"Very!" replied the student of nature. "Shall we walk in the hall for

a few minutes?" and he offered her his arm. She rested the tips of

her fingers on his sleeve, and they proceeded to walk up and down the

hall, she being saved only by her escort from collision with various

other couples similarly employed. This interesting exercise lasted for

some minutes, varied by attempts at conversation which were about as

natural as spasms. Marjory took a desperate resolution. This absurd

state of things should not last much longer, if she could help it. "I

never could act as if nothing was the matter when something was," she

began, "and I can't help it if this is not polite; but I think, from

what Mrs. Grove said about you, that you will tell me the truth if I

ask you something. Will you?" and she looked up once more.

"Certainly I will," he answered gravely, meeting her glance with

steady, honest eyes, and somehow, short as their acquaintance had

been, she believed him.

She had meant to ask him deliberately if he or his companion, or both,

had stolen her gloves and decorated her face, but she felt unable to

do that with those eyes on hers; so she changed her tactics, and said,

rather meekly, considering what her former feelings had been: "Will

you please tell me exactly what happened the evening that man lectured

about the gorilla, and you sat nearly in front of my brother and me?"

"That was your brother, then?" he said quickly, and then stopped,

looking a little foolish.

"Yes," she answered, with a surprised glance at his face; "but you

said you would answer."

"I beg your pardon," he replied. "I will, of course, and I know you

will believe me. After your brother left you, you leaned your head

against the pillar, and then, as if the grooving hurt your face, you

put your hand between; and then--I must apologize for my apparent

impoliteness, but I promised to tell the truth;" and he smiled a

little--"then you seemed to fall fast asleep. A mosquito lit on your

nose, and woke you. When you raised your head, your cheek was quite

black from your glove; you rubbed your nose and made that black too;

then you went to sleep again, and directly a curl of your hair fell

over your other cheek, and woke you again, and you gave your cheek

a little slap, thinking, I suppose, that the mosquito had come back:

that left the mark of your fingers, and you rubbed it a little and

made it yet blacker. Then you took your gloves off and fell asleep

again; and then--you will believe now that I am telling you 'the

truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' for I am risking

your displeasure by telling what came next;" and he flushed up to his

hair--"I made up my mind that it was my duty to secure those gloves,

and prevent thereby the possibility of such an accident in the future.

So I put my arm over the back of the seat carelessly, and when nobody

was looking I picked them up and pocketed them. It was not I who

laughed, but my brother, who did not notice your face--after you

had blackened it, that is--until he rose to go, when he laughed

involuntarily, and I collared him and took him off. Now you know all

about it, and I await my sentence. Can you forgive me for stealing

your gloves? The motive at least was good."

Marjory's face had cleared as this highly circumstantial narrative

progressed, and when it was finished she looked up smiling. "Yes," she

said, "I quite forgive you: the motive is everything. But do please

tell me, were you really so interested in what that little gorilla

said as you seemed to be? You were taking notes, you know--I saw that

before I went to sleep. Now what was there that was worth making a

note of? I am sure I heard nothing."

"Would you like to see my notes?" he asked, drawing a little book from

his waistcoat pocket.

"Yes, if they are not long," she answered doubtfully; "but Jack will

tell you how stupid I am on all such subjects as that."

He placed the book in her hand, open, and she saw a clever sketch

of herself and the pillar: underneath was written, "Mademoiselle

Stylites."

"Did you draw that?" she asked, smiling in spite of herself.

"Yes," he replied, answering her smile. "I am fond of sketching from

nature." Then, as he glanced at the picture, he added hastily, "I

forgot that absurd inscription: George, my brother, did that."

Marjory did not look deeply offended, even at the "absurd

inscription;" and the conversation continued, upon different and

indifferent subjects, until John bethought himself of his duty, and

came to find her. She introduced her squire to him, and after a few

minutes more of pleasant conversation they separated, Mr. Owen--such

was the natural philosopher's name--having received John's assurance

of a speedy call upon him, and given his address with an alacrity

which proved, John thought, that they were kindred spirits.

As they walked home, John suddenly exclaimed, "You know I never

remember faces, Peg, but somehow I feel as if I had seen that fellow

before. He's an uncommonly good fellow, and Mrs. Grove says he is very

fond of my hobby, as you call it, so I shall go to see him soon."

Of course Marjory gave him an outline of her evening's adventure "upon

this hint," and he laughed heartily at the whole thing, assuring

her that _he_ had never believed for a moment in such an absurd

possibility as she had fancied.

Well, what of it all? Nothing particular. Mr. Owen and John are fast

friends by this time. Marjory is beginning to take an interest in

natural history. Also, she has lost all faith in conviction upon

circumstantial evidence. She is "o'er young to marry yet," her aunt

thinks, and so do I of course, for this is not a love-story: I wish

that to be distinctly understood.

MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

THE MYSTERY OF MASSABIELLE.

It was a mild and pleasant day in the middle of February, and the

bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the poor little room

where Madame Soubirons sat alone. The table, with its dishes neatly

arranged for the noonday meal, stood in the middle of the room. A pot

hung in the large fireplace, and a skillet sat upon the few remaining

coals. There was nothing with which to replenish the fire, and Madame

Soubirons sat gazing at the flickering embers with a rueful face. "A

cold hearth is more chilling than the mountains," she said; and she

rose and went out of the poor little apartment, which, with all its

poverty, would not have been cheerless had a bright fire glowed upon

the neatly-kept hearth, and sat down upon the doorstep, where the

sunlight fell warmly.

From this position was afforded a view of a picturesque and romantic

landscape, presenting in the foreground a portion of the quaint

village of Lourdes, with the cross of the old church brightly gleaming

in the sunlight above the thickly-clustered cottage roofs. Farther

away stood the great mill, and grimly from its rocky seat frowned

the ancient castle, of which the people of Lourdes never wearied of

telling that it had been besieged by Charlemagne centuries ago. In the

distance glanced the river Gave, fighting its rock-riven way to the

sea. The prospect, growing continually more grand as it receded, was

finally hedged about by the majestic Pyrenees, which lifted their

glimmering snows against the pale winter sky.

But Madame Soubirons was familiar with these scenes, and had no eyes

for them. She sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and as she glanced

down the crooked walk she murmured, "They have had time to get back,

if they hurried as I charged them." Presently a cheery whistle rang

out upon the air, and looking up she saw a man in miller's dress

approaching. It was Jean Soubirons, her husband, coming home to

dinner. She waited until he arrived, and they then went into the

house together.

"Can you eat a cold dinner to-day, Jean?" she asked. "I have only

bread and milk to give you."

"Yes, with thanks, Louise," he replied; "but where are Bernadette and

Marie?"

"They went with Jeanne Abadie to gather fagots, but they should have

been back long since. You might then have had a warm dinner."

"All is well if they come to no harm, but it is somewhat chilly for

our Bernadette."

"I gave her a pair of stockings to wear. She can't go like Marie, poor

child! who can hardly endure her sabots, even in winter. But I do not

see what detains them."

They sat down and ate in silence, the two vacant places seeming to

fill them with a feeling of desolation.

"I am sorry," said Jean Soubirons as he rose from the table, "that

I am so poor a man that my little girls must bring the wood for the

pot."

"Perhaps we shall be richer some day, Jean," said Louise, as if she

had hope.

"Perhaps so--in heaven," said he sadly, "where there are no poor;" and

he went back to his work.

Meantime the three girls had been wandering. Of the two sisters, Marie

was rosy and strong, but Bernadette pale and delicate, being afflicted

with asthma. Bernadette appeared to be only ten years old, but was

fourteen. Previous to this time almost all her life had been passed

away from home, she having lived at Bastres with a friend of her

mother, where she had been provided with a home for the small sum of

five francs a month and her service in tending the sheep: she was not

strong enough for more laborious work. Here Bernadette lived a calm

and uneventful life, her duties causing her to be much in solitude,

which she whiled away in petting her lambs. Very often the time had

been set when she was to return home, but it was as often postponed.

Her friends at Bastres could not bear to give her up, and year after

year she had lingered with them. She had been at home only two weeks

upon that day when she went with Jeanne and Marie to gather sticks.

The three girls, dressed in their black woolen frocks, white capulets

and wooden shoes--Bernadette alone having stockings, in consideration

of her health--trudged on, enjoying the pure air. They crossed the

bridge of the Gave, passed the mill and went on through the meadow,

turning their steps toward the grotto of Massabielle, which was not

far distant. There are, properly speaking, several grottoes in the

rocks of Massabielle, which consist of numerous excavations formed by

Nature in the great crags. One of these, however, is usually referred

to as "The Grotto," and is a cavern of quite extensive dimensions,

being about thirteen feet high by fifty wide. There are two other

excavations in the rock above this cavern, one of which rudely

resembles the broken window of a ruined church--suggesting that idea

the more forcibly perhaps from the fact that it admits light into the

lower cavern.

Before reaching the entrance of the grotto, however, there was a

small stream to be crossed. There was no bridge, but this was only a

slight hindrance to Jeanne and Marie, who took off their shoes, and,

springing from stone to stone, were soon over. They were in advance of

Bernadette, who stopped frequently to cough, and when she came up to

the stream they were putting on their wooden shoes.

"How cold the water is!" she heard one say, and she hesitated to

step into the cold stream. Jeanne saw her pausing upon the brink,

and called out, "Cross as we did: give long leaps and come over." She

called to them then to throw stones in for her to step upon, but they

were busily engaged piling up sticks, and paid no attention to her, so

she began to pull off her shoes and stockings. When she bent down she

heard a great rushing sound, as of the water and the wind. It seemed

as if a great storm were breaking, but when she looked up all was

calm. The leaves scarcely stirred in the breeze, and the trails of ivy

that hung over the rocky windows of the grotto swayed gently to and

fro. So she proceeded to pull off her stockings unalarmed. After a few

seconds the noise increased, and when Bernadette again looked up she

saw a beautiful vision standing in the window or upper entrance of the

grotto, which was filled with the lustre of its halo. The apparition

was dressed in pure white, and bore a chaplet upon its arm, and had no

resemblance to Bernadette's ideal of the Virgin. The child was filled

with awe, but felt no fear, and reverently kneeling she continued to

gaze at the vision, which smiled upon her and made the sign of the

cross. Bernadette did likewise. The appearance then vanished, and

for some time Bernadette remained spell-bound and still kneeling and

gazing abstractedly into the grotto, from which the luminous quality

had faded. After a short time she recovered from her transport, and

looking around her found the appearance of nothing changed. The stream

rushed on, the trees were the same, and in the hollow of the grotto

the wild brier grew in its accustomed place, and the clinging moss and

the ivy trails were unchanged.

Bernadette made her way across the stream as quickly as she could,

and hastening onward soon overtook Marie and Jeanne, who looked up

in surprise at her haste. When she had reached them their surprise

deepened into wonder as they observed the emotion depicted in her

face.

"Have you seen nothing?" inquired Bernadette, her eyes all aglow with

excitement.

"No: what is it?" said Marie.

"It is something strange," said Bernadette.

"It could not have been stranger than you look now, with your staring

eyes and your flying hair," said Jeanne.

"What have you seen, Bernadette?" asked Marie.

"Some one in white, bright and gleaming," said Bernadette.

"What did it do? Describe it," exclaimed Jeanne.

"I cannot describe it. If you haven't seen it, I can't tell you what

it was like," she said.

The two other girls were frightened. "Will it hurt us?" asked Marie.

"I am afraid of such things," said Jeanne: "let us hurry home as fast

as we can."

Bernadette was not afraid, but, habitually passive, she hurried with

them without protest. When they arrived at home she told her mother

her experience, and Madame Soubirons, being incredulous, attempted to

convince Bernadette that her vision was only a creature of her fancy;

but with no avail. The child was silenced, but not convinced. Madame

Soubirons said she would not allow her daughter to go to the grotto

any more, as it filled her with such ideas; and she expected to

hear no more about the matter. But the next day Bernadette talked

incessantly of her "Dame," and on the following day, when some one

inquired what her vision was like, she replied that she had seen

such a face at church; and on the third day, which was Sunday, she

prevailed upon her mother to allow her to go to the grotto again.

Marie and Jeanne accompanied her as before. Having arrived at the

grotto, Bernadette knelt before the aperture: Marie and Jeanne

followed her example, and when they turned to look at her they were

amazed at her appearance. She seemed to be transfigured. Her face

was radiant. With her eyes fixed, her lips partly open and her hands

clasped, she appeared to listen with the greatest attention. Her

companions were frightened by her strange behavior, and implored her

to rise and go home with them.

"Bernadette, get up! Come: we are afraid of you when you look so

strange."

She seemed to hear them no more than if she had been a statue, and for

a few moments the group remained silent and motionless. There was

no sound except the swirling of the stream and the rustling of the

leaves, and to Marie and Jeanne the very silence seemed to be a spell

of enchantment. Presently the rapturous light died out of the face

of Bernadette, and she appeared as usual, much to the relief of the

others.

Upon their arrival at home the same story was told by Bernadette as

before, and again it was disbelieved. No restriction was placed upon

her going to the grotto, however, and she continued to visit it,

when her vision arose before her again and again. In course of time

the singular event became much talked about, especially among the

peasantry of that vicinity, who believed implicitly that the Virgin

Mary appeared to the child.

People began to accompany Bernadette upon her visits to the grotto,

and the number and interest of her observers daily increased. Many

who were entirely skeptical went for the purpose of gratifying their

curiosity. Among this class were Madame Millet and Mademoiselle

Antoinette Peyret, who accompanied the little girl one day with the

intention of questioning her after they had studied her conduct.

On this occasion she excited their suspicions by leading them by an

unaccustomed route down a steep and rocky path, where they had great

difficulty in following her. They finally arrived at the grotto, and

were astounded to observe the change that came over her. She seemed to

be in a state of ecstatic awe.

The ladies were so solemnly impressed by her appearance that they felt

deep regret for having intruded upon so reverent a scene.

"It is a profanation for us to be here," said one.

"You must remain," said Bernadette immediately, as if she had been

directed to stop them.

"Ask who she is," exclaimed Madame Millet, greatly excited. "Here,

take this card and pencil, and beg of her that she will write down her

wishes."

Bernadette took them, and the ladies heard her repeat the request as

she approached the excavation and the divine radiance lighted up her

face. She paused, and for several moments remained in an apparent

state of rapture: then she returned to them, and in reply to their

inquiries said that her "Dame" had said that she saw no necessity to

write her wishes, for she knew Bernadette would obey.

"Obey what?" asked Mademoiselle Peyret. "What did she command you to

do?"

"To come to meet her at the grotto every day for fifteen days."

"Why?"

"I don't know why."

"But did she not say anything more?"

"Yes, madame."

"What?"

"She promised that if I did so I should be happy in a future world."

Madame Millet and Mademoiselle Peyret went home mystified. The story

of their futile attempt to discover deception in Bernadette got

abroad, "and still the wonder grew." The interest in the visions

intensified, and vast crowds, numbered not by tens, but by hundreds,

assembled to watch Bernadette during the appointed fifteen days. The

entire population of Lourdes appeared to be included in the crowd.

The presence of this observing multitude exerted no influence whatever

upon Bernadette, who passed among them as they made way for her

without looking to the right or to the left, as if she had too great

thoughts on her mind to give any heed to the people. Day after day

she repeated her visits, kneeling in her accustomed place and giving

herself up to a state of ecstasy.

About this time, so great had become the popular excitement over

the child, the attention of the authorities was attracted by it.

Accordingly, M. Massy, prefect of the commune, and M. Jacomet,

commissaire de police, conferred together, and decided to arrest

Bernadette as an impostor. It was on the 11th of February, 1858, when

the girl had her first vision, and about ten days thereafter, in

the presence of a great crowd, a police-officer approached her, and

laying his hand upon her shoulder took her to the commissaire for

examination.

Imagine this simple and artless child boldly confronting

the commissaire, who must have been, in her eyes, a person of high

dignity! M. Jacomet plied her with questions and cross-questions,

and used all his power to implicate her in some inconsistency or

contradiction; but his efforts were futile, and he was obliged to

confess that he could not make out any case against the child, whom

he allowed to go home. Still, his dignity required some show of

authority; so he commanded Jean Soubirons that he should not permit

Bernadette to go to the grotto of Massabielle, under penalty of

imprisonment. Then he wrote to M. Rouland, minister of public

instruction, for advice.

Soubirons kept his daughter at home for a day or two: then, observing

her to grieve under the restraint, decided to risk the wrath of M.

Jacomet, and allowed her to go where she wished. The people upheld

Soubirons, and the crowds at the grotto assembled again. It was then

proposed by some to consult Peyramale, the curé, who was known to

discredit the stories of Bernadette, and it was thought might disabuse

her mind of its illusions or detect her imposture, as the case might

be; but Peyramale would not make any efforts in that direction.

However, Bernadette, of her own accord, came to him one day, saying

she wished to speak to him.

"Are you the daughter of the miller Soubirons?" asked Peyramale.

"Yes, monsieur le curé," she said.

"What is it you wish?"

"I came to say that the Lady who appears to me in the grotto of

Massabielle--"

"Hush, child!" interrupted Peyramale. "Do not repeat this foolish tale

to me. You have stirred the whole country round with the story of your

vision, but do not bring such tales to me. What do you mean by this?

I tell you, child, the Virgin sees you now, and if you practice

imposture the door of heaven will be for ever shut against you."

Bernadette was in no wise disturbed, and resumed her narrative without

faltering.

"What, then, is the name of your vision?" asked Peyramale

when she had told him the story of her experience.

"I don't know," she replied.

"Was it the Virgin?"

"I do not say that it was the Virgin," said Bernadette, "but I know

that I see her as plainly as I see you now, and she speaks to me

distinctly; and she commanded me to say to you that she wishes a

church to be built on the rock of Massabielle."

Peyramale was astonished at the strange language and the firmness of

the child, and replied: "Your story, Bernadette, is beyond reason:

still, your manner is honest. Do not give yourself up, I pray you,

to an illusion of your mind. You have some fancy, it may be, that

deceives you. The Virgin could command me as well as yourself. You

say there is a brier growing in the grotto: if your vision wants me to

build a church on the cliff, tell her she must first cause that brier

to bring forth roses in this winter season."

Having received this reply, Bernadette withdrew. When she next saw

her vision she delivered the message of Peyramale, but it was not

regarded. The apparition commanded her to go as far as she could on

her hands and knees, and when Bernadette had done so, to the great

wonder of her observers she was commanded to drink. She rose, and was

about to go to the stream, when the vision called her back and told

her to drink of the fountain, not of the stream. Now, there was no

fountain, but Bernadette instinctively dug a small hole in the earth

with her hands, and a very small stream of water flowed forth from

the earth and filled it. She dipped some up with her hands and drank.

This little stream continued to flow, and increased in size. On the

following day it was many times its original size. Travelers are to

this day shown the stream near the grotto of Massabielle, which, it is

declared, thus sprang from a miraculous source. Three hundred people

are declared to have seen this miracle, and in different regions

of France many people may still be found who declare that they were

present upon that occasion.

After this, still greater crowds flocked to the grotto of Massabielle,

and again the authorities interfered. MM. Massy and Jacomet for a long

time waged their war with the people until the emperor telegraphed,

ordering that all interference should be stopped. Thus the people

were left in peaceful possession of their fountain, and reports of its

marvelous cures filled all the papers, and visitors came from far and

near, bringing cans and bottles to fill at the wondrous stream.

It will be remembered that Peyramale had demanded that the brier

should blossom before a church should be built. In spite of his

decision there now stands not far from the grotto a church that has

already cost two and a half millions of francs, though not completed,

and numerous convents are projected to occupy sites in the vicinity.

A statue of the Virgin stands in the grotto where the vision appeared,

and on the rock are hung numerous crutches and staffs, which it is

claimed were left there by those cripples whom the waters of the

spring have healed.

Bernadette became day by day an object of still greater interest--in

some cases of reverence. Many offers were made to provide for herself

and her family, but they were declined, and both her parents died

poor, her mother so late as December 18, 1866. Marie Soubirons and

a brother, it is said, still live at Lourdes, but Bernadette became

a Sister of Charity, and is now an inmate of the Hospice of Nevers,

under the name of Sister Marie Bernard. At this institution she took

the veil, and she occupies herself, when health admits, in tending

the sick. She lives a life of great seclusion, and is almost utterly

ignorant of all that occurs outside the hospice walls. From the letter

of a graphic writer I quote as follows: "She is now twenty-five. She

is not beautiful in feature, but in expression. Her look has a soft,

melting attraction. She is a great sufferer, and is tried by cruel

pains in her chest, which she bears very patiently, saying the Virgin

told her she should be happy in heaven."

Early in October, 1872, a cable despatch from Paris appeared in

all the dailies, announcing that fifty thousand pilgrims were then

journeying through France toward Lourdes. Their object was to

assemble at the grotto of Massabielle to pray for the salvation and

regeneration of France, so lately desolated by war. A large proportion

of the pilgrims came from Paris, where their journey had been

inaugurated by services at Notre Dame des Victoires. Indeed, it may

be said that their entire journey was one long religious service, for

litanies were chanted unceasingly upon the route. The grand service

at the grotto took place October 6th, when five bishops conducted mass

and vespers at five altars reared among the rocks; and other services

were conducted at numerous chapels and shrines among the mountains for

miles around by various pilgrim priests. A sermon was delivered to the

great host by the bishop of Tarbes, the subject being the disasters

of the nation. He closed by exhorting them to patriotism. Raising his

arms to the multitude, he asked, "Will you promise to serve and love

your country as I mean?"

"Yes! yes! yes!" answered the vast host in thunderous response.

"Will you cry 'Vive la France!' as children should who have been

nurtured from the breast of a cherishing mother?"

"Vive la France!" resounded from rock and valley.

Then turning toward the statue of the Virgin, the bishop cried, "Vive

the Church, the Rock of Ages!" Again the mighty voice of the crowd

responded, and with the final cry of "Vive the Holy Father, Pius IX.!"

the assemblage broke up.

Probably there were no scenes incidental to the pilgrimage more

imposing than its processions, formed in the public square of Lourdes.

One of them was a mile long, and the van had entered the meadow

before the rear had left the square. It was composed of people of all

classes, who sang hymns as with one mighty voice. It bore banners of

violet, green, rose, blue and other colors, magnificently decorated

with gilding, paintings and embroidery. These banners numbered nearly

three hundred, and came from various parts of the country. Even

far-off Algeria was represented. The banner of Alsace and Lorraine

was in mourning, and was borne by girls in white. As it passed many

persons pressed forward to kiss its hanging tassels. The banner from

Nantes was so profusedly embellished with gold and other decorations

that six strong men labored to support it; and those from Paris,

Bordeaux, Rheims, Lille, etc. were not greatly inferior to it in

elegance. The sun shone brightly, and with the grandeur of the banners

and the pomp of the prelates in their rich sacerdotal robes formed a

scene of indescribable splendor.

At the farther end of the meadow or valley an altar had been erected.

Here the banners drew up in a vast semicircle enclosing the great

audience, and vespers were sung, after which the fifty thousand

worshipers knelt and received the benediction, which was pronounced by

eight bishops simultaneously. The services before the altar being thus

concluded, the bearers of the banners again formed in procession for

the purpose of carrying them to the church upon the rock, in which

they were to be placed. At this time the sun was sinking behind the

blue Pyrenean peaks, and as it threw its last red gleams upon the

splendid train that wound in and out along the craggy mountain-path

it lighted up a picture of resplendent glory. As fast as the banners

arrived at the church they were placed upon its walls, which were soon

completely covered with their gorgeous hangings. Owing to the length

of the procession, it was after sunset when the last banner had been

placed in the church, which, with its brilliant adornments flashing

in the blaze of wax tapers, was one grand glow of glittering splendor.

After a brief service of thanksgiving the congregation withdrew,

and descended the mountain in the light of bonfires that burned upon

numerous cliffs.

A spectacle of equal brilliancy, though less pompous, was presented by

the grand torchlight procession which formed one evening in the square

of Lourdes, where all were provided with candles. Thirty thousand

persons were in this procession. They marched to the grotto of

Massabielle and to the church upon the rock, moving slowly and singing

hymns. As they moved they formed a great stream of glittering light,

which rolled on and on and up and up, across the meadow and up the

sinuous mountain-path. This impressive display lasted until midnight,

when the greater number of the lights had died out and their bearers

retired. But a goodly company still remained in the crypt of the

church at prayer, in some instances fighting off sleep by marching up

and down in companies, chanting night-prayers.

Thus a nation's ardent worshipers assembled in devotion at the spot

sanctified by the visions of Bernadette Soubirons. And what shall we

say of her? Her professed visions cannot be set aside as impostures

against the voice of thousands whose skepticism, as great as ours,

has been abashed. It could not have been in the nature of this artless

child, unencouraged and alone, to have been an impostor. Such would

have been a rôle thoroughly foreign to her character. Perhaps there

may have been illusion, a self-nourished fancy, evoked from the silent

reveries of those solitary days at Bastres, when her mind was for long

periods given up to undisturbed imaginings. Who can say?

WILLIAM D. WOOD.

BENEDICTION.

Good-bye, good-bye, my dearest!

My bravest and my fairest!

I bless thee with a blessing meet

For all thy manly worth.

Good-bye, good-bye, my treasure!

My only pride and pleasure!

I bless thee with the strength of love

Before I send thee forth.

Mine own! I fear to bless thee,

I hardly dare caress thee,

Because I love thee with a love

That overgrows my life;

And as the time gets longer

Its tender throbs grow stronger:

My maiden troth but waits to be

The fondness of the wife.

Alas! alas! my dearest,

The look of pain thou wearest!

The kisses thou dost bend to give

Are parting ones to-day!

Thy sheltering arms are round me,

But the cruel pain hath found me.

What shall I do with all this love

When thou art gone away?

Ah well! One poor endeavor

Shall nerve me while we sever:

I will not fret my hero's heart

With piteous sobs and tears.

I send thee forth, my dearest,

My truest and my rarest,

And yield thee to the keep of Him

Who blessed our happier years.

Once more good-bye! and bless thee!

My faltering lips caress thee.

When shall I feel thy hand again

Go kindly o'er my hair?

Let the dear arms that fold me

One last sweet moment hold me:

In life or death our love shall be

No weaker for the wear!

HOWARD GLYNDON.

A NIGHT IN BEDFORD, VIRGINIA.

"The general has been sending his ambulance"--Bless these ambulances!

they are as common in Virginia as hen-nest grass or clumps of

sassafras--"to the dépôt every morning for three or four days for

you."

"The deuce he has! Then why didn't he let me know by letter, as I

asked him to do?"

"Can't say, really."

This conversation took place in the main street of the extraordinary

city of Lugston--a city so very peculiar that I must give it an entire

article some day.

Repairing forthwith to a newspaper office, I wrote to the general

how sorry I was that he had been put to so much trouble--I had not

received the letter which he must have written--obliged to go home

in the morning--hoped at some future time to have the pleasure, etc.,

etc. Then I went to my lodgings on Federal Hill, and, behold! there

was the letter. "Although the ambulance"--ever blessed!--"had been so

often to the dépôt, it would be there on Monday morning, and again on

Tuesday evening. Don't fail to," etc. Whereupon I called for paper

and wrote the general that, in spite of the necessity for my returning

home the next day, I would be at Blank Station on Tuesday evening and

meet that ambulance--blessed ambulance!--or die in the struggle. Go I

would, and go I went--if that is grammar.

A newspaper editor--there is no end of editors in Virginia: wherever

there is a tank, a tan-yard or a wood-pile, there you find one--a

learned professor who had a flourishing school a few miles up the road

(public instruction is playing hob with most of the private schools

in Virginia), and a judge on a lecturing-tour (how is a Virginia

judge to support his family without lecturing, wood-sawing or other

supplementary business?) entertained me most agreeably on my way to

the station.

A cadet from Annapolis was the first object that met my eye when I got

out.

"'S death! a Virginian in that hated uniform?"

I said no such thing, felt no such thing, but was inwardly pleased

that Uncle Sam's money (he gets ten millions a year out of Virginia

tobacco, and then brags about what he does for our children, the sly

old dog!) was educating some of our boys who otherwise might not be

educated half so well, if at all. Moreover, the broad shoulders, the

trim flanks, the aquiline nose, brown hair and ruddy cheeks of the

young fellow recalled the best specimens of British lads whom I had

seen in Canada and elsewhere. In truth, I could hardly persuade myself

that he was not English.

Albion was in the air, for on the other side of the dépôt there was

a lot of trunks and other baggage, the make of which could not

be mistaken. I soon learned that one of the best estates in the

neighborhood had been sold to an Englishman, who had arrived that

very day.

"Furies! the sacred soil of Virginia _again_ passing into the hands of

the blarsted Hinglish, from whom it was wrested a century ago by the

blood and treasure of George Washington's hatchet! A Federal cadet on

one side and an Englishman on the other of Blank Dépôt, away off here

in Bedford! What are we coming to?"

I did not say or think this either, but was delighted to find John

Bull pervading the Old Dominion.

Another and a bitterer pill, had I been as disloyal as I was five

years ago, and ought to be now, awaited me, as you shall hear.

But where is that ambulance? The blessed vehicle was there, and, after

so long and painful a separation, we should have met face to face if

it had not been backed up to the platform to receive--whom? me? No,

a parcel of ladies, who filled every seat. My inflammable Southside

soul would have burst into a high blaze at this if a gentleman had

not immediately stepped forward with a snug jug of whisky. Whisky in

any vessel I love, but whisky in a jug not too big to handle easily

I adore. My viznomy relaxed, a beam of joy began to irradiate my

features, when to my extreme surprise the benevolent jug-gentleman

said, "Take a glass of claret punch"--he had the glass as well as the

jug--"won't you, sir?"

Amazement! claret punch in a jug at a dépôt in the heart, or at any

rate the pericardium, of Bedford county! Where was I? who was I? what

was my name? and where was I going to? In my life I was never more

nonplussed.

The ambulance drove off, and I was consigned to a spring wagon with a

white boy for a driver.

"How far is it to the general's?" I ventured to ask as I stepped in.

"Eight miles."

"Whew!"

"Never mind, sir: we shall be there in an hour and a half."

And off we went like the wind. He drove very boldly and at the same

time very cautiously, avoiding the numerous stumps, stones and ruts

with admirable dexterity. I began to suspect that the boy was not a

Virginia boy. When at length we reached the smooth stage-road I began

to question him: "Are you the general's son?"

"No, sir: that was my father at the station"--he of the jug.

"How do you like this country?"

My habit from childhood had been to take the life of any stranger who

had the audacity to tell me that he did not like any and every part

of Virginia, but of late I have contented myself with slicing off his

ears.

"The longer I live here the better I like it."

Smart boy! he had saved his auditory organs. But as yet his accent had

not been sufficiently defined to enable me to tell his nationality.

"You are not from England, are you?"

"No, indeed, sir--from New Hampshire."

The appalling truth was out. First, a Yankee uniform; second, an

Englishman; third, a whole raft, a "hull lot," of New Hampshire

Yankees; and yet they call this Virginia!

No wonder I was silent. Night had fallen, we had entered a dark

forest, there was an unreconstructed penknife (somehow or other,

I always forget my bowie-knife and Derringers now-a-days) recently

sharpened in my pocket. Why did I not cut the throat of this little

Oppressor and fatten the soil of my native land with the blood of the

small ruthless Yankee Invader?

It was just because at this moment we caught up with the ambulance.

The two vehicles halted, a young girl and a little boy left the

ambulance and took seats by the side of my driver, and the greeting of

the brother and sister--the latter having just returned from a visit

to her native granite hills--was actually as affectionate, beautiful

and sweet as if they had been born in the middle of the Mother of

States and of Statesmen. And as the ambulance drove on there came

floating back to us ever and anon on the night wind a still sweeter

voice. It came from a young lady--a young Yankee lady at that--and it

sounded sweet to me--to me myself, my own dear, unadulterated, real

Old Virginia self.

Turning from the main road, we wound around among the rocky ravines

in a fashion truly bewildering to a body with weak eyes, but my little

Yankee driver seemed so much at home that I felt no shadow of fear.

Arriving safely at the general's capacious mansion, I bade my Northern

friends good-night, and sat down to a supper without fried chickens

or coffee. In lieu of the latter we had cold tea, with a slice of

lemon in each goblet. After a long talk on matters of no concern to

the reader, during which the general related a number of capital

war-anecdotes, I contrived, as is my wont, to turn the conversation

upon agricultural topics, with the view of imparting to him a modicum

of that consummate farming wisdom which appertains to every thoroughly

conceited scribbler.

"Fine country you have, general."

"Yes: from Lugston to the Tennessee line, two hundred good miles, the

country is as fine as the sun ever shone upon."

"Appears to be thinly settled."

"You may well say so. Between my house and the station there are eight

or nine thousand acres, most of it excellent land, belonging to only

five or six owners."

"Indeed! What are such immense tracts good for now-a-days?"

"Good for grass."

"But they seem to pay little attention to grass."

"True. It is a splendid cheese country, as I have proved, but our

people are not up to that as yet."

"They _will_ grow tobacco. I saw some fine timber sacrificed for the

sake of new-ground tobacco."

"And why not? A man gets tired of paying taxes for twenty or thirty

years on timber which yields him nothing."

I smiled an invisible smile, reverting in my thoughts to an assault

I had made the week before upon my kinsman in Buckingham. "William,"

said I, "why will you Southside people continue to exhaust your land

with tobacco?"

"Dick," he replied, "you are the doggonedest fool out of jail. _You_,

raised in Virginia, and ask a question like that! Wheat is uncertain,

corn doesn't pay, we are too far from market for vegetables, too poor

to put our lands in grass, and tobacco is the only thing that will

fetch money. As for exhausting land, plenty of tobacco is raised in

Ohio and Connecticut, and you never hear anybody talk about exhausting

land there."

"Yes, but there they manure heavily, giving back to the land as much

as they take, or more."

"Well, old-field pine is good enough manure for a man who has plenty

of land and can take his time."

Thus in two instances my anti-tobacco wisdom turned out to be about

as profitable as King James's memorable _Counterblast_ against the

beloved weed of Virginia.

"But, general," said I, "surely your neighbors don't want to retain

such vast tracts of land."

"Certainly not. Men do not like to part with good land, and if my

friends could set their farms well in grass, so that a few hands could

attend to them, they would only sell at very high figures; but being

unable to do this, they are willing, and many of them anxious, to sell

on most reasonable terms."

"What is the trouble, then?"

"The trouble is about houses."

"Explain."

"Wealthy people seldom emigrate. The men who leave home have generally

but limited means, and coming here they find just the soil and climate

they desire, but no place to lay their heads; and few if any of them

can afford to buy land and build houses at the same time. This, I am

satisfied, is the main difficulty in the way of the speedy filling up

of Virginia with the best class of yeoman settlers."

"A difficulty not easily remedied."

"No, for our people, rich in land, are even poorer in money than the

immigrants themselves."

"How on earth, then, did you manage to sell to the New Hampshire

gentleman who came with me this evening, and who, as I learn, bought a

part of your farm?"

"Why, I had a roomy house, and I just opened my doors to him and his

family, and kept them here free of charge till their own house was

finished."

"Well, general," dropping my voice to the Secesh conspirator level,

"how do you like him?"

The general, known by the antique name of Jones (though the Sixth

Pennsylvania and other Northern cavalry were acquainted with him under

another cognomen), like all the strapping sons of thunder who went

actively into the field instead of staying at home and abusing Jeff.

Davis, does not regard his late enemies with that intense hatred which

is so gratifying to myself and some other people.

He spoke out aloud: "I like him first rate. He is an admirable

neighbor--a man of sense, practical, sagacious and industrious; and

his family, wife, sons and daughters, are in all respects worthy of

him. I wish the county had a thousand of just such people."

This was a crusher for me. Drawing myself up to my full height--which

ought to be but is not six feet--I seized a kerosene lamp with my

right hand, and looking the unfortunate man full in the eye, I said

very respectfully, "General, good-night."

Undismayed, he eyed me back, and, in a tone of what I took to be

cordiality, replied, "Maybe you'd like a little whisky-and-water

before going to bed?"

I thanked him "No," mounted the lofty staircase, divested myself of

sundry sartorial cerements and plunged my earthly tabernacle into the

centre of a big delicious bed. There, while the thunder rolled among

the mountains, the rain plashed upon the window-shutters and the wind

blew like the very devil, I muttered to myself, "Here is a man bearing

worthily one of the most honored names in the Commonwealth--a member,

in fact, of one of the first--the first--_first_ fam--families in

Vir--gin--ia, actually pr--prais--praising Yan--Yank--Yankees in--in's

own hou--" I was asleep.

On the morrow, when I returned to the station and saw how very lovely

the country was, how fertile--the rounded mountains, when cleared

of their royal forests, arable to their very summits, the air like

Olympian nectar, the sunshine a divine balm, the whole scene a

Sabbath-land of peace and of boundless plenty, awaiting only the

cohorts of the North and of the white-cliffed isle--I would fain have

cried, "Come, ye moderately pecunious Bulls, and you, ye hyperborean

Vandals from the far Lake of Winnipiseogee and the uttermost Cape of

Cod--come to this Canaan, not like carpet-bagging spies to steal our

big bunch of grapes and tote it off on a stick between two of you (as

per authentic pictures in Sunday-school books), but with your shekels,

your deniers, your pence, pounds sterling and crisp greenbacks: come

to this beauteous land, take it, own it, possess it, buy freely, and

be sure you reserve enough cash to build a house with; or, better

still, bring your houses ready made, in nests like buckets or painted

pails (I am sure you have them in your inventive realm). Come, I say,

and oust these mutton-headed Virginians, or sit down beside them, work

with them, teach them to work (you are so certain you can), and make

this American republic the Storehouse of the nations, the Cornucopia

of all creation!"

I got to the station just three hours after the train I intended to

take had left, and had to wait only two hours for the next train;

which was doing pretty well for Virginia. Possessing my Southside

soul in patience, I bought two not very bad cigars for ten cents, and

fell to contemplating some eight or nine of the Down-Trodden who were

hanging around. I must say that the Down-Trodden did not appear to

have been much flattened by the heel of the Oppressor. As I gazed, a

foolish parody started itself in my idle brain:

When the fair land of Bedford

Was ploughed by the hoof

Of the ruthless invader--

There the thing broke down, and--the events of the night before, the

Englishman, the happy Northern family and the thoroughly reconstructed

general, suggesting it in some queer cerebral way--a still more

foolish negro song, which I had forgotten for years, popped up in my

brain-pan:

Lit-tel gal, I give you ninepunce

Ef you will dance de Haul-back;

And I kin dance de Haul-back,

And you kin dance de Haul back,

And we kin dance de Haul-back.

The relevancy of this utterly absurd thing did not then strike me. I

see it now. A certain people--whom I do love with my whole heart,

not in spite of their faults, but because of them: are they not my

own?--have been dancing the Haul-back for many generations, and now,

under my own eye and quite perceptibly in the rural parts of Virginia,

the dance is coming to an end. Slowly but surely we are lapsing

into Bullo-doodledom, with a momentary preponderance of Bull.

_Tempora_--do, I entreat you, allow me the use of my solitary dear

delightful old bit of Latin--_mutantur_; ay! and we mutate with them.

The world moves, and no amount of Haul-back will stay it.

RICHARD B. ELDER.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE WELLESLEY-POLES.

The death was announced a few weeks ago of a lady whose name will

awaken a train of recollection in the minds of all who take an

interest in English family history. This was Miss Tylney-Long, sister

to the ill-fated Mrs. Tylney-Long-Wellesley-Pole.

The duke of Wellington's second brother, William, succeeded in 1778 to

the large Irish estates of a kinsman, Mr. Pole, and assumed that name

in addition to his own. Mr. Wellesley-Pole, who was eventually created

a peer as Lord Maryborough, had a son, who became, on the death of

his uncle, the marquis Wellesley, earl of Mornington. Never had the

peerage a more unworthy member. Starting in life with every advantage,

Mr. Wellesley-Pole seemed bent upon showing how effectually he could

foil the efforts of Fortune to serve him. When he reached an age for

marriage the greatest heiress of the time was Miss Tylney-Long. By a

succession of failures of male heirs the vast wealth of the family

of Child had devolved on this lady, and Mr. Wellesley-Pole became

the successful suitor for her hand. One of her seats was Wanstead

in Essex, some fifteen miles from London. Originally a royal manor,

Wanstead was granted by Edward VI. to Lord Rich, who sold it to

Elizabeth's favorite, Leicester. Subsequently, on its reverting to the

Crown, James I. gave it to Sir Henry Mildmay, but, he having been one

of Charles I.'s judges, it became forfeited, and once more returned to

the sovereign. Charles II. gave it to his brother James, who sold it

to Sir Robert Brooke, and he in turn sold it to Sir Joshua Child.

The Childs were the greatest mercantile family of their time. Sir

Joshua founded the banking-house of the name which still flourishes

(the oldest in London), and of which the young earl of Jersey is,

through his great-grandmother, also a Child heiress, the principal

partner. Sir Joshua's son was raised to a peerage as Earl Tylney, and

about 1715 employed a celebrated architect of the day, Colin Campbell,

to build a magnificent mansion. Wanstead was deemed on its completion

in many respects the most magnificent house in England. It was of

Portland stone, two hundred feet in length and seventy deep. The great

hall was fifty-three by forty-five feet, the ball-room seventy-five by

twenty-seven. This abode was furnished in a style of the most lavish

splendor, and Mr. Wellesley-Pole's income was more than adequate to

maintain it in befitting style. But no income is adequate to meet

the expenses of a gambler and spendthrift, and such was Mr.

Wellesley-Pole.

Some of his wife's property was happily settled on her and her heirs,

and could not be got hold of by her rascally husband; but Wanstead,

after being leased for some time to the duc de Bourbon--who here

received intelligence of the death of his unfortunate son, the

duc d'Enghien--came to the hammer. The sale of the effects in 1822

exceeded anything of the kind which had been known in England up

to that date. The catalogue consisted of four hundred quarto pages,

published in three parts, at five shillings each, and it is said that

not less than twenty thousand copies were sold. It is not a little

remarkable that the contents of Fonthill Abbey (the celebrated seat of

the author of _Vathek_), which teemed with even greater riches, were

sold almost at the same time. Nor were the contents of the mansion

only disposed of. The fabric itself, which had cost three hundred and

sixty thousand pounds, was sold for eight thousand pounds, it being

a condition of the sale that it should be razed and the materials

removed within a definite number of months.

Had Tylney-Long-Wellesley-Pole (for such was the polysyllabic name he

bore after his marriage) been only a spendthrift and a gambler, his

case might not have seemed remarkable. But he showed himself in every

way a heartless scoundrel as regarded his wife and his children, who

had to seek legal protection against him. About a year after the sale

of her splendid home his wife died, and the event is thus spoken of

in a leading journal of the time: "The premature death of an amiable

and accomplished lady born to large possessions, and against whom the

voice of calumny never so much as breathed a slander, calls, we think,

for a passing comment, as illustrating and furnishing, we trust, a

lasting and useful lesson to the heartlessness of too many men of the

present day. With a fortune that made her a prize for princes, this

amiable woman gave her hand and heart to the man of her choice, and

with them all that unbounded wealth could bestow. What her fate has

been all the world knows: what it ought to have been the world is

equally well aware. To her, riches have been worse than poverty; and

her life seems to have been scarified and her heart broken through

the very means that should have cherished and maintained her in the

happiness and splendor which her fortune and disposition were alike

qualified to produce. Let her fate be a warning to all of her sex

who, blessed with affluence, think the buzzing throng which surrounds

them have hearts, when in fact they have none; and if there be such a

feeling as remorse accessible in the quarter where it is most called

for, let the world witness, by a future life of contrition, something

like atonement for the past."

So far, however, as the world could discover, the atonement never

came. Lord Mornington, as he became, actually found another woman to

marry him: he ill-used her, and having sunk into narrow circumstances,

neglected to provide her with the barest necessaries, so that the

applications of the countess of Mornington to the London police

magistrates for assistance became of frequent occurrence. It may

seem strange that the Wellesley family should not have stepped in to

prevent such a scandal. Probably they thought that the woman who in

the teeth of his evil reputation had chosen to marry him should take

the consequences. He died in 1857. His son, whose life his father's

conduct had sadly embittered, did not long survive him, and bequeathed

the remnant of his estates, including Draycot, a large mansion (which

had been strictly entailed) in Wiltshire, to his cousin, Lord Cowley,

then ambassador at Paris. His title passed to the duke of Wellington.

THE FATE OF DANGAN CASTLE.

Lord Cowley, on being created an earl, selected for his second title

that of Viscount Dangan, thus perpetuating the memory of the old seat

of the Wellesleys in Ireland. It is a somewhat remarkable circumstance

that although no family in the United Kingdom has within the last

century acquired such fame and honors as the Wellesleys, they have

long since ceased to own a rood of ground in the country whence

they derived the affluence and rank which were to the famous sons of

Garrett, earl of Mornington, the first stepping-stones to fame.

The Wellesleys are only Wellesleys--or Wesleys, as the name was

formerly spelt--in the female line. Richard Colley, son of Henry

Colley, of Castle Carbery, county Cork, succeeded on the 23d of

September, 1728, to the estates of his cousin, Garrett Wesley, Esq.,

of Dangan, county Meath, assumed the name and arms of "Wesley," and

was created baron of Mornington July 9, 1746. He married, December

23, 1819, Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Doctor John Sale, M.P. for

Carysfort, and died January 31, 1758, when he was succeeded by his

only son, Garrett, father of the duke of Wellington, who was created

in 1760 Viscount Wellesley and earl of Mornington.

In October, 1748, Mrs. Delany writes: "Last Monday we set out for

Dangan, Lord Mornington's. He is the same good-humored, agreeable man

he was seventeen years ago. My godson, Master Wesley [Wellington's

father] is a most extraordinary boy: he was thirteen last month,

is a very good scholar, and whatever study he undertakes masters

it most surprisingly. He began with the riddle last year, and now

plays everything at sight." [In after years Lord Mornington acquired

considerable distinction as a composer.]

"This place, Dangan Castle, is really magnificent: the old house that

was burnt down is rebuilding. They live at present in the offices: the

garden (or rather improvements and parks, for it is too extensive to

be called a garden) consists of six hundred Irish acres, between eight

and nine hundred English. There is a gravel-walk fifty-two feet broad

and six hundred yards long from the house to the great lake. The lake

contains twenty-six acres, is of an irregular shape, with a fort

built in all its forms. My godson is governor of the fort. He hoisted

all his colors, and was not a little mortified that I declined the

compliment of being saluted from the fort and ship. The ground, so far

as you can see every way, is waving in hills and dales."

Dangan stands about seven miles from Trim and twenty from Dublin. The

Marquis Wellesley (husband of Miss Caton of Maryland), who succeeded

his father as second earl of Mornington, sold it to a Mr. Burroughs,

who, after greatly improving it, let it to Mr. Roger O'Connor, a

near relative of the Chartist agitator of the name. Whilst in his

possession the house and demesne were stripped of everything that

could be turned into money; the timber, which was remarkable both for

quantity and quality, was cut down; and the gardens were permitted to

run to waste. At length the house--being heavily insured--was found

to be on fire, and was burnt before assistance could be obtained. One

part of the building, of which the walls were extraordinarily thick,

is now inhabited by a farmer who superintends the property.

The present duke of Wellington (whose wife, formerly well known as

Lady Douro, is a daughter of Lord Tweeddale, and sister of the wife

of Sir Robert Peel) is childless. His only brother, Lord Charles

Wellesley, left two sons, but if these should die issueless the

dukedom will be extinct, and the Irish earldom of Mornington will

pass to Lord Cowley.

INTERVIEWING CAPTAIN KIDD.

Mr. Editor: The following, which I cut from the New York _Herald_ of

July 17, 1699 (accidentally in my possession), may interest some of

your readers. I was not before aware that the _Herald's_ files

went back so far, but it was a greater surprise to discover that

interviewing flourished at so early a date.

Yours, SARSFIELD YOUNG.

CAPTAIN KIDD!

THE PIRATE CHIEF IN A BOSTON JAIL!

BOUQUETS AND BAKED BEANS _vs._ PURITAN THEOLOGY!

CALUMNIATIONS OF THE PRESS!

DON'T CALL ME PET NAMES--WILLIAM _vs._ ROBERT!

ALL A MISTAKE ABOUT THAT CHISEL!

SARAH'S MUGS AND PORRINGERS!

"HOW IS MY FRIEND, COL. LIVINGSTONE?"

EAST INDIA RING _vs._ INNOCENCE!

CAN ADAMS AND CHOATE CLEAR HIM? etc. etc.

[From _Herald_ Special Correspondent.]

BOSTON, 16th July, 1699.

Your correspondent arrived here last evening, and found (as already

telegraphed) that the arrest and imprisonment of Captain Kidd, the

champion pirate of the world, continues to form the all-absorbing

topic of conversation. Little Boston has got a sensation at last, and

is determined to keep it. Merchants and brokers talk Kidd on 'Change.

Groups at the hotels discuss the nautical hero. Badly-executed

pictures of him stare at you from the shop-windows. Cotton Mather,

the great gun of the clergy here, blazes away at this "child of

iniquity" from the pulpit; and it is understood that a prominent

publishing-house has already arranged to bring out _The Autobiography

of a Buccaneer_. _On dit_, that certain parties are negotiating to

have him appear next season as a lecturer in case he isn't wanted on

another platform.

The first paroxysm of excitement, which looked to nothing short of

hanging him from the steeple of the Old South Church, has given

place to a conviction that the law had better be suffered to take

its course, inasmuch as the unfortunate captain will surely drift

among the breakers when he is tossed about on the sea of criminal

jurisprudence.

By the politeness of the colonial authorities, your correspondent

obtained a permit to visit the noted son of Neptune at the Stone

Prison. Sending in his card, he was at once invited into the small but

comfortable apartment where the "scourge of the seas" is confined.

Captain Kidd graciously extended his hand and bade your correspondent

welcome. He is a short, broad-shouldered, powerfully-built man, of

perhaps forty-five or forty-seven years of age. His hair, which is

of dark chestnut and inclined to curl, was combed back from a medium

forehead, and his face was sun-burnt into a rich mahogany hue. His

cold gray eyes were deep set under thick brows that arched and met.

His manner was courteous and dignified. He was dressed in light gray

trowsers of perfect cut, patent-leather boots and a red-and-black

spotted shirt, which displayed in its front a set of superb diamond

studs. From under a Byron collar, _parfaitement_ starched, peeped

the ends of a pale lilac scarf. A magnificent seal-ring decorated the

third finger of his left hand.

The day being excessively warm, his coat and vest had been laid aside.

The room was plainly furnished. The table was littered with charts and

papers, while on a stand were flowers sent to the prisoner by ladies

of Boston.

With the instinct of a true gentleman, he proceeded to put on his coat

and vest, when the following conversation ensued:

_Rep_. "Pray, captain, keep your coat off."

_Capt. K._ "Thank you, if the same to you?"

_Rep_. "Quite the same, I assure you. My visit is informal." (Handing

him a cigar.)

_Capt. K._ "Thanks: I take things coolly--waive ceremony. You know

that's a habit I acquired at sea. You are a reporter?"

_Rep_. "Yes, for the New York _Herald_. I call to ascertain your views

of the situation. The public are anxious to hear your defence; and, if

proper, I would like to ask you a few questions."

_Capt. K._ "Certainly" (lighting his cigar). "You newspaper men

haven't given me a fair show. There's a heap of lying going on about

me. They are hounding me--that's a fact. I've got the evidence to

prove that I'm an injured man. I have a clear conscience, that's one

comfort."

_Rep_. "A great comfort, no doubt. May I ask, captain, what particular

falsehood has gained currency?"

_Capt. K._ "Yes, sir. I will name one that is an unmitigated slander.

They say that when I came across Moore and corrected him with a bucket

for his impertinence, he was grinding a chisel. Now, sir, that is as

false as ----!"

_Rep_. "Indeed?"

_Capt. K._ "Yes, sir, 'twas a screwdriver."

_Rep_. "That shall be corrected, captain. Anything else?"

_Capt. K._ "Yes, sir--a bigger lie still. There is a scurrilous

broadside circulating all over the country. Here it is." (He handed me

a copy of verses printed in the _Herald_ of last Tuesday.) "Read

that, if you please, sir: 'My name is Robert Kidd, as I sailed, as I

sailed.' Now, sir, that is a villainous falsehood."

_Rep_. "You didn't sail under that name, then, captain?"

_Capt. K._ "Never. Why, bless your innocent heart, my baptismal name

is _William_. It is of a piece with all their malignant lying, this

persisting in calling me _Robert_."

_Rep_. "It _is_ hard." (Pause.) "Pray, captain, permit me to ask

if the story is true that Mrs. Kidd's trunk was seized by the

authorities, and kept with its contents of gold-dust and diamonds?"

_Capt. K._ "In part true, sir. A perfect outrage, sir. Mrs. Kidd

came on from New York post-haste when she heard that the Antonio had

arrived, and no sooner had she set foot in Boston than the authorities

gobbled up her trunk, leaving her in a strange community with nothing

but a band-box. The public have exaggerated the contents. They were

silver mugs, porringers and plate generally for family use, that

we had been years accumulating. They locked it up in the castle,

and--Poor Sarah! poor Sarah!" (Here the stout man buried his head in

his hands and appeared deeply affected. Your correspondent improved

the opportunity to perfect his notes.)

_Rep_. (after a few minutes). "I am glad to assure you, Captain Kidd,

that it will probably be returned to her to-morrow."

_Capt. K._ (brightening up). "To-morrow? Well, that's good. It

wellnigh broke Sarah's heart. By the way, you are lately from New

York, I suppose. How is my old friend, Colonel Livingstone? Well, I

hope?"

_Rep_. "I haven't the honor of his acquaintance, but I have no doubt

he is well. New York men usually are. He is a staunch friend of yours,

captain?"

_Capt. K._ "Ay, that he is. He has always stood by me, ever since he

got me that appointment to command the 'Adventure galley.'"

_Rep_. "You have no doubt, captain, of your ability to substantiate

your entire innocence of these charges brought against you?"

_Capt. K._ "Not the slightest, not the slightest, sir. There was

Captain Wright of the Quedah--you remember him, I dare say: had

command of that nigger crew--what did he say when I went aboard his

ship? Said he, 'Kidd, you remind me of the new-born babe.' I suppose

I can't prove that, for Wright, poor fellow! has been dropped into the

sea, with a twenty-four-pound shot at his heels.

"But what if the jury does convict me? Can't I have a bill of

exceptions? Can't I sue out an injunction to stay proceedings? What

did they let me walk the streets of Boston a whole week for, if I was

such a criminal as some of 'em pretend? I tell you what it is--this

thing is a put-up job. That ring of East India speculators is at the

bottom of it. They just run Bellamont. They know I stand in their way;

but I'll be even with them yet. Mark my word, Mr. Reporter: William

Kidd is going to march down these streets head up, colors flying and

the band playing 'Carry the news to Hiram.'"

_Rep_. "I hope so, captain. One word more. If not too bold, may I

inquire about these stories of your burying treasure on Gardner's

Island?"

_Capt. K._ "True as gospel preaching! I buried doubloons all over

that island--used to work moonlight nights at it. You can't show me a

square yard of soil there that isn't stuck full of shiners. You see,

it grew to be a perfect passion with me. I stopped on my way up Boston

harbor here, and planted about three millions of pounds sterling. I

forget now which island it was. However, I shall publish a complete

guide to all these points, with diagrams and directions for getting

up stock companies, in the book I'm preparing." (Just then a card was

brought in. Captain K. nodded affirmatively to the attendant, and

your correspondent rose to withdraw.) "I am sorry not to talk with you

longer, but a delegation of the ministry are just outside the door.

They propose to sit down and discuss with me the exceeding sinfulness

of a greed of worldly gain, especially when it runs into piracy.--My

best compliments to you, sir. Good-morning."

_Rep_. "Good-morning, captain."

Your correspondent encountered six white-chokered gentlemen on their

way to interview the great nautical backslider. He is certainly the

lion of the hour.

From what your correspondent has been able to gather it is probable

that a few friends of the captain will succeed in their efforts to

secure Samuel Adams and a promising young lawyer named Choate to

conduct his defence. In this event his chances of a discharge from

custody will prove favorable. It may be that Bellamont and the council

will conclude to send him over for trial in the King's Bench.

Your correspondent inclines to the view that the distinguished marine

plunderer can hardly be held for piracy, but may be convicted of

the murder of the gunner Moore. The story is here that Kidd, with an

iron-hooped bucket, not only finished up things for William Moore,

but left that unhappy man in his gore. As regards jurisdiction, the

government will allege that the awful deed was committed not many

leagues from shore.

A DINNER EXCUSE.

Apologies for poor dinners are generally out of place. But when a lady

has a forgetful husband, who, without warning, brings home a dozen

guests to sit down to a plain family dinner for three or four, it is

not in human nature to keep absolute silence. What to say, and how

to say it, form the problem. Mrs. Tucker, the wife of Judge Tucker of

Williamsburg, solved this problem most happily many years ago. She was

the daughter or niece (I am uncertain which) of Sir Peyton Skipwith,

and celebrated for her beauty, wit, ease and grace of manner. Her

temper and tact were put to the proof one court-day, when the judge

brought with him the accustomed half score or more of lawyers, for

whom not the slightest preparation had been made, the judge having

quite forgotten to remind his wife that it was court-day, and she

herself, strange to tell, having overlooked the fact.

The dinner was served with elegance, and Mrs. T. made herself very

charming. Upon rising to leave the guests to their wine she said:

"Gentlemen, you have dined to-day with Judge Tucker: promise me now

that you will all dine to-morrow with _me_"

This was all her apology, whereupon the gentlemen swore that such a

wife was beyond price. The judge then explained the situation, and the

next day there was a noble banquet.

_Moral_: Never worry a guest with apologies.

NOTES.

A Turkish paper gives an account of a curious forced emigration

which has recently produced great excitement on classic ground. On

the European banks of the Hellespont stands the city of Gallipoli,

interesting as the first possession of the Turks in Europe in 1357;

and nearly opposite to it is Lamsaki, a village long renowned for

the vineyards in its neighborhood, and situated near the site of

the celebrated Lampsacus of classic times. During the autumn the

authorities of Gallipoli came to the conclusion that there were in

that town--as where are there not?--too many owner-less dogs about;

and instead of issuing death-warrants against these vagrants, they

took the extraordinary course of exporting them to their opposite

neighbors across the Hellespont, who were already plentifully

provided with canine treasures. On the arrival of these two thousand

immigrants, who were very unruly on the passage, they started, in

quest of food it may be supposed, to the mountains, but not finding

anything to suit their palates, returned to the town. Here the tug of

war commenced. The Lamsakian canines, on recognizing the situation,

turned out to a dog, and a frightful conflict, with terrible howlings

and barkings, ensued for four hours. At the end of that time the

foreign foe was worsted, and, beating a retreat, endeavored to allay

the pangs of hunger by eating the grapes, and thus doing really

serious damage. The people then had to turn out: two hundred dogs

were killed, and the rest retreated, but of course only to return.

The _Djeridéi Havadis_ concludes the account by mildly saying that

the Lamsakians are much disgusted by the eccentric conduct of the

Gallipoli magistrates, who ought of course to have sent their canine

emigrants to a desert island. But how thankful would Philadelphians be

if somebody, imitating the Gallipoli magistrates, would but deport two

thousand of the cats which make night-life hideous--to the New Jersey

shore, say!

* * * * *

The pie is almost an "institution" in America. A single New York

bakery claims that it produces nine hundred pies an hour from one of

its ten capacious ovens, and a total of fifty thousand pies daily,

the year round, forcing the supply occasionally up to sixty-five

thousand--probably on Fourths of July or other festal occasions. Let

the reader busy himself with imagining the total production of pies

by this and all other bakeries of the country during a twelve-month!

Nevertheless, these facilities would be inadequate to popular demand

were the majority of our countrymen of a stomach as unbounded as

that of the Dundee laborer whom a Scotch journal commemorates. This

extraordinary person, having not long since eaten nine large twopenny

pies at a Dundee pie-shop within fourteen and a half minutes,

announced his purpose to eat on the following Monday twelve pies

within twenty-five minutes; and in fact, when the delicacies were put

before him in the shape of a six-pound pile, fourteen inches high, he

consumed half a dozen in five minutes, the next three at the end of

eleven minutes, and the last three in six minutes more, having ended

his repast eight minutes sooner than he had designed--possibly owing

to the pangs of hunger, since he expressed a willingness to occupy the

spare moments with devouring another half dozen pies.

With this item of news in fresh remembrance we chanced to read in a

very old English newspaper the supper eaten, many years ago, by Mr.

Oakley of Stanton, Derbyshire--a repast which makes the Scotchman's,

just recorded, rather frugal by comparison. His first dish, says the

report, was two quarts of milk, thirty eggs, half a pound of butter,

half a pound of sugar, three penny loaves, a quantity of ginger and

nutmeg and an ounce of mustard, all boiled together; his second course

was "apiece of cheese and a pound of bread to it;" the third was half

a pound of bacon, a penny loaf and a quart of ale, followed by three

halfpennies' worth of ginger-bread and a pint of ale; his fourth dish

was a custard of two pounds, an ounce of mustard, some black pepper,

a pint of milk and three pints of ale to it. This banquet he finished

in an hour, and then ungratefully complained of not having had enough;

so, after running three hundred yards by way of appetizer, he sat down

with the rest of the company, who had witnessed his prowess, and drank

pretty freely. Yet even this exploit is hardly equal to the marvel in

digestion reported in the same ancient newspaper of a Truro porter,

who, for a bet of five shillings, ate two pairs of worsted stockings

fried in train oil, and half a pound of yellow soap into the bargain.

The losers of this wager might have been more cautious had they known

that the same atrocious glutton once undertook to eat as much tripe as

would make himself a jacket with sleeves, and was accordingly measured

by a tailor, who regularly cut out the materials, when, to general

surprise, the voracious fellow ate up the whole in twenty minutes.

Compared with these performances some of the current prodigies of

gormandism which the papers so often report are surely as trifling

in amount as they are tame and uninventive in the character of their

details.

* * * * *

The strange accident of Albertacce brought to general notice an

obscure Corsican custom which singularly contrasts with the ordinary

funeral ceremonies of Christendom. The _vocero_, as this rite is

styled, is palpably an inheritance from the classical conquerors of

the island, now preserved only in some of the interior villages.

When the head of a family dies, the body, after being robed in its

handsomest garments, is laid in state on a table in the largest room,

surrounded with lights. Then, five or six hours before the burial,

all the women of the village and the district, clothed in black and

with bare heads, assemble around the corpse, the mother and sisters

of the dead at the feet, the nearest relations next, and so on. When

this assemblage is formed the most renowned poetesses or singers of

their number, with hair disheveled and bleeding faces, and a white

handkerchief waving in the hand, chant in verse the history, virtues

and destiny of the dead. The mournful cadence, the profuse weeping and

the dramatic gestures of the ceremony are striking. The chief mourner

amid her wailing sometimes raises the head or the arm of the corpse,

and plucks out her own hair or freshly tears at her face till the

blood pours again from the wounded skin, while the half-stifled

sobbing of the whole company adds to the effect. When at length the

priest arrives, all is hushed, but the women follow the corpse in

procession to the church, where the ceremony sometimes lasts several

hours. Such, at least, is the account of the _vocero_ given by a

correspondent of the _XIX'e Siècle_, who visited the scene of the

Albertacce accident, where a roomful of celebrants were suddenly

precipitated into the cellar by the giving way of the floor. The mere

mention of the accident came by telegraph, but it appears that twenty

dead and fourteen mangled women were taken from the wreck of the house

where they had been singing their mournful _vocero_.

* * * * *

Unless the Paris postmen are more patient than those of Madrid (who

were on strike a few weeks since), their temper must be ruffled by

the transformations now going on in the names of streets. In France,

and especially in Paris, each overthrow of a dynasty produces a

corresponding revolution in the city directory, for all unpopular

names must be effaced, and the streets which bore them must be

rebaptized in accordance with the political favorites of the hour.

Decrees have already turned the Avenue de l'Empereur into the Avenue

des Lacs; the Avenue Napoléon into the Avenue de l'Opéra; the Place

Napoléon into the Place de l'Opéra; the Avenue de l'Impératrice

into the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne; the Boulevard Voltaire

into the Boulevard de Belfort; the Rue Magnan into the Rue

d'Angoulême-Saint-Honoré (its old name); the Rue Billault into the Rue

de l'Oratoire-du-Roule, also its old appellation; while there has been

a general effacing of those names which the Communists set up upon

the streets and avenues during their brief lease of power. Scores of

other old names of streets are already changed or are in train of

alteration; but the preceding will suffice for examples. Now, when

one reflects that at the overthrow of Charles X., and again at the

overthrow of Louis Philippe, and again at the overthrow of the Second

Republic, and again at the overthrow of the Second Empire, and again

at the overthrow of the Commune, these alterations wept on, it is

seen that the puzzle offered to Paris people in general, and to Paris

postmen in particular, must be anything but amusing. Should the

Third Republic perish to-morrow, a new christening of streets would

have to be made; but the event only would determine whether the new

names should celebrate Imperialism, or Communism, or Bourbonism, or

Orleanism, or each in its turn. It is rather strange that, with such

an experience, Paris should not take refuge in that tame but enduring

system of street nomenclature which is based on the letters of the

alphabet and the ordinal numbers.

* * * * *

An English magazine not long since described some of the curious

theories and superstitions which prevail among devotees of the

lottery and the gaming-table, regarding "lucky numbers." There are

traditionally fortunate and unfortunate combinations, and there are

also newer favorites, based very often on figures connected with the

chronology of famous men. The career of Napoleon III. would seem to be

considered by gamblers a specially successful one, for since his death

they have been betting furiously on all numbers supposed to bear a

relation to sundry pivotal events of his life. In Vienna, in Milan, in

Rome, the newspapers notice this universal rage among regular patrons

of the lottery for staking their fortunes on Napoleonic numbers; and,

what is also curious, these numbers have in several instances turned

out lucky. Thus, in a late Vienna paper we read that "the death of the

Man of Sedan has brought good luck to the old women of this city who

give themselves up with unquenchable passion to the lottery." At the

last drawing, as the paper goes on to say, the numbers most eagerly

seized upon were 3, for Napoleon III.; 65, for his age; 20, for his

birthday, it falling on the twentieth of the month; 90, as the highest

number in the lottery, hence interpreted to signify "emperor;" and

finally 52, the year of his accession to the throne. To the joy of all

the old lottery-gossips, the luck fell on these numbers, 3, 20, and

90. At Rome the death of Napoleon. III. has furnished new combinations

for all the devotees of the lottery. At Milan the same infatuated

class have "pointed a moral" of their own from the event--a moral

quite different from the one extracted by sermonizers. They have

been playing heavily on number 20 (a gold Napoleon being worth twenty

francs), and on number 13, which latter, as the proverbially unlucky

one, is interpreted to mean the ex-emperor's death. On the first

drawing after his death these two numbers proved to be the lucky ones

of the lottery, and it was then found that there had been a great

number of winners.

* * * * *

Is this present year, 1873, to be, like some famous ones in history,

specially fatal to crowned heads, and to heads that have once been

crowned? During the whole twelve months of 1872 the only European

sovereign who died was Charles XV. of Sweden, while none suffered

irremediable misfortune; and in European royal families the only two

losses by death were Archduke Albrecht and the duke of Guise. But

within the first six weeks of 1873 no less than three persons died who

had at some time worn imperial crowns, and one monarch resigned his

sceptre. First died Napoleon III., on the 9th of January. Then, on the

25th, at Lisbon, died the dowager-empress Amelia, daughter of Prince

Eugene, wife of Pedro I. of Brazil, and stepmother of the present

emperor, Pedro II. On February 8 the empress Caroline Augusta, widow

of Francis I. of Austria, and grandmother of the reigning emperor,

died at Vienna. In Spain the abdication of Amadeo is an incident to

be mentioned in a year opening so ominously to crowned and discrowned

heads.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Santo Domingo, Past and Present; with a Glance at Hayti. By

Samuel Hazard. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Mr. Hazard, who has already obliged us with one of the best accounts

of Cuba extant in modern literature, now does a similar service for

Santo Domingo, which he declares to be much more highly favored by

Nature, and which he examined with the United States commission of

1871. This book has the advantage of being prepared within reach of

the British Museum, whose stores of Americo-Spanish authorities have

enabled him to write up with much fullness the historical sketch which

occupies a third of his space. This is a fair, faithful and skillful

condensation, and the most readable narrative we have seen of poor

Dominica's tale of revolutions and wrongs. The personal portion begins

with the author's arrival at the Salt Keys and Puerto Plata, and

follows the steps of the commissioners, with a great many anecdotes

and a sprinkling of artistic sketches, to Samana and Santo Domingo

City; thence overland to the great inland tobacco-mart of Santiago;

and so back to Puerto Plata and Monte Christo, where the commission

ceased its labors, being discouraged by the Haytians from an

exploration within their domain; while Mr. Hazard, resuming his

capacity of private citizen, took his life in his hand and ventured

into the proud Mumbo-Jumbo republic. It is here that the really lively

part of the story commences, and the author becomes the hero of quite

a tragedy of errors. At the first Haytian port, Dauphin Bay, he meets

the port-captain who cannot read his passport, the port-general who

bows and sends him to the chef de police, the chef who asks for half

a dollar without countersigning the document, and lets the pilgrim

go on in quest of the American consul. The only hotel is closed and

"busted:" the consul indicates a billiard-room, whose proprietor feeds

the stranger, informing him at the same time that the authorities take

him for a United States commissioner, and have doubled the guards.

The next visit is to a banker, who plays him a curious practical joke.

Demanding Haytian bank-notes for a few hundred dollars on a letter of

credit, the tourist, after a time of waiting, sees the street on which

the banker lives completely blocked with donkey-carts, drays, mules,

horses with panniers and carts drawn by bullocks. A negro drayman

informs him that "the American commissioner, having come over-night

from Monte Christo, is drawing a draft in Haytian specie, and that the

carts are to load up with it." The banker, being consulted, offers to

store the currency cheap in a warehouse, but advises as a friend that

the draft be reduced, the bullocks sent away, and that the traveler

take a beer. "I took the beer," says Mr. Hazard. A dollar in gold

means just four hundred dollars in Haytian paper: a cocktail cost

the traveler "thirty dollars," and other things in proportion. These

beginnings of make-believe pomposity are followed up by the strangest

revelations wherever the adventurer sets his foot. Going from Cape

Haytien to the citadel and "Sans-Souci" palace of Christophe, the

traveler is charged "two thousand dollars" by the drunken negro

guide, and "a dollar" by the sable sentry of whom he happens to ask a

question. The town of Cape Haytien he finds surrounded by the rotting

bodies of dead animals; the ruins of fine old country-seats are

occupied by filthy black squatters; the new houses going up are built

by the process of throwing single bricks one after the other from the

ground to the bricklayer. Squalor and braggadocio he finds everywhere.

The general who has given him a permit to inspect Christophe's

stronghold sends a messenger secretly in advance with instructions

reversing his order: the commandant refuses lodgings to "the American

who has come to take the fort." Some friends of the consul who

had received a general invitation to accompany the excursion had

previously backed out, because the stranger was an American, a reputed

commissioner, and very unsafe company. Mr. Hazard could only obtain

permission to swing his hammock in the house of a negress; a citizen

who pointed him out to the others made the signs of throat-cutting;

and he left behind him the filibustering reputation of the American

who came to take the citadel. Naturally disgusted by this time, the

author renounced his intention of further land-traveling, and passed

in a steamer around the western end of the island to Port-au-Prince.

Here he was delighted with the entertainment of our present minister

to Hayti, Mr. Bassett, a Philadelphia quadroon of uncommon qualities

and collegiate education. "Some of my most delightful hours," says the

writer, "were spent enjoying the kind hospitalities of Mr. Bassett

and his lady." He represents the minister as living in a palace built

for the emperor Soulouque, and playing a part in the revolutionary

conflicts of the island similar to that of Minister Washburne in

revolutionary Paris. The brave conduct of Mr. Bassett during the

brief presidency of the unhappy Salnave deserves mention. About

three thousand humble blacks, frightened by the rebellion of the

"aristocracy," fled to the protection of our flag, and the minister,

though shot at in the streets and without the support of a single

man-of-war, saved and fed them all. It seems to be not much to its

credit that our nation, though very tender of Hayti when the question

of Dominican annexation is raised, has never reimbursed its ambassador

for this drain on his private purse for the succor of Haytian lives.

With Port-au-Prince, where the writer awaited his steamer's departure

for the United States, the journey terminates. The traveler's

evident disgust with almost every manifestation of Haytian attempts

at self-government is balanced by his rapture with the natural

features of the other end of the island. He writes as an ardent

annexationist--not so much from the humanitarian view of President

White and Dr. Howe, as from the belief that Santo Domingo, if once

made our territory, would soon enrich our treasury from its commerce

and its uncommon adaptability as a watering-place. We have spoken of

this book as very thorough. It is so in every respect--historical,

pictorial and narrative. The list of books pertaining to the subject

occupies alone eight pages of small print: as the author, however,

evidently wishes this list to be approximately complete, and as he

seems to be aware of but few books except those in the British Museum,

we will oblige him, as possibly useful for a future edition, with

the titles of some which he does not give: one of these especially,

Dr. Brown's _History and Present Condition of St. Domingo_, we are

surprised he does not include, as it is one of the most popular and

useful books on the topic, and a manual of which we imagined every

commissioner to have got a chapter by heart daily when on the way to

Samana:

Las Casas, "Destruccion de las Indias," Sevilla, 1552;

Desportes, "Histoire des Maladies de Saint Domingue," Paris,

1770, 3 vols.; Petit, "Droit Publique des Colonies Françaises"

(containing the "Black Code"), Paris, 1777; Nicolson,

"Histoire Naturelle de Saint Domingue," Paris, 1776; Valverde,

"Idea del Valor de la Isla Española," Madrid, 1785; Puységur,

"Navigation aux Côtes de St. Domingue," Paris, 1787;

D'Auberteuil, "Considérations sur la Colonie, etc.," 1776;

Coulon, "Troubles en Saint Domingue," 1798; Malouet, fourth

volume of his "Colonial History," 1802; Dubroca, "Toussaint

l'Ouverture," 1802; Tonnerre, "Mémoires, Histoire d'Haïti,"

Port-au-Prince, 1804; Laujon and Montpenay, "Précis," 1805,

1811, 1814 and 1819; Bercy, "De St. Domingue," Paris, 1814;

Hérard Dumesle, "Voyage," Port-au-Prince, 1824; Clausson,

"Révolution de Saint Domingue," 1819; Malo, "Histoire

d'Haïti," Paris, 1825; Wallez, "Biography of General Boyer,"

1826; Macaulay, "Abolition d'Esclavage," 1835; J. Brown,

M.D., "History and Present Condition of Saint Domingo," 1837;

Chaucheprat, "Le Routier des Antilles," 1843; Schoelcher,

"Résultats de l'émancipation anglaise," 1843; Emile Nau,

"Histoire des Caciques d'Haïti," 1855; Saint-Amand, "Histoire

des Révolutions d'Haïti," Paris, 1860; Pradine (ex-minister to

England), "Digest of Laws of Hayti," Paris, 1860.

Thorvaldsen: his Life and Works. From the French of Eugene

Plon, by I.M. Luyster. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

Thorwaldsen's life lasted from 1770 to 1844, and was very industrious.

He was the son of a Copenhagen ship-carver, and received all his bent

from the study of the antique in Italy. The works he left are almost

innumerable, and some of them will have lasting reputation. The finest

perhaps is his medallion of Night, "launched with infinite lightness

into space, carrying in her arms her two children, Sleep and Death."

This masterpiece is said to have been conceived during a sleepless

night in 1815, and modeled in one day. His Lion at Lucerne, made

to commemorate the Swiss guards at Paris who fell in defending

the Tuileries, August 10, 1792, is known to every tourist: it is

altogether conventional, but it is not commonplace. "Never having seen

a live lion," says his biographer, "he went to antique statues for

inspiration:" he thus, at two or three removes from Nature, secured a

grand, monumental conception, fully charged with human intelligence.

The colossi of Christ and his Twelve, now to be seen with the artist's

other works at Copenhagen, and formerly exhibited at the World's Fair

in New York, are imposing and classical, while they perhaps show the

absence of the Christian idea noted in his other clerical subjects.

Thorvaldsen, born a Lutheran, was a spectator in Rome of bigotry and

skepticism, and took refuge in artistic impartiality. A friend once

observing that his want of religious faith must make it difficult

to express Christian ideas in his works, "If I were altogether an

unbeliever," he replied, "why should that give me any trouble? Have

I not represented pagan divinities?--still, I don't believe in them."

The life of this artist was one of consummate worldly success;

the kings of Bavaria and Denmark were the personal friends of the

unlettered son of the ship-carver, as were Horace Vernet, Walter

Scott, Andersen, and Mendelssohn; his casket of decorations was the

amusement of his lady visitors; and his invitations were so constant

that he could not always remember the name of his host: he was at once

parsimonious and charitable, cheerful and melancholy. His artistic

influence was very strong, exhibiting itself in the style of Tenerani,

Galli, Rauch, Drake and Bissen. The life of him by Plon is methodical

and complete, and the American version is illustrated by thirty-five

careful engravings printed in Paris and gummed upon the sheets.

Expiation. By Mrs. Julia C.R. Dorr, author of "Sibyl

Huntington," etc. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.

_Expiation_ is an interesting American story, with a background of

lonely woods that protect the rustic privacy of Altona, and a list of

characters that combine city culture and country eccentricity. Patsy,

the grim and self-sacrificing "help," who observes drily of a statue

representing Eve with the apple that "some things is decent and some

things ain't," is the best delineation in it, but the style is always

lively, always feminine and pure, and the conception of the high-bred,

aristocratic family, come to bury their mistakes and miseries in a

forest seclusion, would have been thought worthy of being worked up by

Emily Bronté. The catastrophe, where a dumb nun turns out to be a lost

wife given over to the undertakers in a state of catalepsy, is perhaps

not quite new, but it is striking and vigorously told, and her union

at last with her husband's sons and the girlish bride of one of them

is very touching. The novel is full of local American color, and

entices the attention from the reader's first plunge to the end.

Wanderings in Spain. By Augustus J.C. Hare, author of

"Memorials of a Quiet Life," "Walks in Rome," etc. London:

Strahan & Co.; New York: Dodd & Mead.

This companionable book tells you how to travel over the Spanish

Peninsula by means of a slight knowledge of the Castilian tongue, a

bold infidelity to Murray's _Guide_, a cake of soap and some Liebig's

broth, and a habit of universal politeness. "Pardon me, my sister,"

said the author to a beggar-woman at Barcelona: "does not your worship

see that I am drawing?" "Ah, Dios!" she answered, "blind that I was!

worm that I am! So your worship draws? And I--I too am a lover of the

arts." On the other hand, a stiff-necked Englishman traveling from

Seville to Xeres sent his driver to dine in the kitchen of an inn on

the road. The driver, who in his heart thought that he would have been

doing great honor to a heretic by sitting at the same table with him,

concealed his indignation at the time, but in the middle of the road,

three or four leagues from Xeres, in a horrible desert full of bogs

and brambles, pushed the Englishman out of the carriage, and cried out

as he whipped on his horse, "My lord, you did not find me worthy to

sit at your table; and I, Don José Balbino Bustamente y Orozco, find

you too bad company to occupy a seat in my carriage. Good-night!"

Another story, of time-honored repetition, is here restored to what

may possibly have been its true parentage. A gypsy, on his knees

to his priest, is tempted by the father's snuffbox and steals it.

"Father," he says immediately, "I have one more confession: I accuse

myself of stealing a snuffbox." "Then, my son, you must certainly

restore it." "Will you have it yourself, my father?" "I? certainly

not," answered the confessor. "The fact is," proceeded the gypsy,

"that I have offered it to the owner, and he has refused it." "Then

you can keep it with a good conscience," answered the father. Such are

the glimpses of Spanish character. We could easily bear to have more

of them; but the author, accompanied with ladies, and an antiquarian

by habit and nature, gives more sketches of ruins, and of landscapes

which are usually found "hideous," than of the infinite whims of

national manners. His contempt for Spanish landscape appears to us to

amount to a disease: he scorns honest Murray for describing Valencia's

mud huts as "pearls set in emeralds," and says that O'Shea's eulogy of

her as "the sultana of Mediterranean cities" is a glowing picture of

what is dismal enough in reality. In fact, we are afraid that Mr. Hare

has not exactly the artist's eye, and cannot easily admire a scene in

which he is not physically comfortable. But he has rich and heart-warm

descriptions of the Alhambra, the Escorial, and the ruins of Poblet

near Tarragona, where an order of patrician monks lived in incredible

luxury until a time within present memory, when they were scattered by

a tumult and their sculptured home crushed into dry and haggard ruin.

This book cannot compare with his _Walks in Rome_, which was the

careful record of a familiar and a resident; but it is the result of

a very lively curiosity and the record of a mind evidently stored with

history and romance. Excepting Colonel Hay's inimitable _Castilian

Days_, it is the best recent book about the country which it skims

over.

Marie Derville: A Story of a French Boarding-school. From

the French of Madame Guizot de Witt, by Mary G. Wells.

Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.

French fiction when playing off innocence or when intended for

uncontaminated ears attains a blank intensity of virtue that our own

literature cannot hope to rival. The French "juvenile" still guards

that beauteous ignorance of slang or of other small vice which the

American schoolboy regards as poverty of resource or incapacity, and

which he has put off with his frocks and his _Parent's Assistant_ and

his _Sanford and Merton_. But _Marie Derville_, when its accent of

Berquin is allowed for, is a varied and interesting tale, affording

many a glimpse into that country guarded about with such jealous

walls--middle-class childhood in France. Marie is the child of a

sea-captain who goes to China, disappears for many years, and comes

back at last, after a narrow escape from massacre, saying, "How

strange it was to find myself on the eve of becoming a martyr--to

die for the Christian religion when one is so poor a Christian as

I!" His wife and two or three of Marie's grandparents meantime unite

to conduct a boarding-school on the sea-shore, the history of which

enterprise forms the bulk of the tale. Here the American reader learns

with surprise that the French little girl, who is never actually seen

otherwise than perfect and doll-like, is really subject in private

to a few of the faults common to Miss Edgeworth's heroines, such as

selfishness, gluttony and laziness. But the story of the school is

on the whole sunshiny and prosperous, and _Marie Derville's_ young

readers will follow with delight the career of these prim little

beings, so much more governed than themselves, as they go picnicking

on the sea-beach for mussels, make flannels for the cholera-patients

of a fishing village, or learn to recite the fable of "The Country

Rat" without making it all one word in their hurry. The story is very

healthy and happy, and the translation excellent.

_BOOKS RECEIVED._

The Teacher's Companion to the American Drawing-slates and Cards. With

Cards. By Walter Smith, Art Master, South Kensington, London, State

Director of Art Education in Massachusetts. Boston: Noyes, Holmes &

Co.

Keel and Saddle: A Retrospect of Forty Years of Military and Naval

Service. By Joseph W. Revere. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.

Helps over Hard Places. For Boys. Second series. By Lynde Palmer.

Illustrated. Troy, N.Y.: H.B. Nims & Co.

Cyclopedia of the Best Thoughts of Charles Dickens. By F.C.

DeFontaine. Nos. 2-5. New York: E.J. Hale & Son.

Liza: A Russian Novel. By Ivan S. Turgénieff. Translated by W.R.S.

Ralston. New York: Holt & Williams.

The Witch of Nemi, and other Poems. By Edward Brennan. London:

Longmans, Green & Co.

The First Differential Coefficient. By John Newton Lyle, A.M. St.

Louis: Review Steam Press.

A Lonely Life. By J.A. St. John Blythe. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson &

Brothers.

Life of Major-General Meade. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.

Sunshine and Shadows in Kattern's Life. Boston: Henry Hoyt.