fringed by
dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of
youthfulness that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend,
in whose carriage we went together to Chiswick, that the
translatress of the 'Prometheus' of AEschylus, the authoress of
the 'Essay on Mind,' was old enough to be introduced into
company, in technical language, 'was out.' Through the kindness
of another invaluable friend, to whom I owe many obligations,
but none so great as this, I saw much of her during my stay in
town. We met so constantly and so familiarly that, in spite of
the difference of age, intimacy ripened into friendship, and
after my return into the country, we corresponded freely and
frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to
be--her own talk put upon paper.
"The next year was a painful one to herself and to all who
loved her. She broke a blood-vessel upon the lungs, which did
not heal. If there had been consumption in the family, that
disease would have intervened. There were no seeds of the fatal
English malady in her constitution, and she escaped. Still,
however, the vessel did not heal, and after attending her for
above a twelvemonth at her father's house in Wimpole street,
Dr. Chambers, on the approach of winter, ordered her to a
milder climate. Her eldest brother, a brother in heart and
talent worthy of such a sister, together with other devoted
relatives, accompanied her to Torquay, and there occurred the
fatal event which saddened her bloom of youth, and gave a
deeper hue of thought and feeling, especially of devotional
feeling, to her poetry. I have so often been asked what could
be the shadow that had passed over that young heart, that, now
that time has softened the first agony, it seems to me right
that the world should hear the story of an accident in which
there much sorrow, but no blame.
"Nearly a twelvemonth had passed, and the invalid, still
attended by her affectionate companions, had derived much
benefit from the mild sea-breezes of Devonshire. One fine
summer morning, her favorite brother, together with two other
fine young men, his friends, embarked on board a small
sailing-vessel for a trip of a few hours. Excellent sailors
all, and familiar with the coast, they sent back the boatmen,
and undertook themselves the management of the little craft.
Danger was not dreamt of by any one; after the catastrophe, no
one could divine the cause, but, in a few minutes after their
embarkation, and in sight of their very windows, just as they
were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and all who were in
her perished. Even the bodies were never found. I was told by a
party who were travelling that year in Devonshire and Cornwall,
that it was most affecting to see on the corner houses of every
village street, on every church door, and almost on every cliff
for miles and miles along the coast, handbills, offering large
rewards for linen cast ashore, marked with the initials of the
beloved dead; for it so chanced that all the three were of the
dearest and the best; one, I believe, an only son, the other
the son of a widow.
"This tragedy nearly killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly
prostrated by the horror and the grief, and by a natural but a
most unjust feeling that she had been, in some sort, the cause
of this great misery. It was not until the following year that
she could be removed, in an invalid carriage, and by journeys
of twenty miles a day, to her afflicted family and her London
home. The house that she occupied at Torquay had been chosen as
one of the most sheltered in the place. It stood at the bottom
of the cliffs, almost close to the sea; and she told me herself
that during that whole winter the sound of the waves rang in
her ears like the moans of one dying. Still she clung to
literature and to Greek; in all probability she would have died
without that wholesome diversion of her thoughts. Her medical
attendant did not always understand this. To prevent the
remonstrances of her friendly physician, Dr. Barry, she caused
a small edition of Plato to be so bound as to resemble a novel.
He did not know, skilful and kind though he were, that to her,
such books were not an arduous and painful study, but a
consolation and a delight. Returned to London, she began the
life which she continued for so many years, confined to one
large and commodious but darkened chamber, admitting only her
own affectionate family and a few devoted friends (I, myself,
have often joyfully travelled five-and-forty miles to see her,
and returned the same evening without entering another house),
reading almost every book worth reading in almost every
language, and giving herself, heart and soul, to that poetry of
which she seemed born to be the priestess. Gradually her health
improved. About four years ago she married Mr. Browning, and
immediately accompanied him to Pisa. They then settled at
Florence; and this summer I have had the exquisite pleasure of
seeing her once more in London with a lovely boy at her knee,
almost as well as ever, and telling tales of Italian rambles,
of losing herself in chestnut forests, and scrambling on
mule-back up the sources of extinct volcanoes. May Heaven
continue to her such health and such happiness!"
THE HAPPINESS OF OYSTERS.
The last _Westminster Review_ contains a pleasant scientific article
under the title of "Shell Fish, their Ways and Works," in which the
subject so much debated lately, whether the lower orders of animals are
capable of reason, has some new and amusing illustrations. Generous and
honestly disposed lovers of good dinners will be gratified with the
notion that _oysters_ receive as well as communicate a degree of
happiness. The reviewer treats the subject in the following luminous
manner:
"And then the oyster itself--the soul and body of the shell--is
there no philosophy in him or her? For now we know that oysters
are really he and she, and that Bishop Sprat, when he gravely
proposed the study of oyster-beds as a pursuit worthy of the
sages who, under the guidance of his co-Bishop, Wilkins, and
Sir Christopher Wren, were laying the foundation stones of the
Royal Society, was not so far wrong when he discriminated
between lady and gentleman oysters. The worthy suggester, it is
true, knew no better than to separate them according to the
color of their beards; as great a fallacy, as if, in these days
of Bloomerism, we should propose to distinguish between males
and females by the fashion of their waistcoats or color of
their pantaloons; or, before this last great innovation of
dress, to, diagnose between a dignitary episcopal and an
ancient dame by the comparative length of their respective
aprons. In that soft and gelatinous body lies a whole world of
vitality and quiet enjoyment. Somebody has styled fossiliferous
rocks 'monuments of the felicity of past ages.' An undisturbed
oyster-bed is a concentration of happiness in the present.
Dormant though the several creatures there congregated seem,
each individual is leading the beatified existence of an
epicurean god. The world without--its cares and joys, its
storms and calms, its passions, evil and good--all are
indifferent to the unheeding oyster. Unobservant even of what
passes in its immediate vicinity, its whole soul is
concentrated in itself; yet not sluggishly and apathetically,
for its body is throbbing with life and enjoyment. The mighty
ocean is subservient to its pleasures. The rolling waves waft
fresh and choice food within its reach, and the flow of the
current feeds it without requiring an effort. Each atom of
water that comes in contact with its delicate gills involves
its imprisoned air to freshen and invigorate the creature's
pellucid blood. Invisible to human eye, unless aided by the
wonderful inventions of human science, countless millions of
vibrating cilia are moving incessantly with synchronic beat on
every fibre of each fringing leaflet. Well might old
Leeuwenhoek exclaim, when he looked through his microscope at
the beard of a shell-fish, 'The motion I saw in the small
component parts of it was so incredibly great, that I could not
be satisfied with the spectacle; and it is not in the mind of
conceive all the motions which I beheld within the compass of a
grain of sand.' And yet the Dutch naturalist, unaided by the
finer instruments of our time, beheld but a dim and misty
indication of the exquisite cilliary apparatus by which these
motions are effected. How strange to reflect that all this
elaborate and inimitable contrivance has been devised for the
well-being of a despised shell-fish? Nor is it merely in the
working members of the creature that we find its wonders
comprised. There are portions of its frame which seem to serve
no essential purpose in its economy: which might be omitted
without disturbing the course of its daily duties, and yet so
constant in their presence and position, that we cannot doubt
their having had their places in the original plan according to
which the organization of the mollusk was first put together.
These are symbols of organs to be developed in creatures higher
in the scale of being; antitypes, it may be, of limbs, and
anticipations of undeveloped senses. These are the first
draughts of parts to be made out in their details elsewhere;
serving, however, an end by their presence, for they are badges
of relationship and affinity between one creature and another.
In them the oyster-eater and the oyster may find some common
bond of sympathy and distant cousinhood.
"Had the disputatious and needle-witted schoolmen known of
these most curious mysteries of vitality, how vainly subtle
would have been their speculations concerning the solution of
such enigmas?"
THE RECLAIMING OF THE ANGEL.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
BY ALICE CAREY.
Oh smiling land of the sunset,
How my heart to thy beauty thrills--
Veiled dimly to-day with the shadow
Of the greenest of all thy hills!
Where daisies lean to the sunshine,
And the winds a plowing go,
And break into shining furrows
The mists in the vale below;
Where the willows hang out their tassels,
With the dews, all white and cold,
Strung over their wands so limber,
Like pearls upon chords of gold;
Where in milky hedges of hawthorn
The red-winged thrushes sing,
And the wild vine, bright and flaunting,
Twines many a scarlet ring;
Where, under the ripened billows
Of the silver-flowing rye,
We ran in and out with the zephyrs--
My sunny-haired brother and I.
Oh, when the green kirtle of May time,
Again o'er the hill-tops is blown,
I shall walk the wild paths of the forest,
And climb the steep headlands alone--
Pausing not where the slopes of the meadows
Are yellow with cowslip beds,
Nor where, by the wall of the garden,
The hollyhocks lift their bright heads.
In hollows that dimple the hill-sides,
Our feet till the sunset had been,
Where pinks with their spikes of red blossoms,
Hedged beds of blue violets in,
While to the warm lip of the sunbeam
The check of the blush rose inclined,
And the pansy's white bosom was flushed with
The murmurous love of the wind.
But when 'neath the heavy tresses
That swept o'er the dying day,
The star of the eve like a lover
Was hiding his blushes away,
As we came to a mournful river
That flowed to a lovely shore,
"Oh, sister," he said, "I am weary--
I cannot go back any more!"
And seeing that round about him
The wings of the angels shone--
I parted the locks from his forehead
And kissed him and left him alone.
But a shadow comes over my spirit
Whenever I think of the hours
I trusted his feet to the pathway
That winds through eternity's flowers.
THE ENEMY OF VIRGINIA.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY ASA SMITH, M. D.
The London _Examiner_, in reviewing Mr. McCulloch's new work on Wages,
etc., seems to be displeased that the author should have expressed
himself against the cultivation and use of tobacco, using the following
language in its defence: "We quarrel," says the _Examiner_, "with Mr.
McCulloch, for bestowing offensive epithets on tobacco, which he is
pleased to call 'this filthy and offensive stimulant.' Why it should be
more filthy to take a pinch of snuff or a whiff of tobacco smoke, than
to swallow a quart of port wine, is not to us intelligible. Of all the
stimulants that men have had recourse to, tea and coffee excepted,
tobacco is the least pernicious. For the life of you, you cannot get
drunk on it, however well disposed, and no man or woman has ever been
charged with committing a crime under its influence--save only the
factitious crime created by an irrational and excessive duty. For the
best part of three centuries, all the nations of the earth have been
using tobacco--saint, savage, and sage, being among the consumers."
The _Examiner_ may quarrel with Mr. McCulloch for abusing the "weed," if
it pleases, but it is a weak argument, if argument it can be called, to
say that because taking a pinch of snuff, or a whiff of tobacco, is no
worse than taking a quart of port wine, therefore the use of tobacco is
good; or because tobacco is the least pernicious of all the stimulants,
therefore it is not objectionable; or because one cannot get drunk on
it, (which, by the way, is a great mistake,) or because for the best
part of three centuries all the nations of the earth have been using
tobacco--saint, savage and sage--therefore it is not a "filthy and
offensive stimulant." The real object of the _Examiner_, however, in
defending the cultivation and use of tobacco, will appear by reading a
little further. "Of all people," says the reviewer, "we ourselves are
the most moderate consumers; yet the 'filthy and offensive stimulant'
_puts four millions and a half a year into our exchequer_. An old
financier, like Mr. McCulloch, ought, _on this account alone_, to have
treated the weed with more respect." Here then is the true reason why
the London _Examiner_ is disposed to quarrel with that author. Nor can
it be a "filthy and offensive stimulant," because, forsooth, it puts
four millions and a half a year into England's exchequer! Upon this mode
of reasoning, what an inestimable blessing must opium be to the world,
and especially to the Chinese! We have only to say, that if tobacco
yields this immense revenue annually to England, any one who passes
through Eastern Virginia and sees the poverty stricken appearance of the
thousands of acres of exhausted useless land which present themselves in
every direction, will be able to determine at whose expense this has
been, in a great measure. If England has been enriched by the traffic in
tobacco, its cultivation has been the ruin of Eastern Virginia, by far
the larger portion of which now lies in open uncultivated sterile
commons, bleaching in the sun.
Virginia, we are glad to know, is at last awaking to her true condition
and interests; the rapid increase of population in the northern and
western states, and the proportionate improvement in their arts,
sciences and agricultural industry, have excited in the minds of our
people, no inconsiderable attention. While it is true of Western
Virginia, that if not advancing with a rapidity equalling that of many
of the states, she is nevertheless improving, and with her almost
inexhaustible mineral wealth, and productiveness of soil, must continue
to improve, if the inhabitants persist in declining to cultivate
tobacco. It is painfully true of Eastern Virginia--if we except the
cities--that if not just at this time retrograding, the change from a
retrograde to a stationary condition has been but recent, and some time
must necessarily elapse before any marked evidence of an advance will be
perceptible. There are even yet to be found, on the borders of James
River and in other parts of Virginia, the wealthy, intelligent, and
hospitable planter, living in style and entertaining with liberality
scarcely unequal to that which distinguished Virginia in bygone days.
Such are still to be encountered, though not often. The Virginia
gentleman has been elbowed out. Like the Knickerbockers of New
York--most of whom have shaken the ashes from their pipes, and gone
off--the old Virginia gentleman has disappeared--but been displaced by a
different enemy from that which disturbed the cogitations of the honest
Dutchman. While _Mein Herr_, happy and contented, sat in the door of his
simple dwelling, enjoying the pleasure of his pipe, he little thought,
or if he thought, he little cared perhaps, that the weed which afforded
so much comfort to his constitutionally comfortable frame, was drawing
forth the substance and exhausting the soil of one of the richest,
fairest and most attractive portions of the earth, and would in time
cover its surface with a stunted sickly growth of pine, through which
the wind might pour her low sad requiem for departed life. The honest
Hollander and his good vrow have gone on their journey, exiled by the
enterprising Yankee, or by the needy foreigner. The old Virginia
gentleman has gone, or is going--finding that his "old fields" are
rapidly increasing, and his crop of tobacco year by year
diminishing--where no hopes to find a richer soil and a better market.
For some years past, most of the counties in Eastern Virginia have
produced very little tobacco--some of them none at all. When we recall
to mind that this section of Virginia was once by far the richest part
of the state, and not to be surpassed by any soil in the country--that
it was celebrated for the large crops and excellent quality of its
tobacco--we naturally look for the reasons of this change. Now, although
our good friends down below, are very sensitive upon the subject, we
have no hesitation in saying that the cause generally assigned is the
true one, viz., that the soil is exhausted, worn out, and therefore
cannot produce tobacco, or any thing else of consequence. And here let
me encroach upon established rules and digress for a few moments,
leaving tobacco, to give my reader a little advice to aid him should he
ever visit the "Old Dominion." In the first place, if you stop at any
point along the shore, and especially should you reach Hampton, never
speak of "crabs." If you are fond of them, get them the best way you
can; you will have no difficulty in finding them; have them cooked, and
eat them; but don't ask for them--don't speak of them. The people of
Virginia, like those of most other places, are sensitive on some points;
and it would be no less impolite to speak of crabs in Hampton, than it
would be to speak of "persimmons" in Fluvanna County.
In the second place, never speak of the ague and fever, especially if
you visit on the rivers, unless it be to say, that the place from which
you came is very subject to this complaint. If you take this position
you are safe, for should you be attacked (cases have been known even in
Virginia), why you have only to say you were so unfortunate as not to
leave home quite soon enough to avoid the disease. Mind what I, an M.D.
of the calomel and quinine school--no Homoeopathist, but one of the
regular troop--say upon this matter. No false charges, either direct or
indirect, no inuendos by look, word, or deed, that you might possibly
have taken the ague and fever after your arrival! It would be absurd, at
least, in you to say so. Not that the people would lay violent hands
upon you--and yet on sober second thoughts I am not so sure of this, if
we are to judge from the toast given by a young gentleman who attended
the Printers' anniversary celebration of the birth of Benjamin Franklin,
at the City Hotel, Richmond, on the night of Saturday, 17th of January:
"A [symbol: hand] to our friends, and a [symbol: dagger] for our
enemies." This, perhaps, might have been simply to vary the
entertainment of the evening. We ought not be hasty in drawing
conclusions, for another young citizen, on the same occasion, gave the
following: "The first families of Virginia--like stars seen in the
ocean, they would not be there but for their bright originals in
heaven." It is evident from this, although there is no roundabout
tedious effort to prove the thing, that the "first families" of Virginia
are not only as the stars of heaven in number--not only as thick as
stars, but that like the stars they are absolutely in heaven, and,
having carried their family dignity thither, are emitting their light to
the benighted angels--occasional sparks sometimes dropping down from
them to their numberless descendants, living here upon the shadows of
their grandfathers. It may not be amiss, in order to save future
digression, to say that the Smith in my name is on the paternal side.
Should you come to Virginia, you will hear of the Smiths. You have
already beard of Pocahontas. Well, the land on which her father lived
was famous for its tobacco: it would now be dear at three dollars per
acre. A short time since, while on a visit to and in conversation with
one of the most distinguished men of Virginia, who owns and resides on a
plantation on the James River, a few miles above Richmond--observing the
neatness of every thing around, the superiority of his land and the
largeness of his wheat and corn crops, I inquired about his tobacco. "I
never cultivate tobacco," said he, "I detest it, for it has been the
ruin of the state." This is the testimony of one of Virginia's most
prominent and most enlightened sons, a graduate of William and Mary
College, and the friend of Bishop Madison, Thomas Jefferson, and most of
Virginia's other distinguished men, living in his day--one who, in age,
has passed the threescore and ten allotted to mankind, and whose
dignified yet gentle bearing tells that he is one of the survivors of a
class now nearly extinct, "the Virginia gentleman of the old school."
Pass through almost any part of Eastern Virginia, and wherever you go
will be found immense tracts of land, barren and useless, which were
once rich and productive, but which have been exhausted in the
cultivation of tobacco. And yet--notwithstanding this, and strange as it
may appear--there are still to be found among the people of lower
Virginia men who deny that the raising of this crop impoverishes the
soil, and who on the contrary insist that the culture of tobacco
enriches it. They are ready to acknowledge that the land has been
exhausted, but contend that it is owing to the cultivation of corn, and
not of tobacco. This, it need hardly be said, is maintained only by
those who are engaged in raising tobacco. Facts however are stubborn
things, and it may be well to present, just at this time, one or two in
point.
Virginia, when first settled, possessed a soil far superior to that of
any of the Eastern or Middle States. Little or no tobacco has ever been
raised in those states, while corn has been one of the chief products.
In Virginia, where tobacco has been the principal crop, the land has
deteriorated, the rich soil has been exhausted, and become more sterile
than were the bleak hills of New England when the Pilgrim reached her
shores; while in New England, where corn has been produced in abundance,
and but very little tobacco, the soil has been improved until it has
become almost or quite as rich as that of Virginia was at any time
since its settlement. In this day the most unproductive of the New
England states has soil superior to that of Eastern Virginia.
Another fact that cannot be denied is, that wherever tobacco has been
raised for any length of time, the result has been invariably the
same--without a single exception, the land has been exhausted, and
abandoned as useless. A particular portion of a plantation, it is true,
has been, and may be again for a time, kept very rich by concentrating
upon it all the fertilizing substance produced; but this must of course
be at the expense of all other parts of the plantation, and operate
eventually to the disadvantage of the small part kept rich at the
expense of the whole; for unless there be considerable attention paid to
other parts of the land, besides those appropriated to the raising of
tobacco, the manure will no longer be found on the plantation, and
general exhaustion and sterility must follow.
From what has been said about tobacco the reader will imagine, perhaps,
that I am an enemy to the noxious weed. Not altogether so; but the
reason, if not precisely similar to that which calls forth the article
in the London _Examiner_, springs from the same impulse: I love a good
cigar, and have been in my day an inveterate smoker, but hope, and am
now endeavoring, to overcome the useless and enervating habit, more
especially since I have seen the poverty and desolation occasioned in
Virginia from the cultivation of tobacco. Still I must confess, that
even now, like an old war horse when he smells powder, am I, when I come
in contact with the odoriferous exhalation of a good cigar. If he with
delight snuffs in his expanded nostrils the fumes of saltpetre and
charcoal, I, with no less pleasure, inhale the odor of a good Havana. If
he chafes and prances to rush into the battle, in me rises an elate
spirit, when, in the midst of a band of smokers, I see through the fog,
slowly curling and ascending, a miniature gallery of "long nines"
issuing from their port-holes, and hear the puffs, and see the smoke. At
such a time it is not safe to offer me a cigar, for then I feel like him
of the _Examiner_, that it is not well to be too hard upon an enemy.
Snuff I detest, and always have detested, notwithstanding the fact that
I once bought a gold snuff-box, upon the lid of which I had my family
coat-of-arms engraved.
"Off again! Why don't you keep to the point?" doubtless exclaims the
reader. The truth is, my position as an assailant of tobacco is somewhat
peculiar, such as may be appreciated by one who, having had a friend to
whom he is under obligation, has been led, upon meeting that friend, and
finding him in discredit, to give him the "cold shoulder." It goes hard
with my feeling, if not with my conscience, to speak against tobacco.
Yet whatever virtue the weed itself may possess, it is now almost
universally conceded, that the cultivation of tobacco will ruin a
country. Let any one take a survey of lower Virginia, and he cannot help
coming to the conclusion, that it not only impoverishes the land, but if
followed up for a number of years, will be very apt to impoverish the
children of those who engage in its cultivation. Tobacco, say its
advocates, is a very profitable crop,--if by profit is meant a large
return in money, without reference to any thing else--granted. Much
money has been and will be made by cultivating it, and if the parent, as
the money is received, would safely invest it for the benefit of himself
and children, so that provision would be made for the time when he grows
old and they advance, and the land becomes exhausted and useless, they
will do very well. But few are sufficiently considerate to make this
provision, since it is naturally supposed that a plantation which for a
number of years has yielded a superabundance will not be likely to fail
in the future. They cannot see that year after year, slowly but surely,
the substance of their land is being taken away in the form of tobacco,
and that in the end their plantations will be barren and useless.
Estates comprising thousands of acres of good land yield annually large
incomes, upon which their owners live, with their families, in great
affluence. Surrounded by servants who stand ready to attend to every
want, the children are reared from their infancy with scarcely a wish
ungratified--thereby contracting most expensive habits, and becoming,
through the mistaken kindness and indulgence of their parents,
altogether unfitted for the hardships of life when adversity comes upon
them. It is not, in fact, often the case that parents so situated
remember that a change may take place by which they or their children
may be thrown upon the world and compelled to rely upon their own
exertions for a living. But experience shows that the cultivation of
tobacco tends almost inevitably to this. As year after year passes on,
section after section of productive land is taken up, and that which has
become already exhausted is left to put forth stunted pines, and await
the recuperative powers of nature. Thus men live on, with an increasing
family and a large and rapidly increasing number of servants to support,
until perhaps the head of the house is called away by death, and the
estate, if free from incumbrance, is divided among the children. Another
generation succeeds, and another division takes place--the soil all this
time becoming poor and poorer, and the quantity of land at each
subdivision becoming less for every member,--until a general exhaustion
is perceived, the land is left a wilderness, and the family scattered
over the country; the females, sensitive, well-educated, and spirited,
unfitted for contact with the world, and the sons too often branded as
spendthrifts because they cannot manage to live upon the land that
supported their fathers and their grandfathers.
A WORD ABOUT THE ARMY-PRIVATE.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.
We cannot make up our mind to look on this member of the universal
Yankee nation with quite as much distrust as is often evinced; with that
distrust which lies most where he is least known. Scarce one-sixth of
the lookers-on--as the liveried gentleman with a straight knee and stiff
upper-lip keeps up the ninety to a minute down the sunny side of
Greenwich-street--know aught of the animal, save that every day he
struts up and down at about the same hour. Mothers have nothing to say
for him, while fathers pass him with quite a look of contempt. Betty,
perhaps, is the least timid, and is foolish enough to let spurs and
cock-feathers tinge her dreams all night long, beside thinking of them a
dozen times next day. If she is from the old country, she has seen them
all her life, and has many friends "as went a soldiering." The little
boys are more of the Betty order, and always show him the greatest
admiration and respect: as may be seen, any day, in the miniature
evolutions to the public squares, which always display enthusiasm, if
not the accuracy of strategical art. If there is but one private, you
will always be sure to find a captain and a drummer, and the army is
complete.
Why the senior and more intellectual world and his wife are more wary of
the Greenwich dragoon, is a question not easy of solution. Perhaps they
have read in books that he is apt to commit sundry excesses, not
approved of in the Scriptures, after the siege is over; or that, like
Captain Dalgetty, he will sometimes fight for plunder; or that his
profession tends to "solitude and calling it peace." In a measure these
charges are certainly true; partly because poor human nature is frail,
and partly that there are tricks in all trades; not, however, we think,
to the extent that he should suffer excommunication without a hearing,
and while his own or adopted flag waves tranquilly over the land. Give
him credit when he deserves it, for it is his especial lot, when down,
to have no friends. In stirring times, however, when death is within the
walls and the enemy hard pressing at the gates, he has advocates and
admirers without number; then he has virtues worthy of notice; and while
his body receives the ball, his heart is praised for its devotion. Women
have embroidered silken banners for him, to strengthen his courage in
their defence, and put fine words thereon to serve him as a rallying
cry. In our revolutionary days, when the old continental spirit was
abroad, he was respected to a degree unknown perhaps at the present
time. The mistress entertained him with a hearty will, and the
respectable dame, who, when there was no flannel for making cartridges,
dropped something in the street that would make a dozen or more, enjoyed
the joke all her life, besides receiving a pension from Congress. That
he really receives now so much distrust, it is either because we know
nothing about him, or because the lightning age is so far advanced as to
leave his humble merits out of sight in the rear. He is rarely
noisy--never insults you--and passes well to the right in the street. He
is often polite, too; and if he does not, like Jack, offer to carry a
lady's muff, it is because his land-service has taught him the big thing
is not as heavy as it looks. If a mob defies the law, he will stand the
stones until one has knocked him out of the ranks. In short, he is a
complete protector and servitor of laws, of mothers, daughters, wives,
and property,--and, at the end of all, receiving his pittance with a
"Good luck to those who live better and get more."
It is not our intention, be it known, to attempt doing away with any
prejudice good society may entertain for one of its "sworn defenders;"
for, as we have hinted, the soldier is not presumptuous, and never
curses his unlucky stars. Our only object is, to give a brief
pen-and-ink sketch of the man in his bonded condition; in fine, say so
much, or so little, about him, that the uninitiated, sitting by the warm
fire-side, and reading of the great cold in latitude 49 deg., or of the hot
pursuit in the Camanche country, may know something of poor Tobin, who
is made to suit every climate and every emergency.
It has often been a wonder with the curious, why enlistments take place
in times of profound peace; and the probable causes that lead to such
steps are, of course, much debated. We remember seeing, not long ago, in
the newspapers, a brief table of such causes, purporting to come from an
army surgeon who examined each recruit on the subject. It was funny, and
so startling withal, that while some laughed or stood aghast, others
hardly knew which to admire most, the doctor's eccentricity, or his
fertile fancy. We know not if in the world's vast library there is any
reliable exhibition of such causes. Sir Walter Scott's imaginary
Clutterbuck, after some prefatory doubts, leaves the following as
perhaps his principal reason: "This happy vacuity of all employment
appeared to me so delicious, that it became the primary hint, which,
according to the system of Helvetius, as the minister says, determined
my infant talents towards the profession I was destined to illustrate."
Such may be the idea of some at the present day, though Clutterbuck's
declaration is by no means sacred authority. He confesses he was
unmilitary enough to damn _reveille_, and also, to a significant rebuke
from his old colonel. "I am no friend to extravagance, Ensign
Clutterbuck," said he, "but on the day when we are to pass before the
sovereign of the kingdom, in the name of God, I would have at least
shown him an inch of clean linen." The truth is, the causes are about as
various as the trades they subscribe to, or, if one more than another be
predominant, it is "the love of the thing." In the old countries, the
drum and fife mingled their music with the first pleasant scenes he ever
saw; and, in the new world, the same enlivening sounds also awoke the
spirit of childhood. Early associations had merely lain dormant for a
season, but those connected with the bright musket and sabre were
stronger than those of the spade and figure-maker's mould.
Having before us the roll of a company now in service, we will take from
it such information as may be pertinent, premising that the record is so
nearly like that of every other, that the little difference, as
mathematicians say, may be disregarded without affecting the general
result. Of the whole number (fifty), thirty-eight are between twenty and
thirty years of age, ten between thirty and forty, and two between forty
and forty-five. Five were born in England, three in Scotland, twenty-one
in Ireland, five in Germany, thirteen in the United States, two in
Prussia, and one in Italy. They subscribed, at the time of enlistment,
the following trades: five farmers, one spinner, twelve laborers, one
weaver, one tinsmith, one painter, two gardeners, three bakers, two
shoemakers, two tailors, one carpenter, one printer, one cigar-maker,
nine soldiers, four clerks, one turner, and one figure-maker (the
Italian); and one pretends to be a lawyer, though, as he may be an
imposter, we will have due regard for the sensitive feelings of our
legal friends, and set him down as only a pettifogger. Sixteen cannot
read or write, and of these, three are of the United States, and the
remainder nearly all from Ireland. It is quite a treat in chirography to
see the signatures of the residue of the fifty, as they stand in the
column. They are not so imposing as John Hancock's on the Declaration,
nor as small as a schoolmistress's copy; but assume all shapes and
styles, from the "clerkly fist," to the genuine "crow-track," or Chinese
characters on a tea-chest.
Be it as it may, after he swears to serve well and faithfully the United
States against all her enemies and opposers whatsoever, he is sent to
New-York harbor, if he is to do foot-work, or to Carlisle Barracks, if a
horse is to do it for him; and in one of these places the transformation
from civil to military life begins. In two hours after his arrival you
would hardly know him. With hair cut close, and a complete revolution in
his dress, he looks nothing like the "sovereign" of this mighty Republic
you have just seen. He feels the change, too; and as he struts up and
down, peacock-like, admiring himself, he realizes that hitherto, for
many years perhaps, he has not had a new suit from tip to toe all for
nothing. It has saved him weary days of toil, and the little personal
liberty he has given in exchange is but dust in the balance. As soon as
"the vapors melt into morn," the drum sounds the _reveille_, and up he
rises to receive instructions, which are repeated and repeated until he
has them at his tongue's and fingers' ends. At all times, if
well-behaved, he receives the necessary recreations and indulgences. To
follow him closely throughout his tuition, would be to extend this
article more than is intended, besides outraging the military knowledge
of many by a recital of elementary instruction. Suffice it to say, after
a certain period, he is sent to some post on the sea-board, or to active
service on the frontier.
The term of enlistment varies in different countries. In England,
formerly, it extended to twenty-one years; but the law has lately
reduced it to ten. In our service it is for five years only, with the
privilege of re-enlisting, if at the end of that time the applicant is
still sound in body and mind. He then becomes an "old soldier;" a term
which, for some reason or other, is used in civil life with no
complimentary import. It has a better meaning in service, however, which
is well exemplified in the French proverb, "_Il n'est chasse que de
vieux chiens_" (old dogs are staunch hunters). The pay also varies, and
it is a feather in the cap of our Government that we may say she is in
this respect more liberal than any other. In France, Prussia, Germany,
Austria, and Russia, a private, with all economy, cannot save more than
six cents a-day; yet when we consider the vast number each is obliged to
keep under arms, we cannot suppose them able to pay more. England, whose
"public debt is a public blessing," also looms up largely in the battle
array, and pays better than her neighbors. With her artillery-private
(or gunner as he is more properly called), we will compare a private of
the United States artillery, or infantry, since both are on a par in
this respect. The former receives one shilling fourpence farthing, or
thirty-three and one-half cents, per day, from which, deducting his
rations and clothing, there will be left thirteen and one-half cents, or
about four dollars per month. The latter receives seven dollars per
month, beside his rations and clothing. In the British infantry
regiments, the private has but one shilling per day, and the Queen
graciously allows him one penny of "beer-money."
The artillery-company of England is perhaps the best organized and most
efficient in the world; while ours is merely nominal, and a sore subject
to the accomplished officers attached to it. It is called artillery, but
infantry is more appropriate. At nearly all the forts, the siege pieces
and implements of the artillerist are packed away in storehouses,
without a particle of benefit to those for whom they are intended. In
Mexico, on the march to Orizaba, it had the mortification to trudge
along on foot, while midshipmen commanded sections of a light battery,
marines were cannoneers, and sailors rode the horses, using, in their
amphibious state, the oddest medley of sea-terms and military jargon
that ever grated on professional ears. It would have been equally
proper to put an artillery captain in command of the frigate Cumberland
then lying in the harbor of Vera Cruz, with no less a prospect of
brilliant manoeuvres in the hour of battle. The English company is
really what it purports to be, and is one hundred and twenty strong,
including eight corporals and four bombardiers; besides, it has eight
serjeants, three buglers, one second and one first lieutenant, one
second captain (brevet-captain in our service), and one first captain.
The aggregate here is fifty-eight, not quite one-half of the British
company.
It will be seen, from what has been said, that the Greenwich dragoon, or
foot soldier, is, in five cases out of six, either a Dutchman, Irishman,
or American; and an observer can easily perceive in each his national
characteristic and temperament. Karl is dull and heavy, generally sober,
always ready to lend his pipe, or sing a song. Pat is merry, loves a
glass at any time, is handy with the spade, and uses his mother-wit in
rounding off a capital story. Jonathan is all these, and something more.
He astonishes his trans-atlantic comrades by the incomprehensible manner
in which the knave will turn up when he deals the "pictures;" and the
neat manner in which he mends the rent in his coat sleeve; is one short
of funds, he will generously lend him a safe amount until "next pay
day," provided, at that time, fifty per cent. be added thereto; and, if
some doubt arises in the mean time, he disposes of his stock to some
other speculator; so that Wall-street-like panics are not
unfrequent--sometimes among the bulls, sometimes among the bears. If he
chooses, he will do more work in less time, or less work in more time,
than Karl or Patrick, and he often manages to make a cats-paw of them to
scratch out his delinquencies. He knows well how to make use of the
technicalities of the limited monarchy under which he is governed, and
bewilders dull Karl by his manifold risks and little punishment.
It matters not whether our man is cooped up at Eastport, or bivouacked
on the Rio-Grande--he is every where essentially the same. With scarce a
thought beyond the morrow, he awaits it without impatience. In all
places, and at all times, he has great respect for his officer; the
gracefully touching his cap being no idle ceremony. At the close of a
weary day's march, he will leave his own to put up his tent; build a
fire near it, and do every favor he can, freely and willingly. Officers
will recognize this fact, and attribute the secret to the strict
non-familiarity between them.
He has three festivals during the year, when he sets a splendid table
and enjoys himself--the two wintry holidays, and the anniversary of our
national independence. There are songs and speeches in abundance, and
the oratory is genuine. If he lingers long at the table--or under
it--there is so much power in the "star spangled banner," or "Erin is my
home," that he must become a martyr to their glorious enthusiasm. On one
of these occasions, a little lady friend christened an aldermanic German
by a patriotic name which since has taken the place of his own. "He was
a man of an unbounded stomach," seemingly, with the French maxim ever
uppermost in his mind: _Quand la cornemuse est pleine on en chant mieux_
(when the belly is full, the music goes better). An escopette ball at
Molino-del-Rey struck him on the head, and the ponderous mass rolling
over and over on the ground, he was left for dead, but his time had not
yet come. It was a heavy blow, and though alive, yet his reason, at
times, is gone: predicting something novel in the history of man to
happen on the 4th of April next. Another joyful day is the visit of the
paymaster, which happens six times a year. His last supply is
gone--hence his anxiety to replenish. He is very happy to see this
financial individual--as much so as any body was with the arrival of the
first California steamer with two millions in gold. His only drawback
is, that his mortal enemy, the sutler, is then invariably ready to face
him with a small bill for sundry articles, such as cheese, whiting, and
"some drinks." He had no idea it was so large! Generally he pays to a
fraction; sometimes, like broken banks, he compromises for a certain per
centum; sometimes he repudiates _in toto_. He is often economical,
spending nothing, and transmitting his savings to destitute relations at
home or abroad. A thousand hearts were gladdened, and a thousand mouths
fed, in the poor Emerald Isle during her starving days, by five pound
drafts from "the bold soldier-boy" over the water. These substantial
tokens from the home of his adoption have a secret but visible effect.
The military roads he lays out are found and followed by the recipients
of his bounty, and gardens flourish where but yesterday were seen the
poles of his old camping ground; new states rise out the wilderness,
where he planted the early seed, and watched the glittering things as
they grew to the strength and beauty of their starry sisters.
He has no enmity or prejudice against any person, sect, or
society--loving Broadbrim even more than could reasonably be expected.
There is, however, a proverbial enmity between him and Jack the sailor,
though it is generally of that Pickwickian nature, that--like Micawber's
griefs--easily dissolves over a bowl of punch, and both become as jolly
as Friar Tuck and Richard. He is not generally religious; but during
divine service is as orderly as a deacon. Sometimes he pleads conscience
against Protestant worship, but those interested may be assured that, in
five cases out of six, it is only Pat's cunning: true piety can worship
God under any form. He is generally a bachelor, and rarely goes beyond
the walls for a wife: if Abigail comes inside, he snaps her up as you
would a hotcake on a frosty morning. If he dies prematurely, some
comrade is ready to console the widow in her affliction; the courtship
being a fine exemplification of--
"For you must know a widow's won
With brisk attempt and putting on:
With ent'ring manfully and urging--
Not slow approaches like a virgin."
Should she fail, however, she trips off to another post, where, "her
case being duly represented at the mess," she generally manages to get
reinstated in the army. It is for the good of the service that marriage
is in some degree restricted, and the reasons therefor, none will fail
to perceive.
The soldier's history and accounts are posted up regularly every two
months at Washington--that great ledger of the United States--so that if
he has been sentenced to a money stoppage, or broken a tumbler-screw, it
is there accurately recorded. He is kept well supplied, where it is
practicable, with the news of the day, contained in two dailies, one of
which, generally, is from New-York, and the other from Washington. At
nearly all the principal posts neat little chapels have been built, and
chaplains provided, so that he can worship God, if he desires, morning
and evening, and without expense.
The discipline governing him is severe; so much so that it is sometimes
made ground of complaint. This severity is necessary for the creation
and preservation of prompt obedience and clock-like regularity. Severe
laws are necessary in every body--civil, religious, and military--and in
no one, it is fair to say, are they more strictly enforced than in the
army of the United States. The sad penalty of death is rarely, if ever,
decreed, except in a regularly constituted war. A fearful instance of it
occurred in the valley of Mexico during our late contest with that
crumbling republic. Fifty deserters were condemned, but their execution
temporarily delayed by the officer in charge, that they might see the
stars and stripes run up over the falling castle of Chapultepec, and
their last gaze on earth be fixed, as well on the faithful valor of
their comrades, as on the flag they had shamelessly forsaken. As their
bodies swung to and fro, well relieved against the sky, and the setting
sun cast its lurid beams over countenances yet warm in death, many felt
the extreme severity yet justice of military law, particularly in an
enemy's country. In time of peace the punishment varies from a
dishonorable discharge to little temporary deprivations and
confinements, except for insubordination and desertion, when the law
again permits of considerable severity. The stories about long
confinements in dreary holes, starvation, &c., which we sometimes see in
the "newspapers of little circulation," are about as true as the nursery
tales in children's primers. Of the minor punishments, those which
combine an appeal to his pride are the most dreaded, and often have a
salutary effect. A mounted trooper would rather perform picket duty all
night, in any weather, than once take a stationary gallop on the wooden
"bob-tailed nag," facing the other way. The soldier's crimes--nearly
all--are criminal only in that they offend against military laws; and if
once in a while he has a hearing before Justice M., "you should not," as
he contends, "expect all the cardinal virtues for seven dollars a
month."
Wherever the pioneer has laid his axe, there you will find the soldier,
a ready watch-dog between the settler and the savage; and it is a great
misnomer for any one "in Congress assembled," to call him one of a
"peace establishment," as three-fifths of his number are now on active
service. In Florida--encamped in hammocks, or on the banks of some
unhealthy stream--he is parleying with the Seminole; while in New
Mexico, and over the vast frontier of Texas, he is engaged in deadly war
with other tribes: the war seeming to be without a beginning, as well as
without an end. In the back grounds of California, he escorts the
treaty-making powers, while with his axe he lays out military roads, and
measures them as he goes along. After a long march over the Rocky
Mountains, or a sea-voyage of twenty thousand miles round the "stormy
cape"--we find him, again, constructing block-houses along the Columbia
river in Oregon; as much to protect him against the winter's cold, as to
serve as means of future defence. The United States constitute a large
patch of ground on the map of nations, with much work to do on her
extensive frontier; and he is the pack-horse that tugs faithfully at the
burden. Far away from the many comforts and conveniences that surround
you--in prairie or wilderness--often without clothes, oftener without
food--in sunshine and storm--winter and summer--in the midst of sickness
and death--relentless foes on the hill-tops and in the valleys--he toils
on, with no help from Congress to do what ought to be, but what cannot
be done: certainly, cannot be done! for there are well known "treaty
stipulations," and the lawmakers expect him, generally on foot, to
pursue, overtake, and severely punish the well-mounted savage. Fatal
error! every southerly wind brings with it a wail of the dying border
man, and Mexico will yet, ere the present "long parliament" closes,
present her wrongs before the proper source, the master--not the man.
But we have digressed once or twice into extraneous topics: they
germinated from the subject, and as they can do no harm, let them stand
as written.
Do not suppose, then, because the Greenwich recruit is well-clothed, and
somewhat proud withal, that his life is one of comparative ease. In
virtue of all he does for you and your children's children, while plenty
is on your right and on your left hand, rank him far above the hireling
in its corrupted sense. He does much for the mite given him in return,
and never murmurs at the task. At early dawn he rises, slings his
knapsack, fills his canteen from the brook, and, with a scant ration in
his haversack, marches a long Texan summer's day, recounting to his
comrade some adventure in the old country, or the last news from the
white settlements. At night, he spreads his blanket on the ground, his
knapsack serves as pillow, and with no covering but the stars, he awaits
the coming day to renew the fruitless scout. Perhaps, as he faces the
sky, he pictures in the clouds heavily rolling o'er the moon, a mimic
battle, in which his company is in the thickest of the fight; perhaps he
is dreaming of--what? It is hard to tell: it may be of Betty in return;
it may be of a wee sister or dear old mother far away over the
seas--whom, since many years he has not seen, and then, God help his sad
and weary heart! the prospect is a dreary one indeed of ever beholding
"sacred home" again. He has fought well for you in the days of the
Knickerbockers and in the valley of Mexico, and the same brave spirit
adorns the homely bosom still. If it is charge, he charges; stand, he
stands; and should there at any time occur a suspicious retrograde
movement, he'll punch you with his bayonet if you call it by any other
name than that of masterly retreat. Congress, during its last session,
provided a Military Asylum, so that when age or wounds have taken away
his once hardy strength, he will have a peaceful refuge, until--
"Hark! the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave,
The soldier retreats to his quarters--the grave--
Under Death, whom he owns his commander-in-chief--
And no more he'll turn out with the ready relief."
As we cannot charge Uncle Sam with any extravagant degree of nepotism,
we will commend Tobin to a bit more of the spare regard of the people of
the United States--the "smartest nation in all creation"--a fact which
John Bull pretends to disregard, and, like a traveller lost in the
woods, whistles every now and then, to keep his courage up. In these
days, when his great captains glide into the affections of the people,
and thence into the chair of state, it were well to remember the Italian
proverb, _Il sangue del soldato fa grande il capitano_, which, being
interpreted, means, "The blood of the soldier makes the glory of the
general!"
TO SUNDRY CRITICS.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.
BY R. H. STODDARD.
He _steals and imitates_, with wiry note
The critics squeak, _from Keats, and Tennyson,
Shelly, and Hunt, and Wordsworth, every one,
And many more whose works we know--by rote!_
But how, good sirs, if God created him
Like unto these, though in their radiance dim?
Nothing in Nature's round is infinite;
The moulds of every kind are similar:
A flower is like a flower; a star a star;
And all the suns are lit with self-same light.
How can he help, since Nature points the way,
Following, if so he does, their noble school?
Or you, by birth and habit, knave and fool,
How can you help the trash you write--for pay?
THE "RED FEATHER."
AN INDIAN STORY.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
BY ISAAC M'LELLAN.
A century ago, the deep shadows of the untrimmed wilderness overspread
the broad valleys and wild hills of western New-York. The sound of the
squatter's axe had not then aroused the echoes of those remote
solitudes; nor the smoke of the frontiersman's cabin curled above the
tall branching oaks and the solemn hemlocks of the primeval forest. The
ploughshare had not then turned the fertile glebe, nor the cattle
browsed upon the tender herbage of that region, now so populous and
cultivated. The red stag there shook his branching antlers, and bounded
fearlessly through the open glades of the wood, or led the dappled doe
or fawn, at rosy dawn, or mellow eventide, to drink at the ice-cold
water-course, or the pellucid surface of the lake. The shaggy bear
prowled in the briery thicket, or fed on the acorns that autumn shook
down from the oak; and the tawny panther ranged unmolested in the rocky
fastnesses of the hills, or lay in the leafy covert for its prey. The
Indian hunter was then lord of the land. The Mohawk and the Oneida held
the region from the waters of the Hudson to the shores where Erie and
Ontario rolled upon the beach; and the smoke of the wigwam ascended by
many a quiet stream and wood. The hunter's rifle echoed among the hills,
and his arrow whistled in the glade--the war-dance and battle-song
resounded in every valley; and the sharp canoe, urged by the flashing
paddle, skimmed every stream and lake.
Many years since, a small band of marksmen of the Mohawk tribe, having
wandered far from their hunting-ground, were ambushed by a war-party of
the Oneidas, and their chief, Owaka, was slain in the contest. Wauchee,
or the Red-Feather, the only son of the old chief, and now the head of
the nation of the Mohawks, had been deeply distressed at his father's
loss, and had sworn that he would take the scalp of an Oneida, before
the flowers of another spring should bloom over his father's grave.
In the leafy month of June, the young chief wandered afar from the
lovely valley of his native river in pursuit of a small hunting-party of
the Oneidas who were said to be prowling in the neighborhood. He had
followed for many days the trail of the fugitives, and had often come
upon their deserted camp-fires, but had not yet overtaken them. They
were on their return to their village, which was situated on the shores
of the Ontario, where the Niagara river, after its mighty plunge at the
Falls, empties into its frothy abyss. On a pleasant evening of
summer-time, he paused to encamp for the night in a place where a
transparent streamlet poured its crystal tribute into the bosom of the
Genessee. A dense and lofty grove of pines advanced their ranks to the
very edge of the stream, and afforded him a faithful shelter from the
dews and breezes of night.
The hunter soon enkindled a roaring fire from the decayed and fallen
branches of trees, and while his supper of venison broiled upon its
embers, he flung himself upon the turf, wearied with his march. The
Indian was a noble specimen of his race. His shapely limbs indicated the
presence of extraordinary strength and activity. He was clad in a
buckskin hunting-frock, handsomely ornamented with quills and feathers.
His deer-skin leggins were fringed with the red-stained hair of some
wild animal, and his neat moccasons were adorned in the extreme of
savage fashion. On his head was placed a bunch of eagle-feathers, which
fluttered gayly in the wind. A heavy rifle lay at his side, with its
ornamented pouch and horn. In his belt were thrust the fatal knife and
hatchet. A huge wolf-hound, the only companion of his expedition,
stretched its limbs before the blaze, watching with hungry eyes the
progress of the evening meal. But the night passed not away without
adventure. A thick darkness had now fallen upon the woods, and the ruddy
flames of the fire but partially illuminated the rough black shafts of
the pines, whose plumed branches sighed mournfully overhead. Suddenly
the hound sprang to his feet, with a fierce growl, at the same time
glaring upward into the thick recesses of a towering pine-tree. For a
moment the sharp eye of the hunter could discern no object of alarm; but
he soon heard the branches creak, as with the movements of some wild
creature. He presently heard a growl among the tree-tops, and discerned
two flaming globes of fire, which he knew to be the eyeballs of some
animal, illuminated by the flashes of his camp-fire. In an instant his
rifle was poised at his shoulder, and its glittering sight brought in
range with the shining objects of its alarm. For an instant the heavy
tube was held motionless at its aim, and then the sharp crack of the
weapon sounded on the air. Before the smoke of the discharge had
dissolved in the breeze, a dark object tumbled headlong among the
boughs, and at length plunged headlong in the midst of the flames,
scattering the flashing sparks in all directions. With a furious yell
the hound fastened upon the prey, and soon dragged forth from the flames
the lifeless body of an immense panther, from one of whose perforated
eyes the life-blood flowed in a copious stream. The Indian was greatly
elated at his successful shot, and after removing with his knife one of
its sharp claws as a trophy, and heaping fresh logs on the flames, he
spread out his blanket and resigned himself to slumber.
The morning sun had not drank up the dew-drops that sparkled like gems
on herb and foliage before the young hunter had again resumed his march.
He followed with unerring precision the trail of the fugitives through
thorny thicket and quaking morass, and ere the evening sun had dropped
behind the hills, he came upon the encampment of his foe. The party had
flung themselves upon the soft turf, beneath the drooping branches of a
grove of cedars, and were enjoying their evening pipe, while a huge side
of venison smoked upon the embers. The group consisted of tall and
stalwart warriors, whose brawny limbs seemed well able to triumph in any
act of savage barbarity they might be called upon to undertake. Some of
them wore frocks of buckskin, and leggins of bright-colored cloth,
ornamented with strings of wampum, tin trinkets and glass beads, that
jingled with every motion of the wearer. Some wore feathers from the
eagle's wing on their heads, as marks of rank. At the side of most of
them rested an ornamented gun, while pouches and horns were suspended
from the branches around. Each warrior was encircled with a belt of
hide, in which glittered the usual implements of the chase and war. Some
of the inferior ones carried only a stout ash bow, a sheaf of feathered
arrows, and a weighty club of bone, adorned with quills and colored
feathers.
The cunning Wauchee crept cautiously within a short distance of the
camp, trusting that during the drowsy hours of the night he should be
able to strike a blow; but to his chagrin he perceived that the party
was on the alert, and that two wakeful sentinels constantly kept watch,
while the others slept. On the following morning the party resumed their
march, still followed by their pursuer, who hoped to cut off some
straggler during the retreat; but no such victim fell in his way. In the
course of a day or two the roar of waters, and the ascending mist of the
cataract, warned them of their approach to the mighty falls of Niagara;
and soon the Oneida party had encamped among the gloomy pines and
hemlocks opposite the torrent.
Wauchee, though he had often heard among the dim traditions of his race,
of the existence of an awful torrent of water, that poured for ever with
a voice of thunder, among the remote woods of the wilderness, had never
yet gazed on this stupendous spectacle, and now, as he listened to its
earthquake voice with wonder, some such thoughts as the following may
have agitated his mind:
'Tis pouring, 'tis pouring
With a wild eternal roar;
Like a sea, that's burst its barriers
Resounding evermore:
Like an ocean lash'd to fury,
And toiling to o'erwhelm
With its devastating billows
The earth's extended realm.
It falleth, still it falleth,
A deluge o'er the rocks;
It calleth, still it calleth,
With tones likes earthquake shocks:
For ever and for ever,
It sounds its mighty hymn;
Like a thousand anthems pealing
In some cathedral dim.
The dark pines shrink and tremble
As o'er the abyss they lean,
And falling are ingulf'd like reeds
With all their branches green;
And oaks from northern mountains,
O'erwhelm'd by some fierce blast,
Are rent like autumn flowerets,
In that vast caldron cast.
A thousand years ago the tribes
In wonder trod its side:
Those tribes have vanish'd, but the Fall
Still pours as full a tide;
A thousand more may pass away--
A future race of men
May view the awful cataract
Unchang'd dash down its glen.
How passing vain doth mortal pride
Beside this torrent seem!
An army doth not march to war
With half its sound and gleam;
While o'er it, like a banner,
The rainbow spreads its fold,
Colored with prismy glories
Of purple and of gold.
The wild deer of the forest
At the river stoop to drink,
But from the rush of waters
All panic-stricken shrink;
And the mountain eagles sailing
O'er the cataract's foaming brim
Alarmed, on soaring pinions,
Away, o'er Heaven's clouds skim.
O! who that views the wonders
Of Nature o'er the earth;
The high o'erhanging mountains
Where thunders have their birth:
And this eternal torrent,
Majestically grand--
Can doubt the Spirit's presence,
And a Creating Hand?
On the following day the Oneidas resumed their march, and at nightfall
reached an American military post, then just established at the entrance
of the Niagara river, on the shore of Lake Ontario, called the Fort
Niagara. The Oneidas entered within the barriers of the little stockade
fortress, and there established their camp, and were soon busily engaged
in arranging a treaty with the commandant of the place. Wauchee followed
closely after, like a bloodhound on the trail, and selected his camp in
a little grove just without the gates of the fortress. He then boldly
sauntered within the walls, and mingled with cool indifference among the
groups of soldiery, and the armed warriors of his foe. But under the
semblance of friendship, lurked the fire of a spirit burning with
hatred; and he could scarce restrain himself from plunging among them,
and immolating numbers on the spot. Still the wary prudence of the
savage restrained his hand, and he continued for a day or two to mingle
in peace among them. The crafty Oneidas soon suspected the designs of
the stranger, and they conferred among themselves, as to the surest mode
of guarding against the meditated blow of Wauchee. They well recognized
by his paint and garb the Mohawk warrior, and they resolved to baffle
his assault, and for ever prevent his return to the people of his tribe.
But the designs of a bold and resolute man are not easily fathomed or
thwarted, and the rude walls of the frontier fortress were unable to
shut out so brave and active a warrior as the Mohawk chief. He was
trained to stratagem, and sworn to vengeance; and now that his wild
blood boiled with fury, no ramparts of mere wood and stone could
effectually interpose between the avenger and the destroyers of his
sire.
During the silence and gloom of night he succeeded in scaling the
palings of the walls, and secretly and successfully made his way into
the very heart of the fortress. He was surrounded with numbers of armed
men slumbering upon their weapons; and many a pacing sentinel was
stationed upon the breast-works, to guard against an open or a secret
foe: yet the soft step and the gliding figure of the Mohawk passed along
in the darkness unheard and undetected. After moving about swiftly among
the sleepers for some time, he at length came upon the prostrate group
of the Oneidas. Trusting to the vigilance of the garrison, the savages
were all buried in slumber, and were outspread along the grassy floor,
enwrapped in their blankets. The wily Mohawk went in like a serpent
among them, and having recognized their sleeping chief by the eagle
plume upon his head, he drew his scalp-knife, and with one mortal blow
drove the weapon to the very heart of the dreamer. He then in an instant
severed the bleeding scalp from the head, and sprang away to make good
his escape, but was followed as instantly by a dozen dark forms, which
bounded after him like so many leaping panthers. Still the daring young
brave would have successfully effected his escape but for an unfortunate
accident. With one quick bound he overleaped the barriers of the fort,
but in alighting heavily on the sod he severely sprained his ankle,
which so disabled him, that he fell an easy prey into the hands of his
pursuers. He was instantly firmly bound with cords, and dragged back,
amidst savage jeers and menaces, into the fortress.
On the following day the luckless captive was led away by his enemies to
their neighboring village, which was situated at Messessaga Point, near
the fortress. The warriors sadly bore, on a litter of branches, the body
of their slain chieftain, leading beside it their pinioned captive. As
they approached to the little rude hamlet where they dwelt, a motley
crowd of old men, women, and children, came forth to welcome their
return; but when they beheld the ghastly body of their late chief, and
the drooping looks of the warriors, their joyful cries were exchanged
for wails of lamentation, and they tore their hair, and expressed the
most violent emotions of grief. They wept over the bleeding corpse of
the victim, while they derided and buffeted the helpless prisoner. But
the stout-hearted Wauchee moved onwards with a firm and erect gait,
disturbed neither by the blows nor the menaces that were directed
against him. He only exclaimed, "You have slain my chief and father, and
lo! I have also struck down the head of your nation. It is well. Slay
me--torture me, if you will. I can bear unmoved any torments you may
inflict."
The captive, still bound securely with thongs of deer-hide, was thrust
into a cabin; and two stout warriors were appointed to watch over him by
day and night, and were charged to use the utmost vigilance in
preventing his escape. A few dried bunches of fern were spread for his
couch; and he was supplied with a wooden bowl of water and a handful of
pounded corn to satisfy his appetite; and it was ordered that Monega,
the most skilful mediciner of the tribe, should apply her most healing
salves and balsams to his hurts, that he might the sooner be ready to
run the gauntlet, and endure the torture of fire, which was the destiny
awaiting him.
Monega was the daughter of a chief, and as it chanced, was as
distinguished for the gentleness of her heart, as for her exceeding
loveliness, and her great medical skill. No one could look upon her
slight and well-rounded limbs, and upon her sweet countenance, without a
feeling of admiration, if not of love; and no sooner did our Mohawk gaze
upon her features, and listen to the soft tones of her voice, than he
was completely fascinated with her charms. Nor did the Indian damsel
gaze upon the noble captive with less favorable emotions. With a
blushing cheek and trembling hand she produced from a number of gourds,
the most potent herbs that constituted her remedies, and tenderly
applied them to the wounded limbs of the Mohawk.
"How is the sweet daughter of the Oneida named?" inquired the young
chief, as the damsel proceeded to bathe the bruised places with
sweet-smelling medicines.
A blush suffused the modest cheek of Monega as she replied, "I am called
among my people Monega, or the Wild-rose, and am the daughter of a
chief."
"Monega," exclaimed he, "is fairer than any honeyed wild-rose that is
kissed by the red lip of the morning, or than the pearly lily that
droops by the brink of the running water. There is no maiden among the
fair daughters of the Mohawk, so lovely in the eyes of Wauchee. Will not
the Wild-rose return again the fondness that blooms in the breast of the
strange warrior, though he lies like a wounded panther at the feet of
his mistress?"
"The captive warrior," returned the maiden, "has a bold heart, and is
more stately and noble than any of the young chiefs of her own people,
yet Monega must not yield her heart to a chief of an enemy." And, so
saying, she hastily gathered her herbs and unguents together, and
withdrew beneath the suspended buffalo-hide that formed the door of the
wigwam.
As the shades of evening began to settle on the deep woods that drooped
around, the captive continued to listen intently for the returning step
of the damsel; and presently the heavy drapery at the entrance was drawn
aside, and the yellow flood of the setting sun streamed upon the figure
of Monega. "The hours of the day," said the youth, "have been dark and
weary to the heart of the captive, since the Wild-rose withdrew from the
side of Wauchee, but now that she has returned, the light again shines
in his heart, and his soul is filled with brightness and joy."
The maiden in silence produced her herbs and bandages, and after
applying them to his hurts, thus replied to his words: "Wauchee is
noble, and brave, but his days are now few and numbered. Let us speak
with a low voice, for the two warriors are watchful at the door, and
their jealous ears may catch the friendly word that may pass between us.
Would the fettered chieftain desire to be freed from his bonds, and
breathe once more the free breath of the woods, and again return to his
distant people?"
"Gentle Monega!" cried he, "I pray thee, free these limbs from the
hateful thongs that eat into the flesh, and so cramp his benumbed
members, and Wauchee will fly like a deer to his own people, and also
bear away with him the sweet Wild-rose of the Oneidas, to bloom afresh
in the gardens of the Mohawks. Will Monega free the bondsman? and will
she fly with him to be the bride of his heart, and the queen of the
Mohawk people?
"Monega cannot refuse," said the maiden, after a little hesitation;
"Monega cannot refuse to save the life of the brave and handsome young
warrior; and if he asks it, neither can she refuse to depart with him,
and cast her lot with his people."
"Monega speaks well," cried the captive, "and her words gladden my
darkened spirit. Quick then, sever these bonds from my wrists and limbs,
that I may stand forth once more a free man. I will then escape to the
forest, and await you at the great fall of waters."
"I gladly free you from your thongs," said she, "and will not fail to
join you where you appoint; but remember that two brave warriors guard
with their weapons at the door, and that they will spare him not if he
but offer to depart. Yet one of them, the young Thaygea, has vowed to me
his love, and him will I entice away from his post of guard, and the
captive must fain deal with the other as he may. Is Wauchee content to
make the trial?"
"Sever these thongs, and free these crippled limbs, bright maiden, and I
would not shrink from an armed host. Do you entice away one of my
guards, and I will manage to escape from the other; and I shall then
impatiently await your coming at the Falls."
The bold girl with a trembling hand cut away the gyves that held the
prisoner, and then, departing, exchanged a few words with one of the
young men who guarded the hut, and who instantly forsook his post to
follow her footsteps. Wauchee hurriedly glanced around, to discover some
article that might serve as a weapon, and, snatching up a small billet
of wood that lay on the hearth, sprang to the door, and with one furious
blow felled the solitary sentinel to the earth, and then stretched
swiftly away in flight. But numbers of warriors, aroused by the sound of
the blow, were instantly after him in hot pursuit. The flying Wauchee
was most remarkable for his fleetness of foot, and could easily have
distanced his pursuers, but for his wounded ankle, which greatly impeded
his motions; and in a short time, after a desperate struggle, he was
overpowered, and roughly dragged back to the place of his captivity.
Again did the fair Monega, whose agency in his attempted flight had not
been suspected, attend upon her wounded lover; but so vigilant were his
guards, that an attempt at escape seemed now impossible.
In the lapse of a few days, the prisoner, under her skilful treatment,
had entirely recovered from his injuries, and a day was appointed for
his death. He was doomed to "run the gauntlet" of the tribe; that is, he
was required to run between two lines of warriors and of women and
children, armed with thongs of hide and small rods, which each one was
to use upon his person as the fugitive passed them in full career. On a
bright and cheerful morning the luckless prisoner was loosened from his
bonds, and led forth to run his race; after which he was doomed to
perish at the stake. But the brave youth stepped forth with an undaunted
eye, and a firm tread, to the place of torment. He eyed with a fearless
and contemptuous glance the fearful preparations made for punishment;
the long lines of his enemies ready with their rods to strike at him;
and the blackened pole of sacrifice surrounded with its pile of faggots.
He took his post at the head of the arranged lines, ready to plunge
through the thicket of rods that were menacing him. For a moment before
the start, he glanced his eye along the dark faces that scowled upon
him, to discern the fair form of Monega, but he observed her not. At
length the two men that held him loosened their grasp, and he was
directed to use his utmost speed. And well did the most famous runner of
the Mohawks maintain that day the fame that he had won in so many a
hard-contested race. He sprang forth with the strength and activity of
the wild stag, and scarcely a blow from the multitude alighted upon his
shoulders. When he had passed unharmed through the whole line, he would
have succeeded in making his escape altogether, had not several Oneidas,
posted for that purpose, flung themselves upon him, and securely
pinioned his limbs. Thus firmly bound, the Mohawk was led to the fatal
stake, and secured with thongs to the upright posts, while large bundles
of dried saplings were heaped around him by his persecutors. The whole
party of the Oneidas then assembled around him in a circle, to enjoy his
dying agonies. The brave youth now gave himself up for lost, and threw a
hasty glance on the blue sky that bent its dome above him, and over the
green woods that nestled with all their leaves in the summer breeze, as
on lovely objects which his eyes were never more destined to look upon
again.
The torch was lighted, and a grim chief was advancing to apply it to the
pile, when the light step of Monega anticipated his approach. As she
issued from the crowd, she implored the privilege of whispering a few
words to him who was about to die. So highly was she held in the
estimation of the tribe, that leave was readily granted her, and,
thrusting aside the dry heap of the sacrifice, she stood beside the
captive. She spoke not a word, however, but hastily passed a sharp knife
over the thongs that secured him, and instantly freed his limbs in
liberty.
"Now, fly, fly, I beseech thee," she whispered; "you are free--once more
free! Fly with the speed of the wind."
"I will do my best endeavor," said he, hurriedly; "and if I escape,
shall await you at the great Waterfall; and so, farewell." And, with one
vigorous bound, he sprang through the ring of his foes, overthrowing
some three or four of them to the earth. And bravely did he stretch away
his sinewy limbs in the flight for life and liberty; and though fifty
active runners followed in pursuit, yet soon did he outstrip them all,
and effected his escape.
He was shortly rejoined at the foot of the great falls by his faithful
Monega, who accompanied her lover in his flight, and became his bride,
and the chief woman of the Mohawk nation.
THRENODIA.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,
BY MRS. KIMBALL.
Dear one, mine own! art gone
From young life's happy places,
To the dark grave and lone--
Death's cold and drear embraces!
Loosed are the silver strings
Of thy heart's ringing lyre--
Are broken thy wild wings,
Spirit of love and fire!
No, I feel hovering near,
Thy presence mild and tender,
My heart looks in thine eyes so dear,
And thrills at their soft splendor.
The dreams I dream are thine
When come my sweetest slumbers;
No melody is so divine
As memories of thy numbers.
Why art thou near my soul
Yet flying my fond vision?
Eluding yet love's sweet control,
Yet raining dreams elysian?
Oh angel, who before us
Art summoned home to heaven,
Still, still, oh linger o'er us,
Till we too are forgiven;
'Till we in holiest songs
Repeat each sweetest duty,
In that pure air where Heaven prolongs
Thy gentle life of beauty.
MR. ASHBURNER IN NEW-YORK.
BY FRANK MANHATTAN, JUN.
_To the Editor of the International._
The very graphic and interesting pictures of American society
with which my respected progenitor has recently favored the
English public having been received with unusual favor, and the
series having been suddenly terminated, to the great regret of
the literary public, it becomes, I conceive, my duty to carry
on the work so nobly begun, even though the superstructure be
far inferior in beauty and solidity to the foundation. In
pursuing these, my filial labors, I shall always keep in view
the two pole stars which ever guided the senior Mr.
Ashburner--first, that these letters are designed for English
and not American readers, and second, that I am portraying a
class, and not individuals. As I shall thus address myself to a
foreign audience, it will of course be my duty to describe the
frivolities of American manners--the faults of American ladies,
the imbecilities of American gentlemen, the scurrilities of the
American press, the weakness of American magazines, the
degeneracy of American literature, the roguery of the American
public, the want of taste of American engineers, the ignorance
of American professors, and to discuss any questions of
strictly local interest which may happen to present themselves.
I shall studiously avoid stating that education or intelligence
or usefulness are ever encountered here; and if occasionally
some little sketch of domestic happiness or private worth
should be given, you will attribute it to my own inadvertence,
or set it down as a result of English education. As I shall be
describing a class, and not individuals, it will of course be
perfectly proper for me to narrate any little incidents of
private life which I may have heard; and persons interested
will (or at least ought to) bear in mind, if my letters are
ever read by themselves or talked of by their acquaintances,
that I am not alluding to them in the slightest degree, but
merely to the class to which they belong. They therefore (it is
to be hoped) will not arrogate to themselves any little
passages of private histories they may happen to find in these
pages; for, if they do, I shall assuredly hold them up to
public ridicule, by saying, "as the shoe fits them they are
welcome to wear it."
I doubt not that these humble efforts of mine will commend
themselves to your favorable notice. They are (as you will
perceive from this letter) an unpretending mite given to aid in
elevating us in the eyes of the foreign literary world.
"_Pulchrum est bene facere reipublicae; etiam bene dicere haud
absurdum est._" Deeming it to be the duty of every American
thus to give his aid to so patriotic a cause, I have the honor
to be your most obedient servant,
FRANK MANHATTAN, Jun.
MR. ASHBURNER IN NEW-YORK.
The philosophy of Mr. Harry Benson (on the occasion when Mr. Harry
Benson was last before the public), like the philosophy of many other
eminent men, silenced his auditors if it did not convince them. Karl
Benson growled out something about its being well enough to say so now,
and seemed rather annoyed that Harry should have been more philosophical
than he was himself; while Ashburner laughed good-naturedly, and said
that _that_ was very good philosophy, and he liked to hear it. The
reader will remember that the occasion and philosophy to which we allude
were, respectively, the dinner at Mr. Karl Benson's, and a conversation
in which Mr. Harry Benson expressed it as his decided opinion that
living in a country where one could eat woodcock and drink claret
without having to pay very high taxes or do any hard work, was much
better than some other things which he then and there suggested. But in
the silence which often falls over a small dinner circle, and over a
circle where there are good talkers and gay fellows to be found, Karl
Benson thought that woodcock and claret, though essential to his
comfortable existence, were not the only things he wanted; and Ashburner
made up his mind, and more rapidly than was his custom, that the
pleasures and comforts which Harry had so glowingly described were not
sufficient to engross the mind of an intelligent man, even though
parliamentary fame required the sacrifice of twelve hours per day amid
red tape and blue books, and the management of a government carried with
it responsibility and care. Some other things which Harry had dropped in
his rattling dissertation about living in one of the two great abodes of
freedom, had struck Ashburner's youthful mind, and, without well knowing
why, he determined that neither of the brothers were right, and that he
would look a little deeper into matters and things for himself before
utterly condemning either politics or politicians, or public men or
public measures, in the model republic.
When the silence we have just alluded to had continued a few moments,
Karl suddenly rose from the table, and said, "Come, boys, since you are
not drinking your wine, and since Harry has talked himself out, I move
that we go over the river, as we agreed to before dinner." "Pshaw," said
Harry, slowly rising, and following his brother and Ashburner, who led
the way, "what an uneasy mortal you are, Karl! just as Ashburner had
begun his wine, and we were about enjoying ourselves, you haul us off on
your confounded expedition." "Never mind," rejoined Karl, quietly, "it's
a pleasant evening, and I want to show Ashburner what a plain American
country gentleman is: that's a thing you have not shown him yet; and
then, there's a pretty girl to be seen, too--you forget that Ashburner
isn't married." "What do you suppose Ashburner wants to see a country
belle for?" said Harry; "you know he's been in society these two or
three years." "I don't care whether he has or not," Karl replied, "we
will show him as pretty a lass as any he has seen; and besides, I saw
old Edwards this morning, and told him I was coming over, and, as I am
not going alone, you fellows must go along. By the by, shall we have up
the waggon, or walk down?" Both gentlemen voted in favor of walking, so
the three took their hats, lit fresh cigars, and slowly sauntered
towards the river. Karl turned back for a moment, to order the waggon to
be at the dock by ten o'clock; and, after sending forward two of his men
who were to act as boatmen, joined his friends.
The dinner hour of Karl Benson was the hour at which the leading members
of New-York society, in the ordinary routine of life, sat down to their
respective tables--that is, three o'clock. It is singular how this
important period recedes from the meridian as people grow more refined
in their own opinions, or more fashionable in those of their neighbors.
The hard-working farmer or mechanic has his dinner at the matin hour of
twelve; the country doctor or village lawyer stands upon his dignity
and dines at one; in country towns, of twenty or thirty thousand
inhabitants, the "good society" feels obliged to dine at two; when you
reach the great metropolis ("which is American penny-a-liner for"
New-York), you find the dinner postponed to three; and some gentlemen,
with English education and English habits, dine in New-York at five;
while others, whose business keeps them at the bank, or court, or
counting-house till three, have the witching time adjourned to four.
These are, however, only exceptions to the rule, and as lawyers say,
_exceptio probat regulam_; the legitimate, healthy, fashionable hour for
dining--that in which the Knickerbockers, who know no banks or
counting-houses, or dusty courts, save through checks, friends, and
lawyers, dine, is three. Modern degeneracy or refinement, or both, it is
whispered, have lately carried it to half-past, but on the day of which
we write it was precisely three.
To return from this digression to our history--which, as the reader has
doubtless observed, is not a vulgar description of fictitious persons
and imaginary circumstances, but a veracious chronicle of facts, and
much above the level of ordinary romances, inasmuch as truth is always
stranger than fiction--the early dining hour of the aristocratic Benson
(early in an English sense, of course we mean), enabled the three
gentlemen to step out on the lawn just as the sun was sinking behind the
Kaatskills. After a good dinner, most intellectual men become, or are
apt to become, sentimental; and as Ashburner and the Bensons were to the
best of their belief eminently intellectual, they of course became so,
as in duty bound; for every one is under obligations to conform to the
settled usages of good society. "What a charming picture," said Harry
Benson; "I swear it is sublime!" "Yes," said Ashburner, poetically,
"such a scene as that disgusts one with the noise and bustle and
confounded nonsense of city life." "True," said Karl, who suddenly
imagined himself for some reason a very wise and exemplary individual, a
sort of martyr for principle; "you fellows have no idea of the happiness
of a plain country gentleman, living without care or ceremony--having
none of the restraints of society, none of your artificial
wants--everything simple and unsophisticated. Why, if you knew what it
was, you'd give up all thoughts of town, and be living in the country
before another month is past."
This speech of Karl was all very fine, but unfortunately it was rather
long, and before Ashburner and Harry Benson could promise the simple,
unsophisticated, contented, happy country gentleman before them, that
they would follow his wise example, they had time to remember, one, that
about three hours before he had heard the same gentleman complain of the
difficulty of getting servants, shops, &c., in the (American) country;
and the other, that, "to tell the truth, the country was all very well
about sundown, but was deuced dull and uncomfortable on rainy days."
Ashburner, however, felt that the remarks of his host should not be
thrown away, at least before his face; so he looked around for a
subject, and politely began to talk of farming. On their right lay a
newly-ploughed field, over which a workman was passing with measured
stride, sowing some kind of grain on the fresh-turned soil, and close
behind him, anxious to cover the seed before finishing his day's work,
came another laborer with the harrow. Ashburner noticed this, and it
struck him that it was just the topic he wanted; so, turning to Karl, he
said, pointing to the workman, "You do not follow the classical rule of
agriculture, Mr. Benson; you remember Plautus: "_Nam semper occant,
prius, quam sarriunt, rustici._"
"Very good," said Karl, "but I did not remember it--where is it from?"
"From the Captives," replied Ashburner; "don't you remember the slave
Tyndavas uses it, when old Hegio tells him he is a sower and harvester
of crime?"
"Oh yes, I believe you are right; but to tell the truth, I'm not much of
an admirer of Plautus."
"Indeed," replied Ashburner; "why I thought you would admire him
extremely; for my part I like his bold unpolished comedies; if it was
not heresy for an Englishman to say so, I should say the _Maenuhm_ was
equal to the Comedy of Errors; and Shakspeare certainly must have
borrowed the idea of his play from Plautus--the resemblance between them
is too close to be accidental."
Karl said "Yes," in that cool sort of tone by which people show they
assent to admiration without participating in it, and added something of
there being no language but Greek; at which Harry Benson laughed and
asked him if he was still reviewing his Homer.
Though this was said in raillery, Ashburner remarked that Karl looked
quite pleased, and seemed to take the allusion to Greek and Reviews as a
special compliment. The fact was that Mr. Karl Benson had just been
through a gentle controversy upon the question whether the Greek word
[Greek: kadestechnia] should be rendered _constitut_ING or
constitut_ed_,--which had redounded very much to the credit of himself
or his antagonist--a point not yet decided, and which it is very much
feared never will be.
The particulars of this important contest were these: Karl had been
classical editor of one of the leading magazines of Gotham, known to the
literary public of that literary metropolis as the _Zuyderzee_. The
Zuyderzee when first organized, had not boasted a classical editor among
its managers; and as it was devoted to what is vulgarly called "light
literature," was supposed by the initiated portion of the public not to
want one. Suddenly, however, certain short pieces appeared in the
Editor's table (which was printed in small type at the end of each
number, and never read), containing severe criticisms on such classical
scholars of the nineteenth century as ventured to publish works in the
dead languages with notes attached, for the benefit of young England, or
more particularly, young America. Though these criticisms were always
after the Edinburgh Review model, and finished up in the severest style
of the month, and though the Zuyderzee had a classical editor to do them
(which we would here explain to be an editor devoted to the review of
classical works and subjects, and nothing else), they were to the
Zuyderzee a cheap and harmless luxury. Mr. Karl Benson being a gentleman
of fortune, was not particular about compensation, but limited his
desires to the very worthy object of seeing himself in print. At that
time, too, Mr. Benson had not "been up" to works of _fiction_; or else
had restrained his powers and devoted them to the inferior task of
"portraying" individuals, and abusing other men's works. The editor of
the Zuyderzee, though not particularly anxious for a classical sub (who,
to tell the truth, was no more wanted than a Scandinavian critic for the
_Blunder and Bluster_), had no objection to the gratuitous aid of Mr.
Benson; and so it came that Karl was installed as classical editor of
the Zuyderzee, with full power to annihilate the classics, and with no
restraint set upon him except that he was to do it briefly.
While acting in this useful capacity, Karl had once had occasion to
examine an edition of Agamemnon, published by an eminent Greek scholar.
In the course of his review, he had pointed out no less than ninety
errors, eighty of which had been of omission in not having the notes
sufficiently full to be obscure; five in referring to editions with
which Mr. Benson's private tutor had not been on reading terms, three of
punctuation, and the remainder of a trivial nature. The classical editor
had, however, smiled upon the professor, by saying that the work, though
faulty, contained no very outrageous blunders, nothing for example like
Relyat Siwel's "constitut_ing_," in place of constitutED.
Had the sentence been passed upon the ordinary publishers of classical
works (a humble race of men who are happy when they can publish books
which will bring home neither pay nor abuse), it would probably have
been thought extremely flattering to all the parties--a sort of beacon
light, to gladden the hearts of the watchmen of AEschylus. As it was,
Professor Weston bore his honors meekly, but Mr. or rather Professor
Relyat Siwel, was unfortunately a fiery little man, who was thought by a
large circle of admirers to be the first Greek scholar in the great
Republic; who had expended years of severe toil on his favorite work,
which he thought tended strongly to sustain the character of
Christianity, by showing that Plato was not opposed to it; and who,
moreover, had a cordial dislike to the Gotham school of classical
critics, and had resolved to have a crack at Mr. Benson the first
favorable opportunity.
Accordingly, in the next number of the Zuyderzee, appeared an "original
article," sandwiched between the first part of "A Thrilling Romance of
the Second Century," and a "Tale of the Flower Girl of the Fejee
Islands," entitled "An Essay on the Greek Language, by Professor Relyat
Siwel, LL.D."
In this interesting essay, Professor Relyat Siwel had attacked Mr. Karl
Benson on a variety of subjects: first he had exposed him by showing
that the initials "K. B.," at the foot of the editorial, did not mean
"K. B.," but Karl Benson; and hence he ingeniously argued that Mr.
Benson's signing himself "K. B.," when he was not "K. B.," was a fraud
on the community. Having thus exposed the malice prepense of the
unfortunate Benson, he intimated that the English participle in "_ing_"
often had the meaning of the perfect; and hence that translating a Greek
verb in the perfect by the participle aforesaid, was not such a very
heinous offence after all. This bomb-shell was not, however, thrown into
Mr. Benson's magazine without an immense amount of smoke and noise. He
adopted the celebrated ironical Congressional style: "This eminent Greek
scholar," "this pattern of classical criticism," "this prodigy of the
English universities, who has had his own private tutor, must now be
informed that the English participle in 'ing,'" &c., &c. Nor did the
essay on the Greek language stop here. It savagely sneered at "K. B.'s"
vanity at having been educated in an English university, and made the
most cutting remarks on his criticisms in general. Such flowers of
rhetoric as "literary scavenger," "purse-proud fop," "half-educated
boy," &c., were thrown around as thickly as though the Flower Girl of
the Fejee Islands herself had crossed the path of clerical criticism.
Great interest was excited by these little love passages in the
different colleges in the country. The studious young citizens read the
"criticism" and the "essay" with the most praiseworthy avidity. Karl had
replied to the essay in a few majestic sentences in the _Editor's
Table_, the effect of which was somewhat impaired by the real editor's
saying in a note at the foot, that he wasn't going to have any more of
this sort of thing in his magazine; and that as both parties had had
their hearing, it must stop now. In his reply, Karl had offered to do
something or other to the Greek language against Professor Relyat Siwel
(President Blank being the judge), for a thousand dollars a side. Great
was the enthusiasm produced by this offer. Several college periodicals
announced it as a renovation of the art of criticism, and an innumerable
quantity of young orators hinted it as the beacon blaze mentioned in
Agamemnon, shining on Clytemnestra's battlements, and bringing joy to
Argos. Some discussion was also induced necessarily as to how the
classic contest was to "come off." A great many young gentlemen insisted
that it was in the nature of a "set-to," and, for that reason, that
Professor Relyat Siwel, being the smallest man, should be allowed to
"choose his corner." Many, however, thought that it was in the nature of
a steeple chase, and that as the Professor was the lightest weight, he
ought to go it "leaded." This vexed question was at length put at rest
by an inquisitive Sophomore's reading the foot-note referred to, in
which it was discovered that the fun was over. This blow was followed by
another, viz., a rumor that Professor Relyat Siwel felt it his duty to
decline, for the reason that it was by no means certain that _Plato_ had
ever put up a thousand dollars, or any other amount whatever.
Karl hailed this decision of the Professor as a "back out," and after
reading his reply to the essay several times in manuscript, and
innumerable times in print, he came to a conclusion that the controversy
contained the two great desiderata of all controversies, those for which
ignorant men study, lazy men work, ministers quarrel, quiet old
gentlemen write newspaper articles, ladies set their caps, and nations
go to war--namely triumph and defeat. As he had had the "last word," of
course his last arguments were unanswered--he was triumphant, and
Professor Relyat Siwel beaten.
This comforting reflection did not reach so far as the colleges and
universities, and within their peaceful walls was heard a voice of anger
and regret. The quiet portion of the undergraduates (who intended to be
clergymen and physicians) mourned the loss of the anticipated contest as
a defeat of the cause of learning--one which it would probably survive,
but still one in which it had been floored. The unquiet portion (who
intended to be lawyers or statesmen) heard the news with virtuous
indignation; by them the senior editor, with even the _Zuyderzee_
itself, was anathematized. In the literary societies, where embryo
lawyers are always largely in the majority, for the reason that
fifteen-sixteenths of the young men of the United States intend, in
early life, to be Cokes and Littletons, there were passed, by
acclamation, most severe resolutions, expressive of deep regret, that in
the nineteenth century, in a free country, in the empire state, in a
city devoted to literature, an editor--one conducting a magazine
professing to be favorable to the development of the nation's
resources--should take upon himself, in defiance of public opinion, of
the wishes of his patrons, of the interests of humanity, to stifle free
discussion and the fame of the Attic sages. These resolutions were
generally prefaced by a preamble setting forth that whereas the editor
of a magazine known, as _The Zuyderzee_, had done so and so, therefore
it was resolved, &c. In some cases, the societies resolved that they
would not pay their subscriptions for _The Zuyderzee_ (resolutions which
it is due to them to say they religiously stood by), and in others they
sent copies of the resolutions to the senior editor, who, however,
survived the several shocks.
We left Ashburner and his host talking about Plautus and agriculture.
The conversation lasted until they reached the river, and took their
seats in a plainly painted and rather ordinary kind of skiff. Ashburner
noticed it, and also remarked that instead of the picturesque boat-house
of an English gentleman, Karl used a small wharf at which sloops loaded
and unloaded their cargoes. Ashburner said something of this to Karl,
and Karl said something of ice in the spring, freshets in the fall, and
low water in the summer; but Harry Benson, as usual, put in his oar, and
explained the matter more fully, and no doubt more truly: "You see,
Ashburner," said he, "the fact is, we are not a sporting people; our
gentlemen rarely ride, and our ladies never walk. In England, every one
knows, or pretends to know, something of field sports, or riding, or
yachting, or something or other of that sort; and then, too, your
English girl thinks nothing of walking three or four miles; but it is
not so here. The reason is, partly, that our rich men are business men,
and our poor ones always engaged, and partly because our climate is so
different from yours. I think the climate is the most effective cause of
the two; you see the year begins (here at the north, I mean) with deep
snows; at the south they have rain and mud; then, when spring and mild
weather come, they last but a very little while, and we have the melting
red-hot sort of days that you've been through already. To be sure our
Indian-summer is the finest weather for exercise in the world, but then
it only lasts a little while, and after it come the fall rains. It can't
be denied, though," pursued Harry, after pausing a moment, "that we
might all exercise a great deal more than we do, if we really wanted to.
In Virginia, they ride and shoot a great deal more than we do here. But
our girls' heads are busy with polkas rather than walks, and then the
weather makes a good excuse for them. It can't be denied, though,
Ashburner, that your countrymen, after being here a short time, exercise
as little as we do ourselves; yet it's hard to say which has the most to
do with their degeneracy--example or weather."
"But," said Ashburner, "I should not think that hot or cold weather
could prevent a gentleman from having a light and handsome boat."
"Yes, it does," rejoined Harry, "not directly, but indirectly. The
weather, business, and amusements, turn attention into other channels,
and consequently our country gentleman does not keep his light skiff
and picturesque boat-house, because there's nobody to row the one or
admire the other. Now, here's Karl, who lives in the country, and
continually talks about country air and country exercise, why, bless
you! if I hadn't taught him to ride, he wouldn't exercise at all: he
does not walk a mile a day; hasn't rowed across the river since he's
lived here; wouldn't join in a cricket-match to save himself from
apoplexy; in short, is as lazy a fellow as can possibly be found. Then
our country girls are just the same. Once in a while they ride, but
there are hundreds of them living in the country who have never been on
horseback; and when they do know how, they ride rarely, because they've
no one to ride with them,--a young lady's dashing off ten or twelve
miles with only a servant after her would be thought highly improper.
Then, the way we dress is perfectly ridiculous: nothing
substantial--nothing useful; a girl's walking shoes are as thin as
paper; an English nobleman wears heavier boots than one of our laborers.
The truth is, we have a great deal too much of Paris refinement; we must
get England to come over and _uncivilize_ us. If we do live in a new
country, we want to learn a few of the barbarous arts of riding,
driving, walking, hunting, &c. It's a pity, too, that our young men,
instead of being hale, hearty fellows, such as you have at the English
universities, are generally a thin, hollow-chested, dyspeptic,
consumptive-looking set--children at twenty, and old men at thirty."
Ashburner had noticed this before, and it had surprised him that in a
land where, less than a century ago, the inhabitants were literally
denizens of the wilderness, he should find fewer field sports and less
attention paid to that class of amusements than in the oldest counties
of England. As Harry said, the weather and business were probably chief
causes of the evil, while the inundation of French fashions and ideas
had helped to sustain it.
By the time Harry had concluded his lecture, and Karl had got in a
general and particular remonstrance, the one on behalf of all country
gentlemen, and the other on behalf of himself, they had nearly crossed
the broad river, and the boat was rapidly gliding into a small bay
surrounded by high wooded banks. The sun had gone down, and the
stillness of a summer evening had settled upon the scene; the swallows
skimmed along the smooth water, which the breeze no longer ruffled, and
from the distant sloops that now seemed sleeping on the calm surface,
Ashburner could plainly hear the voices of their crews. In a few moments
the men stopped rowing, and in another moment the boat grated on the
gravelly beach, and the party jumped out. Karl told the men when they
would return, and then they began clambering up a narrow path which
wound up the hill. Ashburner noticed a light skiff lying in the bay,
painted and fitted up with more than ordinary taste, and with light oars
that looked as though they were meant for a lady's hand. Soon the path
brought the little party to the top of the hill, which opened on clear
meadows, across which could be seen a plain white house, half hidden by
the old trees that were grouped around it. The Bensons seemed well
acquainted with every thing, for they led the way without hesitation,
till they reached what seemed to be a carriage-way from the house to the
public road, that could be seen not a great way off. Ashburner saw at a
glance, as they approached the house, that there was a mingling of old
things with new in a great deal that concerned it. While the edifice
itself was old, and among old trees that told its age far better than
the modern verandah which ran around it, or the white paint which
covered it, the approach to it had been laid out with more modern taste.
There could be seen the remnants of an old fence that had recently
bounded a road, innocent of windings, and regardful only of distance.
The trees along the carriage-way had not been set out long, and the
clumps scattered here and there, with a good deal of taste, were but
saplings, and more closely around the house were tall elms that had been
growing many a long year, and told plainly of ancient times and ideas.
Karl Benson led the way to the front door, and, after answering Harry's
inquiries as to dogs, by saying that no one else need be afraid, as they
(the dogs) always bit him (Karl), he raised an antiquated brass knocker,
and gave two or three taps, which seemed to echo through an immense
number of empty rooms. "Take care," said Harry, "or you'll frighten Miss
Mary into something or other." "There's no fear of that," replied Karl;
"she's not so nervous as you." Harry was proceeding to rap back; but he
was interrupted by hearing some one coming to the door, which was the
next moment thrown open, and Ashburner saw a fine-looking,
plainly-dressed old man, or thought he saw such an one, for it was too
dark to distinguish clearly. "How are you, Judge?" said Karl, stepping
forward, and shaking the old gentleman's hand. "Hullo, Benson! my fine
fellow! is this you? Why, who have you got with you?" "This is my
brother Harry," said Karl, "and this is my friend Mr. Ashburner. Mr.
Ashburner, allow me to introduce you to my friend Judge Edwards." "How
do you do, sir?" said the Judge, stepping forward, and shaking Ashburner
by the hand; "very happy to make your acquaintance, sir."
Ashburner bowed his acknowledgments and intimated, according to custom,
that he was very happy, and then, after slapping Harry on the back, and
asking why he hadn't been over before, the Judge asked every body to
walk in. They did so--the Judge leading the way--and calling to several
individuals of the female gender, as Miss Squires would say, for light.
The call was a necessary one, for the day had been as hot and sultry as
though it were August; and on a summer evening, in both town and
country, it is a frequent custom to sit in the dark by the open windows,
and enjoy the cool air which these times always bring. The excellence of
the custom did not, however, prevent Ashburner from falling over a
chair, or Harry from running against a centre table, with a crash that
left the party in some doubt whether he or the table was upset. "Bless
me," said the Judge, who noticed these mishaps, "they ought to have had
lights here," and then he added, in explanation, "that in hot weather
_they_ liked to sit in the dark, as it seemed cooler and kept the
musquitoes out; which excuse for a very proper, pleasant and sensible
custom, is invariably given in the United States, in all houses, rich or
poor, high or low, whenever a stranger happens to find the parlor
unlighted." In a few moments, however, a girl made her appearance with
the usual inquiry, "Did you call, sir?" "Yes, yes, Susan, bring some
lights here as soon as you can!"
A pause ensued, which was broken by the Judge's remarking that it had
been a very hot day, and Harry Benson's assenting, "Yes, very hot,
really wonderful weather for the time of year." Ashburner tried to say
something, but it is hard talking in the dark, to a gentleman you have
never seen, especially when you are in his own house; so Ashburner gave
it up after one or two attempts, and another pause ensued, fortunately
broken by Susan's return with a couple of lighted candles, in
old-fashioned silver candlesticks.
Ashburner now looked at the Judge with some interest, which was rather
cooled down by observing that he was looking with an equal curiosity at
himself. This scrutiny, though brief, seemed, however, satisfactory, for
the Judge told Susan to tell Miss Mary that Mr. Benson and one or two
other gentlemen were there.
Ashburner's glance showed him that the Judge was a large and
intelligent-looking man apparently about fifty, and though dressed
carelessly, bearing the marks of a gentleman. But Ashburner also saw
that though the Judge was a gentleman, he was by no means a fashionable
or even a polished one. He was simply one of those well-bred men in whom
simplicity is more perceptible than refinement, while good sense and
good feelings prevent any gross breaches of etiquette.
From looking at its owner, Ashburner turned to look at the room they
were seated in. It was a parlor of medium size, with a low ceiling and
plainly papered walls. On the latter hung several old-fashioned
portraits, one of which was evidently the Judge's, another his wife's,
and two more his parents'. Besides, there were one or two drawings, and
their pleasing gracefulness and ease formed an agreeable contrast to the
prim and starched old relics they hung beside. In the middle of the room
was a centre table of the same old-fashioned cast as the pictures, but
covered with those little articles of taste that none but a lady can
select and arrange.
"Mr. Ashburner is an Englishman, Judge," said Karl, after some other
remarks, "and I am showing him how simply we American farmers live."
"Is it possible?" said the Judge, looking intently at Ashburner; "well,
now, I should never have thought so if you had not told me. He looks
more like an American than a foreigner: it's very singular, quite
unusual. Do you know," pursued the Judge, talking to Karl, but keeping
his eyes intently fixed on Ashburner, "do you know that I can almost
always tell a foreigner as soon I see him? Why it was only yesterday a
couple of fellows came into the field where I was, and wanted work, and
before they said a word, just as soon as I saw them I knew they were
Englishmen, and told Mary so."
Ashburner colored a little at this implied comparison, and felt annoyed
on seeing that Harry Benson was enjoying the joke. To turn the
conversation, he said something about the Judge's having a pretty place,
and inquired whether his judicial duties allowed him to be there a good
deal of the time. At this inquiry all three gentlemen laughed, and his
honor explained that once upon a time he had been appointed judge by the
governor, and had acted as such for four or five years, but that for the
last fifteen years he had merely enjoyed the title, and was but a plain
country gentleman, as he had been all his life. Ashburner inquired if he
had not been educated for the bar. "Oh, no," said the Judge, smiling,
"that was not at all necessary for a judge of the Common Pleas, though
for that matter, as Edmund Burke said in his speech on American affairs,
'in America every man's something of a lawyer.' You see, Mr. Ashburner,
there used to be five of us. Some were farmers and some were lawyers,
always one or the other, for the pay was not very high, and nobody but
farmers and lawyers have time to work for nothing in this country. By
the bye," said the Judge, "I never knew any one yet a judge of the
Common Pleas, unless he was either a lawyer or a farmer: did you,
Benson?" Karl answered in the negative, and the Judge continued: "If
there were any cases before us that were of importance, the lawyers
would carry them up to the Supreme Court. But I never could discover
that it made much difference who were judges in the Common Pleas, for
the judges who were lawyers would have their opinions reversed just
about as often as we farmers. I suppose you English gentlemen would
think it a great piece of nonsense, taking three or four men for judges
who had never practised at the bar; but the truth is, that such men look
closely at the real justice of the matter, and pay very little
attention to technicalities, while your second-rate lawyers if they are
made judges in an inferior court, study nothing but technicalities, and
misapply them half the time besides. Then you see we want cheap
expeditious courts for the trial of small cases--whether the court is
wrong or right is not so much matter--law is a lottery anyhow, and the
fact is, the sooner a case is decided and out of the way, the better for
both parties. I never knew myself of any man's making a fortune by going
to law, though I have heard of such things. But I suppose, Mr.
Ashburner, that you much prefer the old-fashioned English courts, with
the judges in gowns and wigs, and every thing done in the most solemn
manner. Now, to tell the truth, Mr. Ashburner, don't you think it great
nonsense for us to have one or two plain business men like me, hoisted
on to the bench to administer laws which Coke and Blackstone studied for
a lifetime, and which in your own country no one is thought fit to
administer them till he has spent years in practising, and has raised
himself up by his own labors?"
Ashburner became interested in all this, and was struck with the
intelligence of the speaker, who, notwithstanding his plainness and his
remarks about foreigners, seemed still to have the tastes and delicate
perceptions of the educated man. He asked several questions as to the
American judiciary, and informed the Judge that the works of some of the
American luminaries of the law occupied a high place in the estimation
of English lawyers, were noticed in English reviews, and quoted in
English courts. The young Englishman could see, as he said this, that
the Judge's face lit up with an expression very different from that of
either of the Bensons, and he felt pleased when he heard him say with
some exultation, "Your countrymen are not such bad fellows after all,
sir; I really believe they always do us justice, and there are no
national confessions to be made."
Ashburner was proceeding to state that in England the old feeling of
contempt had entirely disappeared, when the door opened, and a girl of
about eighteen entered. She threw a quick but calm glance around the
room, seemed a little confused at the number of gentlemen, and then,
recognizing Karl, went up to him, and shaking hands, asked after his
wife. "Mary," said the Judge, as soon as the inquiry was answered, "this
is your old friend, Mr. Harry Benson, and this is Mr. Ashburner, an
English gentleman; Mr. Ashburner, my daughter, sir."
The young lady shook hands with Harry, and bowed with more reserve to
the stranger, who contrived to hand her his chair, and place himself
quietly in the next one.
The first thought of Ashburner as he looked at his companion was, "How
sweetly pretty she is!" the next, "She is certainly very different from
any girl I have seen yet in this country;" and a few moments'
conversation confirmed each opinion. She was in truth a very pretty
girl, not strictly handsome, but of that bright and good-natured winning
beauty that always indicates a warm, kind heart, and always insures its
owner friends as well as admirers. She was below the average height,
with a girlish, though pretty, rounded figure; her dark brown hair fell
smoothly over a white, clear brow, and came down so as partially to hide
a rosy cheek; her dress was simple, but the taste and neatness it
displayed showed that its wearer was a person of refinement.
Ashburner opened the conversation by saying that he supposed Miss
Edwards was a resident of the country, and inquiring how she liked it.
She answered that she far preferred it to the city, and a little
argument ensued, in the course of which she assured Ashburner that the
country was always the pleasantest--one always had so many little things
to be interested in, and so much more time for reading. "There was
nothing," she said, "of the formality and coldness of city life, nor of
its frivolities." It amused Ashburner to hear this philosophy from a
girl of eighteen, one who was pretty enough to command more than her
share of attention, and who was evidently not of those young ladies who,
sincerely desiring to pursue the strict path of duty, make the great
mistake of deriding gayety or pleasure whereever they may happen to find
it. In the meanwhile the other gentlemen became engrossed in the
probable profits of the railroad which was to adorn the other side of
the river, and occasional allusions to the tariff, and chances of the
various candidates for the presidency, in all of which the Bensons
joined as warmly, and laid down their positions as dogmatically (their
contempt for their country, its laws, and affairs, to the contrary
notwithstanding), as though they had not been expressing, an hour or two
before, the most entire ignorance and thorough disdain of and for
railroads, politics, and politicians, and particularly the railroad just
mentioned, and the politics and politicians of the United States. If
Ashburner had listened to this, he would have learned that it is very
often the custom among American gentlemen to sneer at and contemn
political measures, among strangers (no matter whether foreigners or
not), as though the elective franchise, and every thing connected with
it, was an immoral sort of vulgarity that no gentleman was expected to
know any thing about; a thing to be abandoned to the _canaille_ and an
interesting set of patriots known as the Hemispherical Club, who varied
their patriotic duties by breaking their opponents' heads and their
country's ballot-boxes, and who, moreover, were so modest that they
never could be induced to exercise the glorious right of depositing
their suffrages, until the candidates on their side had "planked up"
for the benefit of the Club; whilst among their friends and neighbors,
these same gentlemen talk politics in the most furious and excited
manner, each person insisting that he knows all about them, and that
every body else will see he's right before the year's out. But
unfortunately Ashburner had got so deeply engrossed with the lessons in
philosophy he was receiving that he entirely forgot all about his
friends. He had discovered that Miss Edwards had been among the "Upper
Ten" of New-York, and knew many of the acquaintances he had made. She
spoke of them with so much correctness that he was convinced of her
excellent judgment in character, while the artlessness with which she
spoke, and the almost amusing simplicity of some of her remarks,
indicated that she had not studied human nature, as too many of us do,
by experience. Ashburner, like most young men, thought himself a shrewd
observer, particularly female character (which, by the bye, is what
young men know least about), but the subject he was studying puzzled
him; Miss Edwards evinced such a mixture of penetration and simplicity
that he could not understand how both could exist together. This sort of
character has baffled many wiser persons than Mr. Ashburner, who have
investigated it with the same interest. The study of young ladies is
dangerous at all times to a young man, and most particularly when he
does it from philosophical motives; and if any caste of character is
more dangerous than another, it is that which blends penetration and
simplicity; the one interests while the other charms. Not knowing these
truths, Mr. Ashburner had mentally resolved to enter upon this field of
philosophical research. The simplicity, the humor, the acuteness of
observation, the intelligence, and perhaps the pretty face of his
companion, tended to interest him in an unusual manner. And she, too,
seemed attracted by the young Englishman, whose education and
intelligence rendered him an agreeable companion to any educated and
intelligent person. It was pleasant for Ashburner to find a young lady
who could talk about something else than the polka or the last
party,--who, in short, had read his favorite authors, and could join in
admiring them without affectation; and he felt quite annoyed when Karl
Benson interrupted the _tete-a-tete_. As they all rose, the Judge
approached Ashburner and said, "I shall be happy to see you again, Mr.
Ashburner; if you stay at Mr. Benson's, and have nothing better to do,
come over whenever you please; you must excuse my calling on you, for we
old fellows are privileged, you know." Ashburner said he would be very
happy to do so, and was "desirous of learning something more about
American jurisprudence, if Judge Edwards would allow the trouble it
would occasion him." The Judge of course said he would bestow all the
information in his power, and added, that he had a high regard for
England and Englishmen. "I like a great many of your customs," said the
Judge, "much better than I do our own. Your girls have a physical
education which preserves their health and freshness, while ours sit
still and waste their time and ruin their health. Now here's Mary, who
is a country girl, and yet hardly exercises from one week's end to
another." The Judge said this in a reproving sort of way, but he looked
down on his daughter with a smile as he said it; and she smiled back in
the same way as she said, "Oh no, father, you forget that _now_ I ride
to the post-office every day." It was plain that such reproofs as this
was all that Mary ever knew (and as Ashburner marked the affectionate
look that passed between father and daughter, he thought all that she
ever needed). "How pretty she looks (he thought to himself) standing
there by her rough old father, looking up to him with that pleased,
confiding look; how much prettier than a fashionable belle who is
ashamed of her father because he is plain, and shows it whenever there
is some one by, I think"--
"It is time we were over the river," said Karl, interrupting Mr.
Ashburner in his contemplations.
"I think," said Mr. Ashburner to himself, as they were crossing the
water on their way home, "I think I will call to-morrow and see if she
really is as artless as she seems;" and a moment after to his
companions, "I believe I will practice rowing a few hours a day for the
next few days; physicians say it's a capital exercise."
"I think," said Karl, "you had better not. Exercise on horseback."
Said Harry, "Its precious little rowing you'll do."
"Yes," Ashburner rejoined, "I will, and to convince you, I mean to go
alone."
We will say with one Virgil--
"Felix qui protuit rerum cognoscere causas."
LEONORA TO TASSO.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.
Ah, bliss! I dreamed or thee last night!
Thee, whom my heart so deifies--
Again I met the thrilling light
Of thy serene and earnest eyes.
I dreamed of thee! Ah, gracious boon,
That gladdens thus my waking hours!
Above us bent Italia's noon,
Around us breathed the scent of flowers:
My hand lay gently clasped in thine.
No sound disturbed our joy's excess;
And soft thine eyes poured down on mine,
Their wildering rays of tenderness:
"My Leonora!" 'Twas thy same
Low voice that o'er my memory broke;
But even while thine accents came
I murmured "Tasso!" and awoke.
Ah, me! awoke! Yet all the day
Thy presence hath been round me still--
The airs that through my lattice play,
And toss the vines at their sweet will,
Repeat thy tones--and every where
I meet thine eyes still bent on me--
Ah, blessed dream! that gilds my care,
And brightens this reality.
HUNGARIAN POPULAR SONGS.
TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM WOLFF'S
VOLKSPOESIE.
BY CHARLES G. LELAND.
I.
_Szeretlek, galambom._
Better far I love thee
Than a dove the barley;
Ever dreaming of thee,
Night and morning early.
Of no woman born,
Such fays spring from the Rose;
When on Whitsun morn,
Her dewy breasts unclose!
II.
_Kocsmarosne, gyuijts vilagot!_
Hostess, quick! the light goes out,
Have you no pretty girl about?
But if no pretty girl there be
The light may soon so out, for me
Why should the candle burn and beam
Unless bright eyes reflect its gleam?
And if no pretty girl there be,
The light may soon go out for me!
And if you have a maiden fair,
Then be its light extinguished there!
For when its gleaming rays we miss,
'Tis easier far, a girl to kiss.
III.
_Duna, duna, szeles duna!_
Gladly will they make me think,
They who of the Danube drink;
That in its tide the pickerel swims,
And maidens bathe their snowy limbs.
Great and Small-Comorn afar!
Oh how sweet three maidens are!
To the one I'll wedded be,
And the fairest of the three!
IV.
_Szeles a dunaviz._
The Danube's stream is broad,
The bridge is weak I know;
Take heed my own dear love,
Or else thou fall'st below!
I shall not fall below,
No fear my soul alarms;
But soon my love I'll fall,
Into thy burning arms!
V.
_Golya, golya, de messze megy!_
Far, far the Stork now flies!--ah me!
And far am I, true love from thee!
My captive chains me and I cannot move,
That he may win from me my love.
Deep in the grave my parents lie,
My land's a broad heath waste and dry;
Great suffering and sorrow still are mine,
Yet I can drown them all in wine!
VI.
_Micsoda csardaez? be csinos?_
What inn is this which here I see?
Therein a pretty girl may be!
And if no lovely damsel,
Be in the tavern now;
Then let us hang its landlord,
Upon the nearest bough.
But see! a goat is grazing nigh,
A dark-brown maiden is standing by.
Then hey my jolly comrade!
There's milk I trow for both;
The maiden too will kiss us.
She shall, I'll take my oath!
VII.
_Cserebogar, sarga cserebogar._
May-beetle--gay little bird--fly near!
I ask not if summer will soon by here,
And I ask not if long my life shall be;
I ask--if I'm loved by my Rosalie?
And I ask thee not by a song or sign,
If another summer may yet be mine;
One summer has worn me with many a smart,
Since Rosa--fair Rosa--has won my heart.
Thou flittest away from flower to flower,
And thy wifie flies after through forest and bower;
I seek in them too for my Rosalie,
But never find her--she loves not me!
Thou drinkest from flowers their honey dew,
And callest with joy to thy wifie true!
But joy afar from my soul hath flown,
No love with its pleasure my heart hath known.
VIII.
_Nincsen nekem semmi bajorn._
Naught in the wide-world troubles me,
Save this alone--my poverty;
A merry companion too am I,
Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.
Bread I have none, but tatters enough,
And Fortune gives me many a cuff;
When I reckon together the money I've got,
There's never a farthing in all the lot.
So naught in the wide world troubles me,
Save this alone--my poverty;
And a merry companion too am I,
Though my coat be ragged, my throat a-dry.
IX.
_A faluban muzikalnak._
Let the sergeant sing or drum--
Soldier I will ne'er become;
He whose heart a maiden charms,
Is a fool to carry arms.
Swords may dazzle with their beam,
But--the devil take the gleam!
By my true love's eyes so bright,
Sword gleams seem as dark as night.
X.
_Most elem gyoengyeletem._
I'm a hussar so free from care,
A cap of blood-red silk I wear;
And wreath with ribbons flut'ring free;
Which once my true love wove for me.
And for the garland which she wove
I gave a kiss to her my love.
Oh weave another!--for thy pain
I'll kiss a hundred times again!
XI.
_Falu mogoett van egy malom._
Behind our hamlet stands a mill
Where pain is ground, they say
And to that mill in haste will I
To grind my grief away!
Oh miller's maiden ask no more!
Disturb me not too soon,
Through all the morn I think with joy
Upon the afternoon!
A SONG FOR THIS DAY AND GENERATION.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.
BY CHARLES G. EASTMAN.
Come, let us be merry!
The day's growing fair--
And drooping-eyed Patience
Looks up from despair.
Truth, like the glory
Of old times, in story,
Mellows the shadows that darken the land,
Wrongs, grim and hoary,
Crimes, black and gory,
Naked and scoffed in the market-place stand.
Come, let us be merry!
The sundown is near--
And Error is shivering
And shrinking with fear.
Power unmolested
For centuries, vested
In impotent sinew and imbecile brain,
Altars that rested
On mummeries ilested,
Tatters to ruin and not in the rain.
Come, let us be merry!
The sun shines at last--
The light fills the valleys--
The darkness has passed.
Names are neglected,
Blood is rejected,
Men bow no more to the accident Birth,
Mind, long dejected,
Her temple erected,
Waits from the Nations the homage of Worth.
Come, let us be merry!
All hearts that with scoff
And derision have waited
This day afar off;
Abuses are shaking
Old Errors are quaking,
That cramped the free life of our manhood so long,
Hail to the waking!
The daylight is breaking
For Truths that are mighty and men that are strong.
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.[2]
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
"With that brass alone," quoth Mother Rigby, "thou canst pay thy way all
over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling! I have done my best for thee."
Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advantage
towards a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a token,
by which he was to introduce himself to a certain magistrate, member of
the council, merchant, and elder of the church (the four capacities
constituting but one man), who stood at the head of society in the
neighboring metropolis. The token was neither more nor less than a
single word, which Mother Rigby whispered to the scarecrow, and which
the scarecrow was to whisper to the merchant.
"Gouty as the old fellow is, he'll run thy errands for thee, when once
thou hast given him that word in his ear," said the old witch. "Mother
Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the worshipful Justice
knows Mother Rigby!"
Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet's, chuckling
irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system, with delight at the
idea which she meant to communicate.
"The worshipful Master Gookin," whispered she, "hath a comely maiden to
his daughter! And hark ye, my pet! Thou hast a fair outside, and a
pretty wit enough of thine own. Yea; a pretty wit enough! Thou wilt
think better of it when thou hast seen more of other people's wits. Now,
with thy outside and thy inside, thou art the very man to win a young
girl's heart. Never doubt it! I tell thee it shall be so. Put but a bold
face on the matter, sigh, smile, flourish thy hat, thrust forth thy leg
like a dancing-master, put thy right hand to the left side of thy
waistcoat, and pretty Polly Gookin is thine own!"
All this while, the new creature had been sucking in and exhaling the
vapory fragrance of his pipe, and seemed now to continue this occupation
as much for the enjoyment it afforded, as because it was an essential
condition of his existence. It was wonderful to see how exceedingly like
a human being it behaved. Its eyes (for it appeared to possess a pair)
were bent on Mother Rigby, and at suitable junctures, it nodded or shook
its head. Neither did it lack words proper for the occasion.--"Really!
Indeed! Pray tell me! Is it possible! Upon my word! By no means! Oh! Ah!
Hem!"--and other such weighty utterances as imply attention, inquiry,
acquiescence, or dissent, on the part of the auditor. Even had you stood
by, and seen the scarecrow made, you could scarcely have resisted the
conviction that it perfectly understood the cunning counsels which the
old witch poured into its counterfeit of an ear. The more earnestly it
applied its lips to the pipe, the more distinctly was its human likeness
stamped among visible realities; the more sagacious grew its expression;
the more lifelike its gestures and movements; and the more intelligibly
audible its voice. Its garments, too, glistened so much the brighter
with an illusory magnificence. The very pipe, in which burned the spell
of all this wonderwork, ceased to appear as a smoke-blackened earthen
stump, and became a meerschaum, with painted bowl and amber mouthpiece.
It might be apprehended, however, that as the life of the illusion
seemed identical with the vapor of the pipe, it would terminate
simultaneously with the reduction of the tobacco to ashes. But the
beldam foresaw the difficulty.
"Hold thou the pipe, my precious one," said she, "while I fill it for
thee again."
It was sorrowful to behold how the fine gentleman began to fade back
into a scarecrow, while Mother Rigby shook the ashes out of the pipe,
and proceeded to replenish it from her tobacco-box.
"Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for this
pipe."
No sooner said, than the intensely red speck of fire was glowing within
the pipe-bowl; and the scarecrow, without waiting for the witch's
bidding, applied the tube to his lips, and drew in a few short,
convulsive whiffs, which soon, however, became regular and equable.
"Now, mine own heart's darling," quoth Mother Rigby, "whatever may
happen to thee, thou must stick to thy pipe. Thy life is in it; and
that, at least, thou knowest well, if thou knowest naught besides. Stick
to thy pipe, I say! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud; and tell the people, if
any question be made, that it is for thy health, and that so the
physician orders thee to do. And, sweet one, when thou shalt find thy
pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and (first filling
thyself with smoke) cry sharply,--'Dickon, a fresh pipe of
tobacco!'--and--'Dickon, another coal for my pipe!'--and have it into
thy pretty mouth as speedily as may be. Else, instead of a gallant
gentleman, in a gold-laced coat, thou wilt be but a jumble of sticks and
tattered clothes, and a bag of straw, and a withered pumpkin! Now
depart, my treasure, and good luck go with thee!"
"Never fear, mother!" said the figure, in a stout voice, and sending
forth a courageous whiff of smoke. "I will thrive if an honest man and a
gentleman may!"
"Oh, thou wilt be the death of me!" cried the old witch, convulsed with
laughter. "That was well said. If an honest man and a gentleman may!
Thou playest thy part to perfection. Get along with thee for a smart
fellow; and I will wager on thy head, as a man of pith and substance,
with a brain, and what they call a heart, and all else that a man should
have, against any other thing on two legs. I hold myself a better witch
than yesterday, for thy sake. Did not I make thee? And I defy any witch
in New England to make such another! Here; take my staff along with
thee!"
The staff, though it was but a plain oaken stick, immediately took the
aspect of a gold-headed cane.
"That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own," said Mother
Rigby, "and it will guide thee straight to worshipful Master Gookin's
door. Get thee gone, my pretty pet, my darling, my precious one, my
treasure; and if any ask thy name, it is Feathertop. For thou hast a
feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of feathers into the
hollow of thy head, and thy wig, too, is of the fashion they call
Feathertop,--so be Feathertop thy name!"
And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode manfully towards town.
Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased to see how the
sunbeams glistened on him, as if all his magnificence were real, and how
diligently and lovingly he smoked his pipe, and how handsomely he
walked, in spite of a little stiffness of his legs. She watched him,
until out of sight, and threw a witch-benediction after her darling,
when a turn of the road snatched him from her view.
Betimes in the forenoon, when the principal street of the neighboring
town was just at its acme of life and bustle, a stranger of very
distinguished figure was seen on the side-walk. His port, as well as his
garments, betokened nothing short of nobility. He wore a
richly-embroidered plum-colored coat, a waistcoat of costly velvet,
magnificently adorned with golden foliage, a pair of splendid scarlet
breeches, and the finest and glossiest of white silk stockings. His head
was covered with a peruque, so daintily powdered and adjusted that it
would have been sacrilege to disorder it with a hat; which, therefore
(and it was a gold-laced hat, set off with a snowy feather), he carried
beneath his arm. On the breast of his coat glistened a star. He managed
his gold-headed cane with an airy grace, peculiar to the fine gentleman
of the period; and to give the highest possible finish to his equipment,
he had lace ruffles at his wrist, of a most ethereal delicacy,
sufficiently avouching how idle and aristocratic must be the hands which
they half concealed.
It was a remarkable point in the accoutrement of this brilliant
personage, that he held in his left hand a fantastic kind of a pipe,
with an exquisitely painted bowl, and an amber mouthpiece. This he
applied to his lips, as often as every five or six paces, and inhaled a
deep whiff of smoke, which, after being retained a moment in his lungs,
might be seen to eddy gracefully from his mouth and nostrils.
As may well be supposed, the street was all a-stir to find out the
stranger's name.
"It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one of the town's
people. "Do you see the star at his breast?"
"Nay; it is too bright to be seen," said another. "Yes; he must needs be
a nobleman, as you say. But, by what conveyance, think you, can his
lordship have voyaged or travelled hither? There has been no vessel from
the old country for a month past; and if he have arrived overland from
the southward, pray where are his attendants and equipage?"
"He needs no equipage to set off his rank," remarked a third. "If he
came among us in rags, nobility would shine through a hole in his elbow.
I never saw such dignity of aspect. He has the old Norman blood in his
veins, I warrant him."
"I rather take him to be a Dutchman, or one of your high Germans," said
another citizen. "The men of those countries have always the pipe at
their mouths."
"And so has a Turk," answered his companion. "But, in my judgment, this
stranger hath been bred at the French court, and hath there learned
politeness and grace of manner, which none understand so well as the
nobility of France. That gait, now! A vulgar spectator might deem it
stiff--he might call it a hitch and jerk--but, to my eye, it hath an
unspeakable majesty, and must have been acquired by constant observation
of the department of the Grand Monarque. The stranger's character and
office are evident enough. He is a French Ambassador, come to treat with
our rulers about the cession of Canada."
"More probably a Spaniard," said another, "and hence his yellow
complexion. Or, most likely, he is from the Havana, or from some port on
the Spanish Main, and comes to make investigation about the piracies
which our Governor is thought to connive at. Those settlers in Peru and
Mexico have skins as yellow as the gold which they dig out of their
mines."
"Yellow, or not," cried a lady, "he is a beautiful man!--so tall, so
slender!--such a fine, noble face, with so well-shaped a nose, and all
that delicacy of expression about the mouth! And, bless me, how bright
his star is! It positively shoots out flames!"
"So do your eyes, fair lady," said the stranger with a bow, and a
flourish of his pipe; for he was just passing at the instant. "Upon my
honor, they have quite dazzled me!"
"Was ever so original and exquisite a compliment?" murmured the lady, in
an ecstasy of delight.
Amid the general admiration excited by the stranger's appearance, there
were only two dissenting voices. One was that of an impertinent cur,
which, after snuffing at the heels of the glistening figure, put its
tail between its legs, and skulked into its master's back-yard,
vociferating an execrable howl. The other dissentient was a young child,
who squalled at the fullest stretch of his lungs, and babbled some
unintelligible nonsense about a pumpkin.
Feathertop, meanwhile, pursued his way along the street. Except for the
few complimentary words to the lady, and, now and then, a slight
inclination of the head, in requital of the profound reverences of the
bystanders, he seemed wholly absorbed in his pipe. There needed no other
proof of his rank and consequence, than the perfect equanimity with
which he comported himself, while the curiosity and admiration of the
town swelled almost into clamor around him. With a crowd gathering
behind his footsteps, he finally reached the mansion-house of the
worshipful Justice Gookin, entered the gate, ascended the steps of the
front door, and knocked. In the interim, before his summons was
answered, the stranger was observed to shake the ashes out of his pipe.
"What did he say, in that sharp voice?" inquired one of the spectators.
"Nay, I know not," answered his friend. "But the sun dazzles my eyes
strangely. How dim and faded his lordship looks, all of a sudden! Bless
my wits, what is the matter with me?"
"The wonder is," said the other, "that his pipe, which was out only an
instant ago, should be all alight again, and with the reddest coal I
ever saw. There is something mysterious about this stranger. What a
whiff of smoke was that! Dim and faded, did you call him? Why, as he
turns about, the star on his breast is all a blaze."
"It is, indeed," said his companion; "and it will go near to dazzle
pretty Polly Gookin, whom I see peeping at it, out of the chamber
window."
The door being now opened, Feathertop turned to the crowd, made a
stately bend of his body, like a great man acknowledging the reverence
of the meaner sort, and vanished into the house. There was a mysterious
kind of a smile, if it might not better be called a grin or grimace,
upon his visage; but of all the throng that beheld him, not an
individual appears to have possessed insight enough to detect the
illusive character of the stranger, except a little child and a cur-dog.
Our legend here loses somewhat of its continuity, and, passing over the
preliminary explanation between Feathertop and the merchant, goes in
quest of the pretty Polly Gookin. She was a damsel of a soft, round
figure, with light hair and blue eyes, and a fair rosy face, which
seemed neither very shrewd nor very simple. This young lady had caught a
glimpse of the glistening stranger, while standing at the threshold, and
had forthwith put on a laced cap, a string of beads, her finest
kerchief, and her stiffest damask petticoat, in preparation for the
interview. Hurrying from her chamber to the parlor, she had ever since
been viewing herself in the large looking-glass, and practising pretty
airs--now a smile, now a ceremonious dignity of aspect, and now a softer
smile than the former--kissing her hand, likewise, tossing her head, and
managing her fan; while, within the mirror, an unsubstantial little maid
repeated every gesture, and did all the foolish things that Polly did,
but without making her ashamed of them. In short, it was the fault of
pretty Polly's ability, rather than her will, if she failed to be as
complete an artifice as the illustrious Feathertop himself; and, when
she thus tampered with her own simplicity, the witch's phantom might
well hope to win her.
No sooner did Polly hear her father's gouty footsteps approaching the
parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop's
high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright, and innocently
began warbling a song.
"Polly! daughter Polly!" cried the old merchant. "Come hither, child."
Master Gookin's aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful and
troubled.
"This gentleman," continued he, presenting the stranger, "is the
Chevalier Feathertop--nay, I beg his pardon, my Lord Feathertop,--who
hath brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient friend of mine.
Pay your duty to his lordship, child, and honor him as his quality
deserves."
After these few words of introduction, the worshipful magistrate
immediately quitted the room. But, even in that brief moment, had the
fair Polly glanced aside at her father, instead of devoting herself
wholly to the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of some
mischief nigh at hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety, and very pale.
Purposing a smile of courtesy, he had deformed his face with a sort of
galvanic grin, which, when Feathertop's back was turned, he exchanged
for a scowl; at the same time shaking his fist, and stamping his gouty
foot--an incivility which brought its retribution along with it. The
truth appears to have been, that Mother Rigby's word of introduction,
whatever it might be, had operated far more on the rich merchant's
fears, than on his good-will. Moreover, being a man of wonderfully acute
observation, he had noticed that the painted figures on the bowl of
Feathertop's pipe were in motion. Looking more closely, he became
convinced that these figures were a party of little demons, each duly
provided with horns and a tail, and dancing hand in hand, with gestures
of diabolical merriment, round the circumference of the pipe-bowl. As if
to confirm his suspicions, while Master Gookin ushered his guest along a
dusky passage, from his private room to the parlor, the star on
Feathertop's breast had scintillated actual flames, and threw a
flickering gleam upon the wall, the ceiling, and the floor.
With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all hands, it
is not to be marvelled at that the merchant should have felt that he
was committing his daughter to a very questionable acquaintance. He
cursed, in his secret soul, the insinuating elegance of Feathertop's
manners, as this brilliant personage bowed, smiled, put his hand on his
heart, inhaled a long whiff from his pipe, and enriched the atmosphere
with the smoky vapor of a fragrant and visible sigh. Gladly would poor
Master Gookin have thrust his dangerous guest into the street. But there
was a constraint and terror within him. This respectable old gentleman,
we fear, at an earlier period of life, had given some pledge or other to
the Evil Principle, and perhaps was now to redeem it by the sacrifice of
his daughter.
It so happened that the parlor-door was partly of glass, shaded by a
silken curtain, the folds of which hung a little awry. So strong was the
merchant's interest in witnessing what was to ensue between the fair
Polly and the gallant Feathertop, that after quitting the room, he could
by no means refrain from peeping through the crevice of the curtain.
But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen; nothing--except the
trifles previously noticed--to confirm the idea of a supernatural peril,
environing the pretty Polly. The stranger, it is true, was evidently a
thorough and practised man of the world, systematic and self-possessed,
and therefore the sort of person to whom a parent ought not to confide a
simple young girl, without due watchfulness for the result. The worthy
magistrate, who had been conversant with all degrees and qualities of
mankind, could not but perceive every motion and gesture of the
distinguished Feathertop came in its proper place; nothing had been left
rude or native in him; a well-digested conventionalism had incorporated
itself thoroughly with his substance, and transformed him into a work of
art. Perhaps it was this peculiarity that invested him with a species of
ghastliness and awe. It is the effect of any thing completely and
consummately artificial, in human shape, that the person impresses us as
an unreality, and as having hardly pith enough to cast a shadow upon the
floor. As regarded Feathertop, all this resulted in a wild, extravagant,
and fantastical impression, as if his life and being were akin to the
smoke that curled upward from his pipe.
But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. The pair were now promenading the
room; Feathertop with his dainty stride, and no less dainty grimace; the
girl with a native maidenly grace, just touched, not spoiled, by a
slightly affected manner, which seemed caught from the perfect artifice
of her companion. The longer the interview continued, the more charmed
was pretty Polly, until, within the first quarter of an hour (as the old
magistrate noted by his watch), she was evidently beginning to be in
love. Nor need it have been witchcraft that subdued her in such a hurry;
the poor child's heart, it may be, was so very fervent, that it melted
her with its own warmth, as reflected from the hollow semblance of a
lover. No matter what Feathertop said, his words found depth and
reverberation in her ear; no matter what he did, his action was heroic
to her eye. And, by this time, it is to be supposed, there was a blush
on Polly's cheek, a tender smile about her mouth, and a liquid softness
in her glance; while the star kept coruscating on Feathertop's breast,
and the little demons careered, with more frantic merriment than ever,
about the circumference of his pipe-bowl. Oh, pretty Polly Gookin, why
should these imps rejoice so madly that a silly maiden's heart was about
to be given to a shadow! Is it so unusual a misfortune?--so rare a
triumph?
By and by, Feathertop paused, and throwing himself into an imposing
attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figure, and
resist him longer, if she could. His star, his embroidery, his buckles,
glowed, at that instant, with unutterable splendor; the picturesque hues
of his attire took a richer depth of coloring; there was a gleam and
polish over his whole presence, betokening the perfect witchery of
well-ordered manners. The maiden raised her eyes, and suffered them to
linger upon her companion with a bashful and admiring gaze. Then, as if
desirous of judging what value her own simple comeliness might have,
side by side with so much brilliancy, she cast a glance towards the
full-length looking-glass, in front of which they happened to be
standing. It was one of the truest plates in the world, and incapable of
flattery. No sooner did the images, therein reflected, meet Polly's eye,
than she shrieked, shrank from the stranger's side, gazed at him for a
moment, in the wildest dismay, and sank insensible upon the floor.
Feathertop, likewise, had looked towards the mirror, and there beheld,
not the glittering mockery of his outside show, but a picture of the
sordid patchwork of his real composition, stript of all witchcraft.
The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him! He threw up his arms with
an expression of despair, that went farther than any of his previous
manifestations, towards vindicating his claims to be reckoned human. For
perchance the only time, since this so often empty and deceptive life of
mortals began its course, an illusion had seen and fully recognized
itself.
Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth, in the twilight of this
eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, when she
heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem so much the
tramp of human footsteps, as the clatter of sticks or the rattling of
dry bones.
"Ha!" thought the old witch, "what step is that? Whose skeleton is out
of its grave now, I wonder!"
A figure burst headlong into the cottage-door. It was Feathertop! His
pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast; the
embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in any
degree or manner that could be estimated, the aspect that assimilated
him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some indescribable way (as
is the case with all that has deluded us, when once found out), the poor
reality was felt beneath the cunning artifice.
"What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch; "did yonder sniffling
hypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain! I'll set twenty
fiends to torment him, till he offer thee his daughter on his bended
knees!"
"No, mother," said Feathertop, despondingly, "it was not that!"
"Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother Rigby, her fierce
eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet; "I'll cover her face with
pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Her front
teeth shall drop out! In a week hence, she shall not be worth thy
having!"
"Let her alone, mother!" answered poor Feathertop; "the girl was half
won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made me
altogether human! But," he added, after a brief pause, and then a howl
of self-contempt; "I've seen myself, mother! I've seen myself for the
wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I'll exist no longer!"
Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might
against the chimney, and, at the same instant, sank upon the floor, a
medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from
the heap, and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes were now
lustreless; but the rudely-carved gap, that just before had been a
mouth, still seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, and was so
far human.
"Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at the relics of
her ill-fated contrivance; "my poor, dear, pretty Feathertop! There are
thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world, made
up of just such a jumble of worn-out, forgotten, and good-for-nothing
trash, as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, and never see themselves
for what they are! And why should my poor puppet be the only one to know
himself, and perish for it?"
While thus muttering, the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and
held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust it into
her own mouth or Feathertop's.
"Poor Feathertop!" she continued, "I could easily give him another
chance, and send him forth again to-morrow. But, no! his feelings are
too tender; his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much heart
to bustle for his own advantage, in such an empty and heartless world.
Well, well! I'll make a scarecrow of him, after all. 'Tis an innocent
and a useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and if each of his
human brethren had as fit a one, 'twould be the better for mankind; and
as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he!"
So saying. Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. "Dickon!" cried
she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe!"
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Concluded from page 186.
From Colburn's New Monthly Magazine
A CHAPTER ON GAMBLING.
Very little doubt can be entertained that gambling is rapidly falling
from its pristine eminence in the fashionable world: we seldom or never
hear of thousands being now lost at a sitting; and those of the present
generation can scarcely credit all that is said or written of the doings
of their forefathers, or that whole estates were set on the hazard of a
game of picquet, as a certain Irish writer voraciously informs us.
Railway coupons have usurped the place of the cue and the dice-box, and
the greedy passion finds an outlet in Capel Court. We do not for a
moment mean to assert that gambling is dying away--the countless
betting-lists in town and country furnish a melancholy proof of the
widely-extended contagion--but still we do say that its very
universality has brought it out of fashion, and that it is not regarded
with that indulgence it formerly claimed, but is rather looked upon as
the "dernier resort" of the hard-up man about town.
Such being the case, it may cause our readers some surprise, on
referring to the heading of this paper, to find it termed a chapter on
gambling. Let them not expect any piquant details of English folly, or a
peep behind the scenes of Club life. We have no wish to lay bare the
secrets of our own land; and, indeed, too much has already been written
on the subject; be it our task to give an account of the doings in
foreign countries, and for this purpose we must ask them to accompany us
across the Channel.
After the villanous dens in the Palais Royal were rooted out, the
proprietors, who found the business much too profitable to be tamely
resigned, turned their gaze beyond the Rhine, where a fair field for
their exertions in the pursuit of a livelihood presented itself. After
many weary negotiations with the several governments, a company of
banquiers, with M. Chabert at their head, simultaneously opened their
establishments at Baden-Baden, Wisbaden, and Ems. It was a very hard
contest between the Regents and the Frenchmen before the terms were
finally settled, and they had to expend much money and many promises in
getting a footing. But they eventually succeeded, and a few years saw
their efforts richly rewarded. As they had a monopoly, they could do
pretty much as they pleased, and made very stringent and profitable
regulations relative to the "apres" and other methods of gaining a pull.
On the retirement of M. Chabert with an immense fortune, the company
was dissolved, and M. Benazet became ostensibly sole proprietor of the
rooms at Baden-Baden. The terms to which he had to subscribe were
sufficient to frighten any one less enterprising than the general of an
army of croupiers: he was compelled to expend 150,000 florins in
decorating the rooms and embellishing the walks round the town; and an
annual sum of 50,000 florins was furthermore demanded, for permission to
keep the establishment open for six months in the year. The company,
which leased Wisbaden and Ems, was treated much in the same manner, but
still they progressed most successfully, till they were frightened from
their propriety by Monsieur le Blanc. This gentleman, after struggling
against immense opposition on the part of the Frankfort merchants, who
were naturally alarmed at the danger to which their "commis" and
cash-boxes were exposed by the proximity of a gambling-table, obtained a
concession from the Elector of Hessen to establish a bank at
Homburg-an-der-Hoehe, which he speedily promulgated to the world, with
the additional attraction of being open all the year round, and only a
"trente et un apres" for the players to contend against. Some time
after, Wilhelmsbad was opened as a rival to Homburg, with no "apres" at
all, and the above mentioned, with the addition of Aix-la-Chapelle and
Coethen, form the principal establishments where "strangers are taken in
and done for" through Germany.
The games universally played are "rouge et noir" and "roulette," the
former also denominated "trente et quarante," though both titles
insufficiently explain the tendency of the game, especially as "noir"
never has any part or parcel in the affair, all being regulated by
"rouge" winning or losing. The appointments are simple in the extreme: a
long table, covered with green cloth, divided into alternate squares
marked with red and black "carreaux," and two divisions for betting on
or against the "couleur," three packs of cards, half a dozen croupiers
armed with rakes, and a quantity of rouleaus and smaller coin
constituting the whole _materiel_. A croupier commences the pleasing
game by dealing a quantity of cards till he arrives at any number above
thirty (court-cards counting as ten), when he begins a second row, the
first representing "noir," the other "rouge." The "couleur" is
determined by the first card turned up. The two great pulls in favor of
the bank are, first, the "apres"--that is, when the two rows amount to
the same number, and the croupier calls out, "Et trente trois," or any
other number "apres,"--the stakes are impounded, and can only be
released by paying half the money down, or else by the same color
winning; and secondly--the chief thing--_the bank never loses its
temper_. As a martingale, or continual doubling of the stakes after
losing, would infallibly cause a player to win in the end, there is a
law in force that no stake can exceed three hundred louis-d'or without
the permission of the banque: a permission it very rarely grants, except
in extreme cases, as for instance, at Homburg, when the Belgians so
nearly broke the bank; but then it was "conquer or die." The lowest
amount allowed to be staked is a two florin piece. The expression, "V'la
banque!" which we so frequently hear quoted, has its origin from this
game. After a player has passed, that is, won, on the same color two or
three times consecutively, the croupier, to prevent any possible
dispute, asks whether he wishes to risk the whole of the money down; if
he intends to do so he employs the above cabalistic formula.
Roulette is a very much more complicated affair; for this, a table is
required with a basin in the centre, containing a spiral tube with an
orifice at the top, through which the ball passes, and falls into one of
the thirty-eight holes in the basin, which are respectively marked with
figures, and alternately painted red and black. There are four
projecting pieces of iron, one of which the croupier twirls, crying,
"Faites votre jeu, messieurs;" when he says, "Le jeu est fait, rien n'va
plus," no more money can be put down. In the middle of the table are the
numbers, from one to thirty-six, going regularly downwards, in three
rows, while at the head of them are the two "zeros"--rouge single and
noir double. On either side of the numbers are three divisions; on one
hand, marked "rouge, impair et passe," on the other, "noir, pair et
manque." Besides these, there are three compartments at the end of the
columns, for the purpose of backing the numbers contained in the column;
and three others on each side of the numbers, in which to bet on the
first, second, or third series of twelve. The odds are regulated in the
following fashion. If a player back a single number, he receives
thirty-five times the amount of his stake, in the event of its coming
up; if he back three at once, he only gets eleven times; if six, only
five times the amount. For either of the other compartments he receives,
if he gain, the simple amount of his stake, with the exception of the
divisions at the end of the columns, and the series of twelve, when he
receives double if he win, as the odds are two to one against him. The
banque has a most iniquitous advantage in the two zeros, which are
calculated to recur once in nineteen times; if the single rouge turn up,
they sack all the money, except that placed on the red; if double zero,
they take all.
The amount of the stakes at roulette is limited to two hundred louis
d'or on a color, and six on a single number; the lowest stake allowed is
a florin. Though it may be supposed that a run at "trente et quarante"
would be a much more likely occurrence than at roulette--and, indeed, we
can remember at the former game the "noir" passing two-and-twenty times,
though no one had the courage to take advantage of such an
extraordinary circumstance--yet it is a very frequent thing at roulette
for the ball to have a predilection for a certain series of
numbers--probably through the croupier twisting the machine with the
same force each time--and on such occasions a good deal of money may be
won by a careful observer. One young Englishman, who was perfectly
ignorant of the game, we saw at Wisbaden place a five-franc piece on the
last series of twelve, and he left his money down six times, winning
double the amount of his stake every turn. He then discovered the money
was his, by the croupier asking him if he wished to stand on the whole
sum; but he never gave the banque another chance, for he picked it up,
and quickly went off with it.
Every player at roulette seems to have a different system: some powder
the numbers with florins or five-franc pieces, in the hope of one coming
up out of them; others speculate merely on the rouge or noir. One
Spaniard at Ems, we remember, made a very comfortable living at it by a
method of playing he had invented. He placed three louis-d'or on the
manque, which contains all the numbers to eighteen, and two louis on the
last series of twelve; that is, from twenty-four to thirty-six. Thus he
had only six numbers and two zeros against him. If manque gained, he won
three louis and lost two; if a number in the last twelve came up, he won
four and lost three; but a continuation of zeros would have ruined his
calculation. Some, again, back the run, others play against it; a very
favorite scheme, and one generally successful, being to bet against a
color after it has passed three times; but then, again, there is no law
on the subject, and a man may lose heavily in spite of the utmost
caution. In short, the best plan by far would be, if play one must, to
stick to "rouge et noir," which bears some semblance of fairness.
The _habitues_ of the rooms are well known to the croupiers. At
Baden-Baden we had for many years the old ex-Elector of Hesse, who made
his money by selling his soldiers to England at so much a head, like
cattle, during the American war, and who was easily to be recognized by
the gold-headed and coroneted rake he always had in his hand. He was,
indeed, a most profitable customer to Monsieur Benazet. But, alas! the
superior attractions of Homburg led him away, and we never saw him again
in Baden; the revolution of 1848 frightened, or angered, him to death.
Wisbaden boasts of a banker from Amsterdam, who usually plays on
credit--that is to say, he pockets his winnings, but, if he loses,
borrows money of the banquier, squaring his account, which is generally
a heavy one, at the end of the week: and an English baronet, who always
brings a lozenge box with him, which, when he has filled, he retires
with; and this he frequently contrives to accomplish, for he possesses
his own luck and that of some one else in the bargain. Ems is the
principal resort of Russians, who play fearfully high, and a good deal
of private gambling is done there on the quiet; while Aix-la-Chapelle
appears only destined as a trap for incautious travellers, many of whom,
in consequence, never see the Rhine, and return to England with very
misty ideas about Germany.
Aix-la-Chapelle will never be erased from our memory, on account of a
most ludicrous scene which happened on our first visit to Germany. Being
unacquainted with German at the time, and our French being of the sort
which Chaucer calls "French of Bow," we had selected one of our party,
who boasted of his knowledge of most foreign tongues, and installed
himself as "Dolmetscher." His first experiment was in ordering supper,
which he proceeded to do in something he was pleased to call German.
"Plait-il, M'nsieu?" said the waiter.
The order was repeated.
"Would you have the kindness to spik Angleesh?" remarked the garcon.
Though this raised some doubts in our minds as to our friend's capacity,
yet one of our party, feeling indisposed, invoked his intercession for
the sake of procuring some Seidlitz powders. However, in his
indignation, he refused to have any thing to do with it. In this
dilemma, the sick man called in the English-conversing waiter to his
aid, who readily offered to help him, and soon returned with a bottle of
Seidlitz _water_, which he persuaded our unwary friend to make trial of.
Now this water happens to be the strongest of all the mineral springs in
Germany, and the consequence was, the poor young man became very shortly
alarmingly unwell. In his anxiety, he fancied himself poisoned, and
summoned the waiter once more. On his reappearance, he compelled him to
finish the whole of the bottle, which contained nearly a quart, to prove
it was not of a dangerous nature; but, in point of fact, it proved to be
so, by nearly killing the wretched garcon.
The company to be seen round the table consists usually of Russians and
French, both male and female, with a sprinkling of Germans, who escape
from their own police in order to satisfy their itching for play. Thus,
for instance, we have Nassau and Darmstadt people at Baden-Baden, while
the Badese and Suabese rush to Homburg and Wisbaden. There is a very
salutary law in every land where gambling is permitted, that no
inhabitant of that land be allowed to play at the public table, and if
any one is caught red-handed, he is usually imprisoned, and his
winnings, if any, confiscated. We can call to mind a laughable instance
of this at Wisbaden. Two old peasants, who had probably come for a day's
pleasure and to see the sights, managed to find their way into the
Kursaal, and stood all entranced before the roulette-table. One of them,
imagining it a right royal way of making money, and much better fun
than ploughing, lugged out his leathern purse, and began by staking a
modest florin on the rouge. In the course of about half an hour he had
contrived to win a very decent sum, and was walking away in great glee,
when a gendarme, who had been watching him all the while, quietly
collared him and dragged him off to the Polizei, where, as we afterwards
learned, he was incarcerated for three weeks, and his "addlings"
employed for the good of the state.
It may naturally be supposed that the presence of so much circulating
medium in one place, and the _prestige_ attaching to the banquier's
coffers, which are currently supposed to contain a sum
More precious far
Than that accumulated store of wealth
And orient gems, which, for a day of need,
The sultan hides in his ancestral tombs,
would induce many depredators to make an attempt on them, but we
generally find that cunning is much more in favor than any open attack.
Thus, for instance, Monsieur le Blanc, who, we may add, has been more
assailed than any other banquier, was nearly made the victim of a
stratagem, which might have entailed serious results. A fellow contrived
to get into the "Conversation Haus" by night, and blocked up all the low
numbers in the roulette machine in such a manner that the ball, on
falling in, must inevitably leap out again. On the next day he and his
accomplices played, and netted a large sum by backing the high numbers.
They carried on the game for two or three days, but were fortunately
overheard by a detective while quarrelling about the division of their
plunder, in the gardens behind the establishment. They were arrested,
and the money recovered. A very dangerous design was also formed against
him by one of his croupiers, who, being discontented with his lot,
determined to make his fortune at one _coup_: and the plan he contrived
was this. He procured a pack of pre-arranged cards, which he concealed
in his hat, and when it came to his turn to deal, he intended to drop
the bank cards into his _chapeau_ and cleverly substitute the others;
but this artfully-concocted scheme was disconcerted, by one of his
confederates considering he might make a better and safer thing of it by
telling Le Blanc beforehand. His most imminent peril, and the occasion
when his very existence as a banquier was at stake, was the affair with
the Belgian company, of which Thackeray has given us a detailed account
in his "Kickleburys up the Rhine."
The "proprietaires," besides, suffer considerable losses by the
dishonesty of the croupiers; for, although there is a person expressly
employed to watch them, who sits in a high-backed chair behind the
dealer, yet they are such practised escamoteurs, that they will secrete
a piece of gold without his seeing it. One fellow was detected at
Baden-Baden, who had carried on a system of plunder for a long time with
security. He used to slip a louis-d'or into his snuff-box whenever it
came to his turn to preside over the money department; he was found out
by another _employe_ asking him casually for a pinch of snuff, and
seeing the money gleam in the gaslight. These croupiers are the most
extraordinary race of men it is possible to conceive. They seem to unite
the stoicism of the American Indian to the politeness of the Frenchman
of the _ancien regime_. They are never seen to smile, and wear the same
impassive countenance whether the banque is gaining or losing. In fact,
what do they care as long as their salary is regularly paid? They seem
to fear neither God nor man: for when a shock of the earthquake was felt
at Wisbaden, in 1847, though all the company fled in terror, they
remained grimly at their posts, preferring to go down to their patron
saints with their rouleaux, as an evidence of their fidelity to their
employer. Perhaps, though, they regarded the earthquake as a
preconcerted scheme to rob the banque, the only danger they are
apprehensive of. You may beat them, and yet they smite not again; for
when a young Englishman, bearing an honorable name, vented his rage at
losing by breaking a rake at Baden-Baden over the croupier's head, he
merely turned round and beckoned to the attendant gendarme to remove him
and the pieces, and then went on with his parrot-like "rouge
gagne--couleur perd."
The most amusing thing to any philosophical frequenter of the rooms, is
to see the sudden gyrations of fortune's wheel. One gentleman at
Baden-Baden, a Russian, was so elated after an unparalleled run of good
fortune, that he went out and ordered a glorious feed for himself and
friends at the restauration; but during the interval, while dinner was
preparing, he thought he would go back and win a little more. His good
fortune, however, had deserted him, and he lost not only all his
winnings, but every florin he was possessed of, so he was compelled to
countermand the dinner. On the arrival of his remittances, determined
not to be balked of his repast this time by want of funds, he paid for a
spread for twelve beforehand; but his luck was very bad, and he actually
went back to the restaurateur, and, after some negotiation, sold him
back the dinner at half-price. The money he received was, of course,
very speedily lost. Another, a student of Heidelberg, won at a sitting
970 florins, but disdaining to retire without a round thousand, he
tempted fortune too long, and lost it all back, as well as his own
money. The most absurd thing was, that not having any friends in Baden,
he was driven to return "per pedes" to his university, a distance of
more than one hundred miles. It is a very rare occurrence for the bank
to be broken, though the newspapers state that such a thing happened
three times at Baden-Baden during the present season,--a statement which
we are inclined to place in the same category with the wonderful
showers of frogs and gigantic cabbages which happen so opportunely to
fill any vacant corner. When, however, it really takes place, the rooms
are only closed for an hour or two, and the play soon commences again.
The most painful incident is, the frequency of suicides during the
season, any account of which Monsieur Benazet, for obvious reasons,
prevents reaching the public. When any thing of the sort occurs, the
place most commonly selected for the tragedy is a summer-house a little
way out of the town, on the road to the Alt Schloss, whence the poor
victim can take a last lingering look on the scene of his ruin. One
young man, in our time, attempted to blow out his brains at the
roulette-table, but was fortunately prevented, and a fortnight's
detention in the House of Correction very much cooled his ardor for
making a "dem'd disgusting body" of himself. Indeed, it has ever been a
passion with your Frenchmen to cause a scene when dying: they would not
give a "thank you" to cut their throats in private.
On the 31st of October, the day on which the rooms close for the season,
an immense quantity of players throng to the Kursaal; for though they
have withstood temptation for so long a time, they cannot possibly
suffer the season to go past without making one trial. On the 1st of
November, those birds of ill-omen, the croupiers, set out to hybernize
in Paris, and the rooms are closed, not to be reopened till the 1st of
May.
It has long been a question most difficult of decision whether, leaving
morality entirely out of sight, the watering-places of Germany are
benefited or injured by the continuance of gambling. We are inclined to
the latter opinion; for, though it may be said that it brings a deal of
money into circulation, yet your true gambler is a most unsocial and
inhospitable fellow, and one of the worst visitors an hotel-keeper can
have. Besides encouraging, as they do, all the riffraff of Europe to pay
periodical visits to Germany, they thereby prevent many respectable
persons from settling in that country; for any wife or mother who has
the interests of her family at heart, would fly from a place where
gambling is allowed, as from a pest-house. At the same time, a very lax
tone prevails in these towns, and every finer feeling is blunted--in
many cases irreparably--by constant association with hard-hearted,
callous, and unscrupulous gamblers. That this was a view taken by the
more enlightened of the Germans, is proved by the fact that the
parliament of Frankfort decided on the abolition of all gambling-houses
by a considerable majority, but unfortunately there was no time to carry
such a salutary measure into effect. Had it been otherwise, the Regents
in all probability would, through very shame, have hesitated in giving
their assent to the re-establishment of such a crying evil.
From Fraser's Magazine.
AN ELECTION ROW IN NEW-YORK.
BY C. ASTOR BRISTED.
An election in England is a very exciting affair; in America, from its
frequency, it becomes a mere matter of every-day business. Almost every
citizen has the opportunity of voting twice a year, and elections are
continually going on in some part or other of the country, so that they
form a standard topic of conversation, much as the weather does in
England. No wonder, then, that they usually fail to awaken any great or
general interest.
But to this rule there are important exceptions. A presidential[3] or a
congressional campaign sometimes involves the fate of most important
measures of policy, and creates a corresponding excitement. At such
periods, the country is flooded with "extra" newspapers and political
lecturers, the walls groan with placards, bar-room politicians talk
themselves hoarse, and steamboat passengers amuse themselves with
holding meetings and sham-balloting for the respective candidates. Still
the enthusiasm of the parties generally spends itself in words; they
seldom come into actual personal collision. Even in the West, there are
not _more_ rows on election days than at other times. But here again we
have a notorious exception in the case of New-York. Many thousands of
the "finest pisantry" have located themselves in that city, and they
have not lost an iota of their belligerent propensities, affording a
beautiful illustration of _coelum non animum_, &c. Entirely under the
influence of their priests, they are almost invariably to be found on
the agrarian side, and are ready at any time to attack a whig
(conservative) meeting, storm the polls, or engage in any other act of
violence to which their wily leaders may prompt them.
In the spring of 1840, the Whigs of the State of New York (the _city_
still inclined the other way) had been in power nearly two years, with a
decided majority in both houses of the legislature, and a governor who
"went the entire animal" with them. Washington Irving says that the best
men of a party propose to themselves three ends: first, to get their
opponents out; secondly, to get themselves in; thirdly, to do some good
to the country; but the majority are satisfied with attaining the first
two objects. Now the Whigs had accomplished these as thoroughly as they
could have desired, and had made such use of their victory as to put it
out of the power of any one to charge them with being worse than
infidels. They, therefore, like good patriots, set about the third
proposed point, and their first step was to take some measures for
improving the election laws, so far as concerned the city of New-York.
That city had more than 300,000 inhabitants,[4] at least 26,000 voters,
and no registry law whatever. The consequence may be easily imagined. If
a man chose to take the responsibility of perjuring himself, he could
always pass a false vote, and was frequently able to do it without that
unpleasant necessity. To prove _residence_, it was only requisite to
have slept the previous night in the ward where he voted; this gave rise
to an extensive system of colonization just before the election. In
short, it was evident that the ballot _alone_ would not secure a fair
vote, while the experience of Philadelphia showed that _with a good
system of registry_ it answered every required purpose. A registry law
was accordingly reported and read the first time.
Great was the wrath of the Loco-Focos[5] when they found this measure on
the _tapis_. The strength of the two parties in the city was very nearly
balanced, the mercantile influence of the Whigs, and the papist
influence of the Locos, being about a match for each other. Indeed, the
same side seldom carried its candidates for mayor and aldermen more than
two years successively. But the Locos had good reason to fear that a
strict registry law would knock on the head nearly a thousand of their
voters, without making corresponding havoc in the Whig ranks. They were
therefore naturally anxious to prevent, if possible, the passage of this
law; every effort was put forth to make it appear unpopular, by calling
meetings, and getting up petitions against it.
Most of the Whigs cared nothing for this; but some men, whose good
feeling outran their discretion, and who had the fatuity to suppose that
Loco-Focos were capable of being influenced by reason, called a meeting
(it was about a week previous to the charter election) "of citizens,
without distinction of party," to express their approval of the registry
law. Such calls, emanating professedly from neutrals, but really from
partisans, are not uncommon; and the result of them usually is, that the
speakers meet with no opposition, and the resolutions are carried
unanimously; none of the other party, except perhaps, a reporter or two,
attending. But on the present occasion, the opponents of the measure
were determined that its friends should _not_ have it all their own way;
so some thirty or forty of the Locos attended, and did their best to
impede the proceedings. First, they objected to the gentleman proposed
for chairman; then they interrupted the speakers; and, finally, kicked
up such a row as effectually to drown the voice of the secretary, who
was trying to read the first resolution offered.
Now of all the offences against good manners that can be committed in
America, disturbing the harmony of a public meeting is about the most
flagrant. It may be supposed, then, that the conduct of these intruders
excited no small indignation on the part of the majority. There were not
enough constables present to eject them, so the "citizens, without
distinction of party," took the law into their own hands; such Whigs as
were nearest incontinently laid hands on the rioters, and "passed them
out."
Reader, have you a clear idea of what this "passing out" is? I believe
the operation is occasionally practised in England, at theatres and
other places of public resort, when young gentlemen have got elevated,
and won't behave themselves. But, lest you should not be familiar with
it, I will endeavor to give you as much as I remember of a description
by one of our authors,[6] of the style in which the thing is managed.
The occasion represented is a public dinner, given to the Honorable Mr.
So-and-So, by his admirers; and the victim, a too daring-dun, who has
spoiled a fine period of the orator's--"If, fellow-citizens, I should be
doomed to retirement, I shall at least carry with me the proud
conviction that I have always acted as becomes an honest man,"--by
impertinently suggesting that "his small account for groceries has been
running four years."
"This was too much for the admirers of the honorable gentleman. 'Turn
him out!' 'Throw him over!' 'Hustle him out!'
"Pass him down!!
"Now when it is remembered that the unhappy man had established himself
at the very upper end of the room, in which five hundred of his
fellow-creatures were packed like damaged goods, it will be easily
imagined what a pleasant prospect he had before him.
"An assemblage of human beings has often been compared to a sea.
Dreadful, indeed, poor Muzzy, was the ocean on which thou wert doomed to
embark.
"PASS HIM DOWN!
"The call was answered by the elevation of Mr. Muzzy six feet in the
air. From this altitude he was let down into a vortex of strong-handed
fellows, who whirled him about horribly, and then transmitted him to a
more equable current, which pitched him forward at a steady rate towards
the door. Sometimes he landed among a party of quiet elderly gentlemen
over their wine, and the torrent seemed to be lulled; then again it
would return upon him with renewed violence, and bear him helplessly
along. At last he was caught up by two mighty billows in the shape of a
master butcher and baker, and impelled with fearful velocity through the
narrow straits of the door. On recovering his senses sufficiently to
take an observation, he found himself stranded keel uppermost, in the
gutter, with his rigging considerably damaged, and his timbers somewhat
shaken."
Such was the discipline to which the obstreperous Locos were subjected,
and neither their general disposition, nor their particular temper of
mind at the time, was such as to induce them to bear the infliction with
Christian resignation. Accordingly, they repaired in a body to the
head-quarters of their party (at Tammany Hall, about half a mile
distant), and there reported the indignity they had suffered. The thing
was not to be endured, and steps were instantly taken to exact a
terrible retribution. The more belligerent of the Locos had formed
themselves into various associations for purposes of offence, rejoicing
in the classic names of "Spartans," "Ring-tailed Roarers," "Huge Paws,"
and "Butt-enders." Some two hundred of this last body chanced to be in
attendance, all armed with bludgeons, and they instantly started off to
make an assault upon the Masonic Hall, where the friends of the registry
law were assembled. The surprise bid fair to be a complete one, and so
doubtless it would have been, but for a circumstance, to explain which
it will be necessary for us to go back to the morning of this eventful
day.
Bill Travis, as his friends familiarly called him--or W. Thompson
Travis, Esq., as his tradesmen used to address him on the back of their
frequently-sent-in and occasionally-paid bills--was a senior at Columbia
College; not precisely the first of his class in Latin and Greek, but
decidedly the best waltzer and billiard-player in it, and _the_
exquisite, _par excellence_, of his juvenile contemporaries. He never
went down Broadway, even to go to College, without light French kids and
a gold-headed cane; and his stock of enamelled chains, opal studs,
diamond pins, and the like vanities, would nearly have fitted up a
bride's _corbeille_. To see him fully got up--polished boots, palm-leaf
waistcoat, gorgeous cravat, and all--mincing over the gutter, you would
take him for a regular man-milliner, and say that the greatest exertion
he was capable of, would be holding a trotter, and that only with the
aid of a pair of pulleys. But scrutinize him more closely, and you would
see that, for all his slim waist and delicate extremities, he had a good
full natural chest of his own, and powerful limbs. Put him into action,
and you would find that he could hit straight from the shoulder, and
"split himself well," as the French phrase it, when he gave point, or
went back in guard. He was, in fact, a crack boxer, fencer, and gymnast.
Pugilism was the fashion with the young bloods of Gotham at that time,
especially such of them as had any tendency to politics: and among these
boys of nineteen, there were not a few who would have tackled a fancy
man in his prime, and at no great odds either, their great agility
making up for their want of downright strength. Travis's friend and
senior by one year, George Purcell (who afterwards served with credit as
a volunteer in the Mexican war, and ultimately became a judge in
California), had on one occasion, when threatened with the vengeance of
a stalwart Bowery boy, sought out the democratic champion in the very
midst of his personal and political friends, and challenged him to
single combat; which challenge being promptly accepted, he polished off
the young butcher in good style and short order--the other b'hoys, with
that love of fair play which honorably distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon
race all over the world, remaining impartial spectators of the fight.
Travis had never equalled this feat, but he _had_ seen a good deal of
low life and hard knocks on the sly, proper and fashionable as he always
appeared in public by daylight.
Now, on the morning of this very day, as we were saying, Travis, while
lounging up Broadway, suddenly encountered a youth of about his own age,
but a very different style and type. He was short and thickset,
swaggering, and almost sailor-like in his gait, and wore the usual dress
of the American snob playing gentleman--that is to say, a black
dress-coat and trousers, and a black satin vest. His ungloved right hand
sustained a walking-stick, which might, on a pinch, have done duty as a
bed-post; his left was buried in his trousers' pocket.
It was Travis's cousin, Lefferts Lloyd. Half Knickerbocker, half Welsh
in his extraction, he descended directly from some of the oldest
settlers of the island, and by rights, his should have been the
fashionable, and the Travises (who were altogether _novi homines_) the
unfashionable branch of the family. But fortune, or the taste of the
Lloyds themselves, had willed it otherwise; with equal means, they
resided in a region east of the Bowery, well nigh _terra incognita_ to
the set in which the Travises moved. Lefferts himself was very much one
of the people; he eschewed all vanities of patent leather and kid
gloves, preferred ten-pins to billiards, and running after a fire-engine
to waltzing. The cousins, who had been at school together, were on very
amicable terms with each other, but their tastes and pursuits not
exactly coinciding, they seldom met except for a few minutes in the
street, or a few days at a watering-place.
"By Jove! Lefferts, that's a delicate cane of yours," said Travis,
glancing from the other's stupendous bludgeon to his own gold-headed
Malacca, which, as he would have expressed it himself, had knocked a big
hole in a fifty dollar bill. "Preparing for the meeting to-night, you
see," answered Lloyd, with a significant waggle of the big stick, that
would have gladdened an Irishman's heart. Nothing more was said on the
subject, and they separated, after a few trivial remarks; but Travis
took good heed of the allusion, which he seemed not to notice at the
time. On the look-out for mischief, he set himself to reconnoitre that
evening in the vicinity of Tammany Hall, fearless of detection, for no
one could have recognized the Broadway exquisite in his assumed garb.
His upper garment was an old great coat razeed into a frock; his feet
were cased in heavy fireman's boots, which, with their impermeable
uppers and ponderous soles, were equally serviceable for keeping out
snow-water and kicking niggers' shins; his head was protected by a stout
leather cap, and in his hand he carried a hickory, not so ponderous as
Lloyd's stick, but none the less capable of doing worthy execution in a
row. Seeing the Butt-enders proceed up Broadway in a body, he at once
suspected that the Masonic Hall was the object of their attack, and
accordingly put on all his disposable quantity of steam, that their
coming might not be unannounced. There was no time for ceremonious
entry, or oratorical delivery, but bursting impetuously into the room,
he informed his friends in straightforward terms that the enemy were at
hand in great force. The Whigs were somewhat taken aback, most of them
being unarmed; but it was not an occasion to stand upon trifles. _Furor
arma ministrat_; the meeting was broken up into a committee of the
whole, and the benches into their component timbers, the fragments of
which were distributed among the company, while a long plank, under the
particular supervision of Travis himself, was suspended over the
banisters, so as to sweep the staircase.
Hardly were these preparations completed, when the hall below was
flooded with the advancing Loco-Focos. Stealthily but swiftly they
advanced, little dreaming of the reception that awaited them. The
staircase was certainly a very defensible position; it was not wide, and
made a sharp bend near the top, so that the assailants could not see the
danger that threatened them. The foremost pressed eagerly up-stairs, and
just as they arrived at this turn, their leader could no longer contain
himself. "Now, boys," he exclaimed, with a flourish of his bludgeon,
"we'll give the Whigs their gruel!"
"_No you don't!_"
And as Travis spoke, slam-bang came the big plank above mentioned, which
shot out with startling suddenness, and worked with commendable
dexterity, made a clean sweep of the whole first column. The leader and
five or six more were hurled bodily into the air, and tumbled upon the
heads of their followers, while fifteen or twenty others were pitched
down the upper flight of ten steps. The mass on the main staircase below
recoiled with the shock, and as those in the hall still pressed onward,
a dense body was wedged together in woful confusion. "Tippecanoe and
Tyler too!" shouted Travis, and the Whigs poured forth from the room,
and mustered thickly at the head of the staircase, exulting in the
disaster of their opponents, while the end of the plank, which had been
reset for action, peered over the banisters, as if saying, "Come on, if
you dare!"
The foremost enemies were evidently unwilling to encounter this
formidable engine of defence, but the pressure from behind drove them
forward. Their first leader was _hors du combat_, and they were now
headed by a young man of tolerably respectable appearance, clearly not
one of the regular Butt-enders. "Let go!" cried Travis, and the
primitive ram was again shot forward, but not with equal success.
Several of the Locos were knocked down, but others threw themselves
desperately on the plank, and their general, by a dexterous movement,
placed himself within it. Travis recognized his cousin Lloyd! It was a
fine bit of romance, but there was no time to fabricate reflections
corresponding, for even as he made the discovery, the amateur Spartan
was springing up the stairs, and the man who had been most active in
managing the plank went down before his hickory. The fallen Whig upset
the board with him, and it lay upon the stairs, useless as a weapon, but
still impeding the enemy's advance. At the same moment, a stalwart
Irishman, who had climbed up the banisters, levelled his shillelah at
Travis's head; but our friend anticipated the blow by giving Pat point
in the breast with such strength and dexterity, that he tumbled
helplessly into the mass beneath, causing much inconvenience and more
panic. This done, Travis darted at his relative, who was knocking down
the Whigs right and left, and had nearly gained a footing on the
landing-place. Both were adepts in single-stick practice, and the
contest bid fair to be of long duration; but they were not to have it
all to themselves, for as other Loco-Focos gained the top of the stairs,
the _melee_ became general. It would require the pen of an Irving or a
Fielding to do full justice to the scene. Black eyes, bloody noses, and
broken heads were lavishly distributed in all directions; Irish yells
and Tippecanoe war-cries swelled the uproar; while from the front
windows of the room within some elderly gentlemen kept insanely crying
"Watch!"
The Whigs had greatly the advantage over their opponents in point of
position and numbers, but the assailants were more practised
belligerents, and provided with better weapons. Moreover, many friends
of the registry law had as yet taken no part in the affray, vainly
hoping that the city authorities (at that time Loco-Focos) would
interfere. Inch by inch the Butt-enders fought their way forward. The
Whigs were visibly giving ground. A panic seized their ranks, and those
who were still in the room began to look about them for means of
escape. There was a small back-window, with a shed five or six feet
below it, whence the ground could be reached by a ladder. Out of this
window dropped, and down this ladder rattled the president,
vice-presidents, secretaries, and, in short, the most quiet and
respectable men of the meeting. Their exit was as undignified as their
entry had been pompous. At length the shed, being rather ancient, gave
way under the weight of a very fat man, who was snugly deposited in a
pigsty beneath, so that hope was cut off.
The Whigs now became desperate: they saw that they must fight in
earnest, and advanced to a man. The Butt-enders were stopped in their
advance. Both parties wavered. Travis perceived that the decisive blow
was now to be struck. Closing up to Lloyd, he came down on him "with an
awk stroke," as the old romancers say, that fairly broke down his guard,
and beat him back upon three or four of his followers, who all went over
together. The Whigs raised a shout, made a rush forward, and by sheer
weight hurled the Butt-enders down the staircase. After them poured the
victors, with Travis at their head. The Irish shillelahs were nothing
before his hickory: he knocked down or disabled a man at every blow.
Still the Locos made a vigorous attempt to rally in the lower entry, but
at that moment a reinforcement arrived for the Whigs, which completed
their defeat. A band of _Unionists_ (a Whig association formed in
opposition to the Butt-enders) had been parading the streets with music
and banners, and they now arrived in time to fall furiously on the rear
of their antagonists. The Loco-Focos, thus hemmed in between two fires,
were gloriously pommelled for about five minutes. At length, with a
desperate charge, they broke through the Unionists, and fled
precipitately down Broadway, while the band accompanied their retreat
with the complimentary air of the "Rogue's March."
The victors re-assembled in the big room, somewhat diminished in numbers
(even after the accession of the Unionists) and dilapidated in attire.
Travis, who had been foremost throughout the whole row, bore especial
marks of it on his person. His coat was slit down the back, and _minus_
several buttons in front; his cravat utterly missing, and his shirt, so
much of it as was visible, might possibly have made patches for a rifle,
but was of no particular value as an article of dress. But such little
incidents only served to increase the general hilarity of triumph. The
meeting was reconstructed, the resolutions passed, and they wound off
with a Harrison song--in fact, with two or three. It was near midnight
before the walls of the Masonic Hall ceased to echo to such strains as
these:--
To turn out the administration
Is the very best thing we can do;
'Twill be for the good of the nation
To put in old Tippecanoe.
_Chorus all._
Hurrah for old Tippecanoe--oo--oo!
Hurrah for old Tippecanoe!
'Twill be for the good of the nation
To put in old Tippecanoe!
Notwithstanding the very demonstrative character of the row, no lives
were lost or bones broken. Even Lloyd, though sadly trodden on by both
parties after his fall, sustained no serious injury, nor did the combat
of the cousins give rise to any permanent difficulty between them. The
registry law was passed some weeks after, to the great disgust of the
Loco-Focos, eight or nine hundred of whose voters were thereby placed on
the list of unavailables.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] It is a mistake to suppose that the presidential election is
_always_ attended with great excitement. Monroe literally walked over
the course for his second term. Martin Van Buren's election passed off
very quietly; and General Taylor's, being taken almost as a matter of
course, was accompanied by no extraordinary demonstrations.
[4] Now more than 600,000.
[5] This _sobriquet_, at first applied to a small fraction of the
New-York democrats, which fraction afterwards absorbed the whole party,
had its origin in the following incident: A quarrel occurring at Tammany
Hall (the head-quarters of the democracy), the majority moved an
adjournment, and, to make sure of it, put out the lights. The recusants,
in anticipation of some such step, had provided themselves with _lucifer
matches_, and, by their aid, re-lit the lamps, and continued the
meeting. Lucifers were then called loco-focos--why, no one knows; the
name was probably invented by some imaginative popular manufacturer of
the article; and the appellation of _Loco-Foco party_ was proposed in
derision, for this small band of seceders; who, however, in time,
brought over the original majority to their views. Hence the Whigs
continued to apply the contemptuous designation to the whole democratic
or radical party.
[6] Cornelius Matthews, to whom this quotation from memory may possibly
do injustice, but the work in which it occurs is now out of print.
From Bentley's Miscellany.
THE JEWISH HEROINE: A STORY OF TANGIER.[7]
In the latter part of the year 1834, there resided in Tangier a Jew,
Haim Hachuel, who employed himself, as well as his wife, Simla, in
commercial pursuits. They had two children; the eldest, Ysajar, followed
the trade of his father; the second was a daughter, Sol, who had just
completed her seventeenth year, and whose rare and surpassing beauty was
the admiration of all who saw her. Though Fortune lavished not her
smiles on Haim Hachuel, he lacked not the means of living in comfort
with his small family, by his own and Simla's unassisted efforts, the
latter taking charge not only of the education of her daughter, but of
the whole management of the domestic affairs, and even the common work
of the house. The careful mother, however, provided that her daughter's
employments should be limited as much as possible to household cares, so
that the entire arrangement of them gradually devolved on the fair Sol
as she grew up.
In the earlier years of the young Jewess's life, she submitted passively
enough to the restraint imposed upon her by her mother, and was almost
always to be found busied in the toils suited to her sex; but as she
advanced towards womanhood, the tastes and passions natural to her age
began to develope themselves, and the lovely Sol, becoming conscious of
the many charms with which Nature had endowed her, chafed at the rigor
of her seclusion. Her mother, hitherto her chief and only friend, now
deemed it prudent to assume towards the young maiden a severity of
demeanor, which so exasperated her, that, not finding within her home
those innocent recreations suitable to her age, and which her heart so
greatly desired, she was tempted to seek abroad for sympathy and
participation in her griefs.
Near the dwelling of Hachuel lived a Moorish woman, by name Tahra
Mesmudi. With this person the young Jewess formed an acquaintance,
which soon grew into friendship. Her mother occasionally gave her
permission to visit her; and on these occasions she would spend the time
in relating domestic occurrences,--and at other times, eluding her
mother's vigilant eye, she would slip out of the house to impart her
sorrows to Tahra, and receive her sympathy. Simla endeavored on more
than one occasion to check the growing intimacy of the young girl with
their Mahometan neighbor; but, little able to foresee its deplorable
results, and secure in her daughter's confidence, she was unwilling to
deprive her altogether of this slight indulgence. In this state,
therefore, things remained for awhile, Sol taking a reluctant part in
the labors allotted to her by her mother, and but rarely appearing in
the streets, though when she did so, her surpassing charms gained her
the homage of crowds of admirers, who thought themselves happy in
obtaining even a passing sight of this prodigy of Nature's work, usually
secluded from all eyes but those of the proud and happy authors of her
existence. But, however the high spirit of the enchanting Sol rebelled
against her fate, deeply and violently as she resented her bondage, no
murmur ever escaped her lips, and her false neighbor was the only
confidant of her sorrow; and already (so various are the disguises of
seeming friendship) even now did Tahra meditate a project destined to be
the ruin of the fair Jewess.
Amongst the Arabs, the conversion of an infidel (by which name they
designate all those who do not conform to their creed), is esteemed an
action in the highest degree meritorious. This conquest to their faith,
therefore, they make wherever an opportunity is open to them, by the
most indiscriminate and unscrupulous means, according to the teaching of
the Alcoran, which allows the lawfulness of all means, and the most
unbounded license in their choice, for the attainment of a lawful
object. Tahra, the Moor, failed not, accordingly, in her intercourse
with the youthful Sol, to extol, as it were incidentally, the excellence
of her religion, the many advantages enjoined by its adherents, and the
unbounded esteem awarded by the true believers to those who consented to
embrace it. But the lovely and innocent-minded Jewess, quite unconscious
of the malignant purpose of her neighbor, heeded none of her
exhortations, but rather listened to them with a degree of compassion.
Being herself certain of her faith, and feeling an enthusiastic interest
in the law under which she was born, she regarded merely as an excess of
religious sentiment, the zeal which prompted the Mahometan to persevere
in these encomiums of her religious tenets.
The dawn gleamed forth one day amid a thousand clouds, which hung in
thick masses below the sky, and covered it with an opaque and gloomy
screen; the mournful twittering of the warbling birds bespoke anxiety
and alarm; the hoarse rushing of the wind threatened destruction to the
woods; the flowers of the fields began to droop; the sun withdrew his
light from the world beneath, and all seemed to presage a day of grief
and bitterness--save in the home where the fair Sol arose, like another
Circe, from her couch, and sallied forth, seeming to temper by her
enchanting presence the angry frowns of the elements without. In the
house of Hachuel was a chamber, set apart for devotional purposes.
Thither she directed her earliest steps, having previously (after the
manner of the Hebrews) cleansed her hands from all impurity. On quitting
this oratory, she occupied herself in the various works of the house;
but, as noon drew on, her mother, with her wonted asperity, reproved her
for not having already completed her household task. Sol replied with a
degree of warmth which aroused the anger of her mother, who angrily
reproached and even threatened her with chastisement; when, in a fatal
moment, the young girl, fearing lest she should be scourged, ran with
precipitation to the house of the neighbor Tahra for refuge. Throwing
herself into the arms of her from whom she expected some alleviation of
her sorrow, the beautiful Sol again and again lamented the hardness of
her fate, and wished for deliverance from the state of oppression in
which she felt herself overwhelmed, betraying by her tears and profound
agitation the excitement of her feelings and the disorder of her
imagination; while the crafty Mahometan, perceiving the confusion into
which her mind was thrown by the mingled feelings of resentment and
grief to which she was giving way, listened with delight to her
complaints, well knowing that the moment was now at hand when she might
best execute her project.
"My daughter," said she, "thou art unhappy only because thou wilt be so.
Thy mother enslaves thee, and thy passiveness meets only with hardships
and abuse. Thy neighbors and acquaintance compassionate thee; all are
scandalized at thy mother's treatment, and blame thee for not seeking a
remedy for thy sorrows, when it is in thy power to do so. No moment more
propitious than the present could offer itself to thee; I will be thy
protector--I will be thy friend. To my care intrust thy salvation, and
be comforted. Sweet Sol, dost thou not understand me?"
"I do not understand you, Tahra," the sorrowful girl replied. "There can
be no sufficient reason why I should withdraw myself from the control of
my mother; yet, though it is true that she sometimes scolds me with
reason, at other times her anger is kindled against me without any
cause, or for the most trifling neglect. O! were she to treat me with
more kindness, I should not be so unhappy!"
"Hope not, dear child," said the Mahometan, "that thy mother will treat
thee better at any future time than now. She will sacrifice thee, on the
contrary, to her caprice and fanatism. Dost thou wish to be freed from
her power this very day? Listen, then! Often hast thou heard of the
excellence of our religion. Embrace the Moorish faith; cast off thy
trammels, and be free!"
"Alas! Tahra," replied the young maiden, "what a fearful, what a
horrible proposition you make me! Never could I learn to be a true
Mahometan. I listen to you, and hear you speak, as though I were in a
dream. I long for repose; let me enjoy it for a while, I pray you."
Such was the conversation between the two friends. At its close, the
youthful Jewess departed to seek the rest she so greatly needed, in a
solitary apartment; and the Mahometan flew, with the speed of the wind,
to execute her meditated project.
The Moorish Governor of Tangier, who exercises both civil and military
power, was at this time Arbi Esid, a man of a stern and capricious
character. To him Tahra, the Moor, repaired, soliciting an audience. She
told him that her home had afforded refuge to a young maiden of the
Hebrews, who was fairer than the spring, and whom she had led by her
arguments to the verge of Mahometanism; but that should she remain
beneath her roof, her resolutions would certainly be frustrated by her
mother, since the contiguity of their abodes rendered communication so
easy, that it would be impossible to carry out the work of conversion,
or to annul the maternal influence. This audacious dissembler failed not
to enlarge on the difficulty and importance of her conquest, and the
governor, without further demur, commanded a soldier[8] to bring the
unhappy Jewess into his presence. The thunderbolt that rends the airy
region, travels not with more fatal celerity than did the mandate of the
Moorish governor.
Sol was yet listening to the announcement of Tahra Mesmudi, when, at one
and the same moment, entered Simla, demanding her lost daughter, and the
soldier bearing the order of Arbi Esid. Words are unequal to depict the
scene that ensued. The innocent Sol, ignorant as she was of the whole
plot, in vain endeavored to ascertain the cause of this abrupt and
alarming summons. Her mother, Simla, equally amazed, embraced her
repeatedly, and sought by the most passionate efforts to detain her in
her arms, from whence she was forced away by the soldier, impatient to
fulfil his mission--and those hearts, never more destined to beat one
against the other, were torn asunder and separated for ever. Tahra
alone, the fanatical and reckless Moor, understood this mystery, while
she assumed the most profound ignorance, lest her participation in the
act should be suspected; and in this moment of anguish, as in all ages
of the world, force triumphed over right and justice. The soldier
roughly disengaged the arms of the two unhappy Hebrews, which were
entwined in each other, and held them apart by main strength: and the
fair Sol pressed her coral lips on the wet cheek of her mother, Simla,
and bade her a last farewell.
"Mother," she said, "calm your sorrow. I know not the views of the
governor in thus summoning me before him, but conscience tells me I have
no cause for fear. Trust, then, in my innocence, and think upon my love
till I return to your arms, innocent and uninjured as I now leave them."
The impatient threats of the soldier allowed no more time for these
filial protestations. The victim was carried off, and her mother,
following with her eyes the retreating steps of her trembling daughter,
wept unconsoled at the prospect of the bitter future.
When Arbi Esid was apprised of the arrival of the lovely prisoner, he
ordered that she should be at once brought into his private hall of
audience.[9] He was, on her entrance, so captivated by the sight of her,
that feelings arose in his heart greatly at variance with the outward
gravity of his demeanor.
"Enter," said he, "and divest yourself of all fear. I am he who, in the
name of the Prophet, will protect your resolution, and promote your
happiness. The great Allah has sent forth a ray from his transcendent
light to win you to his religion, and to turn you from the errors of
your own. This hour gives birth to your happiness."
The Hebrew maiden heard with amazement the words of the governor; and
without removing her eyes from the ground, where they had remained fixed
ever since her first entrance, she preserved the deepest silence.
"Answerest thou not, bewitching Sol?" continued Arbi Esid; "fair as the
Houris of the Prophet's Paradise, canst thou refuse to embrace his
faith? What then have I heard from thy friend and neighbor Tahra."
"You have been deceived, sir," replied the Jewess; "never did I express
such a wish; never did I yield to the entreaties and proposals of Tahra
Mesmundi. I was born a Hebrew, and a Hebrew I desire to die."
These words, uttered with inimitable sweetness and modesty, so far from
raising the anger of the governor, rendered him only the more anxious to
convert her. He commanded that Tahra, the Moor, should be brought into
his presence, that she might ratify her deposition; and, before long,
she arrived, perfidy and deceit depicted in her countenance. "Enter,"
said Arbi Esid, "and recapitulate, in the presence of the prisoner, the
important deposition you urged upon me this morning."[10]
"Sir," replied the false witness, "this young Jewess, who took refuge in
my house to escape the rigorous treatment of her mother, declared to me
this morning her desire of embracing our religion; and it was by her
consent I gave your excellency notice of this resolution, that you might
extend your protection to her. This is what I affirmed, and this I now
repeat. Does any one deny it?"
"Yes, my Tahra!" exclaimed the lovely Sol, with vehemence. "I cannot
accuse you of any treachery; yet the very words you bring against me
show that you have misunderstood my meaning, and hence the mistake which
has caused the imprudent step you have taken."
The affectionate words of Sol were contradicted by Tahra, with a degree
of asperity and roughness, that cruelly wounded the gentle heart of the
enchanting Jewess.
"Hearest thou all this, stubborn girl?" said the governor to her. "By
the deposition of this Moor, you are convicted of a crime that death
itself could scarce atone for, were you even on the instant to retract,
and embrace the truth."
The conference here closed. Tahra departed, and the governor himself
conducted the fair Sol to the apartments of his wife and
daughter-in-law, on whom he urged his wish that she should be treated
with the utmost kindness, and that no pains might be spared to win over
her heart.
Here we must for a while leave the afflicted Sol, to contemplate the
state in which her parents remained during her absence. Her hapless
mother, as we have related, watched her with anxious eyes till she had
entered the governor's palace with the Moorish soldier; and, utterly
unable to form a conjecture as to the cause of her sudden abduction, she
hastened full of grief and consternation to find her husband Haim, to
whom she gave a scarcely coherent relation of all that had occurred.
The astonished Hebrew broke forth into vehement exclamations; in this
confusion of doubt and suspicion, Simla became the first object of his
anger, and the frenzied disorder of his gestures threatened her with the
most fatal consequences; a deadly fear seized upon his faculties, and
agitated him well-nigh to insanity, and he sought a clue to the terrible
mystery in vain. Accompanied by Simla, he hastened to the dwelling of
the artful Tahra, and put to her a thousand questions, to some of which
she evasively replied, while in answering others she assumed a
threatening and reckless tone, which disclosed to Haim some portion of
the truth. For an instant he remained silent, then, burning with the
most violent rage, he grasped the hand of his wife, and rushed back to
their desolate home in a state akin to that of the wounded prey of the
hunter, seeking its forest lair. "You," exclaimed he, frantically, "you
only are the cause of this misfortune! my daughter Sol, the daughter
whose sight lightened my cares, and gave joy to my existence, God knows
if ever again she will return to my arms; this Moor, this Tahra Mesmudi,
this treacherous and perverse infidel, has turned aside her heart, and
she has thrown herself into the trammels of impiety; to gain a refuge
from your rigor she has sought compassion in the tiger's breast."
"My daughter, my daughter!" cried the affrighted Simla, "let not mine
eyes behold a ruin so great!" and she fell senseless into the arms of
Haim Hachuel. Thus did these unhappy parents lament their loss, losing
sight of their sorrow only in the vain hope of devising some plan for
the salvation of their daughter.
The prisoner remained in the residence of the governor, surrounded by
its female inhabitants, and the women of the highest rank residing in
the place,--all vying with one another to dazzle the fair Jewess by
showing her the riches and splendor of the edifice.
"Far more," they said to her, "far more than this array of wealth and
grandeur shall one day be the portion of thy loveliness and virtue. A
gallant Moor, rich, powerful, and ardent for thy love, shall join his
hand with thine, and a thousand slaves shall bow down at thy behest. All
the precious things of Asia and Arabia shall be brought to delight thine
eyes, the rarest birds of distant regions shall warble in unison with
the lays of thy fancy."
These and other persuasions clothed in the glowing language of their
nation, did the Moorish women lavish on her for three days, during which
time she remained in the palace. But the beautiful Jewess wept on, and
thought only of her parents and brother.
"Never," said she, "will I exchange the humble _toca_ of my brethren for
the rich turban you offer: never will I abandon my God."
This decision Sol pronounced with such fervor and animation before the
whole of the Moorish ladies, that, stung by her perseverance, they ran
in anger to the Hall of Audience, and apprised the governor of her
refusal.
Arbi Esid immediately ordered her to be led into his presence, and
reproving her for her haughtiness and obstinacy, he pointed out the
peril in which she was involving herself, and repeated his determination
of subduing her resolution. But the young Hebrew rejected his
allurements, depreciated his gifts, and defied his power, even to death.
"I will load thee with chains," said the governor; "thou shalt be torn
by wild beasts, and see no more the light of day; thou shalt lie,
perishing with hunger, and lamenting the rigor of my anger and
indignation, for thou hast provoked the wrath of the Prophet and
slighted his laws."
"I will submit tranquilly," replied Sol, "to the weight of your chains;
I will allow my limbs to be torn asunder by wild beasts; I will renounce
for ever the light of day; I will die of hunger; and when every torture
you can command has been endured, I will scorn your anger and the wrath
of the Prophet, since they are unable to conquer even a weak woman, and
do but show your impotence in the sight of Heaven, whose strength you
boast, to gain one proselyte to your creed."
"Atrocious blasphemy!" exclaimed the enraged governor; "thus dost thou
profane the most sacred names, thus dost thou reject all consideration?
I will bury thee in dark dungeons, where thou shalt drink the cup of
bitterness. Take this Hebrew," continued the governor, "to prison; let
her suffer in the most loathsome dungeon--let her there feel the effect
of my displeasure." Then turning his back upon her, his eyes flashing
with ire, he abandoned the victim, who was immediately conducted to the
prison.
The Alcazaba is a castle situate on a little eminence at the extremity
of the town, where prisoners are confined. Thither was the beautiful
Jewess conducted, in the first instance, though the soldiers
subsequently removed her to a place destined for the female prisoners
only, where was a small cell, dirty and fetid, with one narrow window
looking into the street. In this dungeon, where she was unable to stand
erect, was the young Hebrew confined. During the three days that she had
remained in the governor's palace, her parents had not failed to inform
themselves of every thing that befell her--even to her removal to the
Alcazaba, and subsequent confinement in this dungeon. It was night
before Haim Hachuel and Simla his wife directed their anxious steps
towards the prison. Haim's searching eye ran over the whole edifice at a
glance, and soon discovered the beloved object of their attachment.
There was the beautiful Sol, in truth, holding the iron bars that
secured the small window, her snow-white hands shining amid the gloom,
whiter than the pure linen on the dusky skin of the African. All around
reigned the silence of the grave, save when at intervals it was
interrupted by the sound of oppressed sighs, as of one who could scarce
breathe.
"It is she!" said Simla, in great emotion: "let us draw near, and press
her hands to our heart."
These last words reached the ears of the unhappy prisoner, and forgetful
of the many watchful eyes and ears around her, she exclaimed in a sad
and piercing voice: "Mother, O mother! come, and witness my repentance!"
Haim Hachuel and his wife flew instantly to the dismal grating of the
dungeon. They grasped the hands of their unhappy daughter, and she also
seizing those of her parents, bathed them with her tears, so that for a
moment neither could utter a word.
"Dear daughter," said they at length to her, "what do you propose to do?
Are you resolved to embrace the law of Mahomet?"
"Never, my parents!" she answered, "I regard these sufferings as
chastenings from Heaven for my sins; when I meditate upon them, methinks
I hear a voice within me, saying, 'Thou didst fail in the duty of an
obedient child; behold now, and suffer the consequence of thy
transgression.'"
Scarcely had Sol concluded, when the clashing of iron bolts apprised her
parents that some one was approaching this abode of bitterness. Quickly,
therefore, did they disengage their hands, and promising to return the
following evening, plunged in the deepest grief they reluctantly quitted
the place, lest they should be discovered, and deprived of what was now
their only consolation. They were not mistaken; the person that opened
the door of the cell proved to be the woman in charge of the prison, who
came to acquaint the beautiful Sol of the governor's order, that she
should be cut off from all intercourse with her friends, and treated
with yet greater severity and harshness.
Unmoved, she listened to this cruel mandate of the tyrannical governor,
and, raising her eyes to heaven, only uttered these words, "I revere, O
Lord, thy heavenly decrees!" The Mahometan departed in some emotion, and
the young Jewess, kneeling, addressed herself to loftier contemplations.
Haim Hachuel and his wife spent a night of most torturing suspense. On
their return from the Mazmorra, they told every thing to their son,
Ysajar; who, going immediately to the prison, with some difficulty
gained over the jailer, a Moorish woman, by offering her gifts,--and at
length succeeded in obtaining her good offices for his unfortunate
sister, and permission to communicate with her through the narrow
grating of her cell, under cover of the night. Having obtained this by a
heavy golden bribe, he hastened to report what he had done to his
parents. Scarcely less than the pain that agitated the prostrate Sol, in
her loathsome dungeon, was the heart-rending emotion endured by her
unhappy parents; all were anxious for the morning, and longed for dawn
to dispel the gloom of this terrible night. Never did the glorious sun
describe his orbit so slowly as on that weary day--never did human
hearts so long for its termination--hours seemed like years--the day
like an endless century; at length, for all things below must end, the
day closed and the night set in, when the afflicted parents and brother
a second time repaired to receive the consolation of gazing on the
pallid countenance of the imprisoned Sol.
Who shall describe these afflicting interviews? tears, sighs, broken
words, every emotion of love and pity succeeded each other in quick
succession; but the night vanished as rapidly as the day had wearily
withdrawn, and the moment of separation arrived--the Mahometan
prison-keeper admonishing them to depart. They did so, torn with
emotions that none but those who have loved, none but those who have
suffered, none but those who are parents, can comprehend, and this
night, and the day that followed, were spent in grief and agony. Haim
Hachuel sought by various means to discover the intentions of the
governor, but learnt only that the mere recollection of the Hebrew
captive sufficed to excite him to fury, and to call forth resolutions of
the most barbarous character. The agonized father, well nigh
heart-broken at such information, harassed his imagination to find a way
to save his child.
The governor, Arbi Esid, forgot not for a moment the Jewish captive; for
each day information was brought to him respecting the state of apparent
dejection in which she was; and, at the expiration of the third day of
her imprisonment, he sent to inquire whether she would now consent to
embrace the Law of the Prophet? The bearer of this message was one of
his secretaries, who, on entering the dungeon, was astonished at the
beauty of the maiden he beheld. He put to her several inquiries
respecting her condition, which were answered with amiability and
modesty: but upon his telling her that he was secretary to the governor,
Arbi Esid, and that he had come, in his name, to know whether she had
yet decided to become a Mahometan, the prisoner's countenance and
attitude suddenly changed, and assumed an expression of imposing
dignity, as she addressed him in these terms: "Tell the governor, on my
part, that if he be not already content with all I have suffered, let
him invent new torments, which the Hebrew Sol will accept as Heaven's
chastening for her sins; but become a Mahomedan--never!" So, turning
away from him, she knelt, and addressed herself to prayer.
Pale as death, fearing the anger of the governor, and his self-love
wounded at the failure of his embassy, the secretary left the dungeon,
and returned with all speed to the palace. The governor, on becoming
acquainted with the determination of the youthful Jewess, raved with the
ferocity of a tiger, and commanded that she should be loaded with
chains. And so greatly did the satellites of his despotism delight in
the works of cruelty, that not much time elapsed ere the savage mandate
was put into execution. The beautiful Sol was taken from her dungeon,
and placed in a cold, humid, subterranean cell--without air, and darker
than the night; on her white and chiselled throat was clasped a ring of
iron, to which were linked four chains that bound her hands and feet;
the weight of the heavy metal prevented her standing erect; the damp
ground was her only couch, and the only rest for her tortured limbs.
Sad, and full of anguish, was the solitude that now awaited this angel
of virtue; but nothing could discourage, nothing could daunt her.
The young Hebrew occupied herself in thoughts full of courage, and
reflections full of moral fortitude; whilst her parents, who had been
duly apprised of her removal to the subterranean cell, spent their time
in lamenting the sad change, and in seeking out persons whose influence
might soften the obdurate heart of the governor. In this search did Haim
Hachuel renew his diligence, every day that the unfortunate maiden
continued to groan beneath her chains, till at length his paternal
lamentations reached the compassionate ears of Don Jose Rico,
vice-consul of Spain, at that time, in Tangier. The voice of complaining
humanity never failed to touch the feeling heart of this good man; nor
could he rest till his benevolent work was begun. He respectfully,
therefore, petitioned the governor to mitigate the sufferings of the
young Jewess, or even, if possible, to liberate her altogether; public
sympathy being, as he represented, already excited in her behalf to a
powerful degree. These representations he urged with so much force and
effect, that, had the matter rested in the hands of Arbi Esid alone, he
would have set her at liberty at once. However, he replied with
considerable courtesy, that the whole circumstances of the affair had
been referred to the emperor, of whose imperial commands he was in
momentary expectation. This answer placed the matter in a less favorable
light, in the eyes of Don Jose--obstructing, as it did, any means of
bringing comfort to the helpless Sol, while she, still immured in the
dungeon, looked forward to death as the only escape from her
accumulating woes. Many days did not elapse, however, before the
expected dispatches arrived from the emperor, bearing his orders that
the captive Jewess should be conducted immediately to Fez.
This unexpected and unlooked-for result caused the utmost consternation
among all acquainted with the circumstances. Both Moors and Hebrews
evinced an almost equal desire to preserve the life of the beautiful
Sol; but the fatal order admitted no delay, and there was no choice but
to comply with it with the utmost promptitude. The governor, therefore,
summoned Haim Hachuel, and after communicating to him the commands of
the emperor, he informed him that his daughter must begin her journey to
Fez on the following day, and required of him the necessary sum
(amounting to forty dollars)[11] to defray the expenses of the transit.
This he demanded within two hours' time.
The Jew returned with several friends to his own home, and secretly
arranged that one of them should follow his daughter at a distance, so
as not to lose sight of her altogether. It was no easy matter to find
one able and willing to undertake a mission of so much difficulty and
danger, in defiance of the express commands of the governor; but at
length a Jew, but little known in the town, was found to accept the
charge, and having provided himself with money, he was sent on the way.
Whilst Haim and his son were busied in these preparations, the unhappy
Simla lay on her bed in a state of utter prostration. When the tidings
of her beloved Sol's intended departure reached her, she prepared to see
her pass from a secure hiding-place, and thence to bid her farewell, as
though she were to see her no more for ever. Not only, indeed, to the
parents and brother of Sol were the hours of the night laden with
tribulation and anguish, all their friends and neighbors shared their
griefs. The unhappy victim alone, to whom the dreadful tidings were
communicated at midnight, heard them with an unaltered countenance,
though a deep sigh sufficiently proved her feelings in the terrible
situation in which she was placed.
An hour before dawn was the time appointed for Sol's departure. At the
moment fixed, a Moor, of a countenance most savage and repulsive,
presented himself at the dungeon-gate, leading by their bridles two
active mules. He was shortly followed by five soldiers, who were to form
the escort, and when all were assembled, the muleteer, who was charged
with the conduct of the affair, knocked at the door of the prison, and
on its being opened, entered to bring the captive forth.
Meanwhile, her parents, her brother, and many of her friends, had
concealed themselves at a certain distance, where they could remain
undiscovered, to witness this sad scene, and compelled themselves to
silence the groans and sighs by which their hearts were torn, so as to
escape detection. The eyes of all were riveted on that spot where the
victim was to emerge from the prison. Every thing was distinctly visible
in the clear morning air; and in a little time the object of their hopes
came forth, and at sight of her, Simla fell fainting into the arms of
her husband and son. Sol came forth with a slow and tremulous step,
supported by the horrible muleteer, the pallor of her countenance
contrasting with the ebony blackness of her bright and speaking eyes,
whose glances fell searchingly around. Her hair was gathered up beneath
the humble white "toco," which formed the graceful covering of her head,
and her dark blue dress accorded well with the interesting cast of her
fair features, giving a grave and imposing character to her whole
figure. Her delicate feet were bound with heavy fetters, which scarce
permitted her to move; and her whole appearance was so pathetic and
interesting, that it is scarcely possible for the pen to describe the
scene. All passed in silence; and the echo of sighs was the only
language of this fearful drama.
The muleteer threw some cords over his beast's trappings, the better to
secure his victim. Meanwhile, the beautiful Jewess, turning--as though
instinctively--towards the spot where her mourning parents stood, asked
one of the soldiers who guarded her, to assist her to kneel. This being
permitted, she folded her hands upon her breast, and looking up to
heaven, exclaimed, in broken accents: "God of Abraham! Thou who knowest
the innocence of my heart, receive the sacrifice which I have made in
abandoning the spot where I was born. Console my parents and brother for
my loss. Strengthen my spirit, and abandon not this, Thy unhappy
creature, who always trusted in Thee--make her one day happy in the
mansions of the just, with those blessed souls whom Thou electest for
Thy greater glory and adoration."
After she had remained a few moments longer in silent devotion, the
muleteer, being apprised that it was time to start, rudely tore her from
her knees, and with a brutal and reckless violence, capable of revolting
the hardest hearts, placed her on the saddle. Lashing her already
fettered feet with a thick cord, he bound it also around her wrists,
bruising her delicate flesh; and tying a rope in numerous coils round
her body, he lashed it to the harness of the mule. The savage Moor
having made all secure, tightened the lashings, and seemed to delight
above measure in the excruciating torture he thus inflicted upon his
patient victim. Not a word, not a complaint escaped her; nor did her
grave and composed demeanor forsake her for an instant, though she
regarded her tormentor with a look of suffering patience, unspeakably
affecting. The soldiers, who had looked on in silence during this scene,
now shouldered their arms; the muleteer mounting the baggage mule, and
leading, by his right hand, that which carried the youthful prisoner,
from which the soldiers never for an instant withdrew their eyes, soon
set the animals in motion by the well-known touch of the spur, and the
journey commenced--when, for the first time, a piercing cry escaped the
lips of the fair Sol:--"Adieu! adieu!" exclaimed she; "adieu for ever,
my native land!" And soon they entered on the road to Fez.
If the unconcerned spectators were moved even to tears on witnessing
this scene, what were the feelings of the parents who were eye-witnesses
of all that passed! Love, tenderness, and sorrow, every emotion that
could agitate them, struggled for utterance within their breasts. Haim
and Simla and the young Ysajar, fell on their knees, and sent up to
Heaven their hearts' supplications; they followed with their eyes the
departing cavalcade, their gaze riveted like those of a spectre; no need
was there now to enjoin them to keep silence, for their utterance was
stifled on their lips; a red-hot iron seemed to weigh upon their
breasts; they raised their eyes to the heavens, to that beautiful
African sky, pure and transparent as an arch of azure crystal, and it
seemed to them like a roof of lead, in which the bright sun appeared a
rolling ball of blood-red hue; their hands, with a convulsive grasp,
tore the hair from their heads, and rending their garments in despair,
they fell senseless to the earth. Their relatives and friends conveyed
them, still insensible, to their homes, and applied restoratives to
recall animation. But, alas! to what a consciousness were they restored!
to the keener and keener sense of that grief which must follow them to
the latest hour of their existence!
The beautiful Sol, meanwhile, travelled on, in the manner already
described, silently enduring the separation from her native soil. About
three miles of the journey were completed, when there encountered them,
as though by accident, a man, who joined himself to the travellers. This
was the Jew already mentioned, who being almost a stranger to the Moors,
had engaged himself to the friends of Sol not to lose sight of her
during her journey. He entered into conversation with the soldiers, and
feigning ignorance of the circumstances of the case, soon obtained from
them an account both of their destination, and of the recent occurrences
at Tangier.
The sagacious Hebrew, having thus gained the confidence of the escort,
addressed a few words to the prisoner, giving her to understand that she
ought to embrace the law of the Prophet, and become a Mahometan, as he
himself had done. The beautiful Sol heard him with much tranquillity,
but without giving any answer; but at a moment when the escort were off
their guard, he succeeded in attracting her attention by signs, and in
making known to her that he was there for her protection. The poor
victim comprehended his meaning, and they were thus more than once
enabled to communicate by stealth.
The journey to Fez occupied six days, the nights being spent at the
different halting-places. All who saw the prisoner on the road, and were
made acquainted with the particulars of her situation, earnestly
exhorted, and even implored her to become a proselyte to their faith;
she heard them with quiet diffidence, and replied modestly to all the
arguments directed to her, that she would rather sacrifice her life than
change her religion. So much courageous perseverance was the admiration
of all who conversed with her, and her situation excited the greatest
interest and sympathy wherever she passed.
The friendly Jew, who still associated himself with the escort, and
protested that he was on his road to Fez for the purposes of commerce,
obtained permission to speak with and exhort the prisoner, when, in the
Hebrew tongue, of which the Moors were ignorant, he took occasion to
tell the young Jewess the object of his commission; he communicated to
her the prohibition of the Governor of Tangier to her parents to leave
the city, and the trust reposed in him; for the better fulfilment of
which he had assumed the language and disguise under which he appeared.
Sol replied in the same manner, by requesting him to be the bearer of a
message to her parents, assuring them that she had not for a single
instant forgotten them, and that the thoughts of their sufferings were
more cruel to her than any that she herself experienced.
I would not unnecessarily dwell upon this melancholy history by a minute
description of the various trials and sufferings endured by the youthful
Sol upon the road; they can but too readily be inferred from the
previous recital. At length, however, the day arrived on which the
travellers reached Fez, the residence of the Emperor of Morocco. One of
the soldiers of the escort was sent forward to give notice of their
approach to the Emperor, who issued immediate orders that his son should
go out upon the road, attended by a splendid retinue, to meet the young
captive. Accordingly about evening, the Imperial Prince, escorted by
more than three hundred of his court, went out on horseback, displaying,
as they went, their skill in the feats of horsemanship by which the
Moors do honor to the person they are escorting, and meeting the young
prisoner on the road, he conducted her to his palace.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] The following well-authenticated story, it is believed, has never
yet appeared in English. It is almost a literal translation of a work
published in Spanish a few years since, and now rarely to be met
with.--_El Martirio de la Joven Hachuel, or la Heroina Hebrea. Por D. E.
M. Romero, 1837._
[8] The entire administration of justice in Tangier is intrusted to the
military.
[9] In the usual mode of administering justice in Tangier, the governor
sits, with his secretaries, in the portico of his house, surrounded by
the soldiers (who act as police, and are charged with the execution of
the governor's mandate), armed with swords, and carrying staves in their
hands; while those who are to be tried kneel in the street in front of
the place occupied by the governor, to await judgment. In the present
case, however, an exception was made to the general form, the governor
receiving the young Jewess in his inner hall of audience.
[10] In the barbarous legislation of the Moors, the evidence of one
witness alone affords ground sufficient for passing sentence of death;
and in cases relating to the Mahometan religion this is most frequently
carried out.
[11] It is the Moorish custom, that all those who are convicted as
guilty, or their families, should pay all costs of the lawsuit, and
every other contingent expense. Thus, one condemned to suffer the
penalty of one hundred bastinadoes, after he has received them, is
compelled to pay the executioner the whole sum required for the work of
inflicting them.
From Fraser's Magazine
LAMAS AND LAMAISM.
FRENCH MISSIONARIES IN TARTARY AND THIBET.[12]
Few persons in England are aware of the amount of information which has
been obtained through the medium of priestly literature in France; not
to speak of the early Jesuit travellers, whose wonderful adventures
first familiarized their readers with China and South America, and more
than one of whom has been cleared, Herodotus-like, of the charge of
exaggeration by the testimony of subsequent writers; not to speak even
of those _Lettres edifiantes et curieuses_, which the Parisian wits and
philosophers of the eighteenth century did not disdain to read, and
which were merely extracts from missionary correspondence; a patient
reader might even in the present day gather from publications of the
same kind--_Les Annales de la Propagation de la Foi_ for example--many
curious details respecting savage tribes and distant lands rarely
visited by learned or worldly travellers. Unfortunately, such books
are, for the most part, written in a style at once so wearisome and so
full of religious affectation, that only a particular class of readers
can digest them. The volumes before us--though recalling by their
origin, and certain peculiar views of the writer, the class of works we
have described--are very superior both in form and matter. We doubt if
any publications, at once so diverting and so instructive, has appeared
in France for a very long while. There is a vein of good humored
raillery and natural fun running throughout them, which, joined to a
total absence of book-making, carries one pleasantly on: to these are
added good faith and earnestness of purpose, that command respect. It is
always a pleasant surprise, as Pascal truly said, to find a man where
one expected to meet with an author; and M. Huc not only appears a very
good man, but shows himself a very clever one. The countries he has
visited are comparatively unknown, but are daily becoming more important
to us. Recent events have brought China within the sphere of our
interests, political and commercial; and her policy towards her Tartar
dependencies, and the nominally independent state of Thibet, are
beginning to excite attention in this part of the world. Those who have
studied the subject, will be deeply interested by M. Huc's narrative;
and the general reader must be amused by his graphic account of one of
the most arduous journeys ever effected. A few words will explain under
what circumstances it was undertaken.
At the beginning of the present century, the French missionary
establishment at Pekin, which had been at one time so flourishing, was
almost destroyed by successive persecutions, and the scattered members
of the little church, which had been founded at the cost of so many
perils, had taken refuge beyond the Great Wall, in the deserts of
Mongolia. There they contrived to live on the patches of land which the
Tartars allowed them to cultivate; and a few priests of the Lazarist
order were appointed to keep up the faith of the dispersed flock. MM.
Huc and Gabet were, in 1842, employed in visiting these Chinese
Christians, settled in Mongolia; and the acquaintance formed during
these visits with the wandering Tartar tribes inspired them with a great
desire to convert them to Christianity. Indeed, throughout these volumes
we trace an evident partiality to the Tartars as compared with the
Chinese; and they furnish a fresh instance of the invariable absence of
congeniality between Europeans of all nations and the natives of the
Celestial Empire.
The missionaries were hard at work, studying the dialects of Tartary,
when a circumstance occurred which gave their plans of proselytism a
more definite shape. The Papal See, with that magnificent contempt for
the realities of dominion which has ever distinguished it, and in
virtue, we suppose, of that undefined tenth point of the law which is
not involved in the word possession, appointed a Vicar Apostolic of
Mongolia. The pope might, with equal impunity, have divided it into
bishoprics--no meetings would have been hold to protest against the
usurpation; and the mandarins of Pekin would certainly have proposed no
law to prevent the Lamas of the western world from assuming what titles
they pleased. But even in that case, the interests of the church would
not have been much forwarded. The very extent and limits of the
vicariate were, as yet, unknown; and MM. Huc and Gabet were, to their
great satisfaction, appointed, in the year 1844, to ascertain these
first essential points.
The undertaking was one of no common difficulty: the country they had to
traverse was untrodden even by the feet of former missionaries,
inhabited by wild, roving tribes, beggared by Chinese extortions,
rendered barren by long misgovernment, and lastly, infested in many
parts by bands of armed robbers. These latter are, it is true, far
different, in manner at least, from what their name would lead most of
our readers to expect, and exercise their uncourteous trade with the
utmost urbanity:
They do not rudely clap a pistol to your head, and uncivilly
demand your money, or your life; they present themselves
humbly, and say: "Good elder brother, I am weary of walking;
please to lend me thy horse?... I am without money; be so good
as to lend me thy purse?... It is very cold to-day; wilt thou
give me thy coat?" If the old elder brother is charitable
enough to lend all this, he receives in return a "thank you,
brother;" if not, the humble request is immediately supported
by a few blows; if that does not suffice, the sabre is brought
into play.
The preparations for the journey were admirably simple--a single
attendant and a dog formed the escort; a tent, an iron kettle, a few
cups, and sheep-skins, completed the baggage. There were, however, other
precautions taken prior to departure, highly characteristic of the
church to which our travellers belonged, and which may serve to explain
the comparative success that, in the East, has generally attended the
efforts of its missionaries.
Sir James Emerson Tennent, in his work on Ceylon, has given a curious
account of the compliance of the Jesuit missionaries with the customs
and external rites of the people they sought to convert, as opposed to
the rigid discipline and unbending orthodoxy of their Dutch successors,
who would not stoop, and who, perhaps, on that account, did not conquer.
Our Lazarists, though not practising, in all its latitude, the Jesuit
doctrine, were nevertheless determined that nothing in the outward man
should repel the sympathy of those whom they sought to persuade. On the
frontiers of Mongolia, the Chinese dress, which they had hitherto worn,
was laid aside; the long tress of hair, that had been cherished since
they left France, was pitilessly sacrificed, to the infinite despair of
their Chinese congregation; and they assumed the habit generally worn by
the Lamas, or priests of Thibet. In the opinion of the Tartars, Lamas
are alone privileged to speak on religious matters; and a layman, or
"black man"[13] (to use their own expression), who should presume to
converse on things spiritual, would excite laughter and contempt. It
was, therefore, good policy to adopt a dress which insured the respect
and attention of their hearers. The costume was one which would have
been rather startling to a priest who, without transition should have
exchanged for it the black _soutaine_ of the Romish church. It consisted
in a yellow robe, fastened on one side with five gilt buttons and
confined at the waist by a long red sash, a red jacket with a violet
collar, and a yellow cap with red tuft. Nor was this all. The same
conciliatory spirit which had dictated the change of costume, presided
over the whole conduct of the travellers; and we find them heroically
declining the hot wine offered by their Chinese host of the frontier
inn, saying, good humoredly, that good Lamas must abstain from wine and
tobacco.
We dwell purposely on these details, because they show the spirit in
which the journey was undertaken, and explain the confidence with which
the travellers were received beneath the Mogul tents, and initiated into
all the details of life in the wilderness. We find them associating
without repugnance with the Tsao-Ta-Dze, or stinking Tartars (so called
by the Chinese, who are themselves far from irreproachable on the score
of cleanliness), purchasing second-hand clothes well besmeared with
mutton fat, and enjoying their Tartar tea as though it had been the
_cafe au lait_ of their native land. This tea, by the bye, deserves a
few words of notice. It differs materially from the tea of the Chinese;
for whereas the latter use only the young and tender leaves of the
plant, the Tartar tea is composed of the coarse leaves, and even some of
the branches, which are pressed into moulds of about the size and
thickness of a brick. When it is to be used, a piece of the brick is
broken off, pulverized, and boiled, a handful of salt is then thrown in,
and the liquid continues to boil until it is almost black; the mixture
is then poured into a large vessel, and invariably offered to every
guest on his arrival. The Russians also consume a large quantity of this
article, and in the north of Tartary it serves as the only medium of
exchange. A house, a camel, or a horse, is sold for so many teas--five
teas being worth an ounce of silver.
Life in the desert is monotonous enough; and yet, though half of the
first volume is devoted to the pilgrimage through the plains of
Mongolia, the interest never flags. The little incidents of travel are
told good-humoredly, and sometimes are most amusing. Let us take, for
instance, the following account given by a Tartar hero of the war
against the English. The narrator was a native of the Tchakar country,
and had with his countrymen been called out to march against the "rebels
of the south"--as the Tartars usually call us. The Tchakar (literally
border-country) is, in fact, an immense camp, of which all the
inhabitants are bound to military service, and are divided into
different tribes, or "banners." The pastures of the Tchakar serve to
feed the innumerable flocks of the Emperor of China, and the natives are
almost exclusively employed in tending them. They are not allowed to
cultivate the soil, or to sell any portion of it to their Chinese
neighbors. As may be imagined, these shepherd-soldiers are only called
upon on great occasions, but they are then supposed to be irresistible.
"So you were engaged in that famous war of the south! How could
you shepherds have the courage of soldiers? Accustomed to a
peaceful life, you are strangers to that rude trade, which
consists in killing, or being killed." "Yes, we are shepherds,
it is true; but we do not forget that we are soldiers also, and
that the eight banners compose the body of reserve of the
"Great Master" (the Emperor). You know the rules of the Empire.
When the enemy appears, the militia of the Kitat (Chinese) is
first sent; then the banners of the Solon district are brought
forward; if the war is not ended, then a signal is made to the
banners of Tchakar; and the very sound of their steps is always
sufficient to reduce the rebels to order."... "Did you
fight?--did you see the enemy?" inquired Samdadchiemba. "No,
they dared not make their appearance. The Kitat kept on saying
that we were marching to certain and needless death. What can
you do, they said, against sea-monsters? They live in the
water, like fishes; and when one least expects it, they rise to
the surface, and throw their inflamed Si-Koua.[14] As soon as
one makes ready to shoot one's arrows at them, they plunge back
into the water like frogs! Thus, they sought to frighten us;
but we, the soldiers of the eight banners, were not afraid.
Before we set out, the chief Lamas had opened the book of
celestial secrets, and had assured us that the affair would
have a happy issue. The Emperor had given to each Tchouanda, a
Lama learned in medicine, and initiated into the holy
mysteries, who was to cure us of all the diseases of the
climate, and protect us against the magic of the sea-monsters.
What had we then to fear? The rebels having heard that the
invincible militia of the Tchakar was approaching, trembled,
and sued for peace. The "Holy Master," in his infinite mercy
granted their prayer; and we were permitted to return to our
pastures and the care of our flocks."
But such meetings were rare, and in general, a passing salutation in the
metaphorical style of the East, was all that was exchanged with
fellow-travellers. It would seem, however, that a desert life has charms
which we, poor slaves of civilization, can scarcely appreciate, but
which never fail to captivate after a short experience. Would any of our
readers have fancied, for instance, that a search after _argols_ could
be an exciting employment? _Argol_, let it be understood, is a rather
pretty Tartar word for a very ugly thing, which can scarcely be
gracefully described. It means, in fact, the dung of the innumerable
animals that feed in the plains of Tartary, and which, in a dry state,
is carefully collected by the natives, and is their only fuel. No
argols, no breakfast; and in consequence, M. Huc tells us that the first
care of M. Gabet and himself, in the morning, after devoting a short
time to prayer, was to seek after argols--with what zest our readers
shall see:
The occupation that followed these meditations, was certainly
not of a mystical character; it was, however, a most necessary
one, and not without its attractions. Each of us threw a bag
over his shoulder, and set out in different directions in quest
of argols. Those who have never led a roving life will scarcely
believe that such an occupation can be productive of enjoyment;
and yet, when one of us had the good fortune to discover,
hidden among the grass, an argol remarkable for its size and
siccity, he felt at his heart a thrill of pleasure, a sudden
emotion, that gave a moment's happiness. The delight caused by
the discovery of a fine argol may be compared to that of a
sportsman finding the trace of his game--of a child
contemplating the long sought for bird's nest--of an angler,
who sees a fish quivering at the end of his line; or, if we may
be allowed to liken great things to small, we would compare it
to the enthusiasm of a Leverrier finding a planet at the tip of
his pen.
We are not at liberty, unfortunately, to dwell as we would on these
details of Tartar life, however humorously related, for we must reserve
space for those descriptions of Buddhistic customs in which the chief
interest of these volumes consists. It suffices to say that, during the
eighteen months of incredible fatigue and privations, which elapsed
before the travellers reached Lha-Ssa, their courage never flagged, nor
did their good-humored and hopeful resignation ever forsake them. Every
morning the tent was struck, and the encampment of the previous night,
however well situated, abandoned without regret. Indeed, as long as the
missionaries remained in the plains of Mongolia, surrounded by friendly
tribes, they seem, to a certain degree, to have enjoyed this roving
life. On one occasion, after an unusually protracted stay of two days,
M. Huc writes:
We quitted this encampment without regret, as we had left the
others, with this difference, that in the spot where we had
spread our tent, there was a greater quantity of ashes than
usual, and that the surrounding grass was more trodden down.
This is the true spirit for Tartar travelling, which it is not given to
every one to possess in the same degree. In the choice of their
attendant, too, the missionaries appear to have been fortunate. "On the
countenance of Samdadchiemba," says M. Huc, "one could not trace the sly
cunning of the Chinese, nor the good-natured frankness of the Tartar,
nor the courageous energy of the native of Thibet, but there was a
mixture of all three. He was a Dchiahour." His countenance appears to
have been a faithful index to his character. Such as he was,
Samdadchiemba is what would be termed, in a work of fiction, an
excellent character. In this truthful narrative, he forms an admirable
portrait. He was a convert of M. Gabet, and had imbibed a sort of hazy
notion of Christianity, which was often curiously mingled with
reminiscences of his early creed. Strange scruples would sometimes
assail him; as on one occasion, when his "spiritual fathers" had, to
their great satisfaction, succeeded in getting some fish:
We took the fishes, and went to the edge of the little lake
that lay close to our tent. We were no sooner there, than we
saw Samdadchiemba running towards us in great haste. He quickly
untied the handkerchief that held the fish. "What are you going
to do?" he inquired, anxiously. "We are going to scale and
clean the fish." "Oh! take care, my spiritual fathers; wait a
little--we must not commit sin." "Who is committing sin?" "Look
at the fish--see, many are still moving; you must let them die
quietly. Is it not a sin to kill any living thing?" "Go and
bake your bread," we replied, "and leave us alone. Have you not
got rid of your ideas of metempsychosis yet, eh? Do you still
believe that men are turned into beasts, and beasts into men?"
The features of our Dchiahour relaxed into a broad grin.
"_Ho-le! Ho-le!_" said he, slapping his forehead; "what a
blockhead I am--what was I thinking about? I had forgotten the
doctrine,"... and he turned off quite abashed at having given
his ridiculous warning. The fish was fried in mutton fat, and
proved excellent.
We hope we shall not be accused of Buddhistic tendencies if we say that
there appears to us something more amiable in the Dchiahour's misgivings
than in the unpitying orthodoxy of his spiritual fathers. Be that as it
may, the anecdote shows that the practices of a religion will often
cling to a man long after its tenets appear to have been totally
eradicated from his mind. We must add, however, that when the day of
trial came, Samdadchiemba boldly confessed his faith as a Christian, and
even stood a very fair chance of becoming a martyr, in spite of his
backslidings, on the subject of metempsychosis. Well might the
missionaries value their neophyte, for (with one doubtful exception) no
new convert was added to their church during their long and perilous
journey. Although hospitably, and even courteously received every
where--under the humblest Mogul tent and in the wealthiest
Lama-houses--though listened to with deference as men of prayer and
piety by every class of Tartars, (perhaps of all nations the most
inclined to religious feelings,) they made no proselytes. After reading
their own account of their efforts, one remains convinced of the
difficulties which must stand in the way of conversions from Buddhism.
Idolatry, as it is represented in story books for children, under its
grossest form of fetichism, may be easily conquered, but the vast spirit
of Pantheism is more difficult to grapple with. That Buddhism, as
understood by the more enlightened Lamas, is Pantheism, there can be no
doubt. All created beings emanate from, and return to, Buddha--the one
eternal and universal soul--the principle and end of all things, and of
whom all things are the partial and temporary manifestations. All
animated beings are divided into classes, that have each of them in
their power the means of sanctification, so as to obtain, after death,
transmigration into a higher class, until, at last, they enjoy plenitude
of being by absorption into the eternal soul of Buddha. This doctrine,
simple enough when explained by the superior class of Buddhists, is
overlaid with superstitions for the vulgar; and it is this double
character of Buddhism, varying according to the mind of the believer,
that, in our opinion, constitutes the great difficulty in the path of
proselytism. Every Buddhist is provided for the defence of his faith
with the very armor best fitted to protect him in his particular social
and intellectual sphere. The enlightened Lamas of Thibet take refuge in
the vastness and antiquity of their system, which we ought, perhaps,
rather to term a philosophy than a religion. Their comprehensive creed
can tolerate all others which appear but as subdivisions of
itself--partial and limited views of the great universal law, of which
it has been given to them alone to embrace the whole. They boast with
reason that no precepts, not even those of the Gospel, are more noble;
no practices more tolerant than those of Buddhism. Even the doctrine of
equality among men, which has rendered Christianity so attractive to the
oppressed of all other creeds, was preached by Buddhists centuries
before our era. The belief in the progressive enlightenment of mankind,
and the perfectibility of our nature, which are the very essence of
Buddhism, has seduced many philosophical minds in all ages and in all
countries, and will not easily be abandoned by the Lamas--the dispensers
of knowledge, whose mission is that of teachers--for the levelling
doctrine of original sin. On the other hand, in Mongolia and Tartary,
among a more ignorant race, MM. Huc and Gabet had to cope with another
sort of opposition. The lower orders of Buddhists know nothing of the
abstract doctrine, but are hedged in by petty customs and daily
observances, which are the most powerful defence for narrow minds. In
vain did the missionaries endeavor to gain an insight into the creed of
these simple tribes, who believed firmly they knew not exactly what.
When questioned on this subject, they would refer the inquirer to the
Lamas, who in their turn would avow their ignorance as compared to the
"saints." All agreed in one point, that the doctrine came from the West,
and that there alone it would be found pure and undefiled.
When we had expounded to them the truths of Christianity, they
never argued with us, but merely answered with great coolness,
"We have not all the prayers here. The Lamas of the West will
explain all--will account for every thing; we believe in the
traditions from the West." These expressions only served to
corroborate a remark we had had occasion to make during our
journey through Tartary; namely, that there is not a single
Lama-house of any importance, of which the chief Lama does not
come from Thibet. A Lama who has travelled to Lha-Ssa is sure
on his return to obtain the confidence of every Tartar. He is
considered as a superior being--a seer, before whose eyes the
mysteries of lives past and to come have been unveiled in the
very heart of the "eternal sanctuary" in the "land of
spirits."[15]
It appears just possible to us, that this obscurity in speaking of
things spiritual, which, after all, can at best be seen but as through a
glass darkly, is not so peculiar to Buddhism as M. Huc and his companion
suppose; and that the dogmas of any religion are more difficult of
comprehension to minds who have not been prepared from infancy for their
reception than is generally imagined. When we are told, for instance, by
our author, that in a "few plain words" he exposed the doctrines of his
church, we confess that we have our doubts as to any lucidity of
expression being sufficient to convey to untrained hearers a clear idea
of the doctrine of transubstantiation among others.
Be that as it may, westward our travellers determined to bend their
steps, in search of knowledge at the fountain-head; resolved to visit
Thibet, and to attack Buddhism in its very stronghold, Lha-Ssa. To this
change in their original plan, we owe the most interesting portion of
these travels. Although they made no secret of their intentions of
proselytism, they were received in all the Lama-houses as
fellow-laborers in the field of religious instruction, and as such
became initiated into all the habits of Lamanist life. One cannot help
reflecting how different would be the reception of Lamas, who should
visit Rome, with the avowed purpose of converting the subjects of His
Holiness to Buddhism. The details given by M. Huc on Lamanism in general
are more complete than any we remember to have read, and are given with
a natural piquancy rarely to be met with in writers on such grave
subjects.
Tartary is, perhaps, of all the countries in the world, the most
priest-ridden; the Lamas forming, it is said, one-third of the entire
population. In most families, with the exception of the eldest son, who
remains "a black man," all the sons are Lamas. Their future destiny is
decided from the very cradle, by the fact of their parents causing their
heads to be shaved. As they are vowed to celibacy, it is probable that
Chinese policy has favored the natural bias of the people towards a
religious life, in order to arrest the progress of population. Certain
it is, that while the government of Pekin suffers its own bonzes and
priests to remain in the most abject condition, it has always honored
and encouraged Lamaism in Tartary and Thibet. The remembrance of the
exploits of their ancestors is not yet extinct beneath the tents of the
Moguls, and legends of conquest and traditions of empire still serve to
wile away the long leisure hours of their roving life. Notwithstanding
two centuries of peace, and the enervating influence of Chinese
misgovernment, if an appeal were made to Tartar fanaticism, hordes might
yet pour down from the vast country, extending from the frontiers of
Siberia to the farthest limits of Thibet, which would make the Celestial
Emperor tremble on his throne in Pekin. The spread of Lamaism is the
best safeguard against such a contingency, and the empty honors paid by
the sceptic and worldly Chinese to the different Grand Lamas, have no
other motive than a desire to appease the susceptibility of the Tartar
tribes. The Lamas are divided into three classes: those that remain
under the tent, and whose mode of life differs little from that of the
other members of their family; the travelling Lamas--a migratory kind of
animals--who, with staff in hand, and wallet at their backs, wander from
place to place, trusting to Tartar hospitality for their maintenance;
and lastly, the Lamas who live in communities, or convents, and devote
themselves more especially to study and prayer. Most of the Lama-houses
enjoy large revenues, the result of imperial foundations, or the
liberality of native princes. These are distributed at certain periods
among the Lamas, according to their rank in the hierarchy. Some
religious communities, or aggregations of Lama-houses, such as that of
Grand Kouren, number 30,000 Lamas, and its head, the Guison-Tomba, is
powerful enough to give umbrage to the Chinese Emperor himself. But the
chief of the humblest Lama-house may be an important personage, if he
happen to be a Chaberon, that is to say, an incarnation of Buddha--one
whose death is but a transformation. The Buddhists firmly believe in
these transmigrations of their living Buddhas, and the ceremonies which
attend the election--we ought to say the recognition--of these undying
sovereigns, are curiously related by M. Huc.
When a Grand Lama takes his departure, that is to say when he
dies, the event is no subject for mourning to the community.
There is no giving way to tears or regrets, for every one is
convinced that the Chaberon will soon reappear. His apparent
death is only the beginning of a new existence--a link added to
an endless and uninterrupted chain of successive lives--a mere
palingenesia. So long as the saint remains in the chrysalis
state, his disciples are in the greatest anxiety, for their
great affair is to find out in what spot their master is to
resume his life. If a rainbow appears in the clouds, it is
considered as a token sent them by their former Grand Lama, to
aid them in their researches. Every one then falls to praying,
and while the community, thus bereaved of its Lama, redoubles
its feasts and orisons, a chosen band sets out to consult the
_Tchurtchun_, or soothsayer, versed in the knowledge of all
things hidden from ordinary men. He is informed that on such a
day of such a month, the rainbow of the Chaberon was seen in
the heavens; that it appeared in a certain direction; was more
or less luminous; was visible during a certain lapse of time,
and then disappeared under such and such circumstances. When
the _Tchurtchun_ has obtained all the necessary information, he
recites a few prayers, opens his book of divination, and
finally pronounces his oracle, while the Tartars, who have come
to consult him, listen to his words, kneeling, and rapt in
profound devotion. Your Grand Lama, he says, is come to life
again, in Thibet, at such a distance from your house; you will
find him in such a family. When the poor creatures have heard
the oracle, they return rejoicing, to announce the good tidings
at the Lama-house.
It frequently occurs that the disciples of the defunct Lama
have no need to take all this trouble to discover his new
birthplace. He often condescends so far as to reveal, in
person, the secret of his transformation. As soon as he has
performed his metamorphosis in Thibet, he declares himself at
his birthplace, at an age at which ordinary children cannot
articulate a word. "I," he says, with a tone of authority, "am
the Grand Lama, the living Buddha of such a temple; let me be
conducted to the Lama-house, of which I am the immortal
superior."...
The Tartars are always delighted at the discovery of their
Grand Lama, by whatever means it may be effected. Preparations
are joyfully made for the journey; the ministers and some
members of the royal family join the caravan, which is to bring
back the saint in triumph. High and low contribute to the
expense, and are eager to share the dangers of the journey.
These are not in general trifling; for the Lama is frequently
inconsiderate enough towards his followers to transmigrate in a
part of the country at once distant and difficult of access. If
one expedition fails, or falls into the hands of robbers,
another is sent, and there is no instance of these devotees
faltering in their faith. When at last the Chaberon is
discovered, it must not be supposed that he is accepted and
proclaimed at once, without proper precautions being taken to
ascertain his identity. A solemn sitting is held, at which the
living Buddha is examined in public, with the most scrupulous
attention. He is questioned as to the name of the Lama-house of
which he pretends to be the chief, its distance and situation,
and the number of its resident Lamas. He is moreover
interrogated concerning the habits of the defunct Grand Lama,
and the principal particulars of his death. After all these
questions, prayer-books, tea-pots, cups, utensils, and things
of all kinds, are placed before him, and he is expected to
designate those which belonged to him during his preceding
life.
In general, the child, who is rarely more than five or six
years old, comes out triumphant from all these trials; replies
correctly to all the questions that are put to him; and makes,
without hesitation, the inventory of his former furniture.
"This," he says, "is the prayer-book I was in the habit of
using; here is the painted cup in which I used to drink tea,"
and so on through the whole list.
The Tartars are, undoubtedly, often the dupes of those who are
interested in making a Grand Lama of the brat. We think,
however, that often the affair is conducted on both sides with
perfect simplicity and good faith. From all we gathered from
persons most worthy of belief, it appears certain that the
wonders related of the Chaberons cannot be attributed to
juggling or delusion. A purely human philosophy would,
doubtless, reject such facts, or unhesitatingly lay them to the
charge of Lamaist imposture. We--catholic missionaries--think
that the great liar who deceived our first parents in Paradise,
prosecutes on earth his system of falsehood. He who was potent
enough to sustain Simon Magus in the air, may well speak in the
present day by the mouth of a child, in order to confirm the
belief of his worshippers.
As our duties are those of the critic, and not those of the inquisitor,
we will not stop to inquire how far the slightly Manichean doctrine
implied in the concluding remark of M. Huc is received as orthodox by
the Gallican Church; but, as a general observation, we may say, that
there seems no reason why, with such a method of accounting for
miracles, any should be disbelieved; nor do we understand how, under
this system, any miracles can be adduced as a proof of the truth of any
religion. Surely, since the days of the Scribes and Pharisees, no enemy
of Christianity ever attacked it more radically than by attributing the
power of miracles to Beelzebub, the prince of the devils! M. Huc reminds
us of a preacher whom we once heard, in an enlightened capital,
explaining the miracle of speech in Balaam's ass, by reminding his
congregation that parrots--nay, even bull-finches, have been made to
speak, and therefore why not an ass? It never occurred to him, that in
the impossibility of the thing the miracle consisted. There is a little
of the same kind of oversight in the explanations of our missionaries.
They are, however, too earnest and single-hearted in their credulity to
be laughed at; and, on other occasions, when their powers of belief were
still further tested, they displayed a courageous resolution which
disarms ridicule, and is not the less admirable because shown on an
absurd occasion. Among the inferior class of Lamas there are many who
pretend to possess preternatural gifts, which are exorcised publicly on
solemn occasions, and greatly increase the fame of the saint who
exhibits them, and the revenues of the community of which he is a
member. M. Huc and his companion being in the neighborhood of a large
Lama-house, heard that one of these festivals was to be held, at which a
Lama was to perform the unpleasant but wonderful feat of disembowelling
himself for the gratification of the public, and after remaining in that
state for a certain time, during which he would answer any questions
respecting futurity, he would replace things in _statu quo_ by means of
a short prayer. According to their views of such matters, this could, of
course, be easily effected by the agency of the Evil One, and they were
confirmed in the idea by the wording of an invocation used on similar
occasions, and which certainly appears to indicate some infernal
bargain. Instead, therefore, of suspecting trickery, they only
considered how they could best prove the superiority of prayer over
incantations, and neutralize the power of the devil. They determined to
be present at the ceremony, and, in the midst of the diabolical
invocation, to stand forward, and in the name of the true God to arrest
the charm. An unforeseen accident fortunately prevented their reaching
the scene of action in time, or it is very possible that their journey
might have terminated then and there in martyrdom, in spite of
Buddhistic toleration. Faith and courage are, however, no subjects for
sarcasm, wherever they may be exhibited, and it seems to us that there
was a good deal of both in the above plan.
Our readers will see that these volumes are interesting, not only by the
facts they contain, but also from the peculiar manner in which the
writer judges them. Not the least amusing feature in the case is, that
we find him continually noting as absurd Buddhistic abuses many customs
which are common to his own Church. On the very outset of their journey,
the missionaries took advantage of their stay at Tolon-Noor, a town
famous for its foundries, to have a large crucifix cast. M. Huc mentions
that the large statues of Buddha almost all come from thence, but these
he calls idols, whereas the crucifix was an image. The pilgrimages,
genuflexions, and vows of the Buddhist devotees surprise him, as though
there were no steps at Rome worn bare by thousands of knees--no shrines
in France visited by bare-footed pilgrims--no children dressed in white
from their birth to please the Virgin Mary! In one description of a Lama
seminary, he remarks that the canonical books of Buddhism being all
written in the language of Thibet, the Lamas of Mongolia pass their
lives in studying their religion in a foreign idiom, while they scarcely
know their own language. Let us see what improvement the introduction of
Catholicism would effect, in this state of things. We open a recent
work[16] on French missions in Cochin-China and Corea; and in a
description of the Catholic seminary of Pulo-Ticoux, near Pinang, we
read: "Both teachers and pupils speak only Latin in their class--not the
barbarous Latin of our schools, but a pure, harmonious tongue, such as I
never heard spoken before. With the exception of a few elementary
notions of geography, modern history, and arithmetic, the children
receive an exclusively religious education." There is one invention,
however, in which Buddhism has no rival, and which throws the Roman
Catholic idea of praying by proxy quite into shade. We never heard of a
prayer-mill before. A piece of pasteboard, of a cylindrical form, is
covered with prayers of the most approved sort; once set in motion, this
machine will turn for a long while, and so long as it does turn, the
prayers inscribed on it are placed to the credit of the person who first
set it going. Sometimes these mills are set up in a stream, and pray
everlastingly for their founders.
We must now hurry on to Lha-Ssa, foregoing many tempting pictures of
Chinese life which occur by the way, for our travellers were obliged to
pass on Chinese territory before reaching their destination. A Chinese
landlord is a curious character, as curious often as the sign of his own
inn; and whether he lodged at the "Hotel of Justice and Mercy," or at
that of the "Three Perfections," or the "Five Felicities," or put up at
the "Temperate Climate" inn, M. Huc finds matter for amusing
description. On these occasions the great fear of the missionaries was,
that they should be taken for English, seeing that these latter were not
in favor just then:
At Tchoang-Long we lodged at the hotel of the "Three Social
Relations," where we had the pleasantest landlord imaginable to
deal with. He was a true Chinese: and, to give us a proof of
his perspicacity, asked us point blank if we were not
English--adding, to make the question clearer, that he meant by
Ing-kie-li, the sea-devils (Yang-kouei-Dze,) who were making
war at Canton. "No, we are not English, and we are neither sea
nor land-devils, nor devils of any sort." A lounger who stood
by luckily counteracted the bad effect of the interpellation.
"Why," said he to the innkeeper, "don't you know how to look at
men's faces? How can you fancy that these men can be
Yang-kouei-Dze? Don't you know that their eyes are always blue,
and their hair quite red?" "True," said the innkeeper, "I had
not thought of that." "No, indeed," we added; "you cannot have
reflected. Do you think that sea-monsters could live on land,
and ride on horseback, as we do?" "True, true, the Ing-kie-li,
it is said, never dare to leave the sea: as soon as they come
ashore, they tremble, and die, like fish out of water." A great
deal more was said of the manners and customs of the
sea-monsters--the result of which was, that we could not
possibly be of the same race.
In the beginning of 1846, after incredible trials and fatigues, M. Huc
and his companion reached Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet--the Rome of
Buddhism. The perils of the road were at an end; but dangers of another
sort were to be expected. It was not to be supposed that the ostensible
object of their journey--the propagation of a new religion--could fail
to give umbrage to a purely ecclesiastical government, such as that of
the Tale-Lama. For persecutions they were, therefore, prepared; but
certainly did not expect it from the quarter in which it was destined to
originate. Strange to say, the opposition they met with, and which
finally achieved their expulsion from Thibet, was political, and not
religious--the result of Chinese susceptibility, rather than of any
religious hostility. At the period of their arrival at Lha-Ssa, the
Chinese resident at the Court of Pekin was no less a personage than the
famous Ki-Chan (or Keshen, as he is often called by the English)--the
same who played so conspicuous a part as Imperial Commissary during the
negotiations with England, in 1839. On that occasion, Ki-Chan showed, in
one respect at least, greater discrimination than most of his
countrymen, for he perceived at once the impossibility of holding out
against European forces, and made the best terms he could. The necessity
for concessions was not, however, so well understood at the court of
Pekin. The unfortunate Commissary was accused of having allowed himself
to be corrupted by English gold, and to have sold a portion of the
Celestial territory to the sea-devils. He was, in consequence, declared
"worthy of death," deprived of his titles, goods, and honors, and sent
into exile in Tartary: his houses were razed to the ground, and his
wives put up to auction! But Fortune and the emperors of China are
capricious; and events in Thibet having, towards the year 1844, assumed
an aspect which appeared to offer a favorable opportunity of extending
Chinese influence in that quarter, the "Holy Master" bethought him of
the talents of his discarded servant, Ki-Chan, and sent him to Lha-Ssa,
with extraordinary powers. The events we allude to are narrated by M.
Huc with clearness, and, we have reason to believe, with great accuracy;
but we cannot make room for any account of them, and must content
ourselves with a rapid sketch of the ruling powers at Lha-Ssa in 1846,
so as to render the situation of our travellers intelligible.
The government of Thibet is a complete theocracy, and the authority of
the Tale-Lama is unbounded, as that of a divinity deigning to reign on
earth must naturally be over his worshippers. But as he often
transmigrates into the body of a mere child, and that, moreover, his
very divinity makes it derogatory in him to meddle with worldly affairs,
he is supplied with a grosser colleague, who, under the name of
Nomekhan, or spiritual emperor, transacts all the business of the state.
He is nominated for life by the Tale-Lama, and in his turn chooses four
kalons, or ministers, whose power, like that of ministers elsewhere, is
of uncertain duration. At the time we speak of, thanks to Chinese
intrigue, both the Tale-Lama and the Nomekhan were minors; and the
regency was intrusted to the first kalon, or minister, whose
one-absorbing object was to endeavor to resist the daily interference
and encroachments of Ki-Chan, and to emancipate Thibet from the
oppressive friendship of the court of Pekin. No pope, protected by an
army of occupation, was ever more hampered. But the Celestial Emperor
had declared himself the "protector" of the Tale-Lama; and as such was
he not bound to interfere on every occasion where his dignity or
interests were concerned? The arrival of two Europeans at Lha-Ssa, was a
circumstance well calculated to excite the suspicions of Ki-Chan, who,
in the true spirit of Chinese policy, considered the total exclusion of
Europeans as the only safeguard against foreign invasion. In
consequence, the missionaries had to undergo more than one minute
interrogatory, and a most searching domiciliary visit. The object of
this latter seems especially to have been, to ascertain whether they
possessed any maps. Although convicted of having in their possession
several of these prohibited articles, they managed, by their guarded
replies, and a little adroit flattery, to lull the suspicions of the
Chinese envoy, and even to obtain the favor of the Regent. This latter,
indeed, repeatedly assured them, with that self-deceit by which the
oppressed often seek to delude themselves into a belief of their own
independence, that they had nothing to fear as long as _he_ supported
them, for that it was he "who governed the country." For a little while
things went on smoothly enough: the missionaries followed their religion
openly, and even worked hard at making converts--not very successfully,
it seems to us; but still, so long as they were allowed to sow, they
might hope one day to reap. The Regent himself would frequently
discourse with them on religious topics:
The Regent was fond of talking on religious matters, and they
formed the principal subject of our conversations with him. In
the beginning of our intercourse, he said to us the following
remarkable words: "All your long journeys have been undertaken
solely with a religious object.... You are right, for religion
is the great business of life. I see that the French and the
people of Thibet think alike in that respect. We are not like
the Chinese, who take no account of the care of their souls.
Nevertheless, your religion is not the same as ours.... It is
of importance to know which is the true one. Let us examine
both sincerely and attentively; if yours is the best, we will
adopt it; how could we refuse to do so? If, on the other hand,
ours is the best, I suppose that you will be rational enough to
follow it."
Of course, the tolerant Regent thought that he was not promising much;
and, as usual on such occasions, each party made sure of converting the
other. Still, one sees so many people who defend what they are convinced
is the truth with as little temper and good faith as though they were
maintaining what they know to be a falsehood, that we must allow that he
had some merit. The controversy then began; the Regent, with great
courtesy, allowing the Christians, as his guests, to expound their
doctrine first. But our controversialists soon found out what so many
other disputants would do well to remember--viz., that in order to give
or receive a clear definition, it is essential that both antagonists
should be agreed as to the value of its terms. The argument was carried
on in Chinese, and neither M. Huc nor M. Gabet were sufficiently
conversant with the language to be able to convey metaphysical ideas by
its means. The truth-seeking Regent, therefore, proposed that the
theological conversations should be suspended until his adversaries
should have learned the language of Thibet; and he himself furnished
them with a master.
Ki-Chan, on his part, was equally curious, but on other matters:
During the short period of our prosperity at Lha-Ssa, we had
some familiar intercourse with the Chinese ambassador, Ki-Chan.
He sent for us two or three times, to talk politics, or to use
the Chinese expression, to speak "idle words." He talked much
of the English, and of Queen Victoria. "It seems," said he,
"that she is a woman of great understanding; but her husband,
in my opinion, plays a very foolish part. She does not let him
meddle with any thing. She has had magnificent gardens laid out
for him, with fruit-trees and all kinds of flowers; and there
he is always shut up, and spends his life in walking about....
They say there are other countries in Europe where women
govern--is it true? Are their husbands also shut up in gardens?
Is that, too, the custom in France?" "No; in France the women
are in the gardens, and the men direct public affairs." "That's
right--any other plan produces disorder."...
Ki-Chan then inquired after Palmerston, and asked if he was
still intrusted with foreign affairs?... "And Ilu,[17] what has
become of him--do you know?" "He has been recalled; your fall
caused his." "I am sorry for it. He had an excellent heart, but
he knew not how to take a resolution. Has he been put to death,
or exiled?" "Neither; in Europe we do not make such short work
of these things as at Pekin." "True, true; your Mandarins are
much better off than we are. Your government is much better
than ours: our Emperor cannot know every thing, and yet he
judges every thing, and no one may find fault with his acts.
Our Emperor says to us, This is white.... We fall down and
answer, Yes, this is white. He then shows us the same object,
and says, This is black.... We fall down and answer, Yes, this
is black." "But, after all, suppose you were to say that the
same thing could not be black and white?" "The Emperor would,
perhaps, say to any one courageous enough to do it, Thou art
right; but at the same time he would have him strangled or
beheaded."... He then added, that for his own part he was
convinced that the Chinese could never cope with Europeans,
unless they altered their arms, and changed their old habits;
but that he would take good care never to say so, seeing that
the counsel, besides being useless, would probably cost him his
life.
At other times, the whole court would assist at some exhibition of
European wonders:
One day when we were speaking of observatories and astronomical
instruments, the Regent asked us if we would allow him to
examine the curious, strange-looking machine that we kept in a
box. He meant the microscope.... One of us ran home, and
returned with the wonderful instrument. While we were putting
it together, we attempted to give, as well as we could, some
notion of optics to our auditory; but as we perceived that the
theory excited but little interest, we proceeded at once to
experiments. We asked if any person in the company would favor
us with a louse. The thing was far easier to obtain than a
butterfly. A noble Lama, who was secretary to his Excellency
the first Kalon, had only to slip his hand beneath his silk
robe to produce a fully developed specimen. We seized it
immediately with our tweezers; seeing which, the Lama objected
to the experiment, alleging that we were going to cause the
death of a living being. "Never fear," we said, "we have only
got hold of him by his skin; and besides, he seems sufficiently
sturdy to get over the trial." The Regent, whose creed, as we
before said, was more spiritualized than that of the vulgar,
told the Lama to hold his tongue, and let us alone. We
therefore proceeded with the experiment, and fixed into the
object-glass the little animal, who was struggling in our
tweezers. We then requested the Regent to apply his eye to the
glass at the top of the machine. "Tsong-Kaba!" said he; "the
louse is as big as a rat."... Having viewed it for an instant,
he hid his face in his hands, saying, that it was a horrible
sight. He tried to prevent the others from looking, but his
expostulations were unavailing. Every body in turn bent over
the microscope, and started back with cries of horror. The
Secretary-Lama perceiving that his little animal scarcely
moved, put in a word in its behalf. We raised the tweezers and
restored the louse to its owner. Alas! the unfortunate victim
was lifeless. The Regent said, laughingly to his secretary, "I
fear your louse is unwell; go and see if you can physic him, or
he'll never recover."
All this pleasantness and good fellowship was not to last long, and
little more than a month elapsed before the blow came. The suspicions of
Ki-Chan had been lulled--not dispelled. It was contrary to the
invariable policy of the Chinese to brook the presence of strangers, and
especially of preachers of Christianity, at Lha-Ssa; and the very favor
shown them by the native government was an additional motive for
desiring their expulsion. One day, the two Frenchmen were summoned to
the presence of Ki-Chan, who, with the usual forms of Chinese
politeness, informed them that Thibet was too poor and miserable a
country to suit them, and that they had best think of returning to
France. In vain did they, after thanking him for his friendly interest,
assure him with firmness, that, notwithstanding his advice, they
intended to remain; in vain did the poor Regent promise his support, and
affirm that he it was "who governed the country;" there was no combating
the all-powerful influence of the Chinese ambassador. At last, finding
all opposition fruitless, they determined to quit Lha-Ssa, but not
before the good-natured Regent had fought hard in the cause of
tolerance. We cannot refrain from quoting some of the arguments of this
poor, benighted Buddhist, and commending them to the attention of some
of the Lamas of the Western world:
The Regent could not be made to share the apprehensions which
Ki-Chan sought to instil into his mind. He maintained that our
presence at Lha-Ssa could in no manner endanger the safety of
the state. "If," said he, "the doctrine that these men teach be
false, the people of Thibet will not embrace it; if, on the
contrary, it be true, what have we to fear? How can truth be
hurtful to mankind? These two Lamas from the kingdom of
France," he added, "have done no harm; their intentions towards
us are most friendly. Can we, without reason, deprive them of
that liberty and protection which we grant here to all men, and
especially to men of prayer? Are we justified in rendering
ourselves guilty of present and positive injustice, from the
imaginary dread of evils to come?"
The two missionaries had made up their minds to leave Thibet; but they
had fancied that the manner of doing so would be left to their option,
and that they would be allowed to take the route towards British India.
Great, therefore, was their surprise when they discovered that they were
to be conducted, under escort, to the frontiers of China--a journey of
nearly eight months' duration. Expostulation was useless; and with a
heavy heart they were obliged to leave Lha-Ssa, in company of fifteen
Chinese soldiers, under the command of the Mandarin Ly-Kouo-Ngan--alias,
Ly, the Pacifier of kingdoms! His Excellency Ly was an admirable
specimen of a Chinese skeptic, scoffing alike at Bonzes and Lamas; but
having, like many other _esprits forts_, a pet superstition for his
private use, and professing an ardent devotion to--the Great Bear! For
the details of this homeward journey, we must, however, refer our
readers to the book itself; we will merely say, that its dangers and
fatigues were so great that the travellers must, more than once, have
suspected the treacherous Ki-Chan of having plotted their destruction.
M. Huc, in the first moment of indignation, seems to have hoped that his
government would have remonstrated, but we have not heard that such has
been the case, and Thibet is likely to remain, for some time to come,
forbidden ground to European settlers. We have already given our opinion
respecting the probability of missionaries of any Christian sect
succeeding in the main object of the undertaking in which our heroes
(they deserve the name) failed; and M. Huc himself seems to insinuate,
towards the close of his work, that those who in future may seek to
Christianize Thibet, would do well to try the potency of physical
benefits. We have always thought, and experience has proved beyond
dispute, that a certain degree of material civilization should precede,
or at least accompany, the introduction of Christianity. The starving
Singhalese of low caste, keenly alive to the comforts of rice and social
equality, proclaims himself of the religion of the East India Company;
the knowledge-loving Buddhist of Thibet may one day adopt the religion
of railways, microscopes, and electric telegraphs; and it is just
possible, as M. Huc observes, that the missionary who should introduce
vaccination at Lha-Ssa, would at one stroke extirpate small-pox and
Buddhism.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] _Souvenirs d'un Voyage dans la Tartarie, le Thibet, et la Chine
pendant les annees 1844, 1845, et 1846._ Par M. Huc, pretre missionnaire
de la Congregation de St. Lazare. Paris.
[13] The Tartars call laymen _hara-houmon_ (black men), most probably on
account of the color of their hair, in contradistinction to the white
shaved crowns of their Lamas.
[14] Si-koua means pumpkin of the West, and is the name given to the
watermelon. The Chinese called the European bombs Si-koua-pao.
[15] H'Lassa (land of spirits), called by the Moguls _Monhe-Dhot_
(eternal sanctuary). Although averse to any unnecessary change in the
received orthography of proper names, we have adopted M. Huc's mode of
spelling, in the case of the capital of Thibet, as there appear to be
etymological reasons for it.
[16] _Scenes de la Vie Apostolique_, par le Dr. Yvan, published in _La
Politique Nouvelle_.
[17] Ilu, the Chinese way of pronouncing the name of Elliott.
From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.
STORY OF GASPAR MENDEZ.
BY CATHERINE CROWE.
The extraordinary motives under which people occasionally act, and the
strange things they do under the influence of these motives, frequently
so far transcend the bounds of probability, that we romance-writers,
with the wholesome fear of the critics before our eyes, would not dare
to venture on them. Only the other day we read in the newspapers that a
Frenchman who had been guilty of embezzlement, and was afraid of being
found out, went into a theatre in Lyons, and stabbed a young woman whom
he had never seen before in his life, in order that he might die by the
hands of the executioner, and so escape the inconvenience of rushing
into the other world without having time to make his peace with Heaven.
He desired death as a refuge from the anguish of mind he was suffering;
but instead of killing himself be killed somebody else, because the law
would allow him leisure for repentance before it inflicted the penalty
of his crime.
It will be said the man was mad--I suppose he was; and so is every body
whilst under the influence of an absorbing passion, whether the mania be
love, jealousy, fanaticism, or revenge. The following tale will
illustrate one phase of such a madness.
In the year 1789, there resided in Italy, not far from Aquila in the
Abruzzo, a man called Gaspar Mendez. He appears to have been a Spaniard,
if not actually by birth, at least by descent, and to have possessed a
small estate, which he rendered valuable by pasturing cattle. Not far
from where he resided there lived with her parents a remarkably handsome
girl, of the name of Bianca Venoni, and on this fair damsel Mendez fixed
his affections. As he was by many degrees the best match about the
neighborhood, he never doubted that his addresses would be received with
a warm welcome, and intoxicated with this security, he seems to have
made his advances so abruptly, that the girl felt herself entitled to
give him an equally abrupt refusal. To aggravate his mortification, he
discovered that a young man, called Giuseppe Ripa, had been a secret
witness to the rejection, which took place in an orchard; and as he
walked away with rage in his heart, he heard echoing behind him the
merry laugh of the two thoughtless young people. Proud and revengeful by
nature, this affront seems to have rankled dreadfully in the mind of
Gaspar; although, in accordance with that pride, he endeavored to
conceal his feelings under a show of indifference. Those who knew the
parties well, however, were not deceived; and when, after an interval,
it was discovered that Giuseppe himself was the favored lover of Bianca,
the enmity, though not more open, became more intense than ever.
In the mean time, Old Venoni, Bianca's father, had become aware of the
fine match his daughter had missed, and was extremely angry about it;
more particularly as he was poor, and would have been very much pleased
to have a rich son-in-law. Nor was he disposed to relinquish the chance
so easily. After first trying his influence on Bianca, upon whom he
expended a great deal of persuasion and cajolery in vain, he went so far
as to call upon Gaspar, apologizing for his daughter's ignorance and
folly in refusing so desirable a proposal, and expressing a hope that
Mendez would not relinquish the pursuit, but try his fortune again; when
he hoped to have brought her to a better state of mind.
Gaspar received the old man with civility, but answered coldly, that any
further advances on his own part were out of the question, unless he had
reason to believe the young lady was inclined to retract her refusal; in
which case he should be happy to wait upon her. With this response
Venoni returned to make another attack upon his daughter, whom, however,
fortified by her strong attachment to Ripa, he found quite immovable;
and there for several months the affair seems to have rested, till the
old man, urged by the embarrassment of his circumstances, renewed the
persecution, coupling it with certain calumnies against Giuseppe,
founded on the accidental loss of a sum of money which had been
intrusted to him by a friend, who wanted it conveyed to a neighboring
village, whither the young man had occasion to go. This loss, which
seems to have arisen out of some youthful imprudence, appears to have
occasioned Ripa a great deal of distress; and he not only did his utmost
to repair it by giving up every thing he had, which was indeed very
little, but he also engaged to pay regularly a portion of his weekly
earnings, till the whole sum was replaced.
His behavior, in short, was so satisfactory, that the person to whom the
money had belonged does not seem to have borne him any ill-will on the
subject; but Venoni took advantage of the circumstance to fling
aspersions on the young man's character, whilst it strengthened his
argument against the connection with his daughter; for how was Giuseppe
to maintain a wife and family with this millstone of debt round his
neck? Bianca, however, continued faithful to her lover, and for some
time nothing happened to advance the suit of either party. In that
interval a sister of Gasper's had married a man called Alessandro Malfi,
who, being a friend of Giuseppe's, endeavored to bring about a
reconciliation betwixt the rivals, or, rather, to produce a more cordial
feeling, for there had never been a quarrel; and as far as Ripa was
concerned, as he had no cause for jealousy, there was no reason why he
should bear ill-will to the unsuccessful candidate. With Gaspar it was
different: he hated Ripa; but as it hurt his pride that this enmity to
one whom he considered so far beneath him should be known, he made no
open demonstration of dislike, and when Malfi expressed a wish to invite
his friend to supper, hoping that Mendez would not refuse to meet him,
the Spaniard made no objection whatever. "Why not?" he said: "he knew of
no reason why he should not meet Giuseppe Ripa, or any other person his
brother-in-law chose to invite."
Accordingly the party was made; and on the night appointed Giuseppe,
after a private interview in the orchard with his mistress, started for
Malfi's house, which was situated about three miles off, in the same
direction as Gaspar's, which, indeed, he had to pass; on which account
he deterred his departure to a later hour than he otherwise would have
done, wishing not to come in contact with his rival till they met under
Malfi's roof. Mendez had a servant called Antonio Guerra, who worked on
his farm, and who appears to have been much in his confidence, and just
as Ripa passed the Spaniard's door, he met Guerra coming in an opposite
direction, and asked him if Mendez had gone to the supper yet; to which
Guerra answered that he supposed he had, but he did not know. Guerra
then took a key out of his pocket, and unlocking the door, entered the
house, whilst Ripa walked on.
In the mean while the little party had assembled in Malfi's parlor, all
but the two principal personages, Gaspar and Giuseppe; and as time
advanced without their appearing, some jests were passed amongst the men
present, who wished they might not have fallen foul of each other on the
way. At length, however, Ripa arrived, and the first question that was
put to him was: "What had he done with his rival?" which he answered by
inquiring if the Spaniard was not come. But although he endeavored to
appear unconcerned, there was a tremor in his voice and a confusion of
manner that excited general observation. He made violent efforts,
however, to appear at his ease, but these efforts were too manifest to
be successful; whilst the continued absence of Mendez became so
unaccountable, that a cloud seems to have settled on the spirits of the
company, which made the expected festivity pass very heavily off.
"Where could Mendez be? What could have detained him? It was to be hoped
no harm had happened to him!" Such was the burden of the conversation
till--when at about an hour before midnight the party broke
up--Alessandro Malfi said, that to allay the anxiety of his wife, who
was getting extremely alarmed about her brother, he would walk as far as
Forni--which was the name of Gaspar's farm--to inquire what had become
of him.
As Ripa's way lay in the same direction, they naturally started
together; and after what appears to have been a very silent walk--for
the spirits of Giuseppe were so depressed that the other found it
impossible to draw him into conversation--they reached Forni, when,
having rung the bell, they were presently answered by Antonio Guerra,
who put his head out of an upper window to inquire who they were, and
what they wanted.
"It is I, Alessandro Malfi. I want to know where your master is, and why
he has not been to my house this evening as he promised?"
"I thought he was there," said Antonio; "he set off from here to go soon
after seven o'clock."
"That is most extraordinary!" returned Malfi; "what in the world can
have become of him?"
"It is very strange, certainly," answered the servant; "he has never
come home; and when you rang I thought it was he returned from the
party."
As there was no more to be learned, the two friends now parted; Malfi
expressing considerable surprise and some uneasiness at the
non-appearance of his brother-in-law: whilst of Giuseppe we hear nothing
more till the following afternoon, when, whilst at work in his vineyard,
he was accosted by two officers of justice from Aquila, and he found
himself arrested, under an accusation of having waylaid Mendez in a
mountain-pass on the preceding evening, and wounded him, with the design
of taking his life.
The first words Ripa uttered on hearing this impeachment--words that,
like all the rest of his behavior, told dreadfully against him--were:
"Isn't he dead, then?"
"No thanks to you that he's not," replied the officer; "but he's alive,
and likely to recover to give evidence against his assassin."
"_Dio!_" cried Giuseppe, "I wish I'd known he wasn't dead!"
"You confess, then, that you wounded him with the intent to kill?"
"No," answered Ripa; "I confess no such thing. As I was going through
the pass last night I observed a man's hat lying a little off the road,
and on lifting it, I saw it belonged to Senor Mendez. Whilst I was
wondering how it came there without the owner, and was looking about for
him, I spied him lying behind a boulder. At first I thought he was
asleep, but on looking again, I saw he didn't lie like a sleeping man,
and I concluded he was dead. Had it been any one but he, I should have
lifted him up; but it being very well known that we were no friends, I
own I was afraid to do so. I thought it better not to meddle with him at
all. However, if he is alive, as you say, perhaps he can tell himself
who wounded him."
"To be sure he can," returned the officer; "he says it's you!"
"_Perduto son' io!_--Then I am lost!" exclaimed Ripa; who, on being
brought before the authorities, persisted in the same story; adding,
that so far from seeking Mendez, he had particularly wished to avoid
him, and that that was the reason he had started so late; for he had
been warned that the Spaniard was his enemy, and he apprehended that if
they met alone some collision might ensue.
It appeared, however, that he had consumed much more time on the road
than could be fairly accounted for; for two or three people had met him
on the way before he reached Forni; and then Antonio Guerra could speak
as to the exact hour of his passing. This discrepancy he attempted to
explain by saying, that after seeing Mendez on the ground, dead--as he
believed--he had been so agitated and alarmed that he did not like to
present himself at Malfi's house, lest he should excite observation. He
had also spent some time in deliberating whether or not he should
mention what he had seen; and he had made up his mind to do so on his
arrival, but was deterred by every body's asking him, when he entered
the room, what he had done with Mendez--a question that seemed to imply
a suspicion against himself.
This tale, of course, was not believed: indeed his whole demeanor on the
night in question tended strongly to his condemnation; added to which,
Malfi, who had been his friend, testified that not only had Ripa
betrayed all the confusion of guilt during the walk from his house to
Forni, but that having hold of his arm, he had distinctly felt him
tremble as they passed the spot where Mendez was subsequently
discovered.
With regard to Mendez himself, it appeared that when found he was in a
state of insensibility, and he was still too weak to give evidence or
enter into any particulars; but when, under proper remedies, he had
recovered his senses, Faustina Malfi, his sister--to whose house he had
been carried--asked him if Giuseppe Ripa was not the assassin; and he
answered in the affirmative.
Giuseppe was thrown into prison to await his trial; and having public
opinion, as well as that of the authorities against him, he was
universally considered a dead man. The only person that adhered to him
was Bianca, who visited him in the jail, and refused to believe him
guilty. But if he was innocent, who was the criminal? It appeared
afterwards that Ripa himself had his own suspicions on that subject, but
as they were founded only on two slight indications, he felt it was
useless to advance them.
In the mean time Gaspar Mendez was slowly recovering the injuries he had
received, and was of course expected to give a more explanatory account
of what had happened to him after he left Forni on his way to Alessandro
Malfi's. That he had been robbed as well as wounded was already
known--his brother and sister having found his pockets empty and his
watch gone. The explanation he could give, however, proved to be very
scanty. Indeed, he seemed to know very little about the matter, but he
still adhered to his first assertion, that Ripa was the assassin. With
regard to the money he had lost, there was necessarily less mystery,
since it consisted of a sum that he was carrying to his sister, and was
indeed her property, being the half share of some rents which he had
received on that morning, the produce of two houses in the town of
Aquila which had been bequeathed to them conjointly by their mother. The
money was in a canvas bag, and the other half which belonged to himself
he had left locked in his strong box at home, where, on searching for
it, it was found. As Ripa was known to be poor, and very much straitened
by his endeavors to make good the sum he had lost, that he should add
robbery to assassination was not to be wondered at. On the contrary, it
strengthened the conviction of his guilt, by supplying an additional
motive for the crime.
The injuries having been severe, it was some time before Mendez
recovered sufficiently to return home; and when he was well enough to
move, instead of going to Forni, he discharged his servant Antonio
Guerra, and went himself to Florence, where he remained several months.
All this time Giuseppe Ripa was in prison, condemned to die, but not
executed; because after his trial and sentence, a letter had been
received by the chief person in authority, warning him against shedding
the blood of the innocent. "Senor Mendez is mistaken," the letter said;
"he did not see the assassin, who attacked him from behind, and Giuseppe
Ripa is not guilty."
This judge, whose name was Marino, appears to have been a just man, and
to have felt some dissatisfaction with the evidence against Ripa;
inasmuch as Mendez, who, when first questioned, had spoken confidently
as to his identity, had since faltered when he came to give his evidence
in public, and seemed unable to afford any positive testimony on the
subject. The presumption against the prisoner, without the evidence of
the Spaniard, was considered by the other judges strong enough to
convict him; but Marino had objected that since the attack was made by
daylight--for it was in the summer, and the evenings were quite
light--it seemed extraordinary that Mendez could give no more certain
indications of his assailant. Added to this, although every means had
been used to obtain a confession--such means as are permitted on the
continent, but illegal in this country--Giuseppe persisted in his
innocence. Moreover, as no money had been found about him, and Faustina
Malfi was exceedingly desirous of recovering what had been lost, she
exerted herself to obtain mercy to at least the extent, that hopes of a
commutation of his sentence should be held out to the prisoner, provided
he would reveal where he had concealed the bagful of silver he had taken
from her brother. But in vain. Ripa was either guiltless or obstinate,
for nothing could be extracted from him but repeated declarations of his
innocence.
In the mean time Bianca had been undergoing a terrible persecution from
her father on the subject of Mendez, who had returned from Florence, and
taken up his abode as formerly at Forni. Her former lover was a
condemned man, and altogether _hors de combat_; she might regret him as
she would, and lament his fate to her heart's content, but he could
never be her husband; and there was the Spaniard, rich and ready; whilst
the increasing age and poverty of her parent rendered a good match of
the greatest importance. In short, under the circumstances of the case,
it was urged upon her on all hands, that she was bound both by her duty
to her father and to evince her abhorrence of Ripa's crime--which
otherwise it might be supposed she had instigated--to marry Mendez
without delay.
Persuaded of Giuseppe's innocence, and half believing that the
accusation was prompted by jealousy, it may be imagined how unwelcome
these importunities were, and for a considerable time she resisted them;
indeed she seems only to have been overcome at last by a ruse. A rumor
being set afloat that the day was about to be appointed for Ripa's
execution, a hint was thrown out that it lay in her power to save his
life: she had only to become the wife of Mendez, and her lover's
sentence should be commuted from death to banishment. This last argument
prevailed, and poor Bianca, with a heavy heart, consented to become the
mistress of Forni. The Malfis, however, do not seem to have been amongst
those who desired the match; and it would appear that they even made
some attempts to prevent its taking place, by circulating a report that
she had been privy to the assault and robbery. Perhaps they hoped, if
Gaspar remained unmarried, to inherit his property themselves; but
however that may be, their opposition was of no avail, and an early
period was fixed for the wedding.
The year had now come round to the summer season again, and it happened,
by mere accident, that the day appointed for the marriage was the
anniversary of that on which Mendez had been robbed and wounded. Nobody,
however, appears to have thought of this coincidence, till Mendez
himself, observing the day of the month, requested that the ceremony
might be postponed till the day after: "Because," said he, "I have
business which will take me to Aquila on the 7th, so the marriage had
better take place on the 8th." And thus it was arranged.
This alteration was made about ten days before the appointed period, and
nothing seems to have occurred in the interval worth recording, except
that as the hour of sacrifice drew near, the unwillingness of the victim
became more evident. We must conclude, however, that Mendez, whose
object in marrying her appears to have been fully as much the soothing
of his pride as the gratification of his love, was not influenced by her
disinclination, for when he started for Aquila on the 7th, every
preparation had been made for the wedding on the following day.
The object of his journey was to receive the rents before named, which
became due at this period, and also to purchase a wedding-present for
his bride. On this occasion Alessandro Malfi was to have accompanied
him; but when Mendez stopped at his door to inquire if he was ready,
Malfi came down stairs half dressed, saying that he had been up all
night with his wife, who was ill, and that as she had now fallen asleep,
he was going to lie down himself, and try to get a little rest. This
occurred early in the morning; and Mendez rode on, saying that he should
call as he came back in the evening, to inquire how his sister was. Upon
this Malfi went to bed, where he remained some hours--indeed, till he
received a message from his wife, begging him to go to her. When he
entered the room, the first question she asked was whether Gaspar was
gone to Aquila; and on being told that he was, she said she was very
sorry for it, for that she had dreamed she saw a man with a mask lying
in wait to rob him.
"I saw the man as distinctly as possible," she said, "but I could not
see his face for the mask; and I saw the place, so that I'm sure if I
were taken there I should recognize it."
Her husband told her not to mind her dreams, and that this one was
doubtless suggested by the circumstance that had occurred the year
before. "But," said he, "Ripa is safely locked up in jail now, and
there's no danger."
Nevertheless, the dream appears to have made so deep an impression on
the sick woman's fancy, that she never let her husband rest till he
promised to go with his own farm-servant to meet her brother--a
compliance which was at length won from him by her saying that she had
seen the man crouching behind a low wall that surrounded a half-built
church; "and close by," she added, "there was a direction-post with
something written on it, but I could not read what it was."
Now it happened that on the horse-road to Aquila, which Faustina herself
had never travelled, there was exactly such a spot as that she
described. Malfi knew it well. Struck by the circumstance, he desired to
have his dinner immediately, and then, accompanied by his hind, he set
off to meet Gaspar.
In the meanwhile the Spaniard had got his money and made his purchases
in good time, not wishing to be late on the road, so that they had
scarcely got a mile beyond the church when they met him; and in answer
to his inquiries what had brought them there, Malfi related his wife's
dream, adding that he might have spared himself the ride, for he had
looked over the wall, and saw nobody there. "I told her it was
nonsense," he said, "whilst we know your enemy's under such good keeping
at Aquila; but she wouldn't be satisfied till I came."
Mendez, however, appeared exceedingly struck with the dream, inquired
the particulars more in detail, and asked if they were sure there was
nobody concealed in the place Faustina indicated. Malfi answered that he
did not alight, but he looked over the wall and saw nobody. During the
course of this conversation they had turned their horses' heads, and
were riding back towards the church, Malfi talking about Ripa's affair,
remarking on the impropriety of deferring his execution so long; Mendez
more than usually silent and serious, and the servant riding beside
them, when, as they approached the spot, they saw coming towards them on
foot a man, whom they all three recognized as Antonio Guerra, the
Spaniard's late servant. As this person was supposed to have gone to
another part of the country after quitting Gaspar's service, Malfi
expressed some surprise at seeing him; whilst Mendez turned very pale,
making at the same time some exclamation that attracted the attention of
his brother-in-law, who, however, drew up his horse to ask Guerra what
had brought him back, and if he was out of a situation, adding that a
neighbor of his, whom he named, was in want of a servant. Guerra, who
looked poorly dressed, and by no means in such good case as formerly,
answered that he should be very glad if Malfi would recommend him.
"You had better turn about, then, and come on with us," said Malfi, as
he rode forward. During this conversation Mendez had sat by saying
nothing; and if he was grave and silent before, he was still more so
now, insomuch that his behavior drew the attention of his
brother-in-law, who asked him if there was any thing wrong with him.
"Surely it's not Faustina's dream you are thinking of?" he said; adding,
"that the meeting with Guerra had put it out of his head, or he would
have examined the place more narrowly."
Mendez entered into no explanation; and as the servant, who was
acquainted with Guerra, took him up behind him, they all arrived at
their journey's end nearly together; Mendez, instead of proceeding
homewards, turning off with the others to Malfi's house, where the first
thing he did after his arrival was to visit his sister, whom he found
better; whilst she, on the contrary, was struck with the pallor of his
features and the agitation of his manner--a disorder which, like her
husband, she attributed to the shock of her dream, acting upon a mind
prepared by the affair of the preceding year to take alarm. In order to
remove the impression, she laughed at the fright she had been in; but it
was evident he could not share her merriment, and he quickly left her,
saying he had a message to send to Rocca, which was the village where
Bianca and her father resided, and that he must go below and write a
note, which he did, giving it to Malfi's servant to take.
It appeared afterwards that this man, having other work in hand, gave
the note to Guerra, who willingly undertook the commission, and who, to
satisfy his own curiosity, broke the seal on the way, and possessed
himself of its contents before he delivered it. These were, however,
only a request that Bianca and her father would come over to Malfi's
house that evening and bring the notary of the village with them, he
(Mendez) being too tired to go to Rocca to sign the contract, as had
been arranged.
It being between six and seven o'clock when this dispatch arrived,
Bianca, who was very little inclined to sign the contract at all,
objected to going; but her father insisting on her compliance, they set
off in company with Guerra and the notary, who, according to
appointment, was already in waiting. They had nearly three miles to go,
and as Venoni had no horse, the notary gave Bianca a seat on his, and
the old man rode double with Guerra.
When they arrived Mendez was standing at the door waiting for them,
accompanied by Malfi, his servant, a priest, and two or three other
persons of the neighborhood; some of whom advanced to assist Bianca and
her father to alight, whilst the others surrounded Guerra as he set his
foot on the ground, pinioning his arms and plunging their hands into his
pockets, from whence they drew two small pistols and a black mask, such
as was worn at the carnivals; besides these weapons, he carried a
stiletto in his bosom.
Whilst the last comers were gaping with amazement at this unexpected
scene, the new-made prisoner was led away to a place of security, and
the company proceeded into the house, where the notary produced the
contract and laid it on the table, inquiring at the same time what
Guerra had done to be so treated.
Then Mendez rose, and taking hold of the contract, he tore it in two,
and flung it on the ground; at which sight Venoni started up with a cry,
or rather a howl--an expression of rage and disappointment truly
Italian, and of which no Englishman who has not heard it can have an
idea.
"_Peccato!_ I have sinned!" said the Spaniard, haughtily; "but I have
made my confession to the padre; and why I have torn that paper my
brother-in-law, Alessandro, will presently tell you!" He then offered
his hand to Bianca, who, no less pleased than astonished to see the
contract destroyed, willingly responded to this token of good-will by
giving him hers, which he kissed, asking her pardon for any pain he had
occasioned her; after which, bowing to the company, he quitted the room,
mounted his horse, and rode off to Forni.
When the sound of the animal's feet had died away, and the parties
concerned were sufficiently composed to listen to him, Malfi proceeded
to make the communication he had been charged with; whereby it appeared
that Ripa had been unjustly accused, and that Antonio Guerra was the
real criminal. Mendez knew this very well, and would not have thought of
accusing his rival had not his brother and sister, and indeed everybody
else, assumed Ripa's guilt as an unquestionable fact. The temptation was
too strong for him, and after he had once admitted it, pride would not
allow him to retract. At the same time he declared that he would never
have permitted the execution to take place, and that after the marriage
with Bianca he intended to procure the innocent man's liberation, on the
condition of his quitting that part of the country. Of course it was he
who wrote the letter to Marino, and he had used the precaution of
placing a sealed packet, containing a confession of the truth, in the
hands of a notary at Aquila, with strict directions to deliver it to
Ripa if the authorities should appear disposed to carry his sentence
into execution.
He had nevertheless suffered considerable qualms of conscience about the
whole affair; and the moment he saw Guerra on the road that night, he
felt certain that he had come with the intention of waylaying him as
before--the man being well aware that it was on that day he usually
received his rents. He perceived that he should never be safe as long as
this villain was free, and that he must either henceforth live in
continual terror of assassination, or confront the mortification of a
confession whilst the fellow was in his power.
With respect to Guerra himself, he made but feeble resistance when he
was seized. He had, in the first instance, left Mendez for dead; and he
would have immediately fled when he heard he was alive, had not the news
been accompanied with the further information that the Spaniard had
pointed out Ripa as his assailant. He was exceedingly surprised, for he
could scarcely believe that he had not been recognized. Nevertheless, it
was possible; and whether it were so or not, he did not doubt that what
Mendez had once asserted he would adhere to. On receiving his dismissal,
he had gone to some distance from the scene of his crime; but having,
whilst the money lasted, acquired habits of idleness and dissipation
that could not be maintained without a further supply, these necessities
had provoked this last enterprise.
He had really been concealed behind the wall when Malfi and his servant
passed; but concluding that they were going to meet Mendez, and that his
scheme was defeated, he had thought it both useless and dangerous to
remain, and was intending to make off in another direction, when their
sudden return surprised him.
A few hours more saw Antonio Guerra in Guiseppe Ripa's cell; and whilst
the first paid the penalty of his crimes, the latter was rewarded for
his sufferings by the hand of Bianca, to whom the Spaniard gave a small
marriage-portion before finally quitting the country, which he did
immediately after Antonio's trial.
Ripa said he had always had a strong persuasion that Guerra was the real
criminal from two circumstances: the first was the hurried manner in
which he was walking on the evening he met him at the gate of Forni, and
some strange expression of countenance which he had afterwards recalled.
The second was his answering them from the window when he and Malfi went
to inquire for Mendez. If he thought it was his master, as he said, why
had he not come down at once to admit him?
It is remarkable that the enmity of the Spaniard was not directed
against the man that had aimed at his life, but against him who had
wounded his pride.
From the Eclectic Review
JOHN ROBINSON, THE PASTOR OF THE PILGRIMS.[18]
There was in John Robinson a rare union of many admirable and noble
qualities; and the meekness of his wisdom was rewarded by his becoming,
in no figurative or trivial sense, the father, intellectually, morally,
spiritually, of a great nation. Like Moses, he was not permitted to
enter the land of promise; yet, like Moses, his memory was sacred to
thousands who had derived through him those principles, institutions,
and manners, which fitted them in so large a measure for their novel
position in a strange land. To this day the name of Robinson is a
household word in New England; and, instead of dying out, is rising in
reputation throughout the United States generally, wherever pure and
undefiled religion prevails, and wherever the enterprising citizens of
the greatest republic the world ever saw, have leisure to trace the
first beginnings of their nation's glory. The fact mentioned in the
preface of this first collected edition of his works, that "a large body
of subscribers" have been obtained "in Great Britain and in the United
States," while it is no measure of the reverence with which the memory
of Robinson is regarded, affords nevertheless good augury for the
future. Another hopeful circumstance is the announcement of a new Life
of Robinson, from the pen of the Editor of the "American Biographical
Dictionary," Dr. Allen, of Northampton, Massachusetts. This rivalry, or
rather co-operation of the two countries, in reviving the memory of the
dead, is gratifying evidence that the seed which Robinson sowed so
diligently was living seed, and reproductive in both hemispheres; and
is, possibly, an indication at the same time--for the providence of God
prepares the way for great events by raising up the means auxiliary to
their accomplishment--that the time is drawing near, when, in the
conflict of opinion, such principles as those which the pastor of the
pilgrim fathers so nobly vindicated, both by his life and his writings,
will be greatly in request.
We have no space to enter at length into the various incidents in the
life of this truly great and good man--a life, which, notwithstanding
the carefully compiled memoir prefixed to these volumes, and many
briefer or larger notices in other publications, still remains to be
written. A few particulars, however, will assist the reader in forming a
proper opinion of the man and his times.
John Robinson was born, probably, in Lincolnshire, in 1575. At the early
age of seventeen he entered upon his studies at Cambridge, matriculating
and taking his degree as master of arts at _Corpus Christi_ College, of
which he became a fellow in 1598. He resigned his fellowship in 1604, on
account of the new views he had embraced in relation to ecclesiastical
matters. In one of his works he has given some details respecting his
conversion to Separatism. It is regretted that such incidental
references are so rare. At the same time, we are convinced that the
future biographer may gather more from this source than has hitherto
been done. But this by the way. In his reply to Bernard, in
justification of his separation from the church of England, he informs
us, that "a long time" before he left the church, he had read several of
the treatises of the Brownists and Barrowists, and was convinced by them
that the constitution and working of the church were unscriptural. He
also mentions, as he says, to his "own shame," that the reverence he had
for many of the pious clergy, was the only reason why he did not sooner
follow out his own conviction of duty. Every one who knows how difficult
a thing it is even now, when dissent presents so different an aspect
from what it had in the days of Elizabeth and James, for a clergyman to
relinquish his position in connection with an establishment in which he
has been brought up, will readily appreciate the difficulties under
which Robinson labored. It is true the Independents, both baptist and
paedobaptist, are still in a minority; but how different the minority of
this day from that of the early part of the seventeenth century! To _be_
in a minority then was to _feel_ it--at every turn--and in one's nearest
and most cherished interests. It involved more than the loss of
_caste_--reputation--respectability. It was to become an outcast and an
outlaw, and to put one's self at the mercy of the bishop and his agents,
in a day when even the "tender mercies" of bishops were cruelty itself.
Robinson had the courage to join the minority of that day. He left
Norwich, where he had officiated for a short period, resigned his
fellowship at Cambridge, as we have already stated, and became an avowed
separatist.
After stating that Robinson proceeded to Lincolnshire, where he found a
considerable number of separatists, with Smyth and Clifton at their
head, who had constituted themselves into a church, by solemn covenant
with the Lord, "to walk in all his ways made known, or to be made known
unto them, according to their best endeavors, WHATEVER IT SHOULD COST
THEM,"--the Memoir proceeds:
"The location of this first [?] separatist church has long been
an object of investigation and doubt. The difficulty appears to
be solved by Joseph Hunter, Esq., in his valuable "Collections"
concerning the first colonists of New England. The following is
a summary of Mr. Hunter's proofs, identifying Scrooby, Notts,
as the village, and Mr. Brewster's house as the manor, in
which, when practicable, they worshipped. Governor Bradford,
who was originally one of the church, and whose birthplace and
residence were at Austerfield, in the vicinity, states
distinctly, that Mr. Brewster's house was a "manor of the
bishop's." This description of the house furnished the key to
the difficulty. Scrooby is about one mile and a half south of
Bawtry, in Yorkshire, and from which Austerfield is about the
same distance northeast, and both not far distant from the
adjacent county of Lincoln. Mr. Hunter says, "I can speak with
confidence to the fact, that there is no other episcopal manor
but this, which at all satisfies the condition of being near
the borders of the three counties." The Brewsters were
residents of Scrooby: the manor place which they occupied
originally belonged to the Archbishops of York, and had been
leased to Sir Samuel Sandys, son of Dr. Sandys, the archbishop,
in 1586. The Brewster family were now tenants of Sir Samuel,
and were occupants of the mansion of the Sandys. This fact
serves both as an identification of the place, and as an
explanation of the circumstance that the Sandys took great
interest, at a subsequent period, in promoting the settlement
of the pilgrims, under the direction of Mr. Brewster, on the
shores of the Atlantic. Scrooby must henceforth be regarded as
the cradle of Massachusetts. Here the choice and noble spirits,
at the head of whom were Brewster and Bradford, first learnt
the lessons of truth and freedom. Here, under the faithful
ministration of the pastors, they were nourished and
strengthened to that vigorous and manly fortitude which braved
all dangers; and here, too, they acquired that moral and
spiritual courage which enabled them to sacrifice their homes,
property, and friends, and expatriate themselves to distant
lands, rather than abandon their principles and yield to
attempted usurpations on the liberty of their consciences."
This information is interesting, and supplies a great _hiatus_ in the
history, not of Robinson merely, but of the exiles and pilgrims
generally. Perhaps further research may lead to the discovery of papers
relating to this obscure portion of English history, similar to those
that have thrown so much light on the times of Cromwell, and William and
Mary. The letters recently published by Lord Mahon and Mr. Manners
Sutton, are probably specimens only of the literary treasures stored in
the old manorial and other houses of England. We would have learned from
the editor of these volumes whether any inquiries have been made at
Scrooby and its neighborhood for confirming Mr. Hunter's conjectures. Be
this as it may, it is pleasant to believe, and on such good evidence,
that Robinson found a retreat in the home of his college-fellow and
after-associate Brewster, there to mature his views, and lay the
foundation of that religious life the fruits of which have have been so
enduring.
But neither Scrooby, nor any other place, was secure from the
inquisitorial interference of the high church functionaries. The spy and
the informer were abroad. No place of meeting could long remain a
secret--whether manorial halls, shopkeepers' storerooms, barns,
hay-lofts, or the broad shadows of copse and forest. Go where they
would, the conscientious worshippers were sooner or later detected, and
dragged as culprits before bishop or magistrate. But the chief objects
of vengeance at this period were the Separatists. The Nonconformists
(for, contrary to the opinion sometimes expressed on this subject, there
were Nonconformists, known by that name, long before there were
Separatists and Independents) were at first dealt with in a
comparatively gentle manner. They were censured, suspended, and, in some
cases, imprisoned. Afterwards, as they multiplied and became more bold,
greater severity was exercised towards them. But never were they
regarded in the same light, or treated in the same spirit, as the
Separatists. To object to the vestments and the ceremonies of the
church, as the livery of Antichrist, was held to be extremely censurable
and worthy of punishment; but to separate from the church altogether,
and renounce all ecclesiastical allegiance, was an unpardonable offence.
The Nonconformists generally agreed in this latter judgment, and
frequently compounded for their own sins of omission by speaking and
writing against their brethren of the separation. There are many proofs
of this, as may be seen in Stillingfleet's elaborate treatise on _The
Unreasonableness of Separation_ published in 1681. The first part of
that work is devoted to an "Historical Account of the Rise and Progress
of the Controversie about Separation," and contains many references to
persons, events, and writings that have been too much overlooked. As
might be expected, there is much in Stillingfleet's account that
requires correction. His prejudices against the Separatists were strong,
and led him into several errors. But it is no very difficult task to
winnow the chaff from the wheat, and the result will amply repay the
labor. So far from having the sympathy of the Nonconformists or
Puritans, the Separatists were pursued by them with greater virulence,
in tracts, pamphlets, and larger publications, than by the bishops
themselves. The circumstance is not inexplicable. It has had its
parallel in every succeeding period, to the present day. The
Nonconformists of modern times--the evangelical clergy of the church of
England (for the _old_ word described those who remained _in_ the
church, but did not conform in all respects to its prescribed
ceremonies)--the men who put their own construction on the Prayer Book,
and explain away the plain meaning of the baptismal and other
offices,--have always been found the most bitter opponents of a
conscientious and consistent dissent. There are tendencies in human
nature, not of a very recondite order, on which the fact may easily be
accounted for.
This fact, in relation to the actual position of the exiles and
pilgrims, is too important to be overlooked. It is an additional
justification of their conduct. If the Nonconformists had sympathized
with them to any extent, on the ground of their agreement respecting
evangelical doctrine, they might have been induced to remain at home,
enduring the violence of the storm which beat upon their devoted heads,
in the hope that it might abate in time through their influence. But
when they found their bitterest foes were these very men, it seemed time
for them to seek a home elsewhere.
The remainder of the story of Robinson's life must be briefly told. He
passed to Amsterdam, with the third and last portion of the Scrooby
Separatists, in 1608; Smyth and Clyfton having preceded him with the two
other companies about two years before. Mr. Ashton narrated the event in
the following words:--
"Mr. Robinson was now left with the remnant of the flock. Month
after month rolled away, and no abatement of the fury of the
dominant party was visible. His church, with himself, resolved
on following their companions to the United Provinces, where
toleration, if not perfect freedom, was allowed to all natives
and foreigners. Thrice was the attempt made at expatriation
before they could succeed. They first resolved to sail from
Boston. They formed a common fund and hired a vessel. To avoid
suspicion they embarked at night, and at the moment when they
expected the vessel to be loosed from her moorings, they were
betrayed by the captain and seized by the officers of the town.
They were plundered of their goods and money, arraigned before
the magistrates, and committed to prison till the pleasure of
the lords in council should be known. They were dismissed at
the expiration of a month, seven of the leading persons being
bound over to appear at the assizes. The following spring a
second attempt was made. They hired a small Dutch vessel, and
agreed to meet the captain at a given point on the banks of the
Humber, near Grimsby, Lincolnshire. After a delay of some
hours, a part of the company, chiefly men, were conveyed to the
vessel in a boat. When the sailors were about to return for
another portion of the passengers, the captain saw a great
company of horse and foot, with bills and guns, in full pursuit
of the fugitives on shore. He immediately hoisted sail, and
departed with the men he had on board, leaving their wives and
children, and the remainder of the pilgrim company, with Mr.
Robinson, to the tender mercies of their pursuers. A few of the
party escaped, the others were seized and hurried from one
magistrate to another, till the officers, not knowing what to
do with so large a company, and ashamed of their occupation in
seizing helpless, homeless, and innocent persons, they suffered
them to depart and go whither they pleased. Other attempts at
expatriation were subsequently and successfully made. The
persecuted Separatists at length reached the hospitable shores
of Holland, and rejoined their families and friends in the land
of strangers, thankful to their Almighty Father that they had
escaped in safety, from the 'fury of the oppressor,' and the
perils of the deep."
In 1609, Robinson with his people removed to Leyden, where he spent the
remainder of his days, building up the church in the truth, laying broad
and deep in the minds of the Pilgrim fathers the principles which fitted
them to become the founders of America's future greatness, and writing
those works which constitute his noblest memorial, and have yet a
mission to fulfil in our own and succeeding ages.
The fame of Robinson rests principally on three things: first, his
relation to the pilgrims; secondly, his personal and public character;
and lastly, the force--we had almost said genius--displayed in his
various publications. The peculiarity of Robinson's character may be
described by one word, completeness--_totus atque teres rotundus_. The
united testimony of admirers and opponents witnesses his integrity,
purity, courtesy, prudence, and charity. But he possessed other
qualities. He was chiefly distinguished by what we venture to call a
very rare characteristic, in the sense in which we understand it,--an
intense love of truth, which ever stimulated him to search after it as
the chief part of his being's aim and end, and which never permitted him
to swerve a hair's breath from it in practice. This made him a
nonconformist, a separatist, an exile, an independent; a growing
Christian, a profound theologian, an able controversialist; a student at
Leyden University, although he had previously graduated and held a
fellowship at Cambridge; a diligent attendant on the lectures of both
Polyander and Episcopus, at the time when all Leyden was agitated by the
rival theories of the two professors on the subject of Arminianism; and
an avowed advocate of the principle, that though Christian men were
confirmed in their own doctrinal and ecclesiastical principles, it was
their duty to hear what their opponents had to say, even if it should
lead them to the parish church.
This love of truth was both a principle and a passion. It grew with his
growth, strengthened with his strength, and was the chief source of all
his excellence. It made him learned in a learned age, and wise in the
knowledge of human nature and the experience of the world, at a period
when such wisdom was rare. It fitted him to be the counsellor of his
fellow-exiles in the emergencies of their strange position, and the
statesman-like adviser of the pilgrims when they went forth to clear the
wilderness, and lay the foundations of civil life afresh in a new world.
In a word, he may be said to have lived in the spirit of his own
aphorism;--"He that knows not in his measure, what he ought to know,
especially in the matters of God, is but a beast amongst men; he that
knows what is simply needful and no more, is a man amongst men; _but he
who knows according to the help vouchsafed him of God, what may well be
known, and so far as to direct himself and others aright, is as a God
amongst men_."
It is impossible to do justice to the writings of Robinson in a brief
notice like the present: yet it is on these writings that we are
disposed chiefly to rest his claims to future regard. They are not like
those of Milton, "one perfect field of cloth of gold;" nor like those of
Taylor, enlivened by figures and images that captivate the fancy and
impress the heart; but they have what to some possesses an equal charm,
in the full orbed light they cast on some of the most abstruse
doctrines, and on some of the most controverted questions of revealed
and practical religion. Excepting a few obsolete expressions here and
there, the language is perfectly clear and comprehensible after more
than two centuries; indeed, more clear and comprehensible to ordinary
readers than that which pervades a large portion of the so-called
elegant literature of the past and present age. It is the language of
Shakspeare and Bacon, without the measure of the one, or the involution
of the other--that language which has ever been the vernacular of the
people of this country, and to which our best writers are coming
back--clear, terse, good old English.
Some may take exception to the _form_ of these writings, because they
are chiefly controversial; but no objection can be more futile. England
is glorious through controversy, and nowhere has her mind put on more of
might than on the battle-field of truth. Her greatest works are in this
very form. What were left to us of the Hookers and Barrows, Taylors and
Miltons, if their controversial writings were excepted? and, indeed,
what would become of our Nonconformist literature itself, if this
objection were allowed a practical weight. Whosoever would have
knowledge respecting doctrines and principles still unsettled, in
religion or in science, must seek it in such debate or be altogether
disappointed. Nowhere will the nonconformists and dissenters find more
of truth--and in some particulars of _new_ truth--in relation to their
own principles and duties, than in these volumes. Even the independents
have still much to learn from this master in Israel. While on some
points we hold Robinson to have been altogether wrong; on others--and
these not trivial, but important points--we hold that he is nearly as
much in advance of the present age as he was of his own, because he
adheres more closely than even religious men are ordinarily wont to do,
to the spirit and genius of those older Scriptures which have yet to
liberate a world from all but invulnerable superstitions.
Besides the Memoir, the first of the volumes before us contains an
account of the descendants of Robinson, from the pen of Dr. Allen, of
Northampton, Massachusetts, from which it appears that they are "very
numerous, scattered over New England and other States of the Union, and
occupying respectable and useful stations in life." Then come "New
Essays; or Observations, Divine and Moral, collected out of the Holy
Scriptures, ancient and modern writers, both divine and human; as also
out of the great volume of men's manners; tending to the furtherance of
knowledge and virtue." We give the title in full, because it is the best
and briefest description we can give of the work itself. The most
cursory perusal is sufficient to show the erudition of the author, and a
comparatively slight examination raises our estimation of his sagacity
and wisdom. These essays, the last productions of his pen, are not
unworthy of circulation with those of Lord Bacon, of which they
frequently remind us by apt allusions, sententious definitions,
clear-headed distinctions, and sharp antitheses, no less than by
profound insight into the workings of human nature. We had marked
passages for quotation, which our limits will not permit. One, however,
we must cite, for the incidental light it throws on the character of
Robinson as a speaker and preacher. We are not aware that any of his
contemporaries have remarked upon the peculiarity thus disclosed; but it
accords with the judgment otherwise formed of the man. In an essay
entitled, "Of Speech and Silence," containing the pith and marrow of all
Carlyle has written on the subject, without any of his exaggeration, we
have:
"Both length and shortness of speech may be used commendably in
their time; as mariners sometimes sail with larger spread, and
sometimes with narrower-gathered sails. But as some are large
in speech out of abundance of matter, and upon due
consideration; so the most multiply words, either from weakness
or vanity. Wise men suspect and examine their words ere they
suffer them to pass from them, and to speak the more sparingly;
but fools pour out theirs by talents, without fear or wit.
Besides, wise men speak to purpose, and so have but something
to say: the others speak every thing of every thing, and,
therefore, take liberty to use long wanderings. Lastly, they
think to make up that in number, or repetition of words, which
is wanting in weight. But above all other motives, some better,
some worse, too many love to hear themselves speak; and
imagining vainly that they please others, because they please
themselves, make long orations when a little were too much.
Some excuse their tediousness, saying, that they cannot speak
shorter; wherein they both say untruly, and shame themselves
also; for it is all one as if they said that they have
unbridled tongues, and inordinate passions setting them a-work.
_I have been many times drawn so dry, that I could not well
speak any longer for want of matter: but I ever could speak as
short as I would._"
The remainder of this volume is occupied by "A Defence of the Doctrine
propounded by the Synod at Dort", able, full of close reasoning and
Scripture exposition, and worthy of careful perusal, whether the
conclusions be admitted or not.
The second volume is occupied with Robinson's greatest controversial
work, "A Justification of Separation from the Church of England," &c. It
is elaborate and complete; and, besides vindicating the separatists of
that day, pronounces on many questions on which dissenters have yet to
make up their minds. In this work he classes himself with the Brownists;
from which it may be inferred, that his advice to the pilgrims, to
"shake off the name of Brownist," is not to be interpreted very largely,
as has sometimes been the case. It is the _name_ that he chiefly
abjures. The following passage from the introduction to this performance
will illustrate the manner in which Robinson vindicated his
co-religionists from the misrepresentations of that age:
"The difference you lay down touching the proper subject of the
power of Christ, is true in itself, and only yours wherein it
is corruptly related, and especially in the particular
concerning us, as, that where 'the Papists plant the ruling
power of Christ in the Pope; the Protestants in the Bishops;
the Puritans,' as you term the reformed churches and those of
their mind 'in the Presbytery;' we whom you name 'Brownists,'
put it in the 'body of the congregation, the multitude called
the church:' odiously insinuating against us that we do exclude
the elders in the case of government, where, on the contrary,
we profess the bishops or elders to be the only ordinary
governors in the church, as in all other actions of the
church's communion, so also in the censures. Only we may not
acknowledge them for lords over God's heritage, (1 Pet. v. 3,)
as you would make them, controlling all, but to be controlled
by none; much less essential unto the church, as though it
could not be without them; least of all the church itself, as
you and others expound. (Matt. xviii.)"
The third volume contains four treatises and some shorter pieces,
chiefly letters. The first treatise is the celebrated "Apology,"
originally published in Latin, in 1619, and afterwards translated into
English by Robinson himself, although not published in the last form
until 1625. It is to the use of the word "independently," in the first
chapter, that some have attributed the origin of the name Independent,
as the designation of the party of which Robinson was so eminent a
member. It appears, however, that Jacob had used the same term, for the
same purpose, as early as 1612; and the denominational title had become
fixed before 1622, since Bishop Hall speaks of the "anarchical fashion
of independent congregations" in one of his publications of that year.
The principle of congregationalism, as opposed to nationalism and
catholicism, is nowhere more fully established than in this admirable
work.
The remaining treatises are on Religious Communion, Exercise of
Prophecy, and the Lawfulness of Hearing Ministers of the Church of
England. The first discriminates between personal and public fellowship,
and lays down the position that the former is allowable between all
Christians, recognizing one another as such, whatever their differences
respecting minor points and church polity. The second is a scriptural
exposition of the subject of lay-preaching, as it is now termed. The
third is a defence of those who occasionally, and merely for the sake of
hearing, attend upon the ministrations of the established clergy. An
appendix to this volume contains an interesting account of the
congregational church in Southwark, of which Henry Jacob was the first
pastor; by the present pastor, the Rev. John Waddington; a sketch of the
exiles and their churches in Holland, by the editor; and an index of
subjects and authors.
We cannot conclude this notice without congratulating the editor and his
numerous coadjutors, on the satisfactory manner in which these volumes
have been prepared for publication, and on the success that has attended
the undertaking.
[The life of John Robinson of Leyden is more strictly a portion of
American than of English history, and its suitable exhibition demands
the best abilities that can be summoned to such service in this country,
where, hitherto, the popular declamation of Puritan celebrations, it
must be confessed, has evinced but a superficial acquaintance with
Puritan intelligence, doctrine, or character.]
FOOTNOTES:
[18] The works of John Robinson, Pastor of the Pilgrim Fathers; with a
Memoir and Annotations. By Robert Ashton, Secretary of the
Congregational Board, London. Three volumes. London; 1851.
From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.
A CHAPTER ON CATS.
The newspapers have recently been chronicling, as a fact provocative of
especial wonder, the enterprise of some speculative merchant of
New-York, who has just been dispatching a cargo of one hundred cats to
the republic of New Granada, in which it would appear the race, owing,
as we may believe, to the frequently disturbed state of the country, has
become almost extinct.
Your cat is a domestic animal, and naturally conservative in its
tastes--averse, therefore, to uproar, and to all those given to change.
Its propensities are to meditation and contemplative tranquillity, for
which reason it has been held in reverence by nations of a similar staid
and composed disposition, and has been the favorite companion and
constant friend of grave philosophers and thoughtful students. By the
ancient Egyptians cats were held in the highest esteem; and we learn
from Diodorus Siculus, their "lives and safeties" were tendered more
dearly than those of any other animal, whether biped or quadruped. "He
who has voluntarily killed a consecrated animal," says this writer, "is
punished with death; but if any one has even involuntarily killed a cat
or an ibis, it is impossible for him to escape death: the mob drags him
to it, treating him with every cruelty, and sometimes without waiting
for judgment to be passed. This treatment inspires such terror, that, if
any person happen to find one of these animals dead, he goes to a
distance from it, and by his cries and groans indicates that he has
found the animal dead. This superstition is so deeply rooted in the
minds of the Egyptians, and the respect they bear these animals is so
profound, that at the time when their king, Ptolemy, was not yet
declared the friend of the Roman people--when they were paying all
possible court to travellers from Italy, and their fears made them avoid
every ground of accusation and every pretext for making war upon
them--yet a Roman having killed a cat, the people rushed to his house,
and neither the entreaties of the grandees, whom the king sent for the
purpose, nor the terror of the Roman name, could protect this man from
punishment, although the act was involuntary. I do not relate this
anecdote," adds the historian, "on the authority of another, for I was
an eye-witness of it during my stay in Egypt."[19]
During their lives, the consecrated cats were fed upon fish, kept for
the purpose in tanks; and "when one of them happened to die," says the
veracious writer just cited, "it was wrapped in linen, and after the
bystanders had beaten themselves on the breast, it was carried to the
Tarichoea, where it was embalmed with coedria and other substances
which have the virtue of embalming bodies, after which it was interred
in the sacred monument." It has puzzled not a little the learned
archaeologists, who have endeavored to discover a profound philosophy
figured and symbolized in the singular mythology of the Egyptians, to
explain how it is that in Thebes, where the sacred character of the cat
was held in the highest reverence, and cherished with the greatest
devotion, not only embalmed cats have been found, but also the bodies of
rats and mice, which had been subjected to the same anti-putrescent
process. If, however, Herodotus is to be credited, the Egyptians owed a
deep debt of gratitude to the mice; for the venerable historian assures
us, and on the unquestionable authority of the Egyptian priests, that
when Sennacherib and his army lay at Pelusium, a mighty corps of
field-mice entered the camp by night, and eating up the quivers,
bowstrings, and buckler-leathers of the Assyrian troops, in this summary
fashion liberated Egypt from the terror of the threatened invasion.
Probably the existence of mice-mummies may be accounted for in this way,
and if--resorting to no violent supposition--we presume in the good work
which the tiny patriots so sagaciously accomplished that their
cousins-german the rats were assistant, the whole matter receives a
satisfactory explanation. The hypothesis, it is submitted, is not
without plausible recommendations on its behalf. There is extant a
fragment of a comedy, entitled "The Cities," written by the Rhodian poet
Anaxandrides, in which the Egyptian worship of animals is amusingly
enough quizzed. A translation will be found in Dr. Prichard's _Analysis
of Egyptian Mythology_. The lines referring to cat-worship are as
follows:
"You cry and wail whene'er ye spy a cat,
Starving or sick; I count it not a sin
To hang it up, and flay it for its skin;"
from which it appears this gay free-thinker was not only somewhat
skeptical in his religious notions, but, moreover, a hard-hearted,
good-for-nothing fellow--one who, had he lived in our time, would
unquestionably have brought himself within the sweep of the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Duke of Beaufort's
Humanity Act.
We learn from Herodotus that in his days it was customary, whenever a
cat died, for the whole household at once to go into mourning, and this
although the lamented decease might have been the result of old age, or
other causes purely natural. In the case of a cat's death, however, the
eyebrows only were required to be shaved off; but when a dog, a beast of
more distinguished reputation, departed this life, every inmate of the
house was expected to shave his head and whole body all over. Both cats
and dogs are watched and attended to with the greatest solicitude during
illness. Indeed by the ancient Egyptians the cat was treated much in the
same way as are dogs amongst us: we find them even accompanying their
masters on their aquatic shooting-excursions; and, if the testimony of
ancient monuments is to be relied on, often catching the game for them,
although it may be permitted to doubt whether they ever actually took to
the water for this purpose.
In modern Egypt the cat, although more docile and companionable than its
European sister, has much degenerated; but still, on account of its
usefulness in destroying scorpions and other reptiles, it is treated
with some consideration--suffered to eat out of the same dish with the
children, to join with them in their sports, and to be their constant
companion and daily friend. A modern Egyptian would esteem it a heinous
sin, indeed, to destroy or even maltreat a cat; and we are told by Sir
Gardner Wilkinson, that benevolent individuals have bequeathed funds by
which a certain number of these animals are daily fed at Cairo at the
Cadi's court, and the bazaar of Khan Khaleel.
But a tender regard for the inferior animals is a prevailing
characteristic of the Oriental races, and is inculcated as a duty by
their various religions. At Fez there was, and perhaps is at this day, a
wealthily-endowed hospital, the greater part of the funds of which was
devoted to the support and medical treatment of invalid cranes and
storks, and procuring them a decent sepulture whenever they chanced to
die. The founders are said to have entertained the poetical notion that
these birds are, in truth, human beings, natives of distant islands, who
at certain periods assume a foreign shape, and after they have satisfied
their curiosity with visiting other lands, return to their own, and
resume their original form.
To return, however, not to our sheep, but our cats, we must remark that,
in modern times, in spite of the kindness the cat habitually receives in
Egypt, his _morale_ is not in that country rated very high--the
universal impression being that, although, like Snug the joiner's lion,
he is by nature "a very gentle beast," still he is by no means "of a
good conscience;" that he is, in short, a most ungrateful beast; and
that when, in a future state, it is asked of him how he has been treated
by man in this, he will obstinately deny all the benefits he has
received at his hand, and give him such a character for cruelty and
hardness of heart as is shocking to think of. The dog, however, it is
understood, will conduct himself more discreetly, and readily
acknowledge the good offices for which he is indebted to the family of
mankind.
Singular anecdotes have been related of the intense repugnance persons
have been found to entertain to these, at worst, harmless animals. One
shall be given in the very words of the Rev. Nicholas Wanley, who, in
his authentic _Wonders of the Little World_, has recorded a number of
other facts quite as marvellous, and sustained by testimony not one whit
more exceptionable: "Mathiolus tells of a German, who coming in
wintertime into an inn to sup with him and some other of his friends,
the woman of the house being acquainted with his temper (lest he should
depart at the sight of a young cat which she kept to breed up), had
beforehand hid her kitling in a chest in the same room where we sat at
supper. But though he had neither seen nor heard it, yet after some time
that he had sucked in the air infected by the cat's breath, that quality
of his temperament that had antipathy to that creature being provoked,
he sweat, and, of a sudden, paleness came over his face, and to the
wonder of us all that were present, he cried out that in some corner of
the room there was a cat that lay hid." Not long after the battle of
Wagram and the second occupation of Vienna by the French, an
aide-de-camp of Napoleon, who at the time occupied, together with his
suite, the Palace of Schoenbrunn, was proceeding to bed at an unusually
late hour, when, on passing the door of Napoleon's bedroom, he was
surprised by a most singular noise, and repeated calls from the Emperor
for assistance. Opening the door hastily, and rushing into the room, a
singular spectacle presented itself--the great soldier of the age, half
undressed, his countenance agitated, the beaded drops of perspiration
standing on his brow, in his hand his victorious sword, with which he
was making frequent and convulsive lunges at some invisible enemy
through the tapestry that lined the walls. It was a cat that had
secreted herself in this place; and Napoleon held cats not so much in
abhorrence as in terror. "A feather," says the poet, "daunts the brave;"
and a greater poet, through the mouth of his Shylock, remarks that
"there are some that are mad if they behold a cat--a harmless, necessary
cat." Count Bertram would seem to have shared in this unaccountable
aversion. When "Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist, that had the
whole theory of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the
shape of his dagger," was convicted of mendacity and cowardice, Bertram
exclaimed, "I could endure any thing before this but a cat, and now he's
a cat to me." The fores of censure could no further go.
If Napoleon, however, held cats, as has been averred, in positive fear,
there have been others, and some of them illustrious captains, that have
regarded them with other feelings. Marshall Turenne could amuse himself
for hours in playing with his kittens; and the great general, Lord
Heathfield, would often appear on the walls of Gibraltar, at the time of
the famous siege, attended by his favorite cat. Cardinal Richelieu was
also fond of cats; and when we have enumerated the names of Cowper and
Dr. Johnson, of Thomas Gray and Isaac Newton, and, above all, of the
tender-hearted and meditative Montaigne, the list is far from complete
of those who have bestowed on the feline race some portion of their
affections.
Butler, in his _Hudibras_, observes in an oft-quoted passage, that
"Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass."
And the annotator on this passage, in explanation, adds, that "Montaigne
in his Essays supposes his cat thought him a fool for losing his time in
playing with her;" but, under favor, this is a misinterpretation of the
essayist's sentiments, and something like a libel on the capacity of
both himself and cat. Montaigne's words are: "When I play with my cat,
who knows whether I do not make her more sport than she makes me? We
mutually divert each other with our play. If I have my hour to begin or
refuse, so also has she hers." Nobody who has read the striking essay in
which these words appear could a moment misconceive their author's
meaning. He is vindicating natural theology from the objections of some
of its opponents, and in the course of his argument he takes occasion to
dwell on the wonderful instincts, and almost rational sagacity of the
inferior animals. We must, however, lament that, although he does full
justice to the "half-reasoning elephant," to the aptitude and fidelity
of the dog, to the marvellous economical arrangements of the bees, and
even to the imitative capacity of the magpie, he pays no higher tribute
to the merits of the cat than that she is as capable of being amused as
himself, and like himself, too, has her periods of gravity when
recreative sports are distasteful. Her social qualities he does not
allude to, though he, so eminently social himself, could scarcely have
failed to appreciate them.
In this country, at this time, cats have superseded parlor favorites
decidedly less agreeable in their appearance, and infinitely more
mischievous in their habits. Writing in the seventeenth century, Burton
in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_, remarks that "Turkey gentlewomen, that
are perpetual prisoners, still mewed up according to the custom of the
place, have little else, beside their household business or to play with
their children, to drive away time but to dally with their cats, which
they have _in delitiis_, as many of our ladies and gentlewomen use
monkeys and little dogs." It is not the least merit of the cat that it
has banished from our sitting-rooms those frightful mimicries of
humanity--the monkey tribe; and as to the little dogs Tray, Blanch, and
Sweetheart, although we are not insensible to their many virtues and
utilities, we care not to see them sleeping on our hearth-rugs, or
reposing beside our work-tables.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] In the matter of fanaticism, the modern Egyptians, or rather the
inhabitants of Alexandria, seem hardly to have degenerated from their
ethnic "forbears" as we read in Mr. J. A. St. John's travels the account
of a serious insurrection which broke out some years ago in that city,
in consequence of certain Jews having taken up the butchers' trade, and
having slain the meat with a knife having _three_ instead of _five
nails_ in the handle!
From the Dublin University Magazine.
THE HEIRS OF RANDOLPH ABBEY.
I. THE MEETING IN THE STORM.
There was a wild storm out at sea--a storm by night--the winds and the
waves had begun to lift up their voices just when the tumult of the
world was hushed in the silent darkness, so that on the earth all was
tranquillity, while the ocean raged in fury: it was as though that
spirit of unrest which haunts the hearts of men, having been driven out
of them by the charm of sleep, had taken refuge here among the boiling
waters, and prepared to hold a frantic revel. The mad sea was a fitting
field for such a guest, and the fierce sport they made together seemed
designed for a mocking imitation of the stormy human passions, which
convulsed the land by day.
There was a mimic war in heaven--the thunder, for artillery, and the
shock of the electric clouds, like the meeting armies when
fellow-mortals do battle for destruction; then the beautiful lightning
was as the flashing hopes that gleam in at times on the darkness of the
soul, and often blast it in the passing of their fatal brightness. The
waves leapt, and rose, and sunk to rise no more, like men wrestling for
happiness and finding a grave, and over as the tempest swept by the rain
went with it, wildly weeping, as though its big, bursting drops were the
frantic tears of an earthly despair.
In the midst of all this senseless strife, a ship went struggling
helplessly. It was a piteous thing to see it, for it was so like a human
being, straining every nerve to keep above whelming waves; strong as
fate the billows bore it up towards the very heaven, then dashed it
down, and trampled on it like a fallen enemy; but the stout old oak
stood the shock, and as yet the good planks held together, though the
danger was imminent, and not one on board expected to see the light of
another day.
The scene on deck was very striking, for human nature was there stripped
of all disguise and all self-deceit before the presence of death. Pride
and ambition, ostentation and avarice--the fallacies of the world, the
complacent lies of society, the hopes and griefs that were of earth
alone--all unrealities, in short, had passed for these shivering,
helpless beings, with the life that seemed receding from them--that hour
of horror revealed them to themselves and to others: there would be no
more smiling lips over blackest hearts; no more bold looks over craven
spirits; those murderous waters, as they dashed them to and fro, wrung
from them the very secrets of their souls.
There were some there who carried a fair name through the world, and won
honor and praise for their virtuous living, that now shrieked out to the
pitiless winds, the detail of crimes which had deformed their soul
unseen. There were others who had seemed full of love to the beings who
cherished them, and now stole the rope or the spar from their straining
hands, that they might save themselves therewith whilst they left these
to perish; but still, whatever shape the frenzy of that perishing crew
might take, whether their cries were of remorse, or prayer, or impotent
rage, but one desire and instinct seemed to animate them all--the desire
into which every energy of their soul was gathered up and
concentrated--for the mortal life that was being rent from their
passionate grasp.
Life! life! it had been to many of them a torturer, full of anguish and
disappointments--a hard taskmaster, driving them on from day to day with
weary feet and heavy heart, as over arid deserts where no sweet waters
were springing from the wells of human love, or friendship, to slake
their thirst for sympathy; they had prayed for death, they had writhed
in the power of this life, and sought to be rid of it, as a prisoner of
his bonds,--and now, when the bubbling waves came sweeping over the deck
to their very throat, there uprose in each heart such an intensity of
love for it, that all other thoughts were swallowed up in this one
burning wish. They cared not who perished round them, the dearest and
the best; they cared not what torments it might bring them in the
future, only let them not feel its warm breath departing from their
lips, its throbbing from their heart.
Now, in the midst of all these beings hanging between life and
death--maddened by their terror for the one, and their passion for the
other--there were two who maintained a perfect serenity, and looked with
quiet eye and smiling face, upon the boiling surge which threatened to
ingulf them. The first of these was a young girl, who had been lashed to
a mast, against which she leant quite motionless; she was one of those
sweet spring flowers, whose bright and joyous aspect shows, that they
have known only the sunshine of life's early day; no sorrow as yet had
checked those bounding feet, that loved to spring so lightly over
woodland paths, nor hushed the carol of that gladsome voice, which
rivalled the summer bird in melody; cloudless and pure were her eyes as
the sky at dawn--fresh the soul within her as the morning dew; the
beauty of guilelessness, and of a heart at rest, shed a light around her
which had an indescribable charm. It was a strange thing to see her
there, looking out so serenely on the war of the elements; whilst others
wept and raved, no sound was heard from her, and though strong men lay
writhing at her feet in a paroxysm of terror, no thrill of fear shook
her tender frame; calmly she stood, her white garments shining in the
night, like the pure robes of some angel of peace; her sweet face shaded
by the golden glory of her long flowing hair, her fair hands folded over
her tranquil bosom, and a faint smile lingering on her parted lips,
like the soft light of a reflected moonbeam, on the still waters of a
lucid lake.
There was one there who, even in that hour of tumult and distress, could
not choose but look on her in her marvellous tranquillity; he, like
herself, was calm--the only other in all that trembling crew who faced
death with indifference. But it was sufficient to look upon his
countenance to read the secret of his silent courage; strange it was,
indeed, that she--so young, so fair, so like a snow-white lily--should
be ready to fall without a sigh into the embrace of the deadly
corruption; but it was no marvel that this man should be well content to
feel on his strong, passionate heart, the iron grasp which alone would
still its beating. A noble face was his, bearing the marked evidence of
a powerful mind, a resolute spirit, and a generous heart; but it was so
sorrowfully stern, so deeply shadowed with the gloom of some great
darkness which lay upon his soul, that it was plain the bitterness of
life alone had engendered this recklessness of death.
They had never met before, these two. She was so young, and he already
well-nigh past his prime, for he had numbered some forty years; yet now
the attraction of a common sentiment drew them towards one another as
though they had been kindred spirits. He was gazing intently upon her,
when she turned her bright, candid eyes towards him, and smiled. She
seemed willing to answer the question his looks were asking, concerning
the reason of her fearlessness in this great peril. There was a
momentary lull in the storm, and he suddenly walked towards her. It was
no time for the courtesies of the world, and he did not hesitate to
address her. "How is it that you alone can meet this appalling danger in
such perfect calm?" She answered him at once, as frankly as he spoke,
with a confiding, childlike smile upon her lips. "Because life, so far
as I have known it, has been so happy and so beautiful, that I believe
death must be more beautiful and happy still."
"What a marvellous doctrine; where can you have learned such untenable
philosophy?"
"I do not know what philosophy means. I have but said what I have been
taught by one who was my master. Life, which is a mystery, came to me
unasked, and I found it a most joyful thing; if death, a deeper mystery,
come alike unsought, why should I doubt it will be a yet more precious
gift? But look!" she continued eagerly, "is it not true that the storm
is abating?--the sailors are working cheerfully. Surely there is hope.
Oh! say that it is so; for, though I do not dread death, because I
believe that its gloom conceals some glorious joy, I do fear such
passage to it as this--the actual pain, the horror of drowning, the
sinking, choked and struggling, into that dark sea. Tell me, shall we
live?"
"Yes," he answered slowly, as he looked around the scene, where all gave
token that the tempest's wrath was spent. "I think, indeed, that the
danger is over; I think that we are saved. You may hear it in the
exulting of these trembling wretches who, but a few minutes since, were
crawling on the deck in abject supplication. Well, they have what they
asked, and soon they will curse the hour when their request was
granted."
She looked at him with an innocent surprise in her large, clear eyes.
She seemed to think him a being of a different nature from herself. At
last she spoke. "And now, since we two alone seemed well content to die,
when all others raved and shrieked for life, will you tell me why it was
that you were thus willing to be done of earth; for I can see it was not
because you believe, as I do, beauty, and goodness, and love in all
things, however dark and strange they seem as yet?"
"And did your master teach you," he said, with a bitter smile, "that
there is beauty in suffering?"
"Yes! in suffering, in pain, and death; for he said that beneath their
stern aspect there lay hidden treasures that were immortal, blessings
crowning us with stingless joy; but if you fear suffering, why do you
not fear to die: they say there is a pang in dying?"
"You answered my question, and I must answer yours; but it were better
for you not to know that such things can be in this world. I did not
fear, or rather I courted, the last struggle, because I have found the
agony of life sharper than the agony of death can be." He turned away
abruptly, as he spoke, and seemed desirous to close the interview; and
truly it was a strange conversation which had taken place between those
two, in the midst of that fierce, stormy night, with the waters gaping
open-mouthed for both their lives. It could not have occurred at all
under other circumstances. Two strangers could not thus have told out
their secret thoughts, had they not been driven by uncontrollable
impulse to a close companionship, because of the communion of feeling
which seemed to inspire both in that tremendous hour; but now that it
was past, that they must re-enter on the ordinary routine of life, the
words they had not scrupled to say to one another appeared to them both
as some strange, wild dream. When they met again, it was as though they
never had departed from the ordinary customs of society. Yet this brief
conversation was destined to have a weighty influence on the lives of
both of them.
Their next meeting was in the morning, when all traces of the midnight
storm had passed away--when, brighter and more beautiful than ever
before, the earth, and the sky, and the daylight seemed to the eyes that
had looked on death so near. The passengers were all collected on deck
once more, as they had been when the tempest was raging; but now it was
that they might weep fears of delight as they felt the glow of the
sunshine--that they might revel in the very throbbing of their pulses,
which told how the warm life-blood was careering, unchecked, through
their hearts.
Soon, however, the memory of their danger passed away, like a hateful
dream, and they began, according to the nature of men, to occupy
themselves, with a sort of unconscious interest, in the actual
circumstances passing before them.
The ship in which they were embarked was bound, from the coast of
Ireland to that of England. Her ultimate destination was a seaport town
in Devon; but at present she had suddenly swerved from her course, and
was making for the land just where a tract of richly-wooded country
attracted the eye by the luxuriance of its vegetation, and the evident
traces of that care and cultivation which are usually bestowed on the
estate of a wealthy proprietor. The vessel hove-to within a short
distance of the shore, and a boat was lowered. The captain informed any
curious inquirers that it was for the accommodation of some of the
passengers who were to disembark at the little fishing village now
visible on the coast. He was still speaking, when the noble-looking man
already mentioned came to take leave of him, and to thank him for his
efforts in the storm of the previous night. He then passed with a quiet,
stately step through the crowd of passengers, and went down into the
boat which was to convey him to the shore. He did not fail, however, to
look round anxiously for her, with whom he had become so strangely
acquainted; and it was with evident regret that he quitted the ship
without having seen her again. He had observed, during their short
voyage, that she was under the protection of an elderly lady, who
seemed, from a certain stiffness in her manners and appearance, to have
occupied, at some time, the post of governess; but during the storm she
had been so utterly prostrated by fear and bodily ailment, that she had
abandoned all care of her charge. Even in the morning, when all danger
was over, she appeared still too much stupefied to be of much service to
the young girl; and both ladies were evidently fortunate in having a
most efficient attendant in the old gray-haired man, whose primitive
appearance and manner seemed to indicate that he was a country servant.
The stranger was scarcely placed in the boat when, somewhat to his
surprise and pleasure, he saw this old man carefully depositing the
duenna of his young friend in a seat near him; and in another moment
there was a light footfall on the ladder, a waving of white garments,
and she was herself placed beside him, whilst the sailors, pushing off
from the side of the vessel, made all speed towards the shore. Both
turned round hastily, and their eyes met in a glance of recognition. "It
would seem our destination is the same," said he, with a smile; "at
least so far as the fishing village. After that, I cannot, indeed, hope
it, for the path which leads to my abode is not one that many would seek
to travel."
"Is your home near this?" she said eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it;
for perhaps you can tell me something of this country, which is quite
new to me."
"Most certainly I can," he answered. "I think I know every tree in the
wood, and every flower in the valleys; my whole life, so to speak, has
been passed in these localities."
"Then tell me, do you know Randolph Abbey?"
He started with a movement of the most uncontrollable agitation, and
looked at her almost fiercely, as though he suspected the intention of
her words; but her candid gaze disarmed him; he compressed his lips
firmly, which had grown deadly white, and answered composedly: "I do
know it well, most intimately; not only the Abbey, but its inhabitants;
they have been my friends these many years."
"Then you must be mine also," she said gayly; "for I am myself a
Randolph."
"I might have guessed it;" and he looked thoughtfully upon her.
"And you know them all--all the party I am going to meet?--for I was
told I should find so many relations there."
"I think I am acquainted with every one who ever crossed the threshold
of Randolph Abbey," he said with a faint smile; "from old Sir Michael
himself down to the great wolfdog Philax, who guards the outer gate; and
you are his niece, no doubt--the only child of his brother Edward."
"Yes, I am Lilias Randolph; did you know, then, that I was expected?"
"I have not been at the Abbey for some time," he answered, while an
expression of deep pain passed across his face; "but I know that Sir
Michael is collecting round him all his nearest heirs, that he may
choose amongst them one to whom he shall leave the Abbey and estate,
which he has the power of willing away to whom he pleases. I knew that
he sent for you to complete the number."
"Very true, and that alone damps my pleasure in going to see my new
relations, that this visit to my uncle is for such a purpose; however,"
she continued, laughing merrily, "with so many charming cousins as I
believe I have to dispute the prize with me, I think I need not fear
that it will fall to my share."
"Nevertheless, it were a fair possession," he said, turning round, and
pointing to the beautiful shore they were rapidly approaching. "All
those magnificent woods and green luxuriant fields, as far as your eye
can reach, belong to Randolph Abbey."
She looked with some interest on the lands which had been the heritage
of her ancestors; but soon withdrawing her eyes to gaze fixedly at him,
she said with some earnestness: "You seem to know so much more of my
family than I do myself, I should be thankful if you would give me some
information respecting those I am about to meet. I do not even know how
many cousins I have there. I have heard that I had several uncles, all
of whom died, except Sir Michael, but I have never seen any of their
children."
"Sir Michael had four brothers, of whom your father was the youngest,
and his favorite. They all died, each leaving a child. The heirs of the
three eldest have already been summoned to the Abbey, and now you will
complete the party."
"But will you not describe them to me, and my uncle and aunt?--they are
quite strangers to me."
"Describe them! I! impossible;" and his features, which had relaxed from
their habitual sternness while he spoke to her, suddenly assumed an
expression of severity which almost terrified her; the color mounted to
her fair face, as she felt that, perhaps, her request had been
unwarrantable to a perfect stranger. He saw her embarrassment, and
instantly the smile of singular sweetness, which at times rendered his
countenance almost beautiful, dispersed the passing shadow.
"You must excuse my abruptness," he said; "I have been so little
accustomed of late to the society of such as you are; but, indeed, it
were better you should go unbiased to receive your first impression of
your relations. Did you say you had never seen any of them?"
"None. I have lived all my life with my old dear grandfather in Ireland,
far from any town in the old house, among the wild green hills, which
was my poor mother's home. I never saw either of my parents, but I have
heard so much of her I seem quite to know her; my heart and spirit know
her; whereas of my father, and his family, I know literally nothing."
"The time is at hand, then," he said, pointing to the beach; "there
stands Sir Michael's carriage to convey you to the Abbey." She turned
her sweet countenance with a timid, anxious look to the shore, and he
gazed at her evidently with deep interest; suddenly he addressed her:
"You wished me to describe your cousins to you, and I could not; but
now, when I think that you are going quite alone amongst them all, I
feel strangely tempted to give you one caution: think what you will of
the others, and be as friendly with them as your heart prompts you, but
beware of----." A name seemed trembling on his lips; he plainly
struggled to utter it, and then some thought checked him. "No," he said,
speaking more to himself than to her, "it were an act of blind, human
policy to seek to shield her by any earthly scheming from the approach
of evil; let her go, powerful in her own innocence and purity of heart;
what better safeguard can she have than that deep guilelessness?" He saw
that she gazed at him in astonishment as he spoke--"You will scarce
regret," he continued, smiling, "that our acquaintance is drawing to a
close; I must seem to have dealt very strangely by you; and I have yet a
request to make before we part, which will, I fear, yet astonish you
still more. Will you promise me not to mention to any individual
whatever at Randolph Abbey that you have met me? you do not know my
name, but they would recognize me by your description, and I earnestly
desire I should not be spoken of amongst them." The fair, candid eyes
assumed an expression of gravity.
"Pray do not ask me this, for I cannot endure concealments."
"That I can well believe," he answered. "I would fancy your young mind
clear and limpid as the purest waters; but trust me, that I do not make
the request without a reason you would yourself approve of; you would
not wish to give pain to any one I know."
"Indeed I would not."
"Then you will not speak of me at Randolph Abbey, for by so doing you
would cause acute suffering--not to me, but to another."
"That is quite enough; I will promise you to be silent, unless some
unforeseen circumstance should compel me to speak of what has passed
between us."
"I thank you much," he said; "and now here we part. You will excuse my
not accompanying you to the carriage, as you have your servants, and I
do not wish to be seen by Sir Michael's people." The boat had reached
the shore; he leaped out and assisted her to disembark; then, still
holding her hand for a moment, he looked at her with the strange, sweet
smile which so beautified his face, and said--"I need scarcely say, all
good be with you, for I feel it must be so. There are many stern natures
in this world, but none cruel enough, I am sure, to betray so trusting a
heart, or cause such cloudless eyes to grow dim in tears; you never will
deceive or injure any, and, therefore, will deceits and wrong fall
harmless round you. Your own frank and unsuspecting goodness will be as
invincible armor upon you, and fear not, therefore, when you find
yourself in the midst of the toils which crafty human nature spreads
over life; walk on in truth and guilelessness, according as your own
generous impulse dictates, and I do not doubt that the pure and gentle
spirit of the woman will come forth unscathed, where many a stronger has
been scorched and withered; for you will soon learn that the dangerous
paths of this world are over hidden fires and by treacherous pitfalls."
With these strange words he left her before she had time to answer him;
it seemed to her that what he had said was not intended as a mere
general remark, but that it applied directly to herself, from some
secret knowledge he possessed of her future prospects. She remained
looking after him in astonishment, not unmixed with interest in one who
seemed so strangely to have assumed the position of friend and
counsellor towards her; the echo of his voice still ringing in her ears,
so full of mournful sweetness, and the haunting melancholy of the eyes
which had read her inmost soul, oppressed her with a feeling of sadness
very new to her light heart. She saw him mount a horse which his servant
held in readiness for him, and, in another instant, he had disappeared
in the woods. With him, however, passed the cloud he had raised; a
thousand new objects of interest were before her, and her eyes seemed to
catch the very sunbeams as they passed, while her light feet bounded
eagerly to the spot where Sir Michael's servants awaited her.
II. THE OLD MAN'S REVENGE ON THE DEAD.
In a small room, darkened by the deepening shadows of the twilight, sat
a withered old man--looking infinitely more like a necromancer of some
centuries back than an English baronet of the present day. The species
of cell in which he sat was placed in the loftiest turret of Randolph
Abbey, as far separated as possible from the apartments inhabited by the
family. It was entirely filled with a variety of scientific instruments,
which seemed to be in constant requisition; the quaint, old latticed
window was thrown wide open, and a telescope fixed at it, in the proper
position for a contemplation of the heavenly bodies by night. At the
other end of the room was fixed an apparatus for chemical experiments,
and here Sir Michael was seated, poring over some liquid which he was
subjecting to the influence of a spirit-lamp. He wore a black velvet
cap, which contrasted forcibly with the fixed livid color of his face,
and his person was enveloped in an ample dressing-gown of the same
material, in which the shrivelled, meagre form seemed almost lost. It
seemed incredible that a living frame should be so wasted and shrunken
as his was--the skin had literally dried on his hands, till they were
like those of a skeleton. There was nothing lifelike in his whole
appearance, except the small, piercing eyes, which glittered with a
startling brightness.
Who could have imagined, to look upon him, that within this withered
body there glowed the most intense and ardent passions it can be given
to a human being to feel on earth!
No young man, in the strength and energy of his prime, ever loved with
so fierce a love, or hated with so bitter a hate, as did this worn,
attenuated being; in truth, it was the fire, undiminished still, of the
strong, passionate heart that throbbed in so frail a tenement, which had
sapped the very springs of life within him, and dried up the blood in
his veins.
Even now, the ceaseless activity with which he busied himself in his
chemical experiments, the convulsive twitching of his mouth from
excessive eagerness, was but the result of the one burning thought that
consumed him, and from which he sought relief in physical action. He
cared nothing at all for these things about which he occupied himself,
but long practice, systematically undertaken, and his own great ability,
had rendered him a wonderful adept in science; he had resolutely become
so, because he knew that these subtle experiments, and the singular
combinations they produced, must, to a certain degree, prove an aliment
to the intolerable restlessness produced by the one strong passion that
lay feeding at his heart, like a serpent coiled around it.
It was a glorious summer day, and outside the thick walls of the turret
the sunlight was glancing, and the green trees waving in the wind; but
he dared not go out to the free air and the smiling nature, for, if
released from the occupation he had created for himself, because it
demanded such incessant attention, the current of thought, undiverted
from its natural course, would too surely ebb back upon his soul with
its waters of exceeding bitterness; and therefore had many years of this
old man's wretched life been spent as he was spending this present
hour--bending over the glowing crucible, that he might avert the shock
of the antagonistic properties which he had purposely combined, in order
that his mind might be engaged in preventing the collision. None knew
better than himself how profitless and miserable was this existence he
had made, but except he fed, even with this food of ashes, the serpent
thought that haunted him, it would have preyed on him to madness. Truly
that dark fluid, beneath which his withered fingers were even now so
busily turning the powerful flame, was an apt symbol of his own
life--wasting away before the hidden fire which himself was goaded on to
foster hour by hour.
Absorbed as he seemed to be in his strange employment, he nevertheless
heard with great acuteness the approach of some person, who knocked
softly at the door and then opened it. Sir Michael turned round eagerly;
the new comer was a servant, who said quickly, "My lady wishes to speak
to you, Sir," and disappeared at once, as though the locality was one in
which he by no means desired to find himself.
But the old man had heard the message, and through all the red glow cast
by the flaming lamp, his livid face grew ghastlier still with strong
emotion. He leant back in his chair, breathing quick and hard, and with
his hand pressed to his side; then rising hastily, he gathered the long
black garment round him, and left the room, heedless of the boiling
liquid, whose ingredients it had required days to combine, and which
now, overflowing in the crucible, was lost entirely. Through the
vaulted passages of the noble old building the Lord of Randolph Abbey
took his way, stealing along within the shadow of the wall, the
shrivelled hands still clasped over his bosom, and trembling with
agitation. One might have fancied him the spectre of some old miser,
creeping back to visit the beloved gold which had turned, as it were, to
molten lead, crushing him within his grave; but it was, indeed, hard to
believe that this was the possessor of as noble an estate as ever came
to a man from the dead hands of a long line of ancestors, and that
wealth well nigh untold was at his command. He crossed the great hall, a
magnificent room, lighted by an immense Gothic window at the one end,
whilst the other was occupied by a large organ, whence he went through
various passages, covered with the softest carpets and lined with silken
hangings. It was plain that he was on the outskirts of a region where
luxury was systematically studied. At length he reached a door, which
was closed only by heavy curtains, and there paused for a moment.
A voice was heard within, a clear, full-toned voice, talking, as it
would seem, in terms of endearment to some animal; and as it came
murmuring on his ear, there stole a light into that old man's eyes, a
light reflected from the bright, spring-time of life, when first he had
heard those tones, and vowed to follow their sweet sound the wide world
over, little dreaming they would lure him through a labyrinth of such
varied agonies; his whole countenance was softened by the gleaming of
that pure affection from his eyes, for it was the memory of the young
fresh love that still held unalterable dominion over him. This was his
misery, that it was as young as ever in his aged heart, strong and lusty
beyond what the withered frame could bear; but no longer fresh and true,
no longer guiltless, for it will be seen how this deep love had
engendered a deeper hate.
With the beauty of that tenderness still lingering on his face, he drew
back the curtain and passed into the room; and straight-way was he met
by the glance of stinging, cold disdain that all these many years had,
hour by hour, and day by day, tortured his love to madness, and lashed
his very soul to fiercest irritability. A most beautiful woman was Lady
Randolph, though now in the ripe autumn of her days; stately and
magnificent in dress and appearance, with pride in every gesture and
movement, and a haughty self-love filling that swelling breast, and
curling the finely chiselled lips. She was surrounded by the utmost
refinement of luxury, and lay extended on a chaise lounge, with a
delicate little Italian greyhound nestling beside her, to whom she
continued to talk in fondling accents, even when her husband stood
before her. Yet there was no symptom of an indolent disposition in her
appearance; there was, on the contrary, a flashing gleam in the proud
eyes, which seemed to tell of fiery energy.
These met him, as we have said, with a glance of withering contempt,
which caused the shrivelled frame to shake and quiver. Yet memory had
been busy at his heart, when he heard her voice come softly through the
curtain, as once through the green shade of the whispering woods, in his
summer time of love and hope. There was a tremulous softness in his
tone, a sad deprecating of her disdain, when he spoke to her. "You
wished to see me, Catherine."
"Only that I might give you a piece of intelligence, no doubt most
gratifying to you; another of your heirs has obeyed your summons; I am
told that Lilias Randolph is arrived."
She spoke as if she could have wished that every word should cut to his
very heart; it was plain that the fact thus announced had somehow
touched a wound of rankling bitterness in her own. She went on, gazing
fixedly at him with the most frigid coldness, "This Lilias is the
daughter of your favorite brother, is she not? I presume she will be the
fortunate individual on whom your choice will probably fall.
Henceforward, then, it may be a pleasant subject of speculation for me,
whether this girl, whom you have never so much as seen, will vouchsafe a
crust of bread to your widow, and a garret to shelter her in the home
she shared with you."
He writhed under these bitter words, and wrung his withered hands. He
spoke with moaning voice, like that of a child in pain--"Catherine,
Catherine, it is yourself who have forced me to it. You know how,
living, all that I have is yours,--my whole wealth utterly at your
command; dying, as soon I must, how thankful would I leave all I possess
to you; yes, thankful should I be to think that from the very grave my
love had still the power to benefit and bless you--if you would but give
me the pledge I ask. You know how from this overwhelming affection which
I have given you these long, interminable years, there has been born a
hate deeper, deeper even than its parent love, for it constrains me
rather to endure the bitterness of your reproaches, the agony of leaving
you destitute on earth, than consent that even one inch of my property,
one penny of my wealth, should pass from your hands to the offspring of
the man I have abhorred."
"Yes! and to have so abhorred him, the best and noblest of his kind--and
now to hate his helpless child--I tell you, you can have no heart of man
within you, but the very nature of a tiger, cruel and crafty. A deadly
hate it must be, truly, which can pursue a man into his very rest of
death, and wound the poor corpse in the person of his son. Oh! how could
you abhor him--you who have seen him in his living grace and goodness?"
"Because he loved you," almost shrieked the old man; "and oh,
Catherine, my wife, so long and vainly dear, because you loved him
also."
"I did, and do," she exclaimed, weeping passionate tears; "oh! how I
love him still, my first, my only choice, the husband of my youth, the
father of my child. You thought I should forget him, did you, in the
midst of all this luxury? I tell you I love his green and narrow grave,
with the dead ashes it contains, ten thousandfold better than this
palace home and the living husband within it." The withering scorn with
which she uttered these last words seemed to madden him.
"What, you doat on his very grave," he said, stamping his foot, "and by
the side of it you would have starved, a penniless widow, had I not
taken you."
Her breast heaved with anger--"And should I not have been well content
to starve, rather than eat that bitter bread which I bought with the
title of your wife: but the child, his child and mine, would have
perished, or lived in misery; and for his sake, for my lost husband's
sake, I married you, that I might the better cherish the poor son he
left me."
"Oh! why will you torture me? It is true, that, from the days of our
first meeting, you have fostered within me the unconquerable hate which,
for my agony and yours, has grown mightier than the mighty love I bear
you. It is by this wanton lavishing upon him, and now upon his son, of
the tenderness I sought with a life's idolatry to gain, which has
curdled the very blood within my heart, and makes me feel that I would
rather leave you to languish in the worst of poverty than furnish you
the means of blessing him with all life's treasures, and dwelling with
him in delight, when I can no longer claim your presence, by the wife's
obedience, if not alas! alas! by the woman's love. No, though my
resolution has made our life a miserable struggle, yet am I immovable in
this--I never will go down into the dungeon of the grave, and know that
over my impotent dust the son of my rival is revelling in all my wealth,
dwelling in my home, making you happy, as you never were when at my
side, because he has the likeness of his father in his face. Already is
it torture to me to know he is within these walls; and often I have
thought that, madly as I love you, it was a dear-bought pleasure to have
you as my wife, when the condition on which you came to me was the
presence of this hateful boy. Oh, Catherine, be advised, give him
up--strange object of affection, truly!"--and he laughed bitterly--"not
to starve--he is your son--I do not ask it; but to go and live upon a
pittance somewhere out of my sight and thoughts. Then give me this easy
pledge, that he never shall inherit Randolph Abbey, and I will have no
other heir but you. With your own hands, if you will, you then may drive
out all these children of my brothers; I care not what becomes of them;
and here you shall be a very queen, possessor of the whole fair lands
for ever."
He had given her time to quell her emotion in this earnest speech, and
he shuddered as he met the look of impassible and contemptuous
determination with which she answered him--"Why will you weary me with
proposals which I have a hundred times rejected, and will reject again,
as often as it shall please you to amuse yourself by making them. I
require no more of these detailed assurances that you design to be, as
you have ever been, my bitter enemy."
"Catherine, is it to be an enemy to worship you as I have done?"
"Yes! a remorseless enemy, and this selfish worship my sorest
persecution. What other name were fitting for you, who, in your jealous
hate, have struck blow after blow upon my miserable heart, in the
persons of those most dear to me? Did you not, by your machinations,
deprive my noble husband of the employment by which he lived, and then,
rolling in riches as you were, did you ever stretch one finger to save
him from the wasting poverty which brought him to the grave? Are you not
his murderer?" and she grew fearfully excited. "Did you not hide all
from me, till I discovered it long after I was your wretched wife, when,
had I known it, you never should have so much as touched this hand of
mine?"
"But, remember, remember; he had done me a deadly wrong--he stole you
from me. What injury I ever did him was like to this?"
"It might have been an injury," she said, with a bitter smile, "had he
stolen my love from you; but this you never had, Sir Michael
Randolph--not even before I knew him. I loved luxury and greatness, as I
do now, and I had agreed to marry the Lord of Randolph Abbey, as such,
and nothing more. Then I met your gentle cousin Lyle, and the sweet
power of affection overcame ambition. My first love was, if you will,
your fair estate; but he was my second, and my last, for ever!"
"Do you not fear to speak such words to me?" he said, his face growing
white with anger, "and to irritate me thus bitterly, when you know I
have no power to control the fierceness of my passions? Do you not dread
my vengeance?"
"No; for whilst you live you can never injure me; your own heart would
resist your efforts so to do; and besides, the bonds that unite us would
prevent it. You never can take from me the right to share your home, and
find my chief pleasure in its luxury; nor can you, by the oath which I
made you take as the condition of our marriage, in any way deprive my
child of the shelter of this roof."
"It is true, I cannot; though I would give my right hand to do it!"
"That may be," said the scornful voice, "but you cannot escape your vow
any more than I can the marriage oath. And now, we have had enough of
these odious scenes of mutual reproach. You have fully instructed me in
your resolve, to punish a dead man for the love I bear his ashes, by
depriving myself and my son, after your death, of the estate I have
shared with you. I am fully aware of your intentions, and I congratulate
you on the pleasant task you have prepared for yourself, of choosing an
heir amongst half-a-dozen needy relations; and, now, if you have any
doubt as to my plans, I will tell you them, once for all, and let there
be an end to this childish struggling between us. I married you in order
to procure a home for my son, and for myself the luxury in which my
nature delights; both of these you are bound to give us in your
lifetime, and you are decided to dispossess us of them hereafter. If,
then, your belief that you have an incurable malady be true, we have not
long to enjoy these benefits, for which I sacrificed that which is
dearest to a woman's heart--the faithfulness of her worship to one
alone; and, therefore, since the price I paid for them has proved so
tremendous, I will, at least, make the most of them while they are left
to me. My son shall not stir one hour from this house; I will not
descend one step from my place, as mistress of the Abbey and all your
wealth; and, if we survive you, as you predict, I will promise you not
to curse your memory, because I should lose my self-respect in so doing,
since, be you what you may, I have given you the title of my husband."
And the haughty woman turned from him as she spoke, sweeping her
gorgeous robes after her with so dignified a movement, so stately a
curve of the proud neck, that his anger was almost quelled in admiration
of her queen-like beauty. Lady Randolph had reached the door, when she
paused and looked back, "We have forgotten Lilias Randolph: is it your
pleasure to receive her here in my presence?"
"Yes, send for her at once," he answered, eagerly seizing a pretext to
keep her in his sight; for, despite her bitter words--despite the age
which sent the blood so sluggishly through his veins--he ever felt, when
she left the room, that going forth of strength from the soul with the
departing of one beloved, which is the penalty of a deep affection. She
rung a little silver hand-bell, and desired that the new-comer should be
conducted to this room; and then she sat down immovably to await her,
without glancing at her husband. She was, to all appearance, calm; but
the heaving chest showed how the proud heart was still beating fast,
whilst he shook in every limb, like an aged tree, over which a storm had
passed. He gazed intently upon her, as in her presence he ever did, and
at last, seeming irritated at her silence, he said, in a voice tremulous
with passion--"Remember, Lady Randolph, that however bitterly you hate
me, I will have none of it reflected back upon my niece. Lilias Randolph
must find here a home, and a happy one. I will have it so: and no unkind
treatment of yours must render it otherwise."
"I do not wonder you should fear that I may have learned in _this_ house
the exercise of petty tyranny, and the punishing of the innocent for the
crimes of others; but we do not easily learn that which is against our
nature, and I think experience may tell you that your lessons have
failed. Is there one of the Randolphs now located in this house who can
complain of me, in any way whatsoever?"
He was glad that the sound of approaching footsteps prevented the
necessity of an answer. Both turned to the door to greet Lilias
Randolph.
She came in like a very sunbeam, all light and peace, dispersing, as it
were, by her presence, the storm of angry passions that had been raging
there. Both of them were disposed to meet her with preconceived
animosity, but they were at once disarmed by the serene purity of her
aspect. The large candid eyes, with their timid glance, half shy, half
free, so like a young fawn; the sweet face, glowing beneath the soft
hair, with a faint blush of diffidence; the whole atmosphere of
innocence, and hope, and loving kindness towards all men, which seemed
to be around her, had power to stir long silent depths in both those
seared and angry hearts; the bitter strife, whose cause and results had
become magnified to their distorted vision, to an importance which
nothing on this fleeting earth could really merit, almost melted away
before _her_ presence, who seemed prepared to walk through life in such
joyousness and singleness of heart, with eyes that could see nothing but
beauty, and a mind that could perceive only goodness. Lady Randolph came
forward, and took her hand with a degree of politeness which Sir Michael
knew to be a most unwonted act of condescension, but which to the
sunny-hearted Lilias seemed to be a very cold, repulsive welcome. She
looked up with her clear eyes to the proud, handsome face that bent over
her and wondered if it was of this stately lady that she was to beware,
for the half-uttered words of the stranger had impressed her strangely,
and the one thought, that there was to be for her a hidden enemy within
these walls, had appeared to haunt her very footsteps ever since she
entered Randolph Abbey. Sir Michael approached, and Lady Randolph at
once let fall the little hand that fluttered in her own. Lilias timidly
advanced towards her uncle; involuntarily he put his arm round her, and
stroked down the soft brown hair: "Poor Edward," he murmured, "how
wonderfully you resemble him."
"Then you will love me for his sake, will you not?" and she looked
coaxingly up to him.
"Dear child, would that you could be like what he was, to me, the only
creature who ever loved me."
"And now I will be another; only let me try to take his place." She put
her arms round his neck and nestled close to him, till the old man felt,
as it were, the warmth of a new life creep into his breast from the
beating of the pure young heart beside him. He pressed her fondly to
him; it was so long since any one had seemed to consider him as a being
for whom it was possible to feel the least affection, that her gentle
words were strangely soothing to him. Suddenly she started in his arms,
for the door was closed with great violence; it was Lady Randolph, who
had left the room, and she wondered at the strange gleam of pleasure
which lit up the livid face of her uncle. Unconsciously she shrunk from
him as from something evil; but little indeed could that innocent mind
conceive of the feeling which made him exalt in having thus drawn forth
an indication of jealous anger from the wife who so long had crushed him
with her cold contempt. Lilias remained with her uncle, and told him the
brief history of her untroubled life; all things connected with her
seemed gentle, pure, and happy, even where images of death forced their
way amongst them. He listened as to some melodious poem, whilst she told
him of her mother, the sweet Irish girl, who had lured his brother
Edward, in early youth, from all the grandeur of Randolph Abbey, to come
and dwell with her among the Connaught hills; and how, as Lilias had
heard from her old nurse, they had been the fairest couple ever seen,
living for one another only, and thinking earth a paradise, because they
walked upon it hand in hand.
"And then, dear uncle," continued Lilias, "it seemed as though they
feared that time or change should make them less beloved one to another;
or since that could never be, that any evil should rise up to separate
them even for one day; and so they went and lay down side by side in the
green churchyard, where none could seek them out, to trouble the silent
love they knew would live beyond the grave. My father died the first,
and my mother laid her head upon his heart, when it ceased to beat, and
never lifted it again; and so they buried them just as they were, and
she lies there still, most sweetly sleeping. She said, just before she
expired, that his heart had been her resting-place in life, and should
be so in death; and so it was, and is even yet, a blessed rest.--Is it
not, dear uncle?"
He almost crushed her hand in his, and said, "Tell me no more of them,
Lilias, I cannot bear it;" he was thinking how the proud feet of his
disdainful wife would spurn the turf from his unhappy grave.
Lilias thought it pained him to hear of the brother's death whom he had
so loved, and therefore gently changing the subject, she began to tell
him of her own happy childhood and youth--how she had lived with her
good old grandfather, the pastor of a country village, roaming the hills
all day a free and joyous child, and in the evening sitting by his side,
gaining from him all needful learning, and many tender counsels to
smooth her path in life: and how the one bright lesson he had ever
taught her was to have deep faith in the love and goodness pervading all
things inwardly, even as beauty clothes the world outwardly; to believe
that however dark, and bitter, and mysterious might seem the destinies
of man, yet all has a merciful purpose, and shall have a joyous ending,
if only we will have patience, and hope, and loving-kindness one towards
another; and how she was to fear nothing on this earth, not pain, nor
sorrow, nor death, for that all these were tender messengers working
their work of mercy; and how she never was to suspect evil or to look
for it in others, but ever to seek only that which was good and pure in
them, for that there is not in the world a soul, however stained, but
has some fair spot lingering from the brightness with which it was
clothed when it came forth--a new-created spirit, bright as a star. So
she spoke, telling her gentle, happy ideas in a sweet murmuring voice,
and Sir Michael felt, with every word she uttered, that from this wise
and beautiful teaching she had come out the sweetest, purest, most
loving of human beings, ever ready to cast back all thought or shadow of
evil, and seek only that which is lovely and of good report--the germ of
which is every where to be found, even in the blackest heart that ever
weighed down the breast of man; and so, bending over her, Sir Michael
kissed the spotless forehead, and internally resolved that she, and none
other, should be his heiress, the possessor of Randolph Abbey: but he
said nothing, for when he had summoned the children of his four brothers
to come and reside with him, that he might make choice of an heir, he
had announced to them that they were to have a probation of six months,
during which time he designed to judge of their merits, without making
any announcement of his decision, till the period had expired.
III.-THE ASSEMBLING OF THE HEIRS IN PRESENCE OF THE JUDGE.
Through the dark old hall, from which the lingering twilight was
excluded, came Lilias Randolph towards the room where she was to meet
the assembled family, and make acquaintance with her competitors. It was
a fairer sight than these grim walls had witnessed for many a day, to
see her wandering down, with her sunny hair and snowy garments, among
the suits of armor and warlike relics of ancient times which lay around
on all sides: there was a grace in all her movements, a softness and
purity in her aspect, which made her ever seem like a moving light, and
now, in that shadowy expanse, her glancing form was almost the flitting
of moon-beams along the wall. She paused one moment at the door, and
though her thoughts were busy with the recollection that amongst those
she was about to meet there was to be found, she knew not where, a
dangerous foe, yet did not her heart beat one stroke the faster beneath
the gentle hands so calmly crossed upon her breast. She felt that she
had injured none, she knew that never would she desire aught but the
well-being of all around her, and therefore she feared nothing that man
could do, for she was well convinced that there are limits set to the
unprovoked wrong.
In another moment she stood within the room--a lofty saloon,
magnificently furnished, and of great size; there were two fireplaces,
but the whole group were collected round one, for although the summer
was just bursting over the earth, the evenings were still chilly.
She distinguished at first only Sir Michael and Lady Randolph--the
former crouching down in a huge arm-chair, the latter standing so as to
display her majestic height, with an arm laden with jewels leaning on
the mantelpiece. She saw the young girl come in; but the other persons
present were turned from the door, and none heard the light footfall on
the thick carpet till the childlike form, all fair and white, stood
close to her aunt, contrasting strangely with the haughty lady in her
dark velvet robes.
Lilias looked up; so strange is the power of a few brief human words,
that, as she gazed from face to face, it was with the question in her
heart, "Which of you is to be my enemy?" Before her stood two young men,
both strikingly handsome, but most unlike: one, who appeared to be the
eldest, was a noble specimen of joyous, hardy youth--a fine open
countenance, from which the dark had been dashed away as with a free
hand, a gay smile, a bold, clear eye, a mellow voice--these were all
indications of what he truly was--a frank, generous-hearted man, with
great nobility of sentiment and a rare sincerity. The other were less
easily described, and seemed of a very different stamp; slighter of
make, and with a fairer face, he seemed the very embodiment of meekness
and gentleness, and his large, almond-shaped blue eyes were seldom
raised when he spoke; and yet there was a refined intelligence beaming
in every line of his countenance: the soft silken hair and delicate
hands might have graced a woman, and Lilias inwardly decided, as she
looked on him, that he must be a gentle spirit, easily broken; little
fitted to battle with the rough world. He, at least, could never be one
of whom any should beware, nor yet could the beaming countenance of that
bolder man hide aught but a noble heart; where then was her future
enemy? it must be the third of her unknown cousins. Lady Randolph now
named these to her: Walter was the elder, son to Sir Michael's soldier
brother, who died heroically on the field of battle; Gabriel, the child
of one who had disgraced his family by a concealed marriage with a woman
of low rank. She stated these circumstances as calmly as though the
offspring of this person had not been standing before her: he listened
to the contemptuous allusion to his mother without a word or movement;
but Lilias saw the slight hands tremble violently and the chest heave.
Was it with anger or shame?
"This is not all," said Sir Michael, who had watched the scene; he
turned to Lady Randolph--"Will she come?"
His wife made no answer, but walked towards a small door which seemed to
open into some inner apartment: she opened it, pronounced the name of
"Aletheia," and returned to her place. There was a pause. Lilias had
heard no sound of steps, but suddenly Walter and Gabriel moved aside,
she looked up, and Sir Michael himself placing a hand within hers,
said--"This is your cousin Aletheia; her father, my third brother, died
only last year." The hand she held sent a chill through Lilias's whole
frame, for it was cold as marble, and when she fixed her eyes on the
face that bent over her, a feeling of awe and distress, for which she
could not account, seemed to take possession of her.
It was not a beautiful countenance, far from it, yet most remarkable;
the features were fixed and still as a statue, rigid, with a calm so
passionless, that one might have thought the very soul had fled from
that form, the more so as the whole of the marble face was overspread
with the most extraordinary paleness. There was not a tinge of color in
the cheek, scarce even on the lips, and the dead white of the forehead
contrasted quite unnaturally with the line of hair, which was of a soft
brown, and gathered simply round the head; it was as though some intense
and awful thought lay so heavy at her heart that it had curdled the very
blood within it, and drawn it away from the veins that it might be
traced distinctly under the pure skin. It was singular that the
immovable stillness of that face whispered no thought of soothing rest,
for it was a stillness as of death--a death to natural joys and
feelings; and mournfully from under their heavy lids, the eyes looked
out with a deep, earnest gaze, which seemed to ignore all existing
sights and things, and to be fixed on vacancy alone. Aletheia wore a
dress of some dark material, clasped round the throat, and falling in
heavy folds from the braid which confined it at the waist; she stood
motionless, holding the little warm hand Sir Michael had placed in hers,
without seeming almost to perceive the girlish form that stood before
her. There could not have been a greater contrast than between that pale
statue and the bright, glowing Lilias, the play of whose features, ever
smiling or blushing, was fitful as waters sparkling beneath the
sunbeam.
"Do you not welcome your cousin, Aletheia," said Sir Michael, with a
frown. She started fearfully, as if she had been roused by a blow, from
the state in which she was absorbed. She looked down at Lilias, who felt
as if the deeply mournful eyes sent a chill to her very soul. Then the
mouth relaxed to an expression of indescribable sweetness, which gave,
for one second, a touching beauty to the rigid face; a few words,
gentle, but without the slightest warmth, passed from her pale lips.
Then they closed as if in deep weariness. She let fall the hand of
Lilias, and glided back to a seat within the shadow of the wall, where
she remained, leaning her head on the cushions, as though in a
death-like swoon. Lilias looked inquiringly at her aunt, almost fearing
her new-found cousin might be ill. But Lady Randolph merely answered,
"It is always so;" and no further notice was taken of her.
They went to dinner shortly after, and Lilias thought there could not be
a more complete picture of comfort and happiness than the luxurious
room, with its blazing fire, and warm crimson hangings, and the large
family party met round the table, where every imaginable luxury was
collected. Little did her guilelessness conceive of the deep drama
working beneath that fair outward show. Her very ignorance of the world
and its ways, prevented her feeling any embarrassment amongst those who,
she concluded, must be her friends, because they were her relations, and
she talked gayly and happily with Walter, who was seated next to her,
and who seemed to think he had found in her a more congenial spirit than
any other within the walls of Randolph Abbey. All the rest of the party,
excepting one, joined in the conversation: Lady Randolph, with a few
coldly sarcastic remarks, stripped every subject she touched upon of all
poetry or softness of coloring; she seemed to be one whom life had
handled so roughly that it could no longer wear any disguise for her,
and at once, in all things, she ever grasped the bitterness of truth,
and wished to hold its unpalatable draught to the shrinking lips of
others. Sir Michael listened with interest to every word which Lilias
uttered, and encouraged her to talk of her Irish life; whilst Gabriel,
with the sweetest of voices, displayed so much talent and brilliancy in
every word he said, that he might well have excited the envy of his
competitors, but for the extraordinary humility which he manifested in
every look and gesture. There was one only who did not speak, and to
that one Lilias's attention was irresistibly drawn. She could not
refrain from gazing, almost in awe, on Aletheia, with her deadly pale
face and her fixed, mournful eyes, who had not uttered a word, nor
appeared conscious of any thing that was passing around her; and her
appearance, as she sat amongst them, was as though she was for ever
hearing a voice they could not hear, and seeing a face they could not
see. Lilias had yet to learn that "things are not what they seem" in
this strange world, and that mostly we may expect to find the hidden
matter below the surface directly opposite to that which appears above.
She therefore simply concluded that this deep insensibility resulted
from coldness of heart and deadness of feeling, and gradually the
conviction deepened in her mind, that Aletheia Randolph was the name
which had trembled on the lips of her unknown friend, when he warned her
to beware of some one of her new relatives. It seemed to her most likely
that one so dead and cold should be wholly indifferent to the feelings
of others, and disposed only to work out her own ends as best she might;
and thus, by a few unfortunate words, the seeds of mistrust were sown in
that innocent heart against one most unoffending, and a deep gulf was
fixed between those two, who might have found in each other's friendship
a staff and support whereon to lean, when for either of them the winds
blew too roughly from the storms of life.
Once only that evening did Lilias hear the sound of Aletheia's voice,
and then the words she uttered seemed so unnatural, so incomprehensible,
to that light heart in its passionless ignorance, that they did but tend
to increase the germ of dislike, and even fear, that was, as we have
said, already planted there against this singular person. It was after
they had returned to the drawing-room that some mention was made of the
storm of the preceding evening, to which Lilias had been exposed. Walter
was questioning her as to its details, with all the ardor of a bold
nature, to whom danger is intoxicating. "But, I suppose," he continued,
smiling, "you were like all women, too much terrified to think of any
thing but your own safety?"
"No," said Lilias, lifting up her large eyes to his with a peculiar look
of brightness, which reminded him of the dawning of morning, "the
appearance of the tempest was so glorious that its beauty filled the
mind, and left no room for fear. I wish you could have seen it. It was
as though some fierce spirit were imprisoned behind the deep black veil
that hung over the western heavens, to whom freedom and power were
granted for a little season; for suddenly one vivid, tremendous flash of
lightning seemed to cleave asunder that dark wall, and then the wild,
liberated storm came thundering forth, shrieking and raging through the
sky, and tearing up the breast of the sea with its cruel footsteps. It
was the grandest sight I ever saw."
"I think there must have been another yet more interesting displayed on
board the vessel itself," said the sweet, low voice of Gabriel. "I
should have loved rather to watch the storms and struggles of the human
soul in such an hour of peril as you describe."
"Ah! that was very fearful," said Lilias, shuddering. "I cannot bear to
think of it. That danger showed me such things in the nature of man as I
never dreamt of. I think if the whirlwind had utterly laid bare the
depths of the sea, as it seemed striving to do, it could not have
displayed more monstrous and hideous sights than when its powers
stripped those souls around me of all disguise."
"Pray give us some details," said Gabriel, earnestly. He seemed to long
for an anatomy of human nature in agony, as an epicure would for a
feast.
Lilias was of too complying a disposition to refuse, though she
evidently disliked the task. "One instance may be a sufficient example
of what I mean," she said. "There was a man and his wife, whom, previous
to the storm, I had observed as seeming so entirely devoted to one
another; he guarded her so carefully from the cold winds of evening, and
appeared to live only in her answering affection. Now, when the moment
of greatest peril came--when the ship was reeling over, till the great
mountains of waves threatened to sweep every living soul from the deck,
and the only safety was in being bound with ropes to the masts--I saw
this man, who had fixed himself to one with a cord that was not very
strong, and who held his wife clasped in his arms, that the waters might
not carry her away. At last there came one gigantic billow, whose power
it seemed impossible to withstand; then I saw this man withdraw the
support of his arm from the poor creature, who seemed anxious only to
die with him, and use both his hands to clasp the pole which sustained
him. She gave a piteous cry, more for his cruelty, I feel sure, than her
own great peril; but with the impulse of self-preservation, she suddenly
grasped the frail cord which bound him. Then he, uttering an impious
curse, lifted up his hand--I can scarcely bear to tell it." And Lilias
shivered, and grew pale.
"Go on," said Walter, breathlessly.
"He lifted up his hand, and struck her with a hard, fierce blow, which
sent her reeling away to death in the boiling sea; for death it would
have been, had not a sailor caught her dress and upheld her till the
wave was passed."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Walter.
"Oh, miserable to be thus rescued! Happy--thrice happy had she died,"
said a deep-toned, mournful voice behind her.
Lilias started uncontrollably, and looked round. The words had been
spoken very low, and as if unconsciously, like a soul holding converse
with some other soul, rather than a human being communicating with those
of her own kind; yet she felt that they came from Aletheia, who had been
sitting for the last hour like an immovable statue, in a high-backed
oaken chair, where the shadow of the heavy curtain fell upon her. She
had remained there pale and still as marble, her head laid back in the
attitude that seemed habitual to her; the white cheek seeming yet whiter
contrasted with the crimson velvet against which it lay; and the hand
folded as in dumb, passive resignation on her breast. But now, as she
uttered these strange words, a sudden glow passed over her face, like
the setting sun beaming out upon snow; the eyes, so seldom raised,
filled with a liquid light, the chest heaved, the lips grew tremulous.
"What! Aletheia," exclaimed Walter, "happy, did you say--happy to die by
that cruel blow?"
"Most happy--oh! most blessed to die by a blow so sweet from the hand
she loved."
Her voice died into a broken whisper; a few large tears trembled in her
mournful eyes, but they did not fall; the unwonted color faded from her
face, and in another moment she was as statue-like as ever, and with the
same impenetrable look, which made Lilias feel as if she never should
have either the wish or the courage to address her. Her astonishment and
utter horror at Aletheia's strange remark were, however, speedily
forgotten in the stronger emotion caused her by an incident which
occurred immediately after. Sir Michael had not been in the room since
dinner-time, and now he suddenly entered. He came forward with a rapid
step towards Lady Randolph, and even she seemed to quail beneath the
steady gaze of his angry eye. He stood before her for a moment, as if
the rage that swelled his bosom were too great for utterance; and his
face became of the color of iron white with heat.
"Lady Randolph, he has again presumed to cross my path; I have met him,
I have seen him, I stumbled against him, as he came with his noiseless
step, like a viper; I should have fallen if _his_ arm had not upheld me.
How has he dared--how have you dared to molest me thus?"
"It was not intentional, I am sure," said Lady Randolph, evidently
annoyed; "certainly he did not expect to meet you there; you know how
careful he is."
"But am I to be exposed to the possibility of such a meeting? Was it not
a distinct stipulation that he should avoid even the risk of
encountering me? Lady Randolph, is it or is it not a part of the
agreement by which I permit him to dwell in this house, that I am never
to be tormented with the sight of him?"
"It is, it is," she answered impatiently; "and for that reason I am
vexed this should have occurred. I admit that you are justified in your
complaint, since such was our contract, however cruel this condition;
but I will take care that it does not happen again; and at all events,
Sir Michael, it seems to me that this is a most unfit discussion to be
heard by your nephews and nieces."
"There I differ from you," he said, with a bitter smile, for he loved to
humble the proud woman who had trampled on his heart these many years;
"as they have various motives for seeking to please me, it is as well
they should know my peculiar tastes; let me tell you then," he said,
turning towards them, "that there is one man in the world whom I hate as
I would hate the vilest reptile, and that man is under this roof;
whoever wishes my favor, therefore, will avoid him as they would a
pestilence."
"Let us go," said Lady Randolph, hastily rising, "it is quite late; come
Lilias, you look pale with fatigue; I will show you the way to your
room, in case you lose yourself in the long passages."
This produced an immediate dispersion of the party; Aletheia glided away
whilst her aunt was speaking, and Gabriel followed her with his eyes
till the door closed on the dark figure; then he came with many
expressions of kindly interest to hope that Lilias would rest well,
whilst Walter warmly shook hands with her, and seemed, in his simple
"good-night," very fervently spoken, to express far more than his cousin
had done. But it was not fatigue that had chased for a moment the color
from the sweet face of Lilias: it the blighting breath of that deadly
thing, the hate of a human heart. Never before had this innocent child
come in contact with such a passion. Of love, she knew enough; its
fragrant atmosphere had been around her from her cradle, it had come to
her night by night in the fond kiss of her grandfather, and well nigh
hour by hour in the endearing words and caressing arms of her kind old
nurse, who cherished her as such sweet blossoms of life's early spring
are ever cherished by those who have attained its winter: but of hate
she knew nothing; it was the first time that this accursed thing had
crept into her presence, which steals about this world, poisoning the
well-springs of friendship and affection, that rise to refresh us out of
the desert sands, of this our pilgrimage, and turning their sweet waters
into blood.
The first touch of this vile passion sickened the young heart of Lilias,
and filled it with the most intense compassion for him, unknown as he
was, who had become the victim of such a fierce aversion. How she
wondered who he was, and what he had done, to be so detested; and it
seemed to her gentle nature that no man, not the worst criminal, could,
with justice, be so dealt with by a fellow-creature; but a kind of
instinct told her that the hate was causeless, and therefore did it seem
to wound her, as if herself had been injured. She followed Lady Randolph
through the long galleries, and she whose step had been so fearless on
the dangerous mountains, now shrank from the shadows on the wall; for it
seemed to her as if this house, and every heart within it, were full of
dark, strange, spectres; bad thoughts haunting these souls like ghosts;
evil passions lurking beneath fair outward appearances; and words full
of meaning which she could not fathom floating on her ear.
But for the deep peace of her own innocence, the clear cool waters of
perfect truth in which her own soul lay steeped, so fresh and pure,
Lilias would have trembled to remain an inhabitant of this place, where
she felt instinctively there was so much that was mysterious and dark.
But she resolved to hold firm her own sweet faith and practice, that
there was mercy in all events and good in every heart, and that she had
nought to do but to love all mankind with an active, charitable love;
and so she trusted to be as safe and happy here as in her Irish home,
where simplicity of life was the natural result of simplicity of heart.
From Dickens's Household Words.
NEW DISCOVERIES IN GHOSTS.
Eclipses have been ascribed sometimes to the hunger of a great dragon,
who eats the sun, and leaves us in the dark until the blazing orb has
been mended. Numerous instances are ready to the memory of any one of
us, in illustration of the tendency existing among men to ascribe to
supernatural, fantastic causes, events wonderful only by their rarity.
All that we daily see differs from these things no more than inasmuch as
it is at the same time marvellous and common. We know very well that the
moon, seen once by all, would be regarded as an awful spectre: open only
to the occasional vision of a few men, no doubt she would be scouted by
a large party as a creation of their fancy altogether.
The list of facts that have been scouted in this way, corresponds pretty
exactly to the list of human discoveries, down to the recent
improvements in street lighting and steam locomotion. The knowledge of
the best of us is but a little light which shines in a great deal of
darkness. We are all of us more ignorant than wise. The proportion of
knowledge yet lying beyond the confines of our explorations, is as a
continent against a cabbage garden. Yet many thousands are contented to
believe, that in this little bit of garden lies our all, and to laugh at
every report made to the world by people who have ventured just to peep
over the paling. It is urged against inquiries into matters yet
mysterious--mysterious as all things look under the light of the first
dawn of knowledge--why should we pry into them, until we know that we
shall be benefited by the information we desire? All information is a
benefit. All knowledge is good. Is it for man to say, "What is the use
of seeing?"
We are in the present day upon the trace of a great many important facts
relating to the imponderable agencies employed in nature. Light, heat,
and electricity are no longer the simple matters, or effects of matter,
that they have aforetime seemed to be. New wonders point to more beyond.
In magnetism, the researches of Faraday, and others, are beginning to
open, in our own day, the Book of Nature, at a page of the very first
importance to the naturalist; but the contents of which until this time
have been wholly unsuspected. Behind a cloudy mass of fraud and folly,
while the clouds shift, we perceive a few dim stars, to guide us towards
the discovery of wondrous truths. There are such truths which will
hereafter illustrate the connection, in many ways still mysteries,
between the body of man and the surrounding world. Wonderful things have
yet to be revealed, on subjects of a delicate and subtle texture. It
behooves us in the present day, therefore, to learn how we may keep our
tempers free from prejudice, and not discredit statements simply because
they are new and strange, nor, on the other hand, accept them hastily
without sufficient proof.
On questionable points, which are decided by research and weight of
evidence, it would be well if it were widely understood that it is by no
means requisite for every man to form an Aye or Nay opinion. Let those
who have no leisure for a fair inquiry play a neutral part. There are
hundreds of subjects which we have never examined, nor ever could or can
examine, upon which we are all, nevertheless, expressing every day
stubborn opinions. We all have to acquire some measure of the
philosophic mind, and be content to retain a large army of thoughts,
equipped each thought with its crooked bayonet, a note of interrogation.
In reasoning, also, when we do reason, we have to remember fairly that
"not proven" does not always mean untrue. And in accepting matters of
testimony, we must rigidly preserve in view the fact, that, except upon
gross subjects of sense, very few of us are qualified by training as
observers. In drawing delicate conclusions from the complex and most
dimly comprehended operations of the human frame observed in men and
women, the sources of fallacy are very numerous. To detect and
acknowledge these, to get rid of them experimentally, is very difficult,
even to the most candid and enlightened mind.
I have no faith in ghosts, according to the old sense of the word, and I
could grope with comfort through any amount of dark old rooms, or
midnight aisles, or over churchyards, between sunset and cock-crow. I
can face a spectre. Being at one time troubled with illusions, I have
myself crushed a hobgoblin by sitting on its lap. Nevertheless, I do
believe that the great mass of "ghost stories," of which the world is
full, has not been built entirely upon the inventions of the ignorant
and superstitious. In plain words, while I, of course, throw aside a
million of idle fictions, or exaggerated facts, I do believe in
ghosts--or, rather, spectres--only I do not believe them to be
supernatural.
That, in certain states of the body, many of us in our waking hours
picture as vividly as we habitually do in dreams, and seem to see or
hear in fair reality that which is in our minds, is an old fact, and
requires no confirmation. An ignorant or superstitious man fallen into
this state, may find good reason to tell ghost stories to his neighbors.
Disease, and the debility preceding death, make people on their
death-beds very liable to plays of this kind on their failing faculties;
and one solemnity or cause of dread, thus being added to another, seems
to give the strength of reason to a superstitious feeling.
Concerning my own experience, which comes under the class of natural
ghost-seeing above mentioned, I may mention in good faith, that, if such
phantoms were worth recalling, I could fill up an hour with the
narration of those spectral sights and sounds which were most prominent
among the illusions of my childhood. Sights and sounds were equally
distinct and lifelike. I have run up-stairs obedient to a spectral call.
Every successive night for a fortnight, my childish breath was stilled
by the proceedings of a spectral rat, audible, never visible. It
nightly, at the same hour, burst open a cupboard door, scampered across
the floor, and shook the chair by my bedside. Wide awake and alone in
the broad daylight, I have heard the voices of two nobodies gravely
conversing, after the absurd dream fashion, in my room. Then as for
spectral sights:--During the cholera of 1832, I, then a boy, walking in
Holborn, saw in the sky the veritable flaming sword which I had learnt
by heart out of a picture in an old folio of "Paradise Lost." And round
the fiery sword there was a regular oval of blue sky to be seen through
parted clouds. It was a fact not unimportant, that this phantom sword
did not move with my eye, but remained for some time, apparently, only
in one part of the heavens. I looked aside and lost it. When I looked
back, there was the image still. These are hallucinations which arise
from a disordered condition of the nervous system; they are the seeing
or the hearing of what is not, and they are not by any means uncommon.
Out of these there must, undoubtedly, arise a large number of
well-attested stories of ghosts, seen by one person only. Such ghosts
ought to excite no more terror than a twinge of rheumatism, or a nervous
headache.
There can be no doubt, however, that, in our minds or bodies, there are
powers latent, or nearly latent, in the ordinary healthy man, which, in
some peculiar constitutions, or under the influence of certain agents,
or certain classes of disease, become active, and develope themselves in
an extraordinary way. It is not very uncommon to find people who have
acquired intuitive perception of each others' current thoughts, beyond
what can be ascribed to community of interests, or comprehension of
character.
Zschokke, the German writer and teacher, is a peculiarly honorable and
unimpeachable witness. What he affirms, as of his own knowledge, we
have no right to disbelieve. Many of us have read the marvellous account
given by him, of his sudden discovery that he possessed the power in
regard to a few people--by no means in regard to all--of knowing, when
he came near to them, not only their present thoughts, but much of what
was in their memories. The details will be found in his Autobiography,
which, being translated, has become a common book among us. When, for
the first time, while conversing with some person, he acquired a sense
of power over the secrets of that person's past life, he gave, of
course, but little heed to his sensation. Afterwards, as from time to
time the sense recurred, he tested the accuracy of his impressions, and
was alarmed to find that, at certain times, and in regard to certain
persons, the mysterious knowledge was undoubtedly acquired. Once when a
young man at the table with him was dismissing very flippantly all
manner of unexplained phenomena as the gross food of ignorance and
credulity, Zschokke requested to know what he would say if he, a
stranger, by aid of an unexplained power, should be able to tell him
secrets out of his past life. Zschokke was defied to do that; but he did
it. Among other things he described a certain upper room, in which there
was a certain strong box, and from which certain moneys, the property of
his master, had been abstracted by that young man; who, overwhelmed with
astonishment, confessed the theft.
Many glimmerings of intuition, which at certain times occur in the
experience of all of us, and seem to be something more than shrewd or
lucky guesses, may be referred to the same power which we find, in the
case just quoted, more perfectly developed. Nothing supernatural, but a
natural gift, imperceptible to us in its familiar, moderate, and healthy
exercise, brought first under our notice when some deranged adjustment
of the mind has suffered it to grow into excess--to be, if we may call
it so, a mental tumor.
We may now come to a new class of mysteries--which are receiving for the
first time, in our own day, a rational solution.
The blind poet, Pfeffel, had engaged, as amanuensis, a young Protestant
clergyman, named Billing. When the blind poet walked abroad, Billing
also acted as his guide. One day, as they were walking in the garden,
which was situated at a distance from the town, Pfeffel observed a
trembling of his guide's arm whenever they passed over a certain spot.
He asked the cause of this, and extracted from his companion the
unwilling confession, that over that spot he was attacked by certain
uncontrollable sensations, which he always felt where human bodies had
been buried. At night, he added, over such spots he saw uncanny things.
"This is great folly," Pfeffel thought, "and I will cure him of it." The
poet went, therefore, that very night, into the garden. When they
approached the place of dread, Billing perceived a feeble light, which
hovered over it. When they came nearer, he saw the delicate appearance
of a fiery, ghost-like form. He described it as the figure of a female,
with one arm across her body, and the other hanging down, hovering
upright and motionless over the spot, her feet being a few hand-breadths
above the soil. The young man would not approach the vision, but the
poet beat about it with his stick, walked through it, and seemed to the
eyes of Billing like a man who beats about a light flame, which always
returns to its old shape. For months, experiments were continued,
company was brought to the spot, the spectre remained visible always in
the dark, but to the young man only, who adhered firmly to his
statement, and to his conviction that a body lay beneath. Pfeffel at
last had the place dug up, and, at a considerable depth, covered with
lime, there was a skeleton discovered. The bones and the lime were
dispersed, the hole was filled up, Billing was again brought to the spot
by night, but never again saw the spectre.
This ghost story, being well attested, created a great sensation. In the
curious book by Baron Reichenbach, translated by Dr. Gregory, it is
quoted as an example of a large class of ghost stories which admit of
explanation upon principles developed by his own experiments.
The experiments of Baron Reichenbach do not, indeed, establish a new
science, though it is quite certain that they go far to point out a new
line of investigation, which promises to yield valuable results. So much
of them as concerns our subject, may be very briefly stated. It would
appear that certain persons with disordered nervous systems, liable to
catalepsy, or to such affections, and also some healthy persons who are
of a peculiar nervous temperament, are more sensitive to magnetism than
their neighbors. They are peculiarly acted upon by the magnet, and are,
moreover, very much under the influence of the great magnetic currents
of the earth. Such people sleep tranquilly when they are reposing with
their bodies in the earth's magnetic line, and are restless, in some
cases seriously affected, if they lie across that line, on beds with the
head and foot turned east and west, matters of complete indifference to
the healthy animal. These "sensitives" are not only affected by the
magnet, but they are able to detect, by their sharpened sense, what we
may reasonably suppose to exist, a faint magnetic light: they see it
streaming from the poles of a magnet shown to them in a room absolutely
dark; and if the sensibility be great, and the darkness perfect, they
see it streaming also from the points of fingers, and bathing in a faint
halo the whole magnet or the whole hand. Furthermore, it would appear
that the affection by the magnet of these sensitives does not depend
upon that quality by which iron filings are attracted; that, perfectly
independent of the attractive force, there streams from magnets, from
the poles of crystals, from the sun and moon, another influence, to
which the discoverer assigns the name of Odyle. The manifestation of
Odyle is accompanied by a light too faint for healthy vision, but
perceptible at night by "sensitives." Odyle is generated, among other
things, by heat and by chemical action. It is generated, therefore, in
the decomposition of the human body. I may now quote from Reichenbach,
who, having given a scientific explanation, upon his own principles, of
the phenomena perceived by Billing, thus continues:--
"The desire to inflict a mortal wound on the monster, Superstition,
which, from a similar origin, a few centuries ago, inflicted on European
society so vast an amount of misery, and by whose influence, not
hundreds, but thousands of innocent persons died in tortures, on the
rack and at the stake;--this desire made me wish to make the experiment,
if possible, of bringing a highly sensitive person, by night, to a
churchyard. I thought it possible that they might see, over graves where
mouldering bodies lay, something like that which Billing had seen.
Mademoiselle Reichel had the courage, unusual in her sex, to agree to my
request. She allowed me, on two very dark nights, to take her from the
Castle of Reisenberg, where she was residing with my family, to the
cemetery of the neighboring village of Gruenzing.
"The result justified my expectation in the fullest measure. She saw,
very soon, a light, and perceived, on one of the grave mounds, along its
whole extent, a delicate, fiery, as it were a breathing flame. The same
thing was seen on another grave, in a less degree. But she met neither
witches nor ghosts. She described the flame as playing over the graves
in the form of a luminous vapor, from one to two spans in height.
"Some time afterwards I took her to two great cemeteries, near Vienna,
where several interments occur daily, and the grave mounds lie all about
in thousands. Here she saw numerous graves, which exhibited the lights
above described. Wherever she looked, she saw masses of fire lying
about; but it was chiefly seen over all new graves, while there was no
appearance of it over very old ones. She described it less as a clear
flame than as a dense, vaporous mass of fire, holding a middle place
between mist and flame. On many graves this light was about four feet
high, so that when she stood on the grave it reached to her neck. When
she thrust her hand into it, it was as if putting it into a dense, fiery
cloud. She betrayed not the slightest uneasiness, as she was, from her
childhood, accustomed to such emanations, and had seen, in my
experiments, similar lights produced by natural means, and made to
assume endless varieties of form. I am convinced that all who are, to a
certain degree, sensitive, will see the same phenomena in cemeteries,
and very abundantly in the crowded cemeteries of large cities; and that
my observations may be easily repeated and confirmed." These experiments
were tried in 1844. A postscript was added in 1847. Reichenbach had
taken five other sensitive persons, in the dark, to cemeteries. Of
these, two were sickly, three quite healthy. All of them confirmed the
statements of Mademoiselle Reichel, and saw the lights over all new
graves, more or less distinctly; "so that," says the philosopher, "the
fact can no longer admit of the slightest doubt, and may be every where
controlled.
"Thousands of ghost stories," he continues, "will now receive a natural
explanation, and will thus cease to be marvellous. We shall even see
that it was not so erroneous or absurd as has been supposed, when our
old women asserted, as every one knows they did, that not every one was
privileged to see the spirits of the departed wandering over their
graves. In fact, it was at all times only the sensitive who could see
the imponderable emanations from the chemical change going on in
corpses, luminous in the dark. And thus I have, I trust, succeeded in
tearing down one of the densest veils of darkened ignorance and human
error."
So far speaks Reichenbach; and for myself, reverting to the few comments
with which we set out, I would suggest, that Reichenbach's book, though
it is very likely to push things too far--to fancy the tree by looking
at the seed--is yet not such a book as men of sense are justified in
scouting. The repetition of his experiments is very easy if they be
correct. There are plenty of "sensitives" to be found in our London
hospitals and streets and lanes. Unluckily, however, though we live in
an age which produces, every day, new marvels, the old spirit of
bigotry, which used to make inquiry dangerous in science and religion,
still prevails in the minds of too many scientific men. To be
incredulous of what is new and strange, until it has been rigidly
examined and proved true, is one essential element of a mind seeking
enlightenment. But, to test and try new things is equally essential.
Because of doubting, to refuse inquiry, is because of hunger to refuse
our food. For my own part, I put these matters into the livery of that
large body of thoughts already mentioned, which walk about the human
mind, armed each with a note of interrogation. This only I see, that, in
addition to the well-known explanations of phenomena, which produce some
among the many stories of ghosts and of mysterious forebodings, new
explanations are at hand, which will reduce into a natural and credible
position many other tales by which we have till recently been puzzled.
From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.
THE WOLF-GATHERING.
One winter evening, some years ago, I sat with a small circle of friends
round the fire, in the house of a Polish gentleman, whom his
acquaintance agreed in calling Mr. Charles, as the most pronounceable of
his names. He had fought in all his country's battles of the
unsuccessful revolution of 1831; and being one of the many who sought
life and liberty in the British dominions, on the failure of that last
national effort, he had, with the spirit worthy of an exiled patriot,
made the best of his unchosen fortunes, and worked his way up, through a
thousand difficulties and privations, to a respectable standing in the
mercantile profession. At the period mentioned, Mr. Charles had become
almost naturalized in one of our great commercial towns, was a member of
a British church, and the head of a British household; but when the
conversation happened to turn on sporting matters round his own
fireside, he related in perfect seriousness the following wild and
legend-like story of his early life in Poland:--
The year before the rising, I went from my native place in Samogitia
(Szamait), to spend Christmas at the house of my uncle, situated in the
wooded country of Upper Lithuania. He was a nobleman who boasted his
descent from one of the oldest houses in Poland, and still held the
estate which his ancestors had defended for themselves through many a
Tartar invasion--as much land as a hunting-train could course over in a
summer's day. But ample as his domain appeared, my uncle was by no means
rich upon it. The greater portion had been forest-land for ages;
elsewhere it was occupied by poor peasants and their fields; and in the
centre he lived, after the fashion of his forefathers, in a huge timber
house with antiquated fortifications, where he exercised liberal
hospitality, especially at Christmas times. My uncle was a widower, but
he had three sons--Armand, Henrique, and Constantine--brave, handsome
young men, who kept close intimacy and right merry companionship with
their nearest neighbors, a family named Lorenski. Their property
bordered on my uncle's land, and there was not a family of their station
within leagues; but independently of that circumstance, the household
must have had attractions for my cousins, for it consisted of the young
Count Emerich, his sister Constanza, and two orphan cousins, Marcella
and Eustachia, who had been brought up with them from childhood.
The count's parents had died in his early youth, leaving him not only
his own guardian, but that of his sister and cousins; and the young
people had grown up safely and happily together in that forest-land. The
cousins were like most of our Polish girls in the provinces, dark-eyed
and comely, gay and fearless, and ready alike for the dance or the
chase; but Count Emerich and his sister had the praise of the whole
province for their noble carriage, their wise and virtuous lives, and
the great affection that was between them. Both had strange courage, and
were said to fear neither ghost nor goblin--which, I must remark, was
not a common case in Lithuania. Constanza was the oldest by two years,
and by far the most discreet and calm of temper, by which it was
believed she rather ruled the household, though her brother had a high
and fiery spirit. But they were never known to disagree, and, though
still young, neither seemed to think of marrying. Fortunately, it was
not so with all their neighbors. My stay at my uncle's house had not
been long when I found out that Armand was as good as engaged to
Marcella, and Henrique to Eustachia, while Constantine, the youngest and
handsomest of the three brothers, paid vain though deferential court to
Constanza.
The rising was not then publicly talked of, though known to be in full
preparation throughout the country. All the young and brave hearts among
us were pledged to it, and my cousins did not hesitate to tell me in
confidence that Count Emerich and his sister were its chief promoters in
that district. They had a devoted assistant in Father Cassimer. He had
been their mother's confessor, and lived in the house for
five-and-thirty years, saying mass regularly in the parish church, a
pine-built edifice on the edge of the forest. Father Cassimer's hair was
like snow, but he was still erect, strong, and active. He said the
church could not spare him, and he would live to a hundred. In some
respects, the man did deserve a century, being a good Pole and a worthy
priest, notwithstanding one weakness which beset him, for Father
Cassimer took special delight in hunting. It was said that once, when
robed for mass, a wild boar chanced to stray past; whereon the good
priest mounted his horse, which was usually fastened to the church-door,
and started after the game in full canonicals. That was in his youth;
but Father Cassimer never denied the tale, and the peasants who
remembered it had no less confidence in his prayers, for they knew he
loved his country, and looked after the sick and poor. The priest was my
cousin's instructor in wood-craft, and the boon-companion of my uncle;
but scarcely had I got well acquainted with him and the Lorenskis, when
two Christmas visitors arrived at their house.
They were a brother and sister, Russian nobles, known as Count Theodore
and Countess Juana. Their native place was St. Petersburg, but they had
spent years in travelling over Europe; and though nobody knew the extent
of their estates, it was supposed to be great, for they spared no
expense, and always kept the best society. Latterly they had been
somehow attracted to Poland, and became so popular among our country
nobles, that they were invited from house to house, making new friends
wherever they went, for Russians though they were, they wished well to
our country, and, among their intimates, spoke of liberty and justice
with singular eloquence. Considering this, their popularity was no
wonder. A handsomer or more accomplished pair I never saw. Both were
tall, fair, and graceful, with hair of a light golden shade--the
sister's descending almost to her feet when unbraided, and the brother's
clustering in rich curls about the brow. They knew the dances of all
nations, could play any thing that was ever invented, whether game or
instrument, and talked in every tongue of Europe, from Romaic to
Swedish. Both could ride like Arabs. Count Theodore was a splendid shot,
his sister was matchless in singing, and neither was ever tired of fun
or frolic. They seemed of the Lorenskis' years, but had seen more of the
world; and though scarcely so dignified, most people preferred the frank
familiarity and lively converse of the travelled Russians.
The Lorenskis themselves could not but applaud that general preference.
They and the travellers had become fast friends almost on their first
acquaintance, which took place in the previous winter; and Count
Theodore and his sister had performed a long wintry journey from St.
Petersburg to celebrate the Christmas time with them. Peasants and
servants rejoiced at their coming, for they were known to be liberal.
The old priest said it had never been his luck to see any thing decent
out of Russia before, and my uncle's entire household were delighted,
with the exception of Constantine. By and by, I guessed the cause of his
half-concealed displeasure. The brother of each pair took wonderfully to
the sister of the other. Count Theodore talked of buying an estate in
Lithuania; and the young cousins predicted, that though Emerich and
Constanza might be near neighbors, they would not live all their days
free and single. After the Russians' arrival, there was nothing but
sport among us. We had dances and concerts, plays, and all manner of
games; but the deep snow of our Polish winter had not hardened to the
usual strong ice, over marsh, river, and forest land. It continued
falling day after day, shutting all our amusements within doors, and
preventing, to our general regret, the wonted wolf-hunt, always kept up
in Lithuania from the middle of December till Christmas-eve.
It was a custom, time immemorial, in the province, and followed as much
for the amusement it afforded the young people, as for the destruction
of the deadly prowler. The mode of conducting it was this: Every two or
three families who chanced to be intimate, when the ice was sufficiently
strong and smooth for sledge-travelling, sent forth a party of young
hunters, with their sisters and sweethearts, in a sledge covered at the
one end, which was also well cushioned and gayly painted; the ladies in
their best winter dresses took possession of it, while the hunters
occupied the exposed part, with guns, shot-pouches, and hunting-knives,
in complete readiness. Beside the driver, who was generally an old
experienced hand, there was placed a young hog, or a leg of pork,
occasionally roasted to make the odor more inviting, and packed up with
cords and straw in a pretty tight parcel, which was fastened to the
sledge by a long rope twisted to almost iron hardness. Away they drove
at full speed, and when fairly in the forest, the pork was thrown down,
and allowed to drag after the sledge, the smell of it bringing wolves
from every quarter, while the hunters fired at them as they advanced. I
have seen a score of skins collected in this manner, not to speak of the
fun, the excitement, and the opportunities for exhibiting one's
markmanship and courage where one would most wish to have seen them.
The peasants said it was never lucky when Christmas came without a
wolf-hunt; but that year it was like to be so; for, as I have said, the
snow kept falling at intervals, with days of fog and thaw between, till
the night before the vigil. In my youth, the Lithuanians kept Christmas,
after the fashion of old northern times. It began with great devotion,
and ended in greater feasting. The eve was considered particularly
sacred: many traditional ceremonies and strange beliefs hung about it,
and the more pious held that no one should engage in any profane
occupation, or think of going to sleep after sunset. When it came, our
disappointment concerning the wolf-hunt lay heavy on many a mind as well
as mine; but a strong frost had set in before daybreak, and at the early
nightfall a finer prospect for sledging could not be desired--over the
broad plain, and far between the forest pines, the ice stretched away as
smooth and bright as a mirror. The moon was full, and the stars were out
by thousands: you could have read large print by the cold, clear light,
as my cousins and I stood at my uncle's door, fervently wishing it had
been any other evening. Suddenly, our ears caught the sound of bells and
laughing voices, and in a few minutes up drove the Lorenski sledge in
its gayest trappings, with Constanza, the Russian countess, and the
young cousins, all looking blithe and rosy in the frosty air, while
Emerich and Theodore sat in true hunter's trim, and Father Cassimer
himself in charge of the reins, with the well-covered pork beside him.
They had two noble horses of the best Tartar blood, unequalled in the
province, as we knew, for speed and strength; and Emerich's cheerful
voice first saluted us with: "Ho! friends, it is seven hours yet till
midnight: won't you come with us?--it is a shame to let Christmas in
without a wolf-skin!"
That was enough for us: we flew in for our equipments. My uncle was not
at first willing that we should go; but the merry company now at his
door, the unequivocal countenance which Father Cassimer gave to the
proceeding, and the high spirits of the young Russians, who were, as
usual, wild for the sport, made him think that, after all, there was no
harm in the young people taking an hour or two in the woods before mass,
which on Christmas-eve begins always at midnight. Our hunting-gear was
donned in a trice; and with my uncle's most trusty man, Metski, to
assist in driving, away we went at full speed to the forest.
Father Cassimer was an experienced general in expeditions of the kind;
he knew the turns of the woods where the wolves scented best; and when
we had got fairly among the tall oaks, down went his pork. For some time
it dragged on without a single wolf appearing, though the odor came
strong and savory through cords and straw.
"If I were a wolf myself, I would come for that," said old Metski. The
priest quickened his speed, vowing he would not say mass without a skin
that night; and we got deeper into the wilderness of oak and pine. Like
most of our Lithuanian forests, it had no underwood. There was ample
space for our sledge among the great trees, and the moonlight fell in a
flood of brightness upon their huge white trunks, and through the
frost-covered branches. We could see the long icicles gleaming like
pendants of diamond for miles through the wide woods, but never a wolf.
The priest began to look disappointed; Metski sympathized with him, for
he relished a hunt almost as well as his reverence; but all the rest,
with the help of the Russians, amused themselves with _making_ game. I
have said they were in great spirits, particularly Count Theodore;
indeed he was generally the gayer of the pair--his sister being
evidently the more prudent--and in this respect they resembled the
Lorenskis. Many a jest, however, on the non-appearance of the wolves
went round our sledge, of which I remember nothing now, except that we
all laughed till the old wood rang.
"Be quiet, good children," said the priest, turning in his seat of
command: "you make noise enough to frighten all the wolves in creation."
"They won't come to-night, father; they are preparing for mass," cried
Count Theodore. "Juana, if the old Finn were here now, wouldn't he be
useful?"
"Perhaps he might," said the countess, with a forced laugh; but she cast
a look of strange warning and reproof on her brother.
"What Finn?" said the priest, catching the count's words.
"Oh, he is talking of an old nursery-tale we had in St. Petersburg,"
hastily interposed the lady, though I thought her face had no memory of
the nursery in it.
"About the Finns I'll warrant," said Father Cassimer. "They are a
strange people. My brother the merchant told me that he knew one of them
at Abo who said he had a charm for the wolves; but somebody informed
against him for smuggling, and the Russian government sent him to the
lead mines in Siberia. By Saint Sigismund, there's the first of them!"
As the priest spoke, a large wolf appeared, and half the guns in the
sledge were raised. "Not yet, not yet," said our experienced commander,
artfully turning away as another and another came in sight. "There are
more coming," and he gradually slackened our pace; but far off through
the moonlit woods and the frozen night we could hear a strange murmur,
which grew and swelled on all sides to a chorus of mingled howlings, and
the wolves came on by troops.
"Fire now, friends!" cried Father Cassimer. "We are like to have skins
enough for Christmas;" and bang went all our barrels. I saw five fall:
but, contrary to expectation, the wolves did not retire--they stood for
an instant snarling at us. The distant howlings continued and came
nearer; and then from every glade and alley, down the frozen stream, and
through the wide openings of the forest, came by scores and hundreds
such a multitude of wolves as we could not have believed to exist in all
Lithuania.
"Hand me my gun, and take the reins, Metski," cried Father Cassimer.
"Drive for your life!" he added in an under tone; but every one in the
sledge heard him. Heaven knows how many we killed; but it seemed of no
use. Our pork was swallowed, straw and all. The creatures were pressing
upon us on every side, as if trying to surround the sledge; and it was
fearful to see the leaps that some gray old fellows among them would
take at Metski and the horses. Our driver did his part like a man,
making a thousand winds and turns through the woods; but still the
wolves pursued us. Fortunately, the firing kept them off, and, thanks to
our noble horses, they were never able to get ahead of us; but as far as
we could see behind us in the moonlight, came the howling packs, as if
rising from the ground of the forest. We had seen nothing like it, and
all did their best in firing, especially Count Theodore; but his shots
had little effect, for his hand shook, and I know not if any but myself
saw the looks of terrified intelligence which he exchanged with his
sister. Still, she and the Lady Constanza kept up their courage, though
the young cousins were as white as snow, and our ammunition was fast
decreasing.
"Yonder is a light," said Constanza at last, as the poor horses became
unmanageable, from fright and weariness. "It is from the cottage of old
Wenzel, the woodman."
"If we could reach that," said Father Cassimer, "and leave the horses to
their fate: it is our only chance."
No one contradicted the priest's arrangement, for his last words were
felt to be true--though a pang passed over Constanza's face at the
thought of leaving our brave and faithful horses to the wolves; but
louder rose the howls behind us, as Metski urged on with all his might,
and far above all went the shout of Father Cassimer (he had the best
lungs in that province): "Ho Wenzel! open the door to us for God's
sake!"
We heard the old man reply, sent one well-aimed volley among the wolves,
and as they recoiled, man and woman leaped from the sledge--for our
Polish girls are active--and rushed into the cottage, when old Wenzel
instantly double-barred the door. It was woful to hear the cry of pain
and terror from our poor horses as we deserted them; the next instant
the wolves were upon them. We saw them from the window, as thick as ever
flies stuck on sugar. How we fired upon them, and with what good-will
old Wenzel helped us, praying all the time to every saint in the
calendar, you may imagine! But still their numbers were increasing; and
as a pause came in the fearful din, we plainly heard through the still
air the boom of our own great bell, ringing for the midnight mass. At
that sound, Father Cassimer's countenance fell for the first time. He
knew the bellman was a poor half-witted fellow, who would not be
sensible of his absence; and then he turned to have another shot at the
wolves.
Shots were by this time getting scarce among us. There was not a man
that had a charge left but old Wenzel, who had supplied us as long as he
could; but at length, loading his own gun with his last charge, he laid
it quietly in the corner, saying one didn't know what use might be for
it, and he never liked an empty gun.
Wenzel was the son of a small innkeeper at Grodno, but after his
father's decease, which occurred when he was a child, his mother had
married a Russian trader, who, when she died, carried the boy to Moscow.
There Wenzel bade fair to be brought up a Russian; but when a stepmother
came home, which took place while he was still a youth, he had returned
to his native country, built himself a hut in the woods of Lithuania,
and lived a lonely hunter till the time of my story, when he was still a
robust, though gray-haired man. Some said his Muscovite parents had not
been to his liking; some that he had found cause to shoot a master to
whom they apprenticed him at Moscow; but be that as it might, Wenzel
hated the Russians with all his heart, and never scrupled to say that
the gun which had served him so long would serve the country too if it
ever came to a rising. So much for Wenzel's story, by way of explaining
what followed; but as I stood beside him that night at the hut's single
crevice of a window, I could have given Poland itself for ammunition
enough to do service on the wolves. They had now left nothing but the
bones of our horses, which they dragged round and round the cottage,
with a din of howlings that almost drowned our voices within. Then they
seized on the bodies of their own slain companions, which were devoured
to the very skins; and still the gathering was going on. We could see
them coming in troops through the open glades of the forest, as if aware
that some human prey was in reserve. The hut was strongly built of great
pine-logs, but it was fearful to bear them tearing at the door and
scratching up the foundations. The bravest among us got terrified at
these sounds. Metski loudly avowed his belief that the wolves were sent
upon us as a punishment for hunting on Christmas-eve, and fell instantly
to his prayers. Wenzel flung a blazing brand among them from the window,
but they did not seem to care for fire; and three of them were so near
leaping in, that he drove to the log-shutter and gave up that method of
defence. None of the party appeared so far overcome with terror as Count
Theodore: his spirit and prudence both seemed to forsake him. When the
wolves began to scratch, he threw himself almost on his face in the
corner, and kept moaning and praying in Russian, of which none of us
understood a syllable but old Wenzel. Emerich and I would have spoken to
him, but the woodman stopped us with a strange sign. Count Theodore had
taken the relic of some saint from a pocket-book which he carried in his
breast, and was, in Russian fashion as I think, confessing his sins over
it; while his sister sat silent and motionless by the fire, with livid
face and clasped hands. It was burning low, but I saw the woodman's face
darken. He stepped to the corner and took down his gun, as I believed,
to take the last shot at the wolves; but Count Theodore was in his way.
He levelled it for an instant at the prostrate man, and before I could
speak or interpose, the report, followed by a faint shrill shriek from
the Russian, rang through the hut. We rushed to him, but the Count was
dead. A bullet had gone right through the heart.
"My gun has shot the count, and the wolves will leave us now," said
Wenzel coolly. "I heard him say in his prayers that a Finn, now in the
Siberian mines, had vowed to send them on him and his company wherever
he went."
As the woodman spoke, he handed to Count Emerich, with a hoarse whisper,
a bloody pocket-book, taken from the dead body, and turning to Juana,
said something loud and threatening to her in the Russian tongue; at
which the lady only bowed her head, seeming of all in the hut to be the
least surprised or concerned at the death of her brother. As for us, the
complicated horrors of the night had left us stunned and stupefied till
the rapid diminution of the wolfish din, the sounds of shots and voices,
and the glare of flambeaux lighting up the forest, brought most of us
to the window. The wolves were scouring away in all directions, there
was a grayness in the eastern sky, for Christmas-day was breaking; and
from all sides the count and my uncle's tenantry, with skates and
sledges, guns and torches, were pouring to the rescue as we shouted to
them from the cottage.
They had searched for us almost since midnight, tearing that something
terrible had detained Father Cassimer and his company from mass. There
were wonderfully few wolves shot in the retreat, and we all went home to
Count Emerich's house, but not in triumph, for with us went the body of
the Russian, of which old Wenzel was one of the bearers. The unanimous
determination we expressed to bring him to justice as a murderer, was
silenced when Emerich showed us in confidence a letter from the Russian
minister, and a paper with all our names in a list of the disaffected in
Upper Lithuania, which he had found in Theodore's pocket-book. After
that, we all affirmed that Wenzel's gun had gone off by accident; and on
the same good Christmas-day, Count Emerich, with a body of his
retainers, escorted the Lady Juana to a convent at the other end of the
province, the superior of which was his aunt. There she became a true
Catholic, professed, and, as I was told, turned to a great saint. There
is a wooden cross with his name, and a Latin inscription on it, marking
Count Theodore's grave, by our old church on the edge of the forest.
No one ever inquired after him, and the company of that terrible night
are far scattered. My uncle and his sons all died for the poor country.
The young cousins are married to German doctors in Berlin. Constanza and
her brother are still single, for aught I know, but they have been
exiles in America these fifteen years. Father Cassimer went with them,
after being colonel of a regiment which saw hard service on the banks of
the Vistula; and it may be that he is still saying mass or hunting
occasionally in the Far West.
The last time I saw Wenzel and Metski was in the trenches at Minsk,
where they had a tough debate regarding our adventure in the forest: the
woodman insisting it was the Finn's spell that brought the wolves in
such unheard-of numbers, and the peasant maintaining that it was a
judgment on our desecration of Christmas-eve. For my own part, I think
the long storm, and a great scarcity of food had something to do with
it, for tales of the kind were never wanting in our province. The
wolf-gathering, however, saved us a journey to Siberia: thanks to old
Wenzel. And sometimes yet, when any strange noise breaks in upon my
sleep even here in England, I dream of being in his wild hut in the
forest and listening to the wolfish voices at the door.
MY NOVEL:
OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[20]
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.
BOOK IX. CONTINUED--CHAPTER IX.
With a slow step and an abstracted air, Harley L'Estrange bent his way
towards Egerton's house, after his eventful interview with Helen. He had
just entered one of the streets leading into Grosvenor Square, when a
young man, walking quickly from the opposite direction, came full
against him, and drawing back with a brief apology, recognized him, and
exclaimed, "What! you in England, Lord L'Estrange! Accept my
congratulations on your return. But you seem scarcely to remember me."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Leslie. I remember you now, by your smile; but
you are of an age in which it is permitted me to say that you look older
than when I saw you last."
"And yet, Lord L'Estrange, it seems to me that you look younger."
Indeed this reply was so far true that there appeared less difference of
years than before between Leslie and L'Estrange; for the wrinkles in the
schemer's mind were visible in his visage, while Harley's dreamy worship
of Truth and Beauty seemed to have preserved to the votary the enduring
youth of the divinities.
Harley received the compliment with a supreme indifference, which might
have been suitable to a Stoic, but which seemed scarcely natural to a
gentleman who had just proposed to a lady many years younger than
himself.
Leslie renewed--"Perhaps you are on your way to Mr. Egerton's. If so,
you will not find him at home; he is at his office."
"Thank you. Then to his office I must re-direct my steps."
"I am going to him myself," said Randal hesitatingly.
L'Estrange had no prepossessions in favor of Leslie, from the little he
had seen of that young gentleman; but Randal's remark was an appeal to
his habitual urbanity, and he replied with well-bred readiness, "Let us
be companions so far."
Randal accepted the arm proffered to him; and Lord L'Estrange, as is
usual with one long absent from his native land, bore part as a
questioner in the dialogue that ensued.
"Egerton is always the same man, I suppose--too busy for illness, and
too firm for sorrow?"
"If he ever feel either he will never stoop to complain. But indeed, my
dear lord, I should like much to know what you think of his health."
"How? You alarm me!"
"Nay, I did not mean to do that; and pray, do not let him know that I
went so far. But I have fancied that he looks a little worn, and
suffering."
"Poor Audley!" said L'Estrange, in a tone of deep affection. "I will
sound him, and, be assured, without naming you; for I know well how
little he likes to be supposed capable of human infirmity. I am obliged
to you for your hint--obliged to you for your interest in one so dear to
me."
And Harley's voice was more cordial to Randal than it had ever been
before. He then begged to inquire what Randal thought of the rumors that
had reached himself as to the probable defeat of the government, and how
far Audley's spirits were affected by such risks. But Randal here,
seeing that Harley could communicate nothing, was reserved and guarded.
"Loss of office could not, I think, affect a man like Audley," observed
Lord L'Estrange. "He would be as great in opposition, perhaps greater;
and as to emoluments"----
"The emoluments are good," interposed Randal, with a half sigh.
"Good enough, I suppose, to pay him back about a tenth of what his place
costs our magnificent friend. No, I will say one thing for English
statesmen, no man amongst them ever yet was the richer for place."
"And Mr. Egerton's private fortune must be large, I take for granted,"
said Randal carelessly.
"It ought to be, if he has time to look to it."
Here they passed by the hotel in which lodged the Count di Peschiera.
Randal stopped. "Will you excuse me for an instant? As we are passing
this hotel, I will just leave my card here." So saying, he gave his card
to a waiter lounging by the door. "For the Count di Peschiera," said he
aloud.
L'Estrange started; and as Randal again took his arm, said--
"So that Italian lodges here? and you know him?"
"I know him but slightly, as one knows any foreigner who makes a
sensation."
"He makes a sensation?"
"Naturally; for he is handsome, witty, and said to be very rich--that
is, as long as he receives the revenues of his exiled kinsman."
"I see you are well informed, Mr. Leslie. And what is supposed to bring
hither the Count di Peschiera?"
"I did hear something, which I did not quite understand, about a bet of
his that he would marry his kinsman's daughter; and so, I conclude,
secure to himself all the inheritance; and that he is therefore here to
discover the kinsman and win the heiress. But probably you know the
rights of the story, and can tell me what credit to give to such
gossip."
"I know this at least, that if he did lay such a wager, I would advise
you to take any odds against him that his backers may give," said
L'Estrange, dryly; and while his lip quivered with anger, his eye
gleamed with arch ironical humor.
"You think, then, that this poor kinsman will not need such an alliance
in order to regain his estates?"
"Yes; for I never yet knew a rogue whom I would not bet against, when he
backed his own luck as a rogue against Justice and Providence."
Randal winced, and felt as if an arrow had grazed his heart; but he soon
recovered.
"And indeed there is another vague rumor that the young lady in question
is married already--to some Englishman."
This time it was Harley who winced. "Good Heavens! that cannot be
true--that would undo all! An Englishman just at this moment! But some
Englishman of correspondent rank, I trust, or at least one known for
opinions opposed to what an Austrian would call revolutionary
doctrines?"
"I know nothing. But it was supposed, merely a private gentleman of good
family. Would not that suffice? Can the Austrian Count dictate a
marriage to the daughter as a condition of grace to the father?"
"No, not that!" said Harley, greatly disturbed. "But put yourself in the
position of any minister to one of the greatest European monarchies.
Suppose a political insurgent, formidable for station and wealth, had
been proscribed, much interest made on his behalf, a powerful party
striving against it, and just when the minister is disposed to relent,
he hears that the heiress to this wealth and this station is married to
the native of a country in which sentiments friendly to the very
opinions for which the insurgent was proscribed are popularly
entertained, and thus that the fortune to be restored may be so employed
as to disturb the national security--the existing order of things; this,
too, at the very time when a popular revolution has just occurred in
France,[21] and its effects are felt most in the very land of the
exile;--suppose all this, and then say if any thing could be more
untoward for the hopes of the banished man, or furnish his adversaries
with stronger arguments against the restoration of his fortune? But
pshaw! this must be a chimera! If true, I should have known of it."
"I quite agree with your lordship--there can be no truth in such a
rumor. Some Englishman hearing, perhaps, of the probable pardon of the
exile, may have counted on an heiress, and spread the report in order to
keep off other candidates. By your account, if successful in his suit,
he might fail to find an heiress in the bride?"
"No doubt of that. Whatever might be arranged, I can't conceive that he
would be allowed to get at the fortune, though it might be held in
suspense for his children. But indeed it so rarely happens that an
Italian girl of high name marries a foreigner, that we must dismiss
this notion with a smile at the long face of the hypothetical
fortune-hunter. Heaven help him, if he exist!"
"Amen," echoed Randal, devoutly.
"I hear that Peschiara's sister is returned to England. Do you know her
too?"
"A little."
"My dear Mr. Leslie, pardon me if I take a liberty not warranted by our
acquaintance. Against the lady I say nothing. Indeed, I have heard some
things which appear to entitle her to compassion and respect. But as to
Peschiera, all who prize honor suspect him to be a knave--I know him to
be one. Now, I think that the longer we preserve that abhorrence for
knavery which is the generous instinct of youth, why, the fairer will be
our manhood, and the more reverend our age. You agree with me?" And
Harley suddenly turning, his eyes fell like a flood of light upon
Randal's pale and secret countenance.
"To be sure," murmured the schemer.
Harley surveying him, mechanically recoiled, and withdrew his arm.
Fortunately for Randal, who somehow or other felt himself slipped into a
false position, he scarce knew how or why, he was here seized by the
arm; and a clear, open, manly voice cried, "My dear fellow, how are you?
I see you are engaged now; but look into my rooms when you can, in the
course of the day."
And, with a bow of excuse for his interruption, to Lord L'Estrange, the
speaker was then turning away, when Harley said:
"No, don't let me take you from your friend, Mr. Leslie. And you need
not be in a hurry to see Egerton; for I shall claim the privilege of
older friendship for the first interview."
"It is Mr. Egerton's nephew, Frank Hazeldean."
"Pray, call him back, and present me to him. He has a face that would
have gone far to reconcile Timon to Athens."
Randal obeyed; and after a few kindly words to Frank, Harley insisted on
leaving the two young men together, and walked on to Downing-street with
a brisker step.
CHAPTER X.
"That Lord L'Estrange seems a very good fellow."
"So-so; an effeminate humorist; says the most absurd things, and fancies
them wise. Never mind him. You wanted to speak to me, Frank?"
"Yes; I am so obliged to you for introducing me to Levy. I must tell you
how handsomely he has behaved."
"Stop; allow me to remind you that I did not introduce you to Levy; you
had met him before at Borrowell's, if I recollect right, and he dined
with us at the Clarendon--that is all I had to do with bringing you
together. Indeed, I rather cautioned you against him than not. Pray,
don't think I introduced you to a man who, however pleasant, and perhaps
honest, is still a money-lender. Your father would be justly angry with
me if I had done so."
"Oh, pooh! you are prejudiced against poor Levy. But just hear: I was
sitting very ruefully, thinking over those cursed bills, and how the
deuce I should renew them, when Levy walked into my rooms; and after
telling me of his long friendship for my uncle Egerton, and his
admiration for yourself, and (give me your hand, Randal) saying how
touched he felt by your kind sympathy in my troubles, he opened his
pocket-book, and showed me the bills safe and sound in his own
possession."
"How?"
"He had bought them up. 'It must be so disagreeable to me,' he said, 'to
have them flying about the London money-market, and these Jews would be
sure sooner or later to apply to my father. And now,' added Levy, 'I am
in no immediate hurry for the money, and we must put the interest upon
fairer terms.' In short, nothing could be more liberal than his tone.
And he says, 'he is thinking on a way to relieve me altogether, and will
call about it in a few days, when his plan is matured.' After all, I
must owe this to you, Randal. I dare swear you put it into his head."
"O no, indeed! On the contrary, I still say, 'Be cautious in all your
dealings with Levy.' I don't know, I am sure, what he means to propose.
Have you heard from the Hall lately?"
"Yes--to-day. Only think--the Riccaboccas have disappeared. My mother
writes me word of it--a very odd letter. She seems to suspect that I
know where they are, and reproaches me for 'mystery'--quite enigmatical.
But there is one sentence in her letter--see, here it is in the
postscript--which seems to refer to Beatrice: 'I don't ask you to tell
me your secrets, Frank, but Randal will no doubt have assured you that
my first consideration will be for your own happiness, in any matter in
which your heart is really engaged.'"
"Yes," said Randal, slowly; "no doubt, this refers to Beatrice; but, as
I told you, your mother will not interfere one way or the other,--such
interference would weaken her influence with the Squire. Besides, as she
said, she can't _wish_ you to marry a foreigner; though once married,
she would----But how do you stand now with the Marchesa? Has she
consented to accept you?"
"Not quite: indeed, I have not actually proposed. Her manner, though
much softened, has not so far emboldened me; and, besides, before a
positive declaration, I certainly must go down to the Hall, and speak at
least to my mother."
"You must judge for yourself, but don't do any thing rash: talk first
to me. Here we are at my office. Good bye; and--and pray believe that,
in whatever you do with Levy, I have no hand in it."