CHAPTER XV.

The women were together in Anna's parlor, and although not one of

them, except Rita, knew of the events of the night before, they sat in

oppressive silence, for even Maria was wanting in her accustomed

loquacity.

"I don't know why," she said at last, "nor what is the matter with me,

but my heart to-day feels as though it could not stay in its place."

"It is the same with me," said Elvira, "I cannot breathe freely. I

feel as if a stone lay on my heart. Perhaps it is the air. Is it going

to rain, Aunt Maria?"

"My poor child," thought Anna, "the remedy comes too late. Earth is

calling her body and heaven her soul."

"Well, I feel just as usual," said Rita, who was in reality the one

that could hardly sit still for uneasiness.

Angela had made her a rag baby, which she was rocking in a hollow tile

by way of cradle, and the painful silence which followed these few

words was only broken by the gentle voice of the little girl as she

sung, in the sweet and monotonous nursery melody to which some mothers

lend such simple enchantment, and such infinite tenderness, these

words:

"I hold thee in my arms,

And never cease to think.

What would become of thee, my angel,

If I should be taken from thee.

The little angels of heaven--"

The childish song was interrupted by a heavy solemn stroke of the

church bell. Its vibration died away in the air slowly and gradually,

as if mounting to other regions.

"_His Majesty!_" said all, rising to their feet.

Anna prayed aloud for the one who was about to receive the last

sacraments.

"For whom can it be?" said Maria. "I do not know of any one that is

dangerously sick in the place."

Rita looked out of the window and asked of a woman that was passing,

who was the sick person?

"I do not know," she answered, "but it is some one out of the

village."

Another woman cried as she approached, "Mercy! it is a murder, for the

magistrate and the surgeon have followed the priest as fast as they

could!"

"God help him!" they all exclaimed, with that profound and terrible

emotion which is excited by those awful words, a murder!

"And who can it be?" asked Rita.

"No one knows," answered the woman.

Then the bell tolled for the passing soul; solemn stroke; stroke of

awe; voice of the church, which announces to men that a brother is

striving in weariness, anguish, and dismay, and is going to appear

before the dread tribunal--momentous voice, by which the church says

to the restless multitude, deep in frivolous interests which it deems

important, and in fleeting passions which it dreams will be eternal:

Stand still a moment in respect for death, in consideration of your

fellow-being who is about to disappear from the earth, as you will

disappear tomorrow.

They remained plunged in silence, but nevertheless deeply moved, as

happens sometimes with the sea, when its surface is calm, but its

bosom heaves with those deep interior waves which sailors call a

ground-swell.

And not they alone. The whole village was in consternation, for death

by the hand of violence always appalls, since the curse which God

pronounced upon Cain continues, and will continue, in undiminished

solemnity throughout all generations.

"How long the time is!" said Maria, at length. "It seems as if the day

stood still."

"And as if the sun were nailed in the sky," added Elvira. "Suspense is

so painful. Perhaps robbers have done it."

"It may have been unintentional," answered Maria.

"Mamma Anna, who has killed a man, and what made him do it?" asked the

little Angela.

"Who can tell," replied Anna, "what is the cause, or whose the daring

hand that has anticipated that of God in extinguishing a torch which

he lighted."

{679}

At that instant they heard a distant rumor. People moved by curiosity

are running through the street, and confused exclamations of

astonishment and pity reach their ears.

"What is it?" asked Rita, approaching the window.

"They are bringing the dead man this way," was the answer.

Elvira felt herself irresistibly impelled to look out.

"Come away, Elvira," said her mother, "you know that you cannot bear

the sight of a corpse."

Elvira did not hear her, for the crowd, that drawn by curiosity,

sympathy, or friendship, had surrounded the body and its attendants,

was coming near. Anna and Maria, also placed themselves at the

grating. The corpse approached, lying across a horse and covered with

a sheet. An old man follows it, supported by two persons. His head is

bowed upon his breast. They look at him--merciful God! it is Pedro!

and they utter a simultaneous cry.

Pedro hears it, lifts his head and sees Rita. Despair and indignation

give him strength. He frees himself violently from the arms that

sustain him, and precipitates himself toward the horse, exclaiming:

"Look at your work, heartless woman! Perico killed him." Saying this,

he lifts the sheet and exposes the body of Ventura, pale, bloody, and

with a deep wound in the breast.

------

From the Dublin University Magazine.

IRISH FOLK BOOKS OF THE LAST CENTURY.

In the eighteenth century Ireland did not possess the boon of

Commissioners to prepare useful and interesting school books. However,

as the mass of the peasantry wished to give their children the only

education they could command, namely, that afforded by the hedge

schools, and as young and old liked reading stories and popular

histories, or at least hearing them read, some Dublin, Cork, and

Limerick printers assumed the duties neglected by senators, and

published "Primers," "Reading-made-easie's," "Child's-new-play-thing,"

and the widely diffused "Universal Spelling Book" of the magisterial

Daniel Fenning, for mere educational purposes. These were "adorned

with cuts," but the transition from stage to stage was too abrupt, and

the concluding portions of the early books were as difficult as that

of the "Universal Spelling Book" itself, which the author, in order to

render it less practically useful, had encumbered with a dry and

difficult grammar placed in the centre of the volume.

Two Dublin publishers, Pat. Wogan, of Merchants' quay, and William

Jones, 75 Thomas street, were the educational and miscellaneous

Alduses of the day, and considered themselves as lights burning in a

dark place for the literary guidance of their countrymen and

countrywomen, of the shop-keeping, farmer, and peasant classes. In the

frontispiece of some editions of the spelling-book grew the tree of

knowledge, laden with fruit, each marked with some letter, and ardent

climbers plucking away. Beneath was placed this inscription:

"The tree of knowledge here you see.

The fruit of which is A, B, C.

But if you neglect it like idle drones,

You'll not be respected by William Jones."

{680}

That portion of the work containing "spells" and explanations was

thoroughly studied by the pupils. The long class was arranged in line

in the evening, every one contributed a brass pin, and the boy or girl

found best in the lesson, and most successful at the hard "spells"

given him or her by the others, and most adroit in defeating them at

the same exercise, got all the pins except two, the portion of the

second in rank, (_the queen_,) and one, the perquisite of the third,

(_the prince_.)

Every neighborhood was searched carefully for any stray copies of

Entick's or Sheridan's small square dictionaries, (pronounced

_Dixhenry's_ by the eager students,) for hard spells and difficult

explanations to aid them in their evening tournaments.

The grave Mr. Fenning was censuruble for admitting into some editions

the following jest (probably imported from Joe Miller) among his

edifying fables and narratives:

"A gay young fellow once asked a parson for a guinea, but was

stiffly refused. 'Then,' said he, give me at least a crown.' 'I

will not give thee a farthing,' answered the clergyman. 'Well,

father,' said the rake, 'let me have your blessing at all events.'

'Oh I yes: kneel down, my son, and receive it with humility.' 'Nay,'

said the other, 'I will not accept it, for were it worth a farthing

you would not have offered it.'"

We cannot, however, quit the school-books without mention of the

really valuable treatise on arithmetic, composed by Elias Vorster, a

Dutchman naturalized in Cork, and subsequently improved by John Gough,

of Meath street, one of the society of Friends. "Book-keeping by

Double Entry," written by Dowling and Jackson, was so judiciously

arranged that it is still looked on as a standard work.

The same followers _longo intervallo_ of Stephens and Elzevir

published, besides prayer and other devout books, a series of stories

and histories, and literary treatises such as they were, printed with

worn type, on bad grey paper, cheaply bound in sheep-skin, and sold by

the peddlers through the country at a _tester_ (6-1/2d.) each. Of

history, voyages, etc., the peddler's basket was provided with "Hugh

Reilly's History of Ireland," "Adventures of Sir Francis Drake," "The

Battle of Aughrim," and "Siege of Londonderry," (the two latter being

dramas,) "Life and Adventures of James Freney the Robber," "The Irish

Rogues and Rapparees," "The Trojan Wars," and "Troy's Destruction,"

"The Life of Baron Trenck," and "The Nine Worthies--Three Jews, Three

Heathens, and Three Christians."

The fictional department embraced, chiefly in an abridged state, "The

Arabian Nights," "The History of Don Quixote," "Gulliver's Travels,"

"Esop's Fables," "Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," "Robin Hood's

Garland," "The Seven Champions of Christendom," "The History of

Valentine and Orson," "The Seven Wise Masters and Mistresses of Rome,"

"Royal Fairy Tales," etc., etc.

In the department of the Belles Lettres may be classed, "Lord

Chesterfield's Letters to his Son," "The Academy of Compliments," "The

Fashionable Letter Writer," "Hocus Pocus, or the Whole Art of

Legerdemain," "Joe Miller's Jest Book," etc.

The list would not be complete without mention of the books of

ballads. These were sold in sheets, each forming 8 pages, 18mo, and

adorned with cuts, never germain to the ballads they illustrated. Some

of these sheets contained only one production, the "Yarmouth Tragedy,"

or some early English ballad sadly disfigured. One related how a

"servant-man" was accused by an envious liveried brother, of being a

confirmed card-player. On being examined he obtained a complete

victory over the informer, convincing his master that what he, the

master, called cards, was to him a prayer-book, a catechism, a

calendar, and what not. The different numbers reminded him of the six

days of the creation, the seven churches of Asia, the ten

commandments, the twelve Apostles, etc. The {681} king recalled to him

the duty he owed that supreme magistrate, the ace of hearts, the love

due to God and our neighbor. "How, is it," said the master, "that you

have always passed over the knave in your reckoning?" "Ah! I wished to

speak no ill of that crooked disciple that went to backbite me to your

honor." The reader anticipates the victory of the ingenious rogue.

The purchasers of these sheets sewed them as well as they could in a

book form, but they were so thumbed and abused, that it is at this

date nearly impossible to procure one of those repertories of song

printed toward the close of the last or the beginning of the present

century.

Of all these works that we delight in most at present, (it was not so

when we were young,) is the unmatched "Academy of Compliments," which

was the favorite of boys and girls just beginning to think of

marriage, or its charming preliminary, courtship. Very feelingly did

the writer in his preface insist on the necessity of eloquence. "Even

quick and attractive wit," as he thoughtfully observed, "is often

foiled for want of words, and makes a man or woman seem a _statute_ or

one dumb." He candidly acknowledges that several treatises like his

have been published, "but he assures the _courteous reader_ that none

have arrived to the perfection of this, for good language and

diversion."

This is the receipt for accosting a lady, and entering into

conversation; with her:

"I believe Nature brought you forth to be a scourge to lovers, for

she hath been so prodigal of her favor toward you, that it renders

you as admirable as you are amiable."

Another form:

"Your presence is so dear to me, your conversation so _honest_, and

your humour so pleasing, that I could desire to be with you

perpetually."

The author directs a slight departure from this form, in case the

gentleman has never seen the lady before, and yet has fallen

passionately in love with her.

"If you accuse me of temerity, you must lay your own beauty in

fault, with which I am so taken, that my heart is ravished from me,

and wholly subjected to you."

Decent people would scarcely thank us for troubling them with many of

the "witty questions and answers for the improvement of conversation."

A few must be quoted, however, with discreet selection.

"Q. What said the tiler to the man when he fell through the rafters

of his house?

"A. Well done, faith; I like such an assistant as thou art, who can

go through his work so quickly.

"Q. What said the tailor's boy to the gentleman who, on his

presenting his bill, said tartly, he was not running away?

"A. If you are not, sir, I am sorry to say my master is.

"Q. Why is a soldier said to be of such great antiquity?

"A. Because he keeps up the old fashions when the first bed was upon

the bare ground."

THE BATTLE OF AUGHRIM.

It may appear strange that "The Battle of Aughrim," written by an

adherent to the Hanoverian succession, should so long have continued a

popular volume among the Roman Catholic peasantry. This has, perhaps,

been due to the respectful style in which the author treated the

officers of Irish extraction. All his contempt and dislike were

levelled at St. Ruth, the French General, and his masters, English

James and French Louis. Though the style of the rhymed play is turgid

enough, there are in it occasional passages of considerable vigor and

beauty, and a brisk movement in the conduct of the piece; and

sentimental youth have an opportunity of shedding a tear over the ill

starred love of _Godfrey_ and _Jemima_. It was scarcely fair of the

author to represent St. Ruth as a stabber in cold blood, but hear the

moving periods he makes Sarsfield utter:

"O heavens! can nature bear the shocking sound

Of death or slavery on our native ground.

Why was I nurtured of a noble race,

And taught to stare destruction in the face?

Why was I not laid out a useless _scrub_,

And formed for some poor hungry peasant's cub.

To hedge and ditch, and with unwearied toil

To cultivate for grain a fertile soil,

To watch my flocks, and range my pastures through,

With all my locks wet with the morning dew,

Rather than being great, give up my fame,

And lose the ground I never can regain?"

{682}

Those Irishmen, who, like ourselves, have read and enjoyed this drama

in early boyhood, before the birth of the critical faculty, will find

it out of their power to divest themselves of early impressions when

endeavoring to form a just estimate of its merits. We vainly strive to

forget the image of a comely and intelligent country housewife,

spiritedly reciting the interview of the Irish and English officers

after the day was decided, and bravely holding out the tongs at the

point where Sarsfield presents his weapon. Talmash, Mackay, and Sir

Charles Godfrey confront the Irish chiefs, Dorrington, O'Neil, and

Sarsfield, and Talmash courteously addresses them.

"Take quarters, gentlemen, and yield on sight.

Or otherwise prepare to stand the fight.

Yet pray, take pity on yourselves and yield.

For blood enough has stained the sanguine field.

'Tis Britain's glory, you yourselves can tell,

To use the vanquished hospitably well.

_Sarsfield--_ Urge not a thought, proud victor, if you dare.

So far beneath the dignity of war.

I am a peer, and Sarsfield is my name.

And where this sword can reach I dare maintain.

Life I contemn, and death I recommend;

He breathes not vital air who'd make me bend

My neck to bondage, so, proud foe, decline

The length of this, (_extending his sword_,) because the spot is mine.

_Talmash_.--If you are Sarsfield, as you bravely show,

You're that brave hero whom I longed to know,

And wished to thank you on the reeking plain

For that great feat of blowing up our train.

Then mark, my lord, for what I here contend;

'Tis Britain's holy church I now defend.

Great William's right, and Mary's crown, these three.

_Sarsfield_.--Why, then fall on--Louis and James for me. (_They fight_.)

Sarsfield's declaration ends the animated discussion rather lamely;

but what poet has maintained a uniform grandeur or dignity? The writer

was a certain Robert Ashton. The play when printed was dedicated,

circa 1756, to Lord Carteret, and if peasant tradition can be trusted,

it was only acted once. The Jacobite and Hanoverian gentlemen in the

pit drew their swords on one another, probably at the scene just

quoted, and bloodshed ensued. This is not confirmed by the written

annals of the time.

"The Siege of Londonderry" was, and still is bound up with "The Battle

of Aughrim," but there is nothing whatever in it to recommend it to

the sympathies of the populace. There is nothing but mismanagement and

bad feeling on the part of the native officers from beginning to end;

and if fear or disloyalty shows itself in one of the besieged, his

very wife cudgels him for it.

There is something very naïve and old-fashioned in the observation

inserted at the end of the list of the _dramatis personae:_

"Cartel agreed upon--No exchange of prisoners, but hang and quarter on

both sides."

DON BELLIANIS OF GREECE; OR THE HONOR OF CHIVALRY.

The re-perusal of portions of this early favorite of ours has not been

attended with much pleasure or edification. There is a sad want of

style, accompanied by a complete disregard of syntax, orthography, and

punctuation. The objects to be attained are so many and so useless,

one adventure branches off into so many others, and there arc so many

knights and giants to be overcome, and emperors so carelessly leave

their empresses in the dark woods exposed to so many dangers, while

they go themselves to achieve some new and futile exploit that the

narrative has scarcely more continuity and consistence than a dream.

The author had ten times as many separate sets of adventures to

conduct simultaneously as ever had the estimable G. P. R. James. So he

was frequently obliged to suspend one series, and take up another, a

mode of composition which all novelists who read this article, are

advised to eschew. Leaving Don Bellianis investing the emperor of

Trebizond, who stoutly disputed the possession of the fair

Florisbella's hand with him, he proceeds to tell what happened at the

joustings of Antioch in consequence of the happy union of Don Brianel

and the peerless Aurora. Thither came {683} Peter, the knight of the

Keys, from Ireland. He was son to the king of Monster, and, being

anxious to seek foreign adventures, embarked at _Carlingford_, and

performed prodigies of valor in Britain and France, and then sailed

for Constantinople. Being within sight of that city, a storm forced

his ship away and drove it to Sardinia, where Peter won the heart of

the fair princess, Magdalena, by his success in the tournament, and

his beauty of features when he removed his helmet after the exercise.

The princess has a claim upon our indulgence, for as the text has it,

"he looked like Mars and Venus together." The knights of those happy

times being as distinguished for modesty as courage, the princess ran

no risk in desiring an interview with the peerless Peter, and they

vowed constancy to each other till death.

A neighboring king demanding the hand of the lady for his son, the

lovers decamp, and find themselves on a strange island in a day or

two. Peter having given the princess a red purse containing some

jewels, she happened to let it fall by her, and it was at once picked

up by a vulture, on the supposition of its being a piece of raw meat.

Flying with it to a tree overhanging the river, and finding his

mistake, he dropped it into the water, and there it lay on the sandy

bottom in sight of the lovers.

The knight, arming himself with a long bough, and getting into the

boat, would have fished up the purse, only for the circumstance of

being unprovided with oars. The tide having turned, he was carried out

to sea, and by the time he had got rid of his armor he was nearly out

of sight of the poor princess, now left shrieking behind, who was

conveyed away after a day and a night's suffering, in a ship bound for

Ireland, where she took refuge in a nunnery, and in time became its

superioress. This was near the palace of her lover's parents, and to

match this strange coincidence by another equally strange, their cook,

one day preparing a codfish for dinner, discovered within it the

identical purse of jewels carried away by their son, and lost in the

manner described in the distant Mediterranean. They gave him up then

for lost, but he was merely searching through the world for his

mistress, jousting at Antioch, killing a stray giant here or there,

and rescuing from the stake at Windsor an innocent countess accused of

a _faux pas_--all these merely to keep his hand in practice. Don

Clarineo with whom he had fraternized at Antioch is also engaged on

the same quest, and comes to Ireland in the course of his rambles. In

that early time Owen Roe O'Neill was chief king, MacGuire, father of

Peter, was king of Munster as before stated, Owen Con O'Neill and Owen

MacO'Brien ruled two of the other provinces, but the territory claimed

by each is not pointed out. The compiler was probably not well up in

the old chronicles; he would else have given O'Brien the territory of

Munster, and settled MacGuire somewhere near Loch Erin.

Be that as it may, the reigning king of Ulster refusing his fair

daughter to the prince of Connaught, was minded to bestow her on the

terrible giant Fluerston, whose inhospitable abode was in the

mountains of Carlingford. The father of the rejected prince determined

to resist this "family compact," sent out knights and squires to

impress every knight errant they met into his service. Being rather

more earnest than polite on meeting with Don Clarineo, he slew about a

score of them, and after he succeeded in learning their business with

him he was inclined to slay another score for their stupidity in not

being more explicit at the beginning, whereas he would have devoted

ten lives if he had them to the cause of prince _versus_ giant.

Having easily massacred the Carlingford ogre, he began to bestir

himself in his quest for the lost princess, and so quitted the

Connaught court which according to our author was held at that era in

Dublin, and his {684} loyalty was suitably rewarded in discovering his

own true love.

It was originally written in Spanish, and part translated into French

by Claude de Beuil, and published by Du Bray, Paris, 1625 in an 8vo.

THE NEW HISTORY OF THE TROJAN WARRIORS AND TROY'S DESTRUCTION.

The compiler of this _Burton_ did not share in Homer's excusable

prejudices in favor of his countrymen; he was a Trojan to the

backbone. This might be excused in compliment to the noble and

patriotic Hector, but he disturbs commonly received notions of family

relationship among the ancients, a thing not to be pardoned.

After proposing the true histories of Hercules, Theseus, the

destruction of Ilion, and other equally authentic facts, he proceeds

to relate--

"How Brute, King of the Trojans, arrived in Britain, and conquered

Albion and his giants, building a new Troy where London now stands,

in memory of which the effigies of two giants in Guildhall were set

up, with many other remarkable and very famous passages, to revive

antiquity out of the dust, and give those that shall peruse this

elaborate work, a true knowledge of what passed in ancient times, so

that they may be able readily to discourse of things that had been

obliterated from the memories of most people, and gain a certainty

of the famous deeds of the renowned worthies or the world."

Our truthful historian then relates with many corrections of the

legendary accounts of the lying Greeks, the histories of Hercules,

Theseus, Orpheus, Jason, and the other Ante-Trojan heroes; and either

through mere whim, or better information, tells us that Proserpine at

the time she was snatched away to hell, was the bride of the enamored

Orpheus, and the wicked King Pluto putting armor on his equally wicked

followers--the giant Cerberus and others--and festal garments over

the armor, carried her away despite the resistance of the bridal

party. Orpheus obtained her, as mentioned by the fabulists, but

looking back, Cerberus, who was close behind arrested her progress,

and the unfortunate husband returned to upper air half-dead. Thereupon

Theseus and Pirithous tried the adventure, but the giant Cerberus slew

the last named, and would have slain Theseus, but Hercules closely

following, gave the giant such a knock of his club as left him lying

in a swoon for some hours. Advancing to the throne of the black

tyrant, he administered another crushing blow on his helm, and leaving

him for dead, conducted the trembling but delighted Proserpine to her

mother and husband in the pleasant vales of Sicily, and "if they

didn't live happy that we may!" As for the traitor Cerberus, he was

presented to Hippodamia, the disconsolate widow of the murdered

Pirithous, who found a melancholy satisfaction in putting him to death

after first subjecting him to well-deserved tortures.

In the rest of the history of Hercules our compiler does not think it

necessary to depart from the statements of the early writers. He gives

him indeed as second wife, _Joel_, daughter of King Pricus, neither of

whose names we recollect.

Our authority being keenly alive to the injustice done by Homer to the

Trojans, corrects his statements on sundry occasions. Well disposed as

we are to rectify prejudices, he has not convinced us that the knights

on both sides, mounted, armed in plate, and setting their strong

spears in rest, charged each other in full career in the manner of

Cranstoun and William of Deloraine. These are his words:

"Hector and Achilles advanced in the front of either army, and ran

at each other with great fury with their spears, giving such a shock

as made the earth to tremble, with which Achilles was thrown from

his horse; whereupon the noble Hector scorning to kill a dismounted

man, passed on, making lanes through the enemy's troops, and paving

his way with dead bodies, so that in a fearful manner they fled

before him.

{685}

"By this time Achilles being remounted by his Myrmidons, a second

time encountered the victorious Hector, who notwithstanding his

utmost efforts, again bore him to the earth, and went on making a

dreadful havoc as before."

It is probable that this account of the death of Hector will prove

the least digestible of his emendations to the admirers of the early

Greek poets. The version here given appears to depend on the sole

authority of our compiler, and we do not feel here at liberty to

interpose in the literary quarrel sure to arise on the publication of

this article:

"Hector, having taken prisoner Menesteus, Duke of Athens, who had on

a curious silver armor, he was conveying him out of the battle when

thinking himself secure, and being overheated with action, he threw

his shield behind him, and left his bosom bare.

"Achilles, spying this opportunity, ran with all his might his spear

at the breast of the hero, which piercing his armor, entered his

undaunted heart, and he fell down dead to the earth. And this not

satisfying the ungenerous Greek, he fastened his dead body to the

tail of his horse, and dragged him three times round the city of

Troy in revenge for the many foils and disgraces he had received of

him."

The rest of the narrative corresponds tolerably with the old accounts,

but we have not heart to accompany the author through the burning of

Troy, the adventures of Eneas, and those of Brutus in his descent on

Britain, and his victory over Albion, Gog, and Magog. Besides, the

death of the "Guardian Dog of Troy" has disturbed our equanimity, for

we acknowledge as great an esteem for Hector and as strong a dislike

to the ruthless Achilles, as was ever entertained by the compiler of

the "New History of the Trojan Wars."

The prejudices of the romancers of the middle and later ages in favor

of the Trojans were probably due to the history of the war supposed to

have been written by Dares, a Phrygian priest mentioned by Homer. It

is in Greek, and the work of some ingenious person of comparatively

recent times. It was translated by Postel into French, and published

in Paris 1553. The first edition in Greek came out at Milan in 1477.

Another spurious book on the same subject in Latin, was attributed to

Dictys, a follower of Idomeneus, King of Crete. The first edition of

it was printed at Mayence, but without date.

THE IRISH ROGUES AND RAPPAREES.

The literary caterers for our peasantry, young and old, hare been

blamed for submitting to their inspection the lives of celebrated

highwaymen, tories, and "rapparees." Without undertaking their defence

we cannot help pointing out a volume appropriated to gentry of the

same class in the _Family Library_ issued by John Murray, whom no one

could for a moment suspect of seeking to corrupt the morals of

families or individuals. We find in Burns' and Lambert's cheap popular

books, another given up to these minions without an apprehension of

demoralization ensuing among the poor or the young who may happen to

read it. So it is probable that J. Cosgrave contemplated no harm to

his generation by publishing his "Irish Rogues and Rapparees." It were

to be wished that the motto selected for his work had either some

attic salt or common-sense to recommend it:

"Behold here's truth in every page expressed;

O'Darby's all a sham in fiction dressed,

Save what from hence his treacherous master stole,

To serve a knavish turn, and act the fool."

The reader will please not confound the terms "tory" and "rapparee."

The tories, though that generic for Irish robbers is as old as

Elizabeth, are yet most familiarly known as legacies left us by the

Cromwellian wars, and chiefly consisted of those rascals who,

pretending to assist the parliamentary cause, plundered the mere Irish

farmers, and every one of both sides who had anything worth taking.

They were a detestable fraternity. The rapparees were the Irish

outlaws in the Jacobite and Williamite wars, including many a

scoundrel no doubt, but many also who, while they supported themselves

in outlawry, at the expense of those who in their eyes were

disaffected to the rightful king, yet kept their hands unstained by

{686} vulgar theft or needless bloodshed. Many who at first kept to

the hills and the bogs as mere outlaws, and exacted voluntary and

involuntary black mail for mere support, according as the assessed

folk were Jacobites or Williamites, gradually acquired a taste for the

excitement and license of their exceptional life, and became _bona

fide_ plunderers, preferring (all other things being equal) to wasting

the _Sassenach_ rather than the _Gael_, and that was all.

Such a gentleman-outlaw was Redmond Count O'Hanlon, who flourished

after the conclusion of the Cromwellian wars. Redmond was worthy of a

place beside Robin Hood and Rob Roy, and has been made the hero of two

stories, one by William Carleton and the other by W. Bernard M'Cabe.

We now proceed to quote a few of the exploits of those troublesome

individuals of high and low degree, who disturbed their country in the

end of seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth century and

furnished amusement to the peasantry and their children, during the

golden days of the peddlers.

The great Captain Power of the South travelled northward to meet and

try the skill of Redmond, and they had a shrewd encounter with

broadswords for nearly half an hour, neither gaining a decided

advantage. They swore to befriend each other in all future needs, and,

in consequence, Redmond rescued his brother from the soldiers when

they were conducting him to execution.

Power coming into Leinster, lodged at the house of a small farmer,

whom he observed to be very dejected all the evening. On inquiry he

found that his landlord and the sheriff were expected to make a

seizure next day for rent and arrears amounting to £60. After some

further discourse, Power offered to lend him the sum on his note of

hand, and the offer was gratefully accepted. Next day the farmer,

after much parleying, acknowledged that he had £60 given him to keep,

and that he would produce it rather than have his little property

distrained, and trust to God's goodness to be enabled to put it

together again. The landlord, after sufficiently abusing him, gave him

a receipt in full, and, parting company with the sheriff's posse,

returned home. In a lonely part of the way, he was set on by Power and

robbed of the £60 and his watch and other valuables. In a day or two

the robber called on the farmer, said he was going away, and the

promissory note would be of no use to him. So he took it out and tore

it in pieces.

How the unreflecting hearts of the fireside group glow over such

quasi-generous deeds of robbers, and how little they think on the

selfish and abandoned and iniquitous portions of the lives of their

favorites! "Bah! they took from the rich that could afford it, and

gave to the poor that wanted it. Dickens a bit o' me 'ud betray

Redmond O'Hanlon or Captain Power if I got a stocken' o' goold by it."

Strong John MacPherson is admitted among the Irish worthies by Mr. J.

Cosgrave, though he was more probably a Highlandman. There was much of

the milk of human kindness about strong John. If a horseman would not

lend, (John merely requested a loan,) he never used the ugly words

"stand and deliver," he pulled him off his horse and gave him a

squeeze. If that failed, he carried him away from the highway, giving

the horse his liberty, and rifled him in some quiet nook. Being set on

one night by a crowd in an inn kitchen, he threw the hostess over his

shoulder, and no better shield could be. Making his escape, he laid

her on the ground, set his foot apparently on her body--it was only on

her gown, however--and extorted twenty pieces from her friends before

he released her.

Strong John was in no instance guilty of murder. He never even struck

but in self-defence, and always betook himself to defence by a woman

when practicable. He met the usual destiny of his tribe about 1678.

{687}

Will Peters, born among the romantic scenery of the Slieve Bloom

mountains, might have lived and died a respectable man, or at least

have acquired the fame of a highwayman, had it not been for two

trifling impediments. His father was a receiver of stolen cattle,

which, being commonly kept in a neighboring field, whose owner

remained out of sight, the crime could not be brought home to him. The

other mischance consisted in his staying at school only till he had

mastered "Reynard the Fox." It was the opinion of Mr. J. Cosgrave that

if he had got through "Don Bellianis," the "Seven Champions," and

"Troy's Destruction," he would have arrived at the honors of the

high-road. After a few mistakes in his cattle-stealing apprenticeship,

he became acquainted with the renowned "Charley of the Horse," and

thus made use of him. He was placed in durance for stealing a sorrel

horse with a bald face and one white foot, and committed to Carlow

jail, the horse being intrusted to the care of the jailer. Peters'

_pere_, on hearing of the ugly mistake, revealed the family sorrow to

the great Cahir, and he being fully informed of the marks, color,

etc., of the beast, sent a trusty squire of his to the assize town a

few days before the trial, mounted on a mare with the same marks as

those above noted. The jailer's man took the horse down to the

Barrow's edge every morning to drink, and the agent, making his

acquaintance, invited him to take a glass at a neighboring "shebeen"

the morning before the trial. While they were refreshing themselves,

the squire's double mounted on the mare approached where the horse was

tied outside, substituted his own beast, and rode off on the other.

The refreshed man, on coming out, observed nothing changed, and rode

the new-comer home to the stable.

The trial coming on, the prosecutor swore home to his property, but

Mr. William Peters said he was as innocent of the theft as the lord

lieutenant. "My lord," said he, "ax him, if you plase, what did I

steal from him." The answer came out that was expected, "a sorrel

horse, such and such marks." "It wasn't a sorrel mare you lost?" "No."

"My lord, will you plase to send for the baste, and if it's a horse,

let me be swung, as high as Gildheroy." The animal was sent for, the

whole court burst into a roar, and Will Peters demanded compensation,

but did not get it.

Being taken up again he was executed, as far as hanging for fifteen

minutes could effect it. However, being at once taken away by his

people, he was resuscitated. Once more he was seized and conveyed to

Kilmainham, whence he escaped rather than be transported.

Being at last secured in Kilkenny for running away with a roll of

tobacco from a poor huckster-woman, he was once more placed on the

drop and hung.

Such were the unedifying subjects presented to the consideration of

the young in Mr. J. Cosgrave's collection. He certainly had no evil in

his mind when composing it, but its moral effect was at best

questionable. It would be a book very ill suited for rustic fire-side

reading in our day. The same may be said of the "Wars of Troy," though

no indication of evil intention is apparent. We subjoin the names of

those books that still continue in print. Why they should still find

buyers seems strange, when such care is expended in supplying useful,

pleasant, and harmless reading for the lower classes. However, any

evil inherent in them is slight compared to that of _some_ of the

London halfpenny and penny journals. The following still form portions

of the peddler's stock: "The Academy of Compliments," "The Arabian

Nights," "The Battle of Aughrim," "Esop," "Gulliver," "O'Reilly's

Ireland," "Hocus Pocus," "Irish Rogues," "James Freney," "Robin Hood's

Garland," "Seven Champions," "Tales of the Fairies," "The Trojan

Wars," "Valentine and Orson," and the "Seven Wise Masters and

Mistresses of Rome," some of them absolutely harmless.

{688}

In the whole collection, there was not one volume racy of the Irish

soil, or calculated to excite love of the country, or interest in its

ancient history, or literature, or legends. The eighteenth century was

certainly a dreary one in many respects. Formality, affectation, and

cynicism prevailed in the manners and literature of the upper classes,

and the lower classes were left to their own devices for mental

improvement. It says something for the sense of modesty inherent in

the Celtic character, that there were so few books of a gross or evil

character among their popular literature.

------

Translated from the French.

ASSES, DOGS, CATS, ETC

I.

I am not a member of the society for the prevention of cruelty to

animals, but I deserve to be; for no one has praised the worthy

efforts of these gentlemen more than I have; and no one sees with

greater satisfaction, how justice sometimes gets hold of those brutal

drivers who wreak their uncontrolled anger upon their poor steeds,

guilty only of not being able to help themselves. And if, even, in

place of their being condemned to pay a paltry fine, they were paid

back in kind for the undeserved blows which these afflicted animals

receive from their hands, I for one would make not the slightest

objection.

It would be contrary to the progress and civilization of the

nineteenth century, I agree, but it would not be contrary to justice,

civilized or uncivilized.

However, who knows how things may turn out? Considering the miseries

and sufferings of those uncomplaining creatures when they are

unfortunate enough to get under the lash of the unfeeling boors who

ought to be in their place, it would not surprise me over much, if it

should turn out that--

That--what?

Wait a moment, I'll tell you. One day, as I happened to be out walking

along a certain road, I noticed an ass tied to a post, around which,

within the full length of his rope, there was not a single blade of

grass to crop. The poor fellow was slabsided, and his skin scraped,

and half tanned by the frequent application of bark on the living

wood; evidently getting few caresses of a softer kind, but enjoying in

the most complete sense of the word, "the right to work." Naturally, I

stopped a moment to bid him good-day and ask after his ass-ship's

health, after which I plucked a fine thistle growing within

tantalizing reach of his rope, and gave it to him. He gobbled it down

with great gusto.

"How do you like that, my old chap?" said I to him, mechanically.

"First rate," said he, "hand us another."

I jumped back in astonishment.

"What! you can talk, can you, my Bucephalus, and in English too? That

is something new."

"Not so new as you think, my dear sir, for I will let you into a

little bit of a secret. Ass as I am, and as you see me to be, I was a

man in my time and a butcher by trade. I had an ass that I treated

most scurvily, just as they do me now; giving him his bellyful of

blows and kicks, but of very little {689} else. Poor Jack--that was

his name--kept Lent all the year round, it being in the interest of

my customers, as I often said to myself, to quiet the qualms of

conscience when I gave him but half what he could eat. Let him stuff

himself said I, and he will get fat and lazy, the meat will come late

to the cook, the cook will be late with the dinner, and the hungry

family will lose their temper, and I shall lose their custom, while

good doses of the oil of strap will help his digestion wonderfully,

and keep him lively. However, this last end was not attained, for the

poor ass kicked the traces--professional term, you understand--and

went to the bone-boilers before his time. When it came to my turn to

tie up--again professional--and go off the cart, my soul was

condemned to go into an ass's body to suffer for a certain time the

punishment of retaliation. Drubbing for drubbing, kicks of hobnailed

shoes for kicks of peg boots, I got what I gave, and good measure too,

I assure yon. Do you see that half starved, thin-flanked old horse

over there? Well, he is a companion in misery to me. In his time he

was a hack-driver, and many a time in his fits of anger and

drunkenness, he made an anvil of the backbone or the jaws of his

horses. Only in those times, now and then, you understand, but those

times happened often enough, say once an hour or so, every day. As to

hay and oats, he tried to teach them, but without success, to go

without those articles of luxury. When his turn came to pay up old

debts, his soul was condemned to go into that sorry old carcass, in

which he passes many a miserable quarter of an hour. He is a

ragpicker's property now. How do you like that specimen of 'the

noblest conquest that man has ever made'? As to me, Sawney, at your

service, I think the end of my punishment is not far off. It was given

me to understand that when a benevolent gentleman would offer me a

thistle for friendship's sake, it would end, and it is to you I owe

this act of kindness, my dear Mr. Miller."

"Good again, you are a wiser ass than I took you for. How do you know

my name, master Sawney?"

"This way, sir. The other day I chanced to be tied to a post, near a

hedge, on the other side of which, in a meadow, some folks were having

a little picnic on the grass. After a while a tall lady in spectacles

took out some papers and began to read for the company. She seemed to

be reading, from what I could make out, in some magazine or other. I

soon understood that the subject was asses, and then of course I

cocked up my ears to their full height. It was true, it was about us,

abused and misunderstood beasts that we are. The articles read by the

tall lady were so full of kindness, and contained such flattering

remarks upon our species, that it almost brought the tears to my eyes.

The name signed to those articles was Jeremiah Miller. Oh! said I to

myself, that is a man whom one could call a man. There is one at least

who understands us and loves us; I promise myself that if I ever have

the good fortune to meet him I will give him--in lieu of anything

better--my blessing. You see that when you spoke to me just now so

kindly, I said to myself, I wonder if this be not Mr. Jeremiah Miller,

and then I called you by that name, and I see that I have just hit

it."

"But"--my reader will say "of course you don't tell this story for a

true one! You would never have the face to ask us to believe that this

brayer actually spoke to you?"

And, pray, why not? But, after all it is possible I fell asleep on a

mossy bank, in a meadow, near where an ass was tied, and that I

dreamed what I have told you. But dreams with the eyes shut are not

always so very unlike the dreams we sometimes have when our eyes are

open. As for myself, whenever I see a poor beast of burden brutally

maltreated by another beast, who strikes and kicks as if he {690}

meant murder, I allow my fancy to be tickled with a vision of this

latter brute obliged to creep into the skin of a horse or ass, and

take his turn at being unjustly whipped, without having any attention

paid to his bray or his neigh of expostulation or defence. You see

that I am in every respect worthy of figuring among the members of the

society for the prevention, etc., etc., but--

II.

But--I hold to the great principles of '76, and first of all to that

of equality. If we must have a law for the protection of domestic

animals against the men who torment _them_, I would like to see a law

devised to protect men against the animals who are a pest to poor

humanity, for the shoe sometimes gets on the other foot.

For example; look at that pack of dogs of all sizes, of all tastes, (I

mean human,) and in every stage of canine civilization, which their

masters permit to run at large in the streets of our city, even in the

worst of the dog days, without counting the free and independent dogs

who know no master but themselves. You have a friend who is a diligent

reader of the chapter of accidents in the daily papers. He tells you

about this or that dog who was seen running mad, that he had bitten

two or three persons, one of whom has since died of hydrophobia, and

adds with a peculiar relish that "the dangerous animal is still at

large!" These gentlemen--I mean the owners of the dogs--are

provokingly careless and indifferent about the muck which their dogs

are running in the midst of a population biteable to any extent. You

are kindly informed that if you happen to get bitten by some

suspicious-looking cur--and what cur is not of a suspicious character

in these days--it will be necessary to squeeze the wound, wash it,

then cauterize it with a red hot iron, or cut it out, and then, etc.,

etc. These are most excellent recipes, I have no doubt, but I think I

know of a better, which would be to prevent the bites altogether.

But, you say, there is the proclamation of his Honor, the Mayor, and

there is the police, etc., etc. Dogs at large are to be muzzled or

held by a chain. Oh! yes; very fine, indeed, when they are. The

proclamation is very good, but since the dog owners pay so little heed

to it, it is not surprising that the dogs themselves pay no more

respect to it than they do to the proclamations of patent medicines

pasted on the lamp-posts or fences. As to the country places outside

of the city, whither we of the heated streets and close shops fly to

get a breath of fresh air, and a moment of repose--there you will see

fat men and thin ladies who never dream, either asleep or awake, of

muzzling their favorite bull-dogs, lap-dogs, pointers, setters, tan

terriers or greyhounds. Muzzle _their_ dogs! that would make the poor

dogs, and their owners too, very uncomfortable. A pretty piece of

impudence indeed for a village constable to presume to carry out the

law against the dog, errant in delicto, which is the property of a Mr.

or a Mrs. or a Miss who is a "somebody," as if they were nobodies. Mr.

Constable knows better than that, and so does Mr. Puffer, the

magistrate.

Besides, there is a learned doctor of the society for the prevention,

etc., who deplores with astonishment mingled with grief, etc., etc.,

that any one should be so inhumane as to gag "man's companion and

friend" for the sake of the prevention of a few despicable cases of

hydrophobia. He has never been bitten by a mad dog, and don't expect

to be. He does not see why anybody else need expect to be.

Then there are our nurses and the children, whose daily promenade is

embittered by the sight and often the attacks of some Snarleyow. "It

was as good as a play," says Snarleyow's master; "Snarley nearly

frightened them to death, I thought I should die of laughter to see

them {691} scamper. It was great fun for Snarley." Very well,

gentlemen, there is also something which is great fun for me too, and

that is to kick Snarley whenever he presumes to be too "playful" with

me or my particular friends the children.

Protect your "friends of man" if you will, gentlemen, but don't let

them interfere with my friends, or---

III.

Permit me here to make a digression, which is not altogether one;

Man is defined, a reasonable animal.

Now the question arises whether woman is included in this definition.

Don't get angry, ladies--the horrid men, you know, are so curious!

IV.

From the friend of man let us pass to the subject of the friend of

woman. And here I find myself face to face with a celebrated document

which produced such a deep, or rather such a lively impression upon

the public, a few weeks since. Who is there in the whole five parts of

the world that has not heard of the noted "cat trial"? That learned

decision and sentence given by Squire Pouter, justice of the peace in

Dullville, is yet ringing in my ears, by which were avenged, as far as

a fine from five cents to a dollar could avenge, a litter of fifteen

cats illegally drowned. Illegally!--that at least was the opinion of

the wise magistrate, who rendered his judgment at great length, and

after his well known comprehensive style, citing his authors,

complimenting the one, and refuting the others, bringing under

contribution the code of Justinian, the English common law, the state

statutes, and the discussions of the Legislature at Albany. In short,

our modern Solon decided as follows: The cat, in its nature, is both a

domestic and wild animal. As a wild animal, it is true, it is lawful

game for the hunter; but, as a domestic animal, it has a right to

live, and is under the august protection of the law. Now, since the

wild part of its nature revolts against captivity, it has a right to

come and go according to its instinctive desire for daily exercise,

and housekeepers are not bound in conscience to make a raid upon them

in their tender feline infancy under pretence that some day or other

they will make a raid upon their pantry. Raids of prevention in the

times of peace are unheard of in the history of the republic.

Therefore they are condemned (the raiders, in the present case, not

the cats) to pay such and such fines, for the benefit of the fifteen

victims, or their heirs or assigns. Yes, indeed, this splendid

judgment made a good deal of noise, and well it might. I, who am

speaking to you reside in my own house, and have no evil intentions

toward any one, but--there are three cats who come each evening from

as many points of the compass for the purpose of making strategic

attacks upon my eatables. Infinite are the precautions that I am

forced to take to save my daily bread from the enemy. I must keep up

an incessant fight, and a running fire, not to speak of the difficulty

I experience in vain attempts to sleep with one eye open and my ear,

which is not on the pillow, on the alert. I will not speak of their

defiant caterwauling and spiteful spitting when they find my

barricades impassable; it is too painful a subject for me to dwell

upon.

Who are the victims of oppression, most eminent and sage magistrate?

Is civilized man positively to be given over in the name of the

society for the prevention, etc., as a victim to the instincts and

caprices of cats? Not at all, not at all, O illustrious Pouter! I will

see you and the cats--well--some distance, if not further, first.

Bring on your grimalkins, for my soul burns to avenge the rights of

man!

{692}

It is not all. Here, for example, next door, lives Miss Lambkin; age

unknown. She, by some unexplained perversion of taste, is keeping

something in her house which is either an old sheep or a middle-aged

goat. This cud-chewer, who lapses into ennui despite the charms of its

mistress, bleats incessantly three times a minute, several thousands

of times in the twenty-four hours. Is such an eternal see-saw of sound

bearable? Is not my life a burden to me? Is not my liberty to think,

to play my violin, to take my usual nap after dinner abridged by the

liberty of Miss Lambkin's detestable foster child? And if I happen to

be sick, or suffering from the tooth-ache or the headache, or

melancholy, or perchance am sentimental, this beast, I suppose, must

not be thwarted in its monotonous sing-song. _Mister_ Pouter, is there

liberty for wolves? for most assuredly I shall soon play the part of

one!

I have not finished yet. Since the first of May a family has come to

live in the house on the other side of mine. With father, mother and

furniture comes a tall, wasp-waisted damsel who now passes hours, yes,

hours banging upon an aged piano. It is her method of bleating, and it

is full as amusing as the other, if not a little less. Will the

president of the society for the prevention, etc., inform us if there

is any protection for aged pianos? A society for the _protection_ of

men and pianos would find in me one of its most eloquent orators,

diffuse writers, and active members. I would have all wandering Jews

of unmuzzled dogs executed on the spot, knocked on the head or

drowned, at choice. These at least have not the fifty cents in their

pockets to pay for a living release.

As to the cats, I intend to memorialize the supreme court to declare

the decision of our immortal justice of the peace non-constitutional.

I wish it to be "legal" to kill, drown, or otherwise destroy any cat

or cats found on strange premises, understood, of course that they are

to be buried at the killer's expense, and the government not to be

made liable to pay handsomely for public obsequies with military

procession.

Bleating goats, or sheep, or parrots, _et tutti quanti_, to be invited

to keep still, and not to speak until spoken to.

Lastly, as to the piano-bangers, I acknowledge the case is a little

delicate, and any remedy whatsoever has its difficulties. I am not

malicious, and am inclined to the side of resignation and toleration.

For after all, you know, they are ladies, and when you say that, it is

enough. Without association you cannot accomplish anything nowadays;

and where in the world could be found a sufficient number of men to

form a society for their protection against _them_. After that, I do

not see that it is necessary I should say anything further.

--------

From the Dublin University Magazine

CAROL FROM CANCIONERO.

"Vista ciegs, luz occura"--_Cancionero General_. Valencia, 1511.

Lightsome darkness, seeing blindness.

Life in death, and grief in gladness,

Cruelty in guise of kindness,

Doubtful laughter, joyful sadness,

Honeyed gall, embittered sweetness,

Peace whose warfare never endeth,

Love, the type of incompleteness,

Proffers joy, but sorrow sendeth.

------

{693}

Translated from the French

THE PEARL NECKLACE.

There lived at Cordova, many years ago, an old Jew who had three

passions: he loved science, he loved gold, he loved his only child,

who bore the sweet name of Rachel. He loved science, not for its own

sake, not because it was the means of the acquisition of truth, but

for himself, that is to say, through pride.

He loved gold, a little perhaps because it was gold, very much because

it gave him the means of providing luxuries for his darling child,

greatly also because without it he could not have made the costly

experiments necessary in the pursuit of science.

He loved his daughter alone, with the pure and disinterested, but

passionate tenderness of paternal love. In a word he was a savant, a

father, a Jew.

His name was Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah, and he practised medicine. He wrought

such wonderful cures that very soon his fame spread throughout Spain,

and from all parts of the kingdom the people came in crowds to consult

him. He received his patients in the afternoon. In the morning he

slept, it was said; but how his nights were passed none knew, and many

were the speculations concerning it. This only was known, that they

were passed in a secret chamber, of which he alone possessed the key,

and it had been observed that this mysterious apartment was sometimes

illuminated with many-colored flames, blue, or red, or green, while a

dense smoke issued from the chimney.

The police of the kingdom at length resolved to penetrate the mystery,

which seemed to them very suspicions. _Everything_ is suspicious to

the police of _all_ countries.

One evening, Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah saw two dark, grave men watching his

house. He listened and heard these words of sinister import:

"To-morrow, at dawn, we will know whether this wretch is a

money-coiner or a magician."

The conscience of the poor old Jew did not reproach him, for his life

was pure and innocent; but he had had great experience of the world,

and held as on axiom that innocence is worth absolutely nothing in a

court of justice. He went still further, he considered it an

aggravating circumstance. He often quoted the old Arabian proverb: "If

I were accused of having stolen and pocketed the grand mosque at

Mecca, I would immediately run off as fast as I could." He said that

justice was a game of cards--and he was no player.

What misanthropic ideas! How different would his conclusions have been

had he lived nowadays! However, as he had not the happiness of living

in that Eden of justice, France of 1866, he put the philosophy of the

proverb into practice, and left Cordova that very night, taking with

him all his treasures. The next morning at dawn the two dark, grave

men, found an uninhabited, dismantled dwelling; which made them still

more dark and grave.

II.

Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah, disguised as a merchant and mounted on a strong

mule, passed rapidly through Spain. On either side of his saddle, and

securely fastened to it was a long wicker {694} basket, in the shape

of a cradle. Ben-Ha-Zelah looked from time to time at these baskets

with satisfaction, mingled with sadness, and then urged on his mule,

casting many a backward glance, to be quite sure he was not pursued.

In one of the baskets were his treasures and his books; in the other

slept peacefully the young daughter of the fugitive. Having reached a

small seaport town, the old Jew took passage in a vessel which was

about to sail for Egypt.

Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah had often heard of the caliph Achmet Reschid, who

was celebrated throughout the East for his love of science, and the

high consideration in which he held scientific men. As for impostors,

charlatans and empirics, he held them in sovereign contempt and took

real pleasure in impaling them.

This good prince reigned in Cairo. Thither Ben-Ha-Zelah bent his

steps; for he believed himself, and with reason, to be a true savant.

The profound and extensive acquirements of the old Jew, together with

his astonishing skill in everything appertaining to the healing art,

soon made him as famous in Cairo as he had been in Cordova, and he was

at once made court physician.

The caliph Achmet Reschid was never weary of admiring the almost

universal knowledge of the old man, and often invited him to the

palace to converse with him for hours upon the secrets and marvels of

nature. Suddenly a terrible plague broke out in the city, and

threatened to decimate the population. Ben-Ha-Zelah compounded a

wonderful lotion, which cured six times in seven. He contended that in

nothing could evil be conquered in a greater proportion than this;

that a seventh was a minimum of disorder, of sorrow, of vice, in the

imperfect organization of this world, and that when the proportion of

evil in the human body, in the soul, in society, in nature, had been

reduced to a seventh, all the progress possible in this world had been

made.

However that may be, he was summoned one night in great haste to the

palace; the wife and son of the caliph were stricken down by the

pestilence. Ben-Ha-Zelah applied the miraculous lotion and the son was

restored to health--but the wife died.

The caliph Achmet Reschid was overcome with gratitude for so signal a

service and throwing himself into the arms of the old physician,

exclaimed: "Venerable old man I to thee I owe the life of my son and

my happiness! As a proof of my gratitude, I appoint thee Grand

Vizier!"

The old Jew prostrated himself on the ground before his generous

benefactor.

"Yes," continued the caliph, who had a truly noble heart; "yes, I need

a friend in whom I can confide, as I have, one after another, beheaded

all those whom I had in a moment of impulse honored with that title."

"Thanks, mighty caliph!" humbly replied Ben-Ha-Zelah. "How shall I

find fitting words to thank my gracious prince for such unmerited

condescension! Surely never did kindness like this rejoice the earth!"

"Thou sayest well and truly, child of Jacob," answered the puissant

caliph.

Time, far from diminishing the love of the caliph for Ben-Ha-Zelah,

only increased it. The jealousy of the courtiers had always succeeded

in poisoning the mind of the caliph against any one on whom he had

conferred the dignity of Grand Vizier; but the prudence of the old Jew

baffled all their schemes, and Achmet Reschid had learned how to guard

against calumniators. At the first word breathed against the new

favorite that benevolent prince and faithful friend ordered the rash

slanderer to be beheaded, and very soon the courtiers vied with each

other in their praises of the Grand Vizier. The good caliph, seeing

the harmony of feeling among his people with regard to the new

favorite, congratulated himself on his firmness.

{695}

"I knew very well," said he, "that the whole court would at last do

him justice. I talk of him with every one and no man says aught

against him."

III.

As for Ben-Ha-Zelah, he seemed to be perfectly indifferent to the

immense power which his favor with the caliph gave him in the state.

In vain did the courtiers try to entangle him in the intrigues of the

court. In vain did the noblemen of the kingdom, in hopes of gaining

his protection, lay costly gifts at his feet. He gently refused them

all. Devoid of ambition, and prudent to excess, the old Jew withdrew

as much as possible from public affairs. He even begged the caliph to

excuse his attendance at the palace, except at certain hours of the

day, that he might devote himself more uninterruptedly to scientific

pursuits. The love of the caliph grow day by day, and the courtiers as

well as the common people, seeing the humility and disinterestedness

of the Grand Vizier, acknowledged him to be indeed a sage.

At court, as everywhere else, he was clad in a coarse brown robe, and

was in no way distinguishable from the crowd, had not the intellectual

expression of his face, and the strange brilliancy of his eyes,

revealed at a glance a superior mind. He might often be seen in the

streets of Cairo, carrying in his own hands the metals, stones or

medicinal plants, which he bought in the bazaars, or gathered in his

solitary rambles. Wherever he went he heard his own praise; but never

did he in any way betray that it was agreeable to him.

"No one is so poor and humble," said the common people to each other,

"as the Grand Vizier of our high and mighty caliph."

The truth was, however, that with the exception of Achmet Reschid, no

one in Cairo possessed such vast riches as the "poor" Vizier; but

after the manner of the Jews he carefully concealed them, and lived in

a very modest mansion situated outside the walls of the city. This

humble dwelling was completely hidden by the palm and cedar trees

which surrounded it, and for still greater security was enclosed by a

high wall.

In this quiet and mysterious retreat, where he admitted no guests, he

had centered all that made his life; there dwelt his child, the young

Rachel, just budding into womanhood.

When, after passing weary hours in the unmeaning ceremonial of the

court, he reached his garden gate, and stealthily opened it, his

usually impassive face was suddenly illumined as with a sunbeam. It

was as if he had passed from death unto life.

His daughter, clad like a queen of the east, ran to meet him, and

embraced him so tenderly that it seemed as if a portion of her young

life was breathed into the worn and exhausted frame of the aged

father. Ben-Ha-Zelah forgot his sorrows and his cares, and seemed to

revive as with the breath of spring. "I gave thee life, my daughter;

thou dost restore it to me!" murmured the old man.

Rachel was just entering her sixteenth year. Her hair was of the

beautiful golden color which people love. Her eyes, her voice, her

smile, her bearing, carried with them an irresistible charm. She

looked, it was a ray of light; she spoke, it was a strain of music;

she smiled, it was the opening of a gate of Paradise. Her heart was

pure and innocent as was that of the Rachel of old, whom Jacob loved.

Can we wonder that the heart of her father was bound up in her? Who

indeed, could help loving a being so pure and bright?

IV.

Ben-Ha-Zelah was old, but his was a vigorous old age--and the young

daughter and aged father, as they walked under the grand old trees of

the garden, made a beautiful picture. The long white head, piercing

eyes, {696} eagle nose, and broad brow of the old man, formed a

striking contrast to his humble dress, and when no longer under

constraint, it revealed a mysterious and profound satisfaction in his

own personality and intelligence. There was so much _pride_ that there

was no place for _vanity_ in his soul.

What cared he for the admiration or contempt of others, the vain

clamors of the multitude, whom he considered infinitely his inferiors?

When he said to himself, "I am Ben-Ha-Zelah," the rest of the world no

longer existed for him.

His pride was like that of Lucifer: it was not relative but absolute;

he contemplated himself with a terrible satisfaction. Thence his

disdain for all the miserable trifles which gratify the self-love of

inferior men. The pride of _seeming_ comes when the pride of _being_

is not absolute.

Whence then came the gigantic pride of the old Jew?

Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah was the most learned man of his time.

He had carried his investigations far beyond those of the most

scientific men of the age; he was well versed in physics, mechanics,

dynamics, arithmetic, music, astronomy, medicine, surgery, and botany;

but the science he most loved, was that which, at first known under

the name of alchemy, was destined to become the greatest science of

modern times--chemistry.

He passed night after night shut up in his laboratory, as he had

formerly done at Cordova, seeking to penetrate one after the other all

the mysteries of nature. There, bending over his glowing furnaces,

surrounded with retorts and crucibles of strange shapes, filled with

metals in a state of fusion, by all sorts of instruments and alembics,

old Ben-Ha-Zelah interrogated matter and demanded the mystery of its

essence; he pursued it from form to form, he tore it with red-hot

pincers; he melted it in the glowing fires of his furnaces; he made it

solid only to reduce it again to a liquid state, decomposing it a

hundred times in a hundred different ways. He tortured it, as does the

lawyer the prisoner at the bar, that he may wring from him his most

hidden secrets.

Matter, thus pursued by the indefatigable alchemist, had revealed more

than one of its mysterious laws, which he had made useful in the

practice of his profession, so that he was considered in Cairo little

less than a demi-god. However, in his labors he sought not the good of

his fellow-men, but the barren satisfaction of the passion which was

consuming him, _the pride of knowledge_; he sought to penetrate the

secrets of the most high God. The promise of the tempter to our first

parents; _Eritis sicut dei, scientes_, "You shall be as gods, knowing

good and evil," had penetrated his soul; and he desired to plant in

his garden that fatal tree to which the first-born of our race

stretched out their guilty hands. Like his ancestor Jacob, he wrestled

with Jehovah.

One can readily understand that the old man, absorbed in this gigantic

struggle, was dead to all vanity, so far as men were concerned. He had

reached such dizzy heights that he had almost lost sight of them. To

him they were like the brute beasts which crossed his path; he

believed them to be of an inferior nature to him, who had been gifted

with such vast genius--such indefatigable industry. His high thoughts

were not for such miserable pigmies.

Sometimes seating himself in dreamy mood in his garden, at the foot of

a grand old cedar, his favorite seat, and taking in his hand a pebble,

a blade of grass or a flower he was plunged in profound meditation.

What makes this "a body" thought he. This "body" is brown, heavy,

hard, square, or has many other properties which come under my notice.

But it is evident that neither the color, weight, cohesion, nor form

constitute its _essence_. They are its manner of beings--not its

being. If I modify it, destroy it even, it will still {697} be the

same body, and I shall, after all, have only attacked its manner of

being; the essence which heretofore has always escaped me--_the soul

of the body_, if I may say so--will have suffered no change. It is as

if I were suddenly to become hunchback, lame, idiotic--I would still

be the same man. I must discover the substance _quod sub stat_; in the

first place, what causes this to be; in the second place, what

constitutes it a body; and finally, what makes it this particular body

which I hold in my hand and not another.

The problem was formidable; it was the mystery of the omnipotence of

the God who created the world, and nevertheless this unknown

Prometheus shrank not from the task, and flattered himself he could

wring from created matter the secrets of its Creator.

In his experiments' Ben-Ha-Zelah had started with the axiom that all

bodies were formed from certain elements which were invariable, but

combined in different ways. Moreover, his researches had proved to him

that many elements, formerly believed to be primary, were composed of

different elements into which they might again be readily resolved. So

that seeing their number decrease as his investigations became more

abstruse and his analyses more delicate, he had arrived at the

conclusion that there existed an original and absolute substance of

which all bodies, even those apparently the most different, were only

variations.

He affirmed the identity of the base under the infinite variety of the

forms. This primary substance which he considered as coëternal with

God, was, he thought, that on which Jehovah breathed in the beginning,

and in his Satanic pride he believed two things--first that the

Almighty had combined the atoms of matter in so wondrously complex a

manner only to conceal from man the secret of its creation--and

secondly, that the Rabbi-Ben-Ha-Zelah would be able to baffle the

precautions of the Almighty, and by analysis after analysis, at length

succeed in finding the simple primary substance from which all things

were originally formed.

Such were the thoughts which continually filled his mind--such the

gigantic plan he had conceived. Again and again he said to himself

that by taking from a body one after the other its contingent

qualities, as one takes the bark from a nut, he would succeed at

length in penetrating its most hidden depths, to that _matter essence_

from which was made, as he believed, all that existed in the universe.

He had inscribed on the door of his laboratory _Materia, mater_. And

as soon as he should be able to imprison in his alembics this primary

matter he could at will, disposing it after certain forms, make in

turn bronze, stone, wood, or gold. Nay more, he hoped to surprise with

the same blow the mystery of life--and then, thought he in his impious

pride, I shall be a creator, like unto Him before whom every knee

bends in adoration. I shall be God! _Eritis sicut dei_.

The old man, lost in the vain search for the absolute basis of matter,

little suspected that the final word of all science is; "The essence

of matter is immaterial."

However, he devoted himself most zealously to the great work he had

undertaken, and passed night after night in the recesses of his

laboratory which would have reminded one of the entrance to the

infernal regions but for the sweet presence of the young and lovely

Rachel, who glided in and out, bringing order out of confusion, and in

the evening beguiled the long hours by singing to her father snatches

of the old Hebrew songs of which such touching and beautiful fragments

have come down to us.

{698}

V.

One night, Ben-Ha-Zelah, regardless of fatigue, was still bending over

his glowing furnaces. For more than a week he had allowed himself no

sleep, nor had he permitted his eyes to wander from the vast crucible

which had been heated to white beat for six consecutive months. He had

discovered phenomena hitherto unknown. His bony hands clutched

convulsively the handle of the bellows, and his eager, care-worn face

was illuminated with a two-fold radiance, that from the purple light

of the furnace and from the interior flame which consumed his soul. He

was motionless from intensity of emotion. At last then he was about to

attain the aim and desire of his whole life!

The primary substance, the absolute essence of matter, he was about to

seize it--to be its lord. The old man still watched; a whitish vapor

rose slowly from the crucible; matter decomposed in this crucible

seemed to be a prey to a fearful travail--to struggle in an internal

conflict.

The old man raised his tall form to its full height and at that moment

appeared like a second Lucifer. He shouted in triumph, "I have

created!"

Then rushing to the casement he gazed upward to the starry heavens,

not in prayer, but in defiance.

"I have created!" he repeated, "I have created! I have conquered! I am

the equal of God!"

A noise, slight in reality, but to the excited senses of Ben-Ha-Zelah,

louder than the crash of thunder, was heard behind him. He turned with

agitated countenance. The crucible, unwatched during his delirium of

pride, had fallen, and was shivered to atoms. All was lost; the

creation of him who aspired to an equality with the Most High was but

a heap of ashes.

Ben-Ha-Zelah was stunned by this unlooked-for calamity. He fell back

fainting, as if, while he rashly sought to penetrate the mystery of

life, pale death, entering his dwelling had touched him with her

sombre wing.

VI.

When consciousness returned, the fire of the furnace, which had been

fed with so much care for six weary months, was extinguished. Through

the open casement he saw myriads of stars blazing in the firmament.

The majestic silence of the night hovered over the unchanged

immensity.

The old man was seized with an indefinable terror. He understood that

he was punished for his pride, and he had a presentiment that the

sudden failure of the labor and research of so many years was but the

beginning of his punishment. It seemed to him that in the midst of the

thick darkness the living God had looked into the depths of his guilty

soul and had stretched out his all-powerful hand to smite him.

Suddenly, as by a revelation, there came to him a knowledge of the

point where God was about to strike him.

"My child! my child!" cried he, in a voice broken by terror and

remorse.

He ran to the chamber of his daughter.

The old man opened the door gently, taking, in spite of his terror, a

thousand paternal precautions not to awaken the sleeper. The trembling

light of a small alabaster lamp cast its faint rays about the

apartment. Gently he drew back the curtains of the bed and gazed

fondly upon his child.

Rachel slept profoundly, her breathing was as peaceful as innocence.

Ben-Ha-Zelah looked upon the sweet, calm face with a transport of

delight. The tranquillity of this peaceful sleep of childhood was

communicated to him, and for a moment stilled the agitation of his

soul.

He leaned fondly over the sleeping form; listened joyfully to the calm

breathing of his darling child, to the regular beating of her heart;

then stooping, imprinted a kiss of fatherly love on the beautiful

brow.

Rachel remained immovable, and her sleep was unbroken. "It is strange

she has not awakened," said the old man to himself looking at her

again. "Sleep is so like death."

{699}

As he allowed this thought to take form a vague terror took possession

of him.

"Bah! she sleeps! I hear her breathing," said he aloud.

The secret indefinable fear which he could not banish, and for which

he could not account, still remained; he could no longer contain

himself.

"Rachel!"' cried he in a loud voice. The young girl slept on.

"Rachel! my child!" he cried again, at the same time shaking her

gently by the arm.

Still the calm sleep was unbroken; and the peaceful breathing which at

first had delighted the fond father now seemed like a fatal spell.

"Rachel! Rachel!"

He took her in his arms; he placed her on a couch; he tried to make

her walk; and in vain essayed with his trembling fingers to open the

sealed eyelids.

The young girl slept on; her respiration as calm, and the rhythm of

her heart still preserved its frightful monotone. All the efforts of

the despairing father were vain. Day dawned, night came, the next day,

and weeks and months, and Rachel awoke not.

VII.

The distracted father, remembering that he was a physician, sought in

medical science a remedy for this strange malady. He tried every known

medicine, he essayed new ones; but nothing could break the fearful

sleep. He no longer went to the palace of the caliph, but his days and

nights were passed in his laboratory as they had formerly been at

Cordova; his researches, however, were no longer to feed his pride.

Sorrow concentrated his mighty genius on one thought--to discover a

remedy for his idolized child. Bitterly did be expiate the old

anxieties of his pride by the torturing perplexities of this new

sorrow.

More than six months passed thus. A last and desperate remedy to which

he had recourse, had, like all the others failed; Ben-Ha-Zelah on a

night like that on which this weight of sorrow had come upon him, was

in his laboratory bending as ever over his retorts. He had made every

research, every experiment that genius, quickened by affection, could

suggest, and had failed in all. Rachel still slept. Then the

broken-hearted old man, convinced of his own impotence, let fall his

arms at his sides and burst into tears.

At that moment he heard a voice which seemed to come at once from the

depths of immensity, and from the inmost recesses of his own heart.

"All thy efforts are vain," said the voice. "Thou wilt cure thy child,

only by passing about her neck, a pearl necklace, not the pearls which

bountiful nature gives, and God makes, but pearls which thou thyself

hast fashioned. Thou thoughtest thyself the equal of God, the equal of

Him who created the world; and he punishes thee, by condemning thee to

create only a few pearls, and he is willing to lend thee all the

riches and treasures of his beautiful world. Go and seek! And when

thou hast made enough of these pearls to fill the box beside thee,

make a necklace of them. Put it on the neck of thy child, and she will

awake."

It was not an illusion. The old man had seen no one, but the box was

there beside him. It was a little box, of a wood unknown to him, which

exhaled a delicious odor. On the lid inscribed in letters of gold, was

a Hebrew word, meaning "Treasure of God."

Ben-Ha-Zelah, re-kindled the fires of his furnaces and again applied

himself to explore the arcana of alchemy. He took from his coffers all

the pearls he possessed, and after having analyzed them, tried in vain

to form them again; but the secret of omnipotence which he attempted

to grasp, fled from him. He decomposed precious stones and succeeded

only in making a gross calcareous substance. Again and again he

flattered himself, he had penetrated the mystery of the Creator; but

all his hopes ended in nothingness. {700} Nature, which he had once

attempted to conquer to satisfy his pride as a savant, he now wooed in

vain to still the passionate yearnings of his fatherly heart.

One day he said to himself: "My knowledge is very little; and with the

very little I know, I shall never succeed in solving this problem, and

nevertheless it is possible!"

The voice which spoke to me is a voice which does not deceive.

Then an inspiration came to him which lighted with a pale ray of hope,

the sorrowful face long unused to happiness. The idea occurred to him,

that if he should go and study the shells of the Persian gulf where

pearls are formed, he might succeed in winning from nature the mystery

which he had so much interest in learning.

He set out the next morning on his long and wearisome journey, leaving

his child to the faithful care of the old Jewish slave who had been so

many years in his service, and in whom he reposed the most perfect

confidence. She had been the nurse of Rachel, and loved her almost

with a mother's love. He spent two months in studying the pearl oyster

of the Persian gulf; but there, as in his laboratory, all his efforts

were vain.

Providence, thought he, (he no longer said "nature,") Providence has

secrets which will never be known to mortals!

Convinced of the utter folly of his painful researches--anxious,

moreover, to see his poor child again. He sadly turned his face

homeward.

VIII.

As he slowly and sadly pursued his way toward Egypt, he saw on the

second day of his journey across the desert, a group in the distance,

apparently just in his route; continuing to advance, he saw a dead

camel covered with blood, beside him the dead body of a knight,

pierced with sabre-strokes; on the road-side a woman, apparently

dying, holding in her arms a young infant.

Ben-Ha-Zelah, moved with compassion, approached and accosted the

woman. She told him that in crossing the desert with her husband and

child, they had been attacked by brigands, who had killed her husband,

left her mortally wounded, and had rifled them of all their treasures;

even their water-bottles--more precious than all in the desert.

"I am dying," said she, "but my bitterest sorrow is in leaving my poor

little babe, who must perish thus alone in the desert."

The poor mother for one moment thought of asking the kind old man to

take her child, but she saw that one of his water-bottles had been

broken by some accident, and that he had hardly enough water to cross

the desert.

Ben-Ha-Zelah had had the same thought, but he calculated the quantity

of water remaining to him, and and to himself that it was impossible.

The woman was dying.

There, in the presence of the mother's despair, with the wail of the

infant so soon to be an orphan, in his ears, he thought of his own

child.

"Woman," said he, "I will take your babe, and will care for him as for

my own. I will save his life, even at the cost of my own."

The mother died, invoking blessings on his head.

Ben-Ha-Zelah resumed his journey across the desert, placing before him

on the saddle, the infant, who at first wept, then laughed in

infantile glee, then amused himself by teasing the patient nurse,

pulling his beard, or tangling the reins of the camel. The old man who

had become as gentle as a mother, sought every means which affection

could suggest to amuse the helpless little creature, so strangely

given to his charge--sometimes with the gold tassels of his bridle,

sometimes with his bright fire-arms, sometimes by rattling in his ears

the gold sequins in his purse. Again he would sing to him a lullaby,

long-forgotten. {701} The child was pleased with each new amusement

devised by the old savant, but it was only for a few moments, and was

again looking about for something he had not yet seen.

How much we all resemble children!

Poor old Ben-Ha-Zelah knew not what to do to satisfy this restless

craving for amusement. Suddenly he thought of the beautiful little

box, which the child had not seen, and drew it out from the folds of

his robe.

The child eagerly grasped this new plaything and turned it about in

every possible way.

To the amazement of the old Jew, there was a slight sound, as of some

small object rolling about in the box.

The child shouted with delight. The old man was breathless and

trembling. He grasped the box convulsively from the hands of the

infant, who held it out to him, smiling. He opened it. His blood froze

in his veins, with an emotion not of terror but of joy and hope.

He beheld in the box a pearl, pure and more beautiful than any he had

ever seen.

Speechless with emotion he could only raise his eyes to heaven in a

wordless prayer of gratitude.

Then he heard a voice which seemed to fill the immensity of the

desert, and nevertheless, was as low and sweet as the loving murmur of

a fond mother.

"O Ben-Ha-Zelah! every tear which thou shalt dry, is a pearl which

thou dost create."

Ben-Ha-Zelah looked about him. All around him was the desert. Before

him, in his arms, the little babe, suddenly grown calm, and smiling in

his face.

A few more days and his journey through the desert was ended. But many

were the privations he endured that the helpless little infant, now so

dear to him, might not want.

Ben-Ha-Zelah was rich, and now he was good. His goodness made use of

his riches to dry the tears of misfortune--there are as many, alas! in

this world of suffering, as there are dewdrops on a summers morning--

and very soon his box was quite full.

When he again saw his child, the mysterious sleep was unbroken. She

came not to welcome him, but he put the pearl necklace about her

beautiful throat, and she awoke, smiling.

"Oh! what a lovely necklace, papa," she cried.

"It is the first I have ever given thee, my darling," said the happy

father, "but I hope it may not be the last. My pearl-casket is now

empty, but I trust in God that I may fill it many times before I die."

------

{702}

[ORIGINAL.]

THE GIPSIES. [Footnote 174]

[Footnote 174: "A History of the Gipsies: with Specimens of the

Gipsy Language." By Walter Simson. Edited, with preface,

introduction, and notes, and a disquisition on the past, present,

and future of Glpsydom. By James Simson. 12mo, pp. 575. New York: M.

Doolady. London: Sampson Low, Son, & Marston. 1866.]

About the beginning of the 15th century there appeared in Germany a

strange mysterious people, such as had never been seen in Europe

before;

A vagrant crew, far straggled through the glade,

With trifles busied, or in slumbers laid.

No man knew who they were or whence they came. Their swarthy

complexions, long black hair, sharp eyes, high cheek-bones, narrow

mouths and fine white teeth, were marks of an eastern origin. They

spoke a language which had never been heard in Europe before, and

followed a strange way of life, which savored more of the rude nomadic

habits of primitive Asia, than the comparatively civilized customs of

the country into which they had come. They travelled about in bands or

tribes, each under the command of a leader, slept at night in tents or

abandoned out-houses, and occupied themselves by day in a simple sort

of smith work, basket-weaving, tinkering, fortune-telling, juggling,

and stealing. Vagabonds as they were, filthy in their habits, and

addicted to the eating of carrion and other disgusting things, they

were fond of wearing gay dresses, whenever they could beg, buy, or

steal them, and many of the women, with their lithe and agile figures,

were not without a certain dark sort of beauty which found many

admirers.

Whether they knew anything about their own origin or not, is doubtful;

but if they did, they kept it so carefully' secret, that the knowledge

has been completely lost. At all events they made their first

appearance in France in 1427, with a great lie in their months, and a

forged confirmation of it in their pockets. They called themselves

Christian pilgrims from Lower Egypt, who had been expelled by the

Saracens. They had unfortunately committed a few sins on the way, and

having confessed to Pope Martin V., his holiness had enjoined upon

them as a penance to traverse the world for seven years without

sleeping in beds. In support of this story they exhibited documents

purporting to be issued by the holy see, but they had probably

manufactured these testimonials themselves. However, the world was not

very wise in those days, and the mysterious strangers were accepted

for what they professed to be; and for some years the wandering

penitents pursued a brilliant career of theft and imposture, while

their leaders galloped over the continent with the high-sounding

titles of dukes, counts, and lords of Little Egypt. When they first

came to Paris they had among them a duke, a count, and ten lords. The

authorities would not let them enter the city, but assigned them

quarters at La Chapelle near St. Denis, where they were consulted on

occult matters by great numbers of the citizens. But our Egyptian

pilgrims were soon found to be such incorrigible rascals that the

bishop of Paris caused them to be removed, and excommunicated those

who had consulted them. Similar treatment was shown them in other

parts of Europe. For a time their forged credentials had enabled them

to obtain passports and letters of {703} security from various

European potentates; but the wanderers everywhere made themselves

nuisances, and were banished under threats of the severest

punishments. Fortunately for them, however, these edicts were not

published simultaneously all over Europe, so that they were not

exactly driven into the ocean, but only exiled from one part of the

continent to another. In Germany they were called _Zigeuner_, or

wanderers; in Holland, _Haydens_, or heathens, in Spain, _Gitanos_; in

Italy, _Zingari_; in France, Bohemians, because they entered that

country from Bohemia. The name of gipsy, by which they were known in

England and Scotland, is evidently a corruption of their self-chosen

appellation Egyptians.

More than four hundred years have passed since these swarthy penitents

made their seven years' pilgrimage of cheating and pilfering through

Europe, and they are still a people as distinct from all other races

in their essential characteristics as they were on the day they first

humbugged our ancestors. The general improvement of society all over

the world has compelled them to abandon many of their vagabond ways.

They have no longer that complete organization in tribes and companies

which they used to preserve; they no longer claim the privilege of

governing themselves in all things by their own laws, and their earls

and captains no longer exercise the authority of life and death over

their subjects. A large gipsy encampment is a rare sight nowadays, and

even the gipsy features, owing to frequent intermarriages between the

tribes and the European race, are in a fair way of being obliterated.

But there are still many thousands of gipsies roaming about Europe in

small companies; they still preserve their ancient customs in secret;

and under all the restraints of civilization, even the most orderly of

them cherish their old vagabond propensities. The Gipsy physiognomy is

quite as marked as the Jewish, and the gipsy race is far more

distinctly separated from the rest of the world than are the children

of Abraham. Their speech, which is not, as some people suppose, a mere

farago of slang or thieves' latin, but a genuine language, has been

handed down from mother to child, and is still a living tongue--a fact

which is not a little remarkable, because the language has no

literature, and can only be perpetrated by tradition. The gipsies have

no written characters. And yet it would be hard to find a gipsy who

cannot speak the language, though few of them are willing to

acknowledge it.

The problem of the origin of this strange people has exercised learned

brains ever since the civilized world became civilized enough to

perceive that there was a mystery about their presence in the midst of

Christendom. It seems to be pretty well agreed that they came into

Europe from Hindostan; but why they came, and why they called

themselves Egyptians are matters of dispute. Grellman in Germany, and

Hoyland and Borrow in England have hitherto been the most esteemed

authorities on the subject of gipsies; but we have now a new work, by

Walter and James Simson, which promises to shove the older books

aside. It is a rather outlandish production, but on that very account

perhaps more appropriate to its subject, Mr. Walter having spent some

seventeen years poking about gipsy encampments, peeping into their

huts, studying their cookery, scraping up odds and ends of their

language, learning how they picked pockets, told fortunes, robbed

hen-roosts, stole horses, married their wives and divorced them,

fought with each other, protected their friends, and pursued their

enemies with unrelenting vengeance; having gathered up a great store

of interesting anecdotes and historical notes, and got to know, in

fine, more about the gipsies of Scotland than any other man, probably,

who ever lived--having done all this, Mr. Walter Simson died one day

and left an ill-digested manuscript {704} book on his pet subject,

which Mr. James Simson took up, annotated, enlarged, and published.

Mr. Walter's book, if it was not a model of literary neatness, was

unpretentious, entertaining, and full of valuable information. Mr.

James, however, must needs add to it, first an advertisement, then a

preface, then an introduction, and lastly a long-drawn disquisition,

all of which are tiresome to the last degree, and not worth a tenth of

the space they fill. Besides, Mr. James Simson has a bad temper, and

it is not pleasant to read his arguments, even when he argues against

an imaginary adversary. He has a theory of his own about the origin of

the gipsies, to which we do not purpose to commit ourselves; but it is

curious enough to be stated, so that our readers may judge of it for

themselves.

An intelligent gipsy once told Mr. Simson that his race sprang from a

body of men-a cross between the Arabs and Egyptians--who left Egypt in

the train of the Jews. Now we read in Exodus xii. 38, that "a mixed

multitude went up also with them," [_i.e._, with the Jews out of

Egypt;] and from the fact stated in Numbers xi. 4, that "the mixed

multitude that was among them fell a lusting" for flesh, it would

appear that these refugees had not amalgamated with the Jews, but only

journeyed in company with them. Since this multitude were not children

of the promise, and had no call from God to go out from among the

Egyptians and journey to a land of peace and plenty, their condition

in Egypt must have been a hard one, or they would not have entered

upon a long and painful wandering to escape from it. No doubt, says

Mr. Simson, they were slaves, like the Jews; probably descendants of

the Hyksos, or "Shepherd Kings," who possessed the land before its

conquest by the Pharaohs; perhaps descendents of these Hyksos by

Egyptian women. God had promised Canaan, however, only to the

Israelites; the "mixed multitudes" could have no share in the

inheritance; so they probably separated from the Jews in the

wilderness, and wandered eastward into Hindostan. Coming into that

country from a long servitude, they would naturally have been timid of

mixing with the native inhabitants, disposed to cling together for

mutual protection, loose in their notions of right and wrong and the

laws of property. Every man's hand would have been against them, and

they would have been no man's friend. The lawless and migratory habits

engendered by their isolation would soon have become fixed and

hereditary; and so, to hasten to a conclusion, the mixed multitude of

Egyptians would have grown to be, in the course of a few hundreds of

generations, more or less, a race of horse-thieves and

fortune-tellers.

This theory accounts for the fact that the gipsies call themselves

Egyptians, while their language and many other peculiarities are

strongly redolent of Hindostan. It is true that no Egyptian words have

been detected in their speech, while its resemblance to Hindostance

dialects is very strong; but then just think what an unconscionably

long time it is since they came away from Egypt, and how easy it would

have been for them, in the absence of an alphabet and a literature, to

forget the language of captivity and acquire that of freedom.

Why they came out of Hindostan into Europe, or why they waited to come

until the fifteenth century, is purely matter of conjecture. But that

Hindostan was their last abiding place before their appearance in

Germany, about 1417, there is, for various reasons which we need not

here enumerate, no reasonable doubt.

Of their history and character in continental Europe, Mr. Simson tells

us but little, and that little is not new. We pass at once therefore

to the portion of his book which is devoted to the Scottish gipsies;

and when we have read that, we shall have a pretty clear idea of the

peculiarities of the race all over the world.

{705}

It is not certain when they first appeared in Great Britain; but they

were in Scotland at least as early as 1506 in which year they so far

imposed upon King James IV., that his majesty addressed a letter of

commendation to the King of Denmark, in favor of "Anthonius Gawino,

Earl of Little Egypt, and the other afflicted and lamentable tribe of

his retinue," who, having been "pilgriming" by command of the pope,

over the Christian world, were now anxious to cross the ocean into

Denmark. "But," concluded the Scottish monarch, with beautiful

simplicity, "we believe that the fates, manners, and race of the

wandering Egyptians are better known to thee than to us, because Egypt

is nearer thy kingdom." We see from this that the vagabonds still kept

up the fiction of a penitential pilgrimage, though it must have seemed

a long seven years' wandering which, beginning about 1417, was not

finished in 1506. In 1540 a still more remarkable document appears on

record, being nothing less than a sort of league or treaty between

James V. and his "loved John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt,"

whereby the officers of the realm were commanded to assist the said

John Faw "in execution of justice upon his company and folk, conform

to the laws of Egypt, and in punishing of all them that rebel against

him." But this state of things did not last long. James, as we all

know, liked to go a masquerading now and then, in the character of

"the Gaberlunzie Man," [Footnote 175] or "the Guid Man of

Ballangiegh," and on one occasion, while in this dignified disguise,

he fell in with a gang of gipsies carousing in a cave, near Wemyss, in

Fifeshire. His majesty heartily joined in the revels; but before long

a scuffle ensued, in the course of which one of the men "came crack

over the royal head with a bottle." Nor was this indignity enough, for

suspecting that the "guid man" was a spy, the trampers treated him

with the utmost harshness, and when they resumed their march compelled

him to go along with them, loaded with their budgets and wallets, and

leading an ass. The king passed several days in this disgusting

captivity, but at length found an opportunity to send a boy with a

written message to some of his nobles at Falkland. He was then

rescued. Two of the gipsies he caused to be hanged at once; a third,

who had treated him with some kindness, he let go free; and he caused

an edict to be published banishing the whole race from the kingdom

under penalty of death. James died the next year, however, and the

edict was never enforced; nor were subsequent laws, of equal severity,

able either to got the gipsies out of the country or to check their

wandering and thievish propensities. A great many of the race attached

themselves, nominally as clansmen, to chieftains and noblemen, who

were willing and able to afford them protection. But a great many were

nevertheless hanged merely for being "by habit and repute Egyptians."

So they got to look upon themselves as a persecuted race. They learned

to deny their origin, to keep their language a secret, and to resent

with all the savage fierceness of their fiery natures, the slightest

attempt on the part of the "gorgios," (as they called the Europeans

among whom they had cast their lot) to pry into the hidden mysteries

of gipsy life.

[Footnote 175: i.e. "Ragged begger."]

In this country we know little about gipsies except what we have

learned from novels, and from those curious books by Mr. Borrow, on

the gipsies of Spain, in which tact and fiction are so strangely

blended that it is difficult to tell them apart. The gipsy, to the

average American mind, is a dark-featured woman in a red skirt, and

with a shawl drawn over her head; who tells fortunes and steals little

babies; who lives in a tent and cooks her meals in the open air, with

the aid of an iron pot suspended from two crossed sticks. And the

picture is not very far from the truth after all; for all the actions

it paints, the gipsies have many a time performed. {706}

Child-stealing, however, they are not so much given to as we commonly

suppose; for they have too many children of their own to indulge in

such a costly luxury; nor do many of them profess palmistry, although

the few who do lay claim to a knowledge of the mysterious art drive a

thriving business in it. We purpose to collect from Mr. Simson's book

on account of the Scottish gipsies as he found them; but we ought to

warn our readers that the author wrote many years ago, and that the

progress of society in Scotland has made great changes in the

condition of the tribe. If wandering gipsies, however, are not so

numerous as they were, and if they do not practice their peculiar arts

and customs so openly as they formerly did, they are very far from

being extinct; and, according to Mr. James Simson, have merely carried

unsuspected, into the bosom of orderly and respectable society, the

vagabond propensities, itching palms, savagery, wickedness, appetite

for loathsome carcasses--nay, even that dark unwritten language,

spoken by none but a gipsy of the true blood--which characterized them

in the days of Meg Merrilies or the Gaberlunzie man.

The Scottish gipsies almost always traversed the country in bands of

twenty, thirty, or more, though so many were seldom seen together on

the road. While travelling they broke up into parties of twos and

threes, having according to all appearance no connection with each

other, and at night they used to meet in some spot previously agreed

upon. It was not their general custom to sleep in tents. They

preferred for their lodgings deserted kilns, or barns or out-houses.

The usual way was for one of the women to precede them, if possible

with a child in her arms, and coax from some tender-hearted farmer

permission to shelter herself for the night in one of the farm

buildings. When the family awoke in the morning they were pretty sure

to find the one miserable vagrant surrounded by a gang of sturdy

trampers, and some twenty or thirty asses tethered on the green. For

twenty-four hours after their arrival they expected to receive food

gratis from the family on whose land they halted. After that, no

matter how long they remained, they provided for themselves. The

farmers generally found it for their interest to treat the gipsies

kindly, for these curious people never robbed their entertainers. A

farmer's wife whom Mr. Simson knew, on granting the customary

privilege of lodging to one of the tribe, added by way of caution:

"But ye must not steal anything from me then." "We'll no play any

tricks on you, mistress," was the reply; "but others will pay for

that." The men of the band seldom or never set foot within the door of

the farmhouse, but kept aloof from observation. They employed

themselves in repairing broken china, and utensils of copper, brass,

and pewter; and making horn spoons, wool-cards, smoothing-irons, and

sole-clouts for ploughs, which the women then disposed of. A good deal

of their time was passed in athletic exercises. They were famous

leapers and cudgel players, and despite their instinct of retirement

they could rarely resist a temptation "to throw the hammer," cast the

putting-stone, or beat the farm laborers at quoits, golf, and other

games. They were musicians, too, and their skill with the violin and

the bagpipes often assured them a night's lodging or a hearty welcome

at fairs, weddings, and other country merry-makings. Working in horn

was their favorite and most ancient occupation, and such was the care

they bestowed upon it that one tribe could always distinguish the

handiwork of another. Their devotion to the art of tinkering obtained

for them the name of Tinklers, by which they are generally known in

Scotland. They were also great horse-dealers, or, what in their case

meant very nearly the same thing, horse-thieves. They were not

scrupulous as to how they obtained {707} the animals, but they were

rare hands at selling them to advantage, though when a customer

trusted to their honor many of them would serve him with strict

honesty.

The women concerned themselves in domestic cares and in helping the

men to sell the articles they had made. It was the women who managed

all their intercourse with the farmers and other country people, and

who did most of the begging. In this art they displayed an aptitude

which partook of the character of genius. They never closed a bargain

without demanding a present of victuals and drink, which they called

"boontith"; and as they were ready enough to take by foul means what

they could not get by fair, the closest-fisted housewife in Scotland

seldom resisted their importunities very long. The fortune-telling, of

course, fell to the women.

But petty larceny, after all, was their principal means of support.

They were expert pickpockets and daring riflers of hen-roosts. The

bolder spirits rose to the dignity of highwaymen, coiners, and cattle

thieves. The children were trained from infancy to thievish pursuits,

and almost every gipsy encampment was a school of practice like that

kept by Fagin the Jew, to which poor little Oliver Twist was

introduced by the Artful Dodger. When legitimate business was dull,

they picked each other's pockets in a friendly way, just for the sake

of keeping their hands in. Sometimes a pair of breeches was hung aloft

by a string, and the children were required to abstract money from the

pockets without moving the garments. If the young rascal succeeded, he

was praised and rewarded; if he failed, he was beaten. Having passed

through this stage of his probation, the neophyte was admitted to a

higher degree. A purse was laid down in an exposed part of the

encampment, in plain view of all the gang, and while the older members

were busied in their daily pursuits, the children exercised all their

ingenuity and patience to carry off the purse without being perceived.

The instructor in this training-school was generally a woman. By the

time he was ten years old, the gipsy boy was thought fit to be let

loose upon the community, and became a member of an organized band of

thieves. The captains, whose dignity was usually hereditary, dressed

well, carried themselves gallantly, and could not be taken for what

they really were, especially as they never showed themselves in the

company of their men. The inferior thieves travelled to fairs, singly,

or at most two together, and as fast as they collected their booty

repaired with it to the headquarters of their chief. This latter

personage always had some ostensible business--such as that of a

horse dealer--and it was easy for the gang to communicate with him

under cover of a bargain, without arousing suspicion! For ripping

pockets open they had a short steel blade attached to a piece of

leather, like a sail-maker's palm, and concealed under their sleeves;

or the women wore upon their forefingers large rings containing sharp

steel instruments which were made to dart forth by the pressure of a

spring, when the hand was closed. Of the dexterity of these

light-fingered gentry Mr. Simson tells the following story: