Flowers have been called the stars of the earth; and certainly, when we

examine those beautiful creations, and discover them, analyzing the

sunbeam, and sending back to the eye the full luxury of colored light,

we must confess that there is more real appropriateness in the term than

even the poet who conceived the delicate thought imagined. Lavoisier

beautifully said—“The fable of Prometheus is but the outshadowing of a

philosophic truth—where there is light there is organization and life;

where light cannot penetrate, Death for ever holds his silent court.”

The flowers, and, indeed, those far inferior forms of organic vegetable

life which never flower, are direct dependencies on the solar rays.

Through every stage of existence they are excited by those subtle

agencies which are gathered together in the sunbeam; and to these

influences we may trace all that beauty of development which prevails

throughout the vegetable world. How few there are, of even those refined

minds to whom flowers are more than a symmetric arrangement of petals

harmoniously colored, who think of the secret agencies forever exciting

the life which is within their cells, to produce the organized

structure—who reflect on the deep, yet divine philosophy, which may be

read in every leaf:—those tongues in trees, which tell us of Eternal

goodness and order.

The hurry of the present age is not well suited to the contemplative

mind; yet, with all, there must be hours in which to fall back into the

repose of quiet thought becomes a luxury. The nervous system is strung

to endure only a given amount of excitement; if its vibrations are

quickened beyond this measure, the delicate harp-strings are broken, or

they undulate in throbs. To every one the contemplation of natural

phenomena will be found to induce that repose which gives vigor to the

mind—as sleep restores the energies of a toil-exhausted body. And to

show the advantages of such a study, and the interesting lessons which

are to be learned in the fields of nature, is the purpose of the present

essay.

The flower is regarded as the full development of vegetable growth; and

the consideration of its mysteries naturally involves a careful

examination of the life of a plant, from the seed placed in the soil to

its full maturity, whether it be as herb or tree.

For the perfect understanding of the physical conditions under which

vegetable life is carried on, it is necessary to appreciate, in its

fullness, the value of the term _growth_. It has been said that stones

grow—that the formation of crystals was an analogous process to the

formation of a leaf; and this impression has appeared to be somewhat

confirmed by witnessing the variety of arborescent forms into which

solidifying waters pass, when the external cold spreads it as ice over

our window-panes. This is, however, a great error; stones do not

grow—there is no analogy even between the formation of a crystal and

the growth of a leaf. All inorganic masses increase in size only by the

accretion of particles—layer upon layer, without any chemical change

taking place as an essentiality. The sun may shine for ages upon a stone

without quickening it into life, changing its constitution, or adding to

its mass. Organic matter consists of arrangements of cells or sacs, and

the increase in size is due to the absorption of gaseous matter, through

the fine tissue of which they are composed. The gas—a compound of

carbon and oxygen—is decomposed by the excitement induced by light; and

the solid matter thus obtained is employed in building a new cell—or

producing actual growth, a true function of _life_, in all the processes

of which matter is constantly undergoing chemical change.

The simplest developments of vegetable life are the formation of

confervæ upon water, and of lichens upon the surface of the rock. In

chemical constitution, these present no very remarkable differences from

the cultivated flower which adorns our garden, or the tree which has

risen in its pride amidst the changing seasons of many centuries. Each

alike have derived their solid constituents from the atmosphere, and the

chemical changes in all are equally dependent upon the powers which have

their mysterious origin in the great centre of our planetary system.

Without dwelling upon the processes which take place in the lower forms

of vegetable life, the purposes of this essay will be fully answered by

taking an example from amongst the higher class of plants and examining

its conditions, from the germination of the seed to the full development

of the flower—rich in form, color, and odor.

In the seed-cell we find, by minute examination, the embryo of the

future plant carefully preserved in its envelop of starch and gluten.

The investigations which have been carried on upon the vitality of seeds

appear to prove that, under favorable conditions, this life-germ may be

maintained for centuries. Grains of wheat, which had been found in the

hands of an Egyptian mummy, germinated and grew; these grains were

produced, in all probability, more than three thousand years since; they

had been placed, at her burial, in the hands of a priestess of Isis, and

in the deep repose of the Egyptian catacomb were preserved to tell us,

in the eighteenth century, the story of that wheat which Joseph sold to

his brethren.

The process of germination is essentially a chemical one. The seed is

placed in the soil, excluded from the light, supplied with a due

quantity of moisture, and maintained at a certain temperature, which

must be above that at which water freezes; air must have free access to

the seed, which if placed so deep in the soil as to prevent the

permeation of the atmosphere never germinates. Under favorable

circumstances, the life-quickening processes begin; the starch, which is

a compound of carbon and oxygen, is converted into sugar by the

absorption of another equivalent of oxygen from the air; and we have an

evident proof of this change in the sweetness which most seeds acquire

in the process, the most familiar example of which we have in the

conversion of barley into malt. The sugar thus formed furnishes the food

to the now living creation, which, in a short period, shoots its first

leaves above the soil; and these, which rising from their dark chamber

are white, quickly become green under the operations of light.

In the process of germination a species of slow combustion takes place,

and—as in the chemical processes of animal life and in those of active

ignition—carbonic acid gas, composed of oxygen and charcoal, or carbon,

is evolved. Thus, by a mystery which our science does not enable us to

reach, the spark of life is kindled—life commences its work—the plant

grows. The first conditions of vegetable growth are, therefore,

singularly similar to those which are found to prevail in the animal

economy. The leaf-bud is no sooner above the soil than a new set of

conditions begin; the plant takes carbonic acid from the atmosphere, and

having, in virtue of its vitality, by the agency of luminous power,

decomposed this gas, it retains the carbon, and pours forth the oxygen

to the air. This process is stated to be a function of vitality; but as

this has been variously described by different authors, it is important

to state with some minuteness what does really take place.

The plant absorbs carbonic acid from the atmosphere through the under

surfaces of the leaves, and the whole of the bark; it at the same time

derives an additional portion from the moisture which is taken up by the

roots, and conveyed “to the topmost twig” by the force of capillary

attraction, and another power, called _endosmosis_, which is exerted in

a most striking manner by living organic tissues. This mysterious force

is shown in a pleasing way by covering some spirits of wine and water in

a wine-glass with a piece of bladder; the water will escape, leaving the

strong spirit behind.

Independently of the action of light the plant may be regarded as a mere

machine; the fluids and gases which it absorbs, pass off in a condition

but very little changed—just as water would strain through a sponge or

a porous stone. The consequence of this is the blanching or _etiolation_

of the plant, which we produce by our artificial treatment of celery and

sea-kale—the formation of the carbonaceous compound called

_chlorophyle_, which is the green coloring-matter of the leaves, being

entirely checked in darkness. If such a plant is brought into the light,

its dormant powers are awakened, and, instead of being little other than

a sponge through which fluids circulate, it exerts most remarkable

chemical powers; the carbonic acid of the air and water is decomposed;

its charcoal is retained to add to the wood of the plant, and the oxygen

is set free again to the atmosphere. In this process is exhibited one of

the most beautiful illustrations of the harmony which prevails through

all the great phenomena of nature with which we are acquainted—the

mutual dependence of the vegetable and animal kingdoms.

In the animal economy there is a constant production of carbonic acid,

and the beautiful vegetable kingdom, spread over the earth in such

infinite variety, requires this carbonic acid for its support.

Constantly removing from the air the pernicious agent produced by the

animal world, and giving back that oxygen which is required as the

life-quickening element by the animal races, the balance of affinities

is constantly maintained by the phenomena of vegetable growth. This

interesting inquiry will form the subject of another essay.

The decomposition of carbonic acid is directly dependent upon luminous

agency; from the impact of the earliest morning ray to the period when

the sun reaches the zenith, the excitation of that vegetable vitality by

which the chemical change is effected regularly increases. As the solar

orb sinks toward the horizon the chemical activity diminishes—the sun

sets—the action is reduced to its minimum—the plant, in the repose of

darkness, passes to that state of rest which is as necessary to the

vegetating races as sleep is to the wearied animal.

These are two well-marked stages in the life of a plant, germination and

vegetation are exerted under different conditions; the time of flowering

arrives, and another change occurs, the processes of forming the

alkaline and acid juices, of producing the oil, wax, and resin, and of

secreting those nitrogenous compounds which are found in the seed, are

in full activity. Carbonic acid is now evolved and oxygen is retained;

hydrogen and nitrogen are also forced, as it were, into combination with

the oxygen and carbon, and altogether new and more complicated

operations are in activity.

Such are the phenomena of vegetable life which the researches of our

philosophers have developed. This curious order—this regular

progression—showing itself at well-marked epochs, is now known to be

dependent upon solar influences; the

“Bright effluence of bright essence increate”

works its mysterious wonders on every organic form. Much is still

involved in mystery; but to the call of science some strange truths have

been made manifest to man, and of some of these the phenomena must now

be explained.

_Germination_ is a chemical change which takes place most readily in

darkness; _vegetable growth_ is due to the secretion of carbon under the

agency of light; and the processes of _floriation_ are shown to involve

some new and compound operations: these three states must be distinctly

appreciated.

The sunbeam comes to us as a flood of pellucid light, usually colorless;

if we disturb this white beam, as by compelling it to pass through a

triangular piece of glass, we break it up into colored bands, which we

call the _spectrum_, in which we have such an order of chromatic rays as

are seen in the rainbow of a summer shower. These colored rays are now

known to be the sources of all the tints by which nature adorns the

surface of the earth, or art imitates, in its desire to create the

beautiful. These colored bands have not the same illuminating power, nor

do they possess the same heat-giving property. The yellow rays give the

most LIGHT; the red rays have the function of HEAT in the highest

degree. Beyond these properties the sunbeam possesses another, which is

the power of producing CHEMICAL CHANGE—of effecting those magical

results which we witness in the photographic processes, by which the

beams illuminating any object are made to delineate it upon the prepared

tablet of the artist.

It has been suspected that these three phenomena are not due to the same

agency, but that, associated in the sunbeam, we have LIGHT, producing

all the blessings of vision, and throwing the veil of color over all

things—HEAT, maintaining that temperature over our globe which is

necessary to the perfection of living organisms—and a third principle,

ACTINISM, by which the chemical changes alluded to are effected. We

possess the power, by the use of colored media, of separating these

principles from each other, and of analyzing their effects. A yellow

glass allows _light_ to pass through it most freely, but it obstructs

_actinism_ almost entirely; a deep-blue glass, on the contrary, prevents

the permeation of _light_, but it offers no interruption to the

_actinic_, or chemical rays; a red glass, again, cuts off most of the

rays, except those which have peculiarly a _calorific_, or heat-giving

power.

With this knowledge we proceed in our experiments, and learn some of the

mysteries of nature’s chemistry. If, above the soil in which the seed is

placed, we fix a deep, pure yellow glass, the chemical change which

marks germination is prevented; if, on the contrary, we employ a blue

one, it is greatly accelerated; seeds, indeed, placed beneath the soil,

covered with a cobalt blue finger-glass, will germinate many days sooner

than such as may be exposed to the ordinary influences of

sunshine:—this proves the necessity of the principle actinism to this

first stage of vegetable life. Plants, however, made to grow under the

influences of such blue media present much the same conditions as those

which are reared in the dark; they are succulent instead of woody, and

have yellow leaves and white stalks—indeed, the formation of leaves is

prevented, and all the vital energy of the plant is exerted in the

production of stalk. The chemical principle of the sun’s rays, alone, is

not therefore sufficient; remove the plant to the influence of light, as

separated from actinism, by the action of yellow media, and wood is

formed abundantly—the plant grows most healthfully, and the leaves

assume that dark green which belongs to tropical climes or to our most

brilliant summers. Light is thus proved to be the exciting agent in

effecting those chemical decompositions which have already been

described; but under the influence of isolated light it is found that

plants will not flower. When, however, the subject of our experiment is

brought under the influence of a red glass, particularly of that variety

in which a beautifully pure red is produced by oxide of gold, the whole

process of floriation and the perfection of the seed is accomplished.

Careful and long-continued observations have proved that in the spring,

when the process of germination is most active, the chemical rays are

the most abundant in the sunbeam. As the summer advances, light,

relatively to the other forces, is largely increased: at this season the

trees of the forest, the herb of the valley, and the cultivated plants

which adorn our dwellings, are all alike adding to their wood. Autumn

comes on, and then heat, so necessary for ripening grain, is found to

exist in considerable excess. It is curious, too, that the autumnal heat

has properties peculiarly its own—so decidedly distinguished from the

ordinary heat, that Sir John Herschel and Mrs. Somerville have adopted a

term to distinguish it. The peculiar browning or scorching rays of

autumn are called the _parathermic_ rays: they possess a remarkable

chemical action added to their calorific one; and to this is due those

complicated phenomena already briefly described.

In these experiments, carefully tried, we are enabled to imitate the

conditions of nature, and supply, at any time, those states of solar

radiation which belong to the varying seasons of the year.

Such is a rapid sketch of the mysteries of a flower; “Consider the

lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin;

and yet I say unto you, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like

one of these.”

Under the influence of the sunbeam, vegetable life is awakened,

continued, and completed; a wondrous alchemy is effected; the change in

the condition of the solar radiations determines the varying conditions

of vegetable vitality; and in its progress those transmutations occur,

which at once give beauty to the exterior world, and provide for the

animal races the food by which their existence is maintained. The

contemplation of influences such as these realizes in the human soul

that sweet feeling which, with Keats, finds that

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;

Its loveliness increasing, it will never

Pass into nothingness, but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

* * * * *

Such the sun and moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,

With the green world they live in.

* * * * *

=TOO MUCH BLUE.=

=FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.=

Early on a fine summer morning, an old man was walking on the road

between Brussels and Namur. He expected a friend to arrive by the

diligence, and he set out some time before it was due, to meet it on the

road. Having a good deal of time to spare, he amused himself by watching

any object of interest that caught his eye; and at length stopped to

inspect the operations of a painter, who, mounted on a ladder placed

against the front of a wayside inn, was busily employed in depicting a

sign suitable to its name, “The Rising Sun.”

“Here,” said the old man to himself, “is an honest dauber, who knows as

much of perspective as a cart-horse; and who, I’ll warrant, fancies

himself a Rubens. How he brushes in that ultramarine sky!”

The critic then commenced walking backward and forward before the inn,

thinking that he might as well loiter there for the diligence as walk on

farther. The painter, meantime, continued to lay on fresh coats of the

brightest blue, which appeared to aggravate the old gentleman very much.

At length, when the sign-painter took another brush full of blue paint

to plaster on, the spectator could endure it no longer, and exclaimed

severely—

“Too much blue!”

The honest painter looked down from his perch, and said, in that tone of

forced calmness which an angry man sometimes assumes:

“Monsieur does not perceive that I am painting a sky?”

“Oh, yes, I see very well, you are trying to paint a sky, but I tell you

again there is too much blue.”

“Did you ever see skies painted without blue, Master amateur?”

“I am not an amateur. I merely tell you, in passing—I make the casual

remark—that that there is too much blue; but do as you like. Put more

blue, if you don’t think you have troweled on enough already.”

“But I tell you, that I want to represent a clear, blue sky at sunrise.”

“And I tell you that no man in his senses would make a sky at sunrise

blue.”

“By St. Gudula, this is too much!” exclaimed the painter, coming down

from his ladder, at no pains this time to conceal his anger; “I should

like to see how _you_ would paint skies without blue.”

“I don’t pretend to much skill in sky-painting; but, if I were to make a

trial, I wouldn’t put in too much blue.”

“And what would it look like if you didn’t?”

“Like nature, I hope, and not like yours, which might be taken for a bed

of gentianella, or a sample of English cloth, or any thing you

please—except a sky; I beg to assure you, for the tenth time, there is

too much blue!”

“I tell you what, old gentleman,” cried the insulted artist, crossing

his maul-stick over his shoulder, and looking very fierce, “I dare say

you are a very worthy fellow when you are at home; but you should not be

let out—alone.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because you must be crazy to play the critic after this

fashion; too much blue indeed! What, I, the pupil of Ruysdael, the third

cousin of Gerard Douw’s great-grandson, not know how to color a sky?

Know that my reputation has been long established. I have a Red Horse at

Malines, a Green Bear at Namur, and a Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle,

before which every passenger stops fixed in admiration!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the critic, as he snatched the palette from the

painter’s hand. “You deserve to have your own portrait painted to serve

for the sign of the Flemish Ass!” In his indignation he mounted the

ladder with the activity of a boy, and began with the palm of his hand

to efface the _chef d’oeuvre_ of Gerard Douw’s great-grandson’s third

cousin.

“Stop! You old charlatan!” shouted the latter, “you are ruining my sign!

Why, it’s worth thirty-five francs. And then my reputation—lost! gone

for ever!”

He shook the ladder violently to make his persecutor descend. But the

latter, undisturbed either by that or by the presence of a crowd of

villagers, attracted by the dispute, continued mercilessly to blot out

the glowing landscape. Then, using merely the point of his finger and

the handle of a brush, he sketched, in masterly outline, three Flemish

boors, with beer-glasses in their hands, drinking to the rising sun;

which appeared above the horizon, dispersing the gloom of a grayish

morning sky. One of the faces presented a strong and laughable

caricature of the supplanted sign-painter. The spectators at first were

greatly disposed to take part with their countryman against the

intrusive stranger. What right had he to interfere? There was no end to

the impudence of these foreigners.

As, however, they watched and grumbled, the grumbling gradually ceased,

and was turned into a murmur of approbation when the design became

apparent. The owner of the inn was the first to cry “Bravo!” and even

Gerard Douw’s cousin nine times removed, felt his fury calming down into

admiration.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “you belong to the craft, honest man, and there’s no

use in denying it. Yes, yes,” he continued, laughing, as he turned

toward his neighbors, “this is a French sign-painter, who wishes to have

a jest with me. Well, I must frankly say he knows what he is about.”

The old man was about to descend from the ladder, when a gentleman,

riding a beautiful English horse, made his way through the crowd.

“That painting is mine!” he exclaimed in French, but with a foreign

accent. “I will give a hundred guineas for it!”

“Another madman!” exclaimed the native genius. “Hang me, but all these

foreigners are mad!”

“What do you mean, monsieur?” said the innkeeper, uncommonly interested.

“What I say—I will give one hundred guineas for that painting,”

answered the young Englishman, getting off his horse.

“That picture is not to be sold,” said the sign-painter, with an air of

as much pride as if it had been his own work.

“No,” quoth mine host, “for it is already sold, and even partly paid for

in advance. However, if monsieur wishes to come to an arrangement about

it, it is with me that he must treat.”

“Not at all, not at all,” rejoined the Flemish painter of signs, “it

belongs to me. My fellow-artist here gave me a little help out of

friendship; but the picture is my lawful property, and I am at liberty

to sell it to any one I please.”

“What roguery!” exclaimed the innkeeper, “My Rising Sun is my property;

fastened on the wall of my house. How can it belong to anybody else.

Isn’t it painted on my boards. No one but myself has the smallest right

to it.”

“I’ll summon you before the magistrate,” cried he who had _not_ painted

the sign.

“I’ll prosecute you for breach of covenant,” retorted the innkeeper who

had half paid for it.

“One moment!” interposed another energetic voice, that of the

interloper; “it seems to me that _I_ ought to have some little vote in

this business.”

“Quite right, brother,” answered the painter. “Instead of disputing on

the public road, let us go into Master Martzen’s house, and arrange the

matter amicably over a bottle or two of beer.”

To this all parties agreed, but I am sorry to say they agreed in nothing

else; for within doors, the dispute was carried on with deafening

confusion and energy. The Flemings contended for the possession of the

painting, and the Englishman repeated his offer to cover it with gold.

“But suppose that _I_ don’t choose to have it sold?” said its real

author.

“Oh, my dear monsieur,” said the innkeeper, “I am certain you would not

wish to deprive an honest poor man, who can scarcely make both ends

meet, of this windfall. Why, it would just enable me to lay in a good

stock of wine and beer.”

“Don’t believe him, brother,” cried the painter, “he is an old miser. I

am the father of a family; and being a painter, you ought to help a

brother artist, and give me the preference. Besides, I am ready to share

the money with you.”

“He!” said Master Martzen. “Why, he’s an old spendthrift, who has no

money left to give his daughter as a marriage portion, because he spends

all he gets on himself.”

“No such thing; my Susette is betrothed to an honest, young French

cabinet-maker; who, poor as she is, will marry her next September.”

“A daughter to portion!” exclaimed the stranger artist; “that quite

alters the case. I am content that the picture should be sold for a

marriage portion. I leave it to our English friend’s generosity to fix

the sum.”

“I have already offered,” replied the best bidder, “one hundred guineas

for the sketch just as it is: I will gladly give two hundred for it if

the painter will consent to sign it in the corner with two words.”

“What words?” exclaimed all the disputants at once.

The Englishman replied,

“Pierre David.”

The whole party were quiet enough now; for they were struck dumb with

astonishment. The sign-painter held his breath, glared with his eyes,

frantically clasped his hands together, and fell down on his knees

before the great French painter.

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, “forgive me for my audacious ignorance.”

David laughed heartily; and, taking his hand, shook it with fraternal

cordiality.

By this time the news of the discovery had spread; the tavern was

crowded with persons anxious to drink the health of their celebrated

visitor; and the good old man, standing in the middle of the room,

pledged them heartily. In the midst of the merry-making, the

sign-painter’s daughter, the pretty Susette, threw her arms round her

benefactor’s neck.

* * * * *

=TO —— ——.=

=BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.=

Look thou upon me with approving eyes,

Oh, thou whose love is more than life to me!

So shall my soul be strong, though I may see

Cold looks and stern to other faces rise.

Since first I promised to be thine alone,

Hath one fond word from thee been dearer far

Than loudest praises from all others are,

Or warmest smiles. Thou art my world, mine own;

And the one treasure that I prize above

All else that earth can give—the one rich boon

So dear, that if I lost it I should soon

Lie in the grave’s cold bosom, is thy love!

Love me then ever, for I fain would be

All onto thee, love, that thou art to me.

* * * * *

=THE TRIAL BY BATTLE.=

=A TALE OF CHIVALRY.[3]=

CHAPTER I.

THE CORONATION.

Easter-even, in the year of our Lord 1099, was held as a high festival

in the fine city of Barcelona: it was the coronation-day of the young

Count Raymond Berenger the Third, whose twelvemonth’s mourning for his

lamented father and sovereign was to close with his own solemn

inauguration. The count had accordingly, by his letters patent, convoked

to his good city of Barcelona the bishops, barons, knights, and also the

ambassadors from foreign courts, to witness him take his knighthood, and

receive from the altar, and place upon his head, the garland of golden

roses which formed the coronet of the Counts of Arragon.

At the appointed day, not only the prelates, barons, and chivalry of

Spain repaired to the festival, but a great many foreign lords and

princes: the Judge and the Archbishop of Albera, from Sardinia; the King

of Arragon, from Saragossa; the King of Castile, from Madrid. The

Moorish sovereigns of Tlemecen and Granada, not being able to come in

person, had sent rich presents to the count, with congratulatory

epistles by the hands of their ambassadors. Indeed, so great was the

concourse to Barcelona on this day, that thirty thousand stirrups

belonging to gentlemen of condition were counted in the city and its

environs.

This concourse was too great for the count to receive at his own palace

of Aljaferia, which stood a short distance from Barcelona: he was

therefore compelled to limit the number of his guests to kings,

prelates, princes, ambassadors, and their suites; and there were present

in Barcelona at that time four thousand persons who claimed his

hospitality as their right.

Throughout the day an immense crowd traversed the streets, visited the

churches, or amused themselves with the tricks of the jugglers and

mountebanks, passing from devotion to mirth, and from mirth to devotion;

but toward evening every one took his way to the palace, for the count

was to watch his arms that evening in the church of St. Saviour. The

whole road to the palace, two miles from the city, was illuminated by

torches, which were kindled before the close of the day, the moment the

vesper-bell was rung. This broad avenue of light defined the route to

the church of St. Saviour, and as soon as this was effected, the heralds

appeared with the banners of the Count of Barcelona, and marshaled the

people on each side, that the _cortége_ might have room to pass,

unobstructed by the pressure of the crowd. At the last stroke of the

vesper-bell, the gates of the palace opened, amidst the joyful shouts of

the multitude, who had been awaiting that event since the hour of noon.

The first who appeared in the procession were the noble knights of

Catalonia, on horseback, wearing the swords of their forefathers;

valiant blades, gapped by hard service in battle or tournament, bearing

names like those of Charlemagne, Roland, and Réné.

Behind them came their squires, bearing the arms and naked swords of

their masters, which, unlike the ancestral brands the knights had

displayed, were bright and unstained; but they knew that in the hands of

their owners they would soon lose their virgin brightness and lustre in

the turmoil of battle.

Next appeared the sword of the lord count, made in the form of a cross,

to recall continually to his mind that he was the soldier of God before

he became an earthly prince. Neither emperor, king, nor count had ever

before worn a sword better tempered, or more richly embossed with jewels

on the handle. It was in the hands of Don Juan Ximenes de la Roca, one

of the bravest knights in the world, who held it till the time should

arrive when it would pass into those of its master. He was supported on

each side by the Baron Gulielmo di Cervallo and Sir Otto de Monçada.

After the sword of the lord count came his equerries, in two chariots,

bearing lighted torches, and charged with ten quintals of wax, to be

offered as a gift to the church of St. Saviour, because the count had

vowed a taper to the altar, to expiate the fault his filial duty had

obliged him to commit, since, detained in his own country by the long

illness of his father, he had not departed for the Crusade. This wax

taper had gone in solemn procession through the city, to prove the

penitence of the count, who felt grief as a knight, and remorse as a

Christian.

After the chariots came the lord count himself, mounted on a steed

magnificently caparisoned. He was a beautiful youth between eighteen and

nineteen, wearing long ringlets on his shoulders, waving on either side,

but restrained from concealing his open brow by a fillet of gold. He

wore his close-fitting coat of war, for during the watch he would have

to assume his armor; but this vestment was covered with a large mantle

of cloth of gold, which fell even to his stirrups. Behind him followed

his arms, carried by two nobles, consisting of a helmet, with the visor

closed; a coat of mail of polished steel, inlaid with gold; a buckler,

on which was engraved the garland of roses, the well-known sign of

sovereignty of the Counts of Barcelona. The nobleman who bore these arms

was accompanied by Roger, Count de Pallars, and Alphonse Ferdinando,

Lord of Ixer, both with their swords drawn, to defend, if necessary, the

royal armor.

After the armor of the lord count came, in pairs, the nobles upon whom

he was to confer the honor of knighthood. They were twelve in number;

and these, in their turn, were each to arm ten knights as soon as they

had received the order; and these hundred and twenty came also in pairs,

their fine horses magnificently caparisoned, and covered with cloth of

gold.

Last of all, four abreast, came, first, the prelates; then the kings and

the ambassadors from foreign courts, who represented the persons of

their sovereigns; then the dukes, counts, and knights; each degree

separated by the musicians, who rent the air with their trumpets,

timbrels, and flutes. The last rank in the pageant was followed by the

_jongleurs_, or jugglers, in the costume of savages, running on foot, or

mounted on little horses without bridle or saddle, on whose backs they

exhibited a variety of tricks.

Thus, by the aid of the flambeau, which changed night into day, and

darkness into light, and with the mighty sound of drums, tymbals,

trumpets, and other musical instruments, aided by the shouts of the

_jongleurs_, and the proclamations of the heralds, who called

out—“Barcelona! Barcelona!” the count was conducted to the church,

having been seen by every one, on account of the slow progress of the

procession, and the length of way between the palace and the sacred

edifice. The hour of midnight, indeed, struck the moment the count

alighted at the porch, where he was met by the Archbishop of Barcelona,

and all the clergy.

The lord count, followed by all the nobles who were to receive their

arms, entered the church, and watched them together, according to old

custom on such occasions, reciting prayers and singing psalms in honor

of their Saviour. They passed the night very happily in these devotional

services, and attended matins, which service was performed by the

archbishops, bishops, priors, and abbots.

When the day broke, the church was opened to the congregation of the

faithful, who filled it in such a fashion, that it was wonderful how so

many men and women could be so closely crowded together without injury

to themselves or their neighbors. The archbishop then made himself ready

to say mass, and the lord count put on a surplice, as if he intended to

assist him; but over the surplice he wore a richer Dalmatica than

emperor or king had ever appeared in, clasped at the throat with a

diamond star, set round with pearls of inestimable value. Then he

assumed the manipule, or girdle, which was also very splendid; and every

time he was invested with a new garment, the archbishop repeated a

prayer. This ceremony being finished, the archbishop said mass; but when

the epistle was ended he paused—when the two godfathers of the count,

Don Juan Ximenes de la Roca, and Don Alphonse Ferdinando, Lord of Ixer,

approached the count, and one affixed the spur to his right heel, the

other to his left—the solemn notes of the organ accompanying this part

of the ceremonial. Then the count, approaching the altar, knelt before

the shrine, and repeated to himself a whispered prayer, while the

archbishop, standing by his aide, prayed aloud.

When this prayer was ended, the count took the sword from the altar,

kissed meekly the cross that formed its handle, girded it to his loins,

and then, drawing it from its scabbard, brandished the knightly weapon

three times. At the first flourish, he defied all the enemies of the

holy Catholic faith; at the second, he vowed to succor all widows,

orphans and minors; and at the third, he promised to render justice all

his life to high and low, rich and poor, to his own subjects, and to

foreigners who might require redress at his hands. At this last oath, a

deep sonorous voice replied “Amen.” Every body turned round to see the

person from whom this response proceeded; it came, however, from a

Provençal _jongleur_, who had crowded into the church, not-withstanding

the opposition made by those who did not consider him fit to be in such

good company; but the count, having heard the quality of his respondent,

would not allow him to be turned out, declaring—“that it would ill

become him at such a moment to refuse the prayer of any one, be he lord

or vassal, rich or poor, provided it came from a pure and contrite

heart.” The _jongleur_, in virtue of this declaration on the part of the

lord count, was permitted to keep his place.

The lord count then, returning his sword to the scabbard, offered his

person and his blade, by a solemn act of dedication, to God; praying him

to take him into his holy keeping, and to give him the victory over all

his enemies. The archbishop, after the lord count had uttered this

prayer, anointed him with the holy chrisme on the right shoulder and

arm; then he took the crown of golden roses from the altar and set it on

his head, the godfathers of the lord count supporting the diadem on each

side. At the same instant, the archbishops, bishops, abbots, kings,

princes, and the two godfathers of the lord count chaunted in chorus,

with loud voices, _Te Deum Laudamus_, during which the lord count took

the golden sceptre in his left, and the globe in his right hand, and

held them while the _Te Deum_ was chanted and the gospel read. He then

replaced them on the altar, and seated himself in his chair of state,

before which twelve nobles led up twelve knights, whom they armed one

after the other; these, in their turn, retired to one of the twelve

chapels belonging to the church, and armed, in like manner, ten knights.

The coronation being concluded, the lord count, with his crown on his

head, bearing the golden sceptre and globe in his hands, and wearing the

dalmatica, star, and belt, came out of the church, and mounted his

horse; but as he could not guide his steed, encumbered as he was with

these insignia of his high power and dignity, two pairs of reins were

attached to the bridle, that on the left being held by his godfathers;

the others, which were of white silk, and forty feet in length, were

held by the barons, the knights, and the most eminent citizens of

Catalonia; and after these came six deputies from Valencia, six from

Saragossa, and four from Tortosa; those who held the reins to the right

or left marched on foot, to denote their subjection to the count, their

lord paramount, who, in this stately manner, and with this magnificent

_cortége_, toward noon returned to his palace of Aljaferia, amidst loud

hurrahs and flourishes of trumpets. As soon as he alighted, he entered

the dining-room, where a high throne had been prepared for him between

two golden stools, on which he deposited the sceptre, the globe, and the

crown. Then his two godfathers seated themselves near their sovereign,

and the Kings of Arragon and Castile, the Archbishops of Saragossa and

Arboise placed themselves by their side. At another table, the bishops,

dukes, and all the new-made knights took their places; after them, the

barons, envoys of the provinces, and the most eminent citizens of

Barcelona, all marshaled according to their degree, were seated in due

order, the whole assembly being waited upon by the junior nobility and

knights.

The lord count himself was served by twelve nobles. His _major domo_,

the Baron Gulielmo di Cervallo, brought in the first dish, singing a

roundel; he was followed by twelve noblemen, each carrying a dish, and

joining in full chorus. As soon as the roundel was concluded, he placed

the dish before the lord count, and cut a portion, with which he served

him; then he divested himself of his mantle and vest of cloth of gold,

trimmed with ermine, and ornamented with pearls, and gave them to a

_jongleur_. As soon as he had arrayed himself in vestments of the same

rich material, the _major domo_ brought, in like manner, and followed by

the same nobles, the first dish of the second course, singing a roundel

as before, and concluding the ceremony by the gift of his magnificent

costume. He conducted, after this fashion, ten courses, with songs, and

concluded with the usual rich largess, to the great admiration and

astonishment of the whole assembly.

The lord count sat three hours at table, after which he rose, took up

the globe and sceptre, and entering the next chamber, placed himself on

a chair raised on a platform, with steps. The two kings were seated on

each side the throne, and round them, on the steps, all the barons,

knights, and eminent citizens. Then a _jongleur_ approached, and sang a

new _sirvente_, which he had composed for this august occasion,

entitled—“The Crown, the Sceptre, and the Globe—”

“The crown being quite round, and this circle having neither beginning

nor end, signifies the great power of God, which he has placed, not on

the middle of the body, nor yet on the feet, but on your head, as the

symbol of intelligence; and because he has placed it on your head, you

ought always to remember this omnipotent God; may you, with this earthly

and perishable crown, win the celestial crown of glory in the eternal

kingdom.

“The sceptre signifies justice, which you ought to maintain and extend

to all ranks; and as this sceptre is a long rod with a curve, fit to

strike and chastise, thus justice should, in like manner, punish, that

the wicked may leave off their bad ways, and the good may become better

and better.

“The globe signifies, that as you hold the globe in your hand you also

hold your country and your power; and since God has confided them to

you, it is necessary that you should govern with truth, justice and

clemency, that none of your subjects may sustain injury from yourself or

any other person.”

The lord count appeared to hear this _sirvente_ with pleasure, like a

prince who laid the good counsel it contained to heart, and intended to

put it in practice. The _sirvente_ was followed by a song in twelve

parts, and the song by a poem in three cantos; and when all was said and

done, the lord count, who was much fatigued, took up the globe and

sceptre, and went into his chamber to get a few minutes’ sleep, of

which, indeed, he was much in need. His attendants had scarcely

unclasped his mantle of state, before he was informed that a _jongleur_

must speak with him, having affairs of interest to communicate, which

would not bear delay. The lord count ordered him to be admitted.

The _jongleur_ advanced two steps, and bent his knee to the ground.

“Speak!” said the count.

“May it please your lordship to order that you should be in private with

your servant?”

Raymond Beranger made a sign to his people that he wished to be alone

with the _jongleur_.

“Who are you?” asked he, as soon as the door was shut.

“I am,” said the _jongleur_, “the person who answered ‘Amen,’ in the

church of St. Saviour, when your lordship vowed, sword in hand, to

render justice to the high and low, the rich and poor, to foreigners as

well as your own subjects.”

“In whose name do you ask justice?”

“In the name of the Empress Praxida of Germany, unjustly accused of

adultery by Guthram de Falkemberg and Walter de Than, and condemned by

her husband, the Emperor Henry the Fourth, to die, unless a champion,

within a twelvemonth and a day, successfully defend her innocence

against her accusers.”

“Why has she chosen such a singular messenger for this important

mission?”

“Because none but the poor _jongleur_ dared expose himself to the anger

of a powerful prince, and the vengeance of two renowned knights like

Guthram de Falkemberg and Walter de Than; and certainly I should not

have ventured to do so myself, if my young mistress, Douce, Marchioness

of Provence, who has such fine eyes and such a touching voice that no

one can refuse what she asks, had not required it of me. I went,

therefore, by her command, in search of a knight sufficiently brave to

defend, and sufficiently powerful to dare to vindicate, the fame of an

injured and innocent lady. I have traversed, in obedience to my

mistress, France and Italy in vain, and even Spain, the very holy land

of chivalry, and found no one disposed to championize the Empress of

Germany. On the way to Barcelona I heard you named as a generous and

courageous gentlemen. I entered the church at the moment you vowed,

sword in hand, to defend the oppressed against the oppressor; and it

appeared to me that the hand of God had led me there. I raised my voice,

and cried ‘Amen, so be it!’”

“So let it be, then,” chivalrously replied the count; “for the honor of

my name, and the increase of my renown, in the name of the Lord, I will

hold myself ready to undertake this enterprise.”

“Thanks, my lord, for this grace; but, saving your good pleasure, you

have no time to lose, for ten months have already elapsed, and you will

have little left for your journey to Cologne.”

“Well; these festivals will be ended by Thursday night; on Friday we

shall offer up our public thanks to God; and on Saturday we will put

ourselves _en route_ for Cologne.”

“Let it be so, according to your lordship’s pleasure,” replied the

_jongleur_, making his farewell devoir to the Count of Barcelona. Before

he could withdraw from his presence, the count detached from his neck a

magnificent gold chain of great value, and threw it round that of the

_jongleur_; for the lord count was as generous as he was brave, and the

union of these qualities acquired for him the surname of Great, an

appellation which the judgment of posterity has confirmed to the

sovereign of Barcelona. He was pious, too; for these festival-days were

designed to do honor to Easter, the day of the resurrection of the

Redeemer; and the gracious rain that, after a long period of drought,

descended on Catalonia, Arragon, and the kingdoms of Valencia and

Murcia, the evening on which these religious _fètes_ concluded, gave to

his people the presage of a long and happy reign, of which, indeed,

Barcelona still preserves the memory.

[_To be continued._

-----

[3] This tale of chivalry is a free translation from one entitled

_Praxède_, by Alexandre Dumas, and presents a complete description of

the ancient trial, or appeal by battle, as formerly practiced in the

middle ages. The champion was supposed to depend upon God for making the

cause he had undertaken good, provided the party he represented were

clear of the crime of which he or she was accused. This law remained on

the statute book of Great Britain unrepealed until a few years since,

when it was finally abolished. To those who love ancient customs, this

translation from an eminent living author, deeply versed in such lore,

may not prove either unacceptable or uninteresting.—Jane Strickland.

* * * * *

=BREVIA.=

=BY JAMES W. WALL.=

Whatever original thoughts people may think fit to boast of, there is

scarcely any idea which must not before have passed through the minds of

many. Let it be sufficient then to the good-natured reader, if some of

the present thoughts may not happen to have occurred to him, or if they

are not all remembered to have done so.

In preparing these Brevia, I have not knowingly adopted any one thought

or expression of other writers. At the same time, I do not affect

originality. Lucian, Cervantes and Rabelais have forestalled humor;

Horace, Juvenal, and Perseus have exhausted satire; and upon the subject

of love, Ovid and Tibullus have left us nothing new to say. The letter

of Rousseau, so much admired for its exquisite tenderness and

sensibility, beginning—“_Mourons, ma douce amie_,” is but an imitation

of Chærea’s speech in one of Terence’s comedies, who expresses his

raptures in the same ideas and expressions. “_Nunc est projectò tempu_

_cum perpeti me possum interjici_;” and of Phædria’s speech in

Phermio—“_Ut mihi liceat tam dice quod amo, frui, jam depacisci mortem

cupio._” Even the best writers, therefore, may be accused of plagiarism;

but merely to have the same ideas, many of which are common to all

mankind, is no proof of it.

* * * * *

=BREVIA.=

Friendship divided amongst many, is like a mirror broken into separate

small pieces, wherein each can partly see himself, but less of himself

as the pieces are divided into more parts.

* * * * *

Our public boarding-schools are said to bring all boys forward; which is

only true in part. Great liberty and numbers elevate boys of bold and

daring dispositions, and give opportunities of tyrannising over meek and

modest minds; thus, those spirits which ought to be restrained are

ruined by indulgence, and those which ought to be cherished and

encouraged are depressed.

* * * * *

Obstinacy and contradiction are like a paper kite; they are only kept up

while you pull against them.

* * * * *

The best wives have been brought up in a family where there has been a

subordination to men. Forsaken widows and disappointed aunts set up a

hostile warfare against the other sex, and inculcate early prejudices in

young women’s minds, which generally take too strong root to be

eradicated.

* * * * *

People are generally in the end obliged to make an apology for those

very virtues which alone dignify human nature. Friendship, good-nature,

and generosity have often conducted a man to jail, where he has been

obliged, before he could obtain assistance, to confess himself a fool,

and to promise to divest himself of all such companions for the future;

or, to adopt the most effectual method, totally to disavow the

acquaintance of those virtues altogether, and pretend that they assumed

the more worthy form and disguise of discretion and worldly wisdom,

which authorised him to act as he did for the sake of his own interest.

* * * * *

Love often turns to the greatest hatred, as the sharpest vinegar is made

from the sweetest sugar.

* * * * *

Economy is often tempted into expense, merely from the cheapness of it.

* * * * *

Books are quiet, amiable friends; their information is pleasing, because

communicated without petulance, or affected superiority. You must even

take some trouble to find out the knowledge you wish to acquire from

them, notwithstanding your implicit respect and avowed ignorance. They

are generally, too, at home, and their access requires little court.

* * * * *

How disappointed your acquaintances are, if you bear your misfortunes

with calmness and cheerfulness! Some, indeed, derive consolation in

thinking their assistance will not be asked; but most are mortified in

not being able to insult you by their compassion, while they find

arguments to heighten your distress.

* * * * *

How seldom utility is considered in our system of modern education!

Personal accomplishments can not be of any use in this country, at

least, to either men or women, above ten or twelve years; after which

they are rather hid, or render the possession ridiculous. Ought the

father of a family be able to distort his body in the fashionable polka,

or the mother to sing a fine song.

* * * * *

A man gives entertainments only for criticism; and people, on their

return home, revenge themselves for the obligation of the invitation, by

laughing at his vanity for pretending to live at so much expense.

* * * * *

The Egyptians offered to their god Isis an herb—Persica—whose fruit

was like a heart, and the leaf like a tongue. Modern professions and

love offerings have a different fruit and a different leaf; the

profession is all heart, and the fruit all tongue.

* * * * *

Doctor Johnson says, “that allowances are seldom made for ill success;”

and it may be truly said, that reasons are seldom narrowly investigated

for good success. Public men generally meet with more praise and blame,

in both, than they deserve; and at the end of their lives the balance is

probably even.

* * * * *

The easy, good-natured man is like one of the _feræ naturæ_: every body

hunts him as their prey; and, instead of being cherished by every one,

he is claimed as their property: if he is caressed, it is only to draw

him into a snare.

* * * * *

A politician, like the Cyprian, seldom grants favors but to those who

can amply repay them. Virtue, for them, may be its own reward: they only

lavish their favors on those who contribute to their interest.

* * * * *

Every wife would make her husband as many compliments as Eve pays to

Adam, in Milton, if he was the only man in the world; so would every

man, if his wife was the only woman.

* * * * *

People are better pleased with the knavish lawyer—who instructs them

how to cheat the adverse party in a cause, or to avoid the payment of a

just claim, by a legal technicality, than with the honest one—who

recommends an equitable arbitration.

* * * * *

Romance and comedy writers always make lovers rich before they marry:

they know this is an essential requisite to the completion of happiness,

both in the hero and the heroine. Unfortunately, young people follow the

example of these romantic characters in love, but not in the acquisition

of fortune: they forget that love alone will not make them happy, and

that, like lunatics, as they come more and more to themselves, they will

require more and more the comforts and conveniences of life, which, in

the paroxysm of passion, were never attended to.

* * * * *

The people of Fire Island are accused of pillaging strangers who are

shipwrecked. Are not the inhabitants of inland towns equally eager to

divide the spoil of a deceased neighbor or friend, and to glut

themselves with the idea of obtaining his property at half the value?

* * * * *

Prudent people never are beloved. Imprudence, by preventing envy, raises

popularity; yet prudence is the sole friend of generosity. Generosity is

like a beautiful and expansive river; we admire its beauty, and enjoy

its advantages, but neither see nor think of the secret springs that

feed it.

* * * * *

The idea of good or bad fortune attending a man, has been generally

received in all ages. Cicero recommended Pompey to the Romans for their

general, as he was a man of good fortune; and Cardinal Mazarin, when any

officer was recommended to him, always asked, “Est il heureux?”

* * * * *

We never regard innovation, or even oppression, till it comes home to

ourselves. In the life of Cromwell, an anecdote is told of a clerk in

chancery, who had seen with great indifference all the alterations that

had been made in the constitution both in church and state; but when he

was told there was to be some new regulations in the sex’ clerk’s

office—Nay, says he, if they begin once to strike out _fundamentals_,

there is no telling where they will stop.

* * * * *

Public opinion is a tyrant—cruel are the sacrifices it demands.

* * * * *

How many fathers there are who always comfort themselves with saying, “I

shall die poor, but let my sons make their way in the world as I have

done!” To which some complaisant neighbor replies, “And I am sure, sir,

they cannot do better!” But should not parents reflect that their sons

have not only the same difficulties to encounter which they have had,

but the additional disadvantage, that having been brought up in habits

of luxury and idleness, to which the parents themselves in their youth

were strangers.

* * * * *

Married people sometimes study to appear as fond as lovers, passing

their time in billing and cooing like turtle doves. Let them remember

that bankrupts in love, like those in fortune, appear in gaudy colors,

to keep up their credit.

* * * * *

A deaf and dumb person being asked what is forgiveness, took out his

pencil and wrote the answer to the written question thus: “It is the

odor which flowers yield when trampled upon.” What a volume of exquisite

poetry and at the same time forcible truth is contained in it.

* * * * *

I remember somewhere to have read of a tyrannical ruler, who is said to

have publicly erected altars to cruelty and injustice. Many modern

worshipers of the same hideous divinities are equally as zealous as this

tyrant: but with the essential difference, that their altars are erected

in private, within the penetralia of their own homes. Like the Egyptian

priesthood, after having performed the most diabolical rites, they come

forth arrayed in the white robes of innocence. And society is too apt,

like the “ignobile vulgus” of Egypt, to greet them with the same

reverence they did their priesthood. They, too, have their esoteric and

exoteric theology—the one is their religion in private, the other

abroad.

* * * * *

“The nobility of the Spencers has been enriched by the trophies of

Marlborough; but I exhort them to consider ‘The Fairy Queen’ as the most

precious jewel in their coronet.”

This lively paragraph may be found in the memoirs of Gibbon; and the

sentiment therein conveyed is no less beautiful than true; for after

all, what is military glory and renown when compared with the fame of

the distinguished poet, historian, or man of letters. The hero, after

the lapse of a few centuries shines like a very distant constellation,

merely visible in the wide expanse of history, while the poet and

historian continue to sparkle in the eyes of all men, like that radiant

star of the evening, perpetually hailed by the voice of gratitude,

affection, and delight.

* * * * *

“The lawyer,” said Burke, “has his forms and his positive institutions,

and he adheres to them with a veneration altogether as religious as the

divine. The worst cause cannot be so prejudicial to the litigant as his

attorney’s ignorance of forms. A good parson once said, where mystery

begins, there religion ends. May not the same be said of justice, that

where the mystery of forms begin, there all justice ends.”

There is a great deal more truth in the above quotation from Burke, than

is generally admitted by the followers of Coke and Littleton. The satire

may be, perhaps, too broad, as the whole essay in which it occurs was a

burlesque upon Bolingbroke; but, nevertheless, there is truth in the

sarcasm. Law, as a system, even in this age of intelligence, is cumbered

up with useless forms, absurd fictions, and unmeaning technicalities;

serving only to strew with stumbling blocks the pathway to the temple of

justice, which should ever be of safe and easy approach. The system of

the administration of laws in this country, needs a thorough

overhauling. The Augean stables were not half as much in want of the

labors of an Hercules, as the departments of law of the labors of the

modern reformer. And as the stables in the classic fable were cleansed

by the turning of a river through them, so all that it wants now in

reference to the administration of law, is, that the current of popular

sentiment should be turned in that direction; and gathering strength as

it goes

“Vires acquirit eundo,”

it will thoroughly cleanse and purify the Augean stables of the law.

* * * * *

The impudent man has wonderful advantages; he successfully assumes every

talent, and pretends to every branch of learning; and passes the time,

spent by others in recluse retirement and gloomy study, in making useful

friends, and acquiring the habits of the world.

* * * * *

Any transitory marks of distinction, or ideal honors, produce future

regret, and often poignant grief. The beauty of the ball is little

flattered, twenty years afterward, by that praise and admiration which

is past and forgotten, any more than the collegian, who gained every

literary prize, which vainly taught him to expect admiration, applause,

and respect through life.

* * * * *

Imprudence is so often the cause of misfortunes, that the Cardinal

Richelieu used to say, that imprudence and misfortune were synonymous.

* * * * *

Memory is productive of more misery than happiness. Misfortune leaves

unpleasing vestiges, whilst the remembrance of pleasures past creates

regret.

* * * * *

Fortune, like the fickle female, despises the object of her power. She

slights the very sighs that she creates; and whilst the suppliant is

disregarded, she courts the hand which rejects her. Relentless and

obdurate to her most passionate admirers, what she refuses to love, she

often lavishes on indifference.

* * * * *

=SONNET.—THE MARINER.=

Aboard his brittle bark, on the rough sea,

Lo! the bold mariner in safety rides,

Nor fears he waves, nor dreads he running tides;

Ocean his home, no other home seeks he—

Nor storm nor tempest can his course control,

Sways he the winds, in canvas them enchains,

Bidding them bear him ’cross the watery plains;

His guide the needle, pointing to the pole—

Freighted with wealth, his white-winged vessel goes,

Things useful fetching from each distant clime;

Thus mankind, knit in brotherhood sublime,

Learn all that Art and Science can disclose—

“Who go to sea in ships”—their native right—

Deem all apparent danger pleasure and delight.

W. A.

* * * * *

=REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.=

_The Blithedale Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Boston:

Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

In the first flush of a romancer’s fame, there is rarely any distinct

recognition of the peculiar originality of his powers as distinguished

from other great novelists, who equally fasten the interest and thrill

the hearts of their readers. The still, small voice of analysis is lost

amid thunders of applause. In the case of Hawthorne this mode of

reception does but little justice either to the force or refinement of

his powers. It is only when we explore the source of his fascination,

when we go over the processes of his mind in creation, that we can

realize the character and scope of his genius, and estimate, on true

principles, the merit of each succeeding product of his pen. It is

obvious to every reader that his mind is at once rich in various

faculties, and powerful in its general action; that he possesses

observation, fancy, imagination, passion, wit, humor; but a great writer

can never be accurately described in those abstract terms which apply

equally to all great writers, for such terms give us only the truth as

it is about the author, not the truth as it is in him. The real question

relates to the modification of his powers by his character; the

tendency, the direction, the coloring, which his faculties receive in

obeying the primary impulses of his individuality. This brings us at

once to the sharpest test to which an author can be subjected, for it

puts to him that searching query which instantly dissolves the most

plausible bubbles—has he novelty of nature? Is he an absolutely new

power in literature? It is Hawthorne’s great felicity that he can stand

the remorseless rigor of this test. He is not made up by culture,

imitation, appropriation, sympathy, but has grown up in obedience to

vigorous innate principles and instincts seated in his own nature; his

power and peculiarity can be analyzed into no inspirations caught from

other minds, but conduct us back to their roots in his original

constitution. Thus he has imagination, and he has humor; but his

imagination is not the imagination of Shelley or the imagination of

Richter; neither is his humor the humor of Addison or the humor of

Dickens; they are both essentially _Hawthorneish_, and resent all

attempts to identify them with faculties in other minds. His style,

again, in its clearness, pliability, and melodious ease of movement,

reminds us of the style of Addison, of Scott, and of Irving, in making

us forget itself in attending to what it conveys; but for that very

reason every vital peculiarity of it is original, for what it conveys is

the individuality of Hawthorne, and there is not a page which suggests,

except to the word-mongers and period-balancers of mechanical criticism,

even an unconscious imitation of any acknowledged master of diction.

This contented movement within the limitations of his own genius, this

austere confinement of his mind to that “magic circle” where none can

walk but he, this scorn of pretending to be a creator in regions of

mental effort with which he can simply sympathize—all declare the

sagacious honesty, the instinctive intellectual conscientiousness of

original genius. Hunt him when and where you will—lay traps for

him—watch the most secret haunts and cosiest corners of his meditative

retirement—and you never catch him strutting about in borrowed robes,

gorgeous with purple patches cut from transatlantic garments, or

adroitly filching felicities from transcendental pockets. Inimitable in

his own sphere, he has little temptation to be a poacher in the domains

of other minds.

It is evident, if what we have said be true, that the criticism to be

applied to Hawthorne’s works must take its rules of judgment from the

laws to which his own genius yields obedience; for if he differs from

other writers, not in degree but in kind, if the process and purpose of

his creations be peculiar to himself, and especially if he draws from an

experience of life from which others have been shut out, and has

penetrated into mysterious regions of consciousness, a pioneer in the

unexplored wildernesses of thought—it is worse than ridiculous to

prattle the old phrases, and apply the accredited rules of criticism to

an entirely new product of the human mind. The objections to Hawthorne,

if objections there be, do not relate to the exercise of his powers but

to his nature itself. His works are the offspring of that; proceed as

certainly from it as a deduction from a premise; and criticism can do

little in detecting any break in the links of that logic of passion and

imagination, any discordance in that unity of law, which presides over

the organization of each product of his mind. But we are willing to

admit, that criticism may advance a step beyond this, and after

conceding the power and genuineness of a work of art, can still question

the excellence of the spirit by which it is animated; can, in short,

doubt the validity, denounce the character, and attempt to weaken the

influence, of the _kind_ of genius its analysis lays open.

The justice of such a criticism applied to Hawthorne would depend on the

notion which the critic has of what constitutes excellence in kind. The

ordinary demand of the mind in a work of art, serious as well on

humorous, is for geniality—a demand which admits of the widest variety

of kinds which can be included within a healthy and pleasurable

directing sentiment. Now Hawthorne is undoubtedly exquisitely genial, at

times, but in him geniality cannot be said to predominate. Geniality of

general effect comes, in a great degree, from tenderness to persons; it

implies a conception of individual character so intense and vivid, that

the beings of the author’s brain become the objects of his love; and

this love somewhat blinds him to the action of those spiritual laws

which really control the conduct and avenge the crimes of individuals.

In Hawthorne, on the contrary, persons are commonly conceived in their

relations to laws, and hold a second place in his mind. In “The Scarlet

Letter,” which made a deeper impression on the public than any romance

ever published in the United States, there is little true

characterization, in the ordinary meaning of the term. The characters

are not really valuable for what they are, but for what they illustrate.

Imagination is predominant throughout the work, but it is imagination in

its highest analytic rather than dramatic action. And this is the secret

of the strange fascination which fastens attention to its horrors. It is

not Hester or Dimmesdale that really interest us, but the spectacle of

the human mind open to the retribution of violated law, and quivering in

the agonies of shame and remorse. It is the law and not the person that

is vitally conceived, and accordingly the author traces its sure

operation with an unshrinking intellect that, for the time, is

remorseless to persons. As an illustration of the Divine order on which

our conventional order rests, it is the most moral book of the age; and

is especially valuable as demonstrating the superficiality of that code

of ethics, predominant in the French school of romance, which teaches

obedience to individual instinct and impulse, regardless of all moral

truths which contain the generalized experience of the race. The purpose

of the book did not admit of geniality. Adultery has been made genial by

many poets and novelists, but only by considering it under a totally

different aspect from that in which Hawthorne viewed it. Geniality in

“The Scarlet Letter” would be like an ice-cream shop in Dante’s Inferno.

In “The House of Seven Gables,” we perceive the same far-reaching and

deep-seeing vision into the duskiest corners of the human mind, and the

same grasp of objective laws, but the interest is less intense, and the

subject admits of more relief. There is more of character in it,

delineated however on some neutral ground between the grotesque and the

picturesque, and with flashes of supernatural light darting occasionally

into the picture, revealing, by glimpses, the dread foundations on which

the whole rests. It contains more variety of power than “The Scarlet

Letter,” and in the characters of Clifford and Phebe exhibits the

extreme points of Hawthorne’s genius. The delineation of Clifford

evinces a metaphysical power, a capacity of watching the most remote

movements of thought, and of resolving into form the mere film of

consciousness—of exhibiting the mysteries of the mind in as clear a

light as ordinary novelists exhibit its common manifestations—which

might excite the wonder of Kant or Hegel. Phebe, on the contrary, though

shaped from the finest materials, and implying a profound insight into

the subtilest sources or genial feeling, is represented dramatically, is

a pure embodiment, and may be deemed Hawthorne’s most perfect character.

The sunshine of the book all radiates from her; and there is hardly a

“shady place” in that weird “House,” into which it does not penetrate.

“The Blithedale Romance,” just published, seems to us the most perfect

in execution of any of Hawthorne’s works, and as a work of art, hardly

equaled by any thing else which the country has produced. It is a real

organism of the mind, with the strict unity of one of Nature’s own

creations. It seems to have grown up in the author’s nature, as a tree

or plant grows from the earth, in obedience to the law of its germ. This

unity cannot be made clear by analysis; it is felt in the oneness of

impression it makes on the reader’s imagination. The author’s hold on

the central principle is never relaxed; it never slips from his grasp;

and yet every thing is developed with a victorious ease which adds a new

charm to the interest of the materials. The romance, also, has more

thought in it than either of its predecessors; it is literally crammed

with the results of most delicate and searching observation of life,

manners and character, and of the most piercing imaginative analysis of

motives and tendencies; yet nothing seems labored, but the profoundest

reflections glide unobtrusively into the free flow of the narration and

description, equally valuable from their felicitous relation to the

events and persons of the story, and for their detached depth and power.

The work is not without a certain morbid tint in the general coloring of

the mood whence it proceeds; but this peculiarity is fainter than is

usual with Hawthorne.

The scene of the story is laid in Blithedale, an imaginary community on

the model of the celebrated Brook Farm, of Roxbury, of which Hawthorne

himself was a member. The practical difficulties in the way of combining

intellectual and manual labor on socialist principles constitutes the

humor of the book; but the interest centres in three characters,

Hollingsworth, Zenobia, and Priscilla. These are represented as they

appear through the medium of an imagined mind, that of Miles Coverdale,

the narrator of the story, a person indolent of will, but of an

apprehensive, penetrating, and inquisitive intellect. The discerner of

spirits only tells us his own discoveries; and there is a wonderful

originality and power displayed in thus representing the characters.

What is lost by this mode, on definite views, is more than made up in

the stimulus given both to our acuteness and curiosity, and its manifold

suggestiveness. We are joint watchers with Miles himself, and sometimes

find ourselves disagreeing with him in his interpretation of an act or

expression of the persons he is observing. The events are purely mental,

the changes and crises of moods of mind. Three persons of essentially

different characters and purposes are placed together; the law of

spiritual influence, the magnetism of soul on soul begins to operate;

and the processes of thought and emotion are then presented in perfect

logical order to their inevitable catastrophe. These characters are

Hollingsworth, a reformer, whose whole nature becomes ruthless under the

dominion of one absorbing idea—Zenobia, a beautiful, imperious,

impassioned, self-willed woman, superbly endowed in person and

intellect, but with something provokingly equivocal in her

character—and Priscilla, an embodiment of feminine affection in its

simplest type. Westervelt, an elegant piece of earthliness, “not so much

born as damned into the world,” plays a Mephistophelian part in this

mental drama; and is so skillfully represented that the reader joins at

the end, with the author, in praying that Heaven may annihilate him.

“May his pernicious soul rot half a grain a day.”

With all the delicate sharpness of insight into the most elusive

movements of Consciousness, by which the romance is characterised, the

drapery cast over the whole representation, is rich and flowing, and

there is no parade of metaphysical acuteness. All the profound and

penetrating observation seems the result of a certain careless felicity

of aim, which hits the mark in the white without any preliminary

posturing or elaborate preparation. The stronger, and harsher passions

are represented with the same ease as the evanescent shades of thought

and emotion. The humorous and descriptive scenes are in Hawthorne’s best

style. The peculiarities of New England life at the present day are

admirably caught and permanently embodied; Silas Foster and

Hollingsworth being both genuine Yankees and representative men. The

great passage of the volume is Zenobia’s death, which is not so much

tragic as tragedy itself. In short, whether we consider “The Blithedale

Romance” as a study in that philosophy of the human mind which peers

into the inmost recesses and first principles of mind and character, or

a highly colored and fascinating story, it does not yield in interest or

value to any of Hawthorne’s preceding works, while it is removed from a

comparison with them by essential differences in its purpose and mode of

treatment, and is perhaps their superior in affluence and fineness of

thought and masterly perception of the first remote workings of great

and absorbing passions.

* * * * *

_The History of the Restoration of Monarchy in France. By

Alphonse de Lamartine. Vol. 2. New York: Harper & Brothers._

This volume deals with the events of “The Hundred Days,” giving a

graphic picture of the incidents which occured between the return of

Napoleon from Elba and his final overthrow at Waterloo. It is much more

minute than any other history of the period, and occasionally gives

elaborate descriptions of persons and occurrences unworthy of being

rescued from the oblivion of their unimportance. Lamartine evidently

dislikes both Napoleon and Napoleonism. The leading object of the

present volume is to prove that France was sick of him, and that the

army alone was in his favor. One passage seems a palpable hit at the

usurpation of the “Nephew of my Uncle.” “If the people,” says Lamartine,

“did not protest by civic opposition, they protested very generally by

their sorrow and estrangement. _History never recorded more audacity in_

_the usurpation of a throne, or a more cowardly submission of a nation

to_ _an army._ France lost on that day somewhat of its character, the

law or its majesty, the liberty of its respect. Military despotism was

substituted for public opinion. The pretorians made a mockery of the

people. The Lower Empire of Rome enacted in Gaul one of those scenes

which degrade history, and humiliate human nature. _The only excuse_ for

such an event is that the people were depressed under ten years of

military government, that the army was rendered frantic by ten years of

prodigies, and that its idol was a hero.”

For the Bourbons, Lamartine evinces a tender regard, and narrates their

flight from France in a style of mental bombast which but ill rescues it

from ridicule. The description of the Congress of Vienna is very

brilliant, and the sketches of Talleyrand, Fouche, and Wellington,

discriminating and powerful. The sentimentality of the author gives, as

usual, its peculiar perversion to the facts of the narrative; things are

commonly represented in their relation to the opinions of Lamartine,

rather than in their relation to each other; and occasionally gross

fictions are introduced to add to the scenic effect.

For instance, in the account of the battle of Waterloo, Wellington, at

one stage of the contest, is said to have mounted his _eighth_ horse,

seven having been worn out or killed under him. He rode only one during

the whole day. Again, in describing a charge of English horse, Lamartine

represents the duke as causing brandy to be distributed to the dragoons,

“to intoxicate the men with liquid fire, whilst the sound of the clarion

should intoxicate the horses,” and then launching them himself “at full

speed down the declivity of Mont-Saint-Jean.” This statement, likewise,

the translator is authorized to deny. It is curious also that Lamartine,

with his numerous additions, should have made one important omission of

fact. Wellington was surprised at Waterloo; Lamartine represents him as

negligent; but the truth was that he depended on Fouche, to give him

intelligence of Napoleon’s march. Fouche, with his usual felicity in

duplicating his treasons, sent intelligence to Wellington of Napoleon’s

approach, and then dispatched orders for the arrest of his own

messenger. Those who are accustomed to consider Wellington as the “iron

duke,” and to transfer to him all the passionlessness which such an

epithet suggests, will be surprised at the peculiar emphasis with which

Lamartine speaks of his “voluptuousness.” This charge, we believe, was

true in 1815.

* * * * *

_Up the Rhine. By Thomas Hood. With Comic Illustrations. New

York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume, one of the pleasantest of Hood’s many pleasant books, was

first published in 1840, and has never before been reprinted. It is

composed of letters, written by the various members of a family

traveling up the Rhine, and conceived somewhat after the model of

Humphrey Clinker. Hood’s characters are a hypochondriac, a widow, a

dashing young gentleman, and a servant maid; and it is in exhibiting the

oddities and humors of these, rather than in any description of the

scenery, that the charm of the book consists. The letters of Martha

Penny, the servant maid, are the gems of the volume. Her spelling and

grammar are so felicitous in their infelicities, as to amount to a kind

of genius; and the character is one of the best that Hood ever

delineated. Her letter, describing the effects of a storm at sea, is

perhaps the richest in the volume. “To add to my frite,” she says, “down

flumps the stewardis on her nees and begins shrieking we shall be pitcht

all over! Think I if she give up we may prepair for our watery graves.

At sich crisisus theres nothing like religun and if I repeted my catkism

wunce I said it a hundered times over and never wunce rite. The only

comfort I had besides Christianity was to give Missus warnin witch I did

over and over between her attax. At last Martha says she we are going to

a world where there is no sitivations. What an idear! But our superiors

are always shy of our society, as if hevin abuv was too good for

servants. Talking of superiers there was a Tittled Lady in Bed in the

cabbin that sent every five minits for the capting, till at long and at

last he got Crusty. Capting says she I insist on your gitting the ship

more out of the wind. I wish I could says he. Dont you no who I ham,

says she vary dignifide.” The last touch is especially fine.

* * * * *

_A Step from the New World to the Old and Back Again: With

Thoughts on the Good and Evil in Both. By Henry P. Tappan. New

York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

A new book of travels, devoted to a description of old scenes which have

been traveled over and over again, is getting to be the terror of

critics. We therefore took up the present volume with that languid

intolerance of the subject which is ominous of dissatisfaction both with

the writer and his book, but were agreeably surprised at the new

interest which the author has contrived to cast over familiar objects.

Prof. Tappan, indeed, is one of those independent and thoughtful

tourists who never repeat the stale ecstasies and stereotyped amazement

common to ordinary travelers on seeing objects they are prepared to

admire, but views things through the medium of his own mind, and

honestly records impressions made on his own heart and imagination. He

is a quiet, scholarly, truthful, candid and intelligent man, sees much

which others have missed seeing, and never loses his discrimination in

his raptures. His observations are often striking and original, and the

information he conveys is commonly valuable. His journey was confined to

England, Scotland, the Rhine, Switzerland, France and Holland. The most

interesting portion of all is that which relates to Holland. In visiting

Abbotsford the author gives a provoking piece of news. It is well-known

that the sale of Scott’s works had been sufficient to clear this estate

of debt, and every purchaser of the English edition of his writings

throughout the world felt that he was aiding in this good work. After

the death of Scott’s son, the estate, some two thousand acres, descended

to Scott’s grandson, young Lockhart, who has again embarrassed it. It is

now occupied by a London broker.

* * * * *

_Legends of Love and Chivalry. The Knights of England, France

and Scotland. By Henry William Herbert. New York: Redfield. 1

vol. 12mo._

This volume contains Legends of the Norman Conquerors, of the Crusaders,

of Feudal Days, and of Scotland—fourteen splendid tales in all. As is

usual with him, Mr. Herbert deals in this volume with the strongest

passions, and exhibits their workings in powerful characters and

striking events. His mode of narration is vehement, and the reader who

once commits himself to the rushing stream of his style can hardly pause

for breath until he has arrived at the end. His knowledge of history is

extensive and minute, and it is a knowledge painted in living pictures

on his imagination rather than hoarded in his memory. The past is

present to him—in persons, scenery, dialect and costume, and he writes

of it as if he were recording what was passing before his eyes. This

power of vitalizing and vivifying every thing he touches is manifested

throughout these “Legends.” He conceives with each intensity that he

becomes a partisan in dealing with his own creations; is furiously

hostile to some, and as furiously favorable to others. The effect of his

intense representations is felt both in the reader’s brain and blood. It

is not until after the book is read that we feel conscious that the

author’s sympathies and antipathies disturb his powers of discrimination

in his judgments of historical characters.

* * * * *

_Waverley Novels. Library Edition. Vol. 1. Waverley; or ’Tis

Sixty Years Since. Boston: B. B. Mussey & Co. 12mo._

This is a new issue of Parker’s celebrated edition of the Waverley

Novels, containing the author’s final additions, corrections and notes.

It is printed in large type, is very cheap, and should meet with

success. This, with Lippincott, Grambo & Co.’s edition, will doubtless

induce a re-perusal of the novels of Scott. Nothing that has since been

written has surpassed or even equaled them in the distinguishing

features of romantic writing. It is Scott’s great and rare distinction

that he created a school of novelists admitting the exercise of the most

various genius, and that among the myriad writers who have felt his

inspiration none has received or merited his fame. In England a hundred

and twenty-five thousand copies of his novels have been sold, and the

demand still continues. Scott should be read every five years. In the

fourth perusal we have found his novels more interesting than the new

romances of the day.

* * * * *

_Graces and Powers of the Christian Life. By A. D. Mayo. Boston:

Abel Tompkins. 1 vol. 12mo._

The present volume contains eleven sermons on topics suggested by the

title, and they are all worthy of being read beyond that peculiar circle

of readers, known technically as the “religious public.” The writer is

evidently a man of a discerning and disciplined mind, writing from deep

fountains of personal experience, and treating the gravest and deepest

realities of life with the assured air of one whose soul has been in

contact with the great spiritual facts he announces. Hence comes both

the elevation and the practical soundness of his statements of duty and

his exhortations to holiness. His style is pliable to his thoughts and

emotions, stating plain things plainly, and rising as his subject rises

into unforced dignity and eloquence. There is nothing of the rhetorician

either in the selection of his matter, or his mode of expressing it, but

an unmistakable sincerity and truthfulness distinguish every statement,

argument and appeal. As a thinker he excels in spiritual discernment,

though he is not deficient in that logical method by which a principle,

clearly conceived in itself, is rigidly followed through all its

applications to men and to affairs. His volume meets practical needs in

many hearts, and only requires to have its character known to be

extensively read. He belongs to that class of clergymen who really

commune with spiritual and religious ideas, and therefore, though a

writer of sermons, he never sermonizes.

* * * * *

_Roughing it in the Bush; or Life in Canada. By Susanna Moodie.

New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 parts._

Mrs. Moodie is the sister of Agnes Strickland, and while fully her equal

in talent, excels both her and most of womankind in enterprise,

fortitude and heroism. Her present work, detailing the dangers and

discomforts of a life in the far-west of Canada, is full of fine

descriptions of nature, evinces throughout a healthy and vigorous

spirit, and contains many a scene of genuine humor. Her sketches of

character, Yankee, French and English, are especially good.

* * * * *

_Little Peddlington and the Peddlingtonians. By John Poole,

author of Paul Pry, etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols.

16mo._

Since the “Memoirs of P. P., Clerk of the Parish,” no book has been

published equal to this in the art of lifting the little into ludicrous

importance. Its length makes it somewhat tiresome, but the leading idea

is so well carried out—so well directed a fire is kept up at all the

political literary and social follies of England—and the author is a

humorist of such truth and keenness—that it deserves its place in the

“Popular Library” to which it belongs.

* * * * *

_Adventures of Col. Vanderbomb in Pursuit of the Presidency.

Also, the Exploits of his Secretary. By J. B. Jones, Ex-editor

of the Official Journal. Philadelphia: A. Hart (late Carey &

Hart.)_

This is a very humorous story of the political career of an imaginary

candidate for the highest office in the gift of the sovereign people; a

spirited satire upon the efforts of ambitious aspirants for political

distinction and profits. The work is seasonable, and will be widely

read. The illustrated cover is by Darley.

* * * * *

_The Mother at Home; or The Principles of Maternal Duty

Familiarly Illustrated. By John S. C. Abbott. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This valuable little work has long enjoyed an extensive popularity, and

been translated into numerous foreign languages. The present edition is

illustrated with numerous fine wood-cuts and printed in the same elegant

style as the author’s series of historical works. It should be in the

hands of every mother, for though much of it is necessarily commonplace,

there is much also which is new and suggestive.

* * * * *

_Time and Tide; or Strive and Win. By A. S. Roe, Author of James

Montjoy, etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this story is well-known as vigorous and truthful

delineator of common life. The present volume is one of his best. It

inculcates the moral implied in the title, a moral which is the key to

all success in life. The characters are drawn with much force, and the

incidents have the interest of reality. To the young the work will be

found particularly interesting.

* * * * *

_Whately’s English Synonyms. First American Edition. Boston:

James Monroe & Co._

This edition is very carefully revised from the second London edition,

and will be found to be of great service to the student and man of

letters.

* * * * *

_The Romance of the Revolution. Edited by Oliver B. Bunce. New

York: Bunce & Brother._

This volume is filled with passages of stirring interest, appropriately

arranged, selected from various authorities, embracing the most romantic

incidents of the War of Independence. It is admirably illustrated with

wood-engravings by Orr, printed in tints.

* * * * *

=Transcriber’s Notes:=

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has

been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted

below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete

due to condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

Page 229, lessons in magnitude ==> lessens in magnitude

Page 234, staff off life ==> staff of life

Page 254, aud Monsieur Fleury ==> and Monsieur Fleury

page 263, plucked and eat ==> plucked and ate

page 263, the more I eat ==> the more I ate

Page 264, was to done ==> was to be done

Page 265, in Rio Janiero ==> in Rio Janeiro

Page 267, sentence ended abruptly so added [missing content]. Possibly

meant to connect with the following paragraph.

Page 273, She would alternate ==> She would alternately

Page 278, Macedonia was two small ==> Macedonia was too small

Page 278, the flashing steal ==> the flashing steel

Page 286, The mountain-lodge ==> The mountain lodge

Page 291, in an ancient registar ==> in an ancient register

Page 296, a daguerreotyed specimen ==> a daguerreotyped specimen

Page 309, courage or _presénce d’ésprit_ ==> courage or _présence_

_d’ésprit_

Page 312, Ned piroutted on ==> Ned pirouetted on

Page 314, and that Newyear’s-day ==> and that new-year’s-day

Page 315, that he thonght ==> that he thought

Page 316, John of Britanny == John of Brittany

Page 318, occupied in Hennibon ==> occupied in Hennebon

Page 321, brothers of Lande-Halle ==> brothers of Land-Halle

Page 321, not Duke of Britanny ==> not Duke of Brittany

Page 330, added [_To be continued._

Page 333, each succeding product ==> each succeeding product

Page 334, we percieve the same ==> we perceive the same