CHAPTER IX.

The eye of the venerable accuser, regarded the face of the speaker with

a sad and touching solemnity; but at this moment, the little girl who

had before accompanied him, was conducted into the foreground by the

Archbishop. She bore in her hand a sarbacane,—seemingly of brass, long

and narrow like a wand, and crowned, at the extremity, by a small globe

or bulb of the same material. The length of this instrument was fully

six feet or more. The old man took it into his hands, and having

unscrewed a part of the bulb—which seemed a mere sheathing of brass, he

discovered beneath it another globe, similar, in shape and size, to that

which had been removed; but the inner bulb was manufactured of glass, of

a whiteness equally chrystallic and beautiful. He then took from beneath

his robes a little box of ebony, which he unlocked, and from which he

produced a head-piece, the face of which, instead of being hard steel or

iron, was of glass also, very thin, and quite transparent, through which

every muscle and motion of the features might be seen with the greatest

distinctness. To the thoughtless vulgar, such a shield seemed only a

mockery of that more solid furniture of metal, which, in those days,

thoroughly encased the warrior for battle. The inference, accordingly,

was very general, that if by any possibility, the accuser succeeded in

the combat, he would be indebted solely to supernatural agency for his

good fortune. His wand of brass, with its chrystal bulb—his glassy

vizor and helmet,—were only regarded as designed to divert the scrutiny

from the more secret agency which he employed.

“I am ready,” said the accuser.

“Hast thou prayed?” demanded his enemy in a mocking fashion. “If thou

hast not, get thee to thy knees quickly, and renounce the devil whom

thou servest. Verily, but little time is left thee.”

“I have prayed and confessed to the Holy Father. Do thou likewise, and

make thyself humble and contrite. Repent thee,—for, of a truth, my

lord, if the King forbid not this combat, thou art doomed this day, to

go to judgment.”

The heart of the accused was hardened within him. He replied with a hiss

of defiance and contempt to this last appeal; at the same moment he

declared himself in readiness also. They were then withdrawn from the

presence for a brief space, and were severally approached by their

friends and attendants. The Archbishop, and the King’s favorite went

aside with the accuser, and when the latter returned to the arena, in

order to the combat, the Archbishop led away with him the little girl,

upon whom, at parting, the old man bestowed many caresses, accompanied

by many tears. The spectators were all very much moved by this

tenderness, and now began to regard him as one set apart for

sacrifice—doomed to be separated forever, and by a violent death, from

the object of his affections. And when the opponents stood, at length,

confronting each other—with none to go between—awaiting only the word

for the combat _à l’outrance_;—when they regarded the strong

soldier-like frame, and the warlike bearing of the accused—beheld the

ease with which he strode the lists, and displayed his weapon;—and

contrasted this image of dire necessity and war, with the feeble, though

erect form of his venerable accuser,—habited in vestments like a priest

or woman—with the simple unmeaning wand within his grasp, and the frail

mask of brittle chrystal upon his face—a loud murmur of regret and

commisseration prevailed among the multitude. But this murmur was soon

quieted by the cry of the master of the tourney—

“Laissez aller!”

Then followed a painful silence.

“Now, sorcerer,” cried the knight, raising his glittering sword, and

advancing as deliberately and with the confident manner of the

executioner. The aged accuser simply presented the bulbous extremity of

his wand, and before the accused could smite, the frail glass was

shivered against the bars of his enemy’s mouth-piece. At this moment the

knight was seen slightly to recoil; but it was for a moment only; in the

next instant he darted forward, and with a fierce cry, seemed about to

strike. The old man, in the meantime, had suffered his wand to fall upon

the ground. He made no further effort—offered no show of fear or fly,

but with arms folded, seemed in resignation to await the death-stroke of

his enemy. But while the weapon of the man of war was in air, and

seemingly about to descend, he was seen to pause, while his form

suddenly became rigid. A quick and awful shudder seemed to pass through

his whole frame. Thus, for a second, he stood paralyzed, and then a

thin, mistlike vapor, which might be called smoke, was seen to creep out

from various parts of his frame, followed by a thin but oily liquor,

that now appeared oozing through all the crevices of his armor. His arm

dropped nervelessly by his side; the sword fell from the incapable grasp

of his gauntleted hands, and in an inconceivable fraction of time, he

himself with all his bulk, sunk down upon the earth—falling, not at

length, prostrate, either backward or forward, but in a heap, even upon

the spot which he had occupied when standing; and as if every bone had

suddenly been withdrawn which had sustained them, the several parts of

his armor became detached, and rolled away—his helmet, his gorget, his

cuirass, his greaves, his gloves—disclosing beneath a dark, discolored

mass—a mere jellied substance, in which bones and muscles were already

decomposed and resolved into something less than flesh. Above this heap

might be seen a still bright and shining eye, which, for a single

second, seemed to retain consciousness and life, as if the soul of the

immortal being had lingered in this beautiful and perfect orb, reluctant

to the last. But in a moment it, too, had disappeared—all the

brightness swallowed up and stifled in the little cloud of vapor which

now trembled, heaving up from the mass which but a moment before had

been a breathing, a burning, an exulting spirit. A cold horror

overspread the field, followed by a husky and convulsive cry, as from a

drowning multitude. The people gazed upon each other and upon the awful

heap in unspeakable terror. It was annihilation which had taken place

before them. Awful was the silence that prevailed for several minutes; a

vacant consternation freezing up the very souls of the spectators. But

the reaction was tremendous.

“Seize upon the sorcerer! Tear him in pieces!” was the cry from a

thousand voices. This was followed by a wild rush, like that of an

incoming sea struggling to overwhelm the headlands. The barriers were

broken down, the cries swelled into a very tempest, and the mammoth

multitude rolled onward, with souls on fire, eyes glaring with tiger

fury, and hands outstretched, clutching spasmodically at their victim.

Their course had but one centre, where the old man calmly stood. There

he kept his immovable station, calm, firm, subdued, but stately. How

will he avert his fate—how stay this ocean of souls, resolute to

overwhelm him. I trembled—I gasped with doubt and apprehension. But I

was spared the further contemplation of horrors which I could no longer

bear to witness, by the very intensity of the interest which my

imagination had conceived in the subject. There is a point beyond which

the mortal nature cannot endure. I had reached that point, and was

relieved. I awakened, and started into living consciousness, my face

covered with clammy dews, my hair upright and wet, my whole frame

agitated with the terrors which were due wholly to the imagination.

* * * * *

It would be easy, perhaps, to account for such a dream, assuming, as we

did at the outset, that the mental faculties never know abeyance—that

the thought never sleeps. Any speculation in regard to the transition

periods in English history, would give the requisite material. From a

survey of the powers of physical manhood to those rival and superior

powers which follow from the birth of art and science, the step is

natural enough, and the imagination might well delight itself by putting

them in contrast and opposition. But we have no space left for further

discussion.

* * * * *

REQUIEM.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Forget the dead, the past? O yet

There are ghosts who may take revenge for it;

Memories that make the heart a tomb,

Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom

And with ghostly whisper tell

That joy, once lost, is pain.

—SHELLEY.

When the warring voice of storm is heard

Across the sea goes the summer bird,

But back again the wanderer flies

When April’s azure drapes the skies,

With carol sweet

The morn to greet,

But the radiant girl whom we deplore

To the bower of Home will return no more.

Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, now

Kisses with mildewed lip her brow;

Her heart is colder than the rill

When winter bids its tongue be still;

Yet Spring will come,

With song and bloom,

And unchain the silvery feet of waves,

But break no bonds in voiceless graves.

Wasting away with a sad decline,

Far from these northern hills of pine,

She would wander back to them in dreams,

To hear the roar of their rushing streams;

And often spoke

Of a favorite oak

On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,

And under which, a child, she played.

When beat no more her snow-white breast,

Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,

Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,

Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;

And strangers gave

To our dead a grave,

Sprinkling above the frail remains

Mould, moistened by autumnal rains.

Ah! since she died a wilder wail

Is uttered by the midnight gale,

And voices, mourning something gone,

Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;

And sadness broods

Above the woods

Moaning as if endowed with soul,

For through their depths she loved to stroll.

The lute that answered when she sung

Old airs, at twilight, is unstrung—

She wakes where the _sainted_ dwell alone

An instrument of richer tone;

And angel’s smile

On her the while,

And to garland her sinless brow of snow

The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.

* * * * *

ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Happiness, it appears to us, is _a_ cause, as well as _the_ effect of

virtue. When the heart is warmed with rational enjoyment, it is

naturally grateful to those that promote the pleasure. When it is

excited to the indulgence of generous feelings by the operation of

kindness in others, it pours out those feelings upon all within its

influence. It does not confine the reflection of pleasure to those from

whom the pleasure springs; but seeks to dispense it upon all within its

influence, as the planets, receiving their light from the sun, dispense

that light to all the stars in the system. And the effort to promote the

enjoyment of others—the true rational enjoyment of others—is a virtue.

Those, therefore, who create an occasion for such social intercourse as

produces rational pleasure, are promoting, in some degree, the cause of

virtue.

It has been a common remark that there were not enough holydays in this

country—general holydays—those that are _holy_ or sacred to _all_. We

have indeed the CHRISTMAS, but that day, though it would seem to be

commended to the observance of all Christians, yet is not, for reasons

well understood by most of our readers, a general observance; not from

any want of respect to the event which the day is intended to celebrate,

but partly for a disagreement as to the mode or the time of the

celebration—and what is worse, perhaps, while one part of our

countrymen have grown up in a sort of doctrinal disrelish of any

celebration of the day, another part has extended its celebration

through many days, in a way which deprived the whole of all ideas of

sanctity, and gave to the rejoicings an appearance of those orgies which

paganism devoted to the honor of some impure divinity and the

gratification of some unclean appetite.

Christmas, it may be remarked, however, is gradually coming into a more

appropriate appreciation; and, throughout the length and breadth of the

land there is a growing disposition to honor to the day, and to make it

a season of renewed thankfulness to God, and of the exercise of

good-will _to_, and among, men. So much the better, it is one day

redeemed and set apart for the exercise of high and holy feelings, and

the indulgence of domestic intercourse, enlarged by the temporary union

of various branches of the family-tree with the fruits thereof.

WASHINGTON’S BIRTH-DAY was once more generally celebrated than it is

now; and even now when a celebration is had on that day, so sacred to

the dearest recollections of patriotism, and the sons of freedom

assemble together, Satan comes also among them to embitter the occasion

with the gall of party feeling, infused into every toast which is

offered, and squeezed into every glass that is emptied. So that

Washington’s birth-day has ceased to be a general holyday, or rather to

be celebrated with that community of feeling which makes a true holyday.

THE FOURTH OF JULY, one would suppose, should be set apart for universal

celebration wherever an American can be found, or wherever national

freedom can be appreciated. But the day, even when celebrated without

reference to party politics is not inclusive. Patriotism has in it a

dignified reserve which asks for a _solemnity_ on the national

birth-day; and so instead of a general rejoicing, there is a special and

limited celebration—and when the celebration falls into party hands,

then the day is neither _holy_ nor sanctified. At best the Fourth of

July must be celebrated with pomp, show, military display, bonfires, and

eating and drinking. Appropriate as all these may be, they are not the

ingredients for a real general holyday in which the fancy, the feelings,

and the affections find play, and gravity is dismissed to the next sun

rise.

We are not referring of course to SUNDAY, and other days set apart for

religious services; they are, as they should be, made specially

referable to our connection with, our dependence upon, and our duty and

obligations to, our God. May they be kept sacred from all worldly

intrusion, and by their holy character lend a sanctifying influence unto

all the other days of the week, so that whether we eat or drink, whether

we laugh or cry, whether mourn or rejoice, (for there is a time for each

of these,) we shall do all with a solemn deference to the duties which

we owe our Maker.

There is a movement, or rather there has been a movement toward the

restoration of a _holyday_, in which childhood and youth have a direct

interest, and manhood and age may find, if not a direct, at least, a

reflected pleasure; and we shall think better of the age in which we

live for the restoration to homage and joyful devotion of good old St.

Valentine of blessed memory. Who, whether he was a bachelor or a

widower, gave encouragement to the good work of courtship, and became

canonized, if not for the miracles he wrought upon the bodies of his

devotees, at least for his wonderful work upon the hearts of those who

knelt at his shrine. It has always been a matter of regret that the

proceedings of the sacred conclave in which Valentine obtained

canonization were not made public. We are sure that the cardinal who

took the part of Devil’s advocate in the trial of the saint’s claim to

the honors, must have labored hard if he meant to obtain future fees;

for, of all the antagonism to real sanctity nothing is equal to hatred,

and of all the principles which the Evil Spirit would oppose nothing can

equal affection. No one could get Satan’s permission to promote loving

feelings.

We are glad, on more accounts than one, that St. Dominic was not

selected, and even St. Augustine. They had their respective merits and

deserve special consideration, but dear old St. Valentine is commended

to the gentler affections of all, by the loveliness and beauty which his

own purity and grace threw around the affections of the human heart, and

the loftiness which his own goodness gave to the character of earthly

love, assimilating that passion with our affections for things divine,

and showing the intimate connection between the two—the difference

being only in degree consequent upon the objects.

Valentine was one of the early Christians; whether he was a bishop or

only a presbyter, it is now difficult to ascertain; and, truth to say,

it does not make a button’s difference, for he would not be the better

for his mitre nor the worse for his stole in the good work of love to

which he devoted himself, and for which he is now distinguished and

remembered. He was a good man and full of affection, and so Claudius

caused him to be put to death, and for good reason too, we think, at

least on principles of consistency—what could the murderer find to

admire in the mild and lovely character of Valentine, and what but

exposure to the husband of Messalina must be the chaste and affectionate

teaching of the apostle of pure affection.

We shall be told, we suppose, one day in February was set apart by the

pagan Romans for the celebration of their Lupercalia, when young men

drew from a box the name of some female favorite for the year. Well,

what then? Shall we not thank the returning sense of the people that

installs a Christian saint in the niche into which the pagans had thrust

their god Pan, who, by his ugly face and hideous howls, could drive away

wolves? Do we not all owe a tribute of thanks to those who instituted

the delightful festival of St. Valentine to supply the beastly orgies of

the Luperci? There is indeed some similarity in the merriment. The Roman

youth ran through the street with thongs, and the Christian youth hasten

with more agreeable presents; but in both ancient and modern times it

seems that the females were anxious, for various reasons, to be the

objects of the merriment.

Before we issue another number of Graham, the high and the augmenting

festival of St. Valentine will be celebrated. Celebrated this year, we

venture to assert, with a pomp and circumstance very far beyond that of

any other February since the _office_ of Juno gave a name to the month.

Celebrated in a way to demonstrate the growing estimation in which the

kindly feelings are held.

This will be as it should be. A day has been found in which all may have

an occasion for present pleasure; some (and most) to be active in the

circulation of those delicate compositions or handy-works which express

regard and sometimes promote affection; others will look back upon the

years past, and remember with a silent tear how the beautiful and

beloved ones, that made them happy by the transmission or the acceptance

of the token, are now mouldering in the earth, insensible to all those

affections which once made them happy, unconscious even of the regret

which their departure created and their absence keeps alive. Mournful

indeed is it to take from the secret ark, where affection has enshrined

it, the emblem of a love that death has severed; and still more painful

is it to gaze on the return of the anniversary of proffered vows, upon

that pledge which time never redeemed, and to feel that she who might

have been happy in ministering to your happiness, is miserable in a

union (the only point of union) with another.

We saw a lad conveying to the residence of the loved one the Valentine,

whose form and decoration told of its donor—no record of name was made,

nor was it necessary to the receiver—none was _politic_ for the

witnesses. There was a secret love—a love unannounced to the world, yet

not unknown. The giver and the receiver of the Valentine were married

before July—yet not to each other. That Valentine was the cause of

misery. The new husband knew that she loved another, yet persisted in

his courtship, and with the influence of his wealth over the mother,

procured marriage. He knew during the honeymoon all that had ever

occurred, and yet was content with his winnings—the accidental

discovery of the Valentine, though not where it could have been hoarded

away, as if of value, not placed as a memento of affection, but as if

thrown aside, because useless, and left as forgotten—the accidental

discovery of that Valentine awakened the bitterness of jealousy—not

jealousy of honor, but that contemptible narrowness of selfish esteem,

which demands that the eyes of a wife should always _have been_

closed—while the eyes and appetites of the husband _are_ always roving.

Was the Valentine then an evil? Nay—rather would not any object, or

rather no object, in two months have roused the unreasonableness of the

discoverer? Where there is much filth, spontaneous combustion will save

the application of the lighted match.

One who is reading the preceding paragraph while we are preparing for

_this_, tells us she obtained the best husband in the world by means of

a Valentine, and she has never forgotten the saint’s day since. It

would, probably, be more germain to the matter to say, that her husband

got the best wife in the country by a Valentine—though on second

thought, she may be right—women generally know best, and remember most.

We repeat our expression of pleasure, that there has arisen such a

general devotion to good St. Valentine, and we are sure that regard to

that canonized Christian’s memory will enlarge the spirit of true

devotion, so that if we had another saint in the calendar who stood in

the same relation to the pagan _Cupid_ which Valentine does to the

Luperci, that saint would find his shrine greatly enriched by those who

commenced their devotion on the 14th of February.

We are glad to see that the regard to good St. Valentine is presenting

of works, and that the devotion does not pass away in the breath that

utters vows; but, beside the incense that springs from the burning

thurible, there are _offerings_ laid upon the altar—rich, tasteful,

elaborate, simple, magnificent or humble. Every kind may be had, and

will be had from those who minister to the wants of the Valentinans, as

of old did the sellers of doves in the temple provide the means of

sacrifice to the unprepared devotee.

St. Valentine’s day then is becoming, nay, it has become, a national

holyday—one that brings smiles of pleasure to the young of both sexes,

and the joy of recollected pleasure to the old. It is a festival in

which the feelings need no stimulant, and in which it asks no boisterous

expression. Beautiful is the anticipation of such a season. Some hearts

beat quickly in the thought of what may be sent, and who will send it.

Some hopes will be excited by the manner of reception—all will be

joyful in preparing to give; all will be gratified in examining the

gift. Not all—one at least will go to the shrine where affection has

deposited the gift—and as she drops a tear upon the cherished memorial,

will send her thoughts far, far upward to the _home_ of the giver—or

backward to the hour in which it was given. Yet this is joy—this

sanctified Sabbath of the young heart seems doubly hallowed when its

light is reflected from the memorial of affection, an affection made

sure in _one_ by the icy hand of death; fixed undyingly in the other, by

a consecration which no change can divert from its hallowing purpose.

* * * * *

THE PAST.

BY MISS CAROLINE E. SUTTON.

When the young bird goes from her early home,

Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly,

Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle tone

And a truthful love in his deep dark eye—

Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope,

And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last—

She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth,

To those who were dear in the past.

The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,

In fancy revisits his dear native cot;

He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,

And the cowslips that brighten the spot.

He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,

The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,

The half-open window that looks on the mill,

And the garden where honey-bees hum.

And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,

His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow;

His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shore

He bade her remember her vow;

His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam,

Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast—

But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream,

And he sighs for the joys of the past.

Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with all

That God in his bounty bestows,

We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall,

And the tear-drop unconsciously flows.

While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes.

A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast,

If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streams

That were lovely and loved in the past.

Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to live

With thy precepts divine for my guide,

Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive,

And divest it of folly and pride,

That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent,

When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast—

I can look back with joy to the moments well spent,

And muse with delight on the past.

* * * * *

A SONG.

BY RICHARD WILKE.

Dark clouds are hovering round me

With all their train of care:

A thousand woes surround me,

Drear shadows of despair!

But what are they?—a richer gem

Shines radiant from above:

It throws its sunshine over them,

And oh!—that light is Love!

Then why should cares alarm me,

Though adverse fortune reign?

Why frowns of wo disarm me?

Why sorrow give me pain?

For what are all!—a richer gem

Shines radiant from above:

It throws its sunshine over them,

And oh!—that light is Love!

* * * * *

A RECOLLECTION OF MENDELSSOHN.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

Scarcely a year has elapsed since the musical world has been painfully

moved by the death of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. No loss, which the

divine art has sustained since that of Von Weber, will be so difficult

to replace, and probably no man of genius was ever more sincerely

mourned, _as a man_. He not only possessed that universal sympathy with

humanity, which is so noble a characteristic of the highest genius, but,

unlike many great men, whose very isolation of intellect creates an

atmosphere about them which the world is awed from seeking to penetrate,

the familiar scope of his warm nature descended to an equality with all

he met, and though all who named him as a composer, may not have

understood or appreciated him, all who knew him as a man, could not

choose but love him. The career of genius, unhappily, is not often

surrounded at the onset with the worldly advantages, nor watched and

cherished with the fostering care, which fell to his lot. His nature was

never embittered by early struggles with an unrecognizing world, nor was

his natural faith in man shaken by a keen encounter with selfishness and

persecution. The development of his moral nature thus calmly ripened in

harmony with his mind, each sustaining and ennobling the other. The

contemplation of such a character is in itself exalting, and seems to

give his memory a more than ordinary consecration.

At this time, when we are still constantly reminded of his loss—when

those to whom his works have a voice and a power never mention his name

but with the unconscious sadness of a reverent heart, all which may help

to recall his living image possesses a universal interest. I trust,

therefore, that the relation of an interview, the recollection of which

is among those hours, for whose bestowal I am most grateful to the past,

will need no apology. On the contrary, it is rather the discharge of

that duty which we owe to art, as all her worshipers will acknowledge.

A winter’s residence in Frankfort, which of late years is somewhat

distinguished for the excellence of its opera, and the high degree of

culture attained by its various musical unions, sufficed to make me

familiar with many of the great works of the German composers.

Fortunately, it was not until after I had learned to feel the

all-pervading soul of beauty which inspired Mozart, and paused in awe on

the borders of Beethoven’s vast and solemn realm, that I heard the music

of Mendelssohn. Thus prepared, in part, the simple and severe grandeur

of his style impressed me with a consciousness of its power, though I

could not always grasp the spirit of the sound, and follow it back to

the sublime conception—as, when a schoolboy, I first opened the pages

of Milton, and read with wonder and delight what it would have puzzled

me exceedingly to explain. Mendelssohn’s music is of a more purely

intellectual character than that of any modern composer, and his

greatest works are those which but few thoroughly appreciate. While, in

his “Songs without Words,” and the simple grandeur of his sacred

melodies, he comes nearer to the general sympathy, his “Walpurgisnacht,”

and “Fingal’s Cave,” creations of startling power and sublimity, which

stand alone in the character of their expression, are rarely produced,

except in those German cities where the taste for music has not been led

away from the standard set up by the schools of Bach and Hayden, by the

voluptuous melodies of the modern Italian opera. Frankfort is one of

these cities, and I was fortunate enough to hear the Walpurgisnacht

performed by the Cæcilien-Verein, or Society of St. Cecilia. The poetry

of Goethe and the music of Mendelssohn!—it was a sublime marriage of

genius. The works of the latter are as full of wild and stormy pictures

as those of the former, and he has described in music the crags and

breakers of the bleak Hebrides, with as much power as Goethe exhibits,

in painting the savage scenery of the Brocken.

Mendelssohn was living in Frankfort during the winter I spent there, and

I was naturally anxious to see the face of a great man, whom there was

no probability of my ever being near again, in the course of my

wanderings. One sunny day in March, when all the population of Frankfort

seemed to have turned out upon the budding promenades which belt the

city, and the broad quays along the Main, to enjoy the first premonition

of spring, I went on my usual afternoon stroll with my friend and

countryman, W——, whose glowing talk upon the musical art was quite as

refreshing to me after the day’s study in the gloomy Marktplotz, as were

the blue mountains of Epessart, which are visible from the bridge over

the Main.

There had been a great inundation the week previous, and the cold,

wintry storms which accompanied it, had just given place to sunshine and

milder air. The boatmen upon the flat, clumsy barges which come down

from Würzburg and the upper Main, were loosening their lashings and

preparing to trust themselves upon the swollen waters. The music of

Savoyards and bands of mountain singers was heard in every open space,

and brave, ruddy-looking Tyrolese, wild-eyed Bohemians in their quaint,

national costume, and the men of Suabia and the Black Forest, mingled

with the crowd, till it seemed like a holyday assemblage made up from

all the German provinces. We threaded the motley multitude, finding a

pleasant pastime in reading their faces and costumes, turning rapidly,

as it were, the leaves of a historical picture book.

My eye was finally caught by a man who came toward us on the quay, and

whose face and air were in such striking contrast to those about him,

that my whole attention was at once fixed upon him. He was simply and

rather negligently dressed in dark cloth, with a cravat tied loosely

about his neck. His beard had evidently not been touched for two or

three days, and his black hair was long and frowzed by the wind. His

eyes, which were large, dark and kindling, were directed forward and

slightly lifted, in the abstraction of some absorbing thought, and as he

passed, I heard him singing to himself in a voice deep but not loud, and

yet with a far different tone from that of one who hums a careless air

as he walks. But a few notes caught my ear, yet I remember their sound,

elevated and with that scarcely perceptible vibration which betrays a

feeling below the soul’s surface, as distinctly now as at the time.

W—— grasped my arm quickly and said in a low voice, “Mendelssohn!” I

turned hastily, and looked after him, as he went down the quay,

apparently but half conscious of the stirring scenes around him. I could

easily imagine how the balmy, indolent sensation in the air, so like a

soothing and tranquilizing strain of music, should have led him into the

serene and majestic realm of his own creations.

It was something to have seen a man of genius thus alone, and in

communion with his inspired thoughts, and I could not repress a feeling

of pleasure at the idea of having unconsciously acknowledged the

influences around him, before I knew his name. After this passing

glimpse, this _flash_ of him, however, came the natural desire to see

his features in repose, and obtain some impression of his personal

character. An opportunity soon occurred. The performance of his

“Walpurgisnacht,” by the Cæcilien-Verein, a day or two thereafter,

increased the enthusiasm I had before felt for his works, and full of

the recollection of its sublime Druid choruses, I wrote a few lines to

him, expressive of the delight they had given me, and of my wish to

possess his name in autograph, that I might take to America some token

connected with their remembrance. The next day I received a very kind

note in reply, enclosing a manuscript score of a chorus from the

“Walpurgisnacht.”

Summoning up my courage the next morning, I decided on calling upon him

in person, feeling certain, from the character of his note, that he

would understand the motive which prompted me to take such a liberty. I

had no difficulty in finding his residence in the _Bockenheimer Gasse_,

in the western part of the city. The servant ushered me into a

handsomely furnished room, with a carpet, an unusual thing in German

houses; a grand piano occupied one side of the apartment. These struck

my eye on entering, but my observation was cut short by the appearance

of Mendelssohn. A few words of introduction served to remove any

embarrassment I might have felt on account of my unceremonious call, and

I was soon set entirely at ease by his frank and friendly manner. As he

sat opposite to me, beside a small table, covered with articles of

_vertù_, I was much struck with the high intellectual beauty of his

countenance. His forehead was white, unwrinkled, and expanding above, in

the region of the ideal faculties. His eyes were large, very dark and

lambent with a light that seemed to come through them—like the

phosphorescent gleam on the ocean at midnight. I have observed this

peculiar character of the eye only in men of the highest genius—the

sculptor Powers is another instance in which it has been frequently

remarked. None of the engravings of Mendelssohn which have yet been made

give any idea of the kindling effect which is thus given to his face.

His nose was slightly prominent, and the traces of his Jewish blood were

seen in this, as well as the thin but delicate curve of the upper lip,

and the high cheek-bones. Yet it was the Jewish face softened and

spiritualized, retaining none of its coarser characteristics. The faces

of Jewish youth are of a rare and remarkable beauty, but this is

scarcely ever retained beyond the first period of manhood. In

Mendelssohn, the perpetual youth of spirit, which is the gift of genius

alone, seemed to have kept his features moulded to its expression, while

the approach of maturer years but heightened and strengthened its

character.

He spoke of German music, and told me I should hear it best performed in

Vienna and Berlin. Some remarks on America led him to speak of a grand

Musical Festival, which was then in the course of preparation in New

York. He had received a letter inviting him to assist in it, and said he

would have gladly attended it, but his duty to his family would not

permit of his leaving. He appeared to be much gratified by the

invitation, not only for the personal appreciation which it implied, but

as a cheering sign of progress in the musical art. My friend W——, who

had met with Mendelssohn the summer previous, at the baths of Kronthal,

said that he had expressed much curiosity respecting the native negro

melodies—which, after all, form the only peculiarly national music we

possess—and that he considered some of them exceedingly beautiful and

original.

I did not feel at liberty to intrude long upon the _morning hours_ of a

composer, and took my leave after a short interview. Mendelssohn, at

parting, expressed his warm interest in our country’s progress,

especially in the refined arts, and gave me a kind invitation to call

upon him in whatever German city I should find him. I left Frankfort in

two or three weeks after this, and although I was never afterward

enabled to fulfill my promise and desire, I was often forcibly reminded

of his person and his genius—and never more gratefully than when I

stood beside the marble monument to Sebastian Bach, in the promenades of

Leipzic—raised to the memory of that patriarch of harmony, by the

generosity of Mendelssohn.

* * * * *

JASPER LEECH.

THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH.

The hero of my sketch, Jasper Leech, was, to use the stereotyped

expression, born of poor but honest parents; his infancy exhibited no

remarkable diagnostics, by which to illustrate or establish any

peculiarity of character, saving, perhaps, the simple fact, that with

him the process of weaning was protracted to a curious extent, any

attempt to cut off or diminish the maternal supply being met with

obstinate resistance, in spite of all the ingenious artifices usually

resorted to on such occasions to induce a distaste, still he sucked and

sucked, until the female visiters, one and all, noted it; shameful in a

great fellow like that.

At school, young Jasper was famous for the steady snail-pace at which he

crawled through the rudiments, and also for the extraordinary _penchant_

he evinced for any thing in his proximity which was, or appeared to be,

unattainable at the moment; say that one of his school-mates was in

possession of a new toy, Jasper would first envy him, then covet it,

cunningly waiting the moment when, the novelty being past, the boy was

open to negotiation, then would he chaffer and diplomatize, almost

invariably gaining his desired end. Thus he went on steadily

accumulating, until what with a natural appetite for trading, and a

calculating eye to the profitable side of a bargain, he managed to shut

up the market altogether by exhaustion. The very springtime of life,

which generally passes by in gleesome sport, was to him a period of

anxiety and care; for while his mates were rioting in boisterous play,

he would sit apart, his whole brain wrapped in the maze of

speculation—a _swop_ is in progression, and he must have the advantage.

Thus passed his boyhood; his schooling over, with his strong common

sense undulled by too much book-lore, he was duly inducted into the

mystery of shoe-craft. He served out his time with exemplary diligence,

working leisurely of days that he might keep reserve of strength to

spend the nights for his own profit, thereby saving a considerable sum

from the employment of his over-hours.

Once his own master, he deliberated long what road he should travel in

the pursuit of the blind goddess, invisible as well as blind—that

intangible phantasma which men wear out life and energy in the seeking,

only when found to confess with tears of bitterness how misspent was

time in the attainment.

At last our ambitious friend ventured humbly into trade on his own

account, declaring that should any thing approaching to success crown

his efforts, and that at the end of five or six years he could command a

thousand dollars, he would be the most contented, the happiest fellow on

earth.

He was lucky, curiously lucky; it seemed as though, Midas-like, all he

touched turned to gold; money swept in, so that before he had been three

years in business, instead of the limited one thousand, he was master of

_five_. “Now,” said he to himself, “if I could but make that five _ten_,

I might not only be enabled to enlarge my stock, and thereby increase my

returns, but I think I might even venture to look about for a helpmate

with an equal sum;” for Jasper would just as soon have thought of

investing the best part of his capital in the establishment of a lunatic

asylum, as of marrying a portionless woman.

The sun shone on—in less time than he could possibly have

anticipated—ten thousand was at his command. Very good, thought he;

this, with ten or fifteen thousand more, as a premium for encumbering

myself with a comforter of the snarling sex—for the ungallant Jasper

had a thoroughly mercantile business man’s opinion of the angelic

species—will be sufficient. I must investigate.

So he set out on a tour of the watering-places, and such like

wife-markets, where Cupid, the most wide-awake of auctioneers—it’s a

libel to say he’s blind—knocks the little darlings down to the highest

bidder. Of course, Jasper stopped at the first-class hotels, where he

scrutinized the _habitués_ of the ladies ordinary with uncommon

interest. There’s no use in disguising the fact, he sought not a wife,

but a fortune; in extenuation, allow me to say, he was not at all

singular, there are plenty of those individuals extant, young, tolerably

good-looking fellows, _bien gante_, and redolent of whisker, who linger

about the ladies’ drawing-room, in the faint hope of fascinating

something available, (prudent maternity avoids this class with pious

horror,) middle aged beaux, who dress sedulously, and toady _chaperons_,

carry fans, are always _so_ attentive and so obliging, dine regularly,

and affect a Burgundy decanter, which looks easy circumstanced, but

which the poor waiter is tired of carrying backward and forward,

ticketed some hundred and something.

These animals are generally great scandal-mongers, and always dangerous,

sweet-voiced but adder-tongued, their _modus operandi_ is to poison the

ear of the person addressed, against any other individual, hoping

thereby to elevate their own characters upon the slaughtered heap. Let

no woman suffer such pestilent breath to be a second time breathed

within her hearing.

Jasper, though indefatigable as you may well suppose, met with strange

adventure during his wife-hunt. Pretty women, after short experience, he

avoided utterly, for he found that they were usually too extravagant in

their expectations with regard to _personnel_, and as Jasper could not,

by any stretch of his imagination, fancy that he ranked in the category

of Fredericks and Augustuses, he endeavored to make up the deficiency by

a liberal display of wealth-prefiguring ornament, a kind of strong-box

index, which he shrewdly suspected might tempt some ambitious innocent

to investigate the contents thereof.

Perhaps it would be as well, at this period, as our hero is gotten up at

no small expense, to give a rough pen-and-ink outline of his appearance.

In the first place, he was twenty-eight years old, by his own account;

as he could scarcely be expected to know exactly himself, it’s not to be

wondered at that he and the parish register differed a few years; but

that was of little consequence, for he had an accommodating

peasant-colored complexion, which, as it made him look at least forty,

will no doubt return the compliment by making him look no more at sixty;

his hair was about as indefinite, being a factitious auburn, a dry, wiry

red, something like the end of a fox’s brush in hot weather, crisp and

tangible, like fine copper-shavings; one could not help fancying that if

he shook his head, each individual hair would jar audibly against the

other. The whole arrangement gave one an idea of intense heat, and an

involuntary hope that the poor fellow had but a sprinkle of

hydrocephalus, he was of undecided height also, varying from five feet

four-and-a-half to five feet four-and-three-quarters, at the option of

his boot-maker; but the most remarkable features, if we may use the

expression, in his conformation, were his hands, which were gaunt and

bony, of a tanned-leathery consistence, and of a streaky, mottled,

castile-soap color, covered with a straggling crop of light, sandy hair,

and ornamented with several _wedding_-rings—evidences of broken-hearts,

which some men are fond of displaying as certificates of gallantry.

Dressed in irreproachable black, and capped and jeweled in the most

orthodox style, it may be imagined that Jasper was an _object_ of no

small solicitude to the “anxious mothers of slenderly-portioned

daughters;” he certainly had an air _bien riche_, if not

_distingué_—and that’s the marketable _materiel_ after all.

Months were unprofitably spent, and Jasper was beginning to think the

time irretrievably lost, when an occurrence of some little interest

varied the cateraceous-drinkability of hotel monotony. The Blodgerses

arrived, _en route_ to the fashionable ruralities.

Now the Blodgerses were extensive people in their way. They were

originated somewhere in Pennsylvania, and affected the tone of the far

south; traveled with huge trunks, two lap-dogs, a parrot, and a liveried

African. The head of the family was a pursy, important,

chairman-of-an-election-committee-looking man, with a superabundance of

excessively white shirt-frill, and a great deal too much watch-chain;

the latter appendage he invariably swung round as he conversed, its

momentum indicating the state of his temper during an argument; let him

speak upon uninteresting topics—literature, for instance, or any of the

useless arts—you notice but a gentle apathetic oscillation, but let him

get upon the tariff; let him hurl denunciations against his political

enemies, or eulogize his particular presidential candidate, and round it

goes with astonishing velocity.

Blodgers had been a grocer, or something of the kind, and having, during

a life of assiduous saving and scraping, accumulated a very large sum,

now flung himself with extraordinary _abandon_ upon the full stream of

gentility—and, to say the truth, most uncomfortable he found it; for

many a time would he acknowledge to his wife that “This flying about

from steam-car to steamboat, was far more fatiguing, and not quite so

profitable as quietly serving out lump sugar.” Then would Mrs. B.

indignantly check such compromising thoughts, for she was a person of

great pretension, had had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Judge Pinning,

and once visited by accident Mrs. General Jollikins, so felt herself

bound to talk of “society.” “They don’t do this in our set;” or, “it’s

not the etiquette in _society_;” and such like sidewinded hints of her

position, formed the staple of her conversations. As for the heiress to

the wealthy grocer’s store, there was an indescribable something in her

air and manner which plainly indicated, “I am worth looking after!” She

talked loudly, stared mutely through a magnificent Parisian

double-glass, and in fact broke through all the recognized rules of good

breeding with that insolent familiarity which but poorly imitates the

_nonchalant_ ease of the really _distingué_.

No description of deportment could have made so great an impression on

Jasper. She looked ingots, she spoke specie, and her _prestige_ was

altogether redolent of _roleaux_. He was struck, but the stricken deer

took the precaution to investigate realities before he advanced a step

toward acquaintanceship. Now, thought he, if she but happen to have some

ten or fifteen thousand, she’d be just the wife for me. The result was

satisfactory. He discovered that a larger sum was settled to be her

marriage-portion—and so laid vigorous siege instanter.

Now Araminta Blodgers, although decidedly unqualified to grace the pages

of the book of beauty, had a strange predilection for “nice young men;”

so that at first Jasper met with decided, and not over-delicately

expressed, opposition. But he was not a man to retire from the first

repulse; he persevered, and finally so deceived the sympathetic Araminta

into the belief of his ardent affection, that, one fine summer evening,

she sighed forth an avowal that she and her expectations were at his

disposal.

Fresh from this successful attack upon the heiress’ susceptibilities,

with a feathery heart, Jasper snapped his fingers at love, and danced

down the corridor of the hotel, to the infinite wonderment of the

waiters. Either from force of habit, or as a means of tempering the

exuberance of his spirits, he plunged into the mysteries of the

guest-book, where, alas! for Araminta Blodgers, and for true love! the

first name he saw was that of Mrs. Skinnington, the rich widow from his

own immediate neighborhood; she whom he had sedulously church-ogled from

the opposite pew every Sunday, astonished at the vastness of his

presumption; she, the _bona fide_ and sole possessor of nearly half his

native town. Here was the shadow of a shade of opportunity. She was

alone. Jasper hesitated. Araminta’s fortune was ample, but when there

was a chance of more, it wasn’t _enough_! Finally, he determined to wait

the first interview with the widow, and be regulated by her manner.

They met at dinner, and she was singularly gracious. The fact is, those

eye-assaults had told a little; and I’m sorry to say, for the character

of the sex, that the widow, in case the siege should be renewed, had

predetermined on capitulation.

The result may be anticipated. The endurable Araminta was thrown over

for the intolerable widow and her superior wealth. They were married in

a curiously short space of time; and when Jasper found himself master of

the widow’s hoards, “Now,” thought he, with a glowing heart, “a few

thousand dollars more, and I shall be content. One hundred thousand is

the acme of my desire; let me but achieve that, and I shall then retire

and spend the remainder of my days in quiet comfort.”

In process of time he did realize the coveted amount; but did he keep

his word and retire. No! he had enough of that. Home was to him the

worst of all miseries, a sort of domestic Tartarus; the presiding fury,

his elderly wife, who, incapable of inspiring a sentiment of affection

herself, yet assumed all the caprice of a girl. Jealous to very lunacy,

she gave vent to the agonizing sensations of her soul by scribbling

heart-rending sonnets for the Fiddle-Faddle Magazine. Thin, withered,

romantic and exacting, you may suppose that to the unfortunately lucky

Jasper, home was no _dulce domum_.

The consequence was, that he, dreading the _tête-à-tête_ domestic,

confined his attention to his monetary affairs. Retirement with an

unlovable and moreover intolerably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or,

as she signed herself, Sappho, was out of the question; so he determined

to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled his brain

almost to monomania, which was, to make his one hundred thousand _two_.

Once conceived, every thought and action was merged in that one

absorbing idea. Heedless of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon

swept over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think I may

venture to say, cheated, but honorably, and in the way of business,

until after a few years of health-destroying worry, he beheld himself

within sight of the desired haven. But five thousand more, and the sum

would be accomplished; one stroke of luck—one piece of indifferent

fortune, and he would then be really content.

Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously sick. During his

illness, news arrived which brought him within a few hundreds of his

desired maximum. Notwithstanding his bad health, and in opposition to

all remonstrance, he called for his books, and with weak hand, and

weaker brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours labor, altogether

unaware that he was thus unprofitably expending his last flickering of

life, he gave a long sorrowful sigh, and gasping forth, “Not enough! not

enough!” expired.

Not many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient for THE MAN WHO

NEVER HAD ENOUGH.

B.

* * * * *

MY BIRD HAS FLOWN.

BY MRS. E. W. CASWELL.

[Written on reading “My Bird,” by Fanny Forester.]

My bird has flown, my gentle bird!

Four autumn suns gone by,

She left, to cheer our loneliness,

Her own dear native sky.

With love, the precious treasure came;

I drew her to my breast,

Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,

And felt—how richly blest!

She grew in beauty day by day,

More dear each passing hour,

Until we came to feel our bird

Would never leave our bower.

The rich, wild sweetness of her song,

Rung on the morning air,

And mildly, on the evening breeze,

It told the hour of prayer.

We thought when darkness frowned above,

And wint’ry winds went by—

’Twould still be summer _in our home_,

And sunshine _on our sky_.

With our own sweet minstrel ever near

No sorrow could invade;

Her song of love would cheer us still,

And bless our woodland shade.

Now, many a weary day hath passed

Since from my tearful eye

Her untaught pinion cleft the air,

And vanished in the sky.

Why has she gone? Seeks she afar

Some green isle’s shadier bowers?

Some happier nest—serener airs—

And purer love than ours?

Oh not on earth! not here—not here!

Clouds veil our brightest skies,

And summer’s mildest breezes,

Chill our bird of Paradise.

The treasure which we deemed our own

Was briefly lent, not given.

_Our Father knew his spotless bird,_

_And called her home to Heaven._

* * * * *

LESSONS IN GERMAN.

BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE.

CHAPTER I.

“Tut-tut-tut! don’t tell me ‘_it means nothing_,’ Sara,” said my uncle

Waldron, as he assumed quite an air of resentment, and seized in his

hand a cluster of cousin Sara’s beautiful ringlets, school-master

fashion, as if about to “pull her hair” for some just discovered

mischief.

“Why uncle!” expostulated Sara, looking up in his face, with a smile

that would have melted an iceberg, so warm and sunny was it—much more

did it melt the feigned frown on the brow of my bachelor uncle—“do let

me assure you”—

“I don’t _want_ any assurances niece—what need has a man of assurances

when he sees with his own eyes, especially if he has as much reason for

confidence in his visual organs as I have in _mine_,” smilingly retorted

uncle Theodore. “Don’t I catch him here most provokingly often? and is

there not such a commerce in books between you, as would justify the

suspicion that I have not a library of five thousand volumes, of all

sorts of books, in all sorts of languages, both living and dead, besides

shares in I know not how many circulating libraries”—

“But uncle,” I interposed, “you must remember that Mr. Greydon is the

_minister_, and he comes to make cousin Sara _pastoral calls_, and to

impart spiritual counsel—” I left my apology unfinished, for I was

obliged to stop and laugh at its mis-placed sanctimony.

“Yes, yes, yes, miss!” replied uncle The., fairly driven into one of his

merriest laughs—“and by all means his ‘spiritual’ what-did-you-call-it,

must be communicated in _German_—no medium but _German_ now—a little

while ago nothing but _French_—by and by it will be hocus-pocus, or

some other such gibberish!”

“Dear uncle,” interrupted poor blushing Sara, “I’m _studying_ German,

and Mr. Greydon is so kind as to give me two lessons a week, out of his

very valuable time.”

“Fol-de-rol, every word of it—if you wanted a German teacher, why

didn’t I ever hear of it, so I could have procured a genuine imported

one. But suppose he does come _twice_ a week to give you a lesson, he

comes the _other_ twice to—_what_, Sara? Help get it?” And Sara,

finding herself circumvented on that track, blushed redder, and uncle

Waldron laughed merrier than ever.

My other apology for the frequency of Mr. Greydon’s visits, was so

nearly a failure, I concluded this time, _silence_ was the “better part

of valor,” so I left cousin Sara, to her own extrications from the

cross-examinations of a wily old lawyer. As soon as she could make

herself heard above uncle’s successive peals of merriment, she said,

rather imploringly—

“Why, uncle Waldron, don’t make so much sport of me. You know I am so

much alone—I am sure I think Mr. Greydon is very kind.”

“Yes, yes, niece—very kind, indeed—I see. ‘_Alone_ so much,’ did you

say? How comes that, pray? Isn’t here Maria, and isn’t she company

enough? You pay my guest but a wretched compliment, putting her society

down as nothing.”

“O no, no, uncle,” said Sara, “I don’t mean _that_—indeed you are too

wicked to-night. Maria knows how truly I value her society. But she is

here only very little—didn’t I stay all winter alone, when you kept

promising me a cousin or friend to stay with me?”

“Well, well, uncle,” said I, “there is one thing for your

assurance—cousin Sara has repeatedly declared she would not marry a

clergyman!”

“That’s what she has—Sara,” said uncle Theodore, looking rather

equivocally in her face, as if he were prepared to overturn whatever she

might depose, “do you hold of that mind still?”

“Certainly, sir,” responded Sara, with some ill-concealed hesitation,

and not a little confusion, “I am not wont to vacillate much in my

opinions.”

“And you make a life-long bargain with me to retain your post as my

house-keeper, in presence of cousin Maria as witness, do you?”

“Yes, sir, unless you release me some time, at your pleasure.”

“You are a noble girl, Sara, darling—I’ll buy you that Arabian

to-morrow, and you shall have a groom on purpose to attend him;” and my

uncle laid his hand tenderly on cousin Sara’s beautiful head, in token

of his satisfaction.

By this time it was his stated hour for retiring—he took the “big ha’

Bible” from its place, reverently read a holy psalm, and then commending

his household to the care of an Almighty Protector, in a low and fervent

prayer, he bade us good night, and left the drawing room.

CHAPTER II.

My uncle Waldron, or Judge Waldron, for he had been promoted to “the

bench,” was a bachelor—a hopelessly confirmed bachelor. Not that he

under-valued woman—no—he regarded her with the noblest, loftiest, and

most rational admiration of any man I ever knew. But his notions were

peculiar, and perhaps not a little fastidious in the matter of what a

_wife_ should be, so he never proposed himself as a husband to any lady

of his widely extended and really valuable circle of acquaintances, to

the infinite astonishment of some of them. In the course of _long years_

he became thoroughly tired of being a _boarder_—of never realizing any

of the quiet pleasures and sympathies that cluster round the hearth and

the heart of home. So he erected a beautiful villa, just a delightful

drive from the city, adorned it within and without with all the

decorations and elegancies which could be suggested by the highest

refinement of taste, and a liberal expenditure of the amplest means, and

then we surely thought, as who would not, that having built his nest, my

uncle was about to choose his mate, and pass the winter of his life in

the calm sunshine of domestic bliss. But we “reckoned without our host,”

in that calculation. Uncle Waldron had other intentions.

Now cousin Sara was the eldest niece in the family circle, and from her

very birth she had been uncle Theodore’s acknowledged favorite—even in

her extreme babyhood he had condescended to take her in his arms, and

rock her for half-an-hour—an instance of partiality, by which none of

us could boast of being distinguished. We all wished that we could have

been the eldest niece, so we could have been the favorite—how much more

we wished we could be _just like_ cousin Sara.

Well, when his house was all complete, uncle Waldron proposed to Sara to

assume the responsibilities of its mistress, and threatened, in a way

she quite understood, to “cut her off with a shilling,” in case she

declined, so she followed her own inclination, and very readily

assented.

Cousin Sara was a star of the first magnitude in one of the most elegant

and policed literary constellations in her native city. Faultlessly

lovely in person, in manners, and in mind, her heart over-flowing with

the freshest and most cheerful piety, woman’s brightest ornament, it was

a mystery to us all, how she happened to live till she was twenty-seven

years old, without taking those responsibilities which most of our sex,

without a _tithe_ of her attractions or her abilities, assume, long

enough before they have the maturity and richness of twenty-seven

invaluable years in their favor—especially strange we thought it, when

so many most enviable inducements had been urged upon her acceptance.

But nobody seemed to please our fastidious cousin Sara.

When she had been some months at uncle Waldron’s, it became very evident

to _us_, quizzical spies of _cousins_, who took great pleasure in

spending a few weeks with her now and then, that she was more interested

in the society and person of the Rev. Robert Greydon, than she was

really willing we should discover. She hushed our impertinence in a

moment, if we undertook to rally her on the subject, by a peculiarly

imploring expression of countenance, which only made us think so all the

more. Mr. Greydon, as has been already intimated, was the clergyman of

the church where uncle Waldron worshiped. Cousin Sara had often declared

that she would not marry a _clergyman_ or a _widower_. Mr. Greydon,

though still a young man, united in his person _both_ those

disqualifications, so we managed, in the face of all indications to the

contrary, to conclude that we had nothing to fear. If he had _not_ been

a widower and clergyman, we should have chosen him, out of all the

world, for Sara’s husband—for he possessed all those rare and

invaluable excellencies of character, which Sara deserved, if ever a

lovely woman did, in the man of her choice.

Mr. Greydon was a very prudent man in his pastoral and social

intercourse. He did not wish to give the “silly women” of his parish,

who, as in duty bound, would keep a very faithful look-out after him,

any occasion to tattle—but the arrangement of the German lessons was

just the thing—it afforded him the most unimpeachable excuse for

enjoying Sara’s society without sounding an alarum in any body’s ears.

CHAPTER III.

“I would not light the lamp yet, Miss Hastings—this moonlight is so

magical,” said Mr. Greydon, as he sat in the bay window of uncle’s

drawing-room, one glorious evening in early summer. Indeed it was as

lovely an evening, and as fair a scene, as pencil of artist ever aspired

to sketch. I was sitting on the broad piazza, trying what my tyro pencil

could do with a landscape so wonderfully beautiful.

“You are sad, to-night, Mr. Greydon,” said Sara, desisting from her

purpose, and taking a chair by the table that had been drawn near the

window.

“No—not _sad_ exactly, Miss Hastings—only of a _doubtful_ mind,”

replied Mr. Greydon.

“Indeed!” gayly responded Sara—“but that must not be—it is expressly

_forbidden_ in Scripture and—”

“I know it Miss Hastings,” interrupted Mr. Greydon, with forced

playfulness in his tone, as if he were determined to rally himself—“but

it does not respect any matters of _doctrine_—rather of _practice_, I

might say. _You_ are always so cheerful and light-hearted, Miss

Hastings, it is almost a sin to be moody in your presence.”

“If I had the burden of a pastoral charge”—Sara checked

herself—“indeed, I fear it is the advantage of circumstances rather

than of temperament, Mr. Greydon,” she concluded.

There was a pause—the German lesson was finished long ago—Sara had

been singing, and Mr. Greydon accompanying her piano with the mellow

tones of his flute. There was a hush on the air, and a hush upon our

spirits. Perhaps it was the moonlight—perhaps it was the music—I don’t

know—but it became oppressive, and I began to feel that it was

somebody’s duty to relieve somebody’s embarrassment, by introducing a

new theme for conversation, and I was about to draw their attention to

some glorious shadows falling on the water in the distance, when Mr.

Greydon spoke.

“Miss Hastings, I have heard—but I hope it is not true—that you have

declared your intention never to marry a clergyman.”

“Indeed! Mr. Greydon—” stammered Sara, “I—who can have so mis—people

report so many—” Sara stopped; I never knew her self-possession so

completely recreant. Her heart assured her that if such had been her

resolution at any time, certain recent circumstances had essentially

shaken her purposes—so she could not assent; and to deny it just at

this point would make her more uncomfortable still. She was about to

conclude the remark as a very impertinent one, when Mr. Greydon

continued,

“I hope that determination is not invincible, Miss Hastings; my future

happiness depends—”

My sense of honor forbade my remaining in that neighborhood any longer.

I had innocently heard already more than was intended for the ears of a

third party; so I gathered up my drawing materials with what haste I

could, and without the sound of a foot-fall, made good my retreat to the

library.

I did not see cousin Sara again till we sat at the breakfast-table the

next morning, and then she looked as if she had attained the acme of a

pure and rational happiness. I never saw her half so lovely—half so

cheerful—half so spiritual; the dream of her whole life seemed about to

unfold into a blessed reality. As we sat in her dressing-room, after

breakfast, with a simplicity and confidence that made me love and admire

her more than ever, she told me of her engagement with the Rev. Robert

Greydon.

I opened my eyes and threw down my sewing in the most mischievous

surprise.

“Why, Sara Hastings! you have said a thousand times you would not marry

a minister! How can I believe you?”

“O, don’t, Maria—pray show me a little mercy; do you think, _uncle_ was

so wicked as to tell Mr. Greydon so! The truth is, young ladies had

better not make such resolutions, and if they do, it is better not to

express them. People cannot tell with much certainty what they _will_

do, and what they _will not_, till the inducement is before them.”

I assented to Sara’s philosophy, declared I never would say any such

thing, and with a kiss on her glowing cheek, I heartily congratulated

her, and told how sincerely I rejoiced at her choice, and her prospect

of earthly happiness.

CHAPTER IV.

There is to be a wedding at Uncle Waldron’s early in September, and I am

to be the first bridemaid! Truly an enviable appointment. Sweet Sara

Hastings will be the bride—Mr. Greydon the proud and happy bridegroom.

My dear old uncle will give away his “treasure,” and with her his villa

and all its elegant arrangements, as “a marriage dower.” The villa is to

become the “manse,” and uncle has, of course, stipulated that he shall,

through his whole natural life, be regarded as one of the indisputable

fixtures of the establishment.

* * * * *

THE PHANTASMAGORIA

A LEGEND OF ELD.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

PART I.

The morn is looking on the lake,

Beside the ruined abbey;

And its fingers white on the waters shake,

Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,

For the pale old moon it must keep its wake

In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!

The night-wind hath a moaning tone,

And it cometh moaning by;

The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,

That years have crumbled, one by one,

Answereth—sometimes like a groan,

And sometimes like a sigh.

A little light through the forest-trees

Is twinkling very bright,

Like a distant star upon waveless seas,

Or a glow-worm of the night;

’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,

The little light of the village inn!

It is a parlor dimly lit,

And shadows on the arras flit;

Shadows here and shadows there,

Shadows shifting everywhere,

Very thin and very tall,

Moving, mingling on the wall—

Till they make one shadow all!

An old clock in the corner stands,

Clicking! clicking! all the while;

And its long and shadowy hands

Would seem to say this hour is man’s,

But Life hath swiftly running sands,

And may wither in a smile.

A fire is blazing upon the hearth,

And it crackles aloud as if in mirth;

By its flickering flames you may chance to see

There are six men sitting in groups of three;

They laugh and talk—they drink and drain

Their goblets, till to drink is pain,

And the eyes are brighter than the brain.

Three gamble at the pictured vice,

And three upheave the rattling dice,

The cards go round—

The boxes sound—

A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!!

For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet;

An aching smile and a muttered curse,

A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse,

Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the din

Of hearts that lose and hearts that win!

PART II.

Near the corner, and near the clock,

Sits a man in a dingy frock;

A slouchèd hat on his head wears he,

So sunken his eyes you cannot see;

His clothes are turned of a rusty hue,

All worn with age and damp with dew,

A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be,

This stranger man so strange to see,

Weary with driving adown the lea;

He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,

And would like a meal more than a song!

The rattling dice come rattling down!

The pictured tablets glide;

But a deeper shade on the light hath grown

Of the parlor dim and wide,

And the embers utter a fitful blaze

On the forms that sit beside:

For three look white in its ghastly rays—

White as the corpse of ended days—

While three are dark, and yet darker gaze

On the cards and dice with which each one plays

In the parlor dim and wide!

And near the corner—near the clock—

In silence sitteth still,

The stranger motionless as a rock—

The stranger man with a dingy frock—

Who entered the room without nod or knock,

As quietly as a rill.

Clicking!—clicking!—all the while,

The old clock soundeth on,

As if it never had seen a smile,

But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle—

Chiming for mortals gone!

Click—click! and hearts are beating

High with the fate of game;

Click—click! the clock is repeating

Its lesson still the same—

But one has uttered a fearful word,

And started up like a startled bird,

To dash the dice-box down;

And with the click of the ancient clock

Is heard the click of a pistol’s cock—

And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock,

Of a body lifeless grown.

The stranger is standing beside the board—

The stranger that entered without a word—

And to five who with cowardice quail and quake,

As white as the moon looking on the lake,

It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:—

“The blood which has ceased in the veins to run

Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,

This blood—a score of years ago—

Belonged to a noble hidalgo,

With a great estate and a greater name,

And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,

And a little child—his only heir—

Soft as the dew in the morning air,

And as opening roses fresh and fair.

“And it was this noble hidalgo

Who sat in this chamber dim and low,

But now a score of years ago,

With a youth who bore beside his name,

Which had never known the weight of blame,

A treasure placed in his trusty hand

By the sovereign lord of this mighty land.

“And it was in this chamber dim and low,

As the pendulum wide swung to and fro,

That this youth and the high-born hidalgo

Rattled a cursèd horn;

That they played for the treasures of the king,

Played till the cocks began to sing.

And the youth had become a worthless thing—

A mark for shame and scorn.

“The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet,

And, weeping, prayed that he should not meet

The eyes of his master, the injured king,

Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing!

Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away,

When a cry arrested his cruel way,

And he heard a voice in agony say—

A voice departing from its clay—

‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—

It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—

Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,

Not always lucky are those who win;

For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,

Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,

Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’

The blood which has ceased in the veins to run

Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,

This blood—a score of years ago—

Belonged to a noble hidalgo,

And _I am_—”

Here the ancient clock,

With a rusty, rumbling sound,

Shook as it struck—and the matin cock

Answered the solemn chime of the clock,

Till it echoed round and round!

The embers that on the hearth-stone lay

Down into ashes dropped away,

While from the lattice worn and white,

In the moonshine waning with the night,

A steed was seen like the drifted snow

As it galloped across the plain below,

Swift as an arrow from its bow;

With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frock

Of the figure that sat near the corner and clock,

And which came and went without nod or knock.

And they that remained on each other bent

Glances so dim and drear,

That neither could tell what the other meant,

Save that in all there was fear blent

With a something which told them Heaven-sent

Was the doom of the dead man there.

One was a laborer tough and tanned,

With the toil of tilling his meager land;

The next, a veteran who did wield

The sword on many a bloody field;

The third, a friar grave or gay,

As chase or chancel led the way,

With shaven crown and cassock gray;

The fourth, a publican, sorry elf!

Who cared for no one but himself;

And the last, a chield, as we often ken,

Unknowing their ways in the walks of men.

And these departed homeward all,

Far holier than they came;

For the sights which their visions did appall—

The signs and sights in the haunted hall—

Like to the writing on the wall,

Spoke with a tongue of flame.

PART III.

Torches are gleaming to and fro,

In the abbey’s ancient vault;

While a mute procession slowly go

Into its mouldering depths below,

And, in solemn order, halt!

A monk hath chanted the midnight mass

For a soul that tempted its final pass;

And the little, gloomy sacristan

Striveth to soothe an aged man,

As they lift from the blazoned bier

The stately drooping pall;

And the old man sees him lying there

His son—his heir—his all!

Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,

Go to thy cord and corse—

It is a fiend which gnaws that man;

The worst of fiends—Remorse!

It is a fiend which whispereth still,

Or noon or night, or well or ill,

From the dark caverns of the past,

Through all their chambers dim and vast,

“For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,

Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,

Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”

The lights have vanished—and the gate

Of the abbey closed up desolate,

And all is silent as before

The key was turned in that rusty door,

To add a slumbering mortal more

To its never, never failing store;

All is silent save the owl

That moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,

As the moon is looking on the lake,

Beside the ruined abbey;

And its fingers white on the waters shake,

Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,

For the pale old moon it must keep its wake

In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!

The night-wind hath a moaning tone,

And it cometh moaning by;

The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,

That years have crumbled, one by one,

Answereth—sometimes like a groan,

And sometimes like a sigh.

* * * * *

THE BEATING OF THE HEART.

BY RICHARD HAYWARDE.

Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth,

Now with grief and pain assailed,

Now with joy triumphant burneth,

Now in sorrow veiled;

Moveless us the wave-worn rock

In the battle’s deadly shock,

When the charging lines advance,

Doom on every lance;

Yet melting at some mimic show,

Or plaintive tale of wo!

Faint with love—of conquest proud—

Seared with hate—with fury riven,

Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud

By the tempest driven:

Hark! the chords with rapture swell,

Flood on flood melodious flowing,

Sudden! strikes the passing bell,

Swinging with reverbing knell,

While the soul is going!

Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry,

“Ope the door, thy son entreateth!”

Though from life I strive to fly,

Still the heart-clock beateth—

No, not yet I wish for thee,

Gaunt and pale remorseless king!

Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me,

O’er life triumphing.

Glow and dance in every vein,

Crimson current, ruby river,

To thy source return again,

As the teeming summer-rain

Seeks again the parent main,

The all-bounteous giver;

Beat, dear heart, against my breast,

Tell me thou art there again—

Life and thee together rest

In that hold of joy and pain—

Stronghold yet of life thou art,

Restless, ever-working heart!

Night comes draped in shadows sombre,

Morning robed in light appears,

Minutes, hours, withouten number,

Days and months and years

Pass like dreams; yet still thou art

Ever busy, restless heart!

When his doom the captive heareth,

How thy summons, stroke on stroke,

Tells the fatal moment neareth,

Sounding like the heavy stroke

Distant heard as falls the oak!

How the maiden fair would hide

Thee within her bosom white,

Still against her tender side

Throbs the soft delight;

Every pulse reveals the flame,

Every fibre softly thrills,

But how innocent the shame

That her bosom fills.

In the hero, firm as steel,

In the virgin, soft as snow,

In the coward, citadel

Where the recreant blood doth go

Hiding from the sight of foe.

In the mother’s anxious breast

Who can picture thy unrest?

When her babe lies low—

With the fitful fever burning,

No relief—still restless turning

Ever to and fro!

In the bride what mixed commotion

When the words, “Be man and wife”

Thrill her with that soft emotion

Known but once in life.

Priceless jewel! hidden treasure!

All the world to thee is naught;

Working loom of ceaseless pleasure,

Weaving without stint or measure

Woof and web of thought:

Hive of Life! where drone and bee

Struggle for the mastery,

In the never-ceasing motion,

Like a great star in the ocean,

Shines the soul! thy heavenly part,

Throbbing, life-assuring heart!

* * * * *

DOCTOR SIAN SENG

OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS

(FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)

[Illustration]

I, the Doctor Sian Seng to Tching-bit-ha-ki.

On receipt of this letter forthwith go to Houang-xa, to the yellow

temple of Fo, and burn upon the altar a stick of camphor for me, for I

have arrived safely at Paris. I have sailed five thousand three hundred

and twenty leagues since my embarkation at Hoang-Ho, with peril of life

beneath my feet the whole voyage—and Providence has protected me.

May my ancestors deign to watch over me more than ever at this moment!

Paris is a field of battle, where bullets are represented by wheels and

horses; those who have neither carriage nor horses, perish miserably in

the flower of their age. There are seventeen hospitals for the wounded;

I saw one yesterday with this inscription, in large letters, “Hospital

for Incurables.” The wounded who are carried there, know when they enter

that they will never come out alive—they know their fate! It is very

charitable on the part of the doctors. You can now see that the

Barbarians understand civilization!

Notwithstanding the sage precepts of Li-ki, and the law of Menu, I have

purchased a carriage on four wheels, drawn by horses, and have wept in

anticipation of the unhappy fate of those I am about to send to the

“Hospital for Incurables;” but there are but two modes of living in

Paris—you must crush others, or be crushed yourself. I think it most

prudent to do the first.

I went down to the river to make my ablutions, and was about to commence

this holy act, when a policeman threatened me with his _baton_. In

looking at the water, I was consoled for the deprivation, as it had not

the pure and limpid flow of our own Yu-ho, which runs by Pekin under the

marble bridge of Pekiao. The Seine is a dirty yellow stream, which

descends to the ocean for a bath. I shall wait until it comes back!

I was told that Christians take a bath at home, which costs two francs.

I called for one, and was furnished with an iron box, very much

resembling the coffins in the cemetery of Ming-tang-y; one gets into

them and lies upon the back, with the hands crossed upon the breast,

like a true believer who has died in the faith of Fo.

In Paris, each house is governed by a tyrant, who is called a porter.

There are twenty thousand porters here, who make a million of

inhabitants unhappy and desolate. They sometimes make a Revolution to

overturn a poor devil, called a king; but they have never overturned the

twenty thousand porters. Mine receives my orders with loud explosions of

laughter, and when I threaten him, he says to me, “You are a Chinaman!”

Since he thinks to insult me by calling me by the name of my country, I

make the matter equal by crying, “And you are a Frenchman!”

“_Render insult for insult_,” says the sage Menu. These things have most

astonished me in Paris.

My first duty (in quality of my rank in the Ming tang, the greatest

society of _savans_ in the universe) has been to visit the Royal

Library, renowned here as “a vast depot of all human knowledge.” This

asylum of meditation, of reflection and study, is situated in the most

noisy street in the city; the millions of books it contains shake

continually with the passage of carriages and other vehicles. It is very

much as if you and I should go for instruction between the bridge

Tchoung-yu-Ho-Khias, where all the cats in Pekin are sold, and the

street Toung-Kiang-mi-Kiang, where salutes are fired night and day!

One of the librarians received me with great politeness, and offered me

a chair.

“Sir,” said I, in tolerable French, “I would be much obliged if you

could lend me, for a few moments, the ‘History of the Dynasties of the

Five Brothers Loung, and of the sixty-four Ché-ti’? You know that these

glorious reigns commenced immediately after the third race of the first

emperors—those of the Jin-Hoang, or the Emperors of Men, to distinguish

them from the second race, called Ti-Hoang, or Emperors of the Earth.”

The _savant_ did not appear as if he knew it. He put into his nose some

of the forbidden opium, and after reflecting awhile, said,

“Lao-yé, we have not that.”

He appeared pleased to show me that he understood that “Lao-yé” was

equivalent to “sir,” and repeated it a thousand times during our

conversation.

“You know, sir,” said I, continuing, “that after the glorious reigns of

Koung-san-che, of Tchen Min, of Y-ti-ché, and of Houx-toun-che, came the

reigns, still more glorious, of the seventy-one families, and that so

much glory was only effaced by the birth of the immortal Emperor Ki, the

greatest musician the world ever saw, and the inventor of Chinese

politeness. I would like to consult, in this ‘vast depôt of all human

knowledge,’ the history of the immortal Ki.”

The nose of the _philosophe_ received a second time a pinch of the

forbidden opium. He then opened an enormous handkerchief of Madras, and

suddenly jerking the head, neck, and hand, made a great noise resembling

that of a prolonged stroke upon a gong. When this tempest of the brain

had passed by, he folded up his Madras, drew it five times across his

face, and said,

“We have not the history of the immortal Ki, your emperor.”

“You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from

wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius of

_Menu_ has never enlightened.

The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his

eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe.

Nevertheless, I continued my requests.

“Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’

have you any maps?”

“Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitated _savant_, “we have

all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that

of ‘_dame de cœur_.’”

This answer, I have since been told, is a _bon mot_, apparently made by

this man of study to relieve his mind of _ennui_.

“Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire,

called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?”

The Madras again covered the visage of the _savant_; the box of opium

was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder,

announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt.

“Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless,

show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.”

I followed him.

We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the

Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and

whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity

of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I

am told, there are never any living great ones there.

“See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.”

They were Persian.

I thanked the _philosophe_ with that simple politeness which was

invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library.

As I passed to my lodgings, I saw a crowd collected near some

scaffolding; and on inquiring of my coachman what was the cause of it,

was told that they were erecting a monument to a great man, dead two

hundred years ago, whose name was Molière. He composed _chefs-d’œuvre_,

which were hissed at their performance; he was persecuted by the court,

martyrized by his wife and his creditors, and died miserably at the

theatre between two suet candles. They refused the honors of burial to

his remains; and now, two hundred years after his death, his countrymen,

to show their gratitude, erect a monument to his memory, to recompense

his sufferings.

In most things the French are lively and mercurial; but in the matter of

gratitude, they take two centuries for reflection.

There is no great stone in the valley which has not “the ambition to

emulate Mount Tergyton,” says a verse of Li-Ki; so at Paris they have

taken it into their heads to imitate our large and endless Street of

Tranquillity, “Tchang-ngan-Kiai,” which runs the whole length of the

imperial palace at Pekin, and terminates at the most beautiful of the

seventeen gates of the city, “Thsiam Men,” the gate of “Military Glory.”

I felt pride while traversing their Rue Rivoli, in thinking what a

miserable imitation it was of our incomparable “tchang-ngan-Kiai;” my

national vanity was appeased.

It was in following this street that I came to another palace, inhabited

by the four hundred and seventy emperors who govern Paris, France, and

Africa, and whom they call “Deputies.” One must have a little dirty

piece of paper to gain admittance there. You give this little paper to a

man with a red face and a saucy-looking nose, who permits you to enter.

The four hundred and seventy emperors, each sit at the bottom of a dark

well, which seems lighted by the moon in her last quarter. An old

emperor, with a pleasing and paternal countenance, named Mr. Sosé,

governs the four hundred and seventy others, by playing tunes upon a

little silver bell. This spectacle is very amusing. The emperors are all

badly dressed and _coiffé_. They talk a great deal—walk about—play

tricks—sleep, or write letters to their wives, while an emperor,

perched up on a high seat, sings in a low voice something mysterious, to

a monotonous air, which resembles our “Hymn to our Ancestors,” without

the accompaniment of our national music. Each emperor has the right to

mount this seat, and sing to himself his favorite song, turning his back

upon Mr. Sosé. I asked a person sitting by me, “What they called this

play?” The “Representative Government,” he replied.