GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XLI. September, 1852. No. 3.
Table of Contents
Our Way Across The Sea
The Giant’s Causeway
Hymn for the Dedication of a Church
The Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia
Distribution of the Human Race
Excerpts From an Epistle to a Friend
Oh, Would I Were a Child!
A Night in the Dissecting-Room
The Dead at Thermopylæ
The Opium Eater’s Dream
The Tutor’s Daughter
Ambition
Song
Ganga
Memory’s Consolation
We Laid Her Down to Rest
The Pedant
Sonnet.—Age.
Chaucer and His Times
The Three Sisters
Lay of the Crusader
Joy Murmurs in the Ocean
A Visit
The World-Conqueror
Gather Ripe Fruit, Oh Death!
The Lucky Penny
To Mary, Asking for a Song
A Poet’s Thought
The Countess of Montfort
The Mysteries of a Flower
Too Much Blue
To —— ——
The Trial by Battle
Brevia
Sonnet.—The Mariner.
Review of New Books
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
[Illustration: =THE MEMENTO.=
W. Holl]
* * * * *
[Illustration: =CONTENTMENT.=]
* * * * *
[Illustration: =OUR WAY ACROSS THE SEA.=]
=Our Way Across The Sea.=
=ADAPTED TO THE MUCH ADMIRED AIR OF=
=“LA SUISSESSE AU HORD DU LAC.”=
Published by permission of LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street,
Philadelphia,
_Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments._
[Illustration]
[First Voice Soprano]
Home fare thee well The
[Second Voice Tenor]
Home fare thee well The
[Illustration]
[First Voice Soprano]
ocean’s storm is o’er The weary
pennon woos the seaward wind Fast speeds the
bark, And now the less’ning shore Sinks in the
wave, with those we leave be hind: Fare, fare thee
[Second Voice Tenor]
ocean’s storm is o’er The weary
pennon woos the seaward wind Fast speeds the
bark, And now the less’ning shore Sinks in the
wave, with those we leave behind:
[Illustration]
[First Voice Soprano]
well! Land of the free: No tongue can tell the love I
bear to thee! Fare, fare thee well! Land of the
free, No tongue can tell the love I bear to thee.
[Second Voice Tenor]
Fare, fare thee well! Land of the free: No tongue can tell the love I
bear to thee. Fare, fare thee well!
Land of the free, No tongue can tell the love I bear to thee.
2
We wreathe the bowl to drink a gay good bye
For tears would fall unbidden in the wine,
And while reflected was the mournful eye,
The sparkling surface e’en would cease to shine.
Then fare, fare well;
Once more, once more,
The ocean swell
Now hides my native shore.
3
See where yon star its diamond light displays,
Now seen, now hid behind the swelling sail,
Hope rides in gladness on its streaming rays,
And bids us on, and bribes the fav’ring gale.
Then hope we bend
In joy to thee,
And careless wend
Our way across the sea.
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
* * * * *
Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1852. No. 3.
* * * * *
=THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY.=
[Illustration]
Only imagine yourself, says a writer in the Journal of Commerce, in a
little row-boat, passing around the northern coast of Ireland. In the
distance, you seem to look upon an immense castle, flanked by double
rows of cylindrical columns. It seems so fortress-like, this massive
structure rising from the depths of the sea, that you expect to find
guards and wardens, soldiery and arms; but as you approach nearer it
loses that castellated appearance, and gradually lessens in magnitude
until there remains only a huge stone wall, extending around the coast
for miles. It is composed of gigantic pillars, cut into prisms,
three-sided, five-sided, eight-sided—side fitting to side—variously
jointed, joint corresponding to joint, innumerable irregularities
conformed into such beautiful regularity, that you are struck with awe
at so perfect a monument of skill, and ask involuntarily to what great
artist your praise is due; what year marked the foundation-stone; what
force formed each cylinder, and joined in uniform contact such irregular
masses? The toil of many a lifetime has been spent on far meaner
designs, and proud wealth has gloried in much less wonderful relics of
man’s invention.
Passing onward and still onward, for this columnar structure bounds a
great extent of seacoast, you come upon a vast gateway of stone work,
like the rest, but formed into a wide arch, not Gothic, nor Norman, but
unique, and perfect as peculiar. Its entrance is kept by huge waves,
that for centuries have been rolling higher and higher, to bar the
gateway that is open still, so your tiny boat rises with their swelling,
and you pass through, not, as you had expected, to find the sky above
you still, but into the recesses of a mighty cavern, whose vaulted roof
is formed of stones, many cornered and many colored. You should be there
at sunset, as we were, to see the dashing waters sparkling with gold,
and the stones radiant with crimson light. You would be awed into
silence; for there is something fearful in the thought of a chamber
built without hands; but should your feelings find vent in words, your
ears would be stunned by the deafening sound of even your sweet voice,
dear Bel, so heavy is the echo there. I had been always very anxious to
see the inside of this famous cave, with its ocean door, and its stony
wall hung with sea-weed tapestry, but I assure you I was not less eager
to see the outside of it again; I had no ambition to interfere with a
solitude too desolate for aught save the cawing of rooks, and the
twittering of swallows.
The average height of the basaltic columns constituting the Giant’s
Causeway is thirty feet; but the whole neighborhood is strewn with
detached fragments of the same species of rock, that in their
picturesque confusion seem the broken pillars of some ruined temple.
These columns in combination, these heptagons, hexagons, octagons and
triangles all joined in perfect symmetry, as if hewn for corresponding
measurements, form, when you have climbed the rocky ascent to their
level summit, a tessellated pavement, where one may promenade in scorn
of the fierce waves that incessantly dash against their base, as if they
sought to hurl the firm rocks into oblivion. It is quite amusing to
listen to the wonderful harangues of the numerous barefooted urchins
that follow you all the way along the shore, offering themselves for
guides, and their tongues for teachers. They were all born within sight
of the “auld Giant’s” dominions, and the only history they ever learned
is comprised in wild legends about the stones and crannies that the
giant once ruled. From morning to evening they walk before you, behind
you, and seem to rise from the stones on every side of you, offering
their “spacermens” of the “Giant’s Punch Bowl,” “his honor’s
walking-stick,” and various other remarkable relics, “the very last” of
which has been sold and resold for twenty years back, and will be for
twenty years to come, to every visitor who will “lend them the loan of a
sixpence to break their fast with.”
The little ragamuffins tell you that their father is dead, and their
mother is poor; and in the grief of your heart you buy, and buy, and
buy, until you have no more money to pay, and no more hands to carry
their useless pebbles; and finding new faces, and hearing new tales
continually, the plot thickens so unmercifully, that you cease to
believe any thing because you have believed so much, and in self-defense
are forced to turn away from the masonic pile that owns no mason—from
the old arm-chair that no cabinet-maker ever planned—from the huge bowl
where none but a giant could drink—and the organ-pipes to whose
identity the roaring waves lend so real an illusion. But a sight of the
Giant’s Causeway, in spite of its nonsensical traditions and its
fabulous legends, is a commentary too impressive ever to be forgotten,
on the power and might of its great Creator. And long years hence it
will stand, firm and enduring, as it ever has stood, in its solemn,
awful grandeur, to annihilate the atheist’s doubt, and to silence the
sceptic’s sneer.
* * * * *
=HYMN,=
=FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.=
=BY REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS.=
How glorious is thy dwelling,
O Lord of Hosts, on high,
Where angel anthems swelling
Fill all the boundless sky:
In more than Eden splendor
The heavenly mansions shine,
Where praise the ransomed render,
In worship all divine.
On earth, among the lowly,
Thou hast a gracious reign—
The kingdom of the holy,
The church, the born-again;
And temples, reared by mortals.
The homes of truth and love.
Are hallowed as the portals
Of Paradise above.
Make this thy habitation,
And here thy name record;
With blessing and salvation
Our prayers and toils reward;
Let dews of grace descending,
On every heart distill;
And humble throngs come bending
To know and do thy will.
The Spirit’s living beauty
To all thy servants give,
And strength for every duty,
That each to thee may live;
Till, in his chariot gleaming,
The Saviour comes to bear
The souls of his redeeming
To heavenly mansions fair.
* * * * *
=THE ACADEMY OF NATURAL SCIENCES OF PHILADELPHIA.=
[Illustration]
It has been frequently said the building at the north-west corner of
Broad and George streets looks poverty caste, that is, its external
indications lead to a suspicion it is of a poor family, while if it were
rough-caste it would have such a tidy, smart look, that no mere
passer-by would suspect there are any poor relations connected with it.
That edifice is a small arena where a few courageous men do battle for
Truth. Were they to consent to rough-caste, or stucco, or plaster over
the unsightly surface of their street fronts, while they are in debt,
they would make a false show to the public which would be altogether
inconsistent with the object of the Society to which that edifice
belongs. The object of that Society is to ascertain the truth, and to
point it out to the human race, beginning of course with citizens of
Philadelphia. It must not be imagined, reader, gentle or fair or both,
that the Society to which the rough brick walls alluded to belongs, is
engaged in any fanciful or visionary or transcendental occupation. It
does not spend time in listening to testimony or seeking evidence of
truth of the kind asserted to exist in the doctrines of Hanneman, of
Preisnitz, of Broussais, or in the published certificates of the
efficacy of Perkins’ metallic tractors, or somebody’s galvanic rings, or
anybody’s sarsaparilla syrup, or in Kossuth’s theory of intervention, or
in the editorial predictions printed in the daily newspapers; but the
members of the Society in question battle for Truth which is truth, and
not for the flimsy dictum of men. They seek to ascertain the facts of
the Creation, and the yet hidden causes which bind them together in
relations of eternal harmony and peace. They seek in the atmosphere for
signs to lead to the comprehension of the laws which regulate its
movements; they study the vegetable growths of forest and field to learn
how to increase the products of the soil; they inquire into the nature
and habits and structure of the living inhabitants of the air, the
earth, and the seas, to know the best and easiest modes of rendering
them profitable to society; they dive beneath the surface of the land,
and drag to light the buried remains of those animals which dwelt on
earth countless years before man made any mark of his presence in the
universe, indeed before he had existence: and in that building they
bring together, under one view, the physical, palpable evidence of their
statements, and expose all to the gaze of the inquisitive without
charge. The inquiries or researches of men of the class constituting the
Society to which the not very polished structure belongs, have led to
the discovery of various coal-beds and mines of metallic ores, and the
means of illuminating our cities with gas. They are plain, simple,
unostentatious citizens, who seek the truths, the facts of the creation
for the common good of all. This circumstance is in itself almost enough
to satisfy any intelligent man of the world the Society must be
pecuniarily poor, and therefore, at present, unable to plaster over the
walls of their workshop, merely to make them agreeable to the eyes of
those who do not care to view the wonders within.
The building of which we speak was founded on the 25th of May, 1839, by
the “Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia,” a society which was
begun on the 25th of January, 1812, and incorporated by an act of the
Legislature of the State of Pennsylvania on the 24th of March, 1817.
The object of the Institution is to cultivate the Natural Sciences
exclusively, and to diffuse a knowledge of them amongst the people. Of
the 409,000 inhabitants of Philadelphia, about 150 only are now engaged
in this laudable enterprise, which is little known and little understood
by the community. Its members include representatives of almost all
vocations; clergymen, physicians, lawyers, merchants and mechanics, who
devote simply leisure moments to the study of natural history. For this
purpose they have formed a museum and library of books on the natural
sciences and on the arts. At this time, the museum contains nearly
150,000 objects of natural history, and the library almost 14,000
volumes.
The “Hall of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia” is
forty-five feet front on Broad street, and one hundred and fifteen feet
on George street, with an elevation of fifty feet. The style of
architecture is plain and unpretending; and, as already intimated, the
exterior remains unfinished for want of funds, all the resources of the
Society being required to meet the current expenses incurred for
preserving the objects in the museum, binding, books, warming and
lighting, etc. etc.
The visitor is admitted at a door on Broad street, and ascends a flight
of stairs, on the left hand as he enters the vestibule. He finds himself
in a spacious saloon, one hundred and ten feet in length and forty-two
feet broad, lighted from the roof and tall windows at the east and west
extremities. Three ranges of galleries, supported on light and graceful
iron columns, surround the apartment. The walls are hidden by
glass-cases, filled almost to overflowing with specimens of natural
history. Three ranges of flat cases occupy the floor, in which are
arranged fossil organic remains, illustrative of that department of
natural science termed palæontology. The American specimens are in the
southern, and the foreign in the middle and northern range of cases; the
whole constituting a collection of more than 60,000 individual
specimens. Among them are some of great rarity and interest. There are
several of those gigantic fish-lizards, called ichthyosaurians, imbedded
in massive limestone; teeth and bones of the mastodon, of elephants, of
an extinct species of bird, found in New Zealand, called the Dinornis;
impressions of coal-plants, etc. etc. On the southern side of the hall
is a collection of skeletons and parts of skeletons of mammals, birds,
reptiles and fishes; and the extraordinary collection of human skulls,
brought together here from all parts of the world, by the late Dr.
Samuel George Morton, so extensively known for his publications in
various departments of the history of the human race. On the northern
side is a collection of mammals, representing about 200 species of the
various quadrupeds. The cases on the galleries are occupied by the
extraordinary collection of birds, which is three times more extensive
than that of the British Museum; it contains at this time 27,000
specimens, of which no less than 22,000 are labeled and beautifully
mounted, and as well displayed as the want of space will permit. Among
the mammals are a specimen of the polar bear, obtained during the voyage
recently made under the command of Capt. De Haven, in search of Sir John
Franklin, and a fine male specimen of the Rocky Mountain sheep, a very
rare animal, this being, it is believed, the second specimen ever
brought to this city; the first was obtained by Capt. Lewis, during his
famous expedition with Clarke to the Rocky Mountains, more than
thirty-five years ago.
Besides the collections alluded to, there are others of great interest
which are not exhibited for want of space. The collection of crustaceans
or crabs, and that of reptiles, are equal to any in Europe. The
specimens of shells number 25,000; and of minerals more than 4000; but
they are not at present accessible to the public for want of room to
display them. The herbarium or hortus siccus, contains 46,000 species of
plants.
The value of the library is not easily estimated by the number of its
volumes. It contains many works which are not possessed by any other
library in the United States; and on this account is often visited by
scientific men from a distance.
The Society meets every Tuesday evening throughout the year; and
publishes periodically a journal of its proceedings, which is circulated
among the learned societies of all parts of the world.
Since the year 1828 the museum of the Academy has been open gratuitously
two afternoons in every week; tickets of admission on Tuesday and Friday
afternoons, from one o’clock P. M. till sunset, are furnished on
application to any member of the Society.
The Institution is sustained by the annual contributions of the members,
and by donations from those generous persons who are friends of natural
science. The names of donors to the museum and library are attached
always to whatever they present, and are published in the journal of
proceedings.
A full history of this most valuable but little known institution has
been recently printed; copies of it may be obtained, at a trifling cost,
from the doorkeeper on days when the hall is open to the public.
* * * * *
=DISTRIBUTION OF THE HUMAN RACE.=
=BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.=
[Illustration]
In the scale of being man rises above mere animal life and sensation,
however delicate and varied, and beyond mere instinct, whatever that
mysterious faculty may be, to rational existence, which constitutes him
“the minister and interpreter of nature.” The most sagacious and
instinctive of the brute creation live and die without the least
comprehension of the vast system of which they form a part; but man is
capable of surveying the whole with thought and reflection, of
understanding its economy and purpose, of tracing the Author of the
work, and marking the display of his perfections, of yielding to Him
adoration and homage, and sanctifying the varied scene to moral uses.
Sometimes, in the spirit of lurking infidelity to the announcements of
Scripture respecting the attention paid to our race by Divine
Providence, philosophy has paraded before us its demonstrations
concerning the plan of the universe, and called upon us to contemplate
its stately forms and vast dimensions. We may obey its summons, and
return from the contemplation with renewed ability to “vindicate the
ways of God to man.” For what knows the sun of his own brightness, or
the lightnings of their force, or the planets of their velocity, or the
ten thousand stars of their mighty proportions? The universe of material
things can neither think nor feel, but is perfectly unconscious of
itself; whereas man can appreciate to a certain extent its design,
derive enjoyment from its objects, track their course, comprehend their
laws, gather from them an intellectual apprehension of the wondrous
Artificer, make them subservient to morals and devotion; and thus the
grandeur of nature illustrates the greatness of man.
Linnæus placed man in the order of _Quadrumana_, or four-handed, in
fellowship with the monkey tribe, and even considered the genus _Homo_
as consisting of two species, the ourang-outang being the second, the
congener of the human being. Cuvier, with an obvious propriety, has
departed from this classification, and placed man in an order by
himself, that of _Bimana_, or two-handed, in allusion to the prehensory
organs with which he is furnished. They are instruments of essential
moment to their possessor, and form a characteristic mark of his
nobility, for, strictly speaking, he is the only bimane. In several
physical respects, man is far inferior to many of the lower animals. The
elephant is his superior in bulk and power, the hawk in sight, the
antelope in swiftness, the hound in scent, and the squirrel in agility.
No animal, in the infancy of existence, continues for so long a period
in a state of helplessness and dependence, or suffers for an equal
interval infirmity in age. To every other animal nature supplies an
appropriate clothing, for which they “toil not, neither do they
spin”—the office of man; without which, he would live and die in the
nakedness of his birth. No parallel to his case can be found in the
animal kingdom, in relation to the slowness of his growth, the variety
of his wants, and the numerous diseases to which he is exposed; and
while animals directly adapt to their support the food that is suited to
them—the lion his flesh, and the ox his grasses—the greater part of
the human aliment, according to the practice of all nations, is subject
to preparing processes, more or less rude or perfect, in order to be
rendered agreeable and nutritious. These are apparently the hardships of
the human condition; but a regard to their moral and intellectual effect
will strip them of the character of disadvantages. If endowed with a
high degree of physical force, if free from the necessity of culinary
preparation, if naturally arrayed against the exigencies of climate, and
thus constituted with a greater amount of personal independence—it may
reasonably be inferred, that civilization would not have made its
present advances, that mental capacity would have remained largely
undeveloped, and the career of man have exhibited a succession of
melancholy oscillation, between intemperate ferocity and selfish
indolence. The sense of his weakness and the pressure of his wants have
contributed to call forth his resources, to stir up “the gift and
faculty divine,” to rouse inventive powers to action which would
otherwise have continued dormant, and to excite benevolent affections,
by the demand he is compelled to make for the society of his kind; and
thus the very disabilities of his mere animal being tend to evoke his
higher nature, and to accomplish one of the designed ends of his
creation by sheer intellectual power, that of having “dominion over the
fowl of the air, and over the fish of the sea, and over the cattle, and
over every creeping thing that creepeth on the earth.”
The human population of the globe has been commonly rated at eight
hundred millions, but this is probably an error in excess. The
statements of geographers vary considerably, as appears from the
following estimates of two of the most distinguished, MM. Malte Brun and
Balbi. The former justly remarks, that all the calculations that have
been made upon the subject are chimerical, and that it is impossible to
state any which shall even approximate to the truth.
Malte Brun. Balbi.
Population of Europe 170,000,000 227,700,000
Asia 320,000,000 390,000,000
Africa 70,000,000 60,000,000
America 45,000,000 39,000,000
Oceanica 20,000,000 20,300,000
----------- -----------
Total 625,000,000 737,000,000
----------- -----------
But however uncertain the numbers of the human race, maritime and inland
discovery show the wide dispersion of the species, to the extreme bounds
of vegetable life; and the extraordinary facility of the human frame in
accommodating itself to diverse circumstances. There are but few tracts
of land which have not within their limits an indigenous human
population. The antarctic continent, the Falkland Isles, and Kerguelen’s
Land, with Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen in the northern zone, are the
principal exceptions. St. Helena is also another; for when that island
was discovered, in 1501, it was only occupied by sea-fowl, occasionally
visited by seals and turtles, and covered with forest-trees and shrubs.
However small the coral islands of the Pacific, and remote from
continents, they have in general their families of men. The New World,
though very scantily peopled, has the Esquimaux at its northern
extremity, within ten degrees of the pole, and the Fuegians at its
southern end, perhaps in the lowest condition in which humanity exists
upon the face of the globe. In the Ancient World, we every where meet
with traces of man and of his works, except in the zone of deserts; and
even here he has planted his race in the oases, the verdant islets of
the great ocean of sand. In situations high and low, dry and moist, cold
and hot, we find members of the family to which we belong, enduring the
extremes of temperature; a degree of heat which on the banks of the
Senegal causes spirits of wine to boil, and of cold in the north-east of
Asia which freezes brandy and mercury.
[Illustration: =Esquimaux Hut.=]
This wide diffusion of the species, occupying every variety of climate,
soil, and situation, necessarily involves the fact of man being
omnivorous, or able to derive support from all kinds of aliment; for
otherwise, if the nourishment depended exclusively upon animal or
vegetable food, various regions where the race exists and multiplies
would be incompatible with the easy maintenance of human life. In the
cold and frozen north, beyond the range of the cereal plants, where
excessive poverty marks the only vegetation that appears, the tribes of
Esquimaux draw their support entirely from the land and marine animals,
principally from fish and seals; and this is also the case with the
miserable Petcheres, inhabiting a corresponding district in the southern
hemisphere, the chill and barren shores of Tierra del Fuego. On the
other hand, the condition of many interior tropical countries is not
propitious to the subsistence of an extended population of the domestic
animals and the common cerealia, owing to the number of the beasts of
prey and the interchange of a flooded and a parching soil; and there we
find large families of men chiefly sustained by a peculiar farinaceous
diet, the fruits of the plantain and the palm. In the temperate zone, a
plentiful supply of both animal and vegetable food is met with, which
mingle in the aliment of the inhabitants. Thus, as we approach the
poles, man does not live by bread at all, the Esquimaux being
unacquainted with it; while approaching the equator he is mainly
supported by vegetable nutriment; and intermediate between them, he is
strikingly omnivorous, various kinds of grain and flesh composing the
staff of life. Some naturalists have proposed a classification of
mankind, according to the species of food by the use of which they are
distinguished. Thus we have _carnivorous_, or flesh-eaters;
_Ichthyophagists_, or fish-eaters; _Frugivorous_, or fruit and
corn-eaters; _Acridophagists_, or locust-eaters; _Geophagists_, or
earth-eaters; _Anthropophagists_, or man-eaters; and _Omnivorous_, or
devourers of every thing. But we have no tribes of men that exclusively
belong to any one of these classes. The only clear division that can be
made of the human race, taking their food as a characteristic, is the
very general one already stated, between the inhabitants of polar,
temperate, and tropical regions; and growing intercommunication is
constantly lessening the amount of difference even here, by transporting
the aliment yielded in abundance in one district to another naturally
destitute of it. The locust-eaters include some of the wandering Arabs
of northern Africa and western Asia, where the crested locust, one of
the largest species of the tribe, is made use of for food, both fresh
and salted; in which last state it is sold in some of the markets of the
Levant. Morier, in his Second Journey to Persia, observes, that locusts
are sold at Bushire as food, to the lowest of the peasantry, when dried;
and he adds, that “the locusts and wild honey, which St. John ate in the
wilderness, are perhaps particularly mentioned to show, that he fared as
the poorest of men.”
In considering the distribution of mankind, it is an obvious reflection
that, to secure the general diffusion of human life, the same necessity
did not exist, as in the case of plants and animals, for parent stocks
to be originally planted in different regions of the globe. It has been
correctly remarked, that had an individual of each tribe of plants, and
a pair of each tribe of animals, been called into being in one and the
same spot, the Linnæan hypothesis, large regions, separated by wide seas
and lofty chains of mountains from the country containing that single
spot, would forever have remained almost, if not entirely, destitute of
plants and animals, unless at the same time means had been provided for
their dispersion far more effectual than any which we behold in
operation, and a constitution more accommodated to diverse climates had
been given to them. To accomplish the dissemination of animal and
vegetable life, to an extent commensurate with the capacity of the
globe, separate regions were supplied with distinct stocks of plants and
animals. But the case of man required no such arrangement to secure a
large occupancy of the earth with his species. Endued with a
constitution capable of accommodating itself to extreme diversities of
climate, and with intelligence to invent methods of protection against
atmospheric influences; enabled also by the same intelligence to devise
means of transport over the most extensive seas, and across the most
formidable ranges of mountains, it is clear, that, possessed of these
capabilities, the whole habitable earth might be replenished with his
race from the location of a single pair. This is the doctrine of the
Mosaic history, and also of another part of the sacred record, which
declares that God “hath made of one blood all nations of men for to
dwell on all the face of the earth;” and notwithstanding numerous and
important diversities, the conclusions of philosophical inquiry are
clearly in harmony with it, establishing the unity of mankind.
Before touching upon the question of the common nature and origin of the
human race, a necessary preliminary to the question of their diffusion,
it may be requisite to state the sense of certain terms of common
occurrence in natural history, as _species_, _genus_, and _varieties_. A
race of animals, or plants, which constantly transmit from one
generation to another the same peculiar organization, constitute what is
technically called a _species_; and two races are held to be
specifically distinct, where a marked difference or organization exists,
which is unvaryingly transmitted. A species, therefore, includes those
animals and plants which may be presumed to have sprung from the same
parent stock. “We unite,” says De Candolle, “under the designation of a
species, all those individuals who mutually bear to each other so close
a resemblance as to allow of our supposing that they may have proceeded
originally from a single being, or a single pair.” The term _genus_ has
a more comprehensive signification. It is applied to a group of animals
or plants, the several tribes of which seem constructed after a common
general model, each being distinguished from the rest by a peculiarity
of organization, for which we cannot account but by supposing them to
have proceeded from originally different individuals. Animals of the
horse kind, which includes the ass and the zebra, furnish an example of
genus. They display the phenomena of general resemblance, but with such
marked differences, which are regularly transmitted, that we cannot
suppose them the common offspring of the same individuals, but to have
descended from originally different pairs. Animals of the feline race,
as the cat and the tiger, and of the bovine kind, as the ox, buffalo,
and bison, are similar instances of genera. A genus, therefore, embraces
several species. But within the limits of a species varieties occur, or
deviations from the type exhibited by the parent stock, which are due to
external causes, climate, soil, food, and other agencies, which have an
obvious and marked effect upon animal and vegetable forms, however
little their operation is understood. Some of these varieties are
transient, but others become fixed and permanent in the race, and are so
optically striking, as in several cases to suggest the idea of a
specific difference, where the species is identical. Now, the question
to be considered in relation to man is, whether the diversities which he
exhibits in different parts of the globe are compatible with his race
coming under the denomination of a species, having a common ancestry; or
whether it forms a genus including several tribes, having a general
resemblance, but so characteristically different as to lead the
philosophical investigator to the verdict, that the diverging streams of
humanity have originated independent of each other, and have not
proceeded from the same fountain head.
In prosecuting this inquiry, one method to be adopted is to review the
principal external differences observable among mankind, as to
complexion, structure, and stature; and examine, whether analogous
diversities appear among the lower animals within the limits of the same
species. If it is ascertained that corresponding phenomena to the human
variations occur in the case of animals belonging to an identical
species, the chief objection is obviated to the unity and common origin
of the human kind.
1. The most obvious distinction displayed by mankind is that of _color_,
in relation to the skin, hair, and eyes, which, with few exceptions, are
well known to have a certain correspondence, intimating their dependence
on a common cause. Thus light-colored hair is very generally in alliance
with light blue or gray eyes; but a relation of the complexion of the
skin to the hue of the hair is still more invariable. Persons of light
hair have a fair and transparent skin, which assumes a ruddy tint by
exposure to the light and heat of the sun, while the complexion of
black-haired individuals is of a darker cast, and acquires a bronze
shade in proportion to the intensity of the solar influence admitted to
it. The dark-haired women of Syria and Barbary are indeed frequently
very white; but this is owing to the careful avoidance of exposure to
the effect of climate, which Prichard calls a being “bleached by
artificial protection from light, or at least from the solar rays.” He
discriminates three principal varieties of mankind, taking the color of
the hair as the leading character, which he styles the _melanic_, the
_xanthous_, and the _leucous_. The melanic or black variety, includes
all individuals or races who have black or very dark hair; the xanthous
or fair class embraces those who have either brown, auburn, yellow,
flaxen, or red hair; and the leucous or white variety comprises those
who are commonly called albinos, whose hair is either pure white or
cream-colored.
The great majority of the human race belong to the melanic or
black-haired variety, with a corresponding hue of the skin. This hue
varies from the deepest black to a copper and olive color, and to a much
lighter shade. The Senegal Negroes are jet black, and the natives of
Malabar, with other nations of India, are nearly so. In some races, the
black combines with red, and in others with yellow, as in the instance
of the copper and olive colored tribes of America, Africa, and Asia; and
the same indigenous population furnishes examples of great discrepancy
as to the character of the tint. “The great difference of color,” says
Bishop Heber, of the Hindoos, “between different natives struck me much.
Of the crowd by whom we were surrounded, some were black as Negroes,
others merely copper-colored, and others little darker than the
Tunisines, whom I have seen at Liverpool. It is not merely the
differences of exposure, since this variety of tint is visible in the
fishermen who are naked all alike. Nor does it depend on caste, since
very high caste Brahmins are sometimes black, while Pariahs are
comparatively fair. It seems, therefore, to be an accidental difference,
like that of light and dark complexions in Europe; though where so much
of the body is exposed to sight, it becomes more striking here than in
our own country. Two observations,” he elsewhere observes, “struck me
forcibly; first, that the deep bronze is more naturally agreeable to the
human eye than the fair skins of Europe, since we are not displeased
with it even in the first instance, while it is well-known that to them
a fair complexion gives the idea of ill health, and of that sort of
deformity which, in our eyes, belongs to an albino.” The same class
includes the swarthy Spaniards, and the inhabitants of southern Europe
in general, who have dark hair, with the melanic complexion only
strongly dilute, which characterizes the olive, copper-colored, and
negro nations. In the xanthous or light-haired variety, who have
commonly gray or azure-blue eyes, combined with a fair complexion, which
acquires a ruddy instead of a bronze tinge on exposure to heat, some
whole tribes in the temperately cold regions of Europe and Asia are
included. Red or yellow hair and blue eyes peculiarly characterized the
old Gothic races according to the testimony of Tacitus, and are
prevalent among their descendants at present. But examples of the
xanthous variety present themselves in every dark-haired race, and we
gather from Homer, that it was not uncommon among the Greeks of his time
to find a melanic family. “The Jews, like the Arabs,” says Prichard,
“are generally a black-haired race; but I have seen many Jews with light
hair and beards, and blue eyes; and in some parts of Germany, the Jews
are remarkable for red, bushy beards. Many of the Russians are
light-haired, though the mass of the Slavonian race is of the melanous
variety. The Laplanders are generally of a dark complexion, but the
Finns, Mordouines, and Votiaks, who are allied to them in race, are
xanthous. Many of the northern Tungusians, or Mantschu Tartars, are of
the xanthous variety, though the majority of this nation are
black-haired.” Even among the more swarthy races of the melanic class,
as the Negroes of Senegal, examples of fair-haired individuals, with the
corresponding complexions, occur; and the native stock of Egypt supplies
similar instances, as appears from the light brown hair of some of the
mummies. The leucous or white variety includes no entire race of people;
but occasionally albinos, with perfectly white hair and skin, and red or
pink eyes, appear in all countries—among the xanthous tribes of Europe,
the copper-colored nations of America, and the pure blacks of Africa.
The phrase, white Negroes, though a literal contradiction, exactly
expresses the physical fact—a white individual of a black stock. In
some instances, pure white and black children have mingled in the same
family, the offspring of black parents.
The cause of the introduction of these varieties of color among the
inferior animals of the same species, which have become permanent, is
involved in great obscurity; but we have good reason to suppose that
differences of climate, situation, food, and habits, are some of the
influential agencies in their production, chiefly perhaps the former,
which appears to operate to a considerable extent in the various
coloring of the human race. Both the plants and animals of hot regions
display the deepest colors with which we are acquainted, while lighter
shades are characteristic of those that are situated in cold countries.
Within the tropics, the birds, beasts, flowers, and even fishes have the
respective hues of their feathers, hairs, petals, and scales uniformly
very deeply tinctured; while, as we recede from the equator, the color
of the animal races progressively becomes of a lighter cast, till,
approaching the poles, white is their common livery. The same remark is
true very generally of the complexion of mankind. The black, dark-brown,
and copper colors prevail in equatorial districts; the lighter olive is
distinctive of the nations immediately north of the tropic of Cancer;
and still lighter shades become more universal in the higher latitudes.
The Abyssinians are much less dark than the Negro races, for though
their geographical climate is the same, their physical climate is very
different, the high, table-land of the country placing them in a lower
temperature. Shut up within the walls of their seraglios, and secluded
from the sun, the Asiatic and African women are frequently as white as
the Europeans; while, in our own country, exposure to the sun is
well-known to produce a deeper complexion, and artificial protection
from its influence is adopted to preserve a fair and unfreckled skin.
The larvæ of many insects deposited in dark situations are white, and
acquire a brownish hue upon being confined under glasses that admit the
influence of the solar rays. Facts of this kind indicate the powerful
operation of diverse climates in the various coloring of the human skin,
and are sufficient to show, that the different complexions of mankind
are mere varieties of species, introduced and made permanent by the
continued action of local causes.
2. The next most obvious and important of the human differences involves
variety of structure, especially in the _shape of the skull_. Taking
this as the basis of a classification, Professor Blumenbach proposed a
division of mankind into five grand classes—the Caucasian, Mongolian,
Ethiopic, American, and Malay, which has been very generally adopted.
The principal descriptive particulars of each, as given by that
distinguished naturalist, are the following:
In the Caucasian race, the head is of the most symmetrical shape, almost
round; the forehead of moderate extent; the cheek-bones rather narrow,
without any projection; the face straight and oval, with the features
tolerably distinct; the nose narrow, and slightly arched; the mouth
small, with the lips a little turned out, especially the lower one; and
the chin full and rounded. This is the most elegant variety of the human
form, and the most perfect examples of it are found in the regions of
Western Asia, bordering on Europe, which skirt the southern foot of the
vast chain of the Caucasus, from whence the class derives its name, and
which is near what is supposed to be the parent spot of the human race.
Here are the Circassians and Georgians, the most exquisite models of
female beauty. But the Caucasian class includes nations very dissimilar
apart from the form of the head. Its members are of all complexions,
from the Hindoos and Arabs, some of whom are as black as the Negroes, to
the Danes, Swedes, and Norsemen, who are fair, with flaxen hair and
light blue eyes. The class comprises the ancient and modern inhabitants
of Europe, except the Laplanders and Finns. It comprises also the
ancient and modern inhabitants of Western Asia, as far as the Oby, the
Belurtagh, and the Ganges—such as the Assyrians, Babylonians, Medes and
Persians, Sarmatians, Scythians, Parthians, Jews, Arabs and Syrians, the
Turks and Tartars proper, the tribes of Caucasus, the Armenians,
Affghans, and Hindoos. It includes likewise the Africans who live on the
shores of the Mediterranean, and throughout the Sahara, the Egyptians
and Copts, the Abyssinians, and the Guanches, or ancient inhabitants of
the Canary Islands, with those Europeans who have colonized America and
other parts of the world. The color of the Caucasian class seems mainly
to depend on climate, on the degree of solar heat to which there is
exposure, for they are all born with light complexions, and become dark
only as they grow up, and are more freely acted on by the sun. Their hue
is found to deepen by a regular gradation from the farthest north, where
the members of this class are very fair, through the olive-colored
inhabitants of Southern Europe, and the swarthy Moors of Northern
Africa, till the gradation ends with the deep black natives of the
African and Arabian deserts, and of inter-tropical India. The lighter
shades of color, however, prevail among the Caucasians, and hence they
are correctly styled the white race, though some of them are jet black.
Their hair is variously melanic and xanthous, always long, and never
woolly like that of the Negroes.
[Illustration]
In the Mongolian class, that of the brown man of Gmelin, the head,
instead of being round, is almost square; the face is broad and flat,
with the parts imperfectly distinguished; the arches of the eye-brows
are scarcely to be perceived. The complexion is generally olive,
sometimes very slight, and approaching to yellow; but none of this class
are known to be fair. The eyes are small and black; the hair, dark and
strong, but seldom curled, or in great abundance; and there is little or
no beard. This division embraces the tribes that occupy the central,
east, north, and south-east parts of Asia; the people of China and
Japan, of Thibet, Bootan, and Indo-China, the Finns and Laplanders of
Northern Europe, and the Esquimaux on the shores of the Arctic ocean.
Climate influences the color of many of this class, those parts of the
body protected from the sun being much lighter than those that are
uncovered. Dr. Abeel mentions, that when he saw the Chinese boatmen
throw off their clothes, for the purpose of entering the water to push
along the boats, they appeared, when quite naked, as if dressed in
light-colored trowsers.
[Illustration]
In the Ethiopic division, that of the black man of Gmelin, the head is
narrow and compressed at the sides: the forehead very convex and
vaulted; the cheek-bones project forward; the nostrils are wide, the
nose spread, and is almost confounded with the cheeks; the lips are
thick, particularly the upper one; the lower part of the face projects
considerably; and the skull is in general thick and heavy. The iris of
the eye, which is deep-seated, and the skin of this class, are black, as
well as the hair, which is generally woolly. These characteristics of
the Negroes vary less than those of the two former classes, because they
are chiefly confined to one climate within the tropics, whereas the
Mongolians and Caucasians are spread through every variety of
temperature, from the equator to the polar circle. The division
comprises the native Africans to the south of the Sahara and Abyssinia,
and of course those who have been transported to the West Indies and
America, the natives of New Holland, and various tribes scattered
through the islands of the Pacific Ocean and the Indian Archipelago.
Though, for the reason stated, this class exhibits a great general
uniformity, examples are not wanting of beauty of feature, and fine
stature and proportions, in several races belonging to this department
of mankind.
[Illustration]
The American variety, that of the red man of Gmelin, approaches to the
Mongolian, but the head is less square; the cheek-bones are prominent,
yet not so angular as in the Mongol; the forehead is low, the eyes
deep-seated, and the features, viewed in profile, are strongly marked.
The skin is red, or of an obscure orange, rusty iron, and copper color,
sometimes nearly black, according to climate and circumstances. The
native American tribes and nations, excepting the Esquimaux, and the
descendants of African and European colonists, belong to this class.
[Illustration]
In the Malay class, that of the tawny man of Gmelin, the top of the head
is slightly narrowed; the face is less narrow than that of the Negro;
the features are generally more prominent; the hair is black, soft,
curled, and abundant; the color of the skin is tawny, but sometimes
approaching to that of mahogany. The division embraces the principal
tribes of the Indian archipelago, and all the islanders of the Pacific
excepting those which belong to the Ethiopic variety.
The preceding five great divisions of Blumenbach are reduced by some
naturalists to three, who consider the Malay class to be only a
sub-variety of the Caucasian, and the American a sub-variety of the
Mongolian. Cuvier gives only three distinct, well-marked divisions, the
white or Caucasian, the yellow or Mongolian, and the Negro or Ethiopic;
at the same time stating that several tribes diverge so remarkably, that
they can scarcely be referred to any one of these varieties. In reality,
the more extended arrangement of Blumenbach is but a very imperfect
classification of mankind, for not only individuals but whole tribes,
incorporated in each particular division, have distinctive characters
which separate them from the rest of the class, and some peculiarities
of one division are frequently traceable in the others. The Caucasians
might be readily divided into a large number of races, each having
definite characteristics. This is the case also with the Ethiopic class,
for there is nearly as much difference between the New Hollanders and
the woolly-headed Africans, included in the same department of the human
species, and between a Bosjesmen, a Caffre, and a Negro of Soudan, who
are also comprised in the Ethiopic variety, as between a Caucasian,
Mongolian, and Malay. It has also occurred, that from the spirit of
conquest and peaceful colonization, nations belonging to the divisions
of Blumenbach have become commingled, and have produced, by
intermarriage, races which cannot be distinctly traced to either the one
or the other of the parent classes. The Mongols, for instance, have
spread out from central Asia and largely intermixed with the Caucasians,
especially toward their western frontiers, while the Caucasians have
intruded into every quarter of the globe, and blended themselves with
the native inhabitants of the countries they have overrun. The Europeans
and Negroes produce Mulattos; Europeans and Mulattos produce Tercerons;
Europeans and Tercerons produce Quadroons, in whom the alleged
contamination of dark blood is no longer visible, and the Negro
character disappears. On the other hand, the offspring of a Mulatto and
a Negro, pairing with a Negro, the decided African character appears in
the children. Indians and Europeans produce Mestizos; Indians and
Negroes produce Zambos; Europeans and Zambos and Indians and Zambos
produce respective varieties. It is obvious, therefore, that the
preceding divisions of mankind, principally derived from the supposed
origin of nations, can only be regarded as extremely general.
[Illustration]
Attending exclusively to the form of the human skull, Dr. Prichard
discriminates three leading varieties:—The symmetrical or oval form,
which is that of the European and western Asiatic nations; the narrow
and elongated skull, of which the most strongly marked example is
perhaps the cranium of the Negro of the Gold Coast; the broad and
square-faced skull of the Mongols afford a fair specimen, and the
Esquimaux an exaggerated one.
[Illustration]
3. The other principal physical variations observable between different
nations refer to the _proportion of the limbs_, to _stature_, to the
_texture of the skin_, and to the _character of the hair_. Large hands
and broad and flat feet are among the peculiarities of the Negro; and in
general, the arm below the elbow is more elongated in proportion to the
length of the upper arm and the height of the person, than in the case
of Europeans. But among the latter, individual examples of the same
constructions occur; while among the former, instances of structure
after the European type may be found. As it respects stature, the
variations are not remarkable in relation to the majority of mankind;
but a striking discrepancy appears upon comparing a few isolated tribes.
America exhibits the extremes of stature—in the Esquimaux who are
generally below five feet, and in the Patagonians who are usually more
than six, and frequently as much as seven; but individual specimens of
both extremes are observed among the inhabitants of almost every
country. Europe has often presented the human form developed in gigantic
and dwarfish proportions. The contrasts are striking with reference to
the texture of the skin; that of the Negroes and some of the South Sea
islanders being always cooler, more soft and velvety than that of the
Europeans. Connected probably with varieties of the skin in texture are
the various odors which it is well-known belong to different races. “The
Peruvian Indians,” says Humbolt, “who in the middle of the night
distinguish the different races by their quick sense of smell, have
formed three words to express the odor of the Europeans, the Indian
Americans, and the Negro.” The diversities are great and obvious in the
character of the hair from that of the Negro, which is short and crisp,
and has acquired the name of wool, to the long, flowing, and glossy
locks of the Esquimaux, between which there are many gradations.
Precisely parallel varieties are ascertained to arise in the same race
of animals. Those of the domestic kind “vary from each other in size
much more than individuals the most different in stature among mankind.”
The small Welsh cattle compared with the large flocks of the southern
counties in England; or the Shetland ponies with the tall-backed mares
of Flanders; the bantam breed with the large English fowls, are well
known examples. More striking instances are mentioned by naturalists. In
the isles of the Celebes, a race of buffaloes is said to exist, which is
of the size of a common sheep; and Pennant has described a variety of
the horse in Ceylon, not more than thirty inches in height. The swine of
Cuba, imported into that island from Europe, have become double the
height and magnitude of the stock from which they were derived. The
disproportionate arm of the Negro and leg of the Hindoo meet an exact
parallel in the swine of Normandy, the hind-quarters of which are so out
of keeping with the fore, that the back forms an inclined plane to the
head; and as the head itself partakes of the same direction, the snout
is but a little removed from the ground. Among domesticated animals, no
species afford more striking specimens of modification in structure than
the hog tribe. The external forms which the race has assumed surpass in
monstrosity the most extraordinary diversities of the human frame.
“Swine,” observes Blumenbach, “in some countries have degenerated into
races which, in singularity, far exceed every thing that has been found
strange in bodily variety among the human race. Swine with solid hoofs
were known to the ancients, and large breeds of them are found in
Hungary and Sweden. In like manner the European swine first carried by
the Spaniards in 1509 to the island of Cuba—at that time celebrated for
its pearl-fishery—degenerated into a monstrous race, with toes that
were half a span in length.” The texture of the skin of several species
of animals is different in a wild and in a domesticated condition; and
the character of the hair exhibits analogous variations to that of the
tribes of mankind. In the instance of a neglected flock of sheep, the
fine wool is soon succeeded by a coarser kind, and the breed
approximates to the argali, or wild sheep of Siberia, the original
stock, which are covered with hair. The covering of the goat and dog
displays the same variety. Thus, the several external distinctions from
each other which the nations of men develop, must be admitted to be
plainly compatible with their forming a single species, when
distinctions of a parallel nature, but more numerous and singular, have
arisen within the limits of a species in the inferior animal creation.
It may be difficult, nay impossible, to explain the phenomena of
external variation—but surely it would be a matter of surprise if it
did not exist, considering the variation of external
circumstances—artic cold and tropical heat—flowery savannas and arid
deserts—civilization and barbarism—liberty and oppression—scantiness
of food and an abundant supply—nutritious food and a feebly supporting
fare—the feeling of security and the sense of danger.
[Illustration]
If the existence of varieties of structure and complexion offers no
argument against the common nature and origin of the millions of mankind
in the slightest degree valid, their identity as a species is strongly
supported by adverting to the general laws of their animal economy.
These have reference to the manner of their birth, the period of
gestation, the duration of life, and the casualties in the form of
diseases to which they are subject; and, in all these respects, a
general coincidence proclaims the unity of the human population of the
globe. As to longevity, it is the case indeed that the barbarian tribes
are shorter-lived than the cultivated races; but this is owing to the
physical hardships under which they suffer, and to ignorance of the
appropriate remedies to use under the assailments of sickness, freedom
from the former and a knowledge of the latter being possessed by all
civilized nations. Facts prove that, in circumstances favorable to
extreme longevity, the Europeans, the most polished communities, have no
preëminence over the tribes of Africa, among the least advanced in the
social scale. Mr. Easton, of Salisbury, gives the following instances of
advanced age from the Europeans and Asiatics—
In A. D. Aged.
Appollonius at Tyana 99 130
St. Patrick 491 122
Attila 500 124
Leywarch Hêw 500 150
St. Coemgene 618 120
Piastus, King of Poland 861 120
Thomas Parr 1635 152
Henry Jenkins 1670 169
Countess of Desmond 1612 145
Thomas Damme 1648 154
Peter Torton 1724 185
Margaret Patters 1739 137
John Rovin and Wife 1741 172 & 164
St. Mougah or Kentigern 1781 185
In juxtaposition with this list, we may place the following observation
of Humbolt relating to the native Americans: “It is by no means
uncommon,” he remarks, “to see at Mexico, in the temperate zone,
half-way up the Cordillera, natives—and especially women—reach a
hundred years of age. This old age is generally comfortable; for the
Mexicans and Peruvian Indians preserve their strength to the last. While
I was at Lima, the Indian, Hilario Sari, died at the village of
Chiguata, four leagues distant from the town of Arequipa, at the age of
one hundred and forty-three. She had been united in marriage for ninety
years to an Indian of the name of Andrea Alea Zar, who attained the age
of one hundred and seventeen. This old Peruvian went, at the age of one
hundred and thirty, a distance of from three to four leagues daily on
foot.” Dr. Prichard, from various sources, collected a variety of
remarkable instances of Negro longevity, of which the two following are
samples—
December 5th, 1830—Died at St. Andrews, Jamaica, the property of Sir
Edward Hyde East, Robert Lynch, a negro slave in comfortable
circumstances, who perfectly recollected the great earthquake in 1692,
and further recollected the person and equipages of the
Lieutenant-governor Sir Henry Morgan, whose third and last governorship
commenced in 1680; viz.—one hundred and fifty years before. Allowing
for this early recollection the age of ten years, this negro must have
died at the age of one hundred and sixty.
Died, February 17th, 1823, in the bay of St. John’s, Antigua, a black
woman named Statira. She was a slave, and was hired as a day-laborer
during the building of the gaol, and was present at the laying of the
corner-stone, which ceremony took place one hundred and sixteen years
ago. She also stated that she was a young woman grown, when the
President Sharp assumed the administration of the island, which was in
1706. Allowing her to be fourteen years old at that time, we must
conclude her age to be upward of one hundred and thirty years.
The same authority received from a physician at St. Vincent’s as an
answer to his query this statement—
“I have known a great many very old Negroes, whose exact ages could not
be ascertained. At the time of the hurricane in 1831, I had a record of
the mortality in the whole of my practice from the year 1813, and in
every year there were deaths of Negroes computed to be sixty, seventy,
or eighty years of age, and upward. My father will be eighty-four years
old in May next, and the Negro woman who carried him about as a child is
still living, and at the age of ninety-six enjoying good health, upright
in figure, and capable of walking several miles.” It may be true that
the Negroes regarded in mass exhibit a shorter term of life than the
European average; but this is sufficiently explained by the privations
of their lot in the colonies to which they have been transported, and by
an unfavorable climatic influence and geographical site in their native
country. The preceding facts show, that there is no law forbidding the
Negro to attain a longevity equal to that of the European, in
circumstances friendly to it; while placing the European in subjection
to the same amount of toil in the West Indies, or planting him amid the
swamps, the luxuriant vegetation, the inundations, and heat of Western
Africa, and his term of life in general would not come up to the Negro
standard. It appears from the researches of Major Tulloch, as embodied
in statistical reports printed by the House of Commons, that neither the
Saxon, nor Celtic, nor mixed race, composing the troops of Great
Britain, can withstand—even under the most favorable circumstances—the
deleterious influence of a tropical climate. It is shown, also, that
this result is not to be attributed to intemperance, the besetting vice
of all soldiers; for though temperance diminishes the effects of
climate, and adds to the chances of the European, it is by no means a
permanent security. So far as regards the vast regions of the earth, the
most fertile, the richest, the question as to their permanent occupancy
by the Saxon and Celt—as Britain, or France, or any other country, is
now occupied by its native inhabitants—appears, from these reports, to
be answered in the negative. “The Anglo-Saxon is now pushing himself
toward the tropical countries; but can the Saxon maintain himself in
these countries? It is to be feared not. Experience seems to indicate
that neither the Saxon nor Celtic races can maintain themselves, in the
strict sense of the word, within tropical countries. To enable them to
do so, they require a slave population of native laborers, or of colored
men at least. The instances of Cuba, Brazil, Mexico, and Columbia, where
the Spanish and Portuguese seem to be able to maintain their ground, do
not bear so directly on the question as many may suppose; for, in the
first place, we know not precisely the extent to which these have
mingled with the dark and native races; and secondly, the emigrants from
Spain and Portugal partook, in all probability, more of the Moor,
Pelasgic, and even Arab blood, than of the Celt or Saxon.”
A careful comparison of different tribes leads to the conclusion, that
the general phenomena of human life, or those processes which are termed
the natural functions, the laws of the animal economy, are remarkably
uniform, making allowance for the influence of climates, of modes of
living, of localities, and of the accidents which interrupt the natural
course. The age of puberty announces itself by corresponding symptoms,
and that of advanced life by analogous signs of decrepitude, the
decrease of the humors, the loss or decay of sight, and of the other
senses, and a change in the color of the hair. All communities of men
appear open to the attack of all kinds of disease, though a few haunt
particular districts, and of course only prey upon those who are exposed
to their invasion. In some cases, it is only the old inhabitants of
these neighborhoods that are attacked, as in the instance of the _plica_
_polonica_, which afflicts the Sarmatic race on and near the banks of
the Vistula, from which the German residents are in a great measure
free. But this proves no specific difference between the two, but only
shows that, to acquire a predisposition to certain local complaints is a
work of time, and will probably appear in new settlers after the lapse
of centuries. There is a well-marked variety in the constitution of
nations, and in their liability to certain given disorders; but the
difference between the torpid American and the irritable European is not
greater than the common varieties of constitution which meet us within
the bounds of the same family, and which render its different members
peculiarly subject to different complaints. The conclusion to which
these considerations point—that of the identity of mankind as a
species—is strongly supported by the fecundity of the offspring of
parents of different races. Hunter and other naturalists have advanced
it as a law, that if the offspring of two individual animals belonging
to different breeds is found to be capable of procreation, the parent
animals—though differing from each other in some particulars—are of
the same species; and if the offspring so engendered is sterile, then
the races from which it descended are originally distinct. This is a
position to which there are many exceptions; but it is undoubtedly true,
that the energy of propagation is very defective in the product of a
union of different species. Tried by this test, the inference is in
favor of a common nature belonging to all mankind; for the mixture of
originally far-separated human races has repeatedly resulted in a
numerous population, physically equal, and in many instances superior,
to either branch of the ancestral stock.
A variety of evidence—psychical and moral, physical and
philological—rebukes the ancient boast of Attica, that the Greeks
descended from no other stock of men; the first occupants of the country
springing out of the soil—an opinion held by the populace, but not the
creed of the philosophers. One of the most distinguished anatomists of
the day, who cannot be suspected of any prejudice upon the question—Mr.
Lawrence—draws this induction from an extensive series of facts and
reasonings—“that the human species—like that of the cow, sheep, horse,
and pig, and others—is _single_; and that all the differences which it
exhibits are to be regarded merely as varieties.” In what particular
spot the location of the primal pair was situated, and what race now
makes the nearest approximation to the original type, are points of some
interest, but of no importance, and are now involved in an obscurity
which it is impossible to remove. That the primitive man occupied some
part of the country traversed by the Tigris and Euphrates appears to be
the best supported opinion, as it is the most general; and from thence
there is no difficulty in conceiving the diffusion of the race to the
remotest habitable districts, in the course of ages. In the infancy of
society, an increasing population would speedily outstrip the means of
subsistence to be found in a limited district, inducing the necessity of
emigration to an unoccupied territory—a proceeding which the natural
love of adventure, with the spirit of curiosity and acquisition, so
influential in later ages, could not fail to facilitate. Considering the
connection of Asia, Africa, and Europe, the approximation of the
northern parts of the two great continents, with the contiguity of the
islands of Asia to it, we cannot marvel that the races spreading out to
these points, should devise means to cross rivers, scale mountains,
penetrate into deserts, and navigate the sea. The spur of necessity, the
excitement of enterprise, the stimulus of ambition, the occurrence of
accident, and sometimes the influence of fear, created by the commission
of crime, have all contributed to this result; but perhaps man has more
frequently than otherwise become the involuntary occupant of isolated
and distant isles. Three inhabitants of Tahiti had their canoe drifted
to the island Wateoo, a distance of five hundred and fifty miles; and
Malte Brun relates that, in 1696, two canoes, containing thirty persons,
were thrown by storms and contrary winds upon one of the Philippines,
eight hundred miles from their own islands. Kotzebue also states that,
in one of the Caroline isles he became acquainted with Kadu, a native of
Ulea. Kadu, with three of his countrymen, left Ulea in a sailing-boat
for a day’s excursion, when a violent storm arose, and drove them out of
their course. For eight months they drifted about in the open sea,
according to their reckoning by the moon, making a knot on a cord at
every new moon. Being expert fishermen, they were able to maintain
themselves by the produce of the sea; and caught the falling rain in
some vessels that were on board. Kadu—being a diver—frequently went
down to the bottom, where it is well known that the water is not so
salt, taking a cocoanut shell with only a small opening to receive a
supply. When these castaways at last drew near to land, every hope and
almost every feeling had died within them; but, by the care of the
islanders of Aur, they were soon restored to perfect health. Their
distance from home, in a direct line, was one thousand five hundred
miles.
* * * * *
=EXCERPTS=
=FROM AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.=
=BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.=
Good Friend—dear heart—companion of my youth,
Whose soul was honor, and whose words were truth;
Methinks I see your smile of quick surprise,
As o’er these rhymes you glance your curious eyes.
But is it strange, if in an idle hour,
I cull these blossoms from the Muses’ bower?
Frail though they be, and blown but for a day,
The heart’s best language they may best convey;
In climes more genial, more adorned than ours,
The poet and the lover talk with flowers;
Then, though some richer gift were mine, to send,
This should be thine, my old familiar friend.
If for a while it cheat thee of a care,
With fond remembrance of the things that were—
Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,
Or hint an adage for a future year,
I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,
Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.
Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,
Will never, never bring the past again;
But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,
Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:
He—the grim sexton of our dying years—
She—“Old Mortality” of sepulchres—
Both lay their fingers where our lives have flown,
And touch, in turn, each monumental stone.
Recall, my friend, the days when sent to school,
We framed our first idea of tyrant rule.
Long ere we turned the world’s dark pages o’er,
Glued with the vassal’s tears, the martyr’s gore—
Knew that a Cæsar passed a Rubicon,
Or wrongful Britain laid a Stamp-act on,
We drudged in study at another’s will,
While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—
Wrought with the service of an eye askance,
Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:
Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might draw
The rod that fell without the forms of law;
Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—
Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.
How oft the slate, whose sable field should show
Platoons of figures ranked in studied row—
Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—
Victualled with grocer’s bills of fruits and wines,
Betrayed a scene that crowned a day’s disgrace,
Before that sternly, sadly smiling face—
Trees, houses, elephants, and dogs and men,
Where half the Arabian’s science should have been;
And only this much learned, of figured lore,
That time subtracted—always left a score.
But when those long-loved hours were come, that took
From those reveréd hands the rod and book,
Our, like all vassal hearts, set quickly free,
Sought at a bound the largest liberty.
Self-exiled then, to meadow stream and wood,
We dropped half-read the tale of Robin Hood;
Though guiltless of his suits of Lincoln green,
Dear, as to him, was every sylvan scene.
Shade of old Crusoe, with thy dog and gun,
And thy lone isle beneath a southern sun!
Shades of the lords that made such rare disport
Beneath the oaks of Arden’s rural court!
As o’er my little day I cast my view,
Contrasting what I know, with what I knew,
Your lot no hardship seems: to you were given
The world of nature and the lights of heaven,
What time the sun came flaming from the deep,
Bursting the curtained clouds of morning sleep,
Or night, majestic, paced the solemn skies,
Wrapped in a woof of starry mysteries—
All times, all seasons, as they came and went,
Soothed with sweet thought the ills of banishment.
No rude, unbidden guest invaded there,
Nor the harsh din of congregated care;
The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,
Like to a quiet sea became again—
Like to the deep reflection of the skies,
Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.
This much, at least, my devious muse would say:
Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—
Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,
That showed our books were trees and running brooks.
But something more I would awhile recall,
Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.
Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,
With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—
Seems every waif of hours when life was new,
Though home’s small scene contained its little view.
Home that, however mean or grand, supplies
A gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.
Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,
The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.
Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,
Thy solemn eye, and beard’s descending flow,
I dare avouch, of life’s most pleasing way,
The best is gilded with the morning ray.
See all our life the coinage of our eye;
(O shut thy book—let go philosophy!)
In Youth the pennies pass, ’tis no less strange
That Age and Manhood clink the silver change.
Through all estates our joys alike are vain;
Then chide not one who turns to youth again.
One rainbow vision of youth’s earnest eyes
Is worth a stack of staid philosophies.
Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,
What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:
In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,
Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.
Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,
Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,
When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,
The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,
As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,
Breathed the soft airs of languor and repose.
There, stretched at length, we mused, with half shut eye,
To the leaf-kissing wind’s light lullaby,
That, ever and anon, with murmur deep,
Did through the pine’s Æolian organ creep.
Tired with the varied travel of the day,
The sound of game unheeded passed away—
The bursting thunder of a partridge wing—
The frolick blue-jay’s nasal caroling—
The tawny thrush, that peeped with curious look,
A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—
The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—
The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;
Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—
“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”
No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,
Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,
But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,
And chid as, plainly, for invading there.
Through loopholes of the intertwisted green
Came the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—
Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,
Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;
Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toil
Renewed the strength that dressed his native soil,
While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,
With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.
* * * * *
=OH, WOULD I WERE A CHILD!=
=BY MARIE DELAMAIE.=
Oh, would I were a child again!
A child with spirit free,
Singing glad songs of merriment
Beneath the hawthorn tree,
Watching the many-colored clouds
Pursue their course on high,
Trying to count the silver stars
That gem the evening sky,
Weaving, beside bright sparkling streams,
A wreath of sunny flowers,
Or reading wondrous fairy tales,
In green, sequestered bowers.
The lights, the sounds of Nature then
My happy hours beguiled;
Would I could feel their power again—
Oh, would I were a child!
I chose my sprightly playmates then
For simplicity and mirth,
I cared not for the lofty
Or the great ones of the earth;
Rich in the love of cherished friends,
I asked no monied store,
Save to relieve the beggar’s wants,
That wandered to my door.
I wrote my artless verses then
Without effort, toil, or aim,
And read them to a list’ning group,
Without a hope of fame;
By worldly views, ambitious dreams,
My thoughts were undefiled;
Would I were now as free from care—
Oh, would I were a child!
Yet soon my youthful heart began
To spurn a life like this,
I deemed the far-off glittering world
A fairy land of bliss;
I left my playmates to their sports
And castles built in air;
I dreamed of scenes through which I moved
A lady, proud and fair,
And, while my short and simple tasks
With careless haste I conned,
I longed to study learned lore
My feeble powers beyond—
Like Rassalas around me
The Happy Valley smiled,
Yet I longed to leave its limits
And cease to be a child.
The magic circle of the world
I now have stood within,
Yet I turn from its frivolity,
I tremble at its sin.
And Knowledge! my long cherished hope,
The object of my love,
She still eludes my eager quest,
Still soars my grasp above;
I add from her bright treasury
New jewels to my store,
Yet miserable, I murmur
That I cannot grasp in more,
Before me seem exhaustless heaps
Of mental riches piled,
Yet still, in learning’s brightest gifts,
I feel myself a child.
Oh foolish, oh repining heart,
Thus willfully to cast
Vain wishes to the Future,
Fond longings to the Past!
Panting to overleap the bounds
Of childhood’s simple track,
Anxious to ’scape from woman’s cares
And trace the journey back;
Should I not rather be content
To pass from youth to age
Striving to do my appointed work
In life’s short pilgrimage?
Then let me school my rebel heart,
And calm my fancies wild,
And be in meek, submissive love
Indeed a little child.
* * * * *
=A NIGHT IN THE DISSECTING-ROOM.=
=BY MRS. LOUISE PIATT.=
Fatherly, motherly,
Sisterly, brotherly
Feelings had changed:
Love by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged. _Bridge of Sighs._
Medical students are merry fellows. This is one of the settled
convictions of the world. Any one who dare assert that medical students
are not lively, reckless youths, would be considered very ignorant, or
devoid of truth. And the world in a received opinion is right for once.
The majority of them, bred at home, the sons of wealthy parents, are
sent to large cities, to pass in crowds the season of lecture; and,
being suddenly removed beyond restraint, and countenanced by each other,
it is little wonder they break into youthful extravagance, that too
often ends in habits of sin and misery. The short passage between the
hospital and dissecting-room rings with laughter, and the wild
exuberance of youth blooms like a flower, rich and rank among graves.
The hotel in which I have passed the winter, is in the neighborhood of a
medical college, and my two little rooms look down upon the street along
which troups of students pass laughing and chatting—in their queer
dresses, made up of sacks, blouses, and caps. From time to time, as my
health would permit, I have, reminded by these youths, given the history
of a medical student, who came from the same sunny plains upon which I
passed three of my happiest years. I give it here much curtailed, and
only regret that facts cannot be made more entertaining.
The scenery of the U-na-ka plains is exceedingly beautiful and peculiar.
Yet one traveling from early morn till even, over roads level as a
railway, may at last become wearied with a sameness of quiet beauty that
seems to be without end. But to see the specimens preserved in
Frankenstein’s sketches, is to have a life-pension in pictured
loveliness. The green sward, cropped close by huge droves of cattle,
stretches out for miles and miles, dotted by groves of bur-oak,
interlacing their gnarled boughs, upon which the bright green foliage
hangs denser than that of any other species of American tree, or
threaded by silvery rivulets that glide slowly along between flowery
banks, as if they seemed loath to leave the paradise they adorn, or
broken by little wood-covered mounds that swell up like islands in a
flowery sea; or one sees a little lake calmly mirroring the quiet
heavens above, like a beautiful nun in a cloistered convent. No rocks,
no distant mountains melting in the hazy noon—no wide seas or sweeping
rivers—no swelling uplands, yet in their own, quiet way the U-na-ka
plains are as beautiful as they.
As the Frankensteins selected knots of still beauty to immortalize on
canvas, so the Hon. William Fletcher selected a scene of exceeding
beauty in the midst of which to place his home, and gratify his taste
for retirement, where he could look the fairest nature in the face. A
dreamy, indolent man of fine intellect, he had struggled for years at
the bar with various success, when, through the influence of some
friends, he was elevated to the bench, and shortly after, a near
relative dying, left him an immense fortune. The judge gave up his
judgeship, presented his fine library to a nephew, and, with wife and
only child, retired to his U-na-ka farm, to settle down over books and
dreams for the remainder of his useless life. He would have certainly
accomplished this sleepy purpose, but for the only child—a boy—who
acted upon the Hon. Mr. Fletcher like a corn, with the difference that
love, not hate, made the young development of himself exceedingly
troublesome.
The younger Fletcher, humored by the indolent father and fond mother,
had every whim gratified, every wish anticipated. When the educated
selfishness proposed breaking his neck by riding a colt that seemed
unmanageable, the proposition was acceded to by the foolish parents amid
earnest protestations, prayers, and loud lamentations. From the time he
fell from the table, in a fit of indigestion, having gorged himself with
plum-cake, to his nineteenth year, when he discharged a load of small
shot from his double-barrel Manton into the back of John, the coachman,
and cost his father a large sum to keep his heir out of jail, Dudley
Fletcher had his own way—and a bad way it was. Yet Dudley was popular.
He had plenty of money, and no care for it. His selfishness was ignorant
thoughtlessness, for he did many generous acts—if they cost him little
trouble. His hand went to and from his well-filled purse quite
easily—and he flung his father’s money from him like a lord.
When in his nineteenth year, one pair of sparkling black eyes at least
saw Dudley dash by upon his blood mare without dislike. These eyes
belonged to a little girl, the daughter of one of the Hon. Fletcher’s
tenants; and however beautiful the orbs were, the setting was in
keeping. A prettier specimen of Heaven’s choicest handiwork never peeped
out in hill and woodland. Upon the most exclusive carpets she would have
been a distinguished feature, so delicate, graceful and beautiful was
she; but in the U-na-ka wilds, she looked like a water-lily turning up
its pure, pale face from a marshy pool. Dudley, just at the age when
youths, like creepers, stretch out their arms to cling to something, saw
and loved the little cottager—the tenant’s daughter. Dudley had ever
been gratified with all he sighed for, and, of course, saw no obstacle
in the path to obtain what he so earnestly admired. He waded in to pluck
the lily, never seeing the slime and earth that might cling to him in
the act. To do the youth justice, however, he was as sincere and honest
in his hopes, as thoughtless, selfish youths ever are. He paled
apace—his appetite came like country cousins, unexpectedly; he read
much poetry, and wandered about at unseasonable hours. His fond, good
mother, said the private tutor kept Dudley too close at his books. The
Hon. Fletcher said the boy had the dyspepsia—the tutor hinted the
truth, but no one listened.
How the youth prospered in his wooing, the tutor himself soon had
striking proof. This private pedagogue was a large, dirty man, who wore
his hair standing on end, and kept his nails in mourning. Somewhat
indignant at not being heard when he suggested the real cause of
Dudley’s trouble, this mortal made himself a committee of one, to
investigate and report. By close watching he discovered that his pupil
was in the habit of stealing out at a late hour of the night to stroll
past the cottage, whistling as he went a popular melody. By closer
observations he discovered that soon after this performance, a white
little fairy flitted by and disappeared in the willow grove, that
fringed the brook. Ah! ha! thought the tutor, we will have occular
proof. He gave himself up to a few days’ hard thinking, which resulted
in a plot. One dark night, shortly after he had the Hon. Fletcher and
his hopeful closeted in deep discourse, while the mother sat with her
knitting close by, throwing in a few maternal remarks upon Dudley’s
ill-health and close application, the redoubtable tutor wrapped himself
comfortably in the idea of a successful trick, and stalked past the
cottage and whistled, well as he was able, the popular melody. Then he
stole into the willow grove. The night, as I have said, was dark and
stormy. The heavens, veiled by heavy clouds, gave no light, and the
willows swung to and fro in the fitful winds that swept through them.
The tutor listened—he heard a quick, light step, and turned. Alas! no
loving arms were clasped around his neck, no gentle words were whispered
in his ears, but, in their place, a cudgel fell upon his nose, breaking
down that important feature. The blow knocked the tutor down, but
recovering, with a wild cry of murder, he fled—his speed greatly
increased by a shower of thumps that for awhile rained upon his back. He
reached the house, and, with a face like Banquo’s, rushed through the
library, frightening the Hon. Fletcher, wife, and son terribly.
The next morning the elder Mr. Fletcher was wondering what confounded
scrape that fool tutor had been in. Thomas Wickley, the father of the
pretty Mary, entered his apartment. He came in, as justly indignant
fathers always do upon the stage, and told his story very much as
Reynolds or Coleman would have had him.
“You say my son has been paying improper attention to your daughter?”
“I do.”
“And that you beat him for it?”
“Yes—and I guess he carries the marks this morning, for I made them
last night.”
The Hon. Fletcher opened wide his blue eyes, and then burst into a roar
of laughter. Wickley looked at the unseasonable merriment sullen and
indignant. The Hon. Fletcher smoothed his wrinkled front immediately.
“Excuse me, sir; my merriment is out of place. I feel deeply for
you—but I can soon convince you of a slight mistake.”
“No you can’t,” was the rude response.
“Yes, I think I can; and let me assure you, I give no countenance to
such things. If you wish, they shall be married, or this fellow must
quit my house. Wait one moment, I have sent for my son.”
“Judge Fletcher, you are an honest man, if you are rich,” began Wickley,
when he was interrupted by the entrance of Dudley. The young man started
when he saw the visitor; but his face was as smooth as youth and soap
could make.
“You say you beat my son last night—he did not leave the house: You say
you beat him—he certainly does not look in that plight.”
The man stared, evidently puzzled; but fumbling at his pocket, he pulled
out a bundle of letters, and spread them before his honor.
“I don’t know who I did beat last night. I did beat some one, that’s a
fact. But maybe you’d tell me who writ them?”
The judge took the first papers. It was Dudley’s writing, and, at arm’s
length, looked frightfully like poetry. He examined it closely, and
found a lyric of seventeen verses, of an amorous, mystic character. The
reader must not think me romancing if I give as specimens a few lines of
the best. Men in love will spin out just such gossamer threads, that,
floating in the merry sunlight of youth, look very beautiful. A steady
member of the bar, who, I doubt not, is at this moment in his dull, grim
office, pouring over musty law books, looking as if the jingle of a
rhyme would be as annoying as a poor client, did, once upon a time,
address volumes of verse to me, until he found that I was in a fair mood
to label all as “rejected addresses,” when he suddenly took to special
pleading with eminent success. To poor Dudley’s poetry.
’Tis sad, sweet May, to part with thee,
More sad than words may tell;
To give thy form to Memory,
To breathe a last farewell;
How long thy every thought and tone
Of mine have been a part;
And now to tread life’s path alone,
Oh! well may break my heart.
As dew is to the drooping flower,
As night-stars to the sea,
As sunlight to the summer hour,
Is thy sweet voice to me.
Oh! gentle May—soul of my heart—
Oh! wild-bird of the wood;
Thy holier nature grows my part
Of all that’s pure and good.
“Did you write this stuff?” asked the father, after he had, with cruel
deliberation, read the seventeen verses, while Dudley stood by, his face
covered with blushes.
“I did, sir.”
“And what do you mean by it—am I to understand that you have been
secretly addressing this man’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir. I love Mary Wickley, and intend to marry her.”
This little speech had been carefully prepared in anticipation of just
such a scene; and Dudley intended to speak it boldly and well, as the
preface to an eloquent effort in behalf of virtuous love and a cottage
ornée. But, alas! between the resolution and the act lay a wide
difference. He faltered out the first sentence, and the last words died,
suffocated in his throat; and he stood before the cold, calm face of the
judge, more like a criminal than an advocate. Mr. Wickley was quite
astonished and puzzled at Judge Fletcher’s not following up his bold,
virtuous sentence of marriage or expulsion. Mary’s father was dismissed
with vague promises of justice, and Dudley locked in his room. After
which, Judge Fletcher, wife, and tutor, went into solemn deliberation
with closed doors. The result of that consultation was a determination
to send Dudley into honorable exile. “He is old enough to enter upon the
study of a profession,” said the judge, “and we will place him in Doctor
Calomel’s office, and let him live with his aunt, Mrs. Col. Hays. He
will see something of the world, and be cured of absurdities in behalf
of love and poverty.”
The dim twilight of the next early dawn saw Dudley seated by the driver
upon the stage, and, as he felt the huge affair swing under him, the
horses trotting briskly along, the cool fresh breeze fanning his cheeks,
and birds making vocal the road-side, the sensation was not that of the
utter desolation that fell upon the heart of the little girl who saw the
blushing morn and merry birds through tears. The one had change of
scene, and elegant solitude, leisure and quiet to minister to his
miseries—the other choked down her grief before a harsh unfeeling
parent, and turned to weary drudgery, lightened by no kind words, no
looks of gentle sympathy. Save us from our friends should read—Lord,
save us from our natural guardians.
Dudley, in the midst of the vast city, opened his books under the
guidance of Doctor Calomel, and entered society under the guardianship
of Mrs. Col. Hays. Dr. Calomel taught him the grand mystery of
dosing—Mrs. Col. Hays gave him lessons in the sublime mystery of being
dosed. This lady, elegant, beautiful, and rich, had great sway in what
is considered “the world.” Her house was thronged with fashionable
nonentities—her will undisputed, and her wishes carefully considered by
a dozen other families, who held in common with her iron sway over
society. She was cold, correct, graceful—in fact, a thoroughbred woman
of the world. No stain had ever fallen upon her snowy character; she
turned with freezing dignity upon the slightest departure from
rectitude, and yet was the most perfect teacher of vice Satan ever
commissioned. Dudley was dazzled and delighted; and when he compared the
splendor of his aunt’s drawing-room, satined, slippered, powdered and
perfumed, the contrast between Mary—poor little Mary—and those
fashionables in his mind, was great; and when Mrs. Col. Hays made a
casual allusion to that “little love-scrape” in the country, shame
entered and took side with love. He did not love her less, but he pitied
her more; and the brave thought of an humble home and happy fireside
took flight, never, never to return.
Mrs. Col. Hays—lady of Col. Cabell Hays—had some unseen spirit
whispered harshly in your ear, while you were sitting in your cushioned
pew, listening to that divine man, the Rev. Theodore Smoothe, preach
from a marble pulpit, upon the righteousness of right and the sinfulness
of sin, that you had opened a rosewood door and shown the downward path
carpeted and beautiful to a poor, innocent boy, that, under your care,
was hastening on to misery and death—what an awful chill would have
fallen upon your soul. Yet this is what you have to answer for; and no
beautifully sculptured stone, telling of a virtuous wife and Christian
neighbor, will save you!
Dudley continued to love the little May, he could not help that; but it
was not with the pure love that once made life so beautiful. He wrote
long, burning letters frequently to her, and received long, truthful
letters in return. With what a beating heart she stole in the crowd that
thronged the village post-office upon the day the great coach came in,
and sitting timidly upon a coil of rope, heard her name called out by
the greasy postmaster, as he sorted over the letters. With what a
trembling hand she gave the pay and hastened away with the dear unopened
letter. How she hid herself in retired places, in the woods, in the
cellar or garret, and read and read, through tears of joy, the delicious
poison. What Dudley received in his gay life he transmitted in letter to
the poor girl. How the heart sickens at the miserable lies that line a
way like this.
A year rolled by, and Dudley returned to pass a summer’s vacation at his
father’s house. How changed they found him. No longer a willful, bashful
boy, he now came out in all the colors of an accomplished, impudent,
empty-headed scamp. I will not pause to tell of his meetings with
Mary—of the many hours passed together without the knowledge of parents
or friends. Six weeks fled by, and Dudley returned to his books, to
society, to vices he now followed up with an eagerness that can only be
accounted for by a restless desire to drown all remembrance of the past.
He received letters frequently from Mary, long, sad, wretched letters,
blotted with tears. He answered them with hasty scrawls, one note to a
dozen letters, and at last ceased to answer them at all. He ceased to
study, his nights were passed in brawls, drunken orgies, his days in
sleeping off the effect of bad wine and exhausting revelry.
I have not the heart to detail the sufferings of poor little Mary. How
she toiled on from day to day, between sleepless nights of agony and
shame, until her cheeks seemed washed away by tears. Her parents,
suspecting the truth, treated her harshly. Summer had faded into autumn,
and autumn into winter. Weeks and weeks had gone by without a word from
Dudley. When filled with despair, one night, after a harsh lecture from
her misguided father, she promised on the morrow to tell him all. With
this promise she was permitted to retire, but not to rest. Soon as the
door of her little room was closed, she sat down and wrote for her
parents the bitter truth. Then gathering her cloak about her shoulders,
she fled into the dark, wintry night. She would go, she would seek
Dudley, for what purpose she could not say—but at home there was no
hope, no life.
Through the long dismal night the poor girl walked along the rough
frozen road that led to the city. Over wide dreary fields that seemed to
stretch out in the gloom of night, miles and miles away: through
groaning woods, that shrieked in the winds as they rubbed their giant
arms together: past farm houses—with windows, from which twinkled
little lights, and where the deep-mouthed watch-dog bayed fierce and
honestly: through sleeping villages—where the winds swept, making the
signs creak dismally, the once timid and delicate girl pushed on. She
had no fear, for she had no thought for the present. In the present,
there lay a dull, aching pain about her heart; all the rest of her
fevered being was far off, in the huge, great city with Dudley. The
little, timid, commonplace girl was now a heroine. In her father’s
cottage her mother walked quietly about her pleasant duties, singing a
low, sad melody that her children might sleep—the fire was sparkling
brightly upon the hearth, lighting up the walls and rafters of that holy
place, while she, the dearest, loveliest of all, was fleeing alone, in
the stormy night, far, far away.
That night wore slowly on, and toward morning the rear-guard of the
northern storm came hurrying by. In scattered groups of hosts, as if
flying from a foe, the great clouds rolled down over the distant
horizon, and left the bright stars sparkling coldly in the clear
atmosphere of the winter’s night. Then came morning, and the winds
ceased. The earth seemed waiting in breathless silence for the glorious
morn. Little Mary—sick, tired Mary—saw nothing of this. She staggered
on, sometimes falling; but again getting up and hurrying on. About noon
the stage came by, and the driver, seeing a frail creature—almost a
child—walking weariedly, invited her to ride. She mechanically
accepted. Inside the vehicle—all closed in with carpet lining, that
seemed to flap the cold air about, and smelled of old leather—she found
two passengers. One, a countryman, shivering in a woolsey over-coat; the
other, so lost in the folds of a buffalo robe, he could not be made out.
Mary seated herself upon the middle seat, but a lurch of the stage threw
her forward upon the buffalo robe, which unrolled, and an old gentleman
peered savagely out, displaying a wrinkled front, in which age had more
to do than anger. He was about uttering an ugly exclamation, when the
sight of Mary’s sad, pale, young face checked him; and, moving over, he
not only gave her a seat, but insisted upon folding a part of the warm
robe about her.
In a few moments, the poor girl fell wearied upon the shoulder of her
companion into sleep. The old man looked kindly down on the pale, thin
face, over which he saw traces of tears, and beneath the cross exterior,
a heart throbbed kindly for the suffering girl. Wondering what could
bring grief to one so young, he saw the lips quiver, and tears well out
from the veiled eyes—then sobs that came up like bubbles from drowning
hope; and these passed away, and a gentle smile settled upon the fair
face, as a mellow sunset upon a wintry scene. She was dreaming—the
voice of her mother broke upon her ear, kind, gentle, forgiving; and he
was there—the past all forgotten, the future all brightness. Sleep on,
poor wretch: let the rough vehicle rock gently, and the strong horses
trot evenly along, for she who now, in happy forgetfulness, moves
swiftly on to death. Could the impenetrable curtain of the future be
lifted from before each of us as we take our last ride, not only the
criminal seated in his rude cart would shudder. What gay equipages,
flashing along, would be turned to funeral marches, with at least one
sincere mourner for the doomed and lost. What humble family groups, with
hope in their midst, wending their way to church or home, would see
earth darken down in gloom and tears. But, thank kind Heaven! the dread
Unknown comes silently on, with all shadows behind; and we laugh or cry,
as joys or cares possess us, up to the very second when his iron hand is
at our heart, and eternity opens before us.
Through long hours she slumbered—still dreaming—sometimes smiling,
oftener in tears; but still sleep sealed up her aching sense. The stage
stopped, and driver and horses were changed; and still on rattled the
rough stage, now over a wide MacAdamized road, thronged with vehicles of
all sorts, going, and coming. The passengers were called to sup in a
town possessed of one brick street, two or three frame streets, and
then, on every side, thinly populated suburbs, consisting of stables,
smoke-houses, and shanties. The old gentleman led his little charge into
the dirty-white barn-like hotel, at the door of which a negro began
ringing a discordant bell, whereupon a number of slippered gentlemen,
who were tilted back on chairs, chewing and smoking, suddenly disposed
of their tobacco, and rushed into the dining-room, as if the tough
beef-steak, heavy hot bread, and muddy coffee, were positively the last
eatables left upon earth. Mary sat down, but could eat nothing; her old
friend insisted upon her swallowing a cup of the hot coffee, and they
returned to the stage.
Evening found them still upon the road. The stage lamps were lit, and
they were whirled past carriages and wagons, through towns, and by
glaring forges, where the sparks flew in showers around sinewy arms, to
the music of heavy hammers and ringing anvils. This changed as the night
stole on, and, in the dark stage, they seemed moving through a
slumbering world—all shadows, and so still. Between feverish sleep and
long fits of crying, the hours passed slowly away with Mary. About one
o’clock the stage stopped, and the old gentleman, who had volunteered
his guardianship, said he was at home.
“Won't you stop, and stay all night with us?” he asked kindly.
“O, no,” she responded hastily; “I must go.”
“Remain, and go on to-morrow. You will suffer, I fear.”
“No, no—I must go on. Is it far, now?”
“Yes, ’tis some distance yet. But, see, I must take this robe,” he
added, hesitatingly.
“Oh yes, never mind me. I am much obliged, I thank you.”
She could say no more. The old man hesitated—walked a few paces,
stopped—then entered the gate, and the stage was driven away. She did
suffer, no longer protected by the robe, her little cloak afforded small
shelter from the bitter cold night that blew into the stage, and was
whirled about; and nestled she ever so close into a corner, still the
cold would penetrate, and she shivered, suffering terribly. How
long—Oh, how long the painful hours were! Between that midnight and the
morn seemed an age. At last it came, and found the stage jolting over
the pavements of the city of ——. She looked out in wonder and dread at
the tall houses, towering up on either side, and the men and women
hurrying to and fro in such strange haste.
The stage stopped in front of a large hotel, and a crowd of servants
rushed out and surrounded the frozen vehicle—some mounting to the top
like apes, others struggling at straps, pulling out trunks and carpet
sacks, putting all in a pile upon the pavement, amidst screams, curses,
and cries, perfectly stunning.
“Your baggage, Miss?” asked a clerk, with his pen behind his ears, and a
good deal of impudent pomposity before.
“Is there any thing to pay?” answered the poor girl, perfectly
bewildered.
“John, the way-bill?” shouted the clerk.
“No—nothing, Miss: marked paid—all right—walk in?”
Mary sat before the glowing grate in the handsome parlor, trying to
determine in her own mind what next was to be done. More and more the
painful reality of helplessness among strangers in a strange place
impressed itself upon her mind. Her head ached dreadfully, her limbs
pained her, and while the face was burning as with fever, it seemed
impossible to get warm. She at last asked a servant timidly for the
office of Dr. Calomel.
“Just round the corner, Miss. Here, I’ll show you,” he answered
politely, and running to the corner, pointed out the old tarnished sign
of the eminent practitioner.
Mary sought the place designated, entered a wide hall, and knowing
nothing about bells, walked in and knocked gently at the first door. The
knock was responded to by a thin old man, of very sombre appearance;
who, with broom and brush in hand, seemed fresh from cleaning the rooms.
“Come in quick, young female, you’re too early for consultin’, but the
doctor will be about directly. Come straight along, you’re lettin’ in
considerable atmosphere.”
Thus strangely addressed, Mary was ushered into a large room,
well-furnished and adorned with hideous pictures of various diseased
heads, arms, legs, etc., that made one shudder. Cases of books, bones
and preparations stood against the walls, while upon a rosewood table,
in the centre of the room, were piled books and prints, all treating of
the same disagreeable topics. Through an open door she saw another room,
got up in the same style, and beyond this yet another, and in all three,
the polished grates roared with bright coal fires.
Mary sat and waited nearly two hours, while the stately servant went on
silently dusting and sweeping, answering the bell every few minutes, but
never saying a word to the little visitor. At the end of that time,
others came in and sat by her. Pale, wretched, distressed-looking
women—some with babes afflicted with sad diseases; while men limped in,
almost groaning with pain. Young gentlemen, handsomely dressed,
sauntered in, and throwing off cloaks and coats, sat down to books in
the adjoining room. They carried on conversation in a low tone, broken
by occasional laughs that contrasted strangely with the half-suppressed
complainings of the group around her. The doctor at last came hurriedly
in. He was a small, spare man, with a gray head, and wrinkled, cross
face, that, guarded by a pair of cold blue eyes, looked as unfeeling as
the man really was. He passed from patient to patient—scolding this
one, abusing that, and treating all as if they were dogs. Having run
through his catalogue of poverty-stricken specimens of humanity, he
turned abruptly to Mary, and asked—
“What do you want?”
“I wish to see Dudley Fletcher, sir,” was the frightened reply.
The doctor eyed the little visitor with a cold, half-suppressed sneer
for a second; and then, making no reply, looked at his watch, and left
the house—having thus humanely disposed of his charity patients. As his
buggy rattled away, the grim janitor told Mary that Dudley Fletcher was
seldom about the office now-a-days—he might be in before dinner, but it
was very doubtful. If she would leave a note, he would see that Mr.
Fletcher received it. Mary was disposed to wait; but her presence had
attracted the attention of the students in the adjoining room, and she
noticed they whispered together and stared at her—so writing hastily a
note, telling Dudley of her arrival and where she could be found, she
sealed and directed it, then with a heavy heart returned to the hotel.
It is difficult to say what the deserted and heart-sickened girl
proposed doing when Dudley did see her. She had no definite idea, no
realization of aught save fevered suffering; but, if she could only see
him once more, hear his voice, feel his arm about her aching form, it
seemed as if all would be well again. But time stole slowly on, and no
Dudley came: she started at the approach of strangers, expecting the
familiar face of her betrayer. She escaped the impertinent stare of
servants by going to the window, and looking down the thronged streets
until her eyes were dim with tears. The noise of life around fell
without a meaning upon her ear—it seemed a continual roar like a
senseless rush of waters. She still stood by the window as evening came,
and the shades of night fell upon the street, and saw the crowd thin,
and the lights twinkle from post and store—still no Dudley came. The
servants treated her so rudely, that, at last, she was forced to go; and
fearing he might come yet and not find her, for more than an hour she
lingered upon the street, in front of the wide flight of steps that led
to the hotel.
It was now quite dark, and Mary still hung about the steps, when a man
handsomely dressed came down them—passed, looking at her as the
lamp-light fell upon her pale face, then turned and asked in a low tone
if she wished to see any one. Thinking the questioner might be from
Dudley, she answered quickly—
“Yes—I want to see Dudley Fletcher.”
“Ah! yes, yes, you will scarcely find him here.”
“Where can I find him, sir?”
“That is easier asked than answered, my little maiden, unless you know
something before hand.”
“I don’t know—I came into town to-day. I wish to see him. Can’t you
tell me where to go?”
“I will go with you, little one,” answered the man, looking uneasily at
the lights around. “Come, I will take you where you can send for
him—come with me.” He walked hastily on, and Mary followed: for some
time he continued a few paces before her, but turning down a narrow
street in which there were no gas-lamps, he put her arm in his, and
said—
“Now, my little girl, tell me all about it. Where did you come from, and
what is it about Dudley Fletcher?”
“I came from Un-a-ka, sir—and I wish to see him.”
“A little love-affair now—eh! You’re his little sweetheart?”
To this Mary making no reply, her companion withdrew her arm, and placed
his own around her. Frightened at this, she shrunk away, and, as he
persisted, she suddenly sunk to the ground, and burst into tears. Had
there been sufficient light, a very puzzled expression might have been
seen upon the face of the gentleman as he lifted her from the pavement.
“Come,” he said, “don’t cry. I’ll not offend you again—where shall I
take you?”
“To Dudley Fletcher,” she sobbed out. “Only show me his house, and then
leave me.”
“Why, yes—he lives with his Aunt, Mrs. Hays; but I’ll take you there,
so do not cry.”
They moved on in silence, and in a few minutes were in front of the
marble mansion, blazing with light.
“Here,” said her companion, “is the house. Mrs. Col. Hays gives a party
to-night. Go up those steps, ring the bell, and ask for Mr. Fletcher. I
cannot accompany you farther.”
Scarcely stopping to thank her conductor, Mary staggered up the marble
steps, while he turned hastily away, as if shunning a denouement. She
paused at the door, weak, frightened and doubting, when a carriage
stopped, and from it a party ran up the steps. Mary shrank from sight
behind a pillar as they came. A gentleman rang the bell, and had
scarcely touched the silver knob before the door swung noiselessly open
and the party entered. Not daring to follow their example she still
hesitated. From the door by which she stood ran a narrow porch of
ornamented iron-work, and along this she stole to where the high window
came to the floor and looked in. For a second she was dazzled. The
magnificent rooms blazed with light from cut-glass chandeliers, the soft
light fell upon delicate furniture of the most costly kind—upon
pictures rare and beautiful—upon soft carpets over which fairy forms
moved so exquisitely, while strains of delicious music came up from some
distant room, that to the unexperienced eye of Mary all seemed a fairy
scene—a creation of the imagination.
As the poor girl stood shivering in the cold, the snow began to fall,
and shrinking closer to the warmth she could not feel, the whole scene
presented a realization of Barry Cornwall’s exquisite poem of “Without
and Within.” With only that diamond-pane between—a world wide contrast
had existence. Upon one side was a piece of God’s exquisite workmanship,
shivering, suffering, half-crazed, trampled upon and outcast—while upon
the other, wanton luxury rolled in sin. Ah! who comes here, pacing so
proudly, while bright eyes turn admiringly—what exceeding loveliness is
led by the arm. The blood rushes to the pale face, the little heart
throbs aloud, she presses closer to the pane, for it is him—it is
Dudley. She of the bright complexion, large, soft eyes and mass of
ringlets, is seated near that fated window, and he bends over her. She
hears him speak—no, his low voice cannot come through the heavy pane,
but she knows too well—ah! too well—the persuasive words that are
falling from his lips, for she has learned to read his looks—the
lessons have been burned into her heart.
The lights shine on. To strains of witching music forms pass to and fro
in the mazes of the dance—jest and song, laughter and wine, flash and
ring out for unheeded hours and hours—but she is gone. The pale wretch
that pressed shivering against the window pane is gone. Down the dark
thoroughfare, with the cold snow beating in her face, maddened, sobbing,
sick to death, she flies. Oh! where? What demon leads her on? Why down
that silent, deserted street? On, on, past quiet homes where the
night-lamp yet gleams on peace and happiness—past shops where low
drunkenness revels in late hours—on she unheeded flies. And now she
stumbles over loose stones, and the air blows keener. Down the steep
bank she reels—poor little Mary—she pauses for a moment. A mighty
river, shrouded in darkness, sweeps on before her. Boats, tied to the
bank, rub against each other, making a moaning noise, while the waves
flap under their bows—this is all she hears, for the great stream
sweeps on in silence. From the opposite shore a furnace glares, that
glittering out red, sends a long line over the waves and lights her way
to death. She steps along the plank to the deck of a boat—over that to
the very edge—and then disappears. Disappears in the dark flood
silently as the snow-flakes. The mighty river moves on like fate to
eternity. Into its deep bosom it took what God had made and man cast
out. For many hours after the music still sounded in the marble palace,
and dancers gracefully answered the strains, for the silent street had
no tale—the great river no revelation for the heartless throng.
A party of medical students were lounging round a billiard-table in a
celebrated restaurant, the evening after the event just narrated. They
were smoking, drinking, laughing, and at intervals knocking idly the
ivory balls over the table. Their light sacks, or black velvet coats,
with fancy caps, variously fashioned and tasseled, showed them to be
youths whose fathers could pay for something beside the improvement of
their brains.
“Will you be at class to-night, Tom?” asked one, of his comrade, as he
rattled down his empty glass.
“To be sure, I don’t intend to miss a muscle of Crosstree. We had too
much trouble in getting the infernal rascal.”
“We had that, and Cross. is a beauty, besides having been hung.”
“I want to see him carefully dissected,” said a handsome, light-haired
youth, joining the group.
“Why, Ned, do you expect ever to undergo the innocent operation of being
hung?”
“Can’t say. No telling what a fellow may come to in such a crowd as
this. If Strong ever sings another sentimental song in my presence I’ll
murder him—now mind.”
“Crosstree is a magnificent subject. I was looking at him to-day—old S.
says he never saw a finer.”
“Class B has a finer, they say—a girl. They gave two hundred for her.”
“They wont be outdone. But I believe in the rope yet. Come,
fellows—it’s getting late—let’s be off.”
“Where’s Dudley?”
“Drunk as usual.”
“Come, old boy,” said the first speaker, approaching our hero, who,
stretched upon a sofa, was looking in the fire with a drunken stare.
“Come, we’ll be too late.”
Dudley mechanically started to his feet, drank a quantity of brandy, and
rushing forward, was caught by two of his brother students, and the
whole party left the house together, laughing, chatting, whistling and
singing, they wended their way toward the medical college. Dudley
Fletcher, as his comrades afterward remarked, was unusually silent and
even morose. Arriving at the college, the party mounted long fights of
dark stairs ending in a door, that one of them unlocked and threw open,
and all entered the dissecting-room. The janitor had left a bright
coal-fire sputtering in the stove, and save this no other light fell
upon the ghastly gloom. The large, square windows were open, as gusts of
wind making the fire roar indicated, but in spite of this a dreadful,
sickening odor of decay filled the room. Several lamps were lighted, and
then the frightful reality became apparent.
Upon either side of a large room were placed narrow tables, on each of
which lay a specimen of the desecrated dead; over the floor were
scattered limbs strangely mutilated, bones with particles of flesh yet
hanging to them, snow-white skeletons and grinning skulls. Upon the
table nearer the fire was the body of a man lately hung. The frame was
heavy and muscular, but the head presented the most awful sight the
heart of man ever shuddered over. It was one swollen mass of purple
blood, while around the neck lay a red line where the cruel cord had
sunk in and disappeared from the force of the struggling weight. He had
been found guilty of a fiendish murder, yet no heart could look on this
and not shudder at the punishment. Why do the students leave this table
and crowd around the next? Why hold up their lights and gaze in
breathless awe? Do youth and innocence carry admiration and respect with
them to the charnel-house? They whisper as they gaze upon the gentle
form, so beautiful and still, that with wild hair disheveled seems to
sleep upon the rude couch of death. Where is Dudley—why does he not
gaze and whisper too? Upon entering the room he threw himself upon a low
seat behind the stove, and falling from that to the floor, sleeps
soundly in his drunkenness.
Star-eyed Science walks unmoved among the dead. The students are busy
about the table of the murderer. Nothing is heard save the voice of the
instructor, or noise of his instruments as he lays bare the hidden
mysteries of life. Dudley sleeps on.
The fire burns down—the candles, flickering in the wind, are dim—the
lesson is over. Putting out their lights, the students gather their
coats and cloaks about them and leave. The last one is gone. The
janitor, casting a hasty look at the fire, goes with them. The great
bolt is shot into its place—the door is locked, and Dudley, forgotten
and alone, sleeps on!
Hour after hour steals by. The fire, dimmer and dimmer, at length goes
out, and darkness fills the room. The storm, with its sky of heavy
clouds, sweeps away, and now the full moon comes up in silvery
brightness. Cold, clear and cheerless the flood of light poured in at
the open windows, lighting up like the ghost of day that chamber of
death. Chilled through and through, Dudley awakes.
For a moment he gazed in startled wonder at the strange scene around
him. Then a dim recollection of the night stole over his now sobered
brain, and seizing his cap he strode toward the door—to find it locked!
In vain he pulled and knocked, the echoes that rung through the silent
room were his only answers. The stout door resisted all attempts to
break it open. Foiled and disheartened he returned to the stove. Dudley
shook with the cold that had numbed his limbs while sleeping, and now
seemed to be penetrating to his very heart. Stooping, he raked among the
ashes and found one live coal. Taking this gently up he made many
efforts to kindle it to a blaze, but this last spark died out in the
midst of his exertions. Nothing daunted, he looked to find some covering
to shield him—nothing could be seen save the sheets thrown carelessly
over the dead. These he proceeded to gather. Pulling the frail covering
from form after form, leaving exposed the emaciated remnants of
consumption, the half-destroyed remains of quick disease, without a
shudder—why starts he at this over which the moonlight falls so
brightly—why gasp for breath and stare so wildly?
This cannot be—this is a hideous dream. He strikes his forehead, wrings
his hands, staggers forward. No, no, he cannot look again. A chill
horror curdles about his heart and he reels toward the door. He had one
look—but one—yet that is frozen into his very soul. How long in
dreadful agony he stood gazing down the hall, peopled with the dead. He
dared not turn to where she lay—the poor little timid girl—she who so
confidingly had trusted him, and now rested among thieves, murderers,
and cast-out poverty—claimed by Decay alone. He dared not look
again—over her innocent form stood fearful Retribution—silent as the
grave—terrible as Death. His eyes wandered from table to table, one by
one, slower and slower, until they rested upon that long, grinning
monument of consumption, upon which the moonlight fell, silvering the
hard and bony points, that seemed like a skeleton covered with yellow
parchment.
Oh! how he longed for liberty and life—for some power to lift the awful
punishment from his soul. A confused thought of escape crept in—of the
dark well running the length of the house down to vaults where the
refuse flesh was cast. How deep and dark to his mind it seemed—deeper
and deeper, miles and miles into the earth. The hall seems to lengthen
out—how huge it is? Again he turns to the body that consumption
owns—he tries to look from that to her—in vain. His eyes are fixed,
they see no farther. Did that hand move?—it seemed to move. It did—the
body turns—it raises and points its long, skinny arm at her—and shakes
its horribly mutilated head. Another and another—and all raise slowly
up and point at her. And now they speak—what confused blasphemy—what
groans and cries! Hark! that well-known, once-loved voice, hear it—hear
its gentle tones and die—
“Oh! Dudley, come to me.”
He sees no more, he hears no more—gasping he falls, striking heavily
against the oak door.
Early next morning the janitor found him lying senseless where he had
fallen. He was carried to his room, and all that medical science could
do was done. Slowly he returned to sense, but not health. The cold had
perfected its work—his limbs were without life, and after many days he
was carried back to his father’s house helpless as a child. So he yet
remains, humble, sad and repentant.
In the little church-yard, not far from his home, is a green mound,
where the soft falling snow of winter and the wild birds of spring see
no name—no marble tomb, but where the long grass whispers in the summer
winds, Dudley Fletcher may be frequently seen reading or musing
silently, having been carried there, his only haunt from home.
* * * * *
=THE DEAD AT THERMOPYLÆ.=
=FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES.=
=BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.=
Bright was their fortune and sublime their doom,
Who perished at Thermopylæ—their tomb
An altar of their sons—their dirge, renown.
Their epitaph not rust shall e’er efface,
Nor Time, who changes all things else, debase,
Nor later ages insolent disown.
Their tomb contains, enshrined beside the dead,
A mightier inmate, her for whom they bled,
Glory—their country’s unforgotten fame.
Witness the royal Spartan, who in death
Did win high Valor’s, more than Pythian, wreath,
A crown immortal, an unfading name.
* * * * *
=THE OPIUM EATER’S DREAM:=
=OR THE MODERN FORTUNATUS.=
=FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORGE DÖRING.=
I passed some time, a few months ago, in the seven-hilled city of the
Bosphorus—in beautiful, but muddy Constantinople. I had seen and
admired every thing that was to be seen and admired, as far as the Turks
allow to a Christian dog. Often had I stood at the portal of the mosque
of St. Sophia, and gazed with longing sighs upon the imperial seraglio
just opposite, in the vain hope that some veiled beauty would appear at
one of the balconies, observe me, and then raise her veil, that I might
at home, in my native place—Gelnhaus—describe a Turkish Sultana; for
my susceptible heart had been trained in every way, by repeated journeys
to large towns and capitals. One evening, however, I remarked that
several black slaves eyed me attentively and suspiciously: I imagined
also something threatening and dangerous in their gestures; and as, at
the same time, several shots were heard from the interior of the
seraglio—which seemed to intimate that capital punishment was being
inflicted upon criminals, whose crimes were, perhaps, nothing worse than
a few longing sighs, wafted to the imprisoned fair ones—a panic seized
me, which drove me from the spot in tempestuous haste, whilst I inwardly
swore a solemn oath never again to venture within a hundred yards of the
sultan’s palace.
Be it known to the world that I am the traveling agent for the house of
Messrs. Steinlein & Son, wine-merchants of Frankfort on the Main. I
myself am called Gabriel Mostert, born in the town which, on account of
the old legend, I call the Barbarossa town; and which deserves quite as
wide a reputation as the town of Pisa, in Italy, for it contains just
such a leaning tower. My countenance is round and ruddy, my eyes are
lively and intellectual, my form powerful and muscular—five-feet-three.
I am possessed by a spirit of speculation. I am determined to establish
a famous house—not what they call famous in Frankfort, Leipzig, or
Hamburg—no, I will establish the firm only for my Barbarossa town, and
my little Kate, whose father gives her to me only upon condition that I
settle down respectably in Gelnhaus, as a dealer in dry goods, in _Drap_
_de Zephire_, in _Crêpe de Chine_, and in veritable _eau de Cologne_. On
this account, I persuaded my honored principals to a Constantinople
speculation, which offered a fair profit. I had, in fact, read in the
best papers of the day, that the present sultan was busy in placing
every thing upon a European footing. There can be no European footing
without a European head; and what is a European head without the
inspiration of Champagne, Burgundy, and Johannisburg? My principals
agreed to every thing: I sailed from Trieste with casks and bottles,
anchored in the Bosphorus, and the next day was employed in preparations
to attract the worshipers of Islam to my European inspiration.
The thing succeeded; my wines disappeared with charming celerity. Even
the Mufti honored me with a visit, and assured me—while he tried my
costly Johannisburg, of 1822, with the smack of a connoisseur—that his
friend, the Abbot of Fulda, had done well to exalt this wine to his
closet—it did indeed deserve to be drank in solitude, when not a
breath, not a word could disturb the full enjoyment of the liquid gold.
He tried a couple of bottles, and the European inspiration began then to
beam so brilliantly from his eyes, that I verily believe, had any
cunning missionary been at hand, he would have embraced Christianity.
My affairs then were prosperous, and yet not so; for although the wines
had found purchasers, the money for them was not forthcoming. From time
to time I paid a visit to my Turkish debtors. I was kindly received with
pipes and coffee, but of my money—not a word. I look care never rudely
to remind them of it, having been assured by some Armenian friends that
the Moslems could bear no dunning, and that unpleasant hints were often
rewarded with a most unpleasant bastinado. I was sure of my money in the
end, for I had already heard that it was the custom of all distinguished
Turks to pay off all their debts on a certain day of the year, just
before the Ramazan. The Ramazan was not very distant, and until then I
had to wait with patience. It is a dreadful thing for a fiery young
merchant, whose fancy revels in interest and commission, to have to
parade up and down the streets of Constantinople in useless, idle
patience.
Thus, one beautiful afternoon, I sauntered toward Bujukdìre, the summer
residence of the European ambassadors. Here their many beautiful
daughters dwelt, but now my heart was filled with thoughts of Kate, and
the future establishment for the sale of fancy articles and _eau de_
_Cologne_. Nevertheless, I trembled with excitement; for my eye rested
upon the dome of St. Sophia, and involuntarily the oft-recalled wish
stirred in my soul—“Wert thou only, O dearly loved Gabriel Mostert, as
prosperous a house as this venerable church, which receives, according
to well-accredited testimony, an income of ten thousand guilders daily.”
Ten thousand guilders! What a sublime thought! Shakspeare, Schiller, and
Goethe had had great thoughts, and Bethman and Rothschild have carried
the poesy of trade to a wonderful extent—but this mosque of St.
Sophia—I must control myself—I must clip the wings of my speculative
fancy, or it will carry me too far—to Golconda or Potosi. Return to thy
home, to the old town, where bloomed for Barbarossa the fair Gela, and
where blooms now the burgomaster’s daughter, thy violet, and beside her,
a shop stocked with all fancy articles, and with the delicious perfume
of _Karl Maria Farina of Cöln_.
With such reflections I was obliged to moderate my lively imagination
while I approached Bujukdìre, when I was awakened from my dreams of
home, and brought back to reality upon the Bosphorus by a hearty slap
upon my shoulder.
“_Salam, aleìkum!_” I cried; and warding off the Turkish greeting, I
sprang aside. I was too well acquainted with the proofs of esteem with
which the Turks honor us poor Christians, when they find us in their
way, not to immediately suppose that the slave of some noble Turk had
chosen this means of informing me of his master’s presence. A loud laugh
in my ears corrected this false idea. As I turned round, I saw my two
worthy friends, Mynheer Jan von Delpt—the Dutch Ambassador’s cook, and
Monsieur Fleury—the French Ambassador’s butler. We were right good
friends, and had passed many a jovial evening together. They came now
just at the right time; they would serve to divert me, and we could
enjoy a social hour, for this evening they were, as they assured me,
free; their masters had accepted an invitation from the Reis-Effendi.
“Come,” I said, as I seized both by the arm, and stopped them, “we’ll
contrive quite a charming supper together. In wine you shall have free
choice. You, Van Delpt, like something heavy—Port wine, or genuine
Madeira. It shall not be wanting, and we will drink to the health of
your Margery von Minderhout, in Amsterdam. You, M. Fleury, shall have
Champagne from Sillery, and vive Demoiselle Manon Larochière, rue
Montmartre. I stand by the true German. O, ye honored grapes of
Rudesheim, with what shall I compare you, if not with little Kate of
Castle street, Barbarossa town; your sweet flower, with the flower of
her beauty—your animating fire, with the fire that gleams in her eyes.
Come, friends, let us bring down the high ideal to actual life. The trio
of our loves shall sound in Madeira, Champagne, and Rudesheim; and
inspired fancy shall present to our raptured gaze the gracious forms of
our beloved ones.”
I had, I thought, outshone myself in the poetry of this invitation. I
wished to touch and win them—but my friends seemed neither touched by
my resemblance of their loved ones, nor won by the picture of the costly
wines that awaited them at my lodgings. They looked thoughtfully at each
other, shook their heads, and withstood all my attempts to lead them
back to the city. Then Van Delpt shook himself loose from me, and taking
me by the shoulders, turned me round as the wind would a weathercock,
and said, pointing to a little wooden house, upon the top of which
floated a red silk flag—
“Do you see that booth, and do you know what you can obtain there for a
mere nothing?”
I answered in the negative.
“Then I will take the cover off the dish for you,” continued the cook;
“you shall learn how we can enjoy Mahomet’s seventh heaven here on
earth. Yes, Mynheer, there, in that unpretending booth the bliss of
earth and heaven can be enjoyed for a few paras.”
I was perplexed. Van Delpt was usually a quiet matter-of-fact person. He
did not seem to have taken more than his usual allowance of Genivee, the
old Dutch phlegm had not vanished in the least from his features, only
there was to be seen there an inspired expression, not before
observable, which beamed forth very brilliantly as he looked at the
little red house.
“Yes, monsieur,” chimed in the Frenchman, “you will not take it ill of
us if we refuse your invitation. With you we should only intoxicate
ourselves, there we shall be entranced! It is a delight which we have
enjoyed once a year since we arrived in Stamboul. To-day, the
Reis-Effendi has procured us this opportunity—who knows when it will
come again? Come with us, M. Mostert, and inhale rapture, bliss,
enchantment. Yes, M. Mostert, no champagne can procure for us that bliss
to which I now invite you. I am a butler, and you know how much what I
say must mean. I surely know all the joys which the grapes of
Constantinople, Canary, or Vesuvius can yield. But what are they to the
rapture that awaits us? Does empire please you—a kingdom is yours the
instant you think of it. Would you be Grand Vizier, Kapudin Pacha, or
minister plenipotentiary—in a flash it is as you wish. Come with us,
and you will thank your friends, the fat cook and the lean butler, for
procuring for you an unknown, but incomparable delight. I have
determined to-day to be Henry the Fourth, but only until the moment when
the rascal Ravaillac murders the excellent monarch; then I change myself
into the Count St. Germain, who, it is well known, was three hundred
years old when he visited the royal court of Versailles, and probably is
still living somewhere, under a feigned name, in the fullness of youth
and strength. _Vive_, Henri Quatre,” cried M. Fleury, while my brain
whirled, and I allowed myself to be drawn toward the house with the red
flag.
I knew Fleury, and could rely upon what he said. I might be a king, a
sultan, or a Rothschild. There I paused—it was a grand idea—a poetical
excitement made my heart beat faster in my breast. But prosaically
enough came the change of faith between me and my wishes.
“No,” I said, “I must always remain a good Christian, according to the
Augsburg confession; a different happiness awaits me in the little red
house—money, plenty of money, and little Kate, in Gelnhaus.”
“You are, and always will be an enthusiast, Fleury,” replied Van Delpt
to the Frenchman’s invitation. “You are, in spite of your employment for
so many years in the diplomatic line, a true Frenchman, devoted to the
fair. For my part I hold a middle course. I must have something solid. I
will to-day be no happier than my renowned countryman, William Benkels,
after he had discovered the salting of the herring. I aspire to the
delight only of one moment, but that moment shall last—the great moment
in which William Benkels stood before the first cask of
successfully-salted herrings. It was in the year 1416. Imagine the man
to yourselves, when he stood at last before the completed work, over
which his mind had brooded for so many years, and which brought such a
blessing upon his Fatherland. He foresaw in this moment, a thousand
inventions to which this one must give birth; soused fish, pickles,
sardines—every thing which can gain immortality through salt. He saw,
by means of his invention, tons of gold pouring into the coffers of his
Fatherland, and he heard his name lauded by posterity. Yes, thou
immortal William Benkels, to-day I will be thou, and enjoy the rapture
of that moment, when, standing before that cask, thine own greatness and
the happy future thou hadst prepared for thy country was revealed to
thee.”
These representations were not without their effect. My curiosity was
excited. We now stood before the little house with the red flag. I saw
some Turks staggering out, pale, hollow-eyed, and trembling in every
limb. “Are those the devotees of your temple of bliss?” said, I to my
companions. “They seem to me far more like the inmates of a hospital
than men who have just succeeded in a speculation in rapture.”
Van Delpt pushed me in, and Fleury pressed forward eagerly. “Those are
stupid Turks,” he said, “who wish to be always happy, and when one bliss
ends they desire always another, which is contrary to the whole order of
nature. But forward, Gabriel Mostert! you shall learn every thing
within; light shall spring up for you there like the conflagration of
Moscow. _Vive Henri Quatre_,” he shouted, and pushed me on.
“William Benkels forever!” cried the cook, who passed his arm around me
and swung me into the little house. I stood, giddy from the sudden
movement, in a large, darkened room. Although without it was perfectly
light, here all illumination proceeded from a dimly burning lamp, hung
in the middle of the apartment. Windows I could see none, and a strange,
bewildering perfume filled the room. My friends bore me on, and before I
could observe distinctly the objects which surrounded me, I felt myself
seated upon a cushion, and Van Delpt and Fleury took their places beside
me. I could not collect my ideas, I only saw a grinning Turk, dressed in
red, who stepped forth from the darkness and approached with a silver
plate, upon which were a number of little, reddish-brown balls, while a
crystal goblet of water stood in the middle of it. My friends seized the
balls and swallowed several of them.
“Now eat, Gabriel,” cried Van Delpt, while his left arm encircled me
powerfully. “Feast upon delight. _It is opium_—the manna of
immortality.”
His eyes started from his head—I seemed to gaze upon a madman. I tried
to extricate myself from him but in vain. He endeavored, in the
meanwhile, with his right hand to slip some opium balls into my mouth,
but I set my teeth firmly, and shook my head.
“_Bon appetit, Monsieur_,” said the Frenchman, who seized me upon the
other side. Two hands with the horrible little balls, hovered before my
eyes ready to force me to partake. “You must eat like us, you must be
blessed as we shall be. _Vive Henri Quatre!_”
“I will not,” I cried with horror. “If you don’t release me I’ll
complain of you to your masters, and foreswear your friendship forever.
What would my little Kate say were she to learn that I had taken
opium—had dreamed like a Musselman, and been happy in such an
unchristian way. Away with the balls of Satan. The Evil One with horns
and hoofs has prepared them.”
“He must eat them,” cried the Dutchman and Frenchman in chorus, and the
Turk grinned more frightfully. In the struggle, for a moment, my senses
left me. A shout of triumph from my tormentors called me back to life.
“He has swallowed them!” cried they, and released me. In the same moment
I saw them sink back upon their cushions, their eyes were fixed, a happy
smile expanded their features; they were enjoying the happiness of the
theriake, or opium-eater.
“He has not swallowed them!” cried I raging, and sprang up. “I closed my
mouth and your cursed pills fell into the cushion beside me.” I ran out
like one possessed. The Turk laughed scornfully after me, and I heard
the Frenchman murmur in his sleep—“_Vive Henri Quatre!_” and the
Dutchman groan out his “William Benkels forever!”
In the air without I recovered myself. I seemed open to all blissful
influences—I was again happy and light-hearted. With what an exquisite
display of colors did the sun mirror itself in the Bosphorus! how the
domes of the mosques sparkled, as if composed of diamonds and rubies!
How brilliant were the streets through which I walked—no, through which
I floated. And at this moment I felt myself richer than the richest
houses of which I had ever heard. Thus I arrived at a shady forest of
dates. Here I sat me down in the overhanging shade of a palm, and gazed
toward the west where the sun was setting, and where was the Barbarossa
town, with its leaning tower and my charming Kate.
CHAPTER II.
I carried always with me a costly Turkish pipe, with a long stem of
rose-wood. The head I carried in my pocket, carefully wrapped in soft
silk; the stem was so contrived that I used it for a cane.
Without knowing what I did, whilst my gaze was riveted upon the glorious
landscape, and my thoughts were busy with my home, I pushed my cane in
among the dry leaves and roots of the palm. Suddenly it was caught by
something which attracted my notice, and I tried to draw it out quickly.
The costly stem broke, and I looked, half-vexed and half-curious, to
know what had caused the mischief.
With difficulty I extricated from the roots of the palm an old leathern
purse, the strings of which were tied round another old leathern
article. A wondrously joyful sensation stirred in my soul at the sight
of these objects. What they were I knew not, and yet they filled me with
delight. But when I had cleansed them from the dirt and mud, when I held
an old, richly-embroidered purse in my hand, and in the other article
recognized a little, pointed cap, then arose from the glowing memories
of my childhood the wonderful story of the inexhaustible purse of
Fortunatus and his wishing cap. Then all creation beamed around me, and
a chorus of voices from the sky seemed to say to me, “Thou art the new
Fortunatus. Fortune has favored thee with her most valuable gifts, which
have remained so long in the lap of earth, hidden from all mortal eyes.”
I laughed aloud like a child. I was firmly convinced that it was all
true, and I danced round the palm, with the purse and cap in my hands,
like a madman. “What are lotteries, stocks, and Rothschild’s
speculations in comparison,” cried I; “do I wish for a million—I have
to use my purse for a day, and my cap serves me better than the swiftest
courier.”
My reason at last returned, and the madman became again the prudent,
calculating merchant.
“Make a calculation, and produce an exact facit,” said the merchant. I
seated myself again, with tolerable composure, at the foot of the palm.
I wished calmly to prove the power of the purse, but my hand trembled as
I put it into it. My fingers twitched convulsively, the fascination of
the noblest of metals penetrated every nerve, and there, in my hand,
before my wondering, blissful gaze, lay a hundred franc piece, with the
new stamp, “Louis Philippe, Roi des Français.” “O, Heaven! life is still
fair,” I cried with Schiller’s Marquis Posa, and proved the power of my
purse again and again, until the lap of my Turkish dress was covered
with, hundred-franc-pieces.
My eyes feasted upon the treasure, my soul reveled in rapture.
“Prudence, prudence,” said the merchant within me. “May not the gold be
false, or coined in the devil’s mint, and if you attempt to use it
destroy your honor and reputation?” I tried it upon the leather of my
sandals, and upon a little stone that I carried about with me for the
purpose. It was pure Parisian coin. I put up my gold and filled my
pockets with it. How blessed was I that I had withstood Van Delpt’s and
Fleury’s entreaties. What was their happiness now—their manna of
immortality? Dreams and froth! But I possessed the most desirable,
glorious reality—my pockets full of gold, the inexhaustible purse, and
the wonderful cap. Ay—the cap—its power must also be proved; I must
know if by its art I could be this moment in the date forest on the
Bosphorus, and the next in the cherry grove in Frankfort on the Main. In
a flash I placed the little thing upon my head and thought of the
Barbarossa town, and of the little balcony which looked into Kate’s
room. What is a royal dispatch in comparison with the cap of Fortunatus?
Without inconvenience from the elbows of neighbors, without the least
change in my worthy person, I stood before the window through whose
curtains I could look into Kate’s little room. I looked round me; the
leaning tower, with its straight brother, were at my back; I was in my
native town, the breeze of home stirred around me. Just then Kate
stepped into the room. She carried a candle, was negligently dressed,
and was humming an air from “Der Freischütz.” Was the girl altered, or
had my too lively fancy deceived me, and presented to me at a distance
as charming, what in reality seemed to me extremely vulgar? Where was
the variety of charms that had so excited my love in Constantinople?
Where was the airy grace that had surrounded the image of the absent
one, as the air of Paradise encircles a Mohammedan houri? Kate was, in
truth, no disagreeable-looking girl, but excessively commonplace; she
had cheeks as fresh and round as an apple, pretty hair, _a la giraffe_,
eyes whose color was rather undecided, and a form which, although it
certainly was not wanting in roundness, did not move with exactly the
grace of a dancing-master. I felt my heart grow cold at the sight of
her. Heaven knows, my taste must have become wonderfully refined since I
had been separated from her; knowledge of mankind and of the world must
have sharpened my judgment. I never could love this creature—that was
ineffaceably written in my soul. The purse and cap had given me the
right to other claims than to be the son-in-law of the burgomaster of an
obscure German village, and to demean myself by selling crêpe de Chine
and eau de Cologne.
“Away, away from here, to the fairest of the fair!” I cried, inspired.
“Who will dispute with me the possession of the most beautiful woman
upon the earth?”
In an instant I stood in a high vestibule, upon a marble floor; from the
frescoed walls shone the light of a hundred tapers; the fragrance-laden
air of the tropics was around me, and silver fountains were playing
without in the moonlight. A great mirror opposite reflected my image. I
was clad in black, in my finest European suit. I wore the breast-pin
with the turquoise and brilliants, which I had bought two years before
in Frankfort, and I knew that I was in the palace of the Duke of Silvio
Cremonio, in Rio Janeiro, to whose beautiful daughter I was about to be
introduced. All this the wonderful cap had arranged and declared to me.
Fifty lackeys, in rich livery, flew to my assistance. Two ushers opened
the folding-doors, and at their announcement, “The Marquis della
Mostarda!” I stepped into a brilliant saloon.
I was in a maze—the dresses of the ladies, which blazed with diamonds
and other precious stones, dazzled me. What was the home-made splendor
of my former employers, Steinlein & Son, which I had so often admired in
my yearly visit to them, compared with this.
What was the finery of the richest merchant’s daughter compared with the
splendor of the ladies of Rio Janeiro. I noticed that my entrance
created a sensation. The ladies remained standing, looked at me and
whispered among themselves. A little stout gentleman pushed forward from
the crowd toward me. It was the duke. He wore a richly embroidered
dress, with ribbon and star.
He spoke to me, bidding we welcome, and although he spoke Spanish, and I
had never learned the language, I understood it perfectly and conversed
in it as easily as in my mother tongue.
“You are a welcome guest, dear friend,” said the duke, and graciously
pressed my band. “You have been introduced to me as an excellent and
wealthy lord. Wealth is always well received; wealth is the key to every
thing; wealth captivates all hearts; permit me to present you to my wife
and daughter.”
Oh, what joy and rapture! The moment had arrived in which I should
behold the fairest of the fair—the most beautiful woman now dwelling
upon the earth! I saw her! Words cannot describe her, thought cannot
picture her, only the imagination may venture to conceive of her.
Her voice was song—her glance a revelation of heaven.
The young rose had touched her cheeks with its soft tint; the enamel of
the lily was upon her brow; her charming lips vied with crimson coral;
her soft, blond hair waved in natural curls around her lovely face, and
a Persian poet would have compared her graceful form to the gazelle.
Beside the heavenly Angelica sat her mother, who would still have been
called handsome, although there was about her an air of pride and
haughtiness, which was wholly wanting in the daughter. I felt that, by
the possession of the purse and wishing cap, I had become an entirely
different man. How often I had trembled and been agitated as I stood in
the antechamber of some great man, waiting to present my catalogue of
wines for the firm of Steinlein & Son. What trouble I had taken to learn
by heart the conditions of sale, that I might not stutter and stammer
when they were asked for. And now I stood like a cool, self-possessed
man of the world before a Brazilian duchess and her beautiful daughter,
while the duke, her father, held my hand, which did not tremble in the
least, and said, laying a significant stress upon his words, “The
Marquis della Mostarda, the stranger whom the imperial secretary has so
kindly introduced to us. He is just from Europe, and can tell you of the
latest fashions. He is a man of great merit, and, as I well know, all
means will be tried to induce him to take up his residence here in the
capital.”
The stout nobleman moved on to make room for me by the ladies. The
duchess beckoned me toward her, and her proud bearing gave way to a
gracious condescension. She cast upon me a smiling glance, the tender
expression of which I recognised at once from the descriptions in the
best romances of the day. Then, pointing to her daughter, she observed,
“The child there will listen only too willingly to stories of strange
lands. She is wonderfully interested in geography. Talk with her—tell
her where the most costly shawls are made, of Brabant laces, and
Parisian bijouterie; tell her of your Italian home, of fire-breathing
Vesuvius, of the Colosseum at Rome and the Lagune in Venice.”
The duchess turned from me to a pale young man, simply dressed, whose
eyes had been fixed upon me whilst I stood by the lady with a singular,
I might almost say sinister expression. His features were finely cut,
but it could not escape me, with my knowledge of mankind, that there
played about the corners of the mouth a contemptuous, scornful
expression; just such as Hoffman always gives to his diabolical
characters. It seemed to me that, looking through me, he saw the
wishing-cap in my bosom, and the purse in my vest pocket. With an
uncomfortable sensation I turned from him to the angel-face of the
Princess Angelica. Her musical tones broke upon the ear like the singing
in Schelble’s Cecilia-chorus. A whole opera by Rossini seemed to fill my
senses as I listened to her; trills and roulades, crescendo and
decrescendo, adagio and allegro. Now it sounded mournfully as in the
cavatina from “Tancredi,” now, it exulted like the song of victory in
the “Siege of Corinth.” O thou heavenly Angelica, thou wast at once the
music and the director, and if I looked at thee, I seemed to see the
Venus de Medici, dressed in tulle, embroidered with gold, sleeves _à la
Gigot_, brilliants in her ears and upon her fingers, and rubies around
her neck. Her remarks were acute and witty, while, at the same time, she
raised her forget-me-not eyes so beseechingly to my face, that I
imagined I read in them Goethe’s “Sorrows of Werther” and the loves of
Herrman and Dorothea. She was curious about literature and the stage.
Then I was in my element. I told her of Madame Sontag and Paganini; how
the former, before her marriage, had sung variations for the violin, and
the latter had played the charming song “cara mamena.” I told her of the
public favorites, and hummed several airs for her from “Der Weiner in
Berlin.” All this with an ease and grace which stamped the Marquis della
Mostarda as a most accomplished cavalier. Then I spoke of the great
lights in modern poetry—of Heine and Count Plateu Hallermande—how the
former lavished the flowers of his fancy in lamentations over an unhappy
love, and the latter poured himself forth in metrical praise of
Friendship. She listened attentively; then suddenly she sighed deeply,
so deeply that I was alarmed, and asked her in my confusion whether, in
speaking of these renowned poets, I had said any thing unpleasant to
her?
“No, no!” said she, mournfully. “I have had a German governante; I
understand German, and read the German poets. Both poets of whom you
speak are dear to me, particularly the touching Heine. But there are
other glorious things in Germany beside art and poetry. Do you not love
Nüremburg gingerbread, my lord marquis? As you have lived so long in
Germany, you cannot be a stranger to this delicious production.”
“Alas! it is now two years since my father received a little package of
it, and since that time all the delicacies of this country have lost
their charm for me. In vain do I breathe this delightful atmosphere, its
fragrance is nothing to that of this rich manufacture from Germany.”
The princess was silent; she appeared to sink into a profound
melancholy. The duchess leaned over to us, and said, in a confidential,
motherly tone, “What is the matter, children? You seem troubled, my lord
marquis; and, Angelica, your eyes are swimming with tears.”
“We were speaking of Nüremburg gingerbread,” answered the princess,
softly.
The duchess also seemed troubled, looked up to heaven, and said, “Yes,
there is something truly divine in that Nüremburg gingerbread.”
“To-morrow I shall have the honor of bringing you some,” replied I,
hastily, as I bethought me of the wishing-cap. At this moment I heard a
scornful chuckling near me; I looked up, and the pale stranger stood at
my side. He looked contemptuously down upon me, then turned his head,
and seemed to whisper something to the air. This behavior I considered
assumed to mock me; but I determined not to heed the man, for how could
he harm me, the possessor of the cap and purse of Fortunatus.
Suddenly a stir arose in the assembly. Exclamations of astonishment were
heard from all sides, and a lackey, richly dressed, pressed forward to
where the ladies were, with a large silver plate of fresh Nüremburg
gingerbread in his hands. I stood amazed; the stranger smiled
contemptuously. A stranger, the lackey said, had brought him the salver
in the anteroom, with the express command to carry it directly to the
Duchess of Silvio Cremonio. As they were about to question him, he
unaccountably disappeared. A quiet joy lighted up Angelica’s charming
countenance, her mother glanced inquiringly at the stranger, who
answered her by a bow of acknowledgment.
“Doctor Joannes, of Ingolstadt,” said the princess, introducing the
stranger to me. “Doubtless we must thank him for the beautiful present,
which has so enriched our fête to-night. He knows how to prize the
treasures of his fatherland, and has foreseen, with his usual tact, that
here also he would find friends who would value the productions of his
country.”
The doctor bowed smilingly to both ladies. The impertinent fellow hardly
looked at me as the princess introduced him. And he was only a doctor
and I a marquis. “There is, fortunately, a to-morrow,” thought I; “and
although your gingerbread may gratify the taste of the moment, their
eyes will be dazzled, and their souls enraptured with the exquisite
jewelry, that I intend purchasing for them to-morrow at Rundell &
Bridges, in London.” There was witchcraft in the appearance of the
gingerbread—that was beyond a doubt. I now observed the man more
closely as he conversed with the ladies. His manner toward them was
humble and modest, but the diabolical expression about the mouth was not
to be concealed.
“Let us make up a party for a game of marriage,” said the glorious
Angelica, in her most dulcet tones, as she took my arm. “There is the
card saloon. The rest are busy with roulette and faro, but I love
marriage beyond every thing.”
“It is also my favorite game,” I replied, full of love for this
beautiful creature. “For its sake have I come hither from Constantinople
upon the Bosphorus.”
The princess gave me a significant look, and secretly pressed my hand.
As I looked up, I saw Joannes gazing upon me with a threatening
expression of hate. He then leaned over Angelica, and smilingly
whispered something in her ear. Impertinence! He imagined himself
all-engrossing with his gingerbread. I gingled the one hundred-franc
pieces in my pocket—and the sound made a favorable impression upon the
duke’s daughter.
“Yes, we will play marriage,” said she, looking tenderly at me. “Come,
marquis every moment of delay is lost.”
The doctor impatiently stamped his foot, but composed himself
immediately, and said in his gentlest tone, “Only two seconds, your
grace, I hear the horses now—they are here.”
In fact, at this moment a vehicle drove furiously into the court-yard.
The snorting of fiery horses, and the voices of servants were heard.
Several of the company hastened to the window, and Angelica moved toward
it also.
“It is only my new Viennese chariot and Andalusian ponies,” said the
doctor, humbly, but so loud, that every one could hear him. “Will you
come and see my establishment? I am rather proud of my choice.”
“See,” growled an old gentleman, in a brilliant uniform, “who could see
any thing in this Egyptian darkness.”
“I beg pardon,” said Joannes, gently; “I had forgotten that you are not
accustomed to see in the dark. That is easily remedied.”
He snapped his fingers, and in a moment the whole court-yard was as
light as day from the blaze of many hundred torches secured to the
palace walls, and the equipage stood revealed in their brilliant glare.
A unanimous and admiring exclamation burst from all present. But I cried
scornfully, “That is nothing new, I have often seen it done by Professor
Dohler—an electric machine and dry weather are all that is required.”
No one listened to me. Every one broke out in praises of the magnificent
equipage. Harnessed to it were four horses of wondrous beauty, of the
true Andalusian breed. I was forced to confess that I had never seen any
thing like them, and to hide my annoyance in admiration. And then the
coach—an easier, more gorgeous or graceful thing of the kind could not
well be imagined. It rested upon the springs like the shell of Venus
upon the waves. It was worthy to contain the fairest of the fair. This
seemed to strike the fair Angelica herself. She relinquished my arm for
the doctor’s, and said, with a heavenly smile, “You are a happy man,
doctor; I cannot imagine a more exquisite sensation, than the possession
of such an equipage would create.”
“It is yours, adored one!” whispered Joannes tenderly, yet so loudly
that he evidently intended I should hear. “The world has no treasure too
great for the queen of all hearts.”
“O heavens! what generosity!” cried Angelica. She hastened from the
doctor to her mother, to tell the joyful news.
I looked angrily out of the window, and saw how the doctor’s coachman
performed the most wonderful manœuvres, in the confined court-yard, with
his fiery steeds. “Witchcraft! a real devil’s trick!” said I to myself,
as I stepped back into the saloon, and walked hastily up and down.
I was jealous, furiously jealous—and what wonder? Did not Italian blood
course through my veins—was I not the Marquis della Mostarda, from
Naples? Thoughts of daggers and aqua toffana coursed through my brain
when I looked at Joannes. Two persons in serious conversation passed me,
a stately gentleman and an elderly lady. “They may say what they choose,
but all is not right with the German doctor. He practices the Black Art,
and ought to be thankful that the Holy Inquisition no longer exists. He
gives presents here which an emperor could hardly afford, while he
inhabits a miserable room in the suburbs, attended by no one but a dirty
black poodle, who brings him his meals every day from the
restaurateur’s.”
“And how every thing has altered here in this house since he arrived and
paid his court to the beautiful Angelica,” continued the lady. “Before
we saw poverty everywhere—the servants had no livery, and there had
been no parties given since Olini’s time. Now the servants shine in rich
embroidery, and at these rare entertainments, delicacies appear upon the
table that one has hardly ever dreamed of, such as the gingerbread
to-night, after Angelica had expressed her wonderful desire for it. We
shall soon see the daughter of the Duke of Silvio Cremonio wife of
Doctor Joannes.”
“No, no!” said the gentleman, thoughtfully shaking his head, “I thought
so until to-night; but now I see that her parents have other views with
regard to her.”
His glance rested upon me, and appearing to observe, for the first time,
that I was near, he walked away. But I, knowing now that others regarded
my rival as I did, prepared myself to contend with him for the
incomparable Angelica.