CHAPTER XIII.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. XXVII.--AUGUST, 1852.--VOL. V.

[Illustration: VIEW OF MT. CARMEL FROM THE SEA.]

MEMOIRS OF THE HOLY LAND

BY JACOB ABBOTT

MOUNT CARMEL.

ASPECT OF THE MOUNTAIN.

The Christian traveler, in journeying to the Holy Land, often

obtains his first view of the sacred shores from the deck of some

small Levantine vessel in which he has embarked at Alexandria, after

having completed his tour among the wonders of Egypt and the Nile.

He ascends, perhaps, to the deck of his vessel, early in the

morning, summoned by the welcome intelligence that the land is full

in view. Here, as he surveys the shore that presents itself before

him, the first object which attracts his eye is a lofty promontory

which he sees rising in sublime and sombre majesty above the

surrounding country, and at the same time jutting boldly into the

sea. It forms, he observes, the seaward terminus of a mountain range

which his eye follows far into the interior of the country, until

the undulating crest loses itself at last from view in the haze of

distant hills. The massive and venerable walls of an ancient convent

crown its summit; its sloping sides are enriched with a soft and

luxuriant vegetation; and the surf, rolling in from the sea, whitens

the rocks at its foot with breakers and foam. This promontory is Mt.

Carmel.

GEOGRAPHY OF THE VICINITY.

The geographical situation of Mt. Carmel is shown by the adjoining

map. Palestine in the time of our Saviour was comprised in three

distinct provinces--Judea, Samaria, and Galilee. Of these, Judea,

which bordered upon the Dead Sea and the lower portion of the

Jordan, was the most southerly; while Galilee, which was opposite to

the sea of Tiberias and the upper part of the Jordan, was the most

northerly; being separated from Judea by the mountainous district of

Samaria, which lay between. The region comprised upon the map is

chiefly that of Samaria and Galilee. The chain of which Mt. Carmel

is the terminus forms the southern and southwestern boundary of

Galilee. A little south of the boundary was Mt. Gerizim, the holy

ground of the Samaritans. Mt. Gerizim forms a part of the great

central chain or congeries of mountains which rises in the interior

of Palestine, and from which the Carmel range branches, as a sort of

spur or offshoot, traversing the country in a westward and northward

direction, and continuing its course until it terminates at the sea.

The other principal mountain groups in the Holy Land are the ranges

of Lebanon on the north, and the mountainous tract about Jerusalem

in the south.

[Illustration: MAP OF MOUNT CARMEL.]

On the northern side of the Carmel chain, at some distance from the

sea, there lies a broad expanse of extremely rich and fertile

country, which, though not strictly level, is called a plain. It was

known in ancient times as the plain of Jezreel. It is now called the

plain of Esdraelon. The waters of this plain, flowing westward and

northward along the foot of Mt. Carmel to the sea, constitute the

river Kishon, so celebrated in sacred history. The sea itself sets

up a little way into the valley through which this river flows,

forming thus a broad bay to the north of Mt. Carmel, called the Bay

of Acre. The town of Acre lies at the northern extremity of this

bay, and the town of Haïfa[1] at the southern border of it, just at

the foot of Carmel. The ceaseless action of the sea has sloped and

smoothed the shore of this bay throughout the whole distance from

Haïfa to Acre, and formed upon it a beach of sand, which serves the

double purpose of a landing-place for the boats of the fishermen,

and a road for the caravans of travelers that pass to and fro along

the coast. The conformation of the bay, together with the precise

situation of Acre and Haïfa, as well as the more important

topographical details of the mountain, will be found very clearly

represented in the chart upon the adjoining page.

NAPOLEON'S ENGINEERS.

The topographical chart of the bay of Acre here given is one made by

the engineers of the French army during Napoleon's celebrated

expedition to Egypt and Syria. These engineers accompanied the army

wherever it marched, and in the midst of all the scenes of

excitement, difficulty, and danger, through which they were

continually passing, devoted themselves to the performance of the

scientific duties which their commander had assigned them, with a

calmness and composure almost incredible. No possible excitement or

commotion around them seemed to have power to interrupt or disturb

them in their work. The din and confusion of the camp, the marches

and countermarches of the troops, the battles, the sieges, the

assaults, the excitement of victory, and the confusion of sudden and

unexpected retreats--all failed to embarrass or disconcert them.

Whatever were the scenes that might be transpiring around them, they

went quietly and fearlessly on, paying no regard to any thing but

their own proper duties. They adjusted their instruments; they made

their observations, their measurements, their drawings; they

computed their tables and constructed their charts; and in the end

they brought back to France a complete daguerreotype, as it were, of

every hill, and valley, and river, and plain, of the vast surface

which they traversed. The great chart from which the adjoining map

is taken was the last one which they made, for Acre was the northern

termination of Napoleon's expedition.[2]

[Illustration: MOUNT CARMEL AND THE BAY OF ACRE.]

APPROACHES TO MOUNT CARMEL.

By reference to the map, it will be seen that there are three roads

by which Mt. Carmel may be approached on land. One advances along

the coast from the southward, and passing round the promontory on

the western and northern side, between its steep declivity and the

sea, it turns to the east, and comes at last to the foot of the

branch road which leads up the mountain to the convent on the top.

The second is the road from Acre. It may be seen upon the map

following closely the line of the shore on the margin of the sandy

beach which has already been described. The third comes from

Nazareth, in the interior of the country. It descends from the plain

of Esdraelon by the banks of the Kishon, and joins the Acre road a

little to the east of the town of Haïfa. After passing through

Haïfa, the road follows the shore for a short distance, and then a

branch diverges to the right, leading to some ancient ruins on the

extremity of the cape. A little farther on another branch turns off

to the left, and leads up the mountain to the convent, while the

main road continues its course round the northern and western

extremity of the promontory, and there passes into the road that

comes up on the western coast, as at first described.

Travelers approaching Mt. Carmel from the interior of the country

come generally from Nazareth by the way of the third road above

described, that is, the one that leads down from the valley of the

Kishon, following the bank of the stream. The town of Nazareth,

where the journey of the day in such cases is usually commenced,

lies among the hills about midway between the Mediterranean Sea and

the Sea of Tiberias. The route for some hours leads the traveler

along the northern part of the plain of Esdraelon, and charms him by

the scenes of beauty and fertility which pass before his view. He

sees rich fields of corn and grain, groves of the pomegranate, the

fig, and the olive, verdant valleys clothed with the most luxuriant

herbage, masses of hanging wood, that adorn the declivities of the

hills, and descend in capes and promontories of foliage to beautify

the plain, and ruins of ancient fortresses and towns, scattered here

and there in picturesque and commanding positions. The whole country

is like a romantic park, with the great chain of Mt. Carmel

extending continuously to the southward of it, and bounding the

view.

BAY OF ACRE.

At length the great plain of Acre, with the bay, and the broad

expanse of the Mediterranean in the distance, opens before him. The

town of Acre, surrounded with its white walls, stands just on the

margin of the water, at the northern extremity of the bay; while at

the southern point of it stands Haïfa, sheltered by the mountain,

and adorned by the consular flags of the several nations who have

commercial agents there. In former times the principal harbor for

shipping was at Acre, but from some change which the course of time

has effected in the conformation of the coast or in the deposit of

sand, the only deep water is now found at the southern extremity of

the bay, where the Kishon finds its outlet--and Haïfa has

consequently become the port. It is not improbable, in fact, that

the greater depth of water at this point is to be attributed to the

effect produced by the outflow of the river in impeding the

accumulation of deposits from the sea.

The river, as will be seen from the map, in flowing into the bay

passes across the beach of sand. Its depth and the quantity of water

which issues from it vary very much, according to the season of the

year, and thus the accounts of travelers who ford it at different

periods differ extremely. In its ordinary condition it is very

easily forded, but sometimes, when swollen with rains, it overflows

the meadows that line its banks, up the valley, and becomes wholly

impassable near its mouth. In the summer the stream often becomes so

low that the sea, incessantly rolling in from the offing, fills up

the outlet entirely with sand, and then smoothing over the dyke

which it has made, it forms a beach on the outer slope of it, and

thus the sandy shore of the bay is carried continuously across the

mouth of the river, and the water is shut back as by a dam.

The next rain, however, and perhaps even the ordinary flow of the

river, causes the water to accumulate and rise behind this barrier

until it surmounts it. A small stream then begins to flow over the

beach--rapidly increasing in force and volume as the sand is washed

away--and thus the river regains once more its accustomed channel.

This alternate closing and opening of the outlet of a river is a

phenomenon often witnessed in cases where the river, at its mouth,

traverses a sandy beach on a coast exposed to winds and storms.[3]

The distance from Haïfa to Acre along the shore of the bay is about

eight miles. Acre itself has always been a very celebrated fortress,

having figured as the central point of almost all great military

operations in Syria for nearly two thousand years. It has

experienced every possible form and phase of the fortune of war,

having been assaulted, defended, besieged, destroyed, and rebuilt

again and again, in an endless succession of changes, and in the

experience of every possible fortune and misfortune which twenty

centuries of uninterrupted military vicissitude could bring. Within

the knowledge of the present generation it has been the scene of two

terrific conflicts. Perhaps the most important of these events, in a

historical point of view, was the struggle for the possession of the

place between Napoleon and its English defenders, and the consequent

check which was placed upon Napoleon's career, on his advance from

Egypt into Syria. On his arrival at Acre, the young general found

the port in possession of an English force under the command of Sir

Sydney Smith, and though he made the most desperate and determined

efforts to dislodge them, he was unable to succeed. He planted his

batteries on the declivities of the hills behind the town, and

cannonaded the walls from that position; while the English supported

the garrison in their defense of the place, by firing upon the

batteries of the besiegers from ships which they had anchored in the

bay.

[Illustration: DEFENSE OF ACRE.]

PRODUCTIONS OF THE COUNTRY.

The plains and valleys which border the Carmel chain of mountains,

especially on the northern side, are extremely fertile. They yield

grapes, olives, corn, and other similar productions, in the greatest

abundance, while the grass that clothes the slopes of the

surrounding mountains, and adorns with verdure and beauty a thousand

secluded valleys that wind among them, furnishes an almost

exhaustless supply of food for flocks and herds. A considerable

quantity of wheat, barley, cotton, and other similar products is

exported, being brought down to Haïfa and Acre from the interior, on

the backs of mules and camels, led by drivers in long caravans and

trains. One traveler speaks of having been detained at the gates of

Acre, when going out to make an excursion into the surrounding

country, by a train of _one hundred_ camels, laden with corn, that

were just then coming in.

MISGOVERNMENT.

The commerce of the port, however, would be vastly greater than it

is, were it not for the exactions of the government which restrict

and burden it exceedingly. It is true that governments generally

maintain themselves by taxing the commerce of the countries over

which they rule, but the despotic authorities that have borne

military sway in Syria and Palestine for the last five hundred

years, have done this, as it would seem, in a peculiarly exorbitant

and reckless manner. A practice is adopted in those countries of

"farming out" the revenue, as it is called; that is, the government

sells the privilege of collecting a certain tax to some wealthy

capitalist, who pays, or secures payment, in advance, and then

collects from the people what is due, on his own account. Of course

he is invested with power and authority from the government to

enforce the collection, and as it is a matter of personal interest

to him to make the amount that he receives as great as possible, he

has every conceivable inducement to be extortionate and oppressive.

The sufferers, too, in such cases generally find it useless to

complain; for the government know well that, if they wish to obtain

high prices from the farmers of the revenue, from year to year, they

must not obstruct them in any way in the claims which they make, or

the measures which they adopt, in collecting the amounts due, from

the people.

In the more highly civilized and commercial nations of the world, a

very different system is adopted. The revenue is never farmed, but

it is collected by officers appointed for the purpose, in the name

and for the benefit of the government; and generally in such a way,

that they who assess the tax, have no direct pecuniary interest--or,

at most, a very inconsiderable one--in the amount whether larger or

smaller, which they receive. The assessors and collectors thus

occupy, in some respects, the position of impartial umpires between

the government and the people, with very slight influences operating

upon their minds, to produce a bias in favor of one side or the

other. Even in this way, the evils and disadvantages of raising

national revenues by taxing commercial transactions, are very great,

while, in the form that has so long prevailed in Syria and

Palestine, the result is utterly disastrous. The taxes are

increased, under one pretext or another, until the poor peasant and

laborer finds himself robbed of every thing but the bare means of

subsistence. All hope and possibility of acquiring property by his

industry and thrift, and of rising to a respectable position in

society are taken away from him, and he spends his life in idleness,

degradation, and despair.

AN INCIDENT.

An incident strikingly illustrative of these truths, occurred to a

traveler who was visiting Acre, about the year 1815. One morning, in

rambling about the city, he chanced to come into the vicinity of the

custom house, at the port, and there he overheard a violent dispute

going on between some fishermen and a certain farmer of the

revenue--probably a wealthy merchant of the town--who was standing

near. It seems that a duty of about thirty-three per cent., that is,

one-third part of the whole price, had been laid upon all fish that

should be taken in the bay and brought into the port for sale; and

the privilege of collecting the tax had been sold to the merchant,

who was engaged in the dispute. It had been calculated that the

remaining two-thirds of the value of the fish would be sufficient to

induce the fishermen to continue their vocation. It proved, however,

not to be so. The cost of boats and outfit, and the other expenses

which were necessarily incurred in the prosecution of the business,

were so great, that the poor fishermen found when they had returned

to the shore and sold their fares, and paid the expenses of their

trip, that the government tax took so large a portion of what

remained, as to leave little or nothing over, to reimburse them for

their labor. They accordingly became discouraged, and began to

abandon the employment; so that the farmer who had bought the right

to collect the tax, was alarmed at finding that the revenue was

likely to fail altogether, inasmuch as for every five boats that had

been accustomed to go out to fish before, only one went now. The

dispute which attracted the attention of the traveler was occasioned

by the anger of the farmer, who was assailing the fishermen with

bitter invectives and criminations, and threatening to compel them

to go out to fish, in order that he might receive his dues.

THE TYRANT DJEZZAR.

For many years extending through the latter part of the last

century, and the earlier portion of the present one, the narratives

of travelers visiting Acre are filled with accounts of the tyranny

and oppression exercised upon the people of the country by a certain

despot named Djezzar, the history of whose government illustrates

very forcibly the nature of the injuries to which the wretched

inhabitants of those countries are compelled to submit. Djezzar, in

his infancy was carried into Egypt a slave, and sold to Ali-Bey, a

celebrated ruler of that country. In the service of Ali-Bey he rose

to high civil stations, and at length, after passing through a

great number of vicissitudes and romantic adventures, in the course

of which he was transferred to the service of the Turkish

government, he was placed by the Turks in command of the Pachalik of

Acre, in 1775. Here he ruled with such despotic cruelty, that he

made himself an object of universal execration to all mankind,

excepting always those who had placed him in power; for they seemed

to be pleased rather than otherwise with his remorseless and

terrible energy. One of the first measures which he adopted when he

entered upon his government, was to confiscate all the houses of the

town of Acre, declaring them the property of the government, and

requiring the inhabitants to pay rent for them to him. The taxes

were exorbitantly increased, and every possible pretext was resorted

to to deprive the people of their property, and transfer it to the

government. Land which was left uncultivated for three years was

considered as abandoned by the owners, and thenceforth fell to him.

Whenever a vessel was stranded upon the coast, he seized upon every

thing that could be saved from the wreck, as his perquisite. His

favorite mode of punishing those who displeased him, was to mutilate

their persons by cutting off an ear, a nose, an arm, or a foot, or

by taking out an eye. Those who visited his palace, say that it was

common to see many persons in the ante-chambers and halls who were

disfigured thus, having incurred the cruel monster's displeasure

from time to time in the course of their service. These were his

"marked men," as he called them--"persons bearing signs of their

having been instructed to serve their master with fidelity." His

secretary, who was his principal banker and minister, was deprived

of both an ear and an eye, at the same time, for some offense, real

or imaginary, which he had committed, and yet still continued to

serve his savage master. Djezzar lived in a massive palace,

occupying a well-protected part of the city of Acre, with gardens in

the rear between the palace and the city wall. Within this palace

was his harem, the residence of his women. No person but himself was

ever admitted to the harem. He was accustomed to retire thither

every evening through three massive doors, one within the other,

which doors he always closed and barred with his own hands. No one

knew how many or what women the harem contained. Additions were

often made to the number, from female slaves that were presented to

Djezzar from time to time; but no one knew how many were thus

introduced, or what was their fate after they disappeared from

public view. Every possible precaution was taken to seclude the

inmates of this harem in the most absolute manner from the outer

world. Their food was conveyed to them by means of a sort of wheel

or cylinder, turning in the wall, and so contrived that those

without could not see who received it. If any one was sick, a

physician was brought to a room where there was a hole in the wall

through which the patient, concealed on the other side, put her arm,

and thus the pulse was examined, and a prescription made. We might

fill many pages with curious details in respect to the life and

character, and peculiar habits, of this extraordinary man, but we

must leave Acre and the bay, and prepare to ascend the mountain.

[Illustration: HORSEMAN OF ACRE.]

THE MOUNTAIN.

The height of Mt. Carmel has been generally estimated at about

fifteen hundred feet. This is a very unusual elevation for land that

rises thus abruptly from the margin of the sea. Of course, from

every cliff, and rock, and projecting head-land on the higher

portions of it there is obtained a widely extended and most

commanding view both over the water and over the land. The sea lies

toward the west; the prospect is consequently in that direction

unobstructed to the horizon, and the whole western quarter of the

sky is fully exposed to view. It is by understanding the position of

Mt. Carmel in this respect, that we appreciate the full force and

beauty of the passage that describes the coming of the rain, after

the destruction of the priests of Baal by the Prophet Elijah; for it

is always, as we observe, in the western sky, through the operation

of some mysterious and hidden laws which human philosophy has not

yet been able to unfold, that the clouds which produce sudden summer

showers arise. It is almost invariably there, that those rounded and

dome-like condensations are formed, which from small and almost

unperceived beginnings expand and swell until they envelop the whole

heavens in darkness and gloom, and then sweep over the earth in

tempests of thunder, lightning, and rain. The narrative of the

sacred writer, describing the event is as follows.

AHAB AND THE RAIN.

"And Elijah said unto Ahab, Get thee up, eat and drink; for there is

a sound of abundance of rain. So Ahab went up to eat and to drink.

And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down

upon the earth, and put his face between his knees, and said to his

servant, Go up now, look toward the sea. And he went up, and looked

and said, There is nothing. And he said, Go again seven times. And

it came to pass at the seventh time that he said, Behold there

ariseth a little cloud out of the sea like a man's hand. And he

said, Go up, say unto Ahab, Prepare thy chariot, and get thee down

that the rain stop thee not. And it came to pass, in the mean while,

that the heaven was black with clouds and wind, and there was a

great rain."--1 Kings, xviii. 41-45.

* * * * *

The traveler, as he looks up to the summit of the mountain from the

beach of the Bay of Acre, over the sands of which he is slowly

making his way toward the foot of the ascent, pictures in his

imagination the form of the servant of Elijah standing upon some

projecting pinnacle, and looking off over the sea. He loses for the

moment his recollection of the age in which he lives, and under the

influence of a temporary illusion, forgetting the five-and-twenty

centuries which have elapsed since the days of Elijah, almost looks

to see the chariot and horsemen of Ahab riding away up the valley,

in obedience to the prophet's command.

ASCENT OF THE MOUNTAIN.

The road to the mountain, as will appear from the map, passes

through Haïfa. Travelers and pilgrims, however, seldom make any stay

in the town. There is no inn there to detain them. The convent is

the inn--on the top of the mountain. After passing Haïfa, the road,

as may be seen upon the map, follows the line of the shore for about

half a mile, and then turns a little inland, while a branch of the

main road, diverging to the right, continues along the shore of the

sea. This branch leads to the extremity of the cape, where are

situated the ruins of an ancient place named Porphyrion, and also a

small fortress, on the point. Porphyrion was a place of some

consequence in former times, but it went gradually to decay, and at

last when Haïfa was built it was entirely abandoned.

A short distance further on, the traveler comes to another branch,

where a mule-path turns off to the left from the main road, and

leads up the mountain. The ascent is steep, but the path is so

guarded by a parapet on the outer side wherever required, that it

awakens no sense of danger. The declivities of the mountain, above

and below the path, are clothed with trees and herbage, with gray

walls, forming picturesque cliffs, and precipices, appearing here

and there among them. There is a profusion, too, of wild flowers of

every form and hue, which attract and charm the traveler, wherever

he turns. He looks off at every salient point that he passes in his

ascent, over the bay. He sees the white walls of the city of Acre

rising from the margin of the water at the extremity of it, far in

the distance--and never ceases to admire the smooth and beautiful

beach which lies spread out before him, its broad expanse broken,

perhaps, here and there on the side toward the sea, with the wrecks

of ships which lie there half buried, and enlivened on the land with

trains of mules or of camels passing toward Acre or Haïfa, or by

some picturesque group of tents pitched upon the plain--the

encampment of some wandering tribe of Arabs, or of a party of

European travelers. Further inland, he surveys broad fields of

luxuriant vegetation, variegated with every shade of green and

brown, and groves of trees that extend along the margin of the

rivers, and crown the summits of the distant hills. In a calm and

clear summer's morning, the observer looks down upon this brilliant

scene of verdure and beauty, as upon a map, and lingers long on his

way, to study minutely every feature of it.

[Illustration: THE ASCENT OF THE MOUNTAIN.]

THE RIVER BELUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF GLASS.

About midway between Haïfa and Acre, the traveler, pausing at some

resting-place in the progress of his ascent, may trace the course of

the river Belus, as it meanders through the plain beneath him,

northwardly, toward an outlet just in the rear of Acre, where it

empties into the sea. The course and direction of the stream are

delineated upon the map near the commencement of this article. This

river is celebrated as the place where, according to ancient story,

the discovery of the art of making glass was first made by means of

an accidental vitrification which chanced to take place under

certain peculiar circumstances, on its shores.[4] Glass is composed

essentially of silicious substances--such as sand--combined with

certain alkalies by fusion. For sand, though very refractory if

exposed alone to the influence of heat, when mixed with these

alkaline substances fuses easily, and _vitrifies_, that is it forms

a glass, which is more or less perfect according to the precise

nature of the substances employed, and the arrangements of the

process. The story of the origin of the discovery is, that a vessel

came into the mouth of the Belus from the Bay of Acre, laden with

certain fossil alkalies which were found somewhere along the coast,

and were used in those times for certain purposes, and that the

sailors landed on the beach and built a fire there, with a view of

taking supper on the shore. When the fire was made they looked about

the beach for stones to use as a support for their kettle; but the

soil being alluvial and sandy they were not able to find any stones,

and so they brought instead three fragments of the alkaline fossil,

whatever it might have been, with which their vessel was loaded.

These fragments they placed in the margin of the fire which they had

built upon the sand, and rested the kettle upon them; thus by means

of the alkali, the sand, the metal, and the fire, all the conditions

were combined that are essential to produce a vitrification, and

after their supper was ended the seamen found the glassy substance

which had been produced, lying beneath the fire. They made their

discovery known, and the experiment was repeated. Soon after this

the regular manufacture of glass for vessels and ornaments was

commenced in the city of Sidon, which lies on the coast of the

Mediterranean, not many miles north of the mouth of the Belus, and

from Sidon the art soon spread into every part of the civilized

world.

[Illustration: THE DISCOVERY OF GLASS.]

THE CONVENT.

The time required for the ascent from Haïfa to the convent is about

an hour--the buildings of the institution, though often spoken of as

upon the top of the mountain, being really only about two-thirds of

the way up to the highest summit. The condition in which the various

travelers who have visited the spot within the last hundred years

have found the institution, and the accounts which they have given

of the edifice and of the inmates, varies extremely according to the

time of the visit. In fact, after Napoleon's defeat before Acre, the

convent was entirely destroyed, and the spot was for a time

deserted. The cause of this was that Napoleon took possession of the

edifice for the purpose of using it as a hospital, and quartered his

wounded and disabled soldiers there. The Turks, consequently, when

they came and found the institution in the possession of the French,

considered themselves authorized to regard it as a post of the

enemy. They accordingly slaughtered the troops which they found

there, drove away the monks, and blew up the buildings. From this

time the convent remained desolate and in ruins for more than twenty

years.

At length, between 1820 and 1830, a celebrated monk, known by the

name of John Baptist, undertook the work of building up the

institution again. With great zeal, and with untiring patience and

perseverance, he traversed many countries of Europe and Asia to

gather funds for the work, and to remove the various obstacles which

are always in the way in the case of such an undertaking. He

succeeded, at length, in accomplishing the work, and the convent was

rebuilt in a more complete and extended form than ever before. Since

that time, accordingly, the traveler finds, when he reaches the brow

of the mountain where the convent buildings stand, a stately and

commodious edifice ready to receive him. Like most of the other

convents and monasteries of Asia, the institution serves the purpose

of an inn. A monk receives the traveler and his party, and conducts

them to a commodious sitting-room, furnished with a carpet, with

tables, and with chairs. A corridor from this apartment leads to

bed-rooms in the rear, furnished likewise in a very comfortable

manner, with beds, chairs, and tables;--articles which attract the

attention of the traveler, and are specially mentioned in his

journal, as they are very rarely to be found in the East. On the

terraces and balconies of the building the visitor, wearied with the

toil of the ascent, finds seats where he reposes in peace, and

enjoys the illimitable prospect which the view commands, both up and

down the coast, and far out over the waters of the Mediterranean

Sea.

Travelers are entertained at the convent as at an inn, except that

in place of a formal reckoning when they depart, they make their

acknowledgment for the hospitality which they have received in the

form of a donation to the monastery, the amount of which custom

prescribes. The rule is that no guest is to remain longer than a

fortnight--the arrangements being designed for the accommodation of

travelers, and not of permanent guests. This rule, however, is not

strictly enforced, except so far as to give to parties newly

arriving the precedence in respect to choice of rooms, over those

whose fortnight has expired. While the guests remain, they are very

kindly and hospitably entertained by the monks, who appear before

them clothed in a hood and cassock of coarse brown cloth, with a

rope girdle around the loins, and sandals upon the feet--the ancient

habit of the order. Their countenances wear a thoughtful and

serious, if not sad expression.

THE GROTTOS AND CAVES.

The halo of sacredness which invests Mt. Carmel proceeds from the

memory of the prophet Elijah, who, while he lived on the earth, made

this mountain his frequent resort, if not his usual abode. This we

learn from the Scriptures themselves, as well as from the long and

unbroken testimony of ancient tradition. The memorable transactions

connected with the destruction of the priests of Baal, in the time

of Ahab, at the conclusion of which came the sudden rain, as

described in the passage already quoted, is supposed to have taken

place at the foot of the mountain near this spot--and the ground on

which the priests were slain is still shown, as identified by

ancient tradition, on the banks of the Kishon, a little way up the

valley.[5] The mountain above is full of grottos and caves. It is

said that more than a thousand have been counted. The one which is

supposed to have been Elijah's special abode is now within the

buildings of the convent. Higher up, among the rocks behind the

convent, is another which is called Elisha's cave, and at some

distance below, in the bottom of a frightful chasm, into which the

traveler descends by a steep and dangerous path, and which opens

toward the sea, is another cavern, the largest and most noted of

all. It forms a large and lofty apartment, vaulted above, and is

said to have been the place where Obadiah concealed and protected

the company of prophets, one hundred and fifty in number, and fed

them with bread and water while they remained in their retreat.[6]

This cave is called accordingly the cave of the prophets. The

situation of this grotto is beyond description solitary, desolate,

and sublime. Nothing is to be seen from within it but the open sea,

and no sound is heard but the breaking of the surf, as it rolls in

upon the rocky shore six hundred feet below.

THE PETRIFACTIONS.

Among the other objects of interest and attraction for the pilgrims

and travelers that visit Mt. Carmel, are certain curious stones,

well known to geologists as a common mineral formation, but which

pass with the pilgrims and monks for petrified grapes, dates, or

melons, according to their size and configuration. These stones are

round in form, and are often hollow, being lined with a crystalline

incrustation within, the crystals representing, in the imagination

of the pilgrim, the seeds of the fruit from which the specimen was

formed. These fossils are found in a part of the mountain remote

from the convent, where a stream comes down from the heights above,

and they are supposed to be miraculous in their origin. The legend

accounting for the production of them is this.

In the time of Elijah there was a garden and a vineyard on the spot,

and one day as Elijah was passing that way, weary and faint with his

journey, he looked over the wall and asked the owner of the ground

to give him some of the melons and fruits that he saw growing there.

The man refused the wayfarer's request, saying jestingly in his

refusal, that those things were not melons and fruits, but only

stones. "Stones then let them be," said Elijah, and so passed on.

The gardener, on turning to examine the fruits of his garden, found

to his consternation that they had all been turned into stone, and

ever since that day the ground has been under a curse, and has

produced nothing but stony semblances of fruit, instead of the

reality. These supposed petrifactions are greatly prized by all who

visit the mountain. Well informed travelers value them as specimens

illustrative of a very singular superstition, and as souvenirs of

their visit to the spot;--while monks and pilgrims believe them to

possess some supernatural virtue. They suppose that though Elijah's

denunciation proved a curse to the ground in respect to the owner,

in causing it to produce these flinty mockeries, the stones

themselves, being miraculous in their nature and origin, are endued

with some supernatural power to protect and bless those who

reverently collect and preserve them.

[Illustration: ELIJAH AND THE GARDENER.]

ORIGIN OF THE CARMELITE ORDER.

The convent of Mt. Carmel, as alluded to and described by travelers

during the last five hundred years is to be understood as denoting

not a single building, but a series of buildings, that have risen,

flourished, and gone to decay on the same spot, in a long

succession, like a dynasty of kings following each other in a line

on the same throne. The grottos and caverns which are found upon the

mountain began to be occupied at a very early period by hermits and

solitary monks, who lived probably at first in a state of separation

from each other as well as of seclusion from the world. After a time

however they began to combine together, and to live in edifices

specially constructed for their use, and for the last thousand years

the Carmelites have constituted a well known and numerous religious

order, having spread from their original seat and centre to every

part of Europe, and taken a very active and important part in the

ecclesiastical affairs of modern times. Every religious order of the

Roman Church prides itself on the antiquity of its origin, and the

traditions of the Carmelites for a long time carried back the

history of their society to a very remote period indeed--not merely

to the Christian era, but from the time of Christ and the apostles

back to Elijah, and from Elijah to Enoch. In discussing this

subject, however, one ecclesiastical writer very gravely maintains

that the Enoch, if there was one, among the founders of the

Carmelite fraternity, could not have been the patriarch Enoch, the

father of Methusaleh, since it is plain that there could have been

no Carmelite monks among those saved in the ark, at the time of the

deluge, for the vow of celibacy was an essential rule of the order

from the beginning, and the sons of Noah, who were the only men

besides Noah himself that were saved from the flood, were all

married men, and took their wives with them when they went into the

ark!

These traditions, however, ascribing a very high antiquity to the

order of the Carmelites, were allowed to pass for many centuries

with very little question; but at last, about two hundred years ago,

certain religious historians belonging to other monastic orders, in

the course of the investigations which they made into the early

history of the church, came to the conclusion that the institution

of the Carmelites was founded in the twelfth century of the

Christian era. The earliest authentic information that they could

find, they said, in respect to its origin was the account given by a

traveler by the name of John Phocas, who visited the mountain in

1185, in the course of a tour which he was making in the Holy Land.

He relates that he ascended Mt. Carmel, and that he found there the

cave of Elijah, describing it as it now appears. He also states that

there was a monastery there which had been founded a few years

before by a venerable monk, gray-headed and advanced in years, who

had come upon the mountain in obedience to a revelation which he had

received from the Prophet Elijah, enjoining upon him so to do, and

that he had built a small tower for a dwelling, and a small chapel

for the purpose of worship, and that he had established himself here

with ten companions of the same religious profession with himself;

and this was the true origin of the convent of Mt. Carmel.

A CONTROVERSY.

The Carmelite monks throughout Europe were every where greatly

displeased at the publication of this account, which cut off at a

single blow some two thousand years from the antiquity of their

order, even supposing their pretensions to go no farther back than

to the time of Elijah. A protracted and very bitter controversy

arose. Volumes after volumes were published--the quarrel, as is

usual with religious disputes, degenerating in character as it

advanced, and growing continually more and more rancorous and

bitter, until at last the Pope interposed and put an end to the

dispute by a bull. The bull did not attempt to decide the question;

it only silenced the combatants. Nothing more was to be said by any

party, or under any pretext, on the origin of the institution of the

Carmelites, but the whole subject was entirely interdicted. This

bull, the issuing of which was a most excellent act on the part of

his Holiness, proved an effectual remedy for the evil which it was

intended to suppress. The dispute was suddenly terminated, and

though the question was in form left undecided, it was settled in

fact, for it has since been generally admitted that the story of

John Phocas was true, and that Mt. Carmel, though inhabited by

hermits and individual recluses long before, was not the seat of a

regularly organized society of Monks until nearly twelve centuries

after the Christian era.

THE MONK ST. BASIL.

The Carmelites themselves were accustomed to maintain that the

earliest written rule for the government of their order was given

them by a very celebrated ancient monk, known in history as St.

Basil. St. Basil lived about three hundred years after the time of

Christ. He was descended from a distinguished family, and received

an excellent education in early life, in the course of which he made

very high attainments in all the branches of knowledge customarily

pursued in those days. His mind, however, being strongly impressed

with a sense of religious obligation, he determined not to engage in

the duties of the profession for which he had been trained, but to

seclude himself from the world, in accordance with the custom that

prevailed in those days, and spend his life in religious meditation

and prayer. As a preliminary step he determined on taking a journey

into the countries where the practice of religious retirement had

begun to prevail, in order to visit the hermits, recluses, and

monks, in their dens and caves, and become practically acquainted

with the mode of life which these voluntary exiles from the world

were accustomed to lead. He accordingly set out upon his travels,

and in the course of a few years he explored Egypt, Palestine,

Syria, Asia Minor, and other countries still farther east, in order

to visit and converse with all the monks and hermits that he could

find, in the deserts and solitudes to which they had retired. We can

not here give the subsequent particulars of his life. It is

sufficient to say that his learning, his high rank, his exalted

character, and perhaps his honest and conscientious piety, combined

to raise him in the end to a very commanding position in respect to

the whole monastic world while he lived, and to inspire many

succeeding generations with a great veneration for his memory. He

was believed to have been during his life an object of the special

and miraculous protection of heaven; for it is recorded as sober

historic truth, that at one time, during the latter part of his

career, when certain theological enemies had prevailed in obtaining

a sentence of banishment against him, and the decree, properly drawn

up, was brought to the emperor to sign, the pen which was put into

the emperor's hand broke suddenly into pieces as soon as it touched

the paper. The emperor called for another pen, but on attempting to

use it the same result followed. This was done three times, and at

last, as the emperor seemed determined to persist in his design, his

hand was seized with a sudden and uncontrollable trembling, and the

chair upon which he was sitting broke down, and let him fall upon

the floor. The emperor now perceived that he was contending against

God, and taking up the decree he destroyed it by tearing it in

pieces.

Now the Carmelites maintained that this St. Basil was a monk of

their order, that he was one of the successors of Elijah, that they

had obtained their first written rule of their order from him, and

that the Basilians, an order of monks taking their name from him and

well known throughout Europe in the middle ages, were to be

considered as only a branch, or offshoot, from the ancient Carmelite

institution. Out of this state of things there arose subsequently a

very extraordinary controversy between the Basilians and the

Carmelites as will presently appear.

RULES OF THE ORDER.

The claim of the Carmelites to have received their first written

charter from St. Basil is not very well sustained, as the earliest

authentic evidence of any written rule for the government of the

institution relates to one given them by the patriarch of Jerusalem

in 1205, about thirty years after the time when the monastery was

founded, according to John Phocas's narrative. This "rule," or

charter as it would be called at the present day, consisted of

sixteen articles, and some particulars of it may be interesting to

the reader as illustrating the nature of this species of document.

The first article treats of the election of the prior of the

monastery, and of the obedience which was to be rendered to him by

the other monks. The second treats of the cells in which the

brethren were to live, and prescribes that they should be separated

from each other in such a way that there could be no intercourse or

communication between the respective inmates. The third contains

regulations in respect to the cell of the prior, its situation and

relation to the other cells. The fifth requires the monks to remain

constantly each within his own cell except when called away by

regularly prescribed duties elsewhere, and to devote himself in his

retirement to the work of prayer and meditation. The sixth

prescribes certain regulations in respect to divine service. By the

seventh the monks are forbidden to possess any private property of

any kind. The eighth requires the brethren of the monastery to build

an oratory or place of prayer in some central place, near the cells,

and to assemble there every morning to hear mass. The ninth

prescribes rules for the internal discipline of the institution. The

tenth enjoins certain fast days. The eleventh forbids the use of

flesh for food entirely. The twelfth exhorts the monks to clothe

themselves with certain spiritual armor which it describes. The

thirteenth enjoins upon them to labor with their hands, in

cultivating the fruits of the earth in their little gardens. The

fourteenth enjoins absolute silence upon them, from vespers until

the break of day on the following morning. The fifteenth inculcates

upon them the duty of humility and of devoting themselves to prayer;

and the sixteenth closes the series by exhorting them to be always

obedient and submissive to the prior.

EARLY MONASTIC LIFE.

There is no question that the monastic system of Christian Europe,

established originally by such beginnings as these, led in the end

to evil consequences and results of the most deplorable character,

and we are accustomed, as Protestants, to believe that there is

nothing that is not worthy of unqualified condemnation in it from

beginning to end. But when we dismiss from our minds the ideas and

associations with which the religious history of the last five

hundred years has invested every thing that pertains to monastic

life, and look at such a community as this of Mt. Carmel as it was

in its original inception and design, we shall find it impossible to

ascribe the conduct of those simple-minded recluses to any other

motive than a desire to withdraw themselves from the world, in a

spirit of honest self-denial, in order to live nearer to God, and

enjoy the peace and happiness of daily and uninterrupted communion

with him. And as to the delusion and folly of the course which they

pursued, in order to judge impartially, we must look at the

circumstances of the case as they really were, and see how

effectually, in the arrangements which the hermits made, all the

essential requisites for human comfort and happiness were secured.

The mountain which they chose for their retreat was beautiful beyond

description; the soil was fertile, the air was balmy and pure, and

such was the climate that the season with them was an almost

perpetual summer. They had gardens to till, which produced them an

abundance of fruits and vegetables, and in those climes the human

constitution requires no other food. The grottos in which they lived

were dry, and formed undoubtedly very safe and not uncomfortable

dwellings. They suffered neither heat nor cold, for in Palestine

cold is seldom known, and though the sun is sometimes hot, and the

air sultry, in the valleys, the mountain which they dwelt upon rises

into a region of perpetual salubrity, where there is always an

atmosphere of soft and balmy air reposing in the groves, or

breathing gently over the summit. Besides all these natural

advantages of their situation, their course of daily duty gave them

healthful and agreeable employment. Their hours were systematically

arranged, and their occupations, though varied in kind, were regular

in rotation and order. Thus, on the whole, though there was

doubtless much of superstition and of error in their ideas, still we

are inclined to think that there are some usages and modes of life

not at all monastic in their character--to be witnessed among the

world-following Christians of the present day, in palaces of wealth

and prosperity--which exhibit quite as much delusion and folly as

was ever evinced by these poor world-abandoning monks, in the caves

and grottos of Mt. Carmel.

[Illustration: THE HERMITS OF MOUNT CARMEL.]

THE DISPUTE WITH THE BASILIANS.

A society of monks once established, depends of course for its

continuance and prosperity on external additions, and not on any

internal growth; for since celibacy is the rule of all monastic

orders, there can not be in such communities, as in the case of an

ordinary hamlet or village, any natural sequence of generations. A

man is never born a monk: so that monasticism has at least one of

the marks and characteristics of a monstrosity. It does not

propagate its kind.

Notwithstanding this, however, the institution on Mt. Carmel

gradually increased. Accessions were made from time to time to the

numbers of the monks, until at length the order became so numerous

that several branch institutions were established in different parts

of Europe, and the Carmelites became very generally known throughout

the Christian world. We can not here, however, go away from the

mountain to follow the society in its general history, though we

will digress from our immediate subject so far as to give a brief

account of the singular controversy which arose in subsequent years

between the Carmelites and the Basilians, a controversy which not

only exhibits in a striking point of view some of the peculiar ideas

and religious usages of the times in which it occurred, but

illustrates certain important principles in respect to the nature of

religious controversy, that are applicable to the disputes of every

age. The question in this case related to the costume in which the

prophet Elijah was represented in a certain picture belonging to a

church which the Basilians built near Messina, in the island of

Sicily. The church was built in the year 1670, and the open

controversy arose then; but the origin of it may be traced to a

period antecedent to that time. It seems that in 1080, six hundred

years before the dispute to which we are referring commenced, a

certain Sicilian potentate built a church near Mt. Etna, in honor of

the prophet Elijah, as a token of his gratitude to the prophet for

appearing to him in a visible form at one time when he was involved

in very imminent danger, in his wars with the Saracens, and for

interposing to protect him. He also built a monastery in connection

with the church, and established a society of Basilian monks in it.

It seems that at the time when the church and monastery were built,

a picture of the prophet Elijah was painted and hung in the church,

where it remained without exciting any question, for six hundred

years.

At length at the expiration of that time the buildings of the

establishment having become very old, and being often greatly

damaged, and the lives of the inmates seriously endangered by the

shocks of earthquakes and the volcanic eruptions to which their

situation so near to Mt. Etna exposed them, it was determined to

remove the institution to another place, several miles distant from

its original location, where the ground was more secure. The old

picture of Elijah was however found to be too much decayed to be

removed. A careful copy of it was therefore made, the artist taking

care to transfer, as nearly as possible, to his copy, both the

features and the costume of the original. The following engraving is

a faithful representation of this portrait and of the dress which

became the subject of the dispute, except of course that the colors

are not shown. The shoulders are covered with a cloak which in the

painting was red. Beneath the cloak was a tunic, formed of the skin

of some animal, which descended to the knees. There were sandals on

the feet. There was a sword tipped with flame in the hand, and the

head was covered with a red cap trimmed with ornaments of gold.

[Illustration: THE ELIJAH OF THE BASILIANS.]

This painting in its original state had hung in its place in the old

convent during the whole six hundred years without attracting any

special notice; but when the copy was made and hung up in the new

convent, it became an object of greater attention, and the

Carmelites who saw or heard of it were much displeased with the

costume, inasmuch as it was not the costume of their order. The

painting by exhibiting the prophet in such a dress, seemed to deny

that Elijah had been a Carmelite, and to claim him as belonging to

some other order. They complained to the Basilians of the injustice

done them, and demanded that the obnoxious costume should be

changed. Finding, however, that their complaints and remonstrances

were unavailing, they appealed to the Archbishop of Sicily, praying

him to interpose his authority to redress the injury which they were

suffering, and to compel the Basilians to take down the painting in

question, the display of which was so dishonorable to the ancient

order of Mt. Carmel. The Basilians in reply alleged that the costume

of the portrait was no innovation of theirs, and they were not

responsible for it at all. The work, they said, was a faithful copy

of an ancient painting that had hung for six hundred years,

unquestioned and uncomplained of, in their former monastery, and

that they could not give up the ancient traditions and relics of

their institution; and they were especially unwilling to consent

that the prophet Elijah should be represented in their church in a

Carmelite dress, since that would prejudice the ancient claims of

the Basilian order.

SETTLEMENT OF THE DISPUTE.

[Illustration: THE AUTHORIZED ELIJAH.]

The Archbishop of Sicily, after a long hearing of the parties to

this dispute, refused to interpose, and finally the case was carried

by the Carmelites to Rome, and laid before a certain board of the

Roman church called the College of Rites, a sort of tribunal having

jurisdiction of all questions of this nature that might arise in the

Catholic church, and assume sufficient importance to come before

them. Here the Carmelites brought forward their cause, and offered

their complaints in language more earnest than ever. They

represented in very strong terms the deep dishonor which the

Basilians were inflicting upon them in publicly exhibiting the

prophet Elijah--the patriarch and the father of their order--dressed

in a cloak, and wearing a red cap upon his head, as if he were a

Turkish pashaw. To give force and emphasis to their plea they

exhibited to the sacred college before whom the cause was to be

tried, a representation of the picture, colored like the original,

in order that the judges might see for themselves how flagrant was

the wrong which they endured, and how much cause they had to

complain. After many long and patient hearings of the case before

the college, and many fruitless attempts to find some mode

satisfactory to all parties, for settling the dispute, the college

finally decided upon a middle course, a sort of forced compromise

which gave the victory to neither party. The costume of the painting

was ordered to be changed. The cap was to be taken away from the

head, and the sandals from the feet, and the red cloak was to be

replaced by one of a saffron color. The tunic of skin was to be

retained, and it was to be bound about the waist with a leathern

girdle. A new picture was accordingly painted in accordance with

this decision, as represented in the above engraving. The

controversy occupied ten years; it gave rise to protracted and

voluminous proceedings, and embroiled a great number of partisans

among all ranks and orders of the church: and by comparing the two

engravings the reader will see at a glance the amount of the

difference about which the combatants were contending. It might

excite surprise in our minds that a large section of the Christian

church could thus be engaged for ten years in an earnest, expensive,

and bitter controversy about the costume of a painting, were it not

that we sometimes see examples at the present day, of disputes

equally earnest and protracted, about points smaller and more

shadowy still. It ought, however, in strict justice to be said that

the real questions at issue in disputes about religious rites and

forms, are not usually as insignificant as they seem. Within and

beyond the outward symbol there usually lies some principle of

religious faith, which is, after all, the real object of the

controversy. In this case, for example, the comparative claims to

antiquity and pre-eminence on the part of two powerful religious

orders constituted the real question at issue. The costume of the

painting formed only the accidental battle ground, as it were, on

which the war was waged. It is thus with a great many religious

controversies, where at first view it would seem that the point at

issue is wholly inadequate to account for the degree of interest

taken in the dispute. The explanation is that the apparent question

is not the real one. The outward aspect of the contest seems to

indicate that the combatants are merely disputing about a form,

while they are really contending for a principle that lies concealed

beneath it. They are like soldiers at a siege, who fight on outer

walls, in themselves worthless, to defend homes and fire-sides that

are concealed within, entirely out of view.

DESCENT FROM THE MOUNTAIN.

[Illustration: THE SERPENT.]

But we must return to the mountain, though we return to it only to

come down, for it is time that our visit to it should be ended. In

his excursions around the convent during his stay on the mountain,

the visitor is somewhat restricted in respect to the range that he

can safely take, by fear of the wild beasts that infest the jungles

and thickets that grow densely on the declivities of the mountain,

and around the base of it, especially on the southern side.

Panthers, hyenas, wild boars, and strange serpents, make these

forests their abode, occupying, perhaps, in many cases, the caves

and grottos of the ancient recluses, for their dens. Many tales are

told by the monks of these savage beasts, and of the dangers which

pilgrims and travelers have incurred from them. There is an account

of a child which was found in a certain situation dead, with a

monstrous serpent coiled upon its breast. On examination of the body

no mark of any bite or wound could be perceived, and it was

accordingly supposed that the life of the little sufferer had been

extinguished by the chill of the body of the reptile, or by some

other mysterious and deadly agency, which it had power to exert.

Even the roadway leading up and down the mountain is not always

safe, it would seem, from these dangerous intruders. It is rocky and

solitary, and is bordered every where with gloomy ravines and

chasms, all filled with dense and entangled thickets, in which, and

in the cavernous rocks of which the strata of the mountain are

composed, wild beasts and noxious animals of every kind find a

secure retreat. The monks relate that not many years ago a servant

of the convent, who had been sent down the mountain to Haïfa, to

accompany a traveler, was attacked and seized by a panther on his

return. The panther, however, instead of putting his victim

immediately to death, began to play with him as a cat plays with a

mouse which she has succeeded in making her prey--holding him gently

with her claws, for a time, and then, after drawing back a little,

darting upon him again, as if to repeat and renew the pleasure of

capturing such a prize. This was continued so long, that the cries

of the terrified captive brought to the spot some persons that

chanced to be near, when the panther was terrified in her turn, and

fled into the forests; and then the man was rescued from his

horrible situation unharmed.

[Illustration: THE PANTHER.]

For these and similar reasons, travelers who ascend to the convent

of Mt. Carmel enjoy but little liberty there, but must confine their

explorations in most cases to the buildings of the monks, and to

some of the nearest caves of the ancient recluses. Still the spot is

rendered so attractive by the salubrity of the air, the intrinsic

beauty of the situation, the magnificence of the prospect, and the

kind and attentive demeanor of the monks, that some visitors have

recommended it as a place of permanent resort for those who leave

their homes in the West in pursuit of health, or in search of

retirement and repose. The rule that requires those who have been

guests of the convent more than two weeks to give place to others

more recently arrived, proves in fact to be no serious difficulty.

Some kind of an arrangement can in such cases always be made, though

it is seldom that any occasion arises that requires it. The

quarters, too, though plain and simple, are comfortable and neat,

and although the visitor is somewhat restricted, from causes that

have already been named, in respect to explorations of the mountain

itself, there are many excursions that can be made in the country

below, of a very attractive character. He can visit Haïfa, he can

ride or walk along the beach to Acre; he can go to Nazareth, or

journey down the coast, passing round the western declivity of the

mountain. In these and similar rambles he will find scenes of

continual novelty to attract him, and be surrounded every where with

the forms and usages of Oriental life.

LEAVING MOUNT CARMEL.

The traveler who comes to Mt. Carmel by the way of Nazareth and the

plain of Esdraelon, in going away from it generally passes round the

western declivity of the mountain, and thence proceeds to the south,

by the way of the sea. On reaching the foot of the descent, where

the mountain mule-path comes out into the main road, as shown upon

the map near the commencement of this article, he turns short to the

left, and goes on round the base of the promontory, with the lofty

declivities of the mountain on one hand, and a mass of dense forests

on the other, lying between the road and the shore. As he passes on,

the road, picturesque and romantic from the beginning, becomes

gradually wild, solitary, and desolate. It leads him sometimes

through tangled thickets, sometimes under shelving rocks, and

sometimes it brings him out unexpectedly to the shore of the sea,

where he sees the surf rolling in upon the beach at his feet, and

far over the water the setting sun going down to his rest beneath

the western horizon. At length the twilight gradually disappears,

and as the shades of the evening come on, lights glimmer in the

solitary villages that he passes on his way; but there is no welcome

for him in their beaming. At length when he deems it time to bring

his day's journey to an end, he pitches his tent by the wayside in

some unfrequented spot, and before he retires to rest for the night,

comes out to take one more view of the dark and sombre mountain

which he is about to leave forever. He stands at the door of his

tent, and gazes at it long and earnestly, before he bids it

farewell, equally impressed with the sublime magnificence of its

situation and form, and with the solemn grandeur of its history.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Spelled variously, by different authors, Caïpha, Kaïfa,

Caiffa, and in other ways.

[2] The charts, as executed by the engineers, were on a

still larger scale than is here represented. It was

necessary to reduce the scale by one-fourth, in order to

bring the portion to be copied within the limits of a page.

[3] A striking example of this occurs at Long Branch in New

Jersey, where a stream crosses the beach in entering the

sea, at a point about half a mile to the southward of the

hotels resorted to on that coast in summer by bathers. The

visitor who walks along the shore in that direction,

sometimes at a certain point finds himself upon an elevated

sandy ridge, with the surf of the sea rolling in upon one

side of it, and what appears to be a large inland pond lying

quietly on the other. A few days afterward, on visiting the

spot, he observes, perhaps, that the pond has disappeared;

and a wide chasm has been made across the ridge of sand that

he walked over before in safety, through the centre of which

a small stream is flowing quietly into the sea. Neither of

these views are of a nature to awaken any very special

interest, except when they are considered in connection with

each other: but if the observer should chance to come upon

the ground when the pond is nearly full, he may witness a

very extraordinary spectacle in the rushing out of the

torrent by which the barrier is carried away. The boys of

the vicinity often find amusement in hastening the

catastrophe, by digging a little channel in the sand with

their hands, when the water has risen nearly to the proper

level. The stream that flows through this opening is at

first extremely small, but it grows wider, deeper, and more

rapid every moment, as the opening enlarges, and soon

becomes a roaring torrent, spreading to a great width, and

tossing itself into surges and crests as it rushes down the

slope into the sea, in the most wild and tumultuous manner.

The spectacle is almost equally imposing when, after the

pond has emptied itself, and the tide begins to rise, the

surf of the sea engages in its work of reconstructing the

dam.

[4] It is somewhat doubtful whether the very first discovery

of the art of making glass, took place here or not, as

learned men have noticed a considerable number of allusions

in various writings of a very high antiquity, which they

have thought might possibly refer to this substance. An

example of this kind is found in the book of Job, where a

word, translated crystal, is used. The writer, speaking of

wisdom, says, "It can not be equaled with the gold of Ophir,

with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. The gold and the

_crystal_ can not equal it." It has been considered doubtful

whether the word crystal, in this connection, is meant to

denote a glass or some transparent mineral.

[5] See 1 Kings xviii. 17-46. For other passages of

Scripture referring to Mt. Carmel see 2 Kings ii. 25; iv.

25; xix. 23. 2 Chron. xxvi. 10. Isa. xxxv. 2. Jer. xlvi. 18.

Amos i. 2; ix. 3. Micah vii. 14.

[6] 1 Kings xviii. 4

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

FIRST CONSUL FOR LIFE.

France was now at peace with all the world. It was universally

admitted that Napoleon was the great pacificator. He was the idol of

France. The masses of the people in Europe, every where regarded him

as their advocate and friend, the enemy of aristocratic usurpation,

and the great champion of equality. The people of France no longer

demanded _liberty_. Weary years of woe had taught them gladly to

relinquish the boon. They only desired a ruler who would take care

of them, govern them, protect them from the power of allied

despotism, and give them equal rights. Though Napoleon had now but

the title of First Consul, and France was nominally a republic, he

was in reality the most powerful monarch in Europe. His throne was

established in the hearts of nearly forty millions of people. His

word was law.

It will be remembered that Josephine contemplated the extraordinary

grandeur to which her husband had attained, with intense solicitude.

She saw that more than ordinary regal power had passed into his

hands, and she was not a stranger to the intense desire which

animated his heart to have an heir to whom to transmit his name and

his glory. She knew that many were intimating to him that an heir

was essential to the repose of France. She was fully informed that

divorce had been urged upon him as one of the stern necessities of

state. One day, when Napoleon was busy in his cabinet, Josephine

entered softly, by a side door, and seating herself affectionately

upon his knee, and passing her hand gently through his hair, said to

him, with a burst of tenderness, "I entreat you, my friend, do not

make yourself king. It is Lucien who urges you to it. Do not listen

to him." Napoleon smiled upon her kindly, and said, "Why, my poor

Josephine, you are mad. You must not listen to these fables which

the old dowagers tell you. But you interrupt me now; I am very busy;

leave me alone."

It is recorded that Lucien ventured to suggest to Josephine that a

law higher than the law of ordinary morality required that she must

become a mother, even were it necessary, for the attainment of that

end, that she should violate her nuptial vows. Brutalizing and

vulgar infidelity had obliterated in France, nearly all the

sacredness of domestic ties. Josephine, instinctively virtuous, and

revering the religion of her childhood, which her husband had

reinstated, bursting into tears, indignantly exclaimed, "This is

dreadful. Wretched should I be were any one to suppose me capable of

listening, without horror, to your infamous proposal. Your ideas are

poisonous; your language horrible." "Well, then, madame," responded

Lucien, "all that I can say is, that from my heart I pity you."

Josephine was at times almost delirious in apprehension of the awful

calamity which threatened her. She knew the intensity of her

husband's love. She also knew the boundlessness of his ambition.

She could not be blind to the apparent importance, as a matter of

state policy, that Napoleon should possess an heir. She also was

fully aware that throughout France marriage had long been regarded

but as a partnership of convenience, to be formed and sundered

almost at pleasure. "Marriage," said Madame de Stael, "has become

but the sacrament of adultery." The nation, under the influence of

these views, would condemn her for selfishly refusing assent to an

arrangement apparently essential to the repose of France and of

Europe. Never was a woman placed in a situation of more terrible

trial. Never was an ambitious man exposed to a more fiery

temptation. Laying aside the authority of Christianity, and

contemplating the subject in the light of mere expediency, it seemed

a plain duty for Napoleon and Josephine to separate. But gloriously

does it illustrate the immutable truth of God's word, that even in

such an exigence as this, the path which the Bible pointed out was

the only path of safety and of peace. "In separating myself from

Josephine," said Napoleon afterward, "and in marrying Maria Louisa,

I placed my foot upon an abyss which was covered with flowers."

Josephine's daughter, Hortense, beautiful, brilliant, and amiable,

then but eighteen years of age, was strongly attached to Duroc, one

of Napoleon's aids, a very fashionable and handsome man. Josephine,

however, had conceived the idea of marrying Hortense to Louis

Bonaparte, Napoleon's younger brother. She said, one day, to

Bourrienne, "My two brothers-in-law are my determined enemies. You

see all their intrigues. You know how much uneasiness they have

caused me. This projected marriage with Duroc, leaves me without any

support. Duroc, independent of Bonaparte's friendship, is nothing.

He has neither fortune, rank, nor even reputation. He can afford me

no protection against the enmity of the brothers. I must have some

more certain reliance for the future. My husband loves Louis very

much. If I can succeed in uniting my daughter to him, he will prove

a strong counterpoise to the calumnies and persecutions of my

brothers-in-law." These remarks were reported to Napoleon. He

replied, "Josephine labors in vain. Duroc and Hortense love each

other, and they shall be married. I am attached to Duroc. He is well

born. I have given Caroline to Murat, and Pauline to Le Clerc. I can

as well give Hortense to Duroc. He is brave. He is as good as the

others. He is general of division. Besides, I have other views for

Louis."

In the palace the heart may throb with the same joys and griefs as

in the cottage. In anticipation of the projected marriage Duroc was

sent on a special mission to compliment the Emperor Alexander on his

accession to the throne. Duroc wrote often to Hortense while absent.

When the private secretary whispered in her ear, in the midst of the

brilliant throng of the Tuileries, "I have a letter," she would

immediately retire to her apartment. Upon her return her friends

could see that her eyes were moistened with the tears of affection

and joy. Josephine cherished the hope that could she succeed in

uniting Hortense with Louis Bonaparte, should Hortense give birth to

a son, Napoleon would regard him as his heir. The child would bear

the name of Bonaparte; the blood of the Bonapartes would circulate

in his veins; and he would be the offspring of Hortense, whom

Napoleon regarded as his own daughter, and whom he loved with the

strongest parental affection. Thus the terrible divorce might be

averted. Urged by motives so powerful, Josephine left no means

untried to accomplish her purpose.

Louis Bonaparte was a studious, pensive, imaginative man, of great

moral worth, though possessing but little force of character. He had

been bitterly disappointed in his affections, and was weary of the

world. When but nineteen years of age he had formed a very strong

attachment for a young lady whom he had met in Paris. She was the

daughter of an emigrant noble, and his whole being became absorbed

in the passion of love. Napoleon, then in the midst of those

victories which paved his way to the throne of France, was

apprehensive that the alliance of his brother with one of the old

royalist families, might endanger his own ambitious projects. He

therefore sent him away on a military commission, and secured, by

his powerful instrumentality, the marriage of the young lady to

another person. The disappointment preyed deeply upon the heart of

the sensitive young man. All ambition died within him. He loved

solitude, and studiously avoided the cares and pomp of state.

Napoleon, not having been aware of the extreme strength of his

brother's attachment, when he saw the wound which he had inflicted

upon him, endeavored to make all the amends in his power. Hortense

was beautiful, full of grace and vivacity. At last Napoleon fell in

with the views of Josephine, and resolved, having united the two, to

recompense his brother, as far as possible, by lavishing great

favors upon them.

It was long before Louis would listen to the proposition of his

marriage with Hortense. His affections still clung to the lost

object of his idolatry, and he could not, without pain, think of

union with another. Indeed a more uncongenial alliance could hardly

have been imagined. In no one thing were their tastes similar. But

who could resist the combined tact of Josephine and power of

Napoleon. All obstacles were swept away, and the maiden, loving the

hilarity of life, and its gayest scenes of festivity and splendor,

was reluctantly led to the silent, pensive scholar, who as

reluctantly received her as his bride. Hortense had become in some

degree reconciled to the match, as her powerful father promised to

place them in high positions of wealth and rank. Louis resigned

himself to his lot, feeling that earth had no further joy in store

for him. A magnificent _fête_ was given in honor of this marriage,

at which all the splendors of the ancient royalty were revived.

Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who, as President of the French Republic,

succeeded Louis Philippe, the King of the French, was the only child

of this marriage who survived his parents.

Napoleon had organized in the heart of Italy a republic containing

about five millions of inhabitants. This republic could by no means

maintain itself against the monarchies of Europe, unaided by France.

Napoleon, surrounded by hostile kings, deemed it essential to the

safety of France, to secure in Italy a nation of congenial

sympathies and interests, with whom he could form the alliance

of cordial friendship. The Italians, all inexperienced in

self-government, regarding Napoleon as their benefactor and their

sole supporter, looked to him for a constitution. Three of the most

influential men of the Cisalpine Republic, were sent as delegates to

Paris, to consult with the First Consul upon the organization of

their government. Under the direction of Napoleon a constitution was

drafted, which, considering the character of the Italian people, and

the hostile monarchical influences which surrounded them, was most

highly liberal. A President and Vice-president were to be chosen for

ten years. There was to be a Senate of eight members and a House of

Representatives of seventy-five members. These were all to be

selected from a body composed of 300 landed proprietors, 200

merchants, and 200 of the clergy and prominent literary men. Thus

all the important interests of the state were represented.

In Italy, as in all the other countries of Europe at that time,

there were three prominent parties. The Loyalists sought the

restoration of monarchy and the exclusive privileges of kings and

nobles. The Moderate Republicans wished to establish a firm

government, which would enforce order and confer upon all equal

rights. The Jacobins wished to break down all distinctions, divide

property, and to govern by the blind energies of the mob. Italy had

long been held in subjection by the spiritual terrors of the priests

and by the bayonets of the Austrians. Ages of bondage had enervated

the people and there were no Italian statesmen capable of taking the

helm of government in such a turbulent sea of troubles. Napoleon

resolved to have himself proposed as President, and then reserving

to himself the supreme direction, to delegate the details of affairs

to distinguished Italians, until they should, in some degree, be

trained to duties so new to them. Says Thiers, "This plan was not,

on his part, the inspiration of ambition, but rather of great good

sense. His views on this occasion were unquestionably both pure and

exalted." But nothing can more strikingly show the almost miraculous

energies of Napoleon's mind, and his perfect self-reliance, than the

readiness with which, in addition to the cares of the Empire of

France, he assumed the responsibility of organizing and developing

another nation of five millions of inhabitants. This was in 1802.

Napoleon was then but thirty-three years of age.

To have surrendered those Italians, who had rallied around the

armies of France in their hour of need, again to Austrian

domination, would have been an act of treachery. To have abandoned

them, in their inexperience, to the Jacobin mob on the one hand, and

to royalist intrigues on the other, would have insured the ruin of

the Republic. But by leaving the details of government to be

administered by Italians, and at the same time sustaining the

constitution by his own powerful hand, there was a probability that

the republic might attain prosperity and independence. As the press

of business rendered it extremely difficult for Napoleon to leave

France, a plan was formed for a vast congress of the Italians, to be

assembled in Lyons, about half way between Paris and Milan, for the

imposing adoption of the republican constitution. Four hundred and

fifty-two deputies were elected to cross the frozen Alps, in the

month of December. The extraordinary watchfulness and foresight of

the First Consul, had prepared every comfort for them on the way. In

Lyons sumptuous preparations were made for their entertainment.

Magnificent halls were decorated in the highest style of earthly

splendor for the solemnities of the occasion. The army of Egypt,

which had recently landed, bronzed by an African sun, was gorgeously

attired to add to the magnificence of the spectacle. The Lyonese

youth, exultant with pride, were formed into an imposing body of

cavalry. On the 11th of January, 1802, Napoleon, accompanied by

Josephine, arrived in Lyons. The whole population of the adjoining

country had assembled along the road, anxiously watching for his

passage. At night immense fires illumined his path, blazing upon

every hill side and in every valley. One continuous shout of "Live

Bonaparte," rolled along with the carriage from Paris to Lyons. It

was late in the evening when Napoleon arrived in Lyons. The

brilliant city flamed with the splendor of noon-day. The carriage of

the First Consul passed under a triumphal arch, surmounted by a

sleeping lion, the emblem of France, and Napoleon took up his

residence in the Hotel de Ville, which, in most princely

sumptuousness had been decorated for his reception. The Italians

adored Napoleon. They felt personally ennobled by his renown, for

they considered him their countryman. The Italian language was his

native tongue, and he spoke it with the most perfect fluency and

elegance. The moment that the name of Napoleon was suggested to the

deputies as President of the Republic, it was received with shouts

of enthusiastic acclamation. A deputation was immediately sent to

the First Consul to express the unanimous and cordial wish of the

convention that he would accept the office. While these things were

transpiring, Napoleon, ever intensely occupied, was inspecting his

veteran soldiers of Italy and of Egypt, in a public review. The

elements seemed to conspire to invest the occasion with splendor.

The day was cloudless, the sun brilliant, the sky serene, the air

invigorating. All the inhabitants of Lyons and the populace of the

adjacent country thronged the streets. No pen can describe the

transports with which the hero was received, as he rode along the

lines of these veterans, whom he had so often led to victory. The

soldiers shouted in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Old men, and young men,

and boys caught the shout and it reverberated along the streets in

one continuous roar. Matrons and maidens, waving banners and

handkerchiefs, wept in excess of emotion. Bouquets of flowers were

showered from the windows, to carpet his path, and every conceivable

demonstration was made of the most enthusiastic love. Napoleon

himself was deeply moved by the scene. Some of the old grenadiers,

whom he recognized, he called out of the ranks, kindly talked with

them, inquiring respecting their wounds and their wants. He

addressed several of the officers, whom he had seen in many

encounters, shook hands with them, and a delirium of excitement

pervaded all minds. Upon his return to the Hotel de Ville, he met

the deputation of the convention. They presented him the address,

urging upon him the acceptance of the Presidency of the Cisalpine

Republic. Napoleon received the address, intimated his acceptance,

and promised, on the following day, to meet the convention.

[Illustration: REVIEW AT LYONS.]

The next morning dawned brightly upon the city. A large church,

embellished with richest drapery, was prepared for the solemnities

of the occasion. Napoleon entered the church, took his seat upon an

elevated platform, surrounded by his family, the French ministers,

and a large number of distinguished generals and statesmen. He

addressed the assembly in the Italian language, with as much ease of

manner, elegance of expression, and fluency of utterance as if his

whole life had been devoted to the cultivation of the powers of

oratory. He announced his acceptance of the dignity with which they

would invest him, and uttered his views respecting the measures

which should be adopted to secure the prosperity of the _Italian

Republic_, as the new state was henceforth to be called. Repeated

bursts of applause interrupted his address, and at its close one

continuous shout of acclamation testified the assent and the delight

of the assembled multitude. Napoleon remained at Lyons twenty days,

occupied, apparently every moment, with the vast affairs which then

engrossed his attention. And yet he found time to write daily to

Paris, urging forward the majestic enterprises of the new government

in France. The following brief extracts, from this free and

confidential correspondence, afford an interesting glimpse of the

motives which actuated Napoleon at this time, and of the great

objects of his ambition.

"I am proceeding slowly in my operations. I pass the whole of my

mornings in giving audience to the deputations of the neighboring

departments. The improvement in the happiness of France is obvious.

During the past two years the population of Lyons has increased more

than 20,000 souls. All the manufacturers tell me that their works

are in a state of high activity. All minds seem to be full of

energy, not that energy which overturns empires, but that which

re-establishes them, and conducts them to prosperity and riches."

"I beg of you particularly to see that the unruly members, whom we

have in the constituted authorities, are every one of them removed.

The wish of the nation is, that the government shall not be

obstructed in its endeavors to act for the public good, and that the

head of Medusa shall no longer show itself, either in our tribunes

or in our assemblies. The conduct of Sieyes, on this occasion,

completely proves that, having contributed to the destruction of all

the constitutions since '91, he wishes now to try his hand against

the present. He ought to burn a wax candle to Our Lady, for having

got out of the scrape so fortunately and in so unexpected a manner.

But the older I grow, the more I perceive that each man must fulfill

his destiny. I recommend you to ascertain whether the provisions for

St. Domingo have actually been sent off. I take it for granted that

you have taken proper measures for demolishing the Châtelet. If the

Minister of Marine should stand in need of the frigates of the King

of Naples, he may make use of them. General Jourdan gives me a

satisfactory account of the state of Piedmont."

"I wish that citizen Royer be sent to the 16th military division, to

examine into the accounts of the paymaster. I also wish some

individual, like citizen Royer, to perform the same duty for the

13th and 14th divisions. It is complained that the receivers keep

the money as long as they can, and that the paymasters postpone

payment as long as possible. The paymasters and the receivers are

the greatest nuisance in the state."

"Yesterday I visited several factories. I was pleased with the

industry and the severe economy which pervaded these establishments.

Should the wintry weather continue severe, I do not think that the

$25,000 a month, which the Minister of the Interior grants for the

purposes of charity, will be sufficient. It will be necessary to add

five thousand dollars for the distribution of wood, and also to

light fires in the churches and other large buildings to give warmth

to a great number of people."

Napoleon arrived in Paris on the 31st of January. In the mean time,

there had been a new election of members of the Tribunate and of the

Legislative body. All those who had manifested any opposition to the

measures of Napoleon, in the re-establishment of Christianity, and

in the adoption of the new civil code, were left out, and their

places supplied by those who approved of the measures of the First

Consul. Napoleon could now act unembarrassed. In every quarter there

was submission. All the officers of the state, immediately upon his

return, sought an audience, and, in that pomp of language which his

majestic deeds and character inspired, presented to him their

congratulations. He was already a sovereign, in possession of regal

power, such as no other monarch in Europe enjoyed. Upon one object

all the energies of his mighty mind were concentrated. France was

his estate, his diadem, his all. The glory of France was his glory,

the happiness of France his happiness, the riches of France his

wealth. Never did a father with more untiring self-denial and toil

labor for his family, than did Napoleon through days of Herculean

exertion and nights of sleeplessness devote every energy of body and

soul to the greatness of France. He loved not ease, he loved not

personal indulgence, he loved not sensual gratification. The

elevation of France to prosperity, wealth, and power, was a

limitless ambition. The almost supernatural success which had thus

far attended his exertions, did but magnify his desires and

stimulate his hopes. He had no wish to elevate France upon the ruins

of other nations. But he wished to make France the pattern of all

excellence, the illustrious leader, at the head of all nations,

guiding them to intelligence, to opulence, and to happiness. Such,

at this time, was the towering ambition of Napoleon, the most noble

and comprehensive which was ever embraced by the conception of man.

Of course, such ambition was not consistent with the equality of

other nations, for he determined that France should be the first.

But he manifested no disposition to destroy the prosperity of

others; he only wished to give such an impulse to humanity in

France, by the culture of mind, by purity of morals, by domestic

industry, by foreign commerce, by great national works, as to place

France in the advance upon the race course of greatness. In this

race France had but one antagonist--England. France had nearly forty

millions of inhabitants. The island of Great Britain contained but

about fifteen millions. But England, with her colonies, girdled the

globe, and, with her fleets, commanded all seas. "France," said

Napoleon, "must also have her colonies and her fleets." "If we

permit that," the statesmen of England rejoined, "we may become a

secondary power, and may thus be at the mercy of France." It was

undeniably so. Shall history be blind to such fatality as this? Is

man, in the hour of triumphant ambition, so moderate, that we can be

willing that he should attain power which places us at his mercy?

England was omnipotent upon the seas. She became arrogant, and

abused that power, and made herself offensive to all nations.

Napoleon developed no special meekness of character to indicate that

he would be, in the pride of strength which no nation could resist,

more moderate and conciliating. Candor can not censure England for

being unwilling to yield her high position--to surrender her

supremacy on the seas--to become a secondary power--to allow France

to become her master. And who can censure France for seeking the

establishment of colonies, the extension of commerce, friendly

alliance with other nations, and the creation of fleets to protect

her from aggression upon the ocean, as well as upon the land?

Napoleon himself, with that wonderful magnanimity which ever

characterized him, though at times exasperated by the hostility

which he now encountered, yet often spoke in terms of respect of the

influences which animated his foes. It is to be regretted that his

antagonists so seldom reciprocated this magnanimity. There was here,

most certainly, a right and a wrong. But it is not easy for man

accurately to adjust the balance. God alone can award the issue.

The mind is saddened as it wanders amid the labyrinths of

conscientiousness and of passion, of pure motives and of impure

ambition. This is, indeed, a fallen world. The drama of nations is a

tragedy. Melancholy is the lot of man.

England daily witnessed, with increasing alarm, the rapid and

enormous strides which France was making. The energy of the First

Consul seemed superhuman. His acts indicated the most profound

sagacity, the most far-reaching foresight. To-day the news reaches

London that Napoleon has been elected President of the Italian

Republic. Thus in an hour five millions of people are added to his

empire! To-morrow it is announced that he is establishing a colony

at Elba, that a vast expedition is sailing for St. Domingo, to

re-organize the colony there. England is bewildered. Again it is

proclaimed that Napoleon has purchased Louisiana of Spain, and is

preparing to fill the fertile valley of the Mississippi with

colonists. In the mean time, all France is in a state of activity.

Factories, roads, bridges, canals, fortifications are every where

springing into existence. The sound of the ship hammer reverberates

in all the harbors of France, and every month witnesses the increase

of the French fleet. The mass of the English people contemplate with

admiration this development of energy. The statesmen of England

contemplate it with dread.

For some months, Napoleon, in the midst of all his other cares, had

been maturing a vast system of public instruction for the youth of

France. He drew up, with his own hand, the plan for their schools,

and proposed the course of study. It is a little singular that, with

his strong scientific predilections, he should have assigned the

first rank to classical studies. Perhaps this is to be accounted for

from his profound admiration of the heroes of antiquity. His own

mind was most thoroughly stored with all the treasures of Greek and

Roman story. All these schools were formed upon a military model,

for, situated as France was, in the midst of monarchies, at heart

hostile, he deemed it necessary that the nation should be

universally trained to bear arms. Religious instruction was to be

communicated in all these schools by chaplains, military instruction

by old officers who had left the army, and classical and scientific

instruction by the most learned men Europe could furnish. The First

Consul also devoted special attention to female schools. "France

needs nothing so much to promote her regeneration," said he, "as

good mothers." To attract the youth of France to these schools, one

million of dollars was appropriated for over six thousand gratuitous

exhibitions for the pupils. Ten schools of law were established,

nine schools of medicine, and an institution for the mechanical

arts, called the "School of Bridges and Roads," the first model of

those schools of art which continue in France until the present day,

and which are deemed invaluable. There were no exclusive privileges

in these institutions. A system of perfect equality pervaded them.

The pupils of all classes were placed upon a level, with an

unobstructed arena before them. "This is only a commencement," said

Napoleon, "by-and-by we shall do more and better."

Another project which Napoleon now introduced was vehemently

opposed--the establishment of the Legion of Honor. One of the

leading principles of the revolution was the entire overthrow of all

titles of distinction. Every man, high or low, was to be addressed

simply as _Citizen_. Napoleon wished to introduce a system of

rewards which should stimulate to heroic deeds, and which should

ennoble those who had deserved well of humanity. Innumerable

foreigners of distinction had thronged France since the peace. He

had observed with what eagerness the populace had followed these

foreigners, gazing with delight upon their gay decorations. The

court-yard of the Tuileries was ever crowded when these illustrious

strangers arrived and departed. Napoleon, in his council, where he

was always eloquent and powerful, thus urged his views:

"Look at these vanities, which genius pretends so much to disdain.

The populace is not of that opinion. It loves these many-colored

ribbons, as it loves religious pomp. The democrat philosopher calls

it vanity. Vanity let it be. But that vanity is a weakness common to

the whole human race, and great virtues may be made to spring from

it. With these so much despised baubles heroes are made. There must

be worship for the religious sentiment. There must be visible

distinctions for the noble sentiment of glory. Nations should not

strive to be singular any more than individuals. The affectation of

acting differently from the rest of the world, is an affectation

which is reproved by all persons of sense and modesty. Ribbons are

in use in all countries. Let them be in use in France. It will be

one more friendly relation established with Europe. Our neighbors

give them only to the man of noble birth. I will give them to the

man of merit--to the one who shall have served best in the army or

in the state, or who shall have produced the finest works."

It was objected that the institution of the Legion of Honor was a

return to the aristocracy which the revolution had abolished. "What

is there aristocratic," Napoleon exclaimed, "in a distinction purely

personal, and merely for life, bestowed on the man who has displayed

merit, whether civil or military--bestowed on him alone, bestowed

for his life only, and not passing to his children. Such a

distinction is the reverse of aristocratic. It is the essence of

aristocracy that its titles are transmitted from the man who has

earned them, to the son who possesses no merit. The ancient regimé,

so battered by the ram of the revolution, is more entire than is

believed. All the emigrants hold each other by the hand. The

Vendeeans are secretly enrolled. The priests, at heart, are not very

friendly to us. With the words 'legitimate king,' thousands might be

roused to arms. It is needful that the men who have taken part in

the revolution should have a bond of union, and cease to depend on

the first accident which might strike one single head. For ten years

we have only been making ruins. We must now found an edifice. Depend

upon it, the struggle is not over with Europe. Be assured that

struggle will begin again."

It was then urged by some, that the Legion of Honor should be

confined entirely to military merit. "By no means," said Napoleon,

"Rewards are not to be conferred upon soldiers alone. All sorts of

merit are brothers. The courage of the President of the Convention,

resisting the populace, should be compared with the courage of

Kleber, mounting to the assault of Acre. It is right that civil

virtues should have their reward, as well as military virtues. Those

who oppose this course, reason like barbarians. It is the religion

of brute force they commend to us. Intelligence has its rights

before those of force. Force, without intelligence, is nothing. In

barbarous ages, the man of stoutest sinews was the chieftain. Now

the general is the most intelligent of the brave. At Cairo, the

Egyptians could not comprehend how it was that Kleber, with his

majestic form, was not commander-in-chief. When Mourad Bey had

carefully observed our tactics, he could comprehend how it was that

I, and no other, ought to be the general of an army so conducted.

You reason like the Egyptians, when you attempt to confine rewards

to military valor. The soldiers reason better than you. Go to their

bivouacs; listen to them. Do you imagine that it is the tallest of

their officers, and the most imposing by his stature, for whom they

feel the highest regard? Do you imagine even that the bravest stands

first in their esteem? No doubt they would despise the man whose

courage they suspected; but they rank above the merely brave man him

whom they consider the most intelligent. As for myself, do you

suppose that it is solely because I am reputed a great general that

I rule France? No! It is because the qualities of a statesman and a

magistrate are attributed to me. France will never tolerate the

government of the sword. Those who think so are strangely mistaken.

It would require an abject servitude of fifty years before that

could be the case. France is too noble, too intelligent a country to

submit to material power. Let us honor intelligence, virtue, the

civil qualities; in short, let us bestow upon them, in all

professions, the like reward."

The true spirit of republicanism is certainly equality of rights,

not of attainments and honors; the abolition of hereditary

distinctions and privileges, not of those which are founded upon

merit. The badge of the Legion of Honor was to be conferred upon all

who, by genius, self-denial, and toil, had won renown. The prizes

were open to the humblest peasant in the land. Still the popular

hostility to any institution which bore a resemblance to the

aristocracy of the ancient nobility was so strong, that though a

majority voted in favor of the measure, there was a strong

opposition. Napoleon was surprised. He said to Bourrienne: "You are

right. Prejudices are still against me. I ought to have waited.

There was no occasion for haste in bringing it forward. But the

thing is done; and you will soon find that the taste for these

distinctions is not yet gone by. It is a taste which belongs to the

nature of man. You will see that extraordinary results will arise

from it."

The order was to consist of six thousand members. It was constituted

in four ranks: grand officers, commanders, officers, and private

legionaries. The badge was simply a red ribbon, in the button-hole.

To the first rank, there was allotted an annual salary of $1000; to

the second, $400; to the third, $200; to the fourth, $50. The

private soldier, the retired scholar, and the skillful artist were

thus decorated with the same badge of distinction which figured upon

the breasts of generals, nobles, and monarchs. That this institution

was peculiarly adapted to the state of France, is evident from the

fact, that it has survived all the revolutions of subsequent years.

"Though of such recent origin," says Thiers, "it is already

consecrated as if it had passed through centuries; to such a degree

has it become the recompense of heroism, of knowledge, of merit of

every kind--so much have its honors been coveted by the grandees and

the princes of Europe the most proud of their origin."

The popularity of Napoleon was now unbounded. A very general and

earnest disposition was expressed to confer upon the First Consul a

magnificent testimonial of the national gratitude--a testimonial

worthy of the illustrious man who was to receive it, and of the

powerful nation by which it was to be bestowed. The President of the

Tribunal thus addressed that body: "Among all nations public honors

have been decreed to men who, by splendid actions, have honored

their country, and saved it from great dangers. What man ever had

stronger claims to the national gratitude than General Bonaparte?

His valor and genius have saved the French people from the excesses

of anarchy, and from the miseries of war; and France is too great,

too magnanimous to leave such benefits without reward."

A deputation was immediately chosen to confer with Napoleon upon the

subject of the tribute of gratitude and affection which he should

receive. Surrounded by his colleagues and the principal officers of

the state, he received them the next day in the Tuileries. With

seriousness and modesty he listened to the high eulogium upon his

achievements which was pronounced, and then replied: "I receive

with sincere gratitude the wish expressed by the Tribunate. I desire

no other glory than that of having completely performed the task

imposed upon me. I aspire to no other reward than the affection of

my fellow-citizens. I shall be happy if they are thoroughly

convinced, that the evils which they may experience, will always be

to me the severest of misfortunes; that life is dear to me solely

for the services which I am able to render to my country; that death

itself will have no bitterness for me, if my last looks can see the

happiness of the republic as firmly secured as is its glory."

[Illustration: RECEPTION AT THE TUILERIES.]

But how was Napoleon to be rewarded? That was the great and

difficult question. Was wealth to be conferred upon him? For wealth

he cared nothing. Millions had been at his disposal, and he had

emptied them all into the treasury of France. Ease, luxury,

self-indulgence had no charms for him. Were monuments to be reared

to his honor, titles to be lavished upon his name? Napoleon regarded

these but as means for the accomplishment of ends. In themselves

they were nothing. The one only thing which he desired was _power_,

power to work out vast results for others, and thus to secure for

himself renown, which should be pure and imperishable. But how could

the _power_ of Napoleon be increased? He was already almost

absolute. Whatever he willed, he accomplished. Senators,

legislators, and tribunes all co-operated in giving energy to his

plans. It will be remembered, that Napoleon was elected First Consul

for a period of ten years. It seemed that there was absolutely

nothing which could be done, gratifying to the First Consul, but to

prolong the term of his Consulship, by either adding to it another

period of ten years, or by continuing it during his life. "What does

he wish?" was the universal inquiry. Every possible means were

tried, but in vain, to obtain a single word from his lips,

significant of his desires. One of the senators went to Cambaceres,

and said, "What would be gratifying to General Bonaparte? Does he

wish to be king? Only let him say so, and we are all ready to vote

for the re-establishment of royalty. Most willingly will we do it

for him, for he is worthy of that station." But the First Consul

shut himself up in impenetrable reserve. Even his most intimate

friends could catch no glimpse of his secret wishes. At last the

question was plainly and earnestly put to him. With great apparent

humility, he replied: "I have not fixed my mind upon any thing. Any

testimony of the public confidence will be sufficient for me, and

will fill me with satisfaction." The question was then discussed

whether to add ten years to his Consulship, or to make him First

Consul for life. Cambaceres knew well the boundless ambition of

Napoleon, and was fully conscious, that any limited period of power

would not be in accordance with his plans. He ventured to say to

him; "You are wrong not to explain yourself. Your enemies, for

notwithstanding your services, you have some left even in the

Senate, will abuse your reserve." Napoleon calmly replied: "Let them

alone. The majority of the Senate is always ready to do more than it

is asked. They will go further than you imagine."

On the evening of the 8th of May, 1802, the resolution was adopted,

of prolonging the powers of the First Consul for _ten years_.

Napoleon was probably surprised and disappointed. He, however,

decided to return a grateful answer, and to say that not from the

Senate, but from the suffrages of the people alone could he accept a

prolongation of that power to which their voices had elevated him.

The following answer was transmitted to the Senate, the next

morning:

"The honorable proof of your esteem, given in your deliberation of

the 8th, will remain forever engraven on my heart. In the three

years which have just elapsed fortune has smiled upon the republic.

But fortune is fickle. How many men whom she has loaded with favors,

have lived a few years too long. The interest of my glory and that

of my happiness, would seem to have marked the term of my public

life, at the moment when the peace of the world is proclaimed. But

the glory and the happiness of the citizen ought to be silent, when

the interest of the state, and the public partiality, call him. You

judge that I owe a new sacrifice to the people. I will make it, if

the wishes of the people command what your suffrage authorizes."

[Illustration: MALMAISON.]

Napoleon immediately left Paris for his country-seat at Malmaison.

This beautiful chateau was about ten miles from the metropolis.

Josephine had purchased the peaceful, rural retreat at Napoleon's

request, during his first Italian campaign. Subsequently, large sums

had been expended in enlarging and improving the grounds; and it was

ever the favorite residence of both Napoleon and Josephine.

Cambaceres called an extraordinary meeting of the Council of State.

After much deliberation, it was resolved, by an immense majority,

that the following proposition should be submitted to the people:

"Shall Napoleon Bonaparte be First Consul for life?" It was then

resolved to submit a second question: "Shall the First Consul have

the power of appointing his successor?" This was indeed

re-establishing monarchy, under a republican name.

Cambaceres immediately repaired to Malmaison, to submit these

resolutions to Napoleon. To the amazement of all, he immediately and

firmly rejected the second question. Energetically, he said: "Whom

would you have me appoint my successor? My brothers? But will

France, which has consented to be governed by me, consent to be

governed by Joseph or Lucien? Shall I nominate you consul,

Cambaceres? You? Dare you undertake such a task? And then the will

of Louis XIV. was not respected; is it likely that mine would be? A

dead man, let him be who he will, is nobody." In opposition to all

urgency, he ordered the second question to be erased, and the first

only to be submitted to the people. It is impossible to divine the

motive which influenced Napoleon in this most unexpected decision.

Some have supposed that even then he had in view the Empire and the

hereditary monarchy, and that he wished to leave a chasm in the

organization of the government, as a reason for future change.

Others have supposed that he dreaded the rivalries which would arise

among his brothers and his nephews, from his having at his disposal

so resplendent a gift as the Empire of France. But the historian

treads upon dangerous ground, when he begins to judge of motives.

That which Napoleon actually _did_ was moderate and noble in the

highest degree. He declined the power of appointing his successor,

and submitted his election to the suffrages of the people. A

majority of 3,568,885 voted for the Consulate for life, and only

eight thousands and a few hundreds, against it. Never before, or

since, was an earthly government established by such unanimity.

Never had a monarch a more indisputable title to his throne. Upon

this occasion Lafayette added to his vote these qualifying words: "I

can not vote for such a magistracy, until public freedom is

sufficiently guaranteed. When that is done, I give my voice to

Napoleon Bonaparte." In a private conversation with the First

Consul, he added: "A free government, and you at its head--that

comprehends all my desires." Napoleon remarked: "In theory Lafayette

is perhaps right. But what is theory? A mere dream, when applied to

the masses of mankind. He thinks he is still in the United

States--as if the French were Americans. He has no conception of

what is required for this country."

A day was fixed for a grand diplomatic festival, when Napoleon

should receive the congratulations of the constituted authorities,

and of the foreign embassadors. The soldiers, in brilliant uniform,

formed a double line, from the Tuileries to the Luxembourg. The

First Consul was seated in a magnificent chariot, drawn by eight

horses. A cortège of gorgeous splendor accompanied him. All Paris

thronged the streets through which he passed, and the most

enthusiastic applause rent the heavens. To the congratulatory

address of the Senate, Napoleon replied: "The life of a citizen

belongs to his country. The French nation wishes that mine should be

wholly consecrated to France. I obey its will. Through my efforts,

by your assistance, citizen-senators, by the aid of the authorities,

and by the confidence and support of this mighty people, the

liberty, equality, and prosperity of France will be rendered secure

against the caprices of fate, and the uncertainty of futurity. The

most virtuous of nations will be the most happy, as it deserves to

be; and its felicity will contribute to the general happiness of all

Europe. Proud then of being thus called, by the command of that

Power from which every thing emanates, to bring back order, justice,

and equality to the earth, when my last hour approaches, I shall

yield myself up with resignation, and, without any solicitude

respecting the opinions of future generations."

[Illustration: ELECTION FOR CONSUL FOR LIFE.]

On the following day the new articles, modifying the constitution in

accordance with the change in the consulship, were submitted to the

Council of State. The First Consul presided, and with his accustomed

vigor and perspicuity, explained the reasons of each article, as he

recounted them one by one. The articles contained the provision that

Napoleon should nominate his successor to the Senate. To this, after

a slight resistance, he yielded. The most profound satisfaction now

pervaded France. Even Josephine began to be tranquil and happy. She

imagined that all thoughts of royalty and of hereditary succession

had now passed away. She contemplated with no uneasiness the power

which Napoleon possessed of choosing his successor. Napoleon

sympathized cordially with her in her high gratification that

Hortense was soon to become a mother. This child was already, in

their hearts, the selected heir to the power of Napoleon. On the

15th of August, Paris magnificently celebrated the anniversary of

the birth-day of the First Consul. This was another introduction of

monarchical usages. All the high authorities of the Church and the

State, and the foreign diplomatic bodies, called upon him with

congratulations. At noon, in all the churches of the metropolis, a

_Te Deum_ was sung, in gratitude to God for the gift of Napoleon. At

night the city blazed with illuminations. The splendors and the

etiquette of royalty were now rapidly introduced; and the same

fickle populace who had so recently trampled princes and thrones

into blood and ruin, were now captivated with the reintroduction of

these discarded splendors. Napoleon soon established himself in the

beautiful chateau of St. Cloud, which he had caused to be repaired

with great magnificence. On the Sabbath the First Consul, with

Josephine, invariably attended divine service. Their example was

soon followed by most of the members of the court, and the nation as

a body returned to Christianity, which, even in its most corrupt

form, saves humanity from those abysses of degradation into which

infidelity plunges it. Immediately after divine service he conversed

in the gallery of the chateau with the visitors who were then

waiting for him. The brilliance of his intellect, and his high

renown, caused him to be approached with emotions of awe. His words

were listened to with intensest eagerness. He was the exclusive

object of observation and attention. No earthly potentate had ever

attained such a degree of homage, pure and sincere, as now circled

around the First Consul.

Napoleon was very desirous of having his court a model of decorum

and of morals. Lucien owned a beautiful rural mansion near Neuilly.

Upon one occasion he invited Napoleon, and all the inmates of

Malmaison, to attend some private theatricals at his dwelling.

Lucien and Eliza were the performers in a piece called Alzire. The

ardor of their declamation, the freedom of their gestures, and above

all the indelicacy of the costume which they assumed, displeased

Napoleon exceedingly. As soon as the play was over he exclaimed, "It

is a scandal. I ought not to suffer such indecencies. I will give

Lucien to understand that I will have no more of it." As soon as

Lucien entered the saloon, having resumed his usual dress, Napoleon

addressed him before the whole company, and requested him in future

to desist from all such representations. "What!" said he, "when I am

endeavoring to restore purity of manners, my brother and sister must

needs exhibit themselves upon a platform, almost in a state of

nudity! It is an insult!"

One day at this time Bourrienne, going from Malmaison to Ruel, lost

a beautiful watch. He proclaimed his loss by means of the bellman at

Ruel. An hour after, as he was sitting down to dinner, a peasant boy

brought him the watch, which he had found on the road. Napoleon

heard of the occurrence. Immediately he instituted inquiries

respecting the young man and the family. Hearing a good report of

them, he gave the three brothers employment, and amply rewarded the

honest lad. "Kindness," says Bourrienne, "was a very prominent trait

in the character of Napoleon."

If we now take a brief review of what Napoleon had accomplished

since his return from Egypt, it must be admitted that the records of

the world are to be searched in vain for a similar recital. No

mortal man before ever accomplished so much, or accomplished it so

well, in so short a time.

Let us for a moment return to his landing at Frejus on the 8th of

October, 1799, until he was chosen First Consul for life, in August,

1802, a period of not quite three years. Proceeding to Paris, almost

alone, he overthrew the Directory, and seized the supreme power;

restored order into the administration of government, established a

new and very efficient system for the collection of taxes, raised

public credit, and supplied the wants of the suffering army. By

great energy and humanity he immediately terminated the horrors of

that unnatural war which had for years been desolating La Vendee.

Condescending to the attitude of suppliant, he implored of Europe

peace. Europe chose war. By a majestic conception of military

combinations, he sent Moreau with a vast army to the Rhine;

stimulated Massena to the most desperate strife at Genoa, and then,

creating as by magic, an army, from materials which excited but the

ridicule of his foes, he climbed, with artillery and horse, and all

the munitions of war, the icy pinnacles of the Alps, and fell like

an avalanche upon his foes upon the plain of Marengo. With far

inferior numbers, he snatched the victory from the victors; and in

the exultant hour of the most signal conquest, wrote again from the

field of blood imploring peace. His foes, humbled, and at his mercy,

gladly availed themselves of his clemency, and promised to treat.

Perfidiously, they only sought time to regain their strength. He

then sent Moreau to Hohenlinden, and beneath the walls of Vienna

extorted peace with continental Europe. England still prosecuted the

war. The First Consul, by his genius, won the heart of Paul of

Russia, secured the affection of Prussia, Denmark, and Sweden, and

formed a league of all Europe against the Mistress of the Seas.

While engaged in this work, he paid the creditors of the State,

established the Bank of France, overwhelmed the highway robbers with

utter destruction, and restored security in all the provinces; cut

magnificent communications over the Alps, founded hospitals on their

summits, surrounded exposed cities with fortifications, opened

canals, constructed bridges, created magnificent roads, and

commenced the compilation of that civil code which will remain an

ever-during monument of his labors and his genius. In opposition to

the remonstrances of his best friends, he re-established

Christianity, and with it proclaimed perfect liberty of conscience.

Public works were every where established, to encourage industry.

Schools and colleges were founded. Merit of every kind was

stimulated by abundant rewards. Vast improvements were made in

Paris, and the streets cleaned and irrigated. In the midst of all

these cares, he was defending France against the assaults of the

most powerful nation on the globe; and he was preparing, as his last

resort, a vast army, to carry the war into the heart of England.

Notwithstanding the most atrocious libels with which England was

filled against him, his fame shone resplendent through them all, and

he was popular with the English people. Many of the most illustrious

of the English statesmen advocated his cause. His gigantic

adversary, William Pitt, vanquished by the genius of Napoleon, was

compelled to retire from the ministry--and the world was at peace.

The difficulties, perplexities, embarrassments which were

encountered in these enterprises were infinite. Says Napoleon, with

that magnanimity which history should recognize and applaud, "We are

told that all the First Consul had to look to, was to do justice.

But to whom was he to do justice? To the proprietors whom the

revolution had violently despoiled of their properties, for this

only, that they had been faithful to their legitimate sovereign and

to the principle of honor which they had inherited from their

ancestors; or to those new proprietors, who had purchased these

domains, adventuring their money on the faith of laws flowing from

an illegitimate authority? Was he to do justice to those royalist

soldiers, mutilated in the fields of Germany, La Vendee, and

Quiberon, arrayed under the white standard of the Bourbons, in the

firm belief that they were serving the cause of their king against a

usurping tyranny; or to the million of citizens, who, forming around

the frontiers a wall of brass, had so often saved their country from

the inveterate hostility of its enemies, and had borne to so

transcendent a height the glory of the French eagle? Was he to do

justice to that clergy, the model and the example of every Christian

virtue, stripped of its birthright, the reward of fifteen hundred

years of benevolence; or to the recent acquirers, who had converted

the convents into workshops, the churches into warehouses, and had

turned to profane uses all that had been deemed most holy for ages?"

"At this period," says Thiers, "Napoleon appeared so moderate, after

having been so victorious, he showed himself so profound a

legislator, after having proved himself so great a commander, he

evinced so much love for the arts of peace, after having excelled in

the arts of war, that well might he excite illusions in France and

in the world. Only some few among the personages who were admitted

to his councils, who were capable of judging futurity by the

present, were filled with as much anxiety as admiration, on

witnessing the indefatigable activity of his mind and body, and the

energy of his will, and the impetuosity of his desires. They

trembled even at seeing him do good, in the way he did--so impatient

was he to accomplish it quickly, and upon an immense scale. The wise

and sagacious Tronchet, who both admired and loved him, and looked

upon him as the saviour of France, said, nevertheless, one day in a

tone of deep feeling to Cambaceres, 'This young man begins like

Cæsar; I fear that he will end like him.'"

The elevation of Napoleon to the supreme power for life was regarded

by most of the states of continental Europe with satisfaction, as

tending to diminish the dreaded influences of republicanism, and to

assimilate France with the surrounding monarchies. Even in England,

the prime minister, Mr. Addington, assured the French embassador of

the cordial approbation of the British government of an event,

destined to consolidate order and power in France. The King of

Prussia, the Emperor Alexander, and the Archduke Charles of Austria,

sent him their friendly congratulations. Even Catharine, the haughty

Queen of Naples, mother of the Empress of Austria, being then at

Vienna, in ardent expression of her gratification to the French

embassador said, "General Bonaparte is a great man. He has done me

much injury, but that shall not prevent me from acknowledging his

genius. By checking disorder in France, he has rendered a service to

all of Europe. He has attained the government of his country because

he is most worthy of it. I hold him out every day as a pattern to

the young princes of the imperial family. I exhort them to study

that extraordinary personage, to learn from him how to direct

nations, how to make the yoke of authority endurable, by means of

genius and glory."

But difficulties were rapidly rising between England and France. The

English were much disappointed in not finding that sale of their

manufactures which they had anticipated. The cotton and iron

manufactures were the richest branches of industry in England.

Napoleon, supremely devoted to the development of the manufacturing

resources of France, encouraged those manufactures by the almost

absolute prohibition of the rival articles. William Pitt and his

partisans, still retaining immense influence, regarded with extreme

jealousy the rapid strides which Napoleon was making to power, and

incessantly declaimed, in the journals, against the ambition of

France. Most of the royalist emigrants, who had refused to

acknowledge the new government, and were still devoted to the cause

of the Bourbons, had taken refuge in London. They had been the

allies with England in the long war against France. The English

government could not refrain from sympathizing with them in their

sufferings. It would have been ungenerous not to have done so. The

emigrants were many of them supported by pensions paid them by

England. At the same time they were constantly plotting conspiracies

against the life of Napoleon, and sending assassins to shoot him. "I

will yet teach those Bourbons," said Napoleon, in a moment of

indignation, "that I am not a man to be shot at like a dog."

Napoleon complained bitterly that his enemies, then attempting his

assassination, were in the pay of the British government. Almost

daily the plots of these emigrants were brought to light by the

vigilance of the French police.

A Bourbon pamphleteer, named Peltier, circulated widely through

England the most atrocious libels against the First Consul, his

wife, her children, his brothers and sisters. They were charged with

the most low, degrading, and revolting vices. These accusations were

circulated widely through England and America. They produced a

profound impression. They were believed. Many were interested in the

circulation of these reports, wishing to destroy the popularity of

Napoleon, and to prepare the populace of England for the renewal of

the war. Napoleon remonstrated against such infamous representations

of his character being allowed in England. But he was informed that

the British press was free; that there was no resource but to

prosecute for libel in the British courts; and that it was the part

of true greatness to treat such slanders with contempt. But Napoleon

felt that such false charges were exasperating nations, were paving

the way to deluge Europe again in war, and that causes tending to

such woes were too potent to be despised.

The Algerines were now sweeping with their piratic crafts the

Mediterranean, exacting tribute from all Christian powers. A French

ship had been wrecked upon the coast, and the crew were made

prisoners. Two French vessels and a Neapolitan ship had also been

captured and taken to Algiers. The indignation of Napoleon was

aroused. He sent an officer to the Dey with a letter, informing him

that if the prisoners were not released and the captured vessels

instantly restored, and a promise given to respect in future the

flags of France and Italy, he would send a fleet and an army and

overwhelm him with ruin. The Dey had heard of Napoleon's career in

Egypt. He was thoroughly frightened, restored the ships and the

prisoners, implored clemency, and with barbarian injustice doomed to

death those who had captured the ships in obedience to his commands.

Their lives were saved only through the intercession of the French

minister. Napoleon then performed one of the most gracious acts of

courtesy toward the Pope. The feeble monarch had no means of

protecting his coasts from the pirates who still swarmed in those

seas. Napoleon selected two fine brigs in the naval arsenal at

Toulon, equipped them with great elegance, armed them most

effectively, filled them with naval stores, and conferring upon them

the apostolical names of St. Peter and St. Paul, sent them as a

present to the Pontiff. With characteristic grandeur of action, he

carried his attentions so far as to send a cutter to bring back the

crews, that the papal treasury might be exposed to no expense. The

venerable Pope, in the exuberance of his gratitude, insisted upon

taking the French seamen to Rome. He treated them with every

attention in his power; exhibited to them St. Peter's, and dazzled

them with the pomp and splendor of cathedral worship. They returned

to France loaded with humble presents, and exceedingly gratified

with the kindness with which they had been received.

It was stipulated in the treaty of Amiens, that both England and

France should evacuate Egypt, and that England should surrender Malta

to its ancient rulers. Malta, impregnable in its fortifications,

commanded the Mediterranean, and was the key of Egypt. Napoleon had

therefore, while he professed a willingness to relinquish all claim to

the island himself, insisted upon it, as an essential point, that

England should do the same. The question upon which the treaty hinged,

was the surrender of Malta to a neutral power. The treaty was signed.

Napoleon promptly and scrupulously fulfilled his agreements. Several

embarrassments, for which England was not responsible, delayed for a

few months the evacuation of Malta. But now nearly a year had passed

since the signing of the treaty. All obstacles were removed from the

way of its entire fulfillment, and yet the troops of England remained

both in Egypt and in Malta. The question was seriously discussed in

Parliament and in the English journals, whether England were bound to

fulfill her engagements, since France was growing so alarmingly

powerful. Generously and eloquently Fox exclaimed, "I am astonished at

all I hear, particularly when I consider who they are that speak such

words. Indeed I am more grieved than any of the honorable friends and

colleagues of Mr. Pitt, at the growing greatness of France, which is

daily extending her power in Europe and in America. That France, now

accused of interfering with the concerns of others, we invaded, for

the purpose of forcing upon her a government to which she would not

submit, and of obliging her to accept the family of the Bourbons,

whose yoke she spurned. By one of those sublime movements, which

history should recommend to imitation, and preserve in eternal

memorial, she repelled her invaders. Though warmly attached to the

cause of England, we have felt an involuntary movement of sympathy

with that generous outburst of liberty, and we have no desire to

conceal it. No doubt France is great, much greater than a good

Englishman ought to wish, but that ought not to be a motive for

violating solemn treaties. But because France now appears too great to

us--greater than we thought her at first--to break a solemn

engagement, to retain Malta, for instance, would be an unworthy breach

of faith, which would compromise the honor of Britain. I am sure that

if there were in Paris an assembly similar to that which is debating

here, the British navy and its dominion over the seas would be talked

of, in the same terms as we talk in this house of the French armies,

and their dominion over the land."

Napoleon sincerely wished for peace. He was constructing vast works

to embellish and improve the empire. Thousands of workmen were

employed in cutting magnificent roads across the Alps. He was

watching with intensest interest the growth of fortifications and

the excavation of canals. He was in the possession of absolute

power, was surrounded by universal admiration, and, in the enjoyment

of profound peace, was congratulating himself upon being the

pacificator of Europe. He had disbanded his armies, and was

consecrating all the resources of the nation to the stimulation of

industry. He therefore left no means of forbearance and conciliation

untried to avert the calamities of war. He received Lord Whitworth,

the English embassador in Paris, with great distinction. The most

delicate attentions were paid to his lady, the Duchess of Dorset.

Splendid entertainments were given at the Tuileries and at St. Cloud

in their honor. Talleyrand consecrated to them all the resources of

his courtly and elegant manners. The two Associate Consuls,

Cambaceres and Lebrun, were also unwearied in attentions. Still all

these efforts on the part of Napoleon to secure friendly relations

with England were unavailing. The British government still, in open

violation of the treaty, retained Malta. The honor of France was at

stake in enforcing the sacredness of treaties. Malta was too

important a post to be left in the hands of England. Napoleon at

last resolved to have a personal interview himself with Lord

Whitworth, and to explain to him, with all frankness, his sentiments

and his resolves.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH EMBASSADOR.]

It was on the evening of the 18th of February, 1803, that Napoleon

received Lord Whitworth in his cabinet in the Tuileries. A large

writing-table occupied the middle of the room. Napoleon invited the

embassador to take a seat at one end of the table, and seated

himself at the other. "I have wished," said he, "to converse with

you in person, that I may fully convince you of my real opinions and

intentions." Then with that force of language and that perspicuity

which no man ever excelled, he recapitulated his transactions with

England from the beginning; that he had offered peace immediately

upon his accession to the consulship; that peace had been refused;

that eagerly he had renewed negotiations as soon as he could with

any propriety do so; and that he had made great concessions to

secure the peace of Amiens. "But my efforts," said he, "to live on

good terms with England, have met with no friendly response. The

English newspapers breathe but animosity against me. The journals of

the emigrants are allowed a license of abuse which is not justified

by the British constitution. Pensions are granted to Georges and his

accomplices, who are plotting my assassination. The emigrants,

protected in England, are continually making excursions to France to

stir up civil war. The Bourbon princes are received with the

insignia of the ancient royalty. Agents are sent to Switzerland and

Italy to raise up difficulties against France. Every wind which

blows from England brings me but hatred and insult. Now we have come

to a situation from which we must relieve ourselves. Will you or

will you not execute the treaty of Amiens? I have executed it on my

part with scrupulous fidelity. That treaty obliged me to evacuate

Naples, Tarento, and the Roman States, within three months. In less

than two months, all the French troops were out of those countries.

Ten months have elapsed since the exchange of the ratifications, and

the English troops are still in Malta, and at Alexandria. It is

useless to try to deceive us on this point. Will you have peace, or

will you have war? If you are for war, only say so; we will wage it

unrelentingly. If you wish for peace, you must evacuate Alexandria

and Malta. The rock of Malta, on which so many fortifications have

been erected, is, in a maritime point of view, an object of great

importance; but, in my estimation, it has an importance infinitely

greater, inasmuch as it implicates the honor of France. What would

the world say, if we were to allow a solemn treaty, signed with us,

to be violated? It would doubt our energy. For my part, my

resolution is fixed. I had rather see you in possession of the

Heights of Montmartre, than in possession of Malta."

"If you doubt my desire to preserve peace, listen, and judge how far

I am sincere. Though yet very young, I have attained a power, a

renown to which it would be difficult to add. Do you imagine that I

am solicitous to risk this power, this renown, in a desperate

struggle? If I have a war with Austria, I shall contrive to find the

way to Vienna. If I have a war with you, I will take from you every

ally upon the Continent. You will blockade us; but I will blockade

you in my turn. You will make the Continent a prison for us; but I

will make the seas a prison for you. However, to conclude the war,

there must be more direct efficiency. There must be assembled

150,000 men, and an immense flotilla. We must try to cross the

Strait, and perhaps I shall bury in the depths of the sea my

fortune, my glory, my life. It is an awful temerity, my lord, the

invasion of England." Here, to the amazement of Lord Whitworth,

Napoleon enumerated frankly and powerfully all the perils of the

enterprise: the enormous preparations it would be necessary to make

of ships, men, and munitions of war--the difficulty of eluding the

English fleet. "The chance that we shall perish," said he, "is

vastly greater than the chance that we shall succeed. Yet this

temerity, my lord, awful as it is, I am determined to hazard, if you

force me to it. I will risk my army and my life. With me that great

enterprise will have chances which it can not have with any other.

See now if I ought, prosperous, powerful, and peaceful as I now am,

to risk power, prosperity, and peace in such an enterprise. Judge,

if when I say I am desirous of peace, if I am not sincere. It is

better for you; it is better for me to keep within the limits of

treaties. You must evacuate Malta. You must not harbor my assassins

in England. Let me be abused, if you please, by the English

journals, but not by those miserable emigrants, who dishonor the

protection you grant them, and whom the Alien Act permits you to

expel from the country. Act cordially with me, and I promise you, on

my part, an entire cordiality. See what power we should exercise

over the world, if we could bring our two nations together. You have

a navy, which, with the incessant efforts of ten years, in the

employment of all my resources, I should not be able to equal. But I

have 500,000 men ready to march, under my command, whithersoever I

choose to lead them. If you are masters of the seas, I am master of

the land. Let us then think of uniting, rather than of going to war,

and we shall rule at pleasure the destinies of the world. France and

England united, can do every thing for the interests of humanity."

England, however, still refused, upon one pretense and another, to

yield Malta; and both parties were growing more and more

exasperated, and were gradually preparing for the renewal of

hostilities. Napoleon, at times, gave very free utterance to his

indignation. "Malta," said he, "gives the dominion of the

Mediterranean. Nobody will believe that I consent to surrender the

Mediterranean to the English, unless I fear their power. I thus

loose the most important sea in the world, and the respect of

Europe. I will fight to the last, for the possession of the

Mediterranean; and if I once get to Dover, it is all over with those

tyrants of the seas. Besides, as we must fight, sooner or later,

with a people to whom the greatness of France is intolerable, the

sooner the better. I am young. The English are in the wrong; more so

than they will ever be again. I had rather settle the matter at

once. They shall not have Malta."

Still Napoleon assented to the proposal for negotiating with the

English for the cession of some other island in the Mediterranean.

"Let them obtain a port to put into," said he. "To that I have no

objection. But I am determined that they shall not have two

Gibraltars in that sea: one at the entrance, and one in the middle."

To this proposition, however, England refused assent.

Napoleon then proposed that the Island of Malta should be placed in

the hands of the Emperor of Russia; leaving it with him in trust,

till the discussions between France and England were decided. It had

so happened that the emperor had just offered his mediation, if that

could be available, to prevent a war. This the English government

also declined, upon the plea that it did not think that Russia would

be willing to accept the office thus imposed upon her. The English

embassador now received instructions to demand that France should

cede to England, Malta for ten years; and that England, by way of

compensation, would recognize the Italian republic. The embassador

was ordered to apply for his passports, if these conditions were not

accepted within seven days. To this proposition France would not

accede. The English minister demanded his passports, and left

France. Immediately the English fleet commenced its attack upon

French merchant-ships, wherever they could be found. And the world

was again deluged in war.

[Illustration: SEA COMBAT.]

THE PALACES OF FRANCE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

France has recorded her past history and her present condition, in

the regal palaces she has reared. Upon these monumental walls are

inscribed, in letters more legible than the hieroglyphics of Egypt,

and as ineffaceable, the long and dreary story of kingly vice,

voluptuousness and pride, and of popular servility and oppression.

The unthinking tourist saunters through these magnificent saloons,

upon which have been lavished the wealth of princes and the toil of

ages, and admires their gorgeous grandeur. In marbled floors and

gilded ceilings and damask tapestry, and all the appliances of

boundless luxury and opulence, he sees but the triumphs of art, and

bewildered by the dazzling spectacle, forgets the burning outrage

upon human rights which it proclaims. Half-entranced, he wanders

through uncounted acres of groves and lawns, and parterres of

flowers, embellished with lakes, fountains, cascades, and the most

voluptuous statuary, where kings and queens have reveled, and he

reflects not upon the millions who have toiled, from dewy morn till

the shades of night, through long and joyless years, eating black

bread, clothed in coarse raiment--the man, the woman, the ox,

companions in toil, companions in thought--to minister to this

indulgence. But the palaces of France proclaim, in trumpet tones,

the shame of France. They say to her kings, Behold the undeniable

monuments of your pride, your insatiate extortion, your measureless

extravagance and luxury. They say to the people, Behold the proofs

of the outrages which your fathers, for countless ages, have

endured. They lived in mud hovels that their licentious kings might

riot haughtily in the apartments, canopied with gold, of Versailles,

the Tuileries, and St. Cloud--the Palaces of France. The mind of the

political economist lingers painfully upon them. They are gorgeous

as specimens of art. They are sacred as memorials of the past.

Vandalism alone would raze them to their foundations. Still, the

_judgment_ says, It would be better for the political regeneration

of France, if, like the Bastile, their very foundations were plowed

up, and sown with salt. For they are a perpetual provocative to

every thinking man. They excite unceasingly democratic rage against

aristocratic arrogance. Thousands of noble women, as they traverse

those gorgeous halls, feel those fires of indignation glowing in

their souls, which glowed in the bosom of Madame Roland. Thousands

of young men, with compressed lip and moistened eye, lean against

those marble pillars, lost in thought, and almost excuse even the

demoniac and blood-thirsty mercilessness of Danton, Marat, and

Robespierre. These palaces are a perpetual stimulus and provocative

to governmental aggression. There they stand, in all their

gorgeousness, empty, swept, and garnished. They are resplendently

beautiful. They are supplied with every convenience, every luxury.

King and Emperor dwelt there. Why should not the _President_? Hence

the palace becomes the home of the Republican President. The

expenses of the palace, the retinue of the palace, the court

etiquette of the palace become the requisitions of good taste. In

America, the head of the government, in his convenient and

appropriate mansion, receives a salary of twenty-five thousand

dollars a year. In France, the President of the Republic receives

four hundred thousand dollars a year, and yet, even with that vast

sum, can not keep up an establishment at all in accordance with the

dwellings of grandeur which invite his occupancy, and which

unceasingly and irresistibly stimulate to regal pomp and to regal

extravagance. The palaces of France have a vast influence upon the

present politics of France. There is an unceasing conflict between

those marble walls of monarchical splendor, and the principles of

republican simplicity. This contest will not soon terminate, and its

result no one can foresee. Never have I felt my indignation more

thoroughly aroused than when wandering hour after hour through the

voluptuous sumptuousness of Versailles. The triumphs of taste and

art are admirable, beyond the power of the pen to describe. But the

moral of execrable oppression is deeply inscribed upon all. In a

brief description of the Palaces of France, I shall present them in

the order in which I chanced to visit them.

1. _Palais des Thermes._--In long-gone centuries, which have faded

away into oblivion, a wandering tribe of barbarians alighted from

their canoes, upon a small island in the Seine, and there reared

their huts. They were called the Parisii. The slow lapse of

centuries rolled over them, and there were wars and woes, bridals

and burials, and still they increased in numbers and in strength,

and fortified their little isle against the invasions of their

enemies; for man, whether civilized or savage, has ever been the

most ferocious wild beast man has had to encounter. But soon the

tramp of the Roman legions was heard upon the banks of the Seine,

and all Gaul, with its sixty tribes, came under the power of the

Cæsars. Extensive marshes and gloomy forests surrounded the

barbarian village; but, gradually, Roman laws and institutions were

introduced; and Roman energy changed the aspect of the country.

Immediately the proud conquerors commenced rearing a palace for the

provincial governor. The Palace of Warm Baths rose, with its massive

walls, and in imposing grandeur. Roman spears drove the people to

the work; and Roman ingenuity knew well how to extort from the

populace the revenue which was required. Large remains of that

palace continue to the present day. It is the most interesting

memorial of the past which can now be found in France. The

magnificence of its proportions still strike the beholder with awe.

"Behold," says a writer, who trod its marble floors nearly a

thousand years ago: "Behold the Palace of the Kings, whose turrets

pierce the skies, and whose foundations penetrate even to the empire

of the dead." Julius Cæsar gazed proudly upon those turrets; and

here the shouts of Roman legions, fifteen hundred years ago,

proclaimed Julian emperor; and Roman maidens, with throbbing hearts,

trod these floors in the mazy dance. No one can enter the grand hall

of the baths, without being deeply impressed with the majestic

aspect of the edifice, and with the grandeur of its gigantic

proportions. The decay of nearly two thousand years has left its

venerable impress upon those walls. Here Roman generals proudly

strode, encased in brass and steel, and the clatter of their arms

resounded through these arches. In these mouldering, crumbling tubs

of stone, they laved their sinewy limbs. But where are those fierce

warriors now? In what employments have their turbulent spirits been

engaged, while generation after generation has passed on earth, in

the enactment of the comedies and the tragedies of life? Did their

rough tutelage in the camp, and their proud bearing in the court,

prepare them for the love, the kindness, the gentleness, the

devotion of Heaven? In fields of outrage, clamor, and blood, madly

rushing to the assault, shouting in frenzy, dealing, with iron hand,

every where around, destruction and death, did they acquire a taste

for the "green pastures and the still waters?" Alas! for the mystery

of our being! They are gone, and gone forever! Their name has

perished--their language is forgotten.

"The storm which wrecks the wintry sky,

No more disturbs their deep repose,

Than summer evening's gentlest sigh,

Which shuts the rose."

Upon a part of the ruins of this old palace of the Cæsars, there has

been reared, by more _modern ancients_, still another palace, where

mirth and revelry have resounded, where pride has elevated her

haughty head, and vanity displayed her costly robes--but over all

those scenes of splendor, death has rolled its oblivious waves.

About four hundred years ago, upon a portion of the crumbling walls

of this old Roman mansion, the Palace of Cluny was reared. For three

centuries, this palace was one of the abodes of the kings of France.

The tide of regal life ebbed and flowed through those saloons, and

along those corridors. There is the chamber where Mary of England,

sister of Henry VIII., and widow of Louis XII., passed the weary

years of her widowhood. It is still called the chamber of the "white

queen," from the custom of the queens of France to wear white

mourning. Three hundred years ago, these Gothic turrets, and

gorgeously ornamented lucarne windows, gleamed with illuminations,

as the young King of Scotland, James V., led Madeleine, the blooming

daughter of Francis I., to the bridal altar. Here the haughty family

of the Guises ostentatiously displayed their regal retinue--vying

with the kings of France in splendor, and outvying them in power.

These two palaces, now blended by the nuptials of decay into one,

are converted into a museum of antiquities--silent depositories of

memorials of the dead. Sadly one loiters through their deserted

halls. They present one of the most interesting sights of Paris. In

the reflective mind they awaken emotions which the pen can not

describe.

2. _The Louvre._--When Paris consisted only of the little island in

the Seine, and kings and feudal lords, with wine and wassail were

reveling in the saloons of Cluny, a hunting-seat was reared in the

dense forest which spread itself along the banks of the river. As

the city extended, and the forest disappeared, the hunting-seat was

enlarged, strengthened, and became a fortress and a state-prison.

Thus it continued for three hundred years. In its gloomy dungeons

prisoners of state, and the victims of crime, groaned and died; and

countless tragedies of despotic power there transpired, which the

Day of Judgment alone can reveal. Three hundred years ago, Francis

I. tore down the dilapidated walls of this old castle, and commenced

the magnificent Palace of the Louvre upon their foundations. But its

construction has required the labor of ages, and upon it has been

expended millions, which despotic power has extorted from the hard

hands of penury. This gorgeous palace contains a wilderness of

saloons and corridors, and flights of stairs; and seems rather

adapted to accommodate the population of a city, than to be merely

one of the residences of a royal family. The visitor wanders

bewildered through its boundless magnificence. The spirits of the

dead rise again, and people these halls. Here the pure and the noble

Jeanne d'Albret was received in courtly grandeur, by the impure and

the ignoble Catherine de Medici. Here Henry IV. led his profligate

and shameless bride to the altar. From this window Charles IX. shot

down the Protestants as they fled, amidst the horrors of the

perfidious massacre of St. Bartholomew. In this gilded chamber, with

its lofty ceiling and its tapestried walls, Catherine de Medici died

in the glooms of remorse and despair. Her bed of down, her despotic

power could present no refuge against the King of Terrors; and the

mind is appalled with the thought, that from this very room, now so

silent and deserted, her guilty spirit took its flight to the

tribunal of the King of kings, and the Lord of lords. Successive

generations of haughty sovereigns have here risen and died. And if

there be any truth in history, they have been, almost without

exception, proud, merciless, licentious oppressors. The orgies of

sin have filled this palace. Defiance to God and man has here held

its high carnival.

[Illustration: THE LOUVRE.]

The mind is indeed bewildered with a flood of emotions rushing

through it, as one is pointed to the alcove where Henry IV. was

accustomed to sleep three hundred years ago, and to the very spot

where, in anguish, he gasped and died, after having been stabbed by

Ravaillac. Here one sees the very helmet worn by Henry II. on that

unfortunate day, when the tilting spear of the Count of Montgommeri,

entering his eye, pierced his brain. It requires the labor of a day

even to saunter through the innumerable rooms of this magnificent

abode. But it will never again resound with the revelries of kings

and queens. Royalty has forsaken it forever. Democracy has now taken

strange and anomalous possession of its walls. It is converted into

the most splendid museum in the world--filled with the richest

productions of ancient and modern art. The people now enter freely

that sanctuary, where once none but kings and courtiers ventured to

appear. The Louvre now is useful to the world; but upon its massive

walls are registered deeds of violence, oppression, and crime which

make the ear to tingle.

[Illustration: THE INNER COURT OF THE LOUVRE.]

3. _Malmaison._--When Napoleon was in the midst of his Egyptian

campaign, he wrote to Josephine, to purchase somewhere in the

vicinity of Paris, a pleasant rural retreat, to which they could

retire from the bustle of the metropolis, and enjoy the luxury of

green fields and shady groves. Josephine soon found a delightful

chateau, about nine miles from Paris, and five from Versailles,

which she purchased, with many acres of land around it, for about

one hundred thousand dollars. The great value of the place was in

the spacious and beautiful grounds, not in the buildings. The

chateau itself was plain, substantial, simple, far less ostentatious

in its appearance than many a country-seat erected upon the banks of

the Hudson, or in the environs of Boston. Here Josephine resided

most of the time during the eighteen months of Napoleon's absence in

Egypt. Upon Napoleon's return, this became the favorite residence of

them both. Amid all the splendors of the Empire, it was ever their

great joy to escape to the rural quietude of Malmaison. There they

often passed the Sabbath, in the comparative happiness of private

life. Often Napoleon said, as he left those loved haunts, to attend

to the cares and toils of the Tuileries, "Now I must again put on

the yoke of misery." Napoleon ever spoke of the hours passed at

Malmaison, as the happiest of his life. He erected for himself

there, in a retired grove, a little pavilion, very simple, yet

beautiful, in its structure, which still retains the name of the

Pavilion of the Emperor. Here he passed many hours of uninterrupted

solitude, in profound study of his majestic plans and enterprises.

Directly behind the chateau there was a smooth and beautiful lawn,

upon a level with the ground floor of the main saloon. The windows,

extending to the floor, opened upon this lawn. When all the kings of

Europe were doing homage to the mighty emperor, crowds of visitors

were often assembled at Malmaison; and upon this lawn, with the

characteristic gayety of the French, many mirthful games were

enacted. The favorite amusement here was the game of prisoners.

Frequently, after dinner, the most distinguished gentlemen and

ladies, not of France only, but of all Europe, were actively and

mirthfully engaged in this sport. Kings and queens, and princes of

the blood royal were seen upon the green esplanade, pursuing and

pursued. Napoleon occasionally joined in the sport. He was a poor

runner, and not unfrequently fell and rolled over upon the grass,

while he and his companions were convulsed with laughter. Josephine,

fond of deeds of benevolence, loved to visit the cottages in the

vicinity of Malmaison; and her sympathy and kindness gave her

enthronement in the hearts of all their inmates. After the divorce

of Josephine, the Palace of Malmaison, which Napoleon had

embellished with all those attractions which he thought could soothe

the anguish of his wounded, weeping, discarded wife, was assigned to

Josephine. A jointure of six hundred thousand dollars a year was

settled upon her, and she retained the title and the rank of Empress

Queen. Here Napoleon frequently called to see her; though from

motives of delicacy, he never saw her alone. Taking her arm, he

would walk for hours through those embowered avenues, confiding to

her all his plans.

Just before Napoleon set out for his fatal campaign to Russia, he

called to see Josephine. Taking her hand, he led her out to a

circular seat in the garden, in front of the mansion, and for two

hours continued engaged with her in the most earnest conversation.

At last he rose and affectionately kissed her hand. She followed him

to his carriage and bade him adieu. This was their last interview

but one. He soon returned a fugitive from Moscow. All Europe was in

arms against him. He earnestly sought a hurried interview with the

faithful wife of his youth in her retreat at Malmaison. As he gazed

upon her beloved features, tenderly and sadly he exclaimed,

"Josephine! I have been as fortunate as was ever man upon the face

of this earth. But in this hour, when a storm is gathering over my

head, I have not any one in this wide world but you upon whom I can

repose." With a moistened eye he bade her farewell. They met not

again.

When the allied armies entered Paris a guard was sent, out of

respect to Josephine, to protect Malmaison. The Emperor Alexander,

with a number of illustrious guests, dined with the Empress Queen,

and in the evening walked out upon the beautiful lawn. Josephine,

whose health was shattered by sympathy and sorrow, took cold, and

after the illness of a few days died. It was the 29th of May, 1814.

It was the serene and cloudless evening of a tranquil summer's day.

The windows of the apartment were open where the Empress was dying.

The sun was silently sinking behind the trees of Malmaison, and its

rays, struggling through the foliage, shone cheerfully upon the bed

of death. The air was filled with the songs of birds, warbling, as

it were, the vespers of Josephine's most eventful life. Thus sweetly

her gentle spirit sank into its last sleep. In the antique village

church of Ruel, about two miles from Malmaison, the mortal remains

of this most lovely of women now slumber. A beautiful monument of

white marble, with a statue representing the Empress kneeling in

her coronation robes, is erected over her burial place, with this

simple but affecting inscription:

TO

JOSEPHINE,

BY

EUGENE AND HORTENSE.

It was a bright and beautiful morning when I took a carriage, with a

friend, and set out from Paris to visit Malmaison. We had been

informed that the property had passed into the hands of Christina,

the Queen-Mother of Spain, and that she had given strict injunctions

that no visitors should be admitted to the grounds. My great desire,

however, to visit Malmaison induced me to make special efforts to

accomplish the object. A recent rain had laid the dust, the trees

were in full leaf, the grass was green and rich, the grain was

waving in the wind, and the highly cultivated landscape surrounding

Paris presented an aspect of extraordinary beauty. We rode quietly

along, enjoying the luxury of the emotions which the scene inspired,

till we came to the village of Ruel. A French village has no aspect

of beauty. It is merely the narrow street of a city set down by

itself in the country. The street is paved, the cheerless, tasteless

houses are huddled as closely as possible together. There is no yard

for shrubbery and flowers, apparently no garden, no barn-yards with

lowing herds. The flowers of the empire have been garnered in the

palaces of the kings. The taste of the empire has been concentrated

upon the Tuileries, Versailles, St. Cloud, Fontainebleau, and none

has been left to embellish the home of the peasant. The man who

tills the field must toil day and night, with his wife, his

daughter, and his donkey, to obtain food and clothing for his

family, as animals. This centralization of taste and opulence in

particular localities, is one of the greatest of national mistakes

and wrongs. America has no Versailles. May God grant that she never

may have. But thousands of American farmers have homes where poets

would love to dwell. Their daughters trim the shrubbery in the yard,

and cultivate the rose, and partake themselves of the purity and the

refinement of the rural scenes in the midst of which they are

reared. In the village of Ruel, so unattractive to one accustomed to

the rich beauty of New England towns, we found the church, an old,

cracked, mouldering and crumbling stone edifice, built five hundred

years ago. It was picturesque in its aspect, venerable from its

historical associations, and as poorly adapted as can well be

imagined for any purposes to which we in America appropriate our

churches. The floor was of crumbling stone, worn by the footfalls of

five centuries. There were enormous pillars supporting the roof,

alcoves running in here and there, a pulpit stuck like the mud nest

of a swallow upon a rock. The village priest was there catechising

the children. A large number of straight-backed, rush-bottomed

chairs were scattered about in confusion, instead of pews. These old

Gothic churches, built in a semi-barbarian age, and adapted to a

style of worship in which the pomp of paganism and a corrupted

Christianity were blended, are to my mind gloomy memorials of days

of darkness. Visions of hooded monks, of deluded penitents, of

ignorant, joyless generations toiling painfully through them to the

grave, impress and oppress the spirit. In one corner of the church,

occupying a space some twenty feet square, we saw the beautiful

monument reared by Eugene and Hortense to their mother. It was

indeed a privilege to stand by the grave of Josephine; there to

meditate upon life's vicissitudes, there to breathe the prayer for

preparation for that world of spirits to which Josephine has gone.

How faithful her earthly love; how affecting her dying prayer!

clasping the miniature of the Emperor fervently to her bosom, she

exclaimed, "O God! watch over Napoleon while he remains in the

desert of this world. Alas! though he hath committed great faults,

hath he not expiated them by great sufferings? Just God, thou hast

looked into his heart, and hast seen by how ardent a desire for

useful and durable improvements he was animated! Deign to approve my

last petition. And may this image of my husband bear me witness that

my latest wish and my latest prayer were for him and for my

children."

As the Emperor Alexander gazed upon her lifeless remains, he

exclaimed, "She is no more; that woman whom France named the

Beneficent; that angel of goodness is no more. Those who have known

Josephine can never forget her. She dies regretted by her offspring,

her friends, and her contemporaries."

In the same church, opposite to the tomb of Josephine, stands the

monument of her daughter Hortense. Her life was another of those

tragedies of which this world has been so full. Her son, the present

President of France, has reared to her memory a tasteful monument of

various colored marble, emblematic, as it were, of the vicissitudes

of her eventful life. The monument bears the inscription--"To Queen

Hortense, by Prince Louis Bonaparte." She is represented kneeling in

sorrowful meditation. As I stood by their silent monuments, and

thought of the bodies mouldering to dust beneath them, the beautiful

lines of Kirke White rose most forcibly to my mind:

"Life's labor done, securely laid

In this their last retreat,

Unheeded o'er their silent dust

The storms of life shall beat."

From Ruel we rode slowly along, through vineyards and fields of

grain, with neither hedges nor fences to obstruct the view, for

about two miles, when we arrived at the stone wall and iron

entrance-gate of the chateau of Malmaison. The concierge, a

pleasant-looking woman, came from the porter's lodge, and looking

through the bars of the gate very politely and kindly told us that

we could not be admitted. I gave her my passport, my card, and a

copy of the Life of Josephine, which I had written in America, and

requested her to take them to the head man of the establishment,

and to say to him that I had written the life of Josephine, and that

I had come to France to visit localities which had been made

memorable by Napoleon and Josephine, and that I was exceedingly

desirous to see Malmaison. The good woman most obligingly took my

parcel, and tripping away as lightly as a girl, disappeared in the

windings of the well-graveled avenue, skirted with trees and

shrubbery. In about ten minutes she returned, and smiling and

shaking her head, said that the orders were positive, and that we

could not be admitted. I then wrote a note to the keeper, in French,

which I fear was not very classical, informing him "that I was

writing the life of Napoleon; that it was a matter of great

importance that I should see Malmaison, his favorite residence; that

I had recently been favored with a private audience with the Prince

President, and that he had assured me that he would do every thing

in his power to facilitate my investigations, and that he would give

me free access to all sources of information. But that as I knew the

chateau belonged to the Queen of Spain, I had made no efforts to

obtain from the French authorities a ticket of admission." Then for

the first time I reflected that the proper course for me to have

pursued was to have called upon the Spanish embassador, a very

gentlemanly and obliging man, who would unquestionably have removed

every obstacle from my way. Giving the good woman a franc to quicken

her steps, again she disappeared, and after a considerable lapse of

time came back, accompanied by the keeper. He was a plain,

pleasant-looking man, and instead of addressing me with that angry

rebuff, which, in all probability in America one, under similar

circumstances, would have encountered, he politely touched his hat,

and begged that I would not consider his refusal as caprice in him,

but that the Queen of Spain did not allow any visitors to enter the

grounds of Malmaison. The French are so polite, that an American is

often mortified by the consciousness of his own want of

corresponding courtesy. Assuming, however, all the little suavity at

my command, I very politely touched my hat, and said: "My dear sir,

is it not rather a hard case? I have crossed three thousand miles of

stormy ocean to see Malmaison. Here I am at the very gate of the

park, and these iron bars won't let me in." The kind-hearted man

hesitated for a moment, looked down upon the ground as if deeply

thinking, and then said, "Let me see your passports again, if you

please." My companion eagerly drew out his passport, and pointed to

the cabalistic words--"Bearer of dispatches." Whether this were the

talisman which at last touched the heart of our friend I know not,

but suddenly relenting he exclaimed, with a good-natured smile, "Eh

bien! Messieurs, entrez, entrez," and rolling the iron gate back

upon its hinges, we found ourselves in the enchanting park of

Malmaison.

Passing along a beautiful serpentine avenue, embowered in trees and

shrubbery, and presenting a scene of very attractive rural beauty,

we came in sight of the plain, comfortable home-like chateau. A

pleasant garden, smiling with flowers, bloomed in solitude before

the windows of the saloon, and a statue of Napoleon, in his familiar

form, was standing silently there. An indescribable air of

loneliness and yet of loveliness was spread over the scene. It was

one of the most lovely of May days. Nearly all the voices of nature

are pensive; the sighing of the zephyr and the wailing of the

tempest, the trickling of the rill and the roar of the ocean, the

vesper of the robin and the midnight cry of the wild beast in his

lair. Nature this morning and in this scene displayed her mood of

most plaintive pathos. There was Napoleon, standing in solitude in

the garden. All was silence around him. The chateau was empty and

deserted. Josephine and Hortense were mouldering to dust in the damp

tombs of Ruel. The passing breeze rustled the leaves of the forest,

and the birds with gushes of melody sung their touching requiems.

Shall I be ashamed to say that emotions uncontrollable overcame me,

and I freely wept? No! For there are thousands who will read this

page who will sympathize with me in these feelings, and who will

mingle their tears with mine.

We entered the house, and walked from room to room through all its

apartments. Here was the library of Napoleon, for he loved books.

Christina has converted it into a billiard-room, for she loves play.

Here was the little boudoir where Napoleon and Josephine met in

their hours of sacred confidence, and the tapestry and the window

curtains, in their simplicity, remain as arranged by Josephine's own

hands. Here is the chamber in which Josephine died, and the very bed

upon which she breathed her last. The afternoon sun was shining

brilliantly in through the windows, which we had thrown open, as it

shone forty years ago upon the wasted form and pallid cheek of the

dying Josephine. The forest, so secluded and beautiful, waved

brightly in the sun and in the breeze then as now; the birds then

filled the air with the same plaintive melody. The scene of nature

and of art--house, lawn, shrubbery, grove, cascade, grotto--remains

unchanged; but the billows of revolution and death have rolled over

the world-renowned inmates of Malmaison, and they are all swept

away.

An old-serving man, eighty years of age, conducted us through the

silent and deserted apartments. The affection with which he spoke of

Napoleon and of Josephine amounted almost to adoration. He was in

their service when the Emperor and Empress, arm-in-arm, sauntered

through these apartments and these shady walks. There must have been

some most extraordinary fascination in Napoleon, by which he bound

to him so tenaciously all those who were brought near his person.

His history in that respect is without a parallel. No mortal man,

before or since, has been so enthusiastically loved. The column in

the Place Vendome is still hung with garlands of flowers by the hand

of affection. It is hardly too much to say, that the spirit of

Napoleon, emerging from his monumental tomb under the dome of the

Invalids, still reigns in France. Louis Napoleon is nothing in

himself. His power is but the reflected power of the Emperor.

We passed from the large saloon, upon the smooth green lawn, which

has so often resounded with those merry voices, which are now all

hushed in death. We looked upon trees which Napoleon and Josephine

had planted, wandered through the walks along which their footsteps

had strayed, reclined upon the seats where they had found repose,

and culling many wild flowers, as memorials of this most beautiful

spot, with lingering footsteps retired. Nothing which I have seen in

France has interested me so much as Malmaison. Galignani's

Guide-Book says: "The park and extensive gardens in which Josephine

took so much delight are nearly destroyed. The chateau still exists,

but the Queen Dowager of Spain, to whom Malmaison now belongs, has

strictly forbidden all visits." This appears to be, in part, a

mistake. The park and the grounds immediately around the mansion, as

well as the chateau itself, remain essentially as they were in the

time of Josephine. France contains no spot more rich in touching

associations.

4. _The Tuileries._--"Will Prince Louis Napoleon," inquired a

gentleman, of a French lady, "take up his residence in the

Tuileries?" "He had better not," was the laconic reply. "It is an

unlucky place." It requires not a little effort of imagination to

invest this enormous pile of blackened buildings with an aspect of

beauty. Three hundred years ago the palace was commenced by

Catherine de Medici. But it has never been a favorite residence of

the kings of France, and no effort of the imagination, and no

concomitants of regal splendor can make it an agreeable home. It has

probably witnessed more scenes of woe, and more intensity of

unutterable anguish, than any other palace upon the surface of the

globe. Its rooms are of spacious, lofty, cheerless grandeur. Though

millions have been expended upon this structure, it has had but

occasional occupants. A few evenings ago I was honored with an

invitation to a party given by Prince Louis Napoleon in the palace

of the Tuileries. Four thousand guests were invited. The vast

palace, had all its rooms been thrown open, might perhaps have

accommodated twice as many more. When I arrived at half-past nine

o'clock at the massive gateway which opens an entrance to the court

of the Tuileries, I found a band of soldiers stationed there to

preserve order. Along the street, also, for some distance, armed

sentinels were stationed on horseback, promptly to summon, in case

of necessity, the 80,000 troops who, with spear and bayonet, keep

the restless Parisians tranquil. The carriage, following a long

train, and followed by a long train, entered, between files of

soldiers with glittering bayonets, the immense court-yard of the

palace, so immense that the whole military force of the capital can

there be assembled. The court-yard was illuminated with almost the

brilliance of noon-day, by various pyramids of torches; and dazzling

light gleamed from the brilliant windows of the palace, proclaiming

a scene of great splendor within. A band of musicians, stationed in

the court-yard, pealed forth upon the night air the most animating

strains of martial music. At the door, an armed sentry looked at my

ticket of invitation, and I was ushered into a large hall.

It was brilliantly lighted, and a swarm of servants, large,

imposing-looking men in gorgeous livery, thronged it. One of these

servants very respectfully conducted the guest through the hall to a

spacious ante-room. This room also was dazzling with light, and

numerous servants were there to take the outer garments of the

guests, and to give them tickets in return. My number was 2004. We

then ascended a magnificent flight of marble stairs, so wide that

twenty men could, with ease, march up them abreast. Sentinels in

rich uniform stood upon the stairs with glittering bayonets. We

were ushered into the suit of grand saloons extending in long

perspective, with regal splendor. Innumerable chandeliers suspended

from the lofty gilded ceilings, threw floods of light upon the

brilliant throng which crowded this abode of royalty. In two

different saloons bands of musicians were stationed, and their

liquid notes floated through the hum of general conversation. Men of

lofty lineage were there, rejoicing in their illustrious birth, and

bearing upon their breasts the jeweled insignia of their rank.

Generals of armies were there, decorated with garments inwoven with

gold. Ladies, almost aerial in their gossamer robes, floated like

visions through the animated assembly. Occasionally the dense throng

was pressed aside, and a little space made for the dancers. The

rooms were warm, the crowd immense, the champagne abundant, and the

dancers seemed elated and happy. As the hours of the night wore

away, and the throng was a little diminished, and the bottles

emptied, I thought that I could perceive that the polka and the

waltz were prosecuted with a decided increase of fervor. I must

confess that, with my Puritan notions, I should not like to see a

friend of mine, whose maiden delicacy I desired to cherish, exposed

to such hugs and such twirls.

About half-past ten o'clock, a wide door was thrown open at one end

of the long suit of rooms, and the Prince President, accompanied by

a long retinue of lords, ladies, embassadors, &c., entered the

apartments. They passed along through the crowd, which opened

respectfully before them, and entering one of the main saloons, took

their seats upon an elevated platform, which had been arranged and

reserved for them. All eyes were fastened upon the President. Every

one seemed to feel an intense curiosity to see him. Wherever he

moved, a circle, about ten feet in diameter, was left around him. It

was curious to see the promptness with which the crowd would

disperse before him, and close up behind him, whenever he changed

his position. There were two immense refreshment rooms, supplied

with every luxury, at the two ends of the suit of apartments, filled

with guests. These rooms of vast capacity--for four thousand hungry

people were to be provided for--were fitted up with counters running

along three of their sides like those of a shop. Behind these

counters stood an army of waiters; before them, all the evening

long, an eager crowd. As soon as one had obtained his supply, there

were two or three others ready to take his place. In one of the

rooms there were provided wines, meats of all kinds, and a

most luxurious variety of substantial viands. In the other

refreshment-room, at the other end of the thronged apartments, there

were ices, confectionery, fruits, and all the delicacies of the

dessert.

This was seeing the Palace of the Tuileries in all its glory.

Embassadors of all nations were there--the turbaned Turk, the proud

Persian, the white-robed Arab. Many of the ladies were glittering

with diamonds and every variety of precious stones.

"Music was there with her voluptuous swell,

And all went merry as a marriage bell."

But as I sauntered through the brilliant scene, visions of other

days, and of spectacles more impressive, filled my mind. Through

these very halls, again and again, has rolled an inundation of all

that Paris can furnish of vulgarity, degradation, and violence. Into

the embrasure of this very window the drunken mob of men and women

drove, with oaths and clubs, Louis XVI., and compelled him to drink

the cup of humiliation to its very dregs. It was from this window

that the hapless Maria Antoinette looked, when the sentinel beneath

brutally exclaimed to her, "I wish, Austrian woman, that I had your

head upon my bayonet here, that I might pitch it over the wall to

the dogs in the street!" It was upon this balcony that the sainted

Madame Elizabeth and Maria Antoinette stepped, that dark and

dreadful night when frenzied Paris, from all its garrets, and all

its kennels, was surging like the billows of the ocean against the

Tuileries. Their hearts throbbed with terror as they heard the

tolling of the alarm bells, the rumbling of artillery wheels, and

the rattle of musketry, as the infuriate populace thronged the

palace, thirsting for their blood. From this balcony that awful

night, Maria entered the chamber where her beautiful son was

sleeping, gazed earnestly upon him, and left a mother's loving kiss

upon his cheek. She then went to the apartment of her daughter. The

beautiful child, fifteen years of age, comprehending the peril of

the hour, could not sleep. Maria pressed her to her throbbing heart,

and a mother's tenderness triumphed over the stoicism of the Queen.

Her pent-up feelings burst through all restraints, and she wept with

anguish unendurable.

[Illustration: THE TUILERIES.]

The Tuileries! It is, indeed, an "unlucky palace." This saloon, now

resounding with music and mirth, is the very spot where Josephine,

with swollen eyes and heart of agony, signed that cruel deed of

divorcement which sundered the dearest hopes and the fondest ties

which a human heart can cherish. History contains not a more

affecting incident than her final adieu to her husband, which

occurred in this chamber the night after the divorce. The Emperor,

restless and wretched, had just placed himself in the bed from which

he had ejected his faithful wife, when the door of his chamber was

slowly opened, and Josephine tremblingly entered. She tottered into

the middle of the room, and approached the bed. Here, irresolutely

stopping, she burst into a flood of tears. She seemed for a moment

to reflect that it was no longer proper for her to approach the bed

of Napoleon. But suddenly the pent-up fountains of love and grief in

her heart burst forth; and, forgetting every thing, in the fullness

of her anguish, she threw herself upon the bed, clasped Napoleon's

neck in her arms, and exclaiming, "My husband! my husband!" wept in

agony which could not be controlled. The firm spirit of Napoleon

was vanquished: he folded her to his bosom, pressed her cheek to

his, and their tears were mingled together. He assured her of his

love, of his ardent and undying love, and endeavored in every way to

sooth her anguish.

It was down this marble staircase, now thronged with brilliant

guests, that the next morning Josephine descended, vailed from head

to foot. Her grief was too deep for utterance. Waving an adieu to

the affectionate and weeping friends who surrounded her, she entered

her carriage, sank back upon the cushion, buried her face in her

handkerchief, and, sobbing bitterly, left the Tuileries forever. It

is not probable that the Tuileries will ever again be inhabited by

royalty. There are too many mournful associations connected with the

place ever to render it agreeable as a residence. When Louis

Philippe was driven from the Tuileries, the mob again sacked it, and

its vast saloons are unfurnished and empty. Four years ago, the

Provisional Government passed a decree that this palace should be

converted into a hospital for invalid workmen. The Provisional

Government, however, has passed away, and the decree has not been

carried into effect. After the insurrection in June of 1848 it was

used as a hospital for the wounded. More recently it has been used

as a museum for the exhibition of paintings. Its days of regal pride

and splendor have now passed away for ever.

[Illustration: GRAND AVENUE OF THE TUILERIES.]

5. _The Palace Elysée._--This is a beautiful rural home in the very

heart of Paris. It is now occupied by Prince Louis Napoleon. For a

regal residence it is quite unostentatious, and few abodes could any

where be found, combining more attractions, for one of refined and

simple tastes. Through the kindness of our minister, Mr. Rives, I

obtained an audience with Count Roguet, who is at the head of the

Presidential household, and through him secured an "audience

particulière" with Prince Louis Napoleon in the Elysée. As I

alighted from a hackney-coach at the massive gateway of the palace,

armed sentinels were walking to and fro upon the pavements,

surrounding the whole inclosure of the palace with a vigilant guard.

At the open iron gate two more were stationed. I passed between

their bayonets and was directed into a small office where a

dignified-looking official examined my credentials, and then pointed

my steps along the spacious court-yard to the door of the mansion.

Armed soldiers were walking their patrols along the yard, and upon

the flight of steps two stood guarding the door, with their

glittering steel. They glanced at my note of invitation, and I

entered the door. Several servants were there, evidently picked men,

large and imposing in figure, dressed in small-clothes, and silk

stockings, and laced with rich livery. One glanced at my letter, and

conducting me across the hall introduced me into another room. There

I found another set of servants and three clerks writing at a long

table. One took my note of invitation and sat down, as if to copy

it, and I was ushered into the third room. This was a large room in

the interior of the palace, richly ornamented with gilded pilasters

and ceiling. The walls were painted with landscapes, representing

many scenes of historic interest. There were ten gentlemen, who had

come before me, waiting for an audience. Some were nobles, with the

full display upon their breasts of the decorations of their rank.

Others were generals, in brilliant military costume. Several I

observed with the modest red ribbon in the button hole, indicating

that they were members of the Legion of Honor. All spoke in low and

subdued tones of voice, and with soft footsteps moved about the

room. Occasionally, an officer of the household would enter the room

with a paper in his hands, apparently containing a list of the

names of those who had arrived, and softly would call out the name

of one, who immediately followed him into another room. As I at once

saw that I had at least an hour to wait in the ante-room, I turned

my thoughts to the scenes which, in years gone by, have transpired

in this palace of Elysium. Nearly 150 years ago, the Count of Evreux

built it for his aristocratic city residence. It was afterward

purchased, enlarged, and beautified for the residence of Madame de

Pompadour, the frail, voluptuous, intriguing paramour of Louis XV.;

and often have they, arm-in-arm, paced this floor. They have passed

out at these open French windows into the beautiful lawn which

spreads before the mansion, and sauntered until lost in the

wilderness of fountains, flowers, shrubbery, grove, and serpentine

walks which spread over these enchanting grounds. But inexorable

death struck down both king and mistress, and they passed away to

the Judgment. The Revolution came, the awful retribution for

centuries of kingly pride and oppression, and the regal palace

became a printing-office for the irreligion of Voltaire, and the

Jacobinism of Marat. These saloons and boudoirs were turned into

eating rooms, and smoking rooms. The girls of the street crowded

this spacious parlor, and where kings and queens had danced before

them, they proudly danced with _liberté, fraternité, égalité_, in

red cap and blouse. Then came the young soldier from Corsica, and

with a whip of small cords drove printer, blouse, and grisette into

the street. By his side stands the tall, athletic, mustached

inn-keeper's boy, who had learned to ride when grooming the horses

of his father's guests. With his whirlwind cloud of cavalry he had

swept Italy and Egypt, and now enriched and powerful, Murat claims

the hand of Caroline Bonaparte, the sister of the great conqueror.

With his bride he takes the palace of the Elysée, and lives here in

extravagance which even Louis XV. could not surpass. These paintings

on the wall, Murat placed here. These pyramids of Egypt ever remind

his guests that Murat, with his crushing squadrons, trampled down

the defiant Mamelukes upon the Nile. This lady, walking beneath the

trees of the forest, is Caroline, his wife. The children filling

this carriage so joyously, are his sons and daughters. But he who

had crowns at his disposal, places his brother-in-law upon the

throne of Naples, and Napoleon himself chooses this charming spot

for his favorite city residence. Weary with the cares of empire, he

has often sought repose in these shady bowers. But allied Europe

drove him from his Elysium, and the combined forces of Russia,

Prussia, and Austria, take possession of the capital of his empire,

and reinstate the Bourbons upon the throne from which they had been

driven. Napoleon returns from Elba, and again hastens to his beloved

Elysée. A hundred days glide swiftly by, and he is a prisoner, bound

to St. Helena, to die a captive in a dilapidated stable. As I was

reflecting upon the changes, and upon the painful contrast which

must have presented itself to Napoleon, between the tasteful and

exquisite seclusion of the Elysée, and the cheerless, barren,

mist-enveloped rock of St. Helena, I was awakened from my reverie by

a low tone of voice calling my name. I followed the messenger

through a door, expecting to enter the presence of Louis Napoleon.

Instead of that I was ushered into a large, elegantly furnished

saloon--the council chamber of the Emperor Napoleon, but it was

empty. There was a large folio volume, resembling one of the account

books of a merchant, lying open upon a table. The messenger who

summoned me, with my note of invitation in his hand, went to the

book, passed his finger down the page, and soon I saw it resting

upon my name. He read, apparently, a brief description of my

character, and then, leaving me alone, went into another room, I

suppose to inform the President who was to be introduced to him. In

a few moments he returned, and I was ushered into the presence of

the Prince President of Republican France. He was seated in an

arm-chair, at the side of a table covered with papers. Louis

Napoleon is a small man, with a mild, liquid, rather languid eye,

and a countenance expressive of much passive resolution rather than

of active energy. In his address, he is courteous, gentle, and

retiring, and those who know him best, assign him a far higher

position in the grade of intellect than is usually in our country

allotted to him. His government is an utter despotism, sustained by

the bayonets of the army. I have made great efforts, during the two

months in which I have been in Paris, to ascertain the state of

public opinion respecting the government of Louis Napoleon.

Circumstances have thrown me much into French society, both into the

society of those who are warm friends, and bitter enemies of the

present government. So far as I can ascertain facts, they seem to be

these. There are four parties who divide France--the Bourbonists,

the Orleanists, the Socialists, and the Bonapartists. Like the

military chieftains in Mexico, they are all struggling for dominion.

There is not sufficient intelligence and virtue in France, for it to

be governed by _opinion_, by a _vote_. The bayonet is the

all-availing argument. If Louis Napoleon is overthrown, it must be

to give place to some one, who, like him, must call the army and

despotic power to his support. Consequently, multitudes say, What

shall we gain by the change? We shall have new barricades in the

street, new rivulets of blood trickling down our gutters, and simply

another name in the Elysée.--I can see no indication that Louis

Napoleon has any personal popularity. The glory of his uncle

over-shadows him and renders him available. The army and the church,

but without any enthusiasm, are in his favor. Most of the men in

active business who seek protection and good order, support his

claims. The American merchants, settled in Paris, generally feel

that the overthrow of Louis Napoleon would be to them a serious

calamity, and that they should hardly dare in that case, to remain

in Paris. His government is submitted to, not merely as a choice of

evils, but there is a kind of approval of his despotism as necessary

to sustain him in power, and for the repose of France. I do not say

that these views are correct. I only say, that so far as I can

learn, this appears to me to be the state of the public mind.

It is very evident that no portion of the people regard Louis

Napoleon with enthusiasm. At the great fête in the Champs Elysée,

which called all Europe to Paris, to witness the restoration of the

ancient eagles of France to the standards of the army, it was almost

universally supposed out of Paris, that the hundred thousand troops

then passing in proud array before the President would hail him

_Emperor_. A countless throng encircled the area of that vast field.

It was estimated that nearly a million of people were there

assembled. Yet when Louis Napoleon made his appearance with his

brilliant staff, I did not hear one single _citizen's_ voice raised

in applause. As he rode along the ranks of the army, a murmur of

recognition followed his progress, but no shouts of enthusiasm.

Immediately after the fête, a magnificent ball and entertainment

were given by the army, to Prince Louis Napoleon. It is said, that

one hundred and sixty thousand dollars were expended in canopying

the vast court yard of the Ecole Militaire, and in decorating it for

this occasion. Fifteen thousand guests were invited. The scene of

brilliance and splendor, no pen can describe. About half-past twelve

o'clock the President entered upon an elevated platform, accompanied

by the foreign ministers and the members of his court. But not one

single voice even shouted a welcome. He remained a couple of hours

conversing with those around him, and then bowing to the enormous

throng of those whose invited guest he was, retired. One man, by my

side, shouted in a clear, shrill voice which filled the vast

saloons, "Vive l'Empereur," two others promptly responded, "Vive

_Napoleon_." No other acclaim was heard.

The prospect of France is gloomy. Such a government as the present

can not be popular. No other seems possible. No one seems to expect

that the government can last for many years. And yet a change is

dreaded. Rich men are transferring their property to England and

America. Never did I love my own country as now. Never did I

appreciate as now, the rich legacy we have inherited from our

fathers. The hope of the world is centred in America. We must let

Europe alone. To mortal vision her case is hopeless. We must

cultivate our country, spread over our land, virtue and

intelligence, and freedom; and welcome to peaceful homes in the new

world, all who can escape from the taxation and despotism of the

old. In half a century from now, the United States will be the most

powerful nation upon which our sun has ever shone. Then we can speak

with a voice that shall be heard. Our advice will have the

efficiency of commands. Europe now has apparently but to choose

between the evils of despotism, and the evils of anarchy. And still

it is undeniable that the progress, though slow and painful is

steadily onward toward popular liberty.

In this paper I have but commenced the description of the Palaces of

France. In a subsequent number I may continue the subject.

A LEAF FROM A TRAVELER'S NOTE-BOOK.

BY MAUNSELL B. FIELD.

"Another flask of Orvieto, Gaetano, and tell the vetturino that we

start to-morrow morning, punctually at six," exclaimed one of three

foreigners, seated around a table, in the smokiest corner of the

"_Lepre_"--the artist-haunt of the _Via Condotti_.

The speaker was a plain looking French gentleman, who, under the

simplest exterior, concealed the most admirable mind and the highest

personal qualities. A Provincial by birth, a Parisian by education,

and a cosmopolite by travel, he united all the peculiar sagacity of

his nation with that more dignified tone of character so rarely met

with in his countrymen. Descended from a family of Lorraine, who had

inherited the magistracy for centuries, and who, ruined at the

emigration, had only partially recovered their fortunes at the

restoration, our friend (_ours_, at least, reader) found himself, on

attaining his majority, possessed of a sufficient competency to

enable him to travel in a moderate way, so long as the taste should

continue. And here he had been residing in Rome a twelvemonth (not

_rushing through_ it with cis-Atlantic steam-power), studying art

with devotion, and living the intense life of Italian existence. His

companions at the moment our recital commences, were an old

Hollander, who had emerged from commerce into philosophy (no very

usual exit!) and myself, whom chance had made a lounger in European

capitals--a pilgrim from both Mecca and Jerusalem--and a connoisseur

in every vintage from Burgundy to Xeres.

Carnival, with its fantastic follies, when the most constitutionally

sedate by a species of frenzied reaction become the most reckless in

absurdity, was past. Holy Week, with its gorgeous ecclesiastical

mummery--its magnificent fire-works, and its still more magnificent

illumination was likewise gone. Nearly all the travelers who had

been spending the winter in Rome, including the two thousand English

faces which, from their constant repetition at every public place,

seemed at least two hundred thousand, had disappeared. Our own party

had lingered after the rest, loath to leave, perhaps forever, the

most fascinating city in the world to an intelligent mind. But at

last we too, had determined to go, and our destination was Naples.

That very afternoon we had taken one of the tumble-down carriages,

which station on the _Piazza di Spagna_, to make a farewell _giro_

through the Forum. Leaving Rome is not like leaving any other town.

Associations dating from early childhood, and linking the present

with the past, make familiar, before they are known, objects in

themselves so intrinsically interesting and beautiful, that the

strongest attachment is sure to follow a first actual acquaintance

with them. And when that acquaintance has been by daily intercourse

matured, it is hard to give it up.

The weather was delicious. And as our crazy vehicle rattled over the

disjointed pavement of the Appian way, among sandaled monks,

lounging Jesuits, and herdsmen from the Campagna, a heart-sickness

came over us which, in the instance of one, at least, of the party,

has since settled down into a chronic _mal du pays_.

We had been taking our last meal at the "_Trattoria Lepre_," where

we had so often, after a hard day's work, feasted upon _cignale_

(wild boar), or something purporting so to be, surrounded by the

bearded _pensionnaires_ of all the academies.

Our Figaro-like attendant, who had served us daily for so many

months, was more than commonly officious in the consciousness that

the next morning we proposed to start for Naples. And, in fact, on

the succeeding day at an early hour, an antediluvian vehicle,

with chains and baskets slung beneath, drawn by three wild

uncouth-looking animals, under the guidance of a good-for-nothing,

half-bandit Trasteverino, in a conical hat and unwashed lineaments,

might be seen emerging from the _Porta San Giovanni_, with their

three _Excellenzas_ in the inside.

The hearts of all three were too full for utterance--several miles

we jogged on in silence, straining our eyes with last glimpses of

St. Peter's, the Pantheon, and St. John Lateran.

At Albano we proposed to breakfast; and, while the meal was being

prepared and the horses being refreshed, we started for a walk to

the Lake, familiar to all the party from previous visits.

As we were seated on the bank, cigars in mouth, and as moody as

might be, the Frenchman first endeavored to turn the current of our

thoughts by speaking of Naples, which he alone of us knew. The

effort was not particularly successful. But the Frenchman promised

that when we resumed our journey, he would tell us a Neapolitan

story, the effect of which, he hoped, would be to raise our spirits.

After returning to the inn, and breakfasting upon those mysterious

Italian cutlets, the thick breading upon which defies all

satisfactory investigation into their original material, we resumed

our journey.

Legs dovetailed, and cigars relighted, the Frenchman thus commenced

the story of

CARLO CARRERA.

The summer before last, after a shocking soaking in crossing the

Apennines, I contracted one of those miserable fevers that nature

seems to exact as a toll from unfortunate Trans-Alpines for a

summer's residence in Italy. I had no faith in Italian doctors, and

as there was no medical man from my own country in Florence, I was

persuaded to call in Doctor Playfair a Scotch physician, long

domiciled in Italy, and as I afterwards discovered, both a skillful

practitioner and a charming companion. I was kept kicking my heels

against the footboard in all some six weeks, and when I had become

sufficiently convalescent to sit up, the doctor used to make me long

and friendly visits. In these visits he kept me posted up with all

the chit-chat of the town; and upon one occasion related to me,

better than I can tell it, the following story, of the truth of

which (in all seriousness), he was perfectly satisfied, having heard

it from the mouth of one of the parties concerned.

"Do throw some _bajocchi_ to those clamorous natives, my dear

Republican, that I may proceed with my story in peace."

Well, then, to give you a little preliminary history--don't be

alarmed--a very little. The liberal government established in Naples

in the winter of 1820-21, on the basis of the Spanish Cortes of

1812, was destined to a speedy dissolution. The despotic powers of

the Continent, at the instigation of Austria, refused to enter into

diplomatic relations with a kingdom which had adopted the

representative system, after an explicit and formal engagement to

maintain the institutions of absolutism. An armed intervention was

decided upon at the Congress of Laybach, with the full consent and

approbation of Ferdinand I., who treacherously abandoned the cause

of his subjects. It was agreed to send an Austrian army, backed by a

Russian one, into the Neapolitan dominions, for the purpose of

putting down the Carbornari and other insurgents who, to the number

of one hundred and fifty thousand men, badly armed, badly clothed,

and badly disciplined, had assembled under the command of that

notorious adventurer, Guiliemo Pepe, for the protection of those

feebly secured liberties which had resulted to their country from

the Sicilian revolution of the previous summer. This foreign force

was to be maintained entirely at the expense of Ferdinand, and to

remain in his kingdom, if necessary, for three years. The feeble

resistance offered by the patriots to the invading forces--their

defeat at the very outset--and their subsequent flight and

disbandment--constitute one of those disgraceful denouements so

common to Italian attempts at political regeneration.

"By all the storks in Holland," exclaimed the Dutchman, "cut short

your story--I see nothing in it particularly enlivening."

"_Badinage à part_," resumed the Frenchman, "I have done in a word."

After the disastrous engagement of March 7, at Rieti, and the

restoration of the old government, the patriot forces were scattered

over the country; and as has too often been the case in southern

Europe upon the discomfiture of a revolutionary party, many bands of

banditti were formed from the disorganized remnants of the defeated

army. For a long time the whole of the kingdom, particularly the

Calabrias, was infested by robber gangs, whose boldness only

equaled their necessities. Most of these banditti were hunted down

and transferred to the galleys. The Neapolitan police has at all

times been active in the suppression of disorders known or suspected

to have a political origin. Fear of a revolution has ever been a

more powerful incentive to the government than respect for justice

or love of order; and "_Napoli la Fidelissima_" has so far reserved

the name, and inspired such confidence in the not particularly

intellectual sovereign who now sits on the throne, that the last

time that I was there, his Majesty was in the habit of parading his

bewhiskered legions through the streets of his capital, completely

equipped at all points--except that they were unarmed!

And now for the story.

Among the most notorious of the banditti chieftains was one Carlo

Carrera. This person, who had been a subaltern officer, succeeded

for a long time, with some thirty followers, in defying the attempts

of the police to capture him. Driven from hold to hold, and from

fastness to fastness, he had finally been pursued to the

neighborhood of Naples. Here the gendarmes of the government were

satisfied that he was so surrounded as soon to be compelled to

surrender at discretion. This was late in the following winter.

About this time his Britannic Majesty's frigate "Tagus," commanded

by Captain, now Vice-Admiral, Sir George Dundas, was cruising in the

Mediterranean. In the month of February Sir George anchored in the

bay of Naples, with the intention of remaining there some weeks. It

happened that another officer in his Majesty's navy, Captain, now

Vice-Admiral, Sir Edward Owen, was wintering at Naples for the

benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife and her sister, Miss

V----, a young lady of extraordinary beauty and accomplishments. Sir

George and Sir Edward were old friends. They had been together in

the same ship as captain and first-lieutenant on the African

station, and their accidental meeting when equals in rank was as

cordial as it was unexpected.

A few days after the arrival of the frigate, a pic-nic excursion to

the shores of Lake Agnano was proposed. The party was to consist of

the persons of whom I have just been speaking, together with a few

other English friends, chiefly gentlemen from the embassy.

Accordingly they set off on one of those delightful mornings which

are of themselves almost sufficient to make strangers exclaim with

the enthusiastic Neapolitans, "_Vedi Napoli e poi mori!_" The

surpassing loveliness of the scene, its perfect repose with so many

elements of action, brought to the soul such a luxurious sense of

passive enjoyment, that it seemed like the echo of all experienced

happiness. I can not say if the _Strada Nuova_, in all its present

paved perfection, then existed; but there must have been some sort

of a road following the indentations of that lovely shore.

I have traced from Genoa to Nice the far-famed windings of the

Maritime Alps--I have sailed along the glittering shores of the

Bosphorus--I have admired the boasted site of the Lusitanian

capital--and yet I feel, as all travelers must feel, that the

combined charms of all these would fail to make another Naples.

Far out before them lay the fair island of Capri, like a sea

goddess, with arms outstretched to receive the playful waters of the

Mediterranean. Behind, Vesuvius rose majestically, the blue smoke

lazily curling from its summit, as peaceful as if it had only been

placed there as an accessory to the beauty of the scene; and further

on, as they turned the promontory, lay the bright islets of Nisita

and Procida, so fantastic in their shapes and so romantic in their

outlines.

On reaching the shore of Lake Agnano, our travelers left their

carriage near the villa of Lucullus. Of course they suffocated

themselves, according to the approved habit of tourists, in the

vapor baths of San Germano--and according to the same approved

habit, devoted an unfortunate dog to temporary strangulation in the

mephitic air of the _Grotta del cane_. After doing up the lions of

the neighborhood, our friends seated themselves near the shore, to

partake of the cold fowls and champagne, of which ample provision

had been made for the excursion.

"I should have preferred the native _Lachrymæ Christi_ to

champagne," interrupted the Dutchman, "if the usual quality compares

with that of some I once drank at Rotterdam."

The repast finished, resumed the Frenchman, most of the party

strolled off to the other extremity of the lake--until after a short

time no one was left but Miss V----, who was amusing herself by

making a sketch of the landscape. What a pity that the women of

other nations are so rarely accomplished in drawing, while the

English ladies are almost universally so!

Well then, our fair heroine for the moment, had got on most

industriously with her work, when suddenly, on raising her eyes from

her paper to a stack of decayed vines, she was disagreeably

surprised at finding a pair of questionable optics leveled upon her.

Retaining her composure of manner, she continued tranquilly her

occupation, until she had time to remark that the intruder was

accompanied by at least a dozen companions. At this moment the

personage whom she had first seen, quietly left his place of partial

concealment, walked up to the astonished lady, folded his arms, and

stationed himself behind her back. He was a large, heavy,

good-looking person--but the circumstances under which he presented

himself, rather than any peculiarity in his appearance, caused Miss

V---- to suspect the honesty of his profession.

"Indeed you are making an uncommonly pretty picture there, if you

will permit me to say so," remarked the stranger.

"I am glad you like it," replied the young lady. "I think, however,

that it would be vastly improved, if you would permit me to sketch

your figure in the foreground."

"Nothing would flatter me more. But, cara signorina, my present

object is a much less romantic one than sitting for my portrait to

so fair an artist. Will you allow me to gather up for myself and my

half famished friends, the fragments of your recent meal?"

"You are quite welcome to them, I assure you."

The dialogue had proceeded thus far when it was interrupted by the

return, to the no small satisfaction of one of the party at least,

of the two English officers and some others of the stragglers.

The stranger, in no way disconcerted, turned to Sir Edward Owen, and

said,

"I believe that I have the honor of addressing his Excellency, the

commander of the British frigate in the harbor."

"Excuse me," said Sir George Dundas, "I am that person."

"Sono il servitore di Vostra Excellenza. The young lady whom I found

here has given me permission to make use of the food that has been

left by your party. But if your Excellency, and you, sir,"

addressing the other officer, "will grant me the favor of a moment's

private conversation, you will increase the obligation already

conferred."

The three, thereupon, retired to a short distance from the rest of

the company, when the stranger resumed:

"If your Excellencies have been in this poor country long enough,

you must have heard speak of one Carlo Carrera. You may or you may

not be surprised to hear that I am he--and that my followers are not

far off. I have no desire to inconvenience your Excellencies, your

friends, or, least of all, the ladies who accompany you, and shall,

therefore, be but too happy to release you at once--I say _release_,

for you are in my power--upon the single condition, however, that

you two gentlemen give me your word of honor that you will both, or

either of you, come to me whenever or wherever I shall send for you

during the next two weeks--and that you will not speak of this

conversation to any one."

Disposed at all hazards to extricate the ladies from any thing like

an adventure, our travelers willingly entered into the required

engagement, and, with a mutual "_a rivederla_," the two parties

separated.

Our English friends returned to Naples, amused at the singular

episode to their excursion, and rather disposed to admire the

gallant behavior of the intruder than to regard him with any

unfavorable sentiments.

Some three days after this, as Sir George Dundas was strolling about

nightfall in the Villa Reale, a person in the dress of a priest

approached him, and beckoned him to follow. Leading the officer into

an obscure corner behind one of the numerous statues, the stranger

informed him that he came from the bandit of Lake Agnano, and that

he was directed to request him to be at seven o'clock that evening

in front of the Filomarini Chapel, in the Church of the Santissimi

Apostoli.

The gallant captain did not hesitate to obey. At the appointed hour,

on entering the church and advancing to the indicated chapel, he

found before it what appeared to be an old woman on her knees,

engaged in the deepest devotion. At a sign from the pretended

worshiper, the captain fell upon his knees at her side. The old

crone briefly whispered to him, that it was known to Carrera that

his Excellency was invited to a ball at the British Embassy the next

evening--that he must by no means fail to go--but that at midnight

precisely he must leave the ball-room, return home, remove his

uniform, put on a plain citizen's dress, and be at the door of the

same church at one o'clock in the morning.

After these directions the old woman resumed her devotions, and the

captain left the church, his curiosity considerably excited by the

adventurous turn that things were taking. His brother officer, to

whom he related the particulars of the meeting at the Villa Reale,

and of the interview in the church, strongly urged him to fulfill

the promise which he had made at Lake Agnano, and to follow to the

letter the mysterious instructions which he had received.

Of course, the ball at the British Embassy on the following evening

was graced by the presence of nearly all the distinguished

foreigners in town. The English wintered at Naples at that time in

almost as large numbers as they do at present; and in all matters of

gayety and festivity, display and luxury, they as far exceeded the

Italians as they now do. It is a curious circumstance, which both of

you must have had occasion to remark, that the English, so rigid and

austere at home, when transplanted south of the Alps, surpass the

natives themselves in license and frivolity.

Our captain was of course there, and at an early hour. After

mingling freely in the gayeties of the evening, at midnight

precisely he withdrew from the ball-room, _sans congé_, and hastened

to his apartments. Changing his dress, and arming himself with a

brace of pistols, he hurried to the Church of the Apostoli. In his

excess of punctuality, he arrived too early at the rendezvous; and

it was only after the expiration of some twenty minutes, that he was

joined by the withered messenger before employed to summon him.

Bidding him follow her, the old woman led the way with an activity

little to have been expected in one apparently so feeble. Turning

down the _Chiaja_, they followed the course of the bay a weary way

beyond the grotto of _Posilipo_. The captain was already tolerably

exhausted when the guide turned off abruptly to the right, and

commenced the ascent of one of those vine-clad hills which border

the road. The hill was thickly planted with the vine, so that their

progress was both difficult and fatiguing.

They had been toiling upward more than an half hour since leaving

the highway, and the patience of Sir George was all but exhausted,

when on a sudden they came to one of those huts constructed of

interlaced boughs, which are temporarily used by the vine-dressers

in the south of Italy. The entrance was closed by a plaited mat of

leaves and stalks. Raising this mat, the old woman entered,

followed by her companion.

The hut was dimly lighted by a small lantern. Closing the entrance

as securely as the nature of the fastening would permit, the

pretended old woman threw off her disguise and disclosed the

well-remembered features of the courteous bandit of Lake Agnano.

Thanking his guest for the punctuality with which he had kept his

appointment, Carrera motioned him to follow him to the further

extremity of the hut. Taking the lantern in his hand, and stooping,

the Italian raised a square slab of stone, which either from the

skill with which it was adjusted or from the partial obscurity which

surrounded him, had escaped Sir George's eye. As he did this a flood

of light poured into the hut. Descending by a flight of a dozen or

more steps, followed by the robber chieftain, who drew back the

stone after them, the captain found himself in one of those spacious

catacombs so common in the neighborhood of Naples. Seated around a

table were a score or more of as fierce looking vagabonds as the

imagination could paint, who all rose to their feet as their leader

entered with his guest, saluting both with that propriety of address

so peculiar to the lower classes of Italians and Spaniards.

When all were seated, Carrera turned to the Englishman, and said,

"Your Excellency will readily suppose that I had a peculiar motive

for desiring an interview. God knows that I was not brought up to

wrong and violence--but evil times have sadly changed the current of

my life. A poor soldier, I have become a poorer brigand--at least in

these latter days, when hunted like a wild beast I am at last

enveloped in the toils of my pursuers, egress from which is now

impossible by my own unaided efforts. I have no particular claim

upon your excellency's sympathy, but I have thought that mere pity

might induce you to receive me and my followers on board your

frigate, and transport us to some place of safety beyond the limits

of unhappy Italy."

Here the astonished Englishman sprang to his feet, protesting that

his position as a British officer prevented him from entertaining

for a moment so extraordinary a proposition.

"Your Excellency will permit me, with all respect, to observe,"

Carrera resumed, "that I have treated you and yours generously. Do

not compel me to regret that I have done so; and do not force me to

add another to the acts of violence which already stain my hands.

Your Excellency knows too many of our secrets; we could not,

consistently with our own safety, permit you to exist otherwise than

as a friend."

The discussion was long. The robbers pleaded hard, pledging

themselves not to disgrace the captain's generosity, if he would

consent to save them. Sir George could not prevent himself from

somewhat sympathizing with these unfortunate men, who had been

driven to the irregular life they led as much by the viciousness of

the government under which they lived as by any evil propensities

of their own. It is not at all probable that the threat had any

thing to do with his decision, but certain it is, that the dialogue

terminated by a conditional promise on his part to yield to their

request.

"If your Excellency will send a boat to a spot on the shore,

directly opposite where we now are, to-morrow, at midnight, it will

be easy for us to dispatch the sentinel and jump aboard," continued

Carrera.

"I will send the boat," answered the Englishman, "but will under no

circumstances consent to any bloodshed. You forget your own

recently-expressed scruples on the same subject."

It was finally decided that the boat should be sent--that the

captain should arrange some plan to divert the attention of the

sentinel--and that to their rescuer alone should be left the choice

of their destination.

Matters being thus arranged, Carrera resumed his disguise, and

conducted his guest homeward as far as the outskirts of the town.

The following night at the appointed hour, a boat with muffled oars

silently approached the designated spot. An officer, wrapped in a

boat cloak was seated in the stern. As the boat drew near the shore,

the sentinel presented his musket, and challenged the party. The

officer, with an under-toned "_Amici_," sprang to the beach.

A few hundred yards from the spot where the landing had been

effected, stood an isolated house with a low verandah. The officer,

slipping a scudo into the sentinel's hand, told him that he was come

for the purpose of carrying off a young girl residing in that house,

and begged him to assist him by making a clatter on the door at the

opposite side, so as to divert the attention of the parents while he

received his inamorata from the verandah. The credulous Neapolitan

was delighted to have an opportunity to earn a scudo by so easy a

service.

The moment that he disappeared, Carrera and his band rushed to the

boat. A few powerful strokes of the oars and they were out of the

reach of musket-shot before the bewildered sentry could understand

that in some way or other his credulity had been imposed upon.

That night the "Tagus" weighed anchor for Malta. The port of

destination was reached after a short and prosperous voyage. Sir

George remained there only sufficiently long to discharge his

precious cargo, who left him, as may be imagined, with protestations

of eternal gratitude.

The fact that the frigate was on a cruise prevented any particular

surprise at her sudden disappearance from the waters of Naples. And

when she returned to her anchorage after a short absence, even the

party to the pic-nic were far from conjecturing that there was any

connection between her last excursion and the adventure of Lake

Agnano.

Carrera and his band enlisted in a body into one of the Maltese

regiments. A year or two later, becoming dissatisfied, they passed

over into Albania, and took service with Ali Pasha.

Some seven years after these events, Sir George Dundas was again at

Naples. As he was lounging one day in the Villa Reale, a tall and

noble-looking man, whose countenance seemed familiar, approached

him. Shaking him warmly by the hand, the stranger whispered in his

ear,

"_Il suo servitore Carrera!_"

And thus ends the Frenchman's story.

ALL BAGGAGE AT THE RISK OF THE OWNER.

A STORY OF THE WATERING-PLACES.

"Water, water, every where,

And not a drop to drink!"

I could never understand why we call our summer resorts

_Watering-Places_. I am but an individual, quite anonymous, as you

see, and only graduated this summer, yet I have "known life," and

there was no fool of an elephant in our college town, and other

towns and cities where I have passed vacations. Now, if there have

been any little anti-Maine-Law episodes in my life, they have been

my occasional weeks at the Watering-Places.

It was only this summer, as I was going down the Biddle staircase at

Niagara, that Keanne, who was just behind me, asked quietly, and in

a wondering tone, "Why do cobblers drive the briskest trade of all,

from Nahant to Niagara?" I was dizzy with winding down the spiral

stairs, and gave some philosophical explanation, showing up my

political economy. But when in the evening, at the hotel, he invited

me to accompany him in an inquiry into the statistics of cobblers, I

understood him better.

So far from being Watering-Places, it is clear that there is not

only a spiritual but a sentimental intoxication at all these

pleasant retreats. There is universal exhilaration. Youth, beauty,

summer, money, and moonlight conspire to make water, or any thing of

which water is a type, utterly incredible. There is no practical

joke like that of asking a man if he came to Saratoga to drink the

waters. Every man justly feels insulted by such a suspicion. "Am I

an invalid, sir? Have I the air of disease, I should like to know?"

responds Brummell, fiercely, as he turns suddenly round from tying

his cravat, upon which he has lavished all his genius, and with

which he hoped to achieve successes. "Do I look weak, sir? Why the

deuce should you think I came to Saratoga to drink the waters?"

At Niagara it is different. There you naturally speak of water--over

your champagne or chambertin at dinner; and at evening you take a

little tipple to protect yourself against the night air as you step

out to survey the moonlight effects of the cataract. You came

professedly to see the water. There is nothing else to see or do

there, but to look at the falls, eat dinner, drink cobblers, and

smoke. If you have any doubt upon this point, run up in the train

and see. I think you will find people doing those things and nothing

else. I am not sure, indeed, but you will find some young ladies

upon the piazza overhanging the rapids, rapt and fascinated by the

delirious dance of the water beneath, who add a more alluring terror

to the weird awe that the cataract inspires, by wild tales of ghosts

and midnight marvels, which, haply, some recent graduate more

frightfully emphasizes by the ready coinage of his brain.

No, it is a melancholy misnomer. To call these gay summer courts of

Bacchus and Venus Watering-Places, is like the delightful mummery of

the pastoral revels of the king in the old Italian romance, who

attired himself as an abbot, and all his rollicking court as monks

and nuns, and shaping his pavilion into the semblance of a

monastery, stole, from contrast, a sharper edge for pleasure.

I must laugh when you call Saratoga, for instance, a Watering-Place;

because there, this very summer, I was intoxicated with that elixir

of life, which young men do not name, and which old men call love.

Let me tell you the story; for, if your eye chances to fall upon

this page while you are loitering at one of those pleasant places,

you can see in mine your own experience, and understand why Homer is

so intelligible to you. Are you not all the time in the midst of an

Iliad? That stately woman who is now passing along the piazza is

beautiful Helen, although she is called Mrs. Bigge in these

degenerate days, and Bigge himself is really the Menelaus of the old

Trojan story, although he deals now in cotton. Paris, of course, is

an habitué of Saratoga in the season, goes to Newport in the middle

of August, and always wears a mustache. But Paris is not so

dangerous to the connubial felicity of Menelaus Bigge, as he was in

the gay Grecian days.

Now what I say is this, that you who are swimming down the current

of the summer at a Watering-Place, are really surrounded by the

identical material out of which Homer spun his Iliad--yes, and

Shakspeare his glowing and odorous Romeo and Juliet--only it goes by

different names at Saratoga, Newport, and Niagara. And to point the

truth of what I say, I shall tell you my little story, illustrative

of summer life, and shall leave your wit to define the difference

between my experience and yours. It is of the simplest kind, mark

you, and "as easy as lying."

I left college, in the early summer, flushed with the honors of the

valedictory. It was in one of those quiet college towns which are

the pleasantest spots in New England, that I had won and worn my

laurels. After four years--so long in passing, such a swift line of

light when passed--the eagerly-expected commencement day arrived. It

was the greatest day in the year in that village, and I was the

greatest man of the day.

Ah! I shall always see the gathering groups of students and

alumni upon the college lawn, in the "ambrosial darkness" of

broad-branching elms. I can yet feel the warm sunshine of that quiet

day--and see our important rustling about in the black silk

graduating gowns--I, chiefest of all, and pointed out, to the

classes just entered, as the valedictorian, saluted as I passed by

the homage of their admiring glances. Then winding down the broad

street, over which the trees arched, and which they walled with

green, again my heart dilates upon the swelling music, that pealed

in front of the procession, while all the town made holiday, and

clustered under the trees to see us pass. I hear still chiming, and

a little muffled even now, through memory, the sweet church bell

that rang gayly and festally, not solemnly, that day--and how shall

I forget the choking and exquisite delight and excitement with

which, in the mingled confusion of ringing bell and clanging martial

instruments, we passed from the warm, bright sunshine without, into

the cool interior of the church. As we entered, the great organ

aroused from its majestic silence, and drowned bell and band in its

triumphant torrent of sound, while, to my excited fancy, the church

seemed swaying in the music, it was so crowded with women, in light

summer muslins, bending forward, and whispering, and waving fans.

The rattling of pew-doors--the busy importance of the "Professor of

Elocution and Belles-Lettres"--the dying strains of the organ--the

brief silence--the rustling rising to hear the President's

prayer--it is all as distinct in my mind as in yours, my young

friend fresh from college, and "watering" for your first season.

Then, when the long list was called, and the degrees had been

conferred, came my turn--"the valedictory addresses." In that

moment, as I gathered my gown around me and ascended the platform, I

did not envy Demosthenes nor Cicero, nor believe that a sweeter

triumph was ever won. That soft, country summer-day, and I the focus

of a thousand enthusiastic eyes to which the low words of farewell I

spoke to my companions, brought a sympathetic moisture--that is a

picture which must burn forever, illuminating life. The first

palpable and visible evidence of your power over others is that

penetrating aroma of success--sweeter than success itself--which

comes only once, and only for a moment, but for that single moment

is a dream made real. The memory of that day makes June in my mind

forever.

You see I am growing garrulous, and do not come to Saratoga by

steam. But I did come, fresh from that triumph, and full of it. I

had been the greatest man of the greatest day in a town not five

hundred miles away, and could not but feel that my fame must have

excited Saratoga. With what modest trembling I wrote my name in the

office-book. The man scarcely looked at it, but wrote a number

against it, shouted to the porter to take Mr. ----'s (excuse my

name) luggage to No. 310, and I mechanically followed that

functionary, and observed that not a single loiterer in the office

raised his head at my name.

But worse than that, the name seemed to be of no consequence. I was

no longer Mr. ---- with "the valedictory addresses," &c, &c.

(including the thousand eyes). I was merely No. 310--and you too

have already observed, I am sure, wherever you are passing the

summer, that you are not an individual at a Watering-Place. You lose

your personal identity in a great summer hotel, as you would in a

penitentiary; you are No. this or No. that. It is No. 310 who wishes

his Champagne frappé. It is No. 310 who wishes his card taken to No.

320. It is No. 310 who goes in the morning, pays his bill, and

hears, as the porter slings on his luggage and takes his shilling,

"put No. 310 in order."

This is one of the humiliating aspects of Watering-Place life. You

are one of a mass, and distinguished by your number. Yet you can

never know the mortifying ignominy of such treatment until it comes

directly upon the glory of a commencement, at which you have

absorbed all other individuality into yourself.

I reached Saratoga and came down to dinner. I could not help

laughing at the important procession of negro-waiters stamping in

with the different courses, and concentrating attention upon their

movements. I felt then, instinctively, how it is the last degree of

vulgarity--that the serving at table instead of being noiseless as

the wind that blows the ship along, is the chief spectacle and

amusement at dinner. Dinner at Saratoga, or Newport, or Niagara is a

grand military movement of black waiters, who advance, halt, load,

present, and fire their dishes, and in which the elegant ladies and

the elegant gentlemen are merely lay-figures, upon which the African

army exercise their skill by not hitting or spilling. For the first

days of my residence it was a quiet enjoyment to me to see with what

elaborate care the fine ladies and gentlemen arrayed themselves to

play their inferior parts at dinner. The chief actors in the

ceremony--the negro waiters--ran, a moment before the last bell, to

put on clean white jackets and when the bell rang, and the puppets

were seated--fancying, with charming naïveté, that they were the

principle objects of the feast--then thundered in the sable host and

deployed right and left, tramping like the ghost in Don Giovanni,

thumping, clashing, rattling, and all thought of elegance or

propriety was lost in the universal tumult.

People who submit to this, consider themselves elegant. But what if

in their own houses and dining-rooms there should be this "alarum,

enter an army," as the old play-books say, whenever they entertained

their friends at dinner.

I was lonely at first. Nothing is so solitary as a gay and crowded

Watering-Place, where you have few friends. The excessive hilarity

of others emphasizes your own quiet and solitude. And especially at

Saratoga, where there is no resource but the company. You must bowl,

or promenade the piazza, or flirt, with the women. You must drink,

smoke, chat, and game a little with the men. But if you know neither

women nor men, and have no prospect of knowing them, then take the

next train to Lake George.

It is very different elsewhere. At Newport, for instance, if you are

only No. 310 at your hotel and nothing more; if you know no one, and

have to drink your wine, and smoke, and listen to the music alone,

you have only to leap into your saddle, gallop to the beach, and as

you pace along the margin of the sea, that will laugh with you at

the frivolities you have left behind--will sometimes howl harsh

scorn upon the butterflies, who are not worth it, and who do not

deserve it--and the Atlantic will be to you lover, counselor, and

sweet society.

Toward the end of my first Saratoga week, I met an old college

friend. It was my old chum, Herbert, from the South. Herbert, who,

over many a midnight glass and wasting weed, had leaned out of my

window in the moonlight, and recited those burning lines of Byron

which all students do recite to that degree, that I have often

wondered what students did, in romantic moonlights, before Byron was

born. In those midnight recitals Herbert used often to stop, and say

to me:

"I wonder if you would like my sister?"

Her name was not mentioned, but Herbert was so handsome in the

southern style; he was so picturesque, and manly, and graceful--a

kind of Sidney and Bayard--that I was sure his sister was not less

than Amy Robsart, or Lucy of Lammermoor, or perhaps Zuleika.

Toward the close of our course, we were one day sauntering beyond

the little college-town, and dreaming dreams of that Future which,

to every ambitious young man, seems a stately palace waiting to be

royally possessed by him, when Herbert, who really loved me, said:

"I wish you knew Lulu."

"I wish I did know Lulu."

And that was all we ever said about it.

When we met at Saratoga it was a pleasant surprise to both, and

doubly so to me, for I was sadly bored by my want of acquaintances.

We fell into an earnest conversation, in the midst of which Herbert

suddenly said:

"Ah! there, I must run and join Lulu!" and left me.

Who has not had just this experience, or a similar one, at any

Watering-Place? One day you suddenly discover that some certain

person has arrived; and when you go to your room to dress for

dinner, your boots look splayed--your waistcoats are not the

thing--your coat isn't half as handsome as other coats--and you

spoil all your cravats in your nervous efforts to tie them

exquisitely. You get dressed, however, and descend to dinner, giving

yourself a Vivian Grey-ish air--a combination of the coxcomb, the

poet, and the politician--and yet wonder why your hands seem so

large, and why you do not feel at your ease, although every thing is

the same as yesterday, except that Lulu has arrived.

And there she sits!

So sat Lulu, Herbert's sister, cool in light muslin, as if that

sultry summer day she were Undine draped in mist. She had the

self-possession, which many children have, and which greatly

differs from the elaborate _sang froid_ of elegant manners. There

was no haughty reserve, no cold unconsciousness, as if the world

were not worth her treading. But when Herbert nodded to me--and I,

knowing that she was about to look at me, involuntarily put forward

the poet-aspect of Vivian--she turned and looked toward me earnestly

and unaffectedly for a few moments, while I played with a

sweet-bread, and looked abstracted. It is a pity that we men make

such fools of ourselves when we are in the callow state! Lulu turned

back and said something to Herbert; of course, it was telling him

her first impression of me! Do you think I wished to hear it?

She was not tall nor superb: her face was very changeful and

singularly interesting. I watched her during dinner, and such were

my impressions. If they were wrong, it was the fault of my

perceptions.

We met upon the piazza after dinner while the beautifully-dressed

throng was promenading, and the band was playing. It was an Arcadian

moment and scene.

"Lulu, this is my friend, Mr. ----, of whom I have spoken to you so

often."

Herbert remained but a moment. I offered my arm to his sister, and

we moved with the throng. The whole world seemed a festival. The day

was golden--the music swelled in those long, delicious chords, which

imparadise the moment, and make life poetry. In that strain, and

with that feeling, our acquaintance commenced. It was Lulu's first

summer at a Watering-Place (at least she said so); it was my first,

too, at a Watering-Place--but not my first at a flirtation, thought

I, loftily. She had all the cordial freshness of a Southern girl,

with that geniality of manner which, without being in the least

degree familiar, is confiding and friendly, and which to us,

reserved and suspicious Northerners, appears the evidence of the

complete triumph we have achieved, until we see that it is a general

and not a particular manner.

The band played on: the music seemed only to make more melodious and

expressive all that we said. At intervals, we stopped and leaned

upon the railing by a column wreathed with a flowering vine, and

Lulu's eye seeking the fairest blossom, found it, and her hand

placed it in mine. I forgot commencement-day, and the glory of the

valedictory. Lulu's eyes were more inspiring than the enthusiastic

thousand in the church; and the remembered bursts of the band that

day were lost in the low whispers of the girl upon my arm. I do not

remember what we said. I did not mean to flirt, in the usual sense

of that word (men at a Watering-Place never do). It was an

intoxication most fatal of all, and which no Maine law can avert.

Herbert joined us later in the afternoon, and proposed a drive; he

was anxious to show me his horses. We parted to meet at the door.

Lulu gently detached her arm from mine; said gayly, "Au revoir,

bientôt!" as she turned away; and I bounded into the hall, sprang

up-stairs into my room, and sat down, stone-still, upon a chair.

I looked fixedly upon the floor, and remained perfectly motionless

for five minutes. I was lost in a luxury of happiness! Without a

profession, without a fortune, I felt myself irresistibly drawn

toward this girl;--and the very fascination lay here, that I knew,

however wild and wonderful a feeling I might indulge, it was all

hopeless. We should enjoy a week of supreme happiness--suffer in

parting--and presently be solaced, and enjoy other weeks of supreme

felicity with other Lulus!

My young friends of the Watering-Places, deny having had just such

an emotion and "course of thought," if you dare!

We drove to the lake, and the whole world of Saratoga with us.

Herbert's new bays sped neatly along--he driving in front, Lulu and

I chatting behind. Arrived at the lake, we sauntered down the steep

slope to the beach. We stepped into a boat and drifted out upon the

water. It was still and gleaming in the late afternoon; and the

pensive tranquillity of evening was gathering before we returned. We

sang those passionate, desperate love-songs which young people

always sing when they are happiest and most sentimental. So rapidly

had we advanced--for a Watering-Place is the very hot-bed of

romance--that I dropped my hand idly upon Lulu's; and finding that

hers was not withdrawn, gradually and gently clasped it in mine. So,

hand-in-hand, we sang, floating homeward in the golden twilight.

There was a dance in the evening at the hotel. Lulu was to dance

with me, of course, the first set, and as many waltzes as I chose.

She was so sparkling, so evidently happy, that I observed the New

York belles, to whom happiness is an inexplicable word, scanned her

with an air of lofty wonder and elegant disdain. But Lulu was so

genuinely graceful and charming; she remained so quietly superior in

her simplicity to the assuming _hauteur_ of the metropolitan misses,

that I kept myself in perfect good-humor, and did not feel myself at

all humbled in the eyes of the Young America of that city, because I

was the cavalier of the unique Southerner. So far did this go, that

in my desire to revenge myself upon the New Yorkers, I resolved to

increase their chagrin by praising Lulu to the chief belle of the

set.

To her I was introduced. A New York belle at a Watering-Place!

"There's a divinity doth hedge her," and a mystery too. She looked

at me with supreme indifference as I advanced to the ordeal of

presentation, evidently measuring my claims upon her consideration

by the general aspect of my outer man. I moved with a certain pride,

because although I felt awkward before the glance of Lulu, I was

entirely self-possessed in the consciousness of unexceptionable

attire before the unmeaning stare of the fashionable _parvenue_. You

see I do get a little warm in speaking of her, and yet I was as cool

as an autumn morning, when I made my bow, and requested her hand

for the next set.

We danced _vis-a-vis_ to Lulu. My partner swung her head around upon

her neck, as none but Juno or Minerva should venture to do, and

looked at the other _personal_ of the quadrille, to see if she were

in a perfectly safe set. I ventured a brief remark upon nothing--the

weather, probably. The Queen of the Cannibal Islands bent

majestically in a monosyllabic response.

"It is very warm to-night," continued I.

"Yes, very warm," she responded.

"You have been long here?"

"Two weeks."

"Probably you came from Niagara?"

"No, from Sharon."

"Shall you go to Lake George?"

"No, we go to Newport."

There I paused, and fondled my handkerchief, while the impassible

lady relapsed into her magnificent silence, and offered no hope of

any conversation in any direction. But I would not be balked of my

object, and determined that if the living stream did run "quick

below," the glaring polish of ice which these "fine manners"

presented, my remark should be an Artesian bore to it.

"How handsome our _vis-a-vis_ is?" said I.

My stately lady said nothing, but tossed her head slightly, without

changing her expression, except to make it more pointedly frigid, in

a reply which was a most vociferous negative, petrified by

politeness into ungracious assent.

"She is what Lucia of Lammermoor might have been before she was

unhappy," continued I, plunging directly off into the sea of

trouble.

"Ah! I don't know Miss Lammermoor," responded my partner, with

_sang-froid_.

I am conscious that I winced at this. A New York belle, hedged with

divinity and awfulness, &c, _not know Miss Lammermoor_. Such stately

_naïveté_ of ignorance drew a smile into my eyes, and I concluded to

follow the scent.

"You misunderstand me," said I. "I was speaking of Scott's

Lucia--the Waverley novel, you know."

"Waverley, Waverley," replied my Cannibal Queen, who moved her head

like Juno, but this time lisping and somewhat confused, as if she

knew that, by the mention of books, we were possibly nearing the

verge of sentiment. "Waverley--I don't know what you mean: you're

too deep for me."

I was silent for that moment, and sat a mirthful Marius, among the

ruins of my proud idea of a metropolitan belle. Had she not

exquisitely perfected my revenge? Could the contrast of my next

dance with Lulu have been pointed with more diamond distinctness

than by the unweeting lady, whom I watched afterward, with my eyes

swimming in laughter, as she glided, passionlessly, without smiling,

without grace, without life--like a statue clad in muslin, over

grass-cloth, around the hall. Once again, during the evening, I went

to her and said:

"How graceful that Baltimore lady is."

"The Baltimore ladies may have what you call grace and ease," said

she, with the same delicious hauteur, "and the Boston ladies are

very 'strong-minded,'" she continued, in a tone intended for

consuming satire, the more unhappy that it was clear she could make

no claim to either of the qualities--"but the New York women have

_air_," she concluded, and sailed away with what "might be air,"

said Herbert, who heard her remark, "but certainly very bad air."

Learn from this passage of my experience, beloved reader, you who

are for the first time encountering that Sphinx, a New York belle,

that she is not terrible. You shall find her irreproachable in

_tournure_, but it is no more exclusively beautiful or admirable,

than New York is exclusively the fine city of the country. I am a

young man, of course, and inexperienced; but I prefer that lovely

languor of the Southern manners, which is expressed in the

negligence, and sometimes even grotesqueness of dress, to the vapid

superciliousness, which is equally expressed in the coarse grass

cloth that imparts the adorable _Je ne sais quoi_ of _style_. "It is

truly amusing," Herbert says, who has been a far traveler, "to see

these nice New Yorkers assuming that the whole country outside their

city is provincial." A Parisian lady who should affect to treat a

Florentine as a provincial, would be exiled by derision from social

consideration. Fair dames of New York, I am but an anonymous

valedictorian; yet why not make your beauty more beautiful, by that

courtesy which is loftier than disdain, and superior to

superciliousness?

Ah, well! it was an aromatic evening. Disraeli says that Ferdinand

Armine had a Sicilian conversation with Henrietta Temple, in the

conservatory. You know how it ended, and they knew how it would

end,--they were married. But if Ferdinand had plunged into that

abyss of excitement, knowing that however Sicilian his conversation

might be, it would all end in a bachelor's quarters, with Henrietta

as a lay figure of memory, which he might amuse himself in draping

with a myriad rainbow fancies--if he had known this, ought he to

have advanced farther in the divine darkness of that prospect? Ought

he not to have said, "Dear Miss Temple, my emotions are waxing

serious, and I am afraid of them, and will retire."

You will say, "certainly," of course. We all say, "certainly," when

we read or talk about it quietly. Young men at Saratoga and Newport

say, "certainly," over their cigars. But when the weed is whiffed

away, they dress for conquest, and draw upon the Future for the

consequences. Unhappily, the Future is perfectly "good," and always

settles to the utmost copper.

At least, so Herbert says, and he is older than I am. I only

know--in fact, I only cared, that the evening fled away like a

sky-lark singing up to the sun at daybreak--(that was a much

applauded sentence in my valedictory). I deliberately cut every

cable of remorse that might have held me to the "ingenuous course,"

as it is called, and drove out into the shoreless sea of enjoyment.

I revelled in Lulu's beauty, in her grace, in her thousand nameless

charms. I was naturally sorry for her. I knew her young affections

would "run to waste, and water but the desert." But if a girl will

do so! Summer and the midsummer sun shone in a cloudless sky. There

was nothing to do but live and love, and Lulu and I did nothing

else. Through the motley aspects of Watering-Place existence, our

life shot like a golden thread, embroidering it with beauty. We

strolled on the piazza at morning and evening. During the forenoon

we sat in the parlor, and Lulu worked a bag or a purse, and I sat by

her, gossiping that gossip which is evanescent as foam upon

champagne--yes, and as odorous and piercing, for the moment it

lasts. We only parted to dress for dinner. I relinquished the Vivian

Grey style, and returned to my own. Every day Lulu was more

exquisitely dressed, and when the band played, after dinner, and the

sunlight lay, golden-green, upon the smooth, thick turf, our

conversation was inspired by the music, as on the first day, which

seemed to me centuries ago, so natural and essential to my life had

Lulu become. Toward sunset we drove to the lake. Sometimes in a

narrow little wagon, not quite wide enough for two, and in which I

sat overdrifted by the azure mist of the dress she wore--nor ever

dreaming of the Autumn or the morrow; and sometimes with Herbert and

his new horses.

Young America sipping cobblers, and roving about in very loose and

immoral coats, voted it "a case." The elderly ladies thought it a

"shocking flirtation." The old gentlemen who smoke cigars in the

easy chairs under the cool colonnade, watched the course of events

through the slow curling clouds of tobacco, and looked at me, when I

passed them, as if I were juvenile for a Lothario; while the great

dancing, bowling, driving, flirting, and fooling mass of the

Saratoga population thought it all natural and highly improper.

It is astonishing to recur to an acquaintance which has become a

large and luminous part of your life, and discover that it lasted a

week. It is saddening to sit among the withered rose-leaves of a

summer, and remember that each rose in its prime seemed the sweetest

of roses. The old ladies called it "shocking," and the young ladies

sigh that it is "heartless," and the many condemn, while the few

wrap themselves in scornful pride at the criminal fickleness of men.

One such I met on a quiet Sunday morning when Lulu had just left me

to go and read to her mother.

"You are a vain coxcomb," was the promising prelude of my friend's

conversation. But she _was_ a friend, so I did not frown nor play

that I was offended.

"Why a coxcomb?"

"Because you are flirting with that girl merely for your own

amusement. You know perfectly well that she loves you, and you know

equally well that you mean nothing. You are a flippant, shallow

Arthur Pendennis--"

"_Pas trop vite._ If I meet a pleasant person in a pleasant place,

and we like each other, I, for my part, will follow the whim of the

hour. I will live while I live--provided, always, that I injure no

other person in following that plan--and in every fairly supposable

case of this kind the game is equal. Good morning."

Now you will say that I was afraid to continue the argument, and

that I felt self-convicted of folly. Not at all; but I chanced to

see Lulu returning, and I strolled down the piazza to meet her.

She was flushed, and tears were ill-concealed in her eyes. Her

mother had apprised her that she was to leave in the morning. It was

all over.

I did not dare to trust my tongue, but seized her hand a moment, and

then ran for my life--literally for my life. Reaching my room I sat

down in my chair again, and stared upon the floor. I loved Lulu more

than any woman in the world. Yet I remembered precisely similar

occasions before, when I felt as if the sun and life were departing

when certain persons left my side, and I therefore could not trust

my emotion, and run back again and swear absolute and eternal

fidelity. You think I was a great fool, and destitute of feeling,

and better not venture any more into general female society. Perhaps

so. But it was written upon my consciousness suddenly and

dazzlingly, as the mystic words upon Nebuchadnezzar's hall, that

this, though sweet and absorbing, was but a summer fancy--offspring

of sunshine, flowers, and music--not the permanent reality which all

men seek in love. It was one of the characteristic charms of the

summer life. It made the weeks a pleasant Masque of Truth--a

paraphrase of the poetry of Love. I would not avoid it. I would not

fail to sail among the isles of Greece, though but for a summer

day--though Memory might forever yearningly revert to that

delight--conscious of no dishonor, of no more selfishness than in

enjoying a day or a flower--exposed to all the risks to which my

partner in the delirious and delicious game was exposed.

We met at dinner. We strolled after dinner, and I felt the trembling

of the arm within mine, as we spoke of travel, of Niagara, of

Newport, and of parting. "Lulu," said I, "the pleasure of a

Watering-Place is the meeting with a thousand friends whom we never

saw before, and shall never see again."

That was the way I began.

"We meet here, Lulu, like travelers upon a mountain-top, one coming

from the clear, green north, another from the sun-loved south; and

we sit together for an hour talking, each of his own, and each story

by its strangeness fascinating the other hearer. Then we rise, say

farewell, and each pursues his journey alone, yet never forgetting

that meeting on the mountain, and the sweet discourse that charmed

the hours."

I found myself again delivering valedictory addresses, and to an

audience more moved than the first.

Yet who would not have had the day upon the mountain! Who would not

once have seen Helen, though he might never see her more? Who would

not wish to prove by a thousand-fold experience Shelley's lines--

"True love in this differs from gold to clay,

That to divide is not to take away."

Lulu said nothing, and we walked silently on.

"I hate the very name Watering-Place," said she, at length.

I did not ask her why.

When the full moonlight came, we went to the ball-room. It is the

way they treat moonlights at a Watering-Place.

"Yes," said Lulu, "let us die royally, wreathed with flowers."

And she smiled as she said it. Why did she smile? It was just as we

parted, and mark the result. The moment I suspected that the

flirtation was not all on one side, I discovered--beloved budding

Flirt, male or female, of this summer, you will also discover the

same thing in similar cases--that I was seriously in love. Now that

I fancied there was no reason to blind my eyes to the fact, I stared

directly upon it.

We went into the hall. It was a wild and melancholy dance that we

danced. There was a frenzy in my movements, for I knew that I was

clasping for the last time the woman for whom my admiring and tender

compassion was by her revelation of superiority to loving me,

suddenly kindled into devotion! She was very beautiful--at least,

she was so to me, and I could not but mark a kind of triumph in her

air, which did not much perplex, but overwhelmed me. At length she

proposed stepping out upon the piazza, and then we walked in the

cool moonlight while I poured out to her the overflowing enthusiasm

of my passion. Lulu listened patiently, and then she said:

"My good friend (fancy such a beginning in answer to a declaration),

you have much to learn. I thought from what you said this afternoon

that you were profoundly acquainted with the mystery of

Watering-Place life. You remember you delivered a very polished

disquisition on the subject to me--to a woman who, you had every

reason to suppose, was deeply in love with you. My good sir, a

Watering-Place passion, you ought to know, is an affair of sunshine,

music, and flowers. We meet upon a mountain-top, and enjoy

ourselves, then part with longing and regret."

Here she paused a moment, and my knees smote together.

"You are a very young man, with very much to learn, and if you mean

to make the tour of the Watering-Places during this or any summer,

you must understand this; and, as Herbert tells me you were a very

moving valedictorian this year, this shall be my moving valedictory

to you, for I leave to-morrow--in all summer encounters of the heart

or head, at any of the leisure resorts where there is nothing to do

but to do nothing, never forget that _all baggage is at the risk of

the owner_."

And so saying, Lulu slipped her arm from mine, glided up the stairs

into the hall, and the next moment was floating down the room to a

fragrant strain of Strauss.

I, young reader, remained a few moments bewildered in the moonlight,

and the next morning naturally left Saratoga. I am meditating

whether to go to Newport; but I am sure Lulu is there. Let me advise

you, meanwhile, to beware, let me urge you to adapt the old proverb

to the meridian of a Watering-Place by reversing it--that "whoever

goes out to find a kingdom may return an ass."

THE MIDNIGHT MASS.

AN EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.

About eight o'clock on the night of the 22d of January, 1793, while

the Reign of Terror was still at its height in Paris, an old woman

descended the rapid eminence in that city, which terminates before

the Church of St. Laurent. The snow had fallen so heavily during the

whole day, that the sound of footsteps was scarcely audible. The

streets were deserted; and the fear that silence naturally inspires,

was increased by the general terror which then assailed France. The

old woman passed on her way, without perceiving a living soul in the

streets; her feeble sight preventing her from observing in the

distance, by the lamp-light, several foot passengers, who flitted

like shadows over the vast space of the Faubourg, through which she

was proceeding. She walked on courageously through the solitude, as

if her age were a talisman which could shield her from every

calamity. No sooner, however, had she passed the Rue des Morts, than

she thought she heard the firm and heavy footsteps of a man walking

behind her. It struck her that she had not heard this sound for the

first time. Trembling at the idea of being followed, she quickened

her pace, in order to confirm her suspicions by the rays of light

which proceeded from an adjacent shop. As soon as she had reached

it, she abruptly turned her head, and perceived, through the fog,

the outline of a human form. This indistinct vision was enough: she

shuddered violently the moment she saw it--doubting not that the

stranger had followed her from the moment she had quitted home. But

the desire to escape from a spy soon renewed her courage, and she

quickened her pace, vainly thinking that, by such means, she could

escape from a man necessarily much more active than herself.

After running for some minutes, she arrived at a pastry-cook's

shop--entered--and sank, rather than sat down, on a chair which

stood before the counter. The moment she raised the latch of the

door, a woman in the shop looked quickly through the windows toward

the street; and, observing the old lady, immediately opened a

drawer in the counter, as if to take out something which she had to

deliver to her. Not only did the gestures and expression of the

young woman show her desire to be quickly relieved of the new-comer,

as of a person whom it was not safe to welcome; but she also let

slip a few words of impatience at finding the drawer empty.

Regardless of the old lady's presence, she unceremoniously quitted

the counter, retired to an inner apartment, and called her husband,

who at once obeyed the summons.

"Where have you placed the--?" inquired she, with a mysterious air,

glancing toward the visitor, instead of finishing the sentence.

Although the pastry-cook could only perceive the large hood of black

silk, ornamented with bows of violet-colored ribbon, which formed

the old lady's head-dress, he at once cast a significant look at his

wife, as much as to say, "Could you think me careless enough to

leave what you ask for, in such a place as the shop!" and then

hurriedly disappeared.

Surprised at the silence and immobility of the stranger lady, the

young woman approached her; and, on beholding her face, experienced

a feeling of compassion--perhaps, we may add, a feeling of curiosity

as well.

Although the complexion of the old lady was naturally colorless,

like that of one long accustomed to secret austerities, it was easy

to see that a recent emotion had cast over it an additional

paleness. Her head-dress was so disposed as completely to hide her

hair; and thereby to give her face an appearance of religious

severity. At the time of which we write, the manners and habits of

people of quality were so different from those of the lower classes,

that it was easy to identify a person of distinction from outward

appearance alone. Accordingly, the pastry-cook's wife at once

discovered that the strange visitor was an ex-aristocrat--or, as we

should now express it, "a born lady."

"Madame!" she exclaimed, respectfully, forgetting, at the moment,

that this, like all other titles, was now proscribed under the

Republic.

The old lady made no answer, but fixed her eyes steadfastly on the

shop windows, as if they disclosed some object that terrified her.

"What is the matter with you, citizen?" asked the pastry-cook, who

made his appearance at this moment, and disturbed her reverie by

handing her a small pasteboard box, wrapped up in blue paper.

"Nothing, nothing, my good friends," she replied, softly. While

speaking, she looked gratefully at the pastry-cook; then, observing

on his head the revolutionary red cap, she abruptly exclaimed: "You

are a Republican! you have betrayed me!"

The pastry-cook and his wife indignantly disclaimed the imputation

by a gesture. The old lady blushed as she noticed it--perhaps with

shame, at having suspected them--perhaps with pleasure, at finding

them trustworthy.

"Pardon me," said she, with child-like gentleness, drawing from her

pocket a louis d'or. "There," she continued, "there is the

stipulated price."

There is a poverty which the poor alone can discover. The

pastry-cook and his wife felt the same conviction as they looked at

each other--it was perhaps the last louis d'or which the old lady

possessed. When she offered the coin her hand trembled: she had

gazed upon it with some sorrow, but with no avarice; and yet, in

giving it, she seemed to be fully aware that she was making a

sacrifice. The shop-keepers, equally moved by pity and interest,

began by comforting their consciences with civil words.

"You seem rather poorly, citizen," said the pastry-cook.

"Would you like to take any refreshment, madame?" interrupted his

wife.

"We have some excellent soup," continued the husband.

"The cold has perhaps affected you, madame," resumed the young

woman; "pray, step in, and sit and warm yourself by our fire."

"We may be Republicans," observed the pastry-cook; "but the devil is

not always so black as he is painted."

Encouraged by the kind words addressed to her by the shop-keepers,

the old lady confessed that she had been followed by a strange man,

and that she was afraid to return home by herself.

"Is that all?" replied the valiant pastry-cook. "I'll be ready to go

home with you in a minute, citizen."

He gave the louis d'or to his wife, and then--animated by that sort

of gratitude which all tradesmen feel at receiving a large price for

an article of little value--hastened to put on his National Guard's

uniform, and soon appeared in complete military array. In the mean

while, however, his wife had found time to reflect; and in her case,

as in many others, reflection closed the open hand of charity.

Apprehensive that her husband might be mixed up in some

misadventure, she tried hard to detain him; but, strong in his

benevolent impulse, the honest fellow persisted in offering himself

as the old lady's escort.

"Do you imagine, madame, that the man you are so much afraid of, is

still waiting outside the shop?" asked the young woman.

"I feel certain of it," replied the lady.

"Suppose he should be a spy! Suppose the whole affair should be a

conspiracy! Don't go! Get back the box we gave her." These words

whispered to the pastry-cook by his wife, had the effect of cooling

his courage with extraordinary rapidity.

"I'll just say two words to that mysterious personage outside, and

relieve you of all annoyance immediately," said he, hastily quitting

the shop.

The old lady, passive as a child, and half-bewildered, reseated

herself.

The pastry-cook was not long before he returned. His face, which was

naturally ruddy, had turned quite pale; he was so panic-stricken,

that his legs trembled under him, and his eyes rolled like the eyes

of a drunken man.

"Are you trying to get our throats cut for us, you rascally

aristocrat?" cried he, furiously. "Do you think you can make _me_

the tool of a conspiracy? Quick! show us your heels! and never let

us see your face again!"

So saying, he endeavored to snatch away the box, which the old lady

had placed in her pocket. No sooner, however, had his hands touched

her dress, than, preferring any perils in the street to losing the

treasure for which she had just paid so large a price, she darted

with the activity of youth toward the door, opened it violently, and

disappeared in a moment from the eyes of the bewildered shopkeepers.

Upon gaining the street again, she walked at her utmost speed; but

her strength soon failed, when she heard the spy who had so

remorselessly followed her, crunching the snow under his heavy

tread. She involuntarily stopped short: the man stopped short too!

At first, her terror prevented her from speaking, or looking round

at him; but it is in the nature of us all--even of the most

infirm--to relapse into comparative calm immediately after violent

agitation; for, though our feelings may be unbounded, the organs

which express them have their limits. Accordingly, the old lady,

finding that she experienced no particular annoyance from her

imaginary persecutor, willingly tried to convince herself that he

might be a secret friend, resolved at all hazards to protect her.

She reconsidered the circumstances which had attended the stranger's

appearance, and soon contrived to persuade herself that his object

in following her, was much more likely to be a good than an evil

one.

Forgetful, therefore, of the fear with which he had inspired the

pastry-cook, she now went on her way with greater confidence. After

a walk of half an hour, she arrived at a house situated at the

corner of a street leading to the Barrière Pantin--even at the

present day, the most deserted locality in all Paris. A cold

northeasterly wind whistled sharply across the few houses, or rather

tenements, scattered about this almost uninhabited region. The place

seemed, from its utter desolation, the natural asylum of penury and

despair.

The stranger, who still resolutely dogged the poor old lady's steps,

seemed struck with the scene on which his eyes now rested. He

stopped--erect, thoughtful, and hesitating--his figure feebly

lighted by a lamp, the uncertain rays of which scarcely penetrated

the fog. Fear had quickened the old lady's eyes. She now thought she

perceived something sinister in the features of the stranger. All

her former terrors returned and she took advantage of the man's

temporary indecision, to steal away in the darkness toward the door

of a solitary house. She pressed a spring under the latch, and

disappeared with the rapidity of a phantom.

The stranger, still standing motionless, contemplated the house,

which bore the same appearance of misery as the rest of the

Faubourg. Built of irregular stones, and stuccoed with yellowish

plaster, it seemed, from the wide cracks in the walls, as if a

strong gust of wind would bring the crazy building to the ground.

The roof, formed of brown tiles, long since covered with moss, was

so sunk in several places that it threatened to give way under the

weight of snow which now lay upon it. Each story had three windows,

the frames of which, rotted with damp and disjointed by the heat of

the sun, showed how bitterly the cold must penetrate into the

apartments. The comfortless, isolated dwelling resembled some old

tower which Time had forgotten to destroy. One faint light glimmered

from the windows of the gable in which the top of the building

terminated; the remainder of the house was plunged in the deepest

obscurity.

Meanwhile, the old woman ascended with some difficulty a rude and

dilapidated flight of stairs, assisting herself by a rope, which

supplied the place of bannisters. She knocked mysteriously at the

door of one of the rooms situated on the garret-floor, was quickly

let in by an old man, and then sank down feebly into a chair which

he presented to her.

"Hide yourself! Hide yourself!" she exclaimed. "Seldom as we venture

out, our steps have been traced; our proceedings are known!"

"What is the matter?" asked another old woman, seated near the fire.

"The man whom we have seen loitering about the house since

yesterday, has followed me this evening," she replied.

At these words, the three inmates of the miserable abode looked

on each other in silent terror. The old man was the least

agitated--perhaps for the very reason that his danger was really the

greatest. When tried by heavy affliction, or threatened by bitter

persecution, the first principle of a courageous man is, at all

times, to contemplate calmly the sacrifice of himself for the safety

of others. The expression in the faces of his two companions showed

plainly, as they looked on the old man, that _he_ was the sole

object of their most vigilant solicitude.

"Let us not distrust the goodness of God, my sisters," said he, in

grave, reassuring tones. "We sang His praises even in the midst of

the slaughter that raged through our Convent. If it was His

good-will that I should be saved from the fearful butchery committed

in that holy place by the Republicans, it was no doubt to reserve me

for another destiny, which I must accept without a murmur. God

watches over His chosen, and disposes of them as seems best to His

good-will. Think of yourselves, my sisters--think not of me!"

"Impossible!" said one of the women. "What are _our_ lives--the

lives of two poor nuns--in comparison with _yours_; in comparison

with the life of a priest?"

"Here, father," said the old nun, who had just returned; "here are

the consecrated wafers of which you sent me in search." She handed

him the box which she had received from the pastry-cook.

"Hark!" cried the other nun; "I hear footsteps coming up-stairs."

They all listened intently. The noise of footsteps ceased.

"Do not alarm yourselves," said the priest. "Whatever happens, I

have already engaged a person, on whose fidelity we can depend, to

escort you in safety over the frontier; to rescue you from the

martyrdom which the ferocious will of Robespierre and his coadjutors

of the Reign of Terror would decree against every servant of the

church."

"Do _you_ not mean to accompany us?" asked the two nuns,

affrightedly.

"_My_ place, sisters, is with the martyrs--not with the saved," said

the old priest, calmly.

"Hark! the steps on the staircase!--the heavy steps we heard

before!" cried the women.

This time it was easy to distinguish, in the midst of the silence of

night, the echoing sound of footsteps on the stone stairs. The nuns,

as they heard it approach nearer and nearer, forced the priest into

a recess at one end of the room, closed the door, and hurriedly

heaped some old clothes against it. The moment after, they were

startled by three distinct knocks at the outer door.

The person who demanded admittance appeared to interpret the

terrified silence which had seized the nuns on hearing his knock,

into a signal to enter. He opened the door himself, and the

affrighted women immediately recognized him as the man whom they had

detected watching the house--the spy who had watched one of them

through the streets that night.

The stranger was tall and robust, but there was nothing in his

features or general appearance to denote that he was a dangerous

man. Without attempting to break the silence, he slowly looked round

the room. Two bundles of straw, strewn upon boards, served as a bed

for the two nuns. In the centre of the room was a table, on which

were placed a copper-candlestick, some plates, three knives, and a

loaf of bread. There was but a small fire in the grate, and the

scanty supply of wood piled near it, plainly showed the poverty of

the inmates. The old walls, which at some distant period had been

painted, indicated the miserable state of the roof, by the patches

of brown streaked across them by the rain, which had filtered, drop

by drop, through the ceiling. A sacred relic, saved probably from

the pillage of the convent to which the two nuns and the priest had

been attached, was placed on the chimney-piece. Three chairs, two

boxes, and an old chest-of-drawers completed the furniture of the

apartment.

At one corner near the mantle-shelf, a door had been constructed

which indicated that there was a second room in that direction.

An expression of pity appeared on the countenance of the stranger,

as his eyes fell on the two nuns, after having surveyed their

wretched apartment. He was the first to break the strange silence

that had hitherto prevailed, by addressing the two poor creatures

before him in such tones of kindness as were best adapted to the

nervous terror under which they were evidently suffering.

"Citizens!" he began, "I do not come to you as an enemy." He stopped

for a moment, and then continued: "If any misfortune has befallen

you, rest assured that I am not the cause of it. My only object here

is to ask a great favor of you."

The nuns still kept silence.

"If my presence causes you any anxiety," he went on, "tell me so at

once, and I will depart; but, believe me, I am really devoted to

your interests; and if there is any thing in which I can befriend

you, you may confide in me without fear. I am, perhaps, the only man

in Paris whom the law can not assail, now that the kings of France

are no more."

There was such a tone of sincerity in these words, as he spoke them,

that Sister Agatha (the nun to whom the reader was introduced at the

outset of this narrative, and whose manners exhibited all the court

refinement of the old school) instinctively pointed to one of the

chairs, as if to request the stranger to be seated. His expression

showed a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy, as he acknowledged

this little attention, of which he did not take advantage until the

nuns had first seated themselves.

"You have given an asylum here," continued he, "to a venerable

priest, who has miraculously escaped from massacre at a Carmelite

convent."

"Are you the person," asked Sister Agatha, eagerly, "appointed to

protect our flight from--?"

"I am not the person whom you expected to see," he replied, calmly.

"I assure you, sir," interrupted the other nun, anxiously, "that we

have no priest here; we have not, indeed."

"You had better be a little more careful about appearances on a

future occasion," he replied, gently, taking from the table a Latin

breviary. "May I ask if you are both in the habit of reading the

Latin language?" he inquired, with a slight inflexion of sarcasm in

his voice.

No answer was returned. Observing the anguish depicted on the

countenance of the nuns, the trembling of their limbs, the tears

that filled their eyes, the stranger began to fear that he had gone

too far.

"Compose yourselves," he continued, frankly. "For three days I have

been acquainted with the state of distress in which you are living.

I know your names, and the name of the venerable priest whom you are

concealing. It is--"

"Hush! do not speak it," cried Sister Agatha, placing her finger on

her lips.

"I have now said enough," he went on, "to show that if I had

conceived the base design of betraying you, I could have

accomplished my object before now."

On the utterance of these words, the priest, who had heard all that

had passed, left his hiding-place, and appeared in the room.

"I can not believe, sir," said he, "that you are leagued with my

persecutors; and I therefore willingly confide in you. What do you

require of me?"

The noble confidence of the priest--the saint-like purity expressed

in his features--must have struck even an assassin with respect. The

mysterious personage who had intruded on the scene of misery and

resignation which the garret presented, looked silently for a moment

on the three beings before him, and then, in tones of secrecy, thus

addressed the priest:

"Father, I come to entreat you to celebrate a mortuary mass for the

repose of the soul of--of a--of a person whose life the laws once

held sacred, but whose corpse will never rest in holy ground."

An involuntary shudder seized the priest, as he guessed the hidden

meaning in these words. The nuns unable to imagine what person was

indicated by the stranger, looked on him with equal curiosity and

alarm.

"Your wish shall be granted," said the priest, in low, awe-struck

tones. "Return to this place at midnight, and you will find me ready

to celebrate the only funeral service which the church can offer in

expiation of the crime to which I understand you to allude."

The stranger trembled violently for a moment, then composed himself,

respectfully saluted the priest and the two nuns, and departed

without uttering a word.

About two hours afterward, a soft knock at the outer door announced

the mysterious visitor's return. He was admitted by Sister Agatha,

who conducted him into the second apartment of their modest retreat,

where every thing had been prepared for the midnight mass. Near the

fire-place the nuns had placed their old chest of drawers, the

clumsy workmanship of which was concealed under a rich altar-cloth

of green velvet. A large crucifix, formed of ivory and ebony was

hung against the bare plaster wall. Four small tapers, fixed by

sealing-wax on the temporary altar, threw a faint and mysterious

gleam over the crucifix, but hardly penetrated to any other part of

the walls of the room. Thus almost exclusively confined to the

sacred objects immediately above and around it, the glow from the

tapers looked like a light falling from heaven itself on that

unadorned and unpretending altar. The floor of the room was damp.

The miserable roof, sloping on either side, was pierced with rents,

through which the cold night air penetrated into the rooms. Nothing

could be less magnificent, and yet nothing could be more truly

solemn than the manner in which the preliminaries of the funeral

ceremony had been arranged. A deep, dread silence, through which the

slightest noise in the street could be heard, added to the dreary

grandeur of the midnight scene--a grandeur majestically expressed by

the contrast between the homeliness of the temporary church, and the

solemnity of the service to which it was now devoted. On each side

of the altar, the two aged women kneeling on the tiled floor,

unmindful of its deadly dampness, were praying in concert with the

priest, who, clothed in his sacerdotal robes, raised on high a

golden chalice, adorned with precious stones, the most sacred of the

few relics saved from the pillage of the Carmelite Convent.

The stranger, approaching after an interval, knelt reverently

between the two nuns. As he looked up toward the crucifix, he saw,

for the first time, that a piece of black crape was attached to it.

On beholding this simple sign of mourning, terrible recollections

appeared to be awakened within him; the big drops of agony started

thick and fast on his massive brow.

Gradually, as the four actors in this solemn scene still fervently

prayed together, their souls began to sympathize the one with the

other, blending in one common feeling of religious awe. Awful, in

truth, was the service in which they were now secretly engaged!

Beneath that mouldering roof, those four Christians were then

interceding with Heaven for the soul of a martyred King of France;

performing, at the peril of their lives, in those days of anarchy

and terror, a funeral service for that hapless Louis the Sixteenth,

who died on the scaffold, who was buried without a coffin or a

shroud! It was, in them, the purest of all acts of devotion--the

purest, from its disinterestedness, from its courageous fidelity.

The last relics of the loyalty of France were collected in that poor

room, enshrined in the prayers of a priest and two aged women.

Perhaps, too, the dark spirit of the Revolution was present there as

well, impersonated by the stranger, whose face, while he knelt

before the altar, betrayed an expression of the most poignant

remorse.

The most gorgeous mass ever celebrated in the gorgeous Cathedral of

St. Peter, at Rome, could not have expressed the sincere feeling of

prayer so nobly as it was now expressed, by those four persons,

under that lowly roof!

There was one moment, during the progress of the service, at which

the nuns detected that tears were trickling fast over the stranger's

cheeks. It was when the Pater Noster was said.

On the termination of the midnight mass, the priest made a sign to

the two nuns, who immediately left the room. As soon as they were

alone, he thus addressed the stranger:

"My son, if you have imbrued your hands in the blood of the martyred

king, confide in me, and in my sacred office. Repentance so deep and

sincere as yours appears to be, may efface even the crime of

regicide in the eyes of God."

"Holy father," replied the other, in trembling accents, "no man is

less guilty than I am of shedding the king's blood."

"I would fain believe you," answered the priest. He paused for a

moment as he said this, looked steadfastly on the penitent man

before him, and then continued:

"But remember, my son, you can not be absolved of the crime of

regicide, because you have not co-operated in it. Those who had the

power of defending their king, and who, having that power, still

left the sword in the scabbard, will be called to render a heavy

account at the day of judgment, before the King of kings; yes, a

heavy and an awful account indeed! for, in remaining passive, they

became the involuntary accomplices of the worst of murders."

"Do you think then, father," murmured the stranger, deeply abashed,

"that all indirect participations are visited with punishment? Is

the soldier guilty of the death of Louis who obeyed the order to

guard the scaffold?"

The priest hesitated.

"I should be ashamed," continued the other, betraying by his

expression some satisfaction at the dilemma in which he had placed

the old man--"I should be ashamed of offering you any pecuniary

recompense for such a funeral service as you have celebrated. It is

only possible to repay an act so noble by an offering which is

priceless. Honor me by accepting this sacred relic. The day perhaps

will come when you will understand its value."

So saying, he presented to the priest a small box, extremely light

in weight, which the aged ecclesiastic took, as it were,

involuntarily; for he felt awed by the solemn tones in which the man

spoke as he offered it. Briefly expressing his thanks for the

mysterious present, the priest conducted his guest into the outer

room, where the two nuns remained in attendance.

"The house you now inhabit," said the stranger, addressing the nuns

as well as the priest, "belongs to a landlord who outwardly affects

extreme republicanism, but who is at heart devoted to the royal

cause. He was formerly a huntsman in the service of one of the

Bourbons, the Prince de Condé, to whom he is indebted for all that

he possesses. So long as you remain in this house you are safer than

in any other place in France. Remain here, therefore. Persons worthy

of trust will supply all your necessities, and you will be able to

await in safety the prospect of better times. In a year from this

day, on the 21st of January, should you still remain the occupants

of this miserable abode, I will return to repeat with you the

celebration of to-night's expiatory mass." He paused abruptly, and

bowed without adding another word; then delayed a moment more, to

cast a parting look on the objects of poverty which surrounded him,

and left the room.

To the two simple-minded nuns, the whole affair had all the interest

of a romance. Their faces displayed the most intense anxiety, the

moment the priest informed them of the mysterious gift which the

stranger had so solemnly presented to him. Sister Agatha immediately

opened the box, and discovered in it a handkerchief, made of the

finest cambric, and soiled with marks of perspiration. They unfolded

it eagerly, and then found that it was defaced in certain places

with dark stains.

"Those stains are _blood stains_!" exclaimed the priest.

"The handkerchief is marked with the royal crown!" cried Sister

Agatha.

Both the nuns dropped the precious relic, marked by the King's

blood, with horror. To their simple minds, the mystery which was

attached to the stranger, now deepened fearfully. As for the priest,

from that moment he ceased, even in thought, to attempt identifying

his visitor, or discovering the means by which he had become

possessed of the royal handkerchief.

Throughout the atrocities practiced during a year of the Reign of

Terror, the three refugees were safely guarded by the same

protecting interference, ever at work for their advantage. At first,

they received large supplies of fuel and provisions; then the two

nuns found reason to imagine that one of their own sex had become

associated with their invisible protector, for they were furnished

with the necessary linen and clothing which enabled them to go out

without attracting attention by any peculiarities of attire. Besides

this, warnings of danger constantly came to the priest in the most

unexpected manner, and always opportunely. And then, again, in spite

of the famine which at that period afflicted Paris, the inhabitants

of the garret were sure to find placed every morning at their door,

a supply of the best wheaten bread, regularly left for them by some

invisible hand.

They could only guess that the agent of the charitable attentions

thus lavished on them, was the landlord of the house, and that the

person by whom he was employed was no other than the stranger who

had celebrated with them the funeral mass for the repose of the

King's soul. Thus, this mysterious man was regarded with especial

reverence by the priest and the nuns, whose lives for the present,

and whose hopes for the future, depended on their strange visitor.

They added to their usual prayers at night and morning, prayers for

_him_.

At length the long-expected night of the 21st of January arrived,

and, exactly as the clock struck twelve, the sound of heavy

footsteps on the stairs announced the approach of the stranger. The

room had been carefully prepared for his reception, the altar had

been arranged, and, on this occasion, the nuns eagerly opened the

door, even before they heard the knock.

"Welcome back again! most welcome!" cried they; "we have been most

anxiously awaiting you."

The stranger raised his head, looked gloomily on the nuns, and made

no answer. Chilled by his cold reception of their kind greeting,

they did not venture to utter another word. He seemed to have frozen

at their hearts, in an instant, all the gratitude, all the friendly

aspirations of the long year that had passed. They now perceived but

too plainly that their visitor desired to remain a complete stranger

to them, and that they must resign all hope of ever making a friend

of him. The old priest fancied he had detected a smile on the lips

of their guest when he entered, but that smile--if it had really

appeared--vanished again the moment he observed the preparations

which had been made for his reception. He knelt to hear the funeral

mass, prayed fervently as before, and then abruptly took his

departure; briefly declining, by a few civil words, to partake of

the simple refreshment offered to him, on the expiration of the

service, by the two nuns.

Day after day wore on, and nothing more was heard of the stranger by

the inhabitants of the garret. After the fall of Robespierre, the

church was delivered from all actual persecution, and the priest and

the nuns were free to appear publicly in Paris, without the

slightest risk of danger. One of the first expeditions undertaken by

the aged ecclesiastic led him to a perfumer's shop, kept by a man

who had formerly been one of the Court tradesmen, and who had always

remained faithful to the Royal Family. The priest, clothed once more

in his clerical dress, was standing at the shop door talking to the

perfumer, when he observed a great crowd rapidly advancing along the

street.

"What is the matter yonder?" he inquired of the shopkeeper.

"Nothing," replied the man carelessly, "but the cart with the

condemned criminals going to the place of execution. Nobody pities

them--and nobody ought!"

"You are not speaking like a Christian," exclaimed the priest. "Why

not pity them?"

"Because," answered the perfumer, "those men who are going to the

execution are the last accomplices of Robespierre. They only travel

the same fatal road which their innocent victims took before them."

The cart with the prisoners condemned to the guillotine had by this

time arrived opposite the perfumer's shop. As the old priest looked

curiously toward the state criminals, he saw, standing erect and

undaunted among his drooping fellow prisoners, the very man at whose

desire he had twice celebrated the funeral service for the martyred

King of France!

"Who is that standing upright in the cart?" cried the priest,

breathlessly.

The perfumer looked in the direction indicated, and answered--

"THE EXECUTIONER OF LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH!"

PERSONAL HABITS AND APPEARANCE OF ROBESPIERRE.

Visionaries are usually slovens. They despise fashions, and imagine

that dirtiness is an attribute of genius. To do the honorable member

for Artois justice, he was above this affectation. Small and neat in

person, he always appeared in public tastefully dressed, according

to the fashion of the period--hair well combed back, frizzled, and

powdered; copious frills at the breast and wrists; a stainless white

waistcoat; light-blue coat, with metal buttons; the sash of a

representative tied round his waist; light-colored breeches, white

stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. Such was his ordinary

costume; and if we stick a rose in his button-hole, or place a

nosegay in his hand, we shall have a tolerable idea of his whole

equipment. It is said he sometimes appeared in top-boots, which is

not improbable; for this kind of boot had become fashionable among

the republicans, from a notion that as top-boots were worn by

gentlemen in England, they were allied to constitutional government.

Robespierre's features were sharp, and enlivened by bright and

deeply-sunk blue eyes. There was usually a gravity and intense

thoughtfulness in his countenance, which conveyed an idea of his

being thoroughly in earnest. Yet, his address was not unpleasing.

Unlike modern French politicians, his face was always smooth, with

no vestige of beard or whiskers. Altogether, therefore, he may be

said to have been a well-dressed, gentlemanly man, animated with

proper self-respect, and having no wish to court vulgar applause by

neglecting the decencies of polite society.

Before entering on his public career in Paris, Robespierre had

probably formed his plans, in which, at least to outward appearance,

there was an entire negation of self. A stern incorruptibility

seemed the basis of his character; and it is quite true that no

offers from the court, no overtures from associates, had power to

tempt him. There was only one way by which he could sustain a

high-souled independence, and that was the course adopted in like

circumstances by Andrew Marvel--simple wants, rigorous economy, a

disregard of fine company, an avoidance of expensive habits. Now,

this is the curious thing in Robespierre's history. Perhaps there

was a tinge of pride in his living a life of indigence; but in

fairness it is entitled to be called an honest pride, when we

consider that the means of profusion were within his reach. On his

arrival in Paris, he procured a humble lodging in the Marais, a

populous district in the northeastern faubourgs; but it being

represented to him sometime afterward, that, as a public man, it was

unsafe to expose himself in a long walk daily to and fro from this

obscure residence, he removed to a house in the Rue St. Honoré, now

marked No. 396, opposite the Church of the Assumption. Here he found

a lodging with M. Duplay, a respectable but humble cabinet-maker,

who had become attached to the principles of the Revolution; and

here he was joined by his brother, who played an inferior part in

public affairs, and is known in history as "the Younger

Robespierre." The selection of this dwelling seems to have fallen in

with Robespierre's notions of economy; and it suited his limited

patrimony, which consisted of some rents irregularly paid by a few

small farmers of his property in Artois. These ill-paid rents, with

his salary as a representative, are said to have supported three

persons--himself, his brother, and his sister; and so straitened was

he in circumstances, that he had to borrow occasionally from his

landlord. Even with all his pinching, he did not make both ends

meet. We have it on authority, that at his death he was owing £160;

a small debt to be incurred during a residence of five years in

Paris, by a person who figured as a leader of parties; and the

insignificance of this sum attests his remarkable self-denial.

Lamartine's account of the private life of Robespierre in the house

of the Duplays is exceedingly fascinating, and we should suppose is

founded on well-authorized facts. "The house of Duplay," he says,

"was low, and in a court surrounded by sheds filled with timber and

plants, and had almost a rustic appearance. It consisted of a parlor

opening to the court, and communicating with a sitting-room that

looked into a small garden. From the sitting-room a door led into a

small study, in which was a piano. There was a winding staircase to

the first floor, where the master of the house lived, and thence to

the apartment of Robespierre."

Here, long acquaintance, a common table, and association for several

years, "converted the hospitality of Duplay into an attachment that

became reciprocal. The family of his landlord became a second family

to Robespierre, and while they adopted his opinions, they neither

lost the simplicity of their manners nor neglected their religious

observances. They consisted of a father, mother, a son yet a youth,

and four daughters, the eldest of whom was twenty-five, and the

youngest eighteen. Familiar with the father, filial with the mother,

paternal with the son, tender and almost brotherly with the young

girls, he inspired and felt in this small domestic circle all those

sentiments that only an ardent soul inspires and feels by spreading

abroad its sympathies. Love also attached his heart, where toil,

poverty, and retirement had fixed his life. Eléonore Duplay, the

eldest daughter of his host, inspired Robespierre with a more

serious attachment than her sisters. The feeling, rather

predilection than passion, was more reasonable on the part of

Robespierre, more ardent and simple on the part of the young girl.

This affection afforded him tenderness without torment, happiness

without excitement: it was the love adapted for a man plunged all

day in the agitation of public life--a repose of the heart after

mental fatigue. He and Eléonore lived in the same house as a

betrothed couple, not as lovers. Robespierre had demanded the young

girl's hand from her parents, and they had promised it to him.

"'The total want of fortune,' he said, 'and the uncertainty of the

morrow, prevented him from marrying her until the destiny of France

was determined; but he only awaited the moment when the Revolution

should be concluded, in order to retire from the turmoil and strife,

marry her whom he loved, go to reside with her in Artois, on one of

the farms he had saved among the possessions of his family, and

there to mingle his obscure happiness in the common lot of his

family.'

"The vicissitudes of the fortune, influence, and popularity of

Robespierre effected no change in his simple mode of living. The

multitude came to implore favor or life at the door of his house,

yet nothing found its way within. The private lodging of Robespierre

consisted of a low chamber, constructed in the form of a garret,

above some cart-sheds, with the window opening upon the roof. It

afforded no other prospect than the interior of a small court,

resembling a wood-store, where the sounds of the workmen's hammers

and saws constantly resounded, and which was continually traversed

by Madame Duplay and her daughters, who there performed all their

household duties. This chamber was also separated from that of the

landlord by a small room common to the family and himself. On the

other side were two rooms, likewise attics, which were inhabited,

one by the son of the master of the house, the other by Simon

Duplay, Robespierre's secretary, and the nephew of his host.

"The chamber of the deputy contained only a wooden bedstead, covered

with blue damask ornamented with white flowers, a table, and four

straw-bottomed chairs. This apartment served him at once for a study

and dormitory. His papers, his reports, the manuscripts of his

discourses, written by himself in a regular but labored hand, and

with many marks of erasure, were placed carefully on deal-shelves

against the wall. A few chosen books were also ranged thereon. A

volume of Jean Jacques Rousseau or of Racine was generally open

upon his table, and attested his philosophical and literary

predilections."

With a mind continually on the stretch, and concerned less or more

in all the great movements of the day, the features of this

remarkable personage "relaxed into absolute gayety when in-doors at

table, or in the evening around the wood-fire in the humble chamber

of the cabinet-maker. His evenings were all passed with the family,

in talking over the feelings of the day, the plans of the morrow,

the conspiracies of the aristocrats, the dangers of the patriots,

and the prospects of public felicity after the triumph of the

Revolution. Sometimes Robespierre, who was anxious to cultivate the

mind of his betrothed, read to the family aloud, and generally from

the tragedies of Racine. He seldom went out in the evening; but two

or three times a year he escorted Madame Duplay and her daughter to

the theatre. On other days, Robespierre retired early to his

chamber, lay down, and rose again at night to work. The innumerable

discourses he had delivered in the two national assemblies, and to

the Jacobins; the articles written for his journal while he had one;

the still more numerous manuscripts of speeches which he had

prepared, but never delivered; the studied style, so remarkable;

the indefatigable corrections marked with his pen upon the

manuscripts--attest his watchings and his determination.

"His only relaxations were solitary walks in imitation of his model,

Jean Jacques Rousseau. His sole companion in these perambulations

was his great dog, which slept at his chamber-door, and always

followed him when he went out. This colossal animal, well known in

the district, was called Brount. Robespierre was much attached to

him, and constantly played with him. Occasionally, on a Sunday, all

the family left Paris with Robespierre; and the politician, once

more the man, amused himself with the mother, the sisters, and the

brother of Eléonore in the wood of Versailles or of Issy." Strange

contradiction! The man who is thus described as so amiable, so

gentle, so satisfied with the humble pleasures of an obscure family

circle, went forth daily on a self-imposed mission of turbulence and

terror.

THE TWO SISTERS.

You sometimes find in the same family, children of the same parents,

who in all respects present the most striking contrast. They not

only seem to be of different parentage, but of different races;

unlike in physical conformation, in complexion, in features, in

temperament, and in moral and intellectual qualities. They are

sometimes to be found diametrically opposed to each other in tastes,

pursuits, habits, and sympathies, though brought up under the same

parental eye, subject to the same circumstances and conditions, and

educated by the same teachers. Indeed, education does comparatively

little toward the formation of character--that is to say, in the

determination of the _individuality_ of character. It merely brings

out, or _e-duces_ that character, the germs of which are born in us,

and only want proper sunning, and warmth, and geniality, to bring

them to maturity.

You could scarcely have imagined that Elizabeth and Jane Byfield

were in any way related to each other. They had not a feature in

common. The one was a brilliant beauty, the other was plain in the

extreme. Elizabeth had a dazzling complexion, bright, speaking eyes,

an oval face, finely turned nose and chin, a mouth as pouting as if

"a bee had stung it newly;" she was tall and lithe; taper, yet

rounded--in short, she was a regular beauty, the belle of her

neighborhood, pursued by admirers, besonneted by poetasters,

serenaded by musical amateurs, toasted by spirit-loving old fogy

bachelors, and last, but not least, she was the subject of many a

tit-bit piece of scandal among her young lady rivals in the

country-town of Barkstone.

As for her sister Jane, with her demure, old-maidish air, her little

dumpy, thick-set figure, her _retroussé_ nose, and dingy features,

nobody bestowed a thought upon her. She had no rival, she was no

one's competitor, she offended nobody's sense of individual prowess

in grace or charms, by _her_ assumptions. Not at all. "That horrid

little fright, Jane Byfield," as some of her stylish acquaintances

would speak of her, behind her back, stood in no young lady's way.

She was very much of a house-bird, was Jane. In the evenings, while

her sister was dashing off some brilliant bravura in the

drawing-room, Jane would be seated in a corner, talking to some

person older than herself--or, perhaps you might find her in the

little back parlor, knitting or mending stockings. Not that she was

without a spice of fun in her; for, among children, she romped like

one of themselves; indeed, she was a general favorite with those who

were much younger as well as much older than herself. Yet, among

those of her own age, she never excited any admiration, except for

her dutifulness--though that, you know, is a very dull sort of

thing. Certainly, she never excited any young lady's envy, or

attracted any young gentleman's homage, like her more highly favored

sister. Indeed, by a kind of general consent, she was set down for

"a regular old maid."

I wish I could have told my readers that Jane got married after all,

and disappointed the prophetic utterances of her friends. I am sure

that, notwithstanding her plainness, she would have made a thrifty

manager and a thorough good housewife. But, as I am relating a true

history, I can not thus indulge my readers. Jane remained single;

but her temper continued unruffled. As she did not expect, so she

was not disappointed. She preserved her cheerfulness, continued to

be useful, kept her heart warm and her head well stored--for she was

a great reader--another of her "old-maidish" habits, though,

fortunately, the practice of reading good books by young women is

now ceasing to be "singular:" readers are now of the plural number,

and every day adds to the list.

But what of Elizabeth--the beauty? Oh, she got married--of course

she did. The beautiful are always sought after, often when they have

nothing but their beauty to recommend them. And, after all, we can

not wonder at this. Nature has so ordered it, that beauty of person

must command admirers; and, where beauty of heart and beauty of

intellect are joined together in the person of a beautiful woman,

really nothing in nature can be more charming. And so Elizabeth got

married; and a "good match" she made, as the saying is,

with a gentleman in extensive business, rather stylish, but

prosperous--likely to get on in the world, and to accumulate a

fortune. But the fortune was to make, and the business was

speculative. Those in business well know that it is not all gold

that glitters.

The married life of the "happy pair" commenced. First one, and then

another "toddling wee thing" presented itself in the young mother's

household, and the mother's cares and responsibilities multiplied.

But, to tell the truth, Elizabeth, though a beauty, was not a very

good manager. She could sit at the head of her husband's table, and

do the honors of the house to perfection. But look into her

wardrobe, into her drawers, into her kitchen, and you would say at

once, there was the want of the managing head, and the ready hand. A

good housewife, like a good poet, is "born, not made"--_nascitur non

fit_. It's true. There are some women whom no measure of drilling

can convert into good housewives. They may lay down systems,

cultivate domesticity, study tidying, spending, house-drilling, as

an art, and yet they can not acquire it. To others it comes without

effort, without consciousness, as a kind of second nature. They are

"to the manner born." They don't know how it is themselves. Yet

their hand seems to shed abroad order, regularity, and peace, in the

household. Under their eye, and without any seeming effort on their

part, every thing falls into its proper place, and every thing is

done at its proper time. Elizabeth did not know how it was; yet,

somehow, she could not get servants like any body else (how often

imperfect management is set down to account of "bad servants!"); she

could not get things to go smoothly; there was always something

"getting across;" the house got out of order; dinners were not ready

at the right time, and then the husband grew querulous; somehow, the

rooms could not be kept very tidy, for the mistress of the household

having her hands full of children, of course she "could not attend

to every thing;" and, in short, poor Elizabeth's household was fast

getting into a state of muddle.

Now, husbands don't like this state of things, and so, the result of

it was, that Elizabeth's husband, though not a bad-natured man,

sometimes grew cross and complaining, and the beautiful wife found

that her husband had "a temper"--as who has not? And about the same

time, the husband found that his wife was "no manager,"

notwithstanding her good looks. Though his wife studied economy, yet

he discovered that, somehow, she got through a deal of money, and

yet there was little comfort got in exchange for it. Things were

evidently in a bad way, and going wrong entirely. What might have

been the end, who knows? But, happily, at this juncture, aunt Jane,

the children's pet, the "little droll old maid," appeared on the

stage; and though sisters are not supposed to be of good omen in

other sisters' houses, certainly it must be admitted that, in this

case, the "old maid" at once worked a wonderful charm.

The quiet creature, in a few weeks, put quite a new feature on the

face of affairs. Under her eye, things seemed at once to fall into

their proper places--without the slightest "ordering," or bustling,

or noise, or palaver. Elizabeth could not make out how it was, but

sure enough Jane "had _such_ a way with her," and always had. The

positions of the sisters seemed now to be reversed. Jane was looked

up to by her sister, who no longer assumed those airs of

superiority, which, in the pride of her beauty and attractiveness,

had come so natural to her. Elizabeth had ceased to be competed for

by rival admirers; and she now discovered that the fleeting charms

of her once beautiful person could not atone for the want of those

more solid qualities which are indispensable in the house and the

home. What made Jane's presence more valuable at this juncture was,

that illness had come into the household, and, worst of all, it had

seized upon the head of the family. This is always a serious

calamity in any case; but in this case the consequences threatened

to be more serious than usual. An extensive business was

interrupted; large transactions, which only the head of the concern

himself, could adequately attend to, produced embarrassments, the

anxiety connected with which impeded a cure. All the resources of

medicine were applied; all the comfort, warmth, silence, and

attention that careful nursing could administer, were tried; and

tried in vain. The husband of Elizabeth died, and her children were

fatherless; but the fatherless are not forsaken--they are the care

of God.

Now it was that the noble nature of aunt Jane came grandly into

view. Her sister was stricken down--swallowed up in grief. Life, for

her, had lost its charm. The world was as if left without its sun.

She was utterly overwhelmed. Even the faces of her children served

only to awaken her to a quicker sense of misery. But aunt Jane's

energies were only awakened to renewed life and vigor. To these

orphans she was now both father and mother in one. What woman can

interfere in _business_ matters without risk of censure? But Jane

interfered: she exerted herself to wind up the affairs of the

deceased; and she did so; she succeeded! There was but little left;

only enough to live upon, and that meanly. Every thing was sold

off--the grand house was broken up--and the family subsided into the

ranks of the genteel poor. Elizabeth could not bear up under such a

succession of shocks. She was not querulous, but her sorrows were

too much for her, and she fed upon them--she petted them, and they

became her masters. A few years passed, and the broken-down woman

was laid in the same grave with her husband.

But Jane's courage never flagged. The gentle, dear, good creature,

now advancing into years, looked all manner of difficulties

courageously in the face; and she overcame them. They fled before

her resolution. Alone she bore the burden of that family of sons and

daughters not her own, but as dear to her now as if they were. What

scheming and thought she daily exercised to make the ends meet--to

give to each of them alike such an amount of school education as

would enable them "to make their way in the world," as she used to

say--can not be described. It would take a long chapter to detail

the patient industry, the frugal care, the motherly help, and the

watchful up-bringing with which she tended the helpless orphans. But

her arduous labors were all more than repaid in the end.

It was my privilege to know this noble woman. I used occasionally to

join the little family circle in an evening, round their crackling

fire, and contribute my quota of wonderful stories to the listening

group. Aunt Jane herself, was a capital story-teller; and it was her

wont thus, of an evening, to entertain the youngsters after the

chief part of the day's work was done. She would tell the boys--John

and Edward--of those self-helping and perseverant great men who had

climbed the difficult steeps of the world, and elevated themselves

to the loftiest stations by their own energy, industry, and

self-denial. The great and the good were her heroes, and she labored

to form those young minds about her after the best and noblest

models which biographic annals could furnish. "Without goodness,"

she would say--and her bright, speaking looks (plain though her

features were), with her animated and glowing expression, on such

occasions, made the lessons root themselves firmly in their young

minds and hearts--"Without goodness, my dear children, greatness is

naught--mere gilding and lacker; goodness is the real jewel in the

casket; so never forget to make that your end and aim."

I, too, used to contribute my share toward those delightful

evenings' entertainments, and aunt Jane would draw me on to tell the

group of the adventures and life of our royal Alfred--of his

struggles, his valor, his goodness, and his greatness; of the old

contests of the Danes and the Saxons; of Harold, the last of the

Saxon kings; of William the Norman, and the troublous times which

followed the Conquest; and of the valorous life of our forefathers,

out of which the living English character, habits, and institutions

had at length been formed. And oftentimes the shadow would flit

across those young faces, by the fire's light, when they were told

of perilous adventures on the lone sea; of shipwrecked and cast-away

sailors; of the escape of Drake, and the adventures of Cook, and of

that never-ending source of wonderment and interest--the life and

wanderings of Robinson Crusoe. And there was merriment and fun, too,

mixed with the marvelous and the imaginative--stories of giants, and

fairies, and Sleeping Beauties--at which their eyes would glance

brightly in the beams of the glowing fire. Then, first one little

face, and then another, would grow heavy and listless, and their

little heads begin to nod; at which the aunt would hear, one by one,

their little petitions to their "Father which art in Heaven," and

with a soft kiss and murmured blessing, would then lay them in their

little cribs, draw the curtains, and leave them to sleep.

But, as for the good aunt, bless you, nearly half of her work was

yet to do! There she would sit, far on into the night, till her eyes

were red and her cheeks feverish, with her weary white seam in her

hand; or, at another time, she would be mending, patching, and eking

out the clothes of the children just put to bed--for their wardrobe

was scanty, and often very far gone. Yes! poor thing! she was ready

to work her fingers to the bone for these dear fatherless young

ones, breathing so softly in the next room, and whose muttered

dreams would now and then disturb the deep stillness of the night;

when she would listen, utter a heartfelt "bless them," and then go

on with her work again. The presence of those children seemed only

to remind her of the need of more toil for their sakes. For them did

aunt Jane work by day, and work by night; for them did she ply the

brilliant needle, which, save in those gloaming hours by the

fireside, was scarcely ever out of her hand.

Sorrowful needle! What eyes have followed thee, strained themselves

at thee, wept over thee! And what sorrow yet hangs about the

glittering, polished, silver-eyed needle! What lives hang upon it!

What toil and night-watching, what laughter and tears, what gossip

and misery, what racking pains and weary moanings has it not

witnessed! And, would you know the poetry it has inspired--then read

poor Hood's terrible wail of "The Song of the Shirt!" The friend of

the needy, the tool of the industrious, the helper of the starving,

the companion of the desolate; such is that weakest of human

instruments--the needle! It was all these to our aunt Jane!

I can not tell you the life-long endurance and courage of that

woman; how she devoted herself to the cherishment and domestic

training of the girls, and the intellectual and industrial education

of the boys, and the correct moral culture of all the members of her

"little family," as she styled them.

Efforts such as hers are _never_ without their reward, even in this

world; and of her better and higher reward, surely aunt Jane might

well feel assured. Her children did credit to her. Years passed, and

one by one they grew up toward maturity. The character of the aunt

proved the best recommendation for the youths. The boys got placed

out at business--one in a lawyer's office, the second in a

warehouse. I do not specify further particulars; for the boys are

now men, well-known in the world; respected, admired, and

prosperous. One of them is a barrister of the highest distinction in

his profession, and it has been said of him, that he has the heart

of a woman, and the courage of a lion. The other is a well-known

merchant, and he is cited as a model of integrity among his class.

The girls have grown into women, and are all married. With one of

these aunt Jane now enjoys, in quiet and ease, the well-earned

comforts and independence of a green old age. About her knees now

clamber a new generation--the children of her "boys and girls."

Need I tell you how that dear old woman is revered! how her patient

toils are remembered and honored! how her nephews attribute all

their successes in life to her, to her noble example, to her tender

care, to her patient and long-suffering exertions on their behalf.

Never was aunt so honored--so beloved! She declares they will "spoil

her"--a thing she is not used to; and she often beseeches them to

have done with their acknowledgments of gratitude. But she is never

wearied of hearing them recall to memory those happy hours, by the

evening's fire-light, in the humble cottage in which I was so often

a sharer; and then her eye glistens, and a large tear of

thankfulness droops upon the lower lid, which she wipes off as of

old, and the same heartfelt benison of "Bless them," mutters on her

quivering lips.

I should like, some day, to indulge myself in telling a long story

about that dear aunt Jane's experiences; but I am growing old and a

little maudlin myself, and after all, her life and its results are

best told in the character and the history of the children she has

so faithfully nurtured and educated.

VENTRILOQUISM.

The art and practice of ventriloquism, has of late years exhibited

so much improvement that it deserves and will reward a little

judicious attention directed toward its all but miraculous

phenomena, and the causes and conditions of their astonishing

display. The art is of ancient date, the peculiarity of the vocal

organs in which it originates, like other types of genius or

aptitude, having been at intervals repeated. References in Scripture

to "the familiar spirits that peep and mutter" are numerous. In the

early Christian Church the practice also was known, and a treatise

was written on it by Eustathius, Archbishop of Antioch, in Greek.

The main argument of the book is the evocation of the ghost of

Samuel.

By the Mosaic law the Hebrews were prohibited from consulting those

who had familiar spirits. By one of such it is stated that the Witch

of Endor divined, or perhaps that she was possessed by it; for the

Hebrew _ob_ designates both those persons in whom there is a

familiar spirit, as well as those who divined by them. The plural

_oboth_ corresponds with the word ventriloquism. In the Septuagint,

it is associated with gastromancy--a mode of ancient divination,

wherein the diviner replied without moving his lips, so that the

consulter believed he actually heard the voice of a spirit; from

which circumstance, many theologians have doubted whether Samuel's

ghost really appeared, or rather whether the whole were not a

ventriloquial imposition on the superstitious credulity of Saul. We

may see in this unfortunate monarch and his successor the

distinction between true religion and false superstition; and,

indeed, in the poets and prophets generally of the Israelites, who

continually testify against the latter in all its forms. To them, to

the Greeks, the Egyptians, and the Assyrians, ventriloquism was

evidently well known. By reference to Leviticus, we shall find, as

we have said, the law forbids the Hebrews to consult those having

familiar spirits. The prophet Isaiah also draws an illustration from

the kind of voice heard in a case of divination. "Thou shalt be

brought down, shalt speak out of the ground, and thy speech shall be

low out of the dust; thy voice shall be as one that hath a familiar

spirit out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the

dust." It is curious that the Mormons quote this text as prophetic

of the discovery of their Sacred Book. In the Acts, Paul is

described as depriving a young woman of a familiar spirit, in the

city of Philippi in Macedonia;--she is announced as "a certain

damsel possessed with a spirit of divination, which brought her

master much gain by sooth-saying." There is also that well-known

tale in Plutarch, which is so impressive even to this day on the

Christian imagination--the story we mean, of Epitherses, who, having

embarked for Italy in the reign of Tiberius Cæsar, suddenly heard a

voice from the shore, while becalmed one evening before the

Paxe--two small islands in the Ionian sea, which lie between Corcyra

and Leucadia; such voice addressing Thamus, a pilot, and an Egyptian

by birth, who refused to answer till he received the third summons,

whereupon it said, "When thou art come to the Palodes, proclaim

aloud that the great Pan is dead!" It is added, that "the passengers

were all amazed; but their amazement gave place to the most alarming

emotions, when, on arriving at the specified place, Thamus stood in

the stern of the vessel, and proclaimed what he had been commanded

to announce." St. Chrysostom and the early fathers mention

divination by a familiar spirit as practiced in their day; and the

practice is still common in the East; as it is also among the

Esquimaux. As to the treatise of Eustathius, the good bishop's

notion was that the Witch of Endor was really possessed of a demon;

whose deception the vision was, being produced by supernatural

agency, not, as cited in the Septuagint, by Engastrimism, or

Ventriloquy.

In the nineteenth century, we are told by Sir David Brewster, that

ventriloquists made great additions to their art. The performances,

he says, of Fitzjames and Alexandré were far superior to those of

their predecessors. "Besides the art of speaking by the muscles of

the throat and the abdomen, without moving those of the face, these

artists had not only studied, with great diligence and success, the

modifications which sounds of all kinds undergo from distance,

obstructions, and other causes, but had acquired the art of

imitating them in the highest perfection. The ventriloquist was

therefore able to carry on a dialogue in which the _dramatis voces_,

as they may be called, were numerous; and, when on the outside of an

apartment, could personate a mob with its infinite variety of noise

and vociferation. Their influence over the minds of an audience was

still further extended by a singular power which they had obtained

over the muscles of the body. Fitzjames actually succeeded in making

the opposite or corresponding muscles act differently from each

other; and while one side of his face was merry and laughing, the

other side was full of sorrow and tears. At one time, he was tall,

and thin, and melancholy, and after passing behind a screen, he came

out bloated with obesity and staggering with fullness. M. Alexandré

possessed the same power over his face and figure, and so striking

was the contrast between two of these forms, that an excellent

sculptor (M. Joseph) has perpetuated them in marble. This new

acquirement of the ventriloquist of the nineteenth century, enabled

him in his own single person, and with his own single voice, to

represent a dramatic composition which would formerly have required

the assistance of several actors. Although only one character in

the piece could be seen at the same time, yet they all appeared

during its performance; and the change of face and figure on the

part of the ventriloquist was so perfect that his personal identity

could not be recognized in the _dramatis personæ_. This deception

was rendered still more complete by a particular construction of the

costumes, which enabled the performer to appear in a new character,

after an interval so short that the audience necessarily believed

that it was another person."

Some amusing anecdotes may be gathered, illustrative of

ventriloquism.

One M. St. Gille, a ventriloquist of France, had once occasion to

shelter himself from a sudden storm in a monastery in the

neighborhood of Avranche. The monks were at the time in deep sorrow

for the loss of an esteemed member of their fraternity, whom they

had recently buried. While lamenting over the tomb of their departed

brother the slight honors which had been paid to his memory, a

mysterious voice was heard to issue from the vaults of the church,

bewailing the condition of the deceased in purgatory, and reproving

the monks in melancholy tones for their want of zeal and reverence

for departed worth. Tidings of the event flew abroad; and quickly

brought the inhabitants to the spot. The miraculous speaker still

renewed his lamentations and reproaches; whereupon the monks fell on

their faces, and vowed to repair their neglect. They then chanted a

_De profundis_, and at intervals the ghostly voice of the deceased

friar expressed his satisfaction.

One Louis Brabant turned his ventriloquial talent to profitable

account. Rejected by the parents of an heiress as an unsuitable

match for their daughter, Louis, on the death of the father, paid a

visit to the widow, during which the voice of her deceased husband

was all at once heard thus to address her: "Give my daughter in

marriage to Louis Brabant:--he is a man of fortune and character,

and I endure the pains of purgatory for having refused her to him.

Obey this admonition, and give repose to the soul of your departed

husband." Of course, the widow complied; but Brabant's difficulties

were not yet all overcome. He wanted money to defray the wedding

expenses, and resolved to work on the fears of an old usurer, a M.

Cornu, of Lyons. Having obtained an evening interview, he contrived

to turn the conversation on departed spirits and ghosts. During an

interval of silence, the voice of the miser's deceased father was

heard, complaining of his situation in purgatory, and calling loudly

upon his son to rescue him from his sufferings, by enabling Brabant

to redeem the Christians at that time enslaved by the Turks. Not

succeeding on the first occasion, Brabant was compelled to make a

second visit to the miser, when he took care to enlist not only his

father but all his deceased relations in the appeal; and in this way

he obtained a thousand crowns.

There have been few female ventriloquists. Effects produced by the

female organs of speech have always manifested a deficiency of

power. The artificial voices have been few in number, and those

imperfectly defined. A woman at Amsterdam possessed considerable

powers in this way. Conrad Amman, a Dutch doctor in medicine, who

published a Latin treatise at Amsterdam in 1700, observes of her,

that the effects she exhibited were produced by a sort of swallowing

of the words, or forcing them to retrograde, as it were, by the

trachea, by speaking during the inspiration of the breath, and not,

as in ordinary speech, during expiration. The same writer notices

also the performances of the famous Casimir Schreckenstein.

Different professors of ventriloquism have given different accounts

of the manner in which they succeeded in producing their illusions.

Baron Mengen, one of the household of Prince Lichtenstein, at

Vienna, said that it consisted in a passion for counterfeiting the

cries of animals and the voices of different persons. M. St. Gille

referred his art to mimicry; and the French Academy, combining these

views, defines the art as consisting in an accurate imitation of any

given sound as it reaches the ear. Scientific solutions are various.

Mr. Nicholson thought that artists in this line, by continual

practice from childhood, acquire the power of speaking during

inspiration with the same articulation as the ordinary voice, which

is formed by expiration. M. Richerand declares that every time a

professor exhibits his vocal peculiarities, he suffers distension in

the epigastric region; and supposes that the mechanism of the art

consists in a slow, gradual expiration, drawn in such a way, that

the artist either makes use of the influence exerted by volition

over the parietes of the thorax, or that he keeps the epiglottis

down by the base of the tongue, the apex of which is not carried

beyond the dental arches. He observes, that ventriloquists possess

the power of making an exceedingly strong inspiration just before

the long expiration, and thus convey into the lungs an immense

quantity of air, by the artistical management of the egress of which

they produce such astonishing effects upon the hearing and

imagination of their auditors.

The theory propounded by Mr. Gough in the "Manchester Memoir," on

the principle of reverberated sound, is untenable, because

ventriloquism on that theory would be impossible in a crowded

theatre, which admits not of the predicated echoes. Mr. Love, in his

account of himself, asserts a natural aptitude, a physical

predisposition of the vocal organs; which, in his case, discovered

itself as early as the age of ten, and gradually improved with

practice, without any artistic study whatever. He states that not

only his pure ventriloquisms, but nearly all his lighter vocal

imitations of miscellaneous sounds, were executed in the first

instance on the spur of the moment, and without any pre-meditation.

The artist must evidently possess great flexibility of larynx and

tongue. Polyphony, according to our modern professor, is produced

by compression of the muscles of the chest, and is an act entirely

different from any species of vocal deception or modulation. There

is no method, he tells us, of manufacturing true ventriloquists.

Nature must have commenced the operation, by placing at the artist's

disposal a certain quality of voice adapted for the purpose, as the

raw material to work upon. It is like a fine ear or voice for

singing--the gift of Nature. It follows, therefore, that an expert

polyphonist must be as rare a personage as any other man of genius

in any particular art.

THE INCENDIARY.

FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF AN ATTORNEY.

I knew James Dutton, as I shall call him, at an early period of

life, when my present scanty locks of iron-gray were thick and dark,

my now pale and furrowed cheeks were fresh and ruddy, like his own.

Time, circumstance, and natural bent of mind, have done their work

on both of us; and if his course of life has been less equable than

mine, it has been chiefly so because the original impulse, the first

start on the great journey, upon which so much depends, was directed

by wiser heads in my case than in his. We were school-fellows for a

considerable time; and if I acquired--as I certainly did--a larger

stock of knowledge than he, it was by no means from any superior

capacity on my part, but that his mind was bent on other pursuits.

He was a born Nimrod, and his father encouraged this propensity from

the earliest moment that his darling and only son could sit a pony

or handle a light fowling-piece. Dutton, senior, was one of a then

large class of persons, whom Cobbett used to call bull-frog farmers;

men who, finding themselves daily increasing in wealth by the

operation of circumstances, they neither created nor could insure or

control--namely, a rapidly increasing manufacturing population, and

tremendous war-prices for their produce--acted as if the

chance-blown prosperity they enjoyed was the result of their own

forethought, skill, and energy, and therefore, humanly speaking,

indestructible. James Dutton was, consequently, denied nothing--not

even the luxury of neglecting his own education; and he availed

himself of the lamentable privilege to a great extent. It was,

however, a remarkable feature in the lad's character, that whatever

he himself deemed essential should be done, no amount of indulgence,

no love of sport or dissipation, could divert him from thoroughly

accomplishing. Thus he saw clearly, that even in the life--that of a

sportsman-farmer he had chalked out for himself, it was

indispensably necessary that a certain quantum of educational power

should be attained; and so he really acquired a knowledge of

reading, writing, and spelling, and then withdrew from school to

more congenial avocations.

I frequently met James Dutton in after-years; but some nine or ten

months had passed since I had last seen him, when I was directed by

the chief partner in the firm to which Flint and I subsequently

succeeded, to take coach for Romford, Essex, in order to ascertain

from a witness there what kind of evidence we might expect him to

give in a trial to come off in the then Hilary term at Westminster

Hall. It was the first week in January: the weather was bitterly

cold; and I experienced an intense satisfaction when, after

dispatching the business I had come upon, I found myself in the long

dining-room of the chief market-inn, where two blazing fires shed a

ruddy, cheerful light over the snow-white damask table-cloth, bright

glasses, decanters, and other preparatives for the farmers'

market-dinner. Prices had ruled high that day; wheat had reached £30

a load; and the numerous groups of hearty, stalwart yeomen present

were in high glee, crowing and exulting alike over their full

pockets and the news--of which the papers were just then full--of

the burning of Moscow, and the flight and ruin of Bonaparte's army.

James Dutton was in the room, but not, I observed, in his usual flow

of animal spirits. The crape round his hat might, I thought, account

for that, and as he did not see me, I accosted him with an inquiry

after his health, and the reason of his being in mourning. He

received me very cordially, and in an instant cast off the

abstracted manner I had noticed. His father, he informed me, was

gone--had died about seven months previously, and he was alone now

at Ash Farm--why didn't I run down there to see him sometimes, &c.?

Our conversation was interrupted by a summons to dinner, very

cheerfully complied with; and we both--at least I can answer for

myself--did ample justice to a more than usually capital dinner,

even in those capital old market-dinner times. We were very jolly

afterward, and amazingly triumphant over the frost-bitten,

snow-buried soldier-banditti that had so long lorded it over

continental Europe. Dutton did not partake of the general hilarity.

There was a sneer upon his lip during the whole time, which,

however, found no expression in words.

"How quiet you are, James Dutton!" cried a loud voice from out the

dense smoke-cloud that by this time completely enveloped us. On

looking toward the spot from whence the ringing tones came, a jolly,

round face--like the sun as seen through a London fog--gleamed redly

dull from out the thick and choking atmosphere.

"Every body," rejoined Dutton, "hasn't had the luck to sell two

hundred quarters of wheat at to-day's price, as you have, Tom

Southall."

"That's true, my boy," returned Master Southall, sending, in the

plentitude of his satisfaction, a jet of smoke toward us with

astonishing force. "And, I say, Jem, I'll tell 'ee what I'll do;

I'll clap on ten guineas more upon what I offered for the brown

mare."

"Done! She's yours, Tom, then, for ninety guineas!"

"Gie's your hand upon it!" cried Tom Southall, jumping up from his

chair, and stretching a fist as big as a leg of mutton--well, say

lamb--over the table. "And here--here," he added, with an exultant

chuckle, as he extricated a swollen canvas-bag from his

pocket--"here's the dibs at once."

This transaction excited a great deal of surprise at our part of the

table; and Dutton was rigorously cross-questioned as to his reason

for parting with his favorite hunting mare.

"The truth is, friends," said Dutton at last, "I mean to give up

farming, and--"

"Gie up farmin'!" broke in half-a-dozen voices. "Lord!"

"Yes; I don't like it. I shall buy a commission in the army.

There'll be a chance against Boney, now; and it's a life I'm fit

for."

The farmers looked completely agape at this announcement; but making

nothing of it, after silently staring at Dutton and each other, with

their pipes in their hands and not in their mouths, till they had

gone out, stretched their heads simultaneously across the table

toward the candles, relit their pipes, and smoked on as before.

"Then, perhaps, Mr. Dutton," said a young man in a smartly-cut

velveteen coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, who had hastily left

his seat farther down the table--"perhaps you will sell the double

Manton, and Fanny and Slut?"

"Yes; at a price."

Prices were named; I forget now the exact sums, but enormous prices,

I thought, for the gun and the dogs, Fanny and Slut. The bargain was

eagerly concluded, and the money paid at once. Possibly the buyer

had a vague notion, that a portion of the vender's skill might come

to him with his purchases.

"You be in 'arnest, then, in this fool's business, James Dutton,"

observed a farmer, gravely. "I be sorry for thee; but as I s'pose

the lease of Ash Farm will be parted with; why--John, waiter, tell

Master Hurst at the top of the table yonder, to come this way."

Master Hurst, a well-to-do, highly respectable-looking, and rather

elderly man, came in obedience to the summons, and after a few words

in an under-tone with the friend that had sent for him, said, "Is

this true, James Dutton?"

"It is true that the lease and stock of Ash Farm are to be sold--at

a price. You, I believe, are in want of such a concern for the young

couple just married."

"Well, I don't say I might not be a customer, if the price were

reasonable."

"Let us step into a private room, then," said Dutton, rising. "This

is not a place for business of that kind. Sharp," he added, _sotto

voce_, "come with us; I may want you."

I had listened to all this with a kind of stupid wonderment, and I

now, mechanically, as it were, got up and accompanied the party to

another room.

The matter was soon settled. Five hundred pounds for the lease--ten

years unexpired--of Ash Farm, about eleven hundred acres, and the

stock and implements; the plowing, sowing, &c., already performed,

to be paid for at a valuation based on present prices. I drew out

the agreement in form, it was signed in duplicate, a large sum was

paid down as deposit, and Mr. Hurst with his friend withdrew.

"Well," I said, taking a glass of port from a bottle Dutton had just

ordered in--"here's fortune in your new career; but, as I am a

living man, I can't understand what you can be thinking about."

"You haven't read the newspapers?"

"O yes, I have! Victory! Glory! March to Paris! and all that sort of

thing. Very fine, I dare say; but rubbish, moonshine, I call it, if

purchased by the abandonment of the useful, comfortable, joyous life

of a prosperous yeoman."

"Is that all you have seen in the papers?"

"Not much else. What, besides, have you found in them?"

"Wheat, at ten or eleven pounds a load--less perhaps--other produce

in proportion."

"Ha!"

"I see farther, Sharp, than you bookmen do, in some matters. Boney's

done for; that to me is quite plain, and earlier than I thought

likely; although I, of course, as well as every other man

with a head instead of a turnip on his shoulders, knew such a

raw-head-and-bloody-bones as that must sooner or later come to the

dogs. And as I also know what agricultural prices were _before_ the

war, I can calculate without the aid of vulgar fractions, which,

by-the-by, I never reached, what they'll be when it's over, and the

thundering expenditure now going on is stopped. In two or three

weeks, people generally will get a dim notion of all this; and I

sell, therefore, while I can, at top prices."

The shrewdness of the calculation struck me at once.

"You will take another farm when one can be had on easier terms than

now, I suppose?"

"Yes; if I can manage it. And I _will_ manage it. Between ourselves,

after all the old man's debts are paid, I shall only have about nine

or ten hundred pounds to the good, even by selling at the present

tremendous rates; so it was time, you see, I pulled up, and rubbed

the fog out of my eyes a bit. And hark ye, Master Sharp!" he added,

as we rose and shook hands with each other--"I have now done

_playing_ with the world--it's a place of work and business; and

I'll do my share of it so effectually, that my children, if I have

any, shall, if I do not, reach the class of landed gentry; and this

you'll find, for all your sneering, will come about all the more

easily that neither they nor their father will be encumbered with

much educational lumber. Good-by."

I did not again see my old school-fellow till the change he had

predicted had thoroughly come to pass. Farms were every where to

let, and a general cry to parliament for aid rang through the land.

Dutton called at the office upon business, accompanied by a young

woman of remarkable personal comeliness, but, as a very few

sentences betrayed, little or no education in the conventional sense

of the word. She was the daughter of a farmer, whom--it was no fault

of hers--a change of times had not found in a better condition for

weathering them.--Anne Mosley, in fact, was a thoroughly

industrious, clever farm economist. The instant Dutton had secured

an eligible farm, at his own price and conditions, he married her;

and now, on the third day after the wedding, he had brought me the

draft of his lease for examination.

"You are not afraid, then," I remarked, "of taking a farm in these

bad times?"

"Not I--at a price. We mean to _rough_ it, Mr. Sharp," he added

gayly. "And, let me tell you, that those who will stoop to do

that--I mean, take their coats off, tuck up their sleeves, and fling

appearances to the winds--may, and will, if they understand their

business, and have got their heads screwed on right, do better here

than in any of the uncleared countries they talk so much about. You

know what I told you down at Romford. Well, we'll manage that before

our hair is gray, depend upon it, bad as the times may be--won't we,

Nance?"

"We'll try, Jem," was the smiling response.

They left the draft for examination. It was found to be correctly

drawn. Two or three days afterward, the deeds were executed, and

James Dutton was placed in possession. The farm, a capital one, was

in Essex.

His hopes were fully realized as to money-making, at all events. He

and his wife rose early, sat up late, ate the bread of carefulness,

and altogether displayed such persevering energy, that only about

six or seven years had passed before the Duttons were accounted a

rich and prosperous family. They had one child only--a daughter. The

mother, Mrs. Dutton, died when this child was about twelve years of

age; and Anne Dutton became more than ever the apple of her father's

eye. The business of the farm went steadily on in its accustomed

track; each succeeding year found James Dutton growing in

wealth and importance; and his daughter in sparkling, catching

comeliness--although certainly not in the refinement of manner which

gives a quickening life and grace to personal symmetry and beauty.

James Dutton remained firm in his theory of the worthlessness of

education beyond what, in a narrow acceptation of the term, was

absolutely "necessary;" and Anne Dutton, although now heiress to

very considerable wealth, knew only how to read, write, spell, cast

accounts, and superintend the home-business of the farm. I saw a

great deal of the Duttons about this time, my brother-in-law,

Elsworthy and his wife having taken up their abode within about half

a mile of James Dutton's dwelling-house; and I ventured once or

twice to remonstrate with the prosperous farmer upon the positive

danger, with reference to his ambitious views, of not at least so

far cultivating the intellect and taste of so attractive a maiden as

his daughter, that sympathy on her part with the rude, unlettered

clowns, with whom she necessarily came so much in contact, should be

impossible. He laughed my hints to scorn. "It is idleness--idleness

alone," he said, "that puts love-fancies into girls' heads.

Novel-reading, jingling at a piano-forte--merely other names for

idleness--these are the parents of such follies. Anne Dutton, as

mistress of this establishment, has her time fully and usefully

occupied; and when the time comes, not far distant now, to establish

her in marriage, she will wed into a family I wot of; and the

Romford prophecy of which you remind me will be realized, in great

part at least."

He found, too late, his error. He hastily entered the office one

morning, and although it was only five or six weeks since I had last

seen him, the change in his then florid, prideful features was so

striking and painful, as to cause me to fairly leap upon my feet

with surprise.

"Good Heavens, Dutton!" I exclaimed, "What is the matter? What has

happened?"

"Nothing has happened, Mr. Sharp," he replied, "but what you

predicted, and which, had I not been the most conceited dolt in

existence, I too, must have foreseen. You know that good-looking,

idle, and, I fear, irreclaimable young fellow, George Hamblin?"

"I have seen him once or twice. Has he not brought his father to the

verge of a work-house by low dissipation and extravagance?"

"Yes. Well, he is an accepted suitor for Anne Dutton's hand. No

wonder that you start. She fancies herself hopelessly in love with

him--Nay, Sharp, hear me out. I have tried expostulation, threats,

entreaties, locking her up; but it's useless. I shall kill the silly

fool if I persist, and I have at length consented to the marriage;

for I can not see her die." I began remonstrating upon the folly of

yielding consent to so ruinous a marriage, on account of a few tears

and hysterics, but Dutton stopped me peremptorily.

"It is useless talking," he said. "The die is cast; I have given my

word. You would hardly recognize her, she is so altered. I did not

know before," added the strong, stern man, with trembling voice and

glistening eyes, "that she was so inextricably twined about my

heart--my life!" It is difficult to estimate the bitterness of such

a disappointment to a proud, aspiring man like Dutton. I pitied him

sincerely, mistaken, if not blameworthy, as he had been.

"I have only myself to blame," he presently resumed. "A girl of

cultivated taste and mind could not have bestowed a second

thought on George Hamblin. But let's to business. I wish the

marriage-settlement, and my will, to be so drawn, that every

farthing received from me during my life, and after my death, shall

be hers, and hers only; and so strictly and entirely secured, that

she shall be without power to yield control over the slightest

portion of it, should she be so minded." I took down his

instructions, and the necessary deeds were drawn in accordance with

them. When the day for signing arrived, the bridegroom-elect

demurred at first to the stringency of the provisions of the

marriage-contract; but as upon this point, Mr. Dutton was found to

be inflexible, the handsome, illiterate clown--he was little

better--gave up his scruples, the more readily as a life of assured

idleness lay before him, from the virtual control he was sure to

have over his wife's income. These were the thoughts which passed

across his mind, I was quite sure, as taking the pen awkwardly in

his hand, he affixed _his mark_ to the marriage-deed. I reddened

with shame, and the smothered groan which at the moment smote

faintly on my ear, again brokenly confessed the miserable folly of

the father in not having placed his beautiful child beyond all

possibility of mental contact or communion with such a person. The

marriage was shortly afterward solemnized, but I did not wait to

witness the ceremony.

The husband's promised good-behavior did not long endure; ere two

months of wedded life were past, he had fallen again into his old

habits; and the wife, bitterly repentant of her folly, was fain to

confess, that nothing but dread of her father's vengeance saved her

from positive ill usage. It was altogether a wretched, unfortunate

affair; and the intelligence--sad in itself--which reached me about

a twelvemonth after the marriage, that the young mother had died in

childbirth of her first-born, a girl, appeared to me rather a matter

of rejoicing than of sorrow or regret. The shock to poor Dutton was,

I understood, overwhelming for a time, and fears were entertained

for his intellects. He recovered, however, and took charge of his

grandchild, the father very willingly resigning the onerous burden.

My brother-in-law left James Dutton's neighborhood for a distant

part of the country about this period, and I saw nothing of the

bereaved father for about five years, save only at two business

interviews. The business upon which I had seen him, was the

alteration of his will, by which all he might die possessed of was

bequeathed to his darling Annie. His health, I was glad to find, was

quite restored; and although now fifty years of age, the bright

light of his young days sparkled once more in his keen glance. His

youth was, he said, renewed in little Annie. He could even bear to

speak, though still with remorseful emotion, of his own lost child.

"No fear, Sharp," he said, "that I make that terrible mistake again.

Annie will fall in love, please God, with no unlettered, soulless

booby! Her mind shall be elevated, beautiful, and pure as her

person--she is the image of her mother--promises to be charming and

attractive. You must come and see her." I promised to do so; and he

went his way. At one of these interviews--the first it must have

been--I made a chance inquiry for his son-in-law, Hamblin. As the

name passed my lips, a look of hate and rage flashed out of his

burning eyes. I did not utter another word, nor did he; and we

separated in silence.

It was evening, and I was returning in a gig from a rather long

journey into the country, when I called, in redemption of my

promise, upon James Dutton. Annie was really, I found, an engaging

pretty, blue-eyed, golden-haired child; and I was not so much

surprised at her grandfather's doting fondness--a fondness entirely

reciprocated, it seemed, by the little girl. It struck me, albeit,

that it was a perilous thing for a man of Dutton's vehement, fiery

nature to stake again, as he evidently had done, his all of life and

happiness upon one frail existence. An illustration of my thought or

fear occurred just after we had finished tea. A knock was heard at

the outer door, and presently a man's voice, in quarreling, drunken

remonstrance with the servant who opened it. The same deadly scowl I

had seen sweep over Dutton's countenance upon the mention of

Hamblin's name, again gleamed darkly there; and finding, after a

moment or two, that the intruder would not be denied, the master of

the house gently removed Annie from his knee, and strode out of the

room.

"Follow grandpapa," whispered Mrs. Rivers, a highly respectable

widow of about forty years of age, whom Mr. Dutton had engaged at a

high salary to superintend Annie's education. The child went out,

and Mrs. Rivers, addressing me, said in a low voice: "Her presence

will prevent violence; but it is a sad affair." She then informed me

that Hamblin, to whom Mr. Dutton allowed a hundred a year, having

become aware of the grandfather's extreme fondness for Annie,

systematically worked that knowledge for his own sordid ends, and

preluded every fresh attack upon Mr. Dutton's purse by a threat to

reclaim the child. "It is not the money," remarked Mrs. Rivers in

conclusion, "that Mr. Dutton cares so much for, but the thought that

he holds Annie by the sufferance of that wretched man, goads him at

times almost to insanity."

"Would not the fellow waive his claim for a settled increase of his

annuity?"

"No; that has been offered to the extent of three hundred a year;

but Hamblin refuses, partly from the pleasure of keeping such a man

as Mr. Dutton in his power, partly because he knows that the last

shilling would be parted with rather than the child. It is a very

unfortunate business, and I often fear will terminate badly." The

loud but indistinct wrangling without ceased after a while, and I

heard a key turn stiffly in a lock. "The usual conclusion of these

scenes," said Mrs. Rivers. "Another draft upon his strong-box will

purchase Mr. Dutton a respite as long as the money lasts." I could

hardly look at James Dutton when he re-entered the room. There was

that in his countenance which I do not like to read in the faces of

my friends. He was silent for several minutes; at last he said

quickly, sternly: "Is there no instrument, Mr. Sharp, in all the

enginery of law, that can defeat a worthless villain's legal claim

to his child?"

"None; except, perhaps, a commission of lunacy, or--"

"Tush! tush!" interrupted Dutton; "the fellow has no wits to lose.

That being so--But let us talk of something else." We did so, but

on his part very incoherently, and I soon bade him good-night.

This was December, and it was in February the following year that

Dutton again called at our place of business. There was a strange,

stern, iron meaning in his face. "I am in a great hurry," he said,

"and I have only called to say, that I shall be glad if you will run

over to the farm to-morrow on a matter of business. You have seen,

perhaps, in the paper, that my dwelling-house took fire the night

before last. You have not? Well, it is upon that I would consult

you. Will you come?" I agreed to do so, and he withdrew.

The fire had not, I found, done much injury. It had commenced in a

kind of miscellaneous store-room; but the origin of the fire

appeared to me, as it did to the police-officers that had been

summoned, perfectly unaccountable. "Had it not been discovered in

time, and extinguished," I observed to Mrs. Rivers, "you would all

have been burned in your beds."

"Why, no," replied that lady, with some strangeness of manner. "On

the night of the fire, Annie and I slept at Mr. Elsworthy's" (I have

omitted to notice, that my brother-in-law and family had returned to

their old residence), "and Mr. Dutton remained in London, whither he

had gone to see the play."

"But the servants might have perished?"

"No. A whim, apparently, has lately seized Mr. Dutton, that no

servant or laborer shall sleep under the same roof with himself; and

those new outhouses, where their bedrooms are placed, are, you see,

completely detached, and are indeed, as regards this dwelling, made

fire-proof."

At this moment Mr. Dutton appeared, and interrupted our

conversation. He took me aside. "Well," he said, "to what conclusion

have you come? The work of an incendiary, is it not? Somebody too,

that knows I am not insured--"

"Not insured!"

"No; not for this dwelling-house. I did not renew the policy some

months ago."

"Then," I jestingly remarked, "you, at all events, are safe from any

accusation of having set fire to your premises with the intent to

defraud the insurers."

"To be sure--to be sure, I am," he rejoined with quick earnestness,

as if taking my remark seriously. "That is quite certain. Some one,

I am pretty sure, it must be," he presently added, "that owes me a

grudge--with whom I have quarreled, eh?"

"It may be so, certainly."

"It _must_ be so. And what, Mr. Sharp, is the highest penalty for

the crime of incendiarism?"

"By the recent change in the law, transportation only; unless,

indeed, loss of human life occur in consequence of the felonious

act; in which case, the English law construes the offense to be

willful murder, although the incendiary may not have intended the

death or injury of any person."

"I see. But here there could have been no loss of life."

"There might have been, had not you, Mrs. Rivers, and Annie, chanced

to sleep out of the house."

"True--true--a diabolical villain, no doubt. But we'll ferret him

out yet. You are a keen hand, Mr. Sharp, and will assist, I know.

Yes, yes--it's some fellow that hates me--that I perhaps hate and

loathe--" he added with sudden gnashing fierceness, and striking his

hand with furious violence on the table--"as I do a spotted toad!"

I hardly recognized James Dutton in this fitful, disjointed talk,

and as there was really nothing to be done or to be inquired into, I

soon went away.

"Only one week's interval," I hastily remarked to Mr. Flint, one

morning after glancing at the newspaper, "and another fire at

Dutton's farm-house!"

"The deuce! He is in the luck of it, apparently," replied Flint,

without looking up from his employment. My partner knew Dutton only

by sight.

The following morning, I received a note from Mrs. Rivers. She

wished to see me immediately on a matter of great importance. I

hastened to Mr. Dutton's, and found, on arriving there, that George

Hamblin was in custody, and undergoing an examination, at no great

distance off, before two county magistrates, on the charge of having

fired Mr. Dutton's premises. The chief evidence was, that Hamblin

had been seen lurking about the place just before the flames broke

out, and that near the window where an incendiary might have entered

there were found portions of several lucifer matches, of a

particular make, and corresponding to a number found in Hamblin's

bedroom. To this Hamblin replied, that he had come to the house by

Mr. Dutton's invitation, but found nobody there. This however, was

vehemently denied by Mr. Dutton. He had made no appointment with

Hamblin to meet at his (Dutton's) house. How should he, purposing as

he did to be in London at the time? With respect to the lucifer

matches, Hamblin said he had purchased them of a mendicant, and that

Mr. Dutton saw him do so. This also was denied. It was further

proved, that Hamblin, when in drink, had often said he would ruin

Dutton before he died. Finally, the magistrates, though with some

hesitation, decided that there was hardly sufficient evidence to

warrant them in committing the prisoner for trial, and he was

discharged, much to the rage and indignation of the prosecutor.

Subsequently, Mrs. Rivers and I had a long private conference. She

and the child had again slept at Elsworthy's on the night of the

fire, and Dutton in London. "His excuse is," said Mrs. Rivers, "that

he can not permit us to sleep here unprotected by his presence." We

both arrived at the same conclusion, and at last agreed upon what

should be done--attempted rather--and that without delay.

Just before taking leave of Mr. Dutton, who was in an exceedingly

excited state, I said: "By-the-by, Dutton, you have promised to dine

with me on some early day. Let it be next Tuesday. I shall have one

or two bachelor friends, and we can give you a shake-down for the

night."

"Next Tuesday?" said he quickly. "At what hour do you dine?"

"At six. Not a half-moment later."

"Good! I will be with you." We then shook hands, and parted.

The dinner would have been without interest to me, had not a note

previously arrived from Mrs. Rivers, stating that she and Annie were

again to sleep that night at Elsworthy's. This promised results.

James Dutton, who rode into town, was punctual, and, as always of

late, flurried, excited, nervous--not, in fact, it appeared to me,

precisely in his right mind. The dinner passed off as dinners

usually do, and the after-proceedings went on very comfortably till

about half-past nine o'clock, when Dutton's perturbation, increased

perhaps by the considerable quantity of wine he had swallowed, not

drunk, became, it was apparent to every body, almost uncontrollable.

He rose--purposeless it seemed--sat down again--drew out his watch

almost every minute, and answered remarks addressed to him in the

wildest manner. The decisive moment was, I saw, arrived, and at a

gesture of mine, Elsworthy, who was in my confidence, addressed

Dutton. "By the way, Dutton, about Mrs. Rivers and Annie. I forgot

to tell you of it before."

The restless man was on his feet in an instant, and glaring with

fiery eagerness at the speaker.

"What! what!" he cried with explosive quickness--"what about Annie?

Death and fury!--speak! will you?"

"Don't alarm yourself, my good fellow. It's nothing of consequence.

You brought Annie and her governess, about an hour before I started,

to sleep at our house--"

"Yes--yes," gasped Dutton, white as death, and every fibre of his

body shaking with terrible dread. "Yes--well, well, go on. Thunder

and lightning! out with it, will you?"

"Unfortunately, two female cousins arrived soon after you went away,

and I was obliged to escort Annie and Mrs. Rivers home again." A

wild shriek--yell is perhaps the more appropriate expression--burst

from the conscience and fear-stricken man. Another instant, and he

had torn his watch from the fob, glanced at it with dilated eyes,

dashed it on the table, and was rushing madly toward the door,

vainly withstood by Elsworthy, who feared we had gone too far.

"Out of the way!" screamed the madman. "Let go, or I'll dash

you to atoms!" Suiting the action to the threat, he hurled my

brother-in-law against the wall with stunning force, and rushed on,

shouting incoherently: "My horse! There is time yet! Tom Edwards,

my horse!"

Tom Edwards was luckily at hand, and although mightily surprised at

the sudden uproar, which he attributed to Mr. Dutton being in drink,

mechanically assisted to saddle, bridle, and bring out the roan

mare; and before I could reach the stables, Dutton's foot was in the

stirrup. I shouted "Stop," as loudly as I could, but the excited

horseman did not heed, perhaps not hear me: and away he went, at a

tremendous speed, hatless, and his long gray-tinted hair streaming

in the wind. It was absolutely necessary to follow. I therefore

directed Elsworthy's horse, a much swifter and more peaceful animal

than Dutton's, to be brought out; and as soon as I got into the high

country road, I too dashed along at a rate much too headlong to be

altogether pleasant. The evening was clear and bright, and I now and

then caught a distant sight of Dutton, who was going at a frantic

pace across the country, and putting his horse at leaps that no man

in his senses would have attempted. I kept the high-road, and we had

thus ridden about half an hour perhaps, when a bright flame about a

mile distant, as the crow flies, shot suddenly forth, strongly

relieved against a mass of dark wood just beyond it. I knew it to be

Dutton's house, even without the confirmation given by the frenzied

shout which at the same moment arose on my left hand. It was from

Dutton. His horse had been _staked_, in an effort to clear a high

fence, and he was hurrying desperately along on foot. I tried to

make him hear me, or to reach him, but found I could do neither: his

own wild cries and imprecations drowned my voice, and there were

impassable fences between the high-road and the fields across which

he madly hasted.

The flames were swift this time, and defied the efforts of the

servants and husbandmen who had come to the rescue, to stay, much

less to quell them. Eagerly as I rode, Dutton arrived before the

blazing pile at nearly the same moment as myself, and even as he

fiercely struggled with two or three men, who strove by main force

to prevent him from rushing into the flames, only to meet with

certain death, the roof and floors of the building fell in with a

sudden crash. He believed that all was over with the child, and

again hurling forth the wild despairing cry I had twice before heard

that evening, he fell down, as if smitten by lightning, upon the

hard, frosty road.

It was many days ere the unhappy, sinful man recovered his senses,

many weeks before he was restored to his accustomed health. Very

cautiously had the intelligence been communicated to him, that Annie

had not met the terrible fate, the image of which had incessantly

pursued him through his fevered dreams. He was a deeply grateful,

and, I believe, a penitent and altogether changed man. He purchased,

through my agency, a valuable farm in a distant county, in order to

be out of the way, not only of Hamblin, on whom he settled two

hundred a year, but of others, myself included, who knew or

suspected him of the foul intention he had conceived against his

son-in-law, and which, but for Mrs. Rivers, would, on the last

occasion, have been in all probability successful, so cunningly had

the evidence of circumstances been devised. "I have been," said

James Dutton to me at the last interview I had with him, "all my

life an overweening, self-confident fool. At Romford, I boasted to

you that my children should ally themselves with the landed gentry

of the country, and see the result! The future, please God, shall

find me in my duty--mindful only of that, and content, while so

acting, with whatever shall befall me or mine."

Dutton continues to prosper in the world; Hamblin died several years

ago of delirium tremens; and Annie, I hear, _will_ in all

probability marry into the squirearchy of the country. All this is

not perhaps what is called poetical justice, but my experience has

been with the actual, not the ideal world.

BLEAK HOUSE.[7]

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER XIV.--DEPORTMENT

Richard left us on the very next evening, to begin his new career,

and committed Ada to my charge with great love for her, and great

trust in me. It touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now,

more nearly, to remember (having what I have to tell) how they both

thought of me, even at that engrossing time. I was a part of all

their plans, for the present and the future. I was to write to

Richard once a week, making my faithful report of Ada, who was to

write to him every alternate day. I was to be informed, under his

own hand, of all his labors and successes; I was to observe how

resolute and persevering he would be; I was to be Ada's bridesmaid

when they were married; I was to live with them afterward; I was to

keep all the keys of their house; I was to be made happy forever and

a day.

"And if the suit _should_ make us rich, Esther--which it may, you

know!" said Richard, to crown all.

A shade crossed Ada's face.

"My dearest Ada," asked Richard, pausing, "why not?"

"It had better declare us poor at once," said Ada.

"O! I don't know about that," returned Richard; "but at all events,

it won't declare any thing at once. It hasn't declared any thing in

Heaven knows how many years."

"Too true," said Ada.

"Yes, but," urged Richard, answering what her look suggested rather

than her words, "the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it

must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not that

reasonable?"

"You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it will

make us unhappy."

"But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!" cried Richard,

gayly. "We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if

it _should_ make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to

being rich. The Court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old

guardian, and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives

us any thing) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel with our

right."

"No," said Ada, "but it may be better to forget all about it."

"Well, well!" cried Richard, "then we will forget all about it! We

consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on her

approving face, and it's done!"

"Dame Durden's approving face," said I, looking out of the box in

which I was packing his books, "was not very visible when you called

it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can't do

better."

So, Richard said there was an end of it--and immediately began, on

no other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would

man the great wall of China. He went away in high spirits. Ada and

I, prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career.

On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Jarndyce at Mrs.

Jellyby's, but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. It

appeared that she had gone somewhere, to a tea-drinking, and had

taken Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinking, there was to

be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general

merits of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the

Settlement of Borrioboola Gha. All this involved, no doubt,

sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make her daughter's

part in the proceedings, any thing but a holiday.

It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby's return,

we called again. She was in town, but not at home, having gone to

Mile End, directly after breakfast, on some Borrioboolan business,

arising out of a Society called the East London Branch Aid

Ramification. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of our last

call (when he was not to be found any where, and when the cook

rather thought he must have strolled away with the dustman's cart) I

now inquired for him again. The oyster shells he had been building a

house with, were still in the passage, but he was nowhere

discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had "gone after the

sheep." When we repeated, with some surprise, "The sheep?" she said,

O yes, on market days he sometimes followed them quite out of town,

and came back in such a state as never was!

I was sitting at the window with my Guardian, on the following

morning, and Ada was busy writing--of course to Richard--when Miss

Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical Peepy,

whom she had made some endeavors to render presentable, by wiping

the dirt into corners of his face and hands, and making his hair

very wet, and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Every

thing the dear child wore, was either too large for him or too

small. Among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of a

Bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. His boots were, on a small

scale, the boots of a plowman: while his legs, so crossed and

recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps, were bare,

below a very short pair of plaid drawers, finished off with two

frills of perfectly different patterns. The deficient buttons on his

plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of Mr. Jellyby's

coats, they were so extremely brazen and so much too large. Most

extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared on several parts of

his dress, where it had been hastily mended; and I recognized the

same hand on Miss Jellyby's. She was, however, unaccountably

improved in her appearance, and looked very pretty. She was

conscious of poor little Peepy being but a failure, after all her

trouble, and she showed it as she came in, by the way in which she

glanced, first at him, and then at us.

"O dear me!" said my Guardian, "Due East!"

Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her to Mr.

Jarndyce; to whom she said, as she sat down:

"Ma's compliments, and she hopes you'll excuse her, because she's

correcting proofs of the plan. She's going to put out five thousand

new circulars, and she knows you'll be interested to hear that. I

have brought one of them with me. Ma's compliments." With which she

presented it sulkily enough.

"Thank you," said my Guardian. "I am much obliged to Mrs. Jellyby. O

dear me! This is a very trying wind!"

We were busy with Peepy; taking off his clerical hat; asking him if

he remembered us; and so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow at

first, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake, and allowed me to

take him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. Jarndyce then

withdrawing into the temporary Growlery, Miss Jellyby opened a

conversation with her usual abruptness.

"We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn," said she. "I

have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn't be worse off if

I was a what's-his-name-man and a brother!"

I tried to say something soothing.

"O, it's of no use, Miss Summerson," exclaimed Miss Jellyby, "though

I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know how I am

used, and I am not to be talked over. You wouldn't be talked over,

if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beasts under the

piano!"

"I shan't!" said Peepy.

"Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!" returned

Miss Jellyby, with tears in her eyes. "I'll never take pains to

dress you any more."

"Yes, I will go, Caddy!" cried Peepy, who was really a good child,

and who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went at once.

"It seems a little thing to cry about," said poor Miss Jellyby,

apologetically, "but I am quite worn out. I was directing the new

circulars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so, that

that alone makes my head ache till I can't see out of my eyes. And

look at that poor unfortunate child. Was there ever such a fright as

he is!"

Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on

the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out

of his den at us, while he ate his cake.

"I have sent him to the other end of the room," observed Miss

Jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because I don't want him to

hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I was going

to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a

bankrupt before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied. There'll

be nobody but Ma to thank for it."

We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a state as

that.

"It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you!" returned Miss

Jellyby, shaking her head. "Pa told me, only yesterday morning (and

dreadfully unhappy he is), that he couldn't weather the storm. I

should be surprised if he could. When all our tradesmen send into

our house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like

with it, and I have no time to improve things if I knew how, and Ma

don't care about any thing, I should like to make out how Pa _is_ to

weather the storm. I declare if I was Pa, I'd run away!"

"My dear!" said I, smiling. "Your papa, no doubt, considers his

family."

"O yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson," replied Miss

Jellyby; "but what comfort is his family to him? His family is

nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles down stairs,

confusion, and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week's-end to

week's-end, is like one great washing-day--only nothing's washed!"

Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped her eyes.

"I am sure I pity Pa to that degree," she said, "and am so angry

with Ma, that I can't find words to express myself! However, I am

not going to bear it, I am determined. I won't be a slave all my

life, and I won't submit to be proposed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty

thing, indeed, to marry a Philanthropist! As if I hadn't had enough

of _that_!" said poor Miss Jellyby.

I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with Mrs.

Jellyby, myself; seeing and hearing this neglected girl, and knowing

how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said.

"If it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at our

house," pursued Miss Jellyby, "I should have been ashamed to come

here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two. But,

as it is, I made up my mind to call: especially as I am not likely

to see you again, the next time you come to town."

She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced at

one another, foreseeing something more.

"No!" said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. "Not at all likely! I

know I may trust you two. I am sure you won't betray me. I am

engaged."

"Without their knowledge at home?" said I.

"Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson," she returned, justifying

herself in a fretful but not angry manner, "how can it be otherwise?

You know what Ma is--and I needn't make poor Pa more miserable by

telling _him_."

"But would it not be adding to his unhappiness, to marry without his

knowledge or consent, my dear?" said I.

"No," said Miss Jellyby, softening. "I hope not. I should try to

make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me; and Peepy and

the others should take it in turns to come and stay with me; and

they should have some care taken of them, then."

There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softened more

and more while saying this, and cried so much over the unwonted

little home-picture she had raised in her mind, that Peepy, in his

cave under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his

back with loud lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to

kiss his sister, and had restored him to his place in my lap, and

had shown him that Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the

purpose), that we could recall his peace of mind; even then, it was

for some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin, and

smoothing our faces all over with his hand. At last, as his spirits

were not yet equal to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out

of window; and Miss Jellyby, holding him by one leg, resumed her

confidence.

"It began in your coming to our house," she said.

We naturally asked how?

"I felt I was so awkward," she replied, "that I made up my mind to

be improved in that respect, at all events, and to learn to dance. I

told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma

looked at me in that provoking way of hers, as if I wasn't in sight;

but, I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to

Mr. Turveydrop's Academy in Newman Street."

"And was it there, my dear----" I began.

"Yes, it was there," said Caddy, "and I am engaged to Mr.

Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father and son. My Mr.

Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been better

brought up, and was likely to make him a better wife; for I am very

fond of him."

"I am sorry to hear this," said I, "I must confess."

"I don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted, a little

anxiously, "but I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, whether or no, and

he is very fond of me. It's a secret as yet, even on his side,

because old Mr. Turveydrop has a share in the connection, and it

might break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was told

of it abruptly. Old Mr. Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man,

indeed--very gentlemanly."

"Does his wife know of it?" asked Ada.

"Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife, Miss Clare?" returned Miss Jellyby,

opening her eyes. "There's no such person. He is a widower."

We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergone so much

on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it, like a

bell-rope, whenever she was emphatic, that the afflicted child now

bemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he

appealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a listener, I

undertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after begging Peepy's

pardon with a kiss, and assuring him that she hadn't meant to do it.

"That's the state of the case," said Caddy. "If I ever blame myself,

I still think it's Ma's fault. We are to be married whenever we can,

and then I shall go to Pa at the office, and write to Ma. It won't

much agitate Ma: I am only pen and ink to _her_. One great comfort

is," said Caddy, with a sob, "that I shall never hear of Africa

after I am married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates it for my sake; and

if old Mr. Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it's as much as

he does."

"It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think?" said I.

"Very gentlemanly, indeed," said Caddy. "He is celebrated, almost

every where, for his Deportment."

"Does he teach?" asked Ada.

"No, he don't teach any thing in particular," replied Caddy. "But

his Deportment is beautiful."

Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation and reluctance,

that there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we

ought to know, and which, she hoped, would not offend us. It was,

that she had improved her acquaintance with Miss Flite, the little

crazy old lady; and that she frequently went there early in the

morning, and met her lover for a few minutes before breakfast--only

for a few minutes. "_I_ go there, at other times," said Caddy, "but

Prince does not come then. Young Mr. Turveydrop's name is Prince; I

wish it wasn't, because it sounds like a dog, but of course he

didn't christen himself. Old Mr. Turveydrop had him christened

Prince, in remembrance of the Prince Regent. Old Mr. Turveydrop

adored the Prince Regent on account of his Deportment. I hope you

won't think the worse of me for having made these little

appointments at Miss Flite's, where I first went with you; because I

like the poor thing for her own sake, and I believe she likes me. If

you could see young Mr. Turveydrop, I am sure you would think well

of him--at least, I am sure you couldn't possibly think any ill of

him. I am going there now, for my lesson. I couldn't ask you to go

with me, Miss Summerson; but if you would," said Caddy, who had

said all this, earnestly and tremblingly, "I should be very

glad--very glad."

It happened that we had arranged with my Guardian to go to Miss

Flite's that day. We had told him of our former visit, and our

account had interested him; but something had always happened to

prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might have

sufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking any

very rash step, if I fully accepted the confidence she was so

willing to place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she, and I, and

Peepy, should go to the Academy, and afterward meet my guardian and

Ada at Miss Flite's--whose name I now learnt for the first time.

This was on condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should come back

with us to dinner. The last article of the agreement being joyfully

acceded to by both, we smartened Peepy up a little, with the

assistance of a few pins, some soap and water, and a hair-brush; and

went out: bending our steps toward Newman Street, which was very

near.

I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at the

corner of an arch-way, with busts in all the staircase windows. In

the same house there were also established, as I gathered from the

plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was,

certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. On the

plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest,

I read, MR. TURVEYDROP. The door was open, and the hall was blocked

up by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments

in cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the

daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that the academy had been lent,

last night, for a concert.

We went up-stairs--it had been quite a fine house once, when it was

any body's business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody's

business to smoke in it all day--and into Mr. Turveydrop's great

room, which was built out into a mews at the back, and was lighted

by a skylight. It was a bare, resounding room, smelling of stables;

with cane forms along the walls; and the walls ornamented at regular

intervals with painted lyres, and little cut-glass branches for

candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as

other branches might shed autumn leaves. Several young lady pupils,

ranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or three and

twenty, were assembled; and I was looking among them for their

instructor, when Caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the ceremony of

introduction. "Miss Summerson, Mr. Prince Turveydrop!"

[Illustration: THE DANCING SCHOOL.]

I courtesied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance,

with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curling at the ends all

round his head. He had a little fiddle, which we used to call at

school a kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same

hand. His little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he

had a little innocent, feminine manner, which not only appealed to

me in an amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me: that

I received the impression that he was like his mother, and that his

mother had not been much considered or well used.

"I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby's friend," he said, bowing low

to me. "I began to fear," with timid tenderness, "as it was past the

usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming."

"I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have

detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said I.

"O dear!" said he.

"And pray," I entreated, "do not allow me to be the cause of any

more delay."

With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who, being

well used to it, had already climbed into a corner-place), and an

old lady of a censorious countenance, whose two nieces were in the

class, and who was very indignant with Peepy's boots. Prince

Turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and

the young ladies stood up to dance. Just then, there appeared from a

side-door, old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his Deportment.

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth,

false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded

breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon

to be complete. He was pinched in and swelled out, and got up, and

strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a

neck-cloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape),

and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as

though he must inevitably double up, if it were cast loose. He had,

under his arm, a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward

from the crown to the brim; and in his hand a pair of white gloves,

with which he flapped it, as he stood poised on one leg, in a

high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not to be

surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box,

he had rings, he had wristbands, he had every thing but any touch of

nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was like

nothing in the world but a model of Deportment.

"Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby's friend, Miss Summerson."

"Distinguished," said Mr. Turveydrop, "by Miss Summerson's

presence." As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believed

I saw creases come into the whites of his eyes.

"My father," said the son, aside to me, with quite an affecting

belief in him, "is a celebrated character. My father is greatly

admired."

"Go on, Prince! Go on!" said Mr. Turveydrop, standing with his back

to the fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. "Go on, my son!"

At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on.

Prince Turveydrop, sometimes, played the kit, dancing; sometimes

played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what

little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always

conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step

and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His

distinguished father did nothing whatever, but stand before the

fire, a model of Deportment.

"And he never does any thing else," said the old lady of the

censorious countenance. "Yet, would you believe that it's _his_ name

on the door-plate?"

"His son's name is the same, you know," said I.

"He wouldn't let his son have any name, if he could take it from

him," returned the old lady. "Look at the son's dress!" It certainly

was plain--threadbare--almost shabby. "Yet the father must be

garnished and tricked out," said the old lady, "because of his

Deportment. I'd deport him! Transport him would be better!"

I felt curious to know more, concerning this person. I asked, "Does

he give lessons in Deportment, now?"

"Now!" returned the old lady, shortly. "Never did."

After a moment's consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing had

been his accomplishment.

"I don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old lady.

I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more and

more incensed against the Master of Deportment as she dwelt upon the

subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong

assurances that they were mildly stated.

He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable

connection (having never in his life before done any thing but

deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best,

suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those

expenses which were indispensable to his position. At once to

exhibit his Deportment to the best models, and to keep the best

models constantly before himself, he had found it necessary to

frequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort; to be

seen at Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times, and to lead an

idle life in the very best clothes. To enable him to do this, the

affectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and labored, and

would have toiled and labored to that hour, if her strength had

lasted so long. For, the mainspring of the story was, that, in spite

of the man's absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his

Deportment) had, to the last, believed in him, and had, on her

death-bed in the most moving terms, confided him to their son as one

who had an inextinguishable claim upon him, and whom he could never

regard with too much pride and deference. The son, inheriting his

mother's belief, and having the Deportment always before him, had

lived and grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age,

worked for his father twelve hours a day, and looked up to him with

veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle.

"The airs the fellow gives himself!" said my informant, shaking her

head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless indignation, as he drew

on his tight gloves; of course unconscious of the homage she was

rendering. "He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! And he

is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes, that you

might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. O!" said the old

lady, apostrophizing him with infinite vehemence, "I could bite

you!"

I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady out with

feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her, with the

father and son before me. What I might have thought of them without

the old lady's account, or what I might have thought of the old

lady's account without them, I can not say. There was a fitness of

things in the whole that carried conviction with it.

My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop working so

hard to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when

the latter came ambling up to me, and entered into conversation.

He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a

distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it

necessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that,

in any case, but merely told him where I did reside.

"A lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing his right

glove, and afterward extending it toward the pupils, "will

look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to

polish--polish--polish!"

He sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the form, I

thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the

sofa. And really he did look very like it.

"To polish--polish--polish!" he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff,

and gently fluttering his fingers. "But we are not--if I may say so,

to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art;" with the

high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make

without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes--"we are not

what we used to be in point of Deportment."

"Are we not, sir?" said I.

"We have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, which he could

do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. "A leveling age is not

favorable to Deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with

some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been

called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop; or that His Royal

Highness the Prince Regent did me the honor to inquire, on my

removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that

fine building), 'Who is he? Who the Devil is he? Why don't I know

him? Why hasn't he thirty thousand a year?' But these are little

matters of anecdote--the general property, ma'am--still repeated,

occasionally among the upper classes."

"Indeed?" said I.

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. "Where what is left among

us of Deportment," he added, "still lingers. England--alas, my

country!--has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day.

She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to

succeed us, but a race of weavers."

"One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated

here," said I.

"You are very good," he smiled, with the high-shouldered bow again.

"You flatter me. But, no--no! I have never been able to imbue my

poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should

disparage my dear child, but he has--no Deportment."

"He appears to be an excellent master," I observed.

"Understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. All that

can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can

impart. But there _are_ things"--he took another pinch of snuff and

made the bow again, as if to add, "this kind of thing, for

instance."

I glanced toward the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby's lover,

now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than

ever.

"My amiable child," murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his cravat.

"Your son is indefatigable," said I.

"It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear you say so. In some

respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was

a devoted creature. But Wooman, lovely Wooman," said Mr. Turveydrop,

with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex you are!"

I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was, by this time, putting on

her bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed,

there was a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby and the

unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothed I don't

know, but they certainly found none, on this occasion, to exchange a

dozen words.

"My dear," said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, "do you know the

hour?"

"No, father." The son had no watch. The father had a handsome gold

one, which he pulled out, with an air that was an example to

mankind.

"My son," said he, "it's two o'clock. Recollect your school at

Kensington at three."

"That's time enough for me, father," said Prince. "I can take a

morsel of dinner, standing, and be off."

"My dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very quick. You

will find the cold mutton on the table."

"Thank you, father. Are _you_ off now, father?"

"Yes, my dear. I suppose," said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting his eyes

and lifting up his shoulders, with modest consciousness, "that I

must show myself, as usual, about town."

"You had better dine out comfortably, somewhere," said his son.

"My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think,

at the French house, in the Opera Colonnade."

"That's right. Good-by, father!" said Prince, shaking hands.

"Good-by, my son. Bless you!"

Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to

do his son good; who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him,

so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that I almost felt as if it

were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe

implicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by

Prince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I

saw, being in the secret), enhanced my favorable impression of his

almost childish character. I felt a liking for him, and a compassion

for him, as he put his little kit in his pocket--and with it his

desire to stay a little while with Caddy--and went away

good-humoredly to his cold mutton and his school at Kensington, that

made me scarcely less irate with his father than the censorious old

lady.

The father opened the room door for us, and bowed us out, in a

manner, I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In the

same style he presently passed us on the other side of the street,

on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going

to show himself among the few other gentlemen left. For some

moments, I was so lost in reconsidering what I had heard and seen in

Newman Street, that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy, or even to

fix my attention on what she said to me; especially, when I began to

inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever had been, any other

gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, who lived and founded a

reputation entirely on their Deportment. This became so bewildering,

and suggested the possibility of so many Mr. Turveydrops, that I

said, "Esther, you must make up your mind to abandon this subject

altogether, and attend to Caddy." I accordingly did so, and we

chatted all the rest of the way to Lincoln's Inn.

Caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected, that

it was not always easy to read his notes. She said, if he were not

so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make it clear,

he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into

short words, that they sometimes quite lost their English

appearance. "He does it with the best intentions," observed Caddy,

"but it hasn't the effect he means, poor fellow!" Caddy then went on

to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar, when he had

passed his whole life in the dancing-school, and had done nothing

but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! And what

did it matter? She could write letters enough for both, as she knew

to her cost, and it was far better for him to be amiable than

learned. "Besides, it's not as if I was an accomplished girl who had

any right to give herself airs," said Caddy. "I know little enough,

I am sure, thanks to Ma!"

"There's another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,"

continued Caddy, "which I should not have liked to mention unless

you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a house ours is.

It's of no use my trying to learn any thing that it would be useful

for Prince's wife to know, in our house. We live in such a state of

muddle that it's impossible, and I have only been more disheartened

whenever I have tried. So, I get a little practice with--who do you

think? Poor Miss Flite! Early in the morning, I help her to tidy her

room, and clean her birds; and I make her cup of coffee for her (of

course she taught me), and I have learnt to make it so well that

Prince says it's the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would

quite delight old Mr. Turveydrop, who is very particular indeed

about his coffee. I can make little puddings too; and I know how to

buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many

housekeeping things. I am not clever at my needle, yet," said Caddy,

glancing at the repairs on Peepy's frock, "but perhaps I shall

improve. And since I have been engaged to Prince, and have been

doing all this, I have felt better-tempered, I hope, and more

forgiving to Ma. It rather put me out, at first this morning, to see

you and Miss Clare looking so neat and pretty, and to feel

ashamed of Peepy and myself too; but on the whole, I hope I am

better-tempered than I was, and more forgiving to Ma."

The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched

mine. "Caddy, my love," I replied, "I begin to have a great

affection for you, and I hope we shall become friends." "Oh, do

you?" cried Caddy; "how happy that would make me!" "My dear Caddy,"

said I, "let us be friends from this time, and let us often have a

chat about these matters, and try to find the right way through

them." Caddy was overjoyed. I said every thing I could, in my

old-fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her; and I would not

have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop, that day, for any smaller

consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.

By this time, we were come to Mr. Krook's, whose private door stood

open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room

to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me as we

proceeded up-stairs, that there had been a sudden death there, and

an inquest; and that our little friend had been ill of the fright.

The door and window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It

was the room with the dark door, to which Miss Flite had secretly

directed my attention when I was last in the house. A sad and

desolate place it was; a gloomy, sorrowful place, that gave me a

strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. "You look pale,"

said Caddy, when we came out, "and cold!" I felt as if the room had

chilled me.

We had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my Guardian and Ada

were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite's garret. They were

looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as

to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compassion, spoke with

her cheerfully by the fire.

"I have finished my professional visit," he said, coming forward.

"Miss Flite is much better, and may appear in court (as her mind is

set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I

understand."

Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency, and dropped a

general courtesy to us.

"Honored, indeed," said she, "by another visit from the Wards in

Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath my

humble roof!" with a special courtesy. "Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear;" she

had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, and always called her

by it; "a double welcome!"

"Has she been very ill?" asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentleman whom we

had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself directly,

though he had put the question in a whisper.

"O, decidedly unwell! O, very unwell indeed," she said,

confidentially. "Not pain, you know--trouble. Not bodily so much as

nervous, nervous! The truth is," in a subdued voice and trembling,

"we have had death here. There was poison in the house. I am very

susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Only Mr.

Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr. Woodcourt!" with

great stateliness. "The Wards in Jarndyce--Jarndyce of Bleak

House--Fitz-Jarndyce!"

"Miss Flite," said Mr. Woodcourt, in a grave, kind voice as if he

were appealing to her while speaking to us; and laying his hand

gently on her arm; "Miss Flite describes her illness with her usual

accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might

have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and

agitation. She brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery,

though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. I

have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here

since, and being of small use to her."

"The kindest physician in the college," whispered Miss Flite to me.

"I expect a Judgment. On the day of Judgment. And shall then confer

estates."

"She will be as well, in a day or two," said Mr. Woodcourt, looking

at her with an observant smile, "as she ever will be. In other

words, quite well, of course. Have you heard of her good fortune?"

"Most extraordinary!" said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. "You never

heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday, Conversation Kenge,

or Guppy (clerk to Conversation K.), places in my hand a paper of

shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same number in the

paper. Always one for every day in the week. Now you know, really!

So well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! From whence do these papers come,

you say? That is the great question. Naturally. Shall I tell you

what _I_ think? _I_ think," said Miss Flite, drawing herself back

with a very shrewd look, and shaking her right forefinger in a most

significant manner, "that the Lord Chancellor, aware of the length

of time during which the Great Seal has been open (for it has been

open a long time!) forwards them. Until the Judgment I expect, is

given. Now that's very creditable, you know. To confess in that way

that he _is_ a little slow for human life. So delicate! Attending

Court the other day--I attend it regularly--with my documents--I

taxed him with it, and he almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him

from my bench, and _he_ smiled at me from his bench. But it's great

good fortune, is it not? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out for me

to great advantage. O, I assure you to the greatest advantage!"

I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this

fortunate addition to her income, and wished her a long continuance

of it. I did not speculate upon the source from which it came, or

wonder whose humanity was so considerate. My Guardian stood before

me, contemplating the birds, and I had no need to look beyond him.

"And what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?" said he in his

pleasant voice. "Have they any names?"

"I can answer for Miss Flite that they have," said I, "for she

promised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?"

Ada remembered very well.

"Did I?" said Miss Flite.--"Who's that at my door? What are you

listening at my door for, Krook?"

The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared there

with his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at his heels.

"_I_ warn't listening, Miss Flite," he said. "I was going to give a

rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick!"

"Make your cat go down. Drive her away!" the old lady angrily

exclaimed.

"Bah, bah!--There ain't no danger, gentle-folks," said Mr. Krook,

looking slowly and sharply from one to another, until he had looked

at all of us; "she'd never offer at the birds when I was here,

unless I told her to do it."

"You will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a dignified

air. "M, quite M! What do you want, Krook, when I have company?"

"Hi!" said the old man. "You know I am the Chancellor."

"Well?" returned Miss Flite. "What of that?"

"For the Chancellor," said the old man, with a chuckle, "not to be

acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain't it, Miss Flite? Mightn't

I take the liberty?--Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyce and Jarndyce

a'most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old Squire Tom, sir. I never

to my knowledge see you afore though, not even in court. Yet, I go

there a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, taking one

day with another."

"I never go there," said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never did on any

consideration). "I would sooner go--somewhere else."

"Would you though?" returned Krook, grinning. "You're bearing hard

upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir; though,

perhaps, it is but nat'ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt child, sir!

What, you're looking at my lodger's birds, Mr. Jarndyce?" The old

man had come by little and little into the room, until he now

touched my Guardian with his elbow, and looked close up into his

face with his spectacled eyes. "It's one of her strange ways, that

she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it,

though she named 'em all." This was in a whisper. "Shall I run 'em

over, Flite?" he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as

she turned away, affecting to sweep the grate.

"If you like," she answered hurriedly.

The old man, looking up at the cages, after another look at us, went

through the list.

"Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want,

Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags,

Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That's

the whole collection," said the old man, "all cooped up together, by

my noble and learned brother.

"This is a bitter wind!" muttered my Guardian.

"When my noble and learned brother gives his Judgment, they're to be

let go free," said Krook, winking at us again. "And then," he added,

whispering and grinning, "if that ever was to happen--which it

won't--the birds that have never been caged would kill 'em."

"If ever the wind was in the east," said my Guardian, pretending to

look out of the window for a weathercock, "I think it's there

to-day!"

We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was not

Miss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature

in consulting the convenience of others, as there possibly could be.

It was Mr. Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from Mr.

Jarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly have

attended him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court of

Chancery, and all the strange medley it contained; during the whole

of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to Mr.

Jarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one pretense or other,

until we had passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to

enter upon some secret subject, which he could not make up his mind

to approach. I can not imagine a countenance and manner more

singularly expressive of caution and indecision, and a perpetual

impulse to do something he could not resolve to venture on, than Mr.

Krook's was, that day. His watchfulness of my Guardian was

incessant. He rarely removed his eyes from his face. If he went on

beside him, he observed him with the slyness of an old white fox. If

he went before, he looked back. When we stood still, he got opposite

to him, and drawing his hand across and across his open mouth with

a curious expression of a sense of power, and turning up his eyes,

and lowering his gray eyebrows until they appeared to be shut,

seemed to scan every lineament of his face.

At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the

house, and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber,

which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop.

Here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on end, were an

ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and

against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in

several plain hands.

"What are you doing here?" asked my Guardian.

"Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook.

"And how do you get on?"

"Slow. Bad," returned the old man, impatiently. "It's hard at my

time of life."

"It would be easier to be taught by some one," said my Guardian.

"Ay, but they might teach me wrong!" returned the old man, with a

wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "I don't know what I may

have lost, by not being learned afore. I wouldn't like to lose any

thing by being learned wrong now."

"Wrong?" said my Guardian, with his good-humored smile. "Who do you

suppose would teach you wrong?"

"I don't know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House!" replied the old man,

turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and rubbing his hands. "I

don't suppose as any body would--but I'd rather trust my own self

than another!"

These answers, and his manner, were strange enough to cause my

Guardian to inquire of Mr. Woodcourt, as we all walked across

Lincoln's Inn together, whether Mr. Krook were really, as his lodger

represented him, deranged? The young surgeon replied, no, he had

seen no reason to think so. He was exceedingly distrustful, as

ignorance usually was, and he was always more or less under the

influence of raw gin: of which he drank great quantities, and of

which he and his back shop, as we might have observed, smelt

strongly; but he did not think him mad, as yet.

On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy's affections by buying him a

windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would suffer nobody else to

take off his hat and gloves, and would sit nowhere at dinner but at

my side. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to whom

we imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got

back. We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too; and Caddy brightened

exceedingly; and my Guardian was as merry as we were; and we were

all very happy indeed; until Caddy went home at night in a

hackney-coach, with Peepy fast asleep, but holding tight to the

windmill.

I have forgotten to mention--at least I have not mentioned--that

Mr. Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at Mr.

Badger's. Or, that Mr. Jarndyce invited him to dinner that day. Or,

that he came. Or, that when they were all gone, and I said to Ada,

"Now, my darling, let us have a little talk about Richard!" Ada

laughed, and said--

But, I don't think it matters what my darling said. She was always

merry.

CHAPTER XV.--BELL YARD.

While we were in London, Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by the

crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so

much astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon after our

arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to project those two

shining knobs of temples of his into every thing that went on, and

to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots

were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable

philanthropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was always

particularly ready for any thing in the way of a testimonial to any

one. His great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminate

admiration. He would sit, for any length of time, with the utmost

enjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order of

luminary. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in admiration

of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be the absorbing object of

his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake, and found him to be

train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession of people.

Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something--and

with her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Quale

repeated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew

Mrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to

my Guardian, in behalf of her eloquent friend, Mr. Gusher. With Mr.

Gusher, appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabby

gentleman with a moist surface, and eyes so much too small for his

moon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made for

somebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet, he was

scarcely seated, before Mr. Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly,

whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was,

flabbily speaking; though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual

beauty--and whether we were not struck by his massive configuration

of brow? In short, we heard of a great many missions of various

sorts, among this set of people; but, nothing respecting them was

half so clear to us, as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be in

ecstasies with everybody else's mission, and that it was the most

popular mission of all.

Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company, in the tenderness of his

heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but,

that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where

benevolence took spasmodic forms; where charity was assumed, as a

regular uniform, by loud professors and speculators in cheap

notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action,

servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of

one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to

help the weak from falling, rather than with a great deal of bluster

and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were

down; he plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr.

Quale, by Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated by Mr.

Quale), and when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the

subject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boys

and girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, and

requested to come forward with half-pence and be acceptable

sacrifices; I think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks.

I mention this, because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. It seemed

to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and carelessness

were a great relief to my Guardian, by contrast with such things,

and were the more readily believed in; since, to find one perfectly

undesigning and candid man, among many opposites, could not fail to

give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr. Skimpole

divined this, and was politic: I really never understood him well

enough to know. What he was to my Guardian, he certainly was to the

rest of the world.

He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London, we

had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning, in his

usual agreeable way, and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.

Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but rich men were

often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he

was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view--in his

expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical attendant in

the most lavish manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes

quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, "Now my dear

doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you

attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money--in my

expansive intentions--if you only knew it!" And really (he said) he

meant it to that degree, that he thought it much the same as doing

it. If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind

attached so much importance, to put in the doctor's hand, he would

have put them in the doctor's hand. Not having them, he substituted

the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meant it--if his will

were genuine and real: which it was--it appeared to him that it was

the same as coin, and canceled the obligation.

"It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,"

said Mr. Skimpole, "but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable!

My butcher says to me, he wants that little bill. It's a part of the

pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature, that he always

calls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both of

us. I reply to the butcher, My good friend, if you knew it, you are

paid. You haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for the little

bill. You are paid. I mean it."

"But suppose," said my Guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meat in

the bill, instead of providing it?"

"My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. You take the

butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with, occupied that very

ground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence

a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my

honest friend?' said I, naturally amazed by the question. 'I like

spring lamb!' This was so far convincing. 'Well, sir,' says he, 'I

wish I had meant the lamb, as you mean the money?' 'My good fellow,'

said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings. How could that

be? It was impossible. You _had_ got the lamb, and I have _not_ got

the money. You couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in,

whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without paying it?' He

had not a word. There was an end of the subject."

"Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my Guardian.

"Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr. Skimpole. "But in that,

he was influenced by passion; not by reason. Passion reminds me of

Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a

short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire."

"He is a great favorite with my girls," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and I

have promised for them."

"Nature forgot to shade him off, I think?" observed Mr. Skimpole to

Ada and me. "A little too boisterous--like the sea? A little too

vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every

color scarlet? But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!"

I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very

highly of one another; Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance to

many things, and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for any thing.

Besides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the

point of breaking out into some strong opinion, when Mr. Skimpole

was referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we had

been greatly pleased with him.

"He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a child may trust

himself in such hands: which the present child is encouraged to do,

with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him: I shall go.

He proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it will cost

money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that sort?

By-the-by. Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss

Summerson?"

He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful,

light-hearted manner, and without the least embarrassment.

"O yes?" said I.

"Coavinses has been arrested by the great Bailiff," said Mr.

Skimpole. "He will never do violence to the sunshine any more."

It quite shocked me to hear it; for, I had already recalled, with

any thing but a serious association, the image of the man sitting on

the sofa that night, wiping his head.

"His successor informed me of it yesterday," said Mr. Skimpole, "His

successor is in my house now--in possession, I think he calls it. He

came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birth-day. I put it to

him. 'This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed

daughter, you wouldn't like _me_ to come, uninvited, on _her_

birthday?' But he staid."

Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity, and lightly touched

the piano by which he was seated.

"And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I shall put

full stops. "That Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother. And

that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The rising Coavinses.

Were at a considerable disadvantage."

Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. Mr.

Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favorite songs. Ada and I

both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew what was passing

in his mind.

After walking, and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing

his head, and beginning again, my Guardian put his hand upon the

keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this,

Skimpole," he said, thoughtfully.

Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up

surprised.

"The man was necessary," pursued my Guardian, walking backward and

forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the

room, and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high

east wind had blown it into that form. "If we make such men

necessary by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly

knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon

them. There was no harm in his trade. He maintained his children.

One would like to know more about this."

"O! Coavinses?" cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what he

meant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses head-quarters, and you

can know what you will."

Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.

"Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way, as soon as

another!" We were quickly ready, and went out. Mr. Skimpole went

with us, and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so

refreshing, he said, for him to want Coavinses, instead of Coavinses

wanting him!

He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where there

was a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses Castle.

On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy

came out of a sort of office, and looked at us over a spiked

wicket.

"Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his

chin.

"There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said Mr.

Jarndyce, "who is dead."

"Yes," said the boy. "Well?"

"I want to know his name, if you please."

"Name of Neckett," said the boy.

"And his address?"

"Bell Yard," said the boy. "Chandler's shop, left hand side, name of

Blinder."

"Was he--I don't know how to shape the question," murmured my

Guardian--"industrious?"

"Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery much so. He was never tired

of watching. He'd sit upon a post at a street corner, eight or ten

hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it."

"He might have done worse," I heard my Guardian soliloquize. "He

might have undertaken to do it, and not done it. Thank you. That's

all I want."

We left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms on the

gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln's

Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer

Coavinses, awaited us. Then, we all went to Bell Yard: a narrow

alley, at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop.

In it was a good-natured-looking old woman, with a dropsy or an

asthma, or perhaps both.

"Neckett's children?" said she, in reply to my inquiry. "Yes,

surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the top

of the stairs." And she handed me a key across the counter.

I glanced at the key, and glanced at her; but, she took it for

granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended

for the children's door, I came out, without asking any more

questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as

we could; but four of us, made some noise on the aged boards; and,

when we came to the second story, we found we had disturbed a man

who was standing there, looking out of his room.

"Is it Gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me with

an angry stare.

"No, sir," said I, "I am going higher up."

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole: fixing

the same angry stare on each in succession, as they passed and

followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good-day! "Good-day!" he said,

abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall sallow man, with a care-worn

head, on which but little hair remained, a deeply-lined face, and

prominent eyes. He had a combative look; and a chafing, irritable

manner, which, associated with his figure--still large and powerful,

though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. He had a pen in

his hand, and, in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw

that it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tapped at

the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "We are locked in.

Mrs. Blinder's got the key."

I applied the key on hearing this, and opened the door. In a poor

room with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furniture,

was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing

a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the

weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and

tippets, as a substitute. Their clothing was not so warm, however,

but that their noses looked red and pinched, and their small figures

shrunken, as the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the

child, with its head on his shoulder.

"Who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked.

"Charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.

"Is Charley your brother?"

"No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley."

"Are there any more of you besides Charley?"

"Me," said the boy "and Emma," patting the limp bonnet of the child

he was nursing. "And Charley."

"Where is Charley now?"

"Out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again,

and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead, by trying

to gaze at us at the same time.

We were looking at one another, and at these two children, when

there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but

shrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty faced too--wearing a

womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her, and drying her bare

arms on a womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white and wrinkled

with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off

her arms. But for this, she might have been a child, playing at

washing, and imitating a poor working woman with a quick observation

of the truth.

She had come running from some place in the neighborhood, and had

made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was very

light, she was out of breath, and could not speak at first, as she

stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.

"O, here's Charley!" said the boy.

The child he was nursing, stretched forth its arms, and cried out to

be taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of

manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at

us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.

"Is it possible," whispered my Guardian, as we put a chair for the

little creature, and got her to sit down with her load: the boy

keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child works

for the rest? Look at this! For God's sake look at this!"

It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, and

two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and

yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the

childish figure.

"Charley, Charley!" said my Guardian. "How old are you?"

"Over thirteen, sir," replied the child.

"O! What a great age," said my Guardian. "What a great age,

Charley!"

I can not describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her; half

playfully, yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.

"And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?" said my

Guardian.

"Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with

perfect confidence, "since father died."

"And how do you live, Charley? O! Charley," said my Guardian,

turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?"

"Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washing

to-day."

"God help you, Charley!" said my Guardian. "You're not tall enough

to reach the tub!"

"In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. "I've got a high pair as

belonged to mother."

"And when did mother die? Poor mother!"

"Mother died, just after Emma was born," said the child, glancing at

the face upon her bosom. "Then, father said I was to be as good a

mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home,

and did cleaning and nursing and washing, for a long time before I

began to go out. And that's how I know how; don't you see, sir?"

"And do you often go out?"

"As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes, and smiling,

"because of earning sixpences and shillings!"

"And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?"

"To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs. Blinder

comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes, and

perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play, you know, and Tom

ain't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"

"No-o!" said Tom, stoutly.

"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and

they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don't they,

Tom?"

"Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright."

"Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--O! in such a

motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her to bed.

And when he's tired, he goes to bed himself. And when I come home

and light the candle, and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and

has it with me. Don't you, Tom?"

"O yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this glimpse

of the great pleasure of his life, or in gratitude and love for

Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the

scanty folds of her frock, and passed from laughing into crying.

It was the first time since our entry, that a tear had been shed

among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their

father, and their mother, as if all that sorrow were subdued by the

necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being

able to work, and by her bustling busy way. But, now, when Tom

cried, although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and

did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her

little charges, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.

I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the housetops,

and the blackened stacks of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the

birds in little cages belonging to the neighbors, when I found that

Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken

her all this time to get up-stairs) and was talking to my Guardian.

"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said: "who could

take it from them!"

"Well, well!" said my Guardian to us two. "It is enough that the

time will come when this good woman will find that it _was_ much,

and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--! This

child," he added, after a few moments, "could she possibly continue

this?"

"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting her

heavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possible to

be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children, after the

mother died, was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see

her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs. Blinder,'

he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'Mrs.

Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a Angel sitting in

this room last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our

Father!'"

"He had no other calling?" said my Guardian.

"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a follerer.

When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and I

confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked in

the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is _not_ a

genteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object to

it. Mr. Gridley objected to it, very strong; and he is a good

lodger, though his temper has been hard tried."

"So you gave him notice?" said my Guardian.

"So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when the time

came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He was

punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs.

Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye; "and it's

something, in this world, even to do that."

"So you kept him, after all?"

"Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could

arrange it with the other lodgers, and should not so much mind its

being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent

gruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been

kind to the children since. A person is never known till a person is

proved."

"Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.

"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder, "but,

certainly not so many as would have been, if their father's calling

had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers

made up a little purse. Some neighbors in the yard, that had always

joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by, came forward with

a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad. Similarly with

Charlotte. Some people won't employ her because she was a follerer's

child; some people that do employ her, cast it at her; some make a

merit of having her to work for them, with that and all her

drawbacks upon her: and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more.

But she's patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and

always willing, up to the full mark of her strength and over. So I

should say, in general, not so bad sir, but might be better."

Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favorable opportunity

of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before

it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us, when

his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of

the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned, and whom we had seen on our

way up.

"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he

said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my coming

in. I don't come in, to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well, Tom!

Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?"

He bent over the group, in a caressing way, and clearly was regarded

as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern

character, and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My

Guardian noticed it, and respected it.

"No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said

mildly.

"May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom upon his

knee, and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to argue with

ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing, to last one man

his life."

"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "for

being chafed and irritated--"

"There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "I am of

a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!"

"Not very, I think."

"Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child, and going up to him as

if he mean to strike him, "Do you know any thing of Courts of

Equity?"

"Perhaps I do, to my sorrow."

"To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath. "If so, I beg

your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon! Sir," with

renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five-and-twenty years

over burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon

velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder, and ask what is one of

the standing jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and

they will tell you that the best joke they have, is the man from

Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on the other passionately,

"am the man from Shropshire."

"I believe, I and my family have also had the honor of furnishing

some entertainment in the same grave place," said my Guardian,

composedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce."

"Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley, with a rough sort of salutation, "you

bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than that,

I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if

they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs in any other

way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by

revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I

never get, that I am able to keep my wits together. It is only

that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way, and with great

vehemence. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that

it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There's

nothing between doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the

poor little mad woman that haunts the Court. If I was once to sit

down under it, I should become imbecile."

The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his

face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what

he said, were most painful to see.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as there is a

Heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My

father (a farmer) made a will, and left his farm and stock, and so

forth, to my mother, for her life. After my mother's death, all was

to come to me, except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was

then to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother, some time

afterward, claimed his legacy. I, and some of my relations, said

that he had had a part of it already, in board and lodging, and some

other things. Now, mind! That was the question, and nothing else. No

one disputed the will! no one disputed any thing but whether part of

that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To settle

that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to go into

this accursed Chancery; I was forced there, because the law forced

me, and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people were made

defendants to that simple suit! It first came on, after two years.

It was then stopped for another two years, while the Master (may his

head rot off!) inquired whether I was my father's son--about which,

there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature. He then found

out, that there were not defendants enough--remember, there were

only seventeen as yet!--but, that we must have another who had been

left out; and must begin all over again. The costs at that

time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the legacy. My

brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more

costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has

gone in costs. The suit still undecided, has fallen into rack, and

ruin, and despair, with every thing else--and here I stand this day!

Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands

involved where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less hard to

bear, or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it, and

has been thus shamefully sucked away?"

Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart, and

that he set up no monopoly, himself, in being unjustly treated by

this monstrous system.

"There again!" said Mr. Gridley, with no diminution of his rage.

"The system! I am told, on all hands, it's the system. I mustn't

look to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into Court, and

say, 'My Lord, I beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong?

Have you the face to tell me I have received justice, and therefore

am dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to

administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the

solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me

furious, by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do; for I know

they gain by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, I will

have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!

_He_ is not responsible. It's the system. But if I do no violence to

any of them, here--I may! I don't know what may happen if I am

carried beyond myself at last!--I will accuse the individual workers

of that system against me, face to face, before the great eternal

bar!"

His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage

without seeing it.

"I have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "Mr.

Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it. I

have been in prison for contempt of Court. I have been in prison for

threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that

trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I

sometimes go beyond amusing them--though they have found it amusing,

too, to see me committed into custody, and brought up in custody,

and all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, if I

restrained myself. I tell them, that if I did restrain myself, I

should become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I

believe. People in my part of the country, say, they remember me so;

but, now, I must have this vent under my sense of injury, or nothing

could hold my wits together. 'It would be far better for you, Mr.

Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your

time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.' 'My

Lord, my Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it would have

been far better for me never to have heard the name of your high

office; but, unhappily for me, I can't undo the past, and the past

drives me here!'--Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll

shame them. To the last, I'll show myself in that court to its

shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carried

there, and had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying,

'You have brought me here, and sent me from here, many and many a

time. Now send me out, feet foremost!'"

His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its

contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was

quiet.

"I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said,

going to them again, "and let them play about. I didn't mean to say

all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me, Tom;

are you?"

"No!" said Tom. "You ain't angry with _me_."

"You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Ay? Come then,

little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm, where she was

willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if we found a

gingerbread soldier down-stairs. Let's go and look for him!"

He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a

certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce; and bowing slightly to us, went

down-stairs to his room.

Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our

arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very

pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes.

Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will, and surprising

energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious

black-smith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was,

years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his

superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among the

thorns--when the Court of Chancery came in his way, and accommodated

him with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched ever

afterward! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up

all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician,

dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but, as it was, he

and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in the

pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, so

to speak, from that hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses! How

delightfully poor Coavinses (father of these charming children)

illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, had

sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had found

Coavinses in his way. He could have dispensed with Coavinses. There

had been times, when, if he had been a Sultan, and his Grand Vizier

had said one morning, "What does the Commander of the Faithful

require at the hands of his slave?" he might have even gone so far

as to reply, "The head of Coavinses!" But what turned out to be the

case? That, all that time, he had been giving employment to a most

deserving man; that he had been a benefactor to Coavinses; that he

had actually been enabling Coavinses to bring up these charming

children in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues!

Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled, and the tears had

come into his eyes, when he had looked round the room, and thought,

"_I_ was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little comforts were

_my_ work!"

There was something so captivating in his light way of touching

these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the

side of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my Guardian

smile even as he turned toward us from a little private talk with

Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her down stairs with us,

and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. I

don't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little,

little creature, in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered

way at the bottom of the court; and melt into the city's strife and

sound, like a dew-drop in an ocean.

CHAPTER XVI.--TOM-ALL-ALONE'S.

My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonished

fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day, she

is at Chesney Wold; yesterday, she was at her house in town;

to-morrow, she may be abroad, for any thing the fashionable

intelligence can with confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's

gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with her. It would have

more, but that his other faithful ally, for better and for

worse--the gout--darts into the old oak bed-chamber at Chesney Wold,

and grips him by both legs.

Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a

demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct male

line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of

man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved,

sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism, or may

have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar;

but, the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive, even

to the leveling process of dying, by dying of their own family gout.

It has come down, through the illustrious line, like the plate, or

the pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their

dignities. Sir Leicester is, perhaps, not wholly without an

impression, though he has never resolved it into words, that the

angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties may observe

to the shades of the aristocracy, "My lords and gentlemen, I have

the honor to present to you another Dedlock, certified to have

arrived per the family gout."

Hence, Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family

disorder, as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure.

He feels, that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and

spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities, is a liberty

taken somewhere; but, he thinks, "We have all yielded to this; it

belongs to us; it has, for some hundreds of years, been understood

that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more

ignoble terms; and I submit myself to the compromise."

And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold, in

the midst of the great drawing-room, before his favorite picture of

my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long

perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with

soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages

in the green ground which has never known plowshare, but was still a

Chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield, and rode

a-hunting with bow and arrow; bear witness to his greatness. Inside,

his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "Each of us was

a passing reality here, and left this colored shadow of himself, and

melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks

now lulling you to rest;" and bear their testimony to his greatness

too. And he is very great, this day. And woe to Boythorn, or other

daring wight, who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!

My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her

portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of

remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion

of the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared

for her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in

powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last

night to another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to

good society, that if that sort of thing was to last--which it

couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of

his figure couldn't be expected to bear it--there would be no

resource for him, upon his honor, but to cut his throat!

What connection can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the

house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the

outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him

when he swept the churchyard-step? What connection can there have

been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world,

who, from opposite sides of great gulfs, have, nevertheless, been

very curiously brought together!

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any

link there be. He sums up his mental condition, when asked a

question, by replying that he "don't know nothink." He knows that

it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and

harder still to live by doing it. Nobody taught him, even that much;

he found it out.

Jo lives--that is to say, Jo has not yet died--in a ruinous place,

known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-alone's. It is a

black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people; where the

crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by

some bold vagrants, who, after establishing their own possession,

took to letting them out in lodgings. Now these tumbling tenements

contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As, on the ruined human

wretch, vermin parasites appear, so, these ruined shelters have bred

a crowd of foul existence, that crawls in and out of gaps in walls

and boards; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the

rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever, and

sowing more evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle, and Sir

Thomas Doodle, and the Duke of Foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in

office, down to Zoodle, shall set right in five hundred

years--though born expressly to do it.

Twice, lately, there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the

springing of a mine, in Tom-all-alone's; and, each time, a house has

fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers, and

have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps remain,

and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As

several more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in

Tom-all-alone's may be expected to be a good one.

This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be an

insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye, to tell him

so. Whether "Tom" is the popular representative of the original

plaintiff or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce; or, whether Tom

lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until

other settlers came to join him, or, whether the traditional title

is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from honest company

and put out of the pale of hope; perhaps nobody knows. Certainly, Jo

don't know.

"For _I_ don't," says Jo, "_I_ don't know nothink."

It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the

streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the

meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops,

and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows!

To see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen

deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that

language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! It must

be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on

Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps

Jo _does_ think, at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it

means any thing to any body, how comes it that it means nothing to

me? To be hustled, and jostled and moved on; and really to feel that

it would appear to be perfectly true that I have no business, here,

or there, or any where; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration

that I _am_ here somehow too, and every body overlooked me until I

became the creature that I am! It must be a strange state, not

merely to be told that I am scarcely human (as in the case of my

offering myself for a witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge

all my life! To see the horses, dogs, and cattle, go by me, and to

know that in ignorance I belong to them, and not to the superior

beings in my shape, whose delicacy I offend! Jo's ideas of a

Criminal Trial, or a Judge, or a Bishop, or a Government, or that

inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it) the Constitution,

should be strange! His whole material and immaterial life is

wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest thing of all.

Jo comes out of Tom-all-alone's, meeting the tardy morning which is

always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of

bread as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and the

houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the

door-step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in

Foreign Parts, and gives it a brush when he has finished, as an

acknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires the size of the

edifice, and wonders what it's all about. He has no idea, poor

wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific,

or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the cocoa-nuts

and bread-fruit.

He goes to his crossing, and begins to lay it out for the day. The

town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and

whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been

suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo, and the other lower

animals, get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is

market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never

guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out; and plunge,

red-eyed and foaming, at stone walls; and often sorely hurt the

innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his

order; very, very like!

A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog--a

drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and

evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for

some hours, and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting

three or four; can't remember where he left them; looks up and down

the street, as half expecting to see them astray; suddenly pricks up

his ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog,

accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to

sheep; ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs, and tear out

mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog,

who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He

and Jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of

animal satisfaction; likewise, as to awakened association,

aspiration or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things

beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how

far above the human listener is the brute!

Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years

they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not

their bite.

The day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark and

drizzly. Jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud and

wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum

to pay for the unsavory shelter of Tom-all-alone's. Twilight comes

on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamp-lighter, with his

ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening

is beginning to close in.

In his chambers, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to

the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, a

disappointed suitor, has been here to-day, and has been alarming. We

are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow

shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened

allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points

with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively

toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason,

look out of window? Is the hand not always pointing there? So he

does not look out of window.

And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There are

women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they

are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it though, for the

matter of that, they create business for lawyers. What would it be

to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? They

are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that, very well.

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house

behind; between whose plain dress, and her refined manner, there is

something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper servant

by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though both are hurried and

assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she

treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady. Her face is vailed,

and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of

those who pass her look round sharply.

She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her,

and can follow it. She never turns her head, until she comes to the

crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her, and

begs. Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the

other side. Then, she slightly beckons to him, and says, "Come

here!"

Jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court.

"Are you the boy I have read of in the papers?" she asks, behind her

vail.

"I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the vail, "nothink about

no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all."

"Were you examined at an Inquest?"

"I don't know nothink about no--where I was took by the beadle, do

you mean?" says Jo. "Was the boy's name at the Inkwhich, Jo?"

"Yes."

"That's me!" says Jo.

"Come farther up."

"You mean about the man?" says Jo, following. "Him as was dead?"

"Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living, so

very ill and poor!"

"O jist!" says Jo.

"Did he look like--not like _you_?" says the woman with abhorrence.

"O not so bad as me," says Jo. "I'm a reg'lar one, _I_ am! You

didn't know him, did you?"

"How dare you ask me if I knew him?"

"No offense, my lady," says Jo, with much humility; for even he has

got at the suspicion of her being a lady.

"I am not a lady. I am a servant."

"You are a jolly servant!" says Jo; without the least idea of saying

any thing offensive; merely as a tribute of admiration.

"Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther from me!

Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account

I read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place

where you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? Do you

know the place where he was buried?"

Jo answers with a nod; having also nodded as each other place was

mentioned.

"Go before me, and show me all those dreadful places. Stop opposite

to each, and don't speak to me unless I speak to you. Don't look

back. Do what I want, and I will pay you well."

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off

on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider

their meaning; considers it satisfactory, and nods his ragged head.

"I am fly," says Jo. "But fen larks, you know! Stow hooking it!"

"What does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant,

recoiling from him.

"Stow cutting away, you know!" says Jo.

"I don't understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money

than you ever had in your life."

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,

takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way; passing deftly,

with his bare feet, over the hard stones, and through the mud and

mire.

Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause.

"Who lives here?"

"Him wot give him his writing, and give me half a bull," says Jo in

a whisper, without looking over his shoulder.

"Go on to the next."

Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.

"Who lives here!"

"_He_ lived here," Jo answers as before.

After a silence, he is asked "In which room?"

"In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this corner.

Up there! That's where I see him stritched out. This is the public

ouse where I was took to."

"Go on to the next!"

It is a longer walk to the next; but, Jo relieved of his first

suspicions, sticks to the terms imposed upon him, and does not look

round. By many devious ways, reeking with offense of many kinds,

they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp

(lighted now), and to the iron gate.

"He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.

"Where? O, what a scene of horror!"

"There!" says Jo, pointing. "Over yinder. Among them piles of bones,

and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him very nigh the

top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver

it for you, with my broom, if the gate was open. That's why they

locks it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. "It's always locked. Look at

the rat!" cries Jo, excited. "Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the

ground!"

The servant shrinks into a corner--into a corner of that hideous

archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting

out her two hands, and passionately telling him to keep away from

her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo

stands staring, and is still staring when she recovers herself.

[Illustration: CONSECRATED GROUND.]

"Is this place of abomination, consecrated ground?"

"I don't know nothink of consequential ground," says Jo, still

staring.

"Is it blessed?"

"WHICH?" says Jo, in the last degree amazed.

"Is it blessed?"

"I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever; "but I

shouldn't think it warn't. Blest?" repeats Jo, something troubled in

his mind. "It an't done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think

it was t'othered myself. But _I_ don't know nothink!"

The servant takes as little heed of what he says, as she seems to

take of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove, to get

some money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small

her hand is, and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such

sparkling rings.

She drops a piece of money in his hand, without touching it, and

shuddering as their hands approach. "Now," she adds, "show me the

spot again!"

Joe thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate,

and, with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At length,

looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds

that he is alone.

His first proceeding is, to hold the piece of money to the

gas-light, and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold.

His next, is, to give it a one-sided bite at the edge, as a test of

its quality. His next, to put it in his mouth for safety, and to

sweep the step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets

off for Tom-all-alone's; stopping in the light of innumerable

gas-lamps to produce the piece of gold, and give it another

one-sided bite, as a re-assurance of its being genuine.

The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my Lady

goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester is

fidgety, down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than the gout;

he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such a

monotonous pattering on the terrace, that he can't read the paper,

even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room.

"Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of the

house, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dressing-room is

on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never heard the step

upon the Ghost's Walk, more distinct than it is to-night!"

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Continued from the July Number.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[8]

CHAPTER XIII.

We have seen Squire Hazeldean (proud of the contents of his

pocket-book, and his knowledge of the mercenary nature of foreign

women), set off on his visit to Beatrice di Negra. Randal, thus left

musing lone in the crowded streets, revolved with astute complacency

the probable results of Mr. Hazeldean's bluff negotiation; and,

convincing himself that one of his vistas toward Fortune was

becoming more clear and clear, he turned, with the restless activity

of some founder of destined cities in a new settlement, to lop the

boughs that cumbered and obscured the others. For truly, like a man

in a vast Columbian forest, opening entangled space, now with the

ready ax, now with the patient train, that kindles the slower fire,

this child of civilized life went toiling on against surrounding

obstacles, resolute to destroy, but ever scheming to construct. And

now Randal has reached Levy's dainty business-room, and is buried

deep in discussion how to secure to himself, at the expense of his

patron, the representation of Lansmere, and how to complete the

contract which shall reannex to his forlorn inheritance some

fragments of its ancient wealth.

Meanwhile, Chance fought on his side in the boudoir of May Fair. The

Squire had found the Marchesa at home--briefly introduced himself

and his business--told her she was mistaken if she had fancied she

had taken in a rich heir in his son--that, thank Heaven, he could

leave his estates to his plowman, if he so pleased, but that he was

willing to do things liberally; and whatever she thought Frank was

worth, he was very ready to pay for.

At another time Beatrice would perhaps have laughed at this strange

address; or she might, in some prouder moment, have fired up with

all a patrician's resentment and a woman's pride; but now her spirit

was crushed, her nerves shattered; the sense of her degraded

position, of her dependence on her brother, combined with her

supreme unhappiness at the loss of those dreams with which Leonard

had for a while charmed her wearied waking life--all came upon her.

She listened, pale and speechless; and the poor Squire thought he

was quietly advancing toward a favorable result, when she suddenly

burst into a passion of hysterical tears; and just at that moment

Frank himself entered the room. At the sight of his father, of

Beatrice's grief, his sense of filial duty gave way. He was maddened

by irritation--by the insult offered to the woman he loved, which a

few trembling words from her explained to him; maddened yet more by

the fear that the insult had lost her to him--warm words ensued

between son and father, to close with the peremptory command and

vehement threat of the last.

"Come away this instant, sir! Come with me, or before the day is

over I strike you out of my will!"

The son's answer was not to his father; he threw himself at

Beatrice's feet.

"Forgive him--forgive us both--"

"What! you prefer that stranger to me--to the inheritance of

Hazeldean!" cried the Squire, stamping his foot.

"Leave your estates to whom you will; all that I care for in life is

here!"

The Squire stood still a moment or so, gazing on his son, with a

strange bewildered marvel at the strength of that mystic passion,

which none not laboring under its fearful charm can comprehend,

which creates the sudden idol that no reason justifies, and

sacrifices to its fatal shrine alike the Past and the Future. Not

trusting himself to speak, the father drew his hand across his eyes,

and dashed away the bitter tear that sprang from a swelling

indignant heart; then he uttered an inarticulate sound, and, finding

his voice gone, moved away to the door, and left the house.

He walked through the streets, bearing his head very erect, as a

proud man does when deeply wounded, and striving to shake off some

affection that he deems a weakness; and his trembling, nervous

fingers fumbled at the button on his coat, trying to tighten the

garment across his chest, as if to confirm a resolution that still

sought to struggle out of the revolting heart.

Thus he went on, and the reader, perhaps, will wonder whither; and

the wonder may not lessen when he finds the Squire come to a dead

pause in Grosvenor Square, and at the portico of his "distant

brother's" stately house.

At the Squire's brief inquiry whether Mr. Egerton was at home, the

porter summoned the groom of the chambers; and the groom of the

chambers, seeing a stranger, doubted whether his master was not

engaged, but would take in the stranger's card and see.

"Ay, ay," muttered the Squire, "this is true relationship--my child

prefers a stranger to me. Why should I complain that I am a stranger

in a brother's house. Sir," added the Squire aloud, and very

meekly--"Sir, please to say to your master that I am William

Hazeldean."

The servant bowed low, and without another word conducted the

visitor into the statesman's library, and announcing Mr. Hazeldean,

closed the door.

Audley was seated at his desk, the grim iron boxes still at his

feet, but they were now closed and locked. And the ex-minister was

no longer looking over official documents; letters spread open

before him, of far different nature; in his hand there lay a long

lock of fair silken hair, on which his eyes were fixed sadly and

intently. He started at the sound of his visitor's name, and the

tread of the Squire's stalwart footstep; and mechanically thrust

into his bosom the relic of younger and warmer years, keeping his

hand to his heart, which beat loud with disease, under the light

pressure of that golden hair.

The two brothers stood on the great man's lonely hearth, facing each

other in silence, and noting unconsciously the change made in each

during the long years in which they had never met.

The Squire, with his portly size, his hardy, sun-burnt cheeks, the

partial baldness of his unfurrowed open forehead, looked his

full age--deep into middle life. Unmistakably he seemed the

_paterfamilias_--the husband and the father--the man of social

domestic ties. But about Audley (really some few years junior to the

Squire), despite the lines of care on his handsome face, there still

lingered the grace of youth. Men of cities retain youth longer than

those of the country--a remark which Buffon has not failed to make

and to account for. Neither did Egerton betray the air of the

married man; for ineffable solitariness seemed stamped upon the man,

whose private life had long been so stern a solitude. No ray from

the focus of Home played round that reserved, unjoyous, melancholy

brow. In a word, Audley looked still the man for whom some young

female heart might fondly sigh; and not the less because of the cold

eye and compressed lip, which challenged interest even while seeming

to repel it.

Audley was the first to speak, and to put forth the right hand,

which he stole slowly from its place at his breast, on which the

lock of hair still stirred to and fro at the heave of the laboring

heart. "William," said he, with his rich, deep voice, "this is

kind. You are come to see me, now that men say I am fallen. The

minister you censured is no more; and you see again the brother."

The Squire was softened at once by this address. He shook heartily

the hand tendered to him; and then, turning away his head, with an

honest conviction that Audley ascribed to him a credit which he did

not deserve, he said, "No, no, Audley; I am more selfish than you

think me. I have come--I have come to ask your advice--no, not

exactly that--your opinion. But you are busy--?"

"Sit down, William. Old days were coming over me when you entered;

days earlier still return now--days, too, that leave no shadow when

their suns are set."

The proud man seemed to think he had said too much. His practical

nature rebuked the poetic sentiment and phrase. He re-collected

himself, and added, more coldly, "You would ask my opinion? What on?

Some public matter--some Parliamentary bill that may affect your

property?"

"Am I such a mean miser as that? Property--property? What does

property matter, when a man is struck down at his own hearth?

Property, indeed! But you have no child--happy brother!"

"Ay, ay; as you say, I am a happy man; childless! Has your son

displeased you? I have heard him spoken of well, too."

"Don't talk of him. Whether his conduct be good or ill is my

affair," resumed the poor father with a testy voice--jealous alike

of Audley's praise or blame of his rebellious son. Then he rose a

moment, and made a strong gulp as if for air; and laying his broad

brown hand on his brother's shoulder, said, "Randal Leslie tells me

you are wise--a consummate man of the world. No doubt you are

so. And Parson Dale tells me that he is sure you have warm

feelings--which I take to be a strange thing for one who has lived

so long in London, and has no wife and no child--a widower, and a

Member of Parliament--for a commercial city, too. Never smile; it is

no smiling matter with me. You know a foreign woman, called Negra or

Negro--not a blackymoor, though, by any means--at least on the

outside of her. Is she such a woman as a plain country gentleman

would like his only son to marry--ay or no?"

"No, indeed," answered Audley, gravely, "and I trust your son will

commit no action so rash. Shall I see him or her? Speak, my dear

William. What would you have me do?"

"Nothing; you have said enough," replied the Squire, gloomily; and

his head sank on his breast.

Audley took his hand, and pressed it fraternally. "William," said

the statesman, "we have been long estranged; but I do not forget

that when we last met, at--at Lord Lansmere's house, and when I took

you aside, and said, 'William, if I lose this election, I must

resign all chance of public life: my affairs are embarrassed; I may

need--I would not accept money from you--I would seek a profession,

and you can help me there,' you divined my meaning, and said--'Take

orders; the Hazeldean living is just vacant. I will get some one to

hold it till you are ordained.' I do not forget that. Would that I

had thought earlier of so serene an escape from all that then

tormented me. My lot might have been far happier."

The Squire eyed Audley with a surprise that broke forth from his

more absorbing emotions. "Happier! Why, all things have prospered

with you; and you are rich enough now; and--you shake your head.

Brother, is it possible! do you want money? Pooh, not accept money

from your mother's son!--stuff." Out came the Squire's pocket-book.

Audley put it gently aside.

"Nay," said he, "I have enough for myself; but since you seek and

speak with me thus affectionately, I will ask you one favor. Should

I die before I can provide for my wife's kinsman, Randal Leslie, as

I could wish, will you see to his fortunes, so far as you can,

without injury to others--to your own son?"

"My son! He _is_ provided for. He has the Casino estate--much good

may it do him. You have touched on the very matter that brought me

here. This boy, Randal Leslie, seems a praiseworthy lad, and has

Hazeldean blood in his veins. You have taken him up because he is

connected with your late wife. Why should not I take him up, too,

when his grandmother was a Hazeldean? I wanted to ask you what you

meant to do for him; for if you did not mean to provide for him, why

I will, as in duty bound. So your request comes at the right time; I

think of altering my will. I can put him into the entail, besides a

handsome legacy. You are sure he is a good lad--and it will please

you too, Audley?"

"But not at the expense of your son. And stay, William--as to this

foolish marriage with Madame di Negra, who told you Frank meant to

take such a step?"

"He told me himself; but it is no matter. Randal and I both did all

we could to dissuade him; and Randal advised me to come to you."

"He has acted generously, then, our kinsman Randal--I am glad to

hear it"--said Audley, his brow somewhat clearing. "I have no

influence with this lady; but at least, I can counsel her. Do not

consider the marriage fixed because a young man desires it. Youth is

ever hot and rash."

"Your youth never was," retorted the Squire, bluntly. "You married

well enough, I'm sure. I will say one thing for you: you have been,

to my taste, a bad politician--beg pardon--but you were always a

gentleman. You would never have disgraced your family and married

a--"

"Hush!" interrupted Egerton, gently. "Do not make matters worse than

they are. Madame di Negra is of high birth in her own country; and

if scandal--"

"Scandal!" cried the Squire, shrinking and turning pale. "Are you

speaking of the wife of a Hazeldean? At least, she shall never sit

by the hearth at which now sits his mother; and whatever I may do

for Frank, her children shall not succeed. No mongrel cross-breed

shall kennel in English Hazeldean. Much obliged to you, Audley, for

your good feeling--glad to have seen you; and harkye, you startled

me by that shake of your head, when I spoke of your wealth; and,

from what you say about Randal's prospects, I guess that you London

gentlemen are not so thrifty as we are. You _shall_ let me speak. I

say again, that I have some thousands quite at your service. And

though you are not a Hazeldean, still you are my mother's son; and

now that I am about to alter my will, I can as well scratch in the

name of Egerton as that of Leslie. Cheer up, cheer up; you are

younger than I am, and you have no child; so you will live longer

than I shall."

"My dear brother," answered Audley, "believe me, I shall never live

to want your aid. And as to Leslie, add to the £5000 I mean to give

him, an equal sum in your will, and I shall feel that he has

received justice."

Observing that the Squire, though he listened attentively, made no

ready answer, Audley turned the subject again to Frank; and with the

adroitness of a man of the world, backed by cordial sympathy in his

brother's distress, he pleaded so well Frank's lame cause, urged so

gently the wisdom of patience and delay, and the appeal to filial

feeling rather than recourse to paternal threats, that the Squire

grew molified in spite of himself, and left his brother's house a

much less angry, and less doleful man.

Mr. Hazeldean was still in the square when he came upon Randal

himself, who was walking with a dark-whiskered, showy gentleman,

toward Egerton's house. Randal and the gentleman exchanged a hasty

whisper, and the former exclaimed,

"What, Mr. Hazeldean, have you just left your brother's house? Is it

possible?"

"Why, you advised me to go there, and I did. I scarcely knew what I

was about. I am very glad I did go. Hang politics! hang the landed

interest! what do I care for either now?"

"Foiled with Madame di Negra?" asked Randal, drawing the Squire

aside.

"Never speak of her again!" cried the Squire, fiercely. "And as to

that ungrateful boy--but I don't mean to behave harshly to him--he

shall have money enough to keep her if he likes--keep her from

coming to me--keep him, too, from counting on my death, and

borrowing post-obits on the Casino--for he'll be doing that

next--no, I hope I wrong him there; I have been too good a father

for him to count on my death already. After all," continued the

Squire, beginning to relax, "as Audley says, the marriage is not yet

made; and if the woman has taken him in, he is young, and his heart

is warm. Make yourself easy, my boy. I don't forget how kindly you

took his part; and before I do any thing rash, I'll at least take

advice with his poor mother."

Randal gnawed his pale lip, and a momentary cloud of disappointment

passed over his face.

"True, sir," said he, gently; "true, you must not be rash. Indeed, I

was thinking of you and poor dear Frank at the very moment I met

you. It occurred to me whether we might not make Frank's very

embarrassments a reason to induce Madame di Negra to refuse him; and

I was on my way to Mr. Egerton, in order to ask his opinion, in

company with the gentleman yonder."

"Gentleman yonder? Why should he thrust his long nose into my family

affairs? Who the devil is he?"

"Don't ask, sir. Pray let me act."

But the Squire continued to eye askant the dark-whiskered personage

thus thrust between himself and his son, and who waited patiently a

few yards in the rear, carelessly readjusting the camellia in his

button-hole.

"He looks very outlandish. Is he a foreigner, too?" asked the

Squire, at last.

"No, not exactly. However, he knows all about Frank's

embarrassments; and--"

"Embarrassments! what, the debt he paid for that woman? How did he

raise the money?"

"I don't know," answered Randal; "and that is the reason I asked

Baron Levy to accompany me to Egerton's, that he might explain in

private what I have no reason--"

"Baron Levy!" interrupted the Squire. "Levy, Levy--I have heard of a

Levy who has nearly ruined my neighbor, Thornhill--a money-lender.

Zounds! is that the man who knows my son's affairs? I'll soon learn,

sir."

Randal caught hold of the Squire's arm: "Stop, stop; if you really

insist upon learning more about Frank's debts, you must not appeal

to Baron Levy directly, and as Frank's father; he will not answer

you. But if I present you to him as a mere acquaintance of mine, and

turn the conversation, as if carelessly, upon Frank--why, since, in

the London world, such matters are never kept secret except from the

parents of young men--I have no doubt he will talk out openly."

"Manage it as you will," said the Squire.

Randal took Mr. Hazeldean's arm, and joined Levy--"A friend of mine

from the country, Baron." Levy bowed profoundly, and the three

walked slowly on.

"By-the-by," said Randal, pressing significantly upon Levy's arm,

"my friend has come to town upon the somewhat unpleasant business of

settling the debts of another--a young man of fashion--a relation of

his own. No one, sir (turning to the Squire), could so ably assist

you in such arrangements as could Baron Levy."

BARON (modestly, and with a moralizing air).--"I have some

experience in such matters, and I hold it a duty to assist the

parents and relations of young men who, from want of reflection,

often ruin themselves for life. I hope the young gentleman in

question is not in the hands of the Jews?"

RANDAL.--"Christians are as fond of good interest for their money as

ever the Jews can be."

BARON.--"Granted, but they have not always so much money to lend.

The first thing, sir (addressing the Squire)--the first thing for

you to do is to buy up such of your relation's bills and notes of

hand as may be in the market. No doubt we can get them a bargain,

unless the young man is heir to some property that may soon be his

in the course of nature."

RANDAL.--"Not soon--heaven forbid! His father is still a young

man--a fine healthy man," leaning heavily on Levy's arm; "and as to

post-obits--"

BARON.--"Post-obits on sound security cost more to buy up, however

healthy the obstructing relative may be."

RANDAL.--"I should hope that there are not many sons who can

calculate, in cold blood, on the death of their fathers."

BARON.--"Ha, ha--he is young, our friend, Randal; eh, sir?"

RANDAL.--"Well, I am not more scrupulous than others, I dare say:

and I have often been pinched hard for money, but I would go

barefoot rather than give security upon a father's grave! I can

imagine nothing more likely to destroy natural feeling, nor to

instill ingratitude and treachery into the whole character, than to

press the hand of a parent, and calculate when that hand may be

dust--than to sit down with strangers and reduce his life to the

measure of an insurance table--than to feel difficulties gathering

round one, and mutter in fashionable slang, 'But it will be all well

if the governor would but die.' And he who has accustomed himself to

the relief of post-obits must gradually harden his mind to all

this."

The Squire groaned heavily; and had Randal proceeded another

sentence in the same strain, the Squire would have wept outright.

"But," continued Randal, altering the tone of his voice, "I think

that our young friend of whom we were talking just now, Levy, before

this gentleman joined us, has the same opinion as myself on this

head. He may accept bills, but he would never sign post-obits."

BARON (who with the apt docility of a managed charger to the touch

of a rider's hand, had comprehended and complied with each quick

sign of Randal's).--"Pooh! the young fellow we are talking of?

Nonsense. He would not be so foolish as to give five times the

percentage he otherwise might. Not sign post-obits! Of course he has

signed one."

RANDAL.--"Hist--you mistake, you mistake."

SQUIRE (leaving Randal's arm and seizing Levy's).--"Were you

speaking of Frank Hazeldean?"

BARON.--"My dear sir, excuse me; I never mention names before

strangers."

SQUIRE.--"Strangers again! Man, I am the boy's father! Speak out,

sir," and his hand closed on Levy's arm with the strength of an

iron vice.

BARON.--"Gently; you hurt me, sir; but I excuse your feelings.

Randal, you are to blame for leading me into this indiscretion; but

I beg to assure Mr. Hazeldean, that though his son has been a little

extravagant--"

RANDAL.--"Owing chiefly to the arts of an abandoned woman."

BARON.--"Of an abandoned woman; still he has shown more prudence

than you would suppose; and this very post-obit is a proof of it. A

simple act of that kind has enabled him to pay off bills that were

running on till they would have ruined even the Hazeldean estate;

whereas a charge on the reversion of the Casino--"

SQUIRE.--"He has done it then? He has signed a post-obit?"

RANDAL.--"No, no; Levy must be wrong."

BARON.--"My dear Leslie, a man of Mr. Hazeldean's time of life can

not have your romantic boyish notions. He must allow that Frank has

acted in this like a lad of sense--very good head for business has

my young friend Frank! And the best thing Mr. Hazeldean can do is

quietly to buy up the post-obit, and thus he will place his son

henceforth in his own power."

SQUIRE.--"Can I see the deed with my own eyes?"

BARON.--"Certainly, or how could you be induced to buy it up? But on

one condition; you must not betray me to your son. And, indeed, take

my advice, and don't say a word to him on the matter."

SQUIRE.--"Let me see it, let me see it with my own eyes. His mother

else will never believe it--nor will I."

BARON.--"I can call on you this evening."

SQUIRE.--"Now--now."

BARON.--"You can spare me, Randal; and you yourself can open to Mr.

Egerton the other affair, respecting Lansmere. No time should be

lost, lest L'Estrange suggest a candidate."

_Randal_ (whispering).--"Never mind me.--This is more important.

(Aloud)--Go with Mr. Hazeldean. My dear kind friend (to the Squire),

do not let this vex you so much. After all, it is what nine young

men out of ten would do in the same circumstances. And it is best

you should know it; you may save Frank from farther ruin, and

prevent, perhaps, this very marriage."

"We will see," exclaimed the Squire, hastily. "Now, Mr. Levy, come."

Levy and the Squire walked on not arm-in-arm, but side by side.

Randal proceeded to Egerton's house.

"I am glad to see you, Leslie," said the ex-minister. "What is it I

have heard? My nephew, Frank Hazeldean, proposes to marry Madame di

Negra against his father's consent? How could you suffer him to

entertain an idea so wild? And how never confide it to me?"

RANDAL.--"My dear Mr. Egerton, it is only to-day that I was informed

of Frank's engagement. I have already seen him, and expostulated in

vain; till then, though I knew your nephew admired Madame di Negra,

I could never suppose he harbored a serious intention."

EGERTON.--"I must believe you, Randal. I will myself see Madame di

Negra, though I have no power, and no right, to dictate to her. I

have but little time for all such private business. The dissolution

of Parliament is so close at hand."

RANDAL (looking down.)--"It is on that subject that I wished to

speak to you, sir. You think of standing for Lansmere. Well, Baron

Levy has suggested to me an idea that I could not, of course, even

countenance, till I had spoken to you. It seems that he has some

acquaintance with the state of parties in that borough! He is

informed that it is not only as easy to bring in two of our side, as

to carry one; but that it would make your election still more safe,

not to fight single-handed against two opponents; that if canvassing

for yourself alone, you could not carry a sufficient number of

plumper votes; that split votes would go from you to one or other of

the two adversaries; that, in a word, it is necessary to pair you

with a colleague. If it really be so, you of course will learn best

from your own Committee; but should they concur in the opinion Baron

Levy has formed--do I presume too much on your kindness--to deem it

possible that you might allow me to be the second candidate on your

side? I should not say this, but that Levy told me you had some wish

to see me in Parliament, among the supporters of your policy. And

what other opportunity can occur? Here the cost of carrying two

would be scarcely more than that of carrying one. And Levy says, the

party would subscribe for my election; you, of course, would refuse

all such aid for your own; and indeed, with your great name, and

Lord Lansmere's interest, there can be little beyond the strict

legal expenses."

As Randal spoke thus at length, he watched anxiously his patron's

reserved, unrevealing countenance.

EGERTON (drily.)--"I will consider. You may safely leave in my hands

any matter connected with your ambition and advancement. I have

before told you I hold it a duty to do all in my power for the

kinsman of my late wife--for one whose career I undertook to

forward--for one whom honor has compelled to share in my own

political reverses."

Here Egerton rang the bell for his hat, and gloves, and walking into

the hall, paused at the street door. There beckoning to Randal, he

said slowly, "You seem intimate with Baron Levy; I caution you

against him--a dangerous acquaintance, first to the purse, next to

the honor."

RANDAL.--"I know it, sir; and am surprised myself at the

acquaintance that has grown up between us. Perhaps its cause is in

his respect for yourself."

EGERTON.--"Tut."

RANDAL.--"Whatever it be, he contrives to obtain a singular hold

over one's mind, even where, as in my case, he has no evident

interest to serve. How is this? It puzzles me!"

EGERTON.--"For his interest, it is most secured where he suffers it

to be least evident; for his hold over the mind, it is easily

accounted for. He ever appeals to two temptations, strong with all

men--Avarice and Ambition.--Good-day."

RANDAL.--"Are you going to Madame di Negra's? Shall I not accompany

you? Perhaps I may be able to back your own remonstrances."

EGERTON.--"No, I shall not require you."

RANDAL.--"I trust I shall hear the result of your interview? I feel

so much interested in it. Poor Frank!"

Audley nodded. "Of course, of course."