CHAPTER XIII.

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XII.--MAY, 1851--VOL. II.

THE NOVELTY WORKS, WITH SOME DESCRIPTION OF THE MACHINERY AND THE

PROCESSES EMPLOYED IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF MARINE STEAM-ENGINES OF THE

LARGEST CLASS.

BY JACOB ABBOTT.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE NOVELTY IRON WORKS, NEW YORK, (_As

seen from the East River._)]

Perhaps no one of those vast movements which are now going forward among

mankind, and which mark so strikingly the industrial power and genius of

the present age, is watched with more earnest interest by thinking men,

than the successive steps of the progress by which the mechanical power

of steam and machinery is gradually advancing, in its contest for the

dominion of the seas. There is a double interest in this conflict. In

fact, the conflict itself is a double one. There is first a struggle

between the mechanical power and ingenuity of man, on the one hand, and

the uncontrollable and remorseless violence of ocean storms on the

other; and, secondly, there is the rivalry, not unfriendly, though

extremely ardent and keen, between the two most powerful commercial

nations on the globe, each eager to be the first to conquer the common

foe.

The armories in which the ordnance and ammunition for this warfare are

prepared, consist, so far as this country is concerned, of certain

establishments, vast in their extent and capacity, though unpretending

in external appearance, which are situated in the upper part of the city

of New York, on the shores of the East River. As the city of New York is

sustained almost entirely by its commerce, and as this commerce is

becoming every year more and more dependent for its prosperity and

progress upon the power of the enormous engines by which its most

important functions are now performed, the establishments where these

engines are invented and made, and fitted into the ships which they are

destined to propel, constitute really the heart of the metropolis;

though, the visitor, who comes down for the first time by the East

River, from the Sound, in the morning boat from Norwich or Fall River,

is very prone to pass them carelessly by--his thoughts intent upon what

he considers the superior glory and brilliancy which emanate from the

hotels and theatres of Broadway.

In fact, there is very little to attract the eye of the unthinking

traveler to these establishments as he glides swiftly by them in the

early morning. He is astonished perhaps at the multitude of steamers

which he sees lining the shores in this part of the city, some drawn up

into the docks for repairs; others new, and moored alongside a pier to

receive their machinery; and others still upon the stocks in the

capacious ship-yards, in the various stages of that skeleton condition

which in the ship marks the commencement, as in animal life it does the

end, of existence. Beyond and above the masts and spars and smoke-pipes

of this mass of shipping, the observer sees here and there a columnar

chimney, or the arms of a monstrous derrick or crane, or a steam-pipe

ejecting vapor in successive puffs with the regularity of an animal

pulsation. He little thinks that these are the beatings which mark the

spot where the true heart of the great metropolis really lies. But it is

actually so. The splendor and the fashion of the Fifth Avenue, and of

Union-square, as well as the brilliancy, and the ceaseless movement and

din of Broadway, are the mere incidents and ornaments of the structure,

while these establishments, and others of kindred character and

function, form the foundation on which the whole of the vast edifice

reposes.

We select, rather by accident than otherwise, the Novelty Works as a

specimen of the establishments to which we have been alluding, for

description in this Number. A general view of the works as they appear

from the river, is presented in the engraving at the head of this

article, with the docks and piers belonging to the establishment in the

fore-ground.

The entrance to the inclosure is by a great gateway, through which the

visitor on approaching it, will, very probably see an enormous truck or

car issuing, drawn by a long team of horses, and bearing some ponderous

piece of machinery suspended beneath it by means of levers and chains.

On the right of the entrance gate is the porter's lodge, with entrances

from it to the offices, as represented in the plan on the adjoining page

Beyond the entrance, and just within the inclosure may be seen a great

crane used for receiving or delivering the vast masses of metal, the

shafts, the cylinders, the boilers, the vacuum pans, and other ponderous

formations which are continually coming and going to and from the yard.

Beyond the crane is seen the bell by which the hours of work are

regulated.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY WORKS.]

The plan upon the adjoining page will give the reader some idea of the

extent of the accommodations required for the manufacture of such heavy

and massive machinery. On the right of the entrance may be seen the

porter's lodge, shown in perspective in the view below. Beyond it, in

the yard, stands the crane, which is seen likewise in the view. Turning

to the left, just beyond the crane, the visitor enters the iron foundry,

a spacious inclosure, with ovens and furnaces along the sides, and

enormous cranes swinging in various directions in the centre. These

cranes are for hoisting the heavy castings out of the pits in which they

are formed. The parts marked v v v, are ovens for drying the moulds.

[Illustration]

Turning to the right from the foundry, and passing down through the

yard, the visitor finds himself in the midst of a complicated maze of

buildings, which extend in long ranges toward the water, with lanes and

passages between them like the streets of a town. In these passages

companies of workmen are seen, some going to and fro, drawing heavy

masses of machinery upon iron trucks; others employed in hoisting some

ponderous cylinder or shaft by a crane, or stacking pigs of iron in

great heaps, to be ready for the furnaces which are roaring near as if

eager to devour them. And all the time there issues from the open doors

of the great boiler-shops and forging-shops below, an incessant clangor,

produced by the blows of the sledges upon the rivets of the boilers, or

of the trip-hammers at the forges.

The relative positions of the various shops where the different

operations are performed will be seen by examination of the plan. The

motive power by which all the machinery of the establishment is driven,

is furnished by a stationary engine in the very centre of the works,

represented in the plan. It stands between two of the principal shops.

On the right is seen the boiler, and on the left the engine--while the

black square below, just within the great boiler-shop, represents the

chimney. Other similar squares in different parts of the plan represent

chimneys also, in the different parts of the establishment. These

chimneys may be seen in perspective in the general view, at the head of

this article, and may be identified with their several representations

in the plan, by a careful comparison. The one belonging to the engine is

the central one in the picture as well as in the plan--that is, the one

from which the heaviest volume of smoke is issuing.

This central engine, since it carries all the machinery of the works, by

means of which every thing is formed and fashioned, is the life and soul

of the establishment--the _mother_, in fact, of all the monsters which

issue from it; and it is impossible to look upon her, as she toils on

industriously in her daily duty, and think of her Titanic progeny,

scattered now over every ocean on the globe, without a certain feeling

of respect and even of admiration.

A careful inspection of the plan will give the reader some ideas of the

nature of the functions performed in these establishments, and of the

general arrangements adopted in them. The magnitude and extent of them

is shown by this fact, that the number of men employed at the Novelty

Works is from one thousand to twelve hundred. These are all _men_, in

the full vigor of life. If now we add to this number a proper estimate

for the families of these men, and for the mechanics and artisans who

supply their daily wants, all of whom reside in the streets surrounding

the works, we shall find that the establishment represents, at a

moderate calculation, a population of _ten thousand souls_.

The proper regulation of the labors of so large a body of workmen as are

employed in such an establishment, requires, of course, much system in

the general arrangements, and very constant and careful supervision on

the part of those intrusted with the charge of the various divisions of

the work. The establishment forms, in fact, a regularly organized

community, having, like any state or kingdom, its gradations of rank,

its established usages, its written laws, its police, its finance, its

records, its rewards, and its penalties. The operation of the principles

of system, and of the requirements of law, leads, in such a community as

this, to many very curious and striking results, some of which it would

be interesting to describe, if we had space for such descriptions. But

we must pass to the more immediate subject in this article, which is the

structure of the engine itself, and not that of the community which

produces it.

The engraving on the next page represents the interior of the

engine-room of the Humboldt--a new steamer, which was lying at the dock

at the time of our visit, receiving her machinery; though probably

before these pages shall come under the eye of the reader, she will be

steadily forcing her way over the foaming surges of the broad Atlantic.

The machinery, as we saw it, was incomplete, and the parts in

disorder--the various masses of which it was ultimately to be composed,

resting on temporary supports, in different stages, apparently of their

slow journey to the place and the connection in which they respectively

belonged. The ingenious artist, however, who made the drawings,

succeeded in doing, by means of his imagination, at once, what it will

require the workmen several weeks to perform, with all their complicated

machinery of derricks, tackles, and cranes. He put every thing in its

place, and has given us a view of the whole structure as it will appear

when the ship is ready for sea.

There are _two_ engines and _four_ boilers; thus the machinery is all

double, so that if any fatal accident or damage should accrue to any

part, only one half of the moving force on which the ship relies would

be suspended. The heads of two of the boilers are to be seen on the left

of the view. They are called the _starboard_ and _larboard_

boilers--those words meaning _right_ and _left_. That is, the one on the

right to a person standing before them in the engine room, and facing

them, is the starboard, and the other the larboard boiler. It is the

larboard boiler which is nearest the spectator in the engraving.

The boilers, the heads of which only are seen in the engraving, are

enormous in magnitude and capacity, extending as they do far forward

into the hold of the ship. In marine engines of the largest class they

are sometimes thirty-six feet long and over twelve feet in diameter.

There is many a farmer's dwelling house among the mountains, which is

deemed by its inmates spacious and comfortable, that has less capacity.

In fact, placed upon end, one of these boilers would form a tower with a

very good sized room on each floor, and four stories high. The manner in

which the boilers are made will be presently explained.

The steam generated in the boilers is conveyed to the engine, where it

is to do its work, by what is called the steam pipe. The steam pipe of

the larboard engine, that is, of the one nearest the spectator, is not

represented in the engraving, as it would have intercepted too much the

view of the other parts. That belonging to the starboard engine,

however, may be seen passing across from the boiler to the engine, on

the back side of the room. The destination of the steam is the

_cylinder_.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF A MARINE ENGINE.]

The cylinder, marked C, is seen on the extreme right, in the view. It

may be known, too, by its form, which corresponds with its name. The

cylinder is the heart and soul of the engine, being the seat and centre

of its power. The steam is generated in the boilers, but while it

remains there it remains quiescent and inert. The action in which its

mighty power is expended, and by means of which all subsequent effects

are produced, is the lifting and bringing down of the enormous piston

which plays within the cylinder. This piston is a massive metallic disc

or plate, fitting the interior of the cylinder by its edges, and rising

or falling by the expansive force of the steam, as it is admitted

alternatively above and below it.

The round beam which is seen issuing from the centre of the head of the

cylinder is called the piston rod. The piston itself is firmly secured

to the lower end of this rod within the cylinder. Of course, when the

piston is forced upward by the pressure of the steam admitted beneath

it, the piston rod rises, too, with all the force of the expansion. This

is, in the case of the largest marine engines, a force of about a

hundred tons. That is to say, if in the place of the cross head--the

beam marked H in the engraving which surmounts the piston--there were a

mass of rock weighing a hundred tons, which would be, in the case of

granite, a block four feet square and eighty feet high, the force of the

steam beneath the piston in the cylinder would be competent to lift it.

The piston rod, rising with this immense force carries up the cross

head, and with the cross head the two _side rods_, one of which is seen

in full, in the engraving, and is marked S. There is a side rod on each

side of the cylinders. The lower ends of these rods are firmly connected

with the back ends of what are called the _side levers_. One of these

side levers is seen in full view in the engraving. It is the massive

flat beam, marked L, near the fore-ground of the view. It turns upon an

enormous pivot which passes through the centre of it, as seen in the

drawing, in such a manner that when the cylinder end is drawn up by the

lifting of the cross head, the other end is borne down to the same

extent, and with the same prodigious force. There is another side beam,

on the other side of the cylinder, which moves isochronously with the

one in view. The forward end of this other beam may be seen, though the

main body of it is concealed from view. These two forward ends of the

levers are connected by a heavy bar, called the _cross tail_, which

passes across from one to the other. From the centre of this cross tail,

a bar called the connecting rod rises to the crank, where the force

exerted by the steam in the cylinders is finally expended in turning the

great paddle wheels by means of the main shaft, S, which is seen resting

in the pillow block, P, above. These are the essential parts of the

engine, and we now proceed to consider the mode of manufacturing these

several parts, somewhat in detail.

[Illustration: THE CUTTING ENGINE.]

The boilers are formed of wrought iron. The material is previously

rolled into plates of the requisite thickness, and then the first part

of the process of forming these plates into a boiler is to cut them into

proper forms. The monster that fulfills the function of shears for this

purpose, bears a very slight resemblance to any ordinary cutting

implement It resembles, on the other hand, as represented in the

adjoining engraving, an enormous letter U, standing perpendicularly upon

one of its edges. Through the centre of the upper branch of it there

passes a shaft or axle, which is turned by the wheels and machinery

behind it, and which itself works the cutter at the outer end of it by

means of an eccentric wheel. This cutter may be seen just protruding

from its place, upon the plate which the workmen are holding underneath.

The iron plates thus presented are sometimes nearly half an inch thick,

but the monstrous jaw of the engine, though it glides up and down when

there is nothing beneath it in the most gentle and quiet manner

possible, cuts them through, as if they were plates of wax, and

apparently without feeling the obstruction.

[Illustration: THE BENDING AND PUNCHING ENGINES.]

The plates, when cut, are to be bent to the proper curvature. The

machine by which this bending is effected is seen above, in the

back-ground. It consists of three rollers, placed in such a position in

relation to each other, that the plate, in being forced through between

them, is bent to any required curvature. These rollers are made to

revolve by great wheels at the sides, with handles at the circumference

of them, which handles act as levers, and are worked by men, as seen in

the engraving.

The separate plates of which a boiler is composed are fastened together

by means of massive rivets, and it is necessary, accordingly, to punch

rows of holes along the edges of the plates for the insertion of the

rivets. This process may be seen on the _left_ in the above engraving.

Two men are holding the plate which is to be punched. The punch is

driven through the plate by means of the great lever, which forms the

upper part of the engine. The upright part in front is driven forward by

means of the cam in the large wheel behind, a part of which only is seen

in the engraving. This cam raises the long arm of the lever by means of

the pulley in the end of it, and so drives the point of the punch

through the plate. There is a support for the plate behind it, between

the plate and the man, with a small opening in it, into which the punch

enters, driving before it the round button of iron which it has cut from

the plate.

On the right, in the above engraving, is a punching engine worked by

men, the other being driven by steam power. These machines are

sufficient to make all the ordinary perforations required in

boiler-plates. Larger holes, when required, have to be bored by a drill,

as represented in the following engraving.

[Illustration: THE BORING-ENGINE.]

The view below represents the interior of one of the great boiler rooms

where the boilers are put together by riveting the plates to each other

at their edges. Some men stand inside, holding heavy sledges against the

heads of the rivets, while others on the outside, with other sledges,

beat down the part of the iron which protrudes, so as to form another

head to each rivet, on the outside. This process can be seen distinctly

in the boiler nearest to the observer in the view below. The planks

which are seen crossing each other in the open end, are temporary

braces, put in to preserve the cylindrical form of the mass, to prevent

the iron from bending itself by its own weight, before the iron heads

are put in.

[Illustration: RIVETING THE BOILERS.]

Sometimes operations must be performed upon the sides of the boiler

requiring the force of machinery. To effect this purpose, shafts carried

by the central engine to which we have already alluded, are attached to

the walls in various parts of the room, as seen in the engraving.

Connected with these shafts are various drilling and boring machines,

which can at any time be set in motion, or put to rest, by being thrown

in or out of gear. One of these machines is seen on the right of the

boiler above referred to, and another in the left-hand corner of the

room quite in the back-ground. Near the fore-ground, on the left, is

seen a forge, where any small mass of iron may be heated, as occasion

may require.

The semi-cylindrical piece which lies in the centre of the room, toward

the fore-ground, is part of a locomotive boiler, and is of course much

smaller in size than the others, though it is constructed in the same

manner with the large boilers used for sea-going ships. The process of

riveting, as will be seen by the engraving, is the same. One man holds

up against the under side of the plate a support for the rivet, while

two men with hammers form a head above--striking alternately upon the

iron which protrudes.

From the boiler we proceed to the cylinder, which is in fact the _heart_

of the engine,--the seat and centre of its power. It is to the cylinder

that the steam, quietly generated in the boiler, comes to exercise its

energy, by driving, alternately up and down, the ponderous piston. The

cylinder must be strong so as to resist the vast expansive force which

is exercised within it. It must be stiff, so as to preserve in all

circumstances its exact form. It must be substantial, so as to allow of

being turned and polished on its interior surface with mathematical

precision, in order that the piston in ascending and descending, may

glide smoothly up and down, without looseness, and at the same time

without friction. To answer these conditions it is necessary that it

should be formed of cast iron.

The cylinders are cast, accordingly, in the iron foundry, which, as will

be seen by the plan, is on the left, as the visitor enters the works.

There is a range of monstrous cranes extending through the interior of

the room, as represented in the plan, one of which is exhibited

conspicuously in the engraving below. At different places in the ground,

beneath this foundry, for it has no floor, there have been excavated

deep pits, some of which are twelve feet in diameter and eighteen feet

deep, the sides of which are secured by strong inclosures, formed of

plates of boiler iron riveted together. These pits are filled with

moulding sand--a composition of a damp and tenacious character, used in

moulding. The mould is made and lowered into one of these pits, the pit

is filled up, the sand being rammed as hard as possible all around it.

When all is ready, the top of the mould, with the cross by which it is

to be lifted and lowered surmounting it, presents the appearance

represented on the right hand lower corner of the engraving below.

[Illustration: CASTING A CYLINDER.]

A reservoir to contain the melted metal necessary for the casting is

then placed in a convenient position near it, with a channel or conduit

leading from it to the mould. This reservoir may be seen in the

engraving near the centre of the view, at the foot of the crane. An

inclined plane is then laid, as seen in the engraving, to the left of

the reservoir, up which the workmen carry the molten metal in ladles,

which, though they do not appear very large, it requires _five men_ to

carry. A party carrying such a ladle may be seen in the engraving in the

back-ground on the left. These ladles are filled from the various

furnaces, the iron throwing out an intense heat, and projecting the most

brilliant scintillations in every direction, as it flows. In the case of

the largest castings it requires sometimes four or five hours to get

together, from the furnaces, a sufficient supply of metal. The largest

reservoir thus filled will hold about thirty tons of iron.

[Illustration: FILLING THE LADLES.]

The flowing of the metal from the reservoir to the mould in a great

casting, forms a magnificent spectacle. The vast mass of molten iron in

the reservoir, the stream flowing down the conduit, throwing out the

most brilliant corruscations, the gaseous flames issuing from the upper

portions of the mould, and the currents of melted iron which sometimes

overflow and spread, like mimic streams of lava, over the ground,

present in their combination quite an imposing pyrotechnic display. In

fact there is a chance for the visitor, in the case of castings of a

certain kind, that he may be treated to an explosion as a part of the

spectacle. The imprisoned vapors and gases which are formed in the mould

below, break out sometimes with considerable violence, scattering the

burning and scintillating metal in every direction around.

[Illustration: THE EXPLOSION.]

When the casting is completed it is of course allowed to remain

undisturbed until the iron has had time to cool, and then the whole mass

is to be dug out of the pit in which it is imbedded. So much heat,

however, still remains in the iron and in the sand surrounding it, that

the mould itself and the twenty or thirty men engaged in disinterring

it, are enveloped in dense clouds of vapor which rise all around them

while the operation is proceeding.

[Illustration: DIGGING OUT THE CYLINDER.]

It is necessary that the sand which surrounds these moulds should be

rammed down in the most compact and solid manner to sustain the sides of

the mould and enable them to resist the enormous pressure to which it is

subject, especially in the lower portions, while the iron continues

fluid. In the case of iron, the weight of four inches in height is

equivalent to the pressure of a pound upon the square inch. In a pit,

therefore, eighteen feet deep, as some of the pits at this foundry are,

we should have a pressure at the bottom of fifty-four pounds to the

inch. Now, in the most powerful sea-going steamers, the pressure of

steam at which the engines are worked, is seldom more than _eighteen_

pounds to the inch; that of the Cunard line is said to be from twelve to

fifteen, and that of the Collins line from fifteen to eighteen. In other

words there is a pressure to be resisted at the lower ends of these long

castings equal to three times that at which the most powerful low

pressure engines are worked, and which sometimes results in such

terrific explosions.

When the cylinder is freed from the pressure of the sand around it, in

its bed, the great iron cross by which the mould was lowered into the

pit, as seen in the engraving of the Casting, is once more brought down

to its place, and the stirrups at the tops of the iron rods seen in the

engraving below, are brought over the ends of the arms of the cross. The

lower ends of these rods take hold of a frame or platform below, upon

which the whole mould, together with the cylinder within it, is

supported. The arm of the crane is then brought round to the spot. The

hook pendant from it is attached to the ring in the centre of the cross,

and by means of the wheels and machinery of the crane, the whole is

slowly hoisted out, and then swung round to some convenient level, where

the ponderous mass is freed from its casing of masonry, and brought out

at last to open day. It is then thoroughly examined with a view to the

discovery of any latent flaw or imperfection, and, if found complete in

every part, is conveyed away to be the subject of a long series of

finishing operations in another place,--operations many and complicated,

but all essential to enable it finally to fulfill its functions.

These cylinders though very massive and ponderous are not the heaviest

castings made. They are much exceeded in weight by what is called a bed

plate, which is an enormous frame of iron cast in one mass, or else in

two or three separate masses and then strongly bolted together, to form

a foundation on which the engine is to rest in the hold of the ship. The

bed plate can not be seen in the view of the engine room already given,

as it lies below the floor, being underneath all the machinery. A bed

plate weighs sometimes thirty-five tons--which is the weight of about

five hundred men. Such a mass as this has to be transported on ways,

like those used in the launching of a ship. It is drawn along upon these

ways by blocks and pullies, and when brought alongside the ship is

hoisted on board by means of an enormous derrick, and let down slowly to

the bottom of the hold--the place where it is finally to repose, unless

perchance it should at last be liberated by some disaster, from this

dungeon, and sent to seek its ultimate destination in the bottom of the

sea.

The engraving below represents the forges, where all those parts of the

machinery are formed and fitted which consist of wrought iron. The room

in which these forges are situated is called the smith's shop, in the

plan. In the back-ground, a little to the right, is one of the trip

hammers, in the act of striking. The trip-hammer is a massive hammer

carried by machinery. The machinery which drives it may at any time be

thrown in or out of gear, so that the blows of the hammer are always

under the control of the workman. The iron bar to be forged is far too

heavy to be held by hand. It is accordingly supported as seen in the

engraving, by a crane; and only guided to its place upon the anvil by

the workmen who have hold of it. The chain to which this bar is

suspended comes down from a little truck which rests upon the top of the

crane, and which may be made to traverse to and fro, thus carrying

whatever is suspended from it further outward, or drawing it in, as may

be required. All the cranes, both in the smith's shop and in the

foundry, are fitted with the same contrivance. These trucks are moved by

means of a wheel at the foot of the crane.

[Illustration: THE FORGES.]

On the extreme right of the picture, and somewhat in the distance, may

be seen another trip-hammer with a bar upon the anvil beneath it, this

bar being suspended likewise from a crane. When the iron becomes too

cold to yield any longer to the percussion, the hammer is stopped, the

crane is swung round, and the iron is replaced in the forge to be heated

anew; and at length, when heated, it is brought back again under the

hammer as before.

The forging of shafts requires heavier machinery even than this. The

enormous mass of iron that is in this case to be forged, is bricked up

in a furnace to be heated, and remains there many hours. The masonry is

then broken away and the red hot beam is swung round under the hammer,

as seen below. It is suspended from the crane by heavy chains, and is

guided by the workmen by means of iron handles clamped to it at a

distance from the heated part, as seen in the engraving in the adjoining

column. The hammer is lifted by means of the cam below it, as seen in

the engraving below. This cam is a projection from an axis revolving

beneath the floor, and which, as it revolves, carries the cams

successively against a projection upon the under side of the hammer,

which is partly concealed in the engraving by the figure of the man.

When the point of the cam has passed beyond the projection it allows the

hammer to fall.

[Illustration: HEATING A SHAFT.]

[Illustration: FORGING A SHAFT.]

While the process of forging such a shaft is going on, one man throws

water upon the work, to effect some purpose connected with the scaling

of the iron, while another, with an instrument called the callipers,

measures the diameter of the shaft, to regulate the size, as the forging

proceeds.

[Illustration: THE LATHES.]

The shafts, when forged, are to be turned in a lathe, and the engine

used for this purpose is represented on the left in the engraving below.

The shaft itself is seen in the lathe, while the tool which cuts it as

it revolves, is fixed firmly in the "rest," which slides along the side.

The point of the tool is seen in the engraving, with the spiral shaving

which it cuts falling down from it. The shaft is made to revolve by the

band seen coming down obliquely from above, at the hither end of the

engine. The wheel by which the band turns the lathe has different

grooves at different distances from the centre, in order that the

workmen may regulate the velocity of the rotation--as different degrees

of velocity are required for the different species of work. The _rest_,

to which the cutting tool is attached, is brought slowly along the side

of the shaft as the shaft revolves, by means of a long screw which is

concealed in the frame of the lathe, and which is turned continually by

the mechanism of the small wheels which are seen at the hither end of

the engine.

On the right hand of this view is represented another kind of lathe

called a _face lathe_, which is employed for turning wheels, and flat

plates, and interiors of cavities, and such other pieces of work as do

not furnish two opposite points of support. In the fore-ground are a

company of men drawing a massive piece of iron upon a truck, destined

apparently to be turned in the left hand lathe.

[Illustration: FINISHING.]

Although thus a great part of the work in respect to all the details of

the engine, is performed by machinery, much remains after all to be

wrought and fashioned by hand. In passing through the establishment the

visitor finds the workmen engaged in these labors, in every conceivable

attitude and position. One man is filing a curved surface with a curved

file, another is hidden almost wholly from view within a great misshapen

box of iron: a third is mounted upon a ladder, and is slowly boring

through the wall of some monstrous formation, or cutting away

excrescences of iron from some massive casting with a cold chisel. In a

word, the details are so endlessly varied as to excite the wonder of the

beholder that any human head should have been capable of containing

them all, so as to have planned and arranged the fitting of such

complicated parts with any hope of their ever coming rightly together.

They do come together, however, at last, and then follows the excitement

of the trial. There is nothing more striking in the history of the

construction of a steam engine than this, that there can be no partial

or private tests of the work by the workmen in the course of its

progress--but every thing remains in suspense until all is complete, and

the ship and the machinery are actually ready for sea. The immense and

ponderous masses which constitute the elements of the mighty structure

are hoisted slowly on board and let down into their places. Multitudes

of men are incessantly employed for many weeks in arranging the limbs

and members of the monster, and in screwing and bolting every thing into

its place. Still nothing can be tried. The machinery is too ponderous

and massive to be put in action by any power less than that of the

mighty mover on which its ultimate performance is to depend; and this

mover has not yet been called into being.

At length the day of trial arrives. The engineers, the workmen, the

owners, and perhaps many spectators, have assembled to watch the result.

The boiler is filled; the fires are lighted. Hour after hour the process

goes on of raising the force and pressure of the steam. All this time,

however, the machinery lies inert and lifeless. It is a powerless mass

of dead and heavy brass and iron. At length an engineer, standing upon a

platform, with a lever in his hand, receives the signal, opens the

valve, and breathes into the monstrous body the breath of life. The

ponderous piston slowly rises; the beam descends; the crank turns; the

vast paddles revolve, and the monster walks away through the water with

its enormous burden, having leaped suddenly, at its first breath, into

the complete and full possession of its gigantic powers.

[Illustration: DEPARTURE OF THE PACIFIC FOR EUROPE.]

In due time the equipment is complete, and the ship having received on

board its burden of costly cargo and valuable lives, moves away from

the shore, with a certain expression of calm and quiet dignity in her

appearance and demeanor, which almost seems to denote a consciousness on

her part of the vast responsibilities which she is assuming, and of the

abundant power which she possesses fully to sustain them all.

CHARLES WOLFE.

It is probable that to many of our readers the name which stands at the

head of this sketch is unknown, and that those who recognize it will

only know it as that of the author of the well-known lines upon the

death of Sir John Moore--a lyric of such surpassing beauty, that so

high a judge as Lord Byron considered it the perfection of English

lyrical poetry, preferring it before Coleridge's lines on

Switzerland--Campbell's Hohenlinden--and the finest of Moore's Irish

melodies, which were instanced by Shelley and others. Yet, unknown as

the Rev. Charles Wolfe is, it is unquestionable that he was a man

possessing the highest powers of imagination, and a powerful intellect,

cultivated to a very high point of perfection, and fitting him to become

one of the brightest stars of the world of literature. Why he is unknown

is then probably a question which will suggest itself to the minds of

many, and the answer must be, because he _did_ so little for the world

to remember him by. The whole of his literary remains, including his

sermons, and a biographical sketch, which fills one half of the book, is

contained in a moderate sized octavo volume, published after his death

by the Rev. J. A. Russell, Archdeacon of Clogher, whose affection for

the memory of Mr. Wolfe prompted him to edit and give to the world the

fragmentary manuscripts, which are the only lasting and appreciable

records of the residence of a great spirit among us. But it may be asked

why, with such capabilities and powers as we have stated Mr. Wolfe to

possess, he did so little? and to that interrogation many replies may be

given. Mr. Wolfe died at the early age of 32, just when the powers are

in their full vigor--and in the later years of his life he had devoted

himself enthusiastically to the duties which devolved upon him as the

curate of a large and populous parish in the north of Ireland. Neither

of these reasons, however, is sufficient, for we know that the poetic

intellect is precocious, and brings forth fruit early. Shelley, who died

younger, left productions behind him, which will hand his name down to

the latest posterity; and the comparatively voluminous writings of the

witty dean, Sidney Smith, prove that a man may bear the weight of the

clerical office, and take an active part in politics in addition, and

yet leave enough behind him to keep his name green in the memory of the

world.

The true reason why Mr. Wolfe did so little is no doubt to be found in

the character of his mind, and this is easily traceable, both in the

mild, child-like, almost simple, but intelligent expression of the

portrait which forms a frontispiece to the volume to which we have

adverted, and in most of the passages of his life. There was a want of

strong resolution, and an absence of concentration so marked, that he

seldom read completely through even those books which most deeply

interested him--there was a nervous susceptibility, and an openness to

new impressions, which caused him as it were to dwell upon every passage

he did read, to linger over its beauties, to start objections to its

theories, to argue them out, and to develop to its fullest every

suggestive thought; and there was in him a spirit of good-nature

trenching upon weak compliance, which put his time at the service of all

who chose to thrust employment upon him. Added to this, and arising out

of his want of steady resolution and earnest will, there was a habit of

putting off till to-morrow what should be done to-day, of which he was

himself fully sensible, and which he speaks of in one of his letters, as

that "fatal habit of delay and procrastination, for which I am so

pre-eminently distinguished."

Charles Wolfe was the youngest son of Theobald Wolfe, Esq., of

Blackball, in the County of Kildare, Ireland, and was born in Dublin on

the 13th of December, 1791. The family was not unknown to fame, for the

celebrated General Wolfe, who fell at Quebec, was one of its members,

and Lord Kilwarden, an eminent man at the Irish bar, and who was

afterward elevated to the dignity of a judgeship, was another. At an

early age the father of our hero died, and the family removed to

England, where Charles Wolfe was sent to a school at Bath. Here,

however, at the age of ten years, his studies were interrupted by

failing health for a period of twelve months. After that, he was in the

establishment of Dr. Evans, of Salisbury; and in 1805 we find him at

Winchester school, under the superintendence of Mr. Richards, senior.

Here he became conspicuous for his classical knowledge, and his great

powers of versification, which gave promise of future excellence. What

appears more distinctly, though, than his mental ability at this age,

was the amiability of his disposition, and the tractability of his

nature. His kindness, cheerfulness, and open sympathy drew to him the

love of his fellows; and the esteem in which he was held by his masters

may be judged from the fact, that during the whole period of his

pupilage his conduct never drew down upon him punishment, or even a

reprimand. His tender and affectionate disposition endeared him to his

own family, with whom he was an especial favorite; and in connection

with this, we may mention one circumstance strongly indicative of his

yielding character. In spite of his gentle nature, he, animated no doubt

by that desire for glory so common to poetical minds, and which, looking

on the brighter side of war, hides its terrors and its horrors from the

young and ardent, wished to enter the army; but finding that the idea

gave pain to his mother, he immediately abandoned the notion, and

appears from thenceforth to have looked upon the clerical office as his

destined part in life. Strange transition, from the aspiration to carry

forth death and destruction to that of being the bearer of the glad

tidings of "peace on earth, and good-will toward men." The change,

however, is one which we believe to be not unfrequent. The same desire

for fame urges men to the bar, the pulpit, and the tented field, and but

for maternal love, Charles Wolfe, carrying with him that martial spirit

which now and then breaks out in his poetry, might have been like his

namesake, the General, a blood-stained hero, instead of a peaceful,

loving Irish curate. So powerful are circumstances to mould man's

fate--and Wolfe was of that mould on which circumstances act with

peculiar force. Had he been a soldier, it may be that the occupation

would have strengthened his _physique_ at the expense of his mentality,

and that his bodily powers, unimpaired by sedentary habits, would have

carried him on to a good old age. There is food for reflection in that

idea, of how every course in life has its mixed good and evil.

In 1808 the family returned to Ireland, and in 1809 Charles Wolfe became

a student of Dublin University. Here his classical learning and poetical

attainments soon made him conspicuous, and he carried off prizes from

the most distinguished of his competitors. The Historical Society of the

University, the object of which was the cultivation of history, poetry,

and oratory, also afforded him scope for the display of his talents, and

gave him opportunity to win several medals and prizes. Most of the few

poetical efforts of Mr. Wolfe were made at this period, including the

Death of Sir John Moore, and a beautiful song, connected with which is

an anecdote so strikingly characteristic of the nature of the author's

mind, and so indicative of his extreme sensibility, that it is worth

notice.

He was particularly open to the influence of music, and one of his

favorite melodies was the popular Irish air "Gramachree," to which, at

the request of a friend, he wrote the following song:

"If I had thought thou could'st have died,

I might not weep for thee:

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be:

It never through my mind had pass'd,

The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,

And thou should'st smile no more!

"And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain!

But when I speak thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

"If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold, and all serene--

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave--

And I am now alone.

"I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore."

His friends asked him whether he had any real incident in his mind which

suggested the stanzas; he said, "he had not; but that he had sung the

air over and over, till he burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he

composed the words."

In the first year of Mr. Wolfe's attendance at the university, death

took his mother, to whom he was most affectionately attached--an event

which for some time interrupted his studies, and when he resumed them,

he did not manifest much inclination to apply himself to the exact

sciences. Here, however, that kindness of disposition which made him

more useful to others than to himself, and induced him to neglect his

own interests, and lend himself to those of his friends with an almost

fatal facility, came to his aid, and stood him in good stead. The desire

to assist a less gifted acquaintance impelled him to study more

strenuously than he would have done, for his own benefit, and had the

effect of so drawing out his own talents for scientific pursuits, that

at an examination upon the severer sciences he carried away the prize

from a host of talented candidates. Soon after, when his straitened

circumstances induced him to become a college tutor, he found the

benefit of his scientific acquirements; but in that capacity his

amiability of character was a disadvantage to him, for he was so anxious

for the progress of his pupils, and so prodigal of his time and labor

upon them, that he had but little opportunity for his own studies, or

for relaxation.

After the usual period at the university, Mr. Wolfe took a scholarship,

with the highest honors, and went into residence, and in 1814 he took

the degree of Bachelor of Arts. His friends, seeing the talents he

evinced for scientific pursuits, urged him to read for a fellowship, and

for some time he prosecuted his studies with marked effect; but the want

of the power of continuous application, and intense concentration, made

him the sport of every trifling interruption, and the habit he had of

throwing aside books partly read, and dwelling upon striking passages

and disputable theories, impeded his progress. It is probable, however,

that with his great mental facilities, a less amount of exertion would

have sufficed than with less gifted students, and that despite his want

of industrial energy, and his unfavorable habits of mind, he would have

succeeded, but he was doomed to be disappointed in a manner which must

have had a very depressing effect on a mind constituted as his was. He

had formed an intimacy with a family in the vicinity of Dublin, and

while his visits to the beautiful scenery in which their dwelling was

situated, stimulated his poetical faculties, the charms of a daughter of

the house touched the sensitive heart of the young scholar. The

attachment was mutual, and ripened apace, but his want of "prospects"

induced the prudent parents to break off the intimacy. The expectant

fellowship indeed would have afforded him sufficient means, but a

barbarous statute was in force which imposed celibacy upon the fellows,

and barred his hopes. If this disappointment had happened to a man of

strong resolute will it would, in all likelihood, after the first shock

was over, have thrown him back upon his studies more determinedly than

ever, but on a nature like that of our hero, it had the contrary effect.

It damped his ardor, he lost both his mistress and the chance of

preferment; and, turning to religion for consolation, he was ordained in

November, 1817, and shortly after was engaged in temporary duty in the

North of Ireland, and finally settled as curate of Donoughmore, where he

continued the greater part of the remainder of his life.

For the occupation of the ministry, Mr. Wolfe, notwithstanding his

youthful military tendency and love of society, was eminently fitted.

His mind was naturally of a devotional cast, and fitted peculiarly for

his new position. He was thoroughly in earnest--the strong impulse

supplied by intense devotional feeling served to counteract his want of

application. The kindness of his heart, and the desire to serve others,

which was so prominent a feature of his mind, made him untiring; the

dislike of contest which marked him led him to dwell on the vital points

common to all religions, and avoid controversial ground. That want of

self-esteem, too, which at the university had ever made him distrustful

of his own powers, and kept him from claiming the stanzas on Sir John

Moore, when they were claimed by, or attributed to others, induced him

to converse familiarly with the peasant, and to submit to contradiction

and even insult from those who, both socially and intellectually, were

inferior to himself. Add to this, that he thoroughly understood the

Irish character, which had many points in common with his own impulsive

versatile nature, and it may be conceived how influential he was in his

remote curacy. Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic, all gathered round him

and often filled his little church, listening to his concise,

plain-spoken sermons, which far oftener treated of the hopes and mercies

than the terrors and punishments of Christianity, and in his parish

school the children of all denominations were taught together. This,

however, was not to last long. He had applied himself too assiduously to

his task for his physical strength. Oppressed with a sense of the

responsibility of his position he had, upon entering upon the ministry,

given up all thoughts of literature. He lived in an old, half-furnished

house, slept in a damp room, and traversed bog and moor on foot in all

weathers to visit his flock. Under these labors the latent tendency of

his constitution developed itself, his cough became day by day more

violent, and in 1821 it was evident that consumption had laid its hand

upon its prey. Still he was unwilling to retire from his ministry, and

it was only in compliance with the reiterated entreaties of his friends

that he at last proceeded to Scotland to consult a celebrated physician.

His return to his parish after that short absence proved the estimation

in which he was held among the people. As he rode by the cabins of the

peasantry, the occupants rushed out, and, with all the impulsive

devotion of the Irish toward those whom they regard as benefactors, fell

upon their knees, and invoked blessings upon him, and pursued the

carriage in which he rode, with fervent prayers. His health, however,

still continued to fail, and his friends at length persuaded him to

remove to Dublin, where he continued to preach occasionally, till his

physician forbade such effort, and to use his own words, "stripped him

of his gown." Toward the winter of 1821, it was thought advisable to

remove him to Bordeaux for a time, but adverse gales twice drove him

back to Holyhead, and he suffered so much from fatigue and sea-sickness

that it appeared best to locate him near Exeter, where he staid till the

spring of 1822, in the house of a clergyman, whose practice among the

poor had qualified him to act the part of a physician to the invalid. In

the spring, apparently somewhat improved, he returned to Dublin, and in

the summer made a short voyage to Bordeaux, where he staid about a

month. He then again returned to Dublin, and from that time steadily

declined. In November, 1822, accompanied by a relative and the Rev. Mr.

Russell, his biographer, he removed to the Cove of Cork, but all efforts

to recruit his failing strength were unavailing, and he expired there on

the 21st of February, 1823, in the 32d year of his age. About a

twelvemonth previous to his death, he had been preferred to the

important curacy of Armagh, but he never lived to visit his new parish.

All the letters written during his protracted illness prove his

amiability, and the patience with which he suffered, as well as the

ardor of the Christian faith on which he so confidently leaned, and few

men were more sincerely mourned by a large number of devoted and

admiring friends.

Charles Wolfe was one of those characters eminently fitted to make good

men, but destitute of some of the qualities for what the world calls

greatness. He was a high type of that class who form the cynosure of

their own peculiar circles, where they are admired as much for the

kindliness of their nature as the extent of their attainments, and the

power and versatility of their talents. But wanting the self-esteem, the

unwavering self-confidence, the perseverance and unshaken resolution

which go to make up greatness, he possessed in an eminent degree those

kindly sympathies, tender feelings, and that earnest devotion to the

interests and wishes of his fellows, which among friends and intimates

make goodness so much more lovable than greatness.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

(_Continued from Page 478._)

CHAPTER XXVI.

A REMNANT OF "FONTENOY."

There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The

short, dry cough, the little husky "ay," that sounded like any thing

rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and,

more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd gray eyes, told

me that I had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and

that he read me through and through.

"And so," said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my

shipwreck, "and so the Flemish sailors wear spurs?"

"Spurs! of course not; why should they?" asked I, in some astonishment.

"Well, but don't they?" asked he again.

"No such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it."

"So I thought," rejoined he; "and when I looked at yer 'honor's' boots

(it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference),

and saw the marks on the heel for spurs, I soon knew how much of a

sailor you were."

"And if not a sailor, what am I, then?" asked I; for, in the loneliness

of the mountain region where we walked, I could afford to throw off my

disguise without risk.

"Ye'r a French officer of dragoons, and God bless ye; but ye'r young to

be at the trade. Arn't I right now?"

"Not very far from it certainly, for I am a lieutenant of hussars," said

I, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always feel

on the mention of our corps.

"I knew it well all along," said he, coolly; "the way you stood in the

room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how ye believed me when I

spoke of the spring tides, and the moon only in her second quarter, I

saw you never was a sailor anyhow. And so I set a-thinking what you

were. You were too silent for a peddler, and your hands were too white

to be in the smuggling trade; but when I saw your boots, I had the

secret at once, and knew ye were one of the French army that landed the

other day at Killala."

"It was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!" said I,

laughing.

"Arrah, what use would it be?" replied he; "sure ye'r too straight in

the back, and your walk is too reg'lar, and your toes turns in too much,

for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray

you!"

"So it seems; then I must try some other disguise," said I, "if I'm to

keep company with people as shrewd as you are."

"You needn't," said he, shaking his head, doubtfully; "any that wants to

betray ye, wouldn't find it hard."

I was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed

my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without

speaking.

"Yez came too late, four months too late," said he, with a sorrowful

gesture of the hands. "When the Wexford boys was up, and the Kildare

chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the North, then, indeed, a

few thousand French down here in the West would have made a differ; but

what's the good in it now? The best men we had are hanged, or in jail;

some are frightened; more are traitors! 'Tis too late--too late!"

"But not too late for a large force, landing in the North, to rouse the

island to another effort for liberty."

"Who would be the gin'ral?" asked he, suddenly.

"Napper Tandy, your own countryman," replied I, proudly.

"I wish ye luck of him!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "'tis more like

mocking us than any thing else the French does be, with the chaps they

sent here to be gin'rals. Sure it isn't Napper Tandy, nor a set of young

lawyers, like Tone and the rest of them, we wanted. It was men that knew

how to drill and manage troops--fellows that was used to fightin'; so

that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it,

at laste. I'm ould enough to remimber the 'Wild Geese,' as they used to

call them--the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in

France; and I remimber, too, the sort of men the French were that came

over to inspect them--soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them: and a

fine sarvice it was. Volle-face!" cried he, holding himself erect, and

shouldering his stick like a musket; "marche! Ha, ha! ye didn't think

_that_ was in me; but I was at the thrade long before you were born."

"How is this," said I, in amazement, "you were not in the French army?"

"Wasn't I, though? maybe I didn't get that stick there." And he bared

his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from

a Highlander's bayonet. "I was at Fontenoy!"

The last few words he uttered, with a triumphant pride, that I shall

never forget. As for me, the mere name was magical. "Fontenoy" was like

one of those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it

almost seemed impossible that I should see before me a soldier of that

glorious battle.

"Ay, faith!" he added, "'tis more than fifty, 'tis nigh sixty years now

since that, and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in the

regiment 'Tourville;' I was recruited for the 'Wellon,' but they

scattered us about among the other corps afterward, because we used now

and then to be fighting and quarrelin' among one an' other. Well, it was

the Wellons that gained the battle; for after the English was in the

village of Fontenoy, and the French was falling back upon the heights

near the wood--arrah, what's the name of the wood?--sure I'll forget my

own name next. Ay, to be sure, Verzon--the 'wood of Verzon.' Major

Jodillon--that's what the French called him, but his name was Joe

Wellon--turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a

farm-house, and, making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire

on the English column. It was loaded with grape, and at half-musket

range, so you may think what a peppering they got. At last the column

halted, and lay down; and Joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to

bring up artillery to silence our guns. A few minutes more, and it would

be all over with us. So Joe shouts out as loud as he could, 'Cavalry

there! tell off by threes, and prepare to charge!' I needn't tell you

that the devil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time;

but the English didn't know that; and, hearin' the order, up they jumps,

and we heerd the word passin', 'Prepare to receive cavalry!' They formed

square at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a

charge as tore a lane right through the middle of them. Before they

could recover, we opened a platoon fire on their flank; they staggered,

broke, and at last fell back in disorder upon Aeth, with the whole of

the French army after them. Such firin'--grape, round-shot, and

musketry--I never seed afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it

was more like a hunt nor any thing else; for ye see the Dutch never came

up, but left the English to do all the work themselves, and that's the

reason they couldn't form, for they had no supportin' colum'.

"It was then I got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin'

that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye

see, there's nothin' so treacherous as a Highlander. I was just behind

one, and had my sword-point between his blade-hones, ready to run him

through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under

the short ribs, and that was all I saw of the battle; for I bled till I

fainted, and never knew more of what happened. 'Tisn't by way of making

little of Frenchmen I say it, for I sarved too long wid them for

_that_--but sorra taste of that victory ever they'd see if it wasn't for

the Wellons, and Major Joe that commanded them! The English knows it

well, too! Maybe they don't do us many a spite for it to this very day!"

"And what became of you after that?"

"The same summer I came over to Scotland with the young Prince Charles,

and was at the battle of Preston-pans afterward; and, what's worse, I

was at Culloden! Oh, that was the terrible day! We were dead bate before

we began the battle. We were on the march from one o'clock the night

before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! We lost our way

twice; and, after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves

opposite a mill-dam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides

led us all astray! Then came ordhers to wheel about face, and go back

again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and

almost faintin' with hunger. Some of us had nothing to eat for two

days, and the Prince, I seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a

wooden measure of whiskey for his own breakfast. Well, it's no use

talking, we were bate, and we retreated to Inverness that night, and

next morning we surrendered and laid down our arms--that is, the

'Regiment du Tournay,' and the 'Voltigeurs de Metz,' the corps I was in

myself."

"And did you return to France?"

"No; I made my way back to Ireland, and after loiterin' about home some

time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, I took sarvice

with one Mister Brooke, of Castle Brooke, in Fermanagh, a young man that

was just come of age, and as great a devil, God forgive me, as ever was

spawned. He was a Protestant, but he didn't care much about one side or

the other, but only wanted divarsion and his own fun out of the world;

and faix he took it, too! He had plenty of money, was a fine man to look

at, and had courage to face a lion!

"The first place we went to was Aix-la-Chapelle, for Mr. Brooke was

named something--I forget what--to Lord Sandwich, that was going there

as an embassador. It was a grand life there while it lasted. Such

liveries, such coaches, such elegant dinners every day, I never saw even

in Paris. But my master was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he

did. There was an ould Austrian there--a Count Riedensegg was his

name--and he was always plottin' and schamin' with this, that, and the

other; buyin' up the sacrets of others, and gettin' at their sacret

papers one way or the other; and at last he begins to thry the same game

with us; and as he saw that Mr. Brooke was very fond of high play, and

would bet any thing one offered him, the ould Count sends for a great

gambler from Vienna, the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a

card. Ye may have heerd of him, tho' 'twas long ago that he lived, for

he was well known in them times. He was the Baron von Breckendorf, and a

great friend afterward of the Prince Ragint and all the other blaguards

in London.

"Well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with dispatches, they

said, but sorrow other dispatch he carried nor some packs of marked

cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he

puts up at the Grand Hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries, and

as much state as a prince. That very day Mr. Brooke dined with the

count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards;

and, pretending to be only playin' for silver, they were betting a

hundred guineas on every game.

"I always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few was

equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my

conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould Nick was playin' he

couldn't do the thrick nater nor the baron. He made every thing come up

just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades,

or the knave of clubs, there it was for you.

"Most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein' the luck so dead agin'

them, and every thing goin' so bad, but my master only smiled, and kept

muttering to himself, 'Faix, it's beautiful; by my conscience it is

elegant; I never saw any body could do it like that.' At last the baron

stops and asks, 'What is it he's saying to himself?' 'I'll tell you

by-and-by,' says my master, 'when we're done playing;' and so on they

went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn't very far

from a thousand pounds on a single card. At the end, Mr. Brooke lost

every thing, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says

to him, 'Double or quit?' and he tuk it.

"This time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts;

and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one

as his own. The baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal, 'Wait,'

says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper;

'wait,' says he, 'what are ye doin' there wid your thumb?' for sure

enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack.

"'Do you mane to insult me,' says the baron, getting mighty red, and

throwing down the cards on the table, 'Is that what you're at?'

"'Go on with the deal,' says Mr. Brooke, quietly; 'but listen to me,'

and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, 'as sure as you turn the

king of hearts I'll send a bullet through your skull! Go on now, and

don't rise from that seat till you've finished the game.' Faix, he just

did as he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and

gettin' up from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there

was no more seen of him in Aix-la-Chapelle. But that wasn't the end of

it, for scarce was the baron two posts on his journey, when my master

sends in his name, and says he wants to speak to Count Riedensegg. There

was a long time, and a great debatin', I believe, whether they'd let him

in or not; for the count couldn't make if it was mischief he was after;

but at last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed.

"'Count,' says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was

alone, 'Count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a

baron--an ould blaguard that's as well known as Freney, the robber--but

I forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. I know

well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our dispatches--there, ye

needn't look cross and angry--why wouldn't ye do it, just as the baron

always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. Well,

now, I'm just in the humor to sarve you. They're not trating me as they

ought here, and I'm going away, and if you'll give me a few letthers to

some of the pretty women in Vienna, Kateuka Batthyani, and Amalia

Gradoffsky, and one or two men in the best set, I'll send you in return

something will surprise you.'

"It was after a long time and great batin' about the bush, that the ould

count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he

consented.

"'There it is,' says Mr. Brooke, 'there's the whole key to our

correspondence, study it well, and I'll bring you a sacret dispatch in

the evening--something that will surprise you.'

"'Ye will--will ye?' says the count.

"'On the honor of an Irish gentleman, I will,' says Mr. Brooke.

"The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the

princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the

elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met;

and telling them to treat him with every consideration.

"'There will be another account of me,' says the master to me, 'by the

post; but I'll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no

more.'

"And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna,

without lave or license, and that's the way he got dismissed from his

situation."

"And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him

any intelligence?"

"He kept his word like a gentleman; he promised him something that would

surprise him, and so he did. He sent him the weddin' of Ballyporeen in

cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they've never got to

the right understandin' it yet."

"I'm curious to hear how he was received in Vienna after this," said I.

"I suppose you accompanied him to that city."

"Troth I did, and a short life we led there; but here we are now, at the

end of our journey. That's Father Doogan's down there, that small, low,

thatched house in the hollow."

"A lonely spot, too. I don't see another near it for miles on any side."

"Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes

isn't over good; but I don't think there's any smoke coming out of the

chimley."

"You are right--there is not."

"He's not at home, then, and that's a bad job for us, for there's not

another place to stop the night in."

"But there will be surely some one in the house."

"Most likely not; 'tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when

he's at home, and I'm sure he's not there now."

This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much

brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a

rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze,

intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak

forest. A brown, mournful tint was over every thing--sky and landscape

alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining

course along, took the same color from the gravelly bed it flowed over.

Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and

still.

"There's few would like to pass their lives down there, then!" said my

companion, as if speaking to himself.

"I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters."

"Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the

county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He's a friar

of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he

could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there

wasn't his equal, for other tongues, in all Europe. They wanted him to

stop and be the head of a college somewhere in Spain, but he wouldn't.

'There was work to do in Ireland,' he said, and there he'd go, and to

the wildest and laste civilized bit of it besides; and ye see that he

was not far out in his choice when he took Murrah."

"Is he much liked here by the people?"

"They'd worship him, if he'd let them, that's what it is; for if he has

more larnin' and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in Ireland,

there's not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. He that

knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the

world's going, and what's comin' afther her, hasn't a thought for the

wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! He could tell

you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment,

and I don't think he'd know which end of the spade goes into the

ground."

While we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the

windows, was closely barred and fastened. The great padlock, however, on

the former, with characteristic acuteness, was locked without being

hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the

fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter.

A roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall;

and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once

proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact

of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunder storm had already

burst, and the rain was swooping along in torrents.

While he was thus busied I took a ramble through the little cabin,

curious to see something of the "interior" of one whose life had already

interested me. There were but two small chambers, one at either side of

the kitchen. The first I entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being

a common bed, or a tressel like that of an hospital, a little colored

print of St. Michael adorning the wall overhead. The bed-covering was

cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and

the black "soutane" of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show

long years of service. The few articles of any pretension to comfort

were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some

well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and

a few pencil-drawings, appeared. All seemed as if he had just quitted

the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished

sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within the leaves of a little

book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it, still

waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly enough

betrayed it to be by his own hands.

I inspected every thing with an interest inspired by all I had been

hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his

humble library to trace, if I might, some clew to his habits in his

readings. They were all, however, of one cast and character--religious

tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing,

by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. It was easy to see

that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he

permitted himself to indulge. What a strange life of privation, thought

I, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the

sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and

unpromising, I perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there

hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk.

Curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, I drew

aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little colored

sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry and

much-worn uniform of a drummer. I started. Something flashed suddenly

across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not unknown

to me. Was I awake, or were my senses misleading me? I took it down and

held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands permitted, I

spelled out, at the foot of the drawing, the words "Le Petit Maurice, as

I saw him last." Yes: it was my own portrait, and the words were in the

writing of my dearest friend in the world, the Pere Michael. Scarce

knowing what I did, I ransacked books and papers on every side, to

confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found, I

had no difficulty in recognizing his hand, now so forcibly recalled to

my memory.

Hastening into the kitchen, I told my guide, that I must set out to

Murrah at once, that it was above all important that I should see the

priest immediately. It was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the

fatigue of going further, that the storm was increasing, the mountain

torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be

discovered after dark; I could not brook the thought of delay, and would

not listen to the detail of difficulties. "I must see him and I will,"

were my answers to every obstacle. If I were resolved on one side, _he_

was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience

all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me

unconvinced, he boldly declared that I might go alone, if I would, but

that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any

one.

There was nothing in the shape of argument I did not essay. I tried

bribery, I tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all--and all with the

like result. "Wherever he is to-night, he'll not leave it, that's

certain," was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and I retired

beaten from the contest, and disheartened. Twice I left the cottage,

resolved to go alone and unaccompanied, but the utter darkness of the

night, the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me

the impracticability of the attempt, and I retraced my steps

crest-fallen and discomfited. The most intense curiosity to know how and

by what chances he had come to Ireland mingled with my ardent desire to

meet him. What stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! Nor was it

without pride that I bethought me of the position I then held--an

officer of a Hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and

high on the list for promotion. If I hoped, too, that many of the good

father's prejudices against the career I followed would give way to the

records of my own past life, I also felt how, in various respects, I had

myself conformed to many of his notions. We should be dearer, closer

friends than ever. This I knew and was sure of.

I never slept the whole night through; tired and weary as the day's

journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and I

walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out,

and peer for coming dawn! Never did hours lag so lazily. The darkness

seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was

through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an

atmosphere loaded with vapor.

"This is a day for the chimney corner, and thankful to have it we ought

to be," said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which he

was preparing our breakfast. "Father Doogan will be home here afore

night, I'm sure, and as we have nothing better to do, I'll tell you some

of our old adventures when I lived with Mr. Brooke. 'Twill sarve to pass

the time, any way."

"I'm off to Murrah, as soon as I have eaten something," replied I.

"'Tis little you know what a road it is," said he, smiling dubiously.

"'Tis four mountain rivers you'd have to cross, two of them, at least,

deeper than your head, and there's the pass of Barnascorny, where you'd

have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of feet

below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four! There's

never a man in the barony would venture over the same path, with a storm

ragin' from the nor'west."

"I never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain," said I,

laughing contemptuously.

"Arrah, didn't ye then? then maybe ye never tried in parts where the

heaviest plows and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin are

flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn out of

the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the spars of a

shipwreck."

"But so long as a man has hands to grip with."

"How ye talk; sure when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by the

roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their

place; when the very shingle on the mountain side is flyin' about like

dust and sand, where would your grip be? It is not only on the mountains

either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that

the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many's the time a

sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea."

With many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little meal

of potatoes. Some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary

habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes

supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence,

but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. He displayed

all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on

unwilling ears, and when our meal was over I started up and began to

prepare for the road.

"So you will go, will you?" said he, peevishly. "'Tis in your country to

be obstinate, so I'll say nothing more; but maybe 'tis only into

throubles you'd be running after all!"

"I'm determined on it," said I, "and I only ask you to tell me what road

to take."

"There is only one, so there is no mistakin' it; keep to the sheep path,

and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye

can, and when ye come to four big rocks in the plain leave them to your

left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, 'till ye see the

smoke of the village underneath you. Murrah is a small place, and ye'll

have to look out sharp or maybe ye'll miss it."

"That's enough," said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed

it. "We'll probably meet no more; good-by, and many thanks for your

pleasant company."

"No, we're not like to meet again," said he, thoughtfully, "and that's

the reason I'd like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me now," said he,

drawing closer and talking in a whisper; "you can't go far in this

country without being known; 'tisn't your looks alone, but your voice,

and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as

you can! there's thraitors in every cause, and there's chaps in Ireland

would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry!

Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Isla or Barra; get any where out

of this for the time."

"Thanks for the counsel," said I, somewhat coldly, "I'll have time to

think over it as I go along," and with these words I set forth on my

journey.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"THE CRANAGH."

I will not weary my reader with a narrative of my mountain walk, nor the

dangers and difficulties which beset me on that day of storm and

hurricane. Few as were the miles to travel, what with accidents,

mistakes of the path, and the halts to take shelter, I only reached

Murrah as the day was declining.

The little village, which consisted of some twenty cabins, occupied a

narrow gorge between two mountains, and presented an aspect of greater

misery than I had ever witnessed before, not affording even the humblest

specimen of a house of entertainment. From some peasants that were

lounging in the street I learned that "Father Doogan" had passed through

two days before in company with a naval officer, whom they believed to

be French. At least, "he came from one of the ships in the Lough, and

could speak no English." Since that the priest had not returned, and

many thought that he had gone away forever. This story, varied in a few

unimportant particulars, I heard from several; and also learned that a

squadron of several sail had, for three or four days, been lying at the

entrance of Lough Swilly, with, it was said, large reinforcements for

the "army of independence." There was then no time to be lost: here was

the very force which I had been sent to communicate with; there were the

troops that should at that moment be disembarking. The success of my

mission might all depend now on a little extra exertion, and so I at

once engaged a guide to conduct me to the coast, and having fortified

myself with a glass of mountain whiskey, I felt ready for the road. My

guide could only speak a very little English; so that our way was passed

in almost unbroken silence; and, as for security, he followed the least

frequented paths, we scarcely met a living creature as we went. It was

with a strange sense of half pride, half despondency, that I bethought

me of my own position there--a Frenchman, alone, and separated from his

countrymen--in a wild mountain region of Ireland, carrying about him

documents that, if detected, might peril his life; involved in a cause

that had for its object the independence of a nation; and that against

the power of the mightiest kingdom in Europe. An hour earlier or later,

an accident by the way, a swollen torrent, a chance impediment of any

kind that should delay me--and what a change might that produce in the

whole destiny of the world. The dispatches I carried conveyed

instructions the most precise and accurate--the places for combined

action of the two armies--information as to the actual state of parties,

and the condition of the native forces, was contained in them. All that

could instruct the newly-come generals, or encourage them to decisive

measures were there; and, yet, on what narrow contingencies did their

safe arrival depend! It was thus, in exaggerating to myself the part I

played--in elevating my humble position into all the importance of a

high trust--that I sustained my drooping spirits, and acquired energy to

carry me through fatigue and exhaustion. During that night, and the

greater part of the following day, we walked on, almost without halt,

scarcely eating, and, except by an occasional glass of whisky, totally

unrefreshed; and I am free to own, that my poor guide--a bare-legged

youth of about seventeen, without any of those high-sustaining illusions

which stirred within my heart--suffered far less either from hunger or

weariness than _I_ did. So much for motives. A shilling or two were

sufficient to equalize the balance against all the weight of my heroism

and patriotic ardor together!

A bright sun, and a sharp wind from the north, had succeeded to the

lowering sky and heavy atmosphere of the morning, and we traveled along

with light hearts and brisk steps, breasting the side of a deep ascent,

from the summit of which my guide told me, I should behold the sea--the

sea, not only the great plain on which I expected to see our armament,

but the link which bound me to my country! Suddenly, just as I turned

the angle of a cliff, it burst upon my sight--one vast mirror of golden

splendor--appearing almost at my feet! In the yellow gleams of a setting

sun, long columns of azure-colored light streaked its calm surface, and

tinged the atmosphere with a warm and rosy hue. While I was lost in

admiration of the picture, I heard the sound of voices close beneath me,

and, on looking down, saw two figures who, with telescopes in hand, were

steadily gazing on a little bay that extended toward the west.

At first, my attention was more occupied by the strangers than by the

object of their curiosity, and I remarked that they were dressed and

equipped like sportsmen, their guns and game-bags lying against the rock

behind them.

"Do you still think that they are hovering about the coast, Tom?" said

the elder of the two, "or are you not convinced, at last, that I am

right?"

"I believe you are," replied the other; "but it certainly did not look

like it yesterday evening, with their boats rowing ashore every half

hour, signals flying, and blue lights burning; all seemed to threaten a

landing."

"If they ever thought of it, they soon changed their minds," said the

former. "The defeat of their comrades in the west, and the apathy of the

peasantry here, would have cooled down warmer ardor than theirs. There

they go, Tom. I only hope that they'll fall in with Warren's squadron,

and French insolence receive at sea the lesson we failed to give them on

land."

"Not so," rejoined the younger; "Humbert's capitulation, and the total

break-up of the expedition ought to satisfy even your patriotism."

"It fell far short of it, then!" cried the other. "I'd never have

treated those fellows other than as bandits and freebooters. I'd have

hanged them as highwaymen. There was less war than rapine; but what

could you expect? I have been assured that Humbert's force consisted of

little other than liberated felons and galley slaves--the refuse of the

worst population of Europe!"

Distracted with the terrible tidings I had overheard--overwhelmed with

the sight of the ships, now glistening like bright specks on the verge

of the horizon, I forgot my own position--my safety--every thing but the

insult thus cast upon my gallant comrades.

"Whoever said so was a liar, and a base coward, to boot!" cried I,

springing down from the height and confronting them both where they

stood. They started back, and, seizing their guns, assumed an attitude

of defense, and then, quickly perceiving that I was alone--for the boy

had taken to flight as fast as he could--they stood regarding me with

faces of intense astonishment.

"Yes," said I, still boiling with passion, "you are two to one, on your

own soil besides, the odds you are best used to; and yet I repeat it,

that he who asperses the character of General Humbert's force is a

liar."

"He's French."

"No, he's Irish," muttered the elder. "What signifies my country, sirs,"

cried I passionately, "if I demand retraction for a falsehood."

"It signifies more than you think of, young man," said the elder,

calmly, and without evincing even the slightest irritation in his

manner. "If you be a Frenchman born, the lenity of our government

accords you the privilege of a prisoner of war. If you be only French by

adoption, and a uniform, a harsher destiny awaits you."

"And who says I am a prisoner yet?" asked I, drawing myself up, and

staring them steadily in the face.

"We should be worse men, and poorer patriots, than you give us credit

for, or we should be able to make you so," said he quietly, "but this is

no case for ill-temper on either side. The expedition has failed. Well,

if you will not believe _me_, read that. There, in that paper, you will

see the official account of General Humbert's surrender at Boyle. The

news is already over the length and breadth of the island; even if you

only landed last night, I can not conceive how you should be ignorant of

it!" I covered my face with my hands to hide my emotion; and he went on:

"If you be French, you have only to claim and prove your nationality,

and you partake the fortunes of your countrymen."

"And if he be not," whispered the other, in a voice which, although low,

I could still detect, "why should _we_, give him up?"

"Hush, Tom, be quiet," replied the elder, "let him plead for himself."

"Let me see the newspaper," said I, endeavoring to seem calm and

collected; and taking it at the place he pointed out, I read the heading

in capitals, "CAPITULATION OF GENERAL HUMBERT AND HIS WHOLE FORCE." I

could see no more. I could not trace the details of so horrible a

disaster, nor did I ask to know by what means it occurred. My attitude

and air of apparent occupation, however, deceived the other; and the

elder, supposing that I was engaged in considering the paragraph, said,

"You'll see the government proclamation on the other side, a general

amnesty to all under the rank of officers in the rebel army, who give up

their arms within six days. The French to be treated as prisoners of

war."

"Is he too late to regain the fleet," whispered the younger.

"Of course he is. They are already hull down; besides, who's to assist

his escape, Tom? You forget the position he stands in."

"But I do not forget it," answered I, "and you need not be afraid that I

will seek to compromise you, gentlemen. Tell me where to find the

nearest justice of the peace, and I will go and surrender myself."

"It is your wisest and best policy," said the elder; "I am not in the

commission, but a neighbor of mine is, and lives a few miles off, and if

you like we'll accompany you to his house."

I accepted the offer, and soon found myself descending the steep path of

the mountain in perfect good-fellowship with the two strangers. It is

likely enough, that if they had taken any peculiar pains to obliterate

the memory of our first meeting, or if they had displayed any

extraordinary efforts of conciliation, that I should be on my guard

against them; but their manner, on the contrary, was easy and unaffected

in every respect. They spoke of the expedition sensibly and

dispassionately, and while acknowledging that there were many things

they would like to see altered in the English rule of Ireland, they were

very averse from the desire of a foreign intervention to rectify them.

I avowed to them that we had been grossly deceived. That all the

representations made us, depicted Ireland as a nation of soldiers,

wanting only arms and military stores to rise as a vast army. That the

peasantry were animated by one spirit, and the majority of the gentry

willing to hazard every thing on the issue of a struggle. Our Killala

experiences, of which I detailed some, heartily amused them, and it was

in a merry interchange of opinions that we now walked along together.

A cluster of houses, too small to be called a village, and known as the

"Cranagh," stood in a little nook of the bay; and here they lived. They

were brothers; and the elder held some small appointment in the revenue,

which maintained them as bachelors in this cheap country. In a low

conversation that passed between them, it was agreed that they would

detain me as their guest for that evening, and on the morrow accompany

me to the magistrate's house, about five miles distant. I was not sorry

to accept their hospitable offer. I longed for a few hours of rest and

respite before embarking on another sea of troubles. The failure of the

expedition, and the departure of the fleet, had overwhelmed me with

grief, and I was in no mood to confront new perils.

If my new acquaintances could have read my inmost thoughts, their manner

toward me could not have displayed more kindness or good-breeding. Not

pressing me with questions on subjects where the greatest curiosity

would have been permissible, they suffered me to tell only so much as I

wished of our late plans; and as if purposely to withdraw my thoughts

from the unhappy theme of our defeat, led me to talk of France, and her

career in Europe.

It was not without surprise that I saw how conversant the newspapers had

made them with European politics, nor how widely different did events

appear, when viewed from afar off, and by the lights of another and

different nationality Thus all that we were doing on the Continent to

propagate liberal notions, and promote the spread of freedom, seemed to

their eyes but the efforts of an ambitious power to crush abroad what

they had annihilated at home, and extend their own influence in

disseminating doctrines, all to revert, one day or other, to some grand

despotism, whenever the man arose capable to exercise it. The elder

would not even concede to us that we were fit for freedom.

"You are glorious fellows at destroying an old edifice," said he; "but

sorry architects when comes the question of rebuilding; and as to

liberty, your highest notion of it is an occasional anarchy. Like

school-boys, you will bear any tyranny for ten years, to have ten days

of a 'barring out' afterward."

I was not much flattered by these opinions; and what was worse, I could

not get them out of my head all night afterward. Many things I had never

doubted about now kept puzzling and confounding me, and I began, for the

first time, to know the misery of the struggle between implicit

obedience and conviction.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

I went to bed at night in all apparent health; save from the flurry and

excitement of an anxious mind, I was in no respect different from my

usual mood; and yet when I awoke next morning, my head was distracted

with a racking pain, cramps were in all my limbs, and I could not turn

or even move without intense suffering. The long exposure to rain, while

my mind was in a condition of extreme excitement, had brought on an

attack of fever, and before evening set in, I was raving in wild

delirium. Every scene I had passed through, each eventful incident of

my life, came flashing in disjointed portions through my poor brain; and

I raved away of France, of Germany, of the dreadful days of terror, and

the fearful orgies of the "Revolution." Scenes of strife and

struggle--the terrible conflicts of the streets--all rose before me; and

the names of every blood-stained hero of France now mingled with the

obscure titles of Irish insurrection.

What narratives of my early life I may have given--what stories I may

have revealed of my strange career, I can not tell; but the interest my

kind hosts took in me grew stronger every day. There was no care nor

kindness they did not lavish on me. Taking alternate nights to sit up

with me, they watched beside my bed, like brothers. All that affection

could give they rendered me; and even from their narrow fortunes they

paid a physician, who came from a distant town to visit me. When I was

sufficiently recovered to leave my bed, and sit at the window, or stroll

slowly in the garden, I became aware of the full extent to which their

kindness had carried them, and in the precautions for secrecy, I saw the

peril to which my presence exposed them. From an excess of delicacy

toward me, they did not allude to the subject, nor show the slightest

uneasiness about the matter; but day by day some little circumstance

would occur, some slight and trivial fact reveal the state of anxiety

they lived in.

They were averse, too, from all discussion of late events, and either

answered my questions vaguely or with a certain reserve; and when I

hinted at my hope of being soon able to appear before a magistrate and

establish my claim as a French citizen, they replied that the moment was

an unfavorable one; the lenity of the government had latterly been

abused; their gracious intentions misstated and perverted; that, in

fact, a reaction toward severity had occurred, and military law and

courts-martial were summarily disposing of cases that a short time back

would have received the mildest sentences of civil tribunals. It was

clear, from all they said, that if the rebellion was suppressed, the

insurrectionary feeling was not extinguished, and that England was the

very reverse of tranquil on the subject of Ireland.

It was to no purpose that I repeated my personal indifference to all

these measures of severity; that in my capacity as a Frenchman and an

officer, I stood exempt from all the consequences they alluded to. Their

reply was, that in times of trouble and alarm things were done which

quieter periods would never have sanctioned, and that indiscreet and

over-zealous men would venture on acts that neither law nor justice

could substantiate. In fact, they gave me to believe, that such was the

excitement of the moment, such the embittered vengeance of those whose

families or fortunes had suffered by the rebellion, that no reprisals

would be thought too heavy, nor any harshness too great, for those who

aided the movement.

Whatever I might have said against the injustice of this proceeding, in

my secret heart I had to confess that it was only what might have been

expected, and coming from a country where it was enough to call a man an

aristocrat and then cry "a la lanterne," I saw nothing unreasonable in

it all.

My friends, advised me, therefore, instead of preferring any formal

claim to immunity, to take the first occasion of escaping to America,

whence I could not fail, later on, of returning to France. At first, the

counsel only irritated me, but by degrees, as I came to think more

calmly and seriously of the difficulties, I began to regard it in a

different light; and at last I fully concurred in the wisdom of the

advice, and resolved on adopting it.

To sit on the cliffs, and watch the ocean for hours, became now the

practice of my life--to gaze from daybreak almost to the falling of

night over the wide expanse of sea, straining my eyes at each sail, and

conjecturing to what distant shore they were tending. The hopes which at

first sustained, at last deserted me, as week after week passed over,

and no prospect of escape appeared. The life of inactivity gradually

depressed my spirits, and I fell into a low and moping condition, in

which my hours rolled over without thought or notice. Still, I returned

each day to my accustomed spot, a lofty peak of rock that stood over the

sea, and from which the view extended for miles on every side. There,

half hid in the wild heath, I used to lie for hours long, my eyes bent

upon the sea, but my thoughts wandering away to a past that never was to

be renewed, and a future I was never destined to experience.

Although late in the autumn, the season was mild and genial, and the sea

calm and waveless, save along the shore, where, even in the stillest

weather, the great breakers come tumbling in with a force, independent

of storm, and listening to their booming thunder, I have dreamed away

hour after hour unconsciously. It was one day, as I lay thus, that my

attention was caught by the sight of three large vessels on the very

verge of the horizon. Habit had now given me a certain acuteness, and I

could perceive from their height and size that they were ships of war.

For a while they seemed as if steering for the entrance of the "lough,"

but afterward they changed their course, and headed toward the west. At

length they separated, and one of smaller size, and probably a frigate

from her speed, shot forward beyond the rest, and, in less than half an

hour, disappeared from view. The other two gradually sunk beneath the

horizon, and not a sail was to be seen over the wide expanse. While

speculating on what errand the squadron might be employed, I thought I

could hear the deep and rolling sound of distant cannonading. My ear was

too practiced in the thundering crash of the breakers along shore to

confound the noises; and as I listened I fancied that I could

distinguish the sound of single guns from the louder roar of a whole

broadside. This could not mean saluting, nor was it likely to be a mere

exercise of the fleet. They were not times when much powder was expended

unprofitably. Was it then an engagement? But with what or whom? Tandy's

expedition, as it was called, had long since sailed, and must ere this

have been captured or safe in France. I tried a hundred conjectures to

explain the mystery, which now, from the long continuance of the sounds,

seemed to denote a desperately contested engagement. It was not 'till

after three hours that the cannonading ceased, and then I could descry a

thick dark canopy of smoke that hung hazily over one spot in the

horizon, as if marking out the scene of the struggle. With what aching,

torturing anxiety I burned to know what had happened, and with which

side rested the victory.

Well habituated to hear of the English as victors in every naval

engagement, I yet went on hoping against hope itself, that Fortune might

for once have favored us; nor was it till the falling night prevented my

being able to trace out distant objects, that I could leave the spot and

turn homeward. With wishes so directly opposed to theirs, I did not

venture to tell my two friends what I had witnessed, nor trust myself to

speak on a subject where my feelings might have betrayed me into

unseemly expressions of my hopes. I was glad to find that they knew

nothing of the matter, and talked away indifferently of other subjects.

By daybreak, the next morning, I was at my post, a sharp nor'wester

blowing, and a heavy sea rolling in from the Atlantic. Instinctively

carrying my eyes to the spot where I had heard the cannonnade, I could

distinctly see the tops of spars, as if the upper rigging of some

vessels, beyond the horizon. Gradually they rose higher and higher, till

I could detect the yard-arms and cross-trees, and finally the great

hulls of five vessels that were bearing toward me.

For above an hour I could see their every movement, as with all canvas

spread they held on majestically toward the land, when at length a lofty

promontory of the bay intervened, and they were lost to my view. I

jumped to my legs at once, and set off down the cliff to reach the

headland, from whence an uninterrupted prospect extended. The distance

was greater than I had supposed, and in my eagerness to take a direct

line to it, I got entangled in difficult gorges among the hills, and

impeded by mountain torrents which often compelled me to go back a

considerable distance; it was already late in the afternoon as I gained

the crest of a ridge over the Bay of Lough Swilly. Beneath me lay the

calm surface of the lough, landlocked and still; but further out,

seaward, there was a sight that made my very limbs tremble, and sickened

my heart as I beheld it. There was a large frigate, that, with

studding-sails set, stood boldly up the bay, followed by a dismasted

three-decker, at whose mizen floated the ensign of England over the

French "tri-color." Several other vessels were grouped about the offing,

all of them displaying English colors.

The dreadful secret was out. There had been a tremendous sea fight, and

the Hoche, of seventy-four guns, was the sad spectacle which, with

shattered sides and ragged rigging, I now beheld entering the Bay. Oh,

the humiliation of that sight! I can never forget it. And although on

all the surrounding hills scarcely fifty country people were assembled,

I felt as if the whole of Europe were spectators of our defeat. The flag

I had always believed triumphant now hung ignominiously beneath the

ensign of the enemy, and the decks of our noble ship were crowded with

the uniforms of English sailors and marines.

The blue water surged and spouted from the shot holes as the great hull

loomed heavily from side to side, and broken spars and ropes still hung

over the side as she went, a perfect picture of defeat. Never was

disaster more legibly written. I watched her till the anchor dropped,

and then, in a burst of emotion, I turned away, unable to endure more.

As I hastened homeward I met the elder of my two hosts coming to meet

me, in considerable anxiety. He had heard of the capture of the Hoche,

but his mind was far more intent on another and less important event.

Two men had just been at his cottage with a warrant for my arrest. The

document bore my name and rank, as well as a description of my

appearance, and significantly alleged, that although Irish by birth, I

affected a foreign accent for the sake of concealment.

"There is no chance of escape now," said my friend; "we are surrounded

with spies on every hand. My advice is, therefore, to hasten to Lord

Cavan's quarters--he is now at Letterkenny--and give yourself up as a

prisoner. There is at least the chance of your being treated like the

rest of your countrymen. I have already provided you with a horse and a

guide, for I must not accompany you myself. Go, then, Maurice. We shall

never see each other again; but we'll not forget you, nor do we fear

that you will forget _us_. My brother could not trust himself to take

leave of you, but his best wishes and prayers go with you."

Such were the last words my kind-hearted friend spoke to me; nor do I

know what reply I made, as, overcome by emotion, my voice became thick

and broken. I wanted to tell all my gratitude, and yet could say

nothing. To this hour I know not with what impression of me he went

away. I can only assert, that, in all the long career of vicissitudes of

a troubled and adventurous life, these brothers have occupied the chosen

spot of my affection, for every thing that was disinterested in kindness

and generous in good feeling.

They have done more, for they have often reconciled me to a world of

harsh injustice and illiberality, by remembering that two such

exceptions existed, and that others may have experienced what fell to

_my_ lot.

For a mile or two my way lay through the mountains, but after reaching

the high road, I had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a

jaunting-car, on which a gentleman was seated, with his leg supported by

a cushion, and bearing all the signs of a severe injury.

"Keep the near side of the way, sir, I beg of you," cried he; "I have a

broken leg, and am excessively uneasy when a horse passes close to me."

I touched my cap in salute, and immediately turned my horse's head to

comply with his request.

"Did you see that, George?" cried another gentleman, who sat on the

opposite side of the vehicle; "did you remark that fellow's salute? My

life on't he's a French soldier."

"Nonsense, man--he's the steward of a Clyde smack, or a clerk in a

counting-house," said the first, in a voice which, though purposely low,

my quick hearing could catch perfectly.

"Are we far from Letterkenny just now, sir?" said the other, addressing

me.

"I believe about five miles," said I, with a prodigious effort to make

my pronunciation pass muster.

"You're a stranger in these parts, I see, sir," rejoined he, with a

cunning glance at his friend, while he added, lower, "Was I right,

Hill?"

Although seeing that all concealment was now hopeless, I was in no wise

disposed to plead guilty at once, and therefore, with a cut of my

switch, pushed my beast into a sharp canter to get forward.

My friends, however, gave chase, and now the jaunting-car,

notwithstanding the sufferings of the invalid, was clattering after me

at about nine miles an hour. At first I rather enjoyed the malice of the

penalty their curiosity was costing, but as I remembered that the

invalid was not the chief offender, I began to feel compunction at the

severity of the lesson, and drew up to a walk.

They at once shortened their pace, and came up beside me.

"A clever hack you're riding, sir," said the inquisitive man.

"Not so bad for an animal of this country," said I, superciliously.

"Oh, then, what kind of a horse are you accustomed to?" asked he, half

insolently.

"The Limousin," said I, coolly, "what we always mount in our Hussar

regiments in France."

"And you are a French soldier, then?" cried he, in evident astonishment

at my frankness.

"At your service, sir," said I, saluting; "a Lieutenant of Hussars; and

if you are tormented by any further curiosity concerning me, I may as

well relieve you by stating that I am proceeding to Lord Cavan's

head-quarters, to surrender as a prisoner."

"Frank enough, that!" said he of the broken leg, laughing heartily as he

spoke.

"Well, sir," said the other, "you are, as your countrymen would call

it, '_bien venu_,' for we are bound in that direction ourselves, and

will be happy to have your company."

One piece of tact my worldly experience had profoundly impressed upon

me, and that was, the necessity of always assuming an air of easy

unconcern in every circumstance of doubtful issue. There was quite

enough of difficulty in the present case to excite my anxiety, but I

rode along beside the jaunting-car, chatting familiarly with my new

acquaintances, and, I believe, without exhibiting the slightest degree

of uneasiness regarding my own position.

From them I learned so much as they had heard of the late naval

engagement. The report was that Bompard's fleet had fallen in with Sir

John Warren's squadron, and having given orders for his fastest sailers

to make the best of their way to France, had, with the Hoche, the Loire,

and the Resolve, given battle to the enemy. These had all been captured,

as well as four others which fled, two alone of the whole succeeding in

their escape. I think now that, grievous as these tidings were, there

was nothing of either boastfulness or insolence in the tone in which

they were communicated to me. Every praise was accorded to Bompard for

skill and bravery, and the defense was spoken of in terms of generous

eulogy. The only trait of acrimony that showed itself in the recital

was, a regret that a number of Irish rebels should have escaped in the

Biche, one of the smaller frigates; and several emissaries of the

people, who had been deputed to the admiral, were also alleged to have

been on board of that vessel.

"You are sorry to have had missed your friend, the priest of Murrah,"

said Hill, jocularly.

"Yes, by George, that fellow should have graced a gallows if I had been

lucky enough to have taken him."

"What was his crime, sir?" asked I, with seeming unconcern.

"Nothing more than exciting to rebellion a people with whom he had no

tie of blood or kindred! He was a Frenchman, and devoted himself to the

cause of Ireland, as they call it, from pure sympathy--"

"And a dash of popery," broke in Hill.

"It's hard to say even that; my own opinion is, that French Jacobinism

cares very little for the pope. Am I right, young gentleman--you don't

go very often to confession?"

"I should do so less frequently if I were to be subjected to such a

system of interrogatory as yours," said I, tartly.

They both took my impertinent speech in good part, and laughed heartily

at it; and thus, half amicably, half in earnest, we entered the little

town of Letterkenny, just as night was falling.

"If you'll be our guest for this evening, sir," said Hill, "we shall be

happy to have your company."

I accepted the invitation, and followed them into the inn.

(_To be continued._)

THE UNNAMED SHELL.

At the corner of the boulevard Montmartre, near the angle of the

faubourg, is situated a magazine of natural history, that continually

draws around its windows groups of curious idlers. Open the door, walk

in, and, in place of a mere merchant, you will be surprised to encounter

an artist and a scholar. The man is still young, yet he has explored a

portion of Southern Africa; and has joined in formidable chases of

elephants, lions, and all the wild animals of those barbarous regions.

He has sought his treasures of natural history in Java, Sumatra, Borneo,

China, and Cochin-China; has visited Batavia, Samarang and Madura; and

returned to Paris rich in knowledge and collections.

It is rarely that you will find him alone. The laboratory of the

boulevard Montmartre is the rendezvous of all the scholars, travelers,

naturalists, artists, and authors, who bask in the sunshine of

celebrity. Temming, the old glory, yet with so much youth about him, of

natural history; Wilson, collector for his brother in the immense

undertaking of completing the museum of Philadelphia; Philippe Rousseau,

who bestows life and animation on the animals which he paints; Ledieu,

Leon Gozlan, Biard; Delgorgue, the intrepid chaser of elephants;

Lageroniere, who was for one instant on the point of becoming the king

of a savage tribe, and of whom Dumas, in his "Thousand and One

Phantoms," has related in so improbable a manner a fabulous episode of

real adventures; Gray, whom London cites with pride among its

naturalists; Mitchell, director of the London Zoological Gardens; Henry

Monnier, the sparkling reflection of Moliere; Alphonse Karr; Deshayes,

for whom conchology and the labyrinths of its classifications have no

further mysteries; De Lafresnage, chief of ornithologists; Emile

Blanchard, who spends his life in the dissection of living atoms, or

beings almost microscopical; Delamarre-Piquot, who travels from one

world to another, to gather the alimentary substances with which he

wishes to endow Europe; M. Michelin, who consecrates his rare holidays

to an unrivaled collection of polypi; there they are to be found, every

day, studying, admiring, copying, describing, all the strange animals

that come from every quarter of the globe to this little corner of the

boulevard Montmartre, thence to be distributed among the collections of

Europe and America.

There may one listen to sallies of fancy, scientific discussion,

episodes of likely and unlikely adventures, tales that make one burst

with laughter, histories that fill the eyes with tears, real dramas that

freeze the soul with horror, and of which the historian is almost always

the hero. In the midst of all this noise of conversation and going and

coming, the master of the establishment loses not a moment. He issues

orders, he lends a helping hand; he classes, describes, and attends to

strangers: and occasionally sends as presents to other museums

unparalleled treasures of natural history. Just let us mention, _en

passant_, that the museum of Paris has been loaded for twenty years back

with his precious gifts. At each step you take in the galleries, you may

read his name inscribed upon numerous objects, before which the curious

in such matters stop with surprise, and the learned with admiration.

One evening, he was laboring with his usual feverish activity to form

collections of shells, according to their species, and after the method

of Lamarck; for to popularize science is his fervent desire and constant

aim. These collections would not nearly reimburse him for the trouble

and cost bestowed upon them; but they would create a few conchologists

the more; they would facilitate the studies of those who had already

commenced their initiation into the marvels of a science so attractive,

by the beautiful objects to which it consecrates itself, and this was

what the enthusiastic _savant_ wished above all.

"Ah!" said one of the visitors, taking up a shell, "I never see a

spiral, without calling to mind a drama that was once enacted here, and

which I will relate to you:

"It was eight or ten years ago, one evening, as it might be to-day. The

smoke from five or six cigars filled the laboratory with its fantastic

rings. A lamp, vailed under a semi-opaque shade, served only to render

more visible the shadows of this strange chamber. Here and there, the

glow from the hearth illuminated animals from all parts of the world,

hung at random upon the walls, which they confusedly burdened. The

master of the magazine took up a shell which chance placed under his

hand, and presented it to a tall man, hoary with age, who was silently

seated, according to his custom, a little on one side. The stranger

approached the lamp, looked at the shell, smiled, sighed, and placed it

in his pocket. A light crash was heard; he re-seated himself, and

revived the fire of his half-extinguished cigar. Then, perceiving that

every one was looking curiously at him--'I have broken it,' said he; and

he threw the fragments of the shell upon the floor, and ground them

beneath his heel.

"For several instants there was a profound silence, caused by the

surprise of the company at this gratuitous destruction. The old man

continued, with a melancholy smile, 'I will tell you, gentlemen,

wherefore I broke the shell. Science, or rather its fanaticism, leads to

strange weaknesses. If my folly can any where find indulgence, surely it

will be among you, who are all, more or less, collectors. Perhaps, I

shall even meet with some auditor not only capable of comprehending, but

likewise of imitating me. This shell is a spiral that has never been

either named or copied. I possess in my collection the only similar one

that is known to the scientific world. I procured it, ten years ago,

from this magazine. The first time that I saw this unique shell, my

heart beat with joy,' continued the old man, with a voice that had

regained all the energy of youth. 'I was poor, but I must have it at

whatever price. I carried it home with me, and passed entire days in

contemplating it, and examining its minutest details. Two years were

necessary to make up its price--two entire years of privation. Each

month, I carried the dealer small sums, often spared from my most

pressing necessities. What mattered it? I possessed the shell; it was

mine alone; no one could show me its like. I would not permit any one to

describe it. When, on rare occasions, I displayed it to some initiated

ones, it was upon the condition that they would not speak of it in their

faunas. A lover madly enamored, is not more jealous than I then was,

than I still am, of this treasure. When the two years of which I have

spoken had elapsed, and I had paid the price of my dear spiral, I came

here one evening as usual. On opening, according to my custom, one of

the boxes that contain the shells, I uttered a cry. I had found another

spiral similar to that which I possessed! Judge of my sorrow, of my

despair. My shell was no longer unique. Another collection possessed a

treasure similar to mine. A cold sweat bathed my forehead. Though very

poor, though I had resigned the little employment which I had held in an

office, and my humble allowance was transformed into a pension more

humble still, I hesitated not. I bought the shell, and carried it with

me, but this time without joy. I possessed several good pictures, dear

and old heirlooms belonging to my family. I sold them to pay for the

shell, which I broke as soon as I had made up the price. Three years

more elapsed, and poverty weighed down my old age more and more. The

failure of a bank had deprived me of a little sum of money, the interest

of which, added to my pension, had enabled me to live, and to augment,

from time to time, my collection of a few good shells. Deprived of this

enjoyment, the only one that remained to me, I had no consolation but in

the possession of the treasure-hoard which I could no longer increase.

My precious spiral often detained me before it for hours. One evening

(never shall I forget, the sorrow the sight cost me), I beheld

here--there--in that box--three spirals like mine! Maledictions hovered

about my lips. I took the shells in my fingers, I slowly examined them,

and returned them to my friend. 'I can not buy them,' I said. He raised

his eyes, he saw my palor and my tears--my tears, gentlemen, for I wept!

He smiled, took a hammer, and pulverized the three precious shells. You

saw what he did just now. God bless him for his disinterestedness, and

his devotion to an old friend! I should die of despair, gentlemen, if,

during my life, another possessed a spiral like mine.'

"Speaking thus, the old man rose, and left us, enveloping himself, as

well as he could, in his fragmentary cloak."

One morning, three or four years ago, God separated the fanatic

conchologist from the collection that was his life. They found the aged

man seated before his cabinet, opposite to his unique spiral. He had

died alone, with his eyes fixed upon that which had possessed his

affections during so many years. His collection has now reverted to the

friend who showed so much sympathy with his jealousy and insensate

passion.

By a strange caprice of fortune, no other spiral similar to his has

since arrived in Europe. It still remains unique and nameless, as when

he possessed it. For the rest, this spiral, which occupied so large a

place in the existence and affections of a scientific man, has, for a

common eye, nothing in its appearance to justify the intense passion

that it inspired. Its rarity constitutes its value. One of our most

learned conchologists is now engaged, in describing, classing, and

publishing a drawing of it. We hope that, in memory of its first

possessor, he will give it the name of _l'helice innominata_, the

"nameless spiral."

THE STORY OF GIOVANNI BELZONI.

One day in the beginning of the year 1803, Mr. Salt, whose name has

since become so celebrated among the discoverers of Egyptian

antiquities, observed before one of the public rooms of Edinburgh, a

great crowd assembled. For almost every one there exists a mysterious

attraction in the sight of a number of people, and Mr. Salt, no wiser

than his neighbors, pushed his way, when the doors were opened, into the

room. There, on a sort of stage, he saw a tall and powerfully-built

young man, performing various gymnastic exercises, and feats of

strength. While this Hercules in tinsel was lifting enormous weights,

and jumping from a table over the heads of twelve men, a pretty,

delicate-looking young woman, was arranging some hydraulic machines and

musical glasses, with which the entertainment was to terminate. As the

price of admission was nominal, she occasionally also handed round a

small wooden bowl, in order to collect gratuities from the spectators.

Very few of those who were enjoying the exhibition gave any thing; and

when the young woman approached her husband, and showed him the few

coins she had received, he hastened to terminate his performance. Mr.

Salt pitied the poor fellow, and as the young woman was passing, said to

her:

"You forgot to present your bowl for my contribution. Here it is."

He slipped a silver coin into her hand. Both she and her husband thanked

him warmly; the latter in broken English, and with an Italian accent.

Mr. Salt, who had but just returned from Rome, replied in Italian; and,

perceiving in the stranger's manner of expressing himself a degree of

refinement not to be expected from a mountebank, asked him whence he

came, and what was his history?

"Six months ago, sir," replied the man, "if any man had told me that I

should be reduced to earn my bread by exhibiting my strength in public,

I should have felt greatly inclined to knock him down. I came to England

for the purpose of making known some hydraulic machines of my invention;

but the spirit of routine, and the love of ignorance, closed every

avenue against me. Previously, before losing all my hopes of success, I

married this young girl. Had I been alone in the world, I verily believe

that the bitter destruction of my expectations would have rendered me

careless of supporting life; but how could I leave _her_ in misery?"

"But why not try to display your really extraordinary strength and

dexterity under more favorable circumstances? Why do you not offer your

services to some theatrical manager?"

"Hungry people, sir, can not wait. I did not think of resorting to this

method of earning a piece of bread, until I saw my wife ready to perish

for the want of it."

The kind Mr. Salt not only relieved his immediate wants, but offered to

recommend him and his wife to the manager of Astley's Circus, in London.

Gratefully and eagerly did the wanderers accept this offer; and while,

in company with their benefactor, who paid for their places on the

coach, they journeyed toward town, the man related his history. Born at

Padua, the son of a poor barber, and one of fourteen children, Giovanni

Battista Belzoni felt from his earliest youth a longing desire to visit

foreign lands. This "truant disposition" was fostered, if not caused, by

the stories of maritime adventures told him by an old sailor; who was

strongly suspected of having, during many years, practiced the

profession of a pirate.

The reading, or rather devouring, of a translated copy of "Robinson

Crusoe" (and it is a most remarkable circumstance that the book which

has for its avowed purpose the disheartening of restless adventurers,

should have made wanderers and voyagers innumerable), gave form and

fixedness to his purpose of rambling; and, in company with his youngest

brother, the boy set out one fine morning, without any intention but the

somewhat vague one of "traveling to seek their fortune." The young

fugitives walked several miles, without knowing, in the least, whither

they were going, when a peddler, who was riding slowly by in a cart,

accosted them, and asked if they were going to Ferrara. Belzoni,

although he never heard the name before, immediately answered in the

affirmative. The good-natured merchant, pleased with the countenances,

and pitying the tired looks of the children, not only gave them a place

in his vehicle, but shared with them his luncheon of bread, cheese, and

fruit. That night they occupied part of their companion's lodging; but

next day, as his business required him to stop at the village where they

slept, the two boys took leave of him, and pursued their journey. Their

next adventure was not so fortunate. Meeting an empty return carriage,

they asked the _vetturino_ to give them a ride; and he consenting, they

joyfully got in. Arrived at Ferrara, the _vetturino_ asked them for

money. Giovanni, astonished, replied that they had none; and the

unfeeling man stripped the poor children of their upper garments,

leaving them half-naked and penniless in the streets of an unknown city.

Giovanni's undaunted spirit would have led him still to persevere in the

wild-goose chase which had lured him from his home; but his brother

Antonio wept, and complained so loudly, that he was fain to console the

child by consenting to retrace their steps to Padua. That night, clasped

in each other's arms, they slept beneath a doorway, and the next morning

set out for their native city, begging their food on the journey.

The severe chastisement which Giovanni, as the instigator of this

escapade, received on his return, did not in anywise cure his love of

rambling. He submitted, however, to learn his father's trade, and at the

age of eighteen, armed with shaving and hair-cutting implements, he set

out for Rome, and there exercised the occupation of a barber with

success. After some time, he became deeply attached to a girl who, after

encouraging his addresses, deserted him and married a wealthy rival.

This disappointment preyed so deeply on Belzoni, that, renouncing at the

same time love and the razor, the world and the brazen bowl of suds, he

entered a convent, and became a Capuchin. The leisure of the cloister

was employed by him in the study of hydraulics; and he was busy in

constructing an Artesian well within the monastic precincts when the

French army under Napoleon took possession of Rome. The monks of every

order were expelled and dispersed; and our poor Capuchin, obliged to cut

his own beard, purchased once more the implements of his despised

calling, and traveled into Holland, the head-quarters of hydraulics,

which were still his passion. The Dutch did not encourage him, and he

came to this country. Here he met his future wife, and consoled himself

for his past misfortunes by marrying one who proved, through weal and

woe, a fond and faithful partner. The crude hydraulic inventions of a

wandering Italian were as little heeded here, as on the Continent; and

we have already seen the expedient to which Belzoni was obliged to have

recourse when Mr. Salt met him in Edinburgh.

Having reached London, the kind antiquary introduced his _proteges_ to

the manager of Astley's. The practiced eye of the renowned equestrian

immediately appreciated at their value the beauty and athletic vigor of

the Paduan Goliath; and he engaged both him and his wife at a liberal

salary. He caused a piece, entitled "The Twelve Labors of Hercules" to

be arranged expressly for his new performers; and Mr. Salt had soon

afterward the satisfaction of seeing Giovanni Belzoni appear on the

stage, carrying twelve men on his arms and shoulders, while madame, in

the costume of Cupid, stood at the top, as the apex of a pyramid, and

waved a tiny crimson flag.

After some time, Mr. Salt went to Egypt as consul, and there became

acquainted with Signor Drouetti. The two friends, equally enthusiastic

on the subject of Egyptian antiquities, set to work to prosecute

researches, with an ardor of rivalship which approached somewhat too

nearly to jealousy. Each aspired to undertake the boldest expeditions,

and to attempt the most hazardous excavations. But the great object of

their ambition was an enormous bust of Memnon, in rose-colored granite,

which lay half buried in the sand on the left bank of the Nile.

Signor Drouetti had failed in all his attempts to raise it, nor was Mr.

Salt a whit more successful. One day, while the latter was thinking what

a pity it was that such a precious monument should be left to perish by

decay, a stranger asked to speak with him. Mr. Salt desired him to be

admitted; and immediately, despite his visitor's Oriental garb and long

beard, he recognized the Hercules of Astley's.

"What has brought you to Egypt?" asked the astonished consul.

"You shall hear, sir," replied the Italian. "After having completed my

engagement in London, I set out for Lisbon, where I was employed by the

manager of the theatre of San Carlo to perform the part of Samson, in a

scriptural piece which had been arranged expressly for me. From thence I

went to Madrid, where I appeared with applause in the theatre Della

Puerta del Sol. After having collected a tolerable sum of money, I

resolved to come here. My first object is to induce the Pasha to adopt

an hydraulic machine for raising the waters of the Nile."

Mr. Salt then explained his wishes respecting the antiquities; but

Belzoni, could not, he said, enter upon that till he had carried out his

scheme of water-works.

He was accompanied, he said in continuation, by Mrs. Belzoni, and by an

Irish lad of the name of James Curtain; and had reached Alexandria just

as the plague was beginning to disappear from that city, as it always

does on the approach of St. John's day, when, as almost every body

knows, "out of respect for the saint," it entirely ceases. The state of

the country was still very alarming, yet Mr. Belzoni and his little

party ventured to land, and performed quarantine in the French quarter;

where, though really very unwell, they were wise enough to disguise

their situation; "for the plague is so dreadful a scourge," he observed,

"and operates so powerfully on human fears and human prejudices, that,

during its prevalence, if a man be ill, he must be ill of the plague,

and if he die, he must have died of the plague."

Belzoni went straight to Cairo, where he was well received by Mr.

Baghos, interpreter to Mohammed Ali, to whom Mr. Salt recommended him.

Mr. Baghos immediately prepared to introduce him to the Pasha, that he

might come to some arrangement respecting the hydraulic machine, which

he proposed to construct for watering the gardens of the seraglio. As

they were proceeding toward the palace, through one of the principal

streets of Cairo, a fanatical Mussulman struck Mr. Belzoni so fiercely

on the leg with his staff, that it tore away a large piece of flesh. The

blow was severe, and the discharge of blood copious, and he was obliged

to be conveyed home, where he remained under cure thirty days before he

could support himself on the wounded leg. When able to leave the house,

he was presented to the Pasha, who received him very civilly; but on

being told of the misfortune which had happened to him, contented

himself with coolly observing "that such accidents could not be avoided

where there were troops."

An arrangement was immediately concluded for erecting a machine which

was to raise as much water with one ox as the ordinary ones do with

four. Mr. Belzoni soon found, however, that he had many prejudices to

encounter, and many obstacles to overcome, on the part of those who were

employed in the construction of the work, as well as of those who owned

the cattle engaged in drawing water for the Pasha's gardens. The fate of

a machine which had been sent from England taught him to augur no good

for that which he had undertaken to construct. Though of the most costly

description, and every way equal to perform what it was calculated to

do, it had failed to answer the unreasonable expectations of the

Turks--because "the quantity of water raised by it was not sufficient to

inundate the whole country in an hour!--which was their measure of the

power of an English water-wheel."

When that of Belzoni was completed, the Pasha proceeded to the gardens

of Soubra to witness its effect. The machine was set to work, and,

although constructed of bad materials, and of unskillful workmanship,

its powers were greater than had been contracted for; yet the Arabs,

from interested motives, declared against it. The Pasha, however, though

evidently disappointed, admitted that it was equal to four of the

ordinary kind, and, consequently, accorded with the agreement.

Unluckily, he took it into his head to have the oxen removed, and, "by

way of frolic," to see what effect could be produced by putting fifteen

men into the wheel. The Irish lad got in with them; but no sooner had

the wheel begun to turn than the Arabs jumped out, leaving the lad alone

in it. The wheel, relieved from its load, flew back with such velocity,

that poor Curtain was flung out, and in the fall broke one of his

thighs; and, being entangled in the machinery, would, in all

probability, have lost his life, had not Belzoni applied his prodigious

strength to the wheel, and stopped it. The accident, however, was fatal

to the project and to the future hopes of the projector.

At that time the insolence of the Turkish officers of the Pashalic was

at its height, and the very sight of a "dog of a Christian" raised the

ire of the more bigoted followers of the Prophet. While at Soubra, which

is close to Cairo, Belzoni had a narrow escape from assassination. He

relates the adventure in his work on Egypt:

"Some particular business calling me to Cairo. I was on my ass in one of

the narrow streets, where I met a loaded camel. The space that remained

between the camel and the wall was so little, that I could scarcely

pass; and at that moment I was met by a Binbashi, a subaltern officer,

at the head of his men. For the instant I was the only obstacle that

prevented his proceeding on the road; and I could neither retreat nor

turn round, to give him room to pass. Seeing it was a Frank who stopped

his way, he gave me a violent blow on my stomach. Not being accustomed

to put up with such salutations, I returned the compliment with my whip

across his naked shoulders. Instantly he took his pistol out of his

belt; I jumped off my ass; he retired about two yards, pulled the

trigger, fired at my head, singed the hair near my right ear, and killed

one of his own soldiers, who, by this time, had come behind me. Finding

that he had missed his aim, he took a second pistol; but his own

soldiers assailed and disarmed him. A great noise arose in the street,

and, as it happened to be close to the seraglio in the Esbakie, some of

the guards ran up; but on seeing what the matter was, they interfered

and stopped the Binbashi. I thought my company was not wanted, so I

mounted my charger, and rode off. I went to Mr. Baghos, and told him

what had happened. We repaired immediately to the citadel, saw the

Pasha, and related the circumstance to him. He was much concerned, and

wished to know where the soldier was, but observed that it was too late

that evening to have him taken up. However, he was apprehended the next

day, and I never heard or knew any thing more about him. Such a lesson

on the subject was not lost upon me; and I took good care, in future,

not to give the least opportunity of the kind to men of that

description, who can murder an European with as much indifference as

they would kill an insect."

Ruined by the loss of all his savings, which he had spent in the

construction of his water machines, Belzoni once more applied to Mr.

Salt, and undertook the furtherance of his scheme, to convey to England

the bust of Memnon. So eager was he, that the same day, the Italian set

out for the ruins of Thebes, and hired a hundred natives, whom he made

clear away the sand which half covered the stone colossus. With a large

staff in his hand, Belzoni commanded his army of Mussulmans, directed

their labors, astonished them with displays of his physical strength,

learned to speak their language with marvelous facility, and speedily

came to be regarded by them as a superior being, endowed with magical

power.

One day, however, his money failed; and at the same time the rising of

the Nile destroyed in two hours, the work of three months. The _fellahs_

rebeled: one of them rushed toward Belzoni, intending to strike him with

his dagger. The Italian coolly waited his approach, disarmed him; and

then, seizing him by the feet, lifted him as though he had been a hazel

wand, and began to inflict vigorous blows on the other insurgents with

this novel and extemporary weapon of defense. The lesson was not thrown

away: very speedily the _fellahs_ returned to their duty; and after

eighteen days' incessant labor, Memnon trembled at his base, and was

moved toward the bank of the Nile.

The embarkation of this enormous statue presented difficulties almost as

great as those which attended its disinterment and land transport.

Nevertheless, the intelligence and perseverance of Belzoni surmounted

every obstacle; and he brought his wondrous conquest to London, where

its arrival produced a sensation similar to that caused more recently in

Paris by the sight of the Obelisk of Luxor. Loaded with praise, and also

with more substantial gifts, Belzoni, now become an important personage,

returned to Egypt and to his friend Mr. Salt. The latter proposed to him

to go up the Nile, and attempt the removal of the sand-hills which

covered the principal portion of the magnificent temple of Ebsamboul.

Belzoni readily consented, set out for Lower Nubia, ventured boldly

among the savage tribes who wander through the sandy desert; returning

to Thebes, he was rewarded, not only by the success of his special

mission, but also by discovering the temple of Luxor.

In all his undertakings, however enterprising, Belzoni was aided and

cheered by the presence of his wife. The expedition to Nubia was,

however, thought too hazardous for her to undertake. But in the absence

of her husband she was not idle; she dug up the statue of Jupiter Ammon,

with the ram's head on his knee; which is now in the British Museum.

The temple of Luxor had been so completely and for so long a period,

buried in sand, that even its existence remained unsuspected. It had

been dedicated to Isis by the Queen of Rameses the Great; and the

descriptions which travelers give of it, resemble those of the palaces

in the "Arabian Nights." Four colossal figures, sixty-one feet in

height, are seated in front. Eight others, forty-eight in height, and

standing up, support the roof of the principal inner hall, in which

gigantic bas-reliefs represent the whole history of Rameses. Sixteen

other halls, scarcely smaller than the first, display, in all their

primitive splendor, many gorgeous paintings, and the mysterious forms of

myriads of statues.

After this discovery, Belzoni took up his temporary abode in the valley

of _Biban el Mouloch_ (Tombs of the Kings). He had already remarked

there, among the rocks, a fissure of a peculiar form, and which was

evidently the work of man. He caused this opening to be enlarged, and

soon discovered the entrance to a long corridor, whose walls were

covered with sculptures and hieroglyphical paintings. A deep fosse and a

wall barred the further end of the cave; but he broke a passage

through, and found a second vault, in which stood an alabaster

sarcophagus, covered with hieroglyphics. He took possession of this and

sent it safely to Europe. His own account of these difficulties is

extremely interesting:

"Of some of these tombs many persons could not withstand the suffocating

air, which often causes fainting. A vast quantity of dust rises, so fine

that it enters the throat and nostrils, and chokes the nose and mouth to

such a degree, that it requires great power of lungs to resist it and

the strong effluvia of the mummies. This is not all; the entry or

passage where the bodies are is roughly cut in the rocks, and the

falling of the sand from the upper part or ceiling of the passage causes

it to be nearly filled up. In some places there is not more than the

vacancy of a foot left, which you must contrive to pass through in a

creeping posture, like a snail, on pointed and keen stones, that cut

like glass. After getting through these passages, some of them two or

three hundred yards long, you generally find a more commodious place,

perhaps high enough to sit. But what a place of rest! surrounded by

bodies, by heaps of mummies in all directions; which, previous to my

being accustomed to the sight, impressed me with horror. The blackness

of the walls, the faint light given by the candles or torches for want

of air, the different objects that surrounded me, seeming to converse

with each other, and the Arabs, with the candles or torches in their

hands, naked and covered with dust, themselves resembling living

mummies, absolutely formed a scene that can not be described. In such a

situation I found myself several times, and often returned exhausted and

fainting, till at last I became inured to it, and indifferent to what I

suffered, except from the dust which never failed to choke my throat and

nose; and though, fortunately, I am destitute of the sense of smelling,

I could taste that the mummies were rather unpleasant to swallow. After

the exertion of entering into such a place, through a passage of fifty,

a hundred, three hundred, or perhaps six hundred yards, nearly overcome,

I sought a resting-place, found one, and contrived to sit; but when my

weight bore on the body of an Egyptian, it crushed it like a band-box. I

naturally had recourse to my hands to sustain my weight, but they found

no better support; so that I sunk altogether among the broken mummies,

with a crash of bones, rags, and wooden cases, which raised such a dust

as kept me motionless for a quarter of an hour, waiting till it subsided

again. I could not remove from the place, however, without increasing

it, and every step I took I crushed a mummy in some part or other. Once

I was conducted from such a place to another resembling it, through a

passage of about twenty feet in length, and no wider than that a body

could be forced through. It was choked with mummies, and I could not

pass without putting my face in contact with that of some decayed

Egyptian; but as the passage inclined downward, my own weight helped me

on: however, I could not avoid being covered with bones, legs, arms, and

heads rolling from above. Thus I proceeded from one cave to another, all

full of mummies piled up in various ways--some standing, some lying, and

some on their heads."

Afterward, Belzoni traveled to the shores of the Red Sea, inspected the

ruins of Berenice; then returned to Cairo, and directed excavations to

be made at the bases of the great pyramids of Ghizeh; penetrated into

that of Chephren--which had hitherto been inaccessible to Europeans--and

discovered within it the sacred chamber where repose the hallowed bones

of the bull Apis. The Valley of Faioum, the Lake Moeris, the ruins of

Arsinoe, the sands of Libya, all yielded up their secrets to his

dauntless spirit of research. He visited the oasis of El-Cassar, and the

Fountain of the Sun; strangled in his arms two treacherous guides who

tried to assassinate him; and then left Egypt, and returned to Padua

with his wife.

The son of the humble barber had now become a rich and celebrated

personage. A triumphal entry was prepared for him; and the municipal

authorities of his native city met him at the gate, and presented him

with an address. Manfredini was commissioned to engrave a medal which

should commemorate the history of the illustrious traveler. England,

however, soon claimed him; and on his arrival in London, he was received

with the same honors as in his own country. Then he published an account

of his travels, under the following title: "Narrative of the Operations

and recent Discoveries in the Pyramids, Temples, Tombs, and Cities of

Egypt and Nubia, &c."

In 1822, Belzoni returned to Africa, with the intention of penetrating

to Timbuctoo. Passing in the following year from the Bight of Benin

toward Houssa, he was attacked with dysentery; was carried back to Gato,

and thence put on board an English vessel lying off the coast. There,

with much firmness and resignation, he prepared to meet his end. He

intrusted the captain with a large amethyst to be given to his wife, and

also with a letter which he wrote to his companion through good and evil

days. Soon afterward, he breathed his last. They buried him at Gato, at

the foot of a large tree, and engraved on his tomb the following epitaph

in English--

"_Here lies Belzoni, who died at this place, on his way to Timbuctoo,

December 3d, 1823._"

Belzoni was but forty-five years old when he died. A statue of him was

erected at Padua, on the 4th of July, 1827. Very recently, the

government of Great Britain bestowed on his widow the tardy solace of a

small pension.

Giovanni Belzoni, the once starving mountebank, became one of the most

illustrious men in Europe!--an encouraging example to all those who have

not only sound heads to project, but stout hearts to execute.

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

(_Continued from Page 613._)

PART THE SECOND--NOON.

V.

To reason upon the effects of the discovery, or confession of our

feelings, was not a process for which either of us was qualified by

temperament or inclination. We did not pause to consider whether it was

prudent to take our hearts and natures for granted all at once, and risk

upon the strange delight of a single moment of luxurious emotion the

happiness, perhaps, of a whole lifetime. We did not stop to ask if there

were any obstacles in the way, any jarring chords to be attuned, any

thing to be known or thought of into which our position demanded a

scrutiny. We resigned ourselves at once to our impulses. We believed

that we had seen enough of the world, and were strong enough in our

self-sustaining power, and clear enough in our penetration, to dispense

with ordinary safeguards, and act as if we were superior to them. We

made our own world, and so went on as if we could control the planet in

which we lived at our own will and pleasure.

I soon perceived that my attentions to Astraea had become a subject of

much remark. The peering coterie about us were so vigilant in matters of

that kind, that, as it appeared afterward, they had found out the fact

before it had taken place. For my own part, there was nobody half so

much surprised at the circumstance as I was myself. I believed that the

heart, like that plant which is said to blow once and die, was incapable

of a second growth of love; but I now felt the fallacy of that doctrine,

and was at first humiliated by the discovery. It struck me like a great

heresy against truth and purity; it seemed to lay bare before me the

corruptibility and feebleness of poor human nature. To strive against

it, however, was idle. The second growth was in full flower, yet with a

difference from the first, which I could detect even against the grain

of the passion that was subjugating me. I felt that the second growth

was less simple and devotional than the first; that it had more

exuberance, and was of a wilder character; that it struck not its roots

so deeply, but spread its blossoms more widely; that it was less

engrossing, but more agitating; that it was cultivated with greater

consciousness and premeditation, risked with more caution, fed with more

prudence, and tended more constantly--but all with a lesser waste of the

imagination; that its delights were more fervid but less appeasing; that

it looked not so much into the future with hope and promise, as it

filled the present with rapture; that its memories were neither so sad

nor so vivid, and that it let in caprice, and vanity, and

unreasonableness, and self-love, and the world's esteem, which are all

as dust in the balance, or a feather in the whirlwind, to impetuous

love. I was amazed to find myself a daily waiter upon beauty. Yet so it

was. The vision of Gertrude was now gone from my path--the spectre had

vanished in the broad light of the new passion.

Still, while I paid my court to Astraea, it was not with any intention of

publicity, but furtively, as if a private dread hung over us, or as if

we thought it pleasanter to vail our feelings from observation. We

understood each other in silent looks, which we supposed to be

unintelligible to every body else; she seemed to avoid, designedly, all

appearance of interest in me, and sometimes played the part to such

admiration, as to give me not a few passing pangs of doubt and

uneasiness; and I, seeing how scrupulous she was on that point, and not

choosing to incur rude jests at her expense, was equally unwilling to

betray a feeling which was rendered the more delicious by secrecy. We

imagined ourselves secure; but neither of us could have had much worldly

sagacity or we must have known that all our caution was fruitless.

Basilisks' eyes were around us, and we trod a path beset with serpents.

Fortunately we were both looked up to as persons who could not be

approached with familiarity; and that preserved us from the open

badinage to which others, in similar circumstances, might have been

subjected.

Alone, and liberated from this vexatious surveillance, we gave free vent

to our thoughts. The suddenness of our new confidence, and the rapidity

with which we already shaped its issues, bewildered us by the intensity

of the emotions that came crowding for speech and explanation. Astraea

sometimes had misgivings, although she never knew how to give them a

definite form. One day she said to me, "We are wrong in giving way to

this feeling. It is not a love likely to procure us peace. I say this to

you because I feel it--perhaps, because I know it; but I confess myself

unable to argue upon a question upon which my reason, my whole being is

held in suspense. I say so, simply because I ought to say so, and not

because I am prepared of myself to act, or even to advise. I am like a

leaf in a tempest, and can not guide myself. I yield to the irresistible

power that has swept me from the firm land, and deprived me of the

strength to regain it."

I fancied that this left me but one course to take, and I replied, "We

have pronounced our destiny, Astraea, for good or for evil. We ought to

have no choice but to abide by it. If you do not fail in your faith,

mine is irrevocable."

At these words she looked gravely at me, and answered,

"My faith dies with me. It is a part of my life. It was not taken up in

an hour, to be as lightly thrown aside. Without it, life would be

insupportable; with it, life in any shape of seclusion, privation,

banishment, contains all the blessings I covet upon earth. It was not

for that, or of that I spoke. Understand me clearly, and put no

construction on my words outside their plain and ordinary meaning. All I

ask, all that is necessary for me is your society; to hear you speak, to

drink in the words of kindness and power that flow from your lips, to

be ever near you, to tend, solace, and console you. I should be content

to enjoy the privilege of seeing that you were happy, without even

aspiring to the higher glory of creating happiness for you. That is my

nature--capable of a wider range, and a loftier flight, but happiest in

its devotion. In any capacity I will serve you--and feel that the

servitude of love is dominion!"

So firm and constant was the character of Astraea, tinged with a romantic

inspiration, that all this homage was serious and real, and issued

gravely from her heart through her lips. She meant every syllable she

spoke in its true sense; and I felt that she was ready to fulfill it,

and sustain it to the end. She believed that all endurances were

possible for love's sake, and that she could even enact miracles of

stoicism in the strength of her fidelity.

For many months our intercourse, always thus sophisticating its aims and

interpretations, was carried on in secret. We had become necessary to

each other; but being still shut up in our mystery, we had not made as

much advance toward any definite result as one single moment of

disclosure to the people we were among would have inevitably compelled

us to decide upon. We were very prudent in our outward bearing, and

hardly aware of the avidity with which the concealed passion was

devouring our hearts.

The dwarf followed me, and hovered about me more than ever. But I

learned to bear with him on account of his being in the house with

Astraea. Any body who was constantly in her society, and admitted to

terms of intimacy with her, was welcome to me--as relics from the altar

of a saint are welcome to the devotee, or a leaf snatched, from a tree

in the haunts of home is welcome to the exile. It was a pleasure when I

met him even to ask for Astraea, to have an excuse for uttering her name,

or to hear him speak of her, or to speak of her myself, or to talk of

any thing that we had before talked of together. Such are the resources,

the feints, the stratagems, the foibles of love!

VI.

One night my indefatigable Mephistophiles took me to a tavern. He was in

a vagrant mood, and I indulged him.

"Come, we shall see life to-night," he said.

"With all my heart," I replied. It was not much to my taste, but I

fancied there was something unusual in his manner, and my curiosity was

awakened to see what it would lead to.

We entered a bustling and brilliantly-lighted house. Numerous guests

were scattered about at different tables, variously engaged in getting

rid of time at the smallest possible cost of reflection. The dwarf

sauntered through the room, whispered a waiter, and, beckoning me to

follow, led the way up-stairs to a lesser apartment, where we found

ourselves alone.

"You will not see much life here," I observed, rather surprised at his

selection of a secluded room in preference to the lively _salon_ through

which we had just passed.

"We can make our own life," he answered, with a sarcastic twinge of the

mouth, "and imagine more things in five minutes than we should see or

hear below in a month."

I thought this very odd. It looked as if he had some concealed motive;

but I acquiesced in his notion, and was secretly pleased, not less at

the exchange of the din and riot for ease and quietness, than at the

opportunity it opened to him for the free play of the humor, whatever it

was, that I could plainly see was working upon him.

We drank freely--that was a great resource with him when he was in a

mood of extravagance--talked rapidly about a chaos of things, laughed

loudly, and in the pauses of the strange revel relapsed every now and

then into silence and abstraction. During these brief and sudden

intervals, the dwarf would amuse himself by drawing uncouth lines on the

table, with his head hanging over them, as if his thoughts were

elsewhere engaged, and the unintelligible pastime of his fingers were

resorted to only to hide them.

I could not tell why it was, but I felt uneasy and restless. My

companion appeared to me like a man who was mentally laboring at some

revelation, yet did not know how to begin it. He was constantly talking

at something that was evidently troubling his mind, yet he still evaded

his own purpose, as if he did not like the task to which he had set

himself. Throughout the whole time he never mentioned Astraea's name, and

this circumstance gave me additional cause for suspicion.

At last, summoning up all his energy, and fixing himself with the points

of his elbows on the table, and his long, wiry hands, which looked like

talons, stretched up into his elfin hair at each side of his face, while

his eyes, shooting out their malignant fires, were riveted upon me to

scan the effect of what he was about to say, he suddenly exclaimed,

"You have been remarked in your attentions to Astraea."

The mystery was out. And what was there in it, after all? I was a free

agent, and so was Astraea. Why should he make so much theatrical parade

about so very simple a business?

"Well!" I exclaimed, scarcely able to repress a smile, which the

exaggerated earnestness of his manner excited.

"Well! You acknowledge that it is so?"

"Acknowledge? Why should I either acknowledge or deny it? There is no

treason in it; the lady is the best judge--let me add, the only

judge--of any attentions I may have paid to her."

"But I say you have been remarked--it has been spoken of--it is already

a common topic of conversation."

"Indeed! A common topic of conversation! Well, I have no objection,

provided my good-natured friends do not say any thing injurious, or

wound the lady's feelings by an improper use of my name."

He paused for a moment, and lowering his voice, then went on,

"You never said any thing of this before."

"Why should I? The inquiry was never made of me before."

"I have made no inquiry," he retorted. "I didn't ask you to confess. You

have avowed it all yourself, unconsciously."

I felt that the dwarf was getting serious, and that he was likely to

make me more in earnest before he was done than I had at first

anticipated. I saw the necessity of showing him at once that I would not

brook his interference, and I addressed him in a more deliberate tone

than I had hitherto adopted.

"Allow me to ask," I demanded, "what interest you may take in this

matter, and by what right you assume the office of interrogating me so

authoritatively?"

"By what right?" he answered. "My right to do so is rather clearer than

your right to refuse an explanation. You met her at my mother's

house--you meet her there. She is under our roof, under our guardianship

and protection. That gives me the right. It is not pleasant to interfere

in this way; but I am called upon to do so by my position, and I delayed

it in the hope that you would render it unnecessary."

"Why should you hope so? Why should you desire any explanation on the

subject? The lady is her own mistress: she is under your roof, it is

true; but not under your control. The same thing might happen under any

other roof, and nobody would thereby acquire a right to interfere in a

matter that concerns her alone. You will surely see the propriety of not

suffering your curiosity to meddle any further in the affair?"

"Meddle!" he reiterated; "control! Are these the phrases with which you

taunt me? But," dropping his voice again, he added, "you are right in

suggesting that I have discharged my office when I demand, to what end

those very marked attentions are paid to Astraea?"

"You make an unwarrantable demand, and you shall have a fitting answer

to it; and my answer is, that to Astraea alone will I confide my

confession, as you call it. She is old enough and wise enough to think

and act for herself; nor will I consent to compromise my respect for her

understanding by admitting that she requires an arbitrator--perhaps I

ought to say, champion."

"Have a care," he replied, kindling up all at once into a sort of

frenzy--"have a care what you say or do. You move in darkness--you tread

on smothered fire."

"Do you threaten me?" said I.

"No; I do not threaten you. Look at your arm and mine--compare your

muscles with my shrunken and stunted frame," he cried, with an

expression of pain and bitterness; "I do not threaten you, but I warn

you--mark me, I warn you! Heed my warning, I beseech, I implore

you--nay, heed it for your life!"

I could not but admire the sibyl-like grandeur of his head and

outstretched arms as he uttered these strange words. His voice was

hoarse with some surging emotion; and if so poor a creature could have

been the recipient of a supernatural inspiration, he might have sat at

that moment for the portrait of one of the deformed soothsayers in a

tale of magic.

"Do I understand you correctly?" said I; "or are you only playing off

some new freak upon me? Answer me frankly one question, and I shall be

better able to comprehend the meaning of your mysterious menace. Are

you--but I know it is absurd, I feel that the question is very

ridiculous, only that your reply to it will, perhaps, set us both

right--do you love Astraea? I really can not conceive any thing short of

some such feeling to justify this violence."

"Love her? _I_ love _Astraea?_ If there be a mortal I hate in the core of

my heart, it is Astraea. Are you satisfied?" he replied, with an

expression of fiendish satisfaction in his face, as if he were glad of

the excuse for giving vent to his malignity.

"Hate her?" said I, calmly; "that is unreasonable: but the whole

discussion is unreasonable. I have given you my answer; none other shall

you have from me. So, good-night."

"One word," he said, leaping out of his chair into the middle of the

room. "One word before you go. I am a dwarf--do not delude yourself into

any contempt of me on that account. I know as well as you do my

disadvantages in the world; I am as conscious as you are of my physical

defects and shortcomings, my distorted spine, and the parsimony of

nature in all particulars when she made me. But I have passions like

other men; and I pursue them like other men, only, as I am shut out from

the summary and open process, I am compelled, perchance, to the choice

of dark and crooked means. Perhaps, too, my passions are all the more

turbulent and dangerous because they are pent up in an incapable frame,

and denied the vents and appliances which men like you have at their

command. Mark me! see Astraea no more. Let your last interview with her

be your last forever. Enter our house no more; that interdict, at least,

I have a right to pronounce. But for myself, and from myself, and apart

from the privilege of my own roof, I warn you at your peril, and on my

own responsibility, never to see Astraea again."

"Are you mad?" I exclaimed. "Never to see Astraea again! To forsake her

society at your bidding! Wherefore do you make this monstrous demand? Do

you not feel how preposterous it is to thrust yourself into a quarrel

with me in a matter which not only does not concern you, but which

involves the feelings, perhaps the whole future happiness, of a person

whom you have just ostentatiously declared is the object of your hate?"

"I make no quarrel with you," he answered; "I will not quarrel with you.

I should be mad, indeed, if I did. What! set myself against your thews

and sinews? No, no--I break no bones with you--but I tell you, once

again, your fate is in my hands. I am your destiny, if you will have it

so. You may trample on the oracle; but you can not, with all your show

of bravery and your proud pretensions, with the lady, too, in triumph on

your side, escape its denunciations."

"Did you, or did you not," I inquired, bewildered by his language, and

not quite satisfied that he was in possession of his senses, "did you,

or did you not, observe those attentions some months ago of which you

now complain for the first time?"

"I did," he answered.

"And why did you not then speak to me on the subject?"

"Because it wasn't ripe!"

"Ripe? If you have any meaning in these obscure hints, why do you not

explain it for your own sake, since you can not believe that I will

submit patiently to your insane threats? Again I ask you, did you, or

did you not, promote these attentions by every artifice and suggestion

in your power?"

"I did."

"Did you not watch them anxiously, forward them daily, and exult in

their progress, until you became secretly convinced that both Astraea's

feelings and mine were engaged beyond recall?"

"I did--I did--I did!" roared the dwarf.

"Did you not produce this very result yourself? Did you not seek it,

urge it, fan it to its height, and even glory in the flame you had

nursed so cunningly?"

"I did--I did--I did!" he shrieked, his whole body seeming to take part

in the frenzy that convulsed him.

"Fiend!" I cried; "inexplicable devil! what would you have, then? What

is your aim in thus coming with your curses between us?"

"You shall never know," he replied, "unless to deplore it to the last

hour of your life. You can never know unless you outrage my will. I have

the power to make you wretched forever, to blight and destroy you. And

if you treat my warning with contempt, I will do it without fail,

without mercy, without remorse. The jester who has contributed so

largely to your entertainment, and furnished such a delectable theme for

your secret and cowardly mockery, will shoot a bolt of a graver cast

when you least expect it, and think yourself most secure. Mark me--note

me well. These are not words of rage, or transient passion: remember

them, be wise, and look to your safety. See Astraea no more. With this I

leave you. Our next meeting must be of your making."

I was alone. Overwhelmed and awed by the demoniacal maledictions of the

wretched creature whom I had hitherto so intensely despised, I knew not

what to think, or how to act. He had assumed a fresh shape, more

marvelous than any he had hitherto put on in the whole round of his

extraordinary mummery. The raillery and tipsy recklessness which

appeared constitutional in him had suddenly passed away, leaving not a

solitary trace behind. Even his figure, while he had been speaking,

seemed to heave with a new life, and to dilate into unnatural

dimensions. I was perplexed to the last extremity; not that the malice

of the demon could scare me from my resolves, but that his motives were

so impenetrable as to suffer no clew to escape by which I could discover

the evil purpose that lay at the bottom.

It was not the machination or revenge of a disappointed suitor. He never

could have aspired to a hope of Astraea, and he avowed his aversion to

her. She was ignorant of all this bravado about her; and would be even

more indignant to hear of it than I was to suffer it. I resolved,

therefore, not to insult her by revealing it to her. Fortunately, I had

made an appointment to meet her alone on the following day. That meeting

would decide every thing. She might, perhaps, throw some light upon what

was at present a profound mystery to me. At all events, my course was

clear. Under the circumstances in which I was placed, I felt that there

lay but one alternative before me.

VII.

My resolution was taken, as I thought, very composedly. I tried to

persuade myself that I was not in the least ruffled or agitated by the

scene I had passed through; but I was secretly conscious,

notwithstanding, of a vague dread which I endeavored in vain to stifle.

The defiance which the dwarf had so insolently flung at me, the contrast

he drew between his shriveled frame and my physical advantages, and the

Satanic pride with which he rose superior to his wretched deformities,

gave me no slight cause for uneasiness, although I could not analyze the

nature of the fear that possessed me. All through the night I abandoned

myself to the wildest speculations upon the unaccountable conduct and

designs of my arch-enemy; but as morning advanced that oppressive train

of reflections gave way to more agreeable thoughts, just as the hideous

images of the night-mare vanish before the approach of day.

The prospect of meeting Astraea excluded all other considerations. As

impediments to the flow of a current only serve to increase its force,

so the opposition which the dwarf had thrown in my way gave an

additional impetus to my feelings. The very publicity which our

intercourse had attracted altered our relations to each other. It was no

longer possible to indulge in the romantic dreams, secret looks, and

stolen conversations with which we had hitherto pampered our

imagination; it was necessary to act. I felt the responsibility that was

thus cast upon me; and I confess that I was rather obliged to my

villainous Mephistophiles than angry with him for having, as it were,

brought all my wayward raptures to so immediate and decisive a

conclusion. As to his anathemas and warnings, I treated them as so much

buffoonery on the wrong side of the grotesque. In short, I was too much

engrossed by the approaching interview, and too much intoxicated by the

contemplation of the result to which it inevitably led, to think at all

about that imp of darkness and his ludicrous fulminations. Astraea

occupied brain and heart, and left no room for my tormentor.

I fancied she looked unusually happy that morning; but not so happy as I

was, not so disturbed and unsettled by happiness. She was perfectly

tranquil, and it was evident that nothing had transpired in the interval

to awaken a suspicion of what had occurred between me and the dwarf. She

observed at once that a change had taken place in my manner.

"You are in marvelously high spirits to-day," she said; "but this

exuberant gayety is not quite natural to you."

"High spirits! I am not conscious of it."

"So much the worse," she replied; then, placing her hand upon my arm,

and looking earnestly at me, she added, "something has happened since I

saw you. What is it? It would be wrong, and useless as well as wrong, to

affect to deny it."

I had noticed at times in Astraea an air of solemnity, which would fall

upon her face like a shadow, slowly receding again before its habitual,

but always subdued brightness; and occasionally I imagined that I

detected a sudden and brief sternness in her eyes, which conveyed an

impression that she was interrogating with their concentrated rays, the

concealed thoughts of the person upon whom they were directed. These

were some of the outward signs of that mystery of her nature which I

never could penetrate. Upon this occasion a world of latent doubts and

suspicions appeared to be condensed in her look. It seemed as if in that

single glance she read the whole incident which, to spare her feelings,

I was so unwilling to disclose.

"What do you suppose, Astraea," I inquired, "can have happened since I

saw you?"

"You are not candid with me," she returned. "I ask you a question, and

you answer by asking me another. If nothing has happened, you can easily

satisfy me; if it be otherwise, and you are silent, I must draw my own

conclusions."

"Whatever conclusions you draw, Astraea, I know you have too firm a

reliance on my truth and devotion not to believe that I am actuated by

the purest motives. Have I not always been sincere and frank with you?"

"Always."

"Have you not an implicit confidence in the steadfastness of my love?"

"Were it otherwise, should I be now standing here questioning you, or

should there be need of questions of this kind between us? Confidence!

Why am I so sensitive to the slightest fluctuations of tone and manner I

observe in you, and where do I derive the intuitive perception of their

meanings? Love must have confidence! But it has instincts also. I feel

there is something--I am sure of it--but I will urge you no further. It

is not, perhaps, for your happiness or mine that I should seek to

know."

"Astraea," I exclaimed, passionately, "there is nothing I would conceal

from you that I think you ought to know, or that would make you happier

to know; and if I have any reserve from you, it is for your sake, and

you must ascribe it to the tenderness of my regard for you."

"For _my_ sake?" she repeated, with a slightly terrified and curious

expression.

"Now listen to me; I have something to say to you which is of more

importance to us both than these wise, loving conjectures of yours. Take

my arm, and let us get into the Park."

We were near one of the inclosures of the Regent's Park; and when we

reached a more secluded place, I resumed:

"First of all, I should like to have your own unbiased opinion about

your friends with whom you are residing. Have you observed any change in

their manner toward you?"

"Change? None whatever."

"Do you think--I mean from any thing you have yourself noticed--that

they have watched our actions or been inquisitive in our affairs?"

She looked inquiringly at me, and hesitated.

"I think it would be impossible to be much with them and escape their

_persiflage_, let us act as we might. But beyond that sort of idle

criticism which they deal out indiscriminately to every body, I have

observed nothing. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have reason to believe that my attentions to you have

attracted more observation than either of us suspected; and that, in

fact, they have made such remarks on us as no longer leaves our future

course at our own time or option."

"You have reason to believe this?"

"The best possible reason."

"Who is your authority?"

"Will you not accept my own authority, without seeking further?"

"No. It is not a time to hold back from any false delicacy to me, or any

mistaken respect for the confidence of others. Beware of such

confidences, if there be any. They are not meant for your peace or mine,

but to plunge us both into an abyss in which we shall be left to perish.

I must know all. I am entitled to know it. If your love be a hundredth

part as strong and devoted, and as prepared for sacrifice as mine, you

will place a full and entire trust in me."

"And I do. You shall know all; but I must exact a solemn promise from

you, before I tell you how, and in what manner, this information was

communicated to me. It is impossible for me to foresee how it may affect

or wound your feelings; and it is due to me, if I yield to your request

against my own judgment, that you should pledge yourself, be the

consequences what they may, to give me a public right to protect you

against the further malignity--I can not call it by any milder term--of

your enemies and mine."

She was deeply affected by this request, which was spoken in so low and

tremulous a voice, so burdened with a painful earnestness, that she

appeared to gather from it the final conviction that upon her answer

depended the future happiness or misery of our lives. I confess, for my

own part, that the pause which ensued, during which she almost

unconsciously repeated to herself, "Be the consequences what they may!"

was to me harrowing beyond expression. It seemed as if there was some

sinister influence at work to destroy us both; and that even the

immediate prospect of our union was not sufficient to allay the terror

that influence inspired, and into the causes and springs of which I now

began to imagine she had a clearer insight than I had previously

suspected. But I was steeped in a tumultuous passion, which would not

suffer me to investigate intervening difficulties. What the source of

her terror was I knew not; mine arose only from the apprehension of

losing her; and to have secured her at that moment, looking as she did,

in the agitation that gave such a wild lustre to her eyes, more lovely

than ever, I would have cheerfully relinquished every thing else in the

world. So far from being anxious to have the cause of her fears and

hesitation cleared up, I was in the utmost alarm lest she should enter

upon an explanation that might delay the consummation of my wishes. I

sought only an affirmative reply to my request, which, come what might,

would make her mine forever.

She loosened herself from my arm, and walked apart from me in silence.

This action, and the sort of panic it indicated, filled me with alarm.

"Astraea, you have not answered my question. What is the reason of your

silence?"

"Be the consequences what they may!" she reiterated. "I did not think of

that, but it is right I should. I should have thought of it before--I

did think of it; but of what avail, while I suffered myself to indulge

in a dream which that thought ought to have dispelled?"

"You speak in a language that is unintelligible to me; but there is no

time now for explanations. We must decide, Astraea, at once, for to-day

and forever. I only ask your explicit pledge. Let us reserve

explanations for hereafter."

"You say this in ignorance of what awaits you. I feel that I ought not

to make any pledge until--" and she hesitated again.

"If I am satisfied to take your pledge, and all consequences with it,

and to repay it with the devotion of my life, why, beloved Astraea,

should you hesitate? Let the responsibility fall on me--of that another

time. Every hour is precious now, and you will understand why I urge you

so impatiently when I tell you that I can never again enter the house

where you are now residing."

"I knew it. I saw it clearly from the first word you uttered. It was

revealed to me in the very tone of your voice. Now hear me patiently.

Your peace, your honor, all feelings that contribute to the respect and

happiness of life, are at stake upon this moment."

The determination of her manner left me no choice but to listen.

"Are you prepared to risk all other ties, obligations, and prospects, in

the consummation of this one object? to hazard friends, opinion, the

world--perhaps it may be, to sacrifice them for the love that has grown

up between us, and which, for good or evil, must this day bind us

together, or sever us for the rest of our lives?"

"What a question to put to me! The 'world!' it is ashes without you. I

tell you, Astraea, that if the choice lay between the grave and the

single word that would sunder us, I would die rather than utter it. I

don't know what your question implies--I don't seek to know; and would

prefer to remain ignorant of it, that I may the more clearly prove to

you the depth of my trust and devotion, which will be satisfied with the

simple pledge that makes you mine. That, at least, you have in your own

power; let me answer for the rest."

"Consider well what you are saying. Is your love strong enough to bear

the hazards I have pointed out? Search your own nature--look into your

pride, your sensitiveness to neglect and censure, your high sense of

personal dignity. I have seen how ill you can brook slight affronts--do

you believe that your love will enable you to bear great ones--scorn,

contumely, perhaps opprobrium? Think, think, and weigh well your

decision."

"Astraea, you put me upon the rack. I have no other answer to give. For

you, and for your sake, come what may, I am ready to risk all!"

"For me and for my sake, if it be necessary, to forsake the world? to

relinquish friends and kindred? to dedicate yourself in solitude to her

who, in solitude, would be content to find her whole world in you? To do

this, without repining, without looking back with anguish and remorse

upon the sacrifices you had made, without a regret or a reproach? A

woman can do this. Is it so sure there lives a man equal to such

trials?"

"If these sacrifices be imperative upon us, we make them together. There

can be nothing for either of us to reproach the other with. And as to

the solitude you speak of, my heart yearns for it. It is in that

solitude we can the more fully understand and develop the profound

devotion that shall have drawn us into it. I am sick of the world--weary

and tired of it, and longing for the repose which you alone can

consecrate. It will be no sacrifice to abandon the world for you.

Sacrifice, my Astraea? it will be the crowning happiness of my life!"

"And you are confident that you can depend upon the firmness of your

resolution? I do not ask this for my own sake--for I know myself, what I

can suffer and outlive--but for yours."

"I solemnly and finally answer, that no earthly influence can shake my

resolution."

"Then," said Astraea, placing her hand in mine, and in a grave voice,

laden with emotion, "I am yours forever. Henceforth, I owe no allegiance

elsewhere--here, in the sight of Heaven, I pledge my faith to you, and

hold the compact as binding as if at this moment it were plighted at the

altar."

I was transported with the earnestness of these words, and covering her

hand with kisses, I exclaimed--

"And I ratify it, Astraea, my own Astraea, with my whole heart. Now, who

shall divide us? We are one, and no human power can part us."

I then related to her the circumstances that had taken place the

preceding evening. She heard me throughout with a calmness that

surprised me. I expected that the extraordinary conduct of the dwarf

would have excited her indignation; but she seemed to know him better

than I did, and although I could perceive a heavy flush sometimes rush

into her cheeks, and a sudden pallor succeed it, the narrative of his

mysterious menaces did not appear to produce half as much astonishment

in her mind as it did in mine.

"We will talk of this another time," she observed; "at present we must

think of ourselves. I know his character--I know the demoniac revenge he

is capable of; and, for our own safety, we must avoid him."

"Revenge!" I echoed. The phrase coming from Astraea fell strangely on my

ears.

"I will leave the house to-morrow; but, for your sake, I will hold no

communication with you till I am beyond his reach. Once assured of that,

I will write to you, and you will come to me. This is the only act I

will ask to take upon my own responsibility, and I do so because it will

secure our mutual safety. From that hour I shall be implicitly guided by

you."

I should have been glad to have adopted a different course, and to have

claimed her openly. My pride, wounded by the insolent denunciations of

the dwarf, demanded a more public vindication of her independence and

mine; and this stolen flight, and the necessity it imposed upon me of

observing a similar caution in my own movements, looked so like fear and

evasion that I submitted to it very reluctantly. The notion of

concealment and secrecy galled me, and even at this moment, when my

happiness was on the eve of consummation, it gave me a thrill of

uneasiness that cast an oppressive shadow over the future. Astraea,

however, had evidently a strong reason for insisting on privacy, and I

was too anxious about hastening our union to throw any new obstacle in

the way of its accomplishment.

We separated in the Park, Astraea being unwilling to suffer me to escort

her any further lest we should be seen together. This little incident,

trifling as it was, increased the nervous annoyance and sense of

humiliation I felt at being required to act as if I had any fear of the

results; nor could I comprehend why she should be so much alarmed at

being seen walking with me alone, when she knew that in a few days we

should be indissolubly united. But I submitted to her wishes. Passion is

willful and unreasonable, and takes a wayward pleasure in shutting its

eyes, and rushing onward in the dare. I stifled my vexation in the

anticipation of the joy that lay before me, which would be victory

enough over the impotent hatred of Mephistophiles.

VIII.

Throughout the whole of the next day I waited anxiously in the

expectation of hearing from Astraea. Evening came and passed, and there

was no communication. When the last post-hour was gone by, and all hope

of a letter was at an end, I ventured into the streets, hoping to gather

some signs of her movements from the outside of her house. The blinds

were down as usual in the drawing-room windows, and there seemed to be

rather an extraordinary flush of lights within, as if some commotion was

going forward. I could see huge, shapeless shadows of people moving

about the room, in great bustle and excitement; and it appeared to me,

from the frequency and confusion of then: motions, that the ordinary

family party was augmented by additional numbers. The gathering,

whatever it might have been, was not for festivity; and the constant

swaying backward and forward, and vehement tossing of long streaks of

heads and arms on the blinds, resembled the action of a violent domestic

scene, in which the angry passions were strenuously engaged. I hardly

knew what to conclude from this incoherent pantomime. Either Astraea was

there, in the midst of a stormy contention; or she had left the house,

and they were disputing furiously over the causes of her departure.

After I had been some time watching this unintelligible phantasmagoria,

and vainly endeavoring to collect a meaning for it, the hall-door

opened, and in the momentary gleam of light that shot into the street I

saw the dwarf issuing out, muffled to the ears in a cloak. He stood for

a moment on the pavement, and adjusting his cloak more carefully about

his face, and crushing his hat down over his eyes, he set off at a quick

pace in an opposite direction to that part of the street where I was

standing. I confess I felt ashamed of the espionage in which I was

occupied, and although I followed my mercurial fiend at a safe distance,

for the distinct purpose of earthing him wherever he was going, I by no

means liked the office which a sort of fatality had forced upon me. But

I was somewhat reconciled to it by a secret conviction that the

abominable little demon had himself come out upon an equally

discreditable expedition, which I soon detected from the infinite pains

he took to elude observation.

Instead of keeping in the public streets, he darted down numerous dark

alleys and lanes, and once with considerable difficulty I chased him

through the unsavory depths of a straggling mews, where he doubled in an

out with such rapidity as to render it no easy matter to keep upon his

track without betraying myself. Two or three times I nearly lost sight

of him; and it was not until he emerged out of a gloomy passage, of the

existence of which I was until that moment ignorant, into the street

where I lived, that I had the least suspicion of the direction he was

taking. It was presently evident that his object had some reference to

me, for he had no sooner entered the street than he darted into the deep

recess of a hall-door, where he stood for full ten minutes crouched and

transfixed, looking up at my windows, which were exactly opposite to

him.

Fortunately I was able to note his movements without being myself

perceived, as I lurked in the shadow of the passage from whence he had

just issued.

The windows of my chambers being dark, I presume he concluded that I was

from home; and under that impression, no doubt, he crossed over and

knocked stealthily at the door--just as one would knock who did not wish

to attract the attention of the inmates, but merely to convey an

intimation to the servants. I was seized with a strong impulse to rush

upon him suddenly, present myself as the door opened, and confound him

on the spot; but I remembered how earnestly Astraea had urged upon me the

prudence of avoiding him, and I restrained myself. Stepping cautiously

into a doorway, I continued to watch his further proceedings.

The door was opened by a servant, and my dwarf, burying himself up to

the eyes in his cloak, so that it was impossible to distinguish his

features, appeared to enter into a confidential conversation with her.

It seemed to me to last a long time; but my impatience, no doubt,

exaggerated its duration. At length it drew to an end, and hastily

nodding to the servant, who looked after him, as I thought with much

curiosity and astonishment, he dropped down the street at the same

flying pace with which he had entered it. That he had come to my house

for the purpose of picking up some intelligence about me was clear; upon

that point I was satisfied, and the discovery only served to heighten my

anxiety to find out what he was going to do next.

As he darted along I could not help admiring his wonderful agility.

There was a certain sort of confident swagger about his ordinary style

of walking, such as you frequently observe in small vivacious men, who

strut and swing through the streets as if the great globe itself were

their private property; but upon this occasion it resolved itself into

the swift and impetuous flight of a meteor. He shot from one angle of a

street to another something in the manner of a will-o'-the-wisp, and it

was almost as difficult to fix his course and follow him up. Thus

hanging closely on his footsteps, I was not a little mortified to find,

after all, that the trouble I had taken led to nothing. Striking out a

different, but a much shorter route, the hideous creature went back to

his own house. The lights were already extinguished in the

drawing-room, and the windows, even to the dormitories, were in

darkness. The domestics, apparently, had retired to bed; for the dwarf,

hastily opening the door with a latch-key, vanished from my sight almost

at the same instant that he ascended the steps. I lingered for A few

moments at a distance, and then slowly returned home, congratulating

myself on having detected his sinister expedition, and impatient to

ascertain the substance of his conversation with the servant.

When I interrogated her on the subject, she betrayed a little fear and

hesitation, but at last she told me every thing that had transpired. The

strange gentleman, whom she had never seen before, and who so completely

concealed his features that she should not be able to identify him

again, asked her a great number of questions about my movements, and

especially if I had been out during the day. He appeared surprised to

learn that I had only just left home, and wanted to know whether I was

expected back that night, and whether I was going out of town. It

happened that I had occupied myself throughout the morning in packing my

carpet-bag and portmanteau, so that I might be able to attend Astraea's

expected summons at a moment's notice; and the servant, whose distrust

was awakened by the urgent manner of the questioner, tried to fence off

his inquiries about my traveling preparations, but his superior

dexterity finally extracted the fact from her. Having obtained that

significant clew to my intentions, he suddenly wished her good-night,

and disappeared. The girl was so frightened by his mysterious air and

abrupt interrogations, that I believe she fancied I was going to fight a

duel; for about that time there had been a fatal duel, which furnished a

topic of general conversation, and which, I suppose, put the sagacious

suspicion into her head.

"Forewarned, forearmed," says the old proverb. I was now fairly apprised

that the dwarf was upon my track, and I resolved, as a mere measure of

precaution, ignorant as I was of the machinations I had to fear, that

whatever course it might become necessary to adopt, should be carried

out with the utmost secrecy.

The next morning came a letter from Astraea. No language can adequately

depict the agitation with which I opened the envelope. I felt as if my

fate was contained in the inclosure--as it was!

It consisted of only a single line, scrawled in haste over a great sheet

of paper, at the top of which was an address in the country, in another

hand-writing, with the following words beneath, written by Astraea:

"I am here: come to me _quickly_.--A."

The assurance which this brief intimation conveyed that Astraea had left

London, relieved me of at least one source of anxiety; and all that now

remained was to obey her mandate, and join her without loss of time in

her retreat. I own that I felt rather like a culprit in the way in

which I abandoned my chambers. Feeling assured that the dwarf, having

once set himself as a spy upon my actions, would stop at no means of

tracing me out of town, I determined to leave such an account of myself

behind as should effectually put him upon a false scent. I accordingly

informed the people of the house that I was going into Buckinghamshire

for two days; and, as that was nearly the opposite direction to the

route I was really about to take--for my destination lay among the

sylvan valleys of Kent--I hoped to baffle him at the start. My

arrangements were speedily completed, and, having made a hasty

inspection of the street before I ventured out, I sprang into a

cabriolet, and drove off.

The imperceptible degrees by which men, in the pursuit of passionate

ends, suffer themselves to fall into deceptions, at which their reason

and their probity would revolt in calmer moments, might suggest a useful

train of reflections at this point of my narrative. But the moral is

obvious enough, without requiring to be formally pointed. I shall only

remark, that my ruminations in the post-chaise that carried me to Astraea

ran chiefly upon the self-humiliation I felt in contemplating the

mystery in which I had become entangled step by step, and the sort of

guiltiness which my studious evasion of the dwarf seemed to argue to my

own mind. Men who act openly never have any reason to entertain a fear

of others, and may look the world boldly in the face. It is only men

that commit themselves to actions which will not bear the light who

resort to subterfuges and concealments, and are harrowed by

apprehensions. My dilemma was a singular one. There was nothing I had

done which I had the slightest reason to hide or feel alarm about; yet I

was taking as cautious measures to avoid publicity as if I were flying

from justice, and was haunted all the time by a thrill of terror which I

could not assign to any intelligible cause.

In the dusk of the evening, I had the profound happiness of reaching my

destination, and all inquietude was lulled into oblivion by the music of

those tones which always went direct to my heart. The past and the

future were equally absorbed in the luxury of Astraea's society, and I

felt that if I needed an excuse for the strange circumstances in which I

was placed, I had an ample one in the devotion of such a woman. The very

danger--if danger it was, with which I was as yet unacquainted--the

anxiety, the concealment, the flight we had passed through to secure our

union, enhanced the rapture with which we now met never to be sundered

again.

That evening I related to her what had happened the night before, and

she gave me an account of the manner in which she had managed to escape

from the dwarf's house; for, in spite of the self-possession with which

she described the incident, it more nearly resembled an escape than a

departure. In fact, she had left the house in the morning, on foot, and

was expected back, as usual, to luncheon after her walk. But luncheon

passed, and there were no tidings of her; and, at dinner-time, a brief

note by the post announced her leave-taking, excusing its abruptness, on

the ground of a sudden and urgent call into the country. This was, no

doubt, the subject which the angry shadows on the blinds had been so

vehemently discussing the night before. So violent an infraction of

etiquette would have pained me seriously had it occurred under any other

circumstances, or had it been inflicted upon any other persons than the

members of that eccentric family. But we knew them well; how unlike they

were to the rest of the world, and how slight an impression the mere

breach of courtesy would make upon them, in comparison with the

malicious curiosity it would awaken! They were like Bohemians in their

habits and ways of thinking; and were themselves so accustomed to

violate established usages, that the most extravagant irregularities

could not very materially surprise them. This consideration reconciled

me to a proceeding which must otherwise have been a source of regret to

me, on Astraea's account; besides, I was by no means unwilling to accept

the sacrifice she had thus made of her own independence as an additional

proof of her attachment.

But what was the cause of all these stratagems and concealments? I

should learn that the next day. I saw that Astraea was suffering under a

despondency natural enough to her novel situation, and I patiently

waited her own time for disclosures which I now began to look forward to

with nervous apprehensions.

The house in which I found her lay buried in the foliage of a secluded

valley. It was in the cottage style, covered with creepers that dropped

in at the windows, and filled the rooms with scent; and it belonged to

people in an humble rank of life, who had known Astraea from her infancy,

and were devoted to her interest. Under the shelter of their roof, she

was secure. The place was extremely picturesque on a small scale--a

green glen, where the surrounding heights were broken into a variety of

forms, and where the eye, on whatever spot it rested, caught some point

of beauty. An impetuous little stream rushed from the jaws of a ravine

that formed a sort of vista at one extremity, and, brawling away through

the wooded depths of the valley, tossed itself into the air over a group

of artificial rooks at the foot of the tiny lawn. Dark trees filled the

openings in the hills, and the sward round their roots was dotted with

clusters of wild flowers, like a garden. A rustic bridge spanned the

water, and graceful willows dipped their tresses into the spray. Aquatic

plants clung about the rocks--parasite tendrils climbed the ancient

wood; and there was altogether a feeling of solitude and repose in the

scene, that rendered it the most fitting seclusion on earth to ripen

into a new life of love two ardent hearts like ours.

With what anxiety I looked forward to the next day, when Astraea and I,

liberated from all eyes, should wander about these lonely paths! It came

at last, and with it brought my doom!

(_To be continued._)

STORY OF SILVER-VOICE AND HER SISTER ZOE.

The phenomena of memory are singular objects of study. I have often

thought that a certain class of ideas and observations could be so

arranged as to form an orderly, connected chain, one link of which would

bring home all the others, however deeply sunken in the mind. But

experience teaches me that this is not the case. During my residence in

the East, though I kept a careful journal of every thing that seemed

interesting at the time, a thousand circumstances came to my notice

which I did not set down; and when I have endeavored to recall them,

many have stubbornly refused to appear when wanted. But suddenly, when I

at least expect it, I now and then find myself irresistibly carried back

to old times. Forms that had faded into distance--thoughts that had

seemed dissolved into nothing--scenes and impressions which I had in

vain sought to revive--obtrude themselves irresistibly on my notice. In

general, the unexpected visitants are welcome; the fireside is rendered

brighter and more cheerful by them; and their presence sends a glow

through this northern atmosphere, which allows autumn to steal on

unperceived.

I was prevented last night from sleeping by the perpetual recurrence in

my reveries of the name of Lady Silver-Voice. I had forgotten her

existence, as one is apt to forget a beautiful thing amidst the material

cares of this life. Let me endeavor to tell her story as simply as it

was told to me.

But first, how I came to see her--for I have had that privilege. It was

one evening in winter-time, that, after a prolonged illness, I was

taking a stroll on the roof of a palace-like mansion in Cairo. The sun

had set _for me_; it had gone down behind the interminable sea of

houses. But I could still see it shining on the forest of minarets that

rose through the moist, balmy air, and on the vast dome of the mosque

that now towers above the citadel. The terrace-roof on which I was,

though commanded at a distance by much more lofty buildings, was far

raised above the humble dwellings near at hand, so that I could look

down and observe the movements of my neighbors, who were most varied in

race and costume--Turks and Maltese, Arabs and Greeks, Armenians and

Copts--to say nothing of "Jews and poultry," which my servant, who

brought me a pipe, added to the enumeration.

I passed some time in examining the movements of these various

personages, who all come out upon their terraces to enjoy the evening

air; and though I did not observe any thing very characteristic, any

thing which would necessarily go down in my journal, I was sufficiently

interested not to notice the flight of time, and to allow complete

darkness to gather round me while I still leaned over the parapet.

Suddenly I was aroused from my contemplations by a snatch of a strange

song sung in the most marvelously-sweet voice I had ever heard. I

started, not exactly like a guilty thing, but transfixed, as it were, by

an almost painful shaft of delight. The voice swelled up on the night

air, until, in spite of its divine sweetness, it became almost a cry of

sorrow, and then ceased, leaving a thrill running through my frame that

gradually seemed to shrink back to my heart, and expire there in a

feeling of mingled joy and pain. Perhaps the state of my health rendered

me peculiarly susceptible of strong emotions: I am afraid I wept. The

darkness, however, prevented this weakness from being witnessed by Ali,

who came to announce that my dinner was ready. I went down the winding

staircase to the vast lonely hall, where I usually ate alone--the master

of the house being absent on a journey; but though my appetite was that

of a convalescent, I am sure I did not enliven the meal for myself by my

usual humorous observations: to the officer, for example, that I was

doubtful whether the beef was camel, or the mutton was donkey. Ali

seemed rather surprised, especially when I asked him, abruptly, who it

was that sang so sweetly in the neighborhood.

He did not know! My curiosity was unsatisfied; but, perhaps, I went to

bed that night with a fuller gush of happiness at my heart than if I had

heard this prosy fellow's account of the matter. It is a frequent

subject of meditation with me, whether or not I am constituted as other

men are. Are others played upon in this way by some slight

occurrence--by meeting with a face seen before only in a dream, by a

peculiar smile, by a gesture, by a sigh, by a voice singing in the

darkness? If not, who will understand the delicious watchful hours I

passed that night, or the dreams, spangled with bright eyes, fairy

forms, purple clouds, golden gleams, and buzzing with sweeter warblings

than ever rolled in a nightingale's throat, that lured me on until

morning?

Naturally, the first inquiries I made were about the voice; but I did

not that day meet with any success. When evening approached, I again

went up to the terrace; and, not to lengthen the story, I did see, just

as the sun went down upon a low house not very far off, but looking into

another street, a little fairy figure walking up and down, and leading a

child by the hand. A kind of instinct told me that the voice was

embodied before me; and, presently, all doubt was set at rest. The same

silver tones rose upon the air; and this time I recognized that the song

was in the Greek language. I remained looking intently in that

direction, until the form faded into a mere shadow; and then, as

darkness increased, seemed to multiply before my aching eyes, and assume

all sorts of fantastical shapes. Every now and then, a couplet, or a

stanza, came sweeping up. It was evident the lady, whoever she might

be, was not singing merely to amuse the child. The notes were sometimes

lively, but, in general, sad and plaintive. I listened long after the

last quaver had died away; and was rather sulky when Ali came with the

persevering joke that "the camel was getting cold!"

Next day I suddenly remembered that an old Greek priest had frequently

invited me to go to his house; and reproaching myself with the want of

politeness I had hitherto exhibited, I ordered my donkey to be saddled,

and started off. The ride was only of a few streets; it seemed to me

quite a journey. On arriving, the worthy _papa_ was fortunately at home,

and by himself. He was delighted with my visit; and, after a small

altercation with his servant, succeeded in getting me some coffee and a

pipe. I admired the art with which I wound toward my query. The old

gentleman suspected nothing; but when I casually asked if he knew who it

was among his countrymen who sang like an angel, he quickly replied, "It

must be Silver-Voice, as she is called among the Moslem!"

I overturned my pipe on the mat in my eagerness to turn round and

listen. Excellent old man! instead of clapping his hands for the

servant, he went down upon his knees to collect the scattered tobacco,

and replace it in the bowl, and silenced my excuse with as mild an "It

is no matter, my son!" as ever passed the lips of one of our species. He

grew before my eyes in that humble posture; and when he returned to his

seat, seemed fifty times as venerable as before. The same spirit would

have led him to wash the feet of the poor.

He then told me the story of Silver-Voice and her sister:

"Many years ago, a Greek merchant was walking through the slave-market,

when he beheld for sale a little girl, so beautiful, and yet so sad,

that though he was on the way to conclude a bargain for fifty thousand

ardebs of beans, he could not prevail on himself to pass indifferently

on.

"'Of what country?' he inquired.

"'A Candiote,' replied the slave-dealer. She was from his own beloved

island.

"'How much?'

"'Five thousand piastres.'

"'I will pay the price.' The bargain was concluded on the spot. Another

merchant got the beans; but Kariades took home the Silver-Voice to his

house.

"The girl followed him silently, hanging down her head, and refusing to

answer the questions he put in his kind, bluff way. Some great sorrow

evidently weighed upon her, and she refused to be comforted. When,

however, Kariades presented her to his wife, and said, 'This shall be

our daughter,' the child opened her mouth and cried, 'Wherefore, oh

father, didst thou not come to the slave-market one short hour before?'

He asked her meaning, and she explained that her sister had been

separated from her, and sold to a Turk; 'and,' cried she, 'I will not

live unless Zoe be brought back to my side.' Kariades smiled as he

replied, 'I went forth, this day to buy beans, and I have come back with

a daughter. Must I needs go and fetch another?' 'You must!' said the

girl, resolutely.

"From that hour forth she was the queen in the house. Kariades returned

to the slave-market, but, strange to say, could find no clew to the fate

of Zoe, although he offered double her price to the dealer. It was

believed that she had been bought by a stranger merely passing through

Cairo, and making no stay; for the public crier was employed to go about

the streets and proclaim that whoever would produce the girl should

receive whatever he demanded. All was in vain. Time passed on; and the

active grief of the Silver-Voice sobered down into steadfast melancholy.

She continued living as the daughter or rather as the mistress of the

house, knowing no want but that of her sister, and enchanting every one

with the magnificence of her singing, until she reached the age of

sixteen years.

"One day Kariades said to her, 'My child, I must seek a husband for thee

among the merchants of my people.' But she firmly refused, declaring

that there could be no joy for her unless she knew that her sister was

not living in wretched thralldom in the house of some cruel Turk.

"'But,' said he, 'what if death have overtaken her?'

"'We promised, as we lay folded in each other's arms the night before we

were parted, to be happy or sorrowful together--to laugh at the same

time, to weep at the same time--and if one died, the other was never to

cease grieving. I remember that, as they were dragging Zoe away, she

turned her pale face, all sparkling with tears, toward me, and cried,

_forever_!'

"'Meaning that you were parted forever?'

"'No; but that we were to be faithful to our vow forever. I never shall

forget the agonizing expression of that face. How can I? I see it every

night in my dreams; and painful though it be, I rush into sleep as

eagerly to behold it as if I were going into Paradise. No: I will never

marry while that face threatens to interpose between my husband and me.'

"'Then this vision torments thee?'

"'Ah, father!' and she shuddered, and bent her head.

"It was evident that her mind was weakened by too much contemplation of

one idea.

"Kariades yielded before a will stronger than his own, and nothing more

was said either about marriage or the lost Zoe for nearly a year. At the

end of this time, Silver-Voice appeared before the good old man, and

said, 'Father, give me money; I have thought of a means by which I may

find my sister Zoe.' He looked sadly at her, but gave her what she

required. Next day she disappeared, and was not heard of for several

weeks. Then she returned, consoled her adopted parents by her presence

for a while, and again departed without giving the least indication of

how she employed her time. Nor did they ask her, confident that all she

did was prompted by that most powerful of all loves--the love of a

sister supplying a mother's place. "The truth was, that she had hired a

number of houses in various parts of Cairo, and visited them

alternately, in order to pass the evenings singing on the terrace.

Despite the failure of the researches made by Kariades, she remained

persuaded that Zoe was in Cairo, and hoped that the echoes of her

magnificent voice might at length go as messengers into the depths of

every harem, and make known her presence. The whole city was by turns

rendered happy by the Silver-Voice; but as it was heard now in the

Citadel, now near the Bisket-el-Fil, anon at the Bab Zuweileh, men began

to think strange things. It was curious, indeed, to hear the

speculations of the gossiping Turks about this ubiquitous voice. I

remember laughing much at the wise arguments by which one of them, who

had heard the fable of Memnon's statue, demonstrated to me that the

sound came from no human organ at all, but was produced by the rays of

the setting sun striking in some peculiar way upon the minarets.

"A whole year passed in this manner without bringing any thing new; but

the beautiful patience of the Silver-Voice was at length after a fashion

rewarded. Better had it been, perhaps, for her, had her soul been wafted

away in some sad song. She was standing one evening, long after the sun

had set, filling the air with her plaintive notes, and calling, as

usual, upon her sister; suddenly there rose a cry--a piercing, terrible

cry, such as no mortal ever utters but when the sanctuary of life is

invaded. At that awful sound the Silver-Voice was struck dumb. She stood

listening like a gazelle when it hears the howl of a wolf afar off upon

the desert. The wild accents seemed to hang for a moment over her, and

then fell into her ear, moulding, as they fell, into the words, "My

sister!" How it came to pass she could not tell: over the parapet, along

a crumbling wall, across a ruined house, she passed as if by magic,

until she fell like a moonbeam through an open window, and saw upon a

rich couch the form of an expiring woman lying. It was her sister Zoe.

The blow had been too well aimed: it had gone to her heart, and the

life-blood bubbled rapidly forth between her white fingers, which she

pressed, to her side. One eloquent glance, in which eyes mingled with

eyes, while lips hung upon lips, was exchanged. There was not time,

neither was there need, to tell their stories in any other way. The

dying woman made one effort, pointed to a cradle that stood under a

cloud of gauze curtains in a corner, then smiled a long, impassioned

smile of recognition, of gratitude, and of love, seemed to wander a

little back in memory, murmured some pleasant sounds, and was still.

"The Silver-Voice rose solemnly, and casting her eyes about, beheld a

man crouching in a corner weeping. 'It is all over!' she said. 'All

over!' he replied, looking up. But I will not weary you with the scene

in which the wretched man--a Greek renegade--related how he had bought

Zoe--how he had loved her, and made her his wife--how they had traveled

in far countries--how he was jealous, ever, as he acknowledged, without

cause--and how, in a fit of madness, he had slain the mother of his

child. When he had finished, he led the bewildered Silver-Voice to the

cradle, and thrusting aside the curtains, disclosed the miniature

counterpart of Zoe, sleeping as if it had been lulled into deeper

slumber by its mother's death-cries. Then, stealing toward the corpse

with the step of one about to commit a new crime, he snatched a hasty

kiss, and rushed away. What became of him was never known. Silver-Voice

performed the last duties for poor Zoe, and took the child under her

care. Since that time she has almost always continued to live in the

house from the roof of which she heard her sister's cry; and though

apparently rational in every thing else, never fails to go up each

evening and sing the song she used to sing of old, though in a more

plaintive and despairing tone. If asked wherefore she acts in this wise,

her reply is, that she is seeking for her sister Zoe, and nobody

attempts to contradict the harmless delusion. Several years have now

passed away since this event, and the child has become a handsome boy.

You may see them both at the church to-morrow."

I thanked the worthy _papa_ for his story more warmly, perhaps, than he

expected. He had been as much pleased by narrating as I had been by

listening; but he was not very particular about the quality of his

facts, and unintentionally made me do penance for the excessive pleasure

I had experienced by giving me an account--two hours long, and with

equal unction--of a tremendous controversy then raging as to the proper

form of electing the sub-patriarch of Cairo. It would have been

ungrateful to interrupt him, although there seemed no end to his

garrulity. Fortunately, two or three people at length came in; I

compromised my dignity as a heretic by kissing his hand, and escaped, to

turn over this curious story in my mind. Next day I went to the Greek

church, and saw a melancholy-looking face through the bars of the

cage-like gallery in which the women sit. I am quite certain it was that

of Lady Silver-Voice, but no one whom I asked seemed to know her. The

boy did not show himself. It was my intention to go another Sunday, and

observe more accurately, for I really felt a deep interest in this

unfortunate lady. But other thoughts and occupations came upon me, and

it was only by an accident that, as I have said, these circumstances

recurred last night to my mind.

THE CROCODILE BATTERY.

In the summer of 1846, when every body in England was crazy with railway

gambling, I was sojourning on the banks of the Rohan, a small stream in

one of the northwestern provinces of India. Here I first became

acquainted, with the Mugger, or Indian crocodile. I had often before

leaving England, seen, in museums, stuffed specimens of the animal, and

had read in "Voyages and Travels," all sorts of horrible and incredible

stories concerning them. I had a lively recollection of Waterton riding

close to the water's edge on the back of an American cayman, and I had a

confused notion of sacred crocodiles on the banks of the Nile. I always

felt more or less inclined to regard the whole race as having affinities

with Sinbad's "roc," and the wild men of the woods, who only refrained

from speaking for fear of being made to work.

My ideas respecting the natural history of crocodiles were in this stage

of development when, one day, while paddling up the Rohan, I saw what

appeared to be a half-burned log of wood lying on a sand-bank. I paddled

close up to it. To my astonishment, it proved to be a huge reptile. The

old stories of dragons, griffins, and monsters, seemed no longer fables;

the speculations of geologists concerning, _mososaurians, hylaesaurians,_

and _plesiosaurians_, were no longer dreams. There, in all his scaly

magnificence, was a _real_ saurian, nearly eighteen feet long. For a

while I stood gazing at this, to me, new fellow-citizen of the world,

and speculating on his mental constitution. The monster was, or

pretended to be, asleep. I wondered if he dreamt, and what his dreams or

reveries might be about; possibly he was dreaming of the same old world

with which I associated him--possibly of the fish who were swimming in

the waters below: or, he might be thinking of the men and women he had

swallowed in the course of his existence. There was a snort; perhaps

that was occasioned by the bugles and heavy brass ornaments which had

adorned the limbs of some Hindoo beauty he had eaten, and which were

lying heavy and indigestible on his stomach. But presently the brute lay

so still, and seemed so tranquil and placid in his sleep, that it was

difficult to imagine him guilty of such atrocities. He did not appear to

be disturbed by remorse, or the twitchings of a guilty conscience: it

may have been all a slander. I felt so kindly disposed toward him, that

I could not imagine it possible that if awake he would feel disposed to

eat me. Let us see! so making a splash with my paddle, I wakened the

sleeping beauty. He instantly started up, and opened, what

appeared--what indeed proved to be--an enlarged man-trap; disclosing a

red, slimy cavern within, fringed with great conical fangs. He closed it

with a snap that made me shudder, and then plunged into the water, his

eyes glaring with hate and defiance.

Some days after I had made this new acquaintance, I was sitting at home

talking with my brother, when a native woman came crying and screaming

to the bungalow door, tearing her hair out in handfuls; she got down on

the veranda floor and struck her head against it, as if she really

meant to dash her brains out. A crowd of other women stood at a short

distance, crying and lamenting as if they were frantic. What was the

matter? Half-a-dozen voices made answer in a discordant chorus, that

while the poor woman was washing her clothes by the river side, her

child--an infant about a year old--had been seized and swallowed by a

Mugger. Although convinced that aid was now impossible, we took our guns

and hastened to the spot where the accident happened; but all was still

there, not a wavelet disturbed the surface of the stream. A small

speckled kingfisher was hovering overhead, as if balanced in the air,

with its beak bent down on its breast, watching the fish beneath;

presently it darted like an arrow into the water; returned with an empty

bill, and then went off, with its clear, sharp, twittering note, as if

to console itself for the failure.

One day I was sitting on the high bank of the river, taking snap shots

with my gun at the large fish who were every now and then leaping out of

the water. A favorite spaniel was bringing a fish out of the water that

I had hit. It had swam already half way across the stream, when the

water about six yards below her became suddenly disturbed; and, to my

horror, up started the head and open jaws of an enormous crocodile. The

dog gave a loud shriek, and sprang half out of the water. The Mugger

swam rapidly, and had got within a yard of his intended victim, when I

raised my gun, and took aim at the monster's head. A thud, a splash, a

bubble, and a dusky red streak in the water, was all that ensued.

Presently, however, Juno's glossy black head emerged from the water;

and, to my delight, began to make rapid progress toward me, and landed

safely. The poor brute, wet and shivering, coiled herself up at my feet,

with her bright hazel eyes fixed on mine with ineffable satisfaction.

Poor Juno subsequently fell a victim to the Muggers, when her master was

not at hand to succor her. I mention these facts, to show that the

diabolical revenge with which I afterward assisted in visiting these

monsters, was not groundless. But the strongest occasion of it remains

to be told.

Just as the "rains" were beginning, my neighbor, Mr. Hall, sent me word

that he intended paying me a short visit, and requested me to send a

_syce_ (groom), with a saddle-horse, to meet him at a certain place on

the road. The syce, Sidhoo, was a smart, open-chested, sinewy-limbed

little fellow, a perfect model of a biped racer. He could run--as is the

custom in the East--alongside his horse at a pace of seven or eight

miles an hour, for a length of time that would astonish the best English

pedestrian I ever heard of.

Toward evening, Mr. Hall rode up to the bungalow, dripping with water,

and covered with mud. I saw at once that some accident had happened, and

hastened to assist him.

As soon as he got inside, he said, in answer to my bantering about his

"spill"--

"I am in no humor for jesting. Your syce is lost!"

"Drowned?"

"No; eaten!--by an enormous crocodile!"

He added that, on arriving at a small nulla about two miles off, he

found it so much swollen by rain, that he had to swim his horse across

it, holding one end of the cord which Sidhoo, in common with most

Hindoos, wore coiled round his waist, and which was used in pulling

water from the deep wells of the country. Hall got safely across, and

then commenced pulling Sidhoo over by means of the cord. The black face,

with the white teeth and turban, were bobbing above the muddy water,

when all at once the groom threw up his arms, gave a loud shriek, and

sank below the surface. Mr. Hall, who had doubled the cord round his

hand, was dragged into the water; where he got a momentary glimpse of

the long serrated tail of a Mugger, lashing the water a short way ahead

of him. In his efforts to save himself, he lost his hold of the string,

and with much difficulty clambered up the slippery bank of the nulla.

All was now still. Only Sidhoo's turban was to be seen floating loosely,

a considerable way down the stream. Hall ran toward it, with the sort of

feeling which makes a drowning man catch at a straw; and, by means of a

stick he succeeded in fishing it out, and brought it with him, as the

only remnant of Sidhoo he could give an account of.

Bad news soon spreads in an Indian village, and Sidhoo's fate was soon

made known to his wife; and in a short time she came crying and sobbing

to the bungalow, and laid her youngest child at our friend's feet. The

tears glistened in the poor fellow's eyes as he tried to soothe and

console her; which he did by promising to provide for her and her

children.

Although Hall was generally running over with fun, we smoked our

cheroots that evening in silence; except when we proposed schemes for

the annihilation of the crocodiles. A great many plans were

discussed--but none that offered much chance of success. The next day,

after breakfast, I was showing my visitor a galvanic blasting apparatus,

lately received from England, for blowing up the snags (stumps of trees)

which obstruct the navigation of the river. I was explaining its mode of

action to him, when he suddenly interrupted me--"The very thing! Instead

of snags, why not blow up the Muggers?"

I confessed that there could be no reason why we should not blast the

Muggers. The difficulty was only how to manage it; yet the more we

talked of it, the more feasible did the scheme appear.

The brutes keep pretty constant to the same quarters, when the fish are

plentiful; and we soon ascertained that poor Sidhoo's murderer was well

known in the neighborhood of the nulla. He had on several occasions

carried off goats, sheep, pigs, and children; and had once attempted to

drag a buffalo, whom he had caught drinking, into the water; but, from

all accounts, came off second best in this rencontre. There not being

enough of water in the nulla to drown the buffalo, the Mugger soon found

he had caught a Tartar; and after being well mauled by the buffalo's

horns, he was fain to scuttle off and hide himself among the mud.

I had observed, when blasting the snags, that the concussion produced by

the discharge had the effect of killing all the fish within a range of

some twenty or thirty yards. After every explosion, they were found in

great numbers, floating on the surface of the water with their bellies

uppermost. It now occurred to me, that if we could only get within a

moderate distance of the Mugger, if we did not blow him to pieces, we

would at all events give him a shock that would rather astonish him. An

explosion of gunpowder under water communicates a much severer shock to

the objects in its immediate vicinity, than the same quantity of powder

exploded in the air; the greater density of the water enabling it, as it

were, to give a harder blow.

Having made our arrangements, Mr. Hall, my brother, and myself, got into

a small canoe, with the blasting apparatus on board, and dropt down the

stream to where the nulla discharged its waters into the Rohan. He then

got out and proceeded to a village close by, where we obtained for a few

annas, the carcass of a young kid. A flask with about six pounds of

gunpowder, and having the conducting wires attached, was then sewn into

the kid's belly. Two Strong ropes were also tied to this bait; and, to

one of these, the conducting wire was firmly bound with small cord. The

ropes were about thirty yards long, and had each attached to its

extremities one of the inflated goat-skins used by water-carriers. Hall,

with his goat-skin under his arm, and a coil of loose rope in his hand,

took one side of the nulla, while my brother, similarly provided took

the other. My brother's rope contained the wire; so I walked beside him,

while two coolies, with the battery ready charged, and slung to a pole

which rested on their shoulders, accompanied me. A small float was also

attached by a string to the kid, so as to indicate its position.

These arrangements being made, we commenced walking up the nulla,

dragging the carcass of the kid in the stream, and moving it across,

from side to side, so as to leave no part of the bed untried; and, as

the nulla was only about twelve yards wide, we felt pretty confident

that, if the Mugger were in it, we could scarcely fail of coming in

contact with him. We had proceeded only about a quarter of a mile, when

the float suddenly dipt. My brother and Hall threw the loose coil of

ropes they carried on the water, along with the inflated skins. These

made it soon evident by their motion that the Mugger had seized the kid.

He was dashing across, in a zig-zag direction, down the stream. I ran

after him as fast as I could; and paying out the cord from the reel,

when I found it impossible to keep up with him. On reaching a place

where the banks were steeper than usual, he came to a stand still. I

got on the top of the bank, and commenced hauling in the rope. I did

not, however, venture to lift the skin out of the water, for fear of

disturbing him, until the coolies with the battery had time to come up.

This was a very anxious time; for, if the Mugger had shifted his

quarters before they came up, a fresh run with him would have ensued,

with the chance of his breaking the wires with his teeth. After a while

I heard the coolies approaching, and my brother scolding them, and

urging them to hasten on. Just as their heads appeared above the bank,

the foremost coolie tripped his foot and fell--I groaned with

disappointment--presently, my brother came along with them, and brought

the battery to my feet; a good deal of the acid had been spilt, but,

with the aid of a bottle of fresh acid we had brought along with us, we

soon got the battery up to the requisite power. Every thing being now in

order, I commenced pulling up the rope with the wire. I proceeded as

cautiously as possible for fear of disturbing the Mugger; but, in spite

of all my efforts, the inflated skin, in coming up the bank, dislodged

some loose pieces of earth, and sent them splashing into the water.

Fortunately, however, the Mugger had made up his mind to digest the kid

where he was. I could not help chuckling when I at length got hold of

the end of the wires. While my brother was fastening one of them to the

battery, I got the other ready for completing the circuit. The Mugger

all the while lying still at the bottom of the nulla with, most likely,

a couple of fathoms of water over his head, unconscious of danger, and

little dreaming that the two-legged creatures on the bank had got a

nerve communicating with his stomach, through which they were going to

send a flash of lightning that would shatter his scaly hulk to pieces.

Every thing being now ready, I made the fatal contact. Our success was

complete! We felt a shock, as if something had fallen down the bank--a

mound of muddy water rose, with a muffled, rumbling sound, and then

burst out to a column of dark smoke. A splashing and bubbling succeeded,

and then a great crimson patch floated on the water, like a variegated

carpet pattern. Strange-looking fragments of scaly skin were picked up

by the natives from the water's edge, and brought to us amidst a very

general rejoicing. The exploded Mugger floated down the stream, and the

current soon carried it out of sight. We were not at all sorry, for it

looked such a horrible mess that we felt no desire to examine it.

Our sense of triumphant satisfaction was, however, sadly damped about a

week afterward, when we received the mortifying announcement, that

Sidhoo's Mugger was still alive, and on his old beat, apparently

uninjured. It was evident that we had blasted the wrong Mugger! We

consoled ourselves with the reflection, that if he were not Sidhoo's

murderer, it was very _likely_ he was not wholly innocent of other

atrocities, and therefore deserved his fate.

Of course it was impossible to rest while Sidhoo's Mugger remained

alive, so we were not long in preparing for a second expedition. This

time we took the precaution of not charging the battery until we were

certain that the bait was swallowed. The acid, diluted to the necessary

strength, was, therefore, carried in one of those brown earthenware jars

called gray-beards, which had come out to us full of Glenlivet whisky.

We commenced dragging the kid up the stream, as before; but, having

walked more than a mile without getting a bite, we were getting rather

disheartened, and sat down to rest, struck a light, and smoked a

cheroot. Hall laid down, having manufactured an impromptu easy chair out

of his coil of rope, with the inflated goat-skin placed above it. My

brother was not long in imitating his example, and I laid down under the

shade of some reeds, near to the water's edge. The heat was oppressive,

and we were discussing the probability of getting a bite that day, and

lamenting that we had not brought some pale ale along with us, when,

when, all at once, I got a sharp blow on the leg, while my brother came

spinning down the bank like a teetotem--a companion picture to Hall; who

was revolving down the opposite bank. The ropes and skins went rushing

down the nulla at a tremendous pace. As soon as we recovered from the

laughter into which we were thrown by this droll contretemps, we set off

in pursuit, guided by the track which the inflated skins made in the

water. On they went, dashing from side to side, as they had done in our

first attempt. On coming to a place where the nulla made a sharp turn,

they stood still under the high bank, on the inner curve of the bend. It

unfortunately happened that the bank, near to which the skins were

floating, was too precipitous for us to get near them, without starting

the Mugger from his present position. With much labor, we detached some

loose sods from the top of the bank, and sent them with a loud splash

into the water, directly over where we imagined him to have taken up his

quarters. This had the desired effect, for the skins began to move

slowly down the stream, as if the Mugger were crawling leisurely along

the bottom.

Leaving my brother with the coolies in charge of the battery, I ran on

to where the bank was more shelving. By good luck, the stream was

rushing up, after its sudden sweep, and sent a strong current against

this bank. I had not waited many minutes, before the skins came floating

round the corner, to where I was standing. I seized the one to which the

wire was attached, desiring my brother to charge the battery, and bring

it down. This he did much sooner than I could have expected; for, as the

battery was now empty, one coolie was able to carry it on his head,

while my brother took the jar of acid in his hand. It was evident from

the motion of the other skin in the water that the Mugger was still

moving--so no time was to be lost. I made the connection with the

battery with one of the wires; in another instant the circuit was

complete, and the Mugger's doom sealed.

There was a momentary pause--owing, I suppose, to some slight loss of

insulation in the wires--then came the premonitory shock, then the

rumble, the smoke, and the sparks; and a great bloated mass of flesh and

blood rose to the surface of the water. Hall called out to us to drag it

ashore, and see whether we could get any trace of poor Sidhoo. We tried

by means of a bamboo pole to pull it to the bank, but the glimpse we got

of it as it neared was so unutterably disgusting, that we pushed it off

again, and allowed it to float away down with the current.

That this was Sidhoo's Mugger, there could be no doubt; for he was never

seen or heard of in the neighborhood again.

A CHAPTER ON DREAMS.

When we picture to ourselves a person lying in a state of profound

sleep--the body slightly curved upon itself; the limbs relaxed; the head

reclining on its pillow; and eyelids closed--it is wonderful to think

what strange and startling imagery may be passing through the brain of

that apparently unconscious being. The events of his whole life may

hurry past him in dim obscurity; he may be revisited by the dead; he may

be transported into regions he never before beheld; and his ideas

visibly assuming phantasmal shapes, may hover round him like shadows

reflected from another and more spiritual state of existence.

Let us draw the curtains gently aside, and study the physiognomy of

sleep.

The countenance may, occasionally, be observed lighted up, as it were,

from within by a passing dream--its expression is frequently one of

peculiar mildness and benignity; the breathing may be slow, but it is

calm and uniform: the pulse not so rapid as in the waking state, but

soft and regular; the composure of the whole body may continue

trance-like and perfect. There is, indeed, no sign of innocence more

touching than the smile of a sleeping infant. But, suddenly, this state

of tranquillity may be disturbed; the dreamer changes his position and

become restless; he moans grievously--perhaps sobs--and tears may be

observed glimmering underneath his eyelids; his whole body now seems to

be shaken by some inward convulsion; but, presently, the strife abates;

the storm-cloud gradually passes; he stretches his limbs, opens his

eyes, and, as he awakes, daylight, in an instant, dispels the vision,

perhaps leaving not behind the faintest trace or recollection of a

single incident which occurred in this mysterious state.

But what are dreams? Whence come they? What do they portend? Not man

only, but all animals, it is presumed, dream, more or less, when they

are asleep. Horses neigh, and sometimes kick violently; cows, when

suckling their young calves, often utter piteous lowings; dogs bark in

suppressed tones, and, from the motions of their paws, appear to fancy

themselves in the field of the chase; even frogs, particularly during

summer, croak loudly and discordantly until midnight, and then retire,

and become silent. Birds also dream; and will sometimes, when

frightened, fall from their roosting-perch, or flutter about their cage,

in evident alarm. A bullfinch, says Bechstein, belonging to a lady, was

subject to very frightful dreams, which made it drop off its perch; but

no sooner did it hear the voice of its affectionate mistress than it

became immediately tranquil, and reascended its perch to sleep again. It

is pretty certain that parrots dream. It is, indeed, a curious

circumstance that the best way of teaching this bird to talk is to cover

the cage over so as to darken it, and while he is going to sleep

pronounce, audibly and slowly, the word he is to learn; if the winged

pupil be a clever one, he will, upon the repetition of the lesson, in a

morning or two, begin to repeat it.

Upon the same principle, school-boys commit their tasks to memory by

reading them over the last thing before they go to bed. It is to be

remembered that during sleep the mind may not be wholly under eclipse;

for, although some of its faculties--such as perception, comparison,

judgment, and especially the will, may be suspended--others (for

example, memory and imagination), are often more active than in the

waking state. But some persons, it is said, never dream. We are assured

by Locke that he knew a gentleman who had an excellent memory, yet could

not recollect ever having dreamed until his twenty-sixth year. Dr. Reid,

for many years before his death, had no recollection of having ever

dreamed. Dr. Eliotson also relates, apparently upon good authority, the

case of a man who never dreamed until after he had a fever, in his

fortieth year; and we ourselves know several persons who are not

conscious of ever dreaming. Nevertheless, many contend that in all such

cases dreams really occur, but that they escape the recollection; for

they contend that it is impossible that the mind can, being an

independent principle, ever be in a state of absolute rest. This is

arguing within a very narrow circle. We must not forget that the

intimate alliance of the mind with the body, subjects it to its general

laws; the "heat-oppressed brain" requires rest to renew its energies,

and the mind, of which it is the organ, in the mean time, may, as in

profound sleep, remain perfectly quiescent. The lids of the outward

senses are closed; a vail is drawn over the immaterial principle of our

nature; and mind and body alike, for a period, lie in a state of utter

unconsciousness.

Here, however, it may fairly be asked, how happens it that the same

person will at one time remember, and, at another, forget his dreams?

This circumstance may, we conceive, thus be explained:

Those dreams which occur in very deep sleep, and in the early part of

the night, are not so likely to be remembered as those which happen

toward morning, when the sleep is less profound; hence the popular

notion that our morning dreams--which are always best remembered--are

likely to prove true. Then, again, the imagery of some dreams is more

striking, and actually makes a deeper impression than the incidents of

other dreams. We are told by Sir Humphrey Davy, that, on one occasion, a

dream was so strongly impressed upon his eye, that even after he had

risen and walked out, he could not be persuaded of its unreal nature,

until his friends convinced him of its impossibility. The effect of some

dreams upon children is very remarkable; they are, it is believed, more

liable to dreams of terror than grown persons, which may be accounted

for by their being more subject to a variety of internal complaints,

such as teething, convulsions, derangement of the bowels, &c.; added to

which, their reasoning faculties are not as yet sufficiently developed

to correct such erroneous impressions. Hence, sometimes, children

appear, when they awake, bewildered and distressed, and remain for a

considerable period in a state of agitation almost resembling delirium.

The incidents which are conceived in dreams are indeed not unfrequently

confounded by adults with real events; hence, we often hear people, in

alluding to some doubtful circumstance, exclaim, "Well! if it be not

true, I certainly must have dreamed it." We confess we have ourselves

been puzzled in this way; the spell may be broken; but the impression

made by the delusion still clings to us; its shadow is still thrown

across our path.

The question therefore recurs, What are Dreams? Whence do they arise? We

believe that the ideas and emotions which take place in the dreaming

state may be ascribed to a twofold origin. They may arise from certain

bodily sensations, which may suggest particular trains of thought and

feeling; or they may be derived from the operations or activity of the

thinking principle itself; in which case they are purely mental. The

celebrated Dr. James Gregory--whose premature death was a great loss to

science--states, that having gone to bed with a vessel of hot water at

his feet, he dreamed of walking up the crater of Mount Etna, and felt

the ground warm under him. He likewise, on another occasion, dreamed of

spending a winter at Hudson's Bay, and of suffering much distress from

intense frost; and found, when he awoke, that he had thrown off the

bed-clothes in his sleep, and exposed himself to cold. He had been

reading, a few days before, a very particular account of this colony.

The eminent metaphysician, Dr. Reid, relates of himself that the

dressing of a blister, which he had applied to his head, becoming

ruffled, so as to produce pain, he dreamed that he had fallen into the

hands of a party of North American Indians, who were scalping him. These

were dreams suggested by sensations which, were conveyed from the

surface of the body, through the nerves, until corresponding impression

was produced on the mind. Upon the same principle, very strong

impressions received during the day may modify and very materially

influence the character of our dreams at night. Dr. Beattie states that

once, after riding thirty miles in a very high wind, he passed a night

of dreams which were so terrible, that he found it expedient to keep

himself awake, that he might no longer be tormented with them. "Had I

been superstitious," he observes, "I should have thought that some

disaster was impending; but it occurred to me that the tempestuous

weather I had encountered the preceding day might be the cause of all

these horrors." Other and less obvious causes are in constant operation.

A change in the weather--in the electrical state of the atmosphere--and

its barometrical pressure--the temperature of the bedroom--arrangements

of the bed-furniture--the adjustment of the bed-clothes--nay, the

position of the sleeper, particularly if he cramp a foot or benumb an

arm, will at once affect the entire concatenation and issue of his

dreams.

Furthermore, impressions may be made on the mind during sleep, by

speaking gently to a person, or even whispering in the ear. We

ourselves, when in Italy, could on one occasion trace the origin of a

very remarkable dream to our having heard, in an obscure and

half-conscious manner, during sleep, the noise of people in the streets,

on All Souls'-night, invoking alms for the dead. Dr. Beattie knew a man

in whom any kind of dream could be produced if his friends, gently

addressing him, afforded the subject-matter for his ideas. Equally

curious is the circumstance that dreams may be produced by whispering in

the ear. A case of this description is recorded by Dr. Abercrombie:

"An officer, whose susceptibility of having his dreams thus conjured

before him, was so remarkable, that his friends could produce any kind

of dream they pleased, by softly whispering in his ear, especially if

this were done by one with whose voice he was familiar. His companions

were in the constant habit of amusing themselves at his expense. On one

occasion they conducted him through the whole progress of a quarrel,

which ended in a duel; and when the parties were supposed to meet, a

pistol was put into his hand, which he fired off in his sleep, and was

awakened by the report. On another, they found him asleep on the top of

a locker or bunker in the cabin, when, by whispering, they made him

believe he had fallen overboard; and they then exhorted him to save

himself by swimming. He immediately imitated the motions of swimming.

They then suggested to him that he was being pursued by a shark, and

entreated him to dive for his life. This he did, or rather attempted,

with so much violence, that he threw himself off the locker, by which he

was bruised, and, of course, awakened." Dr. Abercrombie adds, that the

most remarkable circumstance connected with this case was, that after

these and a variety of other pranks had been played upon him, "he had

no distinct recollection of his dreams, but only a confused feeling of

oppression or fatigue, and used to tell his friends that he was sure

they had been playing some tricks upon him."

It appears, also--and the fact is very remarkable--that a similar kind

of sensation will produce the same description of dream in a number of

individuals at the same time. Hence different people will sometimes have

the same dream. We read of a whole regiment starting up in alarm,

declaring they were dreaming that a black dog had jumped upon their

breasts and disappeared, which curious circumstance was explained by the

discovery, that they had all been exposed to the influence of a

deleterious gas, which was generated in the monastery. The effect of

music, also, in exciting delightful dreams, has often been attested. A

French philosopher whose experiments are reported by Magendie, according

to the airs which he had arranged should be played while he was asleep,

could have the character of his dreams directed at pleasure. "There is

an art," says Sir Thomas Browne--in his usual quaint style--"to make

dreams as well as their interpretations; and physicians will tell us

that some food makes turbulent, some gives quiet dreams. Cato, who

doated upon cabbage, might find the crude effects thereof; and

Pythagoras might have had calmer sleeps if he had totally abstained from

beans."

The influences of the day's occurrences, and the thoughts which have

occupied the mind during the day, have been said to give a corresponding

tone and coloring to our dreams at night. Thus the lover dreams of his

mistress; the miser of his gold; the merchant of his speculations; the

man of science of his discoveries. The poets of all ages and nations

adopt this view. Virgil describes Dido forsaken by AEneas, wandering

alone on a desert shore in pursuit of the Tyrians. Milton represents Eve

relating to Adam the dreams which were very naturally the repetition of

her waking thoughts. Petrarch invokes the beauty of Laura. Eloisa,

separated from Abelard, is again happy in his company, even amid the

"dreary wastes" and "low-browed rocks."

There can be no doubt that the dreams of many persons are very greatly

influenced by the reflections and emotions they have experienced the

preceding day; but this is by no means invariably the case. We have

known persons whose dreams refer habitually to events which occurred to

them, perhaps, twenty years ago, and upon whom recent events seem to

possess no such influence. We have often been told by ladies happily and

affectionately married, that while they were engaged, although their

thoughts were naturally much set on their engagement, they never dreamed

of their lovers. So, also, the father of a family, habitually impressed

with a sense of his responsibility and affection toward his offspring,

will sometimes dream often enough of his neighbor's children, but

seldom or, perhaps, never, of his own. Try to dream on a given

subject--resolve and fix the attention upon it--going to sleep, and no

sooner are our eyelids closed, than fantastic fancy will conjure up the

most opposite and incongruous imagery. We have heard this dream-problem

explained by referring it to a principle of _antagonism_, which, waking

or sleeping, may be observed in the animal economy. If a limb become

fatigued by remaining too long in one position, it will be relieved by

being thrown into the very opposite condition; if the eye fatigue itself

by gazing intently on the disc of any bright color, and the eyelids

close, the very opposite, or antagonistic color will be depicted upon

the retina: in like manner, when our waking thoughts--in connection with

the nerve matter, which is their material instrument--have exhausted

their energy, we can easily conceive how the very opposite condition

will be produced. Hence the most unconnected and preposterous train of

imagery may arise from the very earnestness with which we desire a

contrary effect. We dream of events which do not concern us, instead of

those in which we are most deeply interested; we dream of persons to

whom we are indifferent, instead of those to whom we are attached. But,

in the midst of all this curious and perplexing contrariety, it is

remarkable--and may be esteemed a proof of the immateriality of the

mind--that we always preserve the consciousness of our own identity. No

man dreams that he is a woman, or any other person than himself; we have

heard of persons who have dreamed they were dead, and in a spiritual

state; but the spirit was still their own--they maintained their

identity. Sir Thomas Lawrence once made an interesting observation on

this subject to Mrs. Butler--then Miss Fanny Kemble: he pointed out, in

conversation, that he never heard of any lady who ever dreamed that she

was younger than she really was. We retain in our dreams even the

identity of our age. It has been said--we think by Sir Thomas

Browne--that some persons of virtuous and honorable principles will

commit, as they fancy, actions in their dreams which they would shudder

at in their waking moments; but we can not believe that the identity of

moral goodness can be so perverted in the dreaming state. We can,

however, readily conceive that, when the mind is oppressed, or disturbed

by the recollection of some event it dreads to dwell upon, it may be

disturbed by the most terrific and ghastly images. A guilty conscience,

too, will unquestionably produce restlessness, agitation, and

awe-inspiring dreams. Hence Manfred, in pacing restlessly his lonely

Gothic gallery at midnight, pictures to himself the terrors of sleep:

"The lamp must be replenished; even then

It will not burn so long as I must watch.

My slumbers, if I slumber, are not sleep,

_But a continuance of enduring thought,

Which then I can resist not. In my heart

There is a vigil; and these eyes

But close to look within._"

Contrition and remorse oppose his rest. If we remember right, it was

Bishop Newton who remarked, that the sleep of innocence differed

essentially from the sleep of guilt.

The assistance supposed to be sometimes furnished in sleep toward the

solution of problems which puzzled the waking sense, opens up a curious

subject of investigation. Cases of the kind have been recorded upon

undoubted authority. Hence some philosophers, like Sir Thomas Browne and

Addison, have been induced to suppose that the soul in this state is

partially disengaged from the encumbrance of the body, and therefore

more intelligent, which is a mere fancy--a poetical fiction. Surely it

is absurd to suppose that the soul, which we invest with such high and

perfect attributes, should commit such frivolous and irrational acts as

these which take place so constantly in our dreams. "Methinks," observed

Locke, "every drowsy nod shakes this doctrine." All we remark, is, that

some of the ordinary mental faculties act in such cases with increased

energy. But beyond this we can not go. We are informed by Cabains, that

Franklin on several occasions mentioned to him, that he had been

assisted in his dreams on the issue of many affairs in which he was

engaged. So, also, Condillac, while writing his "Cours d'Etudes," states

that he was frequently obliged to leave a chapter incomplete, and retire

to bed: and that on waking, he found it, on more than one occasion,

finished in his head. Condorcet, upon leaving his deep and complicated

calculations unfinished, after having retired to rest, often found their

results unfolded to him in his dreams. Voltaire assures us that he, like

La Fontaine, composed verses frequently in his sleep, which he

remembered on awaking. Doctor Johnson states that he once in a dream had

a contest of wit with some other person, and that he was very much

mortified by imagining that his opponent had the better of him.

Coleridge, in a dream, composed the wild and beautiful poem of "Kubla

Khan," which was suggested to him by a passage he was reading in

"Purchas's Pilgrimage" when he fell asleep. On awaking he had a distinct

recollection of the whole, and, taking his pen, ink, and paper,

instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines which have been so much

admired.

One of the most striking circumstances connected with the human mind is

the extreme lightning-like rapidity of its thoughts, even in our waking

hours; but the transactions which appear to take place in our dreams are

accomplished with still more incalculable rapidity; the relations of

space, the duration of time, appear to be alike annihilated; we are

transported in an instant to the most distant regions of the earth, and

the events of ages are condensed into the span of a few seconds. The

accidental jarring of a door, or any noise, will, at the same moment, it

awakens a person, suggest the incidents of an entire dream. Hence some

persons--Lord Brougham in particular--have supposed that all our dreams

take place in the transition or interval between sleep and waking. A

gentleman dreamt that he had enlisted as a soldier, joined his regiment,

deserted, was apprehended, carried back, tried, condemned to be shot,

and, at last, led out for execution. After all the usual preparations a

gun was fired; he awoke with the report, and found that a noise in an

adjoining room had, in the same moment, produced the dream and awakened

him. The same want of any notion of the duration of time occurs, more or

less, in all dreams; hence our ignorance when we awake of the length of

the night. A friend of Doctor Abercrombie's dreamt that he crossed the

Atlantic and spent a fortnight in America. In embarking, on his return,

he fell into the sea, and, awakening with the fright, discovered he had

not been ten minutes asleep. "I lately dreamed," says Dr. Macnish, "that

I made a voyage--remained some days in Calcutta--returned home--then

took ship for Egypt, where I visited the cataracts of the Nile, Grand

Cairo, and the Pyramids; and to crown the whole, had the honor of an

interview with Mehemet Ali, Cleopatra, and Alexander the Great." All

this was the work of a single hour, or even a few minutes. In one of the

dreams which Mr. De Quincey describes--when under the influence of

opium--"The sense of Space and in the end of Time were," he states,

"both powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited in

proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space

swelled, and was amplified to a sense of unutterable infinity. This,

however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of Time; I

sometimes seemed to have lived for seventy or one hundred years in one

night; nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millenium, passed

in that time; or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any

human experience." One of the miracles of Mohammed appears to be

illustrative of the same phenomenon. We read, in the Koran, that the

angel Gabriel took Mohammed, one morning, out of his bed to give him a

sight of all things in the Seven Heavens and in Paradise; and, after

holding ninety thousand spiritual conferences, he was brought back again

to his bed; all which was transacted in so small a space of time that

Mohammed, upon his return, found his bed still warm.

Are dreams so much varied as is generally supposed? Or, taking into

consideration our different mental and physical constitutions, is there

not rather a remarkable sameness in them? It is certainly a very unusual

circumstance to hear of any dream that does violence to the common

experience of mankind. One class of dreams, which may be termed

RETROSPECTIVE, is of frequent occurrence. These are characterized by the

revival of associations long since forgotten. The faculty of Memory

appears to be preternaturally exalted; the vail is withdrawn which

obscured the vista of our past life; and the minutest events of

childhood pass in vivid review before us. There can be no doubt that

something analogous to this occurs in drowning; when, after the alarm

and struggle for life has subsided, sensations and visions supervene

with indescribable rapidity. The same very remarkable phenomenon takes

place also sometimes in hanging; but is by no means uniformly produced.

"Of all whom I have seen restored from drowning," observes Dr. Lettsom,

"I never found one who had the smallest recollection of any thing that

passed under water until the time they were restored." Persons must not,

therefore, be deceived by imagining that an Elysium is to be found at

the bottom of a garden-well, or a canal, or a river.

But to return--it is not only the very early incidents of childhood

which may thus be recalled by our dreams, but recent events, which in

our waking hours had escaped the memory, are sometimes suddenly

recalled. In his "Notes to Waverley," Sir Walter Scott relates the

following anecdote: "A gentleman connected with a Bank in Glasgow, while

employed in the occupation of cashier, was annoyed by a person, out of

his turn, demanding the payment of a check for six pounds. Having paid

him, but with reluctance, out of his turn, he thought no more of the

transaction. At the end of the year, which was eight or nine months

after, a difficulty was experienced in making the books balance, in

consequence of a deficiency of six pounds. Several days and nights were

exhausted in endeavors to discover the source of the error, but without

success; and the discomfited and chagrined cashier retired one night to

his bed, disappointed and fatigued. He fell asleep and dreamed he was at

his Bank, and once again the whole scene of the annoying man and his

six-pound check arose before him; and, on examination, it was discovered

that the sum paid to this person had been neglected to be inserted in

the book of interests, and that it exactly accounted for the error in

the balance." We read of another gentleman, a solicitor, who, on one

occasion, lost a very important document connected with the conveyance

of some property; the most anxious search was made for it in vain; and

the night preceding the day on which the parties were to meet for the

final settlement the son of this gentleman then went to bed, under much

anxiety and disappointment, and dreamt that, at the time when the

missing paper was delivered to his father, his table was covered with

papers connected with the affairs of a particular client; and there

found the paper they had been in search of, which had been tied up in a

parcel to which it was in no way related.

There is another class of dreams which would appear to be much more

extraordinary than these of a Retrospective Character, to wit: those in

which the dreamer appears to take cognizance of incidents which are

occurring at a distance, which may be designated Dreams of COINCIDENCE.

In the "Memoirs of Margaret de Valois" we read, that her mother,

Catherine de Medicis, when ill of the plague at Metz, saw her son, the

Duc d'Anjou, at the victory of Jarnac, thrown from his horse, and the

Prince de Conde dead--events which happened exactly at that moment. Dr.

Macnish relates, as the most striking example he ever met with of the

co-existence between a dream and a passing event, the following

melancholy story: Miss M., a young lady, a native of Ross-shire, was

deeply in love with an officer who accompanied Sir John Moore in the

Peninsular War. The constant danger to which he was exposed had an

evident effect upon her spirits. She became pale and melancholy in

perpetually brooding over his fortunes; and, in spite of all that reason

could do, felt a certain conviction that, when she last parted from her

lover, she had parted with him forever. In a surprisingly short period

her graceful form declined into all the appalling characteristics of a

fatal illness, and she seemed rapidly hastening to the grave, when a

dream confirmed the horrors she had long anticipated, and gave the

finishing stroke to her sorrows. One night, after falling asleep, she

imagined she saw her lover, pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast,

enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the bed, and, with a

look of the utmost mildness, informed her that he had been slain in

battle, desiring her, at the same time, to comfort herself, and not take

his death too seriously to heart. It is needless to say what influence

this vision had upon a mind so replete with woe. It withered it

entirely, and the poor girl died a few days afterward, but, not without

desiring her parents to note down the day of the month on which it

happened, and see if it would not be confirmed, as she confidently

declared it would. Her anticipation was correct, for accounts were

shortly afterward received that the young man was slain at the battle of

Corunna, which was fought on the very day of the night of which his

betrothed had beheld the vision. It is certainly very natural to suppose

that there must be some mysterious connection between such a dream and

the event which appears to have simultaneously taken place--but, upon

reflecting further upon the subject, we shall find that the co-existence

is purely accidental. If, as Sir Walter Scott observed, any event, such

as the death of the person dreamt of, chance to take place, so as to

correspond with the nature and time of the apparition, the circumstance

is conceived to be supernatural, although the coincidence is one which

must frequently occur, since our dreams usually refer to the

accomplishment of that which haunts our minds when awake, and often

presage the most probable events. Such a concatenation, therefore, must

often take place when it is considered "of what stuff dreams are made,"

and how naturally they turn upon those who occupy our mind when awake.

When a soldier is exposed to death in battle; when a sailor is incurring

the dangers of the sea; when a beloved wife or relative is attacked by

disease, how readily our sleeping imagination rushes to the very point

of alarm which, when waking, it had shuddered to anticipate. Considering

the many thousands of dreams which must, night after night, pass

through the imagination of individuals, the number of coincidences

between the vision and the event are fewer and less remarkable than a

fair calculation of chance would warrant us to expect.

In addition to these, we sometimes hear of dreams which appear to reveal

the secrets of futurity; and which may be designated PROPHETIC

Dreams--unvailing, as they are supposed to do, the destiny which awaits

particular individuals. The prophetic dream of Cromwell, that he should

live to be the greatest man in England, has often been referred to as an

example of special revelation; but surely there can be nothing very

wonderful in the occurrence--for, after all, if we could only penetrate

into the thoughts, hopes, and designs which inflamed the ambition of

such men as Ireton, Lambert, and the like, we should find both their

waking and sleeping visions equally suggestive of self-aggrandizement.

The Protector himself was not the only usurper, in those troubled times,

who dreamed of being "every inch a king;" but we want the data to

compute the probabilities which the laws of chance would give in favor

of such a prophecy or dream being fulfilled. The prophetic dream refers

generally to some event which, in the course of nature, is likely to

happen: is it, then, wonderful that it should occur? It would be curious

to know how often Napoleon dreamed that he was the Emperor of the

civilized world, or confined as a prisoner of war; how many thrones he

imagined himself to have ascended or abdicated; how often he

accomplished the rebuilding of Jerusalem. A few years ago, some very

cruel murders were perpetrated in Edinburgh, by men named Burke and

Hare, who sold the bodies of their victims to the Anatomical Schools. We

had ourselves an interview with Burke, after his condemnation, when he

told us that many months before he was apprehended and convicted, he

used to dream that the murders he committed had been discovered; then he

imagined himself going to be executed, and his chief anxiety was, how he

should comport himself on the scaffold before the assembled multitude,

whose faces he beheld gazing up and fixed upon him. His dream was, in

every respect, verified; but who, for an instant, would suppose there

could have been any thing preternatural, or prophetic, in such a vision?

For the most part, dreams of this description are supposed to portend

the illness, or the time of the death, of particular individuals; and

these, too, upon the simple doctrine of chance, turn out, perhaps, to be

as often wrong as right. It may be true, that Lord Lyttleton died at the

exact hour which he said had been predicted to him in a dream; but

Voltaire outlived a similar prophecy for many years. It must, however,

be conceded, that persons in ill-health may have their death expedited

by believing in such fatal predictions. Tell a timorous man that he will

die; and the sentence, if pronounced with sufficient solemnity, and the

semblance of its fore-knowledge, will, under certain circumstances,

execute itself. But, on the other hand, the self-sustaining power of the

will, with a corresponding concentration of nervous energy, will

sometimes triumph over the presence of disease, and for awhile ward off

even the hand of death. The anecdote is told of Muley Moloch, who, being

informed that his army was likely to be defeated, sprang from his sick

bed in great excitement, led his men on to victory, and, on returning to

his tent, lay down and almost instantly expired.

But again it may be asked--what then do dreams portend? Do they admit of

any rational interpretation? This branch of the art of divination, which

was called formerly by the name of "Oneiromancy," has been practiced in

all ages; and there is, perhaps, not a village in Great Britain, or on

the great continent of Europe, India, or America, in which some

fortune-telling old woman will not be found who professes to be an

oracle in propounding their mystical signification. The magicians of old

were supposed to be skillful interpreters of dreams, which, like the

wiseacres of Christendom, they viewed under very contradictory aspects.

From one of the most ancient Arabic manuscripts on the subject, we learn

that if you see an angel, it is a good sign; but if you dream that you

converse with one, it forebodes evil--to dream you bathe in a clear

fountain denotes joy--but if it be muddy, an enemy will bring against

you some false accusation. To dream of carrying any weight upon the back

denotes servitude, if you are rich--honor if you are poor. There is not

an object in nature--not an event that can occur in life--that our

modern fortune-tellers have not converted, when seen in a dream, into

some sign ominous of good or of evil; and many even well-educated

persons are in the habit of fostering their credulity by attaching an

undue importance to their dreams. It is a curious circumstance, however,

which militates against this mystic art, that the same sign in different

countries carries with it a very contrary signification. The peasant

girl in England thinks, if she dream of a rose, that it is a sure sign

of happiness; but the _paysanne_ in Normandy believes that it portends

vexation and disappointment. The Englishman conceives that to dream of

an oak-tree is a sign of prosperity; but in Switzerland, the same vision

is thought to be a forewarning of some dreadful calamity.

The domestic superstitions which are connected with dreams, are

sometimes favored by, and perhaps dependent upon a certain morbid

condition or irritability of the nervous system, which suggests the

dread of some impending calamity, a painful and indefinite sense of

apprehension for which no ostensible reason can be assigned. Strange as

it might appear, the influence of our dreams upon our waking state is

very remarkable; we may awaken refreshed from a dream which has made us,

in our sleep, superlatively happy; or we may rise with melancholic

feelings after suffering intense affliction in some dream, and the

details of both dreams may alike be forgotten. We can not, after being

so much disturbed, at once regain our composure; the billows continue

heaving after the tempest has subsided; the troubled nerves continue to

vibrate after the causes that disturbed them have ceased to act; the

impression still remains, and checkers the happiness of the future day.

Even men of strong mind, who do not believe in the interpretation of

dreams, may be so affected. When Henry the Fourth of France was once

told by an astrologer that he would be assassinated, he smiled at the

prediction, and did not believe it; but he confessed that it often

haunted him afterward, and although he placed no faith in it, still it

sometimes depressed his spirits, and he often expressed a wish that he

had never heard it. In like manner, dreams, which persons do not believe

in, will unconsciously affect the tenor of their thoughts and feelings.

There are many persons who appear to have habitually the most

extraordinary dreams, and there is scarcely a family circle that

assemble round the domestic hearth, in which some one or other of the

party is not able to relate some very wonderful story. We have,

ourselves, a _repertoire_, from which we could select a host of such

narrations; but we have preferred, at the risk of being thought

recapitulative, to dwell upon those which have been recorded upon

unimpeachable authority. The dreams which men like Locke, Reid, Gregory,

Abercrombie, Macnish, &c., have attested, come with a weight of evidence

before us which the dreams of persons unknown in the scientific or

literary world would not possess. The impressions produced by dreams are

so fugitive--so easy is it for persons unintentionally to deceive

themselves in recalling their dreams' experience--that Epictetus, long

ago, advised young men not to entertain any company by relating their

dreams, as they could only, he affirmed, be interesting to themselves,

and perhaps would, after all their pains, be disbelieved by their

auditors. Nevertheless, it would be well for all persons to study,

whether waking or dreaming, the phenomena of their own minds. The

ingenious naturalist, Doctor Fleming, suggests that persons should, in

contra-distinction to a "Diary," keep a "Nocturnal," in which they

should register their dreams. Doubtless such a journal might turn out to

be a very amusing psychological record.

A FAIR IN MUNICH.

I wonder when there is not a fair in Munich. This, however, was _Die

Drei Koenige Dult_, or the Fair of the Three Kings. By way of amusement,

I thought I would go to it; but as I could not very well go alone, I

invited Madame Thekla to accompany me, with which she was very well

pleased, as I promised to treat her to the shows. As far as buying and

selling, and the crowds of peasants, and townspeople, and students, and

soldiers, go, it was like any other fair. At a little distance from the

long array of booths, stood the shows--and thither we bent our steps.

The first thing we came upon was a small ladder-wagon, covered with an

arched awning; and, bound to one side of the wagon, were tall poles,

from which floated a series of ghastly pictures--hideous

raw-head-and-bloody-bone pictures! There were murders, executions,

be-headings in German fashion; the criminal extended on a horrid sort of

rack, and his head being chopped off by a grim executioner, with a

sword, while a priest stood by in his long robes; there were houses on

fire; drownings, miraculous escapes; there were tall, smirking hussars,

and weeping ladies in white--heroes and heroines in these bloody

histories!

The subjects, the hideous drawing, the hard outlines, the goggle-eyes,

the blood, the knives, the very fire, made you feel sick. A considerable

crowd was collected, and listened breathlessly to the sounds of an

organ, to which two Tyrolians sang their appalling tragedies. They sang

in such clear, sweet, mountain tones, that you were strangely

fascinated. Mournfully sang they, in a monotonous chaunt, of blood, and

crime, and terror, till you felt your blood creep; and, by a frightful

fascination, your eyes gloated on the disgusting pictures.

What a terribly immoral influence must such exhibitions have upon such

an uneducated crowd as surrounded these sirens! Why should not a

_paternal_ government, which guards its people from immoral books and

disgusting newspapers, not guard them equally from such a disgusting

sight and sound as this Tyrolian exhibition? These Tyrolians sold

printed histories of the fearful crimes and calamities which were

depicted on their banners. These histories are very exciting and

romantic reading, as you may believe when I give some of their

titles:--"The History of the Great and Terrible Monster, who cruelly

murdered his Beloved, his Child, his Father, his Mother, his two

Sisters, and his Brother, on the 8th of July, 1850." "Heroic

Self-sacrifice of a Bohemian Hussar Officer, and the Punishment of his

Murderers." "A true and dreadful History which occurred on the 14th of

March, 1850, in Schopka, near Milineck, in Bohemia." "The Might of

Mutual Love: a highly remarkable event, which occurred at Thoulon, in

the year 1849." "The Cursed Mill: a Warning from Real Life." "The

Temptation; the Deed; the Consequences!"

If you care to know any thing of the style of these remarkable

productions, I will give you a specimen. One begins thus:--"In

Ross-dorf, in Hanover, lived the criminal Peter Natzer. He was by trade

a glazier, his father having followed the same calling. Peter was

five-and-twenty years old, and was, from his earliest youth, addicted to

every species of crime. He had a sweetheart, named Lucie Braun, a poor

girl, &c., &c."

Again:--"Silent sat the miller, Leverm, in his garden; thoughtfully

gazed he into the distant valley. He was scarcely thirty years of age,

but heavy cares had bowed him, and robbed him of his fresh, youthful

bloom. Beside him sat his wife, who cast many an anxious but

affectionate glance on her husband. How tender and lovely was this young

wife! The inhabitants of the neighborhood called her 'The Rose of the

Valley.'" In this way begins a most awful tragedy.

Of course we did not read these things in the fair. It was enough for

us, there, to listen to the mournful chant of the mountaineers, till our

blood was frozen in our veins. I took home with me these printed

histories, as many another simple soul did; and now, after I have read

them, and been filled with horror and disgust by them, I have put them

away from me as unholy things. But think of the effect they will have in

many a lonely village, this winter--in many a desolate farm-house or

cottage--on the wide plain, or among the mountains! These papers are

productive seeds of murder and crime; of that one may be certain.

The next wonder that stopped us in the fair, was a little fat man, who

was shouting away at the top of his voice, while he briskly sharpened a

knife on a long, rough board, which was smeared over with a black

ointment. He was a vender of magical strop-salve! something in the

fashion of Mechi. "Ladies and gentlemen;" shouted he, "witness my

wonderful invention! The dullest knife, stick-knife, bread-knife,

clasp-knife, table-knife, carving-knife, shaving-knife,

(_rasier-messer_) pen-knife, pruning-knife, though dull as this

knife--_though dull as this knife_!" and here he began hacking away upon

the edge of a big knife with a strong piece of broken pitcher. "Yes,

though dull, dull, dull as this knife!--when subjected to my wonderful

salve," and here he smeared it with his black ointment, "will cut a

hair, or the most delicate shaving of paper--as it now does!" and with

that he severed paper shavings as if they had been nothing. If it was

really the _same knife_, his was a wonderful invention, and beat Mechi

hollow.

Next, I had my fortune told at three different places, for six

kreutzers, or two-pence each, and as I was promised pretty much the same

fortune by all, I suppose I ought to believe in the truth of it. They

foretold me lots of trouble in the way of love-crosses, false friends,

and unkind relations, and such small trifles; but were equally liberal

of rich lovers, and plenty of them, plenty of money, and a good husband

to crown all, and good children to be the _props_ of my old age; so I

think I had, after all, a good sixpenny-worth.

Next we came upon a little caravan, on the steps of which vociferated a

most picturesque Tyrolian, in broad-brimmed sugar-loafed hat, adorned

with chamois hair, and eagles' feathers; in broad-ribbed stockings, and

with a broad, gayly-embroidened band round his waist, which half covered

his chest. He assured the crowd below that there was not in the whole

of Bavaria, any thing half as interesting, half as extraordinary, half

as astounding as the singularly gifted, singularly beautiful, singularly

intellectual being within; a being from another quarter of the globe, a

being adapted to an entirely different mode of existence to ours; a

being who could see in the dark, a being who only lived upon raw meat! A

wonderful Albino who could speak the German tongue!

Of course we must see the Albino; so in we went, and some way or other I

felt an unusual shock. There he sat, in a black velvet dress spangled

with silver, the light coming in from the top of the caravan, and his

transparent complexion, his burning, fiery eyes, like carbuncles, his

long waves of white, silky hair, and his long, curling, snow-white,

silky beard, gave him the appearance of some enchanted dwarf--some

cobold or gnome out of a subterranean palace.

But I had not much time to lose myself in dreams about enchanted dwarfs

or gnomes, for there was something else burning in the caravan besides

the Albino's eyes, and that was Madame Thekla's grand silk cloak! She

had come out with me in all her grandeur; and now, while we stood

enchanted before the Albino, her fine silk cloak was singeing at a

little iron stove that stood behind the door. Poor Madame Thekla! Out we

rushed, and she revenged herself by vociferating to the crowd outside,

as the Tyrolian had done just before, and by exhibiting her unlucky

cloak in a sort of savage despair.

An hour afterward, we again passed the caravan, and the Tyrolian in the

ribbed stockings was again holding forth on the steps, when, at sight of

us, he interrupted his oration, and politely invited us to re-enter, and

complete, _free of cost_, our inspection of the Albino. But Madame

Thekla, pointing with stern dignity to her cloak, declined, and marched

on.

After this we went to the _waeffeln_-booths, were we ate hot-baked

_waeffeln_, a kind of gofre cake; and then, resisting a wonderful

elephant show, we hastened to the monkey theatre, the poor elephant's

rival exhibition; the "Grand Monkey Theatre from Paris," in which

forty-two apes and poodles, the property of M. Le Cerf, would exhibit

the most wonderful and artistic feats.

We had to wait some time till the four o'clock performance was over,

which unfortunately had begun before we arrived; and while Madame Thekla

and I stood impatiently waiting in the cold, up there came a merry-faced

lad of about ten, and began, in great glee, to describe to us the

glorious things that were performed by those "dear little monkeys and

dogs." He was quite eloquent in his delight; and, "Oh!" said he, "if I

had but another _sechser_ (twopenny-piece), wouldn't I see it again!"

"There is another _sechser_, then!" said I, and put one into his fat

little hand. What an astonished, bright face looked up into mine; and he

seized my hand in both his, and shook it almost off. And away he ran up

the steps for his ticket, flying down again to us, and keeping as close

to us as possible, talking all the time, and fairly dancing for joy.

"You've quite bewitched that little fellow," said Madame Thekla; and I

seemed to have bewitched all the little lads in the fair, for, by a

strangely-mysterious power, they were drawn toward us in crowds, from

all hands--little fellows in blouses, little fellows in little green and

brown surtouts, little fellows in old-fashioned and, in England, almost

forgotten, buttoned-up suits--and all crept bashfully toward us! Oh, the

wonderful magic of a twopenny-piece! Heaven only knows how the news of

this munificent gift of a _sechser_ had so swiftly spread through the

fair! One little lad actually had the bravery to say to me that

"children were admitted at half-price!" And was I not a cold-hearted

wretch to reply, "Oh, indeed!" just as though it were a matter of

perfect indifference to me, though, in truth, it was not; but I felt

rather appalled at the sight of such a crowd of little eager heads, well

knowing that my purse was not full to overflowing, even with

twopenny-pieces!

At length we were seated in the little theatre; and, after a fearful

charivari from the orchestra, the curtain drew up, and we beheld, seated

at a long table, a company of monkeys! It was a _table d'hote_. A

dandified young fellow--perhaps Monsieur Le Cerf himself--in the most

elegant of cravats, the most elegant white wristbands, the most elegant

ring, and the most elegant moustache, performed the part of host; the

waiter and waitress were monkeys. The waiter--a most drunken,

good-for-nothing waiter he seemed--a fat, big ape--drank behind the

backs of the guests the very wine he was serving them with; he seemed so

very tipsy, that he could hardly walk; he staggered backward and

forward, and leaned against the wall for support, as he emptied the

bottle he was bringing for the company. But the little waitress! She was

a little darling; the tiniest of little monkeys, and she came skipping

on the stage in a little broad-brimmed straw hat, and a bright-colored

little dress, with the daintiest of little white muslin aprons on; she

looked just like a little fairy. Every body was enchanted with her. Even

Monsieur Le Cerf himself caressed her, and gave her not only, every now

and then, a nut, but a kiss. She behaved beautifully. But as to the

guests! They quarreled, and even fought--Monsieur Le Cerf said it was

about paying the bill.

I can't pretend to tell you half the clever things the monkeys did in

the way of swinging, dancing, firing off muskets, riding on a pony, &c.

Wonderful things, too, were performed by the dogs, splendid spaniels and

setters. One large black-and-tan creature walked on his fore-legs, in

the style of what children call "playing at a wheelbarrow," only he

himself, poor wretch, had to wheel the barrow. He walked demurely round

and round the stage, carrying his two unlucky hind-legs up in the air;

then he walked on three legs, and then, the most difficult task of all

for a dog, as we were assured, upon two legs on the same side. Another

beautiful white spaniel came walking in most grandly on her hind legs,

as _Madame de Pompadour_, in a long-trained dress which was borne by a

tiny monkey in livery, bearing a little lantern in his hand.

The finale was the besieging of a fortress; and to see some twenty

milk-white spaniels rushing up and down the stairs of the burning

fortress, illumined by brilliant rose-colored, green, and blue lights,

was very curious indeed. If I could have forgotten the terrible training

through which these poor creatures must have gone, I should have enjoyed

it much more. But I did not wonder, after seeing all their feats, that

our little friend had been so enchanted. He sat behind us in the

half-price seats, but for all that we continued to exchange many smiling

glances during the performance. I only wished I could have seen a whole

row of little fellows all equally delighted and surprised by their good

fortune.

THE WIFE'S STRATAGEM.

Captain Marmaduke Smith, is--judging from his present mundane,

matter-of-fact character, about the last man one would suspect of having

been at any time of his life a victim to the "tender passion." A

revelation he volunteered to two or three cronies at the club the other

evening undeceived us. The captain on this occasion, as was generally

the case on the morrow of a too great indulgence, was somewhat dull

spirited and lachrymose. The weather, too, was gloomy; a melancholy

barrel-organ had been droning dreadfully for some time beneath the

windows; and to crown all, Mr. Tape, who has a quick eye for the

sentimental, had discovered, and read aloud, a common, but sad story of

madness and suicide in the evening paper. It is not, therefore, so

surprising that tender recollections should have revived with unusual

force in the veteran's memory.

"You would hardly believe it, Tape," said Captain Smith, after a dull

pause, and emitting a sound somewhat resembling a sigh, as he re-lighted

the cigar which had gone out during Mr. Tape's reading--"you would

hardly believe it, perhaps; but I was woman-witched once myself!"

"Never!" exclaimed the astonished gentleman whom he addressed. "A man of

your strength of mind, captain? I can't believe it; it's impossible!"

"It's an extraordinary fact, I admit; and, to own the truth, I have

never been able to account exactly for it myself. Fortunately, I took

the disorder as I did the measles--young; and neither of these

complaints is apt to be so fatal then, I'm told, as when they pick a man

up later in life. It was, however, a very severe attack while it lasted.

A very charming hand at hooking a gudgeon was that delightful Coralie

Dufour, I _must_ say."

"Any relation to the Monsieur and Madame Dufour we saw some years ago in

Paris?" asked Tape. "The husband, I remember, was remarkably fond of

expressing his gratitude to you for having once wonderfully carried him

through his difficulties."

Captain Smith looked sharply at Mr. Tape, as if he suspected some

lurking irony beneath the bland innocence of his words. Perceiving, as

usual, nothing in the speaker's countenance, Mr. Smith--blowing at the

same time a tremendous cloud to conceal a faint blush which, to my

extreme astonishment, I observed stealing over his unaccustomed

features--said, gravely, almost solemnly: "You, Mr. Tape are a married

man, and the father of a family, and your own experience, therefore, in

the female line must be ample for a lifetime; but you, sir," continued

the captain, patronizingly, addressing another of his auditors, "are, I

believe, as yet 'unattached,' in a legal sense, and may therefore derive

profit, as well as instruction, from an example of the way in which

ardent and inexperienced youth is sometimes entrapped and bamboozled by

womankind. Mr. Tape, oblige me by touching the bell."

The instant the captain's order had been obeyed, he commenced the

narrative of his love adventure, and for a time spoke with his

accustomed calmness: but toward the close he became so exceeding

discursive and excited, and it was with so much difficulty we drew from

him many little particulars it was essential to hear, that I have been

compelled, from regard to brevity as well as strict decorum, to soften

down and render in my own words some of the chief incidents of his

mishap.

Just previous to the winter campaign which witnessed the second siege

and fall of Badajoz, Mr. Smith, in the zealous exercise of his perilous

vocation, entered that city in his usual disguise of a Spanish

countryman, with strict orders to keep his eyes and ears wide open, and

to report as speedily as possible upon various military details, which

it was desirable the British general should be made acquainted with. Mr.

Smith, from the first moment the pleasant proposition was hinted to him,

had manifested considerable reluctance to undertake the task; more

especially as General Phillipon, who commanded the French garrison, had

not very long before been much too near catching him, to render a

possibly still more intimate acquaintance with so sharp a practitioner

at all desirable. Nevertheless, as the service was urgent, and no one,

it Was agreed, so competent as himself to the duty--indeed upon this

point Mr. Smith remarked that the most flattering unanimity of opinion

was exhibited by all the gentlemen likely, should he decline the honor,

to be selected in his place--he finally consented and in due time found

himself fairly within the walls of the devoted city. "It was an

uncomfortable business," the captain said, "very much so--and in more

ways than one. It took a long time to accomplish; and what was worse

than all, rations were miserably short. The French garrison were living

upon salted horse-flesh, and you may guess, therefore, at the condition

of the civilians' victualing department. Wine was, however, to be had in

sufficient plenty; and I used frequently to pass a few hours at a place

of entertainment kept by an Andalusian woman, whose bitter hatred of the

French invaders, and favorable disposition toward the British were well

known to me, though successfully concealed from Napoleon's soldiers,

many of whom--sous-officiers chiefly--were her customers. My chief

amusement there was playing at dominoes for a few glasses. I played,

when I had a choice, with a smart, goodish-looking sous-lieutenant of

voltigeurs--a glib-tongued chap, of the sort that tell all they know,

and something over, with very little pressing. His comrades addressed

him as Victor, the only name I then knew him by. He and I became very

good friends, the more readily that I was content he should generally

win. I soon reckoned Master Victor up; but there was an old, wiry

_gredin_ of a sergeant-major sometimes present, whose suspicious manner

caused me frequent twinges. One day especially I caught him looking at

me in a way that sent the blood galloping through my veins like

wildfire. A look, Mr. Tape, which may be very likely followed in a few

minutes afterward by a halter, or by half-a-dozen bullets through one's

body, is apt to excite an unpleasant sensation."

"I should think so. I wouldn't be in such a predicament for the

creation."

"It's a situation that would hardly suit you, Mr. Tape," replied the

veteran, with a grim smile. "Well, the gray-headed old fox followed up

his look with a number of interesting queries concerning my birth,

parentage, and present occupation, my answers to which so operated upon

him, that I felt quite certain when he shook hands with me, and

expressed himself perfectly satisfied, and sauntered carelessly out of

the place,-that he was gone to report his surmises, and would be

probably back again in two twos with a file of soldiers and an order for

my arrest. He had put me so smartly through my facings, that although it

was quite a cold day for Spain, I give you my honor I perspired to the

very tips of my fingers And toes. The chance of escape was, I felt,

almost desperate. The previous evening a rumor had circulated that the

British general had stormed Ciudad Rodrigo, and might therefore be

already hastening in his seven-league boots, toward Badajoz. The French

were consequently more than ever on the alert, and keen eyes watched

with sharpened eagerness for indications of sympathy or correspondence

between the citizens and the advancing army. I jumped up as soon as the

sergeant-major had disappeared, and was about to follow, when the

mistress of the place approached, and said, hastily, 'I have heard all,

and if not quick, you will be sacrificed by those French dogs: this

way.' I followed to an inner apartment, where she drew from a

well-concealed recess, a French officer's uniform, complete. 'On with

it!' she exclaimed, as she left the room. 'I know the word and

countersign.' I did not require twice telling, you may be sure; and in

less than no time was togged off beautifully in a lieutenant's uniform,

and walking at a smart pace toward one of the gates. I was within twenty

yards of the corps-de-garde, when whom should I run against but

Sous-lieutenant Victor! He stared, but either did not for the moment

recognize me, or else doubted the evidence of his own senses. I

quickened my steps--the guard challenged--I gave the words, 'Napoleon,

Austerlitz!'--passed on; and as soon as a turn of the road hid me from

view, increased my pace to a run. My horse, I should have stated, had

been left in sure hands at about two miles' distance. Could I reach so

far, there was, I felt, a chance. Unfortunately, I had not gone more

than five or six hundred yards, when a hubbub of shouts, and

musket-shots in my rear, announced that I was pursued. I glanced round;

and I assure you, gentlemen, I have seen in my life many pleasanter

prospects than met my view--Richmond Hill, for instance, on a fine

summer day. Between twenty and thirty voltigeurs, headed by my friend

Victor, who had armed himself, like the others, with a musket, were in

full pursuit; and once, I was quite satisfied, within gun-shot, my

business would be very effectually; and speedily settled.

"I ran on with eager desperation: and though gradually neared by my

friends, gained the hut where I had left the horse in safety. The

voltigeurs were thrown out for a few minutes They knew, however, that I

had not passed the thickish clumps of trees which partially concealed

the cottage; and they extended themselves in a semi-circle to inclose,

and thus make sure of their prey. Juan Sanchez, luckily for himself, was

not at home; but my horse, as I have stated, was safe, and in prime

condition for a race. I saddled, bridled, and brought him out, still

concealed by the trees and hut from the French, whose exulting shouts,

as they gradually closed upon the spot, grew momently louder and

fiercer. The sole desperate chance left was to dash right through them;

and I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, that I was confoundedly

frightened, and that but for the certainty of being instantly

sacrificed, without benefit of clergy, I should have surrendered at

once. There was, however, no time for shilly-shallying. I took another

pull at the saddle-girths, mounted, drove the only spur I had time to

strap on sharply into the animal's flank, and in an instant broke cover

in full and near view of the expecting and impatient voltigeurs; and a

very brilliant reception they gave me--quite a stunner in fact! It's a

very grand thing, no doubt, to be the exclusive object of attention to

twenty or thirty gallant men, but so little selfish, gentlemen, have I

been from my youth up ward in the article of 'glory,' that I assure you

I should have been remarkably well-pleased to have had a few

companions--the more the merrier--to share the monopoly which I

engrossed as I came suddenly in sight. The flashes, reports, bullets,

_sacres_, which in an instant gleamed in my eyes, and roared and sang

about my ears were deafening. How they all contrived to miss me I can't

imagine, but miss me they did; and I had passed them about sixty paces,

when who should start up over a hedge, a few yards in advance, but my

domino-player, Sous-lieutenant Victor! In an instant his musket was

raised within two or three feet of my face. Flash! bang! I felt a blow

as if from a thrust of red-hot steel; and for a moment made sure that my

head was off. With difficulty I kept my seat. The horse dashed on, and I

was speedily beyond the chance of capture or pursuit. I drew bridle at

the first village I reached, and found that Victor's bullet had gone

clean through both cheeks. The marks, you see, are still plain enough."

This was quite true. On slightly separating the gray hairs of the

captain's whiskers, the places where the ball had made its entrance and

exit were distinctly visible.

"A narrow escape," I remarked.

"Yes, rather; but a miss is as good as a mile. The effusion of blood

nearly choked me; and it was astonishing how much wine and spirits it

required to wash the taste out of my mouth. I found," continued Mr.

Smith, "on arriving at head-quarters, that Ciudad Rodrigo had fallen as

reported, and that Lord Wellington was hurrying on to storm Badajoz

before the echo of his guns should have reached Massena or Soult in the

fool's paradise where they were both slumbering. I was of course for

some time on the sick-list, and consequently only assisted at the

assault of Badajoz as a distant spectator--a part I always preferred

when I had a choice. It was an awful, terrible business," added Mr.

Smith, with unusual solemnity. "I am not much of a philosopher that I

know of, nor, except in service hours, particularly given to religion,

but I remember, when the roar and tumult of the fierce hurricane broke

upon the calm and silence of the night, and a storm of hell-fire seemed

to burst from and encircle the devoted city, wondering what the stars,

which were shining brightly overhead, thought of the strife and dim they

looked so calmly down upon. It was gallantly done, however," the veteran

added, in a brisker tone, "and read well in the Gazette; and that

perhaps is the chief thing."

"But what," I asked, "has all this to do with the charming Coralie and

your love-adventure?"

"Every thing to do with it, as you will immediately find. I remained in

Badajoz a considerable time after the departure of the army, and was a

more frequent visitor than ever at the house of the excellent dame who

had so opportunely aided my escape. She was a kind-hearted soul with all

her vindictiveness; and now that the French were no longer riding

rough-shod over the city, spoke of those who were lurking about in

concealment--of whom there were believed to be not a few, with sorrow

and compassion. At length the wound I had received at Lieutenant

Victor's hands was thoroughly healed, and I was thinking of departure,

when the Andalusian dame introduced me in her taciturn, expressive way

to a charming young Frenchwoman, whose husband, a Spaniard, had been

slain during the assault or sack of the city. The intimacy thus begun

soon kindled on my part, into an intense admiration. Coralie was gentle,

artless, confiding as she was beautiful, and moreover--as Jeannette, her

sprightly, black-eyed maid informed me in confidence--extremely rich.

Here, gentlemen, was a combination of charms to which only a heart of

stone could remain insensible, and mine at the time was not only young,

but particularly sensitive and tender, owing in some degree, I daresay,

to the low diet to which I had been so long confined; for nothing, in my

opinion, takes the sense and pluck out of a man so quickly as that. At

all events I soon surrendered at discretion, and was coyly accepted by

the blushing lady. 'There was only one obstacle,' she timidly observed,

'to our happiness. The relatives of her late husband, by law her

guardians, were prejudiced, mercenary wretches, anxious to marry her to

an old hunks of a Spaniard, so that the property of her late husband,

chiefly consisting of precious stones--he had been a lapidary--might not

pass into the hands of foreigners.' I can scarcely believe it now,"

added Mr. Smith, with great heat; "but if I didn't swallow all this

stuff like sack and sugar, I'm a Dutchman! The thought of it, old as I

am, sets my very blood on fire.

"At length," continued Mr. Marmaduke Smith, as soon as he had partially

recovered his equanimity--"at length it was agreed, after all sorts of

schemes had been canvassed and rejected, that the fair widow should be

smuggled out of Badajoz as luggage in a large chest, which Jeannette and

the Andalusian landlady--I forget that woman's name--undertook to have

properly prepared. The marriage ceremony was to be performed by a priest

at a village about twelve English miles off, with whom Coralie undertook

to communicate. 'I trust,' said that lady, 'to the honor of a British

officer'--I had not then received my commission, but no matter--'that

he, that you, Captain Smith, will respect the sanctity of my concealment

till we arrive in the presence of the reverend gentleman who,' she

added, with a smile like a sunset, 'will, I trust, unite our destinies

forever.' She placed, as she spoke, her charming little hand in mine,

and I, you will hardly credit it, tumbled down on my knees, and vowed to

religiously respect the dear angel's slightest wish! Mr. Tape, for

mercy's sake, pass the wine, or the bare recollection will choke me!"

I must now, for the reasons previously stated, Continue the narrative in

my own words Every thing was speedily arranged for flight. Mr. Smith

found no difficulty in procuring from the Spanish commandant an order

which would enable him to pass his luggage through the barrier

unsearched; Jeannette was punctual at the rendezvous, and pointed

exultingly to a large chest, which she whispered contained the trembling

Coralie. The chinks were sufficiently wide to admit of the requisite

quantity of air; it locked inside, and when a kind of sail-cloth was

thrown loosely over it, there was nothing very unusual in its

appearance. Tenderly, tremulously did the rejoicing lover assist the

precious load into the hired bullock-cart, and off they started, Mr.

Smith and Jeannette walking by the side of the richly-freighted vehicle.

Mr. Smith trod on air, but the cart, which had to be dragged over some

of the worst roads in the world, mocked his impatience by its

marvelously slow progress, and when they halted at noon to give the oxen

water, they were still three good miles from their destination.

"Do you think?" said Mr. Smith, in a whisper to Jeannette, holding up a

full pint flask, which he had just drawn from his pocket, and pointing

toward the chest, "do you think?--Brandy and water--eh?"

Jeannette nodded, and the gallant Smith gently approached, tapped at the

lid, and in a soft low whisper proffered the cordial. The lid was, with

the slightest possible delay, just sufficiently raised to admit the

flask, and instantly reclosed and locked. In about ten minutes the flask

was returned as silently as it had been received. The enamored soldier

raised it to his lips, made a profound inclination toward his concealed

fiancee, and said, gently, "A votre sante, charmante Coralie!" The

benignant and joyous expression of Mr. Smith's face, as he vainly

elevated the angle of the flask in expectation of the anticipated

draught, assumed an exceedingly puzzled and bewildered expression. He

peered into the opaque tin vessel; pushed his little finger into its

neck to remove the loose cork or other substance that impeded the genial

flow; then shook it, and listened curiously for a splash or gurgle. Not

a sound! Coralie had drained it to the last drop! Mr. Smith looked with

comical earnestness at Jeannette, who burst into a fit of uncontrollable

laughter.

"Madame is thirsty," she said, as soon as she could catch sufficient

breath: "it must be so hot in there."

"A full pint!" said the captain, still in blank astonishment, "and

strong--very!"

The approach of the carter interrupted what he further might have had to

say, and in a few minutes the journey was resumed. The captain fell into

a reverie which was not broken till the cart again stopped. The chest

was then glided gently to the ground: the driver, who had been

previously paid, turned the heads of his team toward Badajoz, and with a

brief salutation departed homeward.

Jeanette was stooping over the chest, conversing in a low tone with her

mistress, and Captain Smith surveyed the position in which he found

himself with some astonishment. No house, much less a church or village

was visible, and not a human being was to be seen.

"Captain Smith," said Jeannette, approaching the puzzled warrior with

some hesitation, "a slight contretemps has occurred. The friends who

were to have met us here, and helped to convey our precious charge to a

place of safety, are not, as you perceive, arrived: perhaps they do not

think it prudent to venture quite so far."

"It is quite apparent they are not here," observed Mr. Smith; "but why

not have proceeded in the cart?"

"What, captain! Betray your and madame's secret to yonder Spanish boor.

How you talk!"

"Well, but my good girl, what _is_ to be done? Will madame get out and

walk?"

"Impossible--impossible!" ejaculated the amiable damsel. "We should be

both recognized, dragged back to that hateful Badajoz, and madame would

be shut up in a convent for life. It is but about a quarter of a mile,"

added Jeannette, in an insinuating, caressing tone, "and madame is not

so _very_ heavy."

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, taken completely aback by this

extraordinary proposal. "You can't mean that I should take that

infer--that chest upon my shoulders!"

"Mon Dieu! what else _can_ be done?" replied Jeannette, with pathetic

earnestness: "unless you are determined to sacrifice my dear

mistress--she whom you pretended to so love--you hard-hearted, faithless

man!"

Partially moved by the damsel's tearful vehemence, Mr. Smith reluctantly

approached, and gently lifted one end of the chest, as an experiment.

"There are a great many valuables there besides madame," said Jeannette,

in reply to the captain's look, "and silver coin is, you know, very

heavy."

"Ah!" exclaimed the perplexed lover. "It is deucedly

unfortunate--still--Don't you think," he added earnestly, after again

essaying the weight of the precious burden, "that if madame were to wrap

herself well up in this sail-cloth, we might reach your friend the

priest's house without detection?"

"Oh, no--no--no!" rejoined the girl. "Mon Dieu! how can you think of

exposing madame to such hazard?"

"How far do you say it is?" asked Captain Smith, after a rather sullen

pause.

"Only just over the fields yonder--half-a-mile perhaps."

Mr. Smith still hesitated, but finally the tears and entreaties of the

attendant, his regard for the lady and her fortune, the necessity of the

position, in short, determined him to undertake the task. A belt was

passed tightly round the chest, by means of which he could keep it on

his back; and after several unsuccessful efforts, the charming load was

fairly hoisted, and on the captain manfully staggered, Jeannette

bringing up the rear.

Valiantly did Mr. Smith, though perspiring in every pore of his body,

and dry as a cartouch-box--for madame had emptied the only flask he

had--toil on under a burden which seemed to grind his shoulder-blades to

powder. He declares he must have lost a stone of flesh at least before,

after numerous restings, he arrived, at the end of about an hour, at the

door of a small house, which Jeannette announced to be the private

residence of the priest. The door was quickly opened by a smart lad, who

seemed to have been expecting them; the chest was deposited on the

floor, and Jeannette instantly vanished. The lad, with considerate

intelligence, handed Mr. Smith a draught of wine. It was scarcely

swallowed when the key turned in the lock, the eager lover, greatly

revived by the wine, sprang forward with extended arms, and received in

his enthusiastic embrace--whom do you think?

"Coralie, half-stifled for want of air, and nearly dead with fright,"

suggested Mr. Tape.

"That rascally Sous-lieutenant Victor! half-drunk with

brandy-and-water," roared Captain Smith, who had by this time worked

himself into a state of great excitement. "At the same moment in ran

Jeannette, and, I could hardly believe my eyes, that Jezebel Coralie,

followed by half-a-dozen French voltigeurs, screaming with laughter! I

saw I was done," continued Mr. Smith, "but not for the moment precisely

how, and but for his comrades, I should have settled old and new scores

with Master Victor very quickly. As it was, they had some difficulty in

getting him out of my clutches, for I was, as you may suppose, awfully

savage. An hour or so afterward, when philosophy, a pipe, and some very

capital wine--they were not bad fellows those voltigeurs--had exercised

their soothing influence, I was informed of the exact motives and

particulars of the trick which had been played me. Coralie was Victor

Dufour's wife. He had been wounded at the assault of Badajoz, and

successfully concealed in that Andalusian woman's house; and as the

best, perhaps only mode of saving him from a Spanish prison, or worse,

the scheme of which I had been the victim, was concocted. Had not Dufour

wounded me, they would, I was assured, have thrown themselves upon my

honor and generosity--which honor and generosity, by-the-by, would never

have got Coralie's husband upon my back, I'll be sworn!"

"You will forgive us, mon cher capitaine?" said that lady, with one of

her sweetest smiles, as she handed me a cup of wine. "In love and war,

you know, every thing is fair."

"A soldier, gentlemen, is not made of adamant. I was, I confess,

softened; and by the time the party broke up, we were all the best

friends in the world."

"And so that fat, jolly looking Madame Dufour we saw in Paris, is the

beautiful Coralie that bewitched Captain Smith?" said Mr. Tape

thoughtfully--"Well!"

"She was younger forty years ago, Mr. Tape, than when you saw her.

Beautiful Coralies are rare, I fancy, at her present age, and very

fortunately, too, in my opinion," continued Captain Smith; "for what, I

should like to know, would become of the peace and comfort of society,

if a woman of sixty could bewitch a man as easily as she does at

sixteen?"

THE CHAMPION.

A ROMANTIC INCIDENT IN EARLY SPANISH HISTORY.

The clang of arms and the inspiriting sounds of martial music resounded

through the court-yard of the palace of Navarre. The chivalry of

Arragon, Castile, and Navarre had assembled at the summons of their

sovereign, to fight under his banner against the infidels, and now

waited impatiently for the moment when the monarch should mount his

gallant steed, and lead them to battle and to victory.

Sancho the Fourth was at that moment bidding farewell to his queen, the

gentle Dona Nuna, who clung to her lord in an agony of tears.

"Be comforted, my beloved," he said to her; "I shall return to you with

added laurels to my kingly wreath. Do not fear for me, nor let your

sweet face grow pale by brooding over the dangers and chances of war.

For my part, I never felt more exulting anticipations of success, and am

persuaded that triumph and victory will crown our undertaking."

"Alas! it is not so with me," said Nuna, sadly. "A presentiment of

approaching evil weighs heavily on my heart."

"You shudder at the thought if our separation, Nuna, more like a timid

young bride parting from her newly-wedded lord, than a matron who has

shared her husband's joys and sorrows for well-nigh twenty years."

"You are now far dearer to me, Sancho, than when I gave you my hand:

have I not to thank you for the love and tenderness which has made these

long years of wedded life so blissful and happy?"

"In sooth, I believe, Nuna, it is even so: and you love me as warmly as

ever. Receive my assurances in return, dear wife, that your face is as

fair to me, and the gift of your true heart as fondly prized, as when I

first led you to these halls, my youthful and beautiful bride. But

suffer me to bid you farewell, or my nobles will wax impatient. I leave

you to the society of our son, and the guardianship of my trusty Pedro

Sese, who will attend to your behests. One word more. I intrust to your

safe keeping my beautiful steed, Ilderim. You know how I value the noble

animal, my first capture from the Moor. See that he is carefully tended

in my absence, I shall accept it as a proof of your regard for my

wishes. And now, adieu, dearest wife. Think of me, and supplicate Heaven

that I may be speedily and safely restored to your arms."

So saying, Sancho the Great, tenderly embraced his wife; and mounting

his war charger, placed himself at the head of his gallant army. The

clatter of horses' hoofs soon died away in the distance, leaving the

court-yard of the castle in silence and gloom.

Three days after the king's departure, the young Don Garcia entered the

court-yard of the palace at Navarre.

"Pedro Sese, Pedro Sese!" he cried; "my noble Arab El Toro lies dead in

a cleft of the rocks: I have returned to seek another steed for the

chase: such a boar hunt has not been among the forests of Navarre since

the Pyrenees echoed to the horn of Roland: give me forth black Ilderim,

Pedro, my friend; saddle me my father's charger, for there is no other

steed in the king's stables worthy of the hunt of to-day!"

"Don Garcia," replied the master of the horse, "black Ilderim is only

for the king's mounting: I dare not saddle him for any other."

"But the Infante commands it--the king that is to be."

"Chafe not with a faithful servant, Don Garcia: it is but yesterday I

refused the same request of the bastard of Arragon."

"What! darest thou compare me with the base-born Ramiro? Insolent! I

shall bear my complaint to the queen."

To the queen Don Garcia bore his complaint and his petition: "Oh, my

mother, wouldst thou see me dishonored by a menial? Am I not thine only

son, the rightful heir of Arragon, Castile, and Navarre? who may command

here, if I may not? Assert my authority, then, and order the false Pedro

Sese that he give me forth black Ilderim."

"Pedro Sese has faithfully discharged his duty to my lord the king, who

enjoined on him and on me the safe keeping of his favorite horse," said

Dona Nuna. "The royal stables are open; take, my son, any other steed,

but leave black Ilderim till thy father's return."

"Nay, by Heaven and by the saints, I will have Ilderim to ride this day,

or I will have vengeance!"

The headstrong youth returned to the court-yard, and again demanded the

steed: again the master of the horse refused. Don Garcia, pale with

concentrated rage, sprang on another of the king's chargers, and

galloped from the palace. Instead, however, of returning to the hunt, he

urged his horse into the _despoblado_, or open plain, lying to the south

of the castle, and disappeared on the road to Burgos.

Time passed heavily, in her lord's absence, with the gentle Nuna. At

first, she received frequent and joyful tidings of the successes which

crowned his arms, and the brilliant victories gained by his forces over

the Moslem army. Of late, and since the departure of Garcia from the

castle, Sancho's affectionate dispatches had altogether ceased; and

Nuna, now thoroughly wretched, from the wayward perversity of her son,

and from uncertainty as to her husband's fate, had prepared to rejoin

him at any risk, and share the perils to which he might be exposed.

Her resolution was no sooner formed than it was promptly carried into

effect: she summoned to her aid the trusty Pedro Sese; and, protected by

a small escort under his command, bade adieu to Navarre, and commenced

her long and perilous journey toward the theatre of war.

The little cavalcade had reached Najarra, when, to their surprise and

joy, they beheld a gallant band of horsemen rapidly approaching: the

united banner of Arragon, Castile, and Navarre, floating proudly before

them, announced to all beholders that Sancho the Fourth led his knights

in person.

Nuna's heart beat fast and tumultuously; in a few moments, and the long

absent one would clasp her closely to his breast. She looked up to the

master of the horse who rode by her side, and urged him to increased

speed. They moved briskly forward; and the advancing knights who formed

the king's body-guard became more distinctly visible. Sancho, as we have

said, headed them; but as soon as they had arrived within a short

distance of the queen's followers, the monarch advanced a few paces, and

in tones of thunder called on them to halt. His brow was darkened with

evil passions, his countenance flushed with anger.

"On the peril of your allegiance!" he shouted, rather than spoke, "seize

the traitress, I command ye! My heart refused to hearken to the tale of

her guilt, even when spoken by the lips of her son; but mine eyes have

seen it. I have lived--wretched that I am--to witness her infamy. But

the adulteress, and the companion of her crime, shall not escape my

righteous vengeance. See to it, that the queen and Pedro Sese remain

your prisoners."

If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the miserable Nuna, she could

not have been more horror-struck, or more confounded. Her life-long

dream of happiness was dissipated; the husband of her youth had recoiled

from her as from the veriest reptile that crawls on the face of God's

earth; and the worker of her woe and ruin was her own child--her own

flesh and blood--her son Garcia! Who would believe her to be pure and

innocent when such lips pronounced the tale of her guilt? Unhappy wife;

still more unhappy mother! In the deepest dungeon of the castle of

Najarra she was left to mourn over her unparalleled misery. Alone,

unfriended, and solitary, Nuna--who so lately had seen herself a beloved

and cherished wife, a fond mother, and a mighty sovereign--struggled

with her bitter and mournful reflections. She could not reproach her

husband, for she felt that his ear had been poisoned against her by an

accuser he could scarcely mistrust, even by the insinuations of her son,

confirmed--as he deemed them to be--by the evidence of his senses, when

he met her so unexpectedly traveling under the escort of Pedro Sese.

But short space was left to Nuna for these agonizing thoughts. Death, a

shameful death, was the punishment of the adulteress; but Sancho, more

merciful than she had dared to hope, had granted her one loop-hole for

escape--one slender chance of proving her innocence. The lists were to

be open to any champion believing in the lady's guiltlessness, who

should adventure his life in her defense. If any such should proffer his

services, he might do battle in single combat with her accuser.

God--according to the belief of those days--would give victory to him

who maintained the truth!

The fatal day approached, arrived, and had well-nigh passed. Garcia,

unopposed, bestrode his war-steed, the redoubtable black Ilderim, whose

possession he had so eagerly coveted, and purchased at so fearful a

price. The discrowned queen, in conformity with custom, was placed

within sight of the arena, tied to a stake, surmounting what would prove

her funeral pile if no champion appeared on her behalf, or if her

defender should suffer defeat.

Who can paint the agitation of Dona Nuna, thus placed within view of the

lists, when the precious hours passed, one by one, and no champion stood

forth in defense of her purity and truth? She was about to resign

herself hopelessly to her inexorable fate, when the sound of a horse's

tramp was heard, approaching at a rapid pace; and a knight, in complete

armor, mounted on a charger, whose foaming mouth and reeking sides told

that he had been ridden at a fearful pace, dashed into the lists, flung

down his gauntlet of defiance, and announced that he was come to do

battle in behalf of the falsely-accused, but stainless and guiltless

queen.

There was an involuntary movement among the assembled multitude when

Garcia prepared for the inevitable encounter. None knew, or could guess,

who the knight might be. No device nor emblem, by which his identity

would be discovered, could be traced on his helmet or on his shield! but

the ease with which he surmounted his steed, and his graceful and

gallant bearing, evinced that he was an accomplished warrior.

In a few seconds, the preliminary arrangements were complete; and, with

lances in rest, the opponents approached. In the first encounter, to the

amazement of all, Garcia was unhorsed, and fell heavily to the ground.

"She is innocent! She is innocent!" shouted the multitude.

"God be praised! though I have lost a son," was the subdued ejaculation

of the king.

"I am prepared, in defense of the much-injured lady, to do combat to the

death," said the stranger knight. "Base and dastardly villain! confess

thy unnatural crime, or prepare to meet me once more, when I swear I

will not let thee escape so lightly."

Garcia hesitated; he was evidently torn by conflicting emotions.

Conscious guilt--fear of the just retribution of Heaven, executed by the

stranger's avenging sword--urged him to confess his villainy. On the

other hand, apprehension of the execrations of the multitude, and the

indignation of his injured parents, restrained him from making a frank

avowal of his crime.

"Remount, miscreant! and make ready for another encounter, or confess

that you have lied in your throat," exclaimed the stranger, sternly.

Before Garcia could reply, an aged and venerable ecclesiastic threw

himself between the opponents.

"In the name of Heaven! I command ye to withhold from this unnatural

strife," he exclaimed, addressing them; "brothers are ye; the blood of a

common father flows in your veins. Ramiro--forbear. Garcia--the combat

this day has testified to your guilt; make the only atonement in your

power, by a full confession."

Ejaculations of astonishment and pity burst from all the spectators.

"Long live the noble bastard! The base-born has made base the well-born!

The step-son has proved the true son! Praise be to the Virgin, the

mother of the people has not been left without a godson to fight for

her!" And all the matrons, and many even of the hardened warriors among

the multitude, wept with tenderness and joy.

In a few moments the agitated queen found herself in her husband's arms.

He implored her forgiveness for the sorrow she had endured; nor could

she withhold it, even for a moment, when she listened to the avowals of

the degraded Garcia, who confessed how, step by step, he had poisoned

his father's mind by tales of her infidelity, in revenge for her

refusal, and that of Pedro Sese, to intrust him with Sancho's favorite

charger, black Ilderim.

Nuna turned from her abject son, and motioned her young champion to

approach. He knelt at her feet.

"Ramiro," she softly said, as she unclasped the helmet and visor which

concealed the handsome features of Sancho's illegitimate son, "child of

my affections, for whom I have ever felt a mother's love, though I have

not borne for thee a mother's pains; how shall I thank thee? Thou hast

this day more than repaid the tenderness I lavished on thy infant years.

Thou hast made clear my fair fame to all men; even at the risk of thy

own young life."

"I would lay down life itself for such a friend as you have been, and

esteem the sacrifice light," rejoined Ramiro, with deep emotion. "I

remember my childish days--before you came to Navarre, a bright, happy,

innocent bride--when I wandered through my father's palace an unloved

and neglected boy; and I can recall vividly the moment when you first

encountered me, and, struck by the resemblance I bore to the king,

surmised the truth. Instead of hating me with the unjust aversion of an

ungenerous nature, you took the despised child to your heart, and, for

the love you bore your lord, you loved and cherished his base-born son.

For the genial atmosphere you created around me, and in which my

affections expanded, and for the care you have bestowed on my

education, I owe you a debt of gratitude far deeper than ever child bore

his own mother. Nature dictates maternal love, in the one instance--but

it is to the suggestions of a noble and generous heart that I have been

indebted for the happiness of my life. You owe me no thanks--for, for

such a friend no sacrifice can be too great."

Nuna turned to the king; and, taking his hand in hers, placed it on the

head of her young champion. "I have brought you kingdoms as my dower,"

she said, "but I have not, alas! brought you a son so worthy as Ramiro

of being their ruler. I freely forgive the Infante the suffering he has

caused me, and hope that, with advancing years, he will cultivate the

virtues in which he has shown himself to be deficient. But Ramiro has

already given evidence of the possession of those exalted qualities

which insure the happiness of a people when possessed by their rulers.

Invest him then, at my entreaty, with the crown of Arragon; receive back

to your confidence our faithful Pedro Sese; and suffer me to forget my

past griefs in the anticipation of a love which shall never again be

interrupted."

The king raised his hand in assent; and the assembled multitude

confirmed the investiture with one mighty shout--"Ramiro! Ramiro! long

live Ramiro! Infante of Arragon!"

THE FARM-LABORER.--THE SON.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

It has been told that Susan Banks found herself well placed, after the

death of her insane aunt obliged her to look for a home and a

maintenance. As I am not telling her story, I will pass over the account

of the efforts she made to be a schoolmistress, and the instruction she

had as a dressmaker. She was in poor health (reduced by hunger) and in

debt L3 to her uncle, and nervous and anxious, when she heard that a

lady from the North, then visiting in the neighborhood, wanted just such

a maid as Susan thought she could become with a little teaching. She

obtained the place, took pains to learn to wait at table, &c., and

within a year had paid her debt to her uncle, and spared L2 besides to

her family; and all this, though her box had had but few clothes in it

when she went to her new home.

At the end of a year, her employer, Miss Foote, began to think of

cultivating the small portion of land about the house which had hitherto

been let off for grazing, and which was deteriorating in quality from

the mismanagement of the tenant. Not approving of the methods of tillage

in the neighborhood, and knowing that there were no spare hands there,

Miss Foote wrote to a parish officer in Susan's and her own native

county, to ask if a laborer of good character and sound qualifications

could be sent to her by the parish, on her engaging to pay him twelve

shillings a week for a year and a half, while her experiment of

cultivation was under trial; and longer, if it should be found to

answer. This was all she could undertake, as she could not afford to

carry on the scheme at a loss. The answer was some time in coming. When

it came, it told that pauper laborers could not be recommended; but a

better sort of laborer might be sent, and his place in the parish would

be filled, only too easily, by some of the young men from the workhouse.

The proposal was to send the very best man of his class known to the

parish officers. He and his wife had money enough in the savings' bank

to pay their journey, and they were willing to make the venture. The

man's name was Harry Banks. Miss Foote took the letter into the kitchen,

and read it to Susan and her fellow-servant. When Susan heard the name,

she started as if she had been shot, and screamed out, "Why, that's my

brother!" Thus far, far away from home, she was to have a brother and

his wife beside her, living in the pretty little cottage which was

building behind the oak copse for the new laborer. Miss Foote inquired

about the wife, but could learn little. Susan told nothing but that she

was a respectable woman, but so old, and otherwise unsuitable, that it

was a vexation to the family that Harry had made such a marriage. Harry

never seemed to see a single fault in her; but his father and mother did

not like Dinah at all.

When Miss Foote afterward came to know the whole, she thought this

marriage the most terribly significant part of the whole family history

of the Bankses. At thirty years of age Harry was a pattern of a

farm-laborer; yet he had no prospect in life but of earning a precarious

nine shillings a week, till he should be too old to earn so much. He

worked for a rich, close-fisted Dissenting gentleman, who had always

pious sayings on his lips and at the point of his pen, but never took

off his eye for an instant from his money gains and savings. His wife

was like him, and their servants grew like them--even the warm-hearted,

impetuous Harry, and much more Dinah, their worn out maid-of-all-work.

Dinah always said that the register of her birth was unfortunately lost,

and she could not tell precisely how old she was; and she called herself

"upwards o' forty." Most people supposed her about sixty when she

married. She used to tell Harry that she was the prettiest girl in the

city when she was young, and Harry did not ask how long ago that was,

nor look too much at the little wizened face, not more marked by

small-pox than by signs of over-exhausting toil. Whatever might be her

age, she was worn out by excessive work. When Harry's father heard that

she and Harry were going before the registrar to be married, he kindly

and seriously asked Harry if he had considered what he was about; and

Harry's reply was enough to make any heart ache.

"Yes, father, I have. I'm not so very much set on it; but I think it

will be most comfortable. You see, there's no use in people like us

thinking of having children. Children would only starve us downright,

and bring us to the Union. You see, none of us are married, nor likely

to be, except me with Dinah. She's clean and tidy, you see, and she has

some wages laid by, and so have I; and so nobody need find fault. And I

shall be more comfortable like, with somebody to do for me at home;

and--"

And he was going on to tell how Dinah would cook his dinner and mend his

clothes, but his father could not bear to hear him, and finished off

with saying that it was his own affair, and he wished them well.

It was within a year after their marriage that Harry was engaged, by

Miss Foote. In great glee he made haste to prepare himself for his

important new place in every way he could think of. He learned to trim a

vine, not knowing that the place he was going to was too far north for

vine-growing. He made interest with a butcher to learn how to kill a

pig. He made a little collection of superior cabbage and turnip seeds,

seed potatoes, &c., thus proving to Miss Foote at the outset that he had

plenty of energy and quickness. She found, too, that he had courage. His

employers, vexed to lose two servants whom they had trained to excessive

economy, as well as hard work, did every thing that was possible, while

there was any chance of success, to frighten them from moving northward.

They told Dinah, with mournful countenances, that they should certainly

die--that it was all the same as being transported--that it was cruelty

in the parish officers to let them be tempted. Dinah repeated all this

to Harry; and it staggered him at first; but he presently remembered

that Susan wrote that her health had improved; and her letters had not

only contained post-office orders, but plain signs that she was very

happy. Harry determined to proceed; and when he had once made up his

mind, his employers showed themselves very kind--helping their

preparations, and having them to dinner on the last day.

By their own account their journey must have been a curious affair.

Their heads were so full of notions of thieves and sharpers, that they

did every thing in the slyest way, and wrapped themselves in mystery,

and pretended to despise their boxes, while in one continued agony about

them. When met by a kind gentleman who was to see them through London,

Dinah pretended not to be the right person, lest the gentleman should

not be the right; so that it was lucky they did lose his help

altogether. Miss Foote was disagreeably impressed by their account of

their great slyness, and not less by the suspicious temper--natural,

perhaps, to Dinah, but not at all so to Harry--in which they began their

new mode of life. Dinah was no servant of hers; so she had nothing to do

with Dinah's ways, but to check the jealousy and suspicion she showed of

her young sister-in-law and the young cook. On occasion of leaving home

for some weeks, the lady took the opportunity of intimating to the

people at the cottage that there was a perfect understanding between

the girls and herself, as perfect a confidence as there can be between

mother and daughters; that their acquaintances came by her permission,

and so forth. Harry promised to be attentive and sociable with his

sister, and not to grow hot with the cook about how to feed the fowls

and manage the churn. That was the time when Dinah left off peeping

through the laurels to see who went to the back door, and looking

mysterious and sympathetic when holding forth to Miss Foote about young

people. Still it was long before she left off locking her door and

hiding the key, if she turned her back for a minute, and taking every

body she did not know for a thief. She was left to her own notions; but

with Harry a serious remonstrance was necessary, more than once, within

the first year of his new service. Miss Foote was as much annoyed as

amused with his higgling ways, all in zeal for her interests. She feared

that she should have the reputation in the neighborhood of being a

perfect miser, so wonderful were Harry's stories of the bargains he

attempted to drive. She told him she hoped he would never succeed in any

one such bargain as the many he told her of; and she laid her positive

commands upon him never, in her name, to beat down the seller of any

article she sent him to buy. As she supposed, she found he had caught up

the trick from example, and had not the knowledge whereby to remedy it.

When she told him it was not the way of the place to cheat in making

charges he shook his head, and very nearly put his tongue in his cheek;

but when she explained to him how prices came to be, and how an article

can not properly be bought for less than it took to make or grow it, he

was convinced at once, and his higgling method was softened down into a

mere excessive strictness and vigilance in buying and selling

transactions. There never was any real meanness about the man. In a few

months he sent his father ten shillings; in a few months more he sent

him L1. A small anecdote will show better than this, that money is not

naturally the first object with him. When his employer kills a pig he is

allowed to take a quarter at wholesale price, and Dinah cures the ham so

well that by selling it they get their bacon for next to nothing. One

autumn, when two pigs were killed, there was such a scramble for them,

and so many neighbors would be "hurt in their feelings" if they could

not have a portion, that Miss Foote found herself left with two gammons,

but no ham. Harry heard this in the kitchen. He kept silence till his

ham was finely cured, and then, touching his hat as if asking a favor,

he told his employer that she had done good things for him, and he had

never been able to do any for her, and he should be much pleased if she

would take the ham for what he gave for it. Though not agreeing to this

exactly, Miss Foote found herself obliged to take the ham very cheap.

Another small incident showed the same gentlemanly spirit. At the time

when his whole soul was engrossed with the desire to make "the

experiment" answer, he had a request to present, as often during a whole

winter as he could edge it in. There was a certain long, ugly hedge,

pernicious in every way, which divided the field from a neighbor's. The

hedge belonged to the neighbor; and it appeared that he would be

heartily glad to give it away to any body who would take it down and put

up some fence which would cover less ground and harbor less vermin.

Harry was so eager to be allowed to remove the hedge, that Miss Foote at

last told him that she should never have dreamed of his undertaking such

a job in addition to his regular work; but that he might please himself.

She would put up a new fence if he chose to make way for it. He did it

with no help but in felling some pollards. One afternoon, when wheeling

up hill an enormous load of wood from the hedge, he heard himself

laughed at from the next field. Now, no man winces more under a laugh

than Harry; yet he bore it well this time. Some men called out mockingly

that he was doing horse's work and man's work at once, and they would

not do that to please any body. "No," said Harry, turning full round

toward them, "nor, I neither. Miss Foote never asked me to do this. I do

it to please myself."

No man, I have said, winces under a laugh more than Harry; and his only

suffering worth mentioning, since he came to his new place, has been

from this dislike of ridicule. When the cottage was ready, Miss Foote

proposed a house-warming, and invited herself and her two maids there to

tea. It was a particularly pleasant evening, with a fine fire, and

plenty of light, and good tea and cake, and all the five in capital

spirits. Harry was made to take the arm-chair by his own fireside; and

when he began to crack his jokes it appeared that he had his own notions

of the ridiculous. He quizzed his nearest neighbor, an old man, who had

married a comparatively young woman, and whose children were forever

playing about Miss Foote's gate. When Harry joked about that unequal

match, Miss Foote could not laugh. She thought his own infinitely worse.

And the poor fellow soon saw that others were quizzing him, much more

severely than he had quizzed the old man. He looks grave about Dinah

now, and has left off talking of his own prudence in making such a

marriage. He has also told his sister that when Dinah dies he shall not

marry again. It is very painful; and yet Dinah is improved beyond all

that could have been anticipated. She has put off her false front, and

lets her grizzled hair appear. She no longer scans Miss Foote's face to

make out what it would be most acceptable that she should say, but

rattles away about her affairs with a sort of youthful glee. She no

longer speaks in a whining tone, but lets her voice take its own way.

One day she leaned on her rake (when she was trimming her own

flower-bed), and told Miss Foote, without any canting whatever, that she

had quite changed her mind about the maids since she came. She was

looking too far then, and so did not see what they were; but she found

in time that there was no slyness or pretense, but that they were really

good faithful girls, working for their employer's good, and with no

plots of their own. Old as Dinah seemed to be, there appears to be a

chance of her growing ingenuous and agreeable before she dies. The

gentry who come to the house observe that they never saw two people so

altered as Harry and Dinah; that they seem to have got new faces, a new

gait--a new mind.

Harry had other ridicule to wince about. The neighbors laughed at him

and his employer about their whole plan; they had never heard of keeping

cows on less than three acres per cow, or, at least, five acres for two;

they had never seen such deep digging; they had never known any body

take the trouble to remove stones, or do any thing but bury them out of

sight; they had never seen a currycomb used to a cow; they had never

known a hardworking man so poor-spirited as to be a water-drinker. The

milk must cost Miss Foote 6_d._ a quart; the cow would die; Harry would

wear himself out; and so forth. One day, the first winter, the cow was

very ill. Between the fear of the experiment being given up, and love

for the creature, and dread of the neighbors, Harry was wretched. The

tears streamed down his face as he waited on the sick beast. She got

well, however; and now Harry meets ridicule with a bolder face. A

temperance society having been set up in the place, he has joined it,

though far above all temptation to drink. He finds it a convenience,

when pressed to drink, to cut the matter short by saying that he is a

pledged member--and a curious temperance preacher he is. When told

lately that his cows would rot under his method of treatment, his answer

was: "No, it isn't they that will rot. I'll tell you who 'tis that will

rot; 'tis them that put filthy spirits into their stomachs to turn their

brains, that will rot, and not my cows, that drink sweet water."

There is a grave side to Harry's lot now, happy as he is. He looks

serious and hurt at times, though his health has much strengthened, his

earnings are sure, his wages are raised, his Sunday dress is like that

of a gentleman, there is meat on his table daily, and he has had the

comfort of assisting his parents. Notwithstanding all this, a cloud

comes over his face at times. As his sister says, "he feels the _injury_

of his want of education." His mind is opening very rapidly. At any

spare quarter of an hour he lectures Miss Foote on industry, temperance,

duty to parents, and other good topics. The moral discoveries he has

made are wonderful to him. He has attended church all his life; but

truths come with new force into his mind when they enter through the

spirit of hope and the medium of success. He says "it was wonderful the

ideas that come into a man's mind when he sets himself a-thinking over

his work, and there is no care to take up his thoughts." Hence the

brightened countenance which the neighbors remark on: but hence, too,

the bitter regret at his wasted years of school life--at "the _injury_

of his want of education." What might he not hope to be and do now,

Susan says, if he had but the knowledge that every man may be said to

have the right to be possessed of? Yet, the good fellow has raised his

family to a point of comfort. A gentleman who heard of his merits, as a

first-rate laborer, wrote to the same parish officers, to inquire if

there were any brothers. There was Tom; and Tom is now in a happy

situation, highly esteemed by his employer, and earning 14_s._ a week.

The employer, finding that Tom sadly missed intercourse with his family,

and knowing that he could neither read nor write letters, sent for the

sister, Lizzy, to be under-nursemaid in the family. In another way Harry

has done a deeper and wider good. Miss Foote's friends tell her that his

example is beginning to _tell_ in the neighborhood; his example, not

only of strenuous and skillful labor, but by integrity, temperance, and

disinterested attachment to his employer.

All this is well--very pleasant to contemplate--but a disturbing

question arises in the midst of it: What can society say to these

excellent young men in excuse for their deprivation of family life? And

again, what is at best their prospect for old age?

(From Bentley's Miscellany.)

A CHAPTER ON WOLVES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LORD BACON IN ADVERSITY," ETC.

We rustled through the leaves like wind,

Left shrubs and trees and wolves behind;

By night I beard them on the track,

Their troop came hard upon our back,

With their long gallop, which can tire

The hounds' deep hate and hunter's fire;

Where'er we flew, they followed on,

Nor left us with the morning sun.

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood

At daybreak winding through the wood,

And through the night had heard their feet,

Their stealing, rustling step repeat.

Oh! how I wished for spear or sword

At least to die amidst the horde,

And perish--if it must be so--

At bay, destroying many a foe!

_Mazeppa._

A peculiar interest attaches to the wolf, from the close analogy which

in all its essential features it presents to the faithful companion of

man. So close indeed is the analogy, that some of the ablest zoologists,

the celebrated John Hunter included, have entertained the opinion that

dogs, in all their varieties, and wolves, have descended from a common

stock. With the exception of an obliquity in the position of the eyes,

there is no appreciable anatomical difference between these animals. The

question is one of difficulty; but we believe we are correct in stating

that the majority of the highest authorities agree in the belief that

these animals are not derived from a common parent, but were originally

distinct, and will ever so continue. There are several species of wild

dogs known, quite distinct from the wolf; and although the opportunities

have been numerous for dogs resuming their pristine form, by long

continuance in a savage state, no instance has ever occurred of their

becoming wolves, however much they might degenerate from the domestic

breed. The honest and intelligent shepherd-dog was regarded by Buffon as

the "_fons et origo_," from which all other dogs, great and small, have

sprung; and he drew up a kind of genealogical table, showing how

climate, food, education, and intermixture of breeds gave rise to the

varieties. At Katmandoo there are many plants found in a wild state,

which man has carried with him in his migrations, and wild animals,

which may present the typical forms whence some of our domestic races

have been derived; among these is a wild dog, which Mr. Hodgson

considers to be the primitive species of the whole canine race. By

Professor Kretchner, the jackal was regarded as the type of the dogs of

ancient Egypt, an idea supported by the representations on the walls of

the temples. This question, however, of the origin of the canine race,

is so thoroughly obscured by the mists of countless ages, as to be

incapable of direct proof. Philosophers may indulge themselves with

speculations; but in the absence of that keystone, proof, the matter

must rest on the basis of theory alone.

The following are some of the chief differences between wolves, wild

dogs, and domestic dogs. The ears of the wild animals are always

pricked, the lop or drooping ear being essentially a mark of

civilization; with very rare exceptions, their tails hang more or less

and are bushy, the honest cock of the tail so characteristic of a

respectable dog, being wanting. This is certainly the rule; but, curious

enough, the Zoological Gardens contain at the present moment, a

Portuguese female wolf which carries her tail as erect and with as bold

an air as any dog. Wolves and wild dogs growl, howl, yelp, and cry most

discordantly, but with one exception, do not bark; that exception being

the wild hunting-dog of South Africa, which, according to Mr. Cumming,

has three distinct cries; one is peculiarly soft and melodious, but

distinguishable at a great distance: this is analogous to the

trumpet-call, "halt and rally," of cavalry, serving to collect the

scattered pack when broken in hot chase. A second cry, which has been

compared to the chattering of monkeys, is emitted at night when the dogs

are excited; and the third note is described as a sharp, angry bark,

usually uttered when they behold an object they can not make out, but

which differs from the true, well-known bark of the domestic dog.

The common or European wolf is found from Egypt to Lapland, and is most

probably the variety that formerly haunted these islands. The wolves of

Russia are large and fierce, and have a peculiarly savage aspect. The

Swedish and Norwegian are similar to the Russian in form, but are

lighter in color, and in winter, totally white. Those of France are

browner and smaller than either of these, and the Alpine wolves are

smaller still. Wolves are very numerous in the northern regions of

America; "their foot-marks," says Sir John Richardson, "may be seen by

the side of every stream, and a traveler can rarely pass the night in

these wilds without hearing them howling around him."[1] These wolves

burrow, and bring forth their young in earths with several outlets, like

those of a fox. Sir John saw none with the gaunt appearance, the long

jaw and tapering nose, long legs and slender feet, of the Pyrenean

wolves.

India, too, is infested with wolves, which are smaller than the

European. There is a remarkably fine animal at the Zoological Gardens,

born of a European father and Indian mother, which, in size and other

respects, so closely partakes of the characteristics of his sire, that

he might well pass for pure blood.

Among the ancients, wolves gave rise to many superstitious fictions. For

instance, it was said that they possessed "an evil eye," and that, if

they looked on a man before he saw them, he would forthwith lose his

voice. Again, we find the Roman witches, like the weird sisters of

Macbeth, employing the wolf in their incantations:

"Utque lupi barbam variae cum dente colubrae

Abdiderint furtim terris."

HOR. _Sat._ viii. lib. i.

There was a myth prevalent among the ancients, that in Arcadia there

lived a certain family of the Antaei, of which one was ever obliged to be

transformed into a wolf. The members of the family cast lots, and all

accompanied the luckless wight on whom the lot fell, to a pool of water.

This he swam over, and having entered into the wilderness on the other

side, was forthwith in form, a wolf, and for nine years kept company

with wolves: at the expiration of that period he again swam across the

pool, and was restored to his natural shape, only that the addition of

nine years was placed upon his features. It was also imagined that the

tail of the wolf contained a hair, which acted as a love philtre and

excited the tender passion. The myth of Romulus and Remus having been

suckled by a wolf, arose from the simple circumstance of their nurse

having been named Lupa--an explanation which sadly does away with the

garland of romance that so long surrounded the story of the founders of

Rome. The figure of the wolf at one time formed a standard for the Roman

legions, as saith Pliny, "Caius Marius, in his second consulship,

ordained that the legions of Roman soldiers only should have the egle

for their standard, and no other signe, for before time the egle

marched foremost indeed, but in a ranke of foure others, to wit,

wolves, minotaures, horses, and bores."[2]

The dried snout of a wolf held, in the estimation of the ancients, the

same rank that a horseshoe does now with the credulous. It was nailed

upon the gates of country farms, as a counter-charm against the evil

eye, and was supposed to be a powerful antidote to incantations and

witchcraft. New-married ladies were wont, upon their wedding-day, to

anoint the side-posts of their husbands' houses with wolves' grease, to

defeat all demoniac arts. These animals bore, however, but a bad

character when alive; for, exclusive of their depredations, it was

imagined that if horses chanced to tread in the foot-tracks of wolves,

their feet were immediately benumbed; but Pliny also says, "Verily, the

great master teeth and grinders of a wolf being hanged about an horse

necke, cause him that he shall never tire and be weary, be he put to

never so much running in any race whatsoever." When a territory was much

infested with wolves, the following ceremony was performed with much

solemnity and deep subsequent carousal: A wolf would be caught alive,

and his legs carefully broken. He was then dragged around the confines

of the farm, being bled with a knife from time to time, so that the

blood might sprinkle the ground. Being generally dead when the journey

had been completed, he was buried in the very spot whence he had started

on his painful race.

There was scarcely a filthy thing upon the earth, or under the earth,

which the ancients did not in some way use medicinally; and we find

Paulus AEgineta recommends the dry and pounded liver of a wolf, steeped

in sweet wine, as a sovereign remedy for diseases of the liver, &c.

Our English word _wolf_ is derived from the Saxon _wulf_ and from the

same root, the German _wolf_, the Swedish _ulf_, and Danish _ulv_ are

probably derived. Wolves were at one time a great scourge to this

country, the dense forests which formerly covered the land favoring

their safety and their increase. Edgar applied himself seriously to rid

his subjects of this pest, by commuting the punishment of certain crimes

into the acceptance of a number of wolves' tongues from each criminal;

and in Wales by commuting a tax of gold and silver imposed on the

Princes of Cambria by Ethelstan, into an annual tribute of three hundred

wolves' heads, which Jenaf, Prince of North Wales, paid so punctually,

that by the fourth year the breed was extinct. Not so, however, in

England, for like ill weeds, they increased and multiplied here,

rendering necessary the appointment, in the reign of the first Edward,

of a _wolf-hunter_ general, in the person of one Peter Corbet; and his

majesty thought it not beneath his dignity to issue a mandamus, bearing

date May 14th, 1281, to all bailiffs, &c., to aid and assist the said

Peter in the destruction of wolves in the counties of Gloucester,

Worcester, Hereford, Shropshire, and Stafford; and Camden informs us

that in Derby, lands were held at Wormhill by the duty of hunting and

taking the wolves that infested that county. In the reign of Athelstan,

these pests had so abounded in Yorkshire, that a retreat was built at

Flixton in that county, "to defend passengers from the wolves that they

should not be devoured by them." Our Saxon ancestors also called

January, when wolves pair, _wolf-moneth_; and an outlaw was termed

_wolfshed_, being out of the protection of the law, and as liable to be

killed as that destructive beast.

A curious notice of the existence of wolves and foxes in Scotland is

afforded in Bellenden's translation of Boetius.[3] "The wolffis are

right noisome to tame beastial in all parts of Scotland, except one part

thereof, named Glenmorris, in which the tame beastial gets little damage

of wild beastial, especially of tods (foxes); for each house nurses a

young tod certain days, and mengis (mixes) the flesh thereof, after it

be slain, with such meat as they give to their fowls or other small

beasts, and so many as eat of this meat are preserved two months after

from any damage of tods; for tods will eat no flesh that gusts of their

own kind." The last wolf killed in Scotland is said to have fallen by

the hand of Sir Ewen Cameron, about 1680; and singular to say, the skin

of this venerable quadruped may yet be in existence: in a catalogue of

Mr. Donnovan's sale of the London Museum, in April, 1818, there occurs

the following item, "Lot 832. Wolf, a noble animal in a large glass

case. The last wolf killed in Scotland, by Sir E. Cameron." It would be

interesting to know what became of this lot.

The pairing time is January, when after many battles with rivals, the

strongest males attach themselves to the females. The female wolf

prepares a warm nest for her young, of soft moss and her own hair,

carefully blended together. The cubs are watched by the parents with

tender solicitude, are gradually accustomed to flesh, and when

sufficiently strong their education begins, and they are taken to join

in the chase; not the least curious part is the discipline by which they

are inured to suffering and taught to bear pain without complaint; their

parents are said to bite, maltreat, and drag them by the tail, punishing

them if they utter a cry, until they have learned to be mute. To this

quality Macaulay alludes when speaking of a wolf in his "Prophecy of

Capys:"

"When all the pack, loud baying,

Her bloody lair surrounds,

She dies in silence, biting hard,

Amidst the dying hounds."

It is curious to observe the cunning acquired by wolves in well

inhabited districts, where they are eagerly sought for destruction; they

then never quit cover to windward: they trot along just within the edges

of the wood until they meet the wind from the open country, and are

assured by their keen scent that no danger awaits them in that

quarter--then they advance, keeping under cover of hedgerows as much as

possible, moving in single file and treading in each other's track;

narrow roads they bound across, without leaving a footprint. When a wolf

contemplates a visit to a farmyard, he first carefully reconnoitres the

ground, listening, snuffing up the air, and smelling the earth; he then

springs over the threshold without touching it and seizes on his prey.

In retreat his head is low, turned obliquely, with one ear forward the

other back, and the eyes glaring. He trots crouching, his brush

obliterating the track of his feet till at some distance from the scene

of his depredation, then feeling himself secure, he waves his tail erect

in triumph, and boldly pushes on to cover.

In northern India, wolves together with jackals and pariah dogs, prowl

about the dwellings of Europeans. Colonel Hamilton Smith relates a

curious accident which befell a servant who was sleeping in a verandah

with his head near the outer lattice: a wolf thrust his jaws between the

bamboo, seized the man by the head, and endeavored to drag him through;

the man's shrieks awakened the whole neighborhood, and assistance came,

but though the wolf was struck at by many, he escaped. Wolves have even

been known to attack sentries when single, as in the last campaign of

the French armies in the vicinity of Vienna, when several of the

videttes were carried off by them. During the retreat of Napoleon's army

from Russia, wolves of the Siberian race followed the troops to the

borders of the Rhine; specimens of these wolves shot in the vicinity,

and easily distinguishable from the native breed, are still preserved in

the museums of Neuwied, Frankfort, and Cassel.

Captain Lyon[4] relates the following singular instance of the cunning

of a wolf which had been caught in a trap, and, being to all appearance

dead, was dragged on board ship: "The eyes, however, were observed to

wink whenever an object was placed near them, some precautions were,

therefore, considered necessary, and the legs being tied the animal was

hoisted up with his head downward. He then, to our surprise, made a

vigorous spring at those near him, and afterward repeatedly turned

himself upward so as to reach the rope by which he was suspended,

endeavoring to gnaw it asunder, and making angry snaps at the persons

who prevented him. Several heavy blows were struck on the back of his

neck, and a bayonet was thrust through him, yet above a quarter of an

hour elapsed before he died."

Hearne, in his journey to the Northern Ocean, says, that the wolves

always burrow under ground at the breeding season, and though it is

natural to suppose them very fierce at those times, yet he has

frequently seen the Indians go to their dens, take out the cubs and play

with them. These they never hurt, and always scrupulously put them in

the den again, although they occasionally painted their faces with

vermilion and red ochre, in strange and grotesque patterns.

This statement is supported by incidents which have occurred in this

metropolis; there was a bitch wolf in the Tower Menagerie, which, though

excessively fond of her cubs, suffered the keepers to handle them, and

even remove them from the den, without evincing the slightest symptom

either of anger or alarm; and a still more remarkable instance is

related from observation, by Mr. Bell: "There was a wolf at the

Zoological Gardens (says that able naturalist) which would always come

to the front bars of the den as soon as I or any other person whom she

knew, approached; she had pups, too, and so eager, in fact, was she that

her little ones should share with her in the notice of her friends, that

she killed all of them in succession by rubbing them against the bars of

her den as she brought them forward to be fondled."

During the last year, 8807 wolves' skins were imported by the Hudson's

Bay Company from their settlements; of which 8784 came from the York

Fort and Mackenzie River stations; we recently had the opportunity of

examining the stock, and found it principally composed of white wolves'

skins from the Churchill River, with black and gray skins of every

shade. The most valuable are from animals killed in the depth of winter,

and of these, the white skins, which are beautifully soft and fine, are

worth about thirty shillings apiece, and are exported to Hungary, where

they are in great favor with the nobles as trimming for pelisses and

hussar jackets; the gray wolves' skins are worth from three shillings

and sixpence upward, and are principally exported to America and the

North of Europe, to be used as cloak-linings.

Colonel H. Smith mentions a curious instance of the treacherous ferocity

of the wolf. A butcher at New York had brought up, and believed he had

tamed, a wolf, which he kept for above two years chained up in the

slaughterhouse, where it lived in a complete superabundance of blood and

offal. One night, having occasion for some implement which he believed

was accessible in the dark, he went into this little Smithfield without

thinking of the wolf. He was clad in a thick frieze coat, and while

stooping to grope for what he wanted, he heard the chain rattle, and in

a moment was struck down by the animal springing upon him. Fortunately,

a favorite cattle-dog had accompanied his master, and rushed forward to

defend him: the wolf had hold of the man's collar, and being obliged to

turn in his own defense, the butcher had time to draw a large knife,

with which he ripped his assailant open. The same able writer relates an

incident which occurred to an English gentleman, holding a high public

situation in the peninsula, during a wolf-hunt in the mountains, near

Madrid. The sportsmen were placed in ambush, and the country-people

drove the game toward them; presently an animal came bounding upward

toward this gentleman, so large that he took it, while driving through

the high grass and bushes, for a donkey; it was a wolf, however, whose

glaring eyes meant mischief, but, scared by the click of the rifle, he

turned and made his escape, though a bullet whistled after him; at the

close of the hunt seven were found slain, and so large were they that

this gentleman, though of uncommon strength, could not lift one entirely

from the ground.

The wolf of America is at times remarkable for cowardice, though bold

enough when pressed by hunger, or with other wolves. Mr. R. C. Taylor,

of Philadelphia, states that this animal, when trapped, is silent,

subdued, and unresisting. He was present when a fine young wolf, about

fifteen months old, was taken by surprise, and suddenly attacked with a

club. The animal offered no resistance, but, crouching down in the

supplicating manner of a dog, suffered himself to be knocked on the

head. An old hunter told Mr. Taylor that he had frequently taken a wolf

out of the trap, and compelled it by a few blows to lie down by his

side, while he reset his trap.

The Esquimaux wolf-trap is made of strong slabs of ice, long and so

narrow, that a fox can with difficulty turn himself in it, and a wolf

must actually remain in the position in which he is taken. The door is a

heavy portcullis of ice, sliding in two well-secured grooves of the same

substance, and is kept up by a line which, passing over the top of the

trap, is carried through a hole at the farthest extremity. To the end of

the line is fastened a small hoop of whale-bone, and to this any kind of

flesh bait is attached. From the slab which terminates the trap, a

projection of ice, or a peg of bone or wood, points inward near the

bottom, and under this the hoop is slightly hooked; the slightest pull

at the bait liberates it, the door falls in an instant, and the wolf is

speared where he lies.

Sir John Richardson states that, when near the Copper Mines River in

North America, he had more than once an opportunity of seeing a single

wolf in pursuit of a reindeer, and especially on Point Lake, when

covered with ice, when a fine buck reindeer was overtaken by a large

white wolf, and disabled by a bite in the flank. An Indian, who was

concealed, ran in and cut the deer's throat with his knife, the wolf at

once relinquishing his prey and sneaking off. In the chase the poor deer

urged its flight by great bounds, which for a time exceeded the speed of

the wolf; but it stopped so frequently to gaze on its relentless enemy,

that the latter, toiling on at a long gallop (so admirably described by

Byron), with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, gradually came up.

After each hasty look, the deer redoubled its efforts to escape, but,

either exhausted by fatigue or enervated by fear, it became, just before

it was overtaken, scarcely able to keep its feet.

Captain Lyon gives some interesting illustrations of the habits of the

wolves of Melville Peninsula, which were sadly destructive to his dogs.

"A fine dog was lost in the afternoon. It had strayed to the hummocks

ahead, without its master; and Mr. Elder, who was near the spot, saw

five wolves rush at, attack, and devour it, in an incredibly short space

of time: before he could reach the place, the carcass was torn in

pieces, and he found only the lower part of one leg. The boldness of the

wolves was altogether astonishing, as they were almost constantly seen

among the hummocks, or lying quietly, at no great distance, in wait for

the dogs. From all we observed, I have no reason to suppose that they

would attack a single unarmed man, both English and Esquimaux frequently

passing them, without a stick in their hands. The animals, however,

exhibited no symptoms of fear, but rather a kind of tacit agreement not

to be the beginners of a quarrel, even though they might have been

certain of proving victorious."[5] Another time, when pressed by hunger,

the wolves broke into a snow-hut, in which were a couple of

newly-purchased Esquimaux dogs, and carried the poor animals off, but

not without some difficulty; for even the ceiling of the hut was next

morning found sprinkled with blood and hair. When the alarm was given,

and the wolves were fired at, one of them was observed carrying a dead

dog in his mouth, clear of the ground, and going, with ease, at a

canter, notwithstanding the animal was of his own weight. It was curious

to observe the fear these dogs seemed, at times, to entertain of wolves.

During Sir John Richardson's residence at Cumberland-house, in 1820, a

wolf, which had been prowling round the fort, was wounded by a

musket-ball, and driven off, but returned after dark, while the blood

was still flowing from its wound, and carried off a dog from among fifty

others, that had not the courage to unite in an attack on their enemy.

The same writer says, that he has frequently observed an Indian dog,

after being worsted in combat with a black wolf, retreat into a corner,

and howl, at intervals, for an hour together; these Indian dogs, also,

howl piteously when apprehensive of punishment, and throw themselves

into attitudes strongly resembling those of a wolf when caught in a

trap.

Foxes are frequently taken in the pitfalls set for wolves, and seem to

possess more cunning. An odd incident is related by Mr. Lloyd: A fox was

lying at the bottom of a pitfall, apparently helpless, when a very stout

peasant, having placed a ladder, began to descend with cautious and

creaking steps to destroy the vermin. Reynard, however, thought he might

benefit by the ladder, as well as his corpulent visitor, and, just as

the latter reached the ground, jumped, first, on his stern, then, on his

shoulder, skipped out of the pit, and was off in a moment, leaving the

man staring and swearing at his impudent escape!

Captain Lyon mentions an instance of the sagacity of the fox: he had

caught and tamed one of these animals, which he kept on deck, in a

small hutch, with a scope of chain. Finding himself repeatedly drawn out

of his hutch by this, the sagacious little fellow, whenever he retreated

within his castle, took the chain in his mouth, and drew it so

completely in after him, that no one, who valued his fingers, would

endeavor to take hold of the end attached to the staple.

Mr. Lloyd mentions a curious contest that took place in the vicinity of

Uddeholm. A peasant had just got into bed, when his ears were assailed

by a tremendous uproar in his cattle-shed. On hearing this noise, he

jumped up, and, though almost in a state of nudity, rushed into the

building to see what was the matter: here he found an immense wolf,

which he gallantly seized by the ears, and called out most lustily for

assistance. His wife--the gallant Trulla--came to his aid, armed with a

hatchet, with which she severely wounded the wolf's head; but it was not

until she had driven the handle of the hatchet down the animal's throat,

that she succeeded in dispatching him. During the conflict, the man's

hands and wrists were bitten through and through; and, when seen by Mr.

Lloyd, the wounds were not healed.

Like dogs, wolves are capable of strong attachment; but such instances

are comparatively rare: the most striking, perhaps, was that recorded by

M. Frederick Cuvier, as having come under his notice at the Menagerie du

Roi at Paris. The wolf in question was brought up as a young dog, became

familiar with persons he was in the habit of seeing, and, in particular,

followed his master every where, evincing chagrin at his absence,

obeying his voice, and showing a degree of submission scarcely

differing, in any respect, from that of the most thoroughly-domesticated

dog. His master, being obliged to be absent for a time, presented his

pet to the menagerie, where he was confined in a den. Here he became

disconsolate, pined, and would scarcely take food; at length, he was

reconciled to his new situation, recovered his health, became attached

to his keepers, and appeared to have forgotten "auld lang syne," when,

after the lapse of eighteen months, his old master returned. At the

first sound of his voice--that well-known, much-loved voice--the wolf,

which had not perceived him in a crowd of persons, exhibited the most

lively joy, and, being set at liberty, lavished upon him the most

affectionate caresses, just as the most attached dog would have done.

With some difficulty, he was enticed to his den. But a second separation

was followed by similar demonstrations of sorrow to the former; which,

however, again yielded to time. Three years passed away, and the wolf

was living happily with a dog which had been placed with him, when his

master again appeared--and again the long-lost, but well-remembered

voice, was instantly replied to by the most impatient cries, redoubled

as soon as the poor fellow was at liberty. Rushing to his master, he

placed his fore-feet on his shoulders, licking his face with every mark

of the most lively joy, and menacing the keepers who offered to remove

him. A third separation, however, took place, but it was too much for

the poor creature's temper: he became gloomy, refused his food, and, for

some time, it was feared he would die. Time, however, which blunts the

grief of wolves, as well as of men, brought comfort to his wounded

heart, and his health gradually returned; but, looking upon mankind as

false deceivers, he no longer permitted the caresses of any but his

keepers, manifesting to all strangers the savageness and moroseness of

his species.

Another instance of the attachment of wolves is mentioned by Mr. Lloyd,

in his work on the Sports of the North. Mr. Greiff, who had studied the

habits of wild animals, for which his position, as _ofueerjaeg maestare_,

afforded peculiar facilities, says: "I reared up two young wolves until

they were full-grown: they were male and female. The latter became so

tame, that she played with me, and licked my hands, and I had her often

with me in the sledge, in winter. Once, when I was absent, she got loose

from the chain, and was away three days. When I returned home, I went

out on a hill, and called, 'where's my Tussa?' as she was named, when

she immediately came home, and fondled with me, like the most friendly

dog."

Between the dog and the wolf there is a natural enmity, and those

animals seldom encounter each other on at all equal terms without a

combat taking place. Should the wolf prove victorious, he devours his

adversary, but if the contrary be the case, the dog leaves untouched the

carcass of his antagonist.

The wolf feeds on the rat, hare, fox, badger, roebuck, stag, reindeer

and elk; likewise upon blackcock and capercali. He is possessed of great

strength, especially in the muscles of the neck and jaws, is said always

to seize his prey by the throat, and when it happens to be a large

animal, as the elk, he is often dragged for a considerable distance.

After a deep fall of snow the wolf is unusually ferocious; if he

besmears himself with the blood of a victim, or is so wounded that blood

flows, it is positively asserted that his companions will instantly kill

and devour him.

In the year 1799 a peasant at Frederickshall in Norway was looking out

of his cottage window, when he espied a large wolf enter his premises

and seize one of his goats. At this time he had a child of eighteen

months old in his arms; he incautiously laid her down in a small porch

fronting the house, and, catching hold of a stick, the nearest weapon at

hand, attacked the wolf, which was in the act of carrying off the goat.

The wolf dropped this, and getting sight of the child, in the twinkling

of an eye seized it, threw it across his shoulders, and was off like

lightning. He made good his escape, and not a vestige was ever seen of

the child.

Wolves are found all over Scandinavia, but are most common in the

Midland and Northern Provinces of Sweden. Like "Elia," they are very

partial to young pig, a failing taken advantage of by sportsmen thus:

they sew up in a sack a small porker, leaving only his snout free, and

place him in a sledge, to the back of which is fastened by a rope about

fifty feet long, a small bundle of straw, covered with black sheep skin;

this, when the sledge is in motion, dangles about like a young pig.

During a very severe winter a party started in the vicinity of

Forsbacka, well provided with guns, &c. On reaching a likely spot they

pinched the pig, which squealed lustily, and, as they anticipated, soon

drew a multitude of famished wolves about the sledge. When these had

approached within range the party opened fire on them, and shot several;

all that were either killed or wounded were quickly torn to pieces and

devoured by their companions, but the blood with which the ravenous

beasts had now glutted themselves only served to make them more savage

than before, and, in spite of the fire kept up by the party, they

advanced close to the sledge, apparently determined on making an instant

attack. To preserve the party, therefore, the pig was thrown to the

wolves, which had for a moment the effect of diverting their attention.

While this was going forward, the horse, driven to desperation by the

near approach of the wolves, struggled and plunged so violently that he

broke the shafts to pieces, galloped off, and made good his escape. The

pig was devoured, and the wolves again threatened to attack the

sportsmen. The captain and his friends finding matters had become

serious, turned the sledge bottom up and took shelter beneath it, in

which position they remained many hours, the wolves making repeated

attempts to get at them by tearing the sledge with their teeth, but at

length the party were relieved by friends from then perilous position.

Lieutenant Oldenburg once witnessed a curious occurrence. He was

standing near the margin of a large lake which at that time was frozen

over. At some little distance from the land a small aperture had been

made for the purpose of procuring water, and at this hole a pig was

drinking. While looking toward the horizon, the lieutenant saw a mere

speck or ball, as it were, rapidly moving along the ice: presently this

took the form of a large wolf, which was making for the pig at top

speed. Lieutenant Oldenburg now seized his gun, and ran to the

assistance of the pig; but before he got up to the spot the wolf had

closed with the porker, which, though of large size, he tumbled over and

over in a trice. His attention was so much occupied, that Lieutenant

Oldenburg was able to approach within a few paces and dispatch him with

a shot. A piece as large as a man's foot had been torn out of the pig's

hind quarters; and he was so terribly frightened that he followed the

lieutenant home like a dog, and would not quit his heels for a moment.

Mr. Lloyd mentions an incident that befell him, in consequence of swine

mistaking his dogs for wolves, to which they bear the most instinctive

antipathy. One day, in the depth of winter, accompanied by his Irish

servant, he struck into the forest, in the vicinity of Carlstadt, for

the purpose of shooting capercali. Toward evening they came to a small

hamlet, situated in the recesses of the forest. Here an old sow with her

litter were feeding; and immediately on seeing the two valuable pointers

which accompanied the sportsman, she made a determined and most

ferocious dash at them. The servant had a light spear in his hand,

similar to that used by our lancers. This Mr. Lloyd seized, and

directing Paddy to throw the dogs over a fence, received the charge of

the pig with a heavy blow across the snout with the butt end of the

spear. Nothing daunted, she made her next attack upon him; and, in

self-defense, he was obliged to give her a home thrust with the blade of

the spear. These attacks she repeated three several times, always

getting the spear up to the hilt in her head or neck. Then, and not

before, did she slowly retreat, bleeding at all points. The peasants,

supposing Mr. Lloyd to be the aggressor, assumed a very hostile aspect,

and it was only by showing a bold bearing, and menacing them with his

gun, that he escaped in safety.

A poor soldier was one day, in the depth of winter, crossing the large

lake called Storsyoen, and was attacked by a drove of wolves. His only

weapon was a sword, with which he defended himself so gallantly, that he

killed and wounded several wolves, and succeeded in driving off the

remainder. After a time, he was again attacked by the same drove, but

was now unable to extricate himself from his perilous situation in the

same manner as before, for having neglected to wipe the blood from his

sword after the former encounter, it had become firmly frozen to the

scabbard. The ferocious beasts therefore, quickly closed with him,

killed and devoured him. If we remember aright, Captain Kincaid, the

present gallant Exon of the Yeoman Guard, nearly lost his life at

Waterloo, from a somewhat similar cause. He had been skirmishing all the

earlier part of the day with the Rifles, when a sudden charge of French

cavalry placed him in great danger. He essayed to draw his sabre, tugged

and tugged, but the trusty steel had become firmly rusted to the

scabbard; and we believe that he owed his life to an accidental

diversion of the attention of the attacking troopers.

Closely resembling in many respects the wolf, the jackal is widely

spread over India, Asia, and Africa. These animals hunt in packs, and

there are few sounds more startling to the unaccustomed ear, than a

chorus of their cries. "We hardly know," says Captain Beechey, "a sound

which partakes less of harmony than that which is at present in

question; and, indeed, the sudden burst of the answering long protracted

scream, succeeding immediately to the opening note, is scarcely less

impressive than the roll of the thunder clap immediately after a flash

of lightning. The effect of this music is very much increased when the

first note is heard in the distance, a circumstance which often occurs,

and the answering yell bursts out from several points at once, within a

few yards or feet of the place where the auditors are sleeping."

Poultry and the smaller animals, together with dead bodies, are the

ordinary food of jackals, but when rendered bold by hanger, they will

occasionally attack the larger quadrupeds and even man.

A bold, undaunted presence and defiant aspect, generally proves the best

protection when an unarmed man is threatened by these or other animals,

but artifice is sometimes necessary. A ludicrous instance is related by

an old quartermaster (whom we knew some years ago), in a small volume of

memoirs. At Christmas, 1826, he was sent up the country to a mission,

about thirty-two miles from San Francisco. He and the others erected a

tent; after which they all lay down on the ground. "I slept like a top,"

says he, "till four the next morning, at which time I was awakened by

the man whose duty it was to officiate as cook for the day, who told me

if I would go up the village and get a light, he would have a good

breakfast ready for the lads by the time they awoke. I must describe my

dress, for that very dress saved my life. Over the rest of my clothing,

as a seaman, I had a huge frock made from the skin of a reindeer. It was

long enough, when let down, to cover my feet well, and turned up at

foot, buttoning all round the skirt. At the top was a hood, made from

the skin, taken off the head of a bear, ears and all. In front was a

square lappel, which, in the day, hung loosely over the breast, but at

night, buttoned just behind the ears, leaving only the mouth, nose, and

eyes free for respiration, so that one, with such a dress, might lie

down any where and sleep, warm and comfortable. Mr. S---- had given

eight dollars for it in Kamtschatka, and, on our return to more genial

climes, forgot the future, and gave it to me. Fancy, then, my figure

thus accoutred, issuing from under the canvas tent, with a lantern in my

hand. I had not advanced twenty yards, when first only two or three, and

then an immense number of jackals surrounded me. I was at first disposed

to think but lightly of them: but seeing their numbers increase so

rapidly, I grew alarmed, and probably gave way to fear sooner than I

ought. A few shots from the tent would probably have sent them away with

speed, but no one saw me. Every moment they drew closer and closer in a

complete round, and seemed to look at me with determined hunger. For

some moments I remained in a most dreadful state of alarm. It just then

occurred to me that I once heard of a boy who had driven back a bull out

of a field by walking backward on his hands and feet. Fortunate thought!

I caught at the idea; in a moment I was on all fours, with my head as

near the earth as I could keep it, and commenced cutting all the capers

of which I was capable. The jackals, who no doubt had never seen so

strange an animal, first stopped, then retreated, and, as I drew near

the tent, flew in all directions. The men awoke just in time to see my

danger, and have a hearty laugh at me and the jackals."

Our old friend was more fortunate than a certain youth who attempted to

rob an orchard by deluding a fierce bulldog with this approach _a

posteriori,_ but who, to his sorrow, found the dog too knowing, for he

carried to his dying day the marks of the guardian's teeth in that spot

where honor has its seat.

The same quartermaster told us a quaint story of a fright another of the

crew received from these jackals.

While at San Francisco the ship's crew were laying in a store of

provisions; a large tent was erected on shore for salting the meat; the

cooper lived in it, and hung up his hammock at one end. The beef which

had been killed during the day was also hung up all around, in readiness

for salting. One night a large pack of jackals came down from the woods,

and being attracted by the smell of the meat, soon got into the tent,

and pulling at one of the sides of beef, brought it down with a crash,

which woke the old cooper, who was a remarkably stout, and rather

nervous man. Finding himself thus surrounded in the dead of the night by

wild beasts, whose forms and size, dimly seen, were magnified by his

fears, he fired off his musket, and clasping his arms, in an agony of

terror, round a quarter of beef which hung close to his hammock, was

found perfectly senseless by an officer who came to see the cause of the

alarm. Some difficulty was experienced in getting him to relinquish his

hold of the beef--which he stuck to like a Briton--and it was several

days before his nerves recovered from the shock of the fright.

The wolf and the jackal tribes are by no means without their use in the

economy of nature, though from their predatory habits they are justly

regarded as pests in the countries they infest: that they will disturb

the dead and rifle the graves is true, but they also clear away offal,

and with vultures, are the scavengers of hot countries; they follow on

the track of herds, and put a speedy end to the weak, the wounded, and

the dying; they are the most useful, though most disgusting of camp

followers, and after a battle, when thousands of corpses of men and

horses are collected within a limited space, they are of essential

service--

I stood in a swampy-field of battle,

With bones and skulls I made a rattle

To frighten the wolf and carrion crow

And the homeless dog--but they would not go;

So off I flew--for how could I bear

To see them gorge their dainty fare.

COLERIDGE.

Revolting and heart-sickening though such scenes may be, the evil is

less than would result from the undisturbed decay of the dead: were that

to take place, the air would hang heavy with pestilence, and the winds

of heaven laden with noisome exhalations would carry death and

desolation far and near, rendering still more terrible the horrors and

calamities of war.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Fauna Boreali Americana, p. 62.

[2] Holland's Plinie's Naturall Historie, ed. 1635

[3] Edit, Edin. 1541, quoted from Magazine of Natural History.

[4] Private Journal of Captain G. F. Lyon, 1824.

[5] Private Journal of Captain G. F. Lyon, 1824.

A SPECIMEN OF RUSSIAN JUSTICE.

Among the French prisoners taken at the battle of Vitebsk, during

Napoleon's disastrous retreat in Prussia, was a French general, who was

accompanied by: his wife and daughter. Being badly wounded, he was

removed to the military hospital, but the ladies were received into the

private house of Madame Strognof, whose husband held, at that time, a

subordinate appointment under the Russian Government.

A certain Botwinko was then procureur at Vitebsk. Without the

procureur's sanction nothing can be done in his department; for he

represents the emperor himself, and is usually called "the eye of His

Majesty." His salary is only about twenty-five pounds a year; but he

makes, usually, a good income by receiving bribes. Among other duties,

he had to visit the hospitals daily, and to report upon the condition of

the prisoner patients. He paid great attention to the unhappy general,

who required every consolation; for, despite his own deplorable

condition, it was decreed that he should outlive his wife. That lady

caught a contagious fever, which was raging at that time at Vitebsk, and

died in a few hours. This event so distressed the general that he soon

departed this world, with the only consolation, that Procureur Botwinko,

a married but childless man, would adopt his daughter. This promise was

actually fulfilled, and the little orphan was taken from Madame

Strognof, and established under the procureur's roof. Her parents'

property, consisting of a carriage, horses, jewelry, and no small sum of

ready money, was also taken possession of by Botwinko in quality of

guardian to the little orphan.

As the girl, whom they called "Sophie," grew up, she became very

engaging, and was kindly treated by Mr. and Madame Botwinko. She never

lost an opportunity, when any visitors were in the procureur's house, of

praising her protectors for their kindness to her; and this, connected

with other circumstances, contributed to the promotion of Mr. Botwinko,

who obtained the more profitable situation of procureur-general at

Vilna, the capital of Lithuania.

Removal from their old connections, and from those who knew all the

circumstances of little Sophie's history, produced a change in the

treatment of the new procureur-general and his wife toward the child.

Their kindness rapidly diminished. Sophie was not allowed to appear in

the drawing-rooms, in their new residence at Vilna. They incessantly

found fault with her; and, ultimately, she was not only sent to the

kitchen under the control of the cook, but, on the census of the

population being taken, in 1816, her name was inscribed on the books as

that of a serf.

As the poor girl grew up she became used to the duties imposed upon

her. Associating constantly with the servants, they considered her their

equal, and taunted her when, relying on her infantine recollections, she

laid claim to noble descent, by calling her in derision "Mademoiselle

French General." She knew full well that she was entitled to better

treatment, and that, in the absence of paternal authority, she had the

right of disposing of herself according to her own will. A strong

inducement to alter her condition was presented in the person of a young

clerk in a government office, whose duty sometimes brought him with

papers to the procureur for signature. While Botwinko was engaged with

his breakfast and the perusal of the papers, this clerk was sometimes

kept dangling for hours in the ante-chamber. After a time, these hours

were agreeably spent in the society of Sophie, to whom he eventually

made a proposal of marriage. She consented, but, unwilling to leave her

guardian like a fugitive, she apprised him of her determination, and

humbly requested an account of the property which she had been informed

he had taken charge of at her parents' death.

The procureur-general at first excused himself from giving her an

immediate answer. The next day he presented himself at the police

office, the whole of whose functionaries were under his control. What he

said or did is not known, but the result was that Sophie was taken into

custody by the police, and committed to jail.

Many months elapsed before her fate was known at home. It was stated

that she absconded. The clerk, banished the procureur's house, could not

discover the cause of the girl's disappearance; and as all Russian

criminal proceedings are conducted with great secrecy, he only

ascertained by a mere accident that the girl had been sentenced, by a

superior court, to receive a certain number of lashes by the knout, and

to be sent to Siberia. The crime of which they accused her was that of

attempting to poison her master and mistress.

Alarmed at this information, the young man, without waiting for more

particulars, addressed a petition to the war governor of Vilna--the old

General Korsakof--whose power in that province was almost omnipotent,

and, if not misdirected, was very often beneficial to the inhabitants.

The petitioner requested the general's interference, and an

investigation of the case, assuring him that the girl was innocent, and

that the legal authorities who condemned her had been corrupted.

The general was accustomed to decide every case _en militaire_. He had

received from the police court an unfavorable opinion of the

petitioner's character, which was described as "restless;" and was,

moreover, rather offended at his authority having been appealed to by a

subordinate. He therefore settled the business summarily, by sending the

young petitioner to the military service for life, in virtue of the

vagrant act.

Still the young man's petition produced a good effect: the poor girl was

not flogged, lest that might have provoked some disturbance in the town.

She was merely dressed in convict's apparel, and sent off to Siberia.

The transport of Russian convicts costs the government but very little.

They go on foot, sleep in _etapes_ or barracks, and the daily allowance

for their subsistence amounts only to five kopecks--equal to a halfpenny

in English money. This they, as well as the poor old soldiers who escort

them, have to eke out by charity. For that purpose, the most attractive

person among each party of exiles is delegated--box in hand, but with an

armed soldier behind--to beg alms of the benevolent; and Sophie was

appointed to be the suppliant for the rest of her wretched companions.

The road from Vilna to Siberia passes through Vitebsk. The convicts had

not been long in the town before Sophie encountered Madame Strognof, who

recognized the girl from her very great likeness to her mother, who had

died in that lady's house. When she learned that Sophie had been living

with the Botwinkos, she had no longer a doubt.

The girl asserted her innocence of the pretended crime for which she was

on her way to Siberia, with tearful energy, and the good Madame S.

believed her; but her husband, who was at that time the Vice-Governor of

Vitebsk, to disabuse his wife's romantic dreams, as he called them, sent

for the officer escorting the prisoners, and showed her the list of

prisoners, which contained a full record, not only of the crime imputed

to the orphan girl, but also of the punishment to which she had been

condemned.

In the face of an official document which appeared to be regular, and

which detailed the girl's presumed offense with circumstantial

consistency, Madame Strognof began to waver in her belief of Sophie's

protestations; but the unfortunate girl asserted her innocence so

strongly and incessantly, that the vice-governor himself was at length

induced to look into the facts. The first suspicion that entered his

mind was derived from the circumstance of the document stating that the

culprit had been punished with the knout, while it was evident from her

appearance, that that dreadful torture had not been inflicted. He caused

a medical man to examine her, who testified that not a scar appeared;

yet the knout always leaves ineffaceable traces for life.

In consequence of this discrepancy, Sophie was allowed to remain for

some time at Vitebsk under the plea of illness; which, at the request of

the vice-governor, was readily certified by an official surgeon. After

some delay, a memorial was forwarded by the unfortunate sufferer to the

late Emperor Alexander, in consequence of which a court-messenger was

sent immediately to Vilna. This gentleman brought back to St.

Petersburgh an enormous volume, containing the so-called depositions,

taken at the pseudo trial. After careful inspection of them, the

emperor decided that they proved the legality of the proceedings. So

artfully were these infamous depositions framed; that, among them,

appeared the formula of a chemical analysis of the poison which the girl

was accused of administering, and a full confession; to which the

culprit's signature was forged.

The answer, therefore, from the throne was not only unfavorable; but the

authorities of Vitebsk were reprimanded for allowing the girl to

importune his majesty without sufficient grounds.

Notwithstanding, Madame Strognof was not discouraged; and, to the great

alarm of her husband, had another petition drawn up and forwarded with a

suitable memorial to the Princess Maria Fedorowna, the emperor's mother,

who was known to all the country as a pious and charitable lady. This

petition, presented to his majesty by his own mother, had so great an

influence over him, that he ordered the girl to be brought to St.

Petersburgh. He felt convinced that some unaccountable mystery was

involved in the case.

In due time Sophie arrived at St. Petersburgh, and underwent a rigid

examination. She asseverated with the most earnest truthfulness, that

all the depositions were fictitious; that the chemical analysis was a

wicked invention; and that the signature to her fabricated confession

was a forgery. She also denied that any trial had taken place, or that

she had been examined in any court whatever. Upon this, the emperor

appointed Mr. Getzewicz, the Governor of Minsk--who was known as a most

trust-worthy man--to go personally to Vilna; to investigate the case;

and to report the result. For this purpose the papers and the girl were

forwarded back to Vilna.

The mission of Mr. Getzewicz was by no means an easy or a pleasant one:

he had to contend with a swarm of official insects; which, like Canadian

musquitoes when disturbed, attack the new comer from every side.

However, Mr. Getzewicz stood his ground firmly. He soon discovered that

the secretary of the police court who had drawn up the depositions was a

convict, sentenced for life to Siberia for having been associated with

highway robbers. He had escaped and was retained in his situation by

merely changing his Christian name, and by being reported "dead" by Mr.

Botwinko. The components of the rest of the court were no less

suspicious. In Russia, the police and sheriff's courts, and even the

provincial senate itself, are the asylums for military veterans; who,

during their long service, had never been trained up to the law. The

secretaries draw documents for them, which they sign--very often without

reading; that task being tiresome, and often incomprehensible to them.

The court which had promoted and confirmed Sophie's prosecution,

consisted of illiterate, worn-out officers, who had no scruple in

committing the procureur-general's victim for trial to the First

Criminal Court (Sond Grodoski).

But how was the deception carried on before the higher tribunals? This

would puzzle the most ingenious rascality to guess. But Botwinko was a

genius in his way: he actually brought before that court, as well as

before the highest criminal tribunal, another young woman; who

represented herself to be the girl in question, and confessed her

supposed guilt with all the desired particulars. The extraordinary

intrigue was the more easily accomplished from the secrecy with which

criminal investigations in Russia are conducted. Whenever the culprit

acknowledges his crime, the sentence follows without further inquiry;

and, the jail being under the control of the police-office, and the

judges of the criminal courts not knowing the prisoners personally, they

were obliged to receive in this instance the confessions of any girl

whom the police thought proper to send to them.

When the trial was over, the procureur paid his hireling well, dismissed

her, and drew forth his victim from her cell; substituted her for the

wretch who had stood at the bar, and sent her to Siberia. Villainy,

however, be it ever so cunning, seldom half does its work of deception.

If Botwinko had had the whole sentence carried into effect, and poor

Sophie knouted, he would not, perhaps, have been discovered by his

colleague at Vitebsk; and he might have lived a respected public officer

to this day; for of such characters does the Russian system admit the

prosperous existence. As it was, however, on the report of Mr.

Getzewicz, Botwinko, the secretary of police, and many of his superiors,

were thrown into prison.

The end of this dreadful story is melancholy; for in the end guilt

triumphed. The procureur-general, having several partners in his guilty

practices, had, if one may so abuse the expression, many friends. At

first they tried most ingeniously to bribe Mr. Getzewicz, and to induce

him to give up further proceedings; but, finding him inflexible, they

put a stop to all that business by administering poison to the

unfortunate Sophie. They even threatened the Governor of Minsk himself,

in an anonymous letter, to do the same for him.

That threat, it seems, produced the desired effect on the honest but

weak-minded man. Seeing with what desperate people he had to contend--so

much so, that his own life was in danger--he sent his final report to

the (at that time) lingering Emperor Alexander, with request for further

instructions. In the mean time he retired to his own residence at Minsk,

leaving the illustrious Vilna officials in their own prison.

Shortly afterward, the emperor died at Taganrog. His second brother, the

present emperor, Nicholas I.--greeted, on his accession to the throne,

with a formidable insurrection at St Petersburgh, and with alarming

conspiracies and political intrigues in the army--had no time to direct

his attention to so trifling an affair as that of our heroine. Political

prisoners were to be punished first, in order to spread terror among

those who were not discovered as yet. The stability of the throne would

not allow him to alarm the administrative servants and other criminals

who never thought of subverting Romanoff's dynasty. Hence, with the

exception of the political offenders, all others, whose actions were

pending in different courts of justice, but not yet adjudicated, were

amnestied by the emperor, on the occasion of his coronation, in 1826, at

Moscow.

Thus, the procureur and his associates were released from prison, losing

nothing but their former situations. The procureur, having scraped

together a fortune by his bribes and graspings, did not care much at

becoming an independent gentleman.

What became of Sophie's lover--the unfortunate clerk, who was sent to

the army, for his honest but untimely application--could not be learned.

He may now think that his punishment was deserved, and that the girl was

really guilty; but it is more than probable that he will never again

interfere to restrain the grossest injustice.

And here ends our melancholy tale, which the censorship of the press in

Russia prevented from ever before being publicly related. Corroboration

can, however, be derived from the inhabitants of Vilna, who lived there

from 1816 to 1826; from the archives of criminal courts of that place,

where M. Getzewicz's correspondence is preserved; from the list of all

the crown servants of Russia, sent every year to the State Secretary of

the Home Department at St. Petersburgh; in which, for 1825 and 1826,

Procureur Botwinko was reported to be imprisoned at Vilna for the above

case, and that the Strapchy of Oszmiana was acting in his stead as

procureur _pro tem._

NAPOLEON AND THE POPE.--A SCENE AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

In the autumn of 1804, the court was at Fontainebleau. The Consulate had

but recently merged in the Empire, with the consent of all the orders of

the state. The senate by a decree had declared the First Consul to be

Emperor of the French; and the people, to whom the question of

succession had been deferred, had, by a majority of three millions to

three thousand, decided that the imperial dignity should be hereditary

in his family. History, as Alison observes when recording the fact,

affords no instance of a nation having so unanimously taken refuge from

the ills of agitation and anarchy under the cold shade of despotism.

A new order of things having commenced, all, as may easily be imagined,

was in a state of transformation and change in the composition of the

court, as well as in the arrangement of the imperial household. Under

the republican _regime_, a great degree of simplicity had prevailed in

the appointments of the various departments of the state, as well as in

the domestic economy of family circles: it could not, however, be

called unpretending; there was a certain affectation in it, evidently

assumed with a view to contrast, even in minute particulars, the system

of the republic with that of the old monarchy--the plainness of the one

with the profuseness of the other. But this was not fated to last long:

it had already been giving way under the Consulate, and was now

disappearing altogether in accordance with the views of the new monarch.

Titles and dignities were to be restored; court formalities and

ceremonials were being revived, and new ones instituted. The old

nobility, sprung from the feudal system, and dating, as some of them

did, from the Crusades, having been swept away by the revolutionary

storm, their places were to be supplied, as supporters of the throne, by

a new race of men. During this period of transition and change, the

movement at the chateau was unceasing. Arrivals and departures were

taking place almost every hour, to which very different degrees of

importance were attached. One arrival, however, was spoken of as having

a more than ordinary interest: it was that of the dignitary who, as it

was then understood, was to place the imperial crown on the brow of the

new sovereign. "To recall," observes Alison, "as Napoleon was anxious to

do on every occasion, the memory of Charlemagne, the first French

Emperor of the West, the Pope had been invited, with an urgency which it

would not have been prudent to resist, to be present at the

consecration, and had accordingly crossed the Alps for the purpose."

Whatever may have been the views which originally prompted the

invitation--whether it was to play a mere secondary part in a court

pageant, or a leading one, as the public at first supposed--or whether

all such notions were swept away by some new deluge of ideas, as

Chateaubriand somewhere says--"It is now pretty clear that the presence

of the pontiff at the ceremony was a minor consideration, and that the

real motive was that which came out in their interview, as will appear

in the sequel." Be this as it may, it was evident to all that the

emperor awaited his coming with impatience; and when his approach was

announced--though preparations had been carefully made for their first

meeting--the arrangements were such as to give it the air of an

_imprevu_. It was on the road some distance from Fontainebleau that the

emperor met the Pope: the potentate alighted from his horse, the pontiff

from his traveling chaise, and a coach being at hand, as if

accidentally, they ascended its steps at the same moment from opposite

sides, so that precedence was neither taken nor given. How Italian the

artifice!

They had not ridden long together when Bonaparte, quitting the coach,

got on horseback, and returned to the chateau at a gallop, and with

scarcely an attendant. The drum beat to arms, the guard turned out, but

before they had time to fall in and salute, he had alighted, and was

mounting the steps of the vestibule.

It was always so with him; he gave such vivacity to all his movements,

such energy to all his actions, that speed seemed a necessary condition

of his existence. Still so natural was it to him, that it did not wear

the semblance of hurry. Scarcely had the beat of the drum been heard at

the gate, before the clatter of his heels resounded in the hall, as the

flash of a cannon precedes the report.

This time, however, he seemed fitful and even agitated. On entering the

saloon, he paced it like one who waited with impatience. Having taken a

few turns from one end to the other, he moved to a window, and began

beating a march with his fingers on the window-frame. The rolling of a

carriage was heard in the court, he ceased to beat, and after a short

pause stamped on the floor, as if impatient at seeing something done too

slowly; then stepping hastily to the door, opened it--it was for the

Pope.

Pius VII. entered alone; Bonaparte closed the door after him. The Pope

was tall, but stooped somewhat; his countenance, elongated and sallow,

wore an expression of suffering, which seemed to have been induced upon

a habitual tone of elevation and courtesy. His eyes were black and

large, and on his lips, which were slightly opened, played a smile

indicative at once of urbanity and benevolence. He wore on his head a

white calotte or headpiece, partially covering his hair, which was

naturally black, but now blended with some silver locks; on his

shoulders he had a camail, or cape of red velvet, and his long robe

reached to his feet. Those who have seen his portrait by Lawrence,

though taken ten or eleven years later, will recognize at once the

correctness of this description. As he entered the room he moved slowly,

with a calm and measured step like that of an aged female; and having

taken his seat in an arm-chair, he turned his eyes toward the floor, and

seemed to wait for what the other Italian was going to say.

Bonaparte, as all know, was short in stature, being below the middle

height; but in all other respects he was, at the period here referred

to, very different in personal appearance from what he became

subsequently. Far from having that fullness which approached to

corpulence--that sallow puffiness of cheek which verged on the

unhealthy--or that heaviness of limb, or general obesity, which

threatened infirmity--he was slender in frame, but firm and

well-proportioned; yet there was something which indicated premature

wear, by hardship in the field and toil in the cabinet; he was quick and

nervous in every movement, rapid and almost convulsive in his gestures

when excited. Still he could be at any time graceful in attitude, and

elegant in manner. Even then he stooped a little, so that his shoulders

inclined forward, which gave something of flatness to his chest. His

face was thin and elongated; but what a forehead! What eyes! What beauty

in the contour of his intellectual visage! In repose, its habitual

expression was reflective and concentrated, with a strong tinge of

melancholy.

Bonaparte ceased not to pace the room after the Pope had entered. After

a while, altering his curve somewhat, and having taken a turn round the

chair, as if making a _reconnaissance,_ he stopped short, and resumed

the thread of the conversation which had been commenced in the carriage,

and abruptly broken off.

"I repeat, holy father, I am not an _esprit fort_, nor do I like

word-spinners or idea-mongers. I assure you, that in spite of my old

republicans I will go to mass."

These words he tossed off toward the Pope, as if he were giving him a

dash of the incense-box; then paused to observe their effect. He seemed

to imagine that, after the impieties of the republican _regime_, such an

avowal ought to produce a decided effect.

Pius, however, remained unmoved; he continued as before to look steadily

downward, and pressing firmly with his hands the eagle-heads that tipped

the arms of his chair, seemed, in thus assuming the fixity of a statue,

to say, "I must submit to listen to all the profane things which it may

please him to say to me."

Seeing this, Bonaparte took a turn round the room, and another round the

chair, which stood in the middle of it, appearing but little satisfied

with his adversary, and still less with himself for the tone of levity

with which he had resumed the conversation. He at once changed his

manner, and began to speak more composedly, still continuing to pace the

room. As he passed to and fro, he glanced at the mirrors which

ornamented the walls, and reflected the grave visage of the pontiff,

eying him now and then in profile, never in front, to avoid appearing

anxious as to the impression his words may make.

"One thing I must say, holy father, hangs heavily upon me: it is that

you seem to consent to the coronation by constraint, as you did formerly

to the concordat. As you sit there before me, you have the air of a

martyr, and assume an attitude of resignation, as if you were making an

offering of your sorrows up to Heaven. But surely you are not a

prisoner; such is not your position in any sense: grand Dieu! you are

free as air."

Pius smiled, and looked him full in the face. He seemed to feel how

enormous was the exigence of that despotic character, which

requires--and all such natures do the like--not only obedience, but

submission, absolute submission, and that, too, wearing the air of

devotion to their will.

"Yes," continued Bonaparte with increasing energy, "you are free,

perfectly free: you may return to Rome; the road is open to you; no one

detains you."

Pius sighed, slightly raised his right hand, and looked upward without

uttering a word; then slowly inclining his head downward, seemed to look

attentively at a golden cross which hung from his neck. Bonaparte

continued speaking, but his steps became slow, and at the same time he

gave a marked degree of mildness to his tone, and of courtesy to his

expression.

"Holy father," said he, "if the gravity of your character did not forbid

me, I would say that you are somewhat ungrateful. You do not seem to

retain a sufficient recollection of the services which France has

rendered to you. If I am not much mistaken the conclave of Venice, which

elected you, appeared to have taken its inspiration from my Italian

campaign, and from some words which I let fall with regard to you. It

can not be said that Austria behaved well to you; far from it; and I was

really sorry for it. If my memory does not deceive me, you were obliged

to return to Rome by sea, as you could not have ventured to cross the

Austrian territories."

He stopped short, as if waiting for a reply from his silent guest. Pius,

however, but slightly inclined his head, and then sunk back into a sort

of apathy, which seemed inconsistent with even listening; while

Bonaparte, putting his foot on the rim of a stool, pushed it near the

Pope's chair, and thus continued, "It was, in good truth, as a Catholic

that such an incident gave me pain; for though I have never had time to

study theology, I have great confidence in the power of the church: it

has a prodigious vitality. Voltaire did it some damage in his time, but

I shall let loose upon him some unfrocked Oratorians: you'll be pleased,

if I mistake not, at the result. Now see, you and I may do many things

in common by-and-by, if you wish it." Then with an air at once juvenile

and careless, he continued, "For my part I do not see--I am weary of

conjecturing--what objection you can have to establish your see in

Paris, as it formerly was in Avignon. I will cede to you the palace of

the Tuilleries: I seldom occupy it. You will find there your apartments

prepared for you, as at Monte Cavallo. Do you not see, padre, that Paris

is the real capital of the world? As for me, I shall do whatever you

desire. You will find in me more docility than people give me credit

for. Provided that war and politics, with their fatigues, be left to me,

you may settle the church as you please: I shall be a soldier at your

orders. Do but consider what effect it would have, and how brilliant it

would be, were we to hold our councils as Constantine and Charlemagne

did in their time! I should merely open and close them, leaving the keys

of the world in your hands. As with the sword I came, the sword I should

retain, and with it the privilege of bringing it back for your

benediction after every victory achieved by our arms." And saying these

words he slightly bowed.

Pius, who up to that moment had remained motionless as a statue, slowly

raised his head, smiled pensively, and drawing a deep sigh, breathed out

one by one the syllables of the word, "_Com-me-di-an-te!_"

The word was scarcely half out, when Bonaparte made a bound on the floor

like a wounded leopard. A towering passion seized him; he became yellow

with ire. He bit his lips almost to bleeding as he strode to the end of

the room. He no longer paced round in circles; he went straight from

end to end without uttering a word, stamping with his feet as he swept

along, and making the room resound as he struck the floor with his

spurred heels. Every thing around him seemed to vibrate; the very

curtains waved like trees in a storm. At length the pent-up rage found

vent, and burst forth like a bombshell which explodes, "Comedian, say

you? Ah, ha! I am he that will play you comedies to make you weep like

women and children. Comedian, indeed! But you are greatly mistaken if

you think you can play off on me, with impunity, your cool-blooded

insolence. Comedian! Where is my theatre, pray, and what? 'Tis the

world, and the part which I play is that of master and author; while for

actors I have the whole of you--popes, kings, and people; and the cord

by which I move you all is--_fear!_ Comedian, say you? But he who would

dare to hiss me or applaud should be made of different stuff from you,

Signor Chiaramonti! Know you not well that you would still be merely a

poor cure but for me, and that if I did not wear a serious air when I

salute you, France would laugh and scorn yourself and your tiara? Three

or four years ago, who would pronounce aloud the name of the founder of

your system? Pray, then, who would have spoken of the pope? Comedian,

eh! Sire, ye take footing rather quickly among us. And so, forsooth, you

are in ill-humor with me because I am not dolt enough to sign away the

liberties of the Gallican church, as Louis XIV. did. But I am not to be

duped in that fashion. In my grasp I hold you; by a nod I make you flit

from north to south, from east to west, like so many puppets. And now,

when it suits me to make-believe that I count you for something, merely

because you represent an antiquated idea which I wish to revive, you

have not the wit to see my drift, or affect not to perceive it. Seeing,

then, that I must speak out my whole mind, and put the matter just under

your nose, in order that you may see it--more particularly as you seem

to think yourself indispensable to me, and lift up your head in

consequence, as you drape yourself in your old dame's robe--I'll have

you to know that such airs do not in the least impose on me; and if you

persist in that course, I'll deal with your robe as Charles XII. did

with that of the grand vizier--I'll rend it for you with a dash of my

spur!"

He ceased. Throughout this tirade Pius maintained the same immobility of

attitude, the same calm on his visage. At its close, however, he just

looked up, smiled with something of bitterness, and sighed as he slowly

articulated the word, "_Tra-je-di-an-te!_"

Bonaparte at that moment was at the further end of the room, leaning on

the chimney-piece. Suddenly starting at the word, and turning round, his

whole person seemed to dilate, and his features to expand as passion

rose within him. His look became fixed, and his eyes flared; then with

the swiftness of an arrow he rushed toward the old man, as if with some

fell purpose. But he stopped short, snatched from the table a porcelain

vase, dashed it to pieces against the andirons, and stamped on its

fragments as they flew along the floor! Then pausing for an instant, as

if to catch breath, he flung himself on a seat in utter exhaustion. It

would be difficult to say which was the more awful--his sudden outburst

of rage, or his immobility and silence after it.

In some minutes the storm seemed gradually to subside, and a calm to

succeed. His look and bearing changed; something of depression seemed to

steal over him; his voice became deep and melancholy, and the first

syllables which he uttered showed this Proteus recalled to himself, and

tamed by two words. "Hapless existence!" he exclaimed; then pausing,

seemed to muse, and after a while continued, "'tis but too true;

comedian or tragedian, all for me is an affair of acting and costume; so

it has been hitherto, and such it is likely to continue. How fatiguing

and how petty it is to pose--always to pose, in profile for this party,

in full face for that, according to their notions! To guess at the

imaginings of drivelers, and seem to be what they think one ought to be.

To study how to place them between hope and fear--dazzle them with the

prestige of names and distances, of dates and bulletins--be the master

of all, and not know what to do with them; and after all this to be as

weary as I am--'tis too bad! The moment I sit down"--he crossed his

legs, and leaned back in his chair--"ennui seizes me. To be obliged to

hunt for three days in yonder forest would throw me into a mortal

languor. Activity is to me a necessity; I must keep moving myself, and

make others move, but I'll be hanged if I know whither. You see, then, I

disclose my inmost thoughts to you. Plans I have, enough and to spare,

for the lives of a score of emperors. I make one every morning, and

another every evening; my imagination wearies not; but before some three

or four of my plans could be carried out, I should be used up body and

mind: our little lamp of life burns not long before it begins to

flicker. And now, to speak with entire frankness, am I sure that the

world would be happier even if all my plans were put in execution? It

would certainly be a somewhat finer thing than it is, for a magnificent

uniformity would reign throughout it. I am not a philosopher; and in the

affair of common sense, I am bound to own that the Florentine secretary

was a master to us all. I am no proficient in theories: with me

reflection precedes decision, and execution instantly follows: the

shortness of life forbids us to stand still. When I shall have passed

away, there will be comments enough on my actions to exalt me if I

succeed, to disparage me if I fail. Paradoxes are already rife--they are

never wanting in France--but I shall still them to silence while I live;

and when I am gone--no matter. My object is to succeed; for that I have

some capacity. My Iliad I compose in action; every day adds an

episode."

As he spoke these latter words he rose from his seat with a light

elastic movement, and seemed altogether another person. When relieved

from the turmoil of passion, he became gay, cheerful, and at the same

time unaffected and natural. He made no effort to pose, nor did he seek

to exalt and idealize himself, as he did afterward in the conversations

at St. Helena, to meet some philosophic conception, or to fill up the

portrait of himself which he desired to bequeath to posterity. He was

far from any thing of this sort: in simple reality, he was himself, as

it were, turned inside out. After a slight pause he advanced a step or

two toward the Pope, who had not moved, and smiling, with an expression

half-serious, half-ironical, proceeded in a new vein, in which were

blended something of the elevated and the petty, of the pompous and the

trivial, as was often his usage--all the time speaking with the

volubility so often exhibited by this most versatile genius.

"Birth is every thing: those who appear on this world's stage poor and

friendless, have a desperate struggle to maintain. According to the

quality of their minds they turn to action or to self-destruction. When

they have resolution to set to work, as I have done, they often play the

winning game. A man must live; he must conquer a position, and make for

himself an abiding-place. I have made mine as a cannon-ball does; so

much the worse for those who stood in my way. Some are content with

little, others never have enough: men eat according to their appetites,

and I have a large one. Mark me, when I was at Toulon, I had not the

price of a pair of epaulets; but instead of them I had on my shoulders

my mother, and I know not how many brothers. All these are now tolerably

well provided for; and as to Josephine, who, it was said, married me

from pity, we are about to crown her in the very teeth of Raguedeau, her

notary, who once told her that I had lost my commission and my sword,

and was not worth a ducat; and faith he was not far wrong! But now, what

is it that rises up in perspective before me? An imperial mantle and a

crown. To me what are such things? a costume, a mere actor's costume. I

shall wear them for the occasion, that's enough: then resuming my

military frock, I'll get on horseback. On horseback said I?--yes, and

perhaps for life; but scarcely shall I have taken up my new position

when I shall run the risk of being pushed off my pedestal. Is that a

state to be envied? There are but two classes of men--those who have

something, and those who have nothing. The first take their rest, the

others remain awake. As I perceived this when starting in the race of

life, I have reached the goal thus early. I know of but two men who

attained it after having set out at the age of forty, and they were

Cromwell and Rousseau. Had the one had but a farm, and the other a few

hundred francs and a domestic, they would neither have commanded,

preached, nor written. There are various sorts of artists--in building,

in forms, in colors, in phrases. I am an artist in battles; I had

executed eighteen of what are called victories before the age of

thirty-five. I have a right to be paid for my work, and if paid with a

throne, it can not be called dear. But, after all, a throne, what is it?

Two or three boards fashioned in this form or in that, and nailed

together, with a strip of red velvet to cover them. By itself it is

nothing; 'tis the man who sits upon it that makes its force. Still,

throne or no throne, I shall follow my vocation: you shall see some more

of my doings. You shall see all dynasties date from mine, 'parvenu'

though I be; and elected, yes, elected like yourself, and chosen from

the crowd. On that point, at all events, we may shake hands."

So saying, he advanced and held out his hand. The Pope did not decline

the courtesy; but there was an evident constraint in his manner as he

almost tremblingly reached to him the tips of his fingers. He seemed

under the influence of a complex tide of emotion. He was moved somewhat,

perhaps, by the tone of _bonhomie_ that pervaded the latter remarks, and

by the frankness of the advance which concluded them; but the dominant

feeling was evidently of a sombre cast, arising from a reflection on his

own position, and still more on that of so many Christian communities

abandoned to the caprices of selfishness and hazard.

These movements of the inner man did not escape the scrutinizing glance

of Bonaparte; a light and shadow passed rapidly across his face. He had

carried one point--the coronation was tacitly conceded; the rest may be

left to time. It was evident that, though not entirely without alloy,

the feeling of satisfaction was uppermost as he strode from the room

with all the _brusquerie_ with which he had entered it.

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

GABRIELLE; OR, THE SISTERS.

Those who weep not here, shall weep eternally hereafter.

_Ecclesiae Graecae Monumenta._

Dim voices haunt me from the past--for the dream of life is dreamed, and

may now be revealed; the dreamer is loitering on the Bier Path leading

to the green grass mounds, whence mouldering hands seem to point upward

and say, "Look thy last on the blue skies, and come rest with us."

I have no happy childhood to recall; for I began to think so early, that

pain and thought are linked together. I had a father, and a sister two

years my senior; and our home was a small cottage, surrounded by a

flower-garden, on the outskirts of a town, where the chime of

church-bells was distinctly heard. These are sweet, romantic

associations; but "garden flowers," and "silvery chimes," and

"childhood's home," are words which awaken no answering chord in my

heart--for Reality was stern, and Fancy wove no fabric of fairy texture

wherewith to cover the naked truth.

My mother died when I was born; and my father was a thin, pale man,

always wrapped in flannels about the head and throat, and moving slowly

with the aid of a stick. He never breakfasted with us--we were kept in

the kitchen, to save firing--but he came down late in the forenoon, and

when it was warm and sunshiny he would take a gentle stroll into the

fields, never townward. We dined at a late hour, and there were always

delicacies for my father; and after dinner he sat over his wine, smoking

cigars and reading the newspapers, till it was time to go to bed. He

took little notice of Gabrielle or me, except to command silence, or to

send us for any thing he wanted. There were two parlors in the cottage,

one at each side of the door; the furniture was scanty and mean, and the

parlor on the left-hand side never had a fire in it, for my father

always inhabited the other. It was bitter cold for Gabrielle and me in

this left-hand room during the winter, for we were often turned in there

to amuse ourselves; our sole domestic--an ancient Irish servitor,

retained by my father solely on account of her culinary

accomplishments--never admitted us poor shivering girls into the kitchen

when she was cooking, for, said Nelly,

"If I am teased or narvous I shall, maybe, spoil the dinner, and then

our Lady save us from the masther's growl."

No one ever came near us--we seemed utterly neglected, and our very

existence unknown. The house was redolent with the fumes of tobacco, and

the garden where we played was a wilderness of weeds, among which roses

bloomed in summer, and Gabrielle and I watched for their coming with

delight: those summer roses, on the great tangled bushes, were surely

more beautiful to us than to other and more fortunate children--we

gathered and preserved each leaf as it fell, and never was fragrance so

delicious!

Now it may naturally be supposed, that from ignorance our impressions

were not painful; but from the time when I first began to notice and

comprehend, I also began to bitterly feel our condition, and Gabrielle

felt it far more than I did. We knew that we were half-starved,

half-clad, neglected, unloved creatures, and that our parent was a

personification of Selfishness. We saw other children prettily dressed,

walking past with their mothers or nurses--or trotting to school,

healthful and happy; and our hearts yearned to be like them--yearned for

a mother's kiss! Gabrielle was habitually silent and proud, though often

passionate when we were at play together; but the outburst was soon

over, and she hugged me again directly. I early learned to dislike all

ugly things from gazing on her--her beauty was of a kind to dazzle a

child--she was so brilliantly fair and colorless, with clustering golden

hair falling to her waist, and large soft blue eyes, which always made

me think of heaven and the angels; for, thanks to His mercy, I knew of

them when I was yet a child.

Of course we were unacquainted with our father's history as we afterward

heard it. He was of a decayed but noble family, and--alas! it is a

commonplace tale--he had ruined his fortunes and broken his wife's

heart by gambling. Worse even than this, he was irretrievably disgraced

and lost to society, having been detected as a cheat; and broken down in

every sense of the word, with a trifling annuity only to subsist on, he

lived, as I remember him, pampered, luxurious, and utterly forgetful of

all save Self. And, oh! God grant there be none--poor or rich, high or

low--who can repeat the sacred name of "father" as I do, without an

emotion of tenderness, without the slightest gossamer thread of love or

respect twined around the memory to bind the parental benediction

thereto.

Nelly had followed our deceased mother from her native isle, for she too

was Irish, and clung to our father, ministering to his habits and

tastes, a good deal, I believe, for our sakes, and to keep near us. She

was a coarse woman; and, unlike her race in general, exhibited but few

outward demonstrations of attachment. When her work was done in the

evening she sometimes taught us the alphabet and to spell words of three

letters; the rest we mastered for ourselves, and taught each other, and

so in process of time we were able to read. The like with writing: Nelly

pointed out the rudiments, and Gabrielle, endowed with magical powers of

swift perception, speedily wrought out lessons both for herself and me.

The only books in the house were a cookery-book; a spelling-book which

Nelly borrowed; a great huge History of England, which formed her usual

footstool; and an ancient, equally large Bible, full of quaint pictures.

Would that I had the latter blessed volume bound in gold now, and set

with diamonds! A new epoch opened in my life. I had already thought, now

I understood; and the light divine dawned on my soul as Nelly, the

humble instrument of grace, in simple words explained all that was

wanting: for our faith is very simple, notwithstanding the ineffable

glories of Jesus and redemption. I dreamed by night of Jesus and of

angels, and of shepherds watching their flocks "all seated on the

ground;" and I used to ask Nelly if she did not think an angel must be

just like Gabrielle, with shining wings, certainly? But Nelly would say

that Miss Gabrielle was too proud for an angel, and never likely to

become one unless she liked her Bible better; and it was too true that

my darling sister had not the same love for holy things that I had then.

She liked to read of Queen Bess and Bluff King Hal; but when we found

our way to a church, and heard the chanting, her emotions far surpassed

mine, and she sobbed outright. At length Gabrielle, who had been

pondering many days without speaking, confided to me her determination

to ask our father to send us to school.

"Why should I not ask him, Ruth?" she said. "I wonder we never thought

of it before--only he is always poorly, or smoking, or drinking."

I observed her beautiful lip curl as she spoke in a contemptuous tone,

and I thought that Jesus taught _not so_; but I feared to speak--so I

wept, and knelt down alone and prayed for my sister.

Gabrielle did ask him, and my father laid down his paper, and took the

cigar from his mouth, gazing in dull amazement at the speaker, but I saw

his gaze become more earnest and observant as he said,

"Why, girl, how old are you?"

"I was thirteen last month," replied Gabrielle.

"You are a monstrous tall girl of your age, then, I declare: and you

have learned to read from Nelly, haven't you?"

"Yes, we have," was the quiet reply; "but we wish to learn something

more than that."

"Then you must go to some charity school, miss, for I have no money to

pay for such nonsense; you can read, and write, and sew, and what more

would you have? Pass the claret nearer, and reach me those cigars; and

take yourselves off, for my head is splitting."

I must draw a vail over Gabrielle's passion when we were alone.

"It is not for myself only that I sorrow," she exclaimed, as her sobs

subsided; "but you, poor, little, delicate thing, with your lameness,

what is to become of you in the big world if you are left alone? You can

not be a servant; and what are we to do without education? for Nelly has

told me our father's income dies with him."

Her expressions were incoherent; and when I tried to comfort her, by

assurances that the blessed Saviour cared for the fatherless, she turned

away and left me. So ended the first and last application to our parent.

When I remember Gabrielle's career from that period to her sixteenth

year I much marvel at the precocity of intellect she exhibited, and the

powers of mind with which she was endowed. We had no money to procure

books--no means to purchase even the common necessaries of clothing,

which too often made us ashamed to appear in church. But suddenly

Gabrielle seemed to become a woman, and I her trusting child. She was

silent and cold; but not sullen or cold to me, though her mouth became

compressed as if from bitter thought, and never lost that expression

again, save when she smiled. Oh, that sunny smile of radiant beauty! I

see it now--I see it now! I tried to win her, by coaxing and fondling,

to read the Holy Book; but Gabrielle said we were outcasts, and deserted

by God. When I heard that my wan cheeks burned with indignation, and I

exclaimed, "You are wicked to say so;" but Gabrielle was not angry, for

tears stood in her eyes as she fixed them on me, whispering,

"Poor little cripple--sweet, gentle, loving sister--the angels that

whisper these good things to you pass me over. I hear them not, Ruth."

"Sister, sister, they speak and you will not hear: do you think the

stupid, lame Ruth is favored beyond the clever, the beautiful, the noble

Gabrielle?"

Then with an outburst of passionate love she would take me in her arms,

and weep long and bitterly. I knew that I could not enter into the

depths of her feelings, but I comprehended her haughty bearing and

scornful glances; for the neighbors looked at us pitifully, and

Gabrielle writhed beneath it: child as she was, there was something

awful and grand in her lonely majesty of demeanor. Her self-denying,

constant devotion toward me--often ailing and pining as I was--I repaid

by an affection which I am sure is quite different from that entertained

by sisters happily placed for each other: Gabrielle was as mother and

sister, and friend and nurse, and playmate, all in one to me. She and

the bright young roses in our neglected garden, were the only two

beautiful creations I had ever seen. It was well for me, in my childish

simplicity, that I knew not the wreck of mind--the waste of brilliant

powers for want of cultivation--of which Gabrielle was the victim; but

she knew it, brooded over it, and the festering poison of hatred and

contempt changed her innocent, affectionate nature, toward all created

things, except her own and only sister.

We never wearied of listening to Nelly's accounts of the former grandeur

of our maternal ancestors, intermixed with wild legends of chivalrous

love and gallant daring. She told us, too, of our ancient blood on the

father's side, and that we were the great-grandchildren of a belted

earl. Gabrielle's pale cheeks flushed not--her eyes were downcast; but I

knew the sufferings of the proud, beautiful girl. I too, humble as I

was, felt what we were--what we ought to have been, and the blood of the

De Courcys and O'Briens mounted to my throbbing temples.

Gabrielle was a lady--a lady in each action, word, and look; poorly and

insufficiently clad, her tall, graceful form bore the unmistakable mark

of hereditary breeding, which neither poverty nor neglect could

eradicate. It was not her exceeding loveliness which alone attracted

observation, but it was a refinement and elegance which no education can

bestow--it was Nature's stamp on one of her most peerless and exquisite

productions. One evening, when we had been listening to Nelly's

discourse by the kitchen fire, a sudden and a new thought took hold of

my imagination, nor could I rest until I had imparted it to Gabrielle.

It was this--that she might marry some great, rich man, and so release

us from want and privation; for, of course, my home would always be with

her!

Gabrielle looked gravely on my upturned face an I knelt beside her, and

confided this "new plan."

"Ruth," she said, "you are a wise and a singular child, and you deserve

to be trusted. I mean to become a rich man's wife if I have the

opportunity; but how it is to be brought about, your good book, perhaps,

may tell."

"Oh, darling," I cried, "do not smile so scornfully when you speak of

that blessed, dear book; it would comfort and lead you, indeed it

would, if you would but open and read its pages."

"Well, well, Parson Ruth," she cried, laughing, "that will do. When the

rich man comes down from the clouds to make me his bride, I promise you

I'll have a book bound in gold like that; and you shall be educated, my

darling Ruth, as the daughters of the De Courcys ought to be, and you

shall forget that we have no father, no mother."

"Forget our father?" said I. "Never, never!"

Gabrielle was terribly shaken and agitated: little more than a child in

years, injustice and sorrow had taught her the emotions of age, yet she

was a guileless child in the world's ways, as events soon proved.

We used to ramble out into the adjacent meadows, and doubtless our

roamings would have extended far and wide, had not my lameness precluded

much walking, and Gabrielle never had a thought of leaving me. So we

were contented to saunter by a shining stream that meandered amid the

rich pasture-land near our home; this stream was frequented by those

fortunate anglers only who obtained permission from the lady of the

manor to fish in it, and this permit was not lavishly bestowed,

consequently our favorite haunt was usually a solitary one. But soon

after Gabrielle had completed her sixteenth year we noted a sickly

youth, who patiently pursued his quiet sport by the hour together, and

never looked round as we passed and repassed him. Some trifling "chance"

(as it is called) led to his thanking Gabrielle for assisting to

disentangle his line, which had caught amid the willow-branches

overhanging the water; the same "chance" caused him to observe his

beautiful assistant, and I saw his start of surprise and admiration. He

was a silly-looking lad, we thought, dressed like a gentleman, and

behaving as one; and he was never absent now from the meadows when we

were there. He always bowed, and often addressed some passing

observation to us, but timidly and respectfully, for Gabrielle was a

girl to command both homage and respect. She pitied the lonely, pale

young man, who seemed so pleased to find any one to speak to, and

exhibited such extraordinary patience and perseverance, for he never

caught a fish that we saw. Through the medium of a gossip of Nelly, who

was kitchen-maid at the principal inn, we ascertained that our new

acquaintance was staying there for his health's benefit, and for the

purpose of angling; that his name was Erminstoun, only son of the rich

Mr. Erminstoun, banker, of T----. Nelly's gossip had a sister who lived

at Erminstoun Hall, so there was no doubt about the correctness of the

information, both as regarded Mr. Thomas Erminstoun's identity, and the

enormous wealth of which it was said his father was possessed. The

informant added, that poor Mr. Thomas was a _leetle_ soft maybe, but the

idol of his parent; and that he squandered "money like nothing," "being

a generous, open-handed, good young gentleman."

I observed a great change in Gabrielle's manner, after hearing this,

toward her admirer--for so he must be termed--as admiration was so

evident in each word and look: by-and-by Gabrielle went out alone--there

was no one to question or rebuke her; and in six weeks from the day that

Mr. Thomas Erminstoun first saw her she became his wife. Yes, startling

as it appears, it all seemed very natural and simple of accomplishment

then; early one brilliant summer morning, Gabrielle woke me, and bade me

rise directly, as she wished to confide something of great importance,

which was about to take place in a few hours. Pale, but composed, she

proceeded to array herself and me in plain white robes, and straw

bonnets; new and purely white, yet perfectly simple and inexpensive,

though far better than the habiliments we had been accustomed to wear.

Gabrielle took them from a box, which must have come when I was

sleeping; and when our toilet was completed, I compared her in my own

mind to one of those young maidens whom I had seen in the church, when

bands of fair creatures were assembled for confirmation. She looked not

like _a bride_--there was no blushing, no trembling; but a calm

self-possession, and determination of purpose, which awed me.

"My wise little sister Ruth," she said, "I am going to be married this

morning to Mr. Thomas Erminstoun, at ---- church. You are my bridemaid,

and the clerk gives me away. I shall not come back here any more, for a

chaise and four waits in Yarrow Wood to convey us away directly after

our marriage. You will come home, darling, and take off your marriage

apparel to appear before _him_; and as I do not often dine with him, and

he never asks for me, I shall not be missed. So say nothing--Nelly's

tongue is tied--fear not her. Be patient, beloved one, till you hear

from me: bright days are coming, Ruth, and we do not part for long."

Here she wept, oh, so bitterly, I thought she would die. Amazed and

trembling, I ventured to ask if she loved Mr. Thomas Erminstoun better

than me, for jealousy rankled, and at fourteen I knew nothing of _love_.

"Love _him_!" she cried vehemently, clasping her hands wildly; "I love

only you on earth, my Ruth, my sister. He is a fool; and I marry him to

save you and myself from degradation and misery. He buys me with his

wealth. I am little more than sixteen"--she hung down her lovely head,

poor thing--"but I am old in sorrow; I am hardened in sin, for I am

about to commit a great sin. I vow to love, where I despise; to obey,

when I mean to rule; and to honor, when I hold the imbecile youth in

utter contempt!"

Vain were supplications and prayers to wait. Gabrielle led me away to

the meadows, where a fly was in waiting, which conveyed us to the

church. I saw her married; I signed something in a great book; I felt

her warm tears and embraces, and I knew that Mr. Thomas Erminstoun

kissed me too, as he disappeared with Gabrielle, and the clerk placed me

in the fly alone, which put me down in the same place, in the quiet

meadows by the shining water. I sat down and wept till I became

exhausted. Was this all a dream? Had Gabrielle really gone? My

child-sister married? Become rich and great? But I treasured her words,

hurried home, and put on my old dark dress; and Nelly said not a word.

Mr. Thomas Erminstoun's gold had secured her silence; and she was to

"know nothing," but to take care of me for the present.

Ere my father retired to rest that night, a letter was brought addressed

to him. I never knew the contents, but it was from Gabrielle and

Gabrielle's husband. I did not see him again for some days, and then he

never looked at me; and strange, strange it seemed, Gabrielle had

disappeared like a snow wreath, in silence, in mystery; and I exclaimed

in agony, "Was there ever any thing like this in the world before?"

My father made himself acquainted with the position of the young man

whom his daughter had gone off with, and also of the legality of their

marriage; that ascertained satisfactorily, he sank into the same

hopeless slothfulness and indolence as heretofore, dozing life away, and

considering he had achieved a prodigious labor in making the necessary

inquiries.

Very soon after this I had my first letter--doubly dear and interesting

because it was from Gabrielle. The inn servant brought it under pretext

of visiting Nelly, so my father knew nothing about it. Ah, that first

letter! shall I ever forget how I bathed it my with tears, and covered

it with kisses? It was short, and merely said they were in lodgings for

the present, because Mr. Erminstoun had not yet forgiven his son: not a

word about her happiness; not a word of her husband; but she concluded

by saying, "that very soon she hoped to send for her darling Ruth--never

to be parted more."

I know that my guardian angel whispered the thoughts that now came into

my head as I read and pondered; because I had prayed to be led as a

sheep by the shepherd, being but a simple, weakly child. I determined on

two things--to show the letter I had received from Gabrielle to my

father, for conscience loudly whispered concealment was wrong; and never

to quit him, because the time might come when he, perhaps, would

require, or be glad of my attendance. I felt quite happy after forming

these resolutions on my knees; and I wrote to Gabrielle telling her of

them. I know not if my father observed what I said, but he took no

notice, for he was half asleep and smoking; so I left the letter beside

him, as I ever did afterward, for I often heard from my beloved sister:

and oh! but it _was_ hard to resist her entreaties that I would come to

her--that it was for my sake as well as her own she had taken so bold a

step; and that now she had a pleasant home for me, and I refused. It was

hard to refuse; but God was with me, or I never could have had strength

of myself to persevere in duty, and "_deny myself_." When Gabrielle

found arguments and entreaties vain, she gave way to bursts of anguish

that nearly overcame me; but when "I was weak, then I was strong," and I

clasped my precious Bible, and told her I _dared_ not leave my father.

Then came presents of books, and all kinds of beautiful and useful

things, to add to my comfort or improvement. Gabrielle told me they were

settled in a pretty cottage near the Hall, and that Mr. Erminstoun had

forgiven his son. Mr. Erminstoun was a widower, and had five daughters

by a former marriage--Gabrielle's husband being the only child of his

second union: the Misses Erminstoun were all flourishing in single

blessedness, and were known throughout the country-side as the "proud

Miss Erminstouns." These ladies were tall, and what some folks call

"dashing women;" wearing high feathers, bright colors, and riding hither

and thither in showy equipages, or going to church on the Sabbath with a

footman following their solemn and majestic approach to the house of

prayer, carrying the richly-emblazoned books of these "miserable

sinners."

How I pined to hear from Gabrielle that she was happy, and cherished by

her new connections; that she was humbled also, in some measure--abashed

at the bold step she had taken. So young--so fair--so determined. I

trembled, girl as I was, when I thought that God's wrath might fall on

her dear head, and chasten her rebellious spirit.

Six months subsequent to Gabrielle's departure our father died, after

but a few days' severe suffering. Dying, he took my hand and murmured,

"Good child!" and those precious words fell as a blessing on my soul;

and I know he listened to the prayers which God put into my heart to

make for his departing spirit. I mourned for the dead, because he was my

father and I his child....

Nelly accompanied me to my sister's home; and fairyland seemed opening

to my view when I embraced Gabrielle once more. What a pleasant home it

was!--a cottage not much larger than the one I had left--but how

different! Elegance and comfort were combined; and when I saw the rare

exotics in the tasteful conservatory I remembered the roses in our

wilderness. Ah, I doubt if we ever valued flowers as we did those

precious dewy buds. Wood End Cottage stood on the brow of a hill,

commanding a fair prospect of sylvan quietude; the old Parsonage was

adjacent, inhabited by a bachelor curate, "poor and pious," the church

tower peeping forth from a clump of trees. The peal of soft bells in

that mouldering tower seemed to me like unearthly music: my heart

thrilled as I heard their singular, melancholy chime. There were fine

monuments within the church, and it had a superb painted window, on

which the sun always cast its last gleams during the hours of

summer-evening service.

My brother-in-law, Mr. Thomas Erminstoun, was paler and thinner than

when I had seen him last, and I was shocked and alarmed at his

appearance. His love for Gabrielle amounted to idolatry; and for her

sake he loved and cherished me. She was colder and haughtier in manner

than ever, receiving passively all the devoted tenderness lavished by

her husband: this pained me sadly; for though he was assuredly simple,

there was an earnest truthfulness and kindliness about him, which won on

the affections amazingly. He would speak to me of Gabrielle by the hour

together, with ever-increasing delight; we both marveled at her

surpassing beauty, which each week became more angelic and pure in

character.

On me alone all my sister's caresses were bestowed; all the pent-up love

of a passionate nature found vent in my arms, which were twined around

her with strange enthusiastic love; therefore it was, her faults

occasioned me such agony--for I could not but see them--and I alone, of

all the world, knew her noble nature--knew what she "might have been." I

told her that I expected to have found her cheerful, now she had a happy

home of her own.

"Happy! cheerful!" she cried, sadly. "A childhood such as mine was,

flings dark shadows over all futurity, Ruth."

"Oh, speak not so, beloved," I replied; "have you not a good husband,

your error mercifully forgiven? are you not surrounded by blessings?"

"And dependent," she answered, bitterly

"But dependent on your husband, as the Bible says every woman should

be."

"And my husband is utterly dependent on his father, Ruth; he has neither

ability nor health to help himself, and on his father he depends for our

bread. I have but exchanged one bondage for another; and all my hope is

now centred in you, dearest, to educate you--to render you independent

of this cold, hard world."

"Why, Gabrielle," I said, "you are not seventeen yet--it is not too

late, is it, for you also to be educated?"

"Too late, too late," answered Gabrielle, mournfully. "Listen, wise

Ruth, I shall be a mother soon; and to my child, if it is spared, and to

you, I devote myself. You have seen the Misses Erminstoun--you have seen

vulgarity, insolence, and absurd pretension; they have taunted me with

my ignorance, and I will not change it now. The blood of the De Courcys

and O'Briens has made me a lady; and all the wealth of the Indies can

not make them so. No, Ruth, I will remain in ignorance, and yet tower

above them, high as the clouds above the dull earth, in innate

superiority and power of mind!"

"Oh, my sister," I urged timidly, "it is not well to think highly of

one's self--the Bible teaches not so."

"Ruth! Ruth!" she exclaimed, impatiently, "it is not that I think highly

of myself, as you well know; you well know with what anguish I have

deplored our wants; it is pretension I despise, and rise above; talent,

and learning, and virtue, and nobleness, that I revere, and could

worship!"

"But, beloved," I urged, "people may be very kind and good, without

being so mighty clever."

"The Erminstouns female are not kind, are not good," she haughtily

replied: "the Erminstouns male are fools! Ruth, I have changed one

bondage for another, and the sins of the father fall on the innocent

child. I have changed starvation, and cold, and degradation, for hateful

dependence on the vulgar and despised. Woe is me, woe is me! If I can

but save you, my sister, and make you independent, I can bear my lot."

My education commenced, and they called me a "wise child:" every one was

kind to the poor cripple, even the "proud Miss Erminstouns," who cast

envious and disdainful glances on my beautiful sister, which she repaid

with unutterable scorn--silent, but sure. Oh, how I prayed Gabrielle to

_try_ and win their love; to read her Bible, and therein find that "a

kind word turneth away wrath;" but Gabrielle was proud as Lucifer, and

liked not to read of humility and forbearance. I found a zealous friend

and instructor in Mr. Dacre, the "poor, pious curate;" he was a college

friend of my brother-in-law, and a few years his senior. I felt assured

that Mr. Dacre thought Mr. Thomas's life a very precarious one, from the

way in which he spoke to him on religious subjects, and the anxiety he

evinced as to his spiritual welfare. Mr. Dacre used also to call me his

"wise little friend;" and we were wont to speak of passages in the book

I loved best. What thought I of him? Why, sometimes in my own mind I

would compare him to an apostle--St. Paul, for instance, sincere,

learned, and inspired; but then St. Paul haunted my day-dreams as a

reverend gentleman with a beard and flowing robes, while Mr. Dacre was

young, handsome, and excessively neat in his ecclesiastical costume and

appointments generally. Mr. Dacre had serious dark eyes--solemn eyes

they were, in my estimation, but the very sweetest smile in the world;

and one of the Misses Erminstoun seemed to think so too: but people said

that the pious young minister was vowed to celibacy.

There was also another frequent visitor at Erminstoun Hall, who not

seldom found his way to Wood End Cottage; and this was no less a

personage than Lord Treherne, who resided at Treherne Abbey in princely

magnificence, and had lately become a widower. This nobleman was upward

of sixty, stately, cold, and reserved in manner, and rarely warmed into

a smile, except in contemplation of woman's beauty; of which, indeed, he

was an enthusiastic admirer. The late Lady Treherne had presented her

lord with no family; and the disappointment was bitterly felt by Lord

Treherne, who most ardently desired an heir to succeed to his ancient

title and immense possessions. It was rumored abroad that the eldest

Miss Erminstoun was likely to become the favored lady on whom his

lordship's second choice might fall: she was still a handsome woman, and

as cold and haughty as Lord Treherne himself; but, notwithstanding her

smiles and encouragement, the ancient cavalier in search of a bride did

not propose. Nay, on the contrary, he evinced considerable interest in

Mr. Thomas Erminstoun's failing health; he was the poor young

gentleman's godfather, and it seemed not improbable that, in the event

of his lordship dying childless, his godson might inherit a desirable

fortune. Rare fruits and flowers arrived in profusion from the Abbey;

and my lord showed great interest in my progress, while Gabrielle

treated him with far more freedom than she did any one else, and seemed

pleased and gratified by his fatherly attentions.

At length the time arrived when Gabrielle became the mother of as lovely

a babe as ever entered this world of woe; and it was a fair and touching

sight to behold the young mother caressing her infant daughter. I have

often wondered that I felt no pangs of jealousy, for the beauteous

stranger more than divided my sister's love for me--she engaged it

nearly all: and there was something fearful and sublime in the exceeding

idolatry of Gabrielle for her sweet baby. Self was immolated altogether;

and when she hung over the baby's couch each night, watching its happy,

peaceful slumbers, it was difficult to say which of the twain was the

more beautiful. Repose marked the countenance of each--Gabrielle's was

imbued with the heavenly repose of parental love.

In less than twelve months after its birth, that poor baby was

fatherless. I had anticipated and foreseen this calamity; and Gabrielle

conducted herself, as I believed she would, without hypocrisy, but with

serious propriety. Sad scenes followed this solemn event; the Misses

Erminstoun wished to take her child from Gabrielle, to bring it up at

the Hall. Mr. Erminstoun urged her compliance, and recommended my sister

to seek "a situation" for me, as "he had already so expensive an

establishment to keep up; and now poor Thomas was gone, there was really

no occasion for Wood End Cottage to be on his hands. Gabrielle must find

a home in some farm-house."

All this came about in a few months, from one thing to another; and the

young widow, who had been ever hated as a wife, was grudged her daily

support by her deceased husband's family. "Give up her child?" Gabrielle

only laughed when they spoke of that; but her laugh rings in my ears

yet! though it was as soft and musical as the old church bells.

We left Wood End Cottage, and found refuge in a retired farm-house, as

Mr. Erminstoun proposed; but we were together: and there were many who

cried "shame" on the rich banker, for thus casting off his

daughter-in-law and his grandchild. Small was the pittance he allowed

for our subsistence; and the Misses Erminstoun never noticed Gabrielle

on her refusal to part with the child. "She was not fit," they bruited

about, "to bring up their poor brother's daughter. She was ignorant,

uneducated, and unamiable, besides being basely ungrateful for kindness

lavished; she had a cold heart and repellant manner, which had steeled

their sympathies toward her." They thought themselves ill-used at

Erminstoun Hall; and the five Misses Erminstoun regarded Gabrielle and

her poor little daughter as mere interlopers, who were robbing them of

their father's money.

Well might Gabrielle say--"I have changed one bondage for another!" but

I never heard her repeat that now. She was silent, even to me. No murmur

escaped her lips; and what she felt or suffered I knew not. Little Ella

was a pale flower, like her mother; but as similar to the parent rose as

an opening rosebud.

"What could I do?" were the words I was continually repeating to myself.

"I must not be an added burden to Mr. Erminstoun. I have already

profited by my sister's union with his son, by having gratefully

received instruction in various branches of learning, and can I not do

something for myself?" What this _something_ was to be, I could not

define. My lameness precluded active employment, and I was too young to

become a "companion." I confided my thoughts and wishes to Mr. Dacre,

who often visited us, speaking words of balm and consolation to the

afflicted. Gabrielle listened to his words, as she never had done to

mine; and he could reprove, admonish, exhort, or cheer, when all human

hope seemed deserting us. For where were we to look for a shelter,

should it please Mr. Erminstoun to withdraw his allowance, to force

Gabrielle to abandon her child to have it from want? I verily believe,

had it not been for that precious babe, she would have begged her bread,

and suffered me to do so, rather than be dependent on the

scantily-doled-out bounty of Mr. Erminstoun.

During the twelve months that elapsed after her husband's death there

was a "great calm" over Gabrielle--a tranquillity, like that exhibited

by an individual walking in sleep. I had expected despair and passion

when her lofty spirit was thus trampled to the dust; but no, as I have

said, she was strangely tranquil--strangely silent. There was no

resignation--that is quite another thing; and, except when my sister

listened to Mr. Dacre, she never read her Bible, or suffered me to read

it to her: but his deep, full, rich voice, inexpressibly touching and

sweet in all its modulations, ever won her rapt, undivided attention.

She attended the church where he officiated; and though the Erminstouns

had a sumptuously-decorated pew there, it was not to that the young

widow resorted; she sat amid the poor in the aisle, beneath a

magnificent monument of the Treherne family, where the glorious sunset

rays, streaming through the illuminated window, fell full upon her

clustering golden hair and downcast eyes.

There was pride in this, not humility; and Gabrielle deceived herself,

as, with a quiet grace peculiarly her own, she glided to her lowly seat,

rejecting Lord Treherne's proffered accommodation, as he courteously

stood with his pew door open, bowing to the fair creature as if she had

been a queen. The five Misses Erminstoun knelt on their velvet cushions,

arrayed in feathers and finery, and strong in riches and worldly

advantages; but my pale sister, in her coarsely-fashioned mourning-garb,

seated on a bench, and kneeling on the stone, might have been taken for

the regal lady, and they her plebeian attendants.

Spiteful glances they cast toward Gabrielle, many a time and oft, when

my Lord Treherne so pointedly paid his respectful devoirs; and there was

as much pride and haughtiness in Gabrielle's heart as in theirs. Poor

thing! she said truly, that "early shadows had darkened her soul," and

what had she left but _pride_? Not an iota of woman's besetting

littleness had my sister--noble, generous, self-denying, devoted where

she loved; her sweetness had been poisoned, nor had she sought that

fountain of living water which alone can purify such bitterness. Gentle

in manner, pure in heart, affectionate in disposition, Gabrielle's pride

wrought her misery. Lord Treherne never came in person to our humble

home--he had but once paid his respects to Gabrielle since her

widowhood; but the rarest exotics continued to decorate our poor room,

constantly replenished from Treherne Abbey, and sent, with his

lordship's card, by a confidential domestic. He was always at church

now, and people remarked "how pious my lord had latterly become." I was

far too young and inexperienced then to understand or appreciate this

delicacy and propriety on Lord Treherne's part. But Mr. Dacre understood

it; nor would _he_ have intruded on our privacy, save in his ministerial

capacity, and for the purpose of aiding and assisting me in the studies

I endeavored to pursue. There was a "halo of sanctity" around Mr. Dacre,

which effectually precluded any approach to freedom or frivolous

conversation, in any society wherein he might be placed. He gave the

tone to that society, and the gay and dashing Misses Erminstoun became

subdued in his presence; while Lord Treherne, with excellent taste, not

only showed the outward respect due to Mr. Dacre's sacred and high

office, but the regard which his personal qualities deserved.

I have often looked back on that time immediately after my

brother-in-law's decease, with wonder at our serenity--nay, almost

contentment and happiness; despite the anguish and humiliation I knew

Gabrielle must endure, her smile was ever beautiful and sweet, and

illumined our poor home with the sunshine of heaven.

Our baby was, I think I may say, almost equally dear to us both--it had

two mothers, Gabrielle said; and what with nursing the darling little

thing, and learning my lessons, and Mr. Dacre's visits, time flew

rapidly.

On the appearance of each fresh token of Lord Treherne's remembrance, I

observed an expression flit across my sister's face which I could not

define; it was of triumph and agony combined, and she always flew to her

baby, clasping it convulsively to her bosom, and whispering words of

strange import. On Mr. Dacre's expressive, serious countenance, also, I

noticed passing clouds, as Gabrielle bestowed enthusiastic admiration on

the superb exotics. Why this was I could by no means satisfactorily

decide, as Mr. Dacre, so kind and generous, must approve the

disinterested delicacy exhibited by Lord Treherne, in his offerings to

the fatherless and widow. But the disinterestedness of my lord's

attentions was a myth which I soon discarded: for in twelve months

subsequent to Mr. Thomas Erminstoun's decease, a letter from Treherne

Abbey was brought to Gabrielle, sealed with the armorial bearings of the

Trehernes, and signed by the present representative of that noble race.

We were seated at our fireside, busy with domestic needlework, and I saw

Gabrielle's hands tremble as she opened it, while that strange, wild

expression of triumph and pain, flitted more than once over her face as

she perused the missive. She silently gave it to me, and with amazement

I read its contents--such an idea had never once entered my simple

brain. Lord Treherne made Gabrielle an offer of his hand and heart,

signifying that if she would graciously incline her ear to his suit, a

brilliant destiny awaited her infant daughter--on whom, and on its

lovely mother, the most munificent settlements should be made. I laughed

heartily as I read his lordship's rhapsodies, becoming a young lover;

and I said, returning the epistle to Gabrielle, "What a pity, dearest,

that we can not have such a noble father for our little Ella!" the

possibility of Gabrielle's marrying a man of nearly seventy never

entered into my calculations for a moment. Therefore my astonishment was

overwhelming when she seriously answered,

"Why can not Lord Treherne be a father to my child, Ruth?"

"Because, dearest, you could not marry him--he is so old."

"But I mean to marry him, Ruth: could you doubt it? Could I have lived

on as I have done without prophetic hope to support me? Think you, if

Lord Treherne were double the age, I would refuse rank, wealth and

power? Oh, Ruth, were I alone, it might be different." She spoke in a

tone of suppressed anguish and passionate regret. "But look on her,"

pointing to the sleeping cherub, "for her sake I would _immolate myself

on any altar of sacrifice_. Her fate shall be a brighter one than her

mother's--if that mother has power to save and to bless! _She_ must not

be doomed to poverty or dependence. No, no! I give her a father who can

restore in her the ancient glories of our race; for my Ella is a

descendant of the chivalrous O'Briens and the noble De Courcys."

"And of the Erminstouns of Erminstoun Hall," I gently suggested, for

Gabrielle was greatly excited.

"Name them not, Ruth; name them not, if you love me. To change their

hated name, what would I not do?"

Alas! thought I, you are deceiving yourself, my poor sister, in this

supposed immolation on an altar of sacrifice; it is not for your child's

sake alone, though you fancy so. But Blanche Erminstoun will be

disappointed, revenge obtained, and pride amply gratified, and truly

"the heart is deceitful above all things."

Mr. Dacre entered the apartment as Gabrielle ceased speaking, for we had

not heard his modest signal, and he was unannounced. My sister colored

to the very temples on seeing the young pastor, and her hands trembled

in the vain endeavor to fold Lord Treherne's letter, which at length she

impatiently crushed together. I heard a half-smothered hysterical sob,

as, with a faltering voice, she bade our guest "Good-evening." Ah! when

the heart is aching and throbbing with agony, concealed and suppressed,

it requires heroic self-command to descend to the commonplaces of this

workaday world; but women early learn to conceal and subdue their

feelings, when premature sorrows have divided them from real or

pretended sympathies.

I read my sister's heart, I knew her secret, and I inwardly murmured,

"Alas for woman's love, it is cast aside!"

* * * * *

My sister's marriage with Lord Treherne was a strictly private one

(Gabrielle had stipulated for this), his lordship's chaplain performing

the ceremony. My thoughts reverted to Gabrielle's first marriage, when

the clerk gave her away, and she was clad in muslin; now she was arrayed

in satin and glittering gems, and a peer of the realm, an old friend of

the bridegroom, gave her lily hand at the altar to her noble lover.

Twice she was forsworn; but the desecration to her soul was not so great

on the first as on the present occasion, for then her heart was still

her own; while now, alas for woman's love, it was cast aside!

In a few weeks after the marriage we all departed for the Continent,

where we remained for the six following years, Gabrielle and myself

receiving instructions in every accomplishment suitable to our position.

It was charming to witness with what celerity my beautiful sister

acquired every thing she undertook, for she was as anxious as her lord

to adorn the high station to which she now belonged. Wherever we went

the fame of Lady Treherne's beauty went with us, while her fascination

of manner and high-bred elegance perfectly satisfied her fastidious

husband that he had made a wise and prudent choice. There was one

drawback to his lordship's perfect contentment, and this was the absence

of the much-wished-for heir, for Gabrielle presented no children to her

husband; and our little Ella, a fairy child, of brilliant gifts and

almost superhuman loveliness, became as necessary to Lord Treherne's

happiness as she was to her doting mother's. It was settled ere we

returned to England, that Ella was to drop the name of Erminstoun, and

as Lord Treherne's acknowledged heiress, legal forms were to be

immediately adopted in order to ratify the change of name to that of the

family appellation of the Trehernes.

With a murmur of grateful feeling I saw Gabrielle kneel beside her aged

husband, and thank him fondly for this proof of regard; triumph sparkled

in her eyes, and Lord Treherne laid his hand on her fair head, blessing

her as he did so. She had made him a good wife, in every sense of the

term: he had never forgot that her blood equaled his own. But Gabrielle

did, for that very reason; her gratitude made her humble toward him,

because he was humble toward her: nor did Lord Treherne ever cease to

think that Gabrielle had conferred a favor in marrying him.

A succession of _fetes_ and entertainments were given at Treherne Abbey

after our return, and Gabrielle was the star on whom all gazed with

delighted admiration. All the country families flocked to pay their

homage, but the Erminstouns came not until Lady Treherne extended a hand

of welcome to her first husband's family; she was too exalted, both in

station and mind, to cherish the pitiful remembrances of their former

unkindness. There were but two Misses Erminstoun now, the others were

well married (according to the world's notion, that is); and the

youngest, who had not given up hopes of yet becoming Mrs. Dacre, had

transformed herself into a nun-like damsel, something between a Sister

of Charity and a Quakeress in exterior: perhaps Mr. Dacre read the

interior too well; and, notwithstanding the lady's assiduous visits to

the poor, and attendance on the charity-schools, and regular loud

devotions at church, Mr. Dacre remained obdurate and wedded to celibacy.

It might be that he disapproved of the marriage of the clergy, but I

think he was at one time vulnerable on that point.

How delighted I was to see him once more, to hear him call me his "wise

little friend," with his former sweet smile and affectionate manner; six

years had changed him--he looked rather careworn, and well he might, for

he was a true worker in the Lord's vineyard: nor was his mission

confined to the poor; the rich and noble also felt his influence. Lord

and Lady Treherne greeted him as an old and valued friend; nor could I

detect the slightest agitation in Gabrielle's manner, and my former

suspicions almost faded away. She brought our fair Ella to welcome "papa

and mamma's friend" to Treherne; and Ella, with her winning, gentle

ways, soon made Mr. Dacre understand that she loved him very much

indeed: she was a holy child, and the principal joy of her innocent life

was to hear me tell her those stories in which I used to take delight in

my early days--how contrasted to hers! She would sing her pretty hymns,

seated on a low footstool at Lord Treherne's feet; and the stately

nobleman, with tears in his eyes, used to exclaim with pathos,

"Sister Ruth, sister Ruth, my heart misgives me; the angels surely will

take this child to themselves, and leave us desolate."

Mr. Dacre came not frequently to Treherne, but he was a quick observer,

and he saw we had set up an idol for ourselves in this child, he

cautioned us, but Gabrielle shivered--yes, _shivered_ with dismay, at

the bare suggestion he hinted at--that God was a "jealous God," and

permitted no idolatrous worship to pass unreproved.

Poor young mother, how can I relate the scenes I lived to witness!

Ella died, aged ten years. The mother sat by her coffin four days and

nights, speechless and still; we dared not attempt to remove her, there

way an alarming expression in her eyes if we did, that made the medical

men uncertain how to act. She had tasted no food since the child died;

she was hopeful to the last: it was impossible, she said, that her child

could die; her faculties could not comprehend the immensity of the

anguish in store for her. So there she sat like stone--cold, and silent,

and wan, as the effigy she watched. Who dared to awaken the mother?

Mr. Dacre undertook the awful task, but it was almost too much for his

tender, sympathizing heart; nerved by strength from above he came to

us--for I never left my sister--and we three were alone with the dead.

It harrows my soul to dwell on this subject, and it seemed cruel to

awaken the benumbed mother to reality and life again, but it was done;

and then words were spoken far too solemn and sacred to repeat here, and

hearts were opened that otherwise might have remained sealed till the

judgment day. Gabrielle, for the first time in her life, knew herself as

she was; and, prostrate beside her dead child, cried, "I have deserved

thy chastening rod, for thou art the Lord, and I thy creature; deal with

me as thou seest best." Pride abased, hope crushed, heart contrite and

broken, never, never had Gabrielle been so dear to me; and during many

weeks that I watched beside her couch, as she fluctuated between life

and death, I knew that, she was an altered being, and that this bitter,

affliction had not been sent in vain. She came gently home to God, and

humbly knelt a suppliant at the mercy-throne, forever crying,

"Thou art wisest! Thou art best! Thou, alone knowest what is good for

us! Thy will be done!"

The blow had fallen heavily on Lord Treherne, but for two years my

sister lived to bless and comfort him; then it became evident to all

that the mother was about to rejoin her child in the mansions of the

blessed. She expressed a wish that Mr. Dacre should read the funeral

service over her, and he administered the last blessed consolations to

her departing spirit; no remnants of mortal weakness lurked in his heart

as he stood beside the dying, for he knew that in this world they were

as pilgrims and strangers, but in that to which Gabrielle was hastening

they would be reunited in glory--no more partings, no more tears. She

died calmly, with her hands clasped in Lord Treherne's and mine; while

Mr. Dacre knelt absorbed in prayer she passed away, and we looked on

each other in speechless sorrow, and then on what had been my young and

beautiful sister.

Of my own deep grief and lacerated heart I will not speak; Lord Treherne

required all my care and attention, nor would he hear of my quitting

him--indeed, he could scarcely bear me to be out of his sight; the heavy

infirmities of advanced years had suddenly increased since his double

bereavement, and I felt very grateful that to my humble efforts he owed

any glimpse of sunshine.

He was a severe bodily sufferer for many years, but affliction was not

sent in vain, for Lord Treherne became perfectly prepared for the awful

change awaiting him, trusting in His merits alone. Those were blessed

hours when Mr. Dacre spoke to him of the dear departed, who had only

journeyed on before--of God's ways in bringing us to Himself, chastening

pride and self-reliance, and tolerating no idol worship. Lord Treherne,

with lavish generosity, made an ample provision for his "wise little

Ruth," as he ever smilingly called me to the last. He died peacefully,

and the Abbey came into the possession of a distant branch of the

Treherne family.

Wood End Cottage was vacant, and I purchased it; and assisted by Mr.

Dacre in the labor of love for our blessed Master, life has not passed

idly, and, I humbly trust, not entirely without being of use in my

generation. Previous to his decease, Lord Treherne caused a splendid

monument to be erected in Wood End church to the memory of Gabrielle,

and Ella his adopted daughter: the spotless marble is exquisitely

wrought, the mother and child reposing side-by-side as if asleep, with

their hands meekly folded on their breasts, and their eyes closed, as if

weary--weary.

The last fading hues of sunset, which so often rested on Gabrielle's

form as she knelt in her widowhood beneath the monumental glories of the

Trehernes, now illumines the sculptured stone, which mysteriously hints

of hidden things--corruption and the worm.

I love to kneel in the house of prayer where Gabrielle knelt: dim voices

haunt me from the past: my place is prepared among the green grass

mounds, for no tablet or record shall mark the spot where "Ruth the

cripple" reposes, sweetly slumbering with the sod on her bosom, "dust to

dust."

THE WASTE OF WAR.

Give me the gold that war has cost,

Before this peace-expanding day;

The wasted skill, the labor lost--

The mental treasure thrown away;

And I will buy each rood of soil

In every yet discovered land;

Where hunters roam, where peasants toil,

Where many-peopled cities stand.

I'll clothe each shivering wretch on earth.

In needful; nay, in brave attire;

Vesture befitting banquet mirth,

Which kings might envy and admire.

In every vale, on every plain,

A school shall glad the gazer's sight;

Where every poor man's child may gain

Pure knowledge, free as air and light.

I'll build asylums for the poor,

By age or ailment made forlorn:

And none shall thrust them from the door,

Or sting with looks and words of scorn.

I'll link each alien hemisphere;

Help honest men to conquer wrong;

Art, Science, Labor, nerve and cheer;

Reward the Poet for his song.

In every crowded town shall rise

Halls Academic, amply graced;

Where Ignorance may soon be wise,

And Coarseness learn both art and taste

To every province shall belong

Collegiate structures, and not few--

Fill'd with a truth-exploring throng,

And teachers of the good and true.

In every free and peopled clime

A vast Walhalla hall shall stand;

A marble edifice sublime,

For the illustrious of the land;

A Pantheon for the _truly_ great,

The wise, beneficent, and just;

A place of wide and lofty state

To honor or to hold their dust.

A temple to attract and teach

Shall lift its spire on every hill,

Where pious men shall feel and preach

Peace, mercy, tolerance, good-will;

Music of bells on Sabbath days,

Round the whole earth shall gladly rise;

And one great Christian song of praise

Stream sweetly upward to the skies!

A NIGHT WITH AN EARTHQUAKE.[6]

The sound had not quite died away, when the feet I stood on seemed

suddenly seized with the cramp. Cup and coffee-pot dropped as dead from

Don Marzio's hand as the ball from St. Francis's palm. There was a rush

as if of many waters, and for about ten seconds my head was overwhelmed

by awful dizziness, which numbed and paralyzed all sensation. Don

Marzio, in form an athlete, in heart a lion, but a man of sudden,

sanguine temperament, bustled up and darted out of the room with the

ease of a man never burdened with a wife, with kith or kin. Donna Betta,

a portly matron, also rose instinctively; but I--I never could account

for the odd freak--laid hold of her arm, bidding her stay. The roar of

eight hundred houses--or how many more can there be in Aquila?--all

reeling and quaking, the yells of ten thousand voices in sudden agony,

had wholly subsided ere I allowed the poor woman calmly and majestically

to waddle up to her good man in the garden. That, I suppose, was my

notion of an orderly retreat. Rosalbina had flown from a window into the

lawn, like a bird. Thank God, we found ourselves all in the open air

under the broad canopy of heaven. We began to count heads. Yes, there we

all stood--cook, laundry-maid, dairy-maids, stable-boys, all as obedient

to the awful summons as the best disciplined troops at the first roll of

the drum.

It was February, as I have twice observed; and we were in the heart of

the highest Apennines. The day was rather fine, but pinching cold; and

when the fever of the first terror abated, the lady and young lady began

to shiver in every limb. No one dared to break silence; but Don Marzio's

eye wandered significantly enough from one to another countenance in

that awe-stricken group. There was no mistaking his appeal. Yet, one

after another, his menials and laborers returned his gaze with

well-acted perplexity. No one so dull of apprehension as those who will

not understand. My good friends, I was three-and-twenty. I had had my

trials, and could boast of pretty narrow escapes. I may have been

reckless, perhaps, in my day. I smiled dimly, nodded to the old

gentleman, clapped my hands cheerily, and the next moment was once more

where no man in Aquila would at that moment have liked to be for the

world--under a roof. I made a huge armful of cloaks and blankets,

snapped up every rag with all the haste of a marauding party, and moved

toward the door, tottering under the encumbrance. But now the dreadful

crisis was at hand.

Earthquakes, it is well known, proceed by action and re-action. The

second shock, I was aware, must be imminent. I had just touched the

threshold, and stood under the porch, when that curious spasmodic

sensation once more stiffened every muscle in my limbs. Presently I felt

myself lifted up from the ground. I was now under the portico, and was

hurled against the pillar on my right; the rebound again drove me to the

post on the opposite side; and after being thus repeatedly tossed and

buffeted from right to left like a shuttlecock, I was thrust down,

outward, on the ground on my head, with all that bundle of rags, having

tumbled head-long the whole range of the four marble steps of entrance.

The harm, however, was not so great as the fright; and, thanks to my

gallant devotion, the whole party were wrapped and blanketed, till they

looked like a party of wild Indians; we stood now on comparatively firm

ground, and had leisure to look about us. Don Marzio's garden was open

and spacious, being bounded on three sides by the half-crumbling wall of

the town. On the fourth side was the house--a good, substantial fabric,

but now miserably shaky and rickety. Close by the house was the chapel

of the Ursuline convent, and above that its slender spire rose chaste

and stainless, "pointing the way to heaven." Any rational being might

have deemed himself sufficiently removed from brick and mortar, and, in

so far, out of harm's way. Not so Don Marzio. He pointed to the shadow

of that spire, which, in the pale wintry sunset, stretched all the way

across his garden, and by a strange perversion of judgment, he contended

that so far as the shadow extended, there might also the body that cast

it reach in its fall, for fall it obviously must; and as the danger was

pressing, he deemed it unwise to discuss which of the four cardinal

points the tower might feel a leaning toward, whenever, under the

impulse of the subterranean scourge, it would "look around and choose

its ground." Don Marzio was gifted with animal courage, and even nerve,

proportionate to the might of his stalwart frame. But then his was

merely a combative spirit. Thews and sinews were of no avail in the

case. The garden was no breathing ground for him, and he resolved upon

prompt emigration.

The people of Aquila, as indeed you may well know, of most towns in

Southern Italy, have the habit of--consequently a peculiar talent

for--earthquakes. They know how to deal with them, and are seldom caught

unprepared. Two hundred yards outside the town gate, there is half a

square mile of table-land on the summit of a hill--a market-place in

days of ease, a harbor of refuge in the urgency of peril. From the first

dropping of the earth-ball from the hand of their guardian saint, the

most far-sighted among the inhabitants had been busy pitching their

tents. The whole population--those, that is, who had escaped unscathed

by flying tiles and chimney-pots--were now swarming there, pulling,

pushing, hauling, and hammering away for very life: with women fainting,

children screeching, Capuchins preaching. It was like a little rehearsal

of doomsday. Don Marzio, a prudent housekeeper, had the latch-key of a

private door at the back of the garden. He threw it open--not without a

misgiving at the moss-grown wall overhead. That night the very stars did

not seem to him sufficiently firm-nailed to the firmament! His family

and dependents trooped after him, eager to follow. Rosalbina looked

back--at one who was left behind. Don Marzio felt he owed me at least

one word of leave-taking. He hemmed twice, came back two steps, and gave

me a feverish shake of the hand.

"I am heartily sorry for you, my boy," he cried. "A _fuoruscito_, as I

may say, a bird-in-the-bush--you dare not show your nose outside the

door. You would not compromise yourself alone, you know, but all of us

and our friends; we must leave you--safe enough here, I dare say," with

a stolen glance at the Ursuline spire, "but--you see--imperative

duties--head of a family--take care of the females--and so, God bless

you!"

With this he left me there, under the deadly shade of the

steeple--deadlier to him than the upas-tree; ordered his little

household band out, and away they filed, one by one, the head of the

family manfully closing the rear....

I was alone--alone with the earthquake.... There was a wood-cellar in

one of the out-houses, access to which was easy and safe. One of my

host's domestics had slipped flint and steel into my hands. In less than

half-an-hour's time, a cheerful fire was crackling before me. I drew

forth an old lumbering arm-chair from the wood-cellar, together with my

provision of fuel. I shrouded myself in the ample folds of one of Don

Marzio's riding-cloaks; I sat with folded arms, my eyes riveted on the

rising blaze, summoning all my spirits round my heart, and bidding it to

bear up. The sun had long set, and the last gleam of a sickly twilight

rapidly faded. A keen, damp, north-east wind swept over the earth; thin,

black, ragged clouds flitted before it, like uneasy ghosts. A stray star

twinkled here and there in the firmament, and the sickle-shaped moon

hung in the west. But the light of those pale luminaries was wan and

fitful. They seemed to be aware of the hopelessness of their struggle,

and to mourn in anticipation of the moment when they should faint in

fight, and unrelieved darkness should lord it over the fields of the

heavens.

The town of Aquila, or the Eagle, as the natives name it, is perched,

eagle-like, on the brow of an abrupt cliff in the bosom of the loftiest

Apennines. Monte Reale, Monte Velino, and the giant of the whole chain,

the "Gran Sasso d'Italia," look down upon it from their exalted thrones.

Within the shelter of that massive armor, the town might well seem

invulnerable to time and man. But now, as I gazed despondingly round,

the very hills everlasting seemed rocking from their foundation, and

their crests nodding to destruction. Which of those mighty peaks was to

open the fire of hell's artillery upon us? Was not Etna once as still

and dark as yonder great rock? and yet it now glares by night with its

ominous beacon, and cities and kingdoms have been swept away at its

base.

Two hours passed away in gloomy meditation. The whole town was a desert.

The camp meeting of the unhoused Aquilani was held somewhere in the

distance: its confused murmur reached me not. Only my neighbors, the

Ursuline nuns, were up and awake. With shrinking delicacy, dreading the

look and touch of the profane even more than the walls of their

prison-house, they had stood their ground with the heroism of true

faith, and reared their temporary asylum under their vine-canopied

bowers, within the shade of the cloisters. A high garden-wall alone

separated me from the holy virgins. They were watching and kneeling.

Every note from their silver voices sank deep in my heart, and impressed

me with something of that pious confidence, of that imploring fervor,

with which they addressed their guardian angels and saints. Two hours

had passed. The awfulness of prevailing tranquillity, the genial warmth

of my fire, and the sweet monotony of that low, mournful chanting, were

by degrees gliding into my troubled senses, and lulling them into a

treacherous security. "Just so," I reasoned, "shock and countershock.

The terrible scourge has by this time exhausted its strength. It was

only a farce, after all. Much ado about nothing. The people of this town

have become so familiar with the earthquake that they make a carnival of

it. By this time they are perhaps feasting and rioting under their

booths. Ho! am I the only craven here? And had I not my desire? Am I not

now on speaking terms with an earthquake?"

Again my words conjured up the waking enemy. A low, hollow, rumbling

noise, as if from many hundred miles' distance, was heard coming rapidly

onward along the whole line of the Apennines. It reached us, it seemed

to stop underneath our feet, and suddenly changing its horizontal for a

vertical direction, it burst upward. The whole earth heaved with a

sudden pang; it then gave a backward bound, even as a vessel shipping a

sea. The motion then became undulatory, and spread far and wide as the

report of a cannon, awakening every echo in the mountain. There was a

rattle and clatter in the town, as if of a thousand wagons shooting down

paving stones. The Ursuline steeple waved in the air like a reed vexed

by the blast. The chair I stood on was all but capsized, and the fire at

my feet was overthrown. The very vault of heaven swung to and fro,

ebbing and heaving with the general convulsion. The doleful psalmody in

the neighboring ground broke abruptly. The chorus of many feminine

voices sent forth but one rending shriek. The clamor of thousands of the

town-folk from their encampment gave its wakeful response. Then the dead

silence of consternation ensued. I picked up every stick and brand that

had been scattered about, steadied myself in my chair, and hung down my

head. "These black hounds," I mused, "hunt in couples. Now for the

repercussion."

I had not many minutes to wait. Again the iron-hoofed steeds and heavy

wheels of the state chariot of the prince of darkness were heard

tramping and rattling in their course. Once more the subterranean

avalanche gathered and burst. Once more the ground beneath throbbed and

heaved as if with rending travail. Once more heaven and earth seemed to

yearn to each other; and the embers of my watch-fire were cast upward

and strewn asunder. It was an awful long winter night. The same sable

clouds rioting in the sky, the same cruel wind moaning angrily through

the chinks and crevices of many a shattered edifice. Solitude, the

chillness of night, and the vagueness, even more than the

inevitableness, of the danger, wrought fearfully on my exhausted frame.

Stupor and lethargy soon followed these brief moments of speechless

excitement. Bewildered imagination peopled the air with vague,

unutterable terrors. Legions of phantoms sported on those misshapen

clouds. The clash of a thousand swords was borne on the wind. Tongues of

living flame danced and quivered in every direction. The firmament

seemed all burning with them. I saw myself alone, helpless, hopeless,

the miserable butt of all the rage of warring elements. It was an

uncomfortable night. Ten and twelve times was the dreadful visitation

reproduced between sunset and sunrise, and every shock found me more

utterly unnerved; and the sullen, silent resignation with which I

recomposed and trimmed my fire had something in it consummately abject,

by the side of the doleful accents with which the poor half-hoarse nuns,

my neighbors, called on their blessed Virgin for protection.

The breaking morn found me utterly prostrated; and when Don Marzio's

servants had so far recovered from their panic as to intrude upon my

solitude, and offer their services for the erection of my tent in the

garden, I had hardly breath enough left to welcome them. Under that tent

I passed days and nights during all the remainder of February. The

shocks, though diminished in strength, almost nightly roused us from our

rest. But the people of Aquila soon learned to despise them. By one, by

two, by three they sought the threshold of their dismantled homes. Last

of all, Don Marzio folded his tent. His fears having, finally, so far

given way, as to allow him to think of something beside himself, he

exerted himself to free me from confinement. He furnished me with

faithful guides, by whose aid I reached the sea-coast. Here a Maltese

vessel was waiting to waft me to a land of freedom and security. I can

tell you, my friends, that from that time I was cured forever of all

curiosity about earthquakes.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] From a work entitled "Scenes of Italian Life," by L. Mariotti, just

published in London.

A PLEA FOR BRITISH REPTILES.

What the flourishing tradesman writes with pride over his shop, we might

in most cases write over our storehouse of antipathies--established in

1720, or 1751. For what good reason we, in 1851, should shudder at the

contact of a spider, or loathe toads, it would be hard to say. Our

forefathers in their ignorance did certainly traduce the characters of

many innocent and interesting animals, and many of us now believe some

portions of their scandal. To be a reptile, for example, is perhaps the

greatest disgrace that can attach to any animal in our eyes. Reptile

passes for about the worst name you can call a man. This is unjust--at

any rate, in England. We have no thought of patting crocodiles under the

chin, or of embracing boa constrictors; but for our English reptiles we

claim good words and good-will. We beg to introduce here, formally, our

unappreciated friends to any of our human friends who may not yet have

cultivated their acquaintance.

The Common Lizard--surely you know the Common Lizard, if not by his name

of state--_Zootoca vivipara_. He wears a brilliant jacket, and you have

made friends with him, as a nimble, graceful fellow; as a bit of

midsummer. His very name reminds you of a warm bank in the country, and

a sunny day. Is he a reptile? Certainly; suppose we stop two minutes to

remember what a reptile is.

The heart of a reptile has three cavities; that is to say, it is not

completely double, like our own. It sends only a small part of the blood

which comes into it for renovation into the air-chambers--the lungs;

while the remainder circulates again unpurified. That change made in the

blood by contact with the oxygen of air, is chiefly the cause of heat in

animals. Aeration, therefore, being in reptiles very partial, the amount

of heat evolved is small; reptiles are therefore called cold-blooded.

They are unable to raise their heat above the temperature of the

surrounding air. Fishes are cold-blooded, through deficient aeration in

another way; in them, all the blood passes from the heart into the place

where air shall come in contact with it; but, then there is a limitation

to the store of air supplied, which can be no more than the quantity

extracted from the water. The temperature of water is maintained below

the surface, and we know how that of the air varies, since a certain

quantity of heat is necessary to the vital processes; reptiles,

depending upon air for heat, hybernate or become torpid when the

temperature falls below a certain point. The rapidity of all their vital

actions will depend upon the state of the thermometer; they digest

faster in the heat of summer than in the milder warmth of spring. Their

secretions (as the poison of the adder) are in hot weather more copious,

and in winter are not formed at all. The reptiles breathe, in all cases,

by lungs; but we must except here those called _Batrachians_, as frogs

or newts, which breathe, in the first stage, by gills, and afterward by

gills and lungs, or by lungs only. The _Batrachians_, again, are the

only exception to another great characteristic of the reptile class, the

hard, dry covering of plates or scales. The reptiles all produce their

young from eggs, or are "oviparous"--some hatch their eggs within the

body, and produce their young alive, or are "ovo-viviparous." These are

the characters belonging to all members of the reptile-class. The class

is subdivided into orders somewhat thus: 1. The _Testudinate_ (tortoises

and turtles). 2. _Enaliosaurian_ (all fossil, the _Ichthyosaurus_ and

his like). 3. _Loricate_ (crocodiles and alligators). 4. _Saurian_

(lizards). 5. _Ophidian_ (serpents); and the last order, _Batrachian_

(frogs, toads, &c.); which is, by some, parted from the reptiles, and

established as another class.

Now we have in England no tortoises or turtles, and no crocodiles: and

the fossil order is, in all places, extinct; so our reptiles can belong

only to the three last-named orders, Lizards, Serpents, and Batrachians.

Thus we come back, then, to our Lizards, of which we have among us but

two genera, a single species of each. These are the Common Lizard, well

known to us all, and the Sand Lizard, known only to some of us who

happen to live upon the southern coast. The species of lizard so

extremely common in this country, has not been found in countries

farther south, and is, in fact, peculiar to our latitude. We, therefore,

may love him as a sympathetic friend. The sand lizard (_Lacerta agilis_)

is found as far north as the country of Linnaeus, and as far south as the

northern part of France; in England, however, it seems to be rare, and

has been detected only in Dorsetshire--chiefly near Poole, or in some

other southern counties. It frequents sandy heaths, and is of a brown

sandy color, marked and dotted; but there is a green variety said to be

found among the verdure of marshy places. It is larger than our common

lizard, averaging seven inches long, is very timid, and when made a

prisoner pines and dies. Its female lays eggs, like a turtle, in the

sand, covers them over, and leaves them to be hatched by the summer sun.

This kind of lizard, therefore, is oviparous. The eggs of our common

lizard are hatched also by the sun; for, reptiles having no heat of

their own, can not provide that which is necessary to the development of

an embryo; but in this case the sun hatches them within the parent's

body. The female of this lizard stretches herself out upon a sunny bank,

and lets the bright rays fall upon her body while she lies inactive. At

this period, she will not move for any thing less than a real cause of

alarm. She is not sunning herself lazily, however, but fulfilling an

ordinance of God. The eggs break as the young lizards--three to six--are

born. This lizard is, therefore, ovo-viviparous. The little ones begin

at once to run about, and soon dart after insects, their proper food;

but they accompany the mother with some instinct of affection for a

little time. These lizards are very various in size and color;

difference in these respects does not denote difference in kind. The

little scales which cover them are arranged in a peculiar manner on the

head, under the neck, &c.; and some differences of arrangement, in such

respects, are characteristic. The best distinction between the only two

species of lizard known in this country has been pointed out by Mr.

Bell. In the hind legs, under each thigh, there is a row of openings,

each opening upon a single scale. In sand lizards, the opening is

obviously smaller than the scale; in our common lizards, the opening is

so comparatively large that the scale seems to be the mere edge of a

tube around it.

These are our lizards, then, our Saurian reptiles; and they do not merit

any hate. Suffer an introduction now to English Snakes.

The first snake, the Blindworm, is not a snake, nor yet a worm. It is a

half-way animal--between a lizard and a snake. The lizards shade off so

insensibly into the snakes, even the boa preserving rudimentary hind

legs, that some naturalists counsel their union into a single class of

Squamate, or scaled reptiles. By a milder process of arrangement, all

those animals which dwell upon the frontier ground between Lizards or

Saurians, and Ophidians or Snakes, are to be called Saurophidian. The

blindworm then, is Saurophidian; it is quite as much a lizard as a

snake. Snakes have the bones of their head all movable, so that their

jaws can be dilated, until, like carpet-bags, they swallow any thing.

The lizard has its jaws fixed; so has the blindworm. Snakes have a long

tongue, split for some distance, and made double-forked; the blindworm's

tongue has nothing but a little notch upon the tip. It has a smooth

round muzzle, with which it can easily wind its way under dry soil to

hybernate; or else it takes a winter nap in any large heap of dead

leaves. It comes out early in the spring; for it can bear more cold than

reptiles generally like, and it is found all over Europe, from Sweden to

the south of Italy. It feeds upon worms, slugs, and insects. Like the

snakes, it gets a new coat as it grows, and takes the old one off, by

hooking it to some fixed point, and crawling from it, so that the cast

skin is dragged backward, and turned inside out. The slow-worm is of a

dark gray color, silvery, and about a foot long on the average. It is

ovo-viviparous. It is extremely gentle; very rarely thinks of biting

those who handle it, and, when it does bite, inflicts no wound with its

little teeth. Of course it has no fangs and is not poisonous. Shrinking

with fear when taken, it contracts its body and so stiffens it that it

will break if we strike or bend it. Therefore it bears the name Linnaeus

gave it--_Anguis fragilis_.

We have found nothing yet to shudder at among our reptiles. "O! but,"

you say perhaps, "that was not a real snake." Well, here is our real

snake. _Natrix torquata_--our common Ringed Snake; he is very common. He

may be three or four feet long, and brownish-gray above, with a green

tinge, yellow marks upon the neck, and rows of black spots down the back

and sides, alternating, like London lamp-posts, with each other. You

will find him any where in England, almost any where in Europe, below

the latitude of Scotland. You will find him most frequently in a moist

place, or near water, for he is rather proud of himself as a swimmer. He

has a handsome coat, and gets a new one two, three, four, or five times

in a season, if his growth require it. When the new coat is quite hard

and fit for use under the old, he strips the old one off among the

thorn-bushes. He and his lady hybernate. The lady leaves her sixteen or

twenty eggs, all glued together, for the sun to vivify. The snake's

tongue, as we have said, is forked, the jaws dilatable; he prefers frogs

for his dinner, but is satisfied with mice, or little birds, or

lizards. He swallows his prey whole. Catching it first, as Mrs. Glasse

would say, between his teeth, which are in double rows upon each jaw,

and directed backward that they may act more effectually, he first

brings the victim to a suitable position--head first he prefers, then,

leaving one set of teeth, say the lower, fixed, he advances the upper

jaw, fixes its teeth into the skin, and leaves them there while he moves

forward, the lower jaw, and so continues till the bird or frog is worked

into his throat; it is then swallowed by the agency of other muscles.

This power of moving each jaw freely and in independence of the other,

is peculiar to Ophidian reptiles. The frog may reach the stomach both

alive and active, so that, if afterward, the snake gapes, as he is apt

to do, a frog has been seen to leap out again. The processes of life are

so slow in reptiles, that one meal will not be digested by the snake for

many days. He is unable to digest vegetable matter. Our snake is very

harmless, and if kept and fed, will quickly learn to recognize its

patron, will feed out of his hand, and nestle up his sleeve; but he

shows a dread of strangers.

We have Adders? Yes, we have a Viper--_Pelias Berus_ is the name he goes

by, and his fangs are undeniable. This is the only native reptile that

can, in any degree whatever, hurt a man. It is common in England, and,

unlike the snake, prefers a dry place to a moist one. "Adder" and

"viper" are two words applied to the same thing--adder being derived

from the Saxon word for "nether," and viper from viviper; because this

reptile, like our common lizard, hatches her eggs within the body, or is

viviparous. Our viper is found all over Europe; not in Ireland. As for

Ireland, it is an old boast with the Irish that Saint Patrick banned

away all reptiles. The paucity of reptiles in Ireland is remarkable, but

they are not altogether absent. Our common lizard has a large Irish

connection, and frogs were introduced into Ireland years ago. Their

spawn was taken over, put into water, throve, and thereafter frogs have

multiplied. An attempt was also made to introduce our common snake, but

the country-people, with great horror, killed the inlopers; a reward

even was offered for one that was known to remain uncaptured. Ireland is

free from adders.

The most ready distinction between a common snake and an adder, to

unfamiliar eyes, is founded on the difference of marking. While the

snake has separate alternate spots, the adder has, down its back, a

chain of dark spots, irregularly square, and joined to one another.

Adders are generally brown, but differ very much in color. They have on

their upper jaw, instead of their lower, a row of teeth, the well-known

fangs. These are long, curved teeth, fixed into a movable piece of bone,

and hollow. The hollow is not made out of the substance of the tooth; it

is as if a broad flat tooth had been bent round upon itself to form a

tube. The tube is open below and behind, in the curve, by a little

slit. Above, it is open, and rests upon a tiny bag connected with a

gland that corresponds to a gland in man for the secretion of saliva;

but which, in the present case, secretes a poison. The fang, when out of

use, is bent and hidden in a fleshy case; in feeding, it is rarely used.

The viper catches for himself his birds or mice, after the manner of a

harmless serpent. But, when hurt or angered, he throws back his neck,

drops his fang ready for service, bites, and withdraws his head

immediately. The fang in penetrating, of necessity, was pressed upon the

little bag of poison at its root, and forced a drop along the tube into

the wound. After a few bites, the bag becomes exhausted, and the adder

must wait for a fresh secretion. The poison has no taste or smell, and

may be swallowed with impunity, if there be no raw surface in the mouth,

or sore upon the throat, or in the stomach. It is only through a wound

that it can act like poison. The bite of an adder in this country never

yet proved fatal; but, according to the health of the person bitten, and

according to the greater or less heat of the weather (for in very hot

weather a more active poison is secreted), the wound made will be more

or less severe. It is advisable to get out of an adder's way.

All the remaining reptiles in this country are two species of Frog, two

species of Toad, and four Newts. They are not only most absolutely

harmless, but, the frogs, at any rate, and toads, are ministers to man;

and they belong to a class of animals more interesting than any other,

perhaps, in the whole range of natural history. We are all well

acquainted with the common frog, whose grander name is _Rana

temporaria._ We see it--and it is to be feared some of us kill it--in

our gardens, among strawberry-beds and damp vegetation. But, whereas

frogs feed upon those slugs and insects which are in the habit of

pasturing upon our plants, and are themselves indebted to us for not a

grain of vegetable matter, we ought by all means to be grateful to them.

So industrious are frogs in slug-hunting, that it would be quite worth

while to introduce them as sub-gardeners upon our flower-beds. In

catching insects, the frog suddenly darts out his tongue, which, at the

hinder part, is loose, and covered with a gummy matter. The insect is

caught, and the tongue returned with wonderful rapidity. The frog, when

it is first hatched, has the constitution of a fish: it is purely

aquatic; has a fish's heart, a fish's circulation, and a fish's gills.

The tadpole swims as a fish does--by the movement, side-ways, of its

tail. For the unassisted eye, and still more for the microscope, what

spectacle can be more marvelous than the gradual process of change by

which this tiny fish becomes a reptile? Legs bud; the fish-like gills

dwindle by a vital process of absorption; the fish-like air-bladder

becomes transmuted, as by a miracle, into the celled structure of lungs;

the tail grows daily shorter, not broken off, but absorbed; the heart

adds to its cells; the fish becomes a reptile as the tadpole changes to

a frog. The same process we observe in toads; and it is also the same in

our newts, excepting that in newts the tail remains. There is no

parallel in nature to this marvelous and instructive metamorphosis.

The perfectly-formed frog does not live of necessity in water, or near

it, but requires damp air occasionally. It breathes by lungs, as we have

said; but, as it has no ribs, there is no chest to heave mechanically.

The frog's air has to be swallowed, to be gulped down into the lungs.

That is not possible unless the mouth is shut; and, therefore, as we

might suffocate a man by keeping his mouth shut, so we should suffocate

a frog by keeping his mouth open. Yet we should not suffocate him

instantly; we should disable the lungs; but, in this class of animals

the whole skin is a breathing surface. A frog has lived a month after

his lungs had been extracted. All respiratory surfaces, like the inside

of our own lungs, can act only when they are relaxed and moist. That is

the reason why a frog's skin is always moist, and why a frog requires

moist air. It does not need this constantly, because, when moisture is

abundant, there is a bag in which it stores up superfluity of water, to

be used in any day of need. It is this water--pure and clear--which

frogs or toads expel when they are alarmed by being handled. Is not

enough said here, to rescue frogs from our contempt? We may add, that

they are capable of understanding kindness--can be tamed. Frogs

hybernate under the mud of ponds, where they lie close together, in a

stratum, till the spring awakens them to a renewal of their lives and

loves. They lay a vast number of eggs, at the bottom of the water; and

the multitudes of young frogs that swarm upon the shore when their

transformation is; complete, has given rise to many legends of a shower

of frogs. These multitudes provide food for many animals, serpents, as

we have seen, birds, fish. And the survivors are our friends.

The other species of frog found in this country is the Edible Frog

(_Rana esculenta_). It has for a long time had a colony in Foulmire Fen,

in Cambridgeshire, although properly belonging to a continental race. It

differs from our common frog in wanting a dark mark that runs from eye

to shoulder, and in having, instead of it, a light mark--a streak--from

head to tail along the centre of the back. The male is a more portentous

croaker than our own familiar musicians, by virtue of an air-bladder on

each cheek, into which air is forced, and in which it vibrates

powerfully during the act of croaking. This kind of frog is always in or

near the water, and being very timid, plunges out of sight if any one

approaches.

These are our frogs; as for our two Toads, they are by no means less

innocent. They are the Common Toad, by style and title _Bufo vulgaris,_

and a variety of the Natter Jack Toad, to be found on Blackheath, and in

many places about London, and elsewhere. The toad undergoes

transformations like the frog. It is slower in its movements, and less

handsome in appearance: similar in structure. There is a somewhat

unpleasant secretion from its skin, a product of respiration. There is

nothing about it in the faintest degree poisonous. It is remarkably

sensible of kindness; more so than the frog. Examples of tame toads are

not uncommon. Stories are told of the discovery of toads alive, in

blocks of marble, where no air could be; but, there has been difficulty,

hitherto, in finding one such example free from the possibility of

error. It may be found, however, that toads can remain for a series of

years torpid. It has been proved that snails, after apparent death of

fifteen years, have become active on applying moisture. A proof equally

distinct is at present wanting in the case of toads. The toad, like

other reptiles, will occasionally cast its skin. The old skin splits

along the back, and gradually parts, until it comes off on each side,

with a little muscular exertion on the toad's part. Then, having rolled

his jacket up into a ball, he eats it!

No reptiles remain now to be mentioned, but four species of Newt. These

little creatures are abundant in our ponds and ditches, and some are

most falsely accused of being poisonous. They are utterly harmless.

Their transformations, their habits, their changes of skin, their laying

of eggs, can easily be watched by any who will keep them in a miniature

pond. A large pan of water, with sand and stones at the bottom, decayed

vegetable matter for food, and a few living water-plants, extracted from

their native place, will keep a dozen newts in comfort. The water-plants

are needed, because a newt prefers to lay her egg upon a leaf. She

stands upon it, curls it up with her hind legs, and puts an egg between

the fold, where it remains glued. These being our reptiles, are they

proper objects of abhorrence? At this season they are all finishing

their winter nap. In a few weeks they will come among us, and then, when

"the songs, the stirring air,

The life re-orient out of dust,

Cry through the sense to hearten trust

In that which made the world so fair"--

may we not permit our hearts to be admonished by the reptiles also?

[From Leigh Hunt's Journal.]

A DREAM, AND THE INTERPRETATION THEREOF.

They stood by her bedside--the father and mother of the maiden--and

watched her slumbers. For she had returned weary from Seville, after a

long absence from this her Lisbon home. They had not gazed on that fair

innocent face for many a month past; and _they_, too, smiled, and

pressed each the other's hand as they marked a radiant smile playing

round the mouth of the sleeper. It was a smile brimful of happiness--the

welling-up of a heart at perfect peace. And it brought gladness to the

hearts of the parents, who-would fain have kissed the cheek of their

gentle girl, but refrained, lest it should break the spell--lest even a

father's and a mother's kiss should dull the blessedness of the dreamer.

So sleep on, Luise! and smile ever as thou sleepest--though it be the

sleep of death.

These people were poor in worldly goods, but rich in the things of home

and heart. Luise, the first-born, had been staying with a Spanish

relative, who had taken charge of her education, and had now come back

to her native Lisbon "for good." Three younger children there

were--blithe, affectionate prattlers--whose glee at the recovery of

Luise had been so exuberant, so boisterous, that they were now sent to

play in the neighboring vineyards, that they might not disturb their

tired sister's repose.

Long played that smile upon her face; and never were the two gazers

tired of gazing, and of smiling as they gazed. Luise, they thought, had

seemed a little sad as well as weary when she alighted at the dear

familiar door. But this smile was so full of joy unspeakable, so fraught

with beatific meaning, so reflective of beatific vision, that it laughed

their fears away, and spoke volumes where the seeming sorrow had not

spoken even words.

The shrill song of a mule-driver passing by the window aroused the

sleeper. The smile vanished, and as she started up and looked hastily

and inquiringly around, a shade of mingled disappointment and

bewilderment gathered darkly on her brow.

"You must turn and go to sleep again, my child," whispered the mother.

"I wish Pedro were not so proud of his voice, and then you might still

be dreaming of pleasant things."

"I _was_ dreaming, then?" said Luise, somewhat sadly. "I thought it was

real, and it made me _so_ happy! Ah, if I could dream it again, and

again--three times running, you know--till it became true!"

"What was it, Luise?" asked her father. "We must know what merry thought

made you so joyful. It will be a dream worth knowing, and, therefore,

worth telling."

"Not at present," interrupted his wife. "Let her get some more rest; and

then, when she is thoroughly refreshed after such a tedious journey, she

will make us all happy with realities as well as dreams."

"And are dreams never realities?" asked the girl, with a sigh.

"Child! child! if we're going to be philosophical, and all that, we

shall never get you to sleep again. Don't talk any more, my Luise; but

close your eyes, and see if _you_ can't realize a dream; that will be

the best answer to your question."

"I can't go to sleep again," she answered. "See, I'm quite awake, and

it's no use trying. And with the sun so high too! No; you shall send me

to bed an hour or two earlier to-night, and to-morrow morning will find

me as brisk as a bee. I've so much to hear, and so much to tell, that

to sleep again before dusk is out of the question."

So she arose; and they went all three and sat down in the little garden.

Luise eyed eagerly every flower and every fruit-tree, and had something

to say about every change since she had been there last. But ever and

anon she would look earnestly into the faces of her parents--and never

without something like a tear in her large lustrous eyes.

Of course, they questioned her upon this. And she, who had never

concealed a thought or a wish from _them_, told them in her own frank,

artless way, why she looked sorrowful when she first saw them, after a

prolonged separation, and how it was that, in her sleep, thoughts had

visited her which were messengers of peace and gladness--whose message

it had saddened her to find, on waking, but airy and unreal.

At Seville she had been as happy as kindness and care could make one so

far from and so fond of home. But a childish fancy, she said, had

troubled her--childish she knew, and a thing to be ashamed of, but

haunting her none the less--visiting her sleeping and waking hours; a

feeling it was of dejection at the idea of her parents growing old, and

of change and chance breaking up the wonted calm of her little household

circle. That the march of Time should be so irresistible, that his

flight could not be stayed or slackened by pope or kaiser, that his

decrees should be so immutable, his destiny so inexorable, and that the

youngest must soon cease to be young, and the middle-aged become old--or

die! this was the thought that preyed on her very soul. She could not

endure the conviction that her own father must one day walk with a less

elastic step, and smile on her with eyes ever loving indeed, but more

and more dimmed with age--and that her own mother must one day move to

and fro with tottering gait, and speak with the tremulous accents of

those old people who, it seemed to Luise, could never have been children

at all. It was a weak, fantastic thought, this; but she could not master

it, nor escape its presence.

And when she met them on the threshold of the beloved home--ah, the

absentee's rapid glance saw a wrinkle on her father's cheek that was new

to her, and it saw a clustering of gray hairs on her mother's brow,

where all had been raven black when Luise departed for Seville. Poor

Luise! The sorrows of her young heart were enlarged. Time had not been

absent with the pensive absentee.

True, he had stolen no charm from her little playmates. Carlos was a

brighter boy than ever; and as for that merry Zingara-like Isabel, and

the yet merrier Manuel--they were not a whit changed, unless for the

better, in look, and manner, and love. Still the too-sensitive Luise was

hurt at the thought that they could not always be children--that Time

was bent on effacing her earliest and dearest impressions, removing from

her home that ideal of family relationship to which all her affections

clung with passionate entreaty. Whatever the future might; have to

reveal of enjoyment and endearment, the past could never be lived over

again; the past could never be identified with things present and things

to come; and it was to the past that her heart was betrothed--a past

that had gone the way of all living, and left her as it were widowed and

not to be comforted.

"And now I will tell you my dream," said poor foolish Luise; "and you

will see why I looked happy in sleeping, and sorry in waking. I thought

I was sitting here in the garden--crying over what I have been telling

you--and suddenly an angel stood before me, and bade me weep not.

Strange as was his form, and sunny in its exceeding brightness, I was

not frightened; for his words were very, very gentle, and his look too

full of kindness to give me one thrill of alarm. And he said that what I

had longed for so much should be granted; that my father and mother

should _not_ grow old, nor Carlos cease to be the boy he now is, nor

Isabel grow up into a sedate woman, nor Manuel lose the gay childishness

for which we all pet him, nor I feel myself forsaking the old familiar

past, and launching into dim troublous seas of perpetual change. He

promised that we should one and all be freed from the great law of time;

and that as we are this day parents and children, so we should continue

forever--while vicissitude and decay must still have sway in the great

world at large. Can you wonder that I smiled? Or that it pained me when

I awoke, and found that the bright angel and the sweet promise were

only--a dream?"...

There was no lack of conversation that evening in that Lisbon cottage.

All loved Luise; and she, in the midst of so many artless tokens of

affection and of triumph at her return, forgot all the morbid fancies

that had given rise to her dream, and was as light-hearted, and as

light-footed, as in days of yore. All gave themselves up to the reality

of present gladness; every voice trembled with the music of joy; every

eye looked and reflected love. There was no happier homestead that

evening in Lisbon, nor in the world.

But ere many hours, Lisbon itself was tossing and heaving with the

throes of dissolution. The sea arose tumultuously against the tottering

city; the ground breathed fire, and quaked, and burst asunder; the

houses reeled and fell, and thousands of inhabitants perished in the

fall. Among them, at one dire swoop, the tenants of that happy cottage

home. Together did these mortals put on immortality.

And thus was the dream fulfilled.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO'S MORE.[7]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIAE INCEPTVS.

"Nulla dies sine linea."

This morn, hinting to Bess that she was lacing herselfe too straightlie,

she brisklie replyed, "One w'd think 'twere as great meritt to have a

thick waiste as to be one of y'e earlie Christians!"

These humourous retorts are ever at her tongue's end; and, albeit, as

Jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene teazing him, "Bess,

thy witt is stupidnesse;" yet, for one who talks soe much at random, no

one can be more keene when she chooseth. Father sayd of her, half

fondly, half apologeticallie to Erasmus, "Her wit has a fine subtletie

that eludes you almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it

really is." To which, Erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had

y'e rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and never on

bodilie defects.

Hum!--I wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. I know,

indeede, Erasmus calls me a forward girl. Alas! that may be taken in two

senses.

* * * * *

Grievous work, overnighte, with y'e churning. Nought w'd persuade

Gillian but that y'e creame was bewitched by Gammer Gurney, who was

dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and

cursing. At alle events, y'e butter w'd not come; but mother was

resolute not to have soe much goode creame wasted; soe sent for Bess and

me, Daisy and Mercy Giggs, and insisted on our churning in turn till

y'e butter came, if we sate up all nighte for't. 'Twas a hard saying;