CHAPTER I.

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

VOLUME I.

JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1850.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

329 & 331 PEARL STREET,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

MDCCCL

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Publishers take great pleasure in presenting herewith the first

volume of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. It was projected and commenced in

the belief, that it might be made the means of bringing within the reach

of the great mass of the American people, an immense amount of useful

and entertaining reading matter, to which, on account of the great

number and expense of the books and periodicals in which it originally

appears, they have hitherto had no access. The popularity of the work

has outstripped their most sanguine expectations. Although but six

months have elapsed since it was first announced, it has already

attained a regular monthly issue of more than FIFTY THOUSAND COPIES, and

the rate of its increase is still unchecked. Under these circumstances,

the Publishers would consider themselves failing in duty, as well as in

gratitude, to the public, if they omitted any exertion within their

power to increase its substantial value and its attractiveness. It will

be their aim to present, in a style of typography unsurpassed by any

similar publication in the world, every thing of general interest and

usefulness which the current literature of the times may contain. They

will seek, in every article, to combine entertainment with instruction,

and to enforce, through channels which attract rather than repel

attention and favor, the best and most important lessons of morality and

of practical life. They will spare neither labor nor expense in any

department of the work; freely lavishing both upon the editorial aid,

the pictorial embellishments, the typography, and the general literary

resources by which they hope to give the Magazine a popular circulation,

unequaled by that of any similar periodical ever published in the world.

And they are satisfied that they may appeal with confidence to the

present volume, for evidence of the earnestness and fidelity with which

they will enter upon the fulfillment of these promises for the future.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

A Bachelor's Reverie. By IK. MARVEL 620

A Child's Dream of a Star 73

A Chip from a Sailor's Log 478

Adventure in a Turkish Harem 321

Adventure with a Snake 415

Aerial voyage of Barral and Bixio 499

A few words on Corals 251

A Five Days' Tour in the Odenwald. By WILLIAM HOWITT 448

A Giraffe Chase 329

Alchemy and Gunpowder 195

American Literature 37

American Vanity 274

A Midnight Drive 820

Amusements of the Court of Louis XV 97

Andrew Carson's Money: A Story of Gold 503

Anecdote of a Singer 779

Anecdotes of Dr. Chalmers 696

Anecdote of Lord Clive 554

A Night in the Bell Inn. A Ghost Story. 252

A Paris Newspaper 181

A Pilgrimage to the Cradle of Liberty 721

Archibald Alison (with Portrait) 134

A Shilling's Worth of Science 597

Assyrian Sects 454

A Tale of the good Old Times 52

Atlantic Waves 786

A True Ghost Story 801

A Tuscan Vintage 600

A Word at the Start 1

Bathing--Its Utility. By Dr. MOORE 215

Battle with Life (Poetry) 731

Benjamin West. By LEIGH HUNT 194

Biographical Sketch of Zachary Taylor 298

Borax Lagoons of Tuscany 397

Burke and the Painter Barry 807

Charlotte Corday 262

Chemical Contradictions 736

Christ-hospital Worthies. By LEIGH HUNT 200

Conflict with an Elephant 352

Death of Cromwell (Poetry) 257

Descent into the Crater of a Volcano 838

Diplomacy--Lord Chesterfield 246

Doing (Poetry) 268

Dr. Johnson: his Religious Life and Death 71

Early History of the Use of Coal 656

Early Rising 52

Earth's Harvests (Poetry) 297

Ebenezer Elliott 349

Education in America 209

Elephant Shooting in South Africa 393

Encounter with a Lioness 303

Eruptions of Mount Etna 35

Fashions for Early Summer 142

Fashions for July 287

Fashions for August 431

Fashions for early Autumn 575

Fashions for Autumn 719

Fashions for November 863

Fate Days, and other Superstitions 729

Father and Son 243

Fearful Tragedy--A Man-eating Lion 471

Fifty Years ago. By LEIGH HUNT 180

Fortunes of the Gardener's Daughter 832

Francis Jeffrey 66

Galileo and his Daughter 347

Genius 65

Ghost Stories: Mademoiselle Clairon 83

Glimpses of the East. By ALBERT SMITH 198

Globes, and how they are Made 165

Greenwich Weather-wisdom 265

Habits of the African Lion 480

Have great Poets become impossible? 340

History of Bank Note Forgeries 745

How to kill Clever Children 789

How to make Home unhealthy. By HARRIET MARTINEAU 601

How We Went Whaling 844

Hydrophobia 846

Ignorance of the English 205

Illustrations of Cheapness. Lucifer Matches 75

Industry of the Blind 848

Jenny Lind. By FREDRIKA BREMER 657

Jewish Veneration 119

Lack of Poetry in America 403

Lady Alice Daventry; or, the Night of Crime 642

Ledru Rollin 476

Leigh Hunt Drowning 202

Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. MARSH 13, 168, 353

Lines. By ROBERT SOUTHEY 206

Literary and Scientific Miscellany 556

Lord Jeffrey's Account of the Origin of the Edinburgh

Review--Character of Sir Robert Peel--The Ownership of Land--A

Self-Taught Artist--Conversation of Literary Men--Rewards of

Literature--Schamyl the Prophet of the Caucasus--The Colossal

Statue--Wordsworth's Prose-Writings--Anecdotes of Beranger--The

Paris Academy of Inscriptions.

LITERARY NOTICES.

Bryant's Letters of a Traveler; Bayard Taylor's Eldorado, 140.

Standish the Puritan; Talbot and Vernon, 141. Smyth's Unity of

the Human Races, 284. Talvi's Literature of the Slavic Nations;

Greeley's Hints toward Reforms, 288. Antonina Martinet's Solution

of Great Problems; Lossing's Field Book, 286, 427, 837.

Lamartine's Past Present and Future of the French Republic;

Lardner's Railway Economy; The Lone Dove; Mezzofanti's Method

applied to the Study of the French Language; The Ojibway

Conquest; Buffum's Six Months in the Gold Mines; The World as it

is and as it appears; Drake's Diseases of the Interior Valley of

North America, 286. Campbell's Life and Letters, 425. Life and

Correspondence of Andrew Combe, 426. Dr. Johnson's Religious Life

and Death; Sydney Smith's Sketches of Moral Philosophy; The

Plough, the Loom, and the Anvil, 427. Mrs. Child's Rebels;

Davies's Logic and Utility of Mathematics; The Gallery of

Illustrious Americans; The Phantom World; Christopher under

Canvas; Byrne's Dictionary of Mechanics; Griffith's Marine and

Naval Architecture, 428. Duggin's Specimens of Bridges, etc. on

the U.S. Railroads; M'Clintock's Second Book in Greek; Baird's

Impressions of the West Indies, and North America; Fleetwood's

Life of Christ; The Shoulder Knot; Supplement to Forester's Fish

and Fishing; The Morning Watch; Debates in the Convention of

California; The Mothers of the Wise and Good, 429. Carlyle's

Latter-Day Pamphlets, 430, 571. The Illustrated Domestic Bible;

Earnestness; Amy Harrington; The Vale of Cedars; Chronicles and

Characters of the Stock Exchange; Wah-to-yah, and the Taos Trail;

Poems by H. Ladd Spencer; Talvi's Heloise; The Initials; The

Lorgnette, 430. Tennyson's In Memoriam, 570. Abbott's History of

Darius; Fowler's English Language in its Elements and forms;

Julia Howard; Cumming's Five Years of a Hunter's Life; Moore's

Health, Disease, and Remedy; Wright's Perforations of the

Latter-day Pamphlets; Lanman's Haw-Ho-Noo, 571. Leigh Hunt's

Autobiography; U.S. Railroad Guide and Steamboat Journal; Ware's

Hints to Young Men; The Iris; Irving's Conquest of Granada, 572.

Life and Times of Gen. John Lamb, Progress of the Northwest;

Everett's Bunker Hill Oration; Walker's Phi Beta Kappa Oration;

Bayard Taylor's American Legend; Ungewitter's Europe, Past and

Present; Downing's Architecture of Country Houses, 573. Jarvis's

Don Quixote; Halliwell's Shakspeare; Meyer's Universum; The Night

Side of Nature; Giles's Thoughts on Life; Hill's Lectures on

Surgery; The National Temperance Offering, 574. Rural Hours;

Robinson's Greek and English Lexicon; The Berber, 713. Works of

Joseph Bellamy; Adelaide Lindsay; Mayhew's Popular Education;

Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning; After Dinner Table Talk;

Cooper's Deer Slayer; Stockton's Sermon on the Death of Zachary

Taylor; Raymond's Relations of the American Scholar to his

Country and his Times, 714. Loomis's Recent Progress of

Astronomy; Loomis's Mathematical Course; Autobiography of Goethe;

Braithwaite's Retrospect; Mrs. Ellett's Domestic History of the

Revolution; Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific Men;

Johnson's Cicero; Lady Willoughby's Diary; The Young Woman's Book

of Health, 715. Whittier's Songs of Labor; Nicholson's Poems of

the Heart; The Mariner's Vision; Collins's edition of AEsop's

Fables; Seba Smith's New Elements of Geometry, 716. Buckingham's

Specimens of Newspaper Literature; Edward Everett's Orations and

Speeches, 717. Echoes of the Universe; Memoir of Anne Boleyn; The

Lily and the Totem; Reminiscences of Congress; Mental Hygiene,

718. Williams's Religious Progress; Poetry of Science; Footprints

of the Creator; Pre-Adamite Earth, 857. Household Surgery; Gray's

Poetical Works; Memoirs of Chalmers; History of Propellers and

Steam Navigation; The Country Year-Book; Success in Life; Alton

Locke, 858. The Builder's, and the Cabinet-maker and Upholster's

Companion; Lessons from the History of Medical Delusions; Lexicon

of Terms used in Natural History; Lamartine's Additional Memoirs,

and Genevieve; Rose's Chemical Tables; Pendennis; Stockhardt's

Principles of Chemistry; Petticoat Government; Etchings to the

Bridge of Sighs, 859. Bartlett's Natural Philosophy; Church's

Calculus; Lonz Powers; Abbott's History of Xerxes; Alexander's

Dictionary of Weights and Measures; America Discovered; Dwight's

Christianity Revived in the East; Grahame, 860. George Castriot;

The Last of the Mohicans; Johnston's Relations of Science and

Agriculture; Descriptive Geography of Palestine; Life of

Commodore Talbot; American Biblical Repository; North American

Review, 861. Methodist Quarterly Review; Christian Review;

Brownson's Quarterly, 862.

Little Mary--A tale of the Irish Famine 518

Lizzie Leigh. By CHARLES DICKENS 38

Longfellow 74

Lord Byron, Wordsworth, and Lamb 293

Lord Coke and Lord Bacon 239

Madame Grandin 135

Married Men 106

Maurice Tiernay. By CHARLES LEVER 2, 219, 329, 487, 627, 790

Memoirs of the First Duchess of Orleans 56

Memories of Miss Jane Porter. By Mrs. S.C. HALL 433

Men and Women 89

Metal in Sea Water 71

Milking in Australia 37

Mirabeau. Anecdote of his Private Life. 648

MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.

DOMESTIC.

GENERAL INTELLIGENCE.--The invasion of Cuba, 275. Mr. Webster's

letter on the delivery of fugitive slaves; Reply of Hon. Horace

Mann, 275. Prof. Stuart's pamphlet, 275. The Nashville

Convention, 275. New Southern Paper at Washington, 275.

Connecticut resolutions in favor of the Compromise Bill, 275.

Dinner to Senator Dickenson, 275. Dinner to Hon. Edward Gilbert,

of California, 276. Constitutional conventions in Ohio and

Michigan; Governors Crittenden and Wright, 276. Anniversary of

the Battle of Bunker Hill, 276. Seizure of a vessel for violation

of the neutrality act, 276. Death of President Taylor; succession

of Mr. Fillmore, and the new Cabinet, 416. Release of the Contoy

prisoners, 417. Incorrect rumor of an insult to the U.S. Minister

to Spain, 417, 703. Fire in Philadelphia, 417. Will saltpetre

explode, 417. Cholera at the West, 417. Professor Webster's

confession, 418. The Collins steamers, 418. Mr. Squier's

researches in Central America, 418. Measures for a direct trade

from the South to Liverpool, 418. Free School System in New York,

418. Medal to Colonel Fremont, 418. U.S. Boundary Commission,

418. State Convention in New Mexico, 419. Fourth of July

Addresses at various places, 420. Celebration of the Capture of

Stony Point, 420. Affairs at Liberia, 420. American claims on

Portugal, 424. Courtesies between the Corporations of Buffalo and

Toronto, 563. Suffering the growth of the Canada thistle made

penal in Wisconsin, 563. Report of the West Point Board of

Visitors, 563. Project for shortening the passage of the

Atlantic, 563. Gen. Quitman's letter, 702. Re-election of Mr.

Rusk as Senator from Texas, indicating a disposition to accept

the U.S. proposals, 702. Arrival of a Turkish Commissioner, 702.

Changes in the Cabinet, 702. Mr. Conrad's letter to his

constituents on the slavery question, 702. Execution of Prof.

Webster, 703. Arrival of Jenny Lind, 703. Opening of the Gallery

of the Art Union, 704. Passage of the Pacific from Liverpool, the

shortest ever made, 707. Whig State Convention at Syracuse;

Convention of the seceders at Utica; Letter of Washington Hunt,

849. Anti-Renters' convention at Albany, 849. Feeling at the

South in relation to the admission of California, 850. Hon. C.J.

Jenkins on disunion, 850. New Collins steamers, Arctic and

Baltic, 850. Property in N.Y. City, 850. Swedish colony in

Illinois, 850. Working of the Fugitive Slave Bill, 850. Jenny

Lind's concerts, 850. New York a Catholic Archepiscopal See, 850.

The Boundary Bill in Texas; Mr. Kaufman's letter, 851. Policy of

Government in relation to the transit of the Isthmus, 851.

Earthquake at Cleveland, 851.

CONGRESSIONAL.--The Compromise Bill in the Senate, 275. Webster's

speech on the Bill, 416. The Galphin Claim, 416. Final action of

the Senate on the Compromise Bill, 561. Protest of Southern

Senators against the admission of California, 561. Proposals to

Texas, in relation to the boundary, 562. Discussion in the House

on the Appropriation Bill, 562. President's Message on Texas and

New Mexico, with Webster's letter to Gov. Bell, of Texas, 562.

Nominations to the Cabinet, 563. Passage of the Texas Bill, and

analysis of the votes, 700. Passage of the California Bill; of

the Fugitive Slave Bill; of Bill abolishing the Slave-trade in

the District, 701. Passage of the Appropriation Bills, with

provisions for abolishing flogging in the navy, and granting

bounties to soldiers; Adjournment of Congress, 849.

ELECTIONS.--In Virginia for members of constitutional convention;

contest between the eastern and western sections, 463. In

Missouri, partial success of the Whigs, 463. In North Carolina,

success of the Democrats, 463. In Indiana, giving the Democrats

the control of the legislature and constitutional convention,

463. In Vermont, success of the Whigs, 703. Election of Hon.

Solomon Foot as Senator, 850.

CALIFORNIA, NEW MEXICO, AND OREGON.--Tax on foreigners, 276.

Excitement at the delay of admission to the Union, 276. Riot at

Panama, 276. Fires at San Francisco, 419. Gold, 419. Indian

hostilities, 419. Bill for the admission of California as a state

into the Union, passed the Senate, and protest of Southern

Senators, 561. Line of stages between Independence, Mo., and

Santa Fe, 563. Continued discoveries of gold, 566. Disturbances

with Foreigners and Indians, 566. Steam communication between San

Francisco and China, 566. Rumors of gold in Oregon, 566.

Resignation of Gov. Lane, 566. News from the Boundary Commission,

702. Disturbances on account of Sutter's claims, 705. Cholera on

board steamers, 706. New rumors of gold in Oregon, 706. Arrival

of Senators from New Mexico; conflict of authorities; Indian

outrages, 706. State of affairs in California, up to Sept. 15,

851. In Oregon to Sept. 2, 852.

MEXICO AND SOUTH AMERICA.--Presidential Election in Mexico,

Cholera; Right of Way across the Isthmus, 418. Ravages of the

Indians in Mexico, 566. Transit of the Isthmus; Opening of the

Port of San Juan, 851. Steamers proposed between Valparaiso and

Panama, 851.

LITERARY.--Agassiz and Smyth on the Unity of the Human Race;

Address of Professor Lewis; Bishop Hughes on Socialism. Walter

Colton's book on California; Professor Davies's Logic and Utility

of Mathematics, 276. Bartlett's Natural Philosophy; Mansfield on

American Education, 277. De Quincey's writings: Poems by

Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell; Giles's Christian Thoughts on

Life; Bristed's Reply to Mann; Gould's Comedy, The Very Age, 277.

Historical Society in Trinity College, Hartford, 420. March's

Reminiscences of Congress, 564. Torrey's translation of Neander,

564. Life of Randolph, 565. Kendall's work on the Mexican War,

565. Commencement Exercises at various Colleges, 565. G.P.R.

James's Lectures, 704. Andrews's Latin Lexicon, 704. Hildreth's

new volume of American History, 705. Dr. Wainwright's Our Saviour

with Prophets and Apostles; Miss McIntosh's Evenings at Donaldson

Manor, 853.

SCIENTIFIC.--Paine's Water-gas, 277, 564. Forshey's Essay on the

deepening of the channel of the Mississippi, 563. Professor

Page's experiments in electro-magnetism, 564. Mathiot's

experiment's at illuminating with hydrogen, 564. Meeting of the

American Scientific Association at New Haven, 564. Astronomical

Expedition under Lieutenant Gillis; Humboldt's Notice of American

Science, 705.

PERSONAL.--Arrival of G.P.R. James, 419. Arrival of Gen.

Dembinski, 419. Emerson, Prescott, Hudson, Garibaldi, 420. Hon.

D.D. Barnard, 563. Henry Clay at Newport, 563. Intelligence from

the Franklin Expedition, 564. Messrs. Lawrence and Rives at the

Royal Agricultural Society, 567. Messrs. Duer, Spaulding, and

Ashmun, decline re-election to Congress, 702. Ammin Bey, 702.

Jenny Lind, 703. Nomination of George N. Briggs for re-election

as Governor of Mass., 850. Hamlet the fugitive Slave, 850.

Archbishop Hughes, 851. Bishop Onderdonk, 851. G.P.R. James and

the Whig Review, 853.

DEATHS.--Adam Ramage; S. Margaret Fuller, 420. Commodore Jacob

Jones, 563. Mr. Nes; Professor Webster; Dr. Judson; Bishop H.B.

Bascom; John Inman, 703. Gen. Herard, ex-President of Haiti, 706.

FOREIGN.

ENGLAND.--Birth of Prince Arthur, 123. Mr. Gibson's motion in

Parliament to abolish all taxes on knowledge; bearing of these

taxes; motion negatived; evasion of the excise on paper by the

publisher of the "Greenock Newscloth," 124. Education Bill

introduced, discussed, and postponed, 124. Defeat of ministers on

unimportant measures, 124. Preparations for Industrial

Exhibition, 125, 280, 852, 853. Expeditions in search of Sir John

Franklin, 125, 855. The Greek quarrel, 277. Consequent action of

Russia and Austria in relation to British subjects, 278.

University reform, 278. Imprisonment of British colored seamen at

Charleston, 278. Sinecures in the ecclesiastical courts, 278.

Motion in Parliament to give the Australian colonies the full

management of their own affairs, lost, 278. Bill passed reducing

the parliamentary franchise in Ireland, and speech of Sir James

Graham in its favor, 279. Various bills for Sanitary and Social

reform, 279. Bill to abolish the Viceroyalty in Ireland, 280.

Commission of inquiry into the state of the Universities, 280.

Death of Sir Robert Peel, 420. Discussions on the Greek question;

remarkable speeches of Lord Palmerston and Lord John Russell,

421. Sunday labor in the Post-office, 421. Bill lost for

protecting free sugar; Intra-mural interments Bill passed, 422.

Assault on the Queen, 422. Wrecks in the Northern Atlantic; wreck

of the Orion, 422. The Rothschild case, 566. Foreign policy of

ministers sustained, 566. Sundry Bills for social and political

reform lost, 567. Grants to the Duke of Cambridge and the

Princess Mary, 567. Explosion of a coal-mine, 567. Gen. Haynau

mobbed, 706. Prorogation of Parliament, 706. Lord Brougham's

vagaries, 706. Extent of railways in Great Britain, 707. The

Times and Gen. Haynau, 852. The Arctic Expedition, 852. Cotton in

Siberia, 852. Lord Clarendon in Ireland, 852. Queen's University

and the bishops, 852, 855. Shipwrecks, 853. The Sea Serpent in

Ireland, 853. Punishment of naval officers for carelessness, 853.

Amount of Irish crop, 855. Cunard steamers, 855.

FRANCE.--Contest in Paris for election of Member of Assembly;

election of Eugene Sue, 122. Mutiny in the 11th Infantry, 122.

Destruction of the suspension-bridge at Angers, and terrible loss

of life, 122. Arrest of M. Proudhon, 123. Capture of Louis Pellet, a

notorious murderer, 123. Bill for restricting the suffrage, 283.

Stringent proceedings against the Press, 283. Recall of the

French embassador to England, 283. Increase voted to the salary

of the President, 424. New laws for the restriction of the Press,

424. Walker's attempt to assassinate Louis Napoleon, 424. M.

Thiers's visit to Louis Philippe, 424. Tax on feuilletons, 569.

The President's tour, 707. Death of Louis Philippe, and notice of

his life, 708. Decision of a majority of the departments in favor

of a revision of the constitution, 709. Duel between MM. Chavoix

and Dupont, 711. Death of Balzac, and notice of his life and

works, 711. The President's plans; revision of the Constitution,

856.

GERMANY.--Convocations at Frankfort and Berlin, 284. Attempt on

the life of the King of Prussia, 284. Dissolution of the Saxon

Chambers, and of the Wurtemberg Diet, 424. Peace Convention at

Frankfort, 424, 712. Restrictions on the Press in Prussia, 424.

Fresh hostilities in Schleswig-Holstein, Battle of Idstedt, 570.

Proceedings of Austria, respecting the Act of Confederation, 712.

Inundations in Belgium, 712. General Krogh rewarded by the

Emperor of Russia for his bravery at the battle of Idstedt, 712.

Extension of telegraphs, 855. Hungarian musicians expelled from

Vienna, 855. Colossal statue completed, 855. Revolutions in Hesse

Cassel and Mecklenburg-Schwerin, 856.

ITALY, SPAIN, PORTUGAL.--The Pope's return, and adhesion to the

Absolutists, 128. State of affairs in Italy, 284. Intrigues in

Spain, 284. Rain after a five years' drought, 284. Explosion of a

powder-mill, 284. Claims of the United States on Portugal, and

consequent difficulties, 424, 569. Birth and death of an heir to

the Spanish Crown, 569. Disturbances in Piedmont, 712. Disquiets

in Rome, 712. Inundation in Lombardy, 855. Prisons at Naples,

855.

INDIA, AND THE EAST.--Disturbances among the Affredies; their

villages destroyed by Sir Charles Napier, 128. Arrangements of

the Pasha of Egypt for shortening the passage across the desert,

128. Establishment of a new journal in China, 129. Permission

granted the Jews for building a temple on Mount Zion, 129.

University in New South Wales, 129. Terrible explosion at

Benares, 570. Sickness at Canton, 570. The great diamond, 570.

Revolt at Bantam, 570. Sulphur mines in Egypt, 856.

LITERARY.--Postponement of the French Exhibition of Paintings,

129. Goethe's Manuscripts, 423. Mr. Hartley's bequests set aside,

423. History of Spain, by St. Hilaire, 568. Sir Robert Peel's

MSS., 568, 712. Miss Strickland's forthcoming Lives of the Queens

of Scotland, 569. Bulwer's new novel, 710. Copyright of

foreigners, 710. Sale of the Paintings of the King of Holland,

710. Lamartine's Confidences, 710. Notice of Ticknor's Spanish

Literature in the Morning Chronicle, 710. The North British

Review, 711. Sale of the Barbarigo Gallery at Venice, 711. A new

singer, 711. New edition of Owen's Works, 853. Copyrights paid to

American Authors, 854. Theological Faculties in Germany, 854.

Translation of Dante and Ovid into Hebrew, 854. Books issued,

126, 282, 422, 564, 710.

SCIENTIFIC.--Papers read by Murchison and Lepsius before the

Geological Society, 125. Before the Royal Society, by O'Brien,

Faraday, and Mantell, 125. The _Pelorosaurus_, 125. Lead for

statues, 126. Operations of Mr. Layard, 126, 280, 854. Discovery

of ancient Roman coins in the Duchy of Oldenburg, 128. Opening of

the submarine telegraph between Dover and Calais, 129.

Experimental slips dropped from balloons, 129. Box Tunnel,

London, 129. Transplantation of a full grown tree, 129. Glass

pipes for gas, 129. International railway commission, 129.

Russian expedition for exploring the Northern Ural, 129.

Invention for extinguishing tires, 280. Experiments on light and

heat, 281. Discovery of a new comet, 281. Unswathing a mummy,

423. Society for investigating epidemics; for observations in

Meteorology, 423. Depredations on Assyrian and Egyptian

antiquities, 568. Apparatus to render sea-water drinkable, 568.

Improved mode of producing iron, 569. Prof. Johnston on American

Agriculture, 569. Telegraphic wire between Dover and Calais, 711.

Iron unsuitable for vessels of war, 853. New submarine telegraph,

853. The atmopyre, 854. A new star, 854. The Britannia bridge,

855. Ascent of Mount Blanc, 855.

SOCIAL.--Great project for agricultural emigration, 129. English

criminal cases, 129. Building for the Industrial exhibition, 567.

Lord Campbell on the Sunday Letter Bill, 707. Extension of the

Franchise in Ireland, 707. Introduction of laborers into the West

Indies, 707. Tenant-right conference in Dublin, 707. Peace

Congress at Frankfort, 424, 712.

PERSONAL.--Monument to Jeffrey, 125. Absence of mind of Bowles,

133. Degree of Doctor of Music conferred upon Meyerbeer, 422.

Gutzlaff, Corbould, Gibson, 422. Baptism of the infant prince,

422. Accident to Rogers, 423. Monument to Wordsworth, 423. Sir

Robert Peel's injunction to his family not to accept titles or

pensions, 567. Barral and Bixio's balloon ascent, and Poitevin's

horseback ascent, 568. Poverty of Guizot, 568. Meinhold fined for

libel, 569. Guizot's refusal to accept a seat in the Council of

Public Instruction, 569. Bulwer a candidate for the House of

Commons; his new play, 569. Ovation to Leibnitz and Humboldt,

569. Haynau mobbed, 706. Movements of the Queen, 707. Duel

between MM. Chavoix and Dupont, 711. Viscount Fielding embraces

Catholicism, 855. Prospective liberation of Kossuth, 855.

DEATHS.--Wordsworth, Bowles, 125; Sir James Bathurst, Madame

Dulcken, Sir Archibald Galloway, Admiral Hills, Dr. Prout, Madame

Tussaud, 127; Dr. Potts, inventor of the hydraulic pile-driver,

129. Gay Lussac, 282; M.P. Souyet, the Emperor of China, Earl of

Roscommon, Sir James Sutherland, Mrs. Jeffrey, 283; Sir Robert

Peel, 420; Duke of Cambridge, 422; Dr. Burns, Dr. Gray, Rev. W.

Kirby, B. Simmons, 568; Neander, 569; Louis Philippe, 708;

Balzac, 711; Sir Martin Archer Shee, 711. Gale the aeronaut, 854.

Moorish Domestic Life 161

Morning in Spring 87

Moscow after the Conflagration 137

Mrs. Hemans 116

My Novel; or Varieties in English Life. By SIR EDWARD

BULWER LYTTON 659, 761

My Wonderful Adventures in Skitzland 258

Neander. A Biographical Sketch 510

Obstructions to the use of the Telescope 699

Ode to the Sun. By HUNT 189

Papers on Water, No. 1 50

Physical Education 106

Peace (Poetry). By CHAS. DRYDEN. 194

Pilgrimage to the Home of Sir Thomas More. By Mrs. S.C. HALL 289

Portrait of Charles I. By VANDYCK 137

Poverty of the English Bar 218

Presence of Mind. By DE QUINCEY 467

Rapid Growth of America 237

Recollections of Dr. Chalmers 383

Recollections of Eminent Men. By LEIGH HUNT 184

Recollections of Thomas Campbell 345

Scenery on the Erie Railroad 213

Scenes in Egypt 210

Shooting Stars and Meteoric Showers 439

Short Cuts Across the Globe 79

Singular Proceedings of the Sand Wasp. By WILLIAM HOWITT 592

Sir Robert Peel. A Biographical Sketch 405

Sketches of English Character--The Old Squire--The Young

Squire. By WILLIAM HOWITT 460

Sketches of Life. By a Radical 803

Snakes and Serpent Charmers 680

Sonnet on the Death of Wordsworth 218

Sonetto 72

Sonnets from the Italian 114

Sophistry of Anglers. By LEIGH HUNT 164

Sorrows and Joys (Poetry) 627

Spider's Silk 824

Sponges 406

Steam 50

Steam Bridge of the Atlantic 411

Story of a Kite 750

Summer Pastime (Poetry) 524

Sydney Smith 584

Sydney Smith on Moral Philosophy 107

Terrestrial Magnetism 651

The American Revolution. By GUIZOT 178

The Appetite for News 249

The Approach of Christmas (Poetry) 454

The Australian Colonies 118

The Blind Sister 826

The Brothers Cheeryble 551

The Chapel by the Shore 74

The Character of Burns. By ELLIOTT 114

The Chemistry of a Candle 524

The Circassian Priest Warrior and his White Horse (Poetry) 98

The Communist Sparrow--An Anecdote of Cuvier 317

The Corn Law Rhymer 135

The Countess 816

The Death of an Infant (Poetry) 183

The Disasters of a Man who wouldn't trust his Wife. By WILLIAM

HOWITT 512

The Doom of the Slaver 846

The Enchanted Baths 139

The Enchanted Rock 639

The English Peasant. By HOWITT 483

The Every-Day Married Lady 777

The Every-Day Young Lady 742

The Flower Gatherer 78

The Force of Fear 640

The Genius of George Sand. The Comedy of Francois le Champi 95

The Gentleman Beggar. An Attorney's Story 588

The German Meistersingers 81

The Haunted House in Charnwood Forest 472

The Household Jewels (Poetry) 692

The Imprisoned Lady 551

The Iron Ring 808

The Laboratory in the Chest 673

The Light of Home 842

The Literary Profession--Authors and Publishers 548

The Little Hero of Haarlem 414

The Magic Maze 684

The Mania for Tulips in Holland 758

The Miner's Daughters. A Tale of the Peak 150

The Modern Argonauts (Poetry) 120

The Mother's First Duty 105

The Mysterious Preacher 452

The Old Church-yard Tree--A Prose-poem 483

The Old Man's Bequest. A Story of Gold 387

The Old Well in Languedoc 521

The Oldest Inhabitant of the Place de Greve 749

The Orphan's Voyage Home (Poetry) 272

The Paris Election 116

The Planet-Watchers of Greenwich 233

The Pleasures of Illness 697

The Pope at Home again 117

The Power of Mercy 395

The Prodigal's Return 836

The Quakers during the American War. By HOWITT 595

The Railway (Poetry) 826

The Railway Station (Poetry) 163

The Railway Works at Crewe 408

The Return of Pope Pius IX. to Rome 90

The Rev. William Lisle Bowles 86

The Salt Mines of Europe 759

The Schoolmaster of Coleridge and Lamb. By LEIGH HUNT 207

The Snowy Mountains in New Zealand 65

The State of the World before Adam 754

The Steel Pen. Illustration of Cheapness 677

The Sun 689

The Tea Plant 693

The Two Guides of the Child 672

The Two Thompsons 479

The Young Advocate 304

The Uses of Sorrow (Poetry) 193

The Wahr-Wolf 797

The Wife of Kong Tolv. A Fairy Tale 324

Thomas Babington Macaulay 136

Thomas Carlyle. By GEORGE GILFILLAN 586

Thomas de Quincey, the "English Opium Eater" 145

Thomas Moore 248

Trial and Execution of Mad. Roland 732

Truth 137

Tunnel of the Alps 77

Two-handed Dick, the Stockman. A Tale of Adventure in Australia 190

Ugliness Redeemed--A Tale of a London Dust-Heap 455

Unsectarian Education in England 100

Villainy Outwitted 781

Wallace and Fawdon (Poetry). By LEIGH HUNT 400

What becomes of all the clever Children? 402

What Horses Think of Men. From the Raven in the Happy Family 593

When the Summer Comes 780

William H. Prescott 138

William Pitt. By S.T. COLERIDGE 202

William Wordsworth 103

Women in the East 10

Work! An Anecdote 88

Wordsworth--His Character and Genius. By GEORGE GILFILLAN 577

Wordsworth's Posthumous Poem 546

Writing for Periodicals 553

Young Poet's Plaint. By ELLIOTT 113

Young Russia--State of Society in the Russian Empire 269

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PORTRAIT OF ARCHIBALD ALISON 134

PORTRAIT OF THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 136

PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT 138

THE PYRAMIDS 210

SECTION OF THE GREAT PYRAMID 211

THE GREAT HALL AT KARNAK 212

VIEW FROM PIERMONT (ERIE RAILROAD) 213

VALLEY OF THE NEVERSINK (FROM THE ERIE RAILROAD) 214

STARUCCA VIADUCT (ERIE RAILROAD) 215

PORTRAIT OF SIR THOMAS MORE 289

BOX CONTAINING THE SKULL OF MORE 289

CLOCK HOUSE AT CHELSEA 290

HOUSE OF SIR THOMAS MORE 292

CHELSEA CHURCH 293

TOMB OF SIR THOMAS MORE 294

HOUSE OF ROPER, MORE'S SON-IN-LAW 295

SIR THOMAS MORE AND HIS DAUGHTER 296

PORTRAIT OF ZACHARY TAYLOR 298

PORTRAIT OF JANE PORTER 433

JANE PORTER'S COTTAGE AT ESHER 437

TOMB OF JANE PORTER'S MOTHER 438

SHOOTING STARS (SIX ILLUSTRATIONS) 439

INITIAL LETTER. METEORIC SHOWERS IN GREENLAND. METEORS AT THE

FALLS OF NIAGARA. FALLING STARS AMONG THE CORDILLERAS. THE

NOVEMBER METEORS. DIAGRAM.

NEANDER IN THE LECTURE ROOM 510

PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 577

WORDSWORTH'S HOME AT RYDAL MOUNT 581

PORTRAIT OF SYDNEY SMITH 584

PORTRAIT OF THOMAS CARLYLE 586

REVOLUTIONARY MEMORIALS (FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS) 721

INITIAL LETTER. MONUMENT AT CONCORD. MONUMENT AT LEXINGTON. NEAR

VIEW OF LEXINGTON MONUMENT. PORTRAIT OF JONATHAN HARRINGTON.

WASHINGTON'S HEAD-QUARTERS AT CAMBRIDGE. THE RIEDESEL HOUSE AT

CAMBRIDGE. AUTOGRAPH OF THE BARONESS RIEDESEL. BUNKER HILL

MONUMENT. CHANTREY'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON. MATHER'S VAULT.

HANDWRITING OF COTTON MATHER. SPEAKER'S DESK AND WINTHROP'S

CHAIR. PHILIP'S SAMP-PAN. CHURCH'S SWORD.

PORTRAIT OF MADAME ROLAND 732

FASHIONS FOR EARLY SUMMER (SIX ILLUSTRATIONS) 143

BALL AND VISITING DRESSES. STRAW HATS FOR PROMENADE. STRAW

BONNET. TULIP BONNET. LACE JACQUETTE.

FASHIONS FOR SUMMER (THREE ILLUSTRATIONS) 287

CARRIAGE COSTUME. BRIDAL DRESS. RIDING DRESS.

FASHIONS FOR LATER SUMMER (FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS) 435

PROMENADE DRESS. PELERINES. LITTLE GIRL'S COSTUME. HOME DRESS.

BALL DRESS.

FASHIONS FOR EARLY AUTUMN (FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS) 573

PROMENADE DRESS. COSTUME FOR A YOUNG LADY. MORNING CAPS. MORNING

COSTUME.

FASHIONS FOR AUTUMN (THREE ILLUSTRATIONS) 718

EVENING COSTUME. MORNING COSTUME. PROMENADE DRESS.

FASHIONS FOR NOVEMBER (THREE ILLUSTRATIONS) 863

PROMENADE AND CARRIAGE COSTUME. MORNING COSTUME. OPERA COSTUME.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. I--JUNE, 1850--VOL. I.

A WORD AT THE START.

HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, of which this is the initial number, will

be published every month, at the rate of three dollars per annum. Each

number will contain as great an amount and variety of reading matter,

and at least as many pictorial illustrations, and will be published in

the same general style, as the present.

The design of the Publishers, in issuing this work, is to place within

the reach of the great mass of the American people the unbounded

treasures of the Periodical Literature of the present day. Periodicals

enlist and absorb much of the literary talent, the creative genius, the

scholarly accomplishment of the present age. The best writers, in all

departments and in every nation, devote themselves mainly to the

Reviews, Magazines, or Newspapers of the day. And it is through their

pages that the most powerful historical Essays, the most elaborate

critical Disquisitions, the most eloquent delineations of Manners and of

Nature, the highest Poetry and the most brilliant Wit, have, within the

last ten years, found their way to the public eye and the public heart.

This devotion to Periodical writing is rapidly increasing. The leading

authors of Great Britain and of France, as well as of the United States,

are regular and constant contributors to the Periodicals of their

several countries. The leading statesmen of France have been for years

the leading writers in her journals. LAMARTINE has just become the

editor of a newspaper. DICKENS has just established a weekly journal of

his own, through which he is giving to the world some of the most

exquisite and delightful creations that ever came from his magic pen.

ALISON writes constantly for Blackwood. LEVER is enlisted in the Dublin

University Magazine. BULWER and CROLY publish their greatest and most

brilliant novels first in the pages of the Monthly Magazines of England

and of Scotland. MACAULAY, the greatest of living Essayists and

Historians, has enriched the Edinburgh Review with volumes of the most

magnificent productions of English Literature. And so it is with all the

living authors of England. The ablest and the best of their productions

are to be found in Magazines. The wealth and freshness of the Literature

of the Nineteenth Century are embodied in the pages of its Periodicals.

The Weekly and Daily Journals of England, France, and America, moreover,

abound in the most brilliant contributions in every department of

intellectual effort. The current of Political Events, in an age of

unexampled political activity, can be traced only through their columns.

Scientific discovery, Mechanical inventions, the creations of Fine Art,

the Orations of Statesmen, all the varied intellectual movements of this

most stirring and productive age, find their only record upon these

multiplied and ephemeral pages.

It is obviously impossible that all these sources of instruction and of

interest should be accessible to any considerable number even of the

reading public, much less that the great mass of the people of this

country should have any opportunity of becoming familiar with them. They

are scattered through scores and hundreds of magazines and journals,

intermingled with much that is of merely local and transient interest,

and are thus hopelessly excluded from the knowledge and the reach of

readers at large.

The Publishers of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE intend to remedy this evil,

and to place every thing of the Periodical Literature of the day, which

has permanent value and commanding interest, in the hands of all who

have the slightest desire to become acquainted with it. Each number will

contain 144 octavo pages, in double columns: the volumes of a single

year, therefore, will present nearly two thousand pages of the choicest

and most attractive of the Miscellaneous Literature of the Age. The

MAGAZINE will transfer to its pages as rapidly as they may be issued all

the continuous tales of DICKENS, BULWER, CROLY, LEVER, WARREN, and other

distinguished contributors to British Periodicals: articles of

commanding interest from all the leading Quarterly Reviews of both Great

Britain and the United States: Critical Notices of the current

publications of the day: Speeches and Addresses of distinguished men

upon topics of universal interest and importance: Notices of Scientific

discoveries, of the progress and fruits of antiquarian research, of

mechanical inventions, of incidents of travel and exploration, and

generally of all the events in Science, Literature, and Art in which the

people at large have any interest. Constant and special regard will be

had to such articles as relate to the Economy of Social and Domestic

Life, or tend to promote in any way the education, advancement, and

well-being of those who are engaged in any department of productive

activity. A carefully prepared Fashion Plate, and other pictorial

illustrations, will also accompany each number.

The MAGAZINE is not intended exclusively for any class of readers, or

for any kind of reading. The Publishers have at their command the

exhaustless resources of current Periodical Literature in all its

departments. They have the aid of Editors in whom both they and the

public have long since learned to repose full and implicit confidence.

They have no doubt that, by a careful, industrious, and intelligent use

of these appliances, they can present a Monthly Compendium of the

periodical productions of the day which no one who has the slightest

relish for miscellaneous reading, or the slightest desire to keep

himself informed of the progress and results of the literary genius of

his own age, would willingly be without. And they intend to publish it

at so low a rate, and to give to it a value so much beyond its price,

that it shall make its way into the hands or the family circle of every

intelligent citizen of the United States.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

CHAPTER I. "THE DAYS OF THE GUILLOTINE."

Neither the tastes nor the temper of the age we live in are such as to

induce any man to boast of his family nobility. We see too many

preparations around us for laying down new foundations, to think it a

suitable occasion for alluding to the ancient edifice. I will,

therefore, confine myself to saying, that I am not to be regarded as a

mere Pretender because my name is not chronicled by Burke or Debrett. My

great-grandfather, after whom I am called, served on the personal staff

of King James at the Battle of the Boyne, and was one of the few who

accompanied the monarch on his flight from the field, for which act of

devotion he was created a peer of Ireland, by the style and title of

Timmahoo--Lord Tiernay of Timmahoo the family called it--and a very

rich-sounding and pleasant designation has it always seemed to me.

The events of the time--the scanty intervals of leisure enjoyed by the

king, and other matters, prevented a due registry of my ancestors'

claims; and, in fact, when more peaceable days succeeded it, it was

judged prudent to say nothing about a matter which might revive unhappy

recollections, and open old scores, seeing that there was now another

king on the throne "who knew not Joseph;" and so, for this reason and

many others, my great-grandfather went back to his old appellation of

Maurice Tiernay, and was only a lord among his intimate friends and

cronies of the neighborhood.

That I am simply recording a matter of fact, the patent of my ancestors'

nobility now in my possession will sufficiently attest: nor is its

existence the less conclusive, that it is inscribed on the back of his

commission as a captain in the Shanabogue Fencibles--the well-known

"Clear-the-way-boys"--a proud title, it is said, to which they imparted

a new reading at the memorable battle afore-mentioned.

The document bears the address of a small public house called the Nest,

on the Kells Road, and contains in one corner a somewhat lengthy score

for potables, suggesting the notion that his majesty sympathized with

vulgar infirmities, and found, as the old song says, "that grief and

sorrow are dry."

The prudence which for some years sealed my grandfather's lips, lapsed,

after a time, into a careless and even boastful spirit, in which he

would allude to his rank in the peerage, the place he ought to be

holding, and so on; till at last some of the government people,

doubtless taking a liking to the snug house and demesne of Timmahoo,

denounced him as a rebel, on which he was arrested and thrown into jail,

where he lingered for many years, and only came out at last to find his

estate confiscated and himself a beggar.

There was a small gathering of Jacobites in one of the towns of

Flanders, and thither he repaired; but how he lived, or how he died, I

never learned. I only know that his son wandered away to the east of

Europe, and took service in what was called Trenck's Pandours--as jolly

a set of robbers as ever stalked the map of Europe, from one side to

the other. This was my grandfather, whose name is mentioned in various

chronicles of that estimable corps, and who was hanged at Prague

afterward for an attempt to carry off an archduchess of the empire, to

whom, by the way, there is good reason to believe he was privately

married. This suspicion was strengthened by the fact that his infant

child, Joseph, was at once adopted by the imperial family, and placed as

a pupil in the great military school of Vienna. From thence he obtained

a commission in the Maria Theresa Hussars, and subsequently, being sent

on a private mission to France, entered the service of Louis XVI., where

he married a lady of the queen's household--a Mademoiselle de la

Lasterie--of high rank and some fortune; and with whom he lived happily

till the dreadful events of 17--, when she lost her life, beside my

father, then fighting as a Garde du Corps, on the stair-case at

Versailles. How he himself escaped on that day, and what were the next

features in his history, I never knew; but when again we heard of him,

he was married to the widow of a celebrated orator of the Mountain, and

he himself an intimate friend of St. Just and Marat, and all the most

violent of the Republicans.

My father's history about this period is involved in such obscurity, and

his second marriage followed so rapidly on the death of his first wife,

that, strange as it may seem, I never knew who was my mother--the lineal

descendant of a house, noble before the Crusades, or the humble

"bourgeoise" of the Quartier St. Denis. What peculiar line of political

action my father followed I am unable to say, nor whether he was

suspected with or without due cause: but suspected he certainly was, and

at a time when suspicion was all-sufficient for conviction. He was

arrested, and thrown into the Temple, where I remember I used to visit

him every week; and whence I accompanied him one morning, as he was led

forth with a string of others to the Place de la Greve, to be

guillotined. I believe he was accused of royalism; and I know that a

white cockade was found among his effects, and in mockery was fastened

on his shoulder on the day of his execution. This emblem, deep dyed with

blood, and still dripping, was taken up by a bystander, and pinned on my

cap, with the savage observation, "Voila, it is the proper color; see

that you profit by the way it became so." As with a bursting heart, and

a head wild with terror, I turned to find my way homeward, I felt my

hand grasped by another--I looked up, and saw an old man, whose

threadbare black clothes and emaciated appearance bespoke the priest in

the times of the Convention.

"You have no home now, my poor boy," said he to me; "come and share

mine."

I did not ask him why. I seemed to have suddenly become reckless as to

every thing present or future. The terrible scene I had witnessed had

dried up all the springs of my youthful heart; and, infant as I was, I

was already a skeptic as to every thing good or generous in human

nature. I followed him, therefore, without a word, and we walked on,

leaving the thoroughfares and seeking the less frequented streets, till

we arrived in what seemed a suburban part of Paris--at least the houses

were surrounded with trees and shrubs; and at a distance I could see the

hill of Montmartre and its wind-mills--objects well known to me by many

a Sunday visit.

Even after my own home, the poverty of the Pere Michel's household was

most remarkable: he had but one small room, of which a miserable

settle-bed, two chairs, and a table constituted all the furniture; there

was no fire-place, a little pan for charcoal supplying the only means

for warmth or cookery; a crucifix and a few colored prints of saints

decorated the whitewashed walls; and, with a string of wooden beads, a

cloth skull-cap, and a bracket with two or three books, made up the

whole inventory of his possessions; and yet, as he closed the door

behind him, and drew me toward him to kiss my cheek, the tears glistened

in his eyes with gratitude as he said,

"Now, my dear Maurice, you are at home."

"How do you know that I am called Maurice?" said I, in astonishment.

"Because I was an old friend of your poor father, my child; we came from

the same country--we held the same faith, had the same hopes, and may

one day yet, perhaps, have the same fate."

He told me that the closest friendship had bound them together for years

past, and in proof of it showed me a variety of papers which my father

had intrusted to his keeping, well aware, as it would seem, of the

insecurity of his own life.

"He charged me to take you home with me, Maurice, should the day come

when this might come to pass. You will now live with me, and I will be

your father, so far at least as humble means will suffer me."

I was too young to know how deep my debt of gratitude ought to be. I had

not tasted the sorrows of utter desertion; nor did I know from what a

hurricane of blood and anarchy fortune had rescued me; still I accepted

the Pere's benevolent offer with a thankful heart, and turned to him at

once as to all that was left to me in the world.

All this time, it may be wondered how I neither spoke nor thought of my

mother, if she were indeed such; but for several weeks before my

father's death I had never seen her, nor did he ever once allude to her.

The reserve thus imposed upon me remained still, and I felt as though it

would have been like a treachery to his memory were I now to speak of

her whom, in his life-time I had not dared to mention.

The Pere lost no time in diverting my mind from the dreadful events I

had so lately witnessed. The next morning, soon after daybreak, I was

summoned to attend him to the little church of St. Blois, where he said

mass. It was a very humble little edifice, which once had been the

private chapel of a chateau, and stood in a weed-grown, neglected

garden, where broken statues and smashed fountains bore evidence of the

visits of the destroyer. A rude effigy of St. Blois, upon whom some

profane hand had stuck a Phrygian cap of liberty, and which none were

bold enough to displace, stood over the doorway; besides, not a vestige

of ornament or decoration existed. The altar, covered with a white

cloth, displayed none of the accustomed emblems; and a rude crucifix of

oak was the only symbol of the faith remaining. Small as was the

building, it was even too spacious for the few who came to worship. The

terror which prevailed on every side--the dread that devotion to

religion should be construed into an adherence to the monarchy, that

submission to God should be interpreted as an act of rebellion against

the sovereignty of human will, had gradually thinned the numbers, till

at last the few who came were only those whose afflictions had steeled

them against any reverses, and who were ready martyrs to whatever might

betide them. These were almost exclusively women--the mothers and wives

of those who had sealed their faith with their blood in the terrible

Place de la Greve. Among them was one whose dress and appearance,

although not different from the rest, always created a movement of

respect as she passed in or out of the chapel. She was a very old lady,

with hair white as snow, and who led by the hand a little girl of about

my own age; her large dark eyes and brilliant complexion giving her a

look of unearthly beauty in that assemblage of furrowed cheeks, and eyes

long dimmed by weeping. It was not alone that her features were

beautifully regular, or that their lines were fashioned in the very

perfection of symmetry, but there was a certain character in the

expression of the face so different from all around it, as to be almost

electrical in effect. Untouched by the terrible calamities that weighed

on every heart, she seemed, in the glad buoyancy of her youth, to be at

once above the very reach of sorrow, like one who bore a charmed fate,

and whom Fortune had exempted from all the trials of this life. So at

least did I read those features, as they beamed upon me in such a

contract to the almost stern character of the sad and sorrow-struck

faces of the rest.

It was a part of my duty to place a foot-stool each morning for the

"Marquise," as she was distinctively called, and on these occasions it

was that I used to gaze upon that little girl's face with a kind of

admiring wonder that lingered in my heart for hours after. The bold look

with which she met mine, if it at first half abashed, at length

encouraged me; and as I stole noiselessly away, I used to feel as though

I carried with me some portion of that high hope which bounded within

her own heart. Strange magnetism! it seemed as though her spirit

whispered to me not to be down-hearted or depressed--that the sorrows

of life came and went as shadows pass over the earth--that the season of

mourning was fast passing, and that for us the world would wear a

brighter and more glorious aspect.

Such were the thoughts her dark eyes revealed to me, and such the hopes

I caught up from her proud features.

It is easy to color a life of monotony; any hue may soon tinge the outer

surface, and thus mine speedily assumed a hopeful cast; not the less

decided, that the distance was lost in vague uncertainty. The nature of

my studies--and the Pere kept me rigidly to the desk--offered little to

the discursiveness of fancy. The rudiments of Greek and Latin, the lives

of saints and martyrs, the litanies of the church, the invocations

peculiar to certain holy days, chiefly filled up my time, when not

sharing those menial offices which our poverty exacted from our own

hands.

Our life was of the very simplest; except a cup of coffee each morning

at daybreak, we took but one meal; our drink was always water. By what

means even the humble fare we enjoyed was procured, I never knew, for I

never saw money in the Pere's possession, nor did he ever appear to buy

any thing.

For about two hours in the week I used to enjoy entire liberty, as the

Pere was accustomed every Saturday to visit certain persons of his flock

who were too infirm to go abroad. On these occasions he would leave me

with some thoughtful injunction about reflection or pious meditation,

perhaps suggesting, for my amusement, the life of St. Vincent de Paul,

or some other of those adventurous spirits whose missions among the

Indians are so replete with heroic struggles; but still with free

permission for me to walk out at large and enjoy myself as I liked best.

We lived so near the outer Boulevard that I could already see the open

country from our windows; but fair and enticing as seemed the sunny

slopes of Montmartre--bright as glanced the young leaves of spring in

the gardens at its foot--I ever turned my steps into the crowded city,

and sought the thoroughfares where the great human tide rolled fullest.

There were certain spots which held a kind of supernatural influence

over me--one of these was the Temple, another was the Place de la Greve.

The window at which my father used to sit, from which, as a kind of

signal, I have so often seen his red kerchief floating, I never could

pass now, without stopping to gaze at; now, thinking of him who had been

its inmate, now, wondering who might be its present occupant. It needed

not the onward current of population that each Saturday bore along, to

carry me to the Place de la Greve. It was the great day of the

guillotine, and as many as two hundred were often led out to execution.

Although the spectacle had now lost every charm of excitement to the

population, from its frequency, it had become a kind of necessity to

their existence, and the sight of blood alone seemed to slake that

feverish thirst for vengeance which no sufferings appeared capable of

satiating. It was rare, however, when some great and distinguished

criminal did not absorb all the interest of the scene. It was at that

period when the fierce tyrants of the Convention had turned upon each

other, and sought, by denouncing those who had been their bosom friends,

to seal their new allegiance to the people. There was something

demoniacal in the exultation with which the mob witnessed the fate of

those whom, but a few weeks back, they had acknowledged as their guides

and teachers. The uncertainty of human greatness appeared the most

glorious recompense to those whose station debarred them from all the

enjoyments of power, and they stood by the death-agonies of their former

friends with a fiendish joy that all the sufferings of their enemies had

never yielded.

To me the spectacles had all the fascination that scenes of horror

exercise over the mind of youth. I knew nothing of the terrible

conflict, nothing of the fierce passions enlisted in the struggle,

nothing of the sacred names so basely polluted, nothing of that

remorseless vengeance with which the low-born and degraded were still

hounded on to slaughter. It was a solemn and a fearful sight, but it was

no more; and I gazed upon every detail of the scene with an interest

that never wandered from the spot whereon it was enacted. If the parade

of soldiers, of horse, foot, and artillery, gave these scenes a

character of public justice, the horrible mobs, who chanted ribald

songs, and danced around the guillotine, suggested the notion of popular

vengeance; so that I was lost in all my attempts to reconcile the

reasons of these executions with the circumstances that accompanied

them.

Not daring to inform the Pere Michel of where I had been, I could not

ask him for any explanation; and thus was I left to pick up from the

scattered phrases of the crowd what was the guilt alleged against the

criminals. In many cases the simple word "Chouan," of which I knew not

the import, was all I heard; in others jeering allusions to former rank

and station would be uttered; while against some the taunt would imply

that they had shed tears over others who fell as enemies of the people,

and that such sympathy was a costly pleasure to be paid for but with a

life's-blood. Such entire possession of me had these awful sights taken,

that I lived in a continual dream of them. The sound of every cart-wheel

recalled the dull rumble of the hurdle--every distant sound seemed like

the far-off hum of the coming multitude--every sudden noise suggested

the clanking drop of the guillotine! My sleep had no other images, and I

wandered about my little round of duties pondering over this terrible

theme.

Had I been less occupied with my own thoughts, I must have seen that

Pere Michel was suffering under some great calamity. The poor priest

became wasted to a shadow; for entire days long he would taste of

nothing; sometimes he would be absent from early morning to late at

night, and when he did return, instead of betaking himself to rest, he

would drop down before the crucifix in an agony of prayer, and thus

spend more than half the night. Often and often have I, when feigning

sleep, followed him as he recited the litanies of the breviary, adding

my own unuttered prayers to his, and beseeching for a mercy whose object

I knew not.

For some time his little chapel had been closed by the authorities; a

heavy padlock and two massive seals being placed upon the door, and a

notice, in a vulgar handwriting, appended, to the effect, that it was by

the order of the Commissary of the Department. Could this be the source

of the Pere's sorrow? or did not his affliction seem too great for such

a cause? were questions I asked myself again and again.

In this state were matters, when one morning, it was a Saturday, the

Pere enjoined me to spend the day in prayer, reciting particularly the

liturgies for the dead, and all those sacred offices for those who have

just departed this life.

"Pray unceasingly, my dear child--pray with your whole heart, as though

it were for one you loved best in the world. I shall not return,

perhaps, till late to-night; but I will kiss you then, and to-morrow we

shall go into the woods together."

The tears fell from his cheek to mine as he said this, and his damp hand

trembled as he pressed my fingers. My heart was full to bursting at his

emotion, and I resolved faithfully to do his bidding. To watch him, as

he went, I opened the sash, and as I did so, the sound of a distant

drum, the well-known muffled roll, floated on the air, and I remembered

it was the day of the guillotine--that day in which my feverish spirit

turned, as it were in relief, to the reality of blood. Remote as was

the part of the city we lived in, to escape from the hideous imaginings

of my overwrought brain, I could still mark the hastening steps of the

foot-passengers, as they listened to the far-off summons, and see the

tide was setting toward the fatal Place de Greve. It was a lowering,

heavy morning, overcast with clouds, and on its loaded atmosphere sounds

moved slowly and indistinctly; yet I could trace through all the din of

the great city, the incessant roll of the drums, and the loud shouts

that burst forth, from time to time, from some great multitude.

Forgetting every thing, save my intense passion for scenes of terror, I

hastened down the stairs into the street, and at the top of my speed

hurried to the place of execution. As I went along, the crowded streets

and thronged avenues told of some event of more than common interest;

and in the words which fell from those around me I could trace that some

deep Royalist plot had just been discovered, and that the conspirators

would all on that day be executed. Whether it was that the frequent

sight of blood was beginning to pall upon the popular appetite, or that

these wholesale massacres interested less than the sight of individual

suffering, I know not; but certainly there was less of exultation, less

of triumphant scorn in the tone of the speakers. They talked of the

coming event, as of a common occurrence, which, from mere repetition,

was gradually losing interest.

"I thought we had done with these Chouans," said a man in a blouse, with

a paper cap on his head. "Pardie! they must have been more numerous than

we ever suspected."

"That they were, citoyen," said a haggard-looking fellow, whose features

showed the signs of recent strife; "they were the millions who gorged

and fed upon us for centuries--who sipped the red grape of Bourdeaux,

while you and I drank the water of the Seine."

"Well, their time is come now," cried a third.

"And when will ours come?" asked a fresh-looking, dark-eyed girl, whose

dress bespoke her trade of _bouquetiere_--"Do you call this our time, my

masters, when Paris has no more pleasant sight than blood, nor any music

save the 'ca ira' that drowns the cries at the guillotine? Is this our

time, when we have lost those who gave us bread, and got in their place

only those who would feed us with carnage?"

"Down with her! down with the Chouan! a bas la Royaliste!" cried the

pale-faced fellow; and he struck the girl with his fist upon the face,

and left it covered with blood.

"To the lantern with her!--to the Seine!" shouted several voices; and

now, rudely seizing her by the shoulders, the mob seemed bent upon

sudden vengeance; while the poor girl, letting fall her basket, begged,

with clasped hands, for mercy.

"See here, see here, comrades," cried a fellow, stooping down among the

flowers, "she is a Royalist: here are lilies hid beneath the rest."

What sad consequences this discovery might have led to, there is no

knowing; when, suddenly, a violent rush of the crowd turned every

thought into a different direction. It was caused by a movement of the

Gendarmerie a cheval, who were clearing the way for the approaching

procession. I had just time to place the poor girl's basket in her

hands, as the onward impulse of the dense mob carried me forward. I saw

her no more. A flower--I know not how it came there--was in my bosom,

and seeing that it was a lily, I placed it in my cap for concealment.

The hoarse clangor of the bassoons--the only instruments which played

during the march--now told that the procession was approaching; and then

I could see, above the heads of the multitude, the leopard-skin helmets

of the dragoons, who led the way. Save this I could see nothing, as I

was borne along in the vast torrent toward the place of execution.

Slowly as we moved, our progress was far more rapid than that of the

procession, which was often obliged to halt from the density of the mob

in front. We arrived, therefore, at the Place a considerable time

before it; and now I found myself beside the massive wooden railing

placed to keep off the crowd from the space around the guillotine.

It was the first time I had ever stood so close to the fatal spot, and

my eyes devoured every detail with the most searching intensity. The

colossal guillotine itself, painted red, and with its massive ax

suspended aloft--the terrible basket, half filled with sawdust,

beneath--the coarse table, on which a rude jar and a cap were

placed--and, more disgusting than all, the lounging group, who, with

their newspapers in hand, seemed from time to time to watch if the

procession were approaching. They sat beneath a misshapen statue of

wood, painted red like the guillotine. This was the goddess of Liberty.

I climbed one of the pillars of the paling, and could now see the great

cart, which, like a boat upon wheels, came slowly along, dragged by six

horses. It was crowded with people, so closely packed that they could

not move their bodies, and only waved their hands, which they did

incessantly. They seemed, too, as if they were singing; but the deep

growl of the bassoons, and the fierce howlings of the mob, drowned all

other sounds. As the cart came nearer, I could distinguish the faces,

amid which were those of age and youth--men and women--bold-visaged boys

and fair girls--some, whose air bespoke the very highest station, and

beside them, the hardy peasant, apparently more amazed than terrified at

all he saw around him. On they came, the great cart surging heavily,

like a bark in a stormy sea; and now it cleft the dense ocean that

filled the Place, and I could descry the lineaments wherein the

stiffened lines of death were already marked. Had any touch of pity

still lingered in that dense crowd, there might well have been some show

of compassion for the sad convoy, whose faces grew ghastly with terror

as they drew near the horrible engine.

Down the furrowed cheek of age the heavy tears coursed freely, and sobs

and broken prayers burst forth from hearts that until now had beat high

and proudly.

"There is the Duc d'Angeac," cried a fellow, pointing to a venerable old

man, who was seated at the corner of the cart, with an air of calm

dignity; "I know him well, for I was his perruquier."

"His hair must be content with sawdust this morning, instead of powder,"

said another; and a rude laugh followed the ruffian jest.

"See! mark that woman with the long dark hair--that is La Bretonville,

the actress of the St. Martin."

"I have often seen her represent terror far more naturally," cried a

fashionably-dressed man, as he stared at the victim through his

opera-glass.

"Bah!" replied his friend, "she despises her audience, _voila tout_.

Look, Henri, if that little girl beside her be not Lucille of the

Pantheon."

"Parbleu! so it is. Why, they'll not leave a pirouette in the Grand

Opera. Pauvre petite, what had you to do with politics?"

"Her little feet ought to have saved her head any day."

"See how grim that old lady beside her looks: I'd swear she is more

shocked at the company she's thrown into, than the fate that awaits her.

I never saw a glance of prouder disdain than she has just bestowed on

poor Lucille."

"That's the old Marquise d'Estelles, the very essence of our old

nobility. They used to talk of their mesalliance with the Bourbons as

the first misfortune of their house."

"Pardie! they have lived to learn deeper sorrows."

I had by this time discovered her they were speaking of, whom I

recognized at once as the old marquise of the chapel of St. Blois. My

hands nearly gave up their grasp as I gazed on those features, which so

often I had seen fixed in prayer, and which now--a thought paler,

perhaps--wore the self-same calm expression. With what intense agony I

peered into the mass, to see if the little girl, her grand-daughter,

were with her; and, oh! the deep relief I felt as I saw nothing but

strange faces on every side. It was terrible to feel, as my eyes ranged

over that vast mass, where grief and despair, and heart-sinking terror

were depicted, that I should experience a spirit of joy and

thankfulness; and yet I did so, and with my lips I uttered my gratitude

that she was spared! But I had not time for many reflections like this;

already the terrible business of the day had begun, and the prisoners

were now descending from the cart, ranging themselves, as their names

were called, in a line below the scaffold. With a few exception, they

took their places in all the calm of seeming indifference. Death had

long familiarized itself to their minds in a thousand shapes. Day by day

they had seen the vacant places left by those led out to die, and if

their sorrows had not rendered them careless of life, the world itself

had grown distasteful to them. In some cases a spirit of proud scorn was

manifested to the very last; and, strange inconsistency of human nature!

the very men whose licentiousness and frivolity first evoked the

terrible storm of popular fury, were the first to display the most

chivalrous courage in the terrible face of the guillotine. Beautiful

women, too, in all the pride of their loveliness, met the inhuman stare

of that mob undismayed. Nor were these traits without their fruits. This

noble spirit--this triumphant victory of the well-born and the

great--was a continual insult to the populace, who saw themselves

defrauded of half their promised vengeance, and they learned that they

might kill, but they could never humiliate them. In vain they dipped

their hands in the red life-blood, and, holding up their dripping

fingers, asked, "How did it differ from that of the canaille?" Their

hearts gave the lie to the taunt for they witnessed instances of

heroism from gray hairs and tender womanhood, that would have shamed

the proudest deeds of their new-born chivalry!

"Charles Gregoire Courcelles!" shouted out a deep voice from the

scaffold.

"That is my name," said a venerable-looking old gentleman, as he arose

from his seat, adding, with a placid smile, "but, for half a century my

friends have called me the Duc de Riancourt."

"We have no dukes nor marquises; we know of no titles in France,"

replied the functionary. "All men are equal before the law."

"If it were so, my friend, you and I might change places; for you were

my steward, and plundered my chateau."

"Down with the royalist--away with the aristocrat!" shouted a number of

voices from the crowd.

"Be a little patient, good people," said the old man, as he ascended the

steps with some difficulty; "I was wounded in Canada, and have never yet

recovered. I shall probably be better a few minutes hence."

There was something of half simplicity in the careless way the words

were uttered that hushed the multitude, and already some expressions of

sympathy were heard; but as quickly the ribald insults of the hired

ruffians of the Convention drowned these sounds, and "Down with the

royalist" resounded on every side, while two officials assisted him to

remove his stock and bare his throat. The commissary, advancing to the

edge of the platform, and, as it were, addressing the people, read in a

hurried, slurring kind of voice, something that purported to be the

ground of the condemnation. But of this not a word could be heard. None

cared to hear the ten-thousand-time told tale of suspected royalism, nor

would listen to the high-sounding declamation that proclaimed the

virtuous zeal of the government--their untiring energy--their glorious

persistence in the cause of the people. The last words were, as usual,

responded to with an echoing shout, and the cry of "Vive la Republique"

rose from the great multitude.

"Vive le Roi!" cried the old man, with a voice heard high above the

clamor; but the words were scarce out when the lips that muttered them

were closed in death; so sudden was the act, that a cry burst forth from

the mob, but whether in reprobation or in ecstasy I knew not.

I will not follow the sad catalogue, wherein nobles and peasants,

priests, soldiers, actors, men of obscure fortune, and women of lofty

station succeeded each other, occupying for a brief minute every eye,

and passing away for ever. Many ascended the platform without a word;

some waved a farewell toward a distant quarter, where they suspected a

friend to be--others spent their last moments in prayer, and died in the

very act of supplication. All bore themselves with a noble and proud

courage; and now some five or six alone remained, of whose fate none

seemed to guess the issue, since they had been taken from the Temple by

some mistake, and were not included in the list of the commissary. There

they sat, at the foot of the scaffold, speechless and stupefied--they

looked as though it were matter of indifference to which side their

steps should turn--to the jail or the guillotine. Among these was the

marquise, who alone preserved her proud self-possession, and sat in all

her accustomed dignity; while close beside her an angry controversy was

maintained as to their future destiny--the commissary firmly refusing to

receive them for execution, and the delegate of the Temple, as he was

styled, as flatly asserting that he would not re-conduct them to prison.

The populace soon grew interested in the dispute, and the most violent

altercations arose among the partisans of each side of the question.

Meanwhile, the commissary and his assistants prepared to depart. Already

the massive drapery of red cloth was drawn over the guillotine, and

every preparation made for withdrawing, when the mob, doubtless

dissatisfied that they should be defrauded of any portion of the

entertainment, began to climb over the wooden barricades, and, with

furious cries and shouts, threatened vengeance upon any who would screen

the enemies of the people.

The troops resisted the movement, but rather with the air of men

entreating calmness, than with the spirit of soldiery. It was plain to

see on which side the true force lay.

"If you will not do it, the people will do it for you," whispered the

delegate to the commissary; "and who is to say where they will stop when

their hands once learn the trick!"

The commissary grew lividly pale, and made no reply.

"See there!" rejoined the other; "they are carrying a fellow on their

shoulders yonder; they mean him to be executioner."

"But I dare not--I can not--without my orders."

"Are not the people sovereign?--whose will have we sworn to obey, but

theirs?"

"My own head would be the penalty if I yielded."

"It will be, if you resist--even now it is too late."

And as he spoke he sprang from the scaffold, and disappeared in the

dense crowd that already thronged the space within the rails.

By this time, the populace were not only masters of the area around, but

had also gained the scaffold itself, from which many of them seemed

endeavoring to harangue the mob; others contenting themselves with

imitating the gestures of the commissary and his functionaries. It was a

scene of the wildest uproar and confusion--frantic cries and screams,

ribald songs and fiendish yellings on every side. The guillotine was

again uncovered, and the great crimson drapery, torn into fragments, was

waved about like flags, or twisted into uncouth head-dresses. The

commissary failing in every attempt to restore order peaceably, and

either not possessing a sufficient force, or distrusting the temper of

the soldiers, descended from the scaffold, and gave the order to march.

This act of submission was hailed by the mob with the most furious yell

of triumph. Up to that very moment, they had never credited the bare

possibility of a victory; and now they saw themselves suddenly masters

of the field--the troops, in all the array of horse and foot, retiring

in discomfiture. Their exultation knew no bounds; and, doubtless, had

there been among them those with skill and daring to profit by the

enthusiasm, the torrent had rushed a longer and more terrific course

than through the blood-steeped clay of the Place de la Greve.

"Here is the man we want," shouted a deep voice. "St. Just told us,

t'other day, that the occasion never failed to produce one; and see,

here is 'Jean Gougon;' and though he's but two feet high, his fingers

can reach the pin of the guillotine."

And he held aloft on his shoulders a misshapen dwarf, who was well known

on the Pont Neuf, where he gained his living by singing infamous songs,

and performing mockeries of the service of the mass. A cheer of welcome

acknowledged this speech, to which the dwarf responded by a mock

benediction, which he bestowed with all the ceremonious observance of an

archbishop. Shouts of the wildest laughter followed this ribaldry, and

in a kind of triumph they carried him up the steps, and deposited him on

the scaffold.

Ascending one of the chairs, the little wretch proceeded to address the

mob, which he did with all the ease and composure of a practiced public

speaker. Not a murmur was heard in that tumultuous assemblage, as he,

with a most admirable imitation of Hebert, then the popular idol,

assured them that France was, at that instant, the envy of surrounding

nations; and that, bating certain little weaknesses on the score of

humanity--certain traits of softness and over-mercy--her citizens

realized all that ever had been said of angels. From thence he passed on

to a mimicry of Marat, of Danton, and of Robespierre--tearing off his

cravat, baring his breast, and performing all the oft-exhibited antics

of the latter, as he vociferated, in a wild scream, the well-known

peroration of a speech he had lately made--"If we look to a glorious

morrow of freedom, the sun of our slavery must set in blood!"

However amused by the dwarf's exhibition, a feeling of impatience began

to manifest itself among the mob, who felt that, by any longer delay, it

was possible time would be given for fresh troops to arrive, and the

glorious opportunity of popular sovereignty be lost in the very hour of

victory.

"To work--to work, Master Gougon!" shouted hundreds of rude voices; "we

can not spend our day in listening to oratory."

"You forget, my dear friends," said he blandly, "that this is to me a

new walk in life I have much to learn, ere I can acquit myself worthily

to the republic."

"We have no leisure for preparatory studies, Gougon," cried a fellow

below the scaffold.

"Let me, then, just begin with monsieur," said the dwarf, pointing to

the last speaker; and a shout of laughter closed the sentence.

A brief and angry dispute now arose as to what was to be done, and it is

more than doubtful how the debate might have ended, when Gougon, with a

readiness all his own, concluded the discussion by saying,

"I have it, messieurs, I have it. There is a lady here, who, however

respectable her family and connections, will leave few to mourn her

loss. She is, in a manner, public property, and if not born on the soil,

at least a naturalized Frenchwoman. We have done a great deal for her,

and in her name, for some time back, and I am not aware of any singular

benefit she has rendered us. With your permission, then, I'll begin with

_her_."

"Name, name--name her," was cried by thousands.

"_La voila_," said he, archly, as he pointed with his thumb to the

wooden effigy of Liberty above his head.

The absurdity of the suggestion was more than enough for its success. A

dozen hands were speedily at work, and down came the Goddess of Liberty!

The other details of an execution were hurried over with all the speed

of practiced address, and the figure was placed beneath the drop. Down

fell the ax, and Gougon, lifting up the wooden head, paraded it about

the scaffold, crying,

"Behold! an enemy of France. Long live the republic, one and

'indivisible.'"

Loud and wild were the shouts of laughter from this brutal mockery; and

for a time it almost seemed as if the ribaldry had turned the mob from

the sterner passions of their vengeance. This hope, if one there ever

cherished it, was short-lived; and again the cry arose for blood. It was

too plain, that no momentary diversion, no passing distraction, could

withdraw them from that lust for cruelty, that had now grown into a

passion.

And now a bustle and movement of those around the stairs showed that

something was in preparation; and in the next moment the old marquise

was led forward between two men.

"Where is the order for this woman's execution?" asked the dwarf,

mimicking the style and air of the commissary.

"We give it: it is from us," shouted the mob, with one savage roar.

Gougon removed his cap, and bowed a token of obedience.

"Let us proceed in order, messieurs," said he, gravely; "I see no priest

here."

"Shrive her yourself, Gougon; few know the mummeries better!" cried a

voice.

"Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the

offices," said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice.

"Yes, yes, I do," cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery

in which the words were spoken; "I know them all by heart, and can

repeat them from 'lux beatissima' down to 'hora mortis;'" and as if to

gain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite in the

sing-song tone of the seminary,

"Salve, mater salvatoris,

Fons salutis, vas honoris:

Scala coeli porta et via

Salve semper, O, Maria!"

It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious

laughter which rung around had not stopped me.

"There's a brave youth!" cried Gougon, pointing toward me, with mock

admiration. "If it ever come to pass--as what may not in these strange

times?--that we turn to priest-craft again, thou shalt be the first

archbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?"

"The Pere Michel," replied I, in no way conscious of the ridicule

bestowed upon me; "the Pere Michel of St. Blois."

The old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes rested

steadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her hand, she motioned to me

to come over to her.

"Yes; let him come," said Gougon, as if answering the half-reluctant

glances of the crowd. And now I was assisted to descend, and passed

along over the heads of the people till I was placed upon the scaffold.

Never can I forget the terror of that moment, as I stood within a few

feet of the terrible guillotine, and saw beside me the horrid basket,

splashed with recent blood.

"Look not at these things, child," said the old lady, as she took my

hand and drew me toward her, "but listen to me, and mark my words well."

"I will, I will," cried I, as the hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Tell the Pere--you will see him to-night--tell him that I have changed

my mind, and resolved upon another course, and that he is not to leave

Paris. Let them remain. The torrent runs too rapidly to last. This can

not endure much longer. We shall be among the last victims! You hear me,

child?"

"I do, I do," cried I, sobbing. "Why is not the Pere Michel with you

now?"

"Because he is suing for my pardon; asking for mercy, where its very

name is a derision. Kneel down beside me, and repeat the 'angelus.'"

I took off my cap, and knelt down at her feet, reciting, in a voice

broken by emotion, the words of the prayer. She repeated each syllable

after me, in a tone full and unshaken, and then stooping, she took up

the lily which lay in my cap. She pressed it passionately to her lips;

two or three times passionately. "Give it to her; tell her I kissed it

at my last moment. Tell her--"

"This 'shrift' is beyond endurance. Away, holy father," cried Gougon,

as he pushed me rudely back, and seized the marquise by the wrist. A

faint cry escaped her. I heard no more; for, jostled and pushed about by

the crowd, I was driven to the very rails of the scaffold. Stepping

beneath these, I mingled with the mob beneath; and burning with

eagerness to escape a scene, to have witnessed which would almost have

made my heart break, I forced my way into the dense mass, and, by

squeezing and creeping, succeeded at last in penetrating to the verge of

the Place. A terrible shout, and a rocking motion of the mob, like the

heavy surging of the sea, told me that all was over; but I never looked

back to the fatal spot, but having gained the open streets, ran at the

top of my speed toward home.

(_To be continued._)

[From Bender's Monthly Miscellany.]

WOMEN IN THE EAST.

BY AN ORIENTAL TRAVELER.

Within the gay kiosk reclined,

Above the scent of lemon groves,

Where bubbling fountains kiss the wind,

And birds make music to their loves,

She lives a kind of faery life,

In sisterhood of fruits and flowers,

Unconscious of the outer strife

That wears the palpitating hours.

_The Hareem._ R.M. MILNES.

There is a gentle, calm repose breathing through the whole of this poem,

which comes soothingly to the imagination wearied with the strife and

hollowness of modern civilization. Woman in it is the inferior being;

but it is the inferiority of the beautiful flower, or of the fairy birds

of gorgeous plumage, who wing their flight amid the gardens and bubbling

streams of the Eastern palace. Life is represented for the Eastern women

as a long dream of affection; the only emotions she is to know are those

of ardent love and tender maternity. She is not represented as the

companion to man in his life battle, as the sharer of his triumph and

his defeats: the storms of life are hushed at the entrance of the

hareem; _there_ the lord and master deposits the frown of unlimited

power, or the cringing reverence of the slave, and appears as the

watchful guardian of the loved one's happiness. Such a picture is

poetical, and would lead one to say, alas for human progress, if the

Eastern female slave is thus on earth to pass one long golden

summer--her heart only tied by those feelings which keep it young--while

her Christian sister has these emotions but as sun-gleams to lighten and

make dark by contrast, the frequent gloom of her winter life.

But although the conception is poetical, to one who has lived many years

in the East, it appears a conception, not a description of the real

hareem life, even among the noble and wealthy of those lands. The

following anecdote may be given us the other side of the picture. The

writer was a witness of the scene, and he offers it as a consolation to

those of his fair sisters, who, in the midst of the troubles of

common-place life, might be disposed to compare their lot with that of

the inmate of the mysterious and happy home drawn by the poet.

It was in a large and fruitful district of the south of India that I

passed a few years of my life. In this district lived, immured in his

fort, one of the native rajahs, who, with questionable justice, have

gradually been shorn of their regal state and authority, to become

pensioners of the East India Company. The inevitable consequence of such

an existence, the forced life of inactivity with the traditions of the

bold exploits of his royal ancestors, brilliant Mahratta chieftains, may

be imagined. The rajah sunk into a state of slothful dissipation, varied

by the occasional intemperate exercise of the power left him within the

limits of the fortress, his residence. This fort is not the place which

the word would suggest to the reader, but was rather a small native town

surrounded by fortifications. This town was peopled by the descendants

of the Mahrattas, and by the artisans and dependents of the rajah and

his court. Twice a year the English resident and his assistants were

accustomed to pay visits of ceremony to the rajah, and had to encounter

the fatiguing sights of dancing-girls, beast-fights, and _music_, if the

extraordinary assemblage of sounds, which in the East assume the place

of harmony, can be so called.

We had just returned from one of these visits, and were grumbling over

our headaches, the dust, and the heat, when, to our surprise, the

rajah's vabul or confidential representative was announced. As it was

nine o'clock in the evening this somewhat surprised us. He was, however,

admitted, and after a short, hurried obeisance, he announced "that he

must die! that there had been a sudden revolt of the hareem, and that

when the rajah knew it, he would listen to no explanations, but be sure

to imprison and ruin all round him; and that foremost in the general

destruction would be himself, Veneat-Rao, who had always been the child

of the English Sahibs, who were his fathers--that they were wise above

all natives, and that he had come to them for help!" All this was

pronounced with indescribable volubility, and the appearance of the

speaker announced the most abject fear. He was a little wizened Brahmin,

with the thin blue lines of his caste carefully painted on his wrinkled

forehead. His dark black eyes gleamed with suppressed impotent rage, and

in his agitation he had lost all that staid, placid decorum which we had

been accustomed to observe in him when transacting business. When urged

to explain the domestic disaster which had befallen his master, he

exclaimed with ludicrous pathos, "By Rama! women are devils; by them all

misfortunes come upon men! But, sahibs, hasten with me; they have

broken through the guard kept on the hareem door by two old sentries;

they ran through the fort and besieged my house; they are now there, and

refuse to go back to the hareem. The rajah returns to-morrow from his

hunting--what can I say? I must die! my children, who will care for

them? what crime did my father commit that I should thus be disgraced?"

Yielding to these entreaties, and amused at the prospect of a novel

scene, we mounted our horses and cantered to the fort. The lights were

burning brightly in the bazaars as we rode through them, and except a

few groups gathered to discuss the price of rice and the want of rain,

we perceived no agitation till we reached the Vakeel's house. Arrived

here we dismounted, and on entering the square court-yard a scene of

indescribable confusion presented itself. The first impression it

produced on me was that of entering a large aviary in which the birds,

stricken with terror, fly madly to and fro against the bars. Such was

the first effect of our entrance. Women and girls of all ages, grouped

about the court, in most picturesque attitudes, started up and fled to

its extreme end; only a few of the more matronly ladies stood their

ground, and with terribly screeching voices, declaimed against some one

or something, but for a long time we could, in this Babel of female

tongues, distinguish nothing. At last we managed to distinguish the

rajah's name, coupled with epithets most disrespectful to royalty. This,

and that they, the women, begged instantly to be put to death, was all

that the clamor would permit us to understand. We looked appealingly at

Veneat Rao, who stood by, wringing his hands. However, he made a

vigorous effort, and raising his shrill voice, told them that the sahibs

had come purposely to listen to, and redress their grievances, and that

they would hold durbar (audience) then and there.

This announcement produced a lull, and enabled us to look round us at

the strange scene. Scattered in various parts of the court were these

poor prisoners, who now for the first time for many years tasted

liberty. Scattered about were some hideous old women, partly guardians

of the younger, partly remains, we were told, of the rajah's father's

seraglio. Young children moved among them looking very much frightened.

But the group which attracted our attention and admiration consisted of

about twenty really beautiful girls, from fourteen to eighteen years of

age, of every country and caste, in the various costume and ornament of

their races; these were clustering round a fair and very graceful

Mahratta girl, whose tall figure was seen to great advantage in the

blaze of torchlight. Her muslin vail had half fallen from her face,

allowing us to see her large, soft, dark eyes, from which the tears were

fast falling, as in a low voice she addressed her fellow-sufferers.

There was on her face a peculiar expression of patient endurance of

ill, inexpressibly touching. This is not an unfrequent character in the

beauty of Asiatic women; the natural result of habits of fear, and the

entire submission to the will of others.

Her features were classically regular, with the short rounded chin, the

long graceful neck, and that easy port of head so seldom seen except in

the women of the East. Her arms were covered with rich bracelets, and

were of the most perfect form; her hands long and tapering, the palms

and nails dyed with the "henna." No barbarously-civilized restraint

rendered her waist a contradiction of natural beauty; a small, dark

satin bodice, richly embroidered, covered a bosom which had hardly

attained womanly perfection; a zone of gold held together the full

muslin folds of the lower portion of her dress, below which the white

satin trowsers reached, without concealing a faultless ankle and foot,

uncovered, except by the heavy anklet and rings which tinkled at every

step she took. After the disturbance that our entrance had caused, had

in a measure subsided, the children, who were richly dressed and loaded

with every kind of fantastic ornament, came sidling timidly round us,

peering curiously with their large black eyes, at the unusual sight of

white men.

Considerably embarrassed at the very new arbitration which we were about

to undertake, B. and I consulted for a little while, after which,

gravely taking our seats, and Veneat Rao having begged them to listen

with respectful attention, I, at B.'s desire, proceeded to address them,

telling them,

"That we supposed some grave cause must have arisen for them to desert

the palace of the rajah, their protector, during his absence, and by

violently overpowering the guard, incur his serious anger (here my eye

caught a sight of the said guard, consisting of two blear-eyed,

shriveled old men, and I nearly lost all solemnity of demeanor) that if

they complained of injustice, we supposed that it must have been

committed without his highness's knowledge, but that if they would

quietly return to the hareem we would endeavor to represent to their

master their case, and entreat him to redress their grievance."

I spoke this in Hindusthani, which, as the _lingua franca_ of the

greater part of India, I thought was most likely to be understood by the

majority of my female audience. I succeeded perfectly in making myself

understood, but was not quite so successful in convincing them that it

was better that they should return to the rajah's palace. After rather a

stormy discussion, the Mahratta girl, whom we had so much admired on our

entrance, stepped forward, and, bowing lowly before us, and crossing her

arms, in a very sweet tone of voice proceeded to tell her story, which,

she said, was very much the history of them all. The simple, and at

times picturesque expressions lose much by translation.

"Sir, much shame comes over me, that I, a woman, should speak before

men who are not our fathers, husbands, nor brothers, who are strangers,

of another country and religion; but they tell us that you English

sahibs love truth and justice, and protect the poor.

"I was born of Gentoo parents--rich, for I can remember the bright,

beautiful jewels which, as a child, I wore on my head, arms, and feet,

the large house and gardens where I played, and the numerous servants

who attended me.

"When I had reached my eighth or ninth year I heard them talk of my

betrothal,[1] and of the journey which we were, previous to the

ceremony, to take to some shrine in a distant country. My father, who

was advancing in years, and in bad health, being anxious to bathe in the

holy waters, which should give him prolonged life and health.

[1] The usual age for the ceremony among the wealthy India.

"The journey had lasted for many days, and one evening after we had

halted for the day I accompanied my mother when she went to bathe in a

tank near to our encampment. As I played along the bank and picked a few

wild flowers that grew under the trees I observed an old woman advancing

toward me. She spoke to me in a kind voice, asked me my name? who were

my parents? where we were going? and when I had answered her these

questions she told me that if I would accompany her a little way she

would give me some prettier flowers than those I was gathering, and that

her servant should take me back to my people.

"I had no sooner gone far enough to be out of sight and hearing of my

mother than the old woman threw a cloth over my head, and taking me up

in her arms, hurried on for a short distance. There I could distinguish

men's voices, and was sensible of being placed in a carriage, which was

driven off at a rapid pace. No answer was returned to my cries and

entreaties to be restored to my parents, and at sunrise I found myself

near hills which I had never before seen, and among a people whose

language was new to me.

"I remained with these people, who were not unkind to me, three or four

years; and I found out that the old woman who had carried me off from my

parents, was an emissary sent from the rajah's hareem to kidnap, when

they could not be purchased, young female children whose looks promised

that they would grow up with the beauty necessary for the gratification

of the prince's passions.

"Sahibs! I have been two years an inmate of the rajah's hareem--would to

God I had died a child in my own country with those I loved, than that I

should have been exposed to the miseries we suffer. The splendor which

surrounds us is only a mockery. The rajah, wearied and worn out by a

life of debauchery, takes no longer any pleasure in our society, and is

only roused from his lethargy to inflict disgrace and cruelties upon

us. We, who are of Brahmin caste, for his amusement, are forced to learn

the work of men--are made to carry in the gardens of the hareem a

palanquin, to work as goldsmiths--and, may our gods pardon us, to mingle

with the dancing-girls of the bazaar. His attendants deprive us even of

our food, and we sit in the beautiful palace loaded with jewels, and

suffer from the hunger not felt even by the poor Pariah.

"Sahibs! you who have in your country mothers and sisters, save us from

this cruel fate, and cause us to be restored to our parents; do not send

us back to such degradation, but rather let us die by your orders."

As with a voice tremulous with emotion, she said these words, she threw

herself at our feet, and burst into an agony of weeping.

Deeply moved by the simple expression of such undeserved misfortune, we

soothed her as well as we were able, and promising her and her

companions to make every effort with the rajah for their deliverance, we

persuaded Rosambhi, the Mahratta girl (their eloquent pleader), to

induce them to return for the night to the palace. Upon a repetition of

our promise they consented, to the infinite relief of Veneat Rao, who

alternately showered blessings on us, and curses on all womankind, as he

accompanied us back to the Residency.

And now we had to set about the deliverance of these poor women. This

was a work of considerable difficulty.

It was a delicate matter interfering with the rajah's domestic concerns,

and we could only commission Veneat Rao to communicate to his highness

the manner in which we had become implicated with so unusual an

occurrence as a revolt of his seraglio; we told him to express to his

highness our conviction that his generosity had been deceived by his

subordinates. In this we only imitated the profound maxim of European

diplomacy, and concealed our real ideas by our expressions. This to the

rajah. On his confidential servant we enforced the disapprobation the

resident felt at the system of kidnapping, of which his highness was the

instigator, and hinted at that which these princes most dread--an

investigation.

This succeeded beyond our expectation, and the next morning a message

was sent from the palace, intimating that the charges were so completely

unfounded, that the rajah was prepared to offer to his revolted women,

the choice of remaining in the hareem, or being sent back to their

homes.

Again they were assembled in Veneat Rao's house, but this time in much

more orderly fashion, for their vails were down, and except occasionally

when a coquettish movement showed a portion of some face, we were

unrewarded by any of the bright eyes we had admired on the previous

visit. The question was put to them one by one, and all with the

exception of a few old women, expressed an eager wish not to re-enter

the hareem.

After much troublesome inquiry, we discovered their parents, and were

rewarded by their happy and grateful faces, as we sent them off under

escort to their homes. It was painful to reflect what their fate would

be; they left us rejoicing at what they thought would be a happy change,

but we well knew that no one would marry them, knowing that they had

been in the rajah's hareem, and that they would either lead a life of

neglect, or sink into vice, of which the liberty would be the only

change from that, which by our means they had escaped.

In the inquiries we made into the circumstances of this curious case, we

found that their statements were true.

Large sums were paid by the rajah to his creatures, who traveled to

distant parts of the country, and wherever they could meet with parents

poor enough, bought their female children from them, or when they met

with remarkable beauty such as Rosambhi's, did not hesitate to carry the

child off, and by making rapid marches, elude any vigilance of pursuit

on the part of the parents.

The cruelties and degradations suffered by these poor girls are hardly

to be described. We well know how degraded, even in civilized countries

the pursuit of sensual pleasures renders men, to whom education and the

respect they pay the opinion of society, are checks; let us imagine the

conduct of the eastern prince, safe in the retirement of his court,

surrounded by those dependents to whom the gratification of their

master's worst passions was the sure road to favor and fortune.

Besides the sufferings they had to endure from him, the women of the

hareem were exposed to the rapacities of those who had charge of them,

and Rosambhi did not exaggerate, when she described herself and her

companions as suffering the pangs of want amid the splendors of a

palace.

This is the reverse of the pleasing picture drawn by the poet of the

Eastern woman's existence--but, though less pleasing, it is true--nor

need we describe her in the lower ranks of life in those countries,

where, her beauty faded, she has to pass a wearisome existence, the

servant of a rival, whose youthful charms have supplanted her in her

master's affections. The calm happiness of advancing age is seldom

hers--she is the toy while young--the slave, or the neglected servant,

at best, when, her only merit in the eyes of her master, physical

beauty, is gone.

Let her sister in the western world, in the midst of her joys, think

with pity on these sufferings, and when sorrow's cloud seems darkest,

let her not repine, but learn resignation to her lot, as she compares it

with the condition of the women of the East; let her be grateful that

she lives in an age and land where woman is regarded as the helpmate and

consolation of man, by whom her love is justly deemed the prize of his

life.

[From The Ladies' Companion.]

LETTICE ARNOLD.

By the Author of "TWO OLD MEN'S TALES," "EMILIA WYNDHAM," &c.

CHAPTER I.

"It is the generous spirit, who when brought

Unto the task of common life, hath wrought

Even upon the plan which pleased the childish thought

* * * * *

Who doomed to go in company with pain,

And fear, and ruin--miserable train!--

Makes that necessity a glorious gain,

By actions that would force the soul to abate

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate.

* * * * *

More gifted with self-knowledge--even more pure

As tempted more--more able to endure,

As more exposed to suffering and distress;

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness."

WORDSWORTH. _Happy Warrior._

"No, dearest mother, no! I can not. What! after all the tenderness,

care, and love I have received from you, for now one-and-twenty years,

to leave you and my father, in your old age, to yourselves! Oh, no! Oh,

no!"

"Nay, my child," said the pale, delicate, nervous woman, thus addressed

by a blooming girl whose face beamed with every promise for future

happiness, which health and cheerfulness, and eyes filled with warm

affections could give, "Nay, my child, don't talk so. You must not talk

so. It is not to be thought of." And, as she said these words with

effort, her poor heart was dying within her, not only from sorrow at the

thought of the parting from her darling, but with all sorts of dreary,

undefined terrors at the idea of the forlorn, deserted life before her.

Abandoned to herself and to servants, so fearful, so weak as she was,

and with the poor, invalided, and crippled veteran, her husband, a

martyr to that long train of sufferings which honorable wounds, received

in the service of country, too often leave behind them, a man at all

times so difficult to sooth, so impossible to entertain--and old age

creeping upon them both; the little strength she ever had, diminishing;

the little spirit she ever possessed, failing; what should she do

without this dear, animated, this loving, clever being, who was, in one

word, every thing to her?

But she held to her resolution--no martyr ever more courageously than

this trembling, timid woman. A prey to ten thousand imaginary fears,

and, let alone the imaginary terrors, placed in a position where the

help she was now depriving herself of was really so greatly needed.

"No, my dear," she repeated, "don't think of it; don't speak of it. You

distress me very much. Pray don't, my dearest Catherine."

"But I should be a shocking creature, mamma, to forsake you; and, I am

sure, Edgar would despise me as much as I should myself, if I could

think of it. I can not--I ought not to leave you."

The gentle blue eye of the mother was fixed upon the daughter's

generous, glowing face. She smothered a sigh. She waited a while to

steady her faltering voice. She wished to hide, if possible, from her

daughter the extent of the sacrifice she was making.

At last she recovered herself sufficiently to speak with composure, and

then she said:

"To accept such a sacrifice from a child, I have always thought the most

monstrous piece of selfishness of which a parent could be guilty. My

love, this does not come upon me unexpectedly. I have, of course,

anticipated it. I knew my sweet girl could not be long known and seen

without inspiring and returning the attachment of some valuable man. I

have resolved--and God strengthen me in this resolve," she cast up a

silent appeal to the fountain of strength and courage--"that nothing

should tempt me to what I consider so base. A parent accept the

sacrifice of a life in exchange for the poor remnant of her own! A

parent, who has had her own portion of the joys of youth in her day,

deprive a child of a share in her turn! No, my dearest love,

never--never! I would die, and I will die first."

But it was not death she feared. The idea of death did not appall her.

What she dreaded was melancholy. She knew the unsoundness of her own

nerves; she had often felt herself, as it were, trembling upon the

fearful verge of reason, when the mind, unable to support itself, is

forced to rest upon another. She had known a feeling, common to many

very nervous people, I believe, as though the mind would be overset when

pressed far, if not helped, strengthened, and cheered by some more

wholesome mind; and she shrank appalled from the prospect.

But even this could not make her waver in her resolution. She was a

generous, just, disinterested woman; though the exigencies of a most

delicate constitution, and most susceptible nervous system, had too

often thrown upon her--from those who did not understand such things,

and whose iron nerves and vigorous health rendered sympathy at such

times impossible--the reproach of being a tedious, whimsical, selfish

hypochondriac.

Poor thing, she knew this well. It was the difficulty of making herself

understood; the want of sympathy, the impossibility of rendering needs,

most urgent in her case, comprehensible by her friends, which had added

so greatly to the timorous cowardice, the fear of circumstances, of

changes, which had been the bane of her existence.

And, therefore, this kind, animated, affectionate daughter, whose

tenderness seemed never to weary in the task of cheering her; whose

activity was never exhausted in the endeavor to assist and serve her;

whose good sense and spirit kept every thing right at home, and more

especially kept those terrible things, the servants, in order--of whom

the poor mother, like many other feeble and languid people, was so

foolishly afraid; therefore, this kind daughter was as the very spring

of her existence; and the idea of parting with her was really dreadful.

Yet she hesitated not. So did that man behave, who stood firm upon the

rampart till he had finished his observation, though his hair turned

white with fear. Mrs. Melwyn was an heroic coward of this kind.

She had prayed ardently, fervently, that day, for courage, for

resolution, to complete the dreaded sacrifice, and she had found it.

"Oh, Lord! I am thy servant. Do with me what thou wilt. Trembling in

spirit, the victim of my infirmity--a poor, selfish, cowardly being, I

fall down before Thee. Thou hast showed me what is right--the sacrifice

I ought to make. Oh, give me strength in my weakness to _be_ faithful to

complete it!"

Thus had she prayed. And now resolved in heart, the poor sinking spirit

failing her within but, as I said, steadying her voice with an almost

heroic constancy, she resisted her grateful and pious child's

representation: "I have told Edgar--dear as he is to me--strong as are

the claims his generous affection gives him over me--that I will not--I

can not forsake you."

"You must not call it forsake," said the mother, gently. "My love, the

Lord of life himself has spoken it: 'Therefore shall a man leave his

father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.'"

"And so he is ready to do," cried Catherine, eagerly. "Yes, mother, he

desires nothing better--he respects my scruples--he has offered, dear

Edgar! to abandon his profession and come and live here, and help me to

take care of you and my father. Was not that beautiful?" and the tears

stood in her speaking eyes.

"Beautiful! generous! devoted! My Catherine will be a happy woman;" and

the mother smiled. A ray of genuine pleasure warmed her beating heart.

This respect in the gay, handsome young officer for the filial scruples

of her he loved was indeed beautiful! But the mother knew his spirit too

well to listen to this proposal for a moment.

"And abandon his profession? No, my sweet child, that would never, never

do."

"But he says he is independent of his profession--that his private

fortune, though not large, is enough for such simple, moderate people as

he and I are. In short, that he shall be miserable without me, and all

that charming stuff, mamma; and that he loves me better, for what he

calls, dear fellow, my piety to you. And so, dear mother, he says if you

and my father will but consent to take him in, he will do his very best

in helping me to make you comfortable; and he is so sweet-tempered, so

reasonable, so good, so amiable, I am quite sure he would keep his

promise, mamma." And she looked anxiously into her mother's face waiting

for an answer. The temptation was very, very strong.

Again those domestic spectres which had so appalled her poor timorous

spirit rose before her. A desolate, dull fireside--her own tendency to

melancholy--her poor maimed suffering, and, alas, too often peevish

partner--encroaching, unmanageable servants. The cook, with her

careless, saucy ways--the butler so indifferent and negligent--and her

own maid, that Randall, who in secret tyrannized over her, exercising

the empire of fear to an extent which Catherine, alive as she was to

these evils, did not suspect. And again she asked herself, if these

things were disagreeable now, when Catherine was here to take care of

her, what would they be when she was left alone?

And then such a sweet picture of happiness presented itself to tempt

her--Catherine settled there--settled there forever. That handsome,

lively young man, with his sweet, cordial ways and polite observance of

every one, sitting by their hearth, and talking, as he did, to the

general of old days and military matters, the only subject in which this

aged military man took any interest, reading the newspaper to him, and

making such lively, pleasant comments as he read! How should _she_ ever

get through the debates, with her breath so short, and her voice so

indistinct and low? The general would lose all patience--he hated to

hear her attempt to read such things, and always got Catherine or the

young lieutenant-colonel to do it.

Oh! it was a sore temptation. But this poor, dear, good creature

resisted it.

"My love," she said, after a little pause, daring which this noble

victory was achieved--laugh if you will at the expression, but it _was_

a noble victory over self--"my love," she said, "don't tempt your poor

mother beyond her strength. Gladly, gladly, as far as we are concerned,

would we enter into this arrangement; but it must not be. No, Catherine;

Edgar must not quit his profession. It would not only be a very great

sacrifice I am sure now, but it would lay the foundation of endless

regrets in future. No, my darling girl, neither his happiness nor your

happiness shall be ever sacrificed to mine. A life against a few

uncertain years! No--no."

The mother was inflexible. The more these good children offered to give

up for her sake, the more she resolved to suffer no such sacrifice to be

made.

Edgar could not but rejoice. He was an excellent young fellow, and

excessively in love with the charming Catherine, you may be sure, or he

never would have thought of offering to abandon a profession for her

sake in which he had distinguished himself highly--which opened to him

the fairest prospects, and of which he was especially fond--but he was

not sorry to be excused. He had resolved upon this sacrifice, for there

is something in those who truly love, and whose love is elevated almost

to adoration by the moral worth they have observed in the chosen one,

which revolts at the idea of lowering the tone of that enthusiastic

goodness and self-immolation to principle which has so enchanted them.

Edgar could not do it. He could not attempt to persuade this tender,

generous daughter, to consider her own welfare and his, in preference

to that of her parents. He could only offer, on his own part, to make

the greatest sacrifice which could have been demanded from him. Rather

than part from her what would he not do? Every thing was possible but

that.

However, when the mother positively refused to accept of this act of

self-abnegation, I can not say that he regretted it. No: he thought Mrs.

Melwyn quite right in what she said; and he loved and respected both her

character and understanding very much more than he had done before.

* * * * *

That night Mrs. Melwyn was very, very low indeed. And when she went up

into her dressing-room, and Catherine, having kissed her tenderly, with

a heart quite divided between anxiety for her, and a sense of happiness

that would make itself felt in spite of all, had retired to her room,

the mother sat down, poor thing, in the most comfortable arm-chair that

ever was invented, but which imparted no comfort to her; and placing

herself by a merry blazing fire, which was reflected from all sorts of

cheerful pretty things with which the dressing-room was adorned, her

feet upon a warm, soft footstool of Catherine's own working, her elbow

resting upon her knee, and her head upon her hand, she, with her eyes

bent mournfully upon the fire, began crying very much. And so she sat a

long time, thinking and crying, very sorrowful, but not in the least

repenting. Meditating upon all sorts of dismal things, filled with all

kinds of melancholy forebodings, as to how it would, and must be, when

Catherine was really gone, she sank at last into a sorrowful reverie,

and sate quite absorbed in her own thoughts, till she--who was extremely

punctual in her hour of going to bed--for reasons best known to herself,

though never confided to any human being, namely, that her maid disliked

very much sitting up for her--started as the clock in the hall sounded

eleven and two quarters, and almost with the trepidation of a chidden

child, rose and rang the bell. Nobody came. This made her still more

uneasy. It was Randall's custom not to answer her mistress's bell the

first time, when she was cross. And poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded few things

in this world more than cross looks in those about her, especially in

Randall; and that Randall knew perfectly well.

"She must be fallen asleep in her chair, poor thing. It was very

thoughtless of me," Mrs. Melwyn did not say, but would have said, if

people ever did speak to themselves aloud.

Even in this sort of mute soliloquy she did not venture to say, "Randall

will be very ill-tempered and unreasonable." She rang again; and then,

after a proper time yielded to the claims of offended dignity, it

pleased Mrs. Randall to appear.

"I am very sorry, Randall. Really I had no idea how late it was. I was

thinking about Miss Catherine, and I missed it when it struck ten. I

had not the least idea it was so late," began the mistress in an

apologizing tone, to which Randall vouchsafed not an answer, but looked

like a thunder cloud--as she went banging up and down the room, opening

and shutting drawers with a loud noise, and treading with a rough heavy

step; two things particularly annoying, as she very well knew, to the

sensitive nerves of her mistress. But Randall settled it with

herself--that as her mistress had kept her out of bed an hour and a half

longer than usual, for no reason at all but just to please herself, she

should find she was none the better for it.

The poor mistress bore all this with patience for some time. She would

have gone on bearing the roughness and the noise, however disagreeable,

as long as Randall liked; but her soft heart could not bear those glum,

cross looks, and this alarming silence.

"I was thinking of Miss Catherine's marriage, Randall. That was what

made me forget the hour. What shall I do without her?"

"Yes, that's just like it," said the insolent abigail; "nothing ever can

content some people. Most ladies would be glad to settle their daughters

so well; but some folk make a crying matter of every thing. It would be

well for poor servants, when they're sitting over the fire, their bones

aching to death for very weariness, if _they'd_ something pleasant to

think about. They wouldn't be crying for nothing, and keeping all the

world out of their beds, like those who care for naught but how to

please themselves."

Part of this was said, part muttered, part thought; and the poor timid

mistress--one of whose domestic occupations it seemed to be to study the

humors of her servants--heard a part and divined the rest.

"Well, Randall, I don't quite hear all you are saying; and perhaps it is

as well I do not; but I wish you would give me my things and make haste,

for I'm really very tired, and I want to go to bed."

"People can't make more haste than they can."

And so it went on. The maid-servant never relaxing an atom of her

offended dignity--continuing to look as ill-humored, and to do every

thing as disagreeably as she possibly could--and her poor victim, by

speaking from time to time in an anxious, most gentle, and almost

flattering manner, hoping to mollify her dependent; but all in vain.

"I'll teach her to keep me up again for nothing at all," thought

Randall.

And so the poor lady, very miserable in the midst of all her luxuries,

at last gained her bed, and lay there not able to sleep for very

discomfort. And the abigail retired to her own warm apartment, where she

was greeted with a pleasant fire, by which stood a little nice chocolate

simmering, to refresh her before she went to bed--not much less

miserable than her mistress, for she was dreadfully out of humor--and

thought no hardship upon earth could equal that she endured--forced to

sit up in consequence of another's whim when she wanted so sadly to go

to bed.

* * * * *

While, thus, all that the most abundant possession of the world's goods

could bestow, was marred by the weakness of the mistress and the

ill-temper of the maid--the plentiful gifts of fortune rendered

valueless by the erroneous facility upon one side, and insolent love of

domination on the other; how many in the large metropolis, only a few

miles distant, and of which the innumerable lights might be seen

brightening, like an Aurora, the southern sky; how many laid down their

heads supperless that night! Stretched upon miserable pallets, and

ignorant where food was to be found on the morrow to satisfy the

cravings of hunger; yet, in the midst of their misery, more miserable,

also, because they were not exempt from those pests of existence--our

own faults and infirmities.

And even, as it was, how many poor creatures _did_ actually lay down

their heads that night, far less miserable than poor Mrs. Melwyn. The

tyranny of a servant is noticed by the wise man, if I recollect right,

as one of the most irritating and insupportable of mortal miseries.

* * * * *

Two young women inhabited one small room of about ten feet by eight, in

the upper story of a set of houses somewhere near Mary-le-bone street.

These houses appear to have been once intended for rather substantial

persons, but have gradually sunk into lodging-houses for the very poor.

The premises look upon an old grave-yard; a dreary prospect enough, but

perhaps preferable to a close street, and are filled, with decent but

very poor people. Every room appears to serve a whole family, and few of

the rooms are much larger than the one I have described.

It was now half-past twelve o'clock, and still the miserable dip tallow

candle burned in a dilapidated tin candlestick. The wind whistled with

that peculiar wintry sound which betokens that snow is falling; it was

very, very cold; the fire was out; and the girl who sat plying her

needle by the hearth, which was still a little warmer than the rest of

the room, had wrapped up her feet in an old worn-out piece of flannel,

and had an old black silk wadded cloak thrown over her to keep her from

being almost perished. The room was scantily furnished, and bore an air

of extreme poverty, amounting almost to absolute destitution. One by one

the little articles of property possessed by its inmates had disappeared

to supply the calls of urgent want. An old four-post bedstead, with

curtains of worn-out serge, stood in one corner; one mattress, with two

small thin pillows, and a bolster that was almost flat; three old

blankets, cotton sheets of the coarsest description upon it: three

rush-bottomed chairs, an old claw-table, very ancient dilapidated chest

of drawers--at the top of which were a few battered band-boxes--a

miserable bit of carpet before the fire-place; a wooden box for coals; a

little low tin fender, a poker, or rather half a poker; a shovel and

tongs, much the worse for wear, and a very few kitchen utensils, was all

the furniture in the room. What there was, however, was kept clean; the

floor was clean, the yellow paint was clean; and, I forgot to say, there

was a washing-tub set aside in one corner.

The wind blew shrill, and shook the window, and the snow was heard

beating against the panes; the clock went another quarter, but still the

indefatigable toiler sewed on. Now and then she lifted up her head, as a

sigh came from that corner of the room where the bed stood, and some one

might be heard turning and tossing uneasily upon the mattress--then she

returned to her occupation and plied her needle with increased

assiduity.

The workwoman was a girl of from eighteen to twenty, rather below the

middle size, and of a face and form little adapted to figure in a story.

One whose life, in all probability, would never be diversified by those

romantic adventures which _real_ life in general reserves to the

beautiful and the highly-gifted. Her features were rather homely, her

hair of a light brown, _without_ golden threads through it, her hands

and arms rough and red with cold and labor; her dress ordinary to a

degree--her clothes being of the cheapest materials--but then, these

clothes were so neat, so carefully mended where they had given way; the

hair was so smooth, and so closely and neatly drawn round the face; and

the face itself had such a sweet expression, that all the defects of

line and color were redeemed to the lover of expression, rather than

beauty.

She did not look patient, she did not look resigned; she _could_ not

look cheerful exactly. She looked earnest, composed, busy, and

exceedingly kind. She had not, it would seem, thought enough of self in

the midst of her privations, to require the exercise of the virtues of

patience and resignation; she was so occupied with the sufferings of

others that she never seemed to think of her own.

She was naturally of the most cheerful, hopeful temper in the

world--those people without selfishness usually are. And, though sorrow

had a little lowered the tone of her spirits to composure, and work and

disappointment had faded the bright colors of hope; still hope was not

entirely gone, nor cheerfulness exhausted. But, the predominant

expression of every word, and look, and tone, and gesture, was

kindness--inexhaustible kindness.

I said she lifted up her head from time to time, as a sigh proceeded

from the bed, and its suffering inhabitant tossed and tossed: and at

last she broke silence and said,

"Poor Myra, can't you get to sleep?"

"It is so fearfully cold," was the reply; "and when _will_ you have

done, and come to bed?"

"One quarter of an hour more, and I shall have finished it. Poor Myra,

you are so nervous, you never can get to sleep till all is shut up--but

have patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and then I will

throw my clothes over your feet, and I hope you will be a little

warmer."

A sigh for all answer; and then the _true_ heroine--for she was

extremely beautiful, or rather had been, poor thing, for she was too wan

and wasted to be beautiful now--lifted up her head, from which fell a

profusion of the fairest hair in the world, and leaning her head upon

her arm, watched in a sort of impatient patience the progress of the

indefatigable needle-woman.

"One o'clock striking, and you hav'n't done yet, Lettice? how slowly you

_do_ get on."

"I can not work fast and neatly too, dear Myra. I can not get through as

some do--I wish I could. But my hands are not so delicate and nimble as

yours, such swelled clumsy things," she said, laughing a little, as she

looked at them--swelled, indeed, and all mottled over with the cold! "I

can not get over the ground nimbly and well at the same time. You are a

fine race-horse, I am a poor little drudging pony--but I will make as

much haste as I possibly can."

Myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh, and sank down again,

saying, "My feet are so dreadfully cold!"

"Take this bit of flannel then, and let me wrap them up."

"Nay, but you will want it."

"Oh, I have only five minutes more to stay, and I can wrap the carpet

round my feet."

And she laid down her work and went to the bed, and wrapped her sister's

delicate, but now icy feet, in the flannel; and then she sat down; and

at last the task was finished. And oh, how glad she was to creep to that

mattress, and to lay her aching limbs down upon it! Hard it might be,

and wretched the pillows, and scanty the covering, but little felt she

such inconveniences. She fell asleep almost immediately, while her

sister still tossed and murmered. Presently Lettice, for Lettice it was,

awakened a little, and said, "What is it, love? Poor, poor Myra! Oh,

that you could but sleep as I do."

And then she drew her own little pillow from under her head, and put it

under her sister's, and tried to make her more comfortable; and she

partly succeeded, and at last the poor delicate suffering creature fell

asleep, and then Lettice slumbered like a baby.