CHAPTER II.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.

VOLUME IV

AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.

NEW-YORK:

STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.

Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 4 in this text. However

this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been

corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.

PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.

The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical may be accepted as

a sign of its permanent establishment. The proprietors of the

INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE have the satisfaction of believing that, while

there has been a steady increase of sales, ever since the publication

of the first number of this work, there has likewise been as regular

an augmentation of its interest, value, and adaptation to the wants of

the reading portion of our community. While essentially an Eclectic,

relying very much for success on a reproduction of judiciously

selected and fairly acknowledged Foreign Literature, it has contained

from month to month such an amount of New Articles as justified its

claim to consideration as an Original Miscellany. And in choosing from

European publications, articles to reprint or to translate for these

pages, care has been taken not only to avoid that vein of

licentiousness in morals, and skepticism in religion, which in so

lamentable a degree characterize a large portion of the popular

literature of this age, but also to extract from foreign periodicals

that American element with which the rising importance of our country

has caused so many of them to be infused; so that, notwithstanding the

fact that more than half the contents of the INTERNATIONAL are from

the minds of Europeans, the Magazine is essentially more _American_

than any other now published.

For the future, the publishers have made arrangements that will insure

very decided and desirable improvements, which will be more fully

disclosed in the first number of the ensuing volume; eminent original

writers will be added to our list of contributors; from Germany,

France, and Great Britain, we have increased our literary resources;

and more attention will be given to the pictorial illustration of such

subjects as may be advantageously treated in engravings. Among those

authors whose contributions have appeared in the INTERNATIONAL

hitherto, we may mention:

MISS FENIMORE COOPER,

MISS ALICE CAREY,

MRS. E. OAKES SMITH,

MRS. M. E. HEWITT,

MRS. ALICE B. NEAL,

BISHOP SPENCER,

HENRY AUSTIN LAYARD,

PARKE GODWIN,

JOHN R. THOMPSON,

W. C. RICHARDS,

W. GILMORE SIMMS,

BAYARD TAYLOR,

ROBERT HENRY STODDARD,

ALFRED B. STREET,

THOMAS EWBANK,

E. W. ELLSWORTH,

G. P. R. JAMES,

DR. JOHN W. FRANCIS,

MAUNSELL B. FIELD,

DR. STARBUCK MAYO,

JOHN E. WARREN,

A. OAKEY HALL,

HORACE GREELEY,

RICHARD B. KIMBALL,

THE AUTHOR OF "NILE NOTES,"

THE AUTHOR OF "HARRY FRANCO."

REV. J. C. RICHMOND,

REV. H. W. PARKER,

JAMES T. FIELDS,

R. S. CHILTON.

The foreign writers, from whom we have selected, need not be

enumerated; they embrace the principal living masters of literary art;

and we shall continue to avail ourselves of their new productions as

largely as justice to them and the advantage and pleasure of our

readers may seem to justify.

NEW-YORK, December 1, 1851.

CONTENTS:

VOLUME IV. AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.

Alred.--_By Elmina W. Carey_, 27

Alexander, Last days of the Emperor.--_A. Dumas_, 233

America, as Abused by a German, 448

American Intercommunication, 461

American Literature, Studies of.--_Philarete Chasles_, 163

American and European Scenery Compared.--_By the late J. F. Cooper_, 625

Anacreon. Twentieth Ode of.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_, 20

Animal Magnetism. Christopher North on, 27

Ariadne.--_By William C. Bennett_, 315

Autumn Ballad, An.--_By W. A. Sutliffe_, 598

August Reverie.--_By A. Oakey Hall_, 477

Art Expression. 401

Arts among the Aztecs and Indians.--_By Thomas Ewbank._ (Ten

Engravings.) 307

_Arts, the Fine._--Monuments to Public Men in Europe and America,

130.--Mosaics for the Emperor of Russia, 130.--Tenarani, the Italian

Sculptor, 131.--Group by Herr Kiss, 131.--English and American

Portrait Painters, 131--Mr. Pyne's English Landscapes, 131.--Paintings

by British Officers in Canada, 131.--Ovation to Rauch at Berlin,

131.--Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne,

131.--Newly-discovered Raphael, 131.--Daguerreotypes, 131.--Letter

from Hiram Powers, 279.--Monument to Wordsworth, 279.--Monument to

Weber, 279.--Works of Cornelius, 279.--Greenonga's Group for the

Capital, 279.--The Twelve Virgins of Raphael, 279.--Tributes by Greece

to her Benefactors, 279.--Paul Delaroche, 417.--Winterhalter,

417.--New Scriptures in the Crystal Palace, 417.--London Art-Union,

417.--American Art-Union. 417.--Powers's Eve, 417.--Leutze, 417.--The

London Art-Journal on the Engravings of the American Art-Union.

561.--The Philadelphia Art-Union, 561.--The Western Art-Union,

562.--Mr. Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 562.--Mr.

Lentze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 562--Illustrations of

Martin Luther, 562.--Lentze's Washington. 743.--Colossal Statue of

Washington at Munich, 703.--Kaulbach's Frescoes, 703.--Cadame's

Compositions of the Seasons, 703.--Portraits of Bishop White and

Daniel Webster, 703.

_Authors and Books._--The Story of Talns, and the Sardonic Laughter,

by Merehlen, 122.--A German Treatise on Free Trade, 122.--Curious

Medical Works in Germany, 122.--Weiseler on the Theatre,

122.--Woodcuts of celebrated Masters, 123.--Recent German Poetry,

123.--Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850, 123.--Souvenirs of Early

Germans, 123.--Gutzkow, Reimer, and Gubitz. 123.--Mundi's Macchiavelli

and the Course of European Policy, 123.--New German Novels,

124.--Baner's Documents respecting the Monastery of Arnsburg,

121.--Mss. of Peter Schlemil, 124.--Professor O. L. B. Wohl's Poetic

and Prosaic Home Treasury, 124.--German opinion of Miss Weber,

124.--Professor Zahn at Pompeii, 124.--Barthohl's History of German

Cities, 124.--Cornell on Feurebach, 125.--New Book of the Planets by

Ernst, 125.--Waldmeister's Bridal Tour, 125.--German version of George

Copyway's Book, 125.--German Survey of American Institutions,

125.--Russian Literature, 125.--Jewish Professors in Austria,

125.--Dumas's new Works, 125.--Madame Reybaud, 125.--New Volume of

Thier's History of the Empire, 125.--Mignet's Life of Mary Queen of

Scots, 126.--Cormenin on the Revision of the Constitution,

126.--Literary Episodes in the East, by Marcellus, 126.--Victor Hugo.

126.--Madame Bocarme, 126.--Signatures to Articles in the French

Journals, 126.--Arago's loss of sight, 126.--George Sand to Dumas,

127.--Vacherot on the Philosophical School of Alexandria, 127.--Mss.

of Rousseau, 127.--Unpublished works of Balzac, 127.--M. Nisard,

127.--M. Gautier, 127.--Guizot's History of Representative Government,

127.--Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, 127.--Rev. T. W. Shelton, in

Sharpe's Magazine, 127.--Rev. Charles Kingsley, author of Alton Locke,

127.--Bowring's Translation of Schiller, 128.--New English Poems,

128.--New Novel by Warren, 128.--Judge Woodbury's Works, 128.--The

North American Review, 128--Life of Judge Story, 123.--Contributions

to the History of the West, by Lyman C. Draper, 129.--The Dublin

University Magazine on Streets Frontenac, 129.--Mrs. Southworth in

England. 129.--Return of Mrs. Mowatt, 129.--Miss Beecher's new Work on

the Writings of Women, 129.--Ludwig Feuerback, 268.--August Kopish on

the Monument to Frederic the Great, 269.--The _Janus_ Review,

269.--Franz Kugler on the Theatre, 269.--Von Muller's History of the

Swiss Confederation, 269.--Memoir of Bretschneider, 269.--Dr. Worth,

269.--Herr Christern's Book Store, 269.--German Periodicals, 270.--The

Hungarian Refugees in Turkey, 270.--The Youth of Thorwaldsen,

270.--Old and New Songs and Fables for Children, 270.--Convention of

Sclavic Scholars, 270.--German Translation of Milton's Areopagitica,

270.--Eccentricities of German Medical Literature, 271.--German Poems,

271.--Shakspeare in Sweden, 271.--Neander's Lectures, 271.--George

Sand and her Husband, 271.--New work by Comte, 271.--Lamartine's New

History, 271.--Michelet's _Legendes de la Democratie_, 272.--Guizot's

History of Representative Government, 272.--Prudhon's Idea of

Revolution, 272.--Miss Martineau and her Master, 272.--Rumored

Discoveries of Greek MSS, 272.--Bunsen on the supposed MS. of Origen,

272.--New English Poems, 272.--Herodotus and the Discoveries of

Nineveh, 273.--Sir James Stephen's History of France, 273.--J. S.

Buckingham, 273.--Mrs. Jamieson, 273.--New Books of Travels, 273.--Dr.

Wilkinson and Henry James, 273.--New Novels, 273.--New Books on the

Apocalypse, 274.--Finchman on Ship Building, 274.--The Grenville

Papers, 274.--Sir W. Parish on Buenos Ayres, 274.--Works of Bishop

Whately, 274.--Macaulay's New Volumes, 274.--Poems of Edith May,

274.--Ware's European Capitals, 274.--New Romance by Thomas H. Shreve,

274.--More about American Reviews, 275.--Poem on Woman, by J. W.

Ward, 275.--Novellettes of Musicians, 275.--Dr. Huntington's Alban,

276.--Simms's Poetical Works, 276.--Dr. Tyng and Bickersteth,

276.--Mr. Putnam's forthcoming Souvenir Books, 276.--Kitto's Biblical

Cyclopedia, 276.--Episodes of Insect Life, 276.--History of Oneida

County, 276.--Mrs. Nichols's Poem's, 276.--New Translations of the

Bible, 277.--Sale of Dr. Jarvis's Library, 277.--Ik Marvell's New

Work, 277.--Mr. Longfellow's New Poem, 277.--Books on the Mechanic

Arts, 278.--Dr. Wainwright's Work on Egypt, 278.--Mr. Jefferson's MSS.

Work on Grammar, 278.--Dr. Williams on the Lord's Prayer, 278.--Works

of John Adams, 278.--Publications of James Munroe, 278.--German

Magazines, 403.--German Poets, 403, 405.--Freilegrath, 403.--New

edition of Brockhaus' Lexicon, 403.--German View of Lamartine,

403.--Prutz in a Novel, 403.--Stahl on Paris, 404.--Kohler on Ancient

Cameos, &c., 404.--Children's Picture Books, 404.--Latin Life of

Zumpt, 404.--New work by Robert Remak, 405.--The German Element in

English Language, 405.--Count Blumberg on the Higher Classes,

405.--Auerbach's German Evenings, 405.--Gailhabaud's Monuments of

Architecture, 405.--A Life Spent in Studying Thrushes, 405.--Gust's

Bibliotheca Biographia Lutherana, 405.--New work on Monarchy,

405.--New German Works on the Middle Ages, 406.--Konig and Gelzer on

Luther, 406.--The Bible and the Almanac, 406.--Austrian Biographical

Dictionary, 406.--New Book by Hans Andersen, 406--Zeise, the Danish

Novelist, 407.--Poems of Tegner, 407.--Bohemian Songs, 407.--Italian

Histories of To-day, 407.--Bible Plays by Wiese, 408.--Colins on

Socialism, 408.--Memoirs by Captain Laconte, 408.--Villemarque's

Breton Poems, 408.--Perrymond _vs._ Thiers, 408.--The French Orators,

408.--Histories of the Reformation in France, 408.--M. Guizot,

409.--Jules Janin, 409.--Montbeillard on Spinoza, 409.--Punishment of

a Socialist Dramatist, 409.--Marriage of "Bon Gaultier," 409.--Visits

to De Quincy and Burns's Sister, 410.--The "Baroness Von Beck,"

410.--Thackeray's New Novel, 410.--Literary Pensions in England,

410.--Tributes to James Montgomery, 410.--New editor of the

Westminster Review, 410.--New Lives of Mary, Queen of Scots,

411.--Publications of Moore & Co., of Cincinnati, 411.--Rivers of the

Bible, 411.--Mexican Documents collected by the Abbe Bourbourg,

412.--Mr. Schoolcraft and the Publishers, 412.--Mr. Simms's New

Tragedy, 412.--Dr. Albro's Life of Shepherd, the Puritan, 412.--New

Edition of Fielding, 413.--Theory of Human Progression, 413.--The Nile

Boat, 413.--Kitto's Bible Illustrations, 413.--Poore's Life of

Napoleon, 413.--Indications of the Creator, by George Taylor,

413.--Parkman's History of Pontiac, 413.--De Quiney's Works,

413.--Mrs. Judson, 413.--Hart's Female Prose Writers of America,

414.--Mrs. Lee's Memoirs of Buckminster, 415.--Rochefoucauld,

415.--Dr. Huntington and his Novels, Letters, and Life, 415.--New

Works in Press by the Harpers, 415.--By Redfield, do., 416.--New Work

by Dr. Boardman, 416.--Carl Immerman's Letters on the Theatre,

551.--Kohl's last book of Travels, 551.--L'Eco d'Italia,

551.--Narcissa Zwichowska, 551.--Baron Baerst on Cooking,

551.--Brinckle's-Butterfly Book, 552.--Stein's History of the Social

Movement in France, 552.--Dr. Schleiden's Work on Animalculae,

552.--History of Education, by Kranse, 552.--Handbook of Catholic

Pulpit Eloquence, 552.--Popular Songs of Southern Russia,

552.--Hogarth's Works in Germany, 552.--Dr. Andree's Work on America,

553.--Studies of German Lore, 553.--Hase's New Prophets,

553.--Wanderings in Slavonia, 553.--A reply to the Countess

Hahn-Hahn's last book, 554.--A Review of Lamartine's Parasite History,

554.--Humboldt's Kosmos, 554.--History of Polish Literature,

554.--Russian Archaeology, 554.--Siegfried Weiss on German Trade

Policy, 554.--Periodicals in Asia, 554.--German Translation of

Hawthorne, 554.--The German Universities, 555.--New German Poems,

555.--Literary Statistics of Poland, 555.--Work on Russia by

Tegoborski, 555.--Ritter's History of Philosophy, 555.--De Flotte on

the Sovereignty of the People, 555.--Nineveh, 555.--New Series of

Eugene Sue's Mysteries of the People, 556.--Second Part of Michelet's

History of the French Revolution, 556.--Julian's History of Porcelain

Manufacture, 556.--Felix de Verneihl on the Cologne Cathedral,

556.--Andre Cochat on French Workingmen's Associations, 556.--New

edition of George Sand's Works, 556.--Letter from Alexander Dumas,

556.--Alfred de Musset, 557.--Translations of Comte's Philosophy,

557.--Jules Janin's new Romance, 557.--Ferdinand Hiller, 557.--James

T. Fields, 557.--New Histories of the Mexican War, 557.--Horace Mann

on the Sphere of Woman, 557.--General Morris not guilty of Plagiarism,

558.--Torrey's Translation of Neander, 558.--Translations of Dante,

559.--Alice Carey's Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the West,

559.--Modern Miracles, by Henry Ingalls, 559.--New Novel by Mr. James

and Mr. Field, 559.--History of the German Reformed Church,

559.--Professor Hackett's Commentary on the Acts, 559.--The Whale, by

Herman Melville, 559.--Mr. Herbert's work on Ancient Battles, &c.,

560.--Glances at Europe, by H. Greeley, 560.--Hungary and Kossuth,

560.--Richard B. Kimball, 560.--Mr. Judd's Margaret, 560.--Pendant to

Professor Creasy's _Decisive Battles of the World_,

693.--Correspondence respecting the Thirty Years' War, 693.--German

collection of English Songs, 693.--German Philologists, 693.--Weil's

History of the Califs, 693.--The Germans in Bohemia, 693.--Andree's

Work on America, 694.--Works on Spinoza, 694.--New Goethean

Literature, 694.--The British Empire in Europe, by Meidinger,

694.--The Play of the Resurrection, 694.--German History of French

Literature, 694.--New work on German Knighthood, &c., 694.--German

Romanee in the 18th Century, 695.--Madame Blaze de Bury's New Novel,

695.--Richter's History of the Evangelical German Churches,

695.--German Life of Sir Robert Peel, 695.--Zimmermann on the English

Revolution, 695.--History of Norway, 695.--Reguly, the Hungarian

Traveller, 695.--Political Notabililities of Hungary, 695.--Speeches,

&c., by King William of Prussia, 695.--Pictures from the North,

695.--History of the Swiss Confederation, 695.--Bem's System of

Chronology, by Miss Peabody, 695.--French Almanacs, 695.--M.

Croce-Spinelli's Work on Popular Government, 696.--Works by the Paris

Asiatic Society, 696.--Caesar Daly on Parisian Architecture,

696.--Fignier's Modern Discoveries, 696.--The _Annuaire des Deux

Mondes_, 696.--Calvin's Inedited Letters, 697.--Lacretelle,

697.--Critical Studies of Socialism, 697.--Memoirs of Mademoiselle

Mars, 697.--The Institute of France, 697.--Grille on the War in La

Vendee, 697.--History of the Bourgeoisie of Paris, 697.--_Archives des

Missions Scientifiques_, &c., 697.--Travels in Africa, 698.--Spirit of

New Roman Catholic Literature, 698.--Garcin de Tassy on Mr.

Salisbury's Unpublished Arabic Documents, 699.--New Travels in

Palestine, 698.--The Abaddie Travellers, 699.--French, English, and

American Missionaries, as Scholars, 699.--The Westminster Review,

699.--A Grandson of Robert Burns, 699.--Friends in Council, &c., by

Mr. Helps, 699.--New English Announcements, 700.--New Dissenters'

College, 700.--Sir Charles Lyell and the "Free Thinkers," 700.--Prof.

Wilson, 700.--Miss Kirkland's Evening Book, 700.--Works by Mrs. Lee,

701.--Mr. Boyd's edition of Young's Night Thoughts, 702.--"Injustice

to the South," 702.--Splendid American Gift Books for 1852, 703.--New

American Works in Press, 703, &c. British Humorists.--_By W. M.

Thackeray_, 24

Boker, George II.--_By Bayard Taylor_. (Portrait.) 156

Bohemian Glass. (Six Engravings.) 291

Ballad of Sir John Franklin.--_By George H. Boker_, 473

Bryant, and his Works, William Cullen. (Portrait.) 588

Bull Fight at Ronda, 681

Calvin Colton, Rev., and his Works. (Portrait.) 1

Castle of Belvor: An Incident in the Life of Arago, 41

Count Monte-Leone. (Concluded), 42, 202, 327, 500

China, Our Phantom Ship, 67

Chest of Drawers.--_By an Attorney_, 73

Cicada, The.--_By H. J. Crate_, 164

Charlemagne, Times of.--_By Sir Francis Palgrave_, 169

Calhoun, Private Life of John C.--_By Miss M. Bates_, 173

Copenhagen, 238

Cooper, J. F., Portrait and View of his Residence, _Frontispiece_.

Cooke, Sketch of Philip Pendleton. (Portrait.) 300

Chamois Hunting, 344

Cleopatra's Needle, 367

Cheap Postage System, 370

Country Gentleman at Home.--_By C. A. Bristed_, 389

Cooper, Reminiscences of J. Fenimore.--_By Dr. Francis_, 458

Cooper, Public Honors to the Memory of Mr., 456

Chimes, The.--_By E. W. Ellsworth_, 487

Carlyle's Life of John Sterling, 599

Calcutta: Social, Industrial, Political, 611

Captain and the Negro, The, 646

Crebillon, the French AEschylus, 520

Dramatic Fragments.--_By R. H. Stoddard_, 17

Decorative Arts in America, 171

Deserted Mansion, 227

Dirge for an Infant--_By R. S. Chilton_, 487

Death in Youth.--_By H. W. Parker_, 598

Dutch Governors of Niew Amsterdam.--_By J. R. Brodhead_, 597

Drinking Experiences: A Temperance Lecture by "Nimrod," 621

_Deaths, Recent._--General Arbuckle, 139.--Mrs. Thomas Sheridan,

139.--Bishop Carlson, 139.--Sir J. E. Dalzell, 139.--Chevalier Parisot

de Guyrmont, 139.--General James Miller, 140.--General Uminski,

140.--Viscount Melville, 140.--Mr. Dyce Sombre, 140.--Bishop Medrano,

140.--The Earl of Shaftesbury, 141.--Mr. Thomas Wright Hill,

142.--Melchior Boisseree, 142.--Christian Tieck, the Sculptor,

142.--Rev. Stephen Olin, D.D., 282.--Baron de Leideni, 282.--Edward

Quillinan, 282.--Harriet Lee, 282.--Dr. Julius, 282.--Rev. Azariah

Smith, 282.--General Henry A. S. Dearborn, 283.--D. M. Mon, 228,

283.--General Sir Roger Sheafe, 283.--M. Daguerre, (Portrait),

283.--Rev. Dr. Lingard, (Portrait), 285.--Marshal Sebastian, 287.--J.

Fenimore Cooper, 428.--Rev. T. H. Gallaudet, 428.--Judge Beverly

Tucker, 428.--Levi Woodbury, 429.--General McClure, 429.--Lorenz

Ocken, 429.--Count Killmansegge, 430.--H. E. G. Paulus, 430.--Joseph

Rusiecki, 430.--John Gottfried Gruber, 430.--The Earl of Clare,

431.--Sir Henry Jardine, 431.--Mrs. Sherwood, 572.--Rev. James H.

Hotchkiss, 572.--General Henry Whitney, 572.--Commodore Warrington,

572.--Professor Kidd, 573.--The Earl of Donoughmore, 573.--William

Nicol, 574.--Mr. Freeman, the Missionary, 574.--James Richardson,

574.--William Willshire, 574.--J. R. Dubois, 575.--Gustav Carlin,

575.--Archibald Alexander, D. D., 705.--J. Kearney Rogers, M.D.,

705.--Rev. Wm. Croswell, D.D., 706.--Granville Sharpe Pattison, M.D.,

706.--Mr. Stephens, author of _The Manuscripts of Erdeley_, 706.--Mr.

Gutzlaff, the Missionary, 707.--Don Manuel Godoy, the Prince of the

Peace, 708.--George Baker, 708.--M. de Savigny, 708.--Archbishop

Wingard, 708.--Samuel Beaseley, author of _The Roue_, 708.--H. P.

Borrell, 708.--James Tyler, R. D., 708.--Emma Martin, 709.--Yar

Mohammed, 709.--Alexander Lee, 710.--Prince Frederick of Prussia, 710.

Exile's Sunset Song.--_By John R. Thompson_, 26

Egypt, The last Joseph in, 185

English in America.--_By the author of "Sam Slick,"_ 186

Egypt under Abbas Pasha,--_By Bayle St. John_, 259

Earthquake in Europe, The Last, 467

Fleischmann, Herr, on Life in America, 158

Fallen Genius.--_By Miss Alice Carey_, 288

Flying Artist, 398

Franklin, Inedited Letter of Dr., 472

Fragments from a New Volume of Poems.--_By Thomas L. Beddoes_, 550

French Flower Girl, The, 641

Fragments of a Poem.--_By H. W. Parker_, 189

Great Fair at Rochester. (Fifteen Engravings.) 438

Gold-Quartz and Society in California, 472

Greenwood.--_By Maunsell B. Field_, 476

Ghost Story of Normandy, 512

Gerard, and the Baron Munchausen, in Africa, M. Jules, 587

German Handbook of America, 598

Gondolettas: Two Songs.--_By Alice B. Neal_, 597

Hahn-Hahn, The Countess Ida, 17

History of a Rose, 117

Huntington, Dr., on Copyright, 308

Heroines of History: Laura.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_, 480

Habits of Frederick the Great, 528

Herman Melville's New Novel of "The Whale," 602

_Historical Review of the Month._--The United States: Elections, &c.,

567.--Foreign Relations, 567.--Mexico, 568.--South American States,

568.--Great Britain, 568.--France, Italy, Russia, &c., 569.--The East,

&c., 569.--The American Elections, 704.--Kossuth in England,

704.--Europe, and the East, 704.

Imaginary Conversations at Warsaw.--_By Walter Savage Landor_, 98

In the Harem.--_By R. H. Stoddard_, 164

Illustrations of Motives, 280

International Copyright, 386

Jules Janin and the Paris Feuilletonistes, 18

Jungle Recollection.--_By Captain Hardbargain_, 110

Jews in China, 264

Jefferson, Mr., on the Study of the Anglo-Saxon Language, 468

Landscapes, Swedish.--_By Hans Christian Andersen_, 20

London, Paris, and New-York, 100

Ladies' Fashions. (Illustrated.) 142, 288, 431, 575, 710

Latham, on the People of the Mosketo Kingdom, 471

My Novel: or, Varieties in English Life.--_By Sir E. Bulwer

Lytton_, 80, 243, 371, 534, 688

Moir, David Macbeth.--_By George Gilfillan_, 233

Music.--_By H. W. Parker_, 327

Meeting of the Vegetarians, 402

Newspaper Poets: Charles Weldon, 201

Nauvoo and Deseret: The Mormons. (Six Engravings.) 577

_Noctes Amicitiae._--English Opinions of the "American Department" in

the Crystal Palace, 563.--Ridiculous Convention of Women, at

Worcester, 563.--Bloomerism in London, 563.--Defenders of the Catholic

Practices, 563.--Anecdote of Tom Cook, 563.--Capital Anecdote of

Charles XII, 564.--A Superfluous Amount of Name, 564.--G. P. R. James

in the Law Courts, 564.--Nursery Rhymes, 564.--The London Printers,

564.--The Japanese and French Civilization, 565.--Extraordinary

Suicides in Paris, 565, &c.

October.--_By Alice Carey_, 371

Obelisks of Egypt, 469

Old Man's Death, The.--_By Alice Carey_, 529

Ottoman History, The Three Eras of, 643

Parodies, A Chapter of, 23

Passages in the Life of a Dutch Poet, 65

Phantasy, A.--_By R. H. Stoddard_, 169

Paris, Reminiscences of, from 1817 to 1851, 182

Poulailler, the Robber, 216

Questions from a worn-out Lorgnette.--_By O. A. Hall_, 187

Reminiscence, A.--_By Alice Carey_, 360

Remarkable Prophecy, 474

Revolutions in Russia.--_By Alexander Dumas_, 616

Story Without A Name.--_By G. P. R. James, Esq._,

(Concluded), 28, 189, 316, 487, 604

Stuart of Dunleath, 119

Sailors, Institutions for, in New-York. (Six Engravings.) 145

Scenes in the Old Dominion (Six Engravings.) 151

Styles of Philosophies.--_By Rev. J. R. Morell_, 180

Shadow of Lucy Hutchinson, 239

Saxe, John G., and his Satires. (Portrait.) 289

Sandwich Islands To-Day. (Two Engravings.) 298

Shadow of Margery Paston, 363

Saint Escarpacio's Bones.--_From the French_, 483

Sonnets: Truth--The Future, 499

Sliding Scales of Despair, 592

Songs of the Cascade.--_By A. Oakey Hall_, 602

Spendthrift's Daughter: In Six Chapters, The, 664

_Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies._--The

British Association, 137.--Asiatic Society, 137.--Paris Geographical

Society, 137.--Royal Society of Literature, 137.--Paris Academy of

Sciences, 138.--London Royal Institution, 138.--Berlin Academy of

Sciences, 138.--Improvements in Photographs, 138.--Colonel Rawlinson

on the last Discoveries of Nineveh and Babylon, 426.--New attempts to

discover Perpetual Motion, 426.--Document respecting the discovery of

Steam Navigation at Venice, 427.--English Athletes, compared with

Greek Statues, 427.--Discoveries at Memphis, 427.--Scientific

Conventions, 427.--The Russian Academy, 571.--Scientific Congress in

France, 571.--Paris Academy of Sciences, 571.--Ethnological Society,

571.

Trot on the Island.--_By C. Astor Bristed_, 54

To the Author of Eothen.--_By Barry Cornwall_, 315

The King and the Outlaw.--_By an Old Contributor_, 482

Verses.--_By R. H. Stoddard_, 22

Visit to the "Maid of Athens," 116

Visit to the late Dr. Lingard.--_By Rev. J. C. Richmond_, 172

Veneer, Fraser's Magazine on English, 306

Visit to the Aberdeen Comb-Works, 856

Vagaries of the Imagination, 638

Veiled Picture: A Traveller's Story, The, 648

Watering Places, A Glance at the. (Fifteen Engravings.) 4

Webster, Noah, LL. D. (Portrait and birthplace.) 12

Waterloo, Tricks on Travellers at, 164

Wives of Southey, Coleridge, and Lovell, 241

Wallace, William Ross. (Portrait.) 444

Windsor Castle and its Associations. (Two Engravings.) 585

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

_Of Literature, Art, and Science._

Vol. IV. NEW-YORK, AUGUST 1, 1851. No. I.

REV. CALVIN COLTON.

[Illustration]

Mr. Colton is a man of very decided abilities, voluminous and various

in their manifestation, and assiduously cultivated during a long life,

in which he has never failed of the curiosity, ambition, and industry

of a learner. The untiring freshness and hopefulness of his spirit is

shown by his undertaking the study of the French language not more

than three or four years ago, and obtaining such a mastery of it as to

read with delight its most abstruse authors, and to preach in it with

fluency and even with eloquence. It is characteristic of him that he

is always earnest, and that he considers whatever he has to do worthy

of his best abilities, so that in writing of theology, economy,

polity, or manners, he arrays in order for each particular subject all

the forces of his understanding, and makes its discussion their

measure and illustration. He has been in an eminent degree devoted to

literature as a profession, and although he has produced works which

may be deemed unfortunate in design or defective in execution, it must

be admitted that he is entitled to a highly respectable position as a

thinker and as a writer, and that in opinion and in affairs he has

exercised a steady and large influence.

He was born in Long Meadow, Massachusetts, graduated at Yale College

in 1812, studied divinity at Andover, and in 1815 took orders in the

Presbyterian church. For several years he was settled in the village

of Batavia in western New-York, but his voice failing in 1826, he

became a contributor to several of the principal periodicals occupied

with religion and learning, and in the summer of 1831, after an

extended tour through the western states and territories, proceeded to

London, as a correspondent of the New-York Observer.

In England, he led a life of remarkable literary activity. In 1832 he

published a _Manual for Emigrants to America_, which had a large sale

among the middling classes; and _The History and Character of American

Revivals of Religion_, of which there were two or three editions. In

1833, in a volume entitled _The Americans, by an American in London_,

he replied, with an unanswerable display of facts, to the libels on

this country by British travellers and reviewers; and published _The

American Cottager_, a religious narrative. _A Tour of the American

Lakes and among the Indians of the North-West Territory_, in two

volumes, and _Church and State in America_, a vindication of the

religious character of the country and the voluntary principle for the

support of religion, in reply to the Bishop of London, who had

endeavored to show that the United States were going back to paganism

because the church was not here connected with the state.

Returning to New-York, in 1835, he published _Four Years in Great

Britain_, in two volumes, which were soon after reprinted, with some

additions, in a more popular form. In 1836 he gave to the public

anonymously, _Protestant Jesuitism_, a criticism of the constitution,

extreme opinion, and unwise action of many of the benevolent and

religious societies; and having taken orders in the Episcopal church,

_Thoughts on the Religious State of the Country, and Reasons for

preferring Episcopacy_, a work which was much read and the cause of

much critical observation in Great Britain as well as in the United

States.

From that time Mr. Colton has written very little on any subject

intimately connected with religion, but directing his attention to

public affairs, has been as conspicuous in the state as he was

previously in the church. In 1838 he published _Abolition a Sedition_,

and _Abolition and Colonization Contrasted_, in which he contended

with equal earnestness and ability that the entire subject of slavery

is beyond the limits of the proper action of the national government,

and that there is no justification of its discussion, except in the

states where slavery is established, or for the wise and really

philanthropic purpose of promoting African Colonization. In 1839 he

again took up the argument of our social relations with Great Britain,

in a work written in Philadelphia, but published in London, under the

title of _A Voice from America to England, By an American Gentleman_.

The plan was judicious: it was not so much to express opinions as to

state facts which should compel opinions in the adverse audience he

addressed. While mainly defensive, he was at the same time bravely

critical. He contended that in its constitution our government was

republican and not democratic, but that the extraordinary force of

public opinion among us has made it democratic in fact. A large

portion of the work was devoted to the several ecclesiastical polities

existing here, which he treated with singular freedom and originality,

so that the frequent impertinences of ignorant laymen and

obtrusively-meddling women, in the affairs of churches, rendering the

clerical profession humiliating and difficult to a person of manly

character and cultivation, were stated without any hesitation or

attempt at concealment. The entire performance is still attractive for

frequent sound observation upon institutions, judicious criticism of

manners, happy illustration, and good humor, and its opportune

appearance was advantageous to the best fame of the country.

In 1840 he made a more distinct and powerful impression than ever

before, by the publication of _The Crisis of the Country, American

Jacobinism_, and _One Presidential Term_, a series of tracts under the

name of "Junius," which were circulated in all the states by thousands

and hundreds of thousands, and were supposed to have had great

influence in the overthrow of the democratic administration. In 1842

he edited at Washington a paper called _The True Whig_, and in 1843

and 1844 he brought out a second series, embracing ten publications,

still more popular than the first, of the _Junius Tracts_.

In the autumn of the latter year, when the fortunes of the whig party

seemed to be entirely broken, when full half the nation felt a

personal grief for the defeat of a leader, added to the mortification

of political discomfiture, Mr. Colton determined to write the life of

the chief he had followed with unwavering admiration and unfaltering

activity. Casting aside all other cares, so that his every thought

might be given to the work until its completion, he set out for

Kentucky, where he was sure of the friendly assistance of Mr. Clay in

whatever concerned the investigation of facts. In November, 1844, he

reached Lexington, where Mr. Clay laid open to him the stores of his

correspondence, and the documentary history of his career. The work

was finished in the spring of 1846, and published in two large

octavos; and so great was the demand for it, that the first impression

of five thousand copies was sold in six months. It is unquestionably

an able performance, and from the circumstances under which it was

composed and the conclusiveness of some of its arguments it is

probable that it will always be regarded as a valuable portion of the

material for contemporary political history; but, it appears to me

very unequal in execution, and signally unfortunate in design, if

considered either as a biography or a history. For the subjective

rather than the chronological arrangement of the facts in it there is

however this defence, that it rendered the work much more easy of

citation, and therefore more valuable as a magazine for partisan

controversy. The influence it obtained may be illustrated by reference

to a single point: for a quarter of a century the staple of

declamation against Mr. Clay, the opposition which thrice cost him the

presidency, was his supposed bargain with John Quincy Adams; but since

the appearance of Mr. Colton's exposition of this subject any person

in an intelligent society would forfeit the consideration given to a

gentleman who should repeat the charge.

For several years the attention of Mr. Colton had been more and more

attracted to the literature and philosophy of political economy. In

1846 he printed his first work in which it is formally treated, _The

Rights of Labor_, in which he asserted, illustrated, and with

unanswerable logic vindicated the American doctrine of the privileges

and dignity of Industry; and in 1848 he gave to the world his last and

most important work, _Public Economy for the United States_. From the

formation of the first system of society the subjects embraced in this

production have employed the most powerful intellects of all nations.

But though illustrated by the liveliest genius and the profoundest

reflection, they have not until recently assumed even the forms of

science. We cannot tell what formulae of economical truth passed from

existence in the lost books of Aristotle. The father of the

peripatetic philosophy undoubtedly brought to public economics the

severe method which enabled him to construct so much of the

everlasting science of which the history goes back to his times; but

whatever direction he gave to the subject, by the investigation of its

ultimate principles and their phenomena, his successors, and the

writers upon it since the revival of learning, have generally been

guided by empirical laws, which in an especial degree have obtained in

regard to the economy of commerce. Scarcely any of the literature or

reflection upon the subject has gone behind the bold hypotheses of

free trade theorists, which have been as unsubstantial as the fanciful

systems of the universe swept from existence by the demonstrations of

Newton. Not only have economical systems generally been made up of

unproven hypotheses, but they have rarely evinced any such clear

apprehension and constructive ability as are essential in the

formation and statement of principles; and down to the chaos of Mr.

Mills's last essay there is scarcely a volume on political economy

which rewards the wearied attention with any more than a vague

understanding of the shadowy design that existed in the author's

brain.

In the eminently original and scientific work of Mr. Colton we see

economy subjected to fundamental and ultimate methods of investigation

of which the results have a mathematical certainty. We have new facts,

new reasonings, new deductions; and if the paramount ideas are not

altogether original, they are discovered by original processes, and

their previous existence is but an illustration of the truth that the

instinctive perspicacity of the common mind often surpasses the

logical faculty in recognizing laws before they are discovered from

elements and relations. Mr. Colton has not rejected the title

"_political_ economy" because he proposed to enter a different field,

or because the subject and argument have no relation to politics, but

chiefly because the term has been so much abused in the rude agitation

of what are commonly called politics, that he does not think it

comports with the dignity of the theme; and the second part of his

title is adopted from a conviction that the economical principles of

states _are to be deduced from their separate experience and adapted

to their individual condition_. The task which he proposed to himself

is, the exhibition of the merits of the protective and free trade

systems as they apply to the United States. He expresses at the outset

his opinion that the settlement of the question is one of the most

desirable, and will be one of the most important results which remain

to be achieved in the progress of the country; and we can assure him

that the accomplishment of it will be rewarded by the best approval of

these times, and an enduring name. The second chapter of his work is a

statement of the new points which it embraces. By new points he does

not mean that all thus described are entirely original, though many of

them are so; but that on account of the importance of the places he

has assigned them as compared with those they occupy in other works of

the kind, they are entitled to be presented as new. Many of them

involve fundamental and pervading principles that have not hitherto

appeared in speculations on the subject, but which are destined to an

important influence in its discussion. Some of the most prominent are,

that public economy is the application of knowledge, derived from

experience, to given positions, interests and institutions, for the

increase of wealth; that it has never been reduced to a science, and

that the propositions of which it has been for the most part composed,

down to this time, are empirical; that protective duties in the United

States are not taxes, and that a protective system rescues the country

from a system of foreign taxation; that popular education is a

fundamental element of public economy; that freedom is a thing of

commercial value, and that the history of freedom for all time, shows

it to be identical with protection.

Recently the renewal of his voice has enabled Mr. Colton to devote

more attention to the favorite pursuit of his life, and he is a very

frequent preacher, in French or English. He resides in New-York.

A GLANCE AT THE WATERING PLACES.

[Illustration: THE YOUNG MARRIED GENTLEMAN WHO "COULD NOT POSSIBLY GO

TO THE SPRINGS."]

All the gay world of the cities, and even of the villages and country

homes, who can do so, by the first of August are "going," or "gone,"

as Mr. John Keese says of a last invoice, to the watering places, and

other summer resorts, which serve as fairs for the disposal of

valueless time and "remainders" of marriageable daughters. With the

crowds intent on speculation are a few invalids, a few students of

human nature, and the common proportion of mere lookers-on, who have

no purpose but to be amused. Times have changed, manners have changed,

since Paulding gave us his _Mirror for Travellers_, though Saratoga

still maintains the ascendency she was then acquiring, and for certain

inalienable natural advantages is likely to do so for a part at least

of every season.

New-York is the grand rendezvous: once settled in our hotels, the

splendid Astor, the comfortable American, the busy Irving, the gay

New-York, or the quiet Union Place or Clarendon, the stranger has

little desire to go further, until the last and imperative demands of

Fashion compel him to abandon the study of those noble institutions we

described in the last _International_, and to forego the observation

of those great public works in which the energy of our rich men has

flowered, or those appointments of Providence which render New-York a

rival of Dublin, Naples, or Constantinople, in scenic magnificence.

Many indeed who come from distant parts of the country, linger all

summer in the vicinity of the city, in the hottest days quitting

Broadway for a sail or drive, to the Bath House, Rockaway, Coney

Island, New Brighton, Long Branch, or Fort Hamilton, where they dine,

or perhaps stay over night. At Fort Hamilton, indeed, Mr. Clapp is apt

to keep those who venture into his hotel, with its luxurious tables,

pleasant rooms, cool breezes from the ocean, and fair sights in all

directions, for a much longer time; and every one of these places, in

the hot months, has attractions that would make a visitor at the Spas

of France, Germany, or Italy, could he wake in them, think he had

eluded the watchful guard St. Peter keeps at the gateway of another

retirement, to the which, it may be feared, the gay world has far less

anxiety to go.

[Illustration: FORT HAMILTON HOUSE, LONG ISLAND.]

[Illustration: PROPOSED SUMMER HOTEL AT THE HIGHLANDS OF NEVERSINK.]

Ascending the Hudson, from the social metropolis of this continent, to

which all "capitals" of states or nations, from Patagonia to

Greenland, are in some way subject and tributary, the traveller finds

the palace in which he rides, continually near embowered pavilions for

the public, and clusters of private residences, which but add to their

enjoyableness. Cozzens's Hotel at West Point, is perhaps as well

known as any house of the same class in the world, and its picturesque

situation, as well as the admirable manner in which it is kept, will

preserve for it a place in the list of favorite resorts. The Catskill

Mountain House, in the midst of grand and peculiar scenery, on the

verge of a rock two thousand and five hundred feet above the

Hudson--seen with its various fleets at a distance from the long

colonnade--is thronged even more than West Point. There are other

pleasant houses on the river, and many turn from its various points to

visit newer or less crowded places than Saratoga along the lines of

the western railroads, as Trenton Falls, Sharon Springs, or Avon, or

further still, the towns by the borders of the great lakes.

[Illustration: CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.]

[Illustration: HOTEL AT TRENTON FALLS.]

Saratoga is now for several weeks the gayest scene of all. At the

United States Hotel, with its fine grounds, are the leaders of

fashion; at Congress Hall, with its clean and quiet rooms and

unsurpassed _cuisine_, are representatives of the substantial families

that have had grandfathers, and in the dozen or twenty smaller houses

about the village are "all sorts and conditions of men," and eke of

women. With drives, dinners, flirtations, drinking of drinks, and,

once in a long while, imbibitions of a little congress water, all goes

merry as a marriage bell--except with ladies of uncertain ages who are

disappointed of that blessed music--until the Grand Ball gives signal

for departure to other places.

[Illustration: SARATOGA SPRINGS.]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE NOTCH HOUSE, WHITE MOUNTAINS.]

From Saratoga parties go northward to Lake George, (for which region,

of the most romantic beauty, they should be prepared by a perusal of

Dudley Bean's admirable sketch of its revolutionary history;) and down

the Champlain toward Montreal, whence they return by way of the

Ontario and Niagara Falls (where our engraver Orr's _Pictorial Guide

Book_ is indispensable to the best enjoyment), or go through the

glorious hills of northern Vermont and New Hampshire to the White

Mountains. All the last grand region has been most truthfully and

effectively represented in a small folio volume of drawings from

nature, by Isaac Sprague, described by William Oakes, and published in

Boston by Crosby & Nichols. We commend the book to summer tourists.

[Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS.]

[Illustration: OCEAN HOUSE, NEWPORT.]

A considerable proportion of the guests who are at Saratoga in the

earlier part of the season, proceed to Newport in time for the Fancy

Ball which every year closes the campaign there. Newport increases in

attractions. Its historical associations, fine atmosphere, beautiful

position, and facilities for sea-bathing, fishing, sailing, riding,

and other amusements, are continually drawing to its neighborhood new

families, whose cottages add much to the beauty of the town, as they

themselves to the pleasantness of its society; and for transient

visitors no place in the world has better hotels or boarding-houses.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS, VIRGINIA.]

After the season closes at Newport, and from her Ocean House the last

unwilling traveller has taken his way, strewn with regrets, many

linger at the more quiet summer haunts scattered through New-England

and New-York, particularly at the rural and luxurious hotel of

Lebanon--a country palace which a king might covet--filled always with

good society; or go southward to the Virginia Springs, which have many

attractions peculiar to themselves, and with their unique pastimes,

their tournaments, field sports, &c., happily vary a summer's life

commenced at the more northern watering places.

[Illustration: COLUMBIA HALL, LEBANON SPRINGS.]

[Illustration: MOULTRIE HOUSE, SULLIVAN'S ISLAND, NEAR CHARLESTON.]

The South Carolinians have this year seceded from the northern

resorts, and those who do not go from Charleston to the up-country or

to Georgia, may well be content with Captain Payne's spacious and

splendid hotel on Sullivan's Island--the coolest and most agreeable

place by the seaside we have visited, north or south, for years. From

the south, and indeed from all parts of the country, parties go more

and more every year to the Mammoth Cave, (of which we have in store a

particular and profusely illustrated account), and up the great rivers

and lakes of the west, all along which, first-class hotels,

steamboats, &c., render travel as easy and delightful as on the old

summer routes in the middle and eastern states.

--Thus we have taken our readers--some of whom haply cannot this

season go by other ways--the circuit of the principal scenes of

enjoyment to which the denizens of the hot cities are intent to escape

through July, August, and September. If any have till this time

hesitated where to go, possibly we have aided them to an election:

certainly, we have led them cheaply along the fashionable tour.

[Illustration: MAMMOTH CAVE HOTEL.]

NOAH WEBSTER.

[Illustration]

The above portrait of the author of _The American Spelling-Book_, of

which there have been sold thirty millions of copies, and of the

_American Dictionary_, of which his publishers have hopes of selling

as great a number, is very life-like; it is from a painting by

Professor Morse, and the last time we saw the veteran scholar and

schoolmaster, he wore the very expression caught by that always

successful artist. Noah Webster's is the most universally familiar

name in our history; every body, from first to second childhood, from

end to end and side to side of the continent, knows it as well as his

own; and he who made it so famous was worthy of his reputation.

Noah Webster was born in Hartford, Connecticut, October 16th, 1758. He

was a descendant, in the fourth generation, of John Webster, one of

the first settlers of Hartford, and afterwards governor of the colony.

In 1774 he was admitted to Yale College. His studies were frequently

interrupted during the Revolution, and for a time he himself served as

a volunteer in the army, with his father and two brothers. He

graduated, with honor, in 1778, in the same class with Joel Barlow,

Oliver Wolcott, Uriah Tracy, and other distinguished men, and

immediately opened a school, residing meanwhile in the family of

Oliver Ellsworth, afterward chief justice of the United States. He

soon commenced the study of the law, and was admitted to the bar in

1781; but the poverty and unsettled state of the country prevented any

immediate success in the courts, and he resumed the business of

instruction in 1782, at Goshen, Orange county, New-York. It was here

that he began the preparation of books for the schools. He was led to

do so in despondency of success in his profession; but it changed the

course of his life. Having exhibited the rude sketch of his initial

effort to Mr. Madison (afterwards President), and Dr. Stanhope Smith,

Professor in Princeton college, he was encouraged by them to publish

the "First Part of a Grammatical Institute of the English Language."

The second and third parts of the series soon followed. A generation

has not passed since some of these books were occasionally seen in New

England. It may be that here and there a copy may still be lurking in

the garret of some ancient family, or on the dusty shelves of a

collector of antiquities. There is no more striking contrast than that

suggested by a comparison of Webster's "Third Part," as it was

familiarly styled, with the admirably printed school books now in

every family. Webster's were the first school books published in the

United States. In 1847 twenty-four million copies of the Spelling Book

had been sold, and for several years the demand for it has been at the

rate of a million a year.

Dr. Webster did not confine his attention to his own publications; but

having learned that a copy of Winthrop's Journal was in the

possession of Governor Trumbull, he caused it to be transcribed and

published at his own risk. In this way was given to the public one of

the most important memorials of our early history, and the first

example furnished of printing the documents, and other materials,

illustrative of our original experience. Mr. Webster was poor, and the

country had never yet evinced any disposition to encourage enterprises

of this sort; but he had always a confidence that it was safe to do

what was right and necessary, and therefore disregarded in this, as in

many other cases, the opinions of his friends that he would incur

inevitable loss.

The peace of 1783 involved the whole country in political agitation,

at certain points of which the calmest and wisest well nigh despaired

of the republic. At that time the influence of the pen was greater

than ever before. It seemed that the decision of principles which were

to last for centuries was dependent on the force of a single argument,

or the earnestness of one appeal. In this conflict the ambitious and

self-relying spirit of Mr. Webster led him to take an active part, and

from the peace till the close of Washington's administration, he was

an industrious and efficient writer. No period in the history of this

country was ever more critical; in none were so many principles

subjected to experiment, in none was discussion more able, exhausting,

and high-toned.

The first topic which engaged Mr. Webster's attention was the decision

of Congress to remunerate the army, then recently disbanded. This

measure was violently opposed in all parts of the country. Meetings

were held to organize resistance to the law, and two-thirds of the

towns of Connecticut were represented in a convention for this

purpose. Mr. Webster was then twenty-five years of age, but he

contributed to the leading paper of the state a series of essays,

signed HONORIUS, which induced a decisive change in the public

feeling; and he received for his important services the thanks of

Governor Trumbull. In the winter of 1784--5 he published a tract,

_Sketches of American Policy_, in which he advanced the doctrine, that

to meet the crisis and secure the prosperity of the whole country, a

government should be organized that would act, not upon the states,

but directly on the people, vesting in Congress full authority to

execute its own acts. A copy of this essay was presented by the author

to Washington, and it is believed that it contained the first distinct

proposal of the new constitution. About the same time, he exerted

himself successfully for what was then called an "International

Copyright" law between the several sovereign states; and at a later

period he spent a winter in Washington, to procure an extension of the

period for which a copyright might be enjoyed. In 1785, he prepared a

series of lectures on the English language, which he delivered in the

larger towns, and in 1789 published, under the title of _Dissertations

on the English Language_. In 1787-8, he spent the winter in

Philadelphia, as a teacher. The convention called to frame the new

constitution was in session during a part of the year, and after its

labors were completed, Mr. Webster undertook to recommend the result

to the then doubtful favor of the people. This he did in a tract,

entitled _An Examination of the Leading Principles of the Federal

Constitution_. In the next year he established in New-York _The

American Magazine_, but it was unsuccessful. In 1789 he opened a

law-office in Hartford, and his reputation, diligence, and abilities,

insured business and profits. He was now married to Miss Greenleaf, of

Boston, and enjoyed the advantage of one of the most brilliant

literary circles of the country, consisting of Joel Barlow, Lemuel

Hopkins, John Trumbull, and others who at that time were eminent for

their capacities.

But the political excitement of 1793, caused by the proclamation of

neutrality, disturbed his plans, and brought him again into the arena

of affairs. The sympathy for the new French republic, natural and

pardonable as it was, overran all limits of reason. The popularity and

influence of Washington were hardly sufficient for the repression of

disorder and violence, and an armed espousal of the cause of the

French. Mr. Webster was solicited to devote himself to the support of

the administration, and means were furnished for the establishment by

him of a daily paper in New-York. He accordingly commenced _The

Minerva_, and soon after, a semi-weekly, _The Herald_, which

ultimately received the names which they now retain, of _The

Commercial Advertiser_, and _The New-York Spectator_.

Another agitation soon followed, if possible, still more

alarming--that which grew out of Jay's Treaty with England. The

discussions to which this gave rise were earnest, often angry and

vituperative, but always able, enlisting the most accomplished men of

the country. In these discussions Mr. Webster was, as might have been

anticipated, remarkably active. A series of papers by him, under the

signature of CURTIUS, had an unquestionable influence on the whole

nation. They were extensively reprinted and afterwards collected in a

volume. Mr. Rufus King said to Mr. Jay, that they had done more than

any others to allay the popular opposition to the treaty. During these

conflicts, Mr. Webster often encountered as an antagonist the

celebrated William Cobbett, at that time conducting a journal in

Philadelphia, distinguished alike for ability and for unscrupulous

violence.

While Mr. Webster lived in New-York, the yellow fever prevailed in

this city and in Philadelphia, and he wrote a minute and comprehensive

_History of Pestilential Diseases_, in two volumes, which was

published in New-York and in London. It attracted much attention in

its time, and was referred to with interest during the subsequent

prevalence of the cholera. He also published in 1802 an able treatise

on _The Rights of Neutral Nations in time of War_, occasioned by the

interference of the French government with the shipping of the world,

and its seizure of American vessels, under the proclamation of a

blockade. He also published _Historical Notices of the Origin and

State of Banking Institutions and Insurance Offices_, a work of

authority and popularity.

In 1798 he removed to New Haven, but retained the direction of his

paper at New-York for several years. After disposing of his interest

in it he devoted the remainder of his life to literary pursuits.

His first work was a _Philosophical and Practical English Grammar_,

printed in 1807. It was in many respects original, acute, and

excellently fitted for the purposes of instruction. It was, however,

only one of the studies for his subsequent and far more important

performance. For more than twenty years he had been a close student of

the elements and sources of the English language; he had gradually, as

his various occupations permitted, accumulated and arranged materials

for its exposition, and he now felt himself at liberty to forego all

other pursuits and ambitions to devote himself for the remainder of

his life to the great labors which have made his name so honorably

eminent in the history of the intellectual advances of his country and

of the Saxon family. The preparation of a Dictionary, under any

circumstances, must be regarded as a very formidable task, involving

even for an enthusiast the most dry and wearying researches,

unenlivened by any of the pleasing excitements which vary the monotony

and relieve the tedium of ordinary literary pursuits. Mr. Webster from

the beginning had a just conception of the duties and difficulties

before him; he was assured that no superficial study or careless

execution would command or in any degree deserve approval, in one who

followed in the track of Johnson. He was not disposed to make the work

of that great man a basis for his own; to be simply an editor, whose

duties should be fulfilled by additions of the new words and new

definitions introduced in seventy years; he determined to make a new

and altogether original work; to study the English language in the

writings of its most distinguished authors, to inquire into its actual

usage in conversation and public discourse, not by loosely gathered

and ill arranged groups of synonymes, but by a clear and precise

statement of meanings, illustrated, whenever it should be necessary,

by various instances. In this work, Johnson had made a beginning; he

first conceived the plan of defining by descriptions, instead of

synonymes; and he had introduced into his larger dictionary quotations

from the best authors. But his work, valuable as it was, was

imperfect, even in regard to the words current in his time, and which

he succeeded in collecting. But, if Johnson had perfectly accomplished

his design, the lapse of seventy years of such extraordinary and

various activity in every department of human action and aspiration,

would have rendered a New Dictionary indispensable. New sciences and

arts had been discovered, which, in their manifold applications to

industry, had changed or wonderfully augmented the technology and

common speech of every class and description of workers. New

experiments had been made in governments; new institutions had been

introduced; literature had assumed new forms; and speculation, with

perfect freedom and gigantic force, had forged new weapons for its new

endeavors. The necessity for a new Dictionary of the English language,

indeed is, demonstrated in the simple fact that the first edition of

Webster's great work contained twelve thousand words not in Johnson;

the second, thirty thousand. This statement does not, however, give a

just impression of the difference between Johnson and Webster, or of

the actual labor which Webster performed. The new definitions, many of

which were fruits, not more of patient research than of nice

discrimination, the arrangement of these definitions, so as to exhibit

the history of words as it had been slowly developed, cost the author

an amount of toil which can with difficulty be measured. We hazard

little concerning the importance or difficulties of the work, when we

quote the remark of Coleridge, that the history of a word is often

more important than that of a campaign.

The etymology of the language, was a subject to which he devoted much

attention, and in which he made great advances. To qualify himself for

tracing the derivations of English words, he studied some twenty

languages, and wrote out a synopsis of the leading words of each, and

incorporated the chief results of this extraordinary investigation in

the very full and instructive statement of words of similar imports,

which in the larger Dictionary is prefixed to English words, and which

he prepared for the press also, as a separate work, of about half the

size of the _American Dictionary_, entitled "_A Synopsis of Words in

Twenty Languages_," which is still unpublished.

In 1812, he removed to Amherst, in Massachusetts, where he devoted ten

years entirely to these labors. He returned to New Haven in 1822; in

the following year he received from Yale College the degree of LL. D.,

and in the spring of 1824 he proceeded to Paris to consult in the

_Bibliotheque du Roi_ some works not accessible in this country, and

then went to England and passed eight months in the libraries of the

University of Cambridge.

Returning to America, he made arrangements for the publication of his

great work, and it finally appeared, near the end of 1826, in an

edition of twenty-five hundred copies, in two quarto volumes, which

were sold at twenty dollars per copy. An edition of three thousand

copies was soon after printed in England.

Dr. Webster was now seventy years of age, and he considered his

life-task accomplished; but habits of literary occupation had become

fixed and necessary, and after a few months he began to rewrite his

_History of the United States for Schools_. In 1840 he published a

second edition of the _Dictionary_, in two octavo volumes; in 1843, _A

Collection of Papers, on Political, Literary and Moral Subjects_,

selected from his various writings in early life; and in 1847 another

edition of the _American Dictionary_ appeared, after a thorough

revision of it by Professor Goodrich, of Yale College. In this edition

very large additions were made, amounting to a fifth of the whole

work. There were new words, and new definitions, when needed; careful

attention was bestowed on technical terms of science and art; and it

was made a general cyclopaedia of knowledge. Yet by employing a finer

type, and adopting a close yet clear style of printing, the original

work, with all these copious additions, was brought within the compass

of a single quarto, which has been styled the finest specimen of

book-manufacture ever produced in America. A revised edition of the

abridgement was issued at the same time, and both volumes have had a

circulation which evinces the general appreciation of their value.

Several of the New England states, we believe, have furnished a copy

of the quarto Dictionary to every school district within their limits,

and the legislature of New-York, during its recent session, passed a

law for the distribution of some thousands of copies in the school

districts of this state also. Whatever may be said of the Dictionary

by Dr. WEBSTER, it will not be questioned by the disinterested scholar

that it is one of the most extraordinary and honorable monuments of

well-directed intellectual labor of which we have any account in the

histories of literature or learning. It is as great an advance from

the work of Dr. Johnson, as that was from the wretched vocabularies of

the English language which existed before his time; and so accurate

and exhausting has been the investigation which it displays that no

rival work is likely to take its place until sufficient time has

elapsed for the language itself to pass into a new condition.

[Illustration: THE BIRTHPLACE OF NOAH WEBSTER.]

Much has been said of Dr. Webster's innovations, but for the most

part, by persons altogether ignorant of the philosophy of languages in

general, as well as of the character and condition of the English

language. Dr. Webster attempted, and with eminent success, to reduce

the English language to order, and to subject it to the operation of

principles. The changes which he made, though in a few instances,

necessary for consistency, striking, are much less numerous than is

commonly supposed, and even to scholars, with whom the study of

languages is not a _specialite_, they would not be very apparent but

for the frequent attempts which are made to prejudice the public

against the work. An amusing illustration of this fact occurred a few

years ago, when, a concerted assault upon the Dictionary having been

made, and sustained for some time, a distinguished author who had a

new book in the press of the Harpers, was alarmed by intelligence that

they intended to adopt for it Webster's orthography. He wrote to

these publishers his apprehensions that the success of his

performance and his own good reputation could not fail of exceeding

injury, if their design should be executed, and begged them to adopt

some other work as a medium for the display of the Websterian

innovations. The Harpers replied that he might select his own

standard; they believed he had, perhaps unconsciously, followed

Webster in his _manuscript_, and that the several productions of his

which they had published in previous years had all been printed

according to Webster's Dictionary, which was the guide used in their

printing offices.

The incidents of Dr. Webster's life after the publication of the

second edition of his Dictionary, in 1840, were few and unimportant.

Indeed, with that effort he regarded his public life as brought to a

close. He passed through a serene old age, which was terminated by a

peaceful death, on the twenty-eighth of May, 1843, when he was in the

eighty-fifth year of his age.

DR. MERLE D'AUBIGNE AND THE ENGLISH CHURCH.

The celebrated German historian, Dr. MERLE D'AUBIGNE, is now in

England, and in consequence of certain proceedings growing out of his

occupation of an Episcopal pulpit recently, he has published a letter

to the Archbishop of Canterbury concerning the general subject of the

exclusion of continental Protestant ministers from the pulpits of

English churches. He is aware that, in consequence of the Act of

Uniformity, there are churches which cannot be opened to those

ministers, but he hopes that this law of exclusion will be repealed.

"It is no longer in harmony with the spirit and the wants of the

church in the age in which we live." The Calvinistic historian

expresses his conviction that the reestablishment of the Annual

Convocation would not reform the Church. The Convocation has been for

more than a century deprived of its powers, and it is to Parliament

that the question now belongs. He says:

"Why should I not express to you, my lord, a desire which I

have long had in my heart? This desire is, that being

surrounded by ministers and members of the Church the most

enlightened and most devoted to God and to his word, you

should digest and present to Parliament a plan, not to

_effect_ (_sic_) a reform of the Church, but to _establish

the authority_ (_sic_) which should be charged with its

reform and government. It seems to me that the best way

would be to establish a body similar to that which governs

the Episcopal church of America, composed of three chambers,

that of the bishops, that of the presbyters, and that of the

members of the Church, the two latter being ordinarily

united in one. The Americans of the United States have

received so much from you (they have received every thing,

even their very existence), why should you not take

something from them? I am convinced that sooner or later a

reform _must_ take place in the government of the Church of

England: it is important that it should be done well. I

think that there would be some hope of its being

accomplished in a good sense, if it were done while you, my

lord, are Primate of the Church, and while Victoria is Queen

of England."

Every thing seems to tend to an entire revolution in the British

ecclesiastical system, and the cooeperation of Dr. Merle and other

continental writers with those who are agitating the subject in

England--demanding the separation of the church from the state--makes

the prospect of such a separation more imminent than it has ever been

hitherto.

THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY J. R. THOMPSON.

When from thy side, love,

In silence and gloom,

Half broken-hearted

Fate tore me away,

All humbled in pride, love,

I thought in my doom,

That Hope had departed

For ever and aye!

But Fate may not banish

From memory's store,

That blissful communion

Of years that are flown,

Nor make yet to vanish

The lustre which o'er

Our fond thoughts of union,

So tenderly shone.

And still o'er the ocean

My fancy takes flight,

Where oft I see gleaming

Thy figure afar;

And I think with emotion,

That sometimes at night,

We watch the same beaming

And tremulous star.

The sunsets so golden.

That stream round me here,

But call up thy shadow

The landscape between:

And when in the olden

Dim season so dear,

It tripped o'er the meadow

With step of a queen.

As the light of the moon, love,

Like snow softly falls,

And rests on the mountain,

And silvers the sea,

That midnight in June, love,

My mem'ry recalls,

When up to the fountain

I clambered with thee.

How sweetly the river

Reflected the ray

Of moon through the willows

Or sun o'er the hill:

Does the moonbeam there quiver,

The sunset there play,

Upon its gay billows

As splendidly still?

My spirit is weary--

An exile I grieve,

When morn's early voices

A glad song proclaim,

And the faint Miserere

Of nature at eve,

To me but rejoices

To murmer thy name.

Yet Hope, reappearing,

A vision unfolds,

Of rapture together

In joy's happy reign,

When love all endearing

The full eye beholds,

We'll walk o'er the heather

At sunset again.

RICHMOND, Va.

DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

THE GAME OF CHESS.

We played at chess, Bianca and myself,

One afternoon, but neither won the game,

Both absent-minded, thinking of our hearts

Moving the ivory pawns from black to white,

Shifted to little purpose round the board;

Sometimes we quite forgot it in a sigh

And then remembered it, and moved again;

Looking the while along the slopes beyond,

Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the grove

Where lovers sat in shadow, back again,

With sideway glances in each other's eyes;

Unknowingly I made a lucky move,

Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen;

My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand--

A soft white hand that gave itself away--

Told o'er the simple story of my love,

In simplest phrases which are always best,

And prayed her if she loved me in return--

A fabled doubt--to give her heart to me;

And then, and there, above that game of chess,

Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness,

She gave me, what I knew was mine, her heart!

FROM A PLAY.

Alas! I think of you the live-long day,

Plying my needle by the little stand,

And wish that we had never, never met,

Or I were dead, or you were married off,

Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,

And take the lute you gave me, but the strings

Have grown so tuneless that I cannot play;

I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,

The sweet old tunes we love, and weep aloud!

I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-day

To read a chapter in the Holy Book;

I could not see a line, I only read

The solemn sonnets that you sent to me:

Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,

For you come in between me and the Lord,

And when I strive to lift my soul above,

My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!

And nights, when I am lying on my bed,

(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly,)

I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream

I am your own, your wedded, happy wife,--

But that can never, never be on earth!

THE COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN.

We gave in the last _International_ a short notice of "_Von Babylon

nach Jerusalem_" (A Journey from Babylon to Jerusalem), by Ida,

Countess of Hahn-Hahn, in which she declares her conversion to

Christianity and Catholicism. What the Germans themselves think of

this work may be gathered from the following brief review, which has

just fallen under our notice in the _Central Blatt_. The article is

curious, from the "intensely German" style and spirit in which it is

written, though we cannot very warmly commend either.

"The above-mentioned work," which contains an account of the

conversion of its celebrated authoress to the Catholic belief, says

the critic, "presents a sad picture of the complete decay and

dissolution of a _void subjectivity_ (a vacant mind).

"The writer falls a sacrifice to her exclusive, aristocratic position

in society. Without occupying any place in the world, won and

maintained by personal ability, and consequently without a

well-grounded moral standard, she wanders like a homeless being from

land to land, every where influenced, 'as far as it agreed with her

disposition,' by her momentary interests, and thus rendering apparent

the barrenness of her soul. But this had been developed at an early

period. 'That this feeling (that of joy) was occasionally accompanied

by the deepest discontent, appearing as an unearthly _ennui_--and that

over it swept the darkest melancholy, will be readily intelligible to

every one, for they are the twin sisters of the fortune of this

world.' 'And occasionally it was a kind of heroism, in that I sat

myself down, and--wrote a romance. Was it finished, I travelled--did I

return, I described the tour--was there a time when the book was

complete and circumstances did not permit of travelling, I took with

raging appetite to reading--and when I no longer wrote, no longer

travelled, and could no longer read for any determined

purpose--because I had none--I knew not what to do with my time. I

could not create illusions, and say to myself, Try this! try that!

perhaps the world hath yet somewhat hidden for thee--the call of

Knowledge is incessant. No, no! she hath nothing. Well--what then?

God? There stood the Word, the One, the Eternal.' Thereupon she reads

the greater and lesser catechisms of Luther, the creeds of the

evangelic reformed church, and the decrees and canons of the Council

of Trent. 'But only the Catholic church hath under roof and proof

brought her dogma-buildings to a tower, provided with the

lightning-rod of authority.' Thereupon she determines, 'I asked no

human being for explanation, information, or counsel--not even

myself.' Three months after, on the first day of January, 1850, she

wrote to the Cardinal Prince-Bishop of Breslau, to beg of him aid in

her entrance to the church.

"The moral vacancy displayed in these quotations corresponds with the

shallow manner and half romantic, half French style of the book.

Though the first part be written in a fresher and livelier style than

the second, there is still not to be found in the whole a single

well-determined and clearly-impressed thought, and whenever we imagine

that we have hit upon such a thing, straightway we find whirling forth

the dust-clouds of an obscure, phrase-laden, highly affected

sentimental feeling, which, without any real energy, stirs itself up

with repeated 'ohs!' and 'ahs!' and other forced sighs and artificial

aids. In place of such thoughts we find a shallow and occasionally

insupportably wearisome speech on the ideal of Catholicism, or 'the

heathenish abomination in art and literature, which, after the fall of

Byzantium was transported thence to Italy, and there received with

that love which impels sensuous mortals to joyfully draw into the

sphere of his life the new and glittering, because it promises fresh

and shining pleasures.'(!) In another place she speaks of the

reformers as 'miserable, narrow-minded heads, who should have chosen

other ground whereon to exercise their love of quarrelling;' while

the second half of her book is confined almost exclusively to the

democrats, and the events which took place from 1847 to 1849. In this

part the authoress displays the greatest want of intellect, and is

sadly wearisome; but her frivolity of manners and morals appears most

repulsive in her account of the Reformation. None of the

Catholics--not even Cochlaeus himself--has so far degraded himself as

to interpret in such a vulgar manner the deeds of the reformers (more

particularly Luther's) as is here done by--a lady!

"If the Countess places at the conclusion of her work the words 'Soli

Deo Gloria,' this is merely in accordance with a Catholic custom, and

by no means meant in earnest, since the work is more particularly

adapted to flatter the vanity and self-conceit of its composer, who

cannot imagine why she should suffer the disgrace to belong to the

German nation. A vain, coquettish self-regard, an affected,

aristocratic-noble nonchalance, and a contradicting, heresy-accusing

confidence of judgment, meet us on every side, and render us

completely opposed to the pretence and moral vacancy of this book."

These are bitter words, and bitterly spoken, when thus applied to a

woman. The reader will in their perusal remember that the writer is

evidently influenced by a deep feeling against all that savors of

conservatism in politics, and shares in an unusual degree the popular

German feeling against _emancipiste Frauen_, or women who strive

against the bonds which the customs of society have imposed on the

sex,--a feeling, which, however creditable it may be when applied to

undue extravagances of manners or morals, should be carefully guarded

against when it threatens an unconditional restraint of every exertion

of feminine genius and talent.

JULES JANIN, AND THE PARIS FEUILLETONISTES.

Jules Janin, whose name, of so constant recurrence in the contemporary

history of light literature, artistic criticism, and _feuilleton_, is

the Prince Royal of the brilliant court of gifted, tasteful, witty and

_spirituel_ writers, who compose the body of Parisian

_feuilletonistes_. These are men who write, not because they have any

thing especial to say--for their peculiar function is to say nothing,

in a pointed and brilliant manner--but because they love leisure and

luxury, the opera, pictures, and beautiful ballet girls, and must

themselves make the golden lining to their purses, which they can do

by the very simple process of weaving the similar lining of their

brains into a _feuilleton_. They are often scholars, men of fine

cultivation and genius, whose tastes however are so imperious, and who

enjoy so much the ease thus facilely achieved, that they accomplish no

great work, win no lasting name. Of course the _feuilletonist_ proper

is to be distinguished from the author or novelist who publishes a

work in the _Feuilleton_, as Lamartine his _Confidences_, and Sue and

Dumas and George Sand, their romances. We propose now to follow

briefly the sparkling career of JULES JANIN as the type of the life,

character, and success of the _feuilletonistes_.

He came to Paris, a Jew: as Meyerbeer, Heine, Grisi, Rachel, and the

long luminous list of contemporary artists who have made fame in

Paris, are Jews. He supported himself by teaching--doing nothing, but

very conscious that he could do something--at all events he could

lecture upon the Syrian language, if for a week he could prepare

himself. Then he wrote in little theatrical papers, and received

twenty-five francs a month. But in 1830 he happily succeeded to his

present position in the _Journal des Debats_. He is now a rich man. He

gives splendid soirees in his saloons glittering with oriental luxury,

and artists and authors bow before him. Like Henry Heine, his

contemporary, whom he as much resembles in talent as in manner, he

declared now for the Republic and Freedom, now for the Church and

King, until his connection with the _Debats_ impressed upon him the

conservative seal. He since loudly declaims for public

morality--against the prostitution of the press; but his early works

were the most licentious of any that have swarmed from the fertile

French genius of social protestantism. His first novel, published in

1829, _The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman_, is the history of a

prostitute, from the brothel, to the murder of her child, and her

execution, garnished with Byronic sentimentalities upon the

transitoriness of things temporal.

Jules Janin's next work was one of the most instructive illustrations

of the character of French romance at that period when literary

feeling and taste seemed to reach the artificial point that is

artistically achieved by the melo-dramas of Chatham-street and the

Strand. We record it as a literary curiosity, as the work of a "fast"

Frenchman, a Parisian Vivian Grey, on a small scale. It is called _The

Penitent_, and was published in 1830. It opens with a marriage. The

bride, who has been violently dancing, retires, overcome with sleep,

and the husband in his rage at her sleepiness smothers her. It is

nominally supposed that she has been stricken with apoplexy, but a

Jesuit, who meditates many mysteries, understands the whole matter,

yet observes the most discreet silence. The young man, who is somewhat

conscience-pricked, still persists in profligacy, until he is

overwhelmed by remorse, and rushes to the church to receive

absolution. He seeks a trusty confessor, and of course finds the old

Jesuit; but as he finds it difficult to obtain access to him, makes

the acquaintance of a girl, with whom the Jesuit has some kind of

relation, and in order to win her to his will, seduces her! Then comes

the Jesuit and begins to fulminate excommunications and damnations.

But the youth bursts into a passionate strain of repentance, and is

told by the old Jesuit, that the difficulty in his case, is a

religious one, that in fact the murder was "a circumstance" arising

from his irreligious state, and that by genuine repentance the matter

will be arranged. _Presto_: The youth repents and enters the church,

is made Bishop and proceeds through an endless course of fat capon and

Chateau Margaux to an edifying end!

The boldest efforts of young France and young Germany, are feeble by

the side of this extraordinary effort. His earlier tales, which are

somewhat in the style of Hoffmann, Jules Janin published in the year

1833, under the title of _Fantastic Tales_, and a series of works of

less size and importance followed, until the series of papers, half

fiction, half fact, which, in the novel form, treated a great variety

of historico-literary subjects. His last romance is the _Nun of

Toulouse_, written during the revolution of '48. It sparkles with the

same sprightly skepticism and spiritual coquetry that distinguished

his earlier works, yet he celebrates in it those beautiful times, the

"old times," in which the serenity of faith was never ruffled by

impertinent thought; and in his recent letters from the Great

Exhibition, he indulges in the same strain, and sighs for the

magnificence of the monarchy.

But his weekly contributions to the _Debats_, the rapid dashing review

of the dramatic novelties and incidents in a metropolis where alone a

living drama survives, and which he serves up garnished with the most

felicitous verbal graces and the most charming intellectual conceits,

every Monday morning--these are the flowers whence the brilliant Jules

Janin builds the honey hive of his reputation. He has decreed the

fashion of the _Feuilleton_, and the other Parisian critics flash and

snap and sparkle, as much like Jules Janin as possible. Their articles

are the streak of _light_ in the dimness of the preponderating

political literature of the week. They hold high holiday at the bottom

of the page, although the history of revolutions, and woes, and the

rumors of wars and impending millenniums may throw their sombre

shadows along the columns above. They raise their banner of a

butterfly's wing, emblazoned with _Vive la Bagatelle_, and march on to

the tournament of wit and beauty. They belong to France; their game is

the gambol of the exuberance of French genius. They are more than

witty, they are _spirituel_; and they have more than talent, they have

taste.

In a day of such rapid and facile printing as ours, this department of

literary labor was a necessity. Every man who has a conceit and can

write, may parade it before the world. In the mass of pleasant

common-place, what is _bizarre_ may supplant the symmetrically

beautiful. To seize therefore what every man saw, and with nimble

fingers to weave a transparent tissue of gorgeous words through which

every man's impressions of what he saw look large and graceful and

piquant--to sum up a vaudeville in a _bon mot_, and a ballet in a

voluptuous trope,--_voila! c'est fait_, you have the recipe of a

successful _feuilletoniste_. Hence, the influence of these writers,

upon _words_, has been remarkable. The French language, long so

precise, is now among the most dissolute of tongues. It reels through

the columns of a _feuilleton_, drunk and dim-eyed with expletives and

exaggerations and beatified adjectives, so that, fascinated with the

casket, you quite forget the jewel. The language of dramatic and

operatic criticism in Paris is now inexplicable to any one but an

_habitue_. If you should tell John Bull, who wishes to go to the

opera, that Alboni's singing is _pyramidale_, he would expect to see

the fair and fat contralto sharpened to a point at top,--but, I grant,

if you should call it "jolly" or "stunning," he would entirely

comprehend that you meant to express your admiration in superlatives.

I must not longer gossip as these gay gossips do, these fanciful

_feuilletonistes_, nor seek more deeply to draw the outline of these

rainbow bubbles upon the stream of the time, whether it flow turbid or

transparent. One cannot live upon sugar and nutmeg, or even upon

allspice. But our friends are a literary phenomenon not to be omitted,

and if you love the Muses, you will not omit to snuff the azure

incense offered weekly by the _feuilletonistes_.

Jules Janin shall show us out of this article as he ushered us in. The

Great Mogul of the _Feuilleton_ had purchased a carriage whose luxury,

and taste of appointment, and perfection of footman, was unsurpassed

in the Champs Elysee. But the gods are jealous and the

_feuilletonistes_ have thus the highest authority for jealousy. So, on

one evening when the exquisite equipage awaited its master at the

grand opera, a crowd of lesser critical luminaries gathered around it,

and both reviled and envied the fortunate owner. While they were thus

engaged, the great critic came out of the opera house and saw his

contemporaries engaged in longing and envious remark. Now tact is the

sublimest secret of success--and smilingly Jules Janin advanced

cheerily, greeted his friends cordially, and piled into the carriage

all of them who lived in his neighborhood.

They naturally reserved the seat of honor for the owner, but this

great General seizing the most inimical of all the party who lived in

a quarter of the city farthest from his own home, pushed him into the

vacant seat, ordered his coachman to set him down first, and then

humming the finale of the opera, lighted a cigar and sauntered

leisurely down the street. It was like Jules Janin to make his own

marriage the subject of a _Feuilleton_. In his case the man and the

_feuilletoniste_ are the same.

ODE XX. OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DACIER FOR THE INTERNATIONAL

MAGAZINE,

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

Niobe, maddened by her woes, of yore.

The gods in pity turned to marble fair;

And wretched Progne, doomed for evermore,

Changed to a swallow wings the upper air.

But ah! would Love, whom I, enslaved, obey,

By his sweet power transform me, I would be

The mirror in thy hand, if thus, alway,

Thy gentle eyes would fondly turn on me.

Or, I would be the perfume that reveals

Its fragrance 'mid the tresses of thy hair;

Or, that soft veil which o'er thy bosom steals,

And jealous, hides the ivory treasure there.

Or I would be the robe that round thee flows,

The zone that circles thee with fond caress;

The rivulet that with thy beauty glows,

And to its breast enclasps thy loveliness.

Or I were blest those envied pearls to be

That closely thus thy swan-white neck entwine;

Or e'en to be the sandal, pressed by thee,

Were, for thy lover, destiny divine.

SWEDISH LANDSCAPES: BY HERR ANDERSEN.

In the last _International_ we gave some characteristic historical

sketches from Hans Christian Andersen's latest and most delightful

book, the _Pictures of Sweden_; but the inspiration of nature is more

powerful with him than that of history, and he is never so felicitous

as when painting the scenery of his native country, though he has

certainly indulged, to a greater extent than a sober taste can

approve, in that passion for the fantastic and visionary, which has

been but too visibly manifested in some of his later and slighter

works. Our readers, however, shall judge for themselves. The forests

of Sweden and its rivers give the most noticeable features to its

landscape. This is how they appeared to Andersen--the forest first:

"We are a long way over the elv. We have left the

corn-fields behind, and have just come into the forest,

where we halt at that small inn which is ornamented over the

doors and windows with green branches for the midsummer

festival. The whole kitchen is hung round with branches of

birch and the berries of the mountain ash; the oat cakes

hang on long poles under the ceiling; the berries are

suspended above the head of the old woman who is just

scouring her brass kettle bright.

"The tap-room, where the peasants sit and carouse, is just

as finely hung round with green. Midsummer raises its leafy

arbor every where, yet it is most flush in the forest which

extends for miles around. Our road goes for miles through

that forest, without seeing a house, or the possibility of

meeting travellers, driving, riding, or walking. Come! The

ostler puts fresh horses to the carriage; come with us into

the large woody desert: we have a regular trodden way to

travel, the air is clear, here is summer's warmth and the

fragrance of birch and lime. It is an up-and-downhill road,

always bending, and so, ever changing, but yet always

forest-scenery--the close, thick forest. We pass small

lakes, which lie so still and deep, as if they concealed

night and sleep under their dark, glassy surfaces.

"We are now on a forest plain, where only charred stumps of

trees are to be seen; this long tract is black, burnt, and

deserted, not a bird flies over it. Tall, hanging birches

now greet us again; a squirrel springs playfully across the

road, and up into the tree; we cast our eyes searchingly

over the wood-grown mountain side, which slopes so far, far

forward, but not a trace of a house is to be seen: nowhere

does that bluish smoke-cloud rise, that shows us, here are

fellow-men. The sun shines warm; the flies dance around the

horses, settle on them, fly off again, and dance as though

it were to qualify themselves for resting and being still.

They perhaps think, 'Nothing is going on without us: there

is no life while we are doing nothing.' They think, as many

persons think, and do not remember that time's horses always

fly onward with us!

"How solitary is it here! so delightfully solitary! one is

so entirely alone with God and one's self. As the sunlight

streams forth over the earth, and over the extensive

solitary forests, so does God's Spirit stream over and into

mankind; ideas and thoughts unfold themselves--endless,

inexhaustible, as He is--as the magnet which apportions its

powers to the steel, and itself loses nothing thereby. As

our journey through the forest scenery here along the

extended solitary road, so, travelling on the great high

road of thought, ideas pass through our head. Strange, rich

caravans pass by from the works of poets, from the home of

memory, strange and novel; for capricious fancy gives birth

to them at the moment. There comes a procession of pious

children with waving flags and joyous songs; there come

dancing Menades, the blood's wild Bacchantes. The sun pours

down hot in the open forest; it is as if the Southern summer

had laid itself up here to rest in Scandinavian forest

solitude, and sought itself out a glade where it might lie

in the sun's hot beams and sleep; hence this stillness as if

it were night. Not a bird is heard to twitter, not a pine

tree moves. Of what does the Southern summer dream here in

the North, amongst pines and fragrant birches?

"In the writings of the olden time, from the classic soil of

the South, are sagas of mighty fairies, who, in the skins of

swans, flew towards the North, to the Hyperboreans' land, to

the east of the north winds; up there, in the deep still

lakes, they bathed themselves, and acquired a renewed form.

We are in the forest by these deep lakes; we see swans in

flocks fly over us, and swim upon the rapid elv and on the

still waters...."

"Woodland solitude! what images dost thou not present to our

thoughts! Woodland solitude! through thy vaulted halls

people now pass in the summer time with cattle and domestic

utensils; children and old men go to the solitary pasture

where echo dwells, where the national song springs forth

with the wild mountain flower! Dost thou see the procession?

Paint it if thou canst! The broad wooden cart, laden high

with chests and barrels, with jars and with crockery. The

bright copper kettle and the tin dish shine in the sun. The

old grandmother sits at the top of the load, and holds her

spinning wheel, which complete the pyramid. The father

drives the horse, the mother carries the youngest child on

her back, sewed up in a skin, and the procession moves on

step by step. The cattle are driven by the half-grown

children; they have stuck a birch branch between one of the

cows' horns, but she does not appear to be proud of her

finery; she goes the same quiet pace as the others, and

lashes the saucy flies with her tail. If the night becomes

cold on this solitary pasture, there is fuel enough; here

the tree falls of itself from old age, and lies and rots.

"But take especial care of the fire--fear the fire-spirit in

the forest desert! He comes from the unextinguishable pile;

he comes from the thunder-cloud, riding on the blue

lightning's flame, which kindles the thick, dry moss of the

earth: trees and bushes are kindled; the flames run from

tree to tree, it is like a snow-storm of fire! the flames

leap to the tops of the trees. What a crackling and roaring,

as if it were the ocean in its course! The birds fly upward

in flocks, and fall down suffocated by the smoke; the

animals flee, or, encircled by the fire, are consumed in it!

Hear their cries and roars of agony! The howling of the wolf

and the bear, dost thou know it? A calm rainy day, and the

forest-plains themselves alone are able to confine the fiery

sea, and the burnt forest stands charred, with black trunks

and black stumps of trees, as we saw them here in the forest

by the broad high-road. On this road we continue to travel,

but it becomes worse and worse; it is, properly speaking, no

road at all, but it is about to become one. Large stones lie

half dug up, and we drive past them; large trees are cast

down, and obstruct our way, and therefore we must descend

from the carriage. The horses are taken out, and the

peasants help to lift and push the carriage forward over

ditches and opened paths. The sun now ceases to shine; some

few rain-drops fall, and now it is a steady rain. But how it

causes the birch to shed its fragrance! At a distance there

are huts erected of loose trunks of trees and fresh green

boughs, and in each there is a large fire burning. See where

the blue smoke curls through the green leafy roof; peasants

are within at work, hammering and forging; here they have

their meals. They are now laying a mine in order to blast a

rock, and the pine and birch emit a finer fragrance. It is

delightful in the forest."

So say we. It is delightful in the forest; not less so on the

torrent-river of Scandinavia:

"Before Homer sang, there were heroes; but they are not

known, no poet celebrated their fame. It is just so with the

beauties of nature; they must be brought into notice by

words and delineations, be brought before the eyes of the

multitude; get a sort of world's patent for what they are.

The elvs of the North have rushed and whirled along for

thousands of years in unknown beauty. The world's great

high-road does not take this direction; no steam-packet

conveys the traveller comfortably along the streams of the

Dal-elvs; fall on fall makes sluices indispensable and

invaluable. Schubert is, as yet, the only stranger who has

written about the magnificence and southern beauty of

Dalecarlia, and spoken of its greatness.

"Clear as the waves of the sea does the mighty elv stream in

endless windings through forest deserts and varying plains,

sometimes extending its deep bed, sometimes confining it,

reflecting the bending trees and the red-painted

block-houses of solitary towns, and sometimes rushing like a

cataract over immense blocks of rock.

"Miles apart from one another, out of the ridge of mountains

between Sweden and Norway, come the east and west Dal-elvs,

which first become confluent and have one bed above Balstad.

They have taken up rivers and lakes in their waters. Do but

visit this place! here are pictorial riches to be found: the

most picturesque landscapes, dizzyingly grand, smilingly

pastoral, idyllic; one is drawn onward up to the very source

of the elv, the bubbling well above Finman's hut; one feels

a desire to follow every branch of the stream that the river

takes in.

"The first mighty fall, Njupesker's Cataract, is seen by the

Norwegian frontier in Semasog. The mountain stream rushes

perpendicularly from the rock to a depth of seventy fathoms.

"We pause in the dark forest, where the elv seems to collect

within itself nature's whole deep gravity. The stream rolls

its clear waters over a porphyry soil, where the mill-wheel

is driven, and the gigantic porphyry bowls and sarcophagi

are polished.

"We follow the stream through Siljan's lake, where

superstition sees the water-sprite swim like the sea-horse,

with a mane of green seaweed; and where the aerial images

present visions of witchcraft in the warm summer day.

"We sail on the stream from Siljan's lake under the weeping

willows of the parsonage, where the swans assemble in

flocks; we glide along slowly with horses and carriages on

the great ferry-boat, away over the rapid current under

Balstad's picturesque shore. Here the elv widens and rolls

its billows majestically in a woodland landscape, as large

and extended as if it were in North America.

"We see the rushing, rapid stream under Avista's yellow clay

declivities; the yellow water falls, like fluid amber, in

picturesque cataracts before the copper works, where

rainbow-colored tongues of fire shoot themselves upwards,

and the hammer's blow on the copper-plates resound to the

monotonous, roaring rumble of the elv-fall."

And so on, past the famous fall down which the waters gush, ere they

lose themselves in the waters of the Baltic. One glimpse more ere they

reach their resting-place. We take them up as they are circling the

garden of a trim Swedish manor-house:

"The garden itself was a piece of enchantment. There stood

three transplanted beech trees, and they throve well. The

sharp north wind had rounded off the tops of the wild

chestnut trees of the avenue in a singular manner; they

looked as if they had been under the gardener's shears.

Golden yellow oranges hung in the conservatory; the splendid

Southern exotics had to-day got the windows half open, so

that the artificial warmth met the fresh, warm, sunny air of

the Northern summer.

"The branch of the Dal-elv which goes round the garden is

strewn with small islands, where beautiful hanging birches

and fir-trees grow in Scandinavian splendor. There are small

islands with green, silent groves; there are small islands

with rich grass, tall brakens, variegated bell flowers, and

cowslips. No Turkey carpet has fresher colors. The stream

between these islands and holmes is sometimes rapid, deep,

and clear; sometimes like a broad rivulet with silky green

rushes, water lilies, and brown feathered reeds; sometimes

it is a brook with a stony ground, and now it spreads itself

out in a large, still mill-dam.

"Here is a landscape in midsummer for the games of the

river-sprites, and the dancers of the elves and fairies!

There, in the lustre of the full moon, the dryads can tell

their tales, the water-sprites seize the golden harp, and

believe that one can be blessed, at least for one single

night, like this.

"On the other side of Ens Bruck is the main stream--the full

Dal-elv. Do you hear the monotonous rumble? It is not from

Elvkarleby Fall that it reaches hither; it is close by; it

is from Laa Foss in which lies Ash Island: the elv streams

and rushes over the leaping salmon.

"Let us sit here, between the fragments of rock by the

shore, in the red evening sunlight, which sheds a golden

lustre on the waters of the Dal-elv.

"Glorious river! But a few seconds' work hast thou to do in

the mills yonder, and thou rushest foaming on over

Elvkarleby's rocks, down into the deep bed of the river,

which leads thee to the Baltic--thy eternity."

We could fill half our number with passages just as beautiful; but

will leave the rest of the poet's landscapes till some American

publisher brings out the book. We must nevertheless quote one picture

of a different kind. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;"

and the sorrows of the palace and the cottage alike find their level

and their rest in the grave. The "Mute Book" speaks with a moving

eloquence to those who can read it aright:

"By the high-road into the forest there stood a solitary

farm-house. One way lay right through the farm-yard; the sun

shone; all the windows were open; there was life and bustle

within, but in the yard, in an arbor of flowering lilacs,

there stood an open coffin. The corpse had been placed out

here, and it was to be buried that forenoon. No one stood

by, and wept over that dead man; no one hung sorrowfully

over him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under

his head there lay a large, thick book, every leaf of which

was a whole sheet of gray paper, and, between each, lay

withered flowers, deposited and forgotten,--a whole

herbarium, gathered in different places. He himself had

requested that it should be laid in the grave with him. A

chapter of his life was blended with every flower! 'Who is

that dead man?' we asked, and the answer was, 'The old

student from Upsala. They say he was once very clever; he

knew the learned languages, could sing and write verses too;

but then there was something that went wrong, and so he gave

both his thoughts and himself up to drinking spirits, and,

as his health suffered by it, he came out here into the

country, where they paid for his board and lodging. He was

as gentle as a child when the dark humor did not come over

him, for then he was strong, and ran about in the forest

like a hunted deer; but when we got him home, we persuaded

him to look into the book with the dry plants. Then he would

sit the whole day, and look at one plant, and then at

another, and many a time the tears ran down his cheeks. God

knows what he then thought! But he begged that he might have

the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, and

the lid will soon be fastened down, and then he will take

his peaceful rest in the grave!'

"They raised the winding sheet. There was peace in the face

of the dead. A sunbeam fell on it; a swallow, in its

arrow-flight, darted into the new-made arbor, and in its

flight circled twittering over the dead man's head.

"How strange it is!--we all assuredly know it--to take out

old letters from the days of one's youth, and read them: a

whole life, as it were, then rises up, with all its hopes

and all its troubles. How many of those with whom we, in

their time, lived so devotedly, are now even as the dead to

us, and yet they still live! But we have not thought of them

for many years--them whom we once thought we should always

cling to, and share our mutual joys and sorrows with!

"The withered oak-leaf in the book here, is a memorial of

the friend--the friend of his school days--the friend for

life. He fixed this leaf on the student's cap, in the

greenwood, when the vow of friendship was concluded for the

whole life. Where does he now live? The leaf is preserved;

friendship forgotten. Here is a foreign conservatory plant,

too fine for the gardens of the North. It looks as if there

still were fragrance in it. _She_ gave it to him--she, the

lady of that noble garden!

"Here is the marsh-lotus, which, he himself has plucked and

watered with salt tears--the marsh-lotus from the fresh

waters! And here is a nettle; what do its leaves say! What

did he think on plucking it?--on preserving it? Here are

lilies of the valley, from the woodland solitudes; here are

honeysuckles from the village ale-house flower-pot; and here

the bare, sharp blade of grass. The flowering lilac bends

its fresh, fragrant clusters over the dead man's head; the

swallow again flies past--'qui-vit! qui-vit!' Now the men

come with nails and hammer; the lid is placed over the

corpse, whose head rests on the 'Mute

Book'--preserved--forgotten!"

The book, to those who are not repelled by a certain quaintness of

manner from the enjoyment of a work of true genius, will form a

permanent and delightful addition to those pictures of many lands

which the enterprise and accomplishment of modern travellers is

creating for the delight of those whose range of locomotion is bounded

by the limits of their own country, or by the four walls of a sick

chamber.

Andersen has grown old in years, and with age he has increase of art,

but he was never younger in spirit, and his genius never blossomed

with more freshness and beauty.

VERSES

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

My desk is heaped with niceties

From tropic lands divine,

But this is braver far than all--

A flask of Chian wine!

Brim up my golden drinking-cup,

And reach a dish of fruit,

And then unlock my cabinet,

And hand me out my lute;

For when these luxuries have fed

And filled my brain with light,

I must compose a nuptial song,

To suit my bridal night!

A CHAPTER OF PARODIES.

Parodies have been much in vogue in almost every age; among the

Greeks, Latins, Germans, French, and English, it has been among the

commonest of literary pleasantries to turn verses into ridicule by

applying them to a purpose never dreamed of by their authors, or to

burlesque serious pieces by affecting to observe the same rhymes,

words, and cadences. The wicked arts of Charles the Second's time thus

made fun of the hymns of the Roundheads, and pious people have since

turned the tables by adapting to good uses the profane airs and

sensual songs of the opera house. Of the class of puns, parodies have

in the scale of art a much higher rank, and occasionally they furnish

specimens of genuine poetry. Among the best we have ever seen are a

considerable number attributed to Miss Phebe Carey, of Ohio; they are

rich in quaint and natural humor, and as a London critic describes

them, "wonderfully American." In its way, we have seen nothing better

than this reflex of Bayard Taylor's poem of "Manuela."

MARTHA HOPKINS.

A BALLAD OF INDIANA.

From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies,

Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;

Where along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,

And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.

All the air is full of noises, for there isn't any school,

And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;

Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens cackling for they cannot laugh,

Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.

Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze

On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?

Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way,

Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay?

Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,

With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line;

And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her freckled cheek,--

Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.

When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed,

She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road;

Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,

Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.

Ere supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick,

Crossed the rushing Yellow River and had forded quite a creek,

And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,

With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.

Therefore watches Martha Hopkins--holding in her hands the pans,

When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;

Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,

But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.

Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough,

But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;

Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,

As he jogs along at leisure with his head down like a sheep's.

She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest;

By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;

By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread

By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.

None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroke ox can throw,

None amid his father's corn-fields use like him the spade and hoe;

And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen,

That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin.

He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now,

For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,

When the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,

Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.

He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown,

And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;

That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,

To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.

Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape,

'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape,

Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,

One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.

But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread,

As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.

Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,

'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there!

Here is one scarcely less happy upon Mr. Willis's "Better Moments:"

WORSER MOMENTS.

That fellow's voice! how often steals

Its cadence o'er my lonely days!

Like something sent on wagon wheels,

Or packed in an unconscious chaise.

I might forget the words he said

When all the children fret and cry,

But when I get them off to bed,

His gentle tone comes stealing by--

And years of matrimony flee,

And leave me sitting on his knee.

The times he came to court a spell,

The tender things he said to me,

Make me remember mighty well

My hopes that he'd propose to me.

My face is uglier, and perhaps

Time and the comb have thinned my hair;

And plain and common are the caps,

And dresses that I have to wear--

But memory is ever yet

With all that fellow's flat'ries writ.

I have been out at milking-time

Beneath a dull and rainy sky,

When in the barn 'twas time to feed,

And calves were bawling lustily--

When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats,

And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard,

And all that makes the cattle pass

With wilder richness through the yard--

When all was hateful, then have I,

With friends who had to help me milk,

Talked of his wife most spitefully,

And how he kept her dressed in silk;

And when the cattle, running there,

Threw over me a shower of mud,

That fellow's voice came on the air,

Like the light chewing of the cud--

And resting near some spreckled cow,

The spirit of a woman's spite,

I've poured a low and fervent vow,

To make him, if I had the might,

Live all his life-time just as hard,

And milk his cows in such a yard.

I have been out to pick up wood

When night was stealing from the dawn,

Before the fire was burning good,

Or I had put the kettle on

The little stove--when babes were waking

With a low murmur in the beds,

And melody by fits was breaking

Above their little yellow heads--

And this when I was up perhaps

From a few short and troubled naps--

And when the sun sprang scorchingly

And freely up, and made us stifle,

And fell upon each hill and tree

The bullets from his subtle rifle--

I say a voice has thrilled me then,

Hard by that solemn pile of wood,

Or creeping from the silent glen,

Like something on the unfledged brood,

Hath stricken me, and I have pressed

Close in my arms my load of chips,

And pouring forth the hatefulest

Of words that ever passed my lips,

Have felt my woman's spirit rush

On me, as on that milking night,

And, yielding to the blessed gush

Of my ungovernable spite,

Have risen up, the wed, the old,

Scolding as hard as I could scold.

And in the same vein "The Annoyer," in which is imitated one of the

most delicate pieces of sentiment and fancy which Willis has given us:

THE ANNOYER.

"Common as light is love,

And its familiar voice wearies not ever."--SHELLEY.

Love knoweth every body's house,

And every human haunt,

And comes unbidden, every where,

Like people we don't want.

The turnpike roads and little creeks

Are written with love's words,

And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks

In the lowing of the herds.

He peeps into the teamster's heart,

From his Buena Vista's rim,

And the cracking whips of many men

Can never frighten him.

He'll come to his cart in the weary night,

When he's dreaming of his craft;

And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,

Like a man on a river raft.

He hears the sound of the cooper's adz,

And makes him too his dupe,

For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile

As he hammers on the hoop.

The little girl, the beardless boy,

The men that walk or stand,

He will get them all in his mighty arms

Like the grasp of your very hand.

The shoemaker bangs above his bench,

And ponders his shining awl,

For love is under the lap-stone hid,

And a spell is on the wall.

It heaves the sole where he drives the pegs,

And speaks in every blow,

'Till the last is dropped from his crafty hand,

And his foot hangs bare below.

He blurs the prints which the shopmen sell,

And intrudes on the hatter's trade,

And profanes the hostler's stable-yard

In the shape of a chamber-maid.

In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,

Knowing that he can win,

In every home of good-looking folks

Will human love come in.

The next is from Poe's "Annabel Lee:"

SAMUEL BROWN.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a dwelling down in town,

That a fellow there lived whom you may know

By the name of Samuel Brown;

And this fellow he lived with no other thought

Than to our house to come down.

I was a child and he was a child,

In that dwelling down in town,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Samuel Brown--

With a love that the ladies coveted,

Me and Samuel Brown.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

To that dwelling down in town,

A girl came out of her carriage, courting

My beautiful Samuel Brown;

So that her high-bred kinsman came

And bore away Samuel Brown,

And shut him up in a dwelling-house,

In a street quite up in town.

The ladies, not half so happy up there,

Went envying me and Brown;

Yes! that was the reason, (as all men know,

In this dwelling down in town,)

That the girl came out of the carriage by night

Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the love

Of those who are older than we--

Of many far wiser than we--

And neither the girls that are living above,

Nor the girls that are down in town,

Can ever discover my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

For the morn never shines without bringing me lines

From my beautiful Samuel Brown;

And the night is never dark, but I sit in the park

With my beautiful Samuel Brown.

And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,

With my darling, my darling, my life, and my stay,

To our dwelling down in town,

To our house in the street down town.

The two poems that have been most parodied in this country are the

"Woodman spare that tree," of General Morris, and Poe's "Raven." There

have been an incredible number of burlesques of the former, and of the

latter we have seen a collection of seventeen, some of which are

scarcely less clever than the original performance.

THE BRITISH HUMORISTS: DESCRIBED

BY MR. THACKERAY.

In the last _International_, we gave sketches of the first and second

of the series of lectures Mr. Thackeray is now delivering in London, a

series which we may regard with more interest because it is to be

repeated in Boston, New-York, and other American cities. The subjects

of the lectures already noticed were SWIFT, CONGREVE, and ADDISON. The

third lecture was upon

SIR RICHARD STEELE.

"Having," says the _Times_, "to deal with a personage whose

character was any thing but perfection, Mr. Thackeray

started with a good-humored declamation against perfection

in general. A perfect man would be intolerable--he could not

laugh and he could not cry, neither could he hate nor even

love, for love itself implied an unjust preference of one

person over another, which was so far an imperfection. The

interest which a man takes in the progress of his own boy at

school, while he is indifferent about other boys who are

probably better and more clever, his choice that a death

should occur in his neighbor's house rather than in his own,

and various traits of a similar kind, are all so many

manifestations of selfishness, and therefore so many removes

from perfection.

"After this preface, Mr. Thackeray discoursed upon Steele's

career at school. At the Charter-house he distinguished

himself as a good-natured _mauvais sujet_--idle beyond the

average mark. By his scholastic acquisitions he gave little

satisfaction to his masters, and was flogged more frequently

than any boy in the school. Moreover, he was in debt to all

the vendors of juvenile delicacies in the neighborhood; and,

if any boy came to school with money to lend, Dick Steele

was certain to appear as the person to borrow. These facts,

given with much minuteness, were followed by an assertion on

the part of the lecturer that he had no authority for them

whatever. It was an admitted truth that 'the child is the

father of the man,' and on this principle he felt he had a

right, from his intimate knowledge of Captain Steele, to

deduce what sort of a personage Master Dicky Steele was

likely to be.

"This bit of mock biography gave the key-note to the entire

lecture. While Mr. Thackeray admitted that Steele was a far

less brilliant man than any who had formed the subjects of

the preceding discourses, and far less entitled to

admiration than Addison, he spoke of him in a tone of warmer

affection than he had displayed when talking of the great

Joseph. He dilated with unction on Steele's many follies and

vices--his strange medley of piety and debauchery, his

inordinate love of dress, his insensibility as to the duty

of meeting pecuniary obligations; he even read an

ill-natured description by John Dennis, remarking that it

was substantially true, but at the same time he constantly

kept before the minds of his hearers the kindliness of

Steele's heart. He did not call upon them to worship him as

a moral being or as a talent, aware that many others much

more deserved such honor, but he exhorted them to love him

as a friend: 'If Steele is not a friend, he is nothing.'

"The great number of letters which Steele wrote to his wife,

and which are still extant, furnished Mr. Thackeray with

much of the knowledge he possessed as to the character of

his hero. With these he could pursue him through every

variety of joy and sorrow, difficulty and triumph, and, as

they were evidently written for none but her to whom they

were addressed, he could be sure that the writer spoke from

his own heart. On the literary productions of Steele, Mr.

Thackeray dwelt very little, but he pointed out in them this

peculiarity, that the author showed a reverence for woman

unknown to his contemporaries. Swift hated women just as he

hated men; Congreve regarded them as so many fortresses to

be conquered by a superior general; even Addison sneered at

them with a gentle sneer; but Steele really spoke of them in

a tone of affectionate respect, and this gives a charm to

his comedies not to be found in more brilliant productions.

"Mr. Thackeray took occasion to illustrate by these extracts

the characteristic differences of Swift, Addison, and

Steele. He had already drawn a ludicrous picture of the

relative positions of Steele and Addison, remarking that the

latter had been through life to the former what a 'head boy'

is to an inferior boy at school. Now by Swift's poem on the

'Day of Judgment'--an extract from the _Spectator_,

containing Addison's reflections in Westminster Abbey--and a

passage from Steele, he showed how the subject of Death was

treated by the three writers. Swift's poem savagely treats

as fools all who pretend to know any thing beyond the grave,

including the teachers of the several sects. Addison's tone

was kinder, but, while he was benevolent in his skepticism,

he came to nearly the same result as the ferocious Dean.

Steele, on the other hand, was content to remember, as his

first grief, the death of his father, when he was five years

old, and the dignified sorrow of his mother.

"By way of an additional comical apology for the foibles of

Steele, Mr. Thackeray concluded his lecture by remarking on

the atrocities of the age when poor Dick lived,--an age when

young ladies, at dinner, actually put their knives into

their mouths. The social peculiarities of the period he

illustrated by a sort of summary of Swift's _Polite

Conversation_, which led up to an ironical praise of the

nineteenth century, as a century whose anomalies are

unknown."

The fourth lecture on the humorists was of Prior, Gay, and Pope, Mr.

Thackeray choosing to consider Pope, who was not a humorist, but a

wit, the greatest humorist of all:

MATHEW PRIOR.

"Prior he characterizes as the foremost of lucky wits,

abounding in good nature and acuteness. He loved--he

drank--he sang. Some verses at Cambridge first rendered him

an object of notice, and by the 'City Mouse and Country

Mouse,' which, jointly with Montague, he wrote against

Dryden, and which, Mr. Thackeray ironically asserted, all

his hearers knew, of course, by heart, he gained the post of

Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague, in accordance with

the usage then prevalent of rewarding a talent for correct

alcaics or biting epigrams with important diplomatic

appointments. However, his fortune was but transient, since

he fell with his patron Montague. As a poet, Mr. Thackeray

praised Prior highly, calling him the most charming of

English lyrists, and comparing him with Horace on one side

and Moore on the other. At the same time he referred to a

certain statement that Prior, after he had spent the evening

with the first men of the day, would retire to Long-acre to

smoke a pipe with two very intimate acquaintances--a soldier

and his wife--adding that many of his writings seemed to be

under the influence of his Long-acre friends."

JOHN GAY.

"Gay was pointed out as a remarkable instance of kindliness

and good humor, gaining the love even of the most savage

wits of the day, and incurring the hatred of none. The

ferocious giant Swift loved him as the Brobdignag loved

Gulliver, and was afraid to open the packet which contained

the tidings of his death. This kindliness is an especial

feature in Gay's writings, even in his _Beggars' Opera_, and

as Rubini was said to have, 'une larme dans la voix,' so was

there in all that Gay produced a tone of the gentlest

pathos. This peculiarity he illustrated by reading the well

known story of the two devoted lovers struck dead by

lightning. As for Gay's life, it was easy enough. He failed,

indeed, to make his fortune, but he led a comfortable

existence with his noble patrons the Duke and Duchess of

Queensbury, living like a little round French _abbe_, eating

and drinking well and growing more melancholy as he

increased in fat."

ALEXANDER POPE.

"For a guaranty of Pope's merits, Mr. Thackeray especially

referred to the _Rape of the Lock_ and the _Dunciad_. He

insisted on his claims to admiration as a great literary

artist, always bent on the perfection of his work and gladly

adopting the thoughts of others if they would serve to

complete his own. This peculiarity of carefulness was early

shown in the fact that Pope began by imitation. The five

happiest years of his life were devoted to the study of the

best authors, especially poets, and the intellectual

enjoyment was heightened by the feeling that genius was

throbbing in his heart and awakening within him dreams of

future glory. He too should sing--he too should love. Of

love, indeed, Pope did not make a great deal, and as his

addresses to Lady Wortley Montague were a failure, so was

his first amour a sham love for a sham mistress. A

particular pleasure in reading the works of Pope consists in

the fact that they bring the reader into the very best

company--a company whose manners are, to be sure, a little

stiff and stately, and whose voices are pitched somewhat

beyond the ordinary conversation key, but there is something

ennobling about them. _Apropos_ of this peculiarity, Mr.

Thackeray took occasion to dwell with great unction on the

advantages of high society, and said, for the benefit of any

young hearer who might be present, 'Young hearer, keep

company with your betters.' Addison, as we have seen, is Mr.

Thackeray's moral hero. He considers, however, that he has

one great blemish in his dislike of Alexander Pope. The

young poet was too conscious of his own powers to be a mere

attendant at the Court of King Joseph, and King Joseph did

not like this independence. The support given by the Addison

_clique_ to Tickell's translation of Homer might naturally

enough be construed by the Pope faction as proceeding from

an ungenerous wish to depreciate their chieftain's version,

and they might easily suppose that what was emulation in

Tickell was envy in Addison. The verses which Pope wrote on

this occasion and sent to Addison, had the satisfactory

effect that the great Joseph was civil ever afterwards. But

still Mr. Thackeray surmised that their sting was never

forgotten, and that the saintly Addison might be painted as

a Sebastian, with this one arrow sticking in him.

"The causes that led to the writing of the _Dunciad_ were

laid down, chiefly with a view of justifying the author,

though Mr. Thackeray admitted that Pope's arrows are so

sharp, and his slaughter so wholesale, that the reader's

sympathies are often enlisted on the side of the devoted

inhabitants of Grub-street. The vile jokes and libels that

were aimed against the illustrious poet, and the paltry

allusions to his personal defects, were brought forward as

sufficient motives; and the lecturer dwelt with admiration

on the personal courage which the "gallant little cripple"

displayed when the indignant dunces threatened him with

corporeal chastisement. At the same time, he declared it his

conviction that the _Dunciad_ had done the greatest possible

harm to the literary profession. Prior to its publication

there were great prizes for literary men in the shape of

government appointments and the like; but Pope, a lover of

high society--a man so refined that he kept thin while his

friends grew fat--hated the rank and file of literature, and

if there was one point in his assailants on which he dwelt

with savage partiality, it was their abject poverty. He it

was who brought the notion of a vile Grub-street before the

minds of the general public; he it was who created such

associations as author and rags--author and dirt--author and

gin. The occupation of authorship became ignoble through his

graphic descriptions of misery, and the literary profession

was for a long time destroyed.

"Pope's well known affection for his mother, on which Mr.

Thackeray feelingly expatiated, and the love which his

friends entertained for him, were introduced as a

sentimental relief in describing the character of a man

whose career Mr. Thackeray compared to that of a great

general, obtaining his end by a series of brilliant

conquests."

HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.

"In his fifth lecture," says the _Leader_, "Mr. Thackeray

dwelt at great length on Hogarth, and pointed out how much

of his success lay in the simple conventional morals of his

works; gave a graphic analysis of the _Marriage a la Mode_

and the _Idle and Industrious Apprentices_; and humorously

set forth Hogarth's pretensions to the sublime in historical

painting. Smollett was dismissed in a few pleasant

paragraphs. Fielding called out the hearty admiration of the

author of _Vanity Fair_; and amidst the panegyric there were

some admirable passages, notably one on the scorn and hatred

Richardson and Fielding unaffectedly felt for each other,

and the sincerity which may animate even the most

contemptuous criticism. The opinions Thackeray stamps with

his authority, we constantly find open to question; but it

is not as a Course of Criticism that these Lectures have

their inexpressible charm, and it would be possible for a

man to dissent _in toto_ from the views put forth, while at

the same time he held them to be among the most delightful

lectures he ever listened to."

STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.

In the sixth and last lecture of the course, Mr. Thackeray's

subjects were Sterne and Goldsmith. He stigmatized severely

all Sterne's relations with women, showed up the sham

sensibility which wept through his writings, dwelt on the

perilous thing it was to make a market of one's sorrows, and

sell the deepest experiences of one's life at so much per

volume, and wound up with an emphatic condemnation of the

pruriency of Sterne's writings, contrasting that pruriency

with the purity of Dickens. All the generosity, sweetness,

and improvidence of Goldsmith's Irish nature were earnestly

and genially presented.

This course of lectures has been described as "a review of the

humorists, by their master," but Mr. Thackeray is not a humorist--at

least humor is not his distinguishing quality; he is a cold satirist,

sneering at humanity, and in all his writings never exhibiting a spark

of the genial fire which should commend an author to the affections of

his readers. Gentlemen may be amused by him--he may be even

punctilious and sincere in the observance of all honorable

conduct--but judging him by his works, he is one of the last men

living whom any person with the instincts of a gentleman would admit

to his friendship. Some of his books are amazingly clever, but others,

as the _Kickleburys on the Rhine_, are but unredeemable vulgarity. He

has been taken up very much by the snobs--a class somewhat remarkable

for misapprehensions of their real relations--and we find the snobs of

this country as well as of England lauding the satirist as an enemy of

their own peculiar caste. This is a mistake: Mr. Thackeray has painted

to the life the sentimental snob, indeed, but he is himself a chief of

a different and far less endurable class in this division of the

race--_the snob cynical and supercilious_.

ALRED.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY ELMINA WALDO CAREY.

Do you remember, Alred dear,

The peach-tree's cool and ample shade,

Where first our hearts learned love and fear,

And vows of constancy were made?

The peach-tree stands there, now as then,

Its shadow just as dim and mild,

And over all the sacred glen

The vines of strawberries run wild.

Still all about the water's edge

Beds of green flags in beauty lie,

And, sloping towards the elder-hedge,

Are fields of graceful waving rye.

But, Alred dear, not by our feet

Will the round clover-heads be pressed,

For years must pass before we meet

In that dear valley of the west.

Sometimes my heart is filled with fear,

Yet if not, Alred, in that land,

'Tis bliss to know, in some bright sphere

You'll wait to take my trembling hand.

CHRISTOPHER NORTH ON ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The July number of _Blackwood's Magazine_ has a long paper under the

title of _What is Mesmerism?_ in which the question is discussed with

ingenuity, apparent candor, and occasional eloquence. The editor,

however, does not altogether agree with his contributor, and adds to

the article the following postscript. Undoubtedly a large proportion

of the "professors of magnetism" are mere mountebanks, and the

pretenders to clairvoyance may in all cases probably be set down as

knaves, or as very ignorant or feeble-minded persons. Nevertheless, we

cannot quite agree with Professor Wilson in all his propositions:

WHAT IS MESMERISM?

"It must be admitted that our excellent correspondent has

set forth the claims of 'Adolphe' and 'Alexis,' and similar

interesting abstractions, to the powers of omnipresence and

omniscience, with great candor and becoming gravity. We are

sorry that we cannot follow what many of our readers may

consider so excellent an example. We have no faith in those

dear creatures without surnames: we have no faith in animal

magnetism, either in its lesser or in its larger

pretensions; but we have an unbounded faith in the

imbecility, infatuation, vanity, credulity, and knavery of

which human nature is capable. And we are of opinion that

there is not a single well-authenticated mesmeric phenomenon

which is not fully explicable by the operation of one or

more of these causes, or of the whole of them taken in

conjunction.

"The question in regard to mesmerism is two-fold: _first_,

how is the mesmeric prostration to be accounted for? and

_secondly_, how is it to be disposed of? It may be accounted

for, we conceive, by the natural tendencies just recited,

without its being necessary to postulate any new or unknown

agency; it may be disposed of by the influence of public

opinion, which would very soon put a stop to these pitiable

exhibitions, and very soon extinguish the magnetizer's power

and the patient's susceptibility, if it were but to visit

the performers with the contempt and reprobation they

deserve. A few words on each of these heads may not be out

of place, as a qualifying postscript to the foregoing

letter, which, in our opinion, treats the mesmeric

superstition with far too much indulgence.

"I. The existence of any physical force or fluid in man or

in nature, by which the mesmeric phenomena are induced, has

been distinctly disproved by every carefully conducted

experiment. _No person was ever magnetized when totally

unsuspicious of the operation of which he was the subject._

This is conclusive; because a physical agent, which never

does, _of itself_ and unheralded, produce any effect, is no

physical agent at all. Then, again, let certain persons be

prepared for the magnetic condition, and aware of what is

expected of them, and the effects are equally produced,

whether the intended influence be exerted or not. It seems

simply ridiculous to postulate an _odylic_ (we should like

to be favored with the derivation of this word) fluid to

account for phenomena which show themselves just as

conspicuously when no such fluid is or can be in operation.

"But it is argued by some of the advocates of mesmeric

influence, that their agent, though perhaps not physical, is

at any rate moral--that the will, or some spiritual energy

on the part of the mesmerist, is the power by which his

victims are entranced and rendered obedient to his bidding.

Here, too, all the well-authenticated cases establish a

totally different conclusion. They prove that the will or

spiritual power of the mesmerist has _of itself_ no

ascendency or control whatsoever over the body or mind of

his victim. Every well-guarded series of experiments has

exhibited the mesmerist and his patient at cross-purposes

with each other--the patient frequently doing those things

which the mesmerist was desirous he should not do, and not

doing those things which the operator was desirous he should

do. As for the buffoonery begotten by mesmerism on

phrenology, this exhibition can scarcely be expected to

provoke much astonishment, or credence, or comment, except

among professional artists themselves--

'Like Katterfelto, with their hair on end,

At their own wonders, _wondering for their bread_!'

"The true explanation of mesmerism is to be found, as we

have said, in the weakness or infatuation of human nature

itself. No other causes are at all necessary to account for

the mesmeric prostration. There is far more craziness, both

physical and moral, in man than he usually gives himself

credit for. The reservoir of human folly may be in a great

measure occult, but it is always full; and all that

silliness, whether of body or mind, at any time wants, is

_to get its cue_.

"These general remarks are of course more applicable to some

individuals than they are to others. In soft and weak

natures, where the nervous system is subject to cataleptic

seizures, mental and bodily prostration is frequently almost

the normal condition. Such of our readers as may have

frequented mesmeric exhibitions must have observed a kind of

_semi-humanity_ visible in the expression and demeanor of

most of the subjects whom the professional operators carry

about with them. These poor creatures are at all times ready

to imbibe the magnetic stupefaction, because it is only by

an effort that they are ever free from it. There is always

at work within them an occult tendency to

self-abandonment--an unintentional proclivity to

aberration, imitation, and deceit, which only requires a

signal to precipitate its morbid deposits. This

constitutional infirmity of body and of mind furnishes to

the mesmerist a basis for his operations, and is the source

of all the wonders which he works.

"It is only in the case of individuals who, without being

fatuous, are hovering on the verge of fatuity, that the

magnetic phenomena and the mesmeric prostration can be

admitted to be in any considerable degree real. Real to a

certain extent they may be; marvellous they certainly are

not. Imbecility of the nervous system, a ready abandonment

of the will, a facility in relinquishing every endowment

which makes man _human_--these intelligible causes, eked out

by a vanity and cunning which are always inherent in natures

of an inferior type, are quite sufficient to account for the

effects of the mesmeric manipulations on subjects of

peculiar softness and pliancy.

"In those persons of a better organized structure, who yield

themselves up to the mesmeric degradation, the physical

causes are less operative; but the moral causes are still

more influential. In all cases the prostration is

self-induced. But in the subjects of whom we have spoken, it

is mainly induced by physical depravity, although moral

frailties concur to bring about the condition. In persons of

a superior type, the condition is mainly due to moral

causes, although physical imbecility has some share in

facilitating the result. These people have much vanity, much

curiosity, and much credulity, together with a _weak_

imagination--that is to say, an imagination which is easily

excited by circumstances which would produce no effect upon

people of stronger imaginative powers. Their vanity shows

itself in the desire _to astonish others_, and get

themselves talked about. They think it rather creditable to

be susceptible subjects. It is a point in their favor! Their

credulity and curiosity take the form of a powerful wish _to

be astonished themselves_. Why should they be excluded from

a land of wonders which others are permitted to enter? The

first step is now taken. They are ready for the sacrifice,

which various motives concur to render agreeable. They

resign themselves passively, mind and body, into the hands

of the manipulator; and by his passes and grimaces, they are

cowed pleasurably, bullied delightfully, into _so much_ of

the condition which their inclinations are bent upon

attaining, as justifies them, they think, in laying claim to

the _whole_ condition, without bringing them under the

imputation of being downright impostors. _Downright_

impostors they unquestionably are not. We believe that their

condition is frequently, though to a very limited extent,

_real_. We must also consider, that, in a matter of this

kind, which is so deeply imbued with the ridiculous, a

mesmeric patient may, and doubtless often does, justify to

his own conscience a considerable deviation from the truth,

on the ground of waggery or hoaxing. Why should an audience,

which has the patience to put up with such spectacles, not

be fooled to the top of its bent?

"II. How, then, is the miserable nonsense to be disposed of?

It can only be put a stop to by the force of public opinion,

guided of course by reason and truth. Let it be announced

from all authoritative quarters that the magnetic

sensibility is only another name for an unsound condition of

the mental and bodily functions--that it may be always

accepted as an infallible index of the position which an

individual occupies in the scale of humanity--that its

manifestation (when real) invariably betokens a _physique_

and a _morale_ greatly below the average, and a character to

which no respect can be attached. Let this

announcement--which is the undoubted truth--be made by all

respectable organs of public opinion, and by all who are in

any way concerned in the diffusion of knowledge, or in the

instruction of the rising generation, and the magnetic

superstition will rapidly decline. Let this--the correct and

scientific explanation of the phenomena--be understood and

considered carefully by all young people of both sexes, and

the mesmeric ranks will be speedily thinned of their

recruits. Our young friends who may have been entrapped into

this infatuation by want of due consideration, will be wiser

for the future. If they allow themselves to be experimented

upon, they will at any rate take care not to disgrace

themselves by yielding to the follies to which they may be

solicited both from within and from without; and we are much

mistaken if, when they know what the penalty is, they will

abandon themselves to a disgusting condition which is

characteristic only of the most abject specimens of our

species."

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[1]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

John Ayliffe, as we may now once more very righteously call him, was

seated in the great hall of the old house of the Hastings family. Very

different indeed was the appearance of that large chamber now from

that which it had presented when Sir Philip Hastings was in

possession. All the old, solid, gloomy-looking furniture, which

formerly had given it an air of baronial dignity, and which Sir Philip

had guarded as preciously as if every antique chair and knotted table

had been an heir-loom, was now removed, and rich flaunting things of

gaudy colors substituted. Damask, and silk, and velvet, and gilt

ornaments in the style of France, were there in abundance, and had it

not been for the arches overhead, and the stone walls and narrow

windows around, the old hall might have passed for the saloon of some

newly-enriched financier of Paris.

The young man sat at table alone--not that he was by any means fond of

solitude, for on the contrary he would have fain filled his house with

company--but for some reason or another, which he could not divine, he

found the old country gentlemen in the neighborhood somewhat shy of

his society. His wealth, his ostentation, his luxury--for he had begun

his new career with tremendous vehemence--had no effect upon them.

They looked upon him as somewhat vulgar, and treated him with mere

cold, supercilious civility as an upstart. There was one gentleman of

good family, indeed, at some distance, who had hung a good deal about

courts, had withered and impoverished himself, and reduced both his

mind and his fortune in place-hunting, and who had a large family of

daughters, to whom the society of John Ayliffe was the more

acceptable, and who not unfrequently rode over and dined with

him--nay, took a bed at the Hall. But that day he had not been over,

and although upon the calculation of chances, one might have augured

two to one John Ayliffe would ultimately marry one of the daughters,

yet at this period he was not very much smitten with any of them, and

was contemplating seriously a visit to London, where he thought his

origin would be unknown, and his wealth would procure him every sort

of enjoyment.

Two servants were in the Hall, handing him the dishes. Well-cooked

viands were on the table, and rich wine. Every thing which John

Ayliffe in his sensual aspirations had anticipated from the possession

of riches was there--except happiness, and that was wanting. To sit

and feed, and feel one's self a scoundrel--to drink deep draughts,

were it of nectar, for the purpose of drowning the thought of our own

baseness--to lie upon the softest bed, and prop the head with the

downiest pillow, with the knowledge that all we possess is the fruit

of crime, can never give happiness--surely not, even to the most

depraved.

That eating and drinking, however, was now one of John Ayliffe's chief

resources--drinking especially. He did not actually get intoxicated

every night before he went to bed, but he always drank to a sufficient

excess to cloud his faculties, to obfuscate his mind. He rather liked

to feel himself in that sort of dizzy state where the outlines of all

objects become indistinct, and thought itself puts on the same hazy

aspect.

The servants had learned his habits already, and were very willing to

humor them; for they derived their own advantage therefrom. Thus, on

the present occasion, as soon as the meal was over, and the dishes

were removed, and the dessert put upon the table--a dessert consisting

principally of sweetmeats, for which he had a great fondness, with

stimulants to thirst. Added to these were two bottles of the most

potent wine in his cellar, with a store of clean glasses, and a jug of

water, destined to stand unmoved in the middle of the table.

After this process it was customary never to disturb him, till, with a

somewhat wavering step, he found his way up to his bedroom. But on the

night of which I am speaking, John Ayliffe had not finished his fourth

glass after dinner, and was in the unhappy stage, which, with some

men, precedes the exhilarating stage of drunkenness, when the butler

ventured to enter with a letter in his hand.

"I beg pardon for intruding, sir," he said, "but Mr. Cherrydew has

sent up a man on horseback from Hartwell with this letter, because

there is marked upon it, 'to be delivered with the greatest possible

haste.'"

"Curse him!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "I wish he would obey the orders

I give him. Why the devil does he plague me with letters at this time

of night?--there, give it to me, and go away," and taking the letter

from the man's hand, he threw it down on the table beside him, as if

it were not his intention to read it that night. Probably, indeed, it

was not; for he muttered as he looked at the address, "She wants more

money, I dare say, to pay for some trash or another. How greedy these

women are. The parson preached the other day about the horse-leech's

daughter. By ---- I think I have got the horse-leech's mother!" and he

laughed stupidly, not perceiving that, the point of his sarcasm

touched himself.

He drank another glass of wine, and then looked at the letter again;

but at length, after yet another glass, curiosity got the better of

his moodiness, and he opened the epistle.

The first sight of the contents dispelled not only his indifference

but the effects of the wine he had taken, and he read the letter with

an eager and a haggard eye. The substance was as follows:

"MY DEAREST BOY:

"All is lost and discovered. I can but write you a very short account

of the things that have been happening here, for I am under what these

people call the surveillance of the police. I have got a few minutes,

however, and I will pay the maid secretly to give this to the post.

Never was such a time as I have had this morning. Four men have been

here, and among them Atkinson, who lived just down below at the

cottage with the gray shutters. He knew me in a minute, and told

everybody who I was. But that is not the worst of it, for they have

got a commissioner of police with him--a terrible looking man, who

took as much snuff as Mr. Jenkins, the justice of peace. They had got

all sorts of information in England about me, and you, and every body,

and they came to me to give them more, and cross-questioned me in a

terrible manner; and that ugly old Commissioner, in his black coat and

great wig, took my keys, and opened all the drawers and places. What

could I do to stop them? So they got all your letters to me; because I

could not bear to burn my dear boy's letters, and that letter from old

Sir John to my poor father, which I once showed you. So when they got

all these, there was no use of trying to conceal it any more, and,

besides, they might have sent me to the Bastile or the Tower of

London. So every thing has come out, and the best thing you can do is

to take whatever money you have got, or can get, and run away as fast

as possible, and come over here and take me away. One of them was as

fine a man as ever I saw, and quite gentleman, though very severe.

"Pray, my dear John, don't lose a moment's time, but run away before

they catch you; for they know every thing now, depend upon it, and

nothing will stop them from hanging you or sending you to the colonies

that you can do; for they have got all the proofs, and I could see by

their faces that they wanted nothing more; and if they do, my heart

will be quite broken, that is, if they hang you or send you to the

colonies, where you will have to work like a slave, and a man standing

over you with a whip, beating your bare back very likely. So run away,

and come to your afflicted mother."

She did not seem to have been quite sure what name to sign, for she

first put "Brown," but then changed the word to "Hastings," and then

again to "Ayliffe." There were two or three postscripts, but they were

of no great importance, and John Ayliffe did not take the trouble of

reading them. The terms he bestowed upon his mother--not in the

secrecy of his heart, but aloud and fiercely--were any thing but

filial, and his burst of rage lasted full five minutes before it was

succeeded by the natural fear and trepidation which the intelligence

he had received might well excite. Then, however, his terror became

extreme. The color, usually high, and now heightened both by rage and

wine, left his cheeks, and, as he read over some parts of his mother's

letter again, he trembled violently.

"She has told all," he repeated to himself, "she has told all--and

most likely has added from his own fancy. They have got all my letters

too, which the fool did not burn. What did I say, I wonder? Too

much--too much, I am sure. Heaven and earth, what will come of it!

Would to God I had not listened to that rascal Shanks! Where should I

go now for advice? It must not be to him. He would only betray and

ruin me--make me the scape-goat--pretend that I had deceived him, I

dare say. Oh, he is a precious villain, and Mrs. Hazleton knows that

too well to trust him even with a pitiful mortgage--Mrs. Hazleton--I

will go to her. She is always kind to me, and she is devilish clever

too--knows a good deal more than Shanks if she did but understand the

law--I will go to her--she will tell me how to manage."

No time was to be lost. Ride as hard as he could it would take him

more than an hour to reach Mrs. Hazleton's house, and it was already

late. He ordered a horse to be saddled instantly, ran to his bedroom,

drew on his boots, and then, descending to the hall, stood swearing at

the slowness of the groom till the sound of hoofs made him run to the

door. In a moment he was in the saddle and away, much to the

astonishment of the servants, who puzzled themselves a little as to

what intelligence their young master could have received, and then

proceeded to console themselves according to the laws and ordinances

of the servants' hall in such cases made and provided. The wine he had

left upon the table disappeared with great celerity, and the butler,

who was a man of precision, arrayed a good number of small silver

articles and valuable trinkets in such a way as to be packed up and

removed with great facility and secrecy.

In the meanwhile John Ayliffe rode on at a furious pace, avoiding a

road which would have led him close by Mr. Shanks's dwelling, and

reached Mrs. Hazleton's door about nine o'clock.

That lady was sitting in a small room behind the drawing-room, which I

have already mentioned, where John Ayliffe was announced once more as

Sir John Hastings. But Mrs. Hazleton, in personal appearance at least,

was much changed since she was first introduced to the reader. She was

still wonderfully handsome. She had still that indescribable air of

calm, high-bred dignity which we are often foolishly inclined to

ascribe to noble feelings and a high heart; but which--where it is not

an art, an acquirement--only indicates, I am inclined to believe, when

it has any moral reference at all, strength of character and great

self-reliance. But Mrs. Hazleton was older--looked older a good

deal--more so than the time which had passed would alone account for.

The passions of the last two or three years had worn her sadly, and

probably the struggle to conceal those passions had worn her as much.

Nevertheless, she had grown somewhat fat under their influence, and a

wrinkle here and there in the fair skin was contradicted by the

plumpness of her figure.

She rose with quiet, easy grace to meet her young guest, and held out

her hand to him, saying, "Really, my dear Sir John, you must not pay

me such late visits or I shall have scandal busying herself with my

good name."

But even as she spoke she perceived the traces of violent agitation

which had not yet departed from John Ayliffe's visage, and she added,

"What is the matter? Has any thing gone wrong?"

"Every thing is going to the devil, I believe," said John Ayliffe, as

soon as the servant had closed the door. "They have found out my

mother at St. Germain."

He paused there to see what effect this first intelligence would

produce, and it was very great; for Mrs. Hazleton well knew that upon

the concealment of his mother's existence had depended one of the

principal points in his suit against Sir Philip Hastings. What was

going on in her mind, however, appeared not in her countenance. She

paused in silence, indeed, for a moment or two, and then said in her

sweet musical voice, "Well, Sir John, is that all?"

"Enough too, dear Mrs. Hazleton!" replied the young man. "Why you

surely remember that it was judged absolutely necessary she should be

supposed dead--you yourself said, when we were talking of it, 'Send

her to France.' Don't you remember?"

"No I do not," answered Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully; "and if I did it

could only be intended to save the poor thing from all the torment of

being cross-examined in a court of justice."

"Ay, she has been cross-examined enough in France nevertheless," said

the young man bitterly, "and she has told every thing, Mrs.

Hazleton--all that she knew, and I dare say all that she guessed."

This news was somewhat more interesting than even the former; it

touched Mrs. Hazleton personally to a certain extent, for all that

Jane Ayliffe knew and all that she guessed might comprise a great deal

that Mrs. Hazleton would not have liked the world to know or guess

either. She retained all her presence of mind however, and replied

quite quietly "Really, Sir John, I cannot at all form a judgment of

these things, or give you either assistance or advice, as I am anxious

to do, unless you explain the whole matter fully and clearly. What has

your mother done which seems to have affected you so much? Let me hear

the whole details, then I can judge and speak with some show of

reason. But calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear sir. We often at the

first glance of any unpleasant intelligence take fright, and thinking

the danger ten times greater than it really is, run into worse dangers

in trying to avoid it. Let me hear all, I say, and then I will

consider what is to be done."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had already, from what she had just heard,

determined precisely and entirely what she would do. She had divined

in an instant that the artful game in which John Ayliffe had been

engaged, and in which she herself had taken a hand, was played out,

and that he was the loser; but it was a very important object with her

to ascertain if possible how far she herself had been compromised by

the revelations of Mrs. Ayliffe. This was the motive of her gentle

questions; for at heart she did not feel the least gentle.

On the other hand John Ayliffe was somewhat angry. All frightened

people are angry when they find others a great deal less frightened

than themselves. Drawing forth his mother's letter then, he thrust it

towards Mrs. Hazleton, almost rudely, saying, "Read that, madam, and

you'll soon see all the details that you could wish for."

Mrs. Hazleton did read it from end to end, postscript and all, and she

saw with infinite satisfaction and delight, that her own name was

never once mentioned in the whole course of that delectable epistle.

As she read that part of the letter, however, in which Mrs. Ayliffe

referred to the very handsome gentlemanly man who had been one of her

unwished for visitors, Mrs. Hazleton said within herself, "This is

Marlow; Marlow has done this!" and tenfold bitterness took possession

of her heart. She folded up the letter with neat propriety, however,

and handed it back to John Ayliffe, saying, in her very sweetest

tones, "Well, I do not think this so very bad as you seem to imagine.

They have found out that your mother is still living, and that is all.

They cannot make much of that."

"Not much of that!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, now nearly driven to

frenzy, "what if they convict me of perjury for swearing she was

dead?"

"Did you swear she was dead?" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with an

exceedingly well assumed look of profound astonishment.

"To be sure I did," he answered. "Why you proposed that she should be

sent away yourself, and Shanks drew out the affidavit."

A mingled look of consternation and indignation came into Mrs.

Hazleton's beautiful face; but before she could make any reply he went

on, thinking he had frightened her, which was in itself a satisfaction

and a sort of triumph.

"Ay, that you did," he said, "and not only that, but you advanced me

all the money to carry on the suit, and I am told that that is

punishable by law. Besides, you knew quite well of the leaf being torn

out of the register, so we are in the same basket I can tell you, Mrs.

Hazleton."

"Sir, you insult me," said the lady, rising with an air of imperious

dignity. "The charity which induced me to advance you different sums

of money, without knowing what they were to be applied to--and I can

prove that some of them were applied to very different purposes than a

suit at law--has been misunderstood, I see. Had I advanced them to

carry on this suit, they would have been paid to your and my lawyer,

not to yourself. Not a word more, if you please! You have mistaken my

character as well as my motives, if you suppose that I will suffer you

to remain here one moment after you have insulted me by the very

thought that I was any sharer in your nefarious transactions." She

spoke in a loud shrill tone, knowing that the servants were in the

hall hard by, and then she added, "Save me the pain, sir, of ordering

some of the men to put you out of the house by quitting it directly."

"Oh, yes, I will go, I will go," cried John Ayliffe, now quite

maddened, "I will go to the devil, and you too, madam," and he burst

out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"I can compassionate misfortune," cried Mrs. Hazleton, raising her

voice to the very highest pitch for the benefit of others, "but I will

have nothing to do with roguery and fraud," and as she heard his

horse's feet clatter over the terrace, she heartily wished he might

break his neck before he passed the park gates. How far she was

satisfied, and how far she was not, must be shown in another chapter.

CHAPTER XXXV.

John Ayliffe got out of the park gates quite safely, though he rode

down the slope covered with loose stones, as if he had no

consideration for his own neck or his horse's knees. He was in a state

of desperation, however, and feared little at that moment what became

of himself or any thing else. With fierce and angry eagerness he

revolved in his own mind the circumstances of his situation, the

conduct of Mrs. Hazleton, the folly, as he was pleased to term it, of

his mother, the crimes which he had himself committed, and he found no

place of refuge in all the dreary waste of thought. Every thing around

looked menacing and terrible, and the world within was all dark and

stormy.

He pushed his horse some way on the road which he had come, but

suddenly a new thought struck him. He resolved to seek advice and aid

from one whom he had previously determined to avoid. "I will go to

Shanks," he said to himself, "he at least is in the same basket with

myself. He must work with me, for if my mother has been fool enough to

keep my letters, I have been wise enough to keep his--perhaps

something may be done after all. If not, he shall go along with me,

and we will try if we cannot bring that woman in too. He can prove all

her sayings and doings." Thus thinking, he turned his horse's head

towards the lawyer's house, and rode as hard as he could go till he

reached it.

Mr. Shanks was enjoying life over a quiet comfortable bowl of punch in

a little room which looked much more tidy and comfortable, than it had

done twelve or eighteen months before. Mr. Shanks had been well paid.

Mr. Shanks had taken care of himself. No small portion of back rents

and costs had gone into the pockets of Mr. Shanks. Mr. Shanks was all

that he had ever desired to be, an opulent man. Moreover, he was one

of those happily constituted mortals who knew the true use of

wealth--to make it a means of enjoyment. He had no scruples of

conscience--not he. He little cared how the money came, so that it

found its way into his pocket. He was not a man to let his mind be

troubled by any unpleasant remembrances; for he had a maxim that every

man's duty was to do the very best he could for his client, and that

every man's first client was himself.

He heard a horse stop at his door, and having made up his mind to end

the night comfortably, to finish his punch and go to bed, he might

perhaps have been a little annoyed, had he not consoled himself with

the thought that the call must be upon business of importance, and he

had no idea of business of importance unconnected with that of a large

fee.

"To draw a will, I'll bet any money," said Mr. Shanks to himself; "it

is either old Sir Peter, dying of indigestion, and sent for me when

he's no longer able to speak, or John Ayliffe broken his neck leaping

over a five-barred gate--John Ayliffe, bless us all, Sir John Hastings

I should have said."

But the natural voice of John Ayliffe, asking for him in a loud

impatient tone, dispelled these visions of his fancy, and in another

moment the young man was in the room.

"Ah, Sir John, very glad to see you, very glad to see you," said Mr.

Shanks, shaking his visitor's hand, and knocking out the ashes of his

pipe upon the hob; "just come in pudding time, my dear sir--just in

time for a glass of punch--bring some more lemons and some sugar,

Betty. A glass of punch will do you good. It is rather cold to-night."

"As hot as h--l," answered John Ayliffe, sharply; "but I'll have the

punch notwithstanding," and he seated himself while the maid proceeded

to fulfil her master's orders.

Mr. Shanks evidently saw that something had gone wrong with his young

and distinguished client, but anticipating no evil, he was led to

consider whether it was any thing referring to a litter of puppies, a

favorite horse, a fire at the hall, a robbery, or a want of some more

ready money.

At length, however, the fresh lemons and sugar were brought, and the

door closed, before which time John Ayliffe had helped himself to

almost all the punch which he had found remaining in the bowl. It was

not much, but it was strong, and Mr. Shanks applied himself to the

preparation of some more medicine of the same sort. John Ayliffe

suffered him to finish before he said any thing to disturb him, not

from any abstract reverence for the office which Mr. Shanks was

fulfilling, or for love of the beverage he was brewing, but simply

because John Ayliffe began to find that he might as well consider his

course a little. Consideration seldom served him very much, and in the

present instance, after he had labored hard to find out the best way

of breaking the matter, his impetuosity as usual got the better of

him, and he thrust his mother's letter into Mr. Shanks's hand, out of

which as a preliminary he took the ladle and helped himself to another

glass of punch.

The consternation of Mr. Shanks, as he read Mrs. Ayliffe's letter,

stood out in strong opposition to Mrs. Hazleton's sweet calmness. He

was evidently as much terrified as his client; for Mr. Shanks did not

forget that he had written Mrs. Ayliffe two letters since she was

abroad, and as she had kept her son's epistles, Mr. Shanks argued that

it was very likely she had kept his also. Their contents, taken alone,

might amount to very little, but looked at in conjunction with other

circumstances might amount to a great deal.

True, Mr. Shanks had avoided, as far as he could, any discussions in

regard to the more delicate secrets of his profession in the presence

of Mrs. Ayliffe, of whose discretion he was not as firmly convinced as

he could have desired; but it was not always possible to do so,

especially when he had been obliged to seek John Ayliffe in haste at

her house; and now the memories of many long and dangerous

conversations which had occurred in her presence, spread themselves

out before his eyes in a regular row, like items on the leaves of a

ledger.

"Good God!" he cried, "what has she done?"

"Every thing she ought not to have done, of course!" replied John

Ayliffe, replenishing his glass, "but the question now is, Shanks,

what are we to do? That is the great question just now."

"It is indeed," answered Mr. Shanks, in great agitation; "this is very

awkward, very awkward indeed."

"I know that," answered John Ayliffe, laconically.

"Well but, sir, what is to be done?" asked Mr. Shanks, fidgeting

uneasily about the table.

"That is what I come to ask you, not to tell you," answered the young

man; "you see, Shanks, you and I are exactly in the same case, only I

have more to lose than you have. But whatever happens to me will

happen to you, depend upon it. I am not going to be the only one,

whatever Mrs. Hazleton may think."

Shanks caught at Mrs. Hazleton's name; "Ay, that's a good thought," he

said, "we had better go and consult her. Let us put our three heads

together, and we may beat them yet--perhaps."

"No use of going to her," answered John Ayliffe, bitterly; "I have

been to her, and she is a thorough vixen. She cried off having any

thing to do with me, and when I just told her quietly that she ought

to help me out of the scrape because she had a hand in getting me into

it, she flew at my throat like a terrier bitch with a litter of

puppies, barked me out of the house as if I had been a beggar, and

called me almost rogue and swindler in the hearing of her own

servants."

Mr. Shanks smiled--he could not refrain from smiling with a feeling of

admiration and respect, even in that moment of bitter apprehension, at

the decision, skill, and wisdom of Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He

approved of her highly; but he perceived quite plainly that it would

not do for him to play the same game. A hope--a feeble hope--light

through a loop-hole, came in upon him in regard to the future,

suggested by Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He thought that if he could but

clear away some difficulties, he too might throw all blame upon John

Ayliffe, and shovel the load of infamy from his own shoulders to those

of his client; but to effect this, it was not only necessary that he

should soothe John Ayliffe, but that he should provide for his safety

and escape. Recriminations he was aware were very dangerous things,

and that unless a man takes care that it shall not be in the power or

for the interest of a fellow rogue to say _tu quoque_, the effort to

place the burden on his shoulders only injures him without making our

own case a bit better. It was therefore requisite for his purposes

that he should deprive John Ayliffe of all interest or object in

criminating him; but foolish knaves are very often difficult to deal

with, and he knew his young client to be eminent in that class.

Wishing for a little time to consider, he took occasion to ask one or

two meaningless questions, without at all attending to the replies.

"When did this letter arrive here?" he inquired.

"This very night," answered John Ayliffe, "not three hours ago."

"Do you think she has really told all?" asked Mr. Shanks.

"All, and a great deal more," replied the young man.

"How long has she been at St. Germain?" said the lawyer.

"What the devil does that signify?" said John Ayliffe, growing

impatient.

"A great deal, a great deal," replied Mr. Shanks, sagely. "Take some

more punch. You see perhaps we can prove that you and I really thought

her dead at the time the affidavit was made."

"Devilish difficult that," said John Ayliffe, taking the punch. "She

wrote to me about some more money just at that time, and I was obliged

to answer her letter and send it, so that if they have got the letters

that won't pass."

"We'll try at least," said Mr. Shanks in a bolder tone.

"Ay, but in trying we may burn our fingers worse than ever," said the

young man. "I do not want to be tried for perjury and conspiracy, and

sent to the colonies with the palm of my hand burnt out, whatever you

may do, Shanks."

"No, no, that would never do," replied the lawyer. "The first thing to

be done, my dear Sir John, is to provide for your safety, and that can

only be done by your getting out of the way for a time. It is very

natural that a young gentleman of fortune like yourself should go to

travel, and not at all unlikely that he should do so without letting

any one know where he is for a few months. That will be the best plan

for you--you must go and travel. They can't well be on the look-out

for you yet, and you can get away quite safely to-morrow morning. You

need not say where you are going, and by that means you will save both

yourself and the property too; for they can't proceed against you in

any way when you are absent."

John Ayliffe was not sufficiently versed in the laws of the land to

perceive that Mr. Shanks was telling him a falsehood. "That's a good

thought," he said; "if I can live abroad and keep hold of the rents we

shall be safe enough."

"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Shanks, "that is the only plan. Then

let them file their bills, or bring their actions or what not. They

cannot compel you to answer if you are not within the realm."

Mr. Shanks was calling him all the time, in his own mind, a

jolter-headed ass, but John Ayliffe did not perceive it, and replied

with a touch of good feeling, perhaps inspired by the punch, "But what

is to become of you, Shanks?"

"Oh, I will stay and face it out," replied the lawyer, "with a bold

front. If we do not peach of each other they cannot do much against

us. Mrs. Hazleton dare not commit us, for by so doing she would commit

herself; and your mother's story will not avail very much. As to the

letters, which is the worst part of the business, we must try and

explain those away; but clearly the first thing for you to do is to

get out of England as soon as possible. You can go and see your mother

secretly, and if you can but get her to prevaricate a little in her

testimony it will knock it all up."

"Oh, she'll prevaricate enough if they do but press her hard," said

John Ayliffe. "She gets so frightened at the least thing she does'nt

know what she says. But the worst of it is, Shanks, I have not got

money enough to go. I have not got above a hundred guineas in the

house."

Mr. Shanks paused and hesitated. It was a very great object with him

to get John Ayliffe out of the country, in order that he might say any

thing he liked of John Ayliffe when his back was turned, but it was

also a very great object with him to keep all the money he had got. He

did not like to part with one sixpence of it. After a few moments'

thought, however, he recollected that a thousand pounds' worth of

plate had come down from London for the young man within the last two

months, and he thought he might make a profitable arrangement.

"I have got three hundred pounds in the house," he said, "all in good

gold, but I can really hardly afford to part with it. However, rather

than injure you, Sir John, I will let you have it if you will give me

the custody of your plate till your return, just that I may have

something to show if any one presses me for money."

The predominant desire of John Ayliffe's mind, at that moment, was to

get out of England as fast as possible, and he was too much blinded by

fear and anxiety to perceive that the great desire of Mr. Shanks was

to get him out. But there was one impediment. The sum of four hundred

pounds thus placed at his command would, some years before, have

appeared the Indies to him, but now, with vastly expanded ideas with

regard to expense, it seemed a drop of water in the ocean. "Three

hundred pounds. Shanks," he said, "what's the use of three hundred

pounds? It would not keep me a month."

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Shanks, horrified at such a notion, "why

it would keep me a whole year, and more too. Moreover, things are

cheaper there than they are here; and besides you have got all those

jewels, and knick-knacks, and things, which cost you at least a couple

of thousand pounds. They would sell for a great deal."

"Come, come, Shanks," said the young man, "you must make it five

hundred guineas. I know you've got them in your strong box here."

Shanks shook his head, and John Ayliffe added sullenly, "Then I'll

stay and fight it out too. I won't go and be a beggar in a foreign

land."

Shanks did not like the idea of his staying, and after some farther

discussion a compromise was effected. Mr. Shanks agreed to advance

four hundred pounds. John Ayliffe was to make over to him, as a

pledge, the whole of his plate, and not to object to a memorandum to

that effect being drawn up immediately, and dated a month before. The

young man was to set off the very next day, in the pleasant gray of

the morning, driving his own carriage and horses, which he was to sell

as soon as he got a convenient distance from his house, and Mr. Shanks

was to take the very best possible care of his interests during his

absence.

John Ayliffe's spirits rose at the conclusion of this transaction. He

calculated that with one thing or another he should have sufficient

money to last him a year, and that was quite as far as his thoughts or

expectations went. A long, long year! What does youth care for any

thing beyond a year? It seems the very end of life to pant in

expectation, and indeed, and in truth, it is very often too long for

fate.

"Next year I will"--Pause, young man! there is a deep pitfall in the

way. Between you and another year may be death. Next year thou wilt do

nothing--thou wilt be nothing.

His spirits rose. He put the money into his pocket, and, with more wit

than he thought, called it "light heaviness," and then he sat down and

smoked a pipe, while Mr. Shanks drew up the paper; and then he drank

punch, and made more, and drank that too, so that when the paper

giving Mr. Shanks a lien upon the silver was completed, and when a

dull neighbor had been called in to see him sign his name, it needed a

witness indeed to prove that that name was John Ayliffe's writing.

By this time he would very willingly have treated the company to a

song, so complete had been the change which punch and new prospects

had effected; but Mr. Shanks besought him to be quiet, hinting that

the neighbor, though as deaf as a post and blind as a mole, would

think him as the celebrated sow of the psalmist. Thereupon John

Ayliffe went forth and got his horse out of the stable, mounted upon

his back, and rode lolling at a sauntering pace through the end of

the town in which Mr. Shanks's house was situated. When he got more

into the country he began to trot, then let the horse fall into a walk

again, and then he beat him for going slow. Thus alternately

galloping, walking, and trotting, he rode on till he was two or three

hundred yards past the gates of what was called the Court, where the

family of Sir Philip Hastings now lived. It was rather a dark part of

the road, and there was something white in the hedge--some linen put

out to dry, or a milestone. John Ayliffe was going at a quick pace at

that moment, and the horse suddenly shied at this white

apparition--not only shied, but started, wheeled round, and ran back.

John Ayliffe kept his seat, notwithstanding his tipsiness, but he

struck the furious horse over the head, and pulled the rein violently.

The animal plunged--reared--the young man gave the rein a furious tug,

and over went the horse upon the road, with his driver under him.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

There was a man lay upon the road in the darkness of the night for

some five or six minutes, and a horse galloped away snorting, with a

broken bridle hanging at his head, on the way towards the park of Sir

Philip Hastings. Had any carriage come along, the man who was lying

there must have been run over; for the night was exceedingly dark, and

the road narrow. All was still and silent, however. No one was seen

moving--not a sound was heard except the distant clack of a water-mill

which lay further down the valley. There was a candle in a cottage

window at about a hundred yards' distance, which shot a dim and feeble

ray athwart the road, but shed no light on the spot where the man lay.

At the end of about six minutes, a sort of convulsive movement showed

that life was not yet extinct in his frame--a sort of heave of the

chest, and a sudden twitch of the arm; and a minute or two after, John

Ayliffe raised himself on his elbow, and put his hand to his head.

"Curse the brute," he said, in a wandering sort of way, "I wonder,

Shanks, you don't--damn it, where am I?--what's the matter? My side

and leg are cursed sore, and my head all running round."

He remained in the same position for a moment or two more, and then

got upon his feet; but the instant he did so he fell to the ground

again with a deep groan, exclaiming, "By ----, my leg's broken, and I

believe my ribs too. How the devil shall I get out of this scrape?

Here I may lie and die, without any body ever coming near me. That is

old Jenny Best's cottage, I believe. I wonder if I could make the old

canting wretch hear," and he raised his voice to shout, but the pain

was too great. His ribs were indeed broken, and pressing upon his

lungs, and all that he could do was to lie still and groan.

About a quarter of an hour after, however, a stout, middle-aged

man--rather, perhaps, in the decline of life--came by, carrying a

hand-basket, plodding at a slow and weary pace as if he had had a long

walk.

"Who's that? Is any one there?" said a feeble voice, as he approached;

and he ran up, exclaiming, "Gracious me, what is the matter? Are you

hurt, sir? What has happened?"

"Is that you, Best?" said the feeble voice of John Ayliffe, "my horse

has reared and fallen over with me. My leg is broken, and the bone

poking through, and my ribs are broken too, I think."

"Stay a minute, Sir John," said the good countryman, "and I'll get

help, and we'll carry you up to the Hall."

"No, no," answered John Ayliffe, who had now had time for thought,

"get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into your

cottage. If your son is at home, he and you can carry me. Don't send

for strangers."

"I dare say he is at home, sir," replied the man. "He's a good lad,

sir, and comes home as soon as his work's done. I will go and see. I

won't be a minute."

He was as good as his word, and in less than a minute returned with

his son, bringing a lantern and a straw mattress.

Not without inflicting great pain, and drawing forth many a heavy

groan, the old man and the young one placed John Ayliffe on the

paliasse, and carried him into the cottage, where he was laid upon

young Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffe

had called her--an excellent creature as ever lived--was all kindness

and attention, although to say truth the suffering man had not shown

any great kindness to her and hers in his days of prosperity. She was

eager to send off her son immediately for the surgeon, and did so in

the end; but to the surprise of the whole of the little cottage party,

it was not without a great deal of reluctance and hesitation that John

Ayliffe suffered this to be done. They showed him, however, that he

must die or lose his limb if surgical assistance was not immediately

procured, and he ultimately consented, but told the young man

repeatedly not to mention his name even to the surgeon on any account,

but simply to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse, and

brought into the cottage with his thigh broken. He cautioned father

and mother too not to mention the accident to any one till he was well

again, alluding vaguely to reasons that he had for wishing to conceal

it.

"But, Sir John," replied Best himself, "your horse will go home,

depend upon it, and your servants will not know where you are, and

there will be a fuss about you all over the country."

"Well, then, let them make a fuss," said John Ayliffe, impatiently. "I

don't care--I will not have it mentioned."

All this seemed very strange to the good man and his wife, but they

could only open their eyes and stare, without venturing farther to

oppose the wishes of their guest.

It seemed a very long time before the surgeon made his appearance, but

at length the sound of a horse's feet coming fast, could be

distinguished, and two minutes after the surgeon was in the room. He

was a very good man, though not the most skilful of his profession,

and he was really shocked and confounded when he saw the state of Sir

John Hastings, as he called him. Wanting confidence in himself, he

would fain have sent off immediately for farther assistance, but John

Ayliffe would not hear of such a thing, and the good man went to work

to set the broken limb as best he might, and relieve the anguish of

the sufferer. So severe, however, were the injuries which had been

received, that notwithstanding a strong constitution, as yet but

little impaired by debauchery, the patient was given over by the

surgeon in his own mind from the first. He remained with him, watching

him all night, which passed nearly without sleep on the part of John

Ayliffe; and in the course of the long waking hours he took an

opportunity of enjoining secrecy upon the surgeon as to the accident

which had happened to him, and the place where he was lying. Not less

surprised was the worthy man than the cottager and his wife had been

at the young gentleman's exceeding anxiety for concealment, and as his

licentious habits were no secret in the country round, they all

naturally concluded that the misfortune which had overtaken him had

occurred in the course of some adventure more dangerous and

disgraceful than usual.

Towards morning John Ayliffe fell into a sort of semi-sleep, restless

and perturbed, speaking often without reason having guidance of his

words, and uttering many things which, though disjointed and often

indistinct, showed the good man who had watched by him that the mind

was as much affected as the body. He woke confused and wandering about

eight o'clock, but speedily returned to consciousness of his

situation, and insisted, notwithstanding the pain he was suffering,

upon examining the money which was in his pockets to see that it was

all right. Vain precaution! He was never destined to need it more.

Shortly after the surgeon left him, but returned at night again to

watch by his bedside. The bodily symptoms which he now perceived would

have led him to believe that a cure was possible, but there was a deep

depression of mind, a heavy irritable sombreness, from the result of

which the surgeon augured much evil. He saw that there was some

terrible weight upon the young man's heart, but whether it was fear or

remorse or disappointment he could not tell, and more than once he

repeated to himself, "He wants a priest as much as a physician."

Again the surgeon would often argue with himself in regard to the

propriety of telling him the very dangerous state in which he was. "He

may at any time become delirious," he said, "and lose all power of

making those dispositions and arrangements which, I dare say, have

never been thought of in the time of health and prosperity. Then,

again, his house and all that it contains is left entirely in the

hands of servants--a bad set too, as ever existed, who are just as

likely to plunder and destroy as not; but on the other hand, if I tell

him it may only increase his dejection and cut off all hope of

recovery. Really I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would be better

to wait awhile, and if I should see more unfavorable symptoms and no

chance left, it will then be time enough to tell him his true

situation and prepare his mind for the result."

Another restless, feverish night passed, another troubled sleep

towards morning, and then John Ayliffe woke with a start, exclaiming,

"You did not tell them I was here--lying here unable to stir, unable

to move--I told you not, I told you not. By ----" and then he looked

round, and seeing none but the surgeon in the room, relapsed into

silence.

The surgeon felt his pulse, examined the bandages, and saw that a

considerable and unfavorable change had taken place; but yet he

hesitated. He was one of those men who shrink from the task of telling

unpleasant truths. He was of a gentle and a kindly disposition, which

even the necessary cruelties of surgery had not been able to harden.

"He may say what he likes," he said, "I must have some advice as to

how I should act. I will go and talk with the parson about the matter.

Though a little lacking in the knowledge of the world, yet Dixwell is

a good man and a sincere Christian. I will see him as I go home, but

make him promise secrecy in the first place, as this young baronet is

so terribly afraid of the unfortunate affair being known. He will die,

I am afraid, and that before very long, and I am sure he is not in a

fit state for death." With this resolution he said some soothing words

to his patient, gave him what he called a composing draught, and sent

for his horse from a neighboring farm-house, where he had lodged it

for the night. He then rode at a quiet, thoughtful pace to the

parsonage house at the gates of the park, and quickly walked in. Mr.

Dixwell was at breakfast, reading slowly one of the broad sheets of

the day as an especial treat, for they seldom found their way into his

quiet rectory; but he was very glad to see the surgeon, with whom he

often contrived to have a pleasant little chat in regard to the

affairs of the neighborhood.

"Ah, Mr. Short, very glad to see you, my good friend. How go things

in your part of the world? We are rather in a little bustle here,

though I think it is no great matter."

"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" asked the surgeon.

"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman,

"left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last, and has

never returned. But he is accustomed to do all manner of strange

things, and has often been out two or three nights before without any

one knowing where he was. The butler came down and spoke to me about

it, but I think there was a good deal of affectation in his alarm, for

when I asked him he owned his master had once been away for a whole

week."

"Has his horse come back?" asked the surgeon.

"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I suppose the man would

have mentioned it if such had been the case. But what is going on at

Hartwell?"

"Nothing particular," said the surgeon, "only Mrs. Harrison brought to

bed of twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. I think

all those Harrisons have twins--but I have something to talk to you

about, my good friend, a sort of case of conscience I want to put to

you. Only you must promise me profound secrecy."

Mr. Dixwell laughed--"What, under the seal of confession?" he said.

"Well, well, I am no papist, as you know, Short, but I'll promise and

do better than any papist does, keep my word when I have promised

without mental reservation."

"I know you will, my good friend," answered the surgeon, "and this is

no jesting matter, I can assure you. Now listen, my good friend,

listen. Not many evenings ago, I was sent for suddenly to attend a

young man who had met with an accident, a very terrible accident too.

He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three of his ribs broken, and

his head a good deal knocked about, but the cranium uninjured. I had

at first tolerable hope of his recovery; but he is getting much worse

and I fear that he will die."

"Well, you can't help that," said Mr. Dixwell, "men will die in spite

of all you can do, Short, just as they will sin in spite of all I can

say."

"Ay, there's the rub," said the surgeon. "I fear he has sinned a very

tolerably sufficient quantity, and I can see that there is something

or another weighing very heavy on his mind, which is even doing great

harm to his body."

"I will go and see him, I will go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "it

will do him good in all ways to unburden his conscience, and to hear

the comfortable words of the gospel."

"But the case is, Mr. Dixwell," said Short, "that he has positively

forbidden me to let any of his friends know where he lies, or to speak

of the accident to any one."

"Pooh, nonsense," said the clergyman, "if a man has fractured his

skull and you thought it fit to trepan him, would you ask him whether

he liked it or not? If the young man is near death, and his conscience

is burdened, I am the physician who should be sent for rather than

you."

"I fancy his conscience is burdened a good deal," said Mr. Short,

thoughtfully; "nay, I cannot help thinking that he was engaged in some

very bad act at the time this happened, both from his anxiety to

conceal from every body where he now lies, and from various words he

has dropped, sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when waking confused

and half delirious. What puzzles me is, whether I should tell him his

actual situation or not."

"Tell him, tell him by all means," said Mr. Dixwell, "why should you

not tell him?"

"Simply because I think that it will depress his mind still more,"

replied the surgeon, "and that may tend to deprive him even of the

very small chance that exists of recovery."

"The soul is of more value than the body," replied the clergyman,

earnestly; "if he be the man you depict, my friend, he should have as

much time as possible to prepare--he should have time to repent--ay,

and to atone. Tell him by all means, or let me know where he is to be

found, and I will tell him."

"That I must not do," said Mr. Short, "for I am under a sort of

promise not to tell; but if you really think that I ought to tell him

myself, I will go back and do it."

"If I really think!" exclaimed Mr. Dixwell, "I have not the slightest

doubt of it. It is your bounden duty if you be a Christian. Not only

tell him, my good friend, but urge him strongly to send for some

minister of religion. Though friends may fail him, and he may not wish

to see them--though all worldly supports may give way beneath him, and

he may find no strengthening--though all earthly hopes may pass away,

and give him no mortal cheer, the gospel of Christ can never fail to

support, and strengthen, and comfort, and elevate. The sooner he knows

that his tenement of clay is falling to the dust of which it was

raised, the better will be his readiness to quit it, and it is wise,

most wise, to shake ourselves free altogether from the dust and

crumbling ruins of this temporal state, ere they fall upon our heads

and bear us down to the same destruction as themselves."

"Well, well, I will go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and bidding

the good rector adieu, he once more mounted his horse and rode away.

Now Mr. Dixwell was an excellent good man, but he was not without

certain foibles, especially those that sometimes accompany

considerable simplicity of character. "I will see which way he takes,"

said Mr. Dixwell, "and go and visit the young man myself if I can find

him out;" and accordingly he marched up stairs to his bedroom, which

commanded a somewhat extensive prospect of the country, and traced

the surgeon, as he trotted slowly and thoughtfully along. He could not

actually see the cottage of the Bests, but he perceived that the

surgeon there passed over the brow of the hill, and after waiting for

several minutes, he did not catch any horseman rising upon the

opposite slope over which the road was continued. Now there was no

cross road in the hollow and only three houses, and therefore Mr.

Dixwell naturally concluded that to one of those three houses the

surgeon had gone.

In the mean while, Mr. Short rode on unconscious that his movements

were observed, and meditating with a troubled mind upon the best means

of conveying the terrible intelligence he had to communicate. He did

not like the task at all; but yet he resolved to perform it manfully,

and dismounting at the cottage door, he went in again. There was

nobody within but the sick man and good old Jenny Best. The old woman

was at the moment in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon she

shook her head, and said in a low voice, "Ah, dear, I am glad you have

come back again, sir, he does not seem right at all."

"Who's that?" said the voice of John Ayliffe; and going in, Mr. Short

closed the doors between the two rooms.

"There, don't shut that door," said John Ayliffe, "it is so infernally

close--I don't feel at all well, Mr. Short--I don't know what's the

matter with me. It's just as if I had got no heart. I think a glass of

brandy would do me good."

"It would kill you," said the surgeon.

"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that would not be best for

me--come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I am to lie here on

my back?"

"That I cannot tell, Sir John," replied the surgeon, "but at all

events, supposing that you do recover, and that every thing goes well,

you could not hope to move for two or three months."

"Supposing I was to recover!" repeated John Ayliffe in a low tone, as

if the idea of approaching death had then, for the first time, struck

him as something real and tangible, and not a mere name. He paused

silently for an instant, and then asked almost fiercely, "what brought

you back?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be better for us to have a little

conversation," said the surgeon. "I can't help being afraid, Sir John,

that you may have a great number of things to settle, and that not

anticipating such a very severe accident, your affairs may want a good

deal of arranging. Now the event of all sickness is uncertain, and an

accident such as this especially. It is my duty to inform you," he

continued, rising in resolution and energy as he proceeded, "that your

case is by no means free from danger--very great danger indeed."

"Do you mean to say that I am dying?" asked John Ayliffe, in a hoarse

voice.

"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, putting his hand upon

his pulse, "not dying I trust just yet, but--"

"But I shall die, you mean?" cried the other.

"I think it not at all improbable," answered the surgeon, gravely,

"that the case may have a fatal result."

"Curse fatal results," cried John Ayliffe, giving way to a burst of

fury; "why the devil do you come back to tell me such things and make

me wretched? If I am to die, why can't you let me die quietly and know

nothing about it?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought that you might have many matters to settle,"

answered the surgeon somewhat irritated, "and that your temporal and

your spiritual welfare also required you should know your real

situation."

"Spiritual d----d nonsense!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, furiously; "I

dare say it's all by your folly and stupidity that I am likely to die

at all. Why I hear of men breaking their legs and their ribs every day

and being none the worse for it."

"Why, Sir John, if you do not like my advice you need not have it,"

answered the surgeon; "I earnestly wished to send for other

assistance, and you would not let me."

"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as the

surgeon took up his hat and walked towards the door, he added, "come

again at night. You shall be well paid for it, never fear."

Mr. Short made no reply, but walked out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Solitude and silence, and bitter thought are great tamers of the human

heart. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," says the Apostle, and John

Ayliffe was now forced to put in the sickle. Death was before his

eyes, looming large and dark and terrible, like the rock of adamant in

the fairy tale, against which the bark of the adventurous mariner was

sure to be dashed. Death for the first time presented itself to his

mind in all its grim reality. Previously it had seemed with him a

thing hardly worth considering--inevitable--appointed to all men--to

every thing that lives and breathes--no more to man than to the sheep,

or the ox, or any other of the beasts that perish. He had contemplated

it merely as death--as the extinction of being--as the goal of a

career--as the end of a chase where one might lie down and rest, and

forget the labor and the clamor and the trouble of the course. He had

never in thought looked beyond the boundary--he had hardly asked

himself if there was aught beyond. He had satisfied himself by saying,

as so many men do, "Every man must die some time or another," and had

never asked his own heart, "What is it to die?"

But now death presented itself under a new aspect; cold and stern,

relentless and mysterious, saying in a low solemn tone, "I am the

guide. Follow me there. Whither I lead thou knowest not, nor seest

what shall befall thee. The earth-worm and the mole fret but the

earthly garment of the man; the flesh, and the bones, and the beauty

go down to dust, and ashes, and corruption. The man comes with me to a

land undeclared--to a presence infinitely awful--to judgment and to

fate; for on this side of the dark portal through which I am the

guide, there is no such thing as fate. It lies beyond the grave, and

thither thou must come without delay."

He had heard of immortality, but he had never thought of it. He had

been told of another world, but he had never rightly believed in it.

The thought of a just judge, and of an eternal doom, had been

presented to him in many shapes, but he had never received it; and he

had lived and acted, and thought and felt, as if there were neither

eternity, nor judgment, nor punishment. But in that dread hour the

deep-rooted, inexplicable conviction of a God and immortality,

implanted in the hearts of all men, and only crushed down in the

breasts of any by the dust of vanity and the lumber of the world, rose

up and bore its fruits according to the soil. They were all bitter. If

there were another life, a judgment, an eternity of weal or woe, what

was to be his fate? How should he meet the terrors of the

judgment-seat--he who had never prayed from boyhood--he who through

life had never sought God--he who had done in every act something that

conscience reproved, and that religion forbade?

Every moment as he lay there and thought, the terrors of the vast

unbounded future grew greater and more awful. The contemplation almost

drove him to frenzy, and he actually made an effort to rise from his

bed, but fell back again with a deep groan. The sound caught the ear

of good Jenny Best, and running in she asked if he wanted any thing.

"Stay with me, stay with me," said the unhappy young man, "I cannot

bear this--it is very terrible--I am dying, Mrs. Best, I am dying."

Mrs. Best shook her head with a melancholy look; but whether from

blunted feelings, from the hard and painful life which they endured,

or from a sense that there is to be compensation somewhere, and that

any change must be for the better, or cannot be much worse than the

life of this earth, or from want of active imagination, the poorer and

less educated classes I have generally remarked view death and all its

accessories with less of awe, if not of dread, than those who have

been surrounded by luxuries, and perhaps have used every effort to

keep the contemplation of the last dread scene afar, till it is

actually forced upon their notice. Her words were homely, and though

intended to comfort did not give much consolation to the dying man.

"Ah well, sir, it is very sad," she said, "to die so young; though

every one must die sooner or later, and it makes but little difference

whether it be now or then. Life is not so long to look back at, sir,

as to look forward to, and when one dies young one is spared many a

thing. I recollect my poor eldest son who is gone, when he lay dying

just like you in that very bed, and I was taking on sadly, he said to

me, 'Mother don't cry so. It's just as well for me to go now when I've

not done much mischief or suffered much sorrow.' He was as good a

young man as ever lived; and so Mr. Dixwell said; for the parson used

to come and see him every day, and that was a great comfort and

consolation to the poor boy."

"Was it?" said John Ayliffe, thoughtfully. "How long did he know he

was dying?"

"Not much above a week, sir," said Mrs. Best; "for till Mr. Dixwell

told him, he always thought he would get better. We knew it a long

time however, for he had been in a decline a year, and his father had

been laying by money for the funeral three months before he died. So

when it was all over we put him by quite comfortable."

"Put him by!" said John Ayliffe.

"Yes, sir, we buried him, I mean," answered Mrs. Best. "That's our way

of talking. But Mr. Dixwell had been to see him long before. He knew

that he was dying, and he wouldn't tell him as long as there was any

hope; for he said it was not necessary--that he had never seen any one

better prepared to meet his Maker than poor Robert, and that it was no

use to disturb him about the matter till it came very near."

"Ah, Dixwell is a wise man and a good man," said John Ayliffe. "I

should very much like to see him."

"I can run for him in a minute sir," said Dame Best, but John Ayliffe

replied, in a faint voice, "No, no, don't, don't on any account."

In the mean while, the very person of whom they were speaking had

descended from the up-stairs room, finished his breakfast in order to

give the surgeon time to fulfil his errand, and then putting on his

three-cornered hat had walked out to ascertain at what house Mr. Short

had stopped. The first place at which he inquired was the farm-house

at which the good surgeon had stabled his horse on the preceding

night. Entering by the kitchen door, he found the good woman of the

place bustling about amongst pots and pans and maidservants, and other

utensils, and though she received him with much reverence, she did not

for a moment cease her work.

"Well, Dame," he said, "I hope you're all well here."

"Quite well, your reverence--Betty, empty that pail."

"Why, I've seen Mr. Short come down here," said the parson, "and I

thought somebody might be ill."

"Very kind, your reverence--mind you don't spill it.--No, it warn't

here. It's some young man down at Jenny Best's, who's baddish, I

fancy, for the Doctor stabled his horse here last night."

"I am glad to hear none of you are ill," said Mr. Dixwell, and bidding

her good morning, he walked away straight to the cottage where John

Ayliffe lay. There was no one in the outer room, and the good

clergyman, privileged by his cloth, walked straight on into the room

beyond, and stood by the bedside of the dying man before any one was

aware of his presence.

Mr. Dixwell was not so much surprised to see there on that bed of

death the face of him he called Sir John Hastings, as might be

supposed. The character which the surgeon had given of his patient,

the mysterious absence of the young man from the Hall, and the very

circumstance of his unwillingness to have his name and the place where

he was lying known, had all lent a suspicion of the truth. John

Ayliffe's eyes were shut at the moment he entered, and he seemed

dozing, though in truth sleep was far away. But the little movement of

Mr. Dixwell towards his bedside, and of Mrs. Best giving place for the

clergyman to sit down, caused him to open his eyes, and his first

exclamation was, "Ah, Dixwell! so that damned fellow Short has

betrayed me, and told when I ordered him not."

"Swear not at all," said Mr. Dixwell. "Short has not betrayed you, Sir

John. I came here by accident, merely hearing there was a young man

lying ill here, but without knowing actually that it was you, although

your absence from home has caused considerable uneasiness. I am very

sorry to see you in such a state. How did all this happen?"

"I will not tell you, nor answer a single word," replied John Ayliffe,

"unless you promise not to say a word of my being here to any one. I

know you will keep your word if you say so, and Jenny Best too--won't

you, Jenny?--but I doubt that fellow Short."

"You need not doubt him, Sir John," said the clergyman; "for he is

very discreet. As for me, I will promise, and will keep my word; for I

see not what good it could be to reveal it to any body if you dislike

it. You will be more tenderly nursed here, I am sure, than you would

be by unprincipled, dissolute servants, and since your poor mother's

death--"

John Ayliffe groaned heavily, and the clergyman stopped. The next

moment, however, the young man said, "Then you do promise, do you?"

"I do," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I will not at all reveal the facts

without your consent."

"Well, then, sit down, and let us be alone together for a bit," said

John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Best quietly quitted the room and shut the

door.

John Ayliffe turned his languid eyes anxiously upon the clergyman,

saying, "I think I am dying, Mr. Dixwell."

He would fain have had a contradiction or even a ray of earthly hope;

but he got none; for it was evident to the eyes of Mr. Dixwell,

accustomed as he had been for many years to attend by the bed of

sickness and see the last spark of life go out, that John Ayliffe was

a dying man--that he might live hours, nay days; but that the

irrevocable summons had been given, that he was within the shadow of

the arch, and must pass through!

"I am afraid you are, Sir John," he replied, "but I trust that God

will still afford you time to make preparation for the great change

about to take place, and by his grace I will help you to the utmost in

my power."

John Ayliffe was silent, and closed his eyes again. Nor was he the

first to speak; for after having waited for several minutes, Mr.

Dixwell resumed, saying in a grave but kindly tone, "I am afraid, Sir

John, you have not hitherto given much thought to the subject which is

now so sadly fixed upon you. We must make haste, my good sir; we must

not lose a moment."

"Then do you think I am going to die so soon?" asked the young man

with a look of horror; for it cost him a hard and terrible struggle to

bring his mind to grasp the thought of death being inevitable and nigh

at hand. He could hardly conceive it--he could hardly believe it--that

he who had so lately been full of life and health, who had been

scheming schemes, and laying out plans, and had looked upon futurity

as a certain possession--that he was to die in a few short hours; but

whenever the wilful heart would have rebelled against the sentence,

and struggle to resist it, sensations which he had never felt before,

told him in a voice not to be mistaken, "It must be so!"

"No one can tell," replied Mr. Dixwell, "how soon it may be, or how

long God may spare you; but one thing is certain, Sir John, that years

with you have now dwindled down into days, and that days may very

likely be shortened to hours. But had you still years to live, I

should say the same thing, that no time is to be lost; too much has

been lost already."

John Ayliffe did not comprehend him in the least. He could not grasp

the idea as yet of a whole life being made a preparation for death,

and looked vacantly in the clergyman's face, utterly confounded at the

thought.

Mr. Dixwell had a very difficult task before him--one of the most

difficult he had ever undertaken; for he had not only to arouse the

conscience, but to awaken the intellect to things importing all to the

soul's salvation, which had never been either felt or believed, or

comprehended before. At first too, there was the natural repugnance

and resistance of a wilful, selfish, over-indulged heart to receive

painful or terrible truths, and even when the obstacle was overcome,

the young man's utter ignorance of religion and want of moral feeling

proved another almost insurmountable. He found that the only access to

John Ayliffe's heart was by the road of terror, and without scruple he

painted in stern and fearful colors the awful state of the impenitent

spirit called suddenly into the presence of its God. With an unpitying

hand he stripped away all self-delusions from the young man's mind and

laid his condition before him, and his future state in all their dark

and terrible reality.

This is not intended for what is called a religious book, and

therefore I must pass over the arguments he used, and the course he

proceeded in. Suffice it that he labored earnestly for two hours to

awaken something like repentance in the bosom of John Ayliffe, and he

succeeded in the end better than the beginning had promised. When

thoroughly convinced of the moral danger of his situation, John

Ayliffe began to listen more eagerly, to reply more humbly, and to

seek earnestly for some consolation beyond the earth. His depression

and despair, as terrible truths became known to him were just in

proportion to his careless boldness and audacity while he had remained

in wilful ignorance, and as soon as Mr. Dixwell saw that all the

clinging to earthly expectations was gone--that every frail support of

mortal thoughts was taken away, he began to give him gleams of hope

from another world, and had the satisfaction of finding that the

doubts and terrors which remained arose from the consciousness of his

own sins and crimes, the heavy load of which he felt for the first

time. He told him that repentance was never too late--he showed, him

that Christ himself had stamped that great truth with a mark that

could not be mistaken in his pardon of the dying thief upon the cross,

and while he exhorted him to examine himself strictly, and to make

sure that what he felt was real repentance, and not the mere fear of

death which so many mistake for it in their last hours, he assured him

that if he could feel certain of that fact, and trust in his Saviour,

he might comfort himself and rest in good hope. That done, he resolved

to leave the young man to himself for a few hours that he might

meditate and try the great question he had propounded with his own

heart. He called in Mistress Best, however, and told her that if

during his absence Sir John wished her to read to him, it would be a

great kindness to read certain passages of Scripture which he pointed

out in the house Bible. The good woman very willingly undertook the

task, and shortly after the clergyman was gone John Ayliffe applied to

hear the words of that book against which he had previously shut his

ears. He found comfort and consolation and guidance therein; for Mr.

Dixwell, who, on the one subject which had been the study of his life

was wise as well as learned, had selected judiciously such passages as

tend to inspire hope without diminishing penitence.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Continued from page 488, vol. iii.

THE CASTLE OF BELVER.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ARAGO.

The castle of Belver is the state prison of the island of Majorca. The

Rev. Henry Christmas, F.R.S., has just published in London three

volumes entitled _The Shores and Islands of the Mediterranean_, in

which he gives the following account of the confinement within its

walls of the illustrious Arago:

"Charged by the Emperor Napoleon with the admeasurement of

the meridian, Arago was in 1808 in Majorca, and occupying a

cottage on the mountain called Clot de Galatzo, when the

news came to the island of the recent events at Madrid, and

the carrying away of the king. The populace of Palma, never

very favorably disposed towards the French, and altogether

incapable of comprehending either the merits or the mission

of Arago, easily mistook the great astronomer for a

political spy, and exasperated at the insult offered to

their king and country, determined to take a signal

vengeance on the only Frenchman within their power. They

took their way in great numbers towards the mountain on

which Arago had taken up his abode, fortified in their

belief of his evil designs by the fact that he frequently

made fires on the mountain-side, and which they took for

signals to an imaginary French fleet just about to land an

army for the reduction of the island.

"The mountain rises just above the coast on which Don Jaime

the Conqueror made his descent, and thus it will seem that

the islanders were not destitute of some grounds for the

suspicions which they entertained, nor without some

palliating circumstances in the outrage which they

contemplated. It was, however, happily only a design, for M.

Arago, warned in time, left his mountain, and directed his

steps towards Palma. The person who advertised him of his

peril was a man named Damian, the pilot of the brig placed

by the Spanish Government at the disposal of the

philosopher. Himself a Majorcan, he was taken into the

counsel of the plotters, and was thus enabled to save the

life of his master.

"Dressed in the clothes of a common seaman, with which

Damian had provided him, he met on his way the mob, who were

bent on his destruction, and who stopped him to inquire

about that _maldito gabacho_, of whom they meant to rid the

island. As he spoke the language of the country fluently, he

gave them that kind of information which was most desirable

both to him and to them, and as soon as he arrived at Palma,

he made his way to the Spanish brig; but the captain, Don

Manual de Vacaro, a Catalonian, (his name ought to be known,

to his disgrace, as well as that of Damian to his credit,)

absolutely refused to take the astronomer to Barcelona,

alleging that he was at Palma for a specific purpose, and

could not leave without orders from his Government. When

Arago pointed out the danger which threatened his life, and

of which the captain was as well aware as himself, the

latter coolly pointed out a chest, in which he proposed

that M. Arago should take refuge. To this Arago replied by

measuring the chest, and showing that there was not room for

him in the inside. The next day a frantic mob was assembled

on the shore, and it became clear that it was their

intention to board the brig. Alarmed now for himself as well

as for his colleague, Don Manual assured Arago that he would

not answer for his life, and recommended him to constitute

himself a prisoner in the castle of Belver, offering to

conduct him hither in one of the ship's boats. Seeing what

kind of a man, as well as what kind of a mob, he had to do

with, Arago accepted the proposal, and just arrived time

enough to hear the castle gates closed against his furious

pursuers. It seems that all the motions of those on board

were watched from the shore, and as soon as the boat was

seen to depart, and to take the direction of Belver, the

populace poured forth, towards the castle, and had not Arago

been a little in advance, his life would have been

sacrificed.... He was there as a prisoner two months.

"During that time he was told, and he seems to have believed

the report, that the monks in the island had attempted to

bribe the soldiers to poison him, but that the latter would

not consent. It is likely enough that monks, considered as

monks, would think it rather meritorious than otherwise to

destroy a Frenchman, and a free-thinker, but it would be

less probable of Majorcan monks than of any other, and

poisoning is not the custom of the island. At the same time

the very vehement feeling of the people against him, might

put it into the minds of the monks to use monastic arts, and

there is an additional probability given to the notion by

the conduct of the Captain-general, who, after two months of

captivity, sent a message to the prisoner that he would do

well to make his escape, and that if he did, it would be

winked at. Arago took this excellent advice, sent for M.

Rodriguez, who had been appointed by the Spanish Government

to aid him in his scientific labors, and by his aid opened a

communication with Damian. This worthy man procured a

fishing-boat, and took him to Algiers, not daring to land

him in France or Spain, and absolutely refusing very large

offers made to him for that purpose."

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[2]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF

M. DE ST. GEORGES.

XVI.--MADEMOISELLE CREPINEAU'S LOVER.

About the end of May, 1819, on one of those bright sunny days which

bring out the blossoms of the lilac, make invalids strong, and young

girls healthy, the Duchess of Palma was sitting in the garden of her

hotel, in the same place and under the same tree in which we saw her

take refuge, to conceal her sorrow and tears, a few months before, on

the evening of the brilliant festival when all the principal

personages of our story met. A general languor and oppression with

complete weakness, the ordinary consequences of her unhappy attempt to

commit suicide, had ensued. The deep distress which gnawed at her

heart added moral to physical tortures. The Duke of Palma at last

perceived the deep indifference of La Felina towards him, and without

divining the cause, said that having married without love, all his

cares and tenderness had not sufficed to win her heart. He therefore

said, that he should be a fool to devote himself any longer to her,

and to consecrate his life to a woman to whom, notwithstanding the

prejudices of the world, he had given his title and name, without

having, as yet, received the most trifling acknowledgment in return!

Yet young, immensely rich, volatile and handsome, it was probable that

the Duke would not look in vain for some one to console him for the

severity of his Duchess. Like many other persons in Paris, the Duke

lived _en garcon_ with two houses, two establishments, and, morally

speaking, two wives. His second wife was a celebrated _danseuse_ of

the Royal Academy of Music, Mlle. G., known as a very agreeably thin

woman, and arms rather larger than the true academic

proportions--which, however, enabled her to entwine her partner, with

an _undulous grace_ that highly excited the old _habitues_ of the

opera. The reign of Louis XVIII. was also emphatically the reign of

the _danseuses_. Princes, marshals, generals, and nobles, selected

their mistresses in the _seraglio_ of the opera. The reign of these

ladies was, however, almost _emphyteotic_, that is to say, permanent,

and often resulted in the consecration of illegitimate pleasures. MM.

de Lauraguais, de Conti, de Letoriers, and others, would have laughed

at this. The external life of the Duke was full of attention to the

Duchess, with whom he dined regularly. He never, however, breakfasted

at the embassy, nor was he there except at his regular receptions. The

pious people who had been so shocked at his marriage, took care to say

that the Duchess's conduct was the sole cause of her husband's

misbehavior. There was nothing, though, in the world to sustain this;

for no one had the slightest idea of the secret _liaison_ of

Monte-Leone and the embassadress. That was a transient affair, and the

shores of the _Lago di Como_ alone had been witnesses of it. Some

excuse, however, was indispensably necessary for him.

La Felina, as isolated as ever, then sat in a beautiful garden which

overlooked the _Champs Elysees_, on the morning we have described. Her

face was pale and wearied, and her eyes red from want of sleep. With

her head resting on her chest, she seemed a prey to the greatest

sorrow. Just then they came to tell her of the visit of Taddeo Rovero.

"At last," said she, gladly, "I will know all."

Taddeo was close behind the servant who had announced him. He could

not repress his surprise, when he saw how changed the Duchess was. The

latter saw it and said, "You did not expect, signor, to see an old and

ugly woman instead of her you once thought, so beautiful. I have,

however, suffered a great deal during the three months you have been

away. Without meaning to reproach you, let me say it is three months

since I saw you."

"Ah! Signora, to me you may assume any guise you please; for neither

my eyes, nor heart, distinguish any alteration."

"So much the better," said the Duchess with a smile, "for you are

perhaps the only person who think me as beautiful as once was. It is

something to be thought beautiful when we are not. What, though, is

come over you? Why have you been so long in Italy?"

"Alas! Signora, bad inducements took me from Paris and from yourself."

"All they say, then, is true?" said the Duchess, making Taddeo sit by

her; "the Marquise de Maulear has lost her husband? She is a widow?"

said she, sadly, and with an effort.

"The Marquis died three months since at Rome," said Taddeo.

"It is terrible," said the ambassadress, "public rumor said so--I,

though, live so much alone that I know nothing more. Excuse me, if I

inquire into family secrets--were it not for the interest I entertain

for your sister and yourself, I would not do so--"

"The death of the Marquis," said Taddeo, "is really a family secret.

There is no reason, however, why you should not know it. I am aware to

whom I confide it, and have no hesitation in doing so. My story will

be brief. The Marquis and I set out for Rome three months ago, to

receive the estate of my uncle, Cardinal Felippo Justiniani. We met

with many difficulties, but eventually received it. The total was a

million of francs, in bonds of the principal bankers of Rome. The half

of this sum was paid in cash. I was in mourning, and did not go into

society. Besides," added Taddeo, looking tenderly at La Felina, "I had

left my heart in Paris--and society and the Carnival pleasures had no

charms for me. The Marquis seemed more anxious for amusement than

propriety permitted. A few days after having received the half of our

inheritance, of which the Marquis had possession, I was surprised to

hear that he had not returned home at night. I did not, however, dare

to question him; for I thought that he had been tempted by some

pleasure party and might be unwilling to answer me. I pretended not to

be aware that he was away. For several successive nights this

occurred, and at last I ventured to speak to him, telling him what

danger he exposed himself to, by straying thus in the streets of Rome.

'I am well armed,' said he, 'and can protect myself against robbers.'

Day after day the Marquis seemed more and more engaged. He avoided me,

and scarcely ever returned home. One day he was absent. Afraid lest he

might have been attacked in the night, I went to the French minister's

and caused a minute search to be made--and learned that my

brother-in-law had put an end to his own life. He had been enticed by

some of his French friends into a gaming house, which foreign

speculators had obtained leave to open during the Carnival, and had

there lost the five hundred thousand francs which belonged to his

wife. In his despair he had drowned himself in the Tiber."

"This is terrible," said the Duchess, "are you sure this is so?"

"Too sure," said Taddeo, "for not long after, the discovery of the

body put all beyond doubt. These, Signora, are the facts of the case;

though to save the Marquise's honor we attribute his death to a

natural cause."

"I thank you, Signor, for your confidence; especially since it gives

me a right to pity the sister you love so well, yet more--and also to

console you for the death of M. de Maulear. But when did you return?"

"A few days ago. I was forced to remain yet longer in Rome to get

possession of the remnant of the Cardinal's fortune. My mother also

came to Rome to tell Aminta of her misfortune."

"How cruelly the young _Marquise_ must suffer," said the Duchess; "how

she must need compassion and care!"

"She will have ours; and her father-in-law, overcoming his own sorrow,

is as tender and fond of her as ever."

"Then," said the Duchess, concealing a distress she could not lay

aside, "she yet has true and excellent friends--the Count Monte-Leone,

for instance, who was so fond of her--"

"The Count," said Taddeo, looking strangely at the Duchess, who did

not meet his glance, "was received a few days ago by the Marquise."

"He will make up for lost time," said La Felina, bitterly, "for now,

or perhaps some day, his old hopes may again arise, and perhaps be

realized."

Taddeo understood why she spoke thus. For a long time his forbearance

had been pushed to extremities, and this passion of the Duchess for

his friend had given rise to new tortures, too severe to repress the

idea of vengeance. He was cruel and barbarous; but he had too severely

suffered from La Felina. By a violent course, also, he perhaps wished

to crush the love which tortured him.

He remarked: "Even though I afflict you, I must say your fancy is

likely enough to be realized. The Count possesses rank and a spotless

reputation--for without the latter--"

"With but the latter," said the Duchess, "he could not enter our

family."

"Certainly, the Count prepares the Marquise for a future courtship by

very constant visits now."

"He comes every day to the Hotel to see the Prince and myself. My

sister loves to hear him speak of Italy, of which you know he talks so

well."

La Felina could bear no more. She gave her hand to Taddeo, and with a

voice trembling with emotion said: "For the present, adieu! You owe me

some compensation for your long absence, and if the lonely life I

lead does not afflict you, if you are not too much afraid of an

anchorite, come to see me, and you will find me always glad to see

you."

Taddeo kissed her hand and left her, almost repenting in his generous

mind that he had spoken as he did. He was fully avenged, for the

Duchess's grief was so great that she felt her heart grow chilled, her

limbs stiffen, and her eyes close. Her conversation with Taddeo soon

returned to her mind, and she uttered a cry of agony. Her _femme de

chambre_ bore her to the Hotel. When alone in her room she said to

herself: "He swore to me that he would never be her lover. She may now

be his wife. Ah!" continued she, "with cruel and sombre fury, it would

have been better for both of us had he let me die."

"Tell him who waits to come," said she to the servant.

The woman left, and soon after came in with a man whom the Duchess

made sit beside her. The woman left the room. We will leave the

Duchess with the stranger and go to No. 13 _rue de Babylonne_, where

one month after we shall find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, a prey to the

tenderest emotions. We must say for about two months the heart of that

lady had been speaking. This lady's heart, like that of old

thorough-bred horses, of whom we read every once in a while, had a

return of ardor, and laid aside all its ascetic devotion to become

intense living and burning, as it had been in youth. This was the sure

premonition of old age. If anything could justify this resurrection,

it is what we are about to tell.

A new star shone in _la rue de Babylonne_. A beautiful stranger

calling himself a Spaniard, a statement made probable by his dark

complexion, sun-burnt brow, black hair, and brilliant eyes,

established himself in a modest garret of No. 12, just opposite the

house of the _hangman_, now occupied by Matheus. The charming Spaniard

had no decided profession. His dress was that of an artisan in his

Sunday best: and his velvet vest covered a prominent and Herculean

_torso_. He was tall; and walked squarely on his large feet; a

circumstance which made Mlle. Crepineau think him majestic. He said he

was a bear-hunter from the Pyrenees, who had been forced to expatriate

himself because _in a duel he had wounded the governor of his

province_. It may be imagined that so rare a profession excited much

admiration among the natives of _la rue Babylonne_, especially as the

famous Nimrod passed his time at the door of No. 12, under the pretext

that he was accustomed to the pure mountain air, and that he did not

wish any of the neighbors anxious to make inquiries about his terrible

profession, to have the trouble of asking for him. At one of these

hall-door entertainments one summer night, the handsome Nunez saw and

captivated Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. Do not let any one fancy the

modest girl had given any encouragement to the stranger. They had

restricted themselves to glances, _double entendres_, and the

countless amiable pioneers of the army of Cupid. Mlle. Crepineau saw

the stranger come every day to assist her in opening the heavy door of

No. 13. Nunez took charge of the watering pot of which the

commissaries are so fond, and dispersed an agreeable freshness in

front of the house during the warm hours of the day, to protect, he

said, the color and complexion of his mistress. Often Mlle.

Celestine's nerves were refreshed by a delicate perfume which strayed

through the bars of her lodge, and on inquiry saw a sprig of some

sweet and odorous plant which had been placed there by the Spaniard.

At last Mlle. Crepineau gave him permission to visit her. This was an

important favor, and was the passage of the rubicon. By doing so,

Celestine placed her reputation in the power of her evil-disposed

neighbors. She was, however, in love. "Besides," said she, with noble

pride, "my conscience sustains me, and envy will fall abashed before

the sacred torch of hymen." This _respectable_ phrase was the last

remnant of the romances of Ducray-Dumenil, the first books Celestine

ever read when she was cook of the advocate her god-father.

But this interesting love passion was suddenly brought to a close by a

very painful circumstance for the vanity of the young lady. Whether

Mlle. Crepineau had laced herself more tightly even than usual, or

that in aspirations after sylphic grace, she had been rather too

active when Senor Nunez was by--she was seized one fine day with a

pain in the small of her back, translatable only by the word

rheumatism--a constant attendant of her delicate organization. A

forced construction was put on the pain--which became a cold or a

strain, but she had, in spite of the effort to get rid of it by an

_euphonism_, to go to bed. Then the devotion of the Spaniard became

heroic. He was unwilling that Mlle. Celestine should intrust any one

else with her daily occupation, and undertook to replace her in the

menage of Doctor Matheus. The proposition did not awaken much of the

doctor's gratitude; and though he accepted the substitute, he promised

to watch him very closely. One morning the doctor was forced to leave

very suddenly, just as the Spaniard was cleaning and dusting the

consultation room. Matheus had been sent for by the Duke d'Harcourt,

and apprehending some new indisposition of his young patient, Von

Apsberg, for the first time left the Senor Nunez in his room.

For a few moments, the Spaniard continued his occupation. When,

however, he saw the doctor leave, and from the window saw him turn

down the _rue de Bac_, he said, "Now what I have so long sought for is

in my grasp." Looking on every side of the room, lifting up the

papers, opening the portfolios and examining the furniture, he

discovered a secret drawer in a bureau, within which he found a key.

"Here," said he, "is the key of the laboratory--of the mysterious room

in which I shall find all I need. This is it," said he, looking

anxiously at the key, "I know it by its shape." Hurrying to the third

floor of the house, he paused at the door. His hand trembled--the key

entered--turned--the wards moved, and the stranger entered the

laboratory.

The table which, when we paid our first visit to Matheus, was covered

with maps, pamphlets, etc., now had nothing on it. "All is locked up,"

said the man. "I have bad luck." He soon, however, aroused himself,

and taking a ball of wax from his pocket, and pointing to a massive

secretary, said, "There they are--there are their plans and papers,

their lists and names." Approaching the secretary again, he took an

exact impression of the lock, and also made a copy of the key of the

laboratory. He then uttered a cry of joy. "I have them all," said he.

"I am their master, and not one of the accursed Carbonari can escape

me." He then left the room as expeditiously as he had entered, went to

the first story, replaced the key where he had found it in the secret

drawer, and hurried to find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, who had become

very uneasy about her lover.

XVIII. RUIN.

A few days after the pretended bear-hunter, the handsome Spaniard,

adored by the amiable Mlle. Crepineau, had gone stealthily into the

studio of Dr. Matheus to obtain possession of the secrets of the

Carbonari, our three friends Taddeo Rovero, Von Apsberg, and the

Vicomte d'Harcourt, were at the Count's hotel. The house of

Monte-Leone was in Verneuil street. It was small, mysterious, and

recherche. The court-yard was of modest size, with turf in the centre,

and sanded walks around it. The steps had a balcony at the top and

several marble vases, from which grew geraniums in summer and heath in

the winter. It was a regular bachelor's house, having every thing

demanded by the exigencies of a tenant of that condition. It had all

the broad, tall, low, narrow, visible, and invisible doors, for

troublesome cases and exits, for the actors and actresses of the every

day drama of the life of a young, rich, and independent man. No love

drama was ever performed, though, on this theatre. One of another and

more brilliant kind was being prepared. He gave a dinner to young men,

a regular one, without a single woman. Men alone were welcomed by the

noble Amphytrion. The house was furnished as luxuriously as possible,

for only recently have people conceived the happy idea of making

dining-rooms comfortable. Of this our fathers were entirely ignorant.

Once people eat much or little, well or badly; they breakfasted,

dined, or took tea--that was all. They sat on straw or hair chairs;

they were warmed by bad stoves, the smell of which was intolerable;

the feet rested on marble blocks, bright, but cold as ice. Such was

the gastronomical trilogy of Parisians. The large hotels, and even the

smaller establishments of our renowned libertines had a more splendid

refectory, which, however, was not more favorable to the comfort of

the guests. The dark and rich tapestries which hung on the walls, the

marble on the floor, the pictures, though by Boucher or Watteau, were

artistic and costly, but nothing less than the eyes of La Guimard, the

lips of Sophie Arnould, those of La Maupin or La Duthe, could warm

those cold arenas, where Bernis, Larenaudie, Fronsac, Bouret, and

Beaujon sacrificed to Comus in the company of the Loves. Now all is

changed. Not only gastronomy, but the art of living well has been

discovered not to exist alone in wines and cookery, and it has become

a proverb, that "beans in china are better than truffles in

earthenware." In 1819 Count Monte-Leone had a presentiment of our

taste in 1848, and he was therefore spoken of as a foreign sybarite,

whose extravagant tastes never would be imitated. Though people

blamed, they envied, and _tried to imitate_.

The dining-room of the Count, therefore, glittered with lights, and

around a table filled with the rarest glass, from which was exhaled

the perfume of a dinner fit for Lucullus, were about a dozen men, some

of whom, Matheus, Taddeo, and d'Harcourt, we know already. The others,

of whom we will hereafter speak more fully, were famous Carbonari, the

founders of the French order, General A...., the banker H...., Count

de Ch...., the merchant Ober, the _Avocat_ C...., and the illustrious

Professor C.... Two of these gentlemen had come from Italy, and

brought to Monte-Leone new orders from the central Venta of Naples,

and also curious details about the progress or rather maturity of

Carbonarism in the Two Sicilies and the neighboring countries. It had

however been by common consent determined among the guests that none

of the grave secrets of the order should be revealed at their joyous

repast--that political questions should be postponed to more serious

conferences: not that the members were not satisfied of the prudence

of each other, but inquisitive ears hovered around this table, and

with the exception of those of the prudent old Giacomo none could be

trusted. There was especial reason for this, as vague rumors had for

some time made the Carbonari distrustful. It was said that the

Minister of Police had placed Count Monte-Leone under the strictest

surveillance in consequence of his previous history. The objects of

this dinner, which beyond doubt was subjected to some particular

notice, was to prove that all the persons assembled were men of

pleasure, and not agents of discord or conspirators.

"To our host," said d'Harcourt, filling his glass, "to his loves and

conquests!"

"You will get drunk," said one of the guests, "if you drink to all of

his conquests."

"All calumny," said Matheus. "The conversion of St. Augustine is no

miracle since that of Monte-Leone. The gallant Italian is now a fresh

anchorite, avoiding the pomps of Satan and the opera in this

_Thebais_. With his friends he atones for past errors."

"The fact is, no one knows any thing about the Count's amours," said

one of the guests.

"Well, then," said another, "that for one in society, as Monte-Leone

is, he makes bad use of his eyes. The very mention of his Neapolitan

adventures would turn the heads of ten Parisian women."

"You are wrong, my dear B....," said the Count. "The women of Paris

are not so headlong as you think. They reason with their hearts, and

pay attention to convenances without regard to inclination. Besides,

the man they love occupies only the second place in their hearts.

_They_ come first and _he_ afterwards. Often, too, the toilette

occupies the second place with amusements and pleasures. They prefer

the attention of one to the love of all. _Liasons_ in France are

elegant, _recherche_, and refined. They never violate good taste, and

even in their despair French women are charming. They quarrel behind a

fan, tear a bouquet to pieces, and shred the lace of a handkerchief.

They weep, and stop soon enough not to stain the eyes, and when they

have fainting-fits, are very careful not to disturb their curls. Great

suffering just stops short of a nervous attack, and fury never breaks

either china bracelets or jewelry, though it is merciless on lovers'

miniatures. Three months after, if the offended lady meet the

gentleman in a drawing-room, she will ask the person next her, 'Pray

tell me who that gentleman is, I think I have seen him somewhere.' In

Spain and Italy they avenge themselves, and do not pardon men who are

inconstant until they too are false. Woe to him whose love is the

first to end. He henceforth has but the storm and the thunder-bolt.

Hatred and vengeance--the first is found in France--women in Italy

kill. I tell you your countrywomen are not romantic, and suffer

themselves to be led astray only after due reflection."

"Well, for my own part," said d'Harcourt to Monte-Leone, "I know a

woman who adores you in secret, who never speaks of you without

blushing, who looks down when your name is mentioned, and who looks up

when she sees you."

Taddeo looked at the Vicomte with surprise. Two names occurred to him,

that of the Duchess, and yet of another person. Monte-Leone, like

Taddeo, was afraid that the young fool, whose greatest virtue was not

temperance, would be indiscreet.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the Vicomte is about to be stupid. In the name

of our friendship I beg him to be silent."

"Bah, bah!" said d'Harcourt, becoming yet more excited, and draining

his glass of champagne, _in vino veritas_. "The proof of what I say is

that Monte-Leone is afraid. I shall name the victim of the passion he

has inspired. I wish to reinstate him in your eyes, for he has

represented himself as deserted and abandoned by the fair sex, when

one of the fairest adores him, and would sacrifice name and rank for

him."

"Vicomte," said Monte-Leone, enraged and rising, "do not make me

forget my intimacy with you of five years' duration."

"You will not forget it--you will like me all the better for what I am

about to say. Besides it is nothing but humanity. You would not let

the poor woman die when you can save her?"

"Again I ask you to stop," said Monte-Leone.

"You are too late," said the Vicomte, taking another glass of wine. "I

drink to the Attala, the Ariana, the Psyche of our illustrious host,

to a charming widow we all admire, to _Madame de Bruneval_."

One shout of joy burst from all. Monte-Leone felt a burden of trouble

lifted from him, and Taddeo breathed more freely.

"Gentlemen," said Monte-Leone, resuming his _sangfroid_, "I protest

that I was not aware of the happiness with which I am menaced. Though

I do justice to the precious qualities of Mme. de Bruneval--to her

lofty virtue, with which all of you are familiar--I should be afraid

of following in the footsteps of the illustrious dead. Since, however,

the widow has been spoken of, I will propose a toast to the speedy

cure of her heart, provided I am not expected to become its surgeon."

All drank; and amid the sound of their laughter, Giacomo entered, and

on a salver handed the Count a letter. "It is from Naples," said he;

and having opened, he read it. As he did so he grew pale.

"Any bad news?" said Matheus.

"No," said Monte-Leone, with an effort to restrain himself; "no, my

friends"--taking advantage of the temporary absence of the servants,

who had placed the dessert on the table, and who then retired, as is

the custom in all well regulated households--"No bad news to our

cause. This letter is on private business. I have another toast," said

he, in a lower tone. "To the brethren who are my guests to-day!"

"To the absent!" said Taddeo.

"Well, well," said Dr. Matheus, looking uneasily around; "let us have

done with toasts. As a doctor, I may speak. Too many of this kind may

endanger _our lives_," added he, emphasizing the last words. "Let us

enjoy the pleasures heaven has granted us. Our first masters in good

cheer, the Greeks and Romans, surrounded their tables with flowers and

crowned their cups with roses. Let us laugh, then, my friends, at

fools, intriguers, and apostates. Let us laugh at each other, and

especially at unreasonable d'Harcourt, who can drown his own mind in a

single bottle of champagne, and which makes him about as sensible as a

fly."

The sallies and follies of after dinner followed this pompous harangue

of Matheus. Had any one witnessed this scene, they would have fancied

the actors a party of young mousquetaires of the regency, rather than

conspirators who aspired to convulse the world. When the guests of

Monte-Leone were gone, and only d'Harcourt, Matheus, and Taddeo

remained, the Count took his dispatch out of his bosom, and bade the

latter read it. It was as follows:

"NAPLES, September 10, 1819.

"COUNT:--I am sorry to inform you that the banker Antonio

Lamberti, to whom you had confided your fortune, and with

whom you bade me deposit the price of your palace, sold for

six hundred thousand francs, has failed, and fled with all

your fortune.

"Your respectful attorney,

"GUISEPPE FARNUCCI."

The three friends embraced Monte-Leone, and Von Apsberg said, "You

knew this, yet could share our gayety. Did you not say yourself

laughter is as necessary for digestion as it is to the heart?"

"I fulfilled my duties of host to the letter. I needed all my courage,

though, having lost more than my fortune--my happiness. The morning's

papers will announce the failure of Antonio Lamberti, and all Paris

will know of the ruin of the brilliant Count Monte-Leone."

With fortune, the Count had also lost the hope of happiness. The

widowhood of the Marquise de Maulear had revived all his hopes, as La

Felina had foreseen, and his rank and title enabled him again to

aspire to Aminta's hand. All this prospect his misfortune annihilated.

What had he to offer now to Aminta? The name, the eclat of which he

could sustain no longer--an existence endangered by a political plot,

the triumph of which was far from certain--sumptuous tastes, which he

would not be permitted to gratify--privations, especially cruel as

they would follow closely on luxury and opulence, of which he had, so

to say, built himself a temple.

Ten months had passed by since the Marquis's death, and the grief of

his widow had been most sincere. Though Aminta had never entertained a

very profound love for her husband, she had been much attached to him

from a reason common enough: she was strong and he unusually weak.

When, therefore, a terrible vice had seized on him, and sought, as it

were, to wrest him from her arms, not a reproach had been uttered by

Aminta against the sacrifice of her money and his neglect to an

ignoble propensity. She forgave the gamester who was faithful to her,

and had wept over him when she would have had no tears for the

unfaithful husband. This soul so full of love was not slumbering in

the arms of marriage. The energetical character which Aminta had often

exhibited would, had it found traits of manhood properly expanded in

her husband, have possibly modified her feelings, if he had possessed

that burning imagination, that secret imagination which creates deep

love, and for which too she seemed to have been created. She might

have said this. She was too chaste to do so. Yet sometimes, in her

long and dreamy solitudes, an image rose before her, especially when

her husband was away. She dreamed of an exalted love, full of ardor

and devotion, indomitable courage, sacrifice of life to duty, a noble

and generous soul, which divined her own, and linked itself to it. All

this assumed the form of the man she had rejected, of whom she had

been afraid, and for her ingratitude to whom she now blushed.

The Count had been received by Aminta, in the early months of her

widowhood, but he had refrained, from respectful motives, to allude to

his feelings. His visits to the Marquise were short and ceremonious,

feeling that love should not be veiled by the crape of mourning. Like

the Prince de Maulear, and all Paris in fact, Aminta had heard of the

Count's misfortune, and the blow made a deep impression on her. The

absence of the Count became prolonged. He had not visited her since

his misfortune, and she could not but feel a deep interest for him to

whom fate reserved such severe trials. One evening, when she was more

melancholy than usual, and sat in the saloon with her head leaning on

her hand, and dreaming over the incidents of her life in which

Monte-Leone had figured, she thought without remorse of scenes it had

been once her duty to forget. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom,

and a kind of moan near her induced her to shake off her reverie. She

saw Scorpione lying at her feet as he used to, and looking fixedly and

sadly at her.

Tonio, whom, like the children of Sorrento, we have often called

Scorpione, after having wandered along the sea-shore at the time of

Aminta's marriage, had been found exhausted on the sands, and been

taken to Signora Rovero, on the very day that Aminta set out for

France. Since then, vegetating rather than living with the mother of

Aminta, Signora Rovero was unwilling to trust her daughter's preserver

to servants, when she heard of the death of her son-in-law. Signora

Rovero had such delicate health as to be unable to bear the climate of

Paris, and had six months before returned to Italy; but Tonio was

unwilling to leave her, and yielding to his mute prayers, Aminta had

consented for him to remain, for his sufferings to save her had made a

deep impression on her. Tonio was in fact but the shadow of himself,

the soul alone seeming to support him. Even his soul was changed.

Fearful and timid when with Aminta, the passion the unfortunate boy

had once experienced for her became humble and respectful submission.

His very mind became extinct; and the only glimmerings of it now

seemed to be a kind of instinctive sympathy with his mistress. He

smiled when the Marquise did, and that was but rarely. He wept when

tears hung on her eyelids. When he looked as we have described at

Aminta, her sadness was perfectly mirrored on his face. Scorpione was,

in fact, less than man, and more than a brute--he was an idiot.

"You suffer, because I suffer," said Aminta.

He replied, "Yes."

By one of those ideas which take possession of the time, but which it

shrinks to confess, she said in a weak and almost tender voice to the

idiot, as children do to toys, "If I were happy, would you be?"

Scorpione looked fixedly at her, as if trying to understand her; and

she added, "If any one loved me, and I loved him also, would you wish

me to be happy?" blushing as she spoke.

Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said, taking Aminta's hand,

"Yes."

"Poor child!" said she, with tears also, "once he loved me for his own

sake--now he loves me for my own."

"Yes," said the idiot, hiding his face with his hands.

Just then the Prince de Maulear was announced.

XVIII. THE KING.

The Prince adored his daughter-in-law, and with tears in his eyes he

besought Signora Rovero not to take her from him. "Remember," said he,

"that I am old, and have but a few years more to live before I reach

the end of my journey, to which the death of my unfortunate son has

brought me years nearer. Do not, Signora, deprive me of the only being

I love on earth. Make this sacrifice to Rovero's friend. In his name I

ask you to do so. Have a little patience with the old man, and let

Aminta close his eyes. I will soon restore her to you."

The mother made this sacrifice to the broken-hearted father, who

almost on his knees besought her to give him her daughter to replace

his lost son. In his suffering the Prince seemed to become doubly fond

of the young woman. Her own father could not have been more anxious to

spare her pain and to satisfy her least desires.

"She is my Antigone," said he, proudly, to all who met him leaning on

the Marquise's arm. "I am, though, happier than Oedipus, for I can

look at and admire her."

"When the Prince came into the drawing-room of his daughter he seemed

excited. The Marquise bade Scorpione leave her, and the idiot crawled

rather than walked to the door, through which he disappeared; not,

however, until he had cast one glance on the young woman, as if to

become satisfied that her features expressed neither menace nor anger.

"Good and kind as ever," said the Prince to Aminta; "you certainly

appear to advantage with that hideous and deformed being. No one but a

person generous as you are would keep so awful a being by you."

"To do so, father, I need only appeal to memory, and that will aid me.

I cannot forget that I am indebted to him for my life, and above all,

for the boon of being loved by you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "I know all that; but you might take

care of and watch over him, and make his life pleasant, without

keeping him ever before you. I, who am not at all timid, assure you

that I never see him without apprehension at your feet, hugging the

fire like a serpent to quicken the icy blood in his veins."

"I will send him away if you wish me to."

"I wish you to do as you please. That you know well enough, my child.

Keep the Scorpione, as you sometimes call him, and nurse up any

horrible monster you please besides, and I will think it charming, or

at least will not reproach you. My dear child, I have few amusements

for you, and now your life must be sad indeed."

"No, no! dear father, I do not complain. The hotel is only sad when

you are not here."

"Alas!" said the Prince, "there can be found but little interest in

one as old as I am, and so unhappy too. Listen to me, Aminta, it is

cruel to make children die before their parents. It reverses the order

of nature to see the flower wither while the parent stem is green. I

spoke to you of fate, because I was unwilling to mention God. Grief

makes us pious. I dare not object to your decrees."

"Have you not yet a daughter?" said Aminta, passing her arm around the

Prince's neck; "have you not a daughter who loves you?"

"Yes, yes, _my daughter_." The Prince laid an emphasis on the last

word. "You are now my only child, and I wish to secure your happiness;

and for that purpose will consecrate to you the remnant of my life.

Yet I do not know what to do."

The young woman blushed--for perhaps she could have made a suggestion.

The Prince, though, did not remark it, and continued:

"Our life is sadder even than it was. The friends of this world are

like bees who hover only around flowers when they bloom, and scorn

those which begin to wither. They avoid this house--"

"All friends do not act thus," said Aminta, concealing her emotion;

"one of them, one who pleases you most, whom you love, Signor

Monte-Leone, often comes hither to see you alone--"

"To see me?" said the Prince, looking shrewdly at his daughter-in-law;

"perhaps he comes to see you. Since, however, his misfortune, the

Count never comes near us. Perhaps he judges us incorrectly. He may

have fancied the loss of fortune involved the sacrifice of our

friendship. It is a bad judgment, and I say it with regret, of a bad

heart."

"Ah father," said Aminta, "the Count must have had another reason to

keep him away."

"Certainly," said M. de Maulear, "but these reasons have not kept him

from seeing me. During the last fortnight, I have been ten times to

his house. I am, however, glad he has acted thus, for his conduct will

diminish my sorrow at his departure--"

"His departure?" said Aminta, unable to restrain an expression of

surprise.

"His departure for Italy," said the Prince; "he was ordered this

morning, by the French government, to leave France within twenty-four

hours."

"And why?" said Aminta.

"He is accused," said Maulear, "of being concerned in some conspiracy

contrary to the safety of the country."

"Ah, my God!" said the young woman, "then he is exiled and expelled

from the kingdom."

"Decidedly; and he is forbidden ever to return."

Aminta, as she heard these words, felt as if her heart would burst.

The Prince saw her agitation.

"What is the matter my child?" said he. "Why are you so sad?"

"Nothing, nothing, but a nervous attack, to which I am used."

Maulear looked at the Marquise for a few moments, and then said: "My

child, there is no true love without confidence. My love gives me

sacred rights over you. Do not be afraid to confide in me. Let not

even the memory of the departed restrain you. You are twenty years of

age; and your life has not approached its end. I am now about to tell

you what I have often intended to: your happiness is the main object

of my life, and never forget that, whatever may be your name, I shall

always look on you as a daughter!"

Aminta threw herself into the Prince's arms and hid there her tears of

gratitude and her blushes. De Maulear took his beautiful

daughter-in-law on his knee, as he would have taken a child, and then

lifting up Aminta's head with exquisite kindness, said: "Does he love

you?"

"He did before I was married," said the young woman, looking down.

"And since then?"

"He has never spoken of love."

"He should not have done so," said the Prince; "often, though, the

eyes say such things; and his, probably, are not inexpressive."

Aminta did not reply.

"All is clear," said the Prince; "the Count avoids us from a sentiment

of delicacy which does him honor. He has no longer reason to hope,

being ruined, for what, when rich, he would have given his life and

fortune."

"He will go," said Aminta faintly.

"He will not, he shall not go. This conspiracy is, after all, only one

of the phantoms ever arising before a terrified government. If the

really revolutionary mind of Count Monte-Leone has involved him, I

will promise to make him listen to reason, especially if you will aid

me--as for this order to leave so abruptly, I hope my arm is long

enough to interpose."

"What then will you do?" asked Aminta, anxiously.

"_Parbleu!_ I will go to the King himself--not to the ministers, but

to the KING--to GOD, not to the saints. Mind, for the proverb's sake

alone I apply that word to those gentry. The King is an old friend, a

brother in exile. I never asked a favor of him, though he has often

asked me to do so. We will see if he will refuse me."

"But," said Aminta, "time is short."

"Then," said the Prince, "to-morrow morning I will go to the

Tuileries, and we will see what the minister will say when he hears

Louis XVIII. say, _I will!_"

"Think you he will say so?"

"He must," said the Prince, kissing her; "for you and I say, _we

will_. What a woman wills----To-morrow you shall have good news." He

went away....

At that time the appearance of the Tuileries was very imposing. To the

forms of the empire had succeeded the more luxurious and aristocratic

ones of the restoration.

The stern military garb of the Imperial Guard, and of the Dragoons of

the Empress, was replaced by the brilliant uniforms of the King's

body-guards, of the _hundred Swiss_, an old name now replaced by the

almost grotesque appellation of the _Gardes a pied ordinaires du corps

du roi_, a species of giants, commanded by the Count of Tisseuil, a

person only about four feet high, but an excellent soldier for all

that. Then came the Swiss, the Royal guard, and on days of public

ceremonies, the _Gardes de la Manche_, whose duty had special relation

to the religious ceremonies of the chapel of the palace. The reception

rooms, the great gallery, the hall of the marshals, glittered with

embroidered dresses, _cordons_, collars and orders of every kind, both

French and foreign. There were the stars of the empire--those of the

monarchy--Russian, English, Austrian, Italian--the stars of all

Europe. A large portion of the continent was in Paris. This portion

was the most brilliant of all; for having tasted of Parisian

refinement it was not at all anxious to return home. His majesty

Louis XVIII., dressed in blue and wearing the royal cordon of the

Saint Esprit, with his hair _a l'oisseu-royal_, and his legs hidden in

broad pantaloons, which concealed their size, with his feet in shoes

of buckskin, and pleasant and agreeable as ever, had been rolled by

his footman from the room where he breakfasted, to his study. MM. de

Blacas, d'Escars, and de Damas, his gentlemen in waiting, and many

courtiers, had followed his majesty's chair to the very door of his

study, where they paused. Then the human horses, who dragged the

chair, having turned him around _on his own pivot_, bore him into the

recesses of the room. The object of the manoeuvre we have described

was to place the King vis-a-vis to his courtiers, to whom he bowed

graciously. This was a signal for them to leave. The doors then closed

with not a little noise, and this was all the public knew of royal

life. Private matters, interviews with the ministers, audiences, had

particular modes of entrance leading to the King's rooms and office.

The latter was the sanctuary of royal thought, where great and petty

acts were consummated, and where many confessions and audiences had

been heard and given. There this literary King, better educated than

half of his academy, had made commentaries on many learned Latins,

especially on Horace. The King appropriated several hours of every day

to study. To derange the distribution of this time, to take him from

Juvenal, Tacitus, or Cicero, to discuss a plan of Villele or Angles,

was almost high treason. One person alone dared to do this, and this

person was above law. The reason was, he was more powerful than the

King, having even majesty in subjection. The name of this man was

Father Elysee. It was his business to keep the King alive. This was,

as will be seen, a very important matter.

This man went into the King's room without notice, and without even

tapping at his door. He did so, by virtue of the sovereign power of

the patient over the invalid--by virtue of science over suffering

humanity. The King, however, sometimes used to say, when Elysee made a

very _brusque_ entrance: "_I only wish one thing, that disease may not

break in on me brusquely as you do_."

As a fine and acute courtier, as an old slouth-hound of the palace

with a keen scent, the Prince de Maulear went to Father Elysee for the

purpose of obtaining a speedy audience.

"Is it you?" said the King, behind whom opened a door looking into the

reception room.

"Yes," said the doctor, "I wish your majesty would not pay too much

attention to your Latin and study. Nothing injures the digestive

organs like study, especially after meals. Mind and matter then

contend, and the body is almost always overcome."

"If I had to do only with my old friends, Horace and Petronius," said

the King, "my digestion would be all right. Unfortunately I have found

a few modern subjects well calculated to annoy Master Gaster--for the

vermin of Juvenal and Persius would be honey of Hymethus compared with

the bile of the books I speak of--"

The King pointed out to the doctor a few open pamphlets which lay

about the table.

"_Norman Letters. The Man in the Grey Coat_--MINERVA," said the

doctor, looking at them; "who dared to bring these books hither?"

"My majesty dared. I am as good a doctor as you are, but I have more

patients. I have a whole nation to cure, and to administer a tonic we

must at least be aware of the debility. Look hither," said the King,

"here is an antidote to poison. _The Conservative_, edited by the most

learned doctors of the political faculty--by de Chateaubriand, de

Bonald, de Villele, Fievee. Castelbajac, and a certain Abbe de

Lamennais, an eloquent, sharp, and able man, I am sure, who has,

though, one fault, he is a greater royalist than his King."

"And may I venture to ask your majesty how the works of Etienne, Jay,

Jony and company, came hither?"

"Smuggled in," said Louis XVIII., with a smile; "F----, one of my

_valets de chambre_, whom I have placed at the head of what I call my

secret ministry, brings them to me. The fellow has taste. He said to

me the other day: '_I have something devilish good here. The

scoundrels do not spare your majesty_.' But," continued the King, "no

man can be great to his valet or his physician, and I will therefore

confess that the works of these liberal gentlemen trouble my digestion

not a little, and I wish my good friend the Duke d'Escars to bring me

back that _puree de cailles truffees_, of which he is the inventor. He

is the Prince of Gourmands."

"Then," said Pere Elysee, glad to be able thus to pass to the

principal object of his visit, "I am just in time to amuse your

majesty, and to announce the visit of one of your best friends--the

Prince de Maulear."

"Just in time," said the King; "he is a gentleman of the old school,

and has chosen _for fifty years_ to be such. He yet believes in a King

of France, fully, perhaps more fully, than he does in God. He is a

true enemy of the Jacobins and Revolutionists. Tell him to come in,

doctor, and we will be able to bear up against the attacks of the

authors of those books."

The doctor soon brought the Prince de Maulear, and then left.

"Come in, my dear Prince," said the King; "you do not spoil your

friends, and I see you too rarely, as I see others too frequently, to

be able to forget you."

Kings, however unpleasant they may be, have this analogy with the sun,

all come to warm themselves by his rays.

"I thank your majesty for your kind reception."

"You were my friend and shared my exile."

"It was a sad season," said the Prince, sitting on the chair the King

pushed towards him.

"Not so, Prince; then we had no cares and no enemies, above all we had

no court. We were independent, calm, and happy."

"Perhaps you had health, but you had no crown."

"Think you that a great misfortune?"

"Perhaps not to your majesty, but it was to France."

"How? Does our friend the Prince de Maulear, contrary to every

expectation, become a flatterer in his old age? In what part of the

Tuileries did he contract that disease? Listen, my dear de Maulear.

You as well as I know that _love of France_ is but a word. Once in

France, people loved the King--now, though, France above all other

things loves itself. This love is, if you please, egotistical, but

after all it is the only real positive good in this selfish age. Mind

I speak only of the owners, and therefore conservatives of the

kingdom. The other portion of the kingdom, anxious at any risk to

acquire, estimates the country cheaply. A few faithful hearts who

welcomed me as a Messiah expected for twenty years, true and noble

believers, looked on my return as the realization of their long and

secret hopes. To the majority of my people the Bourbon lily has been

only the olive-branch of peace purchased by twenty years of war. This

peace I would not have brought back by the bayonets of the Austrians

and Russians. But God, Buonaparte, and the Allies, so willed it. You

see, my dear Prince, that I am not mistaken in relation to my

subjects' love, and that the gems of a crown do not conceal its

thorns."

"The King," said M. de Maulear, "at least deigns to reckon me among

the faithful subjects of whom he spoke just now?"

"Yes, yes," said the King, "among the most faithful and most

disinterested. When I came back, there was established a very

partition of offices and places, or honors, titles, crosses and stars,

in which you took no part. Now you know you are one of those to whom I

could refuse nothing."

"Well," said the Prince, "your majesty gives me courage to make one

request, to obtain which I come hither."

"Bah!" said the King, "speak out my old friend, if the matter depends

on me--"

"Cannot the King do any thing?" said the Prince.

"The King can do very little," said Louis XVIII.

"When your majesty says 'I will--'"

"Others say, 'We will not.'"

"Who will dare to use such language?"

"The true Kings of France--the ministers--for they are responsible

while I am not. To tell the fact, though, I have credit with them and

will use it--"

"Yet the King is King," said the Prince.

"Ah, Prince!" said Louis XVIII, "I see plainly enough that you do not

read my books. What could you say worse to an author? Open the charter

and look--here it is: '_He reigns, but does not govern_.' This is my

Bible, my code--and I can accuse no one but myself, if I do sigh

sometimes. For all this emanates from me, and was conceived and

written by my own hand. Unfortunately," said he, with bitterness, "in

France every thing is interpreted literally."

"The favor I ask your majesty to grant me will I hope be within your

reserved powers. Count Monte-Leone, a noble Neapolitan of my

acquaintance, has been accused, beyond doubt unjustly, of political

plots, and been abruptly ordered to leave France. I come to ask the

king to remit this mortification."

"Ah, ah!" said Louis XVIII, gravely, "an anarchist. This is serious,

very serious. Perhaps the safety of the monarchy depends on this, as

the _Timid_[3] say. My dear brother retails a conspiracy a day to me;

perhaps, after all, he is not far wrong. I will see, Prince. I will

examine and consult a very important personage, without whom I cannot

act."

"Will his Majesty," said the usher, who had just arrived, "receive the

prime minister?"

"Exactly," said the King, "that is the person of whom I spoke."

"Go in there," said the King to the Prince, pointing to the

waiting-room. "You shall have my, or rather his, answer, in a quarter

of an hour. The result though will be the same."

The Prince obeyed, and his excellency the prime minister was received.

XIX. A REVELATION.

The audience the King gave his prime minister lasted nearly an hour.

M. de Maulear began to grow impatient at his long delay, when the

usher came to tell him the King waited for him....

When the Prince entered, Louis XVIII. had a smile on his lips. A

skilful observer of countenances would however have remarked a shade

of malice.

"You are then very fond of Count Monte-Leone?" said the King to the

Prince, again telling him to be seated.

"Very, Sire," said the Prince. "Signor Monte-Leone is really a

nobleman, with old blood, a kind heart, brilliant mind, and elegant

manners. One of a race now rare. If your Majesty would but permit me

to present him to you--"

"No, no," said the King; "I had rather not. Besides," continued he,

"with his reputation as a dreamer and a revolutionist, as an enemy of

our cousin Fernando of Naples--"

"The Count is in the way of conversion, Sire; and if the important

person to whom your Majesty yields will suffer us to keep the Count in

Paris, I am sure we will soon be able to restore him to favor."

"The _important person_," said Louis, with a smile, "was very much

inclined to send your dear friend to his own country. New information

in relation to this honorable and loyal noble," continued the King,

"has completely changed the intentions entertained in relation to

him."

"Indeed," said the Prince, with delight; "and will your Majesty deign

to tell me what this information is?"

"No, no, my dear friend. This is strictly a political question, which

cannot be divulged. One thing is certain, the Italian is no longer our

enemy, but is devoted to us. He is a lamb in a lion's hide. Not only

will we keep him in France, but will grant him immunity for all he may

do in future and has done as yet. Thus you see," said the King, "I

have done more than you asked."

"Such kindness," said the Prince, "overwhelms me with pleasure and

gratitude."

"Ah, Prince," said the King, ironically, "how you love your friends!

Yet distrust your heart in relation to these Italians. They are

cunning, and sometimes treacherous, but always mild and winning, so as

to lead astray our French honesty. They do not wear at their belt

their most dangerous stiletto, but have another between their jaws

which is often poisoned. God keep me from saying this of your dear

Count. I would not hurt him at all, but on the other hand wish him to

be well received and to be honored every where. This advice, however,

I wish you to consider general, and not with reference to any

particular case."

"Count Monte-Leone," continued the Prince, "is worthy of your

Majesty's kindest wishes. He has only the noble qualities of his

nation, energy, enthusiasm, and courage. His is an exalted mind, which

a cruel family sorrow may for a time have led astray, but I will

answer for him as I would for myself."

"Ah," said the King, "that is indeed saying much."

"Not enough for his merit. I would be proud if I resembled him."

At this the King could not repress his laughter, and the Prince looked

at him with surprise, and almost with anger. The King soon resumed.

"Excuse me, Prince, but you exhibited so extravagant an anxiety--no,

no, virtuous as Monte-Leone may be, I like you as you are. Do not

therefore envy his devotion, great as that may be to us. I like yours

best."

"I will then tell the Count," said the Prince, "the favor your Majesty

has deigned to grant him."

"No, no--not I. With affairs of that kind I have nothing to do. I

leave that honor to the minister. Adieu, Prince," said he, "and come

soon to see me again. Then ask something of me which may be worth

granting." The Prince bowed respectfully, and left.

"Excellent man," said Louis XVIII., as he left. "He would have been

surprised had I told him.... That Italian has bewitched him...."

On the evening before the day on which this scene took place, a man

wrote in his office by the light of a shaded lamp, which made every

thing but half visible. It was ten o'clock. A door opened, and an

officer of one of the courts appeared. M. H...., the chief of the

political police of whom we have already spoken, lifted up his head.

"What is the matter? and who is now come to interrupt me?" said he,

with marked ill-humor.

The officer who had come in, and who was a _Huissier_, said, "'The

Stranger,' and as Monsieur receives him always--"

"Let him come in," said M. H...., eagerly. "You were right to announce

him."

The person whom we have previously seen with a mask at the house of M.

H...., entered, and looked carefully around to see that he was with

the Chief of Police alone. Many months had passed, and all we have

described had taken place. For since then, we have gone, like a sound

logician, backwards, in order to expose our _data_ distinctly before

we proceed to define their consequences. Now the first appearance of

the masked man in the cabinet of M. H.... coincided with the painful

scene in which Taddeo Rovero had crushed the hopes of the Duchess of

Palma by revealing to her the probability of the marriage of

Monte-Leone and Aminta.

"Monsieur," said the stranger to M. H...., "have I kept my promise?"

"Yes," said H....

"Have I unfolded the plot of Carbonarism?"

"You have satisfied me of the existence of the French Venta, and of

their identity with those of Italy and Spain. We have written to the

police of those nations, and all was discovered to be exact, so that

in a few days the governments of those countries will have acted."

"Have I named you the chief Carbonari in Paris?"

"You have."

"Have I given you their secret notes and books?"

"In relation to that, I am but partially satisfied, but I do not need

the copies but the documents themselves, in the handwriting of their

authors."

"You will have them--but there is an Italian proverb, _Chi va piano,

va sano! e chi va sano, va lontano_. I told you the fruit was not yet

ripe. I think, however, the time is approaching to gather it, and in a

month I will--"

"But," said H...., "does not this delay endanger all? May they not

act, while we pause?"

"Do you wish to know by your own observation who are the

conspirators?" said the stranger.

"I do," said H....

"Do you wish to see--to hear them?"

"Yes, and to arrest them."

"Not yet--it is too soon. While your fowlers entrapped a few

fledgelings the rest of the covey would escape."

"How can I see and hear them?"

"I alone can enable you to do so, or rather not I, but the person

whose agent I am."

"And when?" said M. H...., impatiently.

"In three days. It is, however, first necessary to repair a grave

error which endangers all our hopes."

"What fault?"

"The Minister of the Interior," continued the man, "has ordered three

foreigners, a German, a Spaniard, and an Italian, to leave France.

Those persons are Dr. Spellman of Berlin, the Duke D.... of Madrid,

and Count Monte-Leone of Naples."

"True," said M. H.... "This is at the request of the ministers of

those three nations."

"Well," said the mysterious man, "it must be at once revoked."

"Why?"

"Because, if one of these men leave Paris, you have nothing to expect

from me."

"What say you?" asked H...., with surprise.

"I am," said the stranger, in a low tone, "as I told you, the agent of

one of those strangers. In his name alone I can tell you what you are

so anxious to know--without him I can do nothing. The elevated

position of this man, his rank, his connection with Carbonarism,

enable him to hear and know all. Without him I am reduced to silence

and inertness; for I repeat to you, that he is the thought of which I

am the action. Destroy him, and the other is valueless, and you return

to ignorance--become especially dangerous as the time approaches for

the mine to explode beneath your feet and those of the French

monarchy."

"Why not name that man? why does he not name himself?"

"Because he wishes to preserve his reputation--because he would rather

die than avow his services."

"Ah, indeed!" said H.... "The matter is difficult. The minister will

not revoke these orders: for, while one of the men ceases to be an

enemy of the country, the other two yet are."

"More than two--twenty of the most powerful, and two hundred thousand

others to follow them."

"But what interest," asked M. H...., who hoped to arrive by a round

about way at a discovery of the one of the three, the presence of whom

was so necessary at Paris. "What reason can your _patron_ have to

serve us, if he asks for neither gold, place, nor favor?"

"A far deeper interest than any of them. That I can confide to

you--revenge."

"On whom?"

"His associates--ungrateful men, who have humiliated him in his

self-esteem."

"How?"

"That is my secret and his."

"Well," said H...., "I can understand that. Hatred and revenge make as

many informers as cupidity. Our criminal archives prove that."

"Well, to the purpose."

"All three will leave Paris to-morrow."

"Then with one of them will go the safety of France. His name must be

a mystery. Revoke the orders, so that our man may remain, unless you

prefer by their departure to break the only thread to guide you in

this inextricable labyrinth."

"But you are here," said H...., unable to repress his anger, and

wearied of the bravado and menaces of the man. "What can be obtained

neither by money nor by persuasion, is often to be had by rigor."

"Very well, Monsieur," said the stranger. "I forgot I was in a country

of treason, and you forget that you swore to use neither violence nor

trickery. You can act as you please. I will however tell you what will

be the result of your investigations. I am an humble man, and belong

to my employer as the body does to the soul, as the hand does to the

arm. It will be useless to follow me, for I have no objection to tell

you whither I go. You may inquire into my past life; that will be

vain, for I will tell you all. You may inquire into my resources, but

you will lose your time, for I will satisfy you myself. There,

however, you will lose your guide--all else will be a mystery to you,

my relations with this man being of such a nature that God alone knows

them. They can be penetrated only by my consent."

"Listen to me," said M. H...., changing his tone: "I was wrong--I was

wrong to menace you, for I am weak, and you are strong. I have

nothing, and you have every thing. I have only control of a few people

whom I suspect, unauthenticated documents, and mere suspicions. In a

time when party spirit runs as high as it does now, after the too

frequent mistakes of our police, we must act on facts and evidence. I

see that I need you. My power, however, gives way to that of another,

and the minister alone can revoke the order of expulsion. Perhaps I

may be able to cause him to revoke it, but I must enforce that demand

by a serious motive, and must satisfy him of the necessity of

resisting the demands of the allied sovereigns, and of keeping two

dangerous men in Paris as the price of one useful one. I now

understand the meaning of the mystery which surrounds your patron,

and to prevent suspicion there must be three pardons. Give me then an

argument which cannot be contradicted. Give me the name which you now

keep secret. You know that I have kept my first oath with you, and I

swear the minister alone shall be informed of the secret."

As he listened to M. H..., the stranger thought profoundly. He then

seemed to adopt an energetic resolution, and uttered these strange

words--"True, the higher the eminence from which a body falls, the

more crushing the blow."

"What do you say?" said H...

"That your idea is correct, and changes my plan. When I came hither, I

thought your will alone could correct the mistake which has been made.

I now see it cannot, and have made up my mind. Sit there," said he to

H...., who was astonished at his unceremonious tone, "sit there." He

pointed out an arm-chair before the desk.

"What do you want now?" said H....

"What the favor you have asked from me authorizes me to demand. An

arm," said he, "the blows of which cannot be parried. I wish you to

sign me a letter of mark or a pass, as you please to call it, which

permits those whom you employ to pass without disturbance."

"Beautiful!" said M. H...., with a smile; "now I understand you."

He wrote: "I recognize as a member of my police, employed by me,

Monsieur...." He paused, and looked anxiously at the stranger. The

latter leaned towards the Chief of Police, and in so low a tone that

H.... could scarcely hear him, uttered a name which made the latter

drop his pen. He however rallied himself, and wrote down the name.

This document he afterwards authenticated by the seal of the police,

and gave to the stranger.

"This is well," said the latter, as he received it. "Now be quick, for

time presses, and the three persons will in a few hours have left

Paris."...

When the man had left, and was alone, an atrocious smile appeared on

his lips. This smile, however, was interrupted by an acute pain in his

left arm. Then taking the paper which H.... had given him, he placed

it on the wound, and said, "This is a cure for a wound I thought

incurable--for steel and poison."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Continued from page 504, vol. iii.

[3] At this time one or the ultra-royalist factions, called _Les

Timides_.

From Fraser's Magazine.

A TROT ON THE ISLAND.

BY CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED.

Ashburner did leave Oldport, after all, before the end of the season,

being persuaded to accompany a countryman and schoolmate of his (whom

he had last seen two years before in Connaught, and who now happened

to pass a day at Oldport, on his way Canada-ward from the south) in a

trip to the White Mountains of New-Hampshire; though his American

acquaintances, especially the ladies, tried hard to dissuade him from

starting before the grand fancy ball, with which the season

terminated, assuring him that most of "our set" would come back, if

only for that one night, and that it would be a very splendid affair,

and so forth. Nature had more charms for him than art, and he went

away to New Hampshire, making an appointment with Benson by letter to

meet him at Ravenswood early in September. But a traveller cannot make

sure of his movements a fortnight ahead. On his return from the White

Mountains, Ashburner had his pocket picked at a railway station (these

little incidents of highly civilized life are beginning to happen now

and then in America. The inhabitants repudiate any native agency

therein, and attribute them all to the swell-mob emigrants from

England), and, in consequence, was obliged to retrace his steps as far

as New-York to visit his banker. Almost the first person he ran

against in the street was Harry Benson.

"This _is_ an unexpected pleasure!" exclaimed the New-Yorker. "I never

thought to see you here, and you, I presume didn't expect to see me."

Ashburner explained his mishap. "Well, I meant to go straight over to

Ravenswood after the ball, but we had to come home--all of us this

time--on business. Lots of French furniture arrived for our town

house. Mrs. B. couldn't rest till she had seen it all herself, and had

it properly arranged. So here have I been five days, fussing, and

paying, and swearing (legally, you understand, not profanely) at the

custom-house, and then 'hazing'--what you call slanging upholsterers;

and now that the work is all over, I mean to take a little play, and

am just going over to see Lady Suffolk and Trustee trot on the island.

Come along. It's a beautiful drive of eight miles, and I have a

top-wagon. It is to meet me at the Park in a quarter of an hour."

Ashburner assented. "I want to buy some cigars; you have no objection

to accompany me a moment."

So they turned down one of the cross-streets running out of the lower

part of Broadway (which, it may be here mentioned, for the benefit of

English readers and writers, is not called _the_ Broadway), and

entered a store five or six stories high, with two or three different

firms on each floor; and Benson led the way up something between a

ladder and a staircase into a small office, with "Bleecker Brothers"

dimly visible on a tin plate over the door. Three-fourths of the

apartment were filled up with all manner of inviting samples, every

wine, liquor, and liqueur under the sun, in every variety of bottle or

vial, thick with the dust of years, or open for immediate tasting; and

through the dingy panes of a half glass door a multitudinous array of

bottles might be seen loading the numerous shelves of a large

store-room beyond. In a small clearing at one corner, where a small

desk was kept in countenance by a small table, and three or four old

chairs, with a background of shelves groaning under the choicest

brands of the fragrant weed, sat the presiding deities of the

place--the two little Bleeckers--the dark brother of thirty-five, and

the light brother of twenty, like two sketches of the same man in

chalk and charcoal; both elegantly dressed--white trousers, patent

leather shoes, exuberant cravats, massive chains, and all the usual

paraphernalia of young New-York--altogether looking as much in place

as a couple of butterflies in an ant-hill.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Benson. "Here's our friend Ashburner,"

and he pushed forward the Englishman. The brothers rose, laid down the

morning journals over which they had been lounging, and welcomed the

stranger to their place of business. "What's the news this morning?"

"Nothing at all, I believe," replied the elder. "South Carolina has

been threatening to dissolve the Union again--and that's no news.

Stay, did you see this about Bishop Hughes and Sam Thunderbolt, the

Native American member of Congress from Pennsylvania?"

"I haven't seen even a newspaper for the last three days."

"Well, '+ John of New-York,'--_cross John_, as your brother Carl used

to call him--was in the same rail-car with Thunderbolt, coming from

Philadelphia to New-York; and the Congressman didn't know who he was,

but probably suspected he was a priest."

"Yes, you can generally tell a priest by his looks. Even an

intelligent horse will do that. Once I was riding with one of our

bishops near Boston, and his nag shied suddenly at a man in a

broad-brimmed hat. Says the right reverend (we don't call 'em 'my

lord' in this country, you know, Ashburner), 'I shouldn't wonder if

that was a Romish priest;' and we looked again, and it was. There was

a Protestant horse for you! What a treasure he would have been to an

Orangeman!"

"So Thunderbolt began to abuse the Roman Catholics generally, and the

priests particularly, and that brawling bigot Johnny Hughes most

particularly. Hughes, who is a wary man, polite and self-possessed,

sat through it all without saying a word; till another gentleman in

the car asked Thunderbolt if he knew who that was opposite him. He

didn't know. 'It's Bishop Hughes,' says the other, in a half whisper.

'Are you Bishop Hughes?' exclaims the native, quite off his guard.

'They call me so,' answered the other, with a quiet smile, expecting

to enjoy the humiliating confusion of his denouncer; and the other

passengers shared in the expectation, and were prepared for a titter

at Thunderbolt's expense. But instead of attempting any apology, or

showing any further embarrassment, he pulled out an eyeglass, and

after looking at the Jesuit through it for some time, thus announced

the result of his inspection--'Oh, you are, are you? Well, you're just

the kind of looking loafer I should have expected Johnny Hughes to

be.'"

"I don't believe Hughes was much disconcerted either," said the elder

brother; "he doesn't lose his balance easily. I never heard of his

being put out but once, and that was when Governor Bouck met him. He

was a jolly old Dutchman, Mr. Ashburner, who used to go about

electioneering, and asking every man he came across--how he was, and

how his wife and family were. When Bishop Hughes was introduced to

him, they thought the governor would know enough to vary the usual

question a little; but he didn't, and asked after the Romish bishop's

wife and family with all possible innocence; and Hughes, for once in

his life, was nonplussed what to answer."

"Ah, but you haven't told the end of that," put in Benson. "When the

governor's friends tried to explain to him the mistake he had made,

and the category the Romish ecclesiastics were in, he said, 'O yas, I

see, I should have asked after de children only, and said nossing

about de woman.' As you say, Hughes generally has his wits about him,

no doubt. He played our custom-house a trick that they will not forget

in a hurry. Soon after General Harrison and the Whigs came in, and

Curtis was made collector of our port, there arrived a great lot of

what the French call _articles de religion_, robes, crucifixes, and

various ornaments, for Hughes' cathedral. Now these were all French

goods, and subject to duty, and a notification to that effect was sent

to the proper quarter. Down comes Hughes in a great rage. 'Mr. Curtis,

Mr. Curtis, we never had to do this before. Your predecessor, Mr.

Hoyt, always let our articles of religion in free of duty.' 'Can't

help what my predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, used to do,' says Curtis; 'the law

is so and so, as I understand it, and these articles are subject to

duty. If you like, you may pay the duties under protest, and bring a

suit against Uncle Sam[4] to recover the money.' (You see, the Loco

Focos had always favored the Romish priests to get the Irish vote. The

Whigs didn't in those days--it was before our side had been corrupted

by Seward, and such miserable demagogues; and Curtis wasn't sorry to

see his political opponent the Bishop in a tight place.) After Hughes

had blustered awhile, and found it did no good, he tried the other

tack, and began to expostulate. 'Is there no way at all, Mr. Curtis,'

says he, 'by which these articles may be passed, free of duty?' 'None

at all,' says the other, 'unless'--and he paused, hardly knowing

whether it would do to hint at such a thing, even in jest--'unless,

bishop, you are willing to swear that these are _tools of your

trade_.' 'And sure they are that!' quoth Hughes, snapping him up,

'bring on your book;' and he had the goods sworn through in less than

no time, before Curtis could recover himself."

"Not a bad hit," said the Englishman. "Tools of his trade! So they

were, sure enough; but one would not have expected him to own it so

coolly."

"Unless there was something to be got by it," continued Benson. "Now

this is true--every word of it, though it _has_ been in the

newspapers; and the way I came to find it out was this. One day I saw

in the advertising columns of the _Blunder and Bluster_, a circular

from the _Secretary of the Treasury_, stating that 'crucifixes,

whether of silver or copper, images, silk and velvet vestments, and

theological books, did not come under the head of _tools of trade_,

but were subject to duty.' It was a funny looking notice, and there

was evidently something behind it; so I took the trouble to inquire,

and found that the cause of the order was this clever stroke of

Hughes. Going to the trot to-day?"

The younger brother was going, and it was near the time when he

expected his wagon. Dicky wasn't. He had given up trots ten years

ago--thought them low.

"Give me a few cigars before we go," said Benson. "What have you here

that's first rate? Carbagal, Firmezas, Antiguedad. H--m. I'll take a

dozen Firmezas, and you may send me the rest of the box."

"Don't you want some champagne--veritable Cordon Bleu--only fourteen

dollars a dozen, and a discount if you take six cases?"

"And if you wish to secure some tall Lafitte, we bought some odd

bottles at old Van Zandt's sale the other day. You remember drinking

that wine at Wilson's last summer?"

Benson remembered it perfectly, and would take the Lafitte by all

means. "Put that down, Mr. Snipes;" and for the first time, Ashburner

was aware of the clerk--a very young gentleman, who appeared from

behind the desk, and booked the order at it. "And how about the

champagne?"

"_J'y penserai._ Time to go. _Vamos._" And Benson carried off his

friend.

"You were a little taken aback, weren't you?" he asked, as they went

in quest of the wagon. "When you saw these men figuring in the German

cotillion, and helping to lead the fashion at Oldport, you hardly

expected to encounter them in such a place. Well, now, let me tell you

something that will astonish you yet more. So far from its being

against these brothers in society that they are, what you would call

in plain English a superior order of grocers, it is positively in

their favor; that is to say, they are more respected, better received,

and stand a better chance of marrying well, than if they did nothing.

They might do nothing if they chose. They had enough to live very well

on _en garcon_. The Bleeckers are of our best known and most

thoroughly respectable families. The sons had no taste for books; they

have a very good taste for wine and cigars, and have undertaken what

they are best fit for. It's better than being nominal lawyers?"

"Pecuniarily, no doubt; but is it as good for the whole development of

the man? Was it you, or your friend Harrison, who instanced Richard

Bleecker as a man who had made no progress in any thing manly for

fifteen years?"

"That is the fault of his natural disposition, which would not be

bettered by his making believe to be a professional man, or being an

avowedly idle one. He is frivolous and ornamental for a part of his

time--during the rest, he has his business to occupy him. If he had

not that, he would spend all his time in elegant idleness, and know no

more than he does now. His pursuits bring him in money, which will be

a comfort to his wife and family when he marries--though, to be sure,

he is rather ancient for that; a single man at thirty-five is with us

a confirmed old bachelor. But his brother is in a fair way to form a

nice establishment."

"Now tell me another thing. Suppose the Bleeckers had chosen to become

jewellers, or merchant tailors--they might be good judges of either

business, and make money by it--how would that affect their position?"

"Unfavorably, I confess," replied Benson. "But we Gothamites have so

thorough a respect for, and appreciation of, good wine and cigars,

that the importation of them is considered particularly laudable."

Any further discussion was stopped by their arrival at that dreary

triangular square (_more hibernico loqui_) called the Park, where

Benson's wagon awaited him--not the red-wheeled one; this vehicle was

of a uniform dark green, furnished with a top (a desirable appendage

when the thermometer stands 85 deg. in the shade,) and lined throughout

with drab. The ponies were carefully enveloped to the very tips of

their ears in white fly-nets. As the groom saw Benson approaching, he

put himself and the top through a series of queer evolutions, which

ended in the latter being lowered--a very necessary operation, to

allow any one to get in with comfort; and after Benson and Ashburner

were in, he put it up again with some ado, and then went his way, the

concern only holding two. Then Benson turned the wagon round by

backing and locking, and making it undergo a series of contortions as

if he wanted to double it up into itself, and run over himself with

his own wheels, and drove to the Fulton Ferry; for to arrive at the

Centreville Course on Long Island--familiarly designated as _the_

island--you first pass through Brooklyn, that trans-Hudsonian suburb

of New York, which thirty years ago was a miserable little village,

and now contains upwards of ninety thousand inhabitants.

"And how did the ball go off?" asked Ashburner, as they rolled up the

main avenue of Brooklyn, at the slowest possible trot, according to

the well known rule, always to take a fast horse easy over pavement.

On board the ferry-boat there had not been much conversation, the

horses being so worried by the flies as to require all Benson's

attention.

"Oh, it was rather a _fiasco_, but we had some fun. Some predicted

that the fashionables would come back, but they didn't, except a few

of the young men; and all of our set that were there threatened to go

out of costume; but then we recollected that would have been a very

Irish way of serving out Mr. Grabster, as by the established

regulation in such cases, we should have had to pay double for

tickets; so most of us took sailors' or firemen's dresses--the

cheapest and commonest disguises we could get; and the ladies made

some trivial addition to their ordinary ball-dresses--a wreath or a

few extra flowers--and called themselves brides, or Floras, and so on.

And some of the crack Bostonians blasphemed the expense, and went in

plain clothes. So we had the consolation of making fun of all the

outsiders, and their attempts at costume--such supernumeraries as most

of them were! And none of the _comme-il-faut_ people would serve on

the committee, so Grabster had nobody to get up the room in proper

style, and it looked like a 'Ripton' ball-room; and _The Sewer_

reporters were there, in all their glory. The Irishman had borrowed or

stolen a uniform somewhere, and the Frenchman was appropriately

arrayed in red as a devil, and he went about taking notes of all the

people's dresses, especially the ladies'; and as our ladies were not

in costume, he thought he must have something to do with them, and so

presented some of them with bouquets, which they wouldn't take, of

course; and the young men trod on his toes and elbowed him off till he

swore he would put them all in his paper. And we danced away,

notwithstanding _The Sewer_ and all its works. Tom Edwards was

accoutred as Mose the fireman, and Sumner had an old French

_debardeur_ dress of his, just the thing for the occasion, only his

shoes were too big; and after tripping up himself and his partner four

times, he kicked them off clean into the orchestra, and fearfully

aggravated the fiddlers; and he took it as coolly as he does every

thing--put on a pair of ordinary boots, and was polking away again in

five minutes. And we kept it up till two in the morning, polka

chiefly, with a sprinkling of _deuxtemps_, and then had a very bad

supper, and some very bad wine, of Mr. Grabster's providing--genuine

New Jersey champagne. How we looked after the dancing! Sumner's

_debardeur_ shirt might have been wrung out, it was so wet; and Mrs.

Harrison--she had got herself up as Undine--was dripping enough for

half-a-dozen water-nymphs; and Miss Friskin had a shiny green silk

dress; we had been polking together, and my white waistcoat, and

pants, and cravat, were all stained green, as if I had been playing

with a gigantic butterfly. And then after supper, when there was no

one but our German cotillion set left, and just as we had put the

chairs in order, the musicians struck work, and would not play any

more (you know what an impracticable, conceited, obstinate brute a

third-rate German musician is), saying they were only bound to play

just so long; so I gave them a good slanging in their own tongue (I

know German enough to blow up a man, and a fine strong language it is

for the purpose); and White swore it was too bad, and Edwards tried to

make them a conciliatory speech--only he was too tipsy to talk

straight; and Sumner offered them fifty dollars to go on playing.

Thereupon, up and spake the big bass-viol,--'We ton't want your money;

we want to be dreated like chentlemens;' and then Frank lost his

temper. 'I'll treat you,' says he; and with that he delivered right

and left into the bass-viol, and knocked him through his own

instrument; and then some one knocked Sumner over the head with a

trombone;--then we all set to, and gave the musicians their change (we

owed them a little before, for it wasn't the first time they had been

saucy to us,) and we thrashed them essentially, and comminuted a few

of their instruments. And half-a-dozen of the Irish waiters came out,

with their sleeves rolled up, to fight for the honor of the house, and

protect Mr. Grabster's property--meaning the musicians, I

suppose;--and Haralson of Alabama, one of your regular

six-feet-two-in-his-stockings South Western men, who had come North to

learn the polka, and become civilized--Haralson pulled out a Bowie and

swore he would whistle them up if they didn't make themselves scarce.

By Jove! you should have seen the Paddies scud! And I caught _The

Sewer_ reporter (the Irish one) in the _melee_, and let him have a

kick that landed him in the middle of the floor, telling him he might

put that into his next letter, and afterwards go to a place worse even

than _The Sewer_ office. Then, after all the enemy were fairly routed,

we adjourned to my parlor. I had some good champagne of my own, and a

_pate_ or two, and some Firmezas, and we held a jolly revel till four

o'clock, and then the ladies retired, and we quiet married men did the

same, and the boys went to fight the tiger, and Edwards lost 1400

dollars, and some of them took to running foot-races for a bet on the

post-road. Haralson outran all the rest--and his senses too--and was

found next evening about five miles up the road with no coat or hat,

and one stocking off and the other stocking on, like my son John in

the nursery rhyme, and his watch and purse gone. And _The Sewer_ and

_Inexpressible_ said that it was the most brilliant ball that had

occurred within the memory of the oldest inhabitants. And that's a

pretty fair synopsis of the whole proceedings."

By this time they were off the pavement,--a change very sensible and

desirable to man and horse, for an American pavement is something

beyond imagination or description, and must be experienced to be

understood. The ponies, without waiting for the word, went off on

their long steady stroke at three-quarters speed, and though the day

was warm and the road heavy, stepped over the first three miles in

twelve minutes, as Benson took care to show Ashburner by his watch.

They challenged wagon after wagon, but no one seemed inclined to race

at this stage of the proceedings, and they glided quietly by every

thing. Only once was heard the sound of competing feet, when a black

pacer swept up, with two tall wheels behind him, and a man

mysteriously balanced between them. "After the sulky is manners," said

Harry, slackening his speed, and giving the pacer a wide berth; and

the man on the wheels whizzed by like a mammoth insect, and was soon

lost to view amid a cloud of dust.

And now they arrived at a tavern where the owners of "fast crabs" were

wont to repose, to water their horses, and brandy-and-water

themselves. The former operation is performed very sparingly, the

supply of liquid afforded to the animals consisting merely of a

spongeful passed through their mouths; the latter is usually conducted

on more liberal principles. But as our friends felt no immediate

desire to liquor, Benson amused himself while the horses rested by

putting down his top, for the sky had slightly clouded over,--a

favorable circumstance, he remarked, for the trot. Just as he was

starting his ponies, with a chirrup, a tandem developed itself from

under the shed, and its driver greeted him with a friendly nod.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Losing," quoth Harry, raising his whip-hand in

answer to the salute; then, _sotto voce_ to Ashburner, "a Long-Island

fancy man: lots of money, and no end of fast horses."

Mr. Losing had a thin hatchety face, and a very yellow complexion,

with hair and beard to match. He wore a yellow straw-hat, and a

yellowish-gray summer paletot, with yellowish-brown linen trousers.

His light gig (of the kind technically called a double-sulky) was

painted a dingy yellow-ochre; the horses were duns, the fly-nets drab,

and what little harness there was, retained the original law-calf

color of its leather; in short, the whole concern had a general

pervading air of dun, which but for the known wealth of its owner

might have been suggestive of unpleasant Joe-Millerisms. The only

exception was his companion, a gay horse-dealer and jockey, who acted

as amateur groom on this occasion. Mr. Van Eyck had sufficient

diversity of color in his dress to relieve the monotony of a whole

landscape,--blue coat and gilt buttons, lilac waistcoat and ditto, red

cravat and red-striped check shirt, white hat and trousers. His

apparel might have been a second-hand suit of Bird Simpson's. As the

gig came out close at the wheels of the wagon, the two whips

interchanged glances, as much as to say, "Here's at you!" and "Come

on!" and Losing tightened his reins; then, as his leader ranged up

alongside Benson's horses, the latter drew up his lines also, and the

teams went off together.

A good team race is more exciting to both the lookers-on and the

performers than any contest of single horses; there is twice as much

noise, twice as much skill in driving, and apparently greater speed,

though in reality less. Neither had started at the top of their gait,

but they kept gradually and proportionally crowding the pace, till

they were going about seventeen miles an hour, and at that rate they

kept for the first half-mile exactly in the same relative position as

they had started. No one spoke a word; the close contact of horses in

double harness excites them so, that they require checking rather than

encouragement; but Benson with a rein in his hand was feeling every

inch of his ponies, and watching every inch of the road. Losing sat

like a statue, and his horses seemed to go of themselves. Then, as the

ground began to rise, Losing drew gradually ahead, or rather Benson's

team came back to him; still it was inch by inch; in the next quarter

the wheeler instead of the leader was alongside the other team, and

that was all Losing had gained. Then Harry, with some management, got

both reins into one hand, and lifted his nags a little with the whip.

At the same time Losing altered his hold for the first time, and shook

up his horses. There was a corresponding increase of speed in both

parties, which kept them in the same respective position, and so they

struggled on for a little while longer, till just before the road

descended again, Benson made another effort to recover his lost

ground. In so doing, he imprudently loosened his hold too much, and

his off horse went up.

The moment Firefly lost his feet Benson threw his whole weight upon

the horses, and hauled them across the road, close in behind Losing's

gig, the break having lost him just a length, so that when they struck

into their trot again they were at the Long-Islander's wheel. Down the

hill they went, faster than ever; the wagon could not gain an inch on

the gig, or the gig shake the wagon off. But Losing had manifestly the

best of it, as all his dust went into the face of Benson and

Ashburner, enveloping and powdering them and their equipage

completely. Their only consolation was, that they were bestowing a

similar one on every wagon that they passed. As both teams were

footing their very best, Benson's only chance of getting by was in

case one of the tandems should happen to break, a chance which he

kept ready to take advantage of. By and by the leader went up, but

Losing, who had his horses under perfect command, let him run a little

way, and caught him again into his trot without losing any thing.

Nevertheless Benson, who had seen the break, made a push to go by, and

with a great shout crowded his team up to the wheeler, but there they

broke,--this time both horses,--and before he could bring them down he

was two lengths in the rear. Then Losing drew on one side, and

slackened his speed, and Benson also pulled up almost to a walk.

"His double sulky is lighter than my wagon," said Harry, "even without

the top, and the top makes fifty pounds difference. The machine is

built a little heavier than the average, purposely because it rides

easier, and shakes the horses less when there are inequalities in the

road, so that besides being pleasanter to go in, a team can take it

along about as fast as any thing lighter for a short brush, but when

the horses are so nearly equal, and you have some miles to go on a

heavy road, the extra weight tells. However, it is no disgrace to be

beaten by Losing, any way, for his horses are his study and

_specialite_. Every fortnight the bolts and screws of his wagon are

re-arranged; his collars fit like gloves; he has a particular kind of

watering-pot made on purpose to water his horses' legs. Every trifle

is rigorously attended to. You ought to visit his, or some other

sporting man's stable here, just to note the difference between that

sort of thing with us and with you. Instead of hunters and

steeple-chasers, you will see fine trotters together that can all beat

2' 50''."

The road happened just then to be pretty clear, so they proceeded

leisurely for some miles further, till just as they were quitting the

turnpike for a lane which led to the course, the rattle of wheels and

the shouts of drivers came up behind them. Benson, not disposed to

swallow any more of other people's dust if he could help it, waked up

his horses at once, and they clattered along the lane, up hill and

down, and over a railroad track, and past numerous wagons, at a faster

rate than ever. "_Do_ get out of the way!" shouted Henry to one

primitive gentleman, with a very tired horse, who was occupying

exactly the centre of the road. "You go to ----." The individual

addressed was probably about to say something very bad, when Benson,

who was a moral man, and had the strongest wheels, cut short any

possible profanity for the moment by driving slap into him, and

knocking him into the ditch, with the loss of a spoke or two. This

collision hardly delayed their speed an instant; and though some of

the pursuers were evidently gaining, no one overhauled them for

three-quarters of a mile, at the end of which Starlight and Firefly

swept proudly up to the course, with a long train in their rear.

All the vicinity of the Centreville Course--not the stables and sheds

merely, but the lanes leading to it, the open ground about it, the

whole adjacent country, one might almost say--was covered with wagons

stowed together as closely as cattle in a market. If it had been

raining wagons and trotters the night before just over the place, like

showers of frogs that country editors short of copy fill a column

with, or if they had grown up there ready harnessed, there could not

have been a more plentiful supply. Wagons, wagons, wagons everywhere,

of all weights, from a hundred and eighty pounds to four hundred, with

here and there a sulky for variety--horses of all styles, colors, and

merits--no sign of a servant or groom of any kind, but a number of

boys, mostly blackies, about one to every ten horses, who earned a few

shillings by looking after the animals, and watching the carpets,

sheets, and fly-nets. The only other movables, the long-handled

short-lashed whips, were invariably carried off by their proprietors.

Whips and umbrellas are common property in America; they are an

exception to the ordinary law of _meum_ and _tuum_, and strictly

subject to socialist rules. Woe to the owner of either who lets his

property go one second out of his sight!

"Now then, Snowball!" quoth Benson, as a young gentleman of color

rushed up on the full grin, stimulated to extra activity by the

recollection of the past and the vision of prospective

"quarters,"--"take care of the fliers, and don't let any one steal

their tails! I ought to tell you," he continued to Ashburner, leading

the way towards the big, dilapidated,[5] unpainted, barn-like

structure, which appeared to be the rear of the grandstand, "you won't

find any gentlemen here--that is, not above half-a-dozen at most."

"I was just wondering whether we should see any ladies."

Benson pointed over his left shoulder; and they planked their dollar

a-piece at the entrance.

Ashburner's first impression, when fairly inside, was that he had

never seen such a collection of disreputable looking characters in

broad daylight, and under the open sky. All up the rough broad steps,

that were used indifferently to sit or stand upon; all around the

oyster and liquor stands, that filled the recess under the steps; all

over the ground between the stand and the track, was a throng of low,

shabby, dirty men, different in their ages, sizes, and professions;

for some were farmers, some country tavern-keepers, some city ditto,

some horse-dealers, some gamblers, and some loafers in general; but

alike in their slang and "rowdy" aspect. There is something peculiarly

disagreeable in an American crowd, from the fact that no class has

any distinctive dress. The gentleman and the working-man, or the

"loafer," wear clothes of the same kind, only in one case they are new

and clean, in the other, old and dirty. The ragged dress-coats and

crownless beavers of the Irish peasants have long been the admiration

of travellers; now, elevate these second-hand garments a stage or two

in the scale of preservation--let the coats be not ragged, but shabby,

worn in seam, and greasy in collar; the hats whole, but napless at

edge, and bent in brim; supply them with old trousers of the last

fashion but six, and you have the general costume of a crowd like the

present. But ordinary collections of the [Greek: oi polloi] are

relieved by the very superior appearance of the women; pretty in their

youth, lady-like and stylish even when prematurely faded, always

dressed respectably, and frequently dressed in good taste, they form a

startling relief and contrast to their cavaliers; and not only the

stranger, but the native gentleman, is continually surprised at the

difference, and says to himself, "Where in the world could such nice

women pick up those snobs?" Here, where there is not a woman within a

mile (unless that suspicious carriage in the corner contains some gay

friends of Tom Edwards'), the congregated male loaferism of these

people, without even a decent looking dog among them, is enough to

make a man button his pockets instinctively.

Amid this wilderness of vagabonds may be seen grouped together at the

further corner of the stand the representatives of the gentlemanly

interest, numbering, as Benson had predicted, about half-a-dozen.

Losing, with his yellow blouse and moustache to match; Tom Edwards, in

a white hat and trousers, and black velvet coat; Harrison, slovenly in

his attire, and looking almost as coarse as any of the rowdies about,

till he raises his head, and shows his intelligent eyes; Bleecker, who

had just arrived; and a few specimens of Young New-York like him.

Benson carries his friend that way, and introduces him in due form to

the Long Islander, who receives him with an elaborate bow. Ashburner

offers a cigar to Losing, who accepts the weed with a nod of

acknowledgment (for he rarely opens his mouth except to put something

into it, or to make a bet), and offers one of his in return, which

Ashburner trying, excoriates his lips at the first whiff, and is

obliged to throw it away after the third, for Charley Losing has

strong tastes, will rather drink brandy than wine, any day, and smokes

tobacco that would knock an ordinary man down.

The stranger glances his eye over the scene of action. A barouche and

four does not differ more from a trotting wagon, or a blood courser

from a Canadian pacer, than an English race-course from an American

"track." It is an ellipse of hard ground, like a good and smooth piece

of road, with some variations of ascent and descent. The distance

round is calculated at a mile, according to the scope of turning

requisite for a horse before a sulky--that being the most usual form

of trotting; for a saddle-horse that has the pole,[6] it comes

practically to a little less; for a harness-horse (especially if to a

wagon) with an outside place, to a little, or sometimes a good deal

more. Around the inclosure, within the track (which looks as if it

were trying hard to grow grass and couldn't), a few wagons, which

obtained entrance by special favor, are walking about; they belong to

the few men who have brought their grooms with them. Harrison's pet

trotter is there, a magnificent long-tailed bay, as big as a

carriage-horse, equal to 2' 50'' on the road before that wagon, and

worth fifteen hundred dollars, it is said. Just inside the track, and

opposite the main stand outside, is a little shanty of a judge's

stand, and marshalled in front of it are half a dozen notorious

pugilists, and similar characters, who, doubtless on the good old

principle of "set a thief," &c., are enrolled for the occasion as

special constables, with very special and formidable white bludgeons

to keep order, and precise suits of black cloth to augment their

dignity.

"To come off at three o'clock," said the handbills. It is now

thirty-five minutes past three, and no signs of beginning. An American

horse and an American woman always keep you waiting an hour at least.

One of the judges comes forward, and raps on the front of the stand

with a primitive bit of wood resembling a broken boot-jack. "Bring out

your horses!" People look towards the yard on the left. Here is one of

them just led out; they pull off his sheets, his driver climbs up into

the little seat behind him. He comes down part of the stand at a

moderate gait. Hurrah for old Twenty-miles-an-hour! Trustee! Trustee!

The old chestnut is half-blood; but you would never guess it from his

personal appearance, so chunky, and thick-limbed, and sober-looking is

he. His action is uneven, and seemingly laborious; you would not think

him capable of covering _one_ mile in three minutes, much less of

performing twenty at the same rate. No wonder he hobbles a little

behind, for his back sinews are swelled, and his legs scarred and

disfigured--the traces of injuries received in his youth, when a cart

ran into him, and cut him almost to pieces. Veterinary surgeons, who

delight in such relics, will show you pieces of sinew taken from him

after the accident. That was six or seven years ago: since then he has

solved a problem for the trotting world.

"There," says Benson, with a little touch of triumph, "is the only

horse in the world that ever trotted twenty miles in an hour. I saw

it done myself. He was driven nearly two miles before he started, to

warm him up, and make him limber. When the word was given, he made a

skip, and though his driver, not the same that he has now, caught him

before he was fairly off his feet, he was more than three minutes

doing the first mile, which looked well for the backers of time; but

as the old fellow went on, he did every mile better than the

preceding, and the last in the best time of all, winning with nearly

half a minute to spare."

"Has the experiment been often tried?"

"Not more than two or three times, I believe; and the horses who

attempted it broke down in the eighteenth or nineteenth mile.

Nevertheless, I think that within the last twelve years we have had

two or three horses beside Trustee who could have accomplished the

feat; but as such a horse is worth two thousand dollars and upwards, a

heavy bet would be required to tempt a man to risk killing or ruining

his animal; and our sporting men, though they bet frequently, are not

in the habit of betting largely. That is one reason why it has not

been tried oftener; and I am inclined to think that there is another

and a better motive. The owner of a splendid horse does not like to

risk his life; and it is a risk of life to attempt to trot him twenty

miles an hour."

Pit, pat! pit, pat! The old mare is coming down to the score. A very

ordinary looking animal in repose, the magnificence of her action

converts her into a beauty when moving. How evenly her feet rise and

fall, regularly as a machine, though she is nearly at the top of her

speed! She carries her head down, and her neck stretched out, and from

the tip of her nose to the end of her long white tail, that streams

out in the breeze made by her own progress, you might draw a straight

line, so true and right forward does she travel. Perched over her

tail, between those two tall, slender wheels, sits her owner, David

Bryan, the only man that ever handles her, in something like a jockey

costume, blue velvet jacket and cap to match, and his white hair,

whiter than his horse's tail, streaming in the wind--a respectable and

almost venerable looking man; but a hard boy for all that, say the

knowing ones. Great applause from the Long Island men, who swear by

"the Lady," and are always ready to "stake their pile" on her, for her

owner is a Long-Islander, and she is a Suffolk county, Long-Island

mare. Some eight years ago Lady Suffolk was bought out of a baker's

cart for 112 dollars, and since then she has won for "Dave" upwards of

30,000 dollars. That is what the possessor of a fast trotter most

prides himself on--to have bought the animal for a song on the

strength of his own eye for his points, and then developed him into a

"flier." When a colt is bred from a trotting stallion, put into

training at three or four years old, and sold the first time for a

high price, if he turns out well there is no particular wonder or

merit in it; if he does not, the disappointment is extreme.

Ah, here comes Pelham at last--a clean little bay, stepping roundly,

and lifting his legs well; you might call it a perfect action, if we

had not just seen Lady Suffolk go by--but _so_ wicked about the head

and eyes! Behind the little horse sits a big Irishman, in his shirt

sleeves; and they are hauling away at each other, pull Pat, pull

Pelham, as if the man wanted to jerk the horse's head off, and the

horse to draw the man's arms out. You see the driver is holding by

little loops fastened to the reins, to prevent his grasp from

slipping. Pelham is a young horse for a trotter, say seven years old,

and has already done the fastest mile ever made in harness; but his

temper is terribly uncertain, and to-day he seems to be in a

particularly bad humor.

Trustee, who requires much warming up, goes all round the track,

increasing his speed as he goes, till he has reached pretty nearly his

limit. Pelham also completes the circuit, but more leisurely. The Lady

trots about a quarter of a mile, then walks a little, and then brushes

back. Her returning is even faster and prettier than her going. "2'

33''," says Losing, speaking for the first time, as she crosses the

score (the line in front of the judge's stand). His eye is such that,

given the horse and the track, he can tell the pace at a glance within

half a second.

The gentry about are beginning to bet on their respective favorites,

and some upon time--trifling amounts generally--five, ten, or twenty

dollars; and there is much pulling out, and counting, and depositing

of greasy notes. Bang! goes the broken boot-jack again. This time it

is not "Bring _out_ your horses!" but "Bring _up_ your horses!"--a

requisition which the drivers comply with by turning _away_ from the

stand. This is to get a start, a _flying start_ being the rule, which

obviously favors the backers of time, and is, in some respects, fairer

to the horses, but is very apt to create confusion and delay,

especially when three or four horses are entered. So it happens in the

present instance: half way up the quarter, the horses turn, not all

together, but just as they happen to be; and off they go, some slower

and some faster, trying to fall into line as they approach the score.

"Come back!" It's no go, this time; Pelham has broken up, and is

spreading himself all over the track. Trustee, too, is a length or

more behind the gray mare, and evidently in no hurry. They all go

back, the mare last, as she was half-way down the other quarter before

the recall was understood.

"What a beauty she is!" says Harry. "And she has the pole too."

"Will you bet two to three on her against the field?" asks Edwards,

who knew very well that Trustee is the favorite. Benson declines.

"Then will you go on time? Will you bet on 7' 42'', or that they don't

beat 7' 47''" (three mile heats, you will recollect, reader). No,

Harry won't bet at all; so Edwards turns to Losing. "Will you bet

three to five in hundreds on the Lady?" Losing will. They neither

plank the money, nor book the bet, but the thing is understood.

Pelham's driver has begged the judges to give the word, even if he is

two lengths behind; he would rather do that than have his horse

worried by false starts. So this time, perhaps, they will get off. Not

yet! Bryan's mare breaks up just before they come to the score.

Harrison hints that he broke her on purpose, because Trustee was

likely to have about a neck advantage of him in the start. "Of course

they never go the first time," says Benson, "and very seldom the

second."

"I saw nine false starts once, at Harlaem," says Bleecker, "where

there were but three horses. Better luck next time."

It is better luck. Pelham lays in the rear full two lengths, but

Trustee and the mare come up nose and nose to the score, going at a

great pace. "Go!" At the word Trustee breaks. "Bah! take him away!

Where's Brydges?" The superior skill of his former driver, is

painfully remembered by the horse's friends. But he soon recovers, and

catches his trot about two lengths behind the mare, and as much in

advance of Pelham; for the little bay is going very badly, seems to

have no trot in him, and his driver dares not hurry him. In these

respective positions they complete the first quarter.

As they approach the half mile, the distance renders their movements

indistinct, and their speed, positive or relative, difficult to

determine. You can only make out their position. Pelham continues to

lose, and Trustee has gained a little; but the gray mare keeps the

lead gallantly.

"I like a trot," says Benson, "because you can watch the horses so

long. In a race they go by like a flash, once and again, and it's all

over."

In the next quarter they are almost lost to view, and then they appear

again coming home, and you begin once more to appreciate the rate at

which they are coming. Still it is not the very best pace; the Lady is

taking it rather easy, as if conscious of having it all her own way;

and her driver looks as careless and comfortable as if he were only

taking her out to exercise, when she glides past the stand.

"2' 35''," says Losing. He doesn't need to look at his watch; but

there is great comparing of stop-watches among the other men for the

time of the first mile. Hardly half a length behind is Trustee; he has

been gradually creeping up without any signs of being hurried, and,

clumsily as he goes, gets over the ground without heating himself.

"John Case knows what he's about, after all," Edwards observes, "He

takes his time, and so does the old horse; wait another round, and, at

the third mile, they'll be _there_."

"But where's Pelham? Is he lost? No, there he comes; and, Castor and

Pollux, what a burst! Something has waked him up after the other

horses have passed the stand, and while he is yet four or five lengths

from it. There's a brush for you! Did you ever see a horse foot it

so?--as if all the ideas of running that he may ever have had in his

life were arrested, and fastened down into his trot. How he is closing

up the gap! If he can hold to that stroke he will be ahead of the

field before the first quarter of this second mile is out. A mighty

clamor arises, shouts from his enemies, who want to break him, cheers

from his injudicious friends. There, he has lapped Trustee--he has

passed him; tearing at the bit harder than ever, he closes with Lady

Suffolk. Bryan does not begin to thrash his mare yet, he only shows

the whip over her; but yells like a madman at her, and at Pelham,

whose driver holds on to him as a drowning man holds on to a rope.

They are going side by side at a terrific pace. It can't last; one of

them must go up. The bay horse does go up just at the quarter pole,

having made that quarter, Benson says, in the remarkably short time of

thirty-six seconds and a half."

Pelham's driver can't jerk him across the track; by doing so, he would

foul Trustee, who is just behind; so he has to let the chestnut go by,

and then sets himself to work to bring down his unruly animal; no easy

matter--for Pelham, frightened by the shouting, and excited by the

noise of the wheels, plunges about in a manner that threatens to spill

or break down the sulky; and twice, after being brought almost to a

full stop, goes off again on a canter. Good bye, little horse! there's

no more chance for you. By this time, the Lady is nearly a quarter of

a mile ahead, and going faster than ever. Somehow or other, Trustee

has increased his speed too, and is just where he was, a short

half-length behind her. The way in which he hangs on to the mare

begins to frighten the Long-Islanders a little, but they comfort

themselves with the hope that she has something left, and can let out

some spare foot in the third mile, or whenever it may be necessary.

Some forty seconds more elapse; a period of time that goes like a

flash when you are training your own flier, or "brushing" on the road,

but seems long enough when you are waiting for horses to come round,

and then they appear once more coming home. The mare is still leading,

with her beautiful, steady, unfaltering stroke; but she is by no means

so fresh-looking as when she started; many a dark line of sweat marks

her white hide. Close behind her comes Trustee; the half-length gap

has disappeared, and his nose is ready to touch Bryan's jacket. There

is hardly a wet hair discernible on him; he goes perfectly at his

ease, and seems to be in hand. "He has her now," is the general

exclamation, "and can pass her when he pleases." As the mare crosses

the score, (in 2' 34'', according to Edwards's stop-watch,) Bryan

"looks over his left shoulder," like the knights in old ballads, and

becomes aware for the first time that the horse at his wheel is not

Pelham, as he had supposed, but Trustee.

The old fellow is another man. His air of careless security has

changed to one of intense excitement. Slash! slash! slash! falls the

long whip, with half a dozen frantic cuts and an appropriate garnish

of yells. Almost any other trotter would go off in a run at one such

salute, to say nothing of five or six; but the old mare, who "has no

break in her," merely understands them as gentle intimations to go

faster--and she does go faster. How her legs double up, and what a

rush she has made! There is a gap of three lengths between her and

Trustee. He never hurries himself, but goes on steadily as ever. See,

as he passes, how he straddles behind like an old cow, and yet how

dexterously he paddles himself along, as it were, with one hind foot.

What a mixture of ugliness and efficiency his action is! At the first

quarter the Lady has come back to him. Three times during this, the

last and decisive mile, is the performance repeated. You may hear

Bryan's voice and whip completely across the course, as he hurries his

mare away from the pursuer; but each succeeding time the temporary gap

is shorter and sooner closed.

Now they are coming down the straight stretch home. The mare leads

yet. Case appears to be talking to his horse, and encouraging him; if

it is so, you cannot hear him, for the tremendous row Lady Suffolk's

driver is making. She had the pole at starting, has kept it

throughout, and Trustee must pass her on the outside. This

circumstance is her only hope of winning. All her owner's exertions,

and all the encouraging shouts of her friends, which she now hears

greeting her from the stand, cannot enable her to shake off Trustee,

but if she can only maintain her lead for six or seven lengths more,

it is enough. The chestnut is directly in her rear; every blow gets a

little more out of her. Half the short interval to the goal is passed,

when Trustee diverges from his straight course, and shows his head

along side Bryan's wheel. Catching his horse short, Case puts his whip

upon him for the first time, shakes him up with a great shout, and

crowds him past the mare, winning the heat by a length.

The little bay was so far behind at the end of the second mile, that

no one took any notice of him, and he was supposed to have dropped out

somewhere on the road. His position, however, was much improved on the

third mile; still, as there was a strong probability of his being shut

out, the judges dispatched one of their number to the distance-post

with a flag; a very proper proceeding, only they thought of it rather

late, for the judge arrived there only just before Pelham, and also

just before Trustee crossed the score; in fact, the three events were

all but simultaneous; the judge dropped the flag in Pelham's face, and

Pelham in return nearly ran over the judge. This episode attracted no

attention at the time of its occurrence, all eyes being directed to

the leading horses; but now it affords materials for a nice little

row, Pelham's driver protesting violently against the distance. There

is much thronging, and vociferating, and swearing about the judge's

stand, into which our burly Irishman endeavors to force his way. One

of the specials favors him with a rap on the head, that would astonish

a hippopotamus. Pat doesn't seem to mind it, but he understands it

well enough (the argument is just suited to his capacity), and remains

tolerably quiet. Finally, it is proclaimed that "Trustee wins the heat

in 7' 45'', and Pelham is distanced."

"Best three miles ever made in harness," says Harrison, "except when

Dutchman did it in 7' 41''."

Edwards doubts the fact, and they bet about it, and will write to the

_Spirit of the Times_ (the American _Bell's Life_).

Ashburner and Benson descended from the stand. The horses, panting and

pouring with sweat, are rubbed and scraped by their attendants, three

or four to each. Then they are clothed, and walked up and down

quietly. They have a rest of nominally half-an-hour, and practically

at least forty minutes. Some of the crowd are eating oysters, more

drinking brandy and water, and a still greater number "loafing" about

without any particular employment. There are two or three

thimble-riggers on the ground, but they seem to be in a barren county;

nobody there is green enough for them; the very small boys take sights

at them. There is a tradition that Edwards once in his younger days

tried his fortune with them. He looked so dandified, green, and

innocent, that they let him win five dollars the first time, and then,

on the rigger's proposing to bet a hundred, his supposed victim

applied the finger of scorn to the nose of derision, and strutted off

with his V.,[7] to the great amusement of the bystanders. Tom is very

proud of this story, and likes to tell it himself. That, and his

paying a French actress with a check when he had nothing at his

banker's, are two of the great exploits of his life.

"This _is_ rather a low assemblage, certainly," says Ashburner, after

he has contemplated it from several points of view, and observed a

great many different points of character. "Do they ever have races

here?"

"Yes, every spring and fall, here, or on the Union Course adjoining.

They are rather more decently attended, but not over respectable, much

less fashionable. At the South, it is different; there ladies go, and

the club races are some of the most marked features of their city

life. I recollect when I was a boy, that these trotting matches were

nice things, and gentlemen used to enter their own horses; but

gradually they have gone down hill to what they are now, and the names

of the best trotters are associated with the hardest characters and

the most disreputable species of balls."

"And when they race, do the horses run on ground like _this_?" asked

Ashburner, stamping on the track, which was as hard as Macadam.

"Precisely on this, and run four-mile heats, too, and five of them

sometimes."

"_Five_ four-mile heats on ground like this?" The Englishman looked

incredulous.

"Exactly. It has happened that each of three has won a heat, and then

there was one dead heat. You will remember, though, that we run old

horses, not colts. There is no extra weight for age; they begin at

four or five years old, and go on till twelve or fourteen."

"But they must be very liable to accidents, going on such hard soil."

"Yes, they do break their legs sometimes, but not often. Our horses

are tougher than yours."

As they stroll about, Benson points out several celebrated fliers that

have gained admission inside of the stand, but prefer remaining

outside the track; some pretty well worn-out and _emeriti_ like

Ripton, an old rival of Lady Suffolk (the mare has outlasted most of

her early contemporaries), some in their prime, like the trotting

stallion, Black Hawk, beautifully formed as any blood-horse, but

singularly marked, being white-stockinged all round to the knee.

"There," says Harry, "is a fellow that belies the old horse-dealer's

rhyme:

'Four white legs and a white nose,

Take him away, and throw him to the crows.'"

Time is up, and they return to the stand. Edwards is bantering

Losing, and asks him if he will repeat his bet on this heat. He will

fast enough, and double it on the final result. Edwards wants nothing

better.

This time, for a wonder, the horses got off at the first start, and a

tremendous pace they make, altogether too much for Trustee, who is

carried off his feet in the first half-quarter, and the Lady goes

ahead three, four, five lengths, and has taken the pole before he can

recover. Bryan continues to crowd the pace. The mare comes round to

the score in 2' 33'', leading by four lengths, and her driver

threshing her already. "She can't stand it," say the knowing ones;

"she must drop out soon." But she doesn't drop out in the second mile

at least, for at the end of that, she is still three lengths in

advance, and Trustee does not appear so fresh as he did last heat. The

Long-Islanders are exultant, and the sporting men look shy. When they

come home in the last quarter, the chestnut has only taken one length

out of the gap; nevertheless, he goes for the outside, and makes the

best rush he can. It's no use. He can't get near her; breaks up again,

and crosses the score a long way behind. Much manifestation of

boisterous joy among the farmers. Edwards looks sold, and something

like a smile passes over Losing's unimpassioned countenance. It is

plain sailing for the judges this time. "Lady Suffolk has the heat in

7' 49''," and there is no mistake or dispute about it.

Another long pause. Eight minutes' sport and three quarters of an hour

intermission among such a company begins to be rather dull work. All

the topics of interest afforded by the place have been exhausted.

Harrison and Benson begin to talk stocks and investments; the

juveniles are comparing their watering place experiences during the

summer. Ashburner says nothing, and smokes an indefinite number of

cigars; Losing says rather less, and smokes more. Edwards has

disappeared; gone, possibly, to talk to the doubtful carriages. It is

growing dark before they are ready for the third and decisive heat.

One false start, and at the second trial they are off. The mare has

the inside, in right of having won the preceding heat. She crowds the

pace from the start, as usual; but Trustee is better handled this

time, and does not break. Case allows the Lady to lead him by three

lengths, and keeps his horse at a steady gait, in quiet pursuit of

her. For two miles their positions are unaltered; Bryan's friends

cheer him vociferously every time as he comes round; he replies by a

flourish of his long whip and additional shouts to his mare. In the

third mile, Trustee begins to creep up, and in the third quarter of

it, just before he gets out of sight from the stand, is only a length

and a half behind. When they appear again, there are plenty of anxious

lookers-out; and men like our friend Edwards, who have a thousand or

more at stake on the result, cannot altogether restrain their

emotions. Here they come close enough together! Trustee has lapped the

mare on the outside; his head is opposite the front rim of her wheel.

Bryan shouts and whips like one possessed; Case's small voice is also

lifted up to encourage Trustee. The chestnut is gaining, but only inch

by inch, and they are nearly home. Now Case has lifted him with the

whip, and he makes a rush and is at her shoulder. Now he will have

her. Oh, dear, he has gone up! Hurrah for the old gray! Stay! Case has

caught him beautifully; he is on his trot again opposite her wheel.

One desperate effort on the part of man and horse, and Trustee shoots

by the mare; but not till after she has crossed the score. Lady

Suffolk is quite done up; she could not go another quarter; but she

has held out long enough to win the heat and the money.

And now, as it was somewhere in the neighborhood of seven, and neither

Ashburner nor Benson had eaten any thing since eight in the morning,

they began to feel very much inclined for dinner, or supper, or

something of the sort; and the team travelled back quite as fast as it

was safe to go by twilight; a little faster, the Englishman might have

thought, if he had not been so hungry. Then, after crossing the

Brooklyn ferry, Benson announced his intention of putting up his

horses for the night at a livery stable, and himself at Ashburner's

hotel, as it was still a long drive for that time of night to

Devilshoof; which being agreed upon, they next dived into an oyster

cellar, of which there are about two to a block all along Broadway,

and ordered an unlimited supply of the agreeable shellfish,

broiled;--_oyster chops_, Ashburner used to call them; and the term

gives a stranger a pretty good idea of what these large oysters look

like, cooked as they are with crumbs, exactly in the style of a

_cotelette panee_. And they make very nice eating, too; only they

promote thirst and induce the consumption of numerous glasses of

champagne or brandy and water, as the case may be. Whether this be an

objection to them or not, is matter of opinion. Then having adjourned

to Ashburner's apartment in the fifth story of the Manhattan hotel (it

was a room with an alcove, French fashion), and smoked numerous

Firmezas there, the Englishman turned in for the night; and Benson,

who had no notion of paying for a bed when he could get a sofa for

nothing, disposed himself at full length upon Ashburner's, without

taking off any thing except his hat, and was fast asleep in less time

than it would take _The Sewer_ to tell a lie.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The United States government, (U. S.)

[5] A very critical friend wants to know if the term _dilapidated_

can, with strict propriety, be applied to a _wooden_ building.

[6] A horse will "go the pole" in such a time, means that he will go

in double harness. A horse "has the pole," means that he has drawn the

place nearest the inside boundary fence of the track.

[7] A five-dollar bill is so called from the designation in Roman

numerals upon it.

From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DUTCH POET.

The name of Wilhelm Bilderdyk is scarcely known beyond the boundaries

of his own country; and yet those who are conversant with the Dutch

language place him in a very high rank as a poet. The publication of

his first poem, _Elicus_, formed quite an era in the history of Dutch

literature. It was speedily followed by a faithful and spirited

translation of the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles, and versions of other

Greek writers. Besides his imaginative pursuits, he engaged with ardor

in the study of geology, and almost rivalled Cuvier in his

acquaintance with natural history. War and invasion, however,

interrupted the labors of Bilderdyk. He quitted Holland, travelled

through Germany, crossed over to England, and finally spent some time

amongst the Scottish Highlands, where he employed himself in

translating Ossian's poems into Dutch verse. He then went to the

principality of Brunswick, and there composed a very extraordinary

work, _The Maladies of Wise Men_, a poem whose mild, lofty sublimity,

unearthly interest, and grasp of gloomy thought, entitle it to rank

with the Inferno of Dante.

Bilderdyk at length was able to return to his country. Louis Napoleon,

who then reigned at the Hague, chose him as his instructor in the

Dutch language, and named him president of the second class in the

Institute of Amsterdam. About this time he married a beautiful and

clever girl, named Wilhelmina; and for several years they enjoyed

together as perfect happiness as this world can give--she occupied in

domestic and maternal duties, and he adding to his fame and fortune by

the publication of several works. But at length death visited their

dwelling, and removed within a brief space three lovely children.

Their loss was commemorated in two poems--_Winter Flowers_, and _The

Farewell_. Not long afterwards, public misfortune came to aggravate

his private sorrows. Louis Napoleon left Holland, and Bilderdyk took

refuge at Groningen, where he stayed for some time, and then,

rejecting a liberal offer of employment made him by William of Orange,

he set out for France, accompanied by his wife.

When they entered the diligence, they found it occupied but by one

person, a young female of mild and engaging appearance. No sooner did

the heavy machine begin to move than she began to scream, and

testified the most absurd degree of terror. Public carriages then were

certainly far inferior, both in safety and accommodation, to those of

modern times; yet the probable amount of danger to be apprehended did

not by any means justify the excessive apprehension manifested by the

fair traveller. On arriving at Brussels, the lady was so much overcome

that she announced her intention of stopping some days in that city to

recruit her strength before venturing again to encounter the perils of

a diligence; and taking leave of Bilderdyk and his wife, she

gratefully thanked the latter for the kind attention she had shown her

during the journey. The two Hollanders proceeded on their way to

Paris, laughing heartily from time to time at the foolish cowardice of

a woman who saw a precipice in every rut, and a certain overturn in

every jolt of the wheels.

Arrived at their journey's end, the travellers took up their abode in

a humble dwelling in the Rue Richelieu, and commenced with the utmost

delight visiting all the wonderful things in Paris. Bilderdyk soon

found himself completely in his element. He breakfasted with Cuvier at

the Jardin des Plantes, passed his afternoon at the Bibliotheque

Richelieu, dined in the Faubourg St. Germain with Dr. Alibert, and

finished the evening at the play or the opera. One day he and his wife

were given excellent places for witnessing the ascent in a balloon of

a young woman, Mme. Blanchard, whose reckless courage enabled her to

undertake aerial voyages, despite the sad fate which befell Pilastre

de Rosiers, her own husband, and several other aeronauts. Our

Hollanders amused themselves for some time with watching the process

of inflating the balloon, and following with their eyes the course of

the tiny messenger-balloons sent up to ascertain the direction of the

upper currents of wind. At length all is ready, the band strikes up a

lively air, and Mme. Blanchard, dressed in white and crowned with

roses, appears, holding a small gay flag in her hand. With the most

graceful composure she placed herself in the boat, the cords were

loosed, and the courageous adventuress, borne rapidly upwards in her

perilous vehicle, soon appeared like a dark spot in the sky.

When he returned to his lodging, Bilderdyk composed a poem in honor of

the brave woman who adventured her life so boldly, rivalling the free

birds of heaven in her flight, and beholding the stars face to face.

Next morning he hastened to get his production printed, and without

considering that Mme. Blanchard most likely did not understand Dutch,

he repaired to her lodgings with a copy of the poem in his hand,

intending to ask permission to present it to her. He was courteously

invited to enter the drawing-room, and there, to his great amazement,

he found himself _tete-a-tete_ with the silly, frightened lady, whose

nervous tremors in the Brussels diligence had afforded so much

amusement to him and his wife. Surprised and disconcerted, he was

beginning to apologize, when the lady interrupted him.

"Monsieur," she said, "you are not mistaken. I am Mme. Blanchard. You

see how possible it is for the same person to be cowardly in a coach,

and courageous in a balloon."

A good deal of conversation ensued, the poem was timidly offered, and

graciously accepted; and the fair aeronaut accepted an invitation to

dine that day with Bilderdyk and his wife. In the course of the

evening Mme. Blanchard related to them some curious circumstances in

her life. Her mother kept a humble wayside inn near La Rochelle, while

her father worked in the fields. One day a balloon descended near

their door, and out of it was taken a man, severely but not

dangerously bruised. Her parents received him with the utmost

hospitality, and supplied him with all the comforts they could give.

He had no money wherewith to repay them, but as he was about to

depart, he remarked that the mistress of the house was very near her

confinement, and he said: "Listen, and mark my words. Fortune cannot

always desert me. In sixteen years, if alive, I will return hither. If

the child who will soon be born to you should be a boy, I will then

adopt him; if a girl, I will marry her!"

The worthy peasants laughed heartily at this strange method of paying

a bill; and although they allowed their guest to depart, they

certainly built very little on his promise. The aeronaut, however,

kept his word, and at the end of sixteen years re-appeared at the inn,

then inhabited by only a fair young girl, very lately left an orphan.

She willingly accepted Jean Pierre Blanchard as a husband, and for a

short time they lived happily together; but during an ascent which he

made in Holland, he was seized with apoplexy, and fell to the ground

from a height of sixty feet. The unhappy aeronaut was not killed on

the spot, but lingered for some time in frightful torture, carefully

and fondly attended by his wife, whom at length he left a young and

penniless widow.

Marie Madeleine Blanchard, despite her natural timidity, resolved to

adopt her husband's perilous profession. Pride and necessity combined

do wonders; and not only did she succeed in maintaining perfect

composure while in the air, but she also displayed wonderful presence

of mind during the time of danger. On one occasion she ascended in her

balloon from Nantes, intending to come down at about four leagues from

that town, in what she believed to be a large meadow. While rapidly

descending, the cordage of the balloon became entangled in the

branches of a tree, and she found herself suspended over a vast green

marsh, whose treacherous mud would infallibly ingulf her. Drawn to the

spot by her cries, several peasants came to her assistance, and with

considerable difficulty and danger succeeded in placing her on terra

firma.

On the day following the one on which she dined with M. and Mme.

Bilderdyk, Mme. Blanchard left Paris, promising her two friends, as

she bade them farewell, that she would soon return. Time passed on,

however, and they heard nothing of her. They were preparing to return

to Holland, when some of Bilderdyk's countrymen residing in Paris

resolved to give him a banquet on the eve of his departure.

The entertainment took place at a celebrated restaurant, situated at

the angle formed by the Rue Cauchat and the Rue de Provence. While

enjoying themselves at table, the guests suddenly perceived the

windows darkened by the passing of some large black object. With one

accord they rose and ran out: a woman lay on the pavement, pale,

crushed, and dead. Bilderdyk gave a cry--it was Mme. Blanchard! In

what a guise to meet her again! Encouraged by the constant impunity of

her perilous ascensions, the unhappy aeronaut (the word I believe has

no feminine), finding a formidable rival in Mlle. Garnerin, resolved

to surpass her in daring by augmenting the risk of her aerial voyages.

For this purpose she lighted up her balloon car with colored lamps,

and carried with her a supply of fireworks. On the sixth of July,

1819, she rose from amid a vast concourse of spectators. The balloon

caught in one of the trees in the Champs-Elysees, but without

regarding the augury, Mme. Blanchard threw out ballast, and as she

rose rapidly in the air she spilled a quantity of lighting spirits of

wine, and then sent off rockets and Roman candles. Suddenly, with

horror, the mass of upturned eyes beheld the balloon take fire. One

piercing shriek from above mingled with the affrighted cries of the

crowd below, and then some object was seen to detach itself from the

fiery globe. As it came near the earth, it was recognized as the body

of the ill-fated Mme. Blanchard.

Weeping and trembling, Bilderdyk aided in raising the disfigured

corpse, and wrapped it up in the net-work of the balloon, which the

hands still grasped firmly. The shock, acting on his excitable

temperament, threw him into a dangerous illness, from which, however,

he recovered, and returned to his native country. There he published

an admirable treatise, "The Theory of Vegetable Organization," and a

poem entitled, "The Destruction of the Primeval World." A French

critic has placed this latter work in the same rank with "Paradise

Lost," and says: "Old Milton has nothing finer, more energetic, or

more vast, in his immortal work." An English critic, however, would

probably scarcely concur in this judgment.

Bilderdyk died in the town of Haarlem on the 18th of December, 1831.

From Household Words.

OUR PHANTOM SHIP: CHINA.

Since a typhoon occurs not much oftener than once in about three

years, it would be odd if we should sail immediately into one; but we

are fairly in the China seas, which are the typhoon's own peculiar

sporting ground, and it is desperately sultry, and those clouds are

full of night and lightning, to say nothing of a fitful gale and angry

sea. Look out! There is the coast of China. Now for a telescope to see

the barren, dingy hills, with clay and granite peeping out, with a few

miserable trees and stunted firs. That is our first sight of the

flowery land, and we shall not get another yet, for the spray begins

to blind us; it is quite as much as we can do to see each other. Now

the wind howls and tears the water up, as if it would extract the

great waves by their roots, like so many of old Ocean's teeth; but he

kicks sadly at the operation. We are driven by the wild blast that

snaps our voices short off at the lips and carries them away; no words

are audible. We are among a mass of spars and men wild as the storm on

drifting broken junks; a vessel founders in our sight, and we are

cast, with dead and living, upon half a dozen wrecks entangled in a

mass, upon the shore of Hong Kong;--ourselves safe, of course, for we

have left at home whatever could be bruised upon the journey. How many

houses have been blown away like hats, how many rivers have been

driven back to swell canals and flood the fields, (whose harvest has

been prematurely cropped on the first warning of the typhoon's

intended visit,) we decline investigating. The evening sky is very

wild, and we were all last night under the typhoon at sea; to-night we

are in the new town of Victoria, and will be phantom bed-fellows to

any Chinaman who has been eating pork for supper. The Chinese are very

fond of pork, or any thing that causes oiliness in man. A lean man

forfeits something in their estimation; for they say, "He must have

foolishness; why has he wanted wisdom to eat more?"

Hong Kong was one of the upshots of our cannonading in the pure and

holy Chinese war; and as for the new town of Victoria, we shall walk

out of it at once, for we have not travelled all this way to look at

Englishmen. The island itself is eight or ten miles long, and

sometimes two or sometimes six miles broad. It is the model of a grand

mountain region on a scale of two inches to the foot. There are crags,

ravines, wild torrents, fern-covered hills; but the highest mountain

does not rise two thousand feet.--We stand upon it now. Quite contrary

to usual experience, we found, in coming up, the richest flowers at

the greatest elevation. The heat and dryness of the air below, where

the sun's rays are reflected from bare surfaces, is said to be

oppressive, and perhaps the flowers down there want a pleasant shade.

From our elevation we can see few patches of cultivation, but leaping

down the rocks are many picturesque cascades. Hong Kong is christened

from its own waters, its name signifying in Chinese "the Island of

Fragrant Streams." There is a goat upon the nearest rock; but look

beyond. On one side is the bay, with shipping, and behind us the broad

expanse of the ocean; and before us is the sea, studded as far as our

eyes can reach with mountainous islands, among which we must sail to

reach Canton. Now we float onward in the Phantom, and among these

islands our sharp eyes discover craft that have more hands on board

than usually man an honest vessel. In the holes and corners of the

islands pirates lurk to prey upon the traffic of Canton. We pass Macao

on our way into the Canton river. Portugal was a nation of quality

once, with a strong constitution, and in those days, once upon a time,

wrecked Portuguese gained leave to dry a cargo on the Island of Macao.

They erected sheds a little stronger than were necessary for that

temporary purpose; in fact, they turned the accident to good account,

and established here an infant settlement, which soon grew to maintain

itself, and sent money home occasionally to assist its mother. Twice

the Emperor of China offered to make Macao an emporium for European

trade; the Portuguese preferred to be exclusive. So the settlement

fell sick, and since the English made Hong Kong a place of active

trade, very few people trouble themselves to inquire whether Macao be

dead yet, or only dying. The Portuguese town has a mournful aspect,

marked as it is by strong lines of character that indicate departed

power.

Still sailing among islands, mountainous and barren, we soon reach the

Bocca Tigris, or mouth of the Canton river, guarded now with very

formidable forts. The Chinese, since their war with England, have been

profiting by sore experience. If their gunnery be as completely mended

as their fortifications, another war with them would not be quite so

much like an attack of grown men upon children. The poor Chinese, in

that war, were indefatigable in the endeavor to keep up appearances.

Steam ships were scarcely worth attention--they had "plenty all the

same inside:" and when the first encounter, near the spot on which we

are now sailing, between junks and men-of-war, had exhibited the

tragedy, in flesh and bone, of John Bull in a China-shop, the Chinese

Symonds, at Ningpo, was ordered to build ships exactly like the

British. He could not execute the order, and played, therefore,

executioner upon himself. Cannon were next ordered, that should be

large enough to destroy a ship at one burst. They were made, and the

first monster tried, immediately burst and killed its three

attendants; nobody could be induced to fire the others. One morning, a

British fleet was very much surprised to see the shore look formidable

with a line of cannon mouths. The telescope, which had formed no part

of the Chinese calculations, discovered them to be a row of earthern

pots. Forts, in the same way, often turned out to be dummies made of

matting, with the portholes painted; and sometimes real cannon, mere

three pounders, had their fronts turned to the sea, plugged with

blocks of wood, cut and so painted as to resemble the mouths of

thirty-two pounders shotted. However, we have passed real strong forts

and veritable heavy cannon, to get through the Bocca Tigris. Nothing

is barren now; the river widens, and looks like an inland sea; the

flat land near the shores is richly cultivated; rice is there and upon

the islands, all protected with embankments to admit or exclude the

flood in its due season, or provided with wheels for raising water

where the land is too high to be flooded in a simpler manner. The

embankments, too, yield plantain crops. The water on each side is gay

with water lilies, which are cultivated for their roots. Banyan and

fig-trees, cypress, orange, water-pines, and weeping willows, grow

beside the stream, with other trees; but China is not to be called a

richly timbered country; most of its districts are deficient in large

trees. There is the Whampoa Pagoda; there are more pagodas, towers,

joss-houses; here are the European factories, and here are boats,

boats, boats, literally, hundreds of thousands of boats--the sea-going

junk, gorgeous with griffins, and with proverbs, and with painted

eyes; the flower boat; boats of all shapes, and sizes, down to the

barber's boat, which barely holds the barber and his razor. There is a

city on the water, and the dwellers in these boats, who whether men or

women, dive and swim so naturally that they may all be fishes,

curiously claim their kindred with the earth. On every boat, a little

soil and a few flowers, are as essential as the little joss-house and

the little joss. Canals flow from the river through Canton; every

where, over the mud, upon the water side are wooden houses built on

piles. But here we will not go ashore; the suburbs of Canton are full

of thieves, and little boys who shout _fan-qui_ (foreign devil) after

all barbarians, and we should not be welcome in the city; so we will

not go where we shall not be welcome. After floating up and down the

streets and lanes of water made between the boats upon the Canton

river, pleased with the strange music, the gongs, and the incessant

chattering of women, (Chinese women are pre-eminent as chatterers,) we

sail away. We do not wait even till night to wonder at the scene by

lantern light; but returning by the way we came, repass the rice

fields, the water lilies, and the forts, the islands, and Macao, and

Hong Kong, and have again before us the expanse of ocean. Canton lies

within the tropic; sugar-cane grown in its vicinity yields brown sugar

and candy; but our lump sugar is a luxury to which the Chinese have

not yet attained. Canton lying within the tropic, we shall change our

climate on the journey northward. An empire that engrosses nearly a

tenth part of the globe, and includes the largest population gathered

under any single government, will have many climates in its eighteen

provinces. Now we are sailing swiftly northward by a barren rocky

coast, with sometimes hills of sand, and sometimes cultivated patches,

and, except for the pagodas on the highest elevations, we might fancy

we were off the coast of Scotland.

Five ports are open to our trade upon the coast of China; one of

these, Canton, we have merely looked at, and the next, Amoy, we pass

unvisited in sailing up between the mainland and Formosa. Amoy

produces the best Chinese sailors, and it is in this port that the

native junks have most experience of foreign trade; it is a dirty,

densely-peopled town, too distant from the tea and silk regions to be

of prominent importance to the Europeans. As soon as we have passed

through the Formosa channel, we direct our course towards the river

Min, and steering safely among rocks and sand-banks, among which is a

rock cleft into five pyramids, regarded with a sort of worship by the

sailors, we float up the river to the third of the five cities,

Foo-chow-foo. The river varies in width, sometimes a mile across,

where it is flowing between plains, sometimes confined between the

hills; a hilly country is about us, with some mountains nearly twice

as high as those up which we clambered at Hong-Kong. We pass, after a

few miles' sail, the little town and fort of Mingan; we sail among

pagodas and temples, near which the priests plant dark spreading

fig-trees, terraced hills, yielding earth-nuts and sweet potatoes; we

see cultivation carried up some mountain sides beyond two thousand

feet, and barren mountains, granite rocks, islands, and villages; here

and there more wooded tracts than usually belong to a Chinese

landscape, rills of water and cascades that tumble down into the Min.

We have sailed up the river twenty miles, and here is Foo-chow-foo. We

have met on our way a good many junks, having wood lashed to their

sides; and here we see acres of wood (chiefly pine) afloat before the

suburbs, for here wood is a main article of trade. We pass under the

bridge Wanshow ("myriads of ages"), which connects the suburbs on each

bank; it is a bridge of granite slabs, supported upon fifty pillars of

strong masonry, the whole about two thousand feet in length. The

suburbs happen just now to be flooded, and the large Tartar population

here delights in mobbing a barbarian. This inhospitable character

repels men, while the floods and rapids of the river and its

tributaries, causes an uncertainty of transit, tend also to keep

European traders out of Foo-chow-foo. True, the bohea tea hills are in

the vicinity, but their bohea tea has not a first-rate character, and

the great seat of the tea trade is yet farther north. The city walls

are eight or nine miles in circumference; but we will not enter their

gates for all Chinese cities have a close resemblance to each other;

it is enough to visit one, and we can do better than visit this. We

sail back to the sea again, and there resume our northward voyage. We

have seen part of the mountainous or hilly half of China; farther

north, between the two great rivers, and beyond them to the famous

Wall, is a great plain studded in parts with lakes or swamps, and very

fertile.

Far westward, we might journey to the high central table-land of Asia,

where there are extensive levels; but the seaward provinces are the

most fertile; and as for the Chinese themselves, they are in all

places very much alike--in body as in character. But sailing in our

ship, and talking of those plains, we may naturally recall to our

minds those ancient days when the Chinese, civilised then as now,

guided their chariots across a pathless level on the land by the same

instrument that guides our ship across a pathless level on the water.

The coast by which we sail is studded with islands, and to reach

Ningpo, the fourth of the five ports, we pass between the mainland and

the island of Chusan. The water here is quite hemmed in with islands

forming the Chusan Archipelago. Chusan is like a piece of the Scotch

Highlands, twenty miles long, and ten or twelve broad, with rich

vegetation added. Forty miles' sail from Chusan brings us to Ningpo.

Amongst the numerous islands past which we have floated, we should

have found, on many, characters not quite Chinese. One island, visited

for water by one of our ships, was said to be an Eden for its

innocence. Crime was unknown among the islanders: and at a grave look

or a slight tap with a fan, the wrong-doer invariably desisted from

his evil course. The simplicity of the natives here consisted in the

fact, that they expected credit for the character they gave

themselves. On another island, the natives entertained snug notions of

a warm bed in the winter. Their bed was a stone trough; in winter they

spread at the bottom of this trough hot embers, and over these a large

stone, over that their bedding, and then tucked themselves comfortably

in.

Ningpo, with its bridge of boats and Chinese shipping and pagodas, has

a picturesque appearance from the river. It is large, populous, and

wealthy; a place to which the merchant may retire to spend his gains,

more than a port for active and hard working commerce. That is the

reason why we will not land at Ningpo. Where, then, shall we land? If

you have no objection, at Shangae, the fifth and most important,

although not the largest, of these ports. But sea life is monotonous,

and therefore we will take five minutes' diversion ashore, after we

have sailed some twenty miles up this canal. Here we will land under

an avenue of pines, and walk up to a Buddhist temple. We are in the

centre of the green-tea district.

The priests, belonging, for a wonder, to a simple-minded class,

receive us, of course hospitably. The stranger is at all times welcome

to a lodging, and to his portion of the Buddhist vegetable dinner.

These priests are like some of our monks in mendicancy charity, and

superstition. In the pagodas they always have a meal prepared for the

arrival of a hungry traveller. But hungry we are not; and we came

hither to see the tea-plantations; these we now seek out. They are

small farms upon the lower slopes of hills; the soil is rich; it must

be rich, or the tea-plant would not long endure the frequent stripping

of its leaves, which usage does of course sooner or later kill it.

Each plant is at a distance of about four feet from its neighbors, and

the plantations look like little shrubberies. The small proprietors

inhabit wretched-looking cabins, in which each of them has fixed a

flue and coppers for the drying of his tea. In the appearance of the

people there is nothing wretched; old men sit at their doors like

patriarchs, expecting and receiving reverence; young men, balancing

bales across their shoulders, travel out, and some return with strings

of copper money; the chief tea-harvest is over, and the merchants have

come down now to the little inns about the district, that each

husbandman may offer them his produce. There are three tea-making

seasons. The first is in the middle of April, just before the rains,

when the first leaves of spring are plucked; these make the choicest

tea, but their removal tries the vigor of the plant. Then come the

rains; the tea-plant pushes out new leaves, and already in May the

plantation is again dark with foliage; that is the season of the

second, the great gathering. A later gathering of coarse leaves yields

an inferior tea, scarcely worth exporting. It should be understood

that although black and green tea are both made from the same kind of

leaf, there really are two tea-plants. The plant cultivated at Canton

for black tea, and known in our gardens as _Thea Bohea_, differs from

the _Thea viridis_, which yields the harvest here. The Canton plant,

however, is not cultivated in the North; on the Bohea hills

themselves, speaking botanically, there grows no Bohea tea; the plant

there, also, is the _Thea viridis_. The difference between our green

and black tea is produced entirely in the making. Green tea is more

quickly and lightly dried, so that it contains more of the virtues of

the leaf. Black tea is dried more slowly; exposed, while moist, on

mats, when it ferments a little, and then subjected in drying to a

greater heat, which makes it blacker in its color. The bright bloom on

our green tea is added with a dye, to suit the gross taste of

barbarians. The black tea will keep better, being better dried. There

is a kind of tea called Hyson Pekoe made from the first young buds

which keeps ill, being very little fired, but when good it is

extremely costly. As for our names of teas,--of the first delicate

harvest, the black tea is called Pekoe, and the green, Young Hyson;

Hyson being the corruption of Chinese words, that mean "flourishing

spring." The produce of the main or second harvest yields, in green

tea, Hyson; out of which are picked the leaves that prove to be best

rolled for Gunpowder, or as the Chinese call it, pearl-tea. Souchong

("small or scarce sort") is the best black tea of the second crop,

followed by Congou (koong-foo, "assiduity"). Twankay is imported

largely, a green tea from older leaves, which European retailers

employ for mixing with the finer kinds. Bohea, named from the hills we

talked of, is the lowest quality of black tea, though good Bohea is

better than a middling quality of Congou. The botanical _Thea Bohea_

comes into our pots, with refuse Congou, as Canton Bohea. At Canton,

however, Young Hyson and Gunpowder are manufactured out of these

leaves, chopped and painted; and this branch of the fine arts is

carried on extensively in Chinese manufactories established there. As

the tea-merchants go out to collect their produce of the little

farmers; so the mercers in the Nankeen districts leave their cities

for the purchase, in the same way, of home-woven cloth. It is the same

in the silk districts. If we look now into a larger Chinese farm on

our way back to the Phantom, we shall find the tenants on a larger

scale supplying their own wants, and making profit of the surplus. On

such a farm we shall find also familiar friends, fowls, ducks, geese,

pigs, goats, and dogs, bullocks, and buffaloes; indoors there will be

a best parlor in the shape of a Hall of Ancestors, containing

household gods and an ancestral picture, before which is a table or

altar with its offerings. There is the head of the family, who built a

room for each son as he married, and left each son to add other rooms

as they were necessary, till a colony arose under the common roof

about the common hall, in which rules, as a high priest and patriarch,

the living ancestor. Respect for the past is the whole essence of

Chinese religion and morality. The oldest emperors were fountain-heads

of wisdom, and he who imitates the oldest doctrine is the wisest man.

The tombs of ancestors are visited with pious care; respect and

worship is their due. This had at all times been the Chinese

principle, to which Confucius added the influence of a good man's

support. No nation has been trained into this feeling so completely as

the Chinese, and as long as they saw nothing beyond themselves, and

were taught to look down upon barbarians out of the heights of their

own ignorance concerning them, they were contented to stand still. But

the Chinese are a people sharply stimulated by the love of gain; they

despised what they had not seen, yet it is evident that they have not

been slow to profit by experience of European arts. An emigrant

Chinese became acquainted with a Prussian blue manufactory, secretly

observed the process of the manufacture, took his secret home, and

China now makes at home all the Prussian blue which was before

imported. The Chinese emigrant is active, shrewd. In Batavia he

ko-toos to the Dutch, and lets his tail down dutifully. In Singapore

he readily assumes a freer spirit, keeps his tail curled, and walks

upright among the Englishmen.

We are now sailing towards Shangae, no very long way northward from

Ningpo, to the last of the five ports we came out to visit. It is not

necessary to return to the Yellow Sea, for all this part of China is

so freely intersected with canals that we may sail to Shangae among

farms and rice-grounds. While among the farmers, we may call to mind

that the great lord of the Chinese manor is the Emperor, to whom this

ground immediately belongs, and who receives as rent for it a tenth of

all the produce. A large part of this tenth is paid in kind. The

Emperor is the great father also; his whole care of his enormous

family distinctly assumes the paternal form, and embodies a good deal

of the maxim, that to spare the rod will spoil the child. To govern is

expressed in Chinese by the symbols of bamboo and strike; and the

bamboo does, in the way of striking a vast deal of business. The

central legislation is as a rule beneficent, and based upon an earnest

desire to do good; for the father is answerable for the welfare of his

children. National calamities have, at all times, been ascribed by the

Chinese directly to their Emperors; who must by personal humiliation

appease the anger of the gods. So large a household as this father has

to care for requires many stewards, mandarins, and others; all these

officers of state are those sons who have proved themselves to be the

wisest, on examination into their attainments. A grand system of

education pervades China; and, above the first school, to which all

are sent, there is a series of four examinations, through which every

Chinese may graduate if he will study. Not to pass the first is to be

vile, and the highest degrees qualify for all the offices of state;

but Chinese education means, after reading and writing, and moral

precepts of Confucius, little beside a knowledge of Chinese ancient

history and literature. The Emperor, belonging to a Tartar dynasty,

bestows an equal patronage on Tartars and Chinese. The officers

throughout the provinces are, as a further precaution, obliged to

serve in places distant from their own connections, in order that no

private feelings may destroy their power to be just. They are scantily

paid, however; and, as a Chinese likes profit with his honor, the

minor officials drive a trade in bribery, which often nullifies the

central edicts, and which very directly helped to bring about the

Opium war. The Emperor himself is, of course, too sublime a person to

be often seen; the Son of Heaven, he robes himself in the imperial

yellow, because that is the hue of the sun's jacket; but, once a year,

in enforcement of a main principle of the Chinese political

economy--Honor to Agriculture--he drives the plough before a state

procession; and the grain sown in those imperial furrows is afterwards

bought up by courtiers, at a most flattering price.

Where are we now?--we have shot out upon a grand expanse of water,

like an inland sea. An horizon of water is before us--we cannot see

the other bank of the Yang-tse-Kiang, the "child of the ocean," the

great river of China; the greatest river in the old world, and

surpassed only by two on the whole globe. Here, eighty miles above the

sea, it is eight miles in breadth, and sixty feet deep, flowing five

miles an hour; and far up, off the walls of Nankin, its breadth is

three thousand six hundred feet, and its depth twenty-two fathoms, at

a distance of fifty paces from either shore. Well, this is something

like a river; from its source to its mouth, in a straight line, the

distance is one thousand seven hundred and ninety-six miles; and the

windings nearly double its real length, making three thousand three

hundred and thirty-six English miles; of which two thousand, from the

mouth upwards, are said to be quite free from all obstruction. At its

mouth it is, comparatively, shallow; much of this vast body of water

is diverted from its course and carried through the country in canals.

We are not far, now, from the great canal which cuts across this river

and the Hoang-Ho, another grand stream farther northward, with a

course of two thousand six hundred and thirty miles. Between the

Yang-tse-Kiang and Hoang-Ho the country is so flat that, if we may

judge by the scene from the mast-head of the Phantom, not a hillock

breaks the level waste of fertile land. In ancient times this country

was subjected to desolating floods, which, in fact, caused the removal

of the capital. The canal system was commenced, then, as a means of

drainage, by a wise man, who was made an emperor for his sagacity. Now

the canals serve the purposes of commerce, and agriculture also, since

water, in abundance, is essential for the irrigation of the

rice-fields. We are sailing up the Shangae river, a tributary of the

Yang-tse-Kiang; this river, at Shangae, we perceive is about as broad

as the Thames at London Bridge; for we are at Shangae. We sail through

a water-gate into the centre of the town, and land beside a fleet of

junks, into which heaps of rice are being shot; these are grain junks

sent from Pekin to receive part of the imperial tribute.

Narrow, dirty streets, low houses, brilliant open shops, painted with

red and gold. Here is a fragrant fruit-shop, where a poor Chinese is

buying an iced slice of pine-apple for less money than a farthing.

Here is the chandler's, gay with candles of the tallow-tree coated

with colored wax. The chandler deals in puffs; and what an un-English

appeal is this from the candle-maker on behalf of his wares--"Late at

night in the snow gallery they study the books." Study the books! Yes;

through the crowd of Chinese, in their picturesque familiar dresses,

look at that man, with books upon a tray, who dives into house after

house. He lends books on hire to the poor people and servants. Who is

the puffer here? "We issue and sell Hong Chow tobacco, the name and

fame of which has galloped to the north of Kechow; and the flavor has

pervaded Keangnan in the south." Here we have "Famous teas from every

province;" and you see boiling water handy in the shop, wherewith the

customer may test his purchases. Here, on the other side of this

triumphal arch, we peep through a gateway hung with lanterns into a

small paved paradise with gold fish, (China is the home of gold fish),

and exotics, and trellis-work, and vines, and singing birds; that is a

mercer's shop, affecting style in China as in England, only in another

way. We will walk through the paradise into a grand apartment hung

with lanterns, decorated also with gilded tickets, inscribed "Pekin

satins and Canton crapes," "Hang-chow reeled silks," and so on. Here a

courtly Chinese, skilled in the lubrication of a customer, produces

the rich heavy silks for which his country is renowned, the velvets or

the satins you desire, and shaves you skilfully. Talking of shaving,

and we run against a barber as we come out of the silk shop. He

carries a fire on his head, with water always boiling; on a pole over

his shoulder he balances his water, basin, towels, razors. Will you be

shaved like a Chinese? he picks you out a reasonably quiet doorway,

shaves your head, cleans your ears, tickles your eyes, and cracks your

joints in a twinkling. Where heads are shaved, the wipings of the

razors are extensive; they are all bought up, and employed as manure.

The Chinese have so many mouths to feed, that they can afford to lose

nothing that will fertilize the ground. Instead of writing on their

walls "Commit no nuisance," they place jars, and invite or even pay

the pilgrim.

The long tail that the barber leaves is to the Chinese his sign of

manhood. Beards do not form a feature of Mongolian faces; a few stray

coarse hairs are all they get, with their square face, high cheek

bones, slanting eyes, and long dark hair upon the head. A plump body,

long ears, and a long tail, are the respectabilities of a Chinese. The

tail is magnified by working in false hair, and it generally ends with

silk. There is a man using his tail to thrash a pig along; and one

traveler records that he has seen a Chinese servant use the same

instrument for polishing a table. It is, of course, the thing to pull

at in a street fight. Here is a phrenologist, with a large figure of a

human head mapped into regions, inviting Chinese bumpkins to submit to

him their bumps. Here is a dentist showing his teeth. Here--we must

stop here--with a gong for drum, but raised on the true pedestal, with

a man inside, who knows the veritable squeak, are Punch and Judy, all

alive. This is their native land. "Pun-tse," the Chinese call our

friend, because he is a little puppet, after all--Puntse meaning in

Chinese, "the son of an inch." Here is the very Chinese bridge that we

have learned by heart along with the pagoda, from a willow-patterned

soup-plate; steps up, steps down, and a set of Chinese lanterns. Here

is a temple, flaming with red paint. Let us go in. Images, votive

candles burning on an altar, and a woman on her face wrestling in

prayer. After praying in a sort of agony for a few minutes, she has

stopped to take a bit of stick, round on one side, for she purposes

therewith to toss up and see whether her prayer is granted. Tails! She

loses! She is wrestling on her knees again--praying, doubtless, for a

"bull child." Girls are undesirable, because they are of no use except

for what they fetch in marriage gifts, and to fetch much they must be

good-looking. Poor woman--tails again! Never mind, she must persevere,

and she will get heads presently. Here comes a grave man, who prays

for half a minute, and pulls out one from a jar of scrolls. Having

examined it, he takes one of the little books that hang against the

wall, looks happy, and departs. He has been drawing lots to see

whether the issue of some undertaking will be fortunate. Poor

woman--tails again! We cannot stop for the result; but I have no doubt

that if she persevere she will get heads up presently. Here is a man

in the street with a whole bamboo kitchen on his head, nine feet long,

by six broad, uttering all manner of good things. The poor fellow who

drove the pig stops in the street to dine. What a Soyer that fellow

is, with his herbs, and his peppers, and his magic stove, and what a

magnificent stew he gives the pig driver! Do you know, I doubt whether

the Chinese are fools. What place have we here steaming like a boiler?

This, sir, is one of the public bath establishments, where a warm

bath, towels, and a dressing closet are at the service of the pig

driver after his dinner, for five _le_--less than a farthing. There,

too, his wife may go and obtain boiling water for the day's tea, which

is to that poor Chinaman his beer, and pay for it but a single _le_.

It would cost far more to boil it for herself; fuel is dear, and

except for cooking or for manufactures, is not used in China. There

are neither grates nor stoves in any Chinese parlor. The continent of

Asia, and with it China, has a climate of extremes, great summer heat

and an excessive winter cold; so that even at Canton, within the

tropic, snow falls. But the Chinaman warms not his toes at a fire; he

accommodates his comfortable costume to the climate; puts on more

clothes as the cold makes itself felt, and takes some off again if he

should feel too warm. That building on the walls is the temple of

Spring, to which ladies repair to dress their hair with flowers when

the first buds open. This handsome structure is the temple of

Confucius. Yonder is the hall of United Benevolence, which supports a

free hospital, a foundling hospital, and makes other provision for the

poor. The Chinese charities are supported generously; the Chinese are

a liberal and kindly race. Here is a shoemaker's shop, with a huge

boot hung over the door, and an inscription which might not suit

lovers of a good fit, "All here are measured by one rule." "When

favored by merchants who bestow their regards on us, please to notice

our sign of the Double Phoenix on a board as a mark; then it will be

all right." These signs are in common use on shops in China as they

were formerly in England. In this shop there is a wild fellow, who is

beating a gong fearfully, and who has rubbed himself with stinking

filth, that he may be the greater nuisance. This is his way of

extorting charity. That shopkeeper, not having compounded with the

king of the beggars for immunity from customers of this kind, seldom

lives a day without being compelled to pay as he is now paying for a

little peace. The beggar takes his nuisance then into another shop.

This is a vast improvement upon our street fiddle and organ practice.

There is a pawnbroker's three-per-cent. per month shop. Here is a

tea-house, surrounded with huge vases for rain-water which is kept to

acquire virtue by age--of course imaginary virtue--for the making of

celestial tea. In that house there is the oven for hatching eggs.

Gateways are fitted at the end of the wide streets, locked at night to

restrain thieves; and in the first house through the gateway here a

girl is screaming dreadfully. Very likely it is a case of sore feet.

The small feet of the Chinese women--about three inches long--are

essential, for without them a girl cannot get a husband; as a wife,

she is her husband's obedient, humble servant, but as a spinster she

is her parents' plague. The operation on the feet takes place when the

girl is seven or eight years old. A young naval surgeon, in his walks,

heard screams (like those) proceeding from a cottage, and went in; he

found a little girl in bed, with her feet bandaged; he removed the

bandage, found the feet of course bent, and ulcerated. He dressed the

wounds, and warned the mother. Passing, another day, he found the

child still suffering torment, and in a hectic fever. He again removed

the bandages, and warned the mother that her child's life would be

sacrificed if she continued with the process. The next time he went by

he saw a little coffin at the door.

The tea-gardens are in the centre of the town; we will go thither and

rest. We might have dined with a hospitable townsman, where we could

have been present at a theatrical entertainment, in which the Chinese

delight like children. But a dinner in this country is a work of many

hours; the list is very long of things that we should have to touch or

eat. Chinese eat almost any thing; their carte includes birds' nests,

delicate meal-fed puppies, sea-slugs, sharks' fins and tails, frogs,

snails, worms, lizards, tortoises, and water-snakes, with many things

that we should better understand, and a great many disguised

vegetables. A Chinese dinner is so tediously long that we escape it

altogether. Milk is not used; it is thought improper to take it from

the calves; and meat plays no very large part of the Chinese diet.

During our late war it was seriously stated, by several advisers of

the Emperor, that to forbid the English tea and rhubarb would go a

great way to destroy the nation; "for it is well known that the

barbarians feed grossly on the flesh of animals, by which their bodies

are so bound and obstructed," that rhubarb and warm tea were necessary

to be taken, daily, as correctives. Now we are in the tea-gardens, and

have passed through a happy crowd, sipping tea, smoking, eating melon

pips, walking or looking at the jugglers. Into a fairy-like house of

bamboo, perched over water, we ascend. Here is an elegant apartment,

which we claim as private. We recline, and take our cups of tea; the

cups that have been used are wiped, not washed; for washing, say the

people here, would spoil their capacity for preserving the pure flavor

of this delicate young Hyson; upon a spoonful of which, placed in the

cup, hot water is now poured. Opium pipes, bring us! Ha! a hollow

cane, closed at one end, with a mouthpiece at the other; near the

centre is the bowl, of ample size, but with an outward opening no

bigger than a pin's head. We recline luxuriously--looking down on the

gay colors of the Chinese crowd, we take our long stilettos, prick off

a little pill of opium from its ivory reservoir, and burn it,

dexterously, in the spirit lamp; then twist it, judiciously, about the

pin's head orifice. Three whiffs, and it is out, and we are more than

half deprived of active consciousness. Let us repeat the operation.

Practised smokers will go on for hours; a few whiffs are enough for

us. Another languid gaze at the pagodas, and the flowers, and the

water, and the Chinamen; now some more opium to smoke!

The Phantom finding us intoxicated, like a good servant may have

brought us home; for, certainly, we are at home.

From "Reminiscences of an Attorney" in Chambers's Edinburgh

Miscellany.

THE CHEST OF DRAWERS.

I am about to relate a rather curious piece of domestic history, some

of the incidents of which, revealed at the time of their occurrence in

law reports, may be in the remembrance of many readers. It occurred in

one of the midland counties, and at a place which I shall call Watley;

the names of the chief actors who figured in it must also, to spare

their modesty or their blushes, be changed; and should one of those

persons, spite of these precautions, apprehend unpleasant recognition,

he will be able to console himself with the reflection, that all I

state beyond that which may be gathered from the records of the law

courts will be generally ascribed to the fancy or invention of the

writer. And it is as well, perhaps, that it should be so.

Caleb Jennings, a shoemender, or cobbler, occupied, some twelve or

thirteen years ago, a stall at Watley, which, according to the

traditions of the place, had been hereditary in his family for several

generations. He may also be said to have flourished there, after the

manner of cobblers; for this, it must be remembered, was in the good

old times, before the gutta-percha revolution had carried ruin and

dismay into the stalls--those of cobblers--which in considerable

numbers existed throughout the kingdom. Like all his fraternity whom I

have ever fallen in with or heard of, Caleb was a sturdy Radical of

the Major Cartwright and Henry Hunt school; and being withal

industrious, tolerably skilful, not inordinately prone to the

observance of Saint Mondays, possessed, moreover, of a

neatly-furnished sleeping and eating apartment in the house of which

the projecting first-floor, supported on stone pillars, overshadowed

his humble work-place, he vaunted himself to be as really rich as an

estated squire, and far more independent.

There was some truth in this boast, as the case which procured us the

honor of Mr. Jennings's acquaintance sufficiently proved. We were

employed to bring an action against a wealthy gentleman of the

vicinity of Watley for a brutal and unprovoked assault he had

committed, when in a state of partial inebriety, upon a respectable

London tradesman who had visited the place on business. On the day of

trial our witness appeared to have become suddenly afflicted with an

almost total loss of memory; and we were only saved from an adverse

verdict by the plain, straight-forward evidence of Caleb, upon whose

sturdy nature the various arts which soften or neutralize hostile

evidence had been tried in vain. Mr. Flint, who personally

superintended the case, took quite a liking to the man; and it thus

happened that we were called upon some time afterwards to aid the said

Caleb in extricating himself from the extraordinary and perplexing

difficulty in which he suddenly and unwittingly found himself

involved.

The projecting first floor of the house beneath which the humble

workshop of Caleb Jennings modestly disclosed itself, had been

occupied for many years by an ailing and somewhat aged gentleman of

the name of Lisle. This Mr. Ambrose Lisle was a native of Watley, and

had been a prosperous merchant of the city of London. Since his

return, after about twenty years' absence, he had shut himself up in

almost total seclusion, nourishing a cynical bitterness and acrimony

of temper which gradually withered up the sources of health and life,

till at length it became as visible to himself as it had for some time

been to others, that the oil of existence was expended, burnt up, and

that but a few weak flickers more, and the ailing man's plaints and

griefs would be hushed in the dark silence of the grave.

Mr. Lisle had no relatives in Watley, and the only individual with

whom he was on terms of personal intimacy was Mr. Peter Sowerby, an

attorney of the place, who had for many years transacted all his

business. This man visited Mr. Lisle most evenings, played at chess

with him, and gradually acquired an influence over his client which

that weak gentleman had once or twice feebly but vainly endeavoured to

shake off. To this clever attorney, it was rumored, Mr. Lisle had

bequeathed all his wealth.

This piece of information had been put in circulation by Caleb

Jennings, who was a sort of humble favorite of Mr. Lisle's, or, at all

events, was regarded by the misanthrope with less dislike than he

manifested toward others. Caleb cultivated a few flowers in a little

plot of ground at the back of the house, and Mr. Lisle would sometimes

accept a rose or a bunch of violets from him. Other slight

services--especially since the recent death of his old and garrulous

woman-servant, Esther May, who had accompanied him from London, and

with whom Mr. Jennings had always been upon terms of gossiping

intimacy--had led to certain familiarities of intercourse; and it thus

happened that the inquisitive shoemender became partially acquainted

with the history of the wrongs and griefs which preyed upon, and

shortened the life of, the prematurely-aged man.

The substance of this everyday, common-place story, as related to us

by Jennings, and subsequently enlarged and colored from other sources,

may be very briefly told.

Ambrose Lisle, in consequence of an accident which occurred in his

infancy, was slightly deformed. His right shoulder--as I understood,

for I never saw him--grew out, giving an ungraceful and somewhat

comical twist to his figure, which, in female eyes--youthful ones at

least--sadly marred the effect of his intelligent and handsome

countenance. This personal defect rendered him shy and awkward in the

presence of women of his own class of society; and he had attained the

ripe age of thirty-seven years, and was a rich and prosperous man,

before he gave the slightest token of an inclination towards

matrimony. About a twelvemonth previous to that period of his life,

the deaths--quickly following each other--of a Mr. and Mrs. Stevens

threw their eldest daughter, Lucy, upon Mr. Lisle's hands. Mr. Lisle

had been left an orphan at a very early age, and Mrs. Stevens--his

aunt, and then a maiden lady--had, in accordance with his father's

will, taken charge of himself and brother till they severally attained

their majority. Long, however, before that she married Mr. Stevens, by

whom she had two children--Lucy and Emily. Her husband, whom she

survived but two months, died insolvent; and in obedience to the dying

wishes of his aunt, for whom he appears to have felt the tenderest

esteem, he took the eldest of her orphan children into his home,

intending to regard and provide for her as his own adopted child and

heiress. Emily, the other sister found refuge in the house of a still

more distant relative than himself.

The Stevenses had gone to live at a remote part of England--Yorkshire,

I believe--and it thus fell out, that till his cousin Lucy arrived at

her new home he had not seen her for more than ten years. The pale,

and somewhat plain child, as he had esteemed her, he was startled to

find had become a charming woman; and her naturally gay and joyous

temperament, quick talents, and fresh young beauty, rapidly acquired

an overwhelming influence over him. Strenuously but vainly he

struggled against the growing infatuation--argued, reasoned with

himself--passed in review the insurmountable objections to such a

union, the difference of age--he leading towards thirty-seven, she

barely twenty-one; he crooked, deformed, of reserved, taciturn

temper--she full of young life, and grace and beauty. It was useless;

and nearly a year had passed in the bootless struggle when Lucy

Stevens, who had vainly striven to blind herself to the nature of the

emotions by which her cousin and guardian was animated towards her,

intimated a wish to accept her sister Emily's invitation to pass two

or three months with her. This brought the affair to a crisis. Buoying

himself up with the illusions which people in such an unreasonable

frame of mind create for themselves, he suddenly entered the

sitting-room set apart for her private use, with the desperate purpose

of making his beautiful cousin a formal offer of his hand. She was not

in the apartment, but her opened writing-desk, and a partly-finished

letter lying on it, showed that she had been recently there, and would

probably soon return. Mr. Lisle took two or three agitated turns about

the room, one of which brought him close to the writing-desk, and his

glance involuntarily fell upon the unfinished letter. Had a deadly

serpent leaped suddenly upon his throat, the shock could not have been

greater. At the head of the sheet of paper was a clever pen-and-ink

sketch of Lucy Stevens and himself; he, kneeling to her in a lovelorn

ludicrous attitude, and she laughing immoderately at his lachrymose

and pitiful aspect and speech. The letter was addressed to her sister

Emily; and the enraged lover saw not only that his supposed secret was

fully known, but that he himself was mocked, laughed at for his doting

folly. At least this was his interpretation of the words which swam

before his eyes. At the instant Lucy returned, and a torrent of

imprecation burst from the furious man, in which wounded self-love,

rageful pride, and long pent-up passion, found utterance in wild and

bitter words. Half an hour afterwards Lucy Stevens had left the

merchant's house--for ever, as it proved. She, indeed, on arriving at

her sister's, sent a letter supplicating forgiveness at the

thoughtless, and, as he deemed it, insulting sketch, intended only for

Emily's eye; but he replied merely by a note written by one of his

clerks, informing Miss Stevens that Mr. Lisle declined any further

correspondence with her.

The ire of the angered and vindictive man had, however, begun sensibly

to abate, and old thoughts, memories, duties, suggested partly by the

blank which Lucy's absence made in his house, partly by remembrance of

the solemn promise he had made her mother, were strongly reviving in

his mind, when he read the announcement of her marriage in a

provincial journal, directed to him, as he believed, in the bride's

handwriting; but this was an error, her sister having sent the

newspaper. Mr. Lisle also construed this into a deliberate mockery and

insult, and from that hour strove to banish all images and thoughts

connected with his cousin from his heart and memory.

He unfortunately adopted the very worst course possible for effecting

this object. Had he remained amid the buzz and tumult of active life,

a mere sentimental disappointment, such as thousands of us have

sustained and afterwards forgotten, would, there can be little doubt,

have soon ceased to afflict him. He chose to retire from business,

visited Watley, and habits of miserliness growing rapidly upon his

cankered mind, never afterwards removed from the lodgings he had hired

on first arriving there. Thus madly hugging to himself sharp-pointed

memories which a sensible man would have speedily cast off and

forgotten, the sour misanthrope passed a useless, cheerless, weary

existence, to which death must have been a welcome relief.

Matters were in this state with the morose and aged man--aged mentally

and corporeally, although his years were but fifty-eight--when Mr.

Flint made Mr. Jennings's acquaintance. Another month or so had passed

away when Caleb's attention was one day about noon claimed by a young

man dressed in mourning, accompanied by a female similarly attired,

and from their resemblance to each other he conjectured brother and

sister. The stranger wished to know if that was the house in which Mr.

Ambrose Lisle resided. Jennings said it was; and with civil alacrity

left his stall and rang the front-door bell. The summons was answered

by the landlady's servant, who, since Esther May's death, had waited

on the first-floor lodger; and the visitors were invited to go

up-stairs. Caleb, much wondering who they might be, returned to his

stall, and thence passed into his eating and sleeping room just below

Mr. Lisle's apartments. He was in the act of taking a pipe from the

mantel-shelf in order to the more deliberate and satisfactory

cogitation on such an unusual event, when he was startled by a loud

shout, or scream rather, from above. The quivering and excited voice

was that of Mr. Lisle, and the outcry was immediately followed by an

explosion of unintelligible exclamations from several persons. Caleb

was up stairs in an instant, and found himself in the midst of a

strangely-perplexing and distracted scene. Mr. Lisle, pale as his

shirt, shaking in every limb, and his eyes on fire with passion, was

hurling forth a torrent of vituperation and reproach at the young

woman, whom he evidently mistook for some one else; whilst she,

extremely terrified, and unable to stand but for the assistance of her

companion, was tendering a letter in her outstretched hand, and

uttering broken sentences, which her own agitation and the fury of Mr.

Lisle's invectives rendered totally incomprehensible. At last the

fierce old man struck the letter from her hand, and with frantic rage

ordered both the strangers to leave the room. Caleb urged them, to

comply, and accompanied them down stairs. When they reached the

street, he observed a woman on the other side of the way, dressed in

mourning, and much older apparently--though he could not well see her

face through the thick veil she wore--than she who had thrown Mr.

Lisle into such an agony of rage, apparently waiting for them. To her

the young people immediately hastened, and after a brief conference

the three turned up the street, and Mr. Jennings saw no more of them.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the house-servant informed Caleb that

Mr. Lisle had retired to bed, and although still in great agitation,

and, as she feared, seriously indisposed, would not permit Dr. Clarke

to be sent for. So sudden and violent a hurricane in the usually dull

and drowsy atmosphere in which Jennings lived, excited and disturbed

him greatly: the hours, however, flew past without bringing any relief

to his curiosity, and evening was falling, when a peculiar knocking on

the floor overhead announced that Mr. Lisle desired his presence. That

gentleman was sitting up in bed, and in the growing darkness his face

could not be very distinctly seen; but Caleb instantly observed a

vivid and unusual light in the old man's eyes. The letter so strangely

delivered was lying open before him; and unless the shoemender was

greatly mistaken, there were stains of recent tears upon Mr. Lisle's

furrowed and hollow cheeks. The voice, too, it struck Caleb, though

eager, was gentle and wavering. "It was a mistake, Jennings," he said;

"I was mad for the moment. Are they gone?" he added in a yet more

subdued and gentle tone. Caleb informed him of what he had seen; and

as he did so, the strange light in the old man's eyes seemed to quiver

and sparkle with a yet intenser emotion than before. Presently he

shaded them with his hand, and remained several minutes silent. He

then said with a firmer voice: "I shall be glad if you will step to

Mr. Sowerby, and tell him I am too unwell to see him this evening. But

be sure to say nothing else," he eagerly added, as Caleb turned away

in compliance with his request; "and when you come back, let me see

you again."

When Jennings returned, he found to his great surprise Mr. Lisle up

and nearly dressed; and his astonishment increased a hundred-fold upon

hearing that gentleman say, in a quick but perfectly collected and

decided manner, that he should set off for London by the mail-train.

"For London--and by night!" exclaimed Caleb, scarcely sure that he

heard aright.

"Yes--yes, I shall not be observed in the dark," sharply rejoined Mr.

Lisle; "and you, Caleb, must keep my secret from every body,

especially from Sowerby. I shall be here in time to see him to-morrow

night, and he will be none the wiser." This was said with a slight

chuckle; and as soon as his simple preparations were complete, Mr.

Lisle, well wrapped up, and his face almost hidden by shawls, locked

his door, and assisted by Jennings, stole furtively down stairs, and

reached unrecognized the railway station just in time for the train.

It was quite dark the next evening when Mr. Lisle returned; and so

well had he managed, that Mr. Sowerby, who paid his usual visit about

half an hour afterwards, had evidently heard nothing of the suspicious

absence of his esteemed client from Watley. The old man exulted over

the success of his deception to Caleb the next morning, but dropped no

hint as to the object of his sudden journey.

Three days passed without the occurrence of any incident tending to

the enlightenment of Mr. Jennings upon these mysterious events, which,

however, he plainly saw had lamentably shaken the long-since failing

man. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Mr. Lisle walked, or rather

tottered, into Caleb's stall, and seated himself on the only vacant

stool it contained. His manner was confused, and frequently

purposeless, and there was an anxious, flurried expression in his face

which Jennings did not at all like. He remained silent for some time,

with the exception of partially inaudible snatches of comment or

questionings, apparently addressed to himself. At last he said: "I

shall take a longer journey to-morrow, Caleb--much longer: let me

see--where did I say? Ah, yes! to Glasgow; to be sure to Glasgow!"

"To Glasgow, and to-morrow!" exclaimed the astounded cobbler.

"No, no--not Glasgow; they have removed," feebly rejoined Mr. Lisle.

"But Lucy has written it down for me. True--true; and to-morrow I

shall set out."

The strange expression of Mr. Lisle's face became momentarily more

strongly marked, and Jennings, greatly alarmed, said: "You are ill,

Mr. Lisle; let me run for Dr. Clarke."

"No--no," he murmured, at the same time striving to rise from his

seat, which he could only accomplish by Caleb's assistance, and so

supported, he staggered indoors. "I shall be better to-morrow," he

said faintly, and then slowly added: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and

to-morrow! Ah me! Yes, as I said, to-morrow, I"----He paused abruptly,

and they gained his apartment. He seated himself, and then Jennings,

at his mute solicitations, assisted him to bed.

He lay some time with his eyes closed; and Caleb could feel--for Mr.

Lisle held him firmly by the hand, as if to prevent his going away--a

convulsive shudder pass over his frame. At last he slowly opened his

eyes, and Caleb saw that he was indeed about to depart upon the long

journey from which there is no return. The lips of the dying man

worked inarticulately for some moments; and then, with a mighty

effort, as it seemed, he said, whilst his trembling hand pointed

feebly to a bureau chest of drawers that stood in the room:

"There--there for Lucy; there, the secret place is"----Some inaudible

words followed, and then, after a still mightier struggle than before,

he gasped out: "No word--no word--to--to Sowerby--for her--Lucy."

More was said, but undistinguishable by mortal ear; and after gazing

with an expression of indescribable anxiety in the scared face of his

awestruck listener, the wearied eyes slowly reclosed--the deep silence

flowed past; then the convulsive shudder came again, and he was dead!

Caleb Jennings tremblingly summoned the house-servant and the

landlady, and was still confusedly pondering the broken sentences

uttered by the dying man, when Mr. Sowerby hurriedly arrived. The

attorney's first care was to assume the direction of affairs, and to

place seals upon every article containing or likely to contain any

thing of value belonging to the deceased. This done, he went away to

give directions for the funeral, which took place a few days

afterwards; and it was then formally announced that Mr. Sowerby

succeeded by will to the large property of Ambrose Lisle; under trust,

however, for the family, if any, of Robert Lisle, the deceased's

brother, who had gone when very young to India, and had not been heard

of for many years--a condition which did not at all mar the joy of the

crafty lawyer, he having long since instituted private inquiries,

which perfectly satisfied him that the said Robert Lisle had died,

unmarried, at Calcutta.

Mr. Jennings was in a state of great dubiety and consternation.

Sowerby had emptied the chest of drawers of every valuable it

contained; and unless he had missed the secret receptacle Mr. Lisle

had spoken of, the deceased's intentions, whatever they might have

been, were clearly defeated. And if he had _not_ discovered it, how

could he, Jennings, get at the drawers to examine them? A fortunate

chance brought some relief to his perplexities. Ambrose Lisle's

furniture was advertised to be sold by auction, and Caleb resolved to

purchase the bureau chest of drawers at almost any price, although to

do so would oblige him to break into his rent-money, then nearly due.

The day of sale came, and the important lot in its turn was put up. In

one of the drawers there were a number of loose newspapers, and other

valueless scraps; and Caleb, with a sly grin, asked the auctioneer if

he sold the article with all its contents. "Oh yes," said Sowerby, who

was watching the sale; "the buyer may have all it contains over his

bargain, and much good may it do him." A laugh followed the attorney's

sneering remark, and the biddings went on. "I want it," observed

Caleb, "because it just fits a recess like this one in my room

underneath." This he said to quiet a suspicion he thought he saw

gathering upon the attorney's brow. It was finally knocked down to

Caleb at L5, 10s., a sum considerably beyond its real value; and he

had to borrow a sovereign in order to clear his speculative purchase.

This done, he carried off his prize, and as soon as the closing of the

house for the night secured him from interruption, he set eagerly to

work in search of the secret drawer. A long and patient examination

was richly rewarded. Behind one of the small drawers of the

_secretaire_ portion of the piece of furniture was another small one,

curiously concealed, which contained Bank-of-England notes to the

amount of L200, tied up with a letter, upon the back of which was

written, in the deceased's handwriting, "To take with me." The letter

which Caleb, although he read print with facility, had much difficulty

in making out, was that which Mr. Lisle had struck from the young

woman's hand a few weeks before, and proved to be a very affecting

appeal from Lucy Stevens, now Lucy Warner, and a widow, with two

grown-up children. Her husband had died in insolvent circumstances,

and she and her sister Emily, who was still single, were endeavoring

to carry on a school at Bristol, which promised to be sufficiently

prosperous if the sum of about L150 could be raised, to save the

furniture from her deceased husband's creditors. The claim was

pressing, for Mr. Warner had been dead nearly a year, and Mr. Lisle

being the only relative Mrs. Warner had in the world, she had ventured

to entreat his assistance for her mother's sake. There could be no

moral doubt, therefore, that this money was intended for Mrs. Warner's

relief; and early in the morning Mr. Caleb Jennings dressed himself in

his Sunday's suit, and with a brief announcement to his landlady that

he was about to leave Watley for a day or two on a visit to a friend,

set off for the railway station. He had not proceeded far when a

difficulty struck him: the bank-notes were all twenties; and were he

to change a twenty-pound note at the station, where he was well known,

great would be the tattle and wonderment, if nothing worse, that would

ensue. So Caleb tried his credit again, borrowed sufficient for his

journey to London, and there changed one of the notes.

He soon reached Bristol, and blessed was the relief which the sum of

money he brought afforded Mrs. Warner. She expressed much sorrow for

the death of Mr. Lisle, and great gratitude to Caleb. The worthy man

accepted with some reluctance one of the notes, or at least as much as

remained of that which he had changed; and after exchanging promises

with the widow and her relatives to keep the matter secret, departed

homewards. The young woman, Mrs. Warner's daughter, who had brought

the letter to Watley, was, Caleb noticed, the very image of her

mother, or rather of what her mother must have been when young. This

remarkable resemblance it was, no doubt, which had for the moment so

confounded and agitated Mr. Lisle.

Nothing occurred for about a fortnight after Caleb's return to

disquiet him, and he had begun to feel tolerably sure that his

discovery of the notes would remain unsuspected, when, one afternoon,

the sudden and impetuous entrance of Mr. Sowerby into his stall caused

him to jump up from his seat with surprise and alarm. The attorney's

face was deathly white, his eyes glared like a wild beast's, and his

whole appearance exhibited uncontrollable agitation. "A word with you,

Mr. Jennings," he gasped--"a word in private, and at once!" Caleb, in

scarcely less consternation than his visitor, led the way into his

inner room, and closed the door.

"Restore--give back," screamed the attorney, vainly struggling to

dissemble the agitation which convulsed him--"that--that which you

have purloined from the chest of drawers!"

The hot blood rushed to Caleb's face and temples; the wild vehemence

and suddenness of the demand confounded him; and certain previous dim

suspicions that the law might not only pronounce what he had done

illegal, but possibly felonious, returned upon him with terrible

force, and he quite lost his presence of mind.

"I can't--I can't," he stammered. "It's gone--given away"----

"Gone!" shouted, or more correctly howled, Sowerby, at the same time

flying at Caleb's throat as if he would throttle him. "Gone--given

away! You lie--you want to drive a bargain with

me--dog!--liar!--rascal!--thief!"

This was a species of attack which Jennings was at no loss how to

meet. He shook the attorney roughly off, and hurled him, in the midst

of his vituperation, to the further end of the room.

They then stood glaring at each other in silence, till the attorney,

mastering himself as well as he could, essayed another and more

rational mode of attaining his purpose.

"Come, come, Jennings," he said, "don't be a fool. Let us understand

each other. I have just discovered a paper, a memorandum of what you

have found in the drawers, and to obtain which you bought them. I

don't care for the money--keep it; only give me the

papers--documents."

"Papers--documents!" ejaculated Caleb in unfeigned surprise.

"Yes--yes; of use to me only. You, I remember, cannot read writing;

but they are of great consequence to me--to me only, I tell you."

"You can't mean Mrs. Warner's letter?"

"No--no; curse the letter! You are playing with a tiger! Keep the

money, I tell you; but give up the papers--documents--or I'll

transport you!" shouted Sowerby with reviving fury.

Caleb, thoroughly bewildered, could only mechanically ejaculate that

he had no papers or documents.

The rage of the attorney when he found he could extract nothing from

Jennings was frightful. He literally foamed with passion, uttered the

wildest threats; and then suddenly changing his key, offered the

astounded cobbler one--two--three thousand pounds--any sum he chose to

name--for the papers--documents! This scene of alternate violence and

cajolery lasted nearly an hour; and then Sowerby rushed from the

house, as if pursued by the furies, and leaving his auditor in a state

of thorough bewilderment and dismay. It occurred to Caleb, as soon as

his mind had settled into something like order, that there might be

another secret drawer; and the recollection of Mr. Lisle's journey to

London returned suggestively to him. Another long and eager search,

however, proved fruitless; and the suspicion was given up, or, more

correctly, weakened.

As soon as it was light the next morning, Mr. Sowerby was again with

him. He was more guarded now, and was at length convinced that

Jennings had no paper or document to give up. "It was only some

important memoranda," observed the attorney carelessly, "that would

save me a world of trouble in a lawsuit I shall have to bring against

some heavy debtors to Mr. Lisle's estate; but I must do as well as I

can without them. Good morning." Just as he reached the door, a sudden

thought appeared to strike him. He stopped and said: "By the way,

Jennings, in the hurry of business I forgot that Mr. Lisle had told me

the chest of drawers you bought, and a few other articles, were family

relics which he wished to be given to certain parties he named. The

other things I have got: and you, I presume, will let me have the

drawers for--say a pound profit on your bargain?"

Caleb was not the acutest man in the world; but this sudden

proposition, carelessly as it was made, suggested curious thoughts.

"No," he answered; "I shall not part with it. I shall keep it as a

memorial of Mr. Lisle."

Sowerby's face assumed, as Caleb spoke, a ferocious expression. "Shall

you?" said he. "Then, be sure, my fine fellow, that you shall also

have something to remember me by as long as you live!"

He then went away, and a few days afterwards Caleb was served with a

writ for the recovery of the two hundred pounds.

The affair made a great noise in the place; and Caleb's conduct being

very generally approved, a subscription was set on foot to defray the

cost of defending the action--one Hayling, a rival attorney to

Sowerby, having asserted that the words used by the proprietor of the

chest of drawers at the sale barred his claim to the money found in

them. This wise gentleman was intrusted with the defence; and,

strange to say, the jury, a common one--spite of the direction of the

judge, returned a verdict for the defendant, upon the ground that

Sowerby's jocular or sneering remark amounted to a serious, valid

leave and license to sell two hundred pounds for five pounds ten

shillings!

Sowerby obtained, as a matter of course, a rule for a new trial; and a

fresh action was brought. All at once Hayling refused to go on,

alleging deficiency of funds. He told Jennings that in his opinion it

would be better that he should give in to Sowerby's whim, who only

wanted the drawers in order to comply with the testator's wishes.

"Besides," remarked Hayling in conclusion, "he is sure to get the

article, you know, when it comes to be sold under a writ of _fi. fa._"

A few days after this conversation, it was ascertained that Hayling

was to succeed to Sowerby's business, the latter gentleman being about

to retire upon the fortune bequeathed him by Mr. Lisle.

At last Caleb, driven nearly out of his senses, though still doggedly

obstinate, by the harassing perplexities in which he found himself,

thought of applying to us.

"A very curious affair, upon my word," remarked Mr. Flint, as soon as

Caleb had unburdened himself of the story of his woes and cares; "and

in my opinion by no means explainable by Sowerby's anxiety to fulfil

the testator's wishes. He cannot expect to get two hundred pence out

of you; and Mrs. Warner, you say, is equally unable to pay. Very odd

indeed. Perhaps if we could get time, something might turn up."

With this view Flint looked over the papers Caleb had brought, and

found the declaration was in _trover_--a manifest error--the notes

never admittedly having been in Sowerby's actual possession. We

accordingly demurred to the form of action, and the proceedings were

set aside. This, however, proved of no ultimate benefit: Sowerby

persevered, and a fresh action was instituted against the unhappy

shoemender. So utterly overcrowed and disconsolate was poor Caleb,

that, he determined to give up the drawers, which was all Sowerby even

now required, and so wash his hands of the unfortunate business.

Previous, however, to this being done, it was determined that another

thorough and scientific examination of the mysterious piece of

furniture should be made; and for this purpose, Mr. Flint obtained a

workman skilled in the mysteries of secret contrivances, from the desk

and dressing-case establishment in King-street, Holborn, and proceeded

with him to Watley.

The man performed his task with great care and skill: every depth and

width was gauged and measured, in order to ascertain if there were any

false bottoms or backs; and the workman finally pronounced that there

was no concealed receptacle in the article.

"I am sure there is," persisted Flint, whom disappointment as usual

rendered but the more obstinate; "and so is Sowerby; and he knows,

too, that it is so cunningly contrived as to be undiscoverable, except

by a person in the secret, which he no doubt at first imagined Caleb

to be. I'll tell you what we will do: you have the necessary tools

with you. Split the confounded chest of drawers into shreds: I'll be

answerable for the consequences."

This was done carefully and methodically, but for some time without

result. At length the large drawer next the floor had to be knocked to

pieces; and as it fell apart, one section of the bottom, which, like

all the others, was divided into two compartments, dropped asunder,

and discovered a parchment laid flat between the two thin leaves,

which, when pressed together in the grooves of the drawer, presented

precisely the same appearance as the rest. Flint snatched up the

parchment, and his eager eye scarcely rested an instant on the

writing, when a shout of triumph burst from him. It was the last will

and testament of Ambrose Lisle, dated August 21, 1838--the day of his

last hurried visit to London. It revoked the former will, and

bequeathed the whole of his property, in equal portions, to his

cousins Lucy Warner and Emily Stevens, with succession to their

children; but with reservation of one-half to his brother Robert or

children, should he be alive, or have left offspring.

Great, it may be supposed, was the jubilation of Caleb Jennings at

this discovery; and all Watley, by his agency, was in a marvelously

short space of time in a very similar state of excitement. It was very

late that night when he reached his bed; and how he got there at all,

and what precisely had happened, except, indeed, that he had somewhere

picked up a splitting headache, was, for some time after he awoke the

next morn, very confusedly remembered.

Mr. Flint, upon reflection, was by no means so exultant as the worthy

shoemender. The odd mode of packing away a deed of such importance,

with no assignable motive for doing so, except the needless awe with

which Sowerby was said to have inspired his feeble-spirited client,

together with what Caleb had said of the shattered state of the

deceased's mind after the interview with Mrs. Warner's daughter,

suggested fears that Sowerby might dispute, and perhaps successfully,

the validity of this last will. My excellent partner, however,

determined, as was his wont, to put a bold face on the matter; and

first clearly settling in his own mind what he should and what he

should _not_ say, he waited upon Mr. Sowerby. The news had preceded

him, and he was at once surprised and delighted to find that the

nervous, crestfallen attorney was quite unaware of the advantages of

his position. On condition of not being called to account for the

moneys he had received and expended, about L1200, he destroyed the

former will in Mr. Flint's presence, and gave up at once all the

deceased's papers. From these we learned that Mr. Lisle had written a

letter to Mrs. Warner, stating what he had done, where the will would

be found, and that only herself and Jennings would know the secret.

From infirmity of purpose, or from having subsequently determined on a

personal interview, the letter was not posted; and Sowerby

subsequently discovered it, together with a memorandum of the numbers

of the bank-notes found by Caleb in the secret drawer--the eccentric

gentleman appears to have had quite a mania for such hiding-places--of

a writing-desk.

The affair was thus happily terminated: Mrs. Warner, her children, and

sister, were enriched, and Caleb Jennings was set up in a good way of

business in his native place, where he still flourishes. Over the

centre of his shop there is a large nondescript sign, surmounted by a

golden boot, which, upon close inspection, is found to bear some

resemblance to a huge bureau chest of drawers, all the circumstances

connected with which may be heard, for the asking, and in much fuller

detail than I have given, from the lips of the owner of the

establishment, by any lady or gentleman who will take the trouble of a

journey to Watley for that purpose.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE,[8]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK VI.--INITIAL CHAPTER.

"Life," said my father, in his most dogmatical tone, "is a certain

quantity in time, which may be regarded in two ways--first, as life

_Integral_; second, as life _Fractional_. Life integral is that

complete whole, expressive of a certain value, large or small, which

each man possesses in himself. Life fractional is that same whole

seized upon and invaded by other people, and subdivided amongst them.

They who get a large slice of it say, 'a very valuable life

this!'--those who get but a small handful say, 'so, so, nothing very

great!'--those who get none of it in the scramble exclaim, 'Good for

nothing!'"

"I don't understand a word you are saying," growled Captain Roland.

My father surveyed his brother with compassion--"I will make it all

clear even to your understanding. When I sit down by myself in my

study, having carefully locked the door on all of you, alone with my

books and thoughts, I am in full possession of my integral life. I am

_totus, teres, atque rotundus_--a whole human being--equivalent in

value we will say, for the sake of illustration, to a fixed round

sum--L100, for example. But when I come forth into the common

apartment, each of those to whom I am of any worth whatsoever puts his

fingers into the bag that contains me and takes out of me what he

wants. Kitty requires me to pay a bill; Pisistratus to save him the

time and trouble of looking into a score or two of books; the children

to tell them stories; or play at hide-and-seek; the carp for

breadcrumbs; and so on throughout the circle to which I have

incautiously given myself up for plunder and subdivision. The L100

which I represented in my study is now parcelled out; I am worth L40

or L50 to Kitty, L20 to Pisistratus, and perhaps 30_s._ to the carp.

This is life fractional. And I cease to be an integral till once more

returning to my study, and again closing the door on all existence but

my own. Meanwhile, it is perfectly clear that, to those who, whether I

am in the study or whether I am in the common sitting-room, get

nothing at all out of me, I am not worth a farthing. It must be wholly

indifferent to a native of Kamschatka whether Austin Caxton be or be

not rased out of the great account-book of human beings."

"Hence," continued my father--"hence it follows that the more

fractional a life be--_id est_, the greater the number of persons

among whom it can be subdivided--why, the more there are to say, 'a

very valuable life that!' Thus, the leader of a political party, a

conqueror, a king, an author who is amusing hundreds or thousands, or

millions, has a greater number of persons whom his worth interests and

affects than a Saint Simon Stylites could have when he perched himself

at the top of a column; although, regarded each in himself, Saint

Simon, in his grand mortification of flesh, in the idea that he

thereby pleased his Divine Benefactor, might represent a larger sum of

moral value _per se_ than Bonaparte or Voltaire."

_Pisistratus._--"Perfectly clear, sir, but I don't see what it has to

do with My Novel."

_Mr. Caxton._--"Every thing. Your novel, if it is to be a full and

comprehensive survey of the '_Quicquid agunt homines_', (which it

ought to be, considering the length and breadth to which I foresee,

from the slow development of your story, you meditate extending and

expanding it,) will embrace the two views of existence, the integral

and the fractional. You have shown us the former in Leonard, when he

is sitting in his mother's cottage, or resting from his work by the

little fount in Riccabocca's garden. And in harmony with that view of

his life, you have surrounded him with comparative integrals, only

subdivided by the tender hands of their immediate families and

neighbors--your Squires and Parsons, your Italian exile and his

Jemima. With all these, life is more or less the life natural, and

this is always more or less the life integral. Then comes the life

artificial, which is always more or less the life fractional. In the

life natural, wherein we are swayed but by our own native impulses and

desires, subservient only to the great silent law of virtue, (which

has pervaded the universe since it swung out of chaos,) a man is of

worth from what he is in himself--Newton was as worthy before the

apple fell from the tree as when all Europe applauded the discoverer

of the principle of gravity. But in the life artificial we are only of

worth in as much as we affect others. And, relative to that life,

Newton rose in value more than a million per cent. when down fell the

apple from which ultimately sprang up his discovery. In order to keep

civilization going, and spread over the world the light of human

intellect, we have certain desires within us, ever swelling beyond the

ease and independence which belong to us as integrals. Cold man as

Newton might be, (he once took a lady's hand in his own, Kitty, and

used her forefinger for his tobacco-stopper; great philosopher!)--cold

as he might be, he was yet moved into giving his discoveries to the

world, and that from motives very little differing in their quality

from the motives that make Dr. Squills communicate articles to the

Phrenological Journal upon the skulls of Bushmen and wombats. For it

is the _property of light to travel_. When a man has light in him,

forth it must go. But the first passage of genius from its integral

state (in which it has been reposing on its own wealth) into the

fractional, is usually through a hard and vulgar pathway. It leaves

behind it the reveries of solitude--that self-contemplating rest which

may be called the Visionary, and enters suddenly into the state that

may be called the Positive and Actual. There, it sees the operation of

money on the outer life--sees all the ruder and commoner springs of

action--sees ambition without nobleness--love without romance--is

bustled about, and ordered, and trampled, and cowed--in short, it

passes an apprenticeship with some Richard Avenel, and does not yet

detect what good and what grandeur, what addition even to the true

poetry of the social universe, fractional existences like Richard

Avenel's bestow; for the pillars that support society are like those

of the court of the Hebrew Tabernacle--they are of brass, it is true,

but they are filleted with silver. From such intermediate state genius

is expelled, and driven on in its way, and would have been so in this

case, had Mrs. Fairfield (who is but the representative of the homely

natural affections, strongest ever in true genius--for light is warm)

never crushed Mr. Avenel's moss rose on her sisterly bosom. Now, forth

from this passage and defile of transition into the larger world, must

genius go on, working out its natural destiny amidst things and forms

the most artificial. Passions that move and influence the world are at

work around it. Often lost sight of itself, its very absence is a

silent contrast to the agencies present. Merged and vanished for a

while amidst the practical world, yet we ourselves feel all the while

that it is _there_--is at work amidst the workings around it. This

practical world that effaces it rose out of some genius that has gone

before; and so each man of genius, though we never come across him, as

his operations proceed, in places remote from our thoroughfares, is

yet influencing the practical world that ignores him, for ever and

ever. That is GENIUS! We can't describe it in books--we can only hint

and suggest it, by the accessaries which we artfully heap about it.

The entrance of a true probationer into the terrible ordeal of

practical life is like that into the miraculous cavern, by which,

legend informs us, St. Patrick converted Ireland."

_Blanche._--"What is that legend? I never heard of it."

_Mr. Caxton._--"My dear, you will find it in a thin folio at the right

on entering my study, written by Thomas Messingham, and called

'Florilegium Insulae Sanctorum,' &c. The account therein is confirmed

by the relation of an honest soldier, one Louis Ennius, who had

actually entered the cavern. In short, the truth of the legend is

undeniable, unless you mean to say, which I can't for a moment

suppose, that Louis Ennius was a liar. Thus it runs:--St. Patrick,

finding that the Irish pagans were incredulous as to his pathetic

assurances of the pains and torments destined to those who did not

expiate their sins in this world, prayed for a miracle to convince

them. His prayer was heard; and a certain cavern, so small that a man

could not stand up therein at his ease, was suddenly converted into a

Purgatory, comprehending tortures sufficient to convince the most

incredulous. One unacquainted with human nature might conjecture that

few would be disposed to venture voluntarily into such a place; on the

contrary, pilgrims came in crowds. Now, all who entered from vain

curiosity, or with souls unprepared, perished miserably; but those who

entered with deep and earnest faith, conscious of their faults, and if

bold, yet humble, not only came out safe and sound, but purified, as

if from the waters of a second baptism. See Savage and Johnson at

night in Fleet-street, and who shall doubt the truth of St. Patrick's

Purgatory?" Therewith my father sighed--closed his Lucian, which had

lain open on the table, and would read nothing but "good books" for

the rest of the evening.

CHAPTER II.

On their escape from the prison to which Mr. Avenel had condemned

them, Leonard and his mother found their way to a small public-house

that lay at a little distance from the town, and on the outskirts of

the high-road. With his arm round his mother's waist, Leonard

supported her steps and soothed her excitement. In fact the poor

woman's nerves were greatly shaken, and she felt an uneasy remorse at

the injury her intrusion had inflicted on the young man's worldly

prospects. As the shrewd reader has guessed already, that infamous

Tinker was the prime agent of evil in this critical turn in the

affairs of his quondam customer. For, on his return to his haunts

around Hazeldean and the Casino, the Tinker had hastened to apprise

Mrs. Fairfield of his interview with Leonard, and on finding that she

was not aware that the boy was under the roof of his uncle, the

pestilent vagabond (perhaps from spite against Mr. Avenel, or perhaps

from that pure love of mischief by which metaphysical critics explain

the character of Iago, and which certainly formed a main element in

the idiosyncrasy of Mr. Sprott) had so impressed on the widow's mind

the haughty demeanor of the uncle and the refined costume of the

nephew, that Mrs. Fairfield had been seized with a bitter and

insupportable jealousy. There was an intention to rob her of her

boy!--he was to be made too fine for her. His silence was now

accounted for. This sort of jealousy, always more or less a feminine

quality, is often very strong amongst the poor; and it was the more

strong in Mrs. Fairfield, because, lone woman as she was, the boy was

all in all to her. And though she was reconciled to the loss of his

presence, nothing could reconcile her to the thought that his

affections should be weaned from her. Moreover, there were in her mind

certain impressions, of the justice of which the reader may better

judge hereafter, as to the gratitude, more than ordinarily filial,

which Leonard owed to her. In short, she did not like, as she phrased

it, "to be shaken off;" and after a sleepless night she resolved to

judge for herself, much moved thereto by the malicious suggestions to

that effect made by Mr. Sprott, who mightily enjoyed the idea of

mortifying the gentleman by whom he had been so disrespectfully

threatened with the treadmill. The widow felt angry with Parson Dale,

and with the Riccaboccas; she thought they were in the plot against

her; she communicated, therefore, her intention to none--and off she

set, performing the journey partly on the top of the coach, partly on

foot. No wonder that she was dusty, poor woman.

"And, oh, boy!" said she, half sobbing, "when I got through the lodge

gates, came on the lawn, and saw all that power o' fine folk--I said

to myself, says I--(for I felt fritted)--I'll just have a look at him

and go back. But ah, Lenny, when I saw thee, looking so handsome--and

when thee turned and cried 'Mother!' my heart was just ready to leap

out o' my mouth--and so I could not help hugging thee, if I had died

for it. And thou wert so kind, that I forgot all Mr. Sprott had said

about Dick's pride, or thought he had just told a fib about that, as

he had wanted me to believe a fib about thee. Then Dick came up--and I

had not seen him for so many years--and we come o' the same father and

mother; and so--and so"--the widow's sobs here fairly choked her.

"Ah," she said, after giving vent to her passion, and throwing her

arms round Leonard's neck, as they sat in the little sanded parlor of

the public-house--"Ah, and I've brought thee to this. Go back, go

back, boy, and never mind me."

With some difficulty Leonard pacified poor Mrs. Fairfield, and got her

to retire to bed; for she was indeed thoroughly exhausted. He then

stepped forth into the road, musingly. All the stars were out; and

Youth, in its troubles, instinctively looks up to the stars. Folding

his arms, Leonard gazed on the heavens, and his lips murmured.

From this trance, for so it might be called, he was awakened by a

voice in a decidedly London accent; and, turning hastily round, saw

Mr. Avenel's very gentlemanlike butler. Leonard's first idea was that

his uncle had repented, and sent in search of him. But the butler

seemed as much surprised at the rencontre as himself; that personage,

indeed, the fatigues of the day being over, was accompanying one of

Mr. Gunter's waiters to the public-house, (at which the latter had

secured his lodging,) having discovered an old friend in the waiter,

and proposing to regale himself with a cheerful glass, and--_that_ of

course--abuse of his present sitivation.

"Mr. Fairfield!" exclaimed the butler, while the waiter walked

discreetly on.

Leonard looked, and said nothing. The butler began to think that some

apology was due for leaving his plate and his pantry, and that he

might as well secure Leonard's propitiatory influence with his

master--

"Please, sir," said he, touching his hat, "I was just a-showing Mr.

Giles the way to the Blue Bells, where he puts up for the night. I

hope my master will not be offended. If you are a-going back, sir,

would you kindly mention it?"

"I am not going back, Jarvis," answered Leonard, after a pause; "I am

leaving Mr. Avenel's house, to accompany my mother; rather suddenly. I

should be very much obliged to you if you would bring some things of

mine to me at the Blue Bells. I will give you the list, if you will

step back with me to the inn."

Without waiting for a reply, Leonard then turned towards the inn, and

made his humble inventory: item, the clothes he had brought with him

from the Casino; item, the knapsack that had contained them; item, a

few books, ditto; item, Dr. Riccabocca's watch; item, sundry MSS., on

which the young student now built all his hopes of fame and fortune.

This list he put into Mr. Jarvis's hand.

"Sir," said the butler, twirling the paper between his finger and

thumb, "you are not a-going for long, I hope;" and as he thought of

the scene on the lawn, the report of which had vaguely reached his

ears, he looked on the face of the young man, who had always been

"civil spoken to him," with as much, curiosity and as much compassion

as so apathetic and princely a personage could experience in matters

affecting a family less aristocratic than he had hitherto condescended

to serve.

"Yes," said Leonard, simply and briefly; "and your master will no

doubt excuse you for rendering me this service."

Mr. Jarvis postponed for the present his glass and chat with the

waiter, and went back at once to Mr. Avenel. That gentleman, still

seated in his library, had not been aware of the butler's absence; and

when Mr. Jarvis entered and told him that he had met Mr. Fairfield,

and, communicating the commission with which he was intrusted, asked

leave to execute it, Mr. Avenel felt the man's inquisitive eye was on

him, and conceived new wrath against Leonard for a new humiliation to

his pride. It was awkward to give no explanation of his nephew's

departure, still more awkward to explain.

After a short pause, Mr. Avenel said sullenly, "My nephew is going

away on business for some time--do what he tells you;" and then turned

his back, and lighted his cigar.

"That beast of a boy," said he, soliloquizing, "either means this as

an affront, or an overture; if an affront, he is, indeed, well got rid

of; if an overture, he will soon make a more respectful and proper

one. After all, I can't have too little of relations till I have

fairly secured Mrs. McCatchly. An Honorable! I wonder if that makes me

an Honorable too? This cursed Debrett contains no practical

information on these points."

The next morning, the clothes and the watch with which Mr. Avenel had

presented Leonard were returned, with a note meant to express

gratitude, but certainly written with very little knowledge of the

world, and so full of that somewhat over-resentful pride which had in

earlier life made Leonard fly from Hazeldean, and refuse all apology

to Randal, that it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Avenel's last

remorseful feelings evaporated in ire. "I hope he will starve!" said

the uncle, vindictively.