CHAPTER II.

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. V.

NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY 1, 1852.

No. II.

[Illustration: THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.]

THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

CONTENTS

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.

CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.

TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE

COLONIES.

A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS’ TEMPLE AT BAKU.

A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.

LORD MAHON’S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

FAUST OF WITTENBERG AND FUST OF MENTZ.

SOME SMALL POEMS.

MR. JUSTICE STORY, WITH SOME REMINISCENT REFLECTIONS.

COLUMBUS AT THE GATES OF GENOA.

FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.

SMILES AND TEARS.

FREEDOM OF THOUGHT AND THE LATEST MIRACLES.

THE SONG QUEEN.

LOVE SONG.

AUTUMN LINES.

THE PUNISHMENT OF GINA MONTANI.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VISION OF CHARLES XI.

DIVINATION, WITCHCRAFT, AND MESMERISM.

A CHAPTER OF EPITAPHS.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.

THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.

THE BULL FIGHT OF MADRID.

THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.

AN OLD MAID’S FIRST LOVE.

MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO.

MY NOVEL:

BOOK IX. - INITIAL CHAPTER.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

REMINISCENCES OF PRINTERS, AUTHORS, AND BOOKSELLERS IN NEW-YORK.

Noctes Amicæ.

Authors and Books

THE FINE ARTS

Historical Review of the Month

Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.

Recent Deaths.

Ladies’ Fashions for February.

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

On the preceding page is a portrait, and under the head of Recent Deaths,

in another part of this magazine, is a sketch of the history of NICHOLAS

JEAN-DE-DIEU SOULT, the last of the great Marshals created by the Emperor

Napoleon. He was unquestionably possessed of extraordinary abilities,

fitting him for eminence in many and diverse capacities, but it cannot be

said that he was of the first rank of illustrious generals, as the world

has been led to suppose, chiefly by the masterly but partial delineations

of his career in the Peninsula by General Napier. He had a genius for war

which qualified him for every position in connection with it but that of

leader in the field. The subtle and irreversible decisions of Napoleon

followed his astonishingly quick apprehensions of facts, as suddenly as

the thunderbolt follows lightning; but Soult, profoundly familiar with all

the arts of war, and surpassing any of the great commanders with whom he

was associated except only his chief, in the wisdom of his judgments, was

yet so slow in his intellectual operations, so destitute of the

enthusiasm, passion, and fire, which in high circumstance give an almost

miraculous activity to the minds of the first order of men, that he could

never have entitled himself to all the precedences he has received in

history. Napoleon understood him, and in a few pregnant words addressed to

O’Meara, gave that measure of his character which will be adopted as the

final opinion of the world. "He is," said Napoleon, "an excellent minister

at war, or major-general of an army, one who knows much better how to

manage an army than to command in chief."

The course of Soult as a citizen, a legislator, and a minister, was not

one upon which his best biographers will linger with much satisfaction.

The glory he had achieved as one of the lieutenants of Napoleon, in that

turbulent and grand career which has no parallel for interest or

importance in human history, was his only claim to distinction in

politics. His master had an ambition as fair in its proportions as it was

vast in its extent, and brought to every purpose the same forces of

character and preternatural energy of intelligence; but Soult had no love

for civil duties, but little capacity for them, and he accepted place as a

gratification of vanity or a means of success in mercenary aims. We see in

all his private and political life "the soilure of his revolutionary

origin,"—proofs that he loved money and power far more than he loved

honor, and himself far more than his country or mankind.

The last of the imperial marshals, the last of that gigantic race who

filled the world with a red glory like the gloom which will precede the

judgment, closed his stormy life peacefully in the place where he was

born, and thence was borne to the Invalides, to "sleep well" with his old

companions."

THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.

We have in the last _Art Journal_ another of the pleasant gossipping

_Pilgrimages to English Shrines_, by Mrs. S. C. HALL, and the following

abridgement of it will please all who have perused the previous papers of

the series. In Chertsey and its neighborhood are memorials of some of the

noblest men of England.

[Illustration: ABRAHAM COWLEY.]

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.

The county of Surrey is rich to overflowing in memories, both of persons

and events, and the little quaint and quiet town of Chertsey could tell of

the gorgeous and gloomy past as much as many of its ancient neighbors

within a day’s drive of the city. Had its old abbey stones but tongues,

how they could discourse of years when a visit to Chertsey was an

undertaking; though now the distance is but half an hour.

Nowhere within twenty miles of London does the Thames appear more queenly,

or sweep with greater grace through its fertile dominions, than it does at

Chertsey. It is, indeed, delightful to stand on the bridge in the glowing

sunset of a summer evening, and turning from the refreshing green of the

Shepperton Range, look into the deep clear blue of the flowing river,

while the murmur of the waters rushing through Laleham Lock give a sort of

spirit music to the scene. On the right, as you leave Chertsey, the river

bends gracefully towards the double bridge of Walton, and to the left, it

undulates smoothly along, having passed Runnymede and Staines, while the

almost conical hill of St. Anne’s attracts attention by its abrupt and

singular form when viewed from the vale of the Thames.

About a mile, on the Walton side, from our favorite bridge (Old Camden

tells us so), is the spot where Cæsar crossed the Thames. Were the

peasantry as imaginative as their brethren of Killarney, what legends

would have grown out of this tradition; how often would the "noblest Roman

of them all" have been seen by the pale moonlight leading his steed over

the waters of the rapid river—how many would have heard Cassivelaunus

himself during the stillness of some particular Midsummer night working at

the rude defence which can still be traced beneath the blue waters of the

Thames. What hosts of pale and ghastly spectres would have risen from

those tranquil banks, and from the deepest hollows of the rushing current,

and—like the Huns, who almost live on the inspired canvas of

Kaulbach,—fought their last earthly battle, again and again, in the spirit

world, amid the stars! But ours is no region of romance; even remnants of

history, which go beyond the commonest capacity, are rejected as dreams,

or put aside as legends. But history has enough to tell to interest us

all; and we may be satisfied with the abundant enjoyment we have in

delicious rambles through the lanes and up the hills, along the fair

river’s banks, and among the many traditional ruins of ancient and

beautiful Surrey.

Never was desolation more complete than in the ruin of the Mitred Abbey of

Chertsey; hardly one stone remains above another to tell where this

stately edifice—since the far-away year 664—grew and flourished, lording

it with imperial sway over, not only the surrounding villages, but

extending its paternal wings into Middlesex and even as far as London. The

abbey was of the Benedictine order, and founded, almost as soon as the

Saxons were converted from Paganism; but it was finished and chiefly

endowed by Frithwald, Earl of Surrey. The endowment prospered rarely; the

establishment increased in the reputation of wealth and sanctity; that it

was "thickly populated" is certain, for when the abbey was sacked and

burnt by the Danes, in the ninth century, the abbot, and ninety monks,

were barbarously murdered by the invaders.

Standing upon the site of their now obliterated cloisters and towers,

their aisles and dormitories, cells and confessionals, seeing nothing but

the dank, damp grass, and the tracings of the fish-ponds—stagnant pools in

our day—it is almost impossible to realize the onslaught of these wild

barbarians panting for plunder, the earnest defence of men who fought (the

monks of old could wield either sword or crosier) for life or death, the

terrible destruction, the treasures and relics, and painted glass, and

monuments, the plunder of the secret almerys, the intoxicated triumph of

those rude northern hordes let loose in our fair and lovely island; what

scenes of savagery, where now the jackdaw builds, and the blackbird

whistles, and the wild water-rat plays with her brood amongst the tangled

weeds!

The fierce sea-kings being driven back to their frozen land, King Edgar,

willing to serve God after the fashion of his times, refounded the Abbey

of Chertsey, dedicating it to St. Peter, and vying with Pope Alexander in

augmenting its privileges and its wealth.

Some of the abbots took great interest in home improvements, planting

woods, conducting streams, enlarging ponds—building, now a mill, now a

dove-cot, according to the wants of the abbey or their own fancies. Henry

I. granted them permission to keep dogs, that, according to the old

chronicle, they might take "hare, fox, and cats." King John, in the first

year of his reign, gave them ample confirmation of all their privileges,

which, it would seem, they had somewhat abused, for we find that the

sovereign seized their manors of Egham and "Torp" (Thorp) on account of a

servant of the abbot’s having killed "Hagh de Torp." Oh, rare "old times!"

The abbot was mulcted in a heavy fine. Then, while Bartholomew de

Winchester was abbot, from 1272 until 1307, during the reign of our first

Edward, complaints were made to Pope Gregory X. that the possessions of

the abbey were alienated to civilians and laymen, whereupon the pope

issued a bull ordering such grants to be revoked.

It is worthy of note, that the Chertsey monastery sheltered, for a time,

the remains of the pious, but unfortunate, Henry VI.

"Poor key-cold figure of a Holy King,

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster."

And the reader of Shakespeare will recall the scene in which Richard meets

the Lady Anne on her way to Chertsey with her husband’s body. This poor

king’s remains had a claim to be well received by the monks of Chertsey

Abbey, for he had granted to the abbot the privilege of holding a fair on

St. Anne’s-hill, then called Mount Eldebury, on the feast of St. Anne’s

(the 26th of July): the fair has changed its time and quarters as well as

its patron, and is held in the town on the 6th of August, and called Black

Cherry Fair. Manning, in his history of Surrey, says, that the tolls of

this fair were taken by the abbot, and are now taken by the owner of the

site of the Abbey House; thus the memory of King Henry VI. is commemorated

in the town of Chertsey to this day, by the sale of black cherries in the

harvest month of August!

[Illustration: "THE NUN’S WELL."]

"THE NUN’S WELL."

Centuries passed over those magnificent abbeys, whose ruins in many places

add so much beauty to our fertile landscapes; they grew and grew, and

added acre to acre, and stone to stone, and knowledge to knowledge; but

most they cherished the knowledge which blazed like a lamp under a bushel,

and kept all but themselves in darkness; they preached no freedom in

Christ to the Christian world, they abolished no serfdom, they taught no

liberty, they enslaved even those who in their turn enslaved their "born

thralls," and saw no evil in it. Oh, rare old times! Better it is for us

that the site of Chertsey Abbey should be scarcely traceable now-a-days

than that it should be as it was, with its proud pageants and pent-up

learning!—Yet we have neither sympathy no respect for that foul king, who,

to serve his own carnal purposes, overthrew the very faith which had

hallowed his throne. But he did not attack and storm the Abbey of

Chertsey, as he did other religious houses. He came to them, this Eighth

Harry, with a fair show of kindness, saying that "to the honor of God, and

for the health of his soul, he proposed and most nobly intended to refound

the late Monastery, Priory, or Abbey of Bisham in Berks, and to

incorporate and establish the Abbot and Convent of Chertsey, as Abbot and

Convent of Bisham, and to endow them with all the Manors late belonging to

Bisham." How the then Abbot John Cordrey, and his brethren, must have

shivered at the conditions; how they must have grieved at quitting their

cherished home, their stews and fish-ponds, their rich meadows of Thorpe,

overlooked by the woods of Eldebury hill, their nursing ground where their

calves and young lambs were stowed in luxurious safety in the pleasant

farm of Simple Marsh at Addlestone!

But their star was setting, and they were forced to "give, sell, grant and

confirm, to the king their house and all manors belonging to them."

The total destruction of the Abbey must have amazed the whole country. An

earthquake could hardly have obliterated it more entirely. Aubrey, writing

in the year 1673, says "of this great Abbey, scarce any thing of the old

building remains, except the out walls about it. Out of this ruin, is

built a ’fair house,’ which is now in possession of Sir Nicholas Carew,

master of the Buckhounds." Dr. Stukeley alludes to this house, in a letter

written in 1752; he speaks of the inveterate destruction, and of "the

gardener" carrying him through a "court" where he saw the remains of the

church of the Abbey. He says the "east end reached up to an artificial

mount along the garden wall; that mount and all the terraces of the

pleasure garden, to the back front of the house, are entirely made up of

the sacred _rudera_ or rubbish of continual devastations. Bones of abbots,

monks, and great personages, who were buried in large numbers in the

church and cloisters which lay on the south side of the church, were

spread thick all over the garden, _so that one may pick up whole handsfull

of them every where amongst the garden stuff_." Brayley mentions in his

pleasant History of Surrey, that this artificial mount was levelled in

1810, and its materials employed to fill up a pond. Many human skulls and

bones were found intermixed with the chalk and mortar of which it had been

formed. Fragments of old tiles were also frequently found, and are still

sometimes turned up. No trace even of the "Abbey house" is left; it was

purchased in 1809 by a stock-broker, who in the following year sold the

materials—and so ends the great monastic history of Chertsey. Where are

now its spiritualities in Surrey?—its temporalities in Berkshire and

Hampshire?—its revenues of Stanwell, and rents of assize?—its

spiritualities in Cardiganshire? Alas! they have left no sign, except on

the yellow parchment—of rare value to the antiquary.

Those who desire, like ourselves, to investigate what tradition has

sanctified, will do well to turn down a lane beyond Chertsey Church, which

leads directly to the Abbey bridge, and there, amid tangled hedge rows and

orchards, stands the fragment of an arch, partly built up, and so to say,

disfigured by brick-work, and an old wall, both evidently portions of the

Abbey. In the wall are a great number of what the people call "_black

stones_," a geological formation, making them seem fused by fire. Layers

of tiles were also inserted in this wall, and where the cement has dropped

away they can be distinctly traced; there is also an ivy, very aged

indeed; it is so knotted and thick that it seems to grow through the

stones, the soil has so evidently encroached on the wall that it is most

probably rooted at the foundation. The pleasant market garden of Mr. Roake

covers the actual ground on which the Abbey stood. The workmen frequently

turn up broken tiles and human bones, and there is no doubt that by

digging deeper much would be discovered that might elucidate the history

of the past. At the farther end of the market garden a vault has been

discovered which is of considerable length and breadth; but the water

rises so high in it (except after a long continuance of dry weather has

sealed the land springs) that it is impossible to get to the end without

wading. An enormous quantity of richly-colored and decorated encaustic

tiles have been found here; some are preserved in our local museum. But

the most interesting remains in this place are the "stews," or fish-ponds,

which run parallel to each other like the bars of a gridiron; these ponds

do not communicate one with the other, nor has the water any outlet: a

little care and attention might make them valuable for their old purposes;

but they are deplorably neglected. Occasionally you see the fin of some

huge fish, whose slow movement partakes of the character of the stagnant

water he has inhabited for years;—who can tall how many?

[Illustration: "THE GOLDEN GROVE."]

"THE GOLDEN GROVE."

"The Abbey River," as it is still called, travels slowly along its way,

fertilizing the meadows and imparting life and freshness to the placid

scene. The denizens of Chertsey have planted orchards, and in a few

instances gardens on its banks. One, the garden of Mr. Herring, is a model

of neatness, almost concealed by its roses and carefully tended shrubs. We

wandered from orchard to orchard, amid the trees and over the uneven

ground; all was so still and lonely that it required the suggestions of an

active imagination to believe it had ever been the scene of contention by

flood and field. From the Abbey Bridge the richness of the meadow scenery

is exceedingly refreshing, the grass is deep and verdant, as it cannot

fail to be, lying so low, and fertilized by perpetual moisture.

During their wide-spreading magnificence, the abbots of Chertsey erected a

picturesque chapel on the lovely hill of St. Anne: this was done somewhat

about the year 1334. Orleton, Bishop of Winchester, granted an indulgence

of forty days to such persons as should repair to, and contribute to the

fabric and its ornaments.

There is nowhere a more delightful road, than that which leads from the

"Golden Grove," rendered picturesque by its old tree, the plantations of

Monksgrove on one side, and those of the once residence of Charles James

Fox on the other. The road is perfectly embowered, and so close is the

foliage that you have no idea of the beautiful view which awaits you,

until leaving the statesman’s house to the left, you pass through a sort

of wicket gate on the right, and follow a foot-path to where two

magnificent trees crown the hill; it is wisest to wait until passing along

the level ridge you arrive at the "view point," and there, spread around

you in such a panorama as England only can show, and show against the

world for its extreme richness. On the left is Cooper’s Hill, which

Denham, that high-priest of "Local poetry," long ago made famous; in the

bend just where it meets the plain, you see the towers of Windsor Castle;

there is Harrow Hill, the sun shining brightly on its tall church; a deep

pall hovers over London, but you can see the dome of St. Paul’s looming

through the mist; nay, we have heard of those who have told the hour of

the day upon its broad-faced clock, with the assistance of a good glass.

How beautifully the Thames winds! Ay! there is the grand stand at Epsom,

and there Twickenham, delicious, soft, balmy Twickenham; and Richmond

Hill—a very queen of beauty!

[Illustration: REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.]

REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.

Yonder, beyond the valley, are Foxes Hills crowned with lofty pines—and

that is the church at Staines, and as you turn, there again is Cooper’s

Hill; Laleham seems spread as a tribute at your feet, and there is no end

to the villages and mansions—the parks, and cottages like snow-drops in a

parterre, and church spires more than we can number; while close behind us

are the stones piled thickly one on the other—the only relics of the holy

Chapel of St. Anne.

How grandly the promontory of St. George’s Hill stands out—sheltering

Weybridge, and forming a beautiful back-ground to Byfleet and the banks of

the Way; not forgetting its ruins—a Roman encampment of two thousand years

age, and its modern ornaments of rare trees, of which a generous nobleman

has made common property, to be enjoyed daily by all who choose. At the

foot of this richly planted hill, is the beautiful park of Oatlands—on the

eve of becoming an assemblage of villa-grounds. How pleasant to feel that

we can account, by our own knowledge of that glowing mount, for all the

shades formed by the hills and hollows, and different growths of trees in

the depths or heights of "the encampment," which forms the delight of many

a toilsome antiquary. Beyond are the more distant eminences of the North

Downs, and a tract of country extending into Kent. But we have not yet

explored the beauties of this our own hill of Chertsey; truly, to do so,

would take a day as long as that of its own black cherry fair.

A path to the left, among the fern and heather, leads to a well, famed for

its healing properties—it is called the Nun’s Well; even now, the peasants

believe that its waters are a cure for diseases of the eye; the path is

steep and dangerous, and it is far pleasanter to walk round the brow of

the hill and overlook the dense wood which conceals the well, fringing the

meadows of Thorpe, than to seek its tangled hiding-place in the dell. The

monks of old would be sorely perplexed if they could arise, to account for

the long line of smoke which marks the passage of the different trains

along their railroads. But we turn from them to enjoy a ramble round the

brow of St. Anne’s Hill; the coppice which clothes the descent into the

valley, is so thick, that though it is intersected by many paths, you

might lose yourself half-a-dozen times within an hour; if it be evening,

the nightingales in the thickets of Monksgrove have commenced their

chorus, and the town of Chertsey, down below, is seen to its full extent,

its church tower toned into beauty by the rich light of the setting sun,

while through the trees and holly thickets you obtain glimpses of the

Guildford and Leatherhead hills, so softly blue, that they meet and mingle

with the sky.

[Illustration: GATE OF FOX’S HOUSE.]

GATE OF FOX’S HOUSE.

[Illustration: SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX’S GARDEN.]

SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX’S GARDEN.

[Illustration: TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.]

TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.

Those who feel no interest in monkish chronicles, may reverence St. Anne’s

Hill, because of its having been the favorite residence of Charles James

Fox, the contemporary of Pitt and Burke and Sheridan and Grattan, at a

period when men felt strongly and spoke eloquently. The site of the house

on the south-eastern site of the hill is extremely beautiful, and it is

much regretted in the neighborhood that it finds so little favor in the

heart of its present noble proprietor. The grounds are laid out with much

taste; there is a noble cedar planted by Mrs. Fox when only the size of a

wand. The statesman’s widow survived her husband more than thirty-six

years, but never outlived her friends or her faculties. There is a temple

dedicated to Friendship, which was erected to perpetuate the coming of age

of one of the late Lords Holland; on a pedestal ornamented by a vase, are

inscribed some verses by General Fitzpatrick; another placed by Mrs. Fox

to mark a favorite spot where Mr. Fox loved to muse, is enriched by a

quotation from the "Flower and the Leaf," concluded by two graceful

stanzas:

"Cheerful in this sequestered bower,

From all the storms of life removed;

Here Fox enjoyed his evening hour,

In converse with the friends he loved.

And here these lines he oft would quote,

Pleased from his favorite poet’s lay;

When challenged by the warbler’s note,

That breathed a song from every spray."

At the bottom of the garden is a grotto, which must have once possessed

many attractions, and above it there is a pretty little quaint chamber

that was used as a tea-room, when, according to the custom of the time,

the English drank tea by daylight; it is adorned by painted glass windows;

there are portraits of the Prince of Wales and Mr. Fox, when both were

looking their best, and the balcony in front commands a delicious view of

the surrounding country.

The peasantry are still loud in their praise of "Madam Fox;" and some

remember with gratitude the education they received at her school, and

love to tell how the old lady was drawn there at "feast times," to see how

they all looked in their new dresses. She certainly retained her sympathy

with the young, and put away the feelings and habits of old age with a

determined hand, for it is said, when she was eighty she took lessons on

the harp. The present generation remember personally nothing of the great

statesman; he has become history to us, and we must look to history,

garbled as it always is, and always will be, by the opinions and feelings

of its writers, to determine the position of Charles James Fox in the

annals of his country. Those who were admitted to his society have written

with enthusiasm of his social qualities, and bestow equal praise on his

brilliant talents, his affability of manner, and the generosity of his

disposition. He was the third son of Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland,

and his mother was the eldest daughter of Charles, second Duke of

Richmond, and consequently great-granddaughter to Charles II.; the

material descent is one of blotted royalty, of which a man like Fox could

not have been proud. His academic course was unmarked by any of those

honors of which Oxford men are so ambitious, and yet, like his great

rival, William Pitt, he became a statesman before he was of age.

[Illustration: FOX’S ARBOR.]

FOX’S ARBOR.

At St. Anne’s Hill he enjoyed as many intervals of repose and tranquillity

as could fall to a statesman’s lot; in the time of wars and tumults, how

he must have luxuriated in its delicious quiet, surrounded by friends who

dearly loved him; and swayed only for good by the wife who (although it is

known that her early intimacy with him was such as prevented her general

recognition in society) according to the evidence of all who knew her, was

the minister only to his better thoughts and nobler ambitions, and who

weaned him from nearly all the follies and vices which stained his youth

and earlier manhood. Various causes led to his death, before age had added

infirmities to disease. He died at Chiswick House, and his last words,

addressed to Mrs. Fox were, "I die happy." It is said he wished to be

buried at Chertsey, but his remains were interred in Westminister Abbey.

The brilliant Sheridan pronounced so elegant an eulogium on his character,

that it is pleasant to think of it in those shades where, as we have said,

he so often sought and found repose: "When Mr. Fox ceased to live, the

cause of private honor and friendship lost its highest glory, public

liberty its most undaunted champion, and general humanity its most active

and ardent assertor. In him was united the most amiable disposition with

the most firm and resolute spirit; the mildest manners, with the most

exalted mind. With regard to that great man it might, indeed, be well

said, that in him the bravest heart and most exalted mind sat upon the

seat of gentleness."

[Illustration: COWLEY’S SEAT.]

COWLEY’S SEAT.

[Illustration: COWLEY’S HOUSE—STREET FRONT.]

COWLEY’S HOUSE—STREET FRONT.

There is, at all events, an imaginary pleasure in turning from the wearing

out turmoil of a statesman’s life, to what the world believes the tranquil

dreams of a poet’s existence. But there are few things the worldling so

little understands as literary industry, or so little sympathizes with as

literary care. We have no inclination to over-rate either its toils or its

pleasures, and perhaps no life is more abundantly supplied with both. Its

toils must be evident to any who have noted the increasing literary labor

which is necessary to produce the ordinary sources of comforts; but its

high and holy enjoyments are not so apparent; they are so different from

those of almost all others as not to be easily explained or understood;

but above all other gifts, the marvellous gift of poesy is a distinction

conferred by the Almighty, and should be acknowledged and treasured as

such. We know little of a poet’s studies except by their imperishable

produce, and it is a common but ill-founded prejudice to imagine

regularity or diligence incompatible with high genius. Genius is neither

above law, nor opposed to it; but as many have a poetic taste and

temperament _without_ the inspiration, the world is apt to mistake the

eccentricity of the pretender for the outward and visible sign of genius.

Whether or not the poet of the Porch-house of Chertsey had the actual

poetic fire we do not venture to determine. Abraham Cowley takes a

prominent position, amongst the poets of our land, and the eventful times

in which he lived, and his participation in their tumults give him

additional interest in all the relations of his anxious and not over-happy

life. It is recorded of him that he became a poet in consequence of

reading the Faery Queene, which chance threw in his way while yet a child.

In allusion to this, Dr. Johnson gave his well-known definition of genius:

"A mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some

particular direction." We had almost dared to say this is rather the

definition of a philosopher than of one who comprehended the spirituality

of a marvellous gift. Abraham Cowley—the posthumous son of a London

grocer—owed much to his mother. She, by her exertions, procured him a

classical education at Westminster School. She lived to see him loved,

honored, and great, and what was better still, and more uncommon,

grateful. At the age of fifteen he published a volume called "Poetic

Blossoms," which he afterwards described as "commendable extravagancies in

a boy." He obtained a scholarship in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1686,

and there took his degree; but was ejected by the Parliament, and thence

removed to Oxford. Shortly after, he followed the Queen Henrietta to

Paris, as Secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, and was employed in the

court of the exiles in the most confidential capacity. In 1656 he returned

to England, and was immediately arrested as a suspected spy. He submitted

quietly—the royalists thought too quietly—to the dominion of the

Protector, but his whole life proved that he was no traitor. At the

Restoration, that great national disappointment, his claims upon the

ungrateful monarch were met by a taunt and a false insinuation—he was told

that his pardon was his reward! Wood said, "he lost the place by certain

enemies of the Muses;" certain "friends of the Muses," however, procured

for him the lease of the Porch-house and farm at Chertsey, held under the

Queen, and the great desire of his life—solitude—was obtained.

[Illustration: COWLEY’S HOUSE—GARDEN FRONT.]

COWLEY’S HOUSE—GARDEN FRONT.

The place still seems a meet dwelling for a poet, and is, perhaps, even

more attractive to strangers than St. Anne’s hill. The porch, which caused

his residence to be called "The Porch-house," was taken down during the

last century by the father of its present proprietor, the Rev. John Crosby

Clarke, and the house is now known as "Cowley House."(1) It is situated

near the bridge which crosses a narrow and rapid stream, in a lonely part

of Guildford Street; a latticed window which overhangs the road is the

window of the room in which the poet expired; on the outside wall Mr.

Clarke has recorded his reason for removing the porch. "The porch of this

house, which projected ten feet into the highway, was taken down in the

year 1786, for the safety and accommodation of the public."

"Here the last accents flowed from Cowley’s tongue."

[Illustration: STAIRCASE—COWLEY’S HOUSE.]

STAIRCASE—COWLEY’S HOUSE.

The appearance of the house from Guildford Street, is no index to its size

or conveniences.(2) You enter by a side gate, and the new front of the

dwelling is that of a comfortable and gentlemanly home; the old part it is

said was built in the reign of James the First, and what remains is

sufficiently quaint to bear out the legend; the old and new are much

mingled, and the modern part consists of one or two bed-rooms, a large

dining-room, and a drawing-room, commanding a delicious garden view, the

meanderings of the stream, and a long tract of luxuriant meadows,

terminated by the high and richly timbered ground of St. Anne’s Hill. A

portion of the old stairway is preserved, the wood is not as has been

stated oak, but sweet chestnut. One of the rooms is panelled with oak, and

Cowley’s study is a small closet-like chamber, the window looking towards

St. Anne’s Hill. It is never difficult to imagine a poet in a _small

chamber_, particularly when his mind may imbibe inspiration from so rich

and lovely a landscape. Beside the group of trees, beneath whose shadow

the poet frequently sat, there is a horse chestnut of such exceeding size

and beauty, that it is worthy a pilgrimage, and no lover of nature could

look upon it without mingled feelings of reverence and affection.

Here then amid such tranquil scenes, and such placid beauty, the

"melancholy Cowley," passed the later days of big anxious existence; here

we may fancy him receiving Evelyn and Denham, the poets and men of letters

of his troubled day, who found the disappointments of courtly life more

than their philosophy could endure. Here his friendly biographer, Doctor

Spratt, cheered his lonely hours.

Cowley was one of those fortunate bards who obtain fame and honor during

life. His learning was deep, his reading extensive, his acquaintance with

mankind large. "To him," says Denham in his famous elegy,

"To him no author was unknown,

Yet what he wrote was all his own."

His biographer adds, "There was nothing affected or singular in his habit,

or person, or gesture; _he understood the forms of good breeding enough to

practise them without burdening himself or others_." This indeed is the

perfection of good breeding and good sense.

Having obtained, as we have said, the Porch-house at Chertsey, his mind

dwelt with pleasure—a philosophic pleasure—upon the hereafter, which he

hoped for in this life of tranquillity, and the silent labor he so dearly

loved; but he was destined to prove the reality of his own poesy:

"Oh life, thou _Nothing’s_ younger brother,

So _like_ that one might take one for the other."

The career of Abraham Cowley was never sullied by vice,(3) he was loyal

without being servile, and at once modest, independent and sincere. His

character is eloquently drawn by Doctor Spratt. "He governed his passions

with great moderation, his virtues were never troublesome or uneasy to

any, whatever he disliked in others he only corrected by the silent

reproof of a better practice."

He died at Chertsey on the 28th of July, 1667, and was interred in

Westminster Abbey. A throng of nobles followed him to his grave, and the

worthless king who had deserted him is reported to have said, that Mr.

Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England.

It is said the body of Cowley was removed from Chertsey by water, thus

making the Thames he loved so well, the highway to his grave; there is

something highly poetic in this idea of a funeral, so still and solemn,

with the oars dropping noiselessly in the blue water. Pope in allusion to

it, says:

"What tears the river shed,

When the sad pomp along his banks was led;"

which rather inclines us to the belief, that in this, as in many other

instances, the poetic reading is not the true one,

"The muses oft in lands of vision play:"

but the fact that he died at Chertsey, as much respected as a man, as he

was admired as a poet, is certain, and his house is often visited by

strangers, who are permitted to see his favorite haunts by the kindness of

its proprietor, who honors the spot so hallowed by memories of "the

melancholy Cowley:"—he who considered and described "business" as:

"The contradiction to his fate."

But we must postpone our farther rambles for the present.

[Illustration: TREES ON ST ANNE’S HILL.]

TREES ON ST ANNE’S HILL.

Chertsey loses half its romantic interest by the intrusion of the

progressive agents of our time—our noisy time, of which the spirit

willingly brooks no souvenirs of monastic repose. The old quaint quiet

town has now its railroad, and the shades of its heroes have departed.

TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE

COLONIES.

We have at different times, by reviews or translations, endeavored to give

our readers some idea of what people think of us, in continental Europe.

But there are two sides to every thing—or there is an universal dualism,

as Emerson declares—which is perfectly true as to the method which might

be adopted in the execution of this self-imposed task. One class of

readers understand by the word _people_ the _beau monde_, and would have

us invariably follow the school of the Countesses Hahn-Hahn or Ladies

Blessington or Milords Fitz-Flummery, contented if we have but a fair name

in society. Another and more reasonable class would be satisfied to know

the opinion of the literati, or perhaps the poets, particularly when they

do fit homage to our "grand old woods," and to Niagara. Others regard with

most respect a plain literal account of our branches of industry—our

railroads, factories, and canals. They would have the country judged

purely from a mechanical or practical point of view—contenting themselves

as to other matters with the reflection. "Oh, sensible people care very

little about any thing else. If they know what we produce, and what our

resources are, they’ll understand and respect us sufficiently."

Now the opinion of each of these classes has its weight, and though not of

the _greatest_ ultimate importance, is always to be respected. If we were

questioned as to the views of which of them we yielded full regard, we

should candidly say, "to none." It is the general, universal opinion, of a

nation at large that we deem authoritative, and none other. It is that

popular opinion so readily yet often so falsely formed (at times from

trifles of almost incredible levity), and which when once fairly

developed, is well-nigh ineradicable. In a word, it is to the views of the

people.

We propose, as opportunity shall offer, to make our readers familiar with

the writings of all these different classes of travellers—and in the

present article, we shall make a few extracts from a work interesting, as

having probably contributed more than any other to a general knowledge of

the United States in Germany. It is the book which has had the greatest

currency among all classes, but particularly with the lower order of

readers and emigrants.

Before proceeding, however, to the work itself, it may be as well to

answer a question which has perhaps been suggested to the minds of a

certain class of readers. Of what great use, after all, is this nervous

regard as to the opinion of the world? Is not our character

established—are not our characteristics known, to the uttermost corners of

the earth? To which question we may answer, _Not quite_. In avoiding that

ridiculous sensitiveness which prompts so many Americans to feel

personally insulted by the weak remarks of every wandering ignoramus, we

would by no means fall into the opposite error of attaching no importance

whatever to the good opinion or the degree of consciousness as to our

existence entertained by the world at large.

Should any feel disposed to smile at such an expression, as "the

consciousness of our existence," we will take the liberty of citing a few

curious instances, for the authenticity of which we assume the entire

responsibility—instances which may perhaps astonish a few even of the

better informed. There are in many districts (not altogether provincial)

of Italy and France great numbers, who would not even in America be

classed as _ignorant_ in regard to other matters, who have not the

remotest idea as to the nature or geography of our country. An instance

has come to our knowledge of an intelligent Hungarian who, by intercourse

with the world, had acquired a fluency in five languages, and who inquired

of an American gentleman if his country were not situated somewhere in

England. The late Mr. Cooper, when placing his daughters at a celebrated

seminary on the continent, found a great curiosity had been created by the

rumor that they were coming, some supposing they were black, some that

they were copper-colored, and all unprepared to see American girls looking

for all the world like the young German ladies. We have heard of a similar

instance in which an English _gentleman_—a Cambridge graduate—inquired of

an American what was the current language of the United States. Lastly, we

may cite the case of an English author, well known to our own public, and

favorably mentioned not long since in these pages, who was under the

impression that owing to the great emigration from Germany, the English

language must with us, in a very few years, yield to that of the

_Vaterland_. Now our commercial and industrial relations are seriously

hindered by this absurd ignorance of America, which in a word prevails to

such an extent, that we have known an American, who—probably from having

been over-questioned and speered at in New England—had imbibed such a

wholesome hatred of inquisitiveness, that he wished the French government

would hang up, for the benefit of all concerned, the following list of

questions, with satisfactory answers annexed, in all the _cafés_ of the

politest nation in Europe:

Whether America is an island or a continent?

What is the color of its inhabitants?

What language do they speak?

Have they a religion and what is it?

What is the state of their morals and cookery?

Have they a correct state of feeling as regards the opera?

The reader is not to infer that this is the general state of knowledge

regarding our country. But it is worth nothing as a curious illustration

of the vast number of individuals who derive their ideas, not from what is

going on at the present day, or from available sources of information, but

from the antiquated views of a by-gone generation. And we trust it will

not be deemed inappropriate that we here speak a word of the want of

opportunities of acquiring very general information under which the

ordinary readers of continental Europe suffer. With all their libraries,

all their immense arrays of magazines and journals, we find among them an

apathy in regard to the world without (to the Fan-Qui), which appears

incredible until we reflect on the deadening influences of the censorship,

which views with distrust all information in regard to the Land of

Liberty. We are not aware, throughout the whole of continental Europe, of

a single publication so thoroughly cosmopolite in its character, so

general in the scope of its information, or which is so universally

disseminated among _all_ classes of readers, as _The International_; and

we trust we do not go too far when we assert, that it is to an extended

sale of periodical publications somewhat approaching it in the

concentration and dissemination of news from the world at large, that our

countrymen owe that superior intelligence and citizen-of-the-world

character which distinguish them from the insular Briton, self-important

Frenchman, or abstracted German.

The work from which we propose to make some extracts, is TRAUGOTT BROMME’s

_Hand und Reisebuch für Auswanderer nach den Vereinigten Staaten_ (or

Traugott Bromme’s Journey and Handbook for Emigrants to the United

States). As we have already stated, no work on America is at the present

day more familiarly known to that class of readers to whom it is

addressed. Certain remarks on the present condition of German emigration

with which it is prefaced, may not be devoid of interest to our readers,

though not constituting a part of such observations as we have more

particularly referred to:

"There is, it appears, implanted in every man an impulse to

advance and better his condition—an impulse caused by poverty,

dependent circumstances, or pressure from every side, vexing at

times even the highest in rank, and which is the cause why

thousands leave their fatherland, to seek afar a now home, and

hundreds of thousands cast around them disturbed and anxious

glances, restrained only by hard poverty, which imprisons them at

home. Such is very generally the case at present in our own

country, where—despite the political concessions of March in the

year 1848, of the published original privileges of the German

people, and of the promising prospect of a free and united

Germany, with a concluding general empire—emigration appears to be

by no means on the decrease." "These emigrants of the present day

consist not as formerly of poor people of the lower orders, who

turn their backs on the German fatherland, or liberal declaimers,

dreaming of an ideal of freedom which could scarcely be realized

in Utopia, but of sober excellent families of the middle class,

who, free from all delusive fancies, do not expect to find in the

western world wealth and honorable offices, but desire only to

inhabit a land, wherein they may dwell quietly and happily with

their children." "What the German wants is _room_—a new broad

field for his abilities—and this America extends to him in

unbounded space. No one at the present day hopes to obtain hills

of gold without labor, but every one knows that the far more

estimable treasure of perfect independence, or to speak more

correctly, of perfect _self-dependence_, with the prospect of a

future free from care, may in America be obtained at the cost of a

few years of earnest, honest industry. And what, to the man

oppressed in his fatherland by all the cares incident upon the

obtaining a bare subsistence, is two or three or even _four_ years

of hard work, when compared to a whole life of poverty and

misery?"

After accurately sketching the extreme misery and poverty oppressing the

inhabitants of many districts of Germany, of late years sadly increased by

the falling off in manufactures since the political disturbances, our

author proceeds to set forth the advantages offered by America:

"That most emigrants should rather look to America, than Poland,

Russia, Servia, or Siebenburgen, is natural enough, since all of

these countries together cannot offer so many attractions as

America. Where on earth is there such a vast array of unoccupied

lands, offered at such a moderate price—land so cheap that in many

districts twenty or thirty and even more acres, covered with wood,

are given at a price for which a single acre of similar land is

sold in Germany?"

The richness of the soil, the excellence of the climate, and the demand

for labor, are then described; to which, as the greatest inducement, he

adds the fact that in _America_ the fullest "liberty of labor and

mechanical calling or trade," is allowed. Also, that the taxes are so

light that an industrious man is able not only to live, but even to lay up

something for his old age, or his children, or to employ in the extension

of his business.

"For as there exists in America no standing army, its inhabitants

may retain their children, as the best possible assistants in

labor, and train, govern, and discipline them as can only properly

done under the eye of a parent. Furthermore, in that country every

one is permitted to enjoy the fullest civil and religious liberty.

These are the advantages to be expected from an emigration to

America, _and he who anticipates more will find himself bitterly

deceived_. But a man who can be content with this, and can live

actively, moderately, and frugally, will here, better than in any

other land in the world, ultimately attain to happiness and

fortune. In times like ours, when every branch of industry is

crowded, when tender parents think with grief and trouble on the

future prospects of their children, there are for the emigrant no

other resources save those held out by a full and bountiful

nature, and no means of livelihood which may be so certainly

depended upon as those afforded by agriculture. Here it is that

industry throws open the widest field, and affords the fullest

opportunity of doing good."

In the following extract, our author proceeds to set forth the national

character of the American:

"The national character of the American has been greatly

misunderstood; few travellers seem, in fact, to have understood

it, since they mention it as something as new and unfounded as the

country itself, and yet it is so well confirmed—so well

established in every elevated and noble characteristic of the

human race, that it may confidently be placed in comparison with

that of the most celebrated nations of antiquity. Springing

originally from England, they have the pride and manly confidence

of the Briton, for through their ancestry they claim an equal

share of all which gives dignity to those inheriting glory and a

great name. Their forefathers were those brave religious pilgrims

who were transferred by British laws (or rather by old German) and

British genius to the shores of the new world—to there give to

those laws and genius an immortality. Building still further on

this new land, they opened the temple of the Lord to all his

followers, and received with open arms all the unfortunate or

oppressed exiles of Europe. For the first time in reality in this

world they flung wide the flag of truth and freedom—fought under

its folds an unequal fight against the mightiest power in the

world—and overcame it. And when a second time they armed

themselves to combat with England, they again came forth

unconquered from the contest. Reason enough this for the national

pride of the American, for nothing could more naturally cause a

certain degree of self-content than to belong to a nation whose

brilliant deeds in war as in politics, in commerce as in

manufactures, have astonished the world. A second and not less

characteristic trait of the American is seen in a certain

earnestness, which appears to strangers to indicate a want of

sociable feeling—and yet perhaps in _no_ country is true noble

sociability as developed in domestic life, so much at home, as in

America.

"Accustomed from his cradle to reflect on himself and his

circumstances, the American from the first instant of his entry

into active life is ever on the watch to improve their condition.

Is he rich, and consequently more directly interested in the

common wealth, then every new law, every change in the personal

direction of the government, awakes in him a new care for the

future, while on the other hand, if poor, then every change in the

state may perhaps afford him a new opportunity of bettering his

condition. Therefore he is ever wide awake—ever looking out for

the future, not as a mere spectator, but as one playing a part and

occupied in maintaining the present state of affairs, or in

improving them. The entire mass of the population is continually

in a state of political agitation, and, urged by hope of their aid

or fear of their power, we see every one continually seeking for

expressions of public opinion. No man is so rich or powerful that

he need not fear them—none so wretched and poor but that he may

venture to entertain the hope of being through them aided and

relieved. Public opinion is in America the mightiest organ of

justice—shielding no one, from the president to the simplest

citizen, and proceeds, mowing, casting down, or grinding to powder

all things which oppose it and deserve its condemnation.

"This condition of perpetual agitation gives the American an

appearance of ceaseless restlessness, but it is in reality the

true ground of peace and content. _The American has no time to be

discontented_, and this is the most praiseworthy point of their

constitution and popular life. The republican has necessarily as

many severe and arduous duties to fulfil as the inhabitants of any

monarchy—but their fulfilment is gratifying and consoling—for it

is allied to the consciousness of power. The American has no

desire for the quiet temper of the European, and least of all for

the silent happiness of the German, which last, alas! appears

since the dissipation of the intoxication of the Revolution of

March, 1848, to consist, as far as the great mass of the

population is concerned, merely in the egotistic repose of

self-sufficiency, weakness, and ignorance. The American finds

repose only in his house, in his family circle, and among his

children; all without the walls of that home is an incessant

working and striving, in politics as in trade—by the streets and

canals, as in the woods of the West. Different as the elements are

from which the inhabitants of the United States are formed, and

different as the circumstances may be under which they live, there

still prevails among them a certain unity of character, an

equanimity of feeling, which it would be difficult to parallel,

resulting perhaps from the very heterogeneousness and mixture of

elements itself, since no one element allows to another

pre-eminence. They have all something in common in their

appearance, which gives them the air almost of relations—something

in their gait and manners which declares them to be other than

English, Germans, or French. Through the entire land, through

every class, there is disseminated a certain refinement of manner,

an appreciation of decency and nobility of character, which

springs from a consciousness of their own rights and respect for

mankind. Even emigrants, in America, soon learn to cast aside

their rough prejudices as regards caste, for the proud affability

of the aristocratic, the vanity of the small citizen, the want of

confidence and ease in the mechanic, the slavish servitude and

snappish insolence of liveried servants, find in America no place.

_Man_ is there esteemed only as _man_—only ability gains honor—and

where _that_ is, and there alone, can true nobility be found. No

one there inquires who a man is, or who were his parents, but

’What can he _do_, what are his capabilities, and what can he

produce?’ Rank and caste are in America unknown. Every man feels

his freedom and independence, and expresses himself accordingly.

Even the servant is a free man, who has, it is true, hired his

service, but not his entire existence. The American is polite, but

over-refined, unmeaning compliments form no part of his manners,

nor does he expect them from others. No man vexes or troubles

himself for another, in consequence of which we find in American

society very little stiffness and reserve, yet we find in every

respect that the very highest regard is there paid to propriety

and decency—particularly as regards the female sex, since in no

country, not even in England, do ladies enjoy such respect and

regard as in the United States. Ever depending upon, and confiding

in himself, the American is in his manners free, open, and

unreserved. The mass of the people is possessed of intelligence

and spirit, though not so scientifically educated as in Europe,

and a higher degree of intelligence penetrates even the lower

class, who consequently form a marked and singular contrast with

those of like rank in Europe. It is not from being versed in the

higher branches of abstract learning and science, but from the

great amount of that direct practical knowledge which exerts the

greatest influence in making life happy, that the Americans are

distinguished from other nations, and for the acquisition of which

they have made better provision and preparation than any other

people. As yet too deeply occupied with the Needful and Important,

they are compelled to leave the development of the higher branches

to the care and noble generosity of individuals. But a glance at

the sums which are annually devoted to the establishment and

maintenance of schools and universities, will suffice to evidence

the liberality with which the proper education of the people is

cared for in the United States. Knowledge is indeed esteemed, but

only according to its use and applicability to the wants of life;

so that a practical tanner is there worth more than a learned

pedant. _Wealth, or rather wealth allied to ability and

universality of talent, is there more highly esteemed than

learning,_ while hospitality, patriotism, and toleration, allowing

every one to think and feel as he likes, are universal

characteristics. So that in the United States nothing is wanting

to the attainment of a true civil and social freedom, even though

the means thereto are not invariably correctly understood or

admitted (as is indeed the case by us), and though—since men are

every where subject to the same weaknesses—they measure happiness

rather by the standard of their own intelligence and virtues, than

by fortune and nature, which latter, impartially considered, is

the basis of the physical happiness of the American. That,

however, which constitutes his _moral_ happiness is this; that in

his country, domestic life enjoys the true supremacy, _and to

this, public life and the state are subordinate_. It is true that

the American statesmen have fallen into the same error as the

European—_id est_, to believe that without _them_ the people could

never prosper, and still live in the belief that home-happiness

hangs on them, their theories and arts of governing; but the most

superficial glance teaches that if wise laws are able to effect

more for the happiness of man than they can bring about, still no

one should _there_ attempt to draw happiness from such a source

when popular and private life have combined to bestow it. But

should the happiness of the Americans ever be derived from this

side, it will be more sensible to assume that the foundation

thereof will be the release from that which in the recent culture

has passed for the deepest political wisdom. The true secret of

all the good fortune of America lies in the favorable condition of

external things. ’It is not with them as in Europe, where the poor

can only better their condition or become rich by making the rich

poor, for therein lies the source of an infinite strife which hath

been combated for centuries, with the axioms of religion and

morals. But in America, men when striving to better their

condition, instead of becoming enemies and turning their arms

against each other, strive with _Nature_, and wring from her

boundless stores that wealth which she so bountifully affords!’"

We have made these quotations less on account of any merit which they

possess, than to give our readers an idea of the general opinion

prevailing in Germany in regard to our country; and to confirm an

assertion made in a recent number of the _International_, that in no

country in Europe are we so impartially and favorably judged. There is one

particular, however, in which we find this book worthy of especial praise.

The author highly commends the flourishing state of religion in the United

States, declaring that we are in this respect superior to the Germans, and

that on the Sabbath the churches are filled to a degree unknown in Europe.

It is from our deep-rooted attachment to domestic life, and our observance

of religion, that he correctly deduces our true happiness, as separated

from the natural advantages of the country. It is greatly to be desired

that the majority of his countrymen resident in America, would allow

themselves to be impressed in a similar manner as to the advantages of

piety and Sabbath-keeping. There is in the United States a vast number of

German newspapers—conducted we should imagine for the greater part by

unprincipled and worthless adventurers of the red republican, socialist

stamp, who, despite the protection which they here enjoy, incessantly and

spitefully abuse every institution to which they are really indebted for

their asylum among us, and most of all our observation of the Sabbath, in

a style which entitles them to something severer than mere contempt. But

Herr Bromme is right. Respect for morality and religion, a due regard for

the Sabbath, and a dependence on the home-circle for pleasure and

recreation, are the surest safeguard of peace, happiness, and prosperity.

A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS’ TEMPLE AT BAKU.

In a recent number of the _Russian Archives for Scientific Information_,

is an account of a visit made by a Russian lady of distinction, in company

with her husband and sons, to a temple of the Indian sect of Gebers, or

Fire Worshippers, near Baku, a city of Georgia, lying on the Caspian Sea.

We translate this interesting narrative for the _International_, as

follows:

In order the better to enjoy the spectacle of the fire, we chose the

evening for our excursion thither; but a thick fog came on, which made the

road difficult and dangerous. When we finally reached the place it was

pitch dark; the flames were rising in beautiful purity to the peaceful sky

of night, and the entire castle, within which was the temple, seemed to be

surrounded by a circle of watch-fires. These were lighted by Persians from

the neighborhood, who were busy burning lime and baking bread, dark forms

like those which worked on the tower of Babel, and burnt lime for it. They

were now brought here by the ease and cheapness of carrying on their

occupations. All that is necessary is to make a hole in the ground, touch

a burning coal to it, and an inexhaustible flame rises forth like a

spring. Behind this range of little flames and fires, rose, in the pale

light, the dirty white walls of the castle, in the centre of which there

flashed from the summit of two lofty pillars great masses of the purest,

clearest, and keenest flame, which were now bent down horizontally and

wreathed like serpents by the force of the wind, and now rose

perpendicularly to the sky, whose dome they lighted up like two vast altar

tapers. We drove around the edifice, and stopped on one side where there

were no flames rising from the earth. A fine rain was falling, but we

remained without while our guide went in to announce us. He came back

immediately with a swarthy Hindoo. The sight of this man impressed me

strangely, and I forgot that he belonged to a remote colony of a few

individuals, and asked myself if we had been suddenly transported to

India, or if India had been brought up to the Caspian.

We went into the court-yard, in which stands the temple, with its two

fire-pillars. About half way up hang a couple of large bells, which the

Hindoo sounded by way of preparing us for what we were to see. There was

something fearful in the loud clangor, and my boys crowded close beside

me. Except our party, no one was to be seen except the swart Geber, in his

white turban and long brown robe, with just enough of a pair of light blue

trowsers visible to bring into distinctness his naked black feet. His

features were noble, and his beard long and black. He looked like a

conjurer, like the lord of an enchanted castle, summoning his spirits. The

hissing fire, as if obeying him, flashed up more brightly at the crash of

the bells; now it was clear as day around us, and now it was twilight as

the wind lowered the flame. My husband and sons and the guide who had

brought us to the place, were all dressed in oriental costume, and I alone

seemed to belong to Europe. A shudder of home-sickness came over me, and

at every moment I expected to see something monstrous, to behold all the

cruelties of a heathenish and barbarous worship.

The interpreter now summoned us to follow the Geber. We were told that the

castle was built by a rich Indian nabob, who was a fire worshipper, and

who, with his followers, long inhabited it. Now, only three Hindoos remain

from that period of splendor. But nature remains eternally the same, and

whether worshipped or not, the flames still shine and awe the

superstitious, and so great is the fame of the place that many pilgrims

come yearly from distant India to pray, and to have prayers said for them,

here in the visible presence of the primeval light.

At last we came to the cell of the priest, and on his invitation entered

it. We passed through a low door, and down a few steps, and found

ourselves in a small, semicircular, low, but very white room, with a floor

of mason-work, and a small altar in the centre. Around the wall were

seats, also of mason-work. In the altar there was an opening as large as a

gun-barrel, from which rose a slender flame that lighted the room very

clearly. There were other little openings on the sides of the altar. The

Hindoo took a wisp of straw, lighted it, and touched these openings, from

which the most beautiful flames at once issued. The children, who had

never seen gas lights, or at least did not remember them, regarded all

this as the most perfect witchery. On a second altar, which, like the

first, was about the height of a common table, lay or stood the idols and

treasures of our priest. Small steps led up to it, which were used to hold

muscles, stones, shells, and other instruments employed in the sacred

rites. The idols were of metal, and ugly and monstrous, like Chinese

images. Beside these figures, we were astonished to see crosses of various

forms and sizes. We asked the Geber about them, and he answered with

oriental emphasis: "There is one God, and no one has seen him; therefore

every one adores him after his own way, and represents him after his own

way." The reply was diplomatic enough, and we could not ascertain how the

crosses had come there.

On the altar and its steps lay a great number of singularly beautiful

Indian stones, which the boys wanted very much, but which, in spite of our

large offers, we could not obtain. They were mementoes from the distant

fatherland, and possibly they served as sacred ornaments for the little

cell. There were also several censers, lamps, and little silver plates and

salvers. The air was stifling from the fumes of gas, and the heat was like

that of a vapor bath. The priest took from the altar some pieces of red

and white candied sugar, held them, praying, before his idols, sprinkled

them with holy water, and handed them to us on a silver plate.

A second Hindoo now came in, a tall old man, whose name, as he told us,

was Amintaas. He invited us into his cell, which was larger and

differently arranged. In the centre was a large kettle, set in mason-work,

with water in it, and a gas flame burning under it; the altar was in

another apartment beyond, and separated from the first by a low wall or

fence, with a passage through. Another apartment, similarly divided off,

was spread with carpets for sleeping. After we had seen the stones,

shells, and idols, which were richer and more numerous than in the former

cell, the Hindoos asked us if they should pray for us. We agreed, and the

ceremony began. A large muscle shell was washed in the kettle, the plates

were set in order at the foot of the altar, a censer began to smoke, the

silver plate with candied sugar was set over a lamp Between two bells,

whose handles were the most monstrous figures of idols. These bells

Amintaas took and began to ring vehemently. The other Hindoos stood behind

him and beat two big cymbals, accompanying this noise with the most

inhuman and frightful howling that a man’s lungs ever produced. Still,

there was method and a regular cadence in it. Finally, they made a pause,

bowed before the images, murmuring softly, after which they arranged the

plates anew, and sprinkled the sugar with holy water. My husband whispered

in my ear a line from the conjuration in "Faust," and the whole of that

scene rushed vividly into my memory.

Meanwhile the lungs of the old Amintaas had recovered their power, for he

now seized a conch shell, held it in both hands, and with incredible

strength blew long wild notes, with scarce any thing like a tune. I grew

dizzy in listening to this clamor, and at once understood what is meant by

the heathen making a "vain noise," This cannibalistic music was kept up

for a long time, and seemed to form the climax of the sacred rites. The

finale was a combination of wild shouting, banging of the cymbals, ringing

and murmuring. At last the concert was over, and we breathed freely.

Amintaas handed us the candied sugar, and my husband laid down two ducats

in its place. They were received with warm expressions of gratitude, and

laid upon the altar. We went out into the open air, but the scene had

changed. The lonely castle was crowded with Persians who had come from

their lime-burning to see the Europeans. Persian women were sitting around

by sundry little ovens of masonry, where, by the help of gas flames, they

baked their _Tsheuks_, thin cakes of unleavened bread. Followed by the

crowd, we were led a couple of hundred steps from the castle to a spring

that was covered over; the cover was taken off, and a bundle of burning

straw thrown in, when, crackling and hissing, sprung up a splendid pillar

of fire, vanishing in sparks like stars. This beautiful spectacle lasted

but for a moment, and a quarter of an hour was necessary to collect gas

enough to repeat the experiment.

We returned to Baku in the rain, more dead than alive. It was the eve of

Easter. The next morning, as I was sitting on the sofa with the children,

there came in a tall, meagre Hindoo, with gray hair; he was dressed in a

white robe, and brought me white and red sugar on a silver plate. He was

the chief priest from the temple of the Gebers, and had come to Baku to

see the Easter festivities. We took a few grains of his sugar, and I laid

a silver rouble on the plate. While he was making his bows for this, my

husband came in and told him, partly in Tartar, partly in Russian, and

partly in pantomime, that we had been to his temple the night before, and

had prayers said there. He asked at once, with eagerness, how much we had

given, and when he learned the sum, asked for a certificate to that

effect, as, without it, the others would give him no part of the money. We

sent him away without granting his request, for the two screamers of the

night previous had earned all we gave them. We learned afterwards that the

gifts of visitors occasioned quarrels, and often blows, in the romantic

fire-castle. This disgusted me, and yet it is not the fault of these poor

fellows. They must necessarily become covetous, since they profane their

most sacred ceremonies as a means of living. They have neither fields nor

gardens, and the only thing like vegetation that I saw was some lone boxes

in the court yard, filled with shrubs and plants, remains, no doubt, from

the time of the Indian nabob, who sought in vain to establish cultivation

in a soil impregnated with inflammable gas. However, I learned to my

sorrow that grass at least grows there, for, in going through it to the

spring, my feet became perfectly wet.

The air of the locality does not seem to be unwholesome for man. At least,

the Geber priests, who had lived there for years, were perfect lions for

health and vigor.

A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.

In the third volume of his _History of the Romans under the Empire_, just

published in London, Mr. MERIVALE gives some elaborate pieces of character

writing, one of which has for its subject CICERO. It is not good for a man

to think harshly of Cicero, and however easy it may seem to be to condemn

manifest faults in his character, it is by no means easy to be fair in the

estimate we make. Mr. Merivale sums up a character which has too often

been roughly put down as that of a great writer and a little man, as

follows:

"Many writers, it has been remarked, have related the death of

Cicero, but Plutarch alone has painted it. In the narrative here

laid before him the reader has the substance of this picturesque

account, together with some touches introduced from collateral

sources. In this, as in many other massages of his Lives, the

Greek biographer has evidently aimed at creating an effect, and

though he seems to have been mainly guided by the genuine

narrative of Tiro, Cicero’s beloved freedman, we may suspect him

of having embellished it to furnish a striking termination to one

of his favorite sketches. Nevertheless the narrative is mainly

confirmed by a fragment of Livy’s history, which has fortunately

been preserved. The Roman author vies with the Greek in throwing

dignity and interest over the great statesman’s end. But in

reviewing the uneven tenor of his career, Livy concludes with the

stern comment, "He bore none of his calamities as a man should,

except his death." These are grave words. In the mouth of one who

had cast his scrutinizing glance over the characters and exploits

of all the heroes of the great republic, and had learnt by the

training of his life-long studies to discriminate moral qualities

and estimate desert, they constitute the most important judgment

on the conduct of Cicero that antiquity has bequeathed to us. Few

indeed among the Romans ever betrayed a want of resolution in the

face of impending death. But it was in the endurance of calamity

rather than the defiance of danger that the courage of Cicero was

deficient. The orator, whose genius lay in the arts of peace and

persuasion, exhibited on more than one occasion a martial spirit

worthy of other habits and a ruder training. In the contest with

Catilina he displayed all the moral confidence of a veteran

general: in the struggle with Antonius he threw himself without

reserve into a position where there was no alternative but to

conquer or to perish. In the earlier conflict he had still his

fame to acquire, his proud ascendency to establish; and the love

of praise and glory inspired him with the audacity which makes and

justifies its own success. But in the later, he courted danger for

the sake of retaining the fame he so dearly prized. He had once

saved his country, and he could not endure that it should be said

he had ever deserted it. He loved his country; but it wan for his

own honor, which he could preserve, rather than for his country’s

freedom, which he despaired of, that he returned to his post when

escape was still possible. He might have remained silent, but he

opened the floodgates of his eloquence. When indeed he had once

launched himself on the torrent he lost all self-command; he could

neither retrace nor moderate his career; he saw the rocks before

him, but he dashed himself headlong against them. But another

grave authority has given us the judgment of antiquity, that

Cicero’s defect was the want of steadfastness. His courage had no

dignity because it lacked consistency. All men and all parties

agreed that he could not be relied upon to lead, to co-operate, or

to follow. In all the great enterprises of his party, he was left

behind, except that which the nobles undertook against Catilina,

in which they rather thrust him before them than engaged with him

on terms of mutual support. When we read the vehement claims which

Cicero put forth to the honor of association, however tardy, with

the glories and dangers of Cæsar’s assassins, we should deem the

conspirators guilty of a monstrous oversight in having neglected

to enlist him in their design, were we not assured that he was not

to be trusted as a confederate either for good or for evil.

"Of all the characters of antiquity Cicero is undoubtedly that

with which we are most intimately acquainted; for he alone has

left to us the record of his thoughts and actions for more than

half his public career in a voluminous mass of familiar as well as

political correspondence. No public character probably could pass

unscathed through the fiery ordeal to which he has thus subjected

himself. Cicero, it must be avowed, is convicted from his own

mouth of vanity, inconstancy, sordidness, jealousy, malice,

selfishness, and timidity. But on the other hand no character,

public or private, could thus bare its workings to our view

without laying a stronger claim to our sympathy, and extorting

from us more kindly consideration than we can give to the mere

shell of the human being with which ordinary history brings us in

contact. Cicero gains more than he loses by the confessions he

pours into our ear. We read in his letters what we should vainly

search for in the meagre pages of Sallust and Appian, in the

captious criticism of Dion, and even in the pleasant anecdotes of

his friendly biographer Plutarch, his amiableness, his refined

urbanity, his admiration for excellence, his thirst for fame, his

love of truth, equity, and reason. Much indeed of the patriotism,

the honesty, the moral courage he exhibited, was really no other

than the refined ambition of attaining the respect of his

contemporaries and bequeathing a name to posterity. He might not

act from a sense of duty, like Cato, but his motives, personal and

selfish as they in some sense were, coincided with what a more

enlightened conscience would have felt to be duty. Thus his

proconsulate is perhaps the purest and most honorable passage in

his life. His strict and rare probity amidst the temptations of

office arrests our attention and extorts our praise: yet assuredly

Cicero had no nice sense of honor, and was controlled by no

delicacy of sentiment, where public opinion was silent, or a

transaction strictly private. His courting his ward Publilia for

her dower, his caressing Dolabella for the sake of getting his

debt paid, his soliciting the historian Lucceius to color and

exaggerate the merits of his consulship, display a grievous want

of magnanimity and of a predominant sense of right. Fortunately

his instinct taught him to see in the constitution of the republic

the fairest field for the display of his peculiar talents; the

orator and the pleader could not fail to love the arena on which

the greatest triumph of his genius had been or were yet, as he

hoped, to be acquired. And Cicero indeed was not less ambitious

than Cæesar or Pompeius, Antonius or Octavius. To the pursuit of

fame he sacrificed many interests and friendships. He was not less

jealous of a rival in his chosen career than any of the leaders of

party and candidates for popular favor. He could not endure

competition for the throne of eloquence and the sceptre of

persuasion. It was on this account perhaps that he sought his

associates among the young, from whose rivalry he had nothing to

fear, rather than from his own contemporaries, the candidates for

the same prize of public admiration which he aimed at securing for

himself. From his pages there flows an incessant stream of abuse

of all the great masters of political power in his time; of Cæsar

and Pompeius; of Crassus and Antonius, not to mention his coarse

vituperation of Piso and Gabinius, and his uneasy sneers at the

impracticable Cato. We may note the different tone which his

disparagement assumes towards these men respectively. He speaks of

Cæsar with awe, of Pompeius with mortification, with dislike of

Crassus, with bitter malice of Antonius. Cæsar, even when he most

deeply reprobates him, he personally loves; the cold distrust of

Pompeius vexes his self-esteem; between him and Crassus there

subsists a natural antipathy of temperament: but Antonius, the

hate of his old age, becomes to him the incarnation of all the

evil his long and bitter experience of mankind have discovered in

the human heart. While we suspect Cicero of injustice towards the

great men of his day, we are bound also to specify the gross

dishonesty with which he magnifies his own merits where they are

trivial, and embellishes them where they are really important. The

perpetual recurrence to the topic of his own political deserts

must have wearied the most patient of friends, and more than

balanced the display of sordidness and time-serving which Atticus

doubtless reflected back in his share of the correspondence

between them.

"But while Cicero stands justly charged with many grave

infirmities of temper and defects of principle, while we remark

with a sigh the vanity, the inconstancy, and the ingratitude he so

often manifested, while we lament his ignoble subserviencies and

his ferocious resentments, the high standard by which we claim to

judge him is in itself the fullest acknowledgment of his

transcendent merits. For undoubtedly had he not placed himself on

a higher moral level than the statesmen and sages of his day, we

should pass over many of his weaknesses in silence, and allow his

pretensions to our esteem to pass almost unchallenged. But we

demand a nearer approach to the perfection of human wisdom and

virtue in one who sought to approve himself the greatest of their

teachers. Nor need we scruple to admit that the judgment of the

ancients on Cicero was for the most part unfavorable. The

moralists of antiquity required in their heroes virtues with which

we can more readily dispense: and they too had less sympathy with

many qualities which a purer religion and a wider experience have

taught us to love and admire. Nor were they capable, from their

position, of estimating the slow and silent effects upon human

happiness of the lessons which Cicero enforced. After all the

severe judgments we are compelled to pass on his conduct, we must

acknowledge that there remains a residue of what is amiable in his

character and noble in his teaching beyond all ancient example.

Cicero lived and died in faith. He has made converts to the belief

in virtue, and had disciples in the wisdom of love. There have

been dark periods in the history of man, when the feeble ray of

religious instruction paled before the torch of his generous

philanthropy. The praise which the great critic pronounced upon

his excellence in oratory may be justly extended to the qualities

of his heart, and even in our enlightened days it may be held no

mean advance in virtue to venerate the master of Roman

philosophy."

LORD MAHON’S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

Incomparably the best history of our struggle for independence that has

been written by a foreigner is that of which we have the larger portion in

the just-published fifth and sixth volumes of Lord MAHON’S _History of

England from the Peace of Utrecht_, comprising the period from 1763 to

1780—from the commencement of the popular discontents until the virtual

conclusion of the war.

The character of Lord Mahon as a historian has long been established. When

Sismondi, in 1842, had brought his History of France down to the peace of

Aix-la-Chapelle, he lamented that he could no longer be guided by Lord

Mahon, and expressed a hope that his "brilliant labors" would be

continued. The portion of his work on which the illustrious Frenchman thus

set the seal of his approval has been reprinted in this country by the

Appletons, in two large volumes (embracing the first four of the original

impression), carefully and judiciously edited by Professor Henry Reed, of

Philadelphia. It well indicates the right of its author to a place with

the best British writers in this department. History was never before

written so brilliantly or profoundly as in the last half century. Germany

in this period has boasted her Schiller, Niebuhr, Von Hammer, Heeren,

Ranke, and two Mullers; France her Sismondi, Barrante, Thierrys, Michelet,

Mignet, Guizot, and Thiers; England her Mitford, Arnold, Thirlwall, Grote,

Napier, Hallam, Mackintosh, Macaulay, Palgrave, and Mahon; and we have

ourselves the noble names of Bancroft, Prescott, and Irving, to send to

the next ages. Of the English authors we have mentioned, we regard Lord

Mahon as in many respects the first; Hallam is a laborious and wise

critic; Thirlwall and Grote, in their province, have greatly increased the

fame of British scholarship; and Macaulay, brilliant and picturesque

beyond any of his contemporaries, has an unprecedented popularity, which

will last until the worthlessness of his opinions and the viciousness of

his style are more justly appreciated than they are likely to be by the

mobs of novel readers who in this generation have preferred him to James

and Ainsworth. Lord Mahon is the most legitimate successor of the greatest

historian of his country, David Hume.

Although the chief subject of these new volumes is the American war, the

general political history of England, from the decline of the fortunes of

Bute through the administration of Grenville, Rockingham, Chatham, the

Duke of Grafton, and Lord North, is illustrated and commented on as

largely as the special purpose of the author permitted; and we have many

striking passages respecting Wilkes and his various persecutions, the

Letters of Junius and their authorship, and the common intellectual and

material progress of the British empire. The spirit in which he regards

our Revolution is illustrated by the following paragraph, on the

rejection, by the House of Peers, of the conciliatory Bill by which Lord

Chatham hoped, in 1775, to prevent the threatened separation of the

colonies:

"It may be proper, or at least pardonable, here to pause for an

inquiry, what probable issue might have attended an opposite

decision in the British Parliament? If the ministers had been

defeated on this Bill, if, in consequence, they had resigned, and

it had in other hands been carried through, would the Americans

have accepted the measure cheerfully and readily—would it for a

long time to come have closed the breach, and cemented the union

with the Mother Country? From all the facts and testimonies then

or since made public, I answer without hesitation that it would.

The sword was then slumbering in its scabbard. On both sides there

were injuries to redress, but not as yet bloodshed to avenge. It

was only a quarrel. It was not as yet a war. Even the boldest

leaders of that war in after years, whether in council or the

field, were still, in January, 1775, the firm friends of colonial

subordination. Washington himself (and he at least was no

dissembler—from him, at least, there never came any promise or

assurance that did not deserve the most implicit credit) had only

a few months before presided at a meeting of Fairfax County, in

Virginia. That meeting, while claiming relief of grievances, had

also at his instance adopted the following Resolve:—’That it is

our greatest wish and inclination, as well as interest, to

continue our connection with, and dependence upon, the British

Government.’ But further still, although the first Congress was

praised by Chatham for its moderate counsels, and although the

calmer voice of history has ratified the praise, we learn that

these moderate counsels did not lag behind, but rather exceeded

and outran the prevailing sentiment in many of the colonies. To

this fact we find an unimpeachable testimony in the letters of

President Reed, who, writing to a friend in strict confidence,

laments that ’The proceedings of Congress have been pitched on too

high a key for some of those middle provinces.’ With such

feelings, how gladly, how gratefully would they have welcomed the

hand of reconciliation stretched out by the Parliament of England!

It may be true, indeed, that such feelings as these did not

prevail in all, or nearly all, the colonies. It may be true,

especially, that no amount of good government, of forbearance, or

of kindness, would have won back Massachusetts. But herein lay, as

I think, the especial force and efficacy of Lord Chatham’s scheme,

that it did not refer the questions of parliamentary supremacy and

colonial taxation to the decision of any one province; but, as the

Americans themselves desired, to the decision of a Congress

composed from all the provinces, so that disaffection, however

firmly rooted here and there, would of course be overpowered by a

loyal and large majority. Nor do I believe that the proposal of a

new grant to the Crown, and the consequent necessity of increased

taxation to the people, would have interposed any serious

obstacle. The load of taxation on the colonies was at this period

light indeed: according to a calculation made by Lord North in

that very year, each inhabitant of England paid in taxes, upon an

average, not less than twenty-five shillings annually; but each

inhabitant of British America no more than sixpence. The

experience of the closely-following Revolutionary war proves how

easily and readily, when their feelings were involved, the

Americans could raise far greater supplies. And surely had Lord

Chatham’s scheme prevailed, their feelings would have been

involved. They would have been pleased and proud to show that

their previous refusal to pay taxes sprang from principle, and not

from inability or disaffection; and that, when once their views of

principle had been complied with, they could contribute with no

sparing hand to the exigencies of their countrymen, and to the

service of their king."

The opinion of Lord Mahon that, even after Burgoyne’s surrender, and the

treaty of alliance between France and America, the colonies might have

been preserved, had Lord Chatham lived and returned to office, we think

entirely erroneous. Our separation from England, though there had been no

stamp act or tea tax, was inevitable.

Lord Mahon is exceedingly fond of personal portraiture, in which he is

sometimes very successful. One of his most carefully-elaborated

performances in this way has for its subject Washington, and in the dozen

pages he devotes to the analysis of the character of the great chief he

has displayed his best abilities, though, we confess, without suggesting

any thing very novel. He dislikes Franklin, and loses no opportunity of

imputing to him personal dishonesty. We think the influence of Mr. William

B. Reed’s Life of President Reed is traceable in almost every allusion

made by Lord Mahon to our philosopher. Without further observation upon

the qualities of the work, we avail ourselves of the possession of an

early copy of it to present our readers with some of the most striking

passages pencilled in a hasty reading.

WASHINGTON.

During many years did Washington continue to enjoy the pleasures

and fulfil the duties of an independent country gentleman.

Field-sports divided his time with the cultivation and improvement

of his land, and the sales of his tobacco; he showed kindness to

his dependents, and hospitality to his friends; and having been

elected one of the House of Burgesses in Virginia, he was,

whenever that House met, exact in his attendance. To that

well-regulated mind nothing within the course of its ordinary and

appointed avocations seemed unworthy of its care. His ledgers and

day-books were kept by himself: he took note of all the houses

where he partook of hospitality, so that not even the smallest

courtesies might pass by unremembered; and until his press of

business in the Revolutionary War he was wont every evening to set

down the variations of the weather during the preceding day. It

was also his habit through life, whenever he wished to possess

himself perfectly of the contents of any paper, to transcribe it

in his own hand, and apparently with deliberation, so that no

point might escape his notice. Many copies of this kind were after

his death found among his manuscripts.

We may observe, however, that in the mind of Washington

punctuality and precision did not, as we often find them, turn in

any degree to selfishness. On the contrary, he was rather careless

of small points where only his own comfort was concerned. Thus he

could seldom be persuaded to take any remedy, or desist from any

business, whenever he caught a cold, but used to say, "let it go

as it came!"

Nor yet was his constant regularity of habits attended by undue

formality of manner. In one of his most private letters there

appears given incidentally, and as it were by chance, a golden

rule upon that subject:—"As to the gentlemen you mention I cannot

charge myself with incivility, or what in my opinion is

tantamount, ceremonious civility.

In figure Washington was thin and tall (above six feet high), in

countenance grave, unimpassioned, and benign. An inborn worth, an

unaffected dignity, beamed forth in every look as in every word

and deed. His first appearance and address might not convey the

idea of superior talents; such at least was the remark of his

accomplished countryman, Mr. Gallatin; but no man, whether friend

or enemy, ever viewed without respect the noble simplicity of his

demeanor, the utter absence in him of every artifice and every

affectation.

It has been justly remarked that of General Washington there are

fewer anecdotes to tell than perhaps of any other great man on

record. So equally framed were the features of his mind, so

harmonious all its proportions, that no one quality rose salient

above the rest. There were none of those chequered ques, none of

those warring emotions, in which Biography delights. There was no

contrast of lights and shades, no flickering of the flame; it was

a mild light that seldom dazzled, but that ever cheered and

warmed. His contemporaries or his close observers, as Mr.

Jefferson and Mr. Gallatin, assert that he had naturally strong

passions, but had attained complete mastery over them. In

self-control indeed he has never been surpassed. If sometimes on

rare occasions, and on strong provocation, there was wrung from

him a burst of anger, it was almost instantly quelled by the

dominion of his will. He decided surely, though he deliberated

slowly; nor could any urgency or peril move him from his serene

composure, his calm and clear-headed good sense. Integrity and

truth were also ever present in his mind. Not a single instance,

as I believe, can be found in his whole career when he was

impelled by any but an upright motive, or endeavored to attain an

object by any but worthy means. Such are some of the high

qualities which have justly earned for General Washington the

admiration even of the country he opposed, and not merely the

admiration but the gratitude and affection of his own. Such was

the pure and upright spirit to which, when its toils were over and

its earthly course had been run, was offered the unanimous homage

of the assembled Congress, all clad in deep mourning for their

common loss, as to "the man first in war, first in peace, and

first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens." At this day in the

United States the reverence for his character is, as it should be,

deep and universal, and not confined, as with nearly all our

English statesmen, to one party, one province, or one creed. Such

reverence for Washington is felt even by those who wander furthest

from the paths in which he trod. A President when recommending

measures of aggression and invasion can still refer to him whose

rule was ever to arm only in self-defence as to "the greatest and

best of men!" States which exult in their bankruptcy as a proof of

their superior shrewdness, and have devised "Repudiation" as a

newer and more graceful term for it, yet look up to their great

General—the very soul of good faith and honor—with their reverence

unimpaired!"

PATRICK HENRY.

The colony of Virginia was the place, and the the year 1736 the

time, of birth to Patrick Henry. His parents were in easy

circumstances, but burthened with a numerous family; they resided

at a country scat to which the ambitious name of Mount Brilliant

had been given. In childhood Patrick Henry gave little promise of

distinction. His person is represented as having been coarse, his

manners extremely awkward, his dress slovenly, and his aversion to

study invincible. No persuasion could bring him either to read or

to work. At sixteen his father gave him means to open a small

shop, which failed, however, in less than one year. Then he tried

a small farm, and married; then again he entered upon the life of

a tradesman, but in a few years more was a bankrupt. It was at

this period that he became acquainted with Mr. Jefferson,

afterwards President of the United States. "Mr. Henry," says

Jefferson, "had a little before broken up his store (shop), or

rather it had broken him up, but his misfortunes were not to be

traced either in his countenance or conduct. His manners had

something of coarseness in them; his passion was music, dancing,

and pleasantry. He excelled in the last, and it attached every one

to him."

As a last resource, Patrick Henry now determined to make a trial

of the law. It cannot be said that his preparatory studies were

unduly arduous, since, as his biographer informs us, they were all

comprised in the period of six weeks. Under such unpromising

circumstances, and in the year 1763, he obtained a brief in the

long-contested cause then raging in Virginia between the clergy on

the one side, and the legislature on the other, as regarding the

stipends which the former claimed. On this occasion Henry, to the

astonishment of all who knew him, poured forth a strain of such

impassioned eloquence as not only carried the cause, contrary to

all previous expectation, but placed him ever afterwards at the

head of his profession in the colony. To this very day, says Mr.

Wirt, writing in 1818, the impression remains, and the old people

of that district think that no higher compliment can be paid to

any public speaker than to say of him in their homely phrase, "He

is almost equal to Patrick when he plead (pleaded) against the

parsons!"

The natural eloquence which on this occasion flashed forth from

the coarse and unlettered Henry, as the spark-of fire from the

flint, continued to distinguished him both as a Member of the

House of Burgesses at Williamsburg, and afterwards as a member of

Congress. He took from the first a bold and active part against

the pretensions of the mother country; indeed Mr. Jefferson goes

so far as to declare that "Mr. Henry certainly gave the earliest

impulse to the ball of revolution." His most celebrated burst of

oratory, or rather turn of phrase, was in this very year 1765,

when descanting in the House of Burgesses on the tyranny of the

Stamp Act. "Cæsar—" he cried, in a voice of thunder and with an

eye of fire—"Cæsar had his Brutus—Charles the First had his

Cromwell—and George the Third"—"Treason!" here exclaimed the

Speaker, "Treason! Treason!" re-echoed from every part of the

House. Henry did not for an instant falter, but fixing his eye

firmly on the Speaker, he concluded his sentence thus "—may profit

by their example. If this be treason make the most of it!"

Indolence and aversion to reading seemed almost as natural to

Henry’s mind as powers of debate. To the last he never overcame

them. Thus, at his death, in 1799, his books were found to be

extremely few, and these too consisting chiefly of odd volumes.

But his gift of speech was (for his hearers) sufficiently

supported by his fiery energy, his practical shrewdness, and his

ever keen glance into the feelings and characters of other. Nor

were these his only claims to his country’s favor. He retained the

manners and custom of the common people, with what his friendly

biographer terms "religious caution.—He dressed as plainly as the

plainest of them," continues Mr. Wirt, "ate only their homely

fare, and drank their simple beverage, mixed with them on a

footing of the most entire and perfect equality, and conversed

with them even in their own vicious and depraved pronunciation."

By such means he soon acquired and long retained a large measure

of popularity, and he applied himself with zeal and success before

any audience, and on every occasion which arose, to increase and

perpetuate the estrangement between the North American Colonies

and England.

FRANKLIN.

Dr. Benjamin Franklin is one of those men who have made the task

of succeeding biographers more difficult by having been in part

their own. He was born at Boston in 1706, the youngest of ten

sons. "My father," he says, "intended to devote me, as the tithe

of his sons, to the service of the Church;" but on further

reflection, the charges of a college education were thought too

burthensome, and young Benjamin became a journeyman printer. From

a very early age he showed a passionate fondness for reading, and

much ingenuity in argument, but, as he acknowledges, had at first

contracted a disputatious and wrangling turn of conversation. "I

have since observed," he says, "that persons of good sense seldom

fall into it, except lawyers, University-men, and generally men of

all sorts who have been bred at Edinburgh."

Young Franklin was at first bound apprentice to one of his elder

brothers, a printer at Boston; but some differences arising

between them, he proceeded to Philadelphia, where he soon obtained

employment, and ere long set up for himself. His success in life

was secured by his great frugality, industry, and shrewdness. In

his own words: "I spent no time in taverns, games, or frolics of

any kind; reading was the only amusement I allowed myself." His

knowledge and shrewdness,—great zeal in urging any improvements,

and great ingenuity in promoting them,—speedily raised him high in

the estimation of his fellow-townsmen, and enabled him to take a

forward part in all the affairs of his province. In England, and

indeed all Europe, he became celebrated by his experiments and

discoveries in electricity. These may deserve the greater credit

when we recollect both their practical utility and their

unassisted progress,—how much the pointed rods which he introduced

have tended to avert the dangers of lightning, and how far removed

was Franklin at the time from all scientific society, libraries,

or patronage.

It has also been stated by no less an authority in science than

Sir Humphrey Davy, that "the style and manner of Dr. Franklin’s

publication on Electricity are almost as worthy of admiration as

the doctrine it contains." The same remark may indeed be applied

to all his writings. All of them are justly celebrated for their

clear, plain, and lively style, free from every appearance of art,

but, in fact, carefully pointed and nicely poised. In public

speaking, on the other hand, he was much less eminent. His last

American biographer observes of him, that he never even pretended

to the accomplishments of an orator or debater. He seldom spoke in

a deliberative assembly, except for some special object, and then

only for a few minutes at a time.

As a slight instance of Franklin’s humor and shrewdness in all

affairs of common life I may quote the following: "QUESTION. I am

about courting a girl I have had but little acquaintance with. How

shall I come to a knowledge of her faults? ANSWER. Commend her

among her female acquaintance!"

Whether in science and study, or in politics and action, the great

aim of Franklin’s mind was ever practical utility. Here again we

may quote Sir Humphrey Davy as saying of Franklin that he sought

rather to make philosophy a useful inmate and servant in the

common habitations of man, than to preserve her merely as an

object of admiration in temples and palaces. Thus, also, in

affairs he had a keen eye to his own interest, but likewise a

benevolent concern for the public good. Nor was he ever

indifferent to cases of individual grievance or hardship. In the

pursuit of his objects, public or private, he was, beyond most

other men, calm, sagacious, and wary; neither above business nor

yet below it; never turned aside from it by flights of fancy nor

yet by bursts of passion.

Among the good qualities which we may with just cause ascribe to

Franklin we cannot number any firm reliance on the truths of

Revelation. Only five weeks before his death we find him express a

cold approbation of the "system of morals" bequeathed to us by

"Jesus of Nazareth." In his Memoirs he declares that he always

believed in the existence of a Deity and a future state of rewards

and punishments, but he adds that although he continued to adhere

to his first—the Presbyterian—sect, some of its dogmas appeared to

him unintelligible, and others doubtful. "I early absented myself

from the public assemblies of the sect; and I seldom attended any

public worship; Sunday being my studying day."

Such being Franklin’s own practice, and such his own description

of it as to public worship, it seems worthy of note that it was he

who in the American Convention brought forward a motion for daily

prayers. "I have lived, Sir," said he, "a long time, and the

longer I live the more convincing proofs I see of this truth, that

God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to

the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can

rise without his aid?" But in spite of this most earnest appeal

the motion was rejected, since, as we are told, "the Convention,

except three or four persons, thought prayers unnecessary."

The accomplished American biographer, by whom this last incident

is recorded, expresses in the same passage deep regret that Dr.

Franklin did not bestow more attention than he seems to have done

on the evidences of Christianity. And indeed there are several

indications that he was less well acquainted with points of

Christian faith and discipline than with almost any other subject.

One of these indications, and surely a most strange one, occurs in

the Private Diary which he kept at Passy during part of 1784. It

appears that two young American gentlemen had come over to London

with the view of entering Holy Orders, but that the Archbishop of

Canterbury refused them Ordination unless they would take the Oath

of Allegiance. In this dilemma Franklin actually applied to the

Pope’s Nuncio at Paris to ascertain whether a Roman Catholic

Bishop in America might not perform the ceremony for them as

Protestants, and he transcribes as remarkable the natural reply:

"The Nuncio says the thing is impossible unless the gentlemen

become Roman Catholics."

The religious scepticism or indifference of Franklin, which his

present biographers justly lament, was, however, in his own day, a

recommendation and a merit with the French philosophists. On the

other hand, his hostility to England endeared him to the French

politicians. On both these grounds, as well as from his high

scientific attainments, he found himself during his residence of

several years at Paris in no common measure courted, flattered,

and caressed. A fine verse, one of the noblest which modern

Latinity can boast, describes him as having plucked the lightning

from Heaven and the sceptre from tyrants.

Descending from such lofty flights to the regions of sober

reality, we may observe that Franklin in his later years, and

especially in France, adopted to a great extent the Quaker garb.

He laid aside the huge wig which he used to wear in England, and

allowed his long white hair to flow down nearly to his shoulders.

His clothes were of the plainest cut and of the dunnest color. The

Parisians of that period, ever swayed by external impressions,

were greatly struck with, and in their writings frequently refer

to, his venerable aspect, and they compared him by turns to all

the sages of antiquity. It is also probable that his Quaker-like

attire may have tended to invest him in their estimation with the

other attributes which they assigned to the ideal Quaker

character, as simplicity, guilelessness, inviolable truth.

LA FAYETTE.

It so chanced that in the summer of 1776, La Fayette, still in his

teens, and serving as a subaltern with the French army, was

stationed with his regiment at Metz. It happened also that in the

course of a foreign tour their Royal Highnesses of Gloucester

passed a few days in that town. The principal officers entertained

the Duke at dinner, when the conversation turned to the last news

from Philadelphia and the new Declaration of Independence. Being

at that period offended with his Court, from its neglect of the

Duchess, the Duke indulged in Opposition topics, and, in some

degree at least, took the part of the Americans. The details were

new to La Fayette. He listened with eagerness, and prolonged the

conversation by asking questions of the Royal guest. The cause of

the colonies that had risen against England seemed to him just and

noble, even on the showing of one of the English princes; and

before he left the table, the thought came into his head that he

would go to America, and offer the Americans his services. He

determined to return to Paris, and make further inquiries. His

inquiries being mainly addressed to Silas Deane and other zealous

friends of the insurgents, could not fail to confirm him in his

first impressions. He became fired with an ardent zeal for

Republican principles and the American cause. That zeal continued

ever afterwards—for well nigh sixty years—the polar star of his

course. That zeal, favored as it was by fortune, adapted to the

times that came upon him, and urged forward by great personal

vanity, laid the foundations of his fame far more, as I conceive,

than any strength of mind or talents of his own. Few men have ever

been so conspicuous from afar with so little, when closely viewed,

of real weight or dimension. As a general, it can scarcely be

pretended that his exploits were either many or considerable. As

an orator, we look in vain for any high powers of debate. As a

statesman, we find only an undistinguishing eagerness to apply the

Transatlantic examples and to act the part of Washington, without

duly estimating either the immense superiority of Washington’s

character above his own, or the manifold points of difference

between America and Europe.

It was said by Napoleon at St. Helena, that "La Fayette was a man

of no ability, either in civil or military life; his understanding

was confined to narrow bounds; his character was full of

dissimulation, and swayed by vague ideas of liberty, which, in

him, were undefined and ill-digested." No doubt there is some

exaggeration in these words. No doubt the late Emperor, at that

period, was stirred by personal resentment at the hostile conduct

of the General in 1815; yet it will perhaps be found more easy by

any admirer of La Fayette to impugn the good faith of the

draughtsman than the general accuracy of the portrait.

The fortune of La Fayette was ample, his yearly income being

little short of two hundred thousand livres; and his connexions,

as we have seen, were among the first at Court. Under such

circumstances, Silas Deane felt the vast importance of securing

him. An agreement was concluded between them, by the intervention

of one Mr. Carmichael (for as yet La Fayette spoke no English, and

Deane little French), according to the terms of which the Marquis

de La Fayette was to join the American service, and to receive

from Congress the rank of Major-General—no slight temptation to a

stripling of nineteen! La Fayette was to be accompanied, or rather

attended, by the Baron de Kalb and eleven other officers of lower

rank, seeking service in America. He sent, in secret, an agent to

Bordeaux, there to purchase and prepare a vessel for their voyage.

Meanwhile he made an excursion of three weeks to London, where his

kinsman, the Marquis de Noailles, was ambassador. He was presented

to the King, and graciously received. He saw at the opera General

Clinton, who had come home on a winter leave of absence, and who

was next to meet him on a field of battle in America. But, mindful

of his own hostile designs, he deemed it proper to forbear from

prying into the military forces of the kingdom, and declined an

invitation to visit the naval armament at Portsmouth.

On his return to France, La Fayette bade farewell to his young

wife, leaving her four months gone with child, and set out for

Bordeaux. Thus far all had prospered according to his wishes. But

at Bordeaux he found that his preparations had been discovered and

complained of by Lord Stormont, and that a LETTRE DE CACHET for

his arrest was already issued. Nevertheless, he did not relinquish

his design. He crossed the Spanish frontier in the disguise of a

courier, found his vessel at Pasages, and there embarked with his

companions. Towards the middle of June he landed on the coast of

Carolina; and after a few days’ rest, pursued his route to

Philadelphia. His reception by the Congress was not at first a

warm one; but La Fayette declared that he would accept no pay, and

was willing to serve as a volunteer; and under these

circumstances, the Assembly fulfilled the terms of the secret

agreement, and bestowed on him the rank of Major-General.

At Philadelphia La Fayette saw the American troops for the first

time, and, according to his own account, was struck with their

grotesque appearance—with green boughs fastened to their

hats—coarse hunting-shirts instead of uniforms—and muskets, many

wanting bayonets, and all of unequal make and size. But he soon

learnt to think more favorably of these raw levies, when,

notwithstanding all their disadvantages, he observed their conduct

in the field. With regard to their commander, his early

impressions never changed. It was also at Philadelphia, and at a

dinner-table, comprising several members of the Congress, that La

Fayette was introduced to Washington. The boy-general found

himself warmly welcomed by the chief whom he had long admired.

"When you come to the army," said Washington, "I shall be pleased

if you will make my quarters your home, and consider yourself as

one of my family." The invitation thus frankly tendered was no

less frankly accepted. Thus did a cordial intimacy arise between

them, Washington at all times treating La Fayette with fatherly

kindness, and La Fayette looking up to Washington with filial

regard.

La Fayette had already begun to speak a little English, and by

degrees acquired more. But to the last the difficulties of the

language were a main obstacle, not only to himself, but to every

other foreigner who served with, or under, the United States. Thus

there are still preserved some of the ill-spelled and scarcely

intelligible notes of Count Pulasky, during the short time that he

served as general of cavalry. Still worse was the case of Baron

Steuben, a veteran of the school of Frederick the Second, who

joined the Americans a few months later than La Fayette, and who

greatly aided them in the establishment of discipline. The Baron,

it appears, could not teach and drill, nor even swear and curse,

but by means of an interpreter! He was, therefore, most fortunate

in securing as his aid-de-camp Captain Walker of New-York—most

fortunate, if, as his American biographer assures us, "there was

not, perhaps, another officer in the army, unless Hamilton be

excepted, who could speak French and English so as to be well

understood in both."

La Fayette did not always confine himself to the bounds of his own

profession; sometimes, and, perhaps, not greatly to his credit, he

stepped beyond them. Here is one case recorded with much

satisfaction by himself. He states, that soon after his arrival in

America, and while attending on Sunday the service of the Church

of England, he was displeased with the clergyman, because in his

sermon he had said nothing at all of politics. "I charged him to

his face," says La Fayette, "with preaching only about Heaven!...

But next Sunday," continues the keen young officer, "I heard him

again, when his loud invectives against ’the execrable House of

Hanover,’ showed that he was ready and willing to take my good

advice."

JOHN HORNE TOOKE.

His abilities were ill fitted for the profession of a clergyman,

which indeed he at last renounced, but they highly qualified him

for his favorite occupation as a demagogue. Between him and Wilkes

there now arose a violent animosity and a keen altercation carried

on in newspapers. Descending to the lowest and most selfish

details, they were not ashamed thus publicly to wrangle respecting

a Welsh pony and a hamper of claret! Even before the close of 1770

might be discerned the growing discord and weakness of Wilkes and

his city friends. At a meeting which they convened to consider

their course of action, some proposed a new Remonstrance to the

King, while others urged an impeachment of Lord North in the House

of Commons. "What is the use of a new Remonstrance?" cried Wilkes.

"It would only serve to make another paper kite for His Royal

Highness the Prince of Wales!"—"What is the use of an

impeachment?" cried Sawbridge. "Lord North is quite sure of the

Bishops and the Scotch Peers in the Upper House, and could not

fail to be acquitted!" But although these ardent patriots might

differ a little as to the means, they were bent on one and the

same end; and the Remonstrance which was at last agreed upon,

appears to have been framed by their united wisdom. As thus drawn

up it teemed with silly vagaries fit only to please the lowest

order of intellects. Thus it prayed that His Majesty would for

ever remove from his presence and councils all his Ministers and

Secretaries of State, especially Lord Mansfield (who by the way

was not one of them), and that His Majesty would not again admit

any Scotchman into the administration!

THE CHARACTER OF WILKES.

He was born in 1727, the son of a rich distiller. Early in life he

set up a brewery for himself, but soon relinquished the wearisome

business. Early in life also he improved his fortune by his

marriage with the daughter and heiress of the celebrated Dr. Mead,

the author of the "Treatise on Poisons." But this lady, being of

maturer age than himself, and of slight personal attractions, was

speedily slighted, and he left her with as much disgust as he had

his brewery. In 1757 he was elected Member of Parliament for

Aylesbury, but never obtained any success as an orator, his

speeches being, though flippant, yet feeble. In truth he had no

great ability of any kind, but dauntless courage and high animal

spirits. Nor should we deny him another much rarer praise,—a vein

of good humor and kindliness, which did not forsake him through

all his long career, amidst the riot of debauchery or the rancor

of faction. So agreeable and insinuating was his conversation,

that more than one fair dame as she listened found herself forget

his sinister squint and his ill-favored countenance. He used to

say of himself in a laughing strain, that though he was the

ugliest man in England, he wanted nothing to make him even with

the handsomest but half an hour at starting! Politics indeed

seemed at first wholly alien from Wilkes’s sphere; gayety and

gallantry were his peculiar objects. For some time he reigned the

oracle of green-rooms and the delight of taverns. In conjunction

with other kindred spirits, as Paul Whitehead and Sir Francis

Dashwood, amounting in all to twelve, he rented Medmenham Abbey,

near Marlow. It is a secluded and beautiful spot on the banks of

the Thames, with hanging woods that slope down to the crystal

stream, a grove of venerable elms, and meadows of the softest

green. In days of old it had been a convent of Cistercian monks,

but the new brotherhood took the title of Franciscans in

compliment to Sir Francis Dashwood, whom they called their Father

Abbot. On the portal, now again in ruins, and once more resigned

to its former solitude and silence, I could still a few years

since read the inscription placed there by Wilkes and his friends:

fay çe que voudras. Other French and Latin inscriptions, now with

good reason effaced, then appeared in other parts of the grounds,

some of them remarkable for wit, but all for either profaneness or

obscenity, and many the more highly applauded as combining both.

In this retreat the new Franciscans used often to meet for summer

pastimes, and varied the round of their debauchery by a mock

celebration of the principal Roman Catholic rites.

WILKES’S ESSAY ON WOMAN.

It appears that Wilkes had, several years before, and in some of

his looser hours, composed a parody of Pope’s "Essay on Man." In

this undertaking, which, according to his own account, cost him a

great deal of pains and time, he was, it is said, assisted by

Thomas Potter, second son of the late Archbishop of Canterbury,

who had been Secretary of Frederick Prince of Wales, and had since

shown ability and gained office in the House of Commons, but was

(as well became one of Wilkes’s friends) of lax morals in his

private life. The result of their joint authorship, however, has

little wit or talent to make any amends for the blasphemy and

lewdness with which it abounds. As the original had been inscribed

by Pope to Lord Bolingbroke, so was the parody by Wilkes to Lord

Sandwich; thus it began, "Awake my Sandwich!" instead of "Awake my

St. John!" Thus also, in ridicule of Warburton’s well-known

commentary, some burlesque notes were appended in the name of the

Right Reverend the Bishop of Gloucester.

This worthless poem had remained in manuscript, and lain in

Wilkes’s desk, until in the previous spring he had occasion to set

up a press at his own house, and was tempted to print fourteen

copies only as presents to his boon companions. Of one of these

copies the Government obtained possession, through a subordinate

agent, and by not very creditable means, and Lord Sandwich holding

it forth in his hand with the air of injured innocence, denounced

it as not only scandalous and impious, but also as a breach of

Privilege against the Bishop as a Peer of Parliament. He likewise

complained of another profane parody, written by the same hand,

and printed on the same occasion; this last was entitled, "The

VENI CREATOR paraphrased." The most offensive passages of both

were now by Lord Sandwich’s order read aloud to the House, until

Lord Lyttleton with a groan entreated that they might hear no

more!

In the discussion which ensured, Bishop Warburton, forgetting that

such ribaldries could not really tarnish his character, showed a

heat which little became it. He exclaimed that the blackest fiends

in Hell would disdain to keep company with Wilkes,—and then asked

pardon of Satan for comparing them together! Both the Earl and

Bishop in their passion would have readily over-leaped the common

forms of justice. The former, after producing evidence at the Bar

as to the authorship of Wilkes, wished the House to take measures

for his prosecution, without the least delay. But the Peers,

although readily agreeing to vote the two parodies blasphemous and

breaches of Privilege, resolved, on the motion of Lord Mansfield,

to adjourn all further questions until the day after the next, so

as to give Wilkes the opportunity, if he desired it, of alleging

any matter in denial or defence.

LORD THURLOW.

With all his faults and shortcomings there was that in Thurlow

which overawed and daunted his contemporaries, and of which the

impression is not wholly lost even on posterity. It was a saying

of Mr. Fox, that no man ever yet was so wise as Thurlow looked.

His countenance was fraught with sense; his aspect stately and

commanding; his brow broad, massy, and armed with terrors like

that of the Olympian Jove, to which indeed it was often compared.

His voice loud, sonorous, and as rolling thunder in the distance,

augmented the effect of his fierce and terrible invective. Few

indeed were they who did not quail before his frown; fewer still

who would abide his onset in debate. Perhaps no modern English

statesman, in the House of Lords at least, was ever so much

dreaded. In parliament, as at the bar, his speeches were home

thrusts, conveying the strongest arguments or keenest reproofs in

the plainest and clearest words. His enemies might accuse his

style of being coarse, and sometimes even ungrammatical, but they

could never deny its energy or its effect. In private life Thurlow

was remarkable for his thorough knowledge of the Greek and Latin

writers; and no less for his skill in argument and brilliant

powers of conversation. While yet at the bar, Dr. Johnson said of

him to Boswell: "I honor Thurlow, sir; Thurlow is a fine fellow;

he fairly puts his mind to yours." And after he became Chancellor,

the same high authority added: "I would prepare myself for no man

in England but Lord Thurlow. When I am to meet him, I should wish

to know a day before." Unless with ladies, his manner was always

uncouth, and his voice a constant growl. But beneath that rugged

rind there appears to have lurked much warmth of affection and

kindliness of heart. Many acts of generous aid and unsolicited

bounty are recorded of him. Men of learning and merit seldom

needed any other recommendation to his favor. Thus, on reading

Horsley’s "Letters to Dr. Priestly," he at once obtained for the

author a stall at Gloucester, saying—what I earnestly wish all

other Chancellors had borne in mind—"that those who supported the

Church should be supported by it." Nevertheless his temper, even

when in some measure sobered down by age, was always liable to

violent and unreasonable starts of passion. It is related by a

gentleman who dined with him at Brighton only a few months before

his death—for I must ever hold that great characters are best

portrayed by little circumstances—that a plateful of peaches being

brought in, the ex-Chancellor, incensed at their ill appearance,

ordered the window to be opened, and not only the peaches but the

whole desert to be thrown out!

EDMUND BURKE.

In pamphlets, however, and political essays—and even speeches,

when revised and sent forth singly, may be comprehended in that

class,—the personal disadvantages of Burke could no longer apply;

and as regards that class of writings, it may be doubted whether

he has ever, in any age, or in any country, been excelled. The

philosophy and deep thought of his reflections—the vigor and

variety of his style—his rich flow of either panegyric or

invective—his fine touches of irony—the glowing abundance and

beauty of his metaphors—all these might separately claim applause;

how much more, then, when all blended into one glorious whole! To

give examples of these merits would be to transcribe half his

works. Yet still if one single and short instance from his maxims

be allowed me, I will observe that the generous ardor and activity

of mind called forth by competition has formed a theme of

philosophic comment from a very early age. It is touched both by

Cicero and Quintilian; it has not been neglected either by Bacon

or Montaigne. Yet still, as handled by Burke, this trite topic

beams forth, not only with the hues of eloquence, but even with

the bloom of novelty. He invites us to "an amicable conflict with

difficulty. Difficulty is a severe instructor set over us by the

supreme ordinance of a parental guardian and legislator, who knows

us better than we know ourselves, as he loves us better too. He

that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our

skill. Our antagonist is our helper!" If amidst so much of

eloquence and feeling as Burke’s writings display we are desired

to seek for faults, we shall find them, not in the want, but only

in the exuberance and overflow of beauties. The palate becomes

cloyed by so much richness, the eye dazzled by so much glare. His

metaphors, fraught with fancy though they be, are often bold; they

seem both too numerous and strained too far; they sometimes cease

to please, and occasionally border even on the ludicrous and low.

Of this defect, as of his excellences, a single instance shall

suffice me. In the "Letter to a Noble Lord," in 1796, Burk

compares the Duke of Bedford to a lamb already marked for

slaughter by the Marats and Robespierres of France, but still

unconscious of his doom, "pleased to the last," and who "licks the

hand just raised to shed his blood." Thus far the simile is

conducted with admirable force and humor. But not satisfied with

his success, Burke goes further; he insists on leading us into the

shambles, and makes the revolutionary butchers inquire as to their

ducal victim, "how he cuts up? how he tallows in the caul or on

the kidneys?" Apart from the beauty of the style, the value, as I

conceive, of Burke’s writings, is subject to one not unimportant

deduction. For most lofty and far-sighted views in politics they

will never be consulted in vain. On the other hand, let no man

expect to find in them just or accurate, or even consistent,

delineations of contemporary character. Where eternal principles

are at stake, Burke was inaccessible to favor or to fear. Where

only persons are concerned, he was often misled by resentments or

by partialities, and allowed his fancy full play. The rich stores

of Burke’s memory and the rare powers of his mind were not

reserved solely for his speeches or his writings; they appeared to

no less advantage in his familiar conversation. Even the most

trivial topics could elicit, even the most ignorant hearers could

discern, his genius. "Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "if Burke were to go

into a stable to see his horse dressed, the hostler would say, We

have had an extraordinary man here!" On other occasions, also, the

author of "Rasselas" extols him as "never unwilling to begin

conversation, never at a loss to carry it on, never in haste to

leave it off." His attempts at wit, indeed, were not always

successful, and he might be accused of an inordinate affection for

quibbles and puns. His favorite niece, and latterly his guest, was

sometimes provoked into a—"Really, uncle, that is very poor." But

upon the whole it may be asserted, that in social converse Burke

was equalled by none of his contemporaries and his countrymen,

except only Dr. Johnson himself and perhaps Lord Thurlow.

We have no more room for further extracts; those we have made illustrate

the temper and the style of the work, and will commend it to the favorable

consideration of American readers. Among subjects treated most elaborately

is that of the authorship of Junius; but Lord Mahon has no new facts for

the vindication of his judgment, that Sir Philip Francis was

unquestionably the writer of the famous letters under that name.

There is an appendix to each volume; and in the appendix of one, and in

the notes of both, are some curious illustrations of the worthlessness of

Mr. Sparks’s editions of the writings of Washington and Franklin. We first

called attention to this subject some five years ago, and after the

changes, &c. of Mr. Sparks had been pointed out in _The International_, a

series of carefully prepared criticisms appeared in the _Evening Post_, in

which the discrepancies between the original letters of Washington were

exhibited to a degree that at once and for ever destroyed the good

reputation of Mr. Sparks in this department. He chose not to take any

notice of the disclosures to which we refer, but it may be that Lord

Mahon’s criticism will secure his attention, and an attempt, at least, for

his vindication. Besides his comparisons of MS. and printed letters in the

appendix, Lord Mahon has several allusions to the subject, of which we

quote specimens:

"Some samples of the manner in which that gentleman (Mr. Sparks)

has thought himself at liberty to tamper with the original MSS.,

will be found," &c.

"Mr. Sparks has printed no part of the correspondence precisely as

Washington wrote it, but has greatly altered, and as he thinks,

corrected and embellished it. Such a liberty with the writings of

such a man might be justifiable, nay, even in some respects

necessary, if Washington and his principal contemporaries had been

still alive; but the date of this publication, the year (1838),

leaves, as I conceive, no adequate vindication for _tampering with

the truth of history_."

"Washington, however, in his public letter to Congress (unless Mr.

Jared Sparks has _improved_ this passage), says," &c.

"I know not whether my readers will concur with me in liking

Washington’s own and though home-spun, excellent cloth, much

better than the ’Cobweb schemes and gauze coverings’ which have,

it seems, been manufactured in its place."

A complete errata to Mr. Sparks’s editions of Washington, Franklin, and

Gouverneur Morris, would occupy several volumes; and we do not remember

one instance in which his alterations were justifiable, or in which they

were really an improvement in point of style. The reprobation with which

Mr. Sparks has been visited by the learned and judicious of his own

country and England will be a warning to future laborers in the same

field. The works edited by Mr. Sparks are no longer, we believe, regarded

by historical students as of the slightest value as authorities, and no

faithfulness or excellence which may be displayed in future works from his

hand will retrieve his lost reputation.

These volumes will be reprinted immediately by the Appletons.

FAUST OF WITTENBERG AND FUST OF MENTZ.

It were well if writers on the origin of typography would obey the

injunction of Sir Thomas Browne, who thought it not inexpedient for those

who seek to enlighten mankind on any particular subject, first to acquire

some knowledge thereof themselves, so that the labor of readers should not

so generally be profitless. In an article by Bishop McIlvaine, and another

in Frazer’s Magazine, by an anonymous contributor, the exercise of

_necromancy_ is imputed to Fust, the inventor or supposed inventor of

printing. Nine of every ten persons who write any thing on the subject

fall into the same error; they have something always to say of Fust and

the devil; curious anecdotes to rehearse of the multiplication of copies

of the Scriptures in Paris and elsewhere; spells and incantations by the

inventor of the "black" art to describe, &c. But this is all induced by

ignorance of the facts. John Fust, the putative inventor of printing, was

a shrewd silversmith, and we suspect a knavish one, for without having any

thing to do with the _invention_ of the "art preservative of arts," he

managed to rob another of the credit and profit of it. He was, however,

never in Paris; he was never in his lifetime accused of the exercise of

magical arts; he simply endeavored to make as much money as he could in

Germany by underselling the copyists in the book market. All stories in

which necromancy is attributed to him or to any other printer; all

accounts of the opposition of the priests to typography as an infernal

invention; in fine, the whole popular idea of Faust and the devil, is a

modern contrivance, and originated in this manner: Some bookmaker, about

the year 1580, undertook to write a history of printing; he had an

indistinct recollection of Professor Faustus of the University of

Wittenberg, and in his book blended as many of his adventures as he could

remember with the memoirs of John Fust the printer; and from that day a

succession of ignorant chroniclers have considered two men, of totally

different characters, living at different times, as one individual.

Faust, the necromancer, was born in the duchy of Weimer in 1491,

twenty-five years after the printer is understood to have died. He is

mentioned by Melancthon, Wierus, and many other cotemporary writers, and

was probably in his time not less distinguished as a magician than Agrippa

or Albertus Magnus. It is related of him by Godwin, that he was in his

youth adopted by an uncle, dwelling in the city of Wittenberg, who had no

children. Here he was sent to college, and was soon distinguished by the

greatness of his talents, and the rapid progress he made in every species

of learning that was put before him. He was destined by his relative to

the profession of theology. But he is said ungraciously to have set at

naught his uncle’s pious intentions. He went through his examinations with

applause, and carried off all the first prizes among sixteen competitors;

he therefore obtained the degree of doctor in divinity; but his success

only made him proud and headstrong. He disdained his theological eminence,

and sighed for distinction as a man of the world. He took his degree as a

doctor of medicine, and aspired to celebrity as a practitioner of physic.

About the same time he fell in with certain cotemporaries, of tastes

similar to his own, and associated with them in the study of Chaldean,

Greek, and Arabic science, of strange incantations and supernatural

influences, in short, of all the arts of a sorcerer.

Having made such progress as he could by dint of study and intense

application, he at length resolved to prosecute his purposes still further

by actually raising the devil. He happened one evening to walk in a thick,

dark wood, within a short distance from Wittenberg, when it occurred to

him that that was a fit place for executing his design. He stopped at a

solitary spot where four roads met, and made use of his wand to mark out a

large circle, and then two small ones within the larger. In one of these

he fixed himself, appropriating the other for the use of his expected

visitor. He went over the precise range of charms and incantations,

omitting nothing. It was now dark night, between the ninth and tenth

hours. The devil manifested himself by the usual signs of his appearance.

"Wherefore am I called?" said he, "and what is it that you demand?" "I

require," rejoined Faustus, "that you should sedulously attend unto me,

answer my inquiries, and fulfil my behests."

Immediately upon Faustus pronouncing these words, there followed a tumult

overhead, as if heaven and earth were coming together. The trees in their

topmost branches bended to their very roots. It seemed as if the whole

forest were peopled with devils, making a crash like a thousand wagons,

hurrying to the right and left, before and behind, in every possible

direction, with thunder and lightning, and the continual discharge of

great cannon. Hell appeared to have emptied itself to have furnished the

din. There succeeded the most charming music from all sorts of

instruments, and sounds of hilarity and dancing. Next came a report as of

a tournament, and the clashing of innumerable lances. This lasted so long,

that Faustus was many times about to rush out of the circle in which he

had inclosed himself, and to abandon his preparations. His courage and

resolution, however, got the better; and he remained immovable. He pursued

his incantations without intermission. Then came to the very edge of the

circle a griffin first, and next a dragon, which in the midst of his

enchantments grinned at him horribly with his teeth, but finally fell down

at his feet, and extended his length to many a rood. Faustus persisted.

Then succeeded a sort of fireworks, a pillar of fire, and a man on fire at

the top, who leaped down; and there immediately appeared a number of

globes here and there red-hot, while the man on fire went and came to

every part of the circle for a quarter of an hour. At length the devil

came forward in the shape of a gray monk, and asked Faustus what he

wanted. Faustus adjourned their further conference, and appointed the

devil to comes to him at his lodging.

He in the mean time busied himself in the necessary preparations. He

entered his study at the appointed time, and found the devil waiting for

him. Faustus told him that he had prepared certain articles, to which it

was necessary that the demon should fully accord,—that he should attend

him at all times, when required, for all the days of his life; that he

should bring him every thing he wanted; that he should come to him in any

shape that Faustus required, or be invisible, and Faustus should be

invisible too whenever he desired it; that he should deny him nothing, and

answer him with perfect veracity to every thing he demanded. To some of

these requisitions the spirit could not consent, without authority from

his master, the chief of devils. At length all these concessions were

adjusted. The devil on his part also prescribed his conditions. That

Faustus should abjure the Christian religion and all reverence for the

supreme God; that he should enjoy the entire command of his attendant

demon for a certain term of years; and that at the end of that period the

devil should dispose of him, body and soul, at his pleasure [the term was

fixed for twenty-four years]; that he should at all times steadfastly

refuse to listen to any one who should desire to convert him, or convince

him of the error of his ways, and lead him to repentance; that Faustus

should draw up a writing containing these particulars, and sign it with

his blood; that he should deliver this writing to the devil, and keep a

duplicate of it himself, that so there might be no misunderstanding. It

was further appointed by Faustus, that the devil should usually attend him

in the habit of a cordelier, with a pleasing countenance and an

insinuating demeanor. Faustus also asked the devil his name, who answered

that he was usually called Mephistophiles.

Numerous adventures of Faustus are related in the German histories. It is

said that the emperor Charles V. was at Inspruck, at a time when Faustus

also resided there. His courtiers informed the emperor that Faustus was in

the town, and Charles expressed a desire to see him. He was introduced.

Charles asked him whether he could really perform such wondrous feats as

were reported of him. Faustus modestly replied, inviting the emperor to

make trial of his skill. "Then," said Charles, "of all the eminent

personages I have ever read of, Alexander the Great is the man who most

excites my curiosity, and whom it would most gratify my wishes to see in

the very form in which he lived." Faustus rejoined that it was out of his

power truly to raise the dead, but that he had spirits at his command who

had often seen that great conqueror, and that Faustus would willingly

place him before the emperor as he required. He conditioned that Charles

should not speak to him, nor attempt to touch him. The emperor promised

compliance. After a few ceremonies, therefore, Faustus opened a door, and

brought in Alexander exactly in the form in which he had lived, with the

same garments, and every circumstance corresponding. Alexander made his

obeisance to the emperor, and walked several times round him. The queen of

Alexander was then introduced in the same manner. Charles just then

recollected he had read that Alexander had a wart on the nape of his neck;

and with proper precautions Faustus allowed the emperor to examine the

apparition by this test. Alexander then vanished.

As Faustus was approaching the last year of his term, he seemed resolved

to pamper his appetite with every species of luxury. He carefully

accumulated all the materials of voluptuousness and magnificence. He was

particularly anxious in the selection of women who should serve for his

pleasures. He had one Englishwoman, one Hungarian, one French, two of

Germany, and two from different parts of Italy, all of them eminent for

the perfections which characterized their different countries.

At length he arrived at the end of the term for which he had contracted

with the devil. For two or three years before it expired his character

gradually altered. He became subject to fits of despondency, was no longer

susceptible of mirth and amusement, and reflected with bitter agony on the

close in which the whole must terminate. He assembled his friends together

at a grand entertainment, and when it was over, addressed them, telling

them that this was the last day of his life, reminding them of the wonders

with which he had frequently astonished them, and informing them of the

condition upon which he had held this power. They, one and all, expressed

the deepest sorrow at the intelligence. They had had the idea of something

unlawful in his proceedings; but their notions had been very far from

coming up to the truth. They regretted exceedingly that he had not been

unreserved in his communications at an earlier period. They would have had

recourse in his behalf, to the means of religion, and have applied to

pious men, desiring them to employ their power to intercede with Heaven in

his favor. Prayer and penitence might have done much for him; and the

mercy of Heaven was unbounded. They advised him to still call upon God,

and endeavor to secure an interest in the merits of the Saviour.

Faustus assured them that it was all in vain, and that his tragical fate

was inevitable. He led them to their sleeping apartment, and recommended

to them to pass the night as they could, but by no means, whatever they

might happen to hear, to come out of it; as their interference could in no

way be beneficial to him, and might be attended with the most serious

injury to themselves. They lay still, therefore, as he had enjoined them;

but not one of them could close his eyes. Between twelve and one in the

night they heard first a furious storm of wind round all sides of the

house, as if it would have torn away the walls from their foundations.

This no sooner somewhat abated, than a noise was heard of discordant and

violent hissing, as if the house was full of all sorts of venomous

reptiles, but which plainly proceeded from Faustus’s chamber. Next they

heard the doctor’s room-door vehemently burst open, and cries for help

uttered with dreadful agony, but in a half-suppressed voice, which

presently grew fainter and fainter. Then every thing became still, as if

the everlasting motion of the world was suspended.

When at length it became broad day, the students went in a body to the

doctor’s apartment. But he was nowhere to be seen. Only the walls were

found smeared with his blood, and marks as if his brains had been dashed

out. His body was finally discovered at some distance from the house, his

limbs dismembered, and marks of great violence about the features of his

face. The students gathered up the mutilated parts of his body, and

afforded them private burial at the temple of Mars, in the village where

he died.

SOME SMALL POEMS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

A PROLOGUE.

Without, the winds of Winter blow;

Without, the Winter sifts its snow:

Within, the hearths are warm and bright,

And all the chambers full of light,

And we again are gathered here,

To greet the advent of the year.

Pile on the wood, and stir the fires,

And in our souls the sweet desires;

And let us frame a mingled rhyme,

To suit the singers and the time;

With different stops, and keys of art,

In quaint old measures, got by heart.

BY THE SEA.

By the rolling waves I roam,

And look along the sea,

And dream of the day and the gleaming sail,

That bore my love from me.

His bark now sails the Indian seas,

Far down the summer zone:

But his thoughts, like swallows, fly to me

By the Northern waves alone.

Nor will he delay, when winds are fair,

To waft him back to me;

But haste, my love! or my grave will be made

By the sad and moaning sea!

WHEAT AND SHEAVES.

Before me now the village stands,

Its cottages embowered in bloom;

Behind me lies the burying ground,

Its sepulchres in cypress gloom.

The bells before me ring aloud,

A pæan for the live and bold;

The bells behind are tolling low,

A requiem for the dead and cold.

The crowd before me tramp away,

And shout until the winds are stirred;

The crowd behind no longer move,

And never breathe a single word.

Before me many moan, and weep:

Behind, there is not one who grieves;

For blight but wastes the standing wheat.

It cannot touch the garnered sheaves!

FRAGMENT.

The gray old Earth goes on

At its ancient pace,

Lifting its thunder voice

In the choir of Space;

And the Years, as they go,

Are singing slow,

Solemn dirges, full of woe!

Tears are shed, and hearts are broken,

And many bitter words are spoken,

And many left unsaid;

And many are with the living,

That were better—better dead!

Tyrants sit upon their thrones,

And will not hear the people’s moans,

Nor hear their clanking chains;

Or if they do, they add thereto,

And mock, not ease, their pains;

But little liberty remains—

There is but little room for thee,

In this wide world, O Liberty!

But where thou hast once set thy foot,

Thou wilt remain, though oft unseen;

And grow like thought, and move like wind,

Upon the troubled sea of Mind,

No longer now serene.

Thy life and strength thou dost retain,

Despite the cell, the rack, the pain,

And all the battles won—in vain!

And even now thou seest the hour

That lays in dust the tyrant’s power,

When man shall once again be free,

And Earth renewed, and young like thee,

O Liberty! O Liberty!

CERTAIN MERRY STANZAS.

I often wish that I could know

The life in store for me,

The measure of the joy and woe

Of my futurity.

I do not fear to meet the worst

The gathering years can give;

My life has been a life accurst

From youth, and yet I live;

The Future may be overcast,

But never darker than the Past!

My mind will grow, as years depart

With all the wingéd hours;

And all my buried seeds of Art

Will bloom again in flowers;

But buried hopes no more will bloom,

As in the days of old;

My youth is lying in its tomb,

My heart is dead and cold!

And certain sad, but nameless cares

Have flecked my locks with silver hairs!

No bitter feeling clouds my grief,

No angry thoughts of thee;

For thou art now a faded leaf

Upon a fading tree.

From day to day I sea thee sink,

From deep to deep in shame;

I sigh, but dare not bid thee think

Upon thine ancient fame—

For oh! the thought of what thou art

Must be a hell within thy heart!

My life is full of care and pain—

My heart of old desires;

But living embers yet remain

Below its dying fires;

Nor do I fear what all the years

May have in store for me,

For I have washed away with tears

The blots of Memory:

But thou—despite the love on high—

What is there left thee but to die!

MR. JUSTICE STORY, WITH SOME REMINISCENT REFLECTIONS.(4)

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.

BY A. OAKEY HALL.

The hurrying pedestrian in Wall-street, or in some of its bisecting

avenues of commercial bustle, if he have time to glance over his shoulder,

is sure to observe a freshly-painted piece of tin (its brief rhetoric

revelling in the pride and pomp of gold leaf alphabetically shaped),

denominated by lawyers "a shingle"—setting forth that some sanguine

gentleman has then and there established himself as an Attorney and

Counsellor at Law.

The sign is by the front door, shining with self-conceit at the passers

by; and its owner is up some weary stairway, yawning over "twice told

tales" of legal lore, copying precedents for the sake of practice, or

keeping hope alive upon the back benches of the court-rooms in listening

to the eloquence of his seniors while _he_ is waiting for clients.

Heaven help many a young attorney in this "babel" of money-getting. The

race should be prayed for in churches: and it should meet with a

consideration as nearly divine as mortals can call up from crowded

heart-chambers.

Well: the sign keeps nailed up: and by and by the sun blisters it, and

dries out the pomp of the gilded letters, and perhaps the owner yawns over

his one case, or sitting upon a front bench in the court-room while case

number thirty is being heard, waits for case nine hundred and thirty,

against which on the calendar that is reposing by the side of the

complaisant clerk in the corner, his name is placed as counsel—shining

there like a pebble on a wide and extended beach.

The Physiology of the Medical Student from facetious pens was reached to

us over the Atlantic by friendly booksellers some years ago; and we should

have had by this time "the Physiology of the young Attorney." He is a good

subject for dissection; there’s plenty of venous humor in his composition;

and oh! a deal of nerve!

Talk of exploring expeditions to the Arctic regions as offering specimens

of courage and prowess; or of scientific excursions into the wilds of

Africa to the same purport! These instances are trivial compared to the

courage and prowess yearly displayed by hundreds of attorneys who plunge

into the ocean of litigation in order to swim towards the distant buoys

which the sun of prosperity always cheers with enlivening beams.

Don’t waste sympathy in this connection for the young Sawbones. _His_

thirst for action can be slaked at pauper fountains. For _him_ the

emigrant’s chamber, the cabin of the arriving ship, the dispensary, the

asylums, the hospitals, and the poor-houses, are always open; and if his

"soul be in arms," there are (Heaven knows) "frays" in this city numerous

enough for any ambitious surgical eagerness.

But for the aspiring attorney where are the avenues open for gratuitous

action? Do merchants nail up promissory notes upon awning posts for

attorneys to seize and put in suit? What "old nobs" of Wall-street are

willing to put themselves "in chancery" to oblige Hopper Tape, Esq., your

humble attendant upon the Where are the courts possessing suits without

counsel?

We may be told of unfortunate wretches who murder in drunken fits to whom

counsel are assigned. But what are ten crusts of bread per annum among a

thousand hungry dogs?

Thou must face the truth, young college boy, who now and then dost stroll

into court-rooms, or who dost lounge away an hour in a friend’s law office

admiring his books and piles of papers—thinking the while of the time when

thou wilt have graduated and obtained permission to hang up thy

pomp-gilded "shingle:" _thou must face the truth_! The counsel who so

attracts thy admiration, in thy court-room lounging, has fought weary

years with myriad obstacles; there are the ashes of many nights and days

of toil and struggle sprinkled upon his hair; he has fought his way (from

where thou sittest a listener to where he stands a speaker), as if through

an Indian gauntlet file. There were a hundred mouths waiting for the first

crumbs which came to his impatient legal digestion; and a hundred envious

heads and hearts to worry him if possible into a dyspepsia over those

crumbs. He has began with an office in a fifth story, and _climbed down_

towards the street. He commenced to hive his honey near the roof! While

out of his office he climbed a professional ladder, the holding on to

which tasked all his powers of physical, mental, and pecuniary endurance.

Face the truth!

Reach me yonder diary and legal register. Two thousand practising lawyers

in the city of New-York! Out of these one hundred are "notables;" fifty

are "distinguished;" twenty-five are eminent.

A large body of them are "conveyancers" growing thin in person and thinner

in mind over deeds and titles; a larger body "attorneys"—getters up and

supervisors of suits—providers of ammunition for "distinguished counsel"

to discharge with loud reports (the said counsel brilliant by the flash:

the attorney obscured in the smoke); many, very many, chained to

"larcenies" at the Sessions, "landlord dispossessions" at the Marine

Court, suits on butcher’s bills at Ward Courts, or "malicious

prosecutions" in the Common Pleas.

Yet there are hundreds of coral reefs and pearls for persevering divers in

this ocean of litigation. Three thousand pending cases every month are

three thousand nutshells where the meat is often fresh and oily, even with

the weary keeping on the calendar for months and years. There are _some_

counsel who pocket fees and costs to the tune of twenty thousand a year.

We know many a Quirk, Gammon and Snap, who realize an undoubted "ten

thousand a year," with no Tittlebat Titmouse for a standing annoyance. And

we can taper off on the finger many who do not realize five hundred a

year, and work like negro slaves at that: they are continually rough

hewing, but no divinity shapes their ends.

Five years of "starvation," and five more years of toil and trouble,

constitute the depth of a lawyer’s slough of despond in New-York; to say

nothing of the giants’ castles to storm upon the way, or the fights with

the Apolyons of Envy. Obviously so!

A man now-a-days will let a young Sawbones advise ice for his child’s

croup, or even experiment with his own much-abused liver, when he would

not intrust a young attorney with the suing a note where ten witnesses saw

the note signed and the "consideration money" paid over. And if the public

really knew how much danger their pockets were in when the "buttons" were

under the control of inexperienced lawyers, the number of "starvers" would

be doubled. What "eminent" lawyer is there who does not look back to the

"practice" of his youth, in perfect terror to witness the mistakes he

made, as the helmsman, who has scudded through the breakers to the open

sea, glances back at the dangers he escaped?

The young lawyers of a year back are, however, five years—perhaps ten—in

advance of the lawyers of this year’s growth. The latter have greater

rivalry in the _hordes_ of practitioners from the interior whom the "new

code" have driven from their _trespass quare clausum fregit_ into the

city. Many of them, too, were men of mark in their ports of departure,

bold and confident in their new haven!

One field, however, in the legal township of this city, offers room upon

its face for tillers—_the field of advocacy_! It is ploughed by some

twenty or thirty, and _harrowed_ by some fifty or sixty. There are a

_dozen_ whom the ghosts of Nisi Prius flock to hear upon great occasions.

And these will long hold the monopoly.

Why?

Because the advocate and barrister must have had vast experience at Nisi

Prius (or the court where matters of fact are investigated by judge and

jury); have acquired a practised tact; have had opportunities of testing

their own calibre to know if they are fitted for emergencies—as the

gunsmith tests his barrels before he "stocks" them. And the young lawyer

has small opportunity afforded him to acquire this tact—to permit this

testing. If he can play "devil" for a few years to some barrister of

extended practice, or scent "occasions" like a blood-hound on the trail of

the valuable fugitive from justice, then he is a happy man, and is in the

fair way of soon becoming a monopolist himself.

Any juryman of two years’ standing will corroborate our statement as to

the openness of the field of legal advocacy. How often has he seen cause

after cause "set down," "reserved," or "put off," because counsel are

engaged elsewhere? How often has he heard the same advocate in four or

five causes in the same week, in the same court, changing positions like

the queen of an active chess-board; profiting his fame and pocket by means

of only a hurried glance at the elaborate brief which his junior has "got

up" for him?

Some one has said that the barrister works hard, lives well, and dies

poor. Regarding the first two conditions of his life there is little doubt

upon the question of truth; the dying in poverty _may be_ problematical.

Yet in a recent print, professing to furnish a list of wealthy tax-payers,

the list contained four lawyers, and only one was a barrister. The

instance proves little, for a lawyer may be very rich and yet pay no

taxes. The assessors may fight shy of his bell-pull as they go their

rounds, because of his penchant to find flaws in their actions and bring

them official discredit in an apparently laborious task, but in reality a

sinecure of an employment.

We have often asked ourselves if barristers have stomachs. Bowels of

compassion they have not, that is certain; but have they stomachs? Say

nine times in a year they dine at the same hour of the day; and then spoon

their soup with the blood all drawn from the digestive apparatus to feed

the brain. Yet they eat like aldermen and drink like German princes....

This much of idle reverie, as, with pen in hand, we laid down the two

bulky and elaborately-published volumes whose title we have taken as text;

this much of glance at the condition of the young and old advocate of

to-day, before we digest our reflections upon the advocate and jurist of

the past.

It was our privilege in our legal novitiate (this is but _a phrase_; for a

lawyer is always in his novitiate) to have been, at the Cambridge Law

School, a pupil of Mr. Justice Story; and thus to have drank at the very

fountain head of constitutional law—that branch of our national

jurisprudence which can least fluctuate. Judges of a day and not of a

generation, or crazy legislators with spasmodic wisdom, may alter, and

overturn, and mystify by simplification, the laws and usages of every-day

life; but it is scarcely to be apprehended that the current of our

constitutional law will ever be diverted from original channels. There is

danger rather of its being dammed into stagnation.

While fully aware of his faults and foibles as a man, and his

idiosyncracies as a judge and a legal writer, we have never wavered in

loyalty to his judicial majesty, or found a flaw in the regard we paid to

his memory. And no book was more welcome to Zimmerman in his solitude than

these volumes regarding the illustrious judge, prepared by his son, were

welcome to our Christmas-holiday leisure.

Joseph Story was the eldest of eleven children, and lived to be indeed the

"Joseph" of mark and renown to his father and brothers. He was born in

Marblehead, September 18th, 1779. His father was a physician, and served

during a portion of the Revolution as army surgeon. He died when the

future judge was twenty-six years of age: yet what the son then was is

best told by one sentence from the father’s will—after making his wife

sole executrix, he recommends her to his son Joseph, adding, "and although

this perhaps is needless, I do it to mark my special confidence in his

affections, skill, and abilities." From the father, our lawyer thus

panegyrized received friendly geniality and broad understanding; from the

mother, indomitable will, vigor and enthusiasm.

Habit of observation and desire of knowledge were the prominent attributes

of his childish character; nevertheless he was ardent in all the sports of

boyhood. To the last he maintained a regard for his honor, which induced

him while yet a lad, and under promise not to divulge the name of a

schoolmate offender, to receive a severe flogging rather than to yield up

his knowledge upon the subject. At the age of sixteen, in the midst of a

Freshman term at Harvard College, he thought of matriculation; but upon

inquiry learned that he must not only be examined upon the works of

ordinary preparatory reading, but that it was necessary for him to expect

a call upon the volumes which his class had dispatched during the past

half year. At first he was daunted, but remembering there yet remained six

weeks of vacation, he addressed himself to the necessary labor—the

severity of which is best evidenced by the fact that in the short time

above mentioned he read Sallust, the odes of Horace, two books of Livy,

three books of the Anabasis, two books of the Iliad, and certain English

treatises. This sounds like the railroad instruction now much in vogue;

but its effects were permanent in value upon his mind. Few readers of his

works will accuse him of a want of proficiency in Latin! But the _often_

reading—the _saepe legendo_ was ever his habit: for he remembered the

couplet:

Gutta cavat lapidem non vi sed saepe cadendo

Sic homo fit doctus non vi sed saepe legendo.

He passed muster with the college tutors in January, 1795. Among his

classmates were the (afterwards Reverends) Dr. Tuckerman and Wm. E.

Channing—to the genius and character of the latter of whom he always bore

the most enthusiastic and hearty testimony. Indeed he contested with

Channing for the highest honor. Channing won it, but always gave the honor

himself to Story; while the latter always declared that the former won the

just meed of his genius and scholarship.

Their graduation was in the summer of 1798: and immediately upon quitting

college Mr. Story commenced the study of the law with Mr. Samuel Sewall,

afterwards Chief Justice in the Supreme Court of Massachusetts. Fourteen

hours a day was over his quantum of study. Although sometimes

disheartened, he never surrendered his determination to master the

elements and details of his new profession.

_Studying_ law in those days was a far different thing from its _reading_

now. Then it was _multum_: now it is _multa_. No copious indexes and

multifarious treatises were counted by thousands: no digests (directories

to the streets, the avenues, the fountains and the temples of the

science), abounded by scores. Libraries were carried about in wheelbarrows

and not in processions of vans, when the inexorable moving day came

around. Learned judges were not then compelled to hold courts in remote

villages (resorting hereby to a _coup de loi_), in order to escape the

_cacoethes loquendi_ of case lawyers and presuming juniors. Legal lore was

builded up like the massive stone and hard grained mortar of the edifices

of that olden time—slowly, carefully, but lastingly; not as are builded

now the brick and stuccoed mansions of the snob and parvenu. Not that

abounding treatises and familiarizing digests forbid the idea of the

perfect lawyer now-a-days: only that to-day the law student in the midst

of a large library stands more in need (when thinking of the _otium_ which

accompanies certain dignity), to utter the ejaculation, "lead us not into

temptation"—the temptation of possessing that knowledge which teaches

where to seek for information, and not the kind which is information of

itself.

In 1801 Mr. Story came to the Salem bar while at the age of twenty-two.

After being three years at practice he married his first wife, who died

within two years afterward, plunging him into the deepest grief. During

his courtship he dabbled (as almost every young lawyer does until he finds

that clients are severe critics) in poetry, and wrote a didactic poem of

two parts in heroic verse, entitled "The Power of Solitude." Adopting the

criticism of the biographers—its prominent defects were exaggeration of

feeling, confusion of imagery, want of simplicity of expression, stilted

and artificial style. But though dull as a poem, it shows facility and

talent for versification, breathes a warm aspiration for virtue and truth,

and is creditable to the scholarship of its author.

After the loss of his wife he sought relief from painful thoughts in the

laborious duties of a large and increasing business. His position at the

bar was prominent, and he was engaged in nearly all the cases of

importance. His manner to the jury was earnest and spirited; he managed

his causes with tact (that great acquirement of the successful lawyer:

being, as a distinguished barrister now dead and gone said to Dr. Hosack,

the same sheet anchor to the advocate which mercury or bark is to the

physician), was ready in attack or defence, and possessed great eloquence

of expression. As an advocate he showed a sagacity of perception which no

intricacy of detail could blind, no suddenness of attack confuse, and

which afterwards so distinguished him as a Judge. He was thrown among the

leading lawyers; and undaunted as all young lawyers should be (although

preserving their modesty of deportment and learning), he measured swords

with the most accomplished. Although sometimes vanquished, he always

received honors from even the victors.

It is a prevailing opinion with the junior members of the legal

profession, that their seniors delight in snubbing them; that they are

fond of being discourteous, and arrogant; that they are envious of some

and insulting to others. But it is rare indeed that the seniors err on

other ground in this respect than magnanimity. The industrious youngster,

the self-reliant youngster, the firm but respectful youngster, the versed

in elementary principles among youngsters, are always received with open

arms. Law begets law. If the junior commences a suit a senior may answer

it: and the reverse. The parson and the doctor are in perpetual

interference with the neighbors and brethren of their particular calling.

But lawyers, like bees in the beehive, must of necessity assist and succor

each other, or there will be less honey laid away when the summer is past

and the harvest ended.

Early in his professional career he became an ardent politician. He was a

Jeffersonian Democrat, and at the bar of his residence stood almost alone

in his partisan position. As such a party man he went into the State

Legislature, and became an acknowledged leader. He possessed that great

quality for a leader, the faculty of extempore speaking, joined with the

ability to condense and elucidate the topics he took in hand. But he never

submitted the convictions of his judgment to party dictation; and soon

after his entering the arena of legislative warfare, he bravely stemmed

party tide in advocating an increase of salaries for the State judges. The

latter were all federalists, and it was not to be wondered that the

republicans of that day, who wore in their noses the rings of party,

should shrug their shoulders at the prospect of benefiting political

opponents. But by his firm conduct, and by his confident assertion and

able arguments in favor of the measure, it was carried. And to Joseph

Story, more than any other man, Massachusetts is indebted for the

opportunity of employing ablest judicial officers, without making their

families beggars.

It is the disgrace of our country that its judicial officers are the most

poorly paid of all professions and pursuits. And in every section of the

Union, that distinguished lawyer who accepts a seat upon the bench, must

hold the glories of his honor at a very high price, to surrender his

ordinary professional emoluments for the wretched pittance which the

various States dole out for days of public toil and nights of private

study. We desire to look no further than this Empire State for examples.

This Empire State, with its magnificent resources and proudly developing

energies, should be the last to unite in adjudging its judicial officers

to the labors of galley slaves, and to then pay them by the year less than

a ballet-dancer receives by the month in all its principal cities. Two

thousand five hundred dollars per year is the astounding sum which this

same Empire State pays to its highest judicial officers. If we reverse the

saying of Walpole, and read "_every price has its man_," we may not wonder

if Dogberries and grandmothers are occasionally found upon the bench,

dispensing their honest but destructive platitudes, and their Malaprop

constructions of commercial law, to juries of astounded merchants.

From the arena of State politics, Mr. Story next changed his position to

the temple of national discussions at Washington. His career in Congress

was, however, limited to one session, and to a vacancy-seat occasioned by

a death. He declined re-election; for in the words of his autobiographical

account of this portion of his career, he had lost all relish for

political controversy, and had found that an entire obedience to party

projects required such constant sacrifices of opinion and feeling, that he

preferred to devote himself with singleness of heart to the study of the

law, which was at all times the object of his admiration and almost

exclusive devotion. Public sentiment, however, forced him again into the

State councils at home, where more liberty of professional engagement was

permitted. He was in political life but a brief period again, before, in

his thirty-second year, President Madison pressed his acceptance of a

vacant Associate Justiceship in the Supreme Court of the United States,

which had been declined by Levi Lincoln and by John Quincy Adams, then in

Russia. Although the acceptance involved the surrender of heavy

professional emolument, the high honor, the permanence of the tenure, and

the opportunity of gratifying his juridical studies that he so much loved,

joined in compelling his acquiescence.

"The atrocious crime of being a young man," which had compelled a hatred

of William Pitt the younger, in a former day, was now brought up against

him by many whose party subserviency fairly blushed before his manly

integrity, and by others who envied him his success. But one year at the

Circuit silenced all complaint. And in his thirty-third year he was

acknowledged to be the able jurist whom, at his death in his sixty-sixth

year of age, a whole nation mourned.

Dismissing for the present all consideration of his judicial life, and all

estimate of his ability upon the bench, and passing over nearly twenty

years of his life, we meet him in the possession of his fourth great honor

in life—but an honor which was ever the first prized by him in all his

after career—the appointment of Law Professor in Cambrige Law School.

Mr. Nathan Dane, whose Abridgement of American law in many volumes had

obtained for him the gratitude of the profession at large, and the more

substantial testimonial of pecuniary profit, had determined, about the

fiftieth year of Judge Story’s life, to repay the law some of the profits

which its votaries had bestowed upon him, by donating ten thousand dollars

for the establishment of a new professorship. He annexed to his donation,

however, the condition that Judge Story should be the incumbent. To the

great delight of the donor, and of the College Fellows, the Judge

assented, and was inaugurated as Dane Professor of Law, with a special

view to Lectures upon the Law of Nations, Commercial and Maritime Law,

Federal Law and Equity—a station which he filled to the day of his

lamented death.

This brief survey of his life presents him then in several public aspects;

as a student, as an advocate, as a statesman, as a judge, and as an

expounder of the great principles of law, which he worshipped with an

idolatry of love.

To speak of his political career would not belong to the scope of our

article. And to sit in judgment upon his judicial career would be our

presumption. Older and abler pens must render their tributes to the extent

and varied richness of his legal lore, which, taking root in principles,

branched into the minutiæ of detail, under every sun and in every clime

where law is recognized as a rule of human action. His judicial fame can

never be increased or diminished by individual estimate. The law of

patents, of admiralty and prizes, the jurisprudence of equity, and above

all, his luminous explorations of what were once constitutional

labyrinths, are monuments as indestructible as the Pyramids. If every

trace of their original oneness be lost, they will yet live in the hours

of future judicial days, in professional acts, and in the guiding policy

of a remote posterity. His library of treatises are legal classics; and

the worst defects which flippant carpers and canvassers of their claims to

merit have discovered in their pages, have been their richness of detail

and polish of learning! And no one can deny that as a judge he was the

very example which ’Hobbes’ in his ’Leviathan,’ carried in mind when he

thus wrote—"the things that make a good judge or good interpreter of the

laws, are first—a right understanding of that principal law of nature

called Equity, which depending not on the reading of other men’s writings,

but on the goodness of a man’s own natural reason and meditation, is

presumed to be in those most who have had most leisure and the most

inclination to meditate thereon; second—contempt of unnecessary riches and

preferments; third—to be able in judgment to divest himself of all fear,

anger, hatred, love and compassion; fourthly and lastly—patience to hear,

diligent attention in hearing, and memory to retain, digest, and apply

what he hath heard."

Not the least amiable phase of the life of Judge Story, was the attention

which he gave to letters and literary pursuits. He was no _mere_ lawyer:

no stringer of professional centos. He never hid his heart with the veil

of dignity; nor smothered his fresh impulses (preserved intact from

worldly rust since boyhood) with the weight of his judicial and

professional labors. While he believed that the law was a jealous

mistress, he knew that this mistress was too stable and sensible to decree

that a gentle dalliance or seasonable flirtation with her maids of

honor—Poetry, or the Arts, or Literature, or Love—was an unloyal act. He

could turn from Grotius to Dickens, from Vattel to Thackeray. He could

digest the points of the elaborate arguments of eminent counsel, and then

turn aside to a gentle tonic from the administrating hand of Smollett or

Walter Scott. Method was his master-key to all the combinations in the

locks of labor.

Twice married he never ceased to eulogize the bliss of domesticity.

Surrounded by loving eyes, the currents of his freshened affection flowed

deeper and clearer every year. How he treasured home and home joys may be

collected in the following lines from his poem on solitude (before

referred to), written in his twenty-second year.

"Grandeur may dazzle with its transient glare

The herd of folly, and the tribe of care,

Who sport and flutter through their listless days,

Like motes that bask in Summer’s noontide blaze,

With anxious steps round vacant splendor while,

Live on a look, and banquet on a smile;

But the firm race whose high endowments claim

The laurel-wreath that decks the brow of fame;

Who warmed by sympathy’s electric glow,

In rapture tremble, and dissolve in woe,

Blest in _retirement_, scorn the frowns of fate,

And feel a transport power can ne’er create."

Touching the poem from which these lines are taken, we remember being

shown the only copy of the published book which was known to exist, by the

family of the Judge. The Assistant Librarian (who was born for his station

in all that regards enthusiastic love of his duties), of the Harvard

College library, showed us, with great triumph, a small sheep-bound

volume, entitled "Solitude and other Poems, by Joseph Story," printed

sometime in the commencement of this century: saying, "the Judge has

burned all the copies he can pick up, and this is only to be read here."

This poem was a sore subject to the author. He viewed it as not only a

blot upon his dignity, but an annoyance to his professional fame. Numerous

critics have laughed at it; but apart from the shorter poems, the main

theme showed much aptitude of poetic imagery, invention, and harmony of

expression. Glance at the following lines, which contain much of the

genuine spark:

"Till nature’s self the Vandal torch should raise,

And the vast alcove of creation blaze."

Or this—

"Blaze the vast domes inwrought with fretted gold,

The sumptuous pavements veins or pearl unfold,

Arch piled on arch with columned pride ascend,

Grove linked to grove their mingling shadows blend."

Or this—

"Let narrow prudence boast its grovelling art

To chill the generous sympathies of heart,

Teach to subdue each thought sublimely wild,

And crush, like Herod, fancy’s new-born child."

It is highly probable that the learned Justice, knowing his taste for the

poetical and fanciful, and his aptitude at the harmony of language, often

erred in his judicial writings and treatises, by avoiding beauty of

expression, in fear lest the dignity of his subject should be injured by

too much association with the creatures of fancy. We have known most

accomplished lawyers err through this same caution. Our biographer himself

(Mr. William W. Story) has certainly done himself great injustice as a

writer in his work on "Contracts," when, in the pages before us, he

presents us with so much delicacy of fancy and rhetorical finish.

Blackstone in his "Commentaries," Jones in his "Bailment" treatise,

Stephens in his essay upon "Pleading," time-honored Fearne in his

"Contingent Remainders," have shown how grateful and how suitable it is

for the legal readers to find brilliancy of rhetoric adorning the most

profound learning.

But certainly Judge Story possessed to a remarkable degree the faculty of

condensation in his poetical works. His rhyme was not reason run mad; but

reason in modest holiday attire. Where are lines at once so compact and so

searching in their wisdom as the following, penned in 1832, as matters of

advice to a young law student:

"Whene’er you speak, remember every cause

Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws—

Pregnant in matter, in expression brief,

Let every sentence stand in bold relief;

On trifling points nor time nor talents waste,

A sad offence to learning and to taste;

Nor deal with pompous phrase; nor e’er suppose

Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose,

Loose declamation may deceive the crowd,

And seem more striking as it grows more loud;

But sober sense rejects it with disdain,

As nought but empty noise, and weak as vain.

The froth of words, the school-boy’s vain parade

Of books and cases—all his stock in trade—

The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play

Of low attorneys, strung in long array,

The unseemly jest, the petulent reply,

That chatters on, and cares not how, or why,

Studious, avoid—unworthy themes to scan,

They sink the speaker and disgrace the man.

Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast,

Scarce seen when present, and forgot when past.

Begin with dignity: expound with grace

Each ground of reasoning in its time and place;

Let order reign throughout—each topic touch,

Nor urge its power too little, or too much.

Give each strong thought its most attractive view,

In diction clear, and yet severely true,

And as the arguments in splendor grow,

Let each reflect its light on all below.

When to the close arrive make no delays

By petty flourishes, or verbal plays,

But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain,

Like a strong current hastening to the main."

If Mr. Story had never been elevated to the bench it is not likely his

name would ever have become national property. Although plunged into

politics in his earlier life, he was not fitted for the life. His devotion

to the law, and his dread of becoming that slave to party usages which all

public men must necessarily more or less fashion of themselves, would have

retained him in his native state, and made his usefulness sectional. To

the politicians of the school of General Jackson, and to the

administration of that President, he was particularly distasteful. His

tenacious conservatism drew forth from the "old hero," on one occasion,

the remark, that "he was the most dangerous man in the country." Lord

Eldon, with his doubts and pertinacious toryism was not more unpopular

among the reformers in England than was Judge Story—the last of the old

regime of federal judges—with the bank radicals of 1832.

When Chief Justice Marshall died he felt almost broken-hearted. A new race

of constitutional expounders had arisen around him. Brother justices, with

modern constructions, and more liberal notions of national law, were by

his side. In many decisions he was now a sole dissenter. His pride was

invaded; his self-love tortured; his adoration of certain legal

constructions which he had deemed immutable in their nature, was

desecrated. And, for many years previous to his decease, he had

contemplated resigning from the federal judiciary, and living alone for

his darling law school.

This school was his adopted child. He had taken it in a feeble and

helpless infancy. He had given it strength and increased vitality. He

brought it up to a vigorous and useful maturity. It was loved by only a

handful of students when he gave his name and talents to aid its life: but

when he died, a hundred and fifty pupils were its warm suitors, and

hundreds of lawyers over the whole union cherished its prosperity as a

link in their own chains of happiness.

And, although he thought not of it, his labors in the law school secure

for his memory in the present generation a more brilliant existence than

his array of judicial decisions, and his thousands of written pages, can

ever bestow. In some pine forest settlement of Maine, or in some rude

court-house in California, there are lawyers who bring before them every

day his genial smiles and his impressive lectures, looked upon and heard

by them in former times at Cambridge. Over all the Union, in almost every

village, town, and city, are his pupils. Each one of them may sometimes

reflect with rapture upon their days of college life, or remember with

pride their first professional success: but not one of these

considerations of reminiscence is so grateful to his mind as the thought

of his novitiate with Justice Story. Depend upon it he treasures up those

Cambridge text-books, those Cambridge note-books whose leaves

daguerreotype the learning of the eminent deceased, those catalogues of

students where his name is proudly found, as the most valuable portions of

his library. He will never part with them: but they will descend to his

children.

It was our privilege and pleasure also to know Mr. Justice Story at

Cambridge; to have spent days of pleasure in the hours of his society; to

have rendered to his teachings the tribute of delighted attention and

grateful recollection. We, too, have been fascinated with that

conversation, whose variety of exuberance and sometimes egotism, were its

greatest ornaments. In the sunshine of his intellect our mind has sunned

itself, and been warmed into zealous and proselyting admiration. To his

gray-haired teachings we have paid personal reverence, and we unaffectedly

hope to have caught from his society and intercourse a spark of that

professional enthusiasm which is the only true guiding-star of the

plodding lawyer.

The December blasts are hoarsely sobbing to-night through Mount Auburn,

the garden of his mortal repose—the hallowed spot which his eloquence

consecrated in its origin, and which his religious love in his lifetime

sacredly cherished. The snows of winter and the autumn-woven carpet of

fallen leaves are heaped upon his honored grave, the sodded paths to

which, in the glowing spring-time and fragrant summer, are pressed most

frequent with the tread of faithful mourners. Years have passed since that

honored grave was first closed upon him. Longer years have flown since we

were under his teachings. But we seem to view him the same as of yore.

Again the class is assembled in the hushed lecture-room as his familiar

tread is heard at the door; or as the burst of applause, where there is no

sycophantic flattery known or felt, greets his entrance to his seat. Again

we see him adjusting his genial spectacles, and looking around upon the

upturned faces with parental pride. Again we hear his mellowed, although

often impetuous accents, expounding familiar principles of law, and

descending to the consideration of "first things" with as much pride and

carefulness as the artist treats his Rubens or Titian, which for years and

years has hung before him in all lights and shades and in every

combination of position.

Again, we occupy a modest corner of the library while he is holding his

moot court; infusing into the dignity of his manner a marked suavity of

disposition which never forsook him; or he is perpetrating some

appropriate legal joke to his audience, who never played upon his ease or

good nature.

Again, we have stolen into the self-same library while he is holding an

equity term of his circuit, to listen to the words of judicial wisdom

which came from his utterance, exuberant as pearls of fancy from the mouth

of an inspired poet.

Again, we see him at the summer twilight, seated by the trellised portico

of his hospitable and happy homestead, surrounded by family or friends,

enjoying the amenities of life with unaffected pleasure, and sometimes

awakening the garden echoes with his cheerful ringing laugh; or we see him

in the same hour of the day driving under the venerable elms of the

numerous commons, gazing and bowing around with all the pleasure which the

king of the fairy book marked upon his face when the love of his subjects,

among whom he passed, came forth with the evening breeze to bless and

greet him.

And then we pass into "reverie," and live a few minutes of "dream-life,"

recalling to mind the maxims and sayings which were uttered in our

presence; and the many bright exemplars placed before his pupils, and the

kindly greetings which were showered all about—for he was no distinguisher

of persons so long as honor of feeling and uprightness of motive abounded

in his presence.

He is gone! Yet in these pages of biography before us he will always live.

From infancy to the ripened greatness of old age, his life is preserved to

posterity by the hand of his faithful and grateful son, whose duty has

been most ably and interestingly performed. The very minutiæ of his life

are presented with fidelity and modesty of reference. Some may carp at

this; to these let us say with the French proverbialist, _Rien n’est

indifférent dans la vie d’un grand homme; le genie se revéle dans ses

moindres actions_. The straws of every day life mark the direction of the

breezes of individual action.

To the hearts of his pupils we would send this epitaph, and ask them if

aught less tributary could be said of one who was and is to them a father.

Here sleeps the mortality of Joseph Story, who lived his days so well that

he won in a short lifetime an immortality of fame. His career as a _Man_

reflected lustre upon the lustre of an honored father’s manhood, and added

to the virtues which his mother bequeathed him. As a _Politician_, he

rendered obeisance only to his conscience. As a _Lawyer_, he never

disgraced his profession by a thought, and even honored it by his

slightest acts. The colleague of Marshall, the two now shine together as

twin stars in the often contemplated firmament of _Judicial Renown_. Not

selfish of his _Learning_, it is scattered to the uttermost parts of the

earth, and is treasured wherever it has fallen. The learning which he

borrowed from continental Europe he repaid with magnificent interest. In

Westminster Hall his name is associated with Nottingham, Hale, Mansfield,

and Stowell. Counting as dross the wealth of professional eminence, he

became from the love of it an expounder of law to its tyros. He has spread

for thousands of adopted children a banquet of the treasures of legal

lore, and next to reverencing his paternal love they cherish with profound

gratitude the memory of his slightest instructions. While the Union of his

birthplace exists, her citizens will regard with unfeigned admiration his

constitutional teachings.

COLUMBUS AT THE GATES OF GENOA.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NILE NOTES OF A HOWADJI."

Christopher Columbus was born at Genoa in 1437. In 1851 the Genoese are

finishing his monument.

I am Columbus: will ye let me in?

Or Doria in his palace by the sea.

Proud Andrea Doria named il Principe,

In your Republic named il Principe,

By Charles the Fifth, the Emperor of Spain,

Monopolizes he your meed of fame

Before the awful Judgment seat of Time.

Well, and Pisani, the Venetian, he,

Venice as Doria was Genoa,—

Why, wide-mouthed Europe clanged their stunning praise,

And history with their names adorns herself,

Dazzing the eyes of pious pilgrims, who

Press flowers from Doria’s garden, dreaming float

Upon Pisani’s silent waters, and

Proceed, much meditating human fate.

And they had pleasures, palaces. They stood,

And sat, and went, all men admiring,

Men of a day, in its brief life they lived,

In its swift dying died. Men of a day,

Brave, generous, and noble—not enough.

Voluptuous Venice, Genoa superb,

Far fascinating meteors that flashed,

Then fell forgotten. Do I carp? Not I.

Ye love your own, I mine, mine me, amen!

O pious pilgrims and ye Genoese,

Proceed, much meditating human fate,

And meditate this well.

A wanderer driven

By every adverse gust of evil times.

Wrecked upon barren reefs of blandest smiles,

Wan victim of a solitary thought

Too masculine to die unrealized.

Tortured with tortuous diplomacy,

Beseeching monarchs still in vain besought,

Not to give kingdoms but to take a world,

Unloved of Fortune, best beloved of Hope,—

When Doria was a lisping boy at school,—

This wanderer puts forth one summer morn,

Among the other fishers of the sea,

And with a world returns.

Nay! nay! no words.

Your hemisphere was only half enough,

And Christopher Columbus globed his fame.

And now ye build my statue, Genoese,

After three silent centuries have died,

When the old fourth is failing, ye do well

With lagging stones to pile the pedestal,

And shape my sculptured seeming. Not with wrath,

Nor scorn. Good God and less with gratitude,

Be those worn features wreathed. I love ye not,

Ye are no friends of mine. I did not ask

A block of marble for my memory,

But gold to carve my hope. It was not much—

Nay, had it been your all, was it not well

To wreck your fortune on a hope sublime?

And, Merchants! The brave chance; a small outlay,

And income inconceivable! You chose.

My stately Spain was wiser. So much gold,

A little fleet,—some sailors—leaders known—

If not investment, speculation safe,

The honor of the enterprise, and chance—

Always the siren chance—Spain risked and won,

And Genoa lost a world.

Sir Advocate!

I understand your meaning; it were hard

Fame drafts upon the Future should be paid

Ere present recognition! ’Twere unjust

That hope unhazarded in act, were crowned

With the same coronal that crowns success.

The starving mariner upon your shore—

The riddle of the West unsolved—stood not

In the same light to set his worthiness,

As when an unimagined Future streamed

All over him in glory. Yet he stood

In that light lonely, as in the old dark,

Lonely, but looking to that light for life.

Spring-pinioned Hope impetuously flew,

And saw, through the deep Future shedding balm,

His fame a tree in flower.

If that were all?

If in his vision of America

He saw but Christopher made famous? Look!

Not for himself; but for that martyr, Thought,

Which struggles fainting in a foolish world,

To ope a gate to wisdom, his heart swelled

When his fixed eye beheld his soul’s belief

Fulfilled in Western twilight. Thou my land!

Shalt thunder to the ages evermore

That dreams and hopes are holy. Thou shalt still

The croaking voice of souls that shake at dawn,

Loving the dimness of their own decay,—

The lone desire, entreaty and despair,

The wasting weariness that breeds disgust,

All woes but Doubt that, wasp-like, stings Hope back,

There are ye justified. And never Time

Goldening this page can slip its moral too:

And never Thought, loving this sweet success,

But still shall love its own wild dreams the more.

And still shall brighter gild all skiey peaks

Of noble daring, with this perfect day.

Regard your leisure with my monument,

My Genoese, for centuries to be

Will yet retain Its reason as to day.

There, where my hope was builded, stands my Fame,

The youngest children of the youngest race.

The wide worlds heritors, arch-heirs of Time,

Pronounce my name with reverence, and call

Your sometime outcast, Father. Be it so.

Andrea’s palace claims repairs perhaps,

The sculptured letters must be cut anew,

That on the crumbling girdle of his house

Proclaim him Principe. That be your task,

And pare your miserable marble, me.

FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

"Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!"

The pipe was in the old dame’s mouth, when she said these words. She had

thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to

light it at the hearth; where, indeed, there was no appearance of a fire

having been kindled, that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the

order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the

pipe, and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby’s lips. Whence the coal came,

and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never been able to

discover.

"Good!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. "Thank ye, Dickon! And

now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I need you

again!"

The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely sunrise),

in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended to put in the

middle of her corn patch. It was now the latter week of May, and the crows

and blackbirds had already discovered the little, green, rolled-up leaf of

the Indian corn, just peeping out of the soil. She was determined,

therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as ever was seen, and to

finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that it should begin its

sentinel’s duty that very morning. Now, mother Rigby (as every body must

have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent witches in New England,

and might, with very little trouble, have made a scarecrow ugly enough to

frighten the minister himself. But, on this occasion, as she had awakened

in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was further dulcified by her pipe of

tobacco, she resolved to produce something fine, beautiful, and splendid,

rather than hideous and horrible.

"I don’t want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn-patch, and almost at my

own doorstep," said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out a whiff of smoke;

"I could do it if I pleased; but I’m tired of doing marvellous things, and

so I’ll keep within the bounds of everyday business, just for variety’s

sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the little children, for a mile

roundabout, though ’tis true I’m a witch!"

It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow should

represent a fine gentleman of the period, so far as the materials at hand

would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumerate the chief of the

articles that went to the composition of this figure.

The most important item of all, probably, although it made so little show,

was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had taken many an airy

gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow by way of a spinal

column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone. One of its arms was a

disabled flail which used to be wielded by Goodman Rigby, before his

spouse worried him out of this troublesome world; the other, if I mistake

not, was composed of the pudding-stick and a broken rung of a chair, tied

loosely together at the elbow. As for its legs, the right was a

hoe-handle, and the left an undistinguished and miscellaneous stick from

the wood pile. Its lungs, stomach, and other affairs of that kind, were

nothing better than a meal bag, stuffed with straw. Thus, we have made out

the skeleton and entire corporcity of the scarecrow, with the exception of

its head; and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat withered and

shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two holes for the eyes and a

slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish-colored knob in the middle, to pass

for a nose. It was really quite a respectable face.

"I’ve seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said Mother Rigby.

"And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well as my scarecrow!"

But the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. So the

good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum-colored coat, of

London make, and with relics of embroidery on its seams, cuffs,

pocket-flabs, and button-holes, but lamentably worn and faded, patched at

the elbows, tattered at the skirts, and threadbare all over. On the left

breast was a round hole, whence either a star of nobility had been rent

away, or else the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it through

and through. The neighbors said, that this rich garment belonged to the

Black Man’s wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby’s cottage for

the convenience of slipping it on whenever he wished to make a grand

appearance at the governor’s table. To match the coat, there was a velvet

waistcoat of very ample size, and formerly embroidered with foliage, that

had been as brightly golden as the maple-leaves in October, but which had

now quite vanished out of the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of

scarlet breeches, once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the

knees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of Louis le Grand.

The Frenchman had given these small-clothes to an Indian powwow, who

parted with them to the old witch for a gill of strong waters, at one of

their dances in the forest. Furthermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of

silk stockings, and put them on the figure’s legs, where they showed as

unsubstantial as a dream, with the wooden reality of the two sticks making

itself miserably apparent through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead

husband’s wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the whole

with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest tail

feather of a rooster.

Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage, and

chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby little

nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied aspect, and

seemed to say, "Come look at me!"

"And you are well worth looking at—that’s a fact!" quoth Mother Rigby, in

admiration at her own handiwork: "I’ve made many a puppet, since I’ve been

a witch; but methinks this is the finest of them all. ’Tis almost too good

for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I’ll just fill a fresh pipe of tobacco,

and then take him out to the corn-patch."

While filling her pipe, the old woman continued to gaze with almost

motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth, whether

it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was something

wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, bedizened with its tattered

finery; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel its yellow

surface into a grin—a funny kind of expression, betwixt scorn and

merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at mankind. The more

Mother Rigby looked, the better she was pleased.

"Dickon," cried she sharply, "another coal for my pipe!"

Hardly had she spoken than, just as before, there was a red-glowing coal

on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff, and puffed it forth

again into the bar of morning sunshine, which struggled through the one

dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother Rigby always liked to flavor her

pipe with a coal of fire from the particular chimney corner whence this

had been brought. But where that chimney corner might be, or who brought

the coal from it—further than that the invisible messenger seemed to

respond to the name of Dickon—I cannot tell.

"That puppet, yonder," thought Mother Rigby, still with her eyes fixed on

the scarecrow, "is too good a piece of work to stand all summer in a

corn-patch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds. He’s capable of

better things. Why, I’ve danced with a worse one, when partners happened

to be scarce, at our witch-meetings in the forest! What if I should let

him take his chance among the other men of straw and empty fellows, who go

bustling about the world?"

The old witch took three or four more whiffs of her pipe, and smiled.

"He’ll meet plenty of his brethren at every street-corner!" continued she.

"Well; I didn’t mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day, further than the

lighting of my pipe; but a witch I am, and a witch I’m likely to be, and

there’s no use trying to shirk it. I’ll make a man of my scarecrow, were

it only for the joke’s sake!"

While muttering these words, Mother Rigby took the pipe from her own

mouth, and thrust it into the crevice which represented the same feature

in the pumpkin-visage of the scarecrow.

"Puff, darling, puff!" said she. "Puff away, my fine fellow! your life

depends on it!"

This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed to a mere

thing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better than a

shrivelled pumpkin for a head; as we know to have been the scarecrow’s

case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother Rigby

was a witch of singular power and dexterity; and, keeping this fact duly

before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in the

remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty will be at

once got over, if we can only bring ourselves to believe, that, as soon as

the old dame bade him puff, there came a whiff of smoke from the

scarecrow’s mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs, to be sure; but it

was followed by another and another, each more decided than the preceding

one.

"Puff away, my pet! puff away, my pretty one!" Mother Rigby kept

repeating, with her pleasantest smile. "It is the breath of life to ye;

and that you may take my word for!"

Beyond all question the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a spell

either in the tobacco or in the fiercely glowing coal that so mysteriously

burned on top of it, or in the pungent aromatic smoke which exhaled from

the kindled weed. The figure, after a few doubtful attempts, at length

blew forth a volley of smoke, extending all the way from the obscure

corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and melted away among the

motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort; for the two or three next

whiffs were fainter, although the coal still glowed, and threw a gleam

over the scarecrow’s visage. The old witch clapt her skinny hands

together, and smiled encouragingly upon her handiwork. She saw that the

charm worked well. The shrivelled, yellow face, which heretofore had been

no face at all, had already a thin, fantastic haze, as it were, of human

likeness, shifting to and fro across it; sometimes vanishing entirely, but

growing more perceptible than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The

whole figure, in like manner, assumed a show of life, such as we impart to

ill-defined shapes among the clouds, and half-deceive ourselves with the

pastime of our own fancy.

If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether

there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, worn-out, worthless,

and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow; but merely a spectral

illusion, and a cunning effect of light and shade, so colored and

contrived as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of witchcraft

seem always to have had a very shallow subtlety; and, at least, if the

above explanation do not hit the truth of the process, I can suggest no

better.

"Well puffed, my pretty lad!" still cried old Mother Rigby. "Come, another

good, stout whiff, and let it be with might and main! Puff for thy life, I

tell thee! Puff out of the very bottom of thy heart; if any heart thou

hast, or any bottom to it! Well done, again! Thou didst suck in that

mouthfull as if for the pure love of it."

And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much magnetic

potency into her gesture, that it seemed as if it must inevitably be

obeyed, like the mystic call of the loadstone, when it summons the iron.

"Why lurkest thou in the corner, lazy one?" said she. "Step forth! Thou

hast the world before thee?"

Upon my word, if the legend were not one which I heard on my grandmother’s

knee, and which had established its place among things credible before my

childish judgment could analyze its probability, I question whether I

should have the face to tell it now!

In obedience to Mother Rigby’s word, and extending its arm as if to reach

her out-stretched hand, the figure made a step forward—a kind of hitch and

jerk, however, rather than a step—then tottered, and almost lost its

balance. What could the witch expect? It was nothing, after all, but a

scarecrow, stuck upon two sticks. But the strong-willed old beldam

scowled, and beckoned, and flung the energy of her purpose so forcibly at

this poor combination of rotten wood, and musty straw, and ragged

garments, that it was compelled to show itself a man, in spite of the

reality of things. So it stepped into the bar of sunshine. There it

stood—poor devil of a contrivance that it was!—with only the thinnest

vesture of human similitude about it, through which was evident the stiff,

ricketty, incongruous, faded, tattered, good-for-nothing patchwork of its

substance, ready to sink in a heap upon the floor, as conscious of its own

unworthiness to be erect. Shall I confess the truth? At its present point

of vivification, the scarecrow reminds me of some of the lukewarm and

abortive characters, composed of heterogeneous materials, used for the

thousandth time, and never worth using, with which romance-writers (and

myself, no doubt, among the rest), have so over-peopled the world of

fiction.

But the fierce old hag began to get angry, and show a glimpse of her

diabolic nature (like a snake’s head, peeping with a hiss out of her

bosom,) at this pusillanimous behavior of the thing, which she had taken

the trouble to put together.

"Puff away, wretch!" cried she, wrathfully. "Puff, puff, puff, thou thing

of straw and emptiness!—thou rag or two!—thou meal-bag!—thou

pumpkin-head!—thou nothing!—where shall I find a name vile enough to call

thee by! Puff, I say, and suck in thy fantastic life along with the smoke;

else I snatch the pipe from thy mouth, and hurl thee where that red coal

came from!"

Thus threatened, the unhappy scarecrow had nothing for it, but to puff

away for dear life. As need was, therefore, it applied itself lustily to

the pipe, and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco-smoke, that the

small cottage-kitchen became all vaporous. The one sunbeam struggled

mistily through, and could but imperfectly define the image of the cracked

and dusty window-pane on the opposite wall. Mother Rigby, meanwhile, with

one brown arm akimbo, and the other stretched towards the figure, loomed

grimly amid the obscurity, with such port and expression as when she was

wont to heave a ponderous nightmare on her victims, and stand at the

bedside to enjoy their agony. In fear and trembling did this poor

scarecrow puff. But its efforts, it must be acknowledged, served an

excellent purpose; for, with each successive whiff, the figure lost more

and more of its dizzy and perplexing tenuity, and seemed to take denser

substance. Its very garments, moreover, partook of the magical change, and

shone with the gloss of novelty, and glistened with the skilfully

embroidered gold that had long ago been rent away. And, half-revealed

among the smoke, a yellow visage bent its lustreless eyes on Mother Rigby.

At last, the old witch clenched her fist, and shook it at the figure. Not

that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the principle—perhaps

untrue, or not the only truth, though as high a one as Mother Rigby could

be expected to attain—that feeble and torpid natures, being incapable of

better inspiration, must be stirred up by fear. But here was the crisis.

Should she fail in what she now sought to effect, it was her ruthless

purpose to scatter the miserable simulacre into its original elements.

"Thou hast a man’s aspect," said she, sternly. "Have also the echo and

mockery of a voice! I bid thee speak!"

The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a murmur, which was

so incorporated with its smoky breath that you could scarcely tell whether

it were indeed a voice, or only a whiff of tobacco. Some narrators of this

legend, hold the opinion, that Mother Rigby’s conjurations, and the

fierceness of her will, had compelled a familiar spirit into the figure,

and that the voice was his.

"Mother," mumbled the poor stifled voice, "be not so awful with me! I

would fain speak; but being without wits, what can I say?"

"Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?" cried Mother Rigby, relaxing her

grim countenance into a smile. "And what shalt thou say, quoth-a! Say,

indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty skull, and demandest of

me what thou shalt say? Thou shalt say a thousand things, and saying them

a thousand times over, thou shalt still have said nothing! Be not afraid,

I tell thee! When thou comest into the world (whither I purpose sending

thee, forthwith), thou shalt not lack the wherewithal to talk. Talk! Why,

thou shalt babble like a mill-stream, if thou wilt. Thou hast brains

enough for that, I trow!"

"At your service, mother," responded the figure.

"And that was well said, my pretty one!" answered Mother Rigby. "Then thou

spakest like thyself, and meant nothing. Thou shalt have a hundred such

set phrases, and five hundred to the boot of them. And now, darling, I

have taken so much pains with thee, and thou art so beautiful, that, by my

troth, I love thee better than any witch’s puppet in the world; and I’ve

made them of all sorts—clay, wax, straw, sticks, night-fog, morning-mist,

sea-foam, and chimney-smoke! But thou art the very best. So give heed to

what I say!"

"Yes, kind mother," said the figure, "with all my heart!"

"With all thy heart!" cried the old witch, setting her hands to her sides,

and laughing loudly. "Thou hast such a pretty way of speaking! With all

thy heart! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side of thy waistcoat,

as if thou really hadst one!"

So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of hers, Mother

Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its part in the great

world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was gifted with more

real substance than itself. And, that he might hold up his head with the

best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, with an unreckonable amount of

wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in Eldorado, and of ten

thousand shares in a broken bubble, and of half a million acres of

vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the air and a chateau in

Spain, together with all the rents and income therefrom accruing. She

further made over to him the cargo of a certain ship, laden with salt of

Cadiz, which she herself, by her necromantic arts, had caused to founder,

ten years before, in the deepest part of mid-ocean. If the salt were not

dissolved, and could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny

among the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him a

copper farthing, of Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had

about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his

forehead, thus making it yellower than ever.

SMILES AND TEARS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY RICHARD COE.

"Art thou happy, little child,

On this clear bright summer’s day,

In the garden sporting wild,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray!"

"If I had that pretty thing,

That has flown to yonder tree,

I would laugh, and dance, and sing—

Oh! how happy I should be!"

Then I caught the butterfly,

Placed it in his hands securely,

Now, methought, his pretty eye

Never more will look demurely!

"Art thou happy, now?" said I,

Tears were sparkling in his eye;

Lo! the butterfly was dead—

In his hands its life had sped!

"Art thou happy, maiden fair,

On this long, bright summer’s day,

Culling flowerets so rare,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray!"

"If my Henry were but here,

To enjoy the scene with me;

He whose love is so sincere,

Oh! how happy I should be!"

Soon I heard her lover’s feet,

Sounding on the gravel lightly,

To his loving words so sweet,

Tender glances answered brightly!

"Art thou happy, now?" I said,

Down she hung her lovely head,

Henry leaves for foreign skies—

Tears were in the maiden’s eyes!

"Art thou happy, mother mild,

On this bright, bright summer’s day,

Gazing on thy cherub child,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray!"

"If my baby-boy were well,"

Thus the mother spake to me,

"Gratitude my heart would swell—

Oh! how happy I should be!"

Then the cordial I supplied,

Soon the babe restored completely;

Cherub-faced and angel-eyed,

On his mother smiled he sweetly!

"Art thou happy, now?" I said;

"Would his father were not dead!"

Thus she answered me with sighs,

Scalding tear-drops in her eyes!

"Art thou happy, aged man,

On this glorious summer’s day,

With a cheek all pale and wan,

Art thou happy? tell me, pray!"

"If I were but safe above,"

Spake the old man unto me,

"To enjoy my Saviour’s love,

Oh! how happy I should be!"

Then the angel Death came down,

And he welcomed him with gladness,

On his brow so pale and wan,

Not a trace was seen of sadness:

"Art thou happy, now?" I said;

"Yes!" he answered with his head;

Tears of joy were in his eyes,

Dew-drops from the upper skies!

FREEDOM OF THOUGHT AND THE LATEST MIRACLES.

Archbishop Hughes, in a late speech attempted an exposition of the

relations between the Roman Catholic Church and Liberty, with special

reference to the position assumed by him and other prelates, that the

Roman Catholics are, not less than Protestants, upholders of freedom in

opinion and in discussion. The interesting brochure of his Grace will be

better appreciated by our readers, perhaps, if we mention a few recent

facts illustrative of the subject, as it affects "authors and books." The

French Roman Catholic Bishop of Lucan has a pastoral in the _Univers_

condemning Walter Scott’s works, without exception. He does the same by

Chateaubriand, and the _Arabian Nights_, and _Don Quixote_—the first as

Protestant, the second as insufficiently Catholic, the third as no

Christian, the fourth as of no religion at all. One unhappy writer of

school-books is condemned because he cites Guizot and Thierry; another

because he blames the massacres of Saint Bartholomew, and thinks they were

caused by "religious fanaticism." But first of all, and more than all, the

bishop condemns "that irreligious" Parisian journal, _La Presse_. "The

number of its subscribers is deplorable; but they are becoming and shall

become less; no priest must subscribe to it. No priest must be seen with

it. No priest must ’ordinarily’ read it." This is all very proper,

according to antecedents, but we should not like it if Bishop Hughes

deprived us of the _Tribune_, the _Herald_, or the _Journal of Commerce_,

all of which are as bad, in the same way, as the _Presse_. Another example

of the prohibition of books, we add from the cyclic letter just issued by

Cardinal Lambruschini, condemning Professor Nuytz’s works on

ecclesiastical law:

"And further, although we derive great consolation from the

promise of Jesus Christ, that the gates of hell shall never

prevail against the Church, our soul cannot but feel excruciating

pain, upon considering how daring outrages against divine and

sacred things daily flow from the unbridled licentiousness, the

perverse effrontery and impiety of the press. Now in this

pestilence of corrupt books which invades us on all sides, the

work entitled _Institutes of Ecclesiastical Law_, by John Nepomue

Nuytz, Professor in the Royal University of Turin, as also the

work entitled _Essays on Ecclesiastical Law_, by the same author,

claim a conspicuous place, inasmuch as the doctrines contained in

the said nefarious works are so widely disseminated from one of

the chairs of that university, that uncatholic theses selected

from them are proposed as fit subjects for discussion to

candidates aspiring to the doctor’s degree. For in the above

mentioned works and essays, such errors are taught under the

semblance of asserting the rights of the priesthood and of the

secular power, that instead of sound doctrines, thoroughly

poisoned cups are offered to youth. For the said author hath not

blushed to reproduce under a new form, in his impious propositions

and comments, all those doctrines which have been condemned by

John II., Benedict XIV., Pius VI., and Gregory XVL., as well as by

the decrees of the fourth Council of Lateran, and those of

Florence and Trent. _He openly asserts for example, that the

Church has no right to enforce her authority by might, and that

has no temporal power whatever, whether direct or indirect._"

One of the latest miracles is described is the Paris _Univers_, as

follows—in the most perfect good faith:—

"There is much talk at Rome of an extraordinary cure which has

taken a place in the very palace of the Vatican. The following is

the manner in which this prodigious fact is described,—which will,

without doubt, become the subject of a judicial inquiry: ’A young

girl of about twenty years of age, whose family is employed in the

domestic side of the palace, had contracted a bad fever, owing to

the loss of her father a little time before, as well as to the

influence of the season, which has multiplied at Rome diseases of

this kind, and by which a great number of victims have fallen

within the last few months. Notwithstanding the enlightened

efforts of the doctor of the Pontifical ’family,’ and of her

parents, the young invalid was soon at the last extremity. The

vice-curé of the palace (which, as is known, is a foundation), a

member of the Augustin order (Monseigneur the Sacristan of the

same order is the titular curé), had administered to her the

sacrament of extreme unction, and had recited the prayer

recommending her soul. Her last sigh was hourly expected. For the

sake of enabling our readers to understand the prodigy about to be

related, it is necessary to state that during the course of the

malady the vice-curé had several times engaged the pious patient

to invoke the aid of a venerable servant of God, of the Augustin

order, whose beatification is about to be declared, and he had

even mixed in the potions given to such girl some little fragments

of the clothes of the venerable man. On the other hand, according

to the usage of religious families, they had carried into the

chamber of the dying person the Santo-Bambino del’Ara Cœli,

demanding of these last resources of the faithful a cure no longer

in the reach of human science to bestow. Let us return to the bed

of the dying girl, whom we find in a profound sleep, from which

she shall soon awaken to relate with smiles on her lips how she

had seen the infant Jesus, having at his side a venerable servant

of God, clad in the habit of the order of St. Augustin. She adds

that she feels herself cured, but very weak, and she asks for a

cup of broth to give her strength. The broth is given, to her,

although the request is regarded as coming from one in the last

agitation of dying; but the sick girl, who had felt the action of

grace, and who knew well that she was cured, rises, throws off all

the blisters, of which not a trace was left on her body, and on

the following day repaired to the church of Ara Cœli, at more than

half a league distant, to thank the Santo Bambino and the servant

of God, who had restored her to life and health. You may easily

comprehend the sensation that a fact of this kind must have

produced upon a population so full of faith, especially on the eve

of the ceremony of the 21st, which will put solemnly upon the

altar, in placing him among the blest, the venerable Father

Clavier, of the Society of Jesus, and at the close of the

expiatory _triduo_ which has been celebrated at Saint Andre della

Valle in reparation of a sacrilegious outrage committed against

the Madonna du Vicolo dell’ Abate Luigi.’"

Of course the girl never was ill at all.

Miraculous agencies, it appears, have been applied to by the highest

powers at Rome, with the purpose which actuates the old ladies who study

Zadkiel. A young peasant girl living at Sezza, near the Neapolitan

frontier, has been for some time in a kind of ecstatic, or, as

non-believers in miracles would call it, magnetic state, and in that part

of the province of Marittima and Campagna, is already known under the

denomination of St. Catherine. Her fame seems to have originated in a

miracle which she worked some time ago on the person of an old woman, who

came to her in great distress because her daughter had died in childbed,

leaving the grandmother of the infant without pecuniary means for its

support. "St. Catherine" is said to have directed the old woman to suckle

the baby herself, assuring her that, before she reached home, she would

find herself in a condition to do so—a direction which the venerable

applicant strictly obeyed, and found her hopes realized! Other

supernatural answers were subsequently given by the saint to various

applications of the neighboring peasantry, and stolen fowls and stray

cattle were recovered by her indications. But the concourse of people at

last grew so great that that the ecclesiastical authorities interfered in

behalf of the sybil, whom they placed in safety and repose within the

walls of a convent, prohibiting, at the same time, any one from coming to

consult her without the express permission of the bishop:—

"From the accounts of dispassionate spectators," writes the

correspondent of the _Daily News_, "I am led to infer that there

is really something extraordinary in the mental or physical

organization of this young girl, as she alternates between a

dormant state, resembling magnetic sleep, and a strong degree of

hysterical or nervous excitability; but whatever may be the real

cause of the second sight or preternatural knowledge which she

has, according to public rumor, so frequently displayed, it is

certain that many persons of this city, including ecclesiastics of

high rank, have profited by the opportunity of getting a peep into

the future, and knowing betimes what they have to prepare for.

Cardinals Lambruschini and Franzoni and the Duke Don Marino

Torlonia are amongst the number of distinguished individuals who

have applied to this modern oracle. The advocate Zaccaleoni,

Monseigneur Appoloni, and many prelates have followed their

example; indeed, the surprising replies and alarming prognostics

of the Pythoness so far roused the fears and curiosity of the Pope

himself, that he caused her to be sent for from the convent at

Sezza, and brought to Rome, a few days ago, in the carriage of a

respectable and religious couple, who went there for that express

purpose. An interview took place between Pio Nono and the

prophetess, immediately after which she was sent back to her

retirement. The result of the interview has not transpired, but

the girl’s revelations were probably similar to those with which

she has already excited the terrors of her exalted applicants;

namely, predictions of imminent and sanguinary disturbances, in

which, though not of long duration, many persons will fall victims

to popular fury."

The Bolognese paper, _Vero Amico_, which is thoroughly devoted to the

ecclesiastical cause, occasionally devotes some of its columns to war in

favor of miracles, especially as wrought by images. The following is its

account of a recent miraculous change of the weather at the intercession

of the Virgin:—

"The inhabitants of Tossignano not long ago obtained a new

demonstration of love and favor from the prodigious image of the

most Holy Mary, from that extremely ancient image which, saved

from iconoclastic fury, always engaged the devout worship of their

ancestors; and which their not degenerate descendants keep as a

noble and precious heirloom of their hereditary religion, finding

in it all comfort and support against public and private

calamities. The late incessant and unseasonable rains having

hindered the gathering in of autumn fruits, and impeded

cultivation for the coming year, the active pastor, the very

revered arch-priest Agnoli, in order to avert so heavy a calamity,

called the inhabitants of Tossignano together, and with eloquent

and touching words brought them before the most prodigious image,

so that, by the intercession of the Virgin, God might restore

serene weather. For this purpose, on the 7th of October, the flock

and their beloved pastor met to depose their humble supplications

at the foot of the altar, sacred to their distinguished

benefactress; at the first prayer, whilst the pastor was offering

the propitiatory wafer, a ray of sun gladdened the sacred temple,

like a rainbow of peace smiling on the assembled faithful, and in

a few hours all appearance of clouds vanished from the sky! The

Tossignanesi rightly attributing this to the peculiar favor of

their protectress, and full of gratitude to her, resolved to

sanctify the 12th inst. by solemn acts of thanksgiving."

These poor absurdities, so suggestive of pity and contempt, may he

compared with the tricks of Rochester knockers and travelling mountebanks

generally in this country, and no "authority of the church" can raise

them, in the minds of sensible men, to a higher respectability.

THE SONG QUEEN.

Our excellent friend JAMES T. FIELDS, now in Europe, sends us from his

note book the following fine apostrophe to Jenny Lind:

WRITTEN IN A CONCERT ROOM, LONDON, 1847.

Look on her! there she stands, the world’s prime wonder

The great queen of song! Ye rapt musicians,

Touch your golden wires, for now ye prelude strains

To mortal ears unwonted. Hark! she sings.

Yon pearly gates their magic waves unloose,

And all the liberal air rains melody

Around. O night! O time! delay, delay,—

Pause here, entranced! Ye evening winds, come near,

But whisper not,—and you ye flowers, fresh culled

From odorous nooks, where silvery rivulets run,

Breath silent incense still.

Hail, matchless queen!

Thou, like the high white Alps, canst hear, unspoiled,

The world’s artillery (thundering praises) pass.

And keep serene and safe thy spotless fame!

LOVE SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY R. S. CHILTON.

White and silent shines the moonlight,

And the earth, in slumber deep,

Smiles, as of the silver splendor

Conscious in her sleep!

How the moonbeams dance and glimmer—

Hunted by the summer breeze—

On the bosom of the river,

Through the branches of the trees!

May this night of quiet beauty

Be the symbol and the sign,

Of the holy love that wraps us

In its light divine!

So shalt thou still reign forever,

While the glow of life abides,

As thou now dost, dearest—empress

Of my heart’s deep tides!

AUTUMN LINES.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY J. R. THOMPSON.

Gone is the golden October

Down the swift current of time,

Month by the poets called sober,

Just for the sake of the rhyme.

Tints of vermilion and yellow

Margined the forest and stream;

Poets then told us ’twas mellow,

How inconsistent they seem!

Now, while the mountain in shadow

Dappled and hazy appears,

While the late corn in the meadow,

Culprit-like, loses its ears—

Get some choice spirits together,

Bring out the dogs and the guns,

Follow the birds o’er the heather,

Where the ’cold rivulet’ runs.

Look for them under the cover,

Just as the pole-star at sea

Always is sought by the rover,

Near where the pointers may be.

Yet if your field-tramping brothers

Should not be fellows of mark,

Leave the young partridge for others,

Only make sure of a lark.

Thus shall the charms of the season

Gently throw round you their spell,

Thus enjoy nature in reason,

If in the country you dwell.

But if condemned as a denizen

In a great town to reside,

Take down a volume of Tennyson,

Make him do service as guide;

Borne upon poesy’s pinion,

Rise the heights that he gains,

Range over Fancy’s dominion,

Walk hypothetical plains.

Soon shall the wintry December

Darken above us the sky—

Winds their old custom remember

All, in a spree, to get high;

And, as they wail through the copses,

Dirge-like and solemn to hear,

Nature’s own grand Thanatopsis

Sadly shall strike on the ear.

But all impressions so murky

Instantly banish like care,

Turn to the ham and the turkey

Christmas shall shortly prepare.

None than yourself can be richer,

Seated at night by the hearth,

With an old friend and a pitcher

Lending a share of the mirth.

Then to the needy be given

Aid from your generous boards,

And to a bountiful Heaven

Thanks for the wealth it affords.

THE PUNISHMENT OF GINA MONTANI.

From Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine.

I.

There was much bustle and commotion in the Castle of Visinara. Servitors

ran hither and thither, the tire-maidens stood in groups to gossip with

each other, messengers were dispatched in various directions, and skilful

leeches and experienced nurses were brought in. Then came a long silence.

Voices were hushed, and footsteps muffled; the apartments of the countess

were darkened, and nought was heard save the issued whisper, or the

stealthy tread of the sick chamber. The Lady Adelaide was ill. Hours

elapsed—hours of intolerable suspense to the Lord of Visinara; and then

were heard deep, heartfelt congratulations; but they were spoken in a

whisper, for the lady was still in danger, and had suffered almost unto

death. There was born an heir to Visinara. And as Giovanni, Count of

Visinara, bent over his child, and embraced his young wife, he felt repaid

for all he had suffered in voluntarily severing himself from Gina Montani;

and from that time he forgot her, or something very like it. And for this

he could not be condemned, for it was in the line of honor and of duty.

Yet it was another proof, if one were wanting, of the fickle nature of

man’s love. It has been well compared to words written on the sands. Many

weeks elapsed ere the Lady Adelaide was convalescent; and some more before

she ventured to join in the gayeties and festal meetings of the land. A

two days’ _fête_, given at the Capella Palace, was the signal for her

reappearance in the world. It was to be of great magnificence, rumor ran,

and the Lady Adelaide consented to attend it early on the morning of the

second day. She placed herself in front of the large mirror in her

dressing-chamber while she was prepared for the visit, the same mirror

before which she had sat on the evening of her wedding-day. The Signora

Lucrezia and Gina were alone present. The former was arranging her rich

tresses, whilst Gina handed the signora what things she required—combs,

and the like. Whilst thus engaged, the count entered, dressed.

"Giovanni," exclaimed Adelaide, "Lucrezia thinks that I should wear

something in my hair—a wreath, or my diamond coronet; but I feel tired

already, and wish the dressing was over. Need I be teased with ornaments?"

"My sweet wife, wear what you best like. _You_ need no superficial

adorning."

"You hear, Lucrezia: make haste and finish my hair. Do not put it in curls

to-day; braids are less trouble, and sooner done. You may put aside the

diamond casket, Gina. Oh, there’s my darling!" continued the countess,

hearing the baby pass the door with its nurse. "Call him in." The count

himself advanced, opened the door, and took his infant. "The precious,

precious child!" exclaimed Adelaide, bending over the infant, which he

placed on her knees. "Giovanni," she added, looking up eagerly to her

husband’s face, "do you think there ever was so lovely a babe sent on

earth?"

He smiled at her earnestness—men are never so rapturously blind in the

worship of their first-born as women. But he stooped down, and fondly

pressed his lips upon her forehead, while he played with the little hand

of the infant; and she yielded to the temptation of suffering her face to

rest close to his.

"But it grows late," resumed the young mother, "and I suppose we ought to

be going. Take the baby to its nurse, Lucrezia," she continued, kissing it

fifty times as she resigned it.

The count had drawn behind the Lady Adelaide, where stood Gina. As his

eyes happened to fall upon her, he was struck by the pallid sorrow which

sat in her countenance. Ill-fated Gina! and he had been so absorbed these

last few weeks in his new happiness! A rush of pity, mingled perhaps with

self-reproach, flew to his heart. What compensation could he offer her? In

that moment he remembered her last words at the interview in his wife’s

embroidery-room, and gave her _a look_. It was not to be mistaken.

Love—love, pure and tender—gleamed from his eyes, and she answered him

with a smile which told of her thanks, and that he was perfectly

understood. Had any one been looking on, they could scarcely fail to

become aware of their existing passion, and that there was a secret

understanding between them.

_And one was looking on._ The Lady Adelaide’s back was towards them, but

in the large glass before her she had distinctly seen the reflection of

all that took place. Her countenance became white as death, and her anger

was terrible. "You may retire for the present," she said, in a calm,

subdued tone, to the startled Gina, upon whose mind flashed somewhat of

the truth; "and tell the Signora Lucrezia not to return until I call for

her."

To describe the scene that ensued would be difficult. The shock to the

young wife’s feelings had been very great. That her husband was faithless

to her, not only in deed but in heart, she doubted not. It was in vain he

endeavored to explain all; she listened to him not. She thought he was

uttering falsehoods, which but increased his treachery. Gina had once

spoken of her fierce jealousy, but what was hers compared with the Lady

Adelaide’s? In the midst of her explosions of passion, Lucrezia, who had

either not received, or misunderstood, her lady’s message by Gina,

entered. The maiden stood aghast, till, admonished by a haughty wave of

the hand from the count, she hastened from the room. Later in the day, the

Lord of Visinara quitted the castle, to pay the promised visit. His wife

refused to go. "Mercy! mercy!" she exclaimed, in anguish, as she sat alone

in her apartments, "to be thus requited by Giovanni—whom I so loved, my

husband! my own husband! Is it possible that a man can be guilty of

treachery so deep? Would that I had died ere I had known his

faithlessness, or ever seen him! Shame—shame upon it! to introduce his

paramour into my very presence; an attendant on my person! Holy Virgin,

that I should be so degraded! Sure a wife, young and beautiful, was never

treated as I have been. Lowered in the eyes of my own servants; insulted

by him who ought to have guarded me from insult; laughed at—ridiculed by

_her_! Oh! terrible! terrible!"

As she spoke the last words, she rose, and unlocking the bright green

cabinet, that of malachite marble already spoken of, took from thence a

small bag of silver gilt. Touching the secret spring of this, she drew

forth a letter, opened, and read it:

"_’To the Lady Adelaide, Countess of Visinara._

"’You fancy yourself the beloved of Giovanni. Count of Visinara;

but retire not to your rest this night, lady, in any such vain

imagining. The heart of the count has long been given to another;

and, you know, by your love for him, that such passion can never

change its object. Had he met you in earlier life, it might have

been otherwise. He marries you, for your lineage is a high one;

and she, in the world’s eye and in that of his own haughty race,

was no fit mate for him."

"Ay," she shuddered, "it is explained now. So, Gina Montani was this

beloved one. I am his by sufferance—she, by love. Holy Mother, have mercy

on my brain! I _know_ they love—I see it all too plainly. And I could

believe his deceitful explanation, and trust him. I _told_ him I believed

it on our wedding night. _He did not know why he went to her house; habit,

he supposed, or, want of occupation._ Oh, shame on his false words! Shame

on my own credulity!"

None of us forget the stanzas in Collins’s Ode to the Passions:

"Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,

Sad proof of thy distressful state:

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,

And now it courted love—now, raving, calling on hate."

And calling, indeed, upon hate, as she strode her chamber in a frenzy near

akin to madness, was the lady Adelaide, when her attendant, Lucrezia,

entered.

"My dear lady," she exclaimed, bursting into tears, as any crocodile might

do—"my dear, dear young lady, I cannot know that you are thus suffering,

and keep away from your presence. Pardon me for intruding upon you against

orders."

The Lady Adelaide smoothed her brow, and the lines of her face resumed

their haughtiness, as she imperiously ordered Lucrezia to quit the room.

The heart most awake to the miseries of life wears to the world the

coldest surface; and it was not in the Lady Adelaide’s nature to betray

aught of her emotions to any living being, save, perhaps, her husband.

"Nay, my lady, suffer me to remain yet a a moment: at least, while I

disclose what I know of that viper."

The Lady Adelaide started; but she suppressed all excitement, and Lucrezia

began her tale—an exaggerated account of the interview she had been a

witness to between the Lord of Visinara and Gina Montani. The countess

listened to its conclusion, and a low moan escaped her.

"What think you now, madam, she deserves?"

"_To die!_" burst from the pale lips of the unhappy lady.

"To die," acquiesced Lucrezia, calmly. "No other punishment would meet her

guilt; and no other, that I am aware of, could be devised to prevent it

for the future."

"Oh! tempt me not," cried the lady, wringing her hands. "I spoke hastily."

"Give but the orders, madam," resumed Lucrezia, "and they shall be put in

practice."

"How can I?" demanded the Lady Adelaide, once more pacing the room in her

anguish; "how could I ever rest afterwards, with the guilt of murder upon

my soul?"

"It will be no guilt, lady."

"Lucrezia!"

"I have made it my business to inquire much about this girl—to ascertain

her history. I thought it my duty, and very soon I should have laid the

whole matter before you."

"Well?"

"You may destroy her, madam, as you would destroy that little bird there

in its golden cage, without sin and without compunction."

"Oh, Lucrezia, Lucrezia! once more I say unto thee, tempt me not. Wicked

and artful as she is, she is still one of God’s creatures."

"Scarcely, my lady," answered Lucrezia, with a gesture which spoke of deep

scorn for the culprit. "I have cause to believe—good cause," she repeated,

lowering her voice, and looking round, as if she feared the very walls

might hear the fearful words she was about to utter, "that she is one of

those lost creatures who are enemies to the Universal Faith, a descendant

of the Saxons, and an apostate; as too many of that race have become."

"_What_ say you?" gasped the Lady Adelaide.

"That we have been harboring a heretic, madam," continued Lucrezia, her

passion rising; "a spy, it may be, upon our holy ceremonies. No wonder

that evil has fallen upon this house."

"Go to the cell of Father Anselmo," shivered the Lady Adelaide, her teeth

chattering with horror, "and pray his holiness to step hither: this

fearful doubt shall at once be set at rest."

II.

Gina Montani, her head aching with suspense and anxiety, was shut up alone

in her chamber when she received a summons to the apartments of her

mistress. Obeying at once, she found the confessor, Father Anselmo,

sitting there, by the side of the countess. The monk cast his eyes

steadfastly upon Gina, as if examining her features. "Never, my daughter,

never!" he said, at length, turning to the countess. "I can take upon

myself to assert that this damsel of thine has never once appeared before

me to be shriven."

"Examine her," was the reply of the lady.

"Daughter," said the priest, turning to Gina, "for so I would fain call

thee, until assured that thou canst have no claim to the title, what faith

is it that thou professest."

Gina raised her hand to her burning temples. She saw that all was

discovered. But when she removed it, the perplexity in her face had

cleared away, and her resolution was taken. "The truth, the truth," she

murmured; "for good, or for ill, I will tell it now."

"Hearest thou not?" inquired the priest, somewhat more sternly. "Art thou

a child of the True Faith?"

"I am not a Roman Catholic," she answered, timidly, "if you call that

faith the true one."

The Lady Adelaide and the priest crossed themselves simultaneously, whilst

Gina grasped the arm of the chair against which she was standing. She was

endeavoring to steel her heart to bravery; but in those days, and in that

country, such a scene was a terrible ordeal.

"Dost thou not worship the One True God," continued the priest, "and

acknowledge his Holiness, our Father at Rome, to be His sole

representative here?"

"I worship the One True God," replied Gina, solemnly, joining her hands in

a reverent attitude; "but for the Pope at Rome, I know him not."

The Lady Adelaide shrieked with aversion and terror, and the pale face of

the monk became glowing with the crimson of indignation. "Knowest thou

not," he said, "that to the Pope it is given to mediate between earth and

heaven?"

"I know," faltered Gina, shrinking at the monk’s looks and tone, yet still

courageous for the truth, "that there is One Mediator between God and

man."

"And he—?"

"Our Saviour."

"Miserable heretic!" scowled the monk, "hast thou yet to learn that of all

the living souls this world contains, not one can enter the fold of Heaven

without the sanction of our Holy Father, the Pope?"

"I shall never learn it," whispered Gina, "and to me such doctrines savor

of blasphemy. Therefore, I beseech you, dilate not on them."

"Lost, miserable wretch!" cried the priest, lifting his hands in dismay.

"Need I tell thee, that in the next world there is a place of torture kept

for such as thee—a gulf of burning flames, never to be extinguished.

"We are told there is such a place," she answered, struggling with her

tears, for the interview was becoming too painful. "May the infinite love

and mercy of God keep both you and me from it!"

"Thou art hopeless—hopeless!" ejaculated the monk, sternly. "Yet, another

question ere I send thee forth. Where hast thou imbibed these deadly

doctrines?"

"My mother wedded with an Italian," answered Gina, "but she was born on

the free soil of England, and reared in its Reformed Faith."

"A benighted land—an accursed land!" screamed the priest, vehemently; "the

time will come when it shall be deluged from one end to the other with its

apostates’ blood."

"It is an enlightened land—a free, blessed land!" retorted Gina, in

agitation; "and God’s mercy will rest upon it, and keep it powerful

amongst nations, so long as its sons remain true to their Reformed Faith."

"Insanity has fallen upon them," raved the monk, endeavoring to drown the

bold words of Gina,—"nothing but insanity. But," he added, dropping his

voice, "let them beware. Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat."

Gina understood not the tongue; but the Lady Adelaide did, and crossed

herself.

"And this mother of thine," sneered the monk, turning again to Gina,

"where may she be?"

"She is dead," gasped Gina, bursting into tears.

"Good!" assented the monk; "then she is meeting with her deserts."

"God grant she may be!" aspirated the maiden, "for she died in the faith

of Christ."

"And who have been thy worthy instructors since?" proceeded the priest.

"I have had but one guide since," answered Gina.

"Disclose the name."

"My Bible."

The monk uttered what seemed very like a scream of passion, and the Lady

Adelaide, as she heard the words, half rose from her chair.

"Be calm, my daughter," interrupted the monk, waving his hand towards the

countess; "I will guard thee from the harm caused by contact with this

heretical being. Desire her, I pray thee, to fetch this Book hither, that

I may glance at it."

"Go," cried the Lady Adelaide, imperiously, to Gina; "bring this Bible

instantly!"

Gina obeyed, and the sacred volume was placed in the hands of the monk.

The Lady Adelaide shrank from touching it.

"Ha!" cried the monk, perceiving it to be printed in the English tongue,

"dost thou speak this language, then?"

"It is familiar to me as my own," replied Gina.

"I will summon thy attendants for a light, my daughter," he remarked to

the Lady Adelaide. And when one was brought, the priest advanced to a part

of the room where the marble floor was uncovered by tapestry, and tearing

the leaves from the Book, he set light to them, till all, both the Old and

New Testament, were consumed, and the ashes scattered on the ground. "It

is the most dangerous instructor that can be placed in the hands of the

people," he observed, complacently watching the black mass smouldering

there. And Gina Montani pressed her hands upon her chest, which was

throbbing with agitation, but she did not dare to utter a word of

remonstrance.

"Oh, father, father!" cried the Lady Adelaide, sinking at his feet, after

Gina had been conducted to her chamber, and giving vent involuntarily to

sobs of agony, "she has dared to come between me and my husband—he has

known her long, it seems. If she should have tainted him with this black

heresy?"

The monk turned as white as the lady’s dress at the suggestion. It was

enough to make him. That that docile and faithful servant of the Church,

the powerful Chief of Visinara, who was ever ready, at only half a hint,

to endow it with valuable offerings and presents—entire robes of point

lace for the Virgin Mary, and flounces and tuckers for all the female

saints in the calendar, not to speak of his donations in hard cash, and

his frequent offerings of paintings, most of them representing the popes

working miracles, particularly that very pious one, Alexander VI.—that

_he_ should have had dissent instilled into him, perhaps even been made

familiar with the principles of this upstart creed! Had his reverence

swooned outright, it would have only been what might be expected.

"It will not be a crime to remove her, father," faltered the Lady

Adelaide.

"_Crime_!" cried the ruffled priest; "canst thou connect the word—in that

sense—with so degraded a being?"

"To remove her in _any way_," persisted the lady, in a whisper. "Yet the

world might call it MURDER."

"No punishment in this world is adequate to her sin," answered the monk.

"And she must not be suffered to remain in it."

"Thou wilt then grant me absolution beforehand, holy father," implored the

Lady Adelaide.

"And what canst thou do, my child?" resumed the monk, smiling upon the

countess. "Thou hast not been used to such work, and wouldst prove a sad

novice at it."

"Too true," she uttered; "my heart is trembling now. Indeed, I could think

but of one way—the moat. And though the order seems easy enough to give, I

fear I should, when the moment came, shrink from issuing it."

"And who hast thou in this castle that will do thy bidding in secret and

in silence? It were better that this deed were not known: and thou canst

not stop tongues, my daughter."

"There are many bound to my interests, who would, I believe, lay down

their lives for me," deliberated the Lady Adelaide; "yet, alas! the tongue

is an unruly member, and is apt to give utterance in unguarded moments to

words against the will."

"Thou hast reason, my child. I but put the question to try thee. I will

undertake this business for thee. That evil one’s sin has been committed

against the Church, and it is fitting that the Church should inflict the

punishment."

"Thou wilt cause her to be flung into the moat?" shuddered the Lady

Adelaide.

"The moat!" echoed the priest. "Thinkest thou, my daughter, that the

Church is wont to carry out her dealings by ordinary means? Signal as this

woman’s sin has been, signal must be her expiation."

"_Can_ it be expiated?"

"Never, either in this world or the next. And every moment of delay that

we voluntarily make in hurling her to her doom, must draw down wrath on

our own heads from the saints on high."

The Lady Adelaide meekly bowed _her_ head, as if to deprecate any wrath

that might just then be falling.

"Thy lady in waiting, Lucrezia, is true, I have reason to believe,"

continued the monk.

"I believe her to be true," answered the Lady Adelaide.

"We may want her co-operation," he concluded, "for I opine that thou, my

daughter, wilt not deign to aid in this; neither do I think thou art

fitted for it."

III.

The castle was wrapped in silence, it being past the hour at which the

household retired to repose. Gina Montani was in her nightdress, though as

yet she had not touched her hair, which remained in long curls, as she had

worn it in the day. Suspense and agitation caused her to linger, and she

sat at her dressing-table in a musing attitude, her head resting on her

hand, wondering what would be the ending to all that the day had brought

forth. She had dismissed her attendant some time before. With a deep sigh

she rose to continue her preparations for rest, when the door softly

opened, and the Signora Lucrezia appeared.

"You need not prepare yourself for bed," she observed, in a low, distinct

whisper; "another sort of bed is preparing for you."

"What do you mean?" demanded the startled girl.

"That you are this night to die."

Gina shrieked.

"I may tell you," interrupted the lady, "that screams and resistance will

be wholly useless. Your doom is irrevocable, therefore it may save you

trouble to be silent."

"You are speaking falsely to me. I have done nothing to deserve death."

"Equivocation will be alike unavailing," repeated Lucrezia. "And if you

ask what you have done—you have dared to step with your ill-placed passion

between my lord and the Lady Adelaide: you have brought discredit upon the

long-upheld religion of this house."

"I have disturbed no one’s faith," returned Gina. "I wish to disturb none.

It is true that I love Giovanni, Count di Visinara, but I loved him long

ere he saw the Lady Adelaide."

"What!" cried the signora, her cheeks inflamed, and her brow darkening,

"do you dare to avow your shame to my face?"

"It is no shame," answered Gina, sadly; there is nothing of guilt in such

a love as mine."

"Follow me," repeated Lucrezia. "You have no time to waste in

lamentations."

"By whose orders do I die?" demanded the indignant girl. "Not by _his_;

and no one else has a right to condemn me."

Lucrezia expected this, and was prepared. Alas, that the Lord of Visinara

should that day have left his signet ring behind him!

"Do you know this ring!" demanded Lucrezia, holding out the jewel.

"Too well. It is the Count of Visinara’s."

"You may then know who has condemned you."

"Oh, Giovanni!" wailed Gina, as she sank prostrate on the floor in her

anguish, "this from you!" All idea of resistance vanished with the thought

that it was him she so loved who doomed her to destruction. "I thought he

was still at the Capella Palace," she inquired, looking up at Lucrezia, a

doubt possibly finding its way to her heart. "When did he return?"

"I came not to waste the moments in idle words," returned Lucrezia, as she

prepared to utter the falsehood; "it is sufficient for you to know that he

_has_ returned, and has given the orders that you seem inclined to

resist."

"Implore him to come to me for one moment, for a last farewell."

"I may not ask it. He is with the Lady Adelaide."

"First, my happiness, then, my life, sacrificed to appease the Lady

Adelaide! Oh, Giovanni! false, but dear Giovanni—"

"I have no orders to call those who will use violence," interrupted the

signora, "but I must do so if you delay to follow me."

"I am about to dress myself," returned Gina.

"The dress you have on will serve as well as another—and better, for a

night-gown bears some resemblance to a shroud."

"One moment for prayer," was the next imploring petition.

"Prayer for you!" broke contemptuously from the signora.

"A single moment for prayer," reiterated the victim. "If I am, indeed,

about to meet my Maker, I stand awfully in need of it; for I have of late

worshipped but one, but it has not been Him."

"Prayer for _you_, a _heretic_!" repeated Lucrezia; "you may as well offer

it up to blocks of wood or stone. The creed you profess forfeits all

inheritance for you in heaven."

Yet still Gina repeated it—"A few moments for prayer, in mercy!"

"Then pray away where you are going," returned Lucrezia, impatiently. "You

will have time enough, and to spare—minutes, and hours, and days,

perhaps."

The signora evidently took a savage pleasure in urging on the death of

Gina Montani. What could be the reason? Women in general are not so

frightfully cruel. The motive was, that she herself loved the count. As

Bianca had said, when watching the bridal cavalcade, could any be brought

into daily contact with one so attractive and not learn to love him? so it

had proved with Lucrezia. Being the favorite attendant of her mistress,

she was much with her, and consequently daily and frequently in the

company of Giovanni. He had many a gay word and passing jest for her, for

he was by nature a gallant, free-spoken man; and this had its effect.

Whilst he never glanced a thought towards her but as one necessary to wait

upon his wife, he became to her heart dangerously dear; and excessively

jealous had she been of Gina ever since she had heard the conversation in

the embroidery-room. Pushing the unfortunate girl on before her, Lucrezia

silently passed from Gina’s bed-chamber to the secret passages, plenty of

which might be found in the castle. She bore a lantern in her hand, which

emitted a dim, uncertain light. At length they came to a passage, a little

beyond the chapel, far removed from the habited apartments; and in the

middle of this were two male forms, busily occupied at work of some

description. A lantern, similar to the one Lucrezia carried, was hanging

high up against the opposite wall; another stood on the ground. Gina

stopped and shivered, but Lucrezia touched her arm, and she walked on.

They were nearing the men, who were habited as monks, and their faces

shielded beneath their cowls, when the signora halted and pressed her hand

upon her brow, as if in thought. Presently she turned to Gina. A second

lie was in her mouth; but how was the ill-fated young lady to know it?

"_He_ sent you a message," she whispered. "It is his last request to you.

Will you receive it?" The unhappy victim looked up eagerly.

"He requests, then, by his love for you—by the remembrance of the happy

moments you once spent together, that you neither resist nor scream."

Her heart was too full to speak; but she bowed her head in acquiescence.

Lucrezia moved to go on. "How is my life to be taken? By the dagger? By

blows?"

"By neither—by nothing. Not a hair of your head will be touched."

"Ah! I might have guessed. It is by poison."

"It will be taken by _nothing_, I tell you. Why do you not listen to me?"

"You speak in riddles," said Gina, faintly. "But I will bear my fate,

whatever it may be."

"And in silence? _He_ asks it by your mutual love."

"All, all, for his sake," she answered. "Tell him, as I have loved, so

will I obey him to the last."

Lucrezia walked on, and Gina followed. She saw and understood the manner

of her death, but, faithful to the imagined wish of her lover, she uttered

neither remonstrance nor cry. The clock was upon the stroke of one, when

smothered groans of fear and anguish told that her punishment had begun;

but no louder sound broke the midnight silence, or carried the appalling

deed to the inhabitants of the castle. An hour passed before all was

completed: they were long in doing their deed of vengeance; and, when it

was over, Gina Montani had been removed from the world forever.

"Madame, she is gone!" was the salutation of Lucrezia, her teeth

chattering, and her face the hue of a corpse, when she entered the chamber

of her mistress.

The Lady Adelaide had not retired to rest. She was pacing her apartment in

unutterable misery. The social conditions of life, its forms and objects,

were to her as nothing since her terrible awaking to reality.

Morning had dawned before the return of the Lord of Visinara. He was

fatigued both in body and mind, and, throwing himself upon a couch, slept

for some hours. And he probably would have rested longer, had not an

unusual disturbance and commotion in his household aroused him. They were

telling a strange tale: one that, for the moment, drove the life-blood

away from his heart. It was, that the wicked dealings of Gina Montani with

Satan had been brought to light on the previous day. The holy Father

Anselmo had taxed her with her guilt, and she had openly confessed all

without reserve; and that the Evil One had appeared in the night, and had

run away with her—a just reward.

In those times, a reputed visit of the devil in _propria persona_ would

have been likely to obtain more credence than it could in these: but it

would probably be going too far to say that the Lord of Visinara

participated in the belief of his horror-stricken household. Certain it

is, he caused minute inquiries to be made, although at the express

disapprobation of the spiritual directors of the neighboring monastery,

some of whom were attached to the services of his chapel, and pointed out

to him the grievous sin it was thus to be solicitous about the fate of an

avowed heretic. But he could learn nothing. The maid who waited on her

testified that she assisted Gina to undress on the previous night. In

proof of which, the garments she had taken off were found in the chamber.

The remainder of her clothes were in their places undisturbed; the only

article missing being a nightdress, which the attendant in question said

she saw her put on; and her bed had not been slept in. Giovanni spoke to

his wife, but she observed a haughty silence, and it was useless to

question her. He had the moat dragged, and the neighborhood for miles

round scoured, but no tidings could be obtained. Yet, strange to say, in

passing on that first morning through the remote corridors, he fancied he

heard her voice pronounce his name in a tone of imploring agony. He

searched in every nook and corner, but found nothing, and soon thought no

more of it, except to marvel how his imagination could so have deceived

him.

After a time, peace was restored between the count and the Lady Adelaide;

but all bliss for her, all mutual confidence, had ceased for ever.

IV.

It was midnight. In the nursery at the castle sat the head nurse, and on

her lap was the dying heir of Visinara, now eight or ten months old. Until

nine days previous, he had been a healthy child, but, from that time, a

wasting fever had attacked him, and now he was ill unto death. The Lady

Adelaide, her eyes blinded with tears, knelt beside him, gazing on his

colorless face. The count himself was gently rubbing his little hands to

try and excite some warmth in them.

"Do you not think he looks a little, a _very_ little better?" demanded the

lady, anxiously.

The nurse hesitated. She did not think so, but she was unwilling to say

what she thought.

"His hands—are they any warmer, Giovanni?"

The count shook his head, and the nurse spoke. "There will be hope, madam,

if this last medicine should take effect."

The Lady Adelaide pressed her lips upon the infant’s forehead, and burst

into tears.

"You will be ill, Adelaide," said her husband. "This incessant watching is

bad for you. Let me persuade you to take rest."

She motioned in the negative.

"Indeed, madam, but you ought to do so," interrupted Lucrezia, who was

present: "these many nights you have passed without sleep; and your health

so delicate!"

"Lie down—lie down, my love," interposed her husband, "if only for a short

time."

Again she refused; but at length they induced her to comply, her husband

promising to watch over the child, and to let her know if there should be

the slightest change in him. He passed his arms round his wife to lead her

from the chamber, for she was painfully weak; but they had scarcely gone

ten steps from the door, when a prolonged, shrill scream, as of one in

unutterable terror, reached their ears. They rushed back again. The nurse

sat, still supporting the child, but with her eyes dilating and fixed on

one corner of the room, and her face rigid with horror. It was she who had

screamed.

"My child! my child!" groaned the Lady Adelaide.

"Nurse, what in the name of the Holy Virgin is the matter?" exclaimed the

count, perceiving no alteration in the infant. "You look as if you had

seen a spectre!"

"I have seen one," shuddered the nurse.

"What _have_ you been dreaming of?" he returned, angrily.

"As true as that we are all assembled here, my lord," continued the nurse,

solemnly, "I saw the spirit of Gina Montani!"

A change came over the Lord of Visinara’s countenance, but he spoke not;

whilst the Lady Adelaide clung to her husband in fear, and Lucrezia darted

into the midst of the group, and laid hold of the nurse’s chair.

"What absurdity!" uttered the count, recovering himself. "How could such

an idea enter your head?"

"Were it the last word I had to speak, my lord," continued the woman, "and

to my dying day, I will maintain what I assert. I saw but now the ghost of

Gina Montani. It was in a night-dress, and stood _there_, far away, where

the lamp casts its shade."

"Nonsense!" said the count abstractedly. "Pray did you see anything?" he

continued, banteringly, to Lucrezia, and to another attendant who was in

the room. They answered that they had not: but Lucrezia was white, and

shook convulsively. A wild, frantic sob, burst from the Lady Adelaide. The

child was dead!

V.

Many months again slipped by, with little to distinguish them save the

decreasing strength of the Lady Adelaide. She had been wasting slowly

since the shock given her heart at discovering her husband’s love for Gina

Montani. She loved him passionately, and she _knew_ her love was

unrequited; for affections once bestowed, as his had been, can never be

recalled and given to another. The illness of the mind had its effect upon

the body; she became worse and worse, and, after the birth of a second

child, it was evident that she was sinking rapidly. She lay upon the

stately bed in her magnificent chamber, about which were scattered many

articles consecrated to her girlhood, or to her happy bridal, and, as

such, precious. Seated by the bedside was her husband; one hand clasping

hers, in the other he held a cambric handkerchief, with which he

occasionally wiped her languid brow. "Bear with me a little longer," my

husband—but a short time."

"Bear with you, Adelaide!" he repeated; "would to the Blessed Virgin you

might be spared to me!"

"It is impossible," she sighed, pressing his hand upon her wasted bosom.

"Adelaide"—he hesitated; after awhile—"I would ask you a question—a

question which, if you can, I entreat that you will answer."

She looked at him inquiringly, and he resumed, in a low voice: "What

became of Gina Montani?"

Even amidst the pallid hue of death, a flush appeared in her cheeks at the

words. She gasped once or twice with agitation before she could speak.

"Bring not up that subject now; the only one that came between us to

disturb our peace—the one to which I am indebted for my death. I am lying

dying before you, Giovanni, and you can think but of her."

"My love, why will you so misunderstand me?"

"These thoughts excite me dreadfully," she continued. "Let us banish them,

if you would have peace visit me in dying."

"May your death be far away yet," he sighed.

"Ah! I trust so—a little longer—a few days with you and my dear child!"

And the count clasped his hands together as he silently echoed her prayer.

"Will you reach me my small casket?" she continued; "I put a few trinkets

in it, yesterday, to leave as tokens of remembrance. I must show you how I

wish them bestowed."

He rose from his seat, and looked about the room; but he could not find

the jewelcase. "The small one, Giovanni," she said; "not my diamond

casket. I thought it was in the mosaic cabinet. Or, perhaps, they may have

taken it into my dressing-room."

He went into the adjoining apartment, and had found the missing casket,

when a shriek of horror from the lips of the Lady Adelaide smote his ear.

He was in an instant at her bedside, supporting her in his arms; the

attendants also came running in. "My dearest Adelaide, what is it that

excites you thus?" But his inquiries were in vain. She lay in his arms,

sobbing convulsively, and clinging to him as if in terror. Broken words

came from her at length: "I looked up—when you were away—and saw—there, in

that darkened recess—_her_. I did—I did, Giovanni!"

"Whom?" he said becoming very pale.

"Her—Gina Montani. She was in white—a long dress it seemed. Oh! Giovanni,

leave me not again."

"I will never leave you, Adelaide. But this—it must have been a fancy—an

illusion of the imagination. We had just been speaking of her."

"You remember," she sobbed, "the night our child died—nurse saw the same

spectre. It may—"

The lady’s voice failed her, and her husband started, for a rapid change

was taking place in her countenance.

"I am dying, Giovanni," she said, clinging to him, and trembling with

nervous terror. "Oh, support me! A doctor—a priest—Father Anselmo—where

are they? He gave me absolution, he said. Then why does the remembrance of

the deed come back again now? They would not have done it without my

sanction. Giovanni, my husband—protect and love our child—desert him

never. Giovanni, I say, can they indeed forgive—or does it rest above? If

so, oh! why did I have her killed? Giovanni, who is it—Father

Anselmo?—God?—_who_ is to forgive me? It _was_ murder! Giovanni, where are

you? My sight is going—Giovanni—" Her voice died away, and the count bowed

his head in his anguish, whilst the attendants pressed forwards to look at

her countenance. The Lady Adelaide had passed to another world!

VI.

It was years after the death of Lady Adelaide, that workmen were making

some alterations in the Castle of Visinara, preparatory to the second

marriage of its lord, who was about to espouse the lovely Elena di

Capella. They were taking down the walls of a secret passage, or corridor,

leading out of the chapel to the neighboring monastery. Standing, looking

on, was the count, still, to all appearance, youthful, though he was, in

reality, some years past thirty, but his features were of a cast that do

not quickly take the signs of age. By his side stood a fair boy of seven

years old—his heir—open-hearted, engaging, with a smiling countenance, on

which might be traced his father’s features, whilst he had inherited his

mother’s soft blue eyes and her sunny hair.

"What a while you are!" exclaimed the child, looking on, with impatience,

to see the walls come down. "You should hit harder."

"The walls are very thick, Alberto," observed his father. "All these

niches, which have been blocked up, and in the olden time contained

statues, have to come down also."

"They are taking down a niche now, are they not, papa?"

"Not yet. They are removing the wall which has been built before it. It

appears fresher, too, than the rest; of more recent date."

"It seems extraordinarily fresh, my lord," observed one of the workmen.

"The materials are old, but it has certainly been rebuilt within a few

years—within ten, I should say."

"Not it," laughed the count. "These corridors have not been touched during

my lifetime."

"This portion of them has, my lord, you may rely upon it."

As he spoke, the remainder came down with a tremendous crash, leaving the

niches exposed, There was no statue there—but the corpse of the

unfortunate Gina Montani, standing upright in her night-dress, was

revealed to their sight—nearly as fresh as if she had died but yesterday,

having been excluded from the air. The features, it is true, were scarcely

to be recognized, but the hair—the long brown curls falling on her

neck—was the same as ever. This was her horrible death then—to be walled

up alive! The count grew sick and faint as he gazed. Before he had time to

collect his startled thoughts, the child pulled at and clung to his arm.

"Take me away. What is that dreadful thing? You look white and cold too,

not as you always do. Oh, what is it? Dear papa, take me from here!"

The workmen were affrighted—perhaps more so, though less shocked, than the

count. But one of them, partially recovering himself, touched the corpse

with an implement he had been using, and it came down a heap of dust. The

Lord of Visinara turned, and with steps that tottered under him, bore his

child back to the castle.

VII.

You may hear in Italy unto this day, various versions of this tradition.

One will tell you that the Lord of Visinara offered moneys and treasures,

to the half of his possessions, to the monks, if they would lay the

troubled spirit of Gina Montani, but that, although they tried hard, they

could not do it. According to another version, the friars would not try,

for that no heretic’s soul may be prayed for in the Roman Church. But,

however the monks may have settled it amongst themselves, all versions of

the history agree in one particular, that the ghost _was not_ laid; that

it never would be, and never could be, but still wanders on the earth. And

you were wise to profess faith in it too, if you go amongst the Italians,

unless you would be looked on as an unbeliever, not a degree better than

the poor Protestant maiden Montani.

Several descendants of Giovanni and Adelaide of Visinara, are still

scattered about Italy, though greatly reduced in station. And the

accredited belief is, that whenever death is going to remove one of these,

the spirit of the ill-fated Gina appears and shows itself to them in the

moments of their last and most terrible agonies.

VISION OF CHARLES XI.

From Sharpe’s Magazine

We are in the habit of laughing incredulously at stories of visions and

supernatural apparitions, yet some are so well authenticated, that if we

refuse to believe them, we should, in consistency, reject all historical

evidence. The fact I am about to relate is guaranteed by a declaration

signed by four credible witnesses; I will only add, that the prediction

contained in this declaration was well known, and generally spoken of,

long before the occurrence of the events which have apparently fulfilled

it.

Charles XI., father of the celebrated Charles XII., was one of the most

despotic, but, at the same time, wisest monarchs, who ever reigned in

Sweden. He curtailed the enormous privileges of the nobility, abolished

the power of the Senate, made laws on his own authority; in a word, he

changed the constitution of the country, hitherto an oligarchy, and forced

the States to invest him with absolute power. He was a man of enlightened

and strong mind, firmly attached to the Lutheran religion; his disposition

was cold, unfeeling, and phlegmatic, utterly destitute of imagination. He

had just lost his queen, Ulrica Eleonora, and he appeared to feel her

death more than could have been expected from a man of his character. He

became even more gloomy and silent than before, and his incessant

application to business proved his anxiety to banish painful reflections.

Towards the close of an autumn evening, he was sitting in his

dressing-gown and slippers, before a large fire, in his private apartment.

His chamberlain, Count Brahe, and his physician, Baumgarten, were with

him. The evening wore away, and his majesty did not dismiss them as usual;

with his head down and his eyes fixed on the fire, he maintained a

profound silence, weary of his guests, and fearing, half unconsciously, to

remain alone. The count and his companion tried various subjects of

conversation, but could interest him in nothing. At length Brahe, who

supposed that sorrow for the queen was the cause of his depression, said

with a deep sigh, and pointing to her portrait, which hung in the room,

"What a likeness that is! How truly it gives the expression, at once so

gentle and so dignified!"

"Nonsense!" said the king, angrily, "the portrait is far too flattering;

the queen was decidedly plain."

Then, vexed at his unkind words, he rose and walked up and down the room,

to hide an emotion at which he blushed. After a few minutes he stopped

before the window looking into the court; the night was black, and the

moon in her first quarter.

The palace where the kings of Sweden now reside was not completed, and

Charles XI. who commenced it, inhabited the old palace, situated on the

Ritzholm, facing Lake Modu. It is a large building in the form of a

horseshoe: the king’s private apartments were in one of the extremities;

opposite was the great hall where the States assembled to receive

communications from the crown. The windows of that hall suddenly appeared

illuminated. The king was startled, but at first supposed that a servant

with a light was passing through; but then, that hall was never opened

except on state occasions, and the light was too brilliant to be caused by

a single lamp. It then occurred to him that it must be a conflagration;

but there was no smoke, and the glass was not broken; it had rather the

appearance of an illumination. Brahe’s attention being called to it, he

proposed sending one of the pages to ascertain the cause of the light, but

the king stopped him, saying, he would go himself to the hall. He left the

room, followed by the count and doctor, with lighted torches. Baumgarten

called the man who had charge of the keys, and ordered him, in the king’s

name, to open the doors of the great hall. Great was his surprise at this

unexpected command. He dressed himself quickly, and came to the king with

his bunch of keys. He opened the first door of a gallery which served as

an antechamber to the hall. The king entered, and what was his amazement

at finding the walls hung with black.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked he.

The man replied, that he did not know what to make of it, adding, "When

the gallery was last opened, there was certainly no hanging over the oak

panelling."

The king walked on to the door of the hall.

"Go no further, for heaven’s sake," exclaimed the man; "surely there is

sorcery going on inside. At this hour, since the queen’s death, they say

she walks up and down here. May God protect us!"

"Stop, sire," cried the count and Baumgarten together, "don’t you hear

that noise? Who knows to what dangers you are exposing yourself! At all

events, allow me to summon the guards."

"I will go in," said the king, firmly; "open the door at once."

The man’s hand trembled so that he could not turn the key.

"A fine thing to see an old soldier frightened," said the king, shrugging

his shoulders; "come, Count, will you open the door?"

"Sire," replied Brahe, "let your majesty command me to march to the mouth

of a Danish or German cannon, and I will obey unhesitatingly, but I cannot

defy hell itself."

"Well," said the king, in a tone of contempt, "I can do it myself."

He took the key, opened the massive oak door, and entered the hall,

pronouncing the words, "With the help of God." His three attendants, whose

curiosity overcame their fears, or who, perhaps, were ashamed to desert

their sovereign, followed him. The hall was lighted by an innumerable

number of torches. A black hanging had replaced the old tapestry. The

benches round the hall were occupied by a multitude, all dressed in black;

their faces were so dazzlingly bright that the four spectators of this

scene were unable to distinguish one amongst them. On an elevated throne,

from which the king was accustomed to address the assembly, sat a bloody

corpse, as if wounded in several parts, and covered with the ensigns of

royalty; on his right stood a child, a crown on his head, and a sceptre in

his hand; at his left an old man leant on the throne; he was dressed in

the mantle formerly worn by the administrators of Sweden, before it became

a kingdom under Gustavus Vasa. Before the throne were seated several

grave, austere looking personages, in long black robes. Between the throne

and the benches of the assembly was a block covered with black crape; an

axe lay beside it. No one in the vast assembly appeared conscious of the

presence of Charles and his companions. On their entrance they heard

nothing but a confused murmur, in which they could distinguish no words.

Then the most venerable of the judges in the black robes, he who seemed to

be their president, rose, and struck his hand five times on a folio volume

which lay open before him. Immediately there was a profound silence, and

some young men, richly dressed, their hands tied behind their backs,

entered the hall by a door opposite to that which Charles had opened. He

who walked first, and who appeared the most important of the prisoners,

stopped in the middle of the hall, before the block, which he looked at

with supreme contempt. At the same time the corpse on the throne trembled

convulsively, and a crimson stream flowed from his wounds. The young man

knelt down, laid his head on the block, the axe glittered in the air for a

moment, descended on the block, the head railed over the marble pavement,

and reached the feet of the king, and stained his slipper with blood.

Until this moment surprise had kept Charles silent, but this horrible

spectacle roused him, and advancing two or three steps towards the throne,

he boldly addressed the figure on its left in the well-known formulary,

"If thou art of God, speak; if of the other, leave us in peace."

The phantom answered slowly and solemnly, "King Charles, this blood will

not flow in thy time, but five reigns after." Here the voice became less

distinct, "Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Vasa!" The forms of all the

assembly now became less clear, and seemed but colored shades: soon they

entirely disappeared; the lights were extinguished; still they heard a

melodious noise, which one of the witnesses compared to the murmuring of

the wind among the trees, another to the sound a harp string gives in

breaking. All agreed as to the duration of the apparition, which they said

lasted ten minutes. The hangings, the head, the waves of blood, all had

disappeared with the phantoms, but Charles’s slipper still retained a

crimson stain, which alone would have served to remind him of the scenes

of this night, if indeed they had not been too well engraven on his

memory.

When the king returned to his apartment, he wrote an account of what he

had seen, and he and his companions signed it. In spite of all the

precautions taken to keep these circumstances private, they were well

known, even during the lifetime of Charles, and no one hitherto has

thought fit to raise doubts as to their authenticity.

DIVINATION, WITCHCRAFT, AND MESMERISM.

From the Dublin University Magazine.

It seems strange that so obvious a case as that of Barlaam and the monks

of Mount Athos has not been brought into the mesmerical collection of

_pièces justificatives_. The first compiler of the authorities on which it

rests is Ughelli. The story is told in modern language by Mosheim, by

Fleury, and by Gibbon at the years 1341-51. In taking the version of it by

the last (Decline and Fall, c. 63,) we shall run least risk of being

imposed on by over-credulity.

"The Fakirs of India and the monks of the Oriental Church," says the

complacent philosopher of Lausanne, "were alike persuaded that in total

abstraction of the mind and body, the purer spirit may ascend to the

enjoyment and vision of the Deity. The opinions and practices of the

monasteries of Mount Athos will be best represented in the words of an

abbot who flourished in the eleventh century. ’When thou art alone in thy

cell,’ says the ascetic teacher, ’shut thy door and seat thyself in a

corner: raise thy mind above all things vain and transitory; recline thy

beard and chin on thy breast; turn thine eyes and thy thoughts towards the

middle of thy belly, the region of the naval; and search the place of the

heart, the seat of the soul. At first all will be dark and comfortless;

but if you persevere day and night you will feel an ineffable joy; and no

sooner has the soul discovered the place of the heart, than it is involved

in a mystic and etherial light.’ This light, the production of a

distempered fancy, the creature of an empty stomach and an empty brain,

was adored by the Quietists as the pure and perfect essence of God

himself; and as long as the folly was confined to Mount Athos, the simple

solitaries were not inquisitive how the divine essence could be a

_material_ substance, or how an _immaterial_ substance could be perceived

by the eyes of the body. But in the reign of the younger Andronicus these

monasteries were visited by Barlaam, a Calabrian monk, who was equally

skilled in philosophy and theology. The indiscretion of an ascetic

revealed to the curious traveller the secrets of mental prayer, and

Barlaam embraced the opportunity of ridiculing the Quietists who placed

the soul in the naval; of accusing the monks of Mount Athos of heresy and

blasphemy. His attack compelled the more learned to renounce or dissemble

the simple devotion of their brethren; and Gregory Palamas introduced a

scholastic distinction between the essence and operation of God."

Gregory illustrated his argument by a reference to the celestial light

manifested in the transfiguration of our Lord on Mount Thabor. On this

distinction issue was taken by the disputatious Calabrian, and the result

was the convocation of a synod at Constantinople, whose decree

"established as an article of faith the uncreated light of Mount Thabor;

and, after so many insults, the reason of mankind was slightly wounded by

the addition of a single absurdity."

Of the truth of facts so long and openly discussed, there can be no

question. The monks of Mount Athos did indeed put themselves into a state

which may with safety be called one of mental lucidity, by fixing their

eyes intently on a point. Mr. Robertson, who used to induce the mesmeric

sleep by causing his votaries to fix their eyes on a wafer, had better

precedent than he supposed for his practice; and Miss Martineau, who, in

her artificial trances, saw all objects illuminated has been unconsciously

repeating a monastic method of worship. The contemptuous indifference of

Gibbon for once arises from defect of information; and when in a note he

observes that Mosheim "unfolds the causes with the judgment of a

philosopher," while Fleury "transcribes and translates with the prejudices

of a Catholic priest," himself gives a luculent example of the errors of

philosophy, and of the often unsuspected approach of prejudice to truth.

Mosheim’s observation, notwithstanding the damaging approval of Gibbon, is

not without its value. "There is no reason," he says, "for any to be

surprised at this account, or to question its correctness. For among the

precepts and rules of all those in the East who teach men how to withdraw

the mind from the body, and to unite it with God, or inculcate what the

Latins call a contemplative and mystic life, whether they are Christians,

or Mohammedans, or Pagans, there is this precept, viz., _that the eyes

must be fixed every day for some hours upon some particular object_, and

that whoever does this will be rapt into a kind of ecstasy. See what

Engelbert Kempfer states concerning the monks and mystics of Japan; and

the account of those of India by Francis Bernier." Strange that Mosheim,

observing the uniformity both of the process and of its results in so many

different parts of the world, should not have suspected that there was

something more in this species of lucidity than the merely casual effects

of a distempered imagination. By fixing the gaze even of the lower animals

on an immovable point, they fall into a condition equally unnatural, and

which, if they had language to express their visions, would probably be

found equally clairvoyant.

A favorite subject of mediæval art is the life of the Christian ascetic in

the Desert. In these representations a human skull may generally be seen

placed before the eyes of the devotee. Such an object would fix the gaze

and induce the ecstasy as well as any other. The charm of this species of

contemplation must have been intense, since in search of its exaltations

and illuminations the very convents were deserted; and during the fourth

and fifth centuries the deserts of Idumea, of Egypt, and of Pontus,

swarmed with anchorites, who seemed to live only for the sake of escaping

from life, and in their fasts and mortifications rivalled, if they did not

for a time even surpass, the Fakirs of the East. To such an extent was

this religious enthusiasm carried, that in Egypt the number of the monks

was thought to equal that of the rest of the male population. Strange

consideration, if it be the fact, that a few passes of a mesmeric operator

should produce the same effects which these multitudes procured through

toils so painful and sacrifices to themselves and to society so costly.

The Egyptian method of inducing clairvoyance in boys, by causing them to

gaze on a pool of ink in the palm of the hand, has already been identified

with the practice of Dr. Dee, whose blank spherical mirror is now said to

be in the possession and use of a distinguished modern mesmeriser.

Divination by the crystal is a well-known mediæval practice; and from the

accounts of it which Delrio and others have handed down it appears to have

resembled, in some remarkable particulars, the method now in use among the

soothsayers of Cairo. It does not appear to make any difference whether

the polished object be black or white, a mirror, a solid ball, or a

transparent globe containing water: the same extraordinary series of

appearances is alleged to follow an earnest inspection of it. Before

proceeding to Delrio’s singular corroboration of this use of the crystal,

it will be well to state what is known of divination by the phial and by

the mirror. Divination by the phial is technically known as

_gasteromancy_. "In this kind of divination," says Peucer, "the response

is given by pictures, not by sounds. They procured glass vessels of a

globular shape, filled with fair water, and set round them lighted tapers;

and after invoking the demon with a muttered incantation, and proposing

the question, they brought forward a pure boy-child, or a pregnant woman,

who, gazing intently on the glass, and searching it with their eyes,

called for, and demanded, a solution of the question proposed. The devil

then answered these inquiries by certain images, which, by a kind of

refraction, shone from the water on the polished and mirror-like surface

of the phial."

_Catoptromancy_, or divination by the mirror, is as old as the time of the

Roman Emperors. In one of the passages relating to this method of inducing

what is called clairvoyance, we have an illustration of the early

acquaintance of mankind with some of the forms of mesmerism. The passage

is found in Spartian’s life of Ditius Julian, the rich Roman who purchased

the Empire when it was put up to auction by the Prætorian guards. "Julian

was also addicted to the madness of consulting magicians, through whom he

hoped either to appease the indignation of the people, or to control the

violence of the soldiery. For they immolated certain victims (human?) not

agreeable to the course of Roman sacrifice; and they performed certain

profane incantations; and those things, too, which are done at the mirror,

in which boys with their eyes blindfolded are said, by means of

incantations, to see objects with the top of the head, Julian had recourse

to. And the boy is said to have seen (in the mirror) both the approach of

Severus and the death of Julian."

The passage may be variously rendered, according to different readings and

punctuations, either as "boys, who can see with their eyes blindfolded, by

reason of incantations made over the top of the head;" or, "boys, who,

having their eyes blindfolded, can see with the top of the head, by reason

of incantations;" or, "boys, who, having their eyes blindfolded, can see

with the top of the head, it being operated on by way of incantation."

This seeing, or seeming to see, with the top of the head, is one alleged

variety of the modes of modern clairvoyance. It seems difficult to imagine

that the boy Horner, whose case is related by Mr. Topham, in a letter to

Dr. Elliotson, dated May 31, 1847, could have heard any thing of these

pagan practices. Mr. Topham, a barrister and man of credit, states: "After

five or six weeks’ mesmerism, he began spontaneously to exhibit instances

of clairvoyance. The first occasion was on the 11th of September. It was

in the dusk of the evening, so that the room where he was mesmerised was

nearly dark. My previous mode of mesmerising him had been by pointing at

his eyes, but on this occasion I began by making passes over the top of

his head, and continued them after he was in the sleep. In the course of

five or six minutes after the sleep was induced, he suddenly exclaimed

that he could see into the room above us (the drawing-room). I said, ’Your

eyes are closed; how can you see?’ And he replied, ’I don’t see with my

eyes; I see from the top of my head. All the top of my head seems open.’

He then described, &c. I found every thing as he had described, &c." Mr.

Topham, it need scarcely be added, does not appear to have been at all

aware of the passage in Spartian, which, indeed, has not been cited or

referred to in any published work for nearly two hundred years back.

A like use of the suspended ring, indicating the early acquaintance of

practitioners in these arts with one of the alleged evidences of the

so-called _odylic_ force, is thus described by Peucer among various modes

of hydromancy: "A bowl was filled with water, and a ring suspended from

the finger was librated in the water; and so, according as the question

was propounded, a declaration or confirmation of its truth, or otherwise,

was obtained. If what was proposed was true, the ring, of its own accord,

without any impulse, struck the sides of the goblet a certain number of

times. They say that Numa Pompilius used to practise this method, and that

he evoked the gods, and consulted them in water, in this way."

_Crystallomancy_ is the art of divining by figures, which appear on the

surface of a crystal ball, in like manner as on the phial filled with

water. Concerning this practice, Delrio has the following remarkable

passage, citing his contemporary, Spengler: "A man well versed in the

Greek and Latin fathers, and happy, if he had not presumed, with unclean

hands, to dabble in the mysteries of our faith (Spenger), has published in

Germany a learned commentary on the nature of demons, which he has

prefixed to Plutarch’s Essay, _De Defectu Oraculorum_. From this (says

Delrio) I extract, in his own words, the following narrative. There are

some (he says) who, being consulted on matters unknown, distinctly see

every thing that is inquired after in _crystals_; and a little further on

proceeds to state, that he once had an acquaintance, a man of one of the

best families of Nuremberg, and that this acquaintance of his came to him

on one occasion, bringing with him a crystal gem, of a round form, wrapped

up in a piece of silk, which he told him he had received from a stranger,

who encountering him several years before in the market-place, had asked

his hospitality, and whom he had brought home with him and lodged for the

space of three days; and that when the stranger was departing, he had left

him the crystal as a present, in token of his obligation, and had taught

him the use of it; thus, that if there was any thing he particularly

wished to be informed of, he should take out this crystal and desire a

pure male child to look into it and say what he should see there; and that

it would come to pass that whatever he desired to be informed of, would be

indicated by appearances seen by the boy. And he affirmed that he never

was deceived in any instance, and that he learned matters of a wonderful

kind from the representations of those boys, although no one else, by the

closest inspection, could see any thing except the clear and shining gem.

At a certain time, however, when his wife was pregnant of a male child,

appearances were visible to her also in the crystal. First of all, there

used to appear the form of a man clad in the ordinary habit of the times,

and then would open the representation of whatever was inquired after; and

when all was explained, the same figure of the man would depart and

disappear; but in his departure would often appear to perambulate the town

and enter the churches. But the report of these appearances having spread

in all directions, they began to be threatened by the populace. It also

appeared, that certain men of learning had read in the crystal some

statements respecting doubts entertained by them in their studies; and

moved by these and other reasons, Spengler stated that the owner of the

crystal came to him, representing that he thought the time was come when

he ought to cease making such a use of it; for that he was now persuaded

he had sinned in no light degree in doing so, and had for a long time

suffered grievous pangs of a disturbed conscience on that account, and had

come to the determination of having nothing further to do with experiments

of that kind, and had accordingly brought the crystal to him to do with it

whatever he pleased. Then Spengler, highly approving his resolution,

states that he took the crystal, and having pounded it into minute

fragments, threw them, together with the silk wrapper, into a draw-well."

So far Delrio.

Another variety of this process is found in the _Onuchomanteia_, or

nail-divinition, also spoken of by Delrio. "In this species," says he,

"male children, before they have lost their purity, smear their nails with

oil and lamp-black, and then, holding up the nail against the sun,

repeating some charm, see in it what they desire. This mischief," he goes

on to say, "has gone even farther in our own time. I myself knew one

Quevedo, a veteran Spanish soldier, but more distinguished in war and arms

than in piety, who, being in Brussels at the time when the Duke of Medina

Cæli set sail from Gallicia for Belgium, clearly showed in more than one

of his nails the fleet leaving the port of Corunna, and soon after

dreadfully tossed by a tempest. Thus this man, who could also cure the

wounds of others by his words alone, rendered his own spiritual state

incurable by any one."

The like use of the crystal ball and spherical phial, containing water,

suggests a version of the epigrams of Claudian—"De crystallo in quo aqua

inclusa"—which has not been afforded by any of the commentators. Globules

of water are sometimes found inclosed in crystals, as well as in amber. On

one of those singular gems Claudian has composed a series of epigrams,

which ascribe properties to the stone, and make allusion to uses of it

hardly reconcileable with the idea of its being a merely puerile

curiosity. The earlier epigrams of the series are neat and playful, but

insignificant:—

"The icy gem its aqueous birth attests,

Part turned to stone, while part in fluid rests;

Winter’s numbed hand achieved the cunning feat,

The perfecter for being incomplete.

"Nymphs who your sister nymphs in glassy thrall

Hold here imprisoned in the crystal ball;

Waters that were and are, declare the cause

That your bright forms at once congeals and thaws.

"Scorn not the crystal ball, a worth it owns,

Greater than graven Erythrean stones;

Rude though it seems, a formless mass of ice,

’Tis justly counted ’mongst our gems of price."

And so on through several others, until he comes to that one which seems

to indicate something beyond a merely figurative use of the word "nymphs;"

though, after all, it is possible that the word was originally written

with an _l_, instead of _n_, which would make all the difference between

"nymphs" and "waters":—

"While the soft boy the slippery crystal turns,

To touch the waters in their icy urns,

Safe in its depths translucent he beholds

The nymphs, unconscious of the winter colds:

And the dry ball exploring with his lip,

Seems, while he fails, the illusive lymph to sip."

The Latin is subjoined:—

"Dum crystalla puer contingere lubrica gaudet

Et gelidum tenero pollice versat onus,

Videt perspicuo deprensas in marmore nymphas,

Dura quibus solis parcere novit hyems:

Et siccum religens labiis sitientibus orbem,

Irrita quæsitis oscula figit aquis."

Not the least remarkable of the qualities here ascribed to the crystal

ball is its energy in imparting the sensation of cold. Dom Chifflet, who,

in 1665, published his learned treatise at Antwerp on the objects then

recently discovered in the supposed tomb of King Childeric, at Tournay,

says of the crystal ball which was found amongst them, "You would say it

was petrified ice; so cold it was, that my palm and fingers, after

handling it, were quite torpid." And cites Anslem Boetius, in his book on

stones and gems, as saying, "the crystal is of so cold and dry a nature,

that placed beneath the tongue of a feverish person, it allays the thirst;

and held in the hands even of those violently fevered, it refreshes and

cools them, especially if it be of considerable size, and of a spherical

figure;" and another writer on the same subject, Andreas Cisalpinus, who

states of the marble called ophite, that "they make of it little globes,

for the handling of such as are in burning fever, the coldness of the

stone expelling the disease." So far Dom Chifflet. It seems almost as if

we were reading Reichenbach. "He (Reichenbach) found that crystals are

capable of producing all the phenomena resulting from the action of a

magnet on cataleptic patients. Thus, for instance, a large piece of rock

crystal, placed in the hand of a nervous patient, affects the fingers so

as to make them grasp the crystal involuntarily, and shut the fist.

Reichenbach found that more than half of all the persons he tried were

sensible of its action." Chifflet probably was a man of a nervous

temperament. Those who desire to see the crystal ball in question, may

inspect it, where it is still preserved, with other objects found in the

tomb, at the Gallerie de Medailles, in Paris. Two similar balls may be

seen here in the collection of the Royal Irish Academy.

The use of water in communicating an ecstacy similar to the mesmeric

lucidity, is largely dwelt on by the mystical writers known as the

Neo-Platonists. Psellus describes a mode of divinition among the Assyrians

by a basin, which smacks strongly of the mesmeric practice. "The water,

which is poured into the basin, seems, as to its substance, to differ in

nothing from other water; but it possesses a certain virtue, infused into

it by incantations, whereby it is rendered more apt for the reception of

the demon." The effect of the waters of some sacred places on those

accustomed to their influence, was also such as is claimed for the

mesmerized waters of our present practitioners. Jamblichus gives this

account of the Colophonian oracle:—"There was a subterranean place at

Colophon, near Ephesus, in which was a fountain. The priest on stated

nights sacrificed, then drank the water, and afterwards prophesied, being

rendered invisible to the spectators. It might seem," he says, "to some

that the Divine Spirit passed into the priest through the water. But this

is not so; for the divine influence is not transmitted thus according to

the laws of distance and division, through these things which participate

in it, but comprehends them from without, and inwardly illuminates and

fills them with lucidity, and fills the water also with a certain virtue

conducive to the prophetic faculty, that is, a clarifying virtue; so that

when the priest drinks, it purifies the luminous spirit which is implanted

in him, and accommodates it to God, and by that purifying and

accommodating process, enables him to apprehend the deity. But there is

another kind of presence of the god, besides the virtue infused into the

wafer, which illumines all around, above, and within us, and which no man

wants, if he can only attain to the necessary state of congruity. And so

of a sudden it falls on the prophet, and makes use of him as an

instrument; and he in the meantime has no command of himself, and knows

not what he says, nor where he is, and with difficulty comes to himself

again, after the response given. Moreover, before drinking the water, he

abstains for a day and night from food, and partakes of certain mysteries

inaccessible to the vulgar; from which it is to be collected that there

are two methods by which man may be prepared for the reception of the

divine influence: one by the drinking of purgatorial water, endowed by the

Deity with a clarifying virtue; the other, by sobriety, solitude, the

separation of the mind from the body, and the intent contemplation of the

Deity."

One might here suppose he read of the rites of St. Patrick’s Purgatory.

The water of the lake there is usually called wine, and it may be that on

minds and bodies "which have attained to the needful congruity," it has

operated as wonderful effects as the Colophonian fount itself. The

proceedings of the priestess at Brancidæ, who also, from amongst other

sources, derived the afflatus, or _Waren_, from a fountain, are to the

same purpose. "The prophetic priestess at Brancidæ either sits on an axis

[exposing herself to the influence, as the Pythoness on her Tripod], or

holds a wand in her hand, given by some god, or dips the hem of her

garment, in water, or inhales a certain vapor of water, and by these

methods is filled with the divine illumination, receives the god, and

prophesies. But, that the prophetic faculty comes from no corporeal or

animal source, and from no local or material instrumentality, but solely

and extrinsically from the presence of the incoming deity, appears from

this, that the priestess, before she gives her oracle, performs many

ceremonious rites, observes strict purity, bathes, abstains for three days

from food, dwells apart, and so, by little and little, begins to be

illuminated and enraptured." What the exact meaning of sitting on an axis

may be, it is difficult to divine; but those who allege that a patient may

be thrown into the mesmeric trance by holding a magnetized branch—and

those also who have read of all the phenomena of exorcism being as fully

elicited by a satchel of feathers as by a bag of reliques—will readily

apply the wand "presented by some deity," and placed in the hand of the

priestess at the moment when she should receive the final cataleptic

impulse. If there be truth in the alleged modern cases of _clairvoyance_,

we need not be surprised at the singular coincidences which have sustained

the credit of Colophon and Delphi.

Not to dwell on other methods of inducing the afflatus, such as by

characters and amulets, by music, by dancing, and by movements of the

body, I shall now proceed with the effects alleged to have been produced

on the _afflati_. Jamlichus must still be our principal authority.

Lucidity and prevision have already been sufficiently indicated, and have

doubtless been readily recognized: the other symptoms will be found not

less remarkable and equally familiar:—"Man has a double life—one annexed

to the body, the other separate from every thing bodily.... In sleep we

have the capacity of being wholly loosed from the chains that confine our

spirit, and can make use of the life which is not dependent on generation.

When the soul is thus separate from the body in sleep, then that (latter)

kind of life which usually remains separable and separate by itself,

immediately awakes within us, and acts according to its proper nature,...

and in that state has a presaging knowledge of the future." Then, omitting

a distinction between sleeping and waking inspiration, and coming to the

latter, in which, also, the _offlati_ have a presaging power, he

proceeds:—"Yet those (latter) are so far awake that they can use their

senses, yet are not capable of reasoning,... for they neither (properly

speaking) sleep when they seem to do so, nor awake when they seem awake;

for they do not of themselves foresee, nor are they moved by any human

instrumentality; neither know they their own condition; nor do they exert

any prerogative or motion of their own; but all this is done under the

power and by the energy of the deity. For that they who are so affected do

not live an ordinary animal life is plain, because many of them, on

contact with fire, are not burnt, the divine inward afflatus repelling the

heat; or, if they be burnt, they do not feel it; neither do they feel

prickings, or scratchings, or other tortures. Further, that their actions

are not (merely) human, is apparent from this, that they make their way

through pathless tracks, and pass harmless through the fire, and pass over

rivers in a wonderful manner, which the priestess herself also does in the

Cataballa. By this it is plain that the life they live is not human, nor

animal, nor dependent on the use of senses, but divine, as if the soul

were taking its rest, and the deity were there instead of the soul.

Various sorts there are of those so divinely inspired, as well by reason

of the varying divinity of the inspiring gods as of the modes of

inspiration. These modes are of this sort—either the deity occupies us, or

we join ourselves to the deity, &c.... According to these diversities,

there are different signs, effects, and works of the inspired; thus, some

will be moved in their whole bodies, others in particular members; others,

again, will be motionless. Also they will perform dances and chants, some

well, some ill. The bodies, again, of some will seem to dilate in height,

of others in compass; and others, again, will seem to walk in air."

Taking these various manifestations in order, and beginning with the

alleged power of resisting the action of fire, the reader will not need to

be reminded of many seemingly well-authenticated cases of escape from the

fire-ordeal. It has been usual to ascribe the preservation of those who

have walked bare-footed over heated ploughshares to the use of astringent

lotions: and where opportunity existed for preparation of that kind, their

escape may perhaps be so explained. But in most instances the accused was

in the custody of the accusers, and not likely to have access to such

phylacteries. The exemption from the effects of fire was not confined to

those cases of exaltation attendant on the enthusiasm of conscious virtue.

Bosroger (La Piéte Affligée, Rouen, 1752) states of one of the possessed

sisters of St. Elizabeth at Louviers, in 1642: "One morning Sister

Saint-Esprit was rapt as in an ecstasy. The bishop commanded the devil to

leave her. Immediately she experienced dreadful contortions, and an access

of rage, and, on a sudden, says the exorcist, her demon left her like a

flash of lightning, and threw the young woman into the fire, which was a

considerable one, casting her with her face and one hand direct between

the two andirons; and when they ran to drag her away, they found that

neither her face nor her hand were in anywise burnt."

It would be idle to multiply instances of this sort from the monkish

writers. The preservation of the three youths in the Chaldæan furnace was

one of the miracles most adapted to the servile yet audacious imitations

of the Thaumaturgists. It is only when their statements correspond in

unsuspected particulars with the phenomena of experience—as, for example,

in the case of Barlaam and the monks of Mount Athos—that they can be

adduced without offending the judgment of rational inquirers. But the

action of burning is an operation of mechanical and chemical forces; and

how any amount of spiritual or electrical effusion could prevent the

expansion of the fluids in the tissues and the disruption of the skin,

seems hard to imagine. Something more must, one should think, have been

needed; and if the mesmeric and Pagan oracular ecstasies be identical,

this testimony of Jamblichus would lead us to suppose that that something

was supplied by the mind. However this may be, we shall be better able to

judge after the investigation of some other of the alleged concomitants of

Pagan inspiration.

The insensibility to prickings and pinchings is perhaps the commonest test

of the cataleptic condition; and, as will doubtless suggest itself to

every reader, was, until modern times, a popular test of witchcraft. That

the unhappy wretches who were put to death in such numbers during the

middle ages for this offence were actually in an unnatural and detestable

state of mind and body, cannot be doubted. They really were insensible to

punctures; for if they had winced when pricked with pins and needles by

their triers, it would have been deemed a proof of their innocence. A

person feigning the mesmeric sleep, and whose interest it is to feign, may

endure such prickings with seeming insensibility; but it was not the

interest of the ancient witch to affect an insensibility, which would be

taken as one of the surest proofs of guilt. A perverse desire to be

believed guilty is the only motive that can be suggested as likely to lead

to such conduct; and those who have studied human nature most profoundly

will be disposed to give great credit to that suggestion. The same nature

which in the fourth century ran into the epidemic frenzy of anchoritism,

and impelled the Circumcellionist multitudes to extort the boon of

martyrdom from reluctant tribunals, may be admitted capable even of the

madness of a voluntary aspiration to the stake and pyre of the witch.

Certain it is that many of the convicts boasted of their interviews with

the Devil, and seemed to be, if they were not, possessed with the

conviction of having actually partaken of the orgies imputed to them. Had

they really been there in imagination? Was it that the popular mind had

realized to itself an epidemic idea, and that the effect of the contagion

was to put its victims _en rapport_ with the distempered picture present

to the minds of the multitude? In a moral epidemic the crowd, possessed

with one idea, are the operators: it is the _Panic_ possession of the

ancients, which was not confined to general terrors, but applied to

general delusions of every kind. The multitude itself radiates its own

madness; witness the Crusaders, the Flagellants, the Dancing Fanatics of

the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; perhaps even we might add the

Mathewites of our own day.

The next symptom of possession was the power of passing through trackless

places, the disposition to run to wilds and mountains, like that rage of

the votary of Bacchus:

"Quo me Bacche, rapis tui

Plenum? Quæ in nemora aut quos agor in specus

Velox mente nova?"

The Bacchic ecstasy was not merely drunkenness, but an epidemic madness

induced by long-continued dancing and gesticulating to the sound of

cymbals and other noisy instruments, in all respects identical with the

methods of inducing the Hindoo _Waren_. The dancing mania also of the

fifteenth century, described by Hecker in his _Epidemics of the Middle

Ages_, was induced in the same manner, and its effects were the

same,—possession, illumination, and insensibility to external influences.

That the Bacchic and Corybantic frenzies were, in all respects, identical

with the middle age dancing manias, and with the possession of those who

still exhibit the influences of _Waren_ in Hindoostan, can hardly be

doubted. "As for the Bacchanalian motions and friskings of the

_Corybantes_," says Plutarch in his Essay on Love, "there is a way to

allay these extravagant transports, by changing the measure from the

_Trochaic_ to the _Spondaic_, and the tone from the _Phrygian_ to the

_Doric_:" just as with the dancers of St. Vitus, and those bit by the

Tarantula. Hecker states, "The swarms of St. John’s dancers were

accompanied by minstrels playing those noisy instruments which roused

their morbid feelings; moreover, by means of intoxicating music, a kind of

demoniacal festival for the rude multitude was established, which had the

effect of spreading this unhappy malady wider and wider. Soft harmony was,

however, employed to calm the excitement of those affected, and it is

mentioned as a character of the tunes played with this view to the St.

Vitus’s dancers, that they contained transitions from a quick to a slow

measure, and passed gradually from a high to a low key." After the

termination of the frenzy the conduct of the dancers, as well indeed as of

all the victims of this species of possession, whether _Taratati_,

convulsionnaires, or revivalists, tallied precisely with that of the

Bacchic women. Plutarch, in his thirteenth example of the Virtues of

Woman, has this graphic picture of the condition of a band of Bacchante

after one of their orgies. "When the tyrants of Phocea had taken Delphos,

and the Thebans undertook that war against them which was called the Holy

War, certain women devoted to Bacchus (which they called _Thyades_) fell

frantic, and went a gadding by night, and, mistaking their way, came to

Amphissa, and being very much tired, and not as yet in their right wits,

they flung themselves down in the market-place and fell asleep, as they

lay scattered up and down here and there. But the wives of the

Amphisseans, fearing because the city was engaged to aid in the Phocean

war, and abundance of the tyrants’ soldiers were present in the city, the

_Thyades_ should have any indignity put upon them, ran forth all of them

into the market-place, and stood silently round about them; neither would

offer them any disturbance while they slept, but when they were awake they

attended their service particularly, and brought them refreshments; and,

in fine, by persuasion, obtained leave of their husbands that they might

accompany them in safety to their own borders."

In the same way, throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, might

groups of both sexes be seen lying, exhausted from their agitations, in

the streets of Aix-la-chapelle, Cologne, Strasburg, Naples, and elsewhere;

and even in our own century sights not dissimilar have been witnessed at

revival assemblages in Wales and Scotland, and at camp-meetings in North

America. The rending of Pentheus on Mount Citheron by his own mother and

sisters, who, while under the influence of the Bacchic _afflatus_,

imagined they saw in his form the appearance of a wild beast, might be

adduced as an example at once of the furious character of the frenzy, and

of the liability of the afflated to optical illusions. Has what we read of

fairy-gifts and glamour any foundation in this alleged power of the

biologist to make his patient imagine different forms for the same object?

But we are still among the mountain tops, and must descend to the

remaining symptoms enumerated by Jamblichus.

"They pass over rivers in a wonderful manner, which the priestess herself

also does in the Cataballa." We here again encounter the _indicia_, of

that possession which went by the name of witchcraft in the middle ages. A

witch, really possessed, could not sink in the water, any more than she

could feel the insertion of a needle. The vulgar belief is, that the

suspected witch was cast into a pond, where, if she floated, she was

burned, and if she sank she was drowned. The latter alternative was not

so; if she betrayed no preternatural buoyancy, the trial was so far in her

favor, and she was taken up.

Nor was water the only test, in some parts of Germany the triers, less

philosophically, employed scales; and had fixed weights (from 14 to 15

lbs.), which, if the accused did not counterpoise, they concluded them to

be possessed. But it will be asked, how can there be degrees of philosophy

in practices equally insane, and which have been condemned by the common

consent of enlightened nations for near three hundred years? Insanity

there certainly was, and on a prodigious scale, in these ages; but the

judges and executioners were not so insane as the multitudes who either

believed themselves possessed by others, or believed that they themselves

exercised the power of possessing. To us, living in an age of comparative

rest from spiritual excitement, it seems almost incredible that thousands

of persons, in all ranks and conditions of life, should simultaneously

become possessed with the belief that they were in direct communication

with the devil: should cease to attend to their duties and callings,

passing their time in hysterical trances and cataleptic fits, during which

they seemed to themselves to be borne through the air to witch orgies and

assemblies for devil-worship, in deserts and mountains; and that while one

portion of society gave themselves up to these hallucinations, another

class should, with an equal abandonment of every duty of life, have

betaken themselves to mope and pine, going into convulsions, and wasting

to skeletons, under the idea of having been bewitched; yet nothing is more

certain than that it was such a frenzy as this the heads of the Church and

the temporal Government had to contend against in the fifteenth and

sixteenth centuries. There were no mad-houses; if there had been, even to

the extent we now possess them, they would not have sufficed to hold a

tenth part of the numbers whose contact and example would have been fatal

to the peace, perhaps even to the existence, of society. If such frenzies

were, unhappily, to burst out among mankind at present, civilized nations

might transport their _energumeni_ to distant possessions; but the

middle-age magistrates had no facilities of that kind: they should deal

with the terrible plague by the only means at their disposal; and these

were, either to let the madness wear itself out, or to repress it by the

rope and faggot. If they had adopted the former course, the epidemic would

probably have passed through the usual stages of popular distempers; would

have had its access, its crisis, and decline; and when the scourge had

passed, the public would have awakened to a full sense of the madness of

which they had been the victims; but in that process there was the danger

of society going to pieces—of the visionary frenzy of the possessed being

taken up by fanatics as the foundation of a new and abominable religion,

and of the hostility of the ignorant and uneducated class, among whom

chiefly the possession prevailed, being directed against the restraints of

government and the principle of property. Having adopted the other course,

they pushed it to cruel and inexcusable lengths; punished many innocent

persons, and suffered many of the really possessed to go free. For they

whose madness was most to be apprehended, as most contagious, were not the

wretches who fancied they possessed the power of bewitching others; but

the _convulsionnaires_, who deemed themselves bewitched, and were their

accusers. Certainly if the same epidemic should ever again break out among

a European population, or even among a British population, the arm of the

magistrate would be again required to suppress it, and we would be better

able to judge of the conduct of those whom it has been the fashion of

modern historians to represent as altogether ignorant and brutal

executioners. So long as possession is only the result of manual passes,

or of fixing the gaze on indifferent objects; so long as the effects are

regarded as physical or psychological phenomena, due to a physical cause,

and the pretensions of the practitioner are not rested on any peculiar

religious sanction, there is no danger of mesmerism degenerating into a

dangerous epidemic; but we might have seen a very different state of

affairs if the magnetizers and biologists had referred their powers to any

species of supernatural agency; and possibly would have found ourselves

long since under the necessity of reviving those penal proceedings which

we have so generally been taught to abhor, as among the most revolting

remnants of mediæval superstition.(5) Even as it is, these powers of the

biologist, if in truth they exist, are capable of fearful abuse. Let us

take, for example, one of the oldest methods of exercising influence, for

good or evil, on an absent person:—

"As fire this figure hardens, made of clay,

And this of wax with fire consumes away;

Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be,

Hard to the rest of women, soft to me."

If the waxen or clay image be but a concentrator of the good or evil will

of the operator towards the distant object, and the witchcraft of the

love-sick magician in Virgil, or of the evil-disposed wizard of the middle

ages, be in truth no more than an exertion of biological power, it behoves

society to take care how individuals should be suffered to acquire

mesmerical relations with others, over whom they may exercise malignant as

well as healing influences. If the pretensions of the biologists be

established, biology must soon be put under medical supervision. But to

return to the phenomena of possession.

The propriety of trying alleged witches by water, has been impugned and

defended with abundance of scholastic learning; and, singular to say, its

opponents have been chiefly found among the Roman Catholic writers, and

its advocates among the Reformers. Delrio, by far the most learned of all

the writers on demonology, vigorously assails Rickius, the only notable

Roman Catholic advocate of the practice. The arguments on both sides being

based entirely on scholastic definitions and distinctions respecting the

nature of demons, and the baptismal and other spiritual virtues of water,

are of little relevance in the present method of discussing physical

phenomena. Both parties assume that the persons of witches exhibit a

preternatural levity—Delrio admitting that something less than fourteen or

fifteen pounds was the actual weight which popular belief throughout

Germany ascribed to persons in that possessed state, no matter how large

or fat they might seem to the eye; and Rickius gives an example of a

woman, executed by drowning in 1594, whom the executioner could hardly

keep under with repeated thrusts of his pole, so high did she bound

upwards from the surface, and "so boil up," as it were, out of the depths

of the water. The levity of possessed persons in water might be accounted

for by a phenomenon attendant on those preternatural conditions of the

body which follow excitements of an analogous kind. The victims of the

flogging and dancing manias in the middle ages, and subjects of the

fanatical fervors of camp-meetings and revivals, alike experienced a windy

intestinal distension, consequent on the departure of their mental frenzy.

To control this disagreeable symptom, the candidates for both species of

afflatus used to come to their meetings provided with napkins and rollers

with which to bind their middles, and prevent the supervening inflation.

Persons so puffed up would certainly float with all the buoyancy ascribed

to the German witches, if cast into water; but they would still preserve

their proper corporeal gravity if placed in a scale. Unless, then, we

suppose Delrio to have been the dupe of some singular and unaccountable

delusion on this point, the typanitic affections of the _convulsionnaires_

will not account for the anti-gravitating phenomena ascribed to medieval

witchcraft. There are some reasons, however, for the belief that these

appearances may not have been wholly imaginary; for if any reliance can be

placed on the concurrent traditions of all religions, Pagan as well as

Christian, supported by wide-spread popular belief, the high mental

exaltation induced by religious abstraction, and also by other vehement

affections of the mind, is actually attended with a diminished specific

gravity. Of alleged ecclesiastical miracles of this kind it is better to

say nothing. The Roman Catholic and the Hindoo devotees equally claim for

their adepts in religious contemplation an exemption from (among other

earthly liabilities) the hindrance of weight. In the rapture of prayer,

the ascetic and the saint alike rise in the air, and spurn the law of

gravitation with the other incidents of matter. Suspected evidences of

this kind are, however, of no weight in philosophical inquiry. It will be

safer to leave the Etstaticas and the Fakirs to their respective

believers, and to take a story of the people, into which religious

considerations do not so directly enter. The native Irish, then, have a

remarkable tradition, as old, at least, as the seventh or eighth century,

that phrenetic madmen lose the corporeal quality of weight. A picturesque

and romantic example of this belief is found in the story of the fate of

Suibhne, son of Colman, King of Dalnaraidhe, as related in the bardic

accounts of the battle of Moyra. Suibhne, a valiant warrior, has offered

an insult to Saint Ere, Bishop of Slane; the affront is avenged by a

curse, the usual retaliation of aggrieved ecclesiastics in those days. The

curse falls on Sweeny in the most grievous form of visitation that could

afflict a warrior:—a fit of cowardice seizes him in the very onset of the

battle, and drives him frantic with terror. "Giddiness came over him at

the sight of the horrors, grimness, and rapidity of the Gaels; at the

fierce looks, brilliance, and ardor of the foreigners; at the rebounding

furious shouts of the embattled tribes on both sides, rushing against and

coming into collision with one another. Huge, flickering, horrible, aërial

phantoms, rose up (around him), so that from the uproar of the battle, the

frantic pranks of the demons, the clashing of arms, and the sound of the

heavy blows reverberating on the points of heroic spears, and keen edges

of swords, and warlike borders of broad shields, the hero Suibhne was

filled and intoxicated with horror, panic, and imbecility; his feet

trembled as if incessantly shaken by the force of a stream; the inlets of

his hearing were expanded and quickened by the horrors of lunacy; his

speech became faltering from the giddiness of imbecility; his very soul

fluttered with hallucinations, and with many and various phantasms. He

might be compared to a salmon in a weir, or to a bird after being caught

in the strait prison of a crib," &c. "When he was seized with this frantic

fit, he made a supple, very light leap, and where he alighted he was on

the boss of the shield of the warrior next him; and he made a second leap,

and perched on the crest of the helmet of the same hero, who,

nevertheless, did not feel him. Then he made a third active, very light

leap, and perched on the top of the sacred tree which grew on the smooth

surface of the plain in which the inferior people and the debilitated of

the men of Erin were seated, looking on at the battle. These shouted at

him when they saw him, to press him back into the battle again; and he in

consequence made three furious leaps to shun the battle, but through the

giddiness and imbecility of his hallucination, he went back into the same

field of conflict; but it was not on the earth he walked, but alighted on

the shoulders of men and the tops of their helmets," &c.

In this state, Suibhne flits off the field of battle like a bird, or a

waif of the forest, without weight, and betakes himself to the wilds,

where he "herds with the deer, runs races with the showers, and flees with

the birds," as a wild denizen of the wilderness; but with his ecstacy of

terror, he receives the gift of prophecy. Dr. O’Donovan, in a note on this

curious passage, observes, "it was the ancient belief in Ireland, and

still is in the wilder mountainous districts, that lunatics are as light

as feathers, and can climb steeps and precipices like the

somnambulists."—See _Buile Suibhne_, a bardic romance on the madness of

this unfortunate warrior. This latter romance is occupied with Suibhne’s

adventures as a mad prophet, _Omadh_, in Irish. Query did the Bacchus

_Omadios_ of the Greeks derive his name from a similar source? It would be

a singular coincidence that would make a Greek god an _omadran_. Keats,

with a fine intuition, has depicted those _mores afflatorum_, in the

satyrs who do the benevolent biddings of Pan:

"Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies,

For willing service; whether, to surprise

The squatted hare, while, in half-sleeping fit,

Or upward ragged precipices flit

To save poor lambkins from the eagle’s maw;

Or by mysterious enticement draw

Bewildered shepherds to their paths again."

Compare with this picture of the Irish lunatic among the boughs of the

tree on the field of Moira, the following extracts from Bosroger’s account

of the possession of the nuns of Louviers, in A.D. 1642. One of the

sisters, surnamed De Jesus, conceived herself to be possessed by a demon

whom she called _Arracon_. "On the occasion of a procession of the host by

Monseigneur the Bishop of Evreux, _Arracon_ exhibited another example of

his quality, causing sister De Jesus to pour forth a torrent of

blasphemies and furious expressions all the time of the procession. When

she was brought into the choir, and held fast by an exorcist, for fear of

her offering some insult, the holy sacrament was borne past her. Arracon

immediately caused her to be shot forward through the air to a

considerable distance, so as to strike the gilt sun in which the adorable

eucharist was placed, out of the hands of the lord bishop; and the

exorcist making an effort to detain her, the demon lifted her up in the

air over an accoudoir, or leaning place, of three feet in height,

intending to lift her, as he declared, into the vault, but the exorcist

holding fast, all he could do was to cast the nun and exorcist back to the

floor together," &c. _Putiphar_, the possessor of Sister Saint Sacrement,

"made her with wonderful impetuosity run up a mulberry tree, of which the

stem was easy enough of ascent; but when she got up the stem, he forced

her onward till she approached the extremities of the slenderest branches,

and caused her to make almost the entire circuit of the mulberry tree, in

such sort that a man who saw her from a distance cried out that she flew

like a bird. Then the demon permitted her to see her peril; she grew pale,

and cried out with alarm. They ran in haste to bring a ladder, but

_Putiphar_ mocked them, crying, ’As I made this _chienne_ get up without a

ladder, so she shall go down,’ and caused her descend the same slender

branches to the stem, and thence to the ground."

Pere de la Menarday, in his _Examen Critique de l’Histoire des Diables de

London_, gives a letter from a missionary priest in Cochin China,

describing a case of demonopathy, in the course of which, if we could

believe the narrator, the patient seemed for a time to have conquered all

the ordinary tendencies of gravitation. The missionary, M. Delacourt,

writing from Paris, 25th November, 1738, begins by protesting his

unwillingness to expose himself to the repulses of public incredulity; but

for his friends’ sake consents to give the particulars. "Voici donc le

fait dans ses principales circonstances _tel que je l’ai vu de mes propres

yeux_." In the month of May, 1733, a young native communicant, named Dodo,

residing at the town of Cheta, in the province of Cham, and kingdom of

Cochin China, being reproached by his conscience for the suppression of

some facts in his confession, fell into violent convulsions on attempting

to take the host in his mouth. He was brought to the missionary, foaming,

leaping, and blaspheming in the manner usual among victims of his malady.

After many exorcisms, both by the missionary and by two other

ecclesiastics, which only increased his sufferings, he was at length, by

gentler entreaties, brought to make a confession. The missionary then

renewed his exorcisms, which he continued for a month with little success.

"At last," says he, "I determined to make a last effort, and to imitate

the example of Monseigneur the Bishop of Tilopolis on a like occasion,

namely, in my exorcism to command the demon in Latin to transport him to

the ceiling of the church, feet up and head down. On the instant his body

became rigid, and as though he were impotent of all his members, he was

dragged from the middle of the church to a column, and there, his feet

joined fast together, his back closely applied to the pillar, without

aiding himself with his hands, he was transported in the twinkling of an

eye to the ceiling, just like a weight run up by a cord, without any

visible agency. While he hung there, with his feet glued to the ceiling,

and his head down, I made the demon, for I had determined to confound and

humiliate him, confess the falsehood of the Pagan religion. I made him

confess that he was a deceiver, and at the same time admit the holiness of

Christianity. I kept him for better than half an hour in the air, and not

possessing enough of constancy to hold him there any longer, so frightened

was I myself at what I saw, I at length commanded him to lay the patient

at my feet without harming him. Immediately he cast him down before me

with no more hurt to him than if he had been a bundle of foul linen." It

is by no means improbable that Pere Delacourt himself had become infected

with the madness of the monomaniac whom he was engaged in exorcising,

before his eyes conceived that extraordinary image of the patient

ascending by invisible agency to the ceiling of the church. But his letter

bears evident marks of having been written under a sincere belief of the

reality of all that he describes, and he refers to several living

witnesses of the scene.

Reverting to this subject of optical illusion, already glanced at, we find

still another resemblance between the mysticism of the ancients and

moderns. The priestess rendering herself invisible to the bystanders,

appears to transcend all the rest of Jamblichus’s wonders. Strange to say,

even this pretension of the Colophonian prophetess is not without

something analogous among the alleged phenomena of mesmerism. "I requested

a young lady," says Dr. Elliotson, "whom I had long mesmerised, with the

never-tiring devotion of a parent, and in whom I produced a variety of

phenomena, to promise to be unable on waking to see her maid, who always

sat in the room at work during my visit, till I left the room, and then at

once to discern her. On waking, she said she did not see the maid, but

said she saw the chair on which the maid sat. Presently, however, she saw

the maid, was agitated, had an hysteric fit, and passed into the

sleep-waking state. I now inquired how she came to see her maid, as I had

not left the room, and told her she must not (see the maid), when I awoke

her again. I then awoke her again; she could not see the maid, was

astonished at the maid’s absence, and at first supposed she was in an

adjoining room; but presently rang the bell twice, though the woman was

standing before her, I moved just out of the room, leaving the door open,

and she saw the maid instantly, and was astonished, and laughed." In the

Colophonian oracle, they were the spectators, not the prophetess, who had

need thus to be put under the influence of the mesmeric _glamour_. Can it

be that, in certain diseased states of the optic nerve, it really is

subject to the illusion of seeing objects rise in air, as well as go round

in horizontal motion? They who saw these sights in the _adyta_ of temples,

in caves and sacred groves, in initiations and oracular consultations,

were all prepared by fasting, watching, and prayer, for the reception of

biological influence, and possibly may have seemed to themselves to see

what others desired they should believe themselves to have actually seen.

Was Lord Shrewsbury under this influence at Caldaro?

But the reader will begin to suspect that his credulity is about to be

solicited for the aërial flights of witches on their sweeping brooms. This

apprehension may be dismissed. Witchcraft, or, to call it by its proper

pathological name, demonopathy, was a true delusion, true so far as the

belief of the monomaniacs themselves was concerned, but resting wholly in

their own distempered imagination.

From a learned and philosophic review of the great work of Calmeil, _De la

Folie_, in the _Dublin Quarterly Journal of Medicine_, we extract the

following _resumé_ of the symptoms of this dreadful epidemic malady: "The

leading phenomenon was the belief of the sufferers that Satan had obtained

full mastery over them; that he was the object of their most fervent

worship, a certain portion of their life being spent in the actual company

of himself and his legion of darkness, when every crime that a diseased

imagination could suggest was committed by them. Both sexes attended at

the Devil’s Sabbaths, as they were termed, where the sorcerers met,

danced, and enjoyed every wild pleasure. To these meetings they travelled

through the air, though, by the power of Satan, their bodies seemed to

remain at home. They killed children, poisoned cattle, produced storms and

plagues, and held converse with Succubi and Incubi, and other fallen

spirits. At the Sabbath all agreed, that from every country the sorcerers

arrived transported by demons. Women perched on sticks, or riding on

goats, naked, with dishevelled hair, arrived in thousands; they passed

like meteors, and their descent was more rapid than that of the eagle or

hawk, when striking his prey. Over this meeting Satan presided; indecent

dances and licentious songs went on, and an altar was raised, where Satan,

with his head downward, his feet turned up, and his back to the altar,

celebrated his blasphemous mass."

Each individual sufferer believed herself or himself to have seen these

sights, to have gone through these origies, and to have been transported

to them through the air. If there had been but a few confessions, and

these exacted by torture, it might be thought that the fancies of the

examiners supplied the phenomena, to which the sufferers merely gave an

enforced and worthless assent. But the confessions were as often voluntary

as forced, and were indeed rather triumphant bravadoes than confessions of

anything that the sufferers themselves deemed shameful. It was a true

belief in the minds of the parties affected. The question has already been

asked, were they _en rapport_ with the rest of the diseased multitude, in

whose minds the common delusion existed? The question presupposes a mental

sympathy and participation, by one mind, of images existing in another,

which is one of the alleged manifestations of clairvoyance. But there is

another mode of accounting for these and similar phenomena, which as yet

obtains the approval of physicians, more than any suggestions of

clairvoyant communications. It is, that there are certain states of the

body in which the patient truly believes himself to see particular

objects, to do particular acts, and to possess special powers, which to

the rest of the world have no existence, but in respect of the patient

himself are realities as visible, tangible, and perceptible, as the actual

existences which surround him. For example, it is a fact which admits of

no dispute, that a certain quantity of alcohol taken into the human

stomach will cause the drinker to fall into _delirium tremens_; and that

in that state the patient will, with his waking eyes, see objects of a

particular kind; in nine cases out of ten, the forms of rats and mice

running over his bed, and about his person. There is no public delusion

here, no popular mind possessed with a fixed idea of these appearances, to

which the individual delusions might be referred; yet the swallower of the

alcohol in Dublin, and the swallower of the alcohol in Calcutta, will both

see exactly the same sorts of appearances, and will both express precisely

the same horror and disgust at their supposed tormentors. Is it the case,

then, that, as the forms of rats and mice come into the minds of men in

one kind of mental sickness, the forms of men and women riding on goats

and broomsticks through the air, and the other apparatus of the

witch-sabbaths, may have been but the manifestations of another disordered

state of the mental organism, a symptom merely and concomitant of an

epidemical disease? It is easy enough to understand how symptoms so simple

as the appearance of what are usually called "blue devils" should be

constant in their attendance on a particular state of cerebral disorder;

but when the hallucination becomes so complex as in the fantasies of

witchcraft, it is difficult to suppose that that long train of appearances

and imaginary transactions should follow on a merely pathological

derangement of the brain. Between the two alternatives of referring these

hallucinations to such a cause, on the one hand, or to a mesmeric

sympathy, as above suggested, between the individual and the crowd of the

possessed, on the other, it is hard to choose; but, perhaps, the latter

will appear to offer the less amount of difficulty. In the present state

of knowledge, however, it would be rash to say that a particular state of

diseased cerebral action might not be attended with a perfect set of

supposed phenomena as complex and constant in the minds of the sufferers,

as those which existed among the victims of demonomania.

An example less difficult of reconcilement with the theory of cerebral

disorder than that of the witchcraft of the fifteenth and sixteenth

centuries, and yet more complex than that of the fantasies of _delirium

tremens_, may be found in the case of _lycanthropism_, or that form of

mania in which men have fancied themselves transformed into wolves. This

disease also is contagious; and on many occasions has exhibited itself in

all the terrors of a maniacal epidemic. As early as the time of Herodotus

the belief was rife among the Græco-Scythian colonies that a people called

the Neuri were subject to this species of metamorphosis; and Giraldus

Cambrensis, in the twelfth century, found the same superstition in full

force in Ireland. It again broke forth in Livonia, its ancient seat, with

all the symptoms of a periodical annual epidemic, in the sixteenth

century. Peucer gives the following account of what these maniacs

themselves believed to happen to them. "Immediately after Christmas day,

in each year, a club-footed boy appears, who goes round the country, and

summons all those slaves of Satan, of whom there are great numbers, to

assemble and follow him. If they hesitate or refuse, a tall man appears,

armed with a whip of flexible iron wires, and compels them with blows of

his scourge to come forth and proceed. He whips them so severely, that

oft-times the stripes left by the iron thongs remain impressed on their

bodies and torment them cruelly. As soon as they go out and follow in the

train, they seem to lose their human form, and to put on the appearance of

wolves. Several thousands thus assemble. The leader walks before with his

iron scourge; the crowd of those who, in their delusion, imagine that they

have become wolves, follow after. Wherever they meet with cattle they rush

upon them and rend them; they carry off such portions as they can, and do

much destruction; but to touch or injure mankind is not permitted to them.

When they come to rivers, the leader with a stroke of his whip divides the

waters, which stand apart, leaving a dry channel by which they cross.

After twelve days the band disperses, and every man resumes his own form,

the vulpine mask dropping off him. The way in which the change takes place

is this, as they allege: those who undergo the change, which occupies but

a moment, drop suddenly down as if struck with a fit, and so lie senseless

and like dead persons; but they do not in fact go away or change their

places at all; nor while lying in that seemingly lifeless state do they

exhibit any vulpine appearance whatever, but they go out of themselves

(and leave themselves) like dead bodies; and save that they are convulsed,

and roll about somewhat, they exhibit no sign or evidence of life. Hence

the opinion has arisen that their spirits only are taken forth of their

bodies, and put for a time into the phantasms of vulpine forms; and then,

after doing the bidding of the devil in that way, are remitted back to

their proper bodies, which thereupon are restored to animation; and the

were-wolves themselves confirm this belief by acknowledging that in truth

the human form is not withdrawn from their bodies, nor the vulpine

appearance substituted for it; but that it is their spirits only which are

impelled to leave their human bodily prisons, and enter into the bodies of

wolves, in which they dwell and are carried about for the prescribed space

of time. Some of those who have stated that they came long distances after

escaping from the chains of their wolfish imprisonment, being questioned

how they got out of that confinement, and why they returned, and how they

could cross such wide and deep rivers, gave answer that the imprisoning

forms no longer confined them, that they felt coerced to come out of them,

and passed over the rivers by aërial flight."

The same features marked the outbreak of lycanthropy in the years

1598-1600, among the Vaudois. The possessed fell into catalepsy, and lay

senseless during the time they imagined themselves in their bestial

transformation. The disease was almost uniformly complicated with

demonopathy, or the possession of witchcraft.

There seems no reason to doubt that lycanthropism was a disease as

constant in its character and as well defined in its symptoms as _delirium

tremens_, or any of the ordinary forms of mania. The evidences of its

existence are, however, considerably stronger than those of witchcraft;

for where on the one hand no credible witness ever saw a witch either at

the sabbath, or on her way to it, or on her return from it, there are not

wanting distinct proofs on oath, corroborated by admitted facts in

judicial proceedings, of persons afflicted with lycanthropy traversing the

woods on all-fours, and being found bloody from the recent slaughter both

of beasts and human victims; and in one of these cases, that of Jacques

Roulet, tried before the Parliament of Paris in 1598, the body of a newly

slain child, half mangled, and with all the marks of having been gnawed by

canine teeth, was found close to the place where the maniac was arrested.

It is worthy of remark that both lycanthropists and witches ascribed the

power of disembodying themselves to the use of ointments. Antiquity

furnishes no parallel to the horrors of these malignant and homicidal

manias. Their analogues may be found in the fabled styes of Circe, or in

the frenzied raptures of the Sybilline and Delphic priestesses; but the

extent, the variety, and the hideousness of the disease in modern times,

infinitely surpass all that was ever dreamt of in Pagan credulity. The

points of resemblance, however, are not yet exhausted.

"A chief sign of the divine afflatus," says Jamblichus, citing Porphyry,

"is, that he who induces the _numen_ into himself, sees the spirit

descending, and its quantity and quality. Also, he who receives the

_numen_ sees before the reception a certain likeness of a fire; sometimes,

also, this is beheld by the bystanders, both at the advent and the

departure of the god. By which sign, they who are skilful in these matters

discern, with perfect accuracy, what is the power of the numen, and what

its order, and what are the things concerning which it can give true

responses, and what it is competent to do.... Thus it is that the

excellence of this divine fire, and appearance, as it were, of ineffable

light, comes down upon, and fills, and dominates over the possessed

person, and he is wholly involved in it, so that he cannot do any act of

himself.... But after this comes ecstacy, or disembodiment."

Thomas Bartholin (brother of Gaspar) has anticipated the inquiries of Sir

Henry Marsh, and of Reichenbach himself, on the subject of light from the

human body. In a treatise, full of singular learning, "De luce Animalium,"

he has adduced a multitude of examples of the evolution of light from the

living as well as the dead body, and in the cases of secular and pagan, as

well as of ecclesiastical and Christian, persons; and this, without having

recourse to any testimony of the Hagiologists. The _Aureolæ_ of the

Christian saints may not, after all, have been the merely fanciful

additions of superstitious artists.

The convulsive distortions of the Pythoness were but a feeble type of the

phenomena of demonopathy, or the supposed possession of the middle ages.

It was chiefly in convents, among the crowd of young girls and women, that

these dreadful disorders were used to break out; but the visitation was

not confined to convents, nor to the profession of any particular creed.

Wherever religious excitation prevailed among the young and susceptible,

especially when they happened to be brought together in considerable

numbers, there the pest was attracted, as a fever or other malady would be

attracted by a foul atmosphere. No patient in the magnetic coma ever

exhibited such prodigies of endurance as thousands of the involuntary

victims of these contagious manias. Who in any modern _seance_ has beheld

a patient supported only on the protuberance of the stomach, with the head

and limbs everted, and the arms raised in the air, and so remaining curved

into the appearance of a fish on a stall, tied by the tail and gills,

motionless for hours at a time? Or what rigidity of muscle in magnetic

catalepsy has ever equalled that of a convulsionnaire, who would weary the

strongest man, inflicting blows of a club, to the number of several

thousands a day, on her stomach, while sustaining herself in an arc solely

by the support of the head and the heels? Madame de Sazilli, who was

exorcised in presence of the Duke of Orleans, at London, in 1631, "became,

at the command of Pere Elisce, supple as a plate of lead. The exorcist

plaited her limbs in various ways, before and behind, to this side and to

that, in such sort that her head would sometimes almost touch the ground,

her demon (say her malady) retaining her in each position immovably until

she was put into the next. Next came the demon Sabulon, who rolled her

through the chapel with horrible convulsions. Five or six times he carried

her left foot up higher than her shoulder; all the while her eyes were

fixed, wide open, without winking; after that he threw out her limbs till

she touched the ground, with her legs extended straight on either side,

and while in that posture, the exorcist compelled her to join her hands,

and with the trunk of the body in an erect posture, to adore the holy

sacrament." We seem to read the proceedings of an electro-biologist,

rather than of a pastor of the church: but the parallel is not yet at an

end. "The same nun," says Calmeil, "towards the close of her exorcism,

executed a command which the Duke imparted secretly to her exorcist." Then

follows this remarkable admission of the learned and cautious

physiologist:—"On hundreds of occasions one might believe, in effect, that

the Energumenes read the thoughts of the ecclesiastics who were charged

with the combating of their demons. It is certain that these young women

were endowed, during their excesses of hysteria or nervous exaltation,

with a penetration of mind altogether unique." The children of the

fanatics of the Cevennes, while in their supposed prophetic ecstacies,

spoke the purest dialect of French, and expressed themselves with singular

propriety. The same facility of speaking in a fluent and exalted style

while in the divinatory ecstacy, was remarked of old in the case of the

Pythian priestess. "Though it cannot be divined," says Plutarch, in his

"Inquiry," "why the Pythian priestess ceases to deliver her oracles in

verse; but that her parentage was virtuous and honest, and that she always

lived a sober and chaste life, yet her education was among poor, laboring

people, so that she was advanced to the oracular sect rude and unpolished,

void of all the advantages of art or experience. For, as it is the opinion

of Xenophon, that a virgin, ready to be espoused, ought to be carried to

the bridegroom’s house before she has either seen or heard the least

communication, so the Pythian priestess ought to converse with Apollo

illiterate and ignorant almost of every thing, still approaching his

presence with a truly virgin soul."

We might here, without any stretch of imagination, suppose we are reading

a commentary on the birth and character of Joan of Arc, or of any of the

prophetesses of the Swiss Anabaptists. But to return to the possessions

recorded by Calmeil.

The biological relations alleged by the mesmerists appear in still

stronger development in the case of the nuns of Auxonne in 1662. The

Bishop of Chalons reports, speaking of the possessed, "that all the

aforesaid young women, being in number eighteen, as well seculars as

regulars, and without a single exception, appeared to him to have obtained

the gift of tongues, inasmuch as they accurately replied to the matters in

Latin, which were addressed to them by their exorcists, and which were not

borrowed from the ritual, still less arranged by any preconcert; they

frequently explained themselves in Latin—sometimes in entire periods,

sometimes in broken sentences;" "that all or almost all of them were

proved to have introvision (_cognizance de l’interieur_) and knowledge of

whatever thought might be secretly addressed to them, as appeared

particularly in the case of the internal commands which were often

addressed to them by the exorcists, and which in general they obeyed

implicitly, although without any external signification of the command,

either verbal or by way of sign; as the said Lord Bishop experienced in

many instances, among others, in that of Denise Parisot, whom the exorcist

having commanded, in the depths of his own mind, to come to him for the

purpose of being exorcised, she came incontinently, though dwelling in a

remote part of the town; telling the Lord Bishop that she had received his

commands and was come accordingly; and this she did on several occasions;

likewise in the person of Sister Jamin, a novice, who, on recovering from

her fit, told him the internal commandment which he had given to her demon

during the exorcism; also in the case of the Sister Borthon, to whom

having issued a mental commandment in one of her paroxysms to come and

prostrate herself before the Holy Sacrament, with her face to the ground

and her arms stretched forward, she executed his command at the very

instant that he willed it, with a promptitude and precipitation altogether

wonderful."

Sister Denise Parisot, one of those who exhibited these singularities,

also displayed a farther and very remarkable manifestation of what would

now be called biological influence. "Being commanded by his Lordship to

make the pulse of her right arm entirely cease beating while that of the

left continued, and then to transfer the pulsation so as to beat in the

right arm while it should stop in the left, she executed his orders with

the utmost precision in the presence of the physician (Morel), who

admitted and deposed to the fact, and of several ecclesiastics. Sister de

la Purification did the same thing two or three times, causing her pulse

to beat or to stop at the command of the exorcist."

Instead of exorcist we may, without much apprehension of offending either

the reason or the belief of any candid person, read "Mesmerist." The

passes seem similar, the phenomena identical. Again, in the case of the

girls of the parish of Landes, near Bayeux, in 1732, the orders given by

the exorcists in Latin appeared to be well understood by the patients. "In

general," says Calmeil, quoting the contemporaneous account of their

possession, "during the ecstatic access, the sense of touch was not

excited even by the application of fire; nevertheless the exorcists affirm

that their patients yielded immediate attention to the thoughts which they

(the exorcists) refrained from expressing, and that they described with

exactness the interior of distant houses which they had never before

seen."

This long and varied survey of different forms of physical and mental

malady brings us to a point where we may, with some confidence, take our

stand on inductive conclusions. It seems evident, then, that all the

phenomena of animal magnetism have been from an early period known to

mankind under the various forms of divinatory ecstasy, demonopathy or

witchmania, theomania, or fanatical religious excitation, spontaneous

catalepsy, and somnambulism. That, in addition to the ordinary

manifestations of insensibility to pain, rigidity, and what is called

clairvoyance, the patients affected with the more intense conditions of

the malady have at all times exhibited a marvellous command of languages;

a seeming participation in the thoughts, sensations, and impulses of

others; a power of resisting, for some short time at least, the action of

fire; and, perhaps, a capacity of evolving some hitherto unknown energy

counteractive of the force of gravitation. That the condition of mind and

body in question can be induced by means addressed to each and all of the

senses, as well as involuntarily by way of sympathy or contagion. That the

fixing of the eyes on a particular point, as a wafer, or the umbilicus, or

on a polished ball or mirror, is one of the most general and efficacious

means of artificially inducing the condition of clairvoyance. That it may

also, on those prepared for its reception by strong mental excitement, be

induced by tumultuous music, as by the sound of drums and cymbals, by

odors, and, perhaps, by unguents; and that the same condition also

frequently supervenes on long-continued and intense emotion, as well as on

those hysterical and convulsive movements of the body which sometimes

attend on excessive religious excitation. That, induced by the latter

means, clairvoyance has a tendency to become contagious, and has often

afflicted whole communities with the most dangerous and deplorable

epidemic hallucinations, as in the fancied witch-sabbaths of the

domonomaniacs, and prowling excursions of lycanthropes and vampyres; but

that, although in these demotic frenzies, the prevailing ideas and images

presented to the minds of the sufferers are merely illusory, they possess

the capacity of being put in such a relation with ideas and images derived

from actual existence in the mind of others, as to perceive and

appropriate them. Beyond this it would be difficult to advance our

speculation with any degree of certainty; but if speculation may be at all

indulged in such a question, it might, perhaps, be allowed to a sanguine

speculator to surmise that, possibly, the mind in that state may be put

_en rapport_ with not only the ideas and emotions of another particular

mind, but with the whole of the external world, and with all its minds.

Another step would carry us to that participation in the whole scheme of

nature, pretended to by divinators and seers; but it must be owned that,

in the present state of the evidences, there is no solid ground on which

to rest the foot of conjecture in taking either the one step or the other.

In the mean time, many practitioners are playing with an agency, the

dangerous character of which they little suspect. In ancient exorcisms, it

sometimes happened that the exorcist himself became the involuntary

recipient of the contagious frenzy of the patient. If such an event

happened now, it would not be more wonderful than when it befel the Pere

Surin, at Loudon, in 1635, as he has himself described his disaster in his

letter to the Jesuit Attichi: "For three months and a half I have never

been without a devil in full exercise within me. While I was engaged in

the performance of my ministry, the devil passed out of the body of the

possessed, and coming into mine, assaulted me and cast me down, shook me,

and traversed me to and fro, for several hours. I cannot tell you what

passed within me during that time, and how that spirit united itself with

mine, leaving no liberty either of sensation or of thought, but acting in

me like another self, or as if I possessed two souls; these two souls

making, as it were, a battle ground of my body. When I sought, at the

instigation of the one, to make the sign of the cross on my mouth, the

other suddenly would turn round my hand and seize the fingers with my

teeth, making me bite myself with rage. When I sought to speak, the word

would be taken out of my mouth; at mass I would be stopped short; at table

I could not carry the food to my mouth; at confession I forgot my sins; in

fine, I felt the devil go and come within me as if he used me for his

daily dwelling-house."

Or, if instead of passing into a single operator, as in the case of Surin,

the diseased contagion should suddenly expand itself among a crowd of

bystanders, there would be nothing to wonder at, although enough to

deplore, in such a catastrophe. It would be no more than has already

happened in all the epidemics of lycanthropy and witchmania, of the

dancers of St. Vitas, of the Jumpers, Quakers, and Revivalists, of the

Mewers, Barkers, and Convulsionnaires. The absence of religious

pretensions among the operators seems as yet to be the chief guarantee

against such results. If instead of being made rigid and lucid by the

manipulations of a professor, the patients should find themselves cast

into that state by contact with the tomb of a preacher, or with the

reliques of a saint, society would soon be revisited with all the evils of

_pseudo_-miracles and supposed demoniacal possessions. The comparatively

innocent frenzy of the followers of Father Mathew, was the nearest

approach to a social disturbance of that kind that our country has been

visited by since the barking epidemic of the fourteenth century. "In the

county of Leicester, a person travelling along the road," says Camden,

"found a pair of gloves, fit for his hands, as he thought; but when he put

them on, he lost his speech immediately, and could do nothing but bark

like a dog; nay, from that moment, the men and women, old and young,

throughout the whole country, barked like dogs, and the children like

whelps. This plague continued, with some eighteen days, with others a

month, and with some for two years; and, like a contagious distemper, at

last infected the neighboring counties, and set them a barking too."

If mesmerism did no more than demonstrate, as it has done, that all the

supposed evidences of modern inspiration, as well as of modern demoniacal

possession and ghost-craft, are but the manifestations of a physical

disorder, capable of being induced by ordinary agencies, it would have

done a great service to the cause of social and religious stability. In

addition to this, it has furnished surgery with a new narcotic, perhaps

with a new anti-spasmodic. It is not impossible that here, at length, a

means may have been found for combating the horrors of hydrophobia. Its

higher pretensions of clairvoyance and provision, if not proved, are at

least not yet satisfactorily disproved. Its admitted usefulness may,

perhaps, counterbalance its perils; but in every exercise of it, whether

curative or speculative, it is never to be forgotten, that the phenomena

are those of disease, and that the production of disease, save for the

counteraction of other maladies more hurtful, is in itself an evil.

S. F.

A CHAPTER OF EPITAPHS.

From Sharp’s Magazine.

By F. Lawrence.

The best epitaphs, according to our notion, are generally the shortest and

the plainest. In no description of composition is elaborate and ornate

phraseology so much out of place. Where a world-wide reputation has been

achieved, the name alone, with the addition perhaps of a date, is often

calculated to produce a more impressive effect than an ostentatious

inscription. It has been observed that the simple words—

CATHERINE THE GREAT TO PETER THE FIRST,

inscribed on the monument erected by the Empress Catherine to the memory

of her husband, arrogant as they are, contain the essence of the sublime.

And, in like manner, among the most impressive memorials in Westminster

Abbey are the words, "O rare Ben Jonson," chiselled beneath the great

play-wright’s bust, and the name of J. DRYDEN, with the date of his birth

and death, and the simple statement, that the tomb was erected, in 1720,

by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham. We doubt whether the effect of the

latter would have been improved by the addition of the couplet written for

it by Pope, admirable as it is:

This Sheffield raised: the sacred dust below

Was Dryden once—the rest who does not know?

Among the best epitaphs in the Poet’s Corner, we are inclined to number

that on Spenser, which combines in an eminent degree dignity and

simplicity, and possesses a character which at once attracts attention.

The monument on which it appears had been originally erected by Anne,

Countess of Dorset, and having fallen into decay, was restored, in 1768,

precisely in its old form:

Heare lyes (expecting the second

Comminge of our Savior CHRIST

JESUS) the body of Edmond Spencer,

The Prince of Poets in his tyme,

Other witnesse than the works

Which he left behinde him.

He was borne in London in the yeare 1553,

And died in the year 1598.

The epitaph of Michael Drayton, another of the Elizabethan poets, said by

some to be the composition of Ben Jonson, and by others to be by Quarles,

has also a species of quaint beauty and solemnity which raises it above

the ordinary level. It was originally in gilt letters:

MICHAEL DRAITON, Esq.

A memorable poet of this age,

Exchanged his laurell for a crowne of glorye,

Ao. 1631.

Doe, pious Marble! let thy readers knowe

What they and what their children owe

To DRAITON’S name, whose sacred dust

We recommend unto thy TRUST:

Protect his memory, and preserve his storye,

Remaine a lastinge monument of his glorye;

And when thy ruines shall disclaime

To be the treas’rer of his name,

His name that cannot fade shall be

An everlasting monument to thee.

We cannot say that the Latin compositions of this sort in Westminster

Abbey are much to our taste. One however, we cannot pass over—that to the

memory of Goldsmith, by Dr. Johnson—a scholar-like production, dictated by

affection, and full of grace and tenderness. In the delineation of the

personal and literary character of his friend, we recognize all the

grander traits of the honest giant’s loving heart and powerful pen.

Nothing can be in better taste than his commendation of Goldsmith’s

genius:

Affectuum _potens et lenis Dominator_;

Ingenio sublimis—vividus, versatilis,

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus—

Of the English epitaphs, one of the most remarkable for elegance and

simplicity is that on Purcell, the composer, reputed, on the authority of

Malone, to be by Dryden, It certainly is not unworthy of his pen:

Here lyes

HENRY PURCELL, Esq.

Who left this life,

And is gone to that blessed place

Where only his Harmony

Can be exceeded.

Obiit 21 die Novembris

Anno Ætatis suæ 37

Annoque Domini 1695.

Among more modern inscriptions, those on the great engineers, Watt and

Telford, are particularly worthy of notice. The former is from the pen of

Lord Brougham:

Not to perpetuate a name,

Which must endure while the peaceful arts flourish,

But to show

That mankind have learned to know those

Who best deserve their gratitude,

The King,

His ministers, and many of the nobles

And commoners of the realm

Raised this monument to

JAMES WATT,

Who, directing the force of an original genius,

Early exercised in philosophic research,

To the improvement of the Steam Engine,

Enlarged the resources of his country,

Increased the power of man,

And rose to eminent place

Among the most illustrious followers of science,

And the real benefactors of the world.

The inscription on Telford’s monument is equally chaste and beautiful. It

presents this noble summary of his life and character:

The orphan son of a shepherd, self-educated,

He raised himself,

By his extraordinary talents and integrity,

From the humble condition of an operative mason,

And became one of the

Most eminent Civil Engineers of the age.

This marble has been erected near the spot

Where his remains are deposited,

By the friends who revered his virtues,

But his noblest monuments are to be found amongst

The great public works of his country.

Every visitor will reverently pause before the magnificent cenotaph of the

great Earl of Chatham, which, though somewhat too confused and elaborate

in its decorations, is not unworthy of the greatest of English ministers.

Having achieved a higher reputation as a statesman and orator than any

other public man which his country had produced, and having fallen, as it

were, in her service, the national gratitude was displayed in an

unprecedented manner by honors paid his memory. His body lay in state

three days in the painted chamber in the House of Lords—his public funeral

exceeded in splendor the obsequies of princes—his debts were paid by the

nation—and finally, the stately tomb to which we have drawn attention, was

placed over his remains. The inscription whilst exceedingly plain and

simple, is impressive and appropriate:

Erected by the King and Parliament

As a testimonial to

The Virtues and Ability

of

WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM,

During whose administration, in the reigns of

George II. and George III.

Divine Providence

Exalted Great Britain

To a height of Prosperity and Glory

Unknown in any former age.

Of poetical epitaphs in the Abbey some of the most important are by Pope.

Like everything else from his pen, they are carefully written, but viewed

as monumental inscriptions, not distinguished for any striking excellence.

Among the best of them is that on the Honourable James Craggs, a secretary

of state, rather discreditably mixed up with the South Sea Bubble:—

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, yet in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, served no private end,

Who gained no title, and who lost no friend;

Ennobled by Himself, by all approved,

Praised, wept, and honored by the Muse he loved.

The one on Gay is interesting as a tribute of friendship, and as a

faithful portrait of that pleasing and amiable poet, the simplicity of

whose character is admirably delineated in the first couplet:—

Of manners gentle, and affections mild,

_In wit a man, simplicity a child_.

Altogether it is a beautiful and appropriate composition, and we cannot

but regret that the monument on which it appears should be disfigured by

the doggerel, said to have been written by Gay himself, and inscribed on

the ledge just above Pope’s epitaph;

Life is a jest, and all things show it;

I thought so once, but now I know it.

That of Nicholas Rowe, the dramatist (also by Pope), has been admired for

the pathos of the concluding lines, the beauty of which, however, it is a

matter of notoriety, was considerably marred by a prosaic circumstance,

which proves the danger of assuming facts even in poetical compositions.

The monument is commemorative of the poet and of his only daughter, the

wife of Henry Fane. His widow survived him, and her inconsolable

affliction was beautifully depicted:-

To these so mourned in death, so loved in life,

The childless parent and the widowed wife,

With tears inscribes this monumental stone,

That holds their ashes, _and expects her own_.

Almost, however, before "the monumental stone" was finished, the

disconsolate widow dried her eyes, and married a gallant colonel of

dragoons, without considering that she was spoiling the beauty of her

husband’s epitaph.

Among the most flagrant instances of false taste, we must specify that on

the tomb of David Garrick. The tomb itself has been described as "a

theatrical conceit, of which the design exhibits neither taste nor

invention." The epitaph was the production of Pratt, author of Harvest

Home and other lucubrations which have long since been consigned to the

tomb of the Capulets; and both epitaph and monument are thus spoken of by

Charles Lamb in the _Essays of Elia_. Alluding principally to the

eccentric attitude of the actor’s effigy, he observes, "Though I would not

go so far, with some good Catholics abroad, as to shut players altogether

out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalized at the

introduction of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to

remind us of the saddest realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under

this burlesque figure a farrago of false thought and nonsense." The

farrago in question is in verse, and represents Shakspeare and Garrick as

"twin stars," who as long as time shall last are to "irradiate earth with

a beam divine."

There are but few epitaphs in St. Paul’s Cathedral—the other great

resting-place of illustrious dead—worthy of remark or reproduction. The

best in the whole edifice, and one of the most perfect compositions of its

kind, is the well-known inscription commemorative of its renowned

architect, Sir Christopher Wren:

Subditus conditur hujus Ecelesiæ at Urbis

Conditor, CHRISTOPHERUS WREN, qui vixit

Annos ultra nonaginta, non sibi, sed

Bono publico. _Lector, si monumentum requiris,_

_Circumspice._

We need not point out the beauties of this celebrated epitaph:—its

terseness of phraseology (to which no translation could do justice)—its

suggestiveness, grandeur and dignity. Another Latin inscription in St.

Paul’s is also deserving notice, both on account of its merit, and the

individual it commemorates—that on Dr. Samuel Johnson, written by the

famous Dr. Parr. Of English inscriptions in this Cathedral, the most

striking is that on the monument of John Howard. It concludes with the

well-known sentence: "He trod an open and unfrequented path,to

immortality, in the ardent and unremitting exercise of Christian charity.

May this tribute to his fame excite an emulation of his truly glorious

achievements."

It is no very easy matter to produce a good epitaph. Great practice in

composition is required—great power of condensation—and the exercise of

judgment and discrimination. In efforts at epitaph-writing, few English

poets have appeared to advantage. One or two perfect specimens, indeed, we

possess, but the success of a single writer must be set against the

failure of a great many. Of our good epitaphs, the very best, in our

opinion, is that on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke, the sister of Sir

Philip Sidney, by Ben Jonson. Although it has been often quoted, we cannot

exclude it from this paper:

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:

Death, ere thou hast slain another,

Fair, and wise, and good as she,

Time shall throw his dart at thee.

Another of Jonson’s epitaphs, although more rugged in versification, is

also deserving of quotation;

Underneath this stone doth lie

As much virtue as could die;

Which, when alive, did vigor give

To as much beauty as could live.

If she had a single fault,

Leave it buried in this vault.

Not a few of Pope’s epitaphs, as we have before hinted, appear tame,

insipid, and characterized by a false taste. We except the well-known

couplet for the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, in which there are dignity

of language and boldness of conception:

Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night;—

God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

David Garrick is the author of some very good and characteristic epitaphs.

The best, is that on Claudius Philips, the musician, who lived and died in

great poverty. It was some time ascribed to Dr. Johnson, but is now known

to be the production of Garrick:

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove

The pangs of guilty power and hapless love,

Rest here, distress’d by poverty no more,

Here find that calm thou gav’st so oft before;

Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,

Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

Another of Garnet’s epitaphs, is that on Mr. Havard, the comedian, who

died in 1778. It is described by the author as a tribute "to the memory of

a character he long knew and respected." Whatever its merits as a

composition, the professional metaphor introduced is sadly out of place:

"An honest man’s the noblest work of God."

Havard, from sorrow rest beneath this stone;

An honest man—beloved as soon as known;

Howe’er defective in the mimic art,

In real life he justly played his part!

The noblest character he acted well,

And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

The one on William Hogarth, in Chiswick Churchyard, by Garrick, is in

better taste:

Farewell, great painter of mankind,

Who reach’d the noblest point of art;

Whose pictur’d morals charm the mind,

And through the eye correct the heart!

If genius fire thee, reader, stay;

If nature touch thee, drop a tear:-

If neither move thee, turn away,

For Hogarth’s honor’d dust lies here.

Some distinguished men have amused themselves, while living, by inditing

epitaphs for themselves. Franklin, and the great lawyer and orientalist,

Sir William Jones, have left characteristic performances of this kind in

prose, and from Matthew Prior we have a mock-serious one in verse. The

latter has been often quoted, but it will bear repetition:

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,

Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior:

The son of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?

In the same spirit, but superior in tone and quality, is the following,

the authorship of which is unknown, "on a poor but honest man:"

Stop, reader, here, and deign to look

On one without a name,

Ne’er enter’d in the ample book

Of fortune or of fame.

Studious of peace, he hated strife;

Meek virtues fill’d his breast;

His coat of arms, "a spotless life,"

"An honest heart" his crest.

Quarter’d therewith was innocence,

And thus his motto ran:

"A conscience void of all offence,

Before both God and man."

In the great day of wrath, through pride

Now scorns his pedigree,

Thousands shall wish they’d been allied

To this great family.

The thought in Prior’s is ludicrously expressed in the following, from a

monument erected in 1703, in the New Church burying-ground, Dundee, to the

memory of J. R.

Here lies a Man,

Com’d of Adam and Eve;

If any will climb higher,

I give him leave.

Amongst poetical epitaphs, of the more elaborate class, we must notice two

by Mason; one to the memory of his mother, in Bristol Cathedral, and the

other on a young lady named Drummond, in the church of Brodsworth,

Yorkshire. We have space for only the latter.

Here sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;

Grace, that with tenderness and sense combined

To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where brainy shines the mirror of the mind.

Such was the maid that, in the morn of youth,

In virgin innocence, in nature’s pride,

Blest with each art that owes its charms to truth,

Sank in her father’s fond embrace, and died.

He weeps; O venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to ease affliction’s load;

The parent mourns his child upon the bier,

The Christian yields an angel to his God.

Of whimsical and satirical epitaphs—some actually inscribed on tombstones,

and others intended for pasquinades—a large collection might be made. We

have little taste for these anomalous compositions, nor do we consider it

creditable to the national character, that so many English churchyards can

be pointed out where they occur. But there are those who will make even

the tomb a subject of pleasant humors. The epitaph for the tomb of Sir

John Vanbrugh, distinguished as a dramatist and architect, and reflecting

on his achievements in the latter capacity, is as follows:

Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he

Laid many a heavy load on thee.

The original of the following is among the epigrams of Boileau:—

Here lies my wife; there let her lie;

She is at rest—and so am I.

We do not suppose that this was ever engraved on a tombstone, either in

French or English; but the following lines are said to have been copied

from a slab in an English church:—

Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,

Who as a wife did never vex one;

We can’t say that for her at the next stone.

The next specimen is also known to have appeared on a tomb in Essex:—

Here lies the man Richard,

And Mary his wife;

Their surname was Pritchard;

They lived without strife;

And the reason was plain;

They abounded in riches,

They no care had nor pain,

And the wife wore the breeches.

We will not multiply examples of these compositions. Lines of the

description we have quoted have often found their way into print, and we

have selected one or two of the least offensive as examples of

eccentricity.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.

AN ADVENTURE WITH ROBBERS.

From Chamber’s Edinburgh Journal.

The world, since it was a world at all, has ever been fond of singing the

praises of the good old times. It would seem a general rule, that so soon

as we get beyond a certain age, whatever that may be, we acquire a high

opinion of the past, and grumble at every thing new under the sun. One

cause of this may be, that distance lends enchantment to the view, and

that the history of the past, like a landscape travelled over, loses in

review all the rugged and wearisome annoyances that rendered it scarcely

bearable in the journey. But it is hardly worth while to speculate upon

the causes of an absurdity which a little candid retrospection will do

more to dissipate than whole folios of philosophy. We can easily

understand a man who sighs that he was not born a thousand years hence

instead of twenty or thirty years ago, but that any one should encourage a

regret that his lot in life was not cast a few centuries back, seems

inexplicable on any rational grounds. The utter folly of praising the good

old times may be illustrated by a reference to the wretched condition of

most European cities; but we shall confine ourselves to the single case of

Paris, now one of the most beautiful capitals in the world.

In the thirteenth century the streets of Paris were not paved; they were

muddy and filthy to a very horrible degree, and swine constantly loitered

about and fed in them. At night there were no public lights, and

assassinations and robberies were far from infrequent. At the beginning of

the fourteenth century public lighting was begun on a limited scale; and

at best only a few tallow candles were put up in prominent situations. The

improvement, accordingly, did little good, and the numerous bands of

thieves had it still pretty much their own way. Severity of punishment

seldom compensates the want of precautionary measures. It was the general

custom at this period to cut off the ears of a condemned thief after the

term of his imprisonment had elapsed. Thia was done that offenders might

be readily recognized should they dare again to enter the city, banishment

from which was a part of the sentence of such as were destined to be

cropped. But they often found it easier to fabricate false ears than to

gain a livelihood away from the arena of their exploits; and this measure,

severe and cruel as it was, was found inefficient to rid the capital of

their presence.

Among the various adventures with thieves, detailed by an author

contemporaneous with Louis XIII., the following affords a rich example of

the organization of the domestic brigands of the time, and of the wretched

security which the capital afforded to its inhabitants.

A celebrated advocate named Polidamor had by his reputation for riches

aroused the covetousness of some chiefs of a band of brigands, who

flattered themselves that could they catch him they would obtain

possession of an important sum. They placed upon his track three bold

fellows, who, after many fruitless endeavors, encountered him one evening

accompanied only by a single lackey. Seizing fast hold of himself and

attendant, they rifled him in a twinkling; and as he had accidentally left

his purse at home, they took his rich cloak of Spanish cloth and silk,

which was quite new, and of great value. Polidamor, who at first resisted,

found himself compelled to yield to force, but asked as a favor to be

allowed to redeem his mantle. This was agreed to at the price of thirty

pistoles; and the rogues appointed a rendezvous the next day, at six in

the evening, on the same spot, for the purpose of effecting the exchange.

They recommended him to come alone, assuring him that his life would be

endangered should he appear accompanied with an escort. Polidamor repaired

to the place at the appointed hour, and after a few moments of expectation

he saw a carriage approaching in which were seated four persons in the

garb of gentlemen. They descended from the vehicle, and one of them,

advancing towards the advocate, asked him in a low voice if he were not in

search of a cloak of Spanish cloth and silk. The victim replied in the

affirmative, and declared himself prepared to redeem it at the sum at

which it had been taxed. The thieves having assured themselves that he was

alone, seized him, and made him get into the carriage; and one of them

presenting a pistol to his breast, bade him hold his tongue under pain of

instant death, while another blindfolded him. As the advocate trembled

with fear, they assured him that no harm was intended, and bade the

coachman drive on.

After a rapid flight, which was yet long enough to inspire the prisoner

with deadly terror, the carriage stopped in front of a large mansion, the

gate of which opened to receive them, and closed again as soon as they had

passed the threshold. The robbers alighted with their captive, from whose

eyes they now removed the bandage. He was led into an immense saloon,

where were a number of tables, upon which the choicest viands were

profusely spread, and seated at which was a company of gentlemanly-looking

personages, who chatted familiarly together, without the slightest

demonstration of confusion or alarm. His guardians again enjoined him to

lay aside all fear, informed him that he was in good society, and that

they had brought him there solely that they might enjoy the pleasure of

his company at supper. In the mean while water was served to the guests,

that they might wash their hands before sitting at table. Every man took

his place, and a seat was assigned to Polidamor at the upper and

privileged end of the board. Astonished, or rather stupefied at the

strange circumstances of his adventure, he would willingly have abstained

from taking any part in the repast; but he was compelled to make a show of

eating, in order to dissemble his mistrust and agitation. When the supper

was ended and the tables were removed, one of the gentlemen who had

assisted in his capture accosted him with polite expressions of regret at

his want of appetite. During the interchange of courtesies which ensued,

one of the bandits took a lute, another a viol, and the party began to

amuse themselves with music. The advocate was then invited to walk into a

neighboring room, where he perceived a considerable number of mantles

ranged in order. He was desired to select his own, and to count out the

thirty pistoles agreed upon, together with one for coach-hire, and one

more for his share of the reckoning at supper. Polidamor, who had been

apprehensive that the drama of which his mantle had been the occasion

might have a very different _dénouement_, was but too well pleased to be

quit at such a cost, and he took leave of the assembly with unfeigned

expressions of gratitude. The carriage was called, and before entering it

he was again blindfolded; his former conductors returned with him to the

spot where he had been seized, where, removing the bandage from his eyes,

they allowed him to alight, presenting him at the same moment with a

ticket sealed with green wax, and having these words inscribed in large

letters, _"Freed by the Great Band_." This ticket was a passport securing

his mantle, purse, and person against all further assaults. Hastening to

regain his residence with all speed, he was assailed at a narrow turning

by three other rascals, who demanded his purse or his life. The advocate

drew his ticket from his pocket, though he had no great faith in it as a

preservative, and presented it to the thieves. One of them, provided with

a dark lantern, read it, returned it, and recommended him to make haste

home, where he at last arrived in safety.

Early in the seventeenth century the Parisian rogues availed themselves of

the regulations against the use of snuff to pillage the snuff-takers. As

the sale of this article was forbidden by law to any but grocers and

apothecaries, and as even they could only retail it to persons provided

with the certificate of a medical man, the annoyance of such restrictions

was loudly complained of. The rogues, ever ready to profit by

circumstances, opened houses for gaming—at that period almost a universal

vice—where "snuff at discretion" was a tempting bait to those long

accustomed to a gratification all the more agreeable because it was

forbidden. Here the snuff-takers were diligently plied with wine, and then

cheated of their money; or, if too temperate or suspicious to drink to

excess, they were unceremoniously plundered in a sham quarrel. To such a

length was this practice carried, that an ordinance was at length issued

in 1629, strictly forbidding all snuff-takers from assembling in public

places or elsewhere, "_pour satisfaire leur goût_!"

The thieves of the good old times were not only more numerous in

proportion to the population than they are at present, but were also

distinguished by greater audacity and cruelty. They had recourse to the

most diabolical ingenuity to subdue the resistance and to prevent the

outcries of their victims. Under the rule of Henry IV. a band of brigands

arose, who, in the garb, and with the manners of gentlemen, introduced

themselves into the best houses under the pretext of private business, and

when alone with the master, demanded his money at the dagger’s point. Some

of them made use of a gag—a contrivance designated at the period the

_poire d’angoisse_. This instrument was of a spherical shape, and pierced

all over with small holes; it was forced into the mouth of the person

intended to be robbed, and upon touching a spring sharp points protruded

from every hole, at once inflicting the most horrible anguish, and

preventing the sufferer from uttering a single cry. It could not be

withdrawn but by the use of the proper key, which contracted the spring.

This device was adopted universally by one savage band, and occasioned

immense misery not only in Paris but throughout France.

An Italian thief, an enterprising and ingenious rogue, adopted a singular

expedient for robbing women at their devotions in church. He placed

himself on his knees by the side of his intended prey, holding in a pair

of artificial hands a book of devotion, to which he made a show of the

most devout attention, while with his natural hands he cut the watch or

purse-string of his unsuspecting neighbor. This stratagem, favored by the

fashion, then general, of wearing mantles, met with great success, and of

course soon produced a host of clumsy imitators, and excited the vigilance

of the police, who at length made so many seizures of solemn-faced

devotees provided with wooden kid-gloved hands, that it fell into complete

discredit, and was at last abandoned by the profession.

Cunning as were the rogues of a past age, they were liable to capture like

their modern successors. A gentleman having resorted to Paris on business,

was hustled one day in the precincts of the palace, and robbed of his

well-filled purse. Furious at the loss of a considerable sum, he swore to

be avenged. He procured a clever mechanic, who, under his directions,

contrived a kind of hand-trap for the pocket, managed in such a manner as

to preclude the possibility of an attempt at purse-stealing without

detection. Having fixed the instrument in its place, impatient for the

revenge he had promised himself, he sallied forth to promenade the public

walks, mingled with every group, and stopped from time to time gazing

about him with the air of a greenhorn. Several days passed before any

thing resulted from his plan; but one morning, while he was gaping at the

portraits of the kings of France in one of the public galleries, he finds

himself surrounded and pushed about, precisely as in the former instance;

he feels a hand insinuating itself gently into the open snare, and hears

immediately the click of the instrument, which assures him that the

delinquent is safely caught. Taking no notice, he walks on as if nothing

had happened, and resumes his promenade, drawing after him the thief, whom

pain and shame prevented from making the least effort to disengage his

hand. Occasionally the gentleman would turn round, and rebuke his

unwilling follower for his importunity, and thus drew the eyes of the

whole crowd upon his awkward position. At last, pretending to observe for

the first time the stranger’s hand in his pocket, he flies into a violent

passion, accuses him of being a cut-purse, and demands the sum he had

previously lost, without which he declares the villain shall be hanged. It

would seem that compounding a felony was nothing in those days; for it is

upon record that the thief, though caught in the act, was permitted to

send a messenger to his comrades, who advanced the money, and therewith

purchased his liberty.

The people were forbidden to employ particular materials in the

fabrication of their clothing, to ride in a coach, to decorate their

apartments as they chose, to purchase certain articles of furniture, and

even to give a dinner party when and in what style they chose. Under the

Valois régime strict limits were assigned to the expenses of the table,

determining the number of courses of which a banquet should consist, and

that of the dishes of which each course was to be composed. Any guest who

should fail to denounce an infraction of the law of which he had been a

witness, was liable to a fine of forty livres; and officers of justice,

who might be present, were strictly enjoined to quit the tables of their

hosts, and institute immediate proceedings against them. The rigor of

these regulations extended, even to the kitchen, and the police had the

power of entry at all hours, to enforce compliance with the statutes.

But it was during the prevalence of an epidemic that it was least

agreeable to live in France in the good old times. No sooner did a

contagious malady, or one that was supposed to be so, make its appearance,

than the inhabitants of Paris were all forbidden to remove from one

residence to another, although their term of tenancy had expired, until

the judge of police had received satisfactory evidence that the house they

desired to leave had not been affected by the contagion. When a house was

infected, a bundle of straw fastened to one of the windows warned the

public to avoid all intercourse with the inmates. At a later period two

wooden crosses were substituted for the straw, one of which was attached

to the front door, and the other to one of the windows in an upper story.

In 1596 the provost of Paris having learned that the tenants of some

houses infected by an epidemic which was then making great ravages, had

removed these badges, issued an ordinance commanding that those who

transgressed in a similar manner again should suffer the loss of the right

hand—a threat which was found perfectly efficient.

By an ordinance of 1533, persons recovering from a contagious malady,

together with their domestics, and all the members of their families, were

forbidden to appear in the streets for a given period without a white wand

in their hands, to warn the public of the danger of contact. Three years

after the authorities were yet more severe against the convalescents, who

were ordered to remain shut up at home for forty days after their cure;

and even when the quarantine had expired, they were not allowed to appear

in the streets until they had presented to a magistrate a certificate from

the commissary of their district, attested by a declaration of six

householders, that the forty days had elapsed. In the preceding century

(in 1498) an ordinance still more extraordinary had been issued. It was at

the coronation of Louis XII. when a great number of the nobles came to

Paris to take part in the ceremony. The provost, desiring to guard them

from the danger of infection, published an order that all persons of both

sexes, suffering under certain specified maladies, should quit the capital

in twenty-four hours, _under the penalty of being thrown into the river_!

THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.

From Household Words.

A strange story was once told me by a Levantine lady of my acquaintance,

which I shall endeavor to relate—as far as I am able with the necessary

abridgments—in her own words. The circumstances under which she told it

were peculiar. The family had just been disturbed by the visit of a

ghost—a real ghost, visible, if not palpable. She was not what may be

called superstitious; and though following with more or less assiduity the

practices of her religion, was afflicted now and then with a fit of

perfect materialism. I was surprised, therefore, to hear her relate, with

every appearance of profound faith, the following incidents:—

There is an old house in Beyrout, which, for many successive years, was

inhabited by a Christian family. It is of great extent, and was of yore

fitted for the dwelling of a prince. The family had, indeed, in

early-times been very rich; and almost fabulous accounts are current of

the wealth of its founder, Fadlallah Dahân. He was a merchant; the owner

of ships, the fitter-out of caravans. The regions of the East and of the

West had been visited by him; and, after undergoing as many dangers and

adventures as Sinbad, he had returned to spend the latter days of his life

in his native city. He built, accordingly, a magnificent dwelling, the

courts of which he adorned with marble fountains, and the chambers with

silk divans; and he was envied on account of his prosperity.

But, in the restlessness of his early years, he had omitted to marry, and

now found himself near the close of his career without an heir to inherit

his wealth and to perpetuate his name. This reflection often disturbed

him; yet he was unwilling to take a wife because he was old. Every now and

then, it is true, he saw men older than he, with fewer teeth and whiter

beards, taking to their bosoms maidens that bloomed like peaches just

beginning to ripen against a wall; and his friends, who knew he would give

a magnificent marriage-feast, urged him to do likewise. Once he looked

with pleasure on a young person of not too tender years, whose parents

purposely presented her to him; but having asked her in a whisper whether

she would like to marry a withered old gentleman like himself, she frankly

confessed a preference for his handsome young clerk, Harma, who earned a

hundred piastres a month. Fadlallah laughed philosophically, and took care

that the young couple should be married under happy auspices.

One day he was proceeding along the street gravely and slowly—surrounded

by a number of merchants proud to walk by his side, and followed by two or

three young men, who pressed near in order to be thought of the company,

and thus establish their credit—when an old woman espying him, began to

cry out, "Yeh! yeh! this is the man who has no wife and no child—this is

the man who is going to die and leave his fortune to be robbed by his

servants or confiscated by the governor! And yet, he has a sagacious

nose"—(the Orientals have observed that there is wisdom in a nose)—"and a

beard as long as my back! Yeh! yeh! what a wonderful sight to see!"

Fadlallah Dahân stopped, and retorted, smiling: "Yeh! yeh! this is the

woman that blames an old man for not marrying a young wife. Yeh! yeh! what

a wonderful sight to see!"

Then the woman replied, "O my lord, every pig’s tail curls not in the same

direction, nor does every maiden admire the passing quality of youth. If

thou wilt, I will bestow on thee a wife, who will love thee as thou lovest

thyself, and serve thee as the angels serve Allah. She is more beautiful

than any of the daughters of Beyrout, and her name is Selima, a name of

good augury."

The friends of Fadlallah laughed, as did the young men who followed in

their wake, and urged him to go and see this peerless beauty, if it were

only for a joke. Accordingly, he told the woman to lead the way. But she

said he must mount his mule, for they had to go some distance into the

country. He mounted, and, with a single servant, went forth from the

gates—the woman preceding—and rode until he reached a village in the

mountains. Here, in a poor little house, he found Selima; clothed in the

very commonest style, engaged in making divan cushions. She was a

marvellously beautiful girl, and the heart of the merchant at once began

to yearn towards her; yet he endeavored to restrain himself, and said,

"This beautiful thing is not for me." But the woman cried out, "Selima,

wilt thou consent to love this old man?" The girl gazed in his face

awhile, and then, folding her hands across her bosom, said, "Yes; for

there is goodness in his countenance." Fadlallah wept with joy; and,

returning to the city, announced his approaching marriage to his friends.

According to custom, they expressed civil surprise to his face; but, when

his back was turned, they whispered that he was an old fool, and had been

the dupe of a she-adventurer.

The marriage took place with ceremonies of royal magnificence; and Selima,

who passed unmoved from extreme poverty to abundant riches, seemed to

merit the position of the greatest lady in Beyrout. Never was woman more

prudent than she. No one ever knew her previous history, nor that of her

mother. Some said that a life of misery, perhaps of shame, was before

them, when this unexpected marriage took place. Selima’s gratitude to

Fadlallah was unbounded; and out of gratitude grew love. The merchant

daily offered up thanks for the bright diamond which had come to shine in

his house.

In due time a child was born; a boy lively as his mother; and they named

him Halil. With what joy he was received, what festivities announced the

glad intelligence to the town, may easily be imagined. Selima and

Fadlallah resolved to devote themselves to his education, and determined

that he should be the most accomplished youth of Bar-er-Shâm. But a long

succession of children followed, each more beautiful than the former—some

boys, some girls; and every new comer was received with additional delight

and still grander ceremonies; so that the people began to say, "Is this a

race of sovereigns?"

Now, Halil grew up to the age of twelve—still a charming lad; but the

parents always fully occupied by the last arrival, had not carried out

their project of education. He was as wild and untamed as a colt, and

spent more of his time in the street than in the company of his mother;

who, by degrees, began to look upon him with a kind of calm friendship due

to strangers. Fadlallah, as he took his accustomed walk with his merchant

friends, used from time to time to encounter a ragged boy fighting in the

streets with the sons of the Jew butcher; but his eyes beginning to grow

dim, he often passed without recognizing him. One day, however, Halil,

breathless and bleeding, ran up and took refuge beneath the skirts of his

mantle from a crowd of savage urchins. Fadlallah was amazed, and said, "O,

my son—for I think thou art my son—what evil hath befallen thee, and

wherefore do I see thee in this state?" The boy, whose voice was choked by

sobs, looked up into his face, and said, "Father, I am the son of the

richest merchant of Beyrout, and behold, there is no one so little cared

for as I."

Fadlallah’s conscience smote him, and he wiped the boy’s bleeding face

with the corner of his silk caftan, and blessed him; and, taking him by

the hand, led him away. The merchants smiled benignly one to the other,

and, pointing with their thumbs, said, "We have seen the model youth!"

Whilst they laughed and sneered, Fadlallah, humbled yet resolved, returned

to his house, leading the ragged Halil, and entered his wife’s chamber.

Selima was playing with her seventh child, and teaching it to lisp the

word "Baba"—about the amount of education which she had found time to

bestow on each of her offspring. When she saw the plight of her eldest son

she frowned, and was about to scold him; but Fadlallah interposed, and

said, "Wife, speak no harsh words. We have not done our duty by this boy.

May God forgive us; but we have looked on these children that have bloomed

from thee, more as playthings than as deposits for which we are

responsible. Halil has become a wild out-of-doors lad, doubting with some

reason of our love. It is too late to bring him back to the destiny we had

dreamt of; but he must not be left to grow up thus uncared for. I have a

brother established in Bassora; to him will I send the lad to learn the

arts of commerce, and to exercise himself in adventure, as his father did

before him. Bestow thy blessing upon him, Selima (here the good old man’s

voice trembled), and may God in his mercy forgive both thee and me for the

neglect which has made this parting necessary. I shall know that I am

forgiven, if, before I go down into the tomb, my son return a wise and

sober man; not unmindful that we gave him life, and forgetting that, until

now, we have given him little else."

Selima laid her seventh child in its cradle of carved wood, and drew Halil

to her bosom; and Fadlallah knew that she loved him still, because she

kissed his face, regardless of the blood and dirt that stained it. She

then washed him and dressed him, and gave him a purse of gold, and handed

him over to his father; who had resolved to send him off by the caravan

that started that very afternoon. Halil, surprised and made happy by

unwonted caresses, was yet delighted at the idea of beginning an

adventurous life; and went away, manfully stifling his sobs, and

endeavoring to assume the grave deportment of a merchant. Selima shed a

few tears, and then, attracted by a crow and a chuckle from the cradle,

began to tickle the infant’s soft double chin, and went on with her

interrupted lesson, "Baba, Baba!"

Halil started on his journey, and having passed through the Valley of

Robbers, the Valley of Lions, and the Valley of Devils—this is the way in

which Orientals localize the supposed dangers of travelling—arrived at the

good city of Bassora; where his uncle received him well, and promised to

send him, as supercargo on board the first vessel he dispatched to the

Indian seas. What time was spent by the caravan upon the road, the

narrative does not state. Travelling is slow work in the East; but almost

immediately on his arrival in Bassora, Halil was engaged in a love

adventure. If travelling is slow, the approaches of manhood are rapid. The

youth’s curiosity was excited by the extraordinary care taken to conceal

his cousin Miriam from his sight; and having introduced himself into her

garden, beheld, and, struck by her wonderful beauty, loved her. With an

Oriental fondness he confessed the truth to his uncle, who listened with

anger and dismay, and told him that Miriam was betrothed to the Sultan.

Halil perceived the danger of indulging his passion, and promised to

suppress it; but whilst he played a prudent part, Miriam’s curiosity was

also excited, and she too beheld and loved her cousin. Bolts and bars

cannot keep two such affections asunder. They met and plighted their troth

and were married secretly, and were happy. But inevitable discovery came.

Miriam was thrown into a dungeon; and the unhappy Halil, loaded with

chains, was put on board a vessel, not as supercargo, but as prisoner,

with orders that he should be left in some distant country.

Meanwhile a dreadful pestilence fell upon Beyrout, and among the first

sufferers was an eighth little one that had just learned to say "Baba!"

Selima was almost too astonished to be grieved. It seemed to her

impossible that death should come into her house, and meddle with the

fruits of so much suffering and love. When they came to take away the

little form which she had so often fondled, her indignation burst forth,

and she smote the first old woman who stretched out her rough

unsympathetic hand. But a shriek from her waiting-woman announced that

another victim was singled out; and the frantic mother rushed like a

tigress to defend the young that yet remained to her. But the enemy was

invisible; and (so the story goes) all her little ones drooped one by one

and died; so that on the seventh day Selima sat in her nursery gazing

about with stony eyes, and counting her losses upon her fingers—Iskender,

Selima, Wardy, Fadlallah, Hanna, Hennenah, Gereges—seven in all. Then she

remembered Halil, and her neglect of him; and, lifting up her voice, she

wept aloud; and, as the tears rushed fast and hot down her cheeks, her

heart yearned for her absent boy, and she would have parted with worlds to

have fallen upon his breast—would have given up her life in return for one

word of pardon and of love.

Fadlallah came in to her; and he was now very old and feeble. His back was

bent, and his transparent hand trembled as it clutched a cane. A white

beard surrounded a still whiter face; and as he came near his wife, he

held out his hand towards her with an uncertain gesture, as if the room

had been dark. This world appeared to him but dimly. "Selima," said he,

"the Giver hath taken. We, too, must go in our turn. Weep, my love, but

weep with moderation, for those little ones that have gone to sing in the

golden cages of Paradise. There is a heavier sorrow in my heart. Since my

first-born, Halil, departed for Bassora, I have only written once to learn

intelligence of him. He was then well, and had been received with favor by

his uncle. We have never done our duty by that boy." His wife replied, "Do

not reproach me; for I reproach myself more bitterly than thou canst do.

Write, then, to thy brother to obtain tidings of the beloved one. I will

make of this chamber a weeping chamber. It has resounded with merriment

enough. All my children learned to laugh and to talk here. I will hang it

with black, and erect a tomb in the midst; and every day I will come and

spend two hours, and weep for those who are gone and for him who is

absent." Fadlallah approved her design; and they made a weeping chamber,

and lamented together every day therein. But their letters to Bassora

remained unanswered; and they began to believe that fate had chosen a

solitary tomb for Halil.

One day a woman, dressed in the garb of the poor, came to the house of

Fadlallah with a boy about twelve years old. When the merchant saw them he

was struck with amazement, for he beheld in the boy the likeness of his

son Halil; and he called aloud to Selima, who, when she came, shrieked

with amazement. The woman told her story, and it appeared that she was

Miriam. Having spent some months in prison, she had escaped and taken

refuge in a forest in the house of her nurse. Here she had given birth to

a son, whom she had called by his father’s name. When her strength

returned, she had set out as a beggar to travel over the world in search

of her lost husband. Marvellous were the adventures she underwent, God

protecting her throughout, until she came to the land of Persia, where she

found Halil working as a slave in the garden of the Governor of Fars.

After a few stolen interviews, she had again resumed her wanderings to

seek for Fadlallah, that he might redeem his son with wealth; but had

passed several years upon the road.

Fortune, however, now smiled upon this unhappy family, and in spite of his

age, Fadlallah set out for Fars. Heaven made the desert easy, and the road

short for him. On a fine calm evening he entered the gardens of the

governor, and found his son gaily singing as he trimmed an orange tree.

After a vain attempt to preserve an incognito, the good old man lifted up

his hands, and shouting, "Halil, my first-born!" fell upon the breast of

the astonished slave. Sweet was the interview in the orange grove, sweet

the murmured conversation between the strong young man and the trembling

patriarch, until the perfumed dew of evening fell upon their heads.

Halil’s liberty was easily obtained, and father and son returned in safety

to Beyrout. Then the Weeping Chamber was closed, and the door walled up;

and Fadlallah and Selima lived happily until age gently did its work at

their appointed times: and Halil and Miriam inherited the house and the

wealth that had been gathered for them.

The supernatural part of the story remains to be told. The Weeping Chamber

was never again opened; but every time that a death was about to occur in

the family, a shower of heavy tear-drops was heard to fall upon its marble

floor, and low wailings came through the walled doorway. Years, centuries

passed away, and the mystery repeated itself with unvarying uniformity.

The family fell into poverty, and only occupied a portion of the house,

but invariably before one of its members sickened unto death, a shower of

heavy drops, as from a thunder-cloud, pattered on the pavement of the

Weeping Chamber, and was heard distinctly at night through the whole

house. At length the family quitted the country in search of better

fortunes elsewhere, and the house remained for a long time uninhabited.

The lady who narrated the story went to live in the house, and passed some

years without being disturbed; but one night she was lying awake, and

distinctly heard the warning shower dripping heavily in the Weeping

Chamber. Next day the news came of her mother’s death, and she hastened to

remove to another dwelling. The house has since been utterly abandoned to

rats, mice, beetles, and an occasional ghost seen sometimes streaming

along the rain-pierced terraces. No one has ever attempted to violate the

solitude of the sanctuary where Selima wept for the seven little ones

taken to the grave, and for the absent one whom she had treated with

unmotherly neglect.

THE BULL FIGHT OF MADRID.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CASTILIAN."

It was one of those clear, bright days, peculiar to a Spanish summer, when

the deep blue skies seem to reflect their warmth in radiance over the

earth; a slumberous influence hung over the tranquil streets of Madrid,

and although it was still early in the morning, the fervid rays of the sun

gave a certain indication of the meridian power he was about to display in

a few hours.

Such was the day appropriated for the splendid and soul-stirring

celebration of a bull-fight; and accordingly, the inhabitants soon began,

by an unusual bustle, to evince the absorbing interest they are accustomed

to take in this favorite amusement. Before the hour of nine, the beautiful

street of Alcala was thronged with a promiscuous multitude, eager to

witness the first exhibition of the morning; the Spanish bull-fight being

in fact composed of two acts, if I may so term them, the morning and the

evening encounters.

On such days, a general cessation of labor takes place throughout the

city, and the whole population is occupied with speculations on the

approaching festival. On the morning in question, the inhabitants of

Madrid, the lower classes in particular, attired in their holiday finery,

began at an early hour to issue from their narrow and obscure dormitories,

and, with tolerably cleanly appearance and much importance of demeanor, to

take up a position in that famous _Puerta del sol_ which, on less

momentous occasions, seems destined only as a lounge for all the

_ennuyés_, news-hunters, and _petit-maitres_ of Madrid. The Manolos, too,

began to congregate in great numbers, casting around those terrible

glances of recklessness and conscious courage, which, in the estimation of

foreigners, are the certain prognostics of as many concealed daggers.

I soon made up my mind to add one to the vast concourse now on the alert

to witness this grand and terrific spectacle, although, for many reasons,

I prudently resolved to postpone my share of the entertainment until the

evening.

It is at this hour that the higher classes prefer visiting the arena: a

number of the more desperate _amateurs_, however, regardless of the

influence of a meridian sun, do not hesitate to present themselves at the

morning exhibitions.

At about four in the afternoon, the _Calle de Alcala_ was, if possible,

more crowded than it had been in the morning. This majestic street, which

commands a full view of the superb triumphal arch which bears its name,

now presented a most striking and animated scene: various groups,

fancifully contrasted in dress and deportment, were all hurrying towards

the same spot. Here you might see the gorgeous equipage of the haughty

grandee, sweeping by in all the imposing consciousness of pomp and

greatness, while carriages of more humble pretensions were rattling as

briskly, if not as proudly, along the gay and lively street. The

_Calesines_, too, were seen in great numbers hurrying to the scene of

anticipated pleasure, and diversifying, by the singularity of their

appearance, and the ringing of small bells, the stately _cortege_ of more

splendid equipages.

Next, an army of _majos_ attracted attention by their fanciful dresses,

and the easy swagger with which they accompanied their _morenas_, who were

not the less conspicuous for their graceful though somewhat confident

demeanor. They were all, of course, attired in their peculiar costume,

bedizened with ribbons, and the short saya reaching only to the middle of

the calf, and showing the most polished ancle and the prettiest foot in

the world. These gay and lively individuals were picturesquely contrasted

with crowds of monks and friars, of all orders and colors—

White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery—

here and there intermingled with military idlers, in the uniforms of their

several regiments.

Here you might see the rosy and jolly abbate, ambling along upon a mule,

having an appearance scarcely less clerical than himself, jostling the

less fortunate friar on the back of the humbler donkey, and the sturdy

mendicant, as he strode along on foot, supported only by his staff. The

streets, and every avenue leading to the _Plaza de los Toros_, were lined

with noisy vendors of delicious fruits, who made a grateful display upon

their stalls of the Seville orange and the cooling water-melon; whilst a

number of Valencians carried about large _vasijas_, or trays of lemonade,

and other refreshments, for the accommodation of the thirsty pedestrians,

who had no time to squander upon a visit to the _neveras_, or ice-houses.

The effect of this animated picture was farther heightened by the cries of

the venders, the harmony of some neighboring barber’s guitar, the

continual jingling of the mules’ bells, and the clicking of castanets.

Amidst this stunning, yet not unpleasing variety of sounds, we at length

reached the _Plaza de los Toros_, and it was with some difficulty we

obtained places in the stage seats. A vast concourse of persons of all

classes were already assembled, and I observed with a smile the effect

which the novelty of the scene had produced upon an English friend, whom I

had, with great difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany me; having, as he

declared, but little taste for such brutal and demoralizing exhibitions.

He seemed quite excited, and made some passing observation relative to the

Roman Circus, to which the present exhibition bore no unapt resemblance. I

directed his attention to many of his countrymen, as well as other

foreigners, who, after having been quite as clamorous as himself against

the sport, had terminated their philosophical philippics by becoming

constant visitors both at the morning and afternoon encounters. We arrived

at the scene of action just in time to witness _El despejo_, or the

clearing of the arena; a ceremony which is effected by a band of soldiers,

who enter the place and drive every loiterer away, to the sound of drums

and fifes. In a few minutes, not a single person was to be seen in the

circus; and, consequently, the body of spectators, thus driven back upon

the crowd, gave rise to various energetic expostulations, hearty curses,

and not a few random cuffs. The only inconvenience, however, of these

frequent _melées_, was the loss of a few ribbons and a quantity of hair,

of which the _manolus_ most assiduously set about easing themselves. This

operation is a source of considerable amusement to those who stand aloof

from the field of strife. We had been happy in securing good places, and

had nothing to complain of but the immediate vicinity of an amateur, or

_aficionado_, who kept his tongue in continual motion, and favored his

neighbors with a tremendous display of erudition on the _tauromachia_.

Whilst the immense multitude were beguiling their impatience in a thousand

ways, and among others by bandying jests—eating

oranges—smoking—whistling—love-making and quarrelling—the champions of the

fète, namely, the _picadores_, the _espadas_, and the _chulos_, were very

piously engaged in prayer in a chapel contiguous to the circus, it being

customary for combatants to solicit the protection of the holy Virgin

against the tremendous animal they are about to encounter before they

venture to provoke its ferocity.

While they proceed in their laudable occupation, we will return to the

circus, which now presented a most striking spectacle. The corregidor and

the corporation of the town had already taken their seats near the

splendid box fitted up for the use of the king, directly opposite to the

entrance from which the bull was expected to rush into the arena. Above

this entrance was a platform, occupied by a band of musicians, who

continued at intervals to mingle their animating strains with the clamor

of the noisy multitude. An officer of the town now entered the arena,

mounted on a fine charger. He was dressed in complete sables, and carried

in his hand the staff of office. Attended by alguazils, he

advanced,—saluted the box where the king was _not_,—and then proceeded to

the master of the ceremonies, from whom he received the keys of the cells,

where the terrible animals who were to take so conspicuous parts in the

evening spectacle were confined.

At this critical juncture, a breathless silence pervaded the spectators,

who by their eager looks evinced the absorbing interest they took in the

soul-stirring spectacle. Anon, a band of martial instruments struck up;—a

general buzz arose on every side, and, amidst the overwhelming din that

prevailed throughout the circus, the _picadores_ and the rest of their

party made their entrance into the arena. First came the _picadores_, with

their horses blindfold, wearing enormous boots to protect them from the

blows of the bull; next paced on the _espadas_, or _matadores_, on foot,

attired in rich silk dresses, each wearing a robe of a different color,

together with ribbons or some other distinctive mark of favor from his

mistress. The procession closed with a numerous troop of _chulos_, or

_banderilleros_, a set of young men lightly and fancifully apparelled,

whose business is to distract the attention of the bull from a fallen

cavalier, and to harass the animal with the _banderillas_. In this

splendid troop we perceived some traces of the ancient spirit of chivalry,

although, strange to say, the favorite sport of the fine cavaliers of the

land is now confined to the lowest orders. It is only from the

slaughter-house that the bull-fighters now, for the most part, proceed.

The procession moved on, at a slow and stately pace, amidst strains of

music and the vociferations of the lower classes, many of whom soon

recognized in the heroes of the fète, some near relation, some dear

friend, or at least, well-known acquaintance, whom they were desirous of

encouraging by their shouts. The champions having made their respective

obeisances to the royal box and to the corregidor, retired to the places

set apart for them in the arena.

The _picadores_, according to the order of precedence, ranged themselves

in the circus, close to the _baranda_, or wooden barrier, which, though

elevated to the height of five feet, is sometimes scarcely sufficient to

prevent the most furious amongst the bulls from breaking over it. Suddenly

the music ceased—the silence was intense—the signal is given—the doors

were flung open—and, with one tremendous burst, forth sprang the bull into

the middle of the circus! It was a fearful animal; not large, but of that

peculiar color and breed which are accounted the most ferocious.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,

And the dun hide glows as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil,

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;

But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,

From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear;

His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree,

Whereon the monster’s shagged mane like billows curled ye see.

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night,

Like a strong flail he holds his tail in the fierceness of his might;

Like something molten out of iron, or hewn forth from the rock,

Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde’s shock.(6)

The appearance of the bull was hailed by loud acclamations from the

multitude; whilst hats, handkerchiefs, and scarfs fluttered in the air, in

every direction.

The noble animal appeared at first as though he were undecided how to act,

or on whom to wreak his fierce vengeance. He turned on every side, and

scanned the appalling number and firmness of his tormentors; gradually he

became more and more excited, till, exasperated by the clamors of the

impatient multitude, he tore the ground with his hoofs, tossed his head in

proud indignation, and then stared intently before him, as if to awe the

circus with the lightnings of his angry eye. Again he lowered his head,

and blew the dust in clouds with the burning breath of his distended

nostrils, and lashed his sides with his tail, as if to work himself up to

the proper pitch of frenzy; at length, with a sudden bound, he rushed

furiously against the first _picador_. The cavalier received the charge

with perfect coolness and intrepidity, and having succeeded in planting

his _pica_ in the higher part of the animal’s neck, the theatre rung with

acclamations at the strength and dexterity with which he kept his

tremendous opponent for some moments fixed to the spot. Smarting with

pain, the bull then retired for a short time; but his rage prevailing over

his fears, he again rushed forward, and was received by a second

_picador_. Less fortunate, however, than his companion, he was unable to

withstand the overwhelming shock; and, after a fruitless effort to stem

the animal’s fury with his _pica_, it at length broke, and the bull, with

one tremendous thrust on the horse’s breast, overthrew its rider.

Fortunately for the fallen _picador_, he was protected by the bulk of his

horse; and the bull, as it often happens, sated his fierceness on the

helpless animal, whose blood spouted round the arena, from a wound

evidently mortal. The excitement of the spectators now became intense;

when the bull, having fully disabled his enemy, advanced toward the third

cavalier. The champion, however, had penetration enough to perceive that

the bull was of a dangerous kind, and evinced no particular solicitude to

come to closer quarters with him. He kept, therefore, retreating, under

pretext of gaining an advantageous position; but the people, who guessed

his real motive, unanimously protested against such dilatory proceedings.

Men and women, old and young, began to assail the luckless, or rather,

prudent _picador_, with a violent storm of abuse.

During the whole of this noisy altercation, our erudite neighbor, the

_aficionado_, had been very scientifically descanting on the various

points of the combat, to our no small annoyance; for he could not rest a

moment in his seat, and was continually intercepting our view. The

_picador_, provoked by the bitter sarcasms lavished upon him by the more

vulgar part of the spectators, now advanced with an air of determination a

little farther into the arena; but the sagacious bull kept retreating as

his enemy advanced, in order to render escape more difficult, and his

vengeance certain. At length he rushed on the cavalier with such fury and

overwhelming force, that both _picador_ and horse rolled on the ground:

unluckily, the man not being very dexterous, could seek no protection from

the horse, but lay exposed to the fury of his powerful antagonist.

Cries of horror and alarm for the safety of the unfortunate _picador_ were

now heard on every side, and strange to say, those very persons, who had

but just driven him to encounter the danger, were now the most clamorous

in shouting for protection for him. The _chulos_ lost no time in applying

their art to extricate their companion, by harassing the animal on all

sides, who was thus compelled to abandon his prey in order to meet his new

tormentors. Thus the fallen cavalier was rescued from his jeopardy, whilst

his poor horse, dreadfully gored, ran wildly about the arena. The bull, as

if satisfied with these feats, now stood tranquilly looking on the

spectators, who filled the air with _vivas_ in praise of his prowess.

The trumpet again sounded the signal for the second part of the combat,

and forthwith the _chulos_ advanced nimbly with their _banderillas_, each

striving to fix his weapon in the neck of the animal, as in their

hazardous course he passed under their extended arms. The smart of the

_banderillas_ tended to goad the bull to greater fury, and tormented on

every side he bellowed out in agony, and bounded from place to place,

turning first to one, and then to another of his aggressors.

Thus, after he had vented his rage, foaming at the mouth and flashing fire

from his eyes, the moment arrived when it was deemed expedient to put an

end to his protracted sufferings, and at a given signal the _chulos_

retired and made place for the _prima-espada_.

This was Candido, who though arrived at an advanced age, still retained

much of the strength and agility of his youth, which, combined with the

experience he had acquired in the game, rendered him a very formidable

opponent. He advanced with a stately pace, bearing in one hand a piece of

scarlet cloth to entice the animal, and in the other his sword. Having

arrived in front of the seat of the presiding authorities, he made a

graceful salute, and then performed the same ceremony before his friends,

who hailed him with many hearty _vivas_; whilst a deadly silence was

observed on the part of the admirers of his rival Leoncito. Candido

proceeded slowly, and warily towards the bull, endeavoring to entice him

by waving the red cloth. The animal, however, would not suddenly rush

against his foe; but calmly watched for the moment when he might find him

less upon his guard.

Candido, with all the skill of a practised _matador_, appeared to guess

the sinister intentions of the bull, and followed his every movement with

an active eye—nay, he seemed to penetrate into the inmost feelings of the

animal.—Irritated by the defiance, the bull sprang upon his foe; but was

baffled in his vengeance, for he pierced only the floating piece of cloth;

the _matador_ very adroitly turning aside, and plunging his sword into his

flank as he passed. The wound however was not mortal, and the combat was

renewed. The bull, somewhat intimidated, did not again charge his

adversary; but preferred awaiting his approach;—after some appropriate

evolutions, Candido at last boldly advanced towards him, and with a

successful thrust pierced him to the heart. Nothing had been wanting to

complete the success of Candido but the solitary triumph of retaining his

sword in his hand after the death-blow was inflicted, this being

considered the _ne plus ultra_ of the art. The bull had no sooner fallen

to the ground than a set of most beautiful mules, splendidly caparisoned,

and ornamented with a profusion of ribbons and small flags, were brought

into the circus to convey from it the lifeless carcass. This operation was

performed amid the stormy sounds of martial music, and the shouts of the

multitude; the tremendous animal was dragged from the field, leaving in

its progress a long crimson track upon the scattered sand.

The signal now sounded for a second fight; the doors were once more thrown

open, and a huge bull rushed forward, and without a moment’s loss ran

furiously at the nearest _picador_. He was, however, soon sobered, and

smarting with the pain of the first wound he received, prudently

retreated, in no hurry to taste a like favor from the second cavalier. In

vain did the _picadores_ provoke him by advancing into the arena, he

invariably declined the re-offered combat. The spectators, impatient at

this delay, grew expressively clamorous, some crying shame! shame! and

others _vaca! vaca!_ (poor cow! poor cow!)—but all these energetic

remonstrances were lost upon the pacific animal.

With much difficulty, and after a pretty long interval, the three wounds

of the _pica_ (according to rule) were at length inflicted; and the

_chulos_ came forward to perform their part. It was here that the same

difficulty arose, for alas! it could not be expected that the poor bull,

who had shown no relish whatever for the _pica_, should evince any taste

for the _banderillas_. Consequently a great confusion arose, and a

simultaneous call for _banderillas de fuego_, was heard on every side.

This it was expected would prove a stimulus to the too tranquil

temperament of the animal.

Accordingly the furs was planted upon his neck; but scarcely had the

fireworks began to crack and whiz around his head, than stunned no doubt

by the noise as well as the pain, he actually turned and fled. The

_chulos_ ran after him, and thus continued _nolens volens_ to thrust their

spears into his unresisting carcass, until it was thought expedient to

desist in order to give him the _coup de grace_. Leoncito the second

_espada_ then came forward, and was hailed with joyful acclamations by his

partisans, especially the _manolas_, for he was a young, light-made,

dapper man. It proved however an exceedingly difficult task to kill the

bull according to the rules of art, owing to the animal’s unequivocal

disinclination for the combat. Leoncito was a brave, daring man; but

hardly so well skilled as Candido. He rushed boldly against the bull, and

strove to inflict upon him a mortal wound. He missed, however, his aim at

the right place, and the animal began to pour forth its blood in a stream.

This is considered an enormous fault in the art—and it met with a becoming

storm of groans and hisses. The bull, agonized by his wounds, ran wildly

about. Leoncito gave him another blow—when he sat down, and quietly looked

around him, as the wounds were not immediately mortal. This reposing

attitude gave immense annoyance both to the combatants and the spectators.

Of course it was out of all question to inflict on so gentle and resigned

an enemy another _estocada_—and yet the public could not afford to wait

the bull’s leisure to die, as it was necessary to continue the sport. To

expedite, therefore, the animal’s last moments, and the progress of public

business, the _eachetero_, a butcher, came forward and performed his

function of inflicting the death-blow on occasions when, owing to the

perversity of the bull or the clumsiness of the _matador_, his final

assistance becomes requisite. Grasping firmly a short sharp dagger, he by

a steady and well directed blow put a period to the agonies of the

animal—applauses and abuse were then liberally bestowed upon Leoncito;

after which the fight was suffered to proceed, and the third bull sprang

into the arena. We will not, however, follow the perils and chances of

this encounter. It may e sufficient to mention, that the sport went on

much upon the same principle as before. The usual number of horses were

killed, good spanking falls were endured by the combatants, and the same

tumult and confusion prevailed throughout the circus. The combat had now

lasted three hours, and the shadows of evening were gradually descending

over the scene. Yet the spectators appeared by no means satisfied; some

even grew clamorous, and required that a fourth bull should be brought

forward. Amongst these unreasonable requisitionists, the _aficionado_

particularly distinguished himself. He was (unhappily for his neighbors)

blessed with most stentorian lungs, of which he made a liberal use, upon

the most trifling occasion,—no other bull, however, was produced, and

accordingly the spectators began slowly and discontentedly to disperse.

The fight being ended, the _picadores_ and the rest of the troop withdrew

to the little chapel, to return thanks for their escape. However, the

veracity expected from an historian compels me to say, that their evening

prayers were by no means of the same length as those which had preceded

the encounter of the morning. At the entrance of the chapel we perceived

many a dark-complexioned _manola_—many a terrible looking,

fierce-whiskered, cigar-smoking _majo_—awaiting the egress of their

friends; who, as soon as their devotions were concluded, stalked out with

a martial and haughty air to receive the congratulations of their

comrades. Meantime, the vast concourse of people so lately assembled

together, had gradually dispersed through the various avenues of the

Prado, affording the beholder a most striking and enlivening picture. The

Prado itself, that beautiful promenade, which has attracted the attention

of all who have visited Spain, now presented a most brilliant spectacle:

it was crowded with carriages, as well as with pedestrians, all pressing

to enjoy the coolness of the evening in that delightful spot. Having

strolled a few times up and down this fashionable promenade, we retired to

the _Neverria de Solos_, contiguous to the Prado, to take our _refresco_.

To this place, as to many others of the like nature, the more elegant

class of society retire early in the evening to eat ices, and drink

lemonade and other refreshing beverages. From hence each person retires to

his own _tertulia_ for the evening, and thus ends a day wholly consecrated

to pleasure.

Bull fights are now daily decreasing, both in number and splendor of

appearance, from what they were in former times. Either the Spaniards are

losing their relish for such spectacles, or the scarcity of good

_picadores_ and _espades_ detracts from the interest which attaches to

them. Not long since, the _matadores_ were favorites with the public, and

were regarded with considerable interest even by their superiors. Many

singular and gallant adventures are related of them and ladies of rank. It

was a common custom, no great while ago, to throw purses of gold to the

combatants, upon the achievement of some skilful feat. But unhappily the

secret of long purses is lost, and there is but little chance of a

stranger seeing any money thrown away in Spain at the present time.

The most renowned of the Matadores were Romero and Pepe-Hillo, the author

of a treatise entitled Tauromachia. The first retired from the arena full

of honors and considerable wealth. But being desirous of obtaining for his

son a canonship, he was commanded, in order to obtain that favor from the

queen, Maria Louisa, to re-appear in the arena, on some grand festival.

Romero joyfully obeyed; but his age and feebleness were inadequate to cope

with the fearful bull, and he would certainly have been killed, had not

his friends forcibly withdrawn him from the arena.

The will, however, was taken for the deed, and his son was accordingly

made a canon. With regard to Pepe-Hillo, like a gallant general, he met

his death in the field of his exploits. On a certain occasion, contrary to

the opinion of his friends, who knew him to be suffering from a wound in

the hand, he appeared in the arena. Unhappily he had to encounter a

tremendous animal. The bull hurled him on high twice; and when the

unfortunate man fell on the ground he was frightfully gored, and shortly

afterwards expired, amidst the most excruciating torments.

THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

There be of British arms and deeds,

Who sing in noble strain,

Of Poictiers’ field, and Agincourt,

And Cressy’s bloody plain.

High tales of merry England,

Full often have been told,

For never wanted bard to sing

The actions of the bold.

But now I tune another string,

To try my minstrel power,

My story’s of a gallant knight,

A lady, and a flower.

The noble sun that shines on all,

The little or the great,

As bright on cottage doorway small,

As on the castle gate,

Came pouring over fair Guienne

From the far eastern sea;

And glistened on the broad Garonne,

And slept on Blancford lea.

The morn was up, the morn was bright,

In southern summer’s rays,

And Nature caroll’d in the light,

And sung her Maker’s praise.

Fair Blancford, thou art always fair,

With many a shady dell,

And bland variety and change,

Of forest and of fell.

But Blancford on that morn was gay,

With many a pennon bright,

And glittering arms and panoply

Shone in the morning light.

For good Prince Edward, England’s pride,

Now lay in Blancford’s towers,

And weary sickness had consumed,

The hero’s winter hours.

But now that brighter hopes had come,

With summer’s brighter ray,

He called his gallant knights around,

To spend a festal day.

With tournament and revelry,

To pass away the hours,

And win fair Mary from her sire,

The Lord of Blancford’s towers.

But why fair Mary’s brow was sad

None in the castle knew,

Nor why she watched one garden bed,

Where none but wild pinks grew.

Some said that seven nights before

A page had sped away,

To where Lord Clifford with his power,

On Touraine’s frontier lay.

To Blancford no Lord Clifford came,

And many a tale was told,

For well ’twas known that he had sought,

Fair Mary’s love of old.

And some there said Lord Clifford’s love

Had cooled at Mary’s pride,

And some there said that other vows

His heart inconstant tied.

Foul slander, ready still to soil,

All that is bright and fair,

With more than Time’s destructiveness,

Who never learned to spare.

The morn was bright, but posts had come,

Bringing no tidings fair,

For knit was Edward’s royal brow,

And full of thoughtful care.

The lists were set, the parted sun

Shone equal on the plain,

And many a knight there manfully

Strove fresh applause to gain.

Sir Henry Talbot, and Sir Guy

Of Brackenbury, he

Who slew the giant Iron-arm,

On Cressy’s famous lea,

Were counted best, and claimed the Prince

To give the sign that they

Might run the tilt, and one receive

The honors of the day.

"Speed, knights, perhaps those arms that shine

In peace," prince Edward said,

"Before a se’nnight pass, may well,

In Gallic blood be died.

"For here we learn that hostile bands,

Have gathered in Touraine,

And Clifford, with his little troop,

Are prisoners or slain.

"For with five hundred spears, how bold

Soe’er his courage show,

He never could withstand the shock,

Of such a host of foe."

Fair Mary spoke not, but the blood

Fled truant from her cheek,

And left it pale, as when day leaves

Some mountain’s snowy peak.

But then there camp the cry of horse,

The east lea pricking o’er,

And to the lists a weary page

A tattered pennon bore.

Fast came a knight with blood-stained arms,

And dusty panoply,

And beaver down, and armed lance,

In chivalric array.

No crest, no arms, no gay device,

Upon his shield he wore,

But a small knot beside his plume,

Of plain wild pinks he bore.

For love, for love and chivalry,

Lord Clifford rides the plain,

And foul he lies who dares to say,

His honor e’er know stain.

And Mary’s cheek ’gan blushing bright,

And Mary’s heart beat high,

And Mary’s breath that fear oppressed

Came in a long glad sigh.

Straight to the Prince the knight he rode,

"I claim these lists," he cried,

"Though late into the field I come,

My suit be not denied;

"For we have fought beside the Loire,

And stained our arms in blood;

Not ever lost one step of ground,

So long as rebels stood.

"Hemmed in, I one time never thought

To die in British land,

Or see my noble prince again,

Or kiss his royal hand.

"But well fought every gallant squire,

And well fought every knight;

And rebels have been taught to feel

The force of British might.

"And now in humble terms they sue,

To know thy high command,

And here stand I these lists to claim,

For a fair lady’s hand.

"For Mary’s love, and chivalry,

I dare the world to fight,

And foul and bitterly he lies,

Who dares deny my right"

"No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said,

"No lists to-day for thee,

Thy gallant deeds beside the Loire,

Well prove thy chivalry.

"Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the rest,

Have well acquit their arms,

But Edward’s thanks are Clifford’s due,

As well as Mary’s charms."

"My lord, you are her sire," he said,

"Give kind consent and free,

And who denies our Clifford’s right,

Shall ride a tilt with me."

Gay spake the prince, gay laughed the throng,

And Mary said not nay,

And bright with smile, and dance, and song,

Went down the festal day.

And when Lord Clifford to the board

Led down his Mary fair,

A knot of pinks was in his cap,

A knot was in her hair.

For it had been their sign of love,

And loved by them was still,

Till death came quietly on their heads,

And bowed them to his will.

And now, though years have passed away,

And all that years have seen,

And Clifford’s deeds and Mary’s charms,

Are as they ne’er had been,

Some wind, as if in memory

Has borne the seeds on high,

To deck the ruin’s crumbling wall,

And catch the passing eye.

It tells a tale to those who hear;

For beauty, strength, and power,

Are but the idols of a day,

More short-lived than a flower.

Joy on, joy on, then, while ye may,

Nor waste the moments dear;

Nor give yourself a cause to sigh,

Nor teach to shed a tear.

AN OLD MAID’S FIRST LOVE.

From Chamber’s Edinburgh Journal.

I went once to the south of France for my health; and being recommended to

choose the neighborhood of Avignon, took my place, I scarcely know why, in

the diligence all the way from Paris. By this proceeding I missed the

steam-voyage down the Rhone, but fell in with some very pleasant people,

about whom I am going to speak. I travelled in the _intérieur_, and from

Lyon had no one for companion but a fussy little lady, of a certain age,

who had a large basket, a parrot in a cage, a little lapdog, a bandbox, a

huge blue umbrella, which she could never succeed in stowing any where,

and a moth-eaten muff. In my valetudinarian state I was not pleased with

this inroad—especially as the little lady had a thin, pinched-up face, and

obstinately looked out of the window, while she popped about the

_intérieur_ as if she had just taken lodgings and was putting them in

order, throwing me every now and then some gracious apology in a not

unpleasant voice. "Mince as you please, madam," thought I; "you are a

bore." I am sorry to add that I was very unaccommodating, gave no

assistance in the stowing away of the umbrella, and when Fanfreluche came

and placed his silken paws upon my knees, pushed him away very rudely. The

little old maid—it was evident this was her quality—apologized for her dog

as she had done for herself, and went on arranging her furniture—an

operation not completed before we got to St. Saphorin.

For some hours a perfect silence was preserved, although my companion

several times gave a short dry cough, as if about to make an observation.

At length, the digestion of a hurried dinner being probably completed, I

felt all of a sudden quite bland and sociable, and began to be mightily

ashamed of myself. "Decidedly," thought I, "I must give this poor woman

the benefit of my conversation." So I spoke, very likely with that

self-satisfied air assumed sometimes by men accustomed to be well

received. To my great vexation the old maid had by this time taken

offence, and answered in a very stiff and reserved manner. Now the whole

absurdity of my conduct was evident to me, and I determined to make

amends. Being naturally of a diplomatic turn, I kept quiet for awhile, and

then began to make advances to Fanfreluche. The poor animal bore no

malice, and I won his heart by stroking his long ears. Then I gave a piece

of sugar to the parrot; and having thus effected a practicable breach,

took the citadel by storm by pointing out a more commodious way of

arranging the great blue umbrella.

We were capital friends thenceforward; and I soon knew the history of

Mlle. Nathalie Bernard by heart. A mightily uninteresting history it was

to all but herself; so I shall not repeat it: suffice to say, that she had

lived long on her little income, as she called it, at Lyon, and was now on

her way to Avignon, where a very important object called her. This was no

other than to save her niece Marie from a distasteful marriage, which her

parents, very good people, but dazzled by the wealth of the unamiable

suitor, wished to bring about.

"And have you," said I, "any reasonable hope of succeeding in your

mission?"

"_Parbleu!_" replied the old maid, "I have composed a little speech on

ill-assorted unions, which I am sure will melt the hearts of my sister and

my brother-in-law; and if that does not succeed—why, I will make love to

the _futur_ myself, and whisper in his ear that a comfortable little

income available at once, and a willing old maid, are better than a

cross-grained damsel with expectations only. You see I am resolved to make

any sacrifice to effect my object."

I laughed at the old maid’s disinterestedness, which was perhaps greater

than at first appeared. At least she assured me that she had refused

several respectable offers, simply because she liked the independence of a

single life; and that if she had remained single to that age, it was a

sign that marriage had nothing attractive for her in itself. We discussed

the point learnedly as the diligence rolled; and what with the original

turn of my companion’s mind, the sportive disposition of Fanfreluche, and

the occasional disjointed soliloquies of Coco, the parrot, our time passed

very pleasantly. When night came Mlle. Nathalie ensconced herself in the

corner behind her parcels and animals, and endeavored to sleep; but the

jolting of the diligence, and her own lively imagination, wakened her

every five minutes; and I had each time to give her a solemn assurance, on

my word of honor as a gentleman, that there was no particular danger of

our being upset into the Rhone.

We were ascending a steep hill next day; both had got out to walk. I have

omitted to note that it was autumn. Trees and fields were touched by the

golden fingers of the season. The prospect was wide, but I forget the

precise locality. On the opposite side of the Rhone, which rolled its

rapid current in a deepening valley to our right, rose a range of hills,

covered with fields that sloped wonderfully, and sometimes gave place to

precipices or wood-lined declivities. Here and there the ruins of some old

castle—reminiscences of feudal times—rose amid lofty crags, and traced

their jagged outline against the deep blue sky of Provence. Nathalie

became almost sentimental as she gazed around on this beautiful scene.

We had climbed about half of the hill: the diligence was a little way

behind: the five horses were stamping and striking fire from the pavement

as they struggled up with the ponderous vehicle: the other passengers had

lingered in the rear with the conductor, who had pointed out a little

_auberge_ among some trees. We here saw a man preceding us upon the road

carrying a little bundle at the end of a stick over his shoulder: he

seemed to advance painfully. Our attention was attracted—I scarcely knew

why. He paused a moment—then went on with an uncertain step—paused again,

staggered forward, and fell on his face just as we came up. Mlle.

Nathalie, with a presence of mind that surprised me, had her

smelling-bottle out in an instant, and was soon engaged in restoring the

unfortunate traveller to consciousness. I assisted as well as I was able,

and trust that my good-will may atone for my awkardness. Nathalie did

every thing; and, just as the diligence reached us, was gazing with

delight on the languid opening of a pair of as fine eyes as I have ever

seen, and supporting in her lap a head covered with beautiful curls. Even

at that moment, as I afterwards remembered, she looked upon the young man

as a thing over which she had acquired a right of property. "He is going

our way," said she: "let us lift him into the diligence."

"A beggarly Parisian; yo, yo!" quoth the postilion as he passed, clacking

his long whip.

"Who will answer for his fare?" inquired the conductor.

"I will," replied Nathalie, taking the words out of my mouth.

In a few minutes the young man, who looked bewildered and could not speak,

was safely stowed among Nathalie’s other parcels; and the crest of the

hill being gained, we began rolling rapidly down a steep descent. The

little old maid, though in a perfect ecstasy of delight—the incident

evidently appeared to her quite an adventure—behaved with remarkable

prudence. While I was puzzling my head to guess by what disease this poor

young man had been attacked, she was getting ready the remedies that

appeared to her the most appropriate, in the shape of some excellent cakes

and a bottle of good wine, which she fished out of her huge basket. Her

_protégé_, made tame by hunger, allowed himself to be treated like a

child. First she gave him a very small sip of Burgundy, then a diminutive

fragment of cake; and then another sip and another piece of cake—insisting

on his eating very slowly. Being perfectly useless, I looked quietly on,

and smiled to see the suhmissiveness with which this fine, handsome fellow

allowed himself to be fed by the fussy old maid, and how he kept his eyes

fixed upon her with an expression of wondering admiration.

Before we arrived at Avignon we knew the history of the young man. He was

an artist, who had spent several years studying in Paris, without friends,

without resources, except a miserable pittance which his mother, a poor

peasant woman living in a village not far from Aix, had managed to send

him. At first he had been upheld by hope; and although he knew that his

mother not only denied herself necessaries, but borrowed money to support

him, he was consoled by the idea that the time would come when, by the

efforts of his genius, he would be able to repay every thing with the

accumulated interest which affection alone would calculate. But his

expenses necessarily increased, and no receipts came to meet them. He was

compelled to apply to his mother for further assistance. The answer was

one word—"impossible." Then he endeavored calmly to examine his position,

came to the conclusion that for several years more he must be a burden to

his mother if he obstinately pursued his career, and that she must be

utterly ruined to insure his success. So he gave up his art, sold every

thing he had to pay part of his debts, and set out on foot to return to

big village and become a peasant, as his father had been before him. The

little money he had taken with him was gone by the time he reached Lyon.

He had passed through that city without stopping, and for more than two

days, almost for two nights, had incessantly pursued his journey, without

rest and without food, until he had reached the spot where, exhausted with

fatigue and hunger, he had fallen, perhaps to perish had we not been there

to assist him.

Nathalie listened with eager attention to this narrative, told with a

frankness which our sympathy excited. Now and then she gave a convulsive

start, or checked a hysterical sob, and at last fairly burst into tears. I

was interested as well as she, but retained more calmness to observe how

moral beauty almost vainly straggled to appear through the insignificant

features of this admirable woman. Her little eyes, reddened with weeping;

her pinched-up nose, blooming at the point; her thin lips, probably

accustomed to sarcasm; her cheeks, with a leaded citron hue; her hair that

forked up in unmanageable curls—all combined to obscure the exquisite

expression of respect and sympathy, perhaps already of love, sparkling

from her kindled soul, that could just be made out by an attentive eye. At

length, however, she became for a moment perfectly beautiful, as, when the

young painter had finished his story, with an expression that showed how

bitterly he regretted his abandoned art, she took both his hands in hers,

and exclaimed: "No, _mon enfant_, you shall not be thus disappointed. Your

genius"—she already took it for granted he had genius—"shall have an

opportunity for development. Your mother cannot do what is necessary—she

has played her part. I will be a—second mother to you, in return f«r the

little affection you can bestow on me without ingratitude to her to whom

you owe your life."

"My life has to be paid for twice," said he, kissing her hand. Nathalie

could not help looking round proudly to me. It was so flattering to

receive the gallant attentions of so handsome a young man, that I think

she tried to forget how she had bought them.

In the exuberance of her hospitality, the little old maid invited both

Claude Richer and myself to spend some time in the large farmhouse of her

brother-in-law. I declined, with a promise to be a frequent visitor; but

Claude, who was rather commanded than asked, could do nothing but accept.

I left them at the diligence office, and saw them walk away, the little

Nathalie affecting to support her feeble companion. For the honor of human

nature let me add, that the conductor said nothing about the fare. "It

would have been indelicate," he said to me, "to remind Mlle. Nathalie of

her promise in the young man’s presence. I know her well; and she will pay

me at a future time. At any rate I must show that there is a heart under

this waistcoat." So saying, the conductor thumped his breast with simple

admiration of his own humanity, and went away, after recommending me to

the Café de Paris—indeed and excellent house.

I shall say nothing of a variety of little incidents that occurred to me

at Avignon, nor about my studies on the history of the popes who resided

there. I must reserve myself entirely for the development of Nathalie’s

romance, which I could not follow step by step, but the chief features of

which I was enabled to catch during a series of visits I paid to the

farmhouse. Nathalie herself was very communicative to me at first, and

scarcely deigned to conceal her sentiments. By degrees, however, as the

catastrophe approached, she became more and more reserved; and I had to

learn from others, or to guess the part she played.

The farmhouse was situated on the other side of the river, in a small

plain, fertile and well wooded. Old Cossu, the owner, was a fine jolly

fellow, but evidently a little sharp in money matters. I was surprised at

first that he received the visit of Claude favorably; but when it came out

that a good part of his capital belonged to Nathalie, every circumstance

of deference to her was explained. Mère Cossu was not a very remarkable

personage; unless it be remarkable that she entertained the most profound

veneration for her husband, quoted his commonest sayings as witticisms,

and was ready to laugh herself into convulsions if he sneezed louder than

usual. Marie was a charming little person; perhaps a little too demure in

her manners, considering her wicked black eyes. She was soon very friendly

with Claude and me, but seemed to prefer passing her time in whispered

conversations with Nathalie. I was let into the secret that their

conversation turned principally on the means of getting rid of the

husband-elect—a great lubberly fellow, who lived some leagues off, and

whose red face shone over the garden-gate, in company with a huge nosegay,

regularly every Sunday morning. In spite of the complying temper of old

Cossu in other respects when Nathalie gave her advice, he seemed

obstinately bent on choosing his own son-in-law. Parents are oftener

correct than romancers will allow, in their negative opinions on this

delicate subject, but I cannot say as much for them when they undertake to

be affirmative.

I soon observed that Nathalie was not so entirely devoted to the

accomplishment of the object for which she had undertaken her journey as

she had promised; and, above all, that she spoke no more of the

disinterested sacrifice of herself as a substitute for Marie. I

maliciously alluded to this subject in one of our private confabulations,

and Nathalie, instead of being offended, frankly answered that she could

not make big Paul Boneau happy and assist Claude in his studies at the

same time. "I have now," she said, "an occupation for the rest of my

life—namely, to develop this genius, of which France will one day be

proud; and I shall devote myself to it unremittingly."

"Come, Nathalie," replied I, taking her arm in mine as we crossed the

poplar-meadow, "have you no hope of a reward?"

"I understand," quoth she frankly; "and I will not play at cross-purposes

with you. If this young man really loves his art, and his art alone, as he

pretends, could he do better than reward me—as you call it—for my

assistance? The word has a cruel signification, but you did not mean it

unkindly."

I looked at her wan, sallow countenance, that had begun for some days to

wear an expression of painful anxiety. At that moment I saw over a

hedge—but she could not—Claude and Marie walking in a neighboring field,

and pausing now and then to bend their heads very close together in

admiration of some very common flower. "Poor old maid," thought I, "you

will have no reward save the consciousness of your own pure intentions."

The minute development of this drama without dramatic scenes would perhaps

be more instructive than any elaborate analysis of human passions in

general; but it would require a volume, and I can only here give a mere

summary. Nathalie, in whom alone I felt particularly interested, soon

found that, she had deceived herself as to the nature of her sentiments

for Claude—that instead of regarding him with almost maternal solicitude,

she loved him with an intensity that is the peculiar characteristic of

passions awakened late in life, when the common consolation is

inadmissible—"after all, I may find better." This was her last, her only

chance of a happiness, which she had declared to me she had never dreamed

of, but which in reality she had only declined because it did not present

itself to her under all the conditions required by her refined and

sensitive mind. Claude, who was an excellent fellow, but incapable of

comprehending her or sacrificing himself, never swerved from grateful

deference to her; but I could observe, that as the state of her feelings

became more apparent, he took greater care to mark the character of his

sentiments for her, and to insist with some affectation on the depth of

his filial affection. Nathalie’s eyes were often red with tears—a fact

which Claude did not choose perhaps to notice, for fear of an explanation.

Marie, on the contrary, became more blooming every day, while her eloquent

eyes were still more assiduously bent upon the ground. It was evident to

me that she and Claude understood one another perfectly well.

At length the same thing became evident to Nathalie. How the revelation

was made to her I do not know; but sudden it must have been, for I met her

one day in the poplar-field, walking hurriedly along with an extraordinary

expression of despair in her countenance. I know not why, but the thought

at once occurred to me that the Rhone ran rapid and deep not far off, and

I threw myself across her path. She started like a guilty thing, but did

not resist when I took her hand and led her back slowly towards the

farmhouse. We had nearly reached it in silence when she suddenly stopped,

and bursting into tears turned away into a by-lane where was a little

bench under an elm. Here she sat down and sobbed for a long time, while I

stood by. At length she raised her head and asked me: "Do morality and

religion require self-sacrifice even to the end—even to making half a life

a desert, even to heart-breaking, even unto death?"

"It scarcely belongs to a selfish mortal to counsel such virtue," I

replied; "but it is because it is exercised here and there, now and then,

once in a hundred years, that man can claim some affinity with the divine

nature."

A smile of ineffable sweetness played about the poor old girl’s lips. She

wiped her eyes, and began talking of the changing aspect of the season,

and how the trees day by day more rapidly shed their leaves, and how the

Rhone had swelled within its ample bed, and of various topics apparently

unconnected with her frame of mind, but all indicating that she felt the

winter was coming—a long and dreary winter for her. At this moment

Fanfreluche, which had missed her, came down the lane, barking with fierce

joy; and she took the poor little beast in her arms, and exhaled the last

bitter feeling that tormented her in these words: "Thou at least lovest

me—because I have fed thee!" In her humility she seemed now to believe

that her only claim to love was her charity; and that even this claim was

not recognized except by a dog!

I was not admitted to the secret of the family conclave that took place,

but learned simply that Nathalie pleaded with feverish energy the love

that had grown up between Marie and Claude as an insuperable bar to the

proposed marriage between Paul Boneau and her niece. Matters were arranged

by means of large sacrifices on the part of the heroic maid. Paul’s face

ceased to beam over the garden-gate on a Sunday morning; and by degrees

the news got abroad that Marie was betrothed to the young artist. One day

a decent old woman in _sabots_ came to the farmhouse: it was Claude’s

mother, who had walked from Aix to see him. It was arranged that Claude

should pursue his studies a year longer, and then marry. Whether any

explanation took place I do not know; but I observed that the young man

sometimes looked with the same expression of wondering admiration I had

observed in the diligence at the little Nathalie—more citron-hued than

ever. At length she unhooked the cage of Coco, the parrot, took

Faufreluche under one arm and her blue umbrella under the other, and went

away in company with the whole family, myself included, every one carrying

a parcel or a basket to the diligence office. What a party that was! Every

one was in tears except Nathalie. She bore up manfully, if I may use the

word; laughed, and actually joked; but just as I handed Coco in, her

factitious courage yielded, and she burst into an agony of grief. With

officious zeal I kept at the window until the diligence gave a lurch and

started; and then turning round I looked at Claude and Marie, who were

already mingling their eyes in selfish forgetfulness of their

benefactress, and said solemnly: "There goes the best woman ever created

for this unworthy earth." The artist, who, for an ordinary man, did not

lack sentiment, took my hand and said: "Sir, I will quarrel with any man

who says less of that angel than you have done."

The marriage was brought about in less time than had been agreed upon.

Nathalie of course did not come; but she sent some presents and a pleasant

letter of congratulation, in which she called herself "an inveterate old

maid." About a year afterwards I passed through Lyon and saw her. She was

still very yellow, and more than ever attentive to Fanfreluche and Coco. I

even thought she devoted herself too much to the service of these two

troublesome pets, to say nothing of a huge cat which she had added to her

menagerie, as a kind of hieroglyphic of her condition. "How fare the

married couple?" cried she, tossing up her cork-screw curls. "Still cooing

and billing?"

"Mademoiselle," said I, "they are getting on pretty well. Claude, finding

the historic pencil not lucrative, has taken to portrait-painting; and

being no longer an enthusiastic artist, talks even of adopting the more

expeditious method of the Daguerreotype. In the meantime, half the

tradesmen of Avignon, to say nothing of Aix, have bespoken caricatures of

themselves by his hand. Marie makes a tolerable wife, but has a terrible

will of her own, and is feared as well as loved."

Nathalie tried to laugh; but the memory of her old illusions coming over

her, she leaned down towards the cat she was nursing, and sparkling tears

fell upon its glossy fur.

MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO.

From advance sheets of a capital book entitled "Men and Women of the XIXth

Century, by Argene Houssaye," in press by Redfield.

Mademoiselle de Camargo almost came into the world dancing. It is related

that Gritry, when he was scarcely four years of age, had an idea of

musical tunes. Mademoiselle de Camargo danced at a much earlier age. She

was still in arms when the combined airs of a violin and a hautboy caught

her ear. She jumped about full of life, and during the whole time that the

music was playing, she danced, there is no other word for it, keeping time

with great delight. It must be stated that she was of Spanish origin. She

was born at Brussels, the 15th of April, 1710, of a noble family, that had

supplied several cardinals to the sacred college, and is of considerable

distinction in Spanish history, both ecclesiastical and national. Her name

was Marianne. Her mother had danced, but with the ladies of the court, for

her own pleasure, and not for that of others. Her father, Ferdinand de

Cupis de Camargo, was a frank Spanish noble, that is to say he was poor;

he lived at Brussels, upon the crumbs of the table of the Prince de Ligne,

without counting the debts he made. His family, which was quite numerous,

was brought up by the grace of God; the father frequented the tavern,

trusting to the truth that there is a God that rules over children!

Marianne was so pretty that the Princess de Ligne used to call her her

fairy daughter. Light as a bird, she used to spring into the elms, and

jump from branch to branch. No fawn in its morning gayety had more

capricious and easy movements; no deer wounded by the huntsman ever sprang

with more force and grace. When she was ten years old, the Princess de

Ligne thought that this pretty wonder belonged of right to Paris, the city

of wonders, Paris, where the opera was then displaying its thousand and

thousand enchantments. It was decided that Mademoiselle de Camargo should

be a dancing-girl at the opera. Her father objected strenuously:

"Dancing-girl! the daughter of a gentleman, a grandee of Spain!"—"Goddess

of dance, if you please," said the Princess of Ligne, in order to quiet

him. He resigned himself to taking a journey to Paris in the prince’s

carriage. He arrived in the style of a lord at the house of Mademoiselle

Prévost, whom the poets of the day celebrated under the name of

Terpsichore. She consented to give lessons to Marianne de Camargo. Three

months after his departure, M. de Camargo returned to Brussels, with the

air of a conqueror. Mademoiselle de Prévost had predicted that his

daughter would be his glory and his fortune.

After having danced at a fête given by the Prince de Ligne, Marianne de

Camargo made her first appearance at the Brussels theatre, where she

reigned for three years as first _danseuse_. Her true theatre was not

there; in spite of her triumph at Brussels, her imagination always carried

her to Paris; notwithstanding when she quitted Brussels she went to Rouen.

Finally, after a long residence in that city, she was permitted to make

her first appearance at the opera. It was on the 5th of May, 1726, for the

famous day of her debût has not been forgotten, that she appeared with all

the brilliancy of sixteen upon the first stage in the world. Mademoiselle

Prévost, already jealous, from a presentiment perhaps, had advised her to

make her first appearance in the _Characters of the Dance_, a step almost

impossible, which the most celebrated dancers hardly had dared to attemp,

at the height even of their reputation. Mademoiselle de Camargo, who

danced like a fairy, surpassed all her predecessors; her triumph was so

brilliant that on the next day all the fashions took their name after her:

hair _à la Camargo_, dresses _à la Camargo_, sleeves _à la Camargo_. All

the ladies of the court imitated her grace; there were not a few that

would have liked to have copied her face!

I have not told all yet: Mademoiselle de Camargo was made by love and for

love. She was beautiful and pretty at the same time. There could be

nothing so sweet and impassioned as her dark eyes, nothing so enchanting

as her sweet smile! Lancret, Pater, J. B. Vanloo, all the painters that

were then celebrated, tried to portray her charming face.

On the second night of Mademoiselle de Camargo’s appearance on the stage,

there were twenty duels and quarrels without end at the door of the opera;

every one wanted to get in. Mademoiselle Prévost, alarmed at such a

triumph, intrigued with such success that Mademoiselle de Camargo was soon

forced to fall back to the position of a mere _figurante_. She and her

admirers had reason to be indignant. She was obliged to resign herself to

dancing unobserved with the company. But she was not long in avenging

herself with effect. One day, while she was dancing with a group of

demons, Demoulins, called the devil, did not make his appearance to dance

his solo, when the musicians had struck up, expecting his entrance. A

sudden inspiration seizes Mademoiselle de Camargo; she leaves the other

_figurantes_, she springs forward to the middle of the stage, and

improvises Demoulins’s _pas de seul_, but with more effect and capricious

variety. Applause re-echoed throughout the theatre. Mademoiselle de

Prévost swore that she would ruin her youthful rival; but it was too late.

Terpsichore was dethroned. Mademoiselle de Camargo was crowned on that day

queen of the opera, absolute queen, whose power was unlimited! She was the

first who dared to make the discovery that her petticoats were too long.

Here I will let Grimm have his say: "This useful invention, which puts the

amateur in the way of forming an intelligent judgment of the legs of a

dancing-girl, was thought at that time to be the cause of a dangerous

schism. The Jansenists of the pit exclaimed heresy, scandal; and were

opposed to the shortened petticoats. The Molinists, on the contrary, held

that this innovation was in character with the spirit of the primitive

church, which was opposed to the sight of pirouettes and pigeon-wings,

embarrassed by the length of a petticoat. The Sorbonne of the opera had

for a long time great trouble in establishing the wholesome doctrine on

this point of discipline, which so much divided the faithful."

Monsieur Ferdinand de Camargo grew old with a severe anxiety about the

virtue and the salary of his daughter: he only preserved the salary.

Intoxicated with her triumph, Mademoiselle de Camargo listened too

willingly to all the lords of the court that frequented the company of the

actresses behind the scenes; it would have been necessary for the king to

appoint an historiographer, in order to record all the passions of this

_danseuse_. There was a time when all the world was in love with her.

Every one swore by Camargo; every one sang of Camargo; every one dreamed

about Camargo. The madrigals of Voltaire and of the gallant poets of that

gallant era are not forgotten.

However, the glory of Mademoiselle de Camargo was extinguished by degrees.

Like fashion that had patronized her, she passed away by degrees, never to

return. When she insisted upon retiring, although she was only forty years

of age, no one thought of preventing her: she was hardly regretted. There

was no inquiry made as to whither she had gone; she was only spoken of at

rare intervals, and then she was only alluded to as a memory of the past.

She had become something of a devotee, and very charitable. She knew by

name all the poor in her neighborhood. She occasionally was visited by

some of the notabilities of a past day, forgotten like herself.

In the _Amusements of the Heart and Mind_, a collection designed, as is

well known, to form the mind and the heart, Mademoiselle de Camargo is

charged with having had a thousand and more lovers! Without giving the lie

to this accusation, can I not prove it false by relating, in all its

simplicity, a fact which proves a profound passion on her part? A pretty

woman may dance at the opera, smile upon numberless admirers, live

carelessly from day to day, in the noisy excitement of the world; still,

there will be some blessed hours, when the heart, though often laid waste,

will flourish again all of a sudden. Love is like the sky, which looks

blue, even when reflected in the stream formed by the storm. It is thus

that love is occasionally found pure in a troubled heart. But, moreover,

this serious passion of Mademoiselle de Camargo was experienced by her in

all the freshness of her youth.

One morning, Grimm, Pont-de-Veyle, Duclos, Helvetius, presented themselves

in a gay mood, at the humble residence of the celebrated dancer. She was

then living in an old house in the Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. An aged

serving-woman opened the door.—"We wish to see Mademoiselle de Camargo,"

said Helvetius, who had great difficulty in keeping his countenance. The

old woman led them into a parlor that was furnished with peculiar and

grotesque-looking furniture. The wainscoting was covered with pastels

representing Mademoiselle de Camargo in all her grace, and in her

different characters. But the parlor was not adorned by her portraits

only; there was a _Christ on_ _the Mount of Olives_, a _Magdalen at the

Tomb_, a _Veiled Virgin_, a _Venus_, the _Three Graces_, some _Cupids_,

half concealed beneath some rosaries and sacred relics, and _Madonnas_,

covered with trophies from the opera!

The goddess of the place did not keep them a long time waiting; a door

opened, half-a-dozen dogs of every variety of breed sprang into the

parlor: it must be said, to the praise of Mademoiselle de Camargo, that

these were not lap-dogs. She appeared behind them, carrying in her arms

(looking like a fur muff) an Angora cat of fine growth. As she had not

followed the fashion for ten years or more, she appeared to have come from

the other world.—"You see, gentlemen," pointing to her dogs, "all the

court I have at present, but in truth those courtiers there are well worth

all others. Here, Marquis! down, Duke! lie down, Chevalier! Do not be

offended, gentlemen, that I receive you in such company; but how was I to

know?..."—Grimm first spoke.—"You will excuse, mademoiselle, this

unannounced visit when you know the important object of it."—"I am as

curious as if I were only twenty years old," said Mademoiselle de Camargo;

"but, alas! when I was twenty, it was the heart that was curious; but now,

in the winter of life, I am no longer troubled on that score."—"The heart

never grows old," said Helvetius, bowing.—"That is a heresy, sir: those

only dare to advance such maxims who have never been in love. It is love

that never grows old, for it dies in childhood. But the heart—"—"You see,

madame, that your heart is still young; what you have just said proves

that you are still full of fire and inspiration."—"Yes, yes," said

Mademoiselle de Camargo, "you are perhaps right; but when the hair is gray

and the wrinkles are deep, the heart is a lost treasure; a coin that is no

longer current."—While saying this, she lifted up Marquis by his two paws,

and kissed him on the head: Marquis was a fine setter-dog, with a

beautiful spotted skin.—"They, at least, will love me to the last. But it

seems to me we are talking nonsense; have we nothing better to talk about?

Come, gentlemen, I am all attention!"

The visitors looked at each other with some embarrassment; they seemed to

be asking of each other who was to speak first. Pont-de-Veyle collected

his thoughts, and spoke as follows: "Mademoiselle, we have been

breakfasting together; we had a gay time of it, like men of spirit.

Instead of bringing before us, as the Egyptians in olden times, mummies,

in order to remind us that time is the most precious of all things, we

called up all those gay phantoms which enchanted our youth: need I say

that you were not the least charming of them? who did not love you? who

did not desire to live with you one hour, even at the expense of a wound?

Happiness never costs too much—" Mademoiselle Camargo interrupted the

speaker: "O gentlemen, do not, I beg, blind me with the memory of the

past; do not awaken a buried passion! Let me die in peace! See, the tears

are in my eyes!"—The visitors, affected, looked with a certain degree of

emotion at the poor old lady who had loved so much. "It is strange," said

Helvetius to his neighbor, "we came here to laugh, but we are travelling

quite another road; however, I must say, nothing could be more ludicrous

than such a caricature, if it were not of a woman." "Proceed, sir," said

Mademoiselle de Camargo to Pont-de-Veyle. "To tell you the truth, madame,

the worst fellow in the company, or rather he who had drank the most,

declared that he was, of all your lovers, the one you most loved. ’The

mere talk of a man who has had too much wine,’ said one of us. But our

impertinent emptied his glass, and backed his statement. The discussion

became very lively. We talked, we drank, and we talked. When the last

bottle was empty, and the dispute was likely to end in a duel, and we

talked without knowing, probably, what we said, the most sober of the

company proposed to go and ask you yourself which of your lovers you loved

the most. Is it the Count de Melun? is it the Duke de Richelieu? is it the

Marquis de Croismare? the Baron de Viomesnil? the Viscount de Jumilhac? is

it Monsieur de Beaumont, or Monsieur d’Aubigny? is it a poet? is it a

soldier? is it an abbé?" "Pshaw! pshaw!" said Mademoiselle de Camargo,

smiling; "you had better refer to the _Court Calendar_!" "What we want to

know is not the names of those who have loved you, but, I repeat, the name

of him whom you loved the most." "You are fools," said Mademoiselle de

Camargo, with an air of sadness and a voice that showed emotion; "I will

not answer you. Let us leave our extinct passions in their tombs, in

peace. Why unbury all those charming follies which have had their day?"

"Come," says Grimm to Duclos, "do not let us grow sentimental; that would

be too absurd. Mademoiselle de Camargo," said he, playing with the dogs at

the same time, "which was the epoch of short petticoats? for that is one

of the points of our philosophical dispute."

The aged _danseuse_ did not answer. Taking Pont-de-Veyle by the hand, all

of a sudden, she said in rising: "Monsieur, follow me." He obeyed with

some surprise. She conducted him to her bedchamber; it was like a basket

of odds and ends; it looked like a linendraper’s shop in confusion; it was

all disorder; it was quite evident that the dogs were at home there.

Mademoiselle de Camargo went to a little rosewood chest of drawers,

covered with specimens of Saxony porcelain, more or less chipped and

broken. She opened a little ebony box, exposing its contents to the eyes

of Pont-de-Veyle. "Do you see?" said she, with a sigh. Pont-de-Veyle saw a

torn letter, the dry bouquet of half a century, the kind of flowers of

which it was composed could hardly be recognized. "Well?" asked

Pont-de-Veyle. "Well, do you understand?" "Not at all." "Look at that

portrait." She pointed with her finger to a wretched portrait in oils,

covered with dust and spider’s web. "I begin to understand." "Yes," said

she, "that is his portrait. As for myself, I never look at it. The one

here," striking her breast, "is more like. A portrait is a good thing for

those who have no time for memory."

Pont-de-Veyle looked in turn with much interest at the letter, the faded

bouquet, and the wretched portrait. "Have you ever met this person?"

"Never." "Let us return, then." "No; I beg let me hear the story." "Is it

not enough to have seen his portrait? You can now settle your dispute with

a word, since you know whether he whom I loved the most resembles your

friend who had taken so much wine." "He does not resemble him the least in

the world." "Well, that is all: I forgive your visit. Farewell! When you

breakfast with your friends, you can take up my defence somewhat. You can

tell those libertines without pity, that I have saved myself by my heart,

if we can be saved that way.... Yes, yes; it is my plank of safety, in the

wreck!"

Saying these words, Mademoiselle de Camargo approached the door of the

saloon. Pont-de-Veyle followed her, carrying the ebony-box. "Gentlemen,"

said he, to his merry friends, "our drunken toper was a coxcomb; I have

seen the portrait of the best beloved of the goddess of this mansion; now,

you must join your prayers to mine, to prevail upon Mademoiselle de

Camargo to relate to us the romance of her heart; I only know the preface,

which is melancholy and interesting; I have seen a letter, a bouquet, and

a portrait." "I will not tell you a word," muttered she; "women are

charged with not being able to keep a secret; there is, however, more than

one that they never tell. A love-secret is a rose which embalms our

hearts; if it is told, the rose loses its perfume. I who address you,"

said Mademoiselle de Camargo, in brightening up, "I have only kept my love

in all its freshness by keeping it all to myself. There were only La

Carton and that old rogue Fontenelle who ever got hold of my secret.

Fontenelle was in the habit of dining frequently with me; one day, finding

me in tears, he was so surprised, he who never wept himself, from

philosophy, doubtless, that he tormented me for more than an hour for a

solution of the enigma. He was almost like a woman; he drew from me, by

his cat-like worrying, the history of my love. Would you believe it? I

hoped to touch his heart, but it was like speaking to the deaf. After

having listened to the end without saying a word, he muttered with his

little weak voice, ’_It is pretty!_’ La Carton, however, wept with me. It

is worth being a poet and a philosopher in order not to understand such

histories."

Mademoiselle de Camargo was silent; a deep silence followed, and every

look was upon her. "Speak, speak! we are all attention," said Helvetius,

"we are more worthy of hearing your story than the old philosopher, who

loved no one but himself." "After all," she replied, carried away by the

delight of her remembrance, "it will be spending a happy hour; I speak of

myself, and as for happy or unhappy hours, not many more are to pass

during my life, for I feel that I am passing away. But I do not know how

to begin; a fire flashes before my eyes; I cannot see, I am so overcome.

To begin: I was twenty.... But I shall never have the courage to read my

history aloud before so many people." "Fancy, Mademoiselle de Camargo,"

said Helvetius, "that you are reading a romance." "Well, then," said she,

"I will begin without ceremony."

"I was twenty years old. You are all aware, for the adventure caused a

great deal of scandal, you all know how the Count de Melun carried me off

one morning along with my sister Sophy. This little mad-cap, who had a

great deal of imagination, having discovered me reading a letter of the

count’s, in which he spoke of his design, she swore upon her thirteen

years that he must carry her off too. I was far from conceding any such

claim. It was always taken for granted that children know nothing; but at

the opera, and in love, there are no children. The Count de Melun, by

means of a bribe, had gained over the chambermaid. I was very culpable; I

knew all, and had not informed my father. But my father wearied me

somewhat; he preached in the desert; that is to say he preached to me

about virtue. He was always talking to me about our noble descent, of our

cousin, who was a cardinal, of our uncle, who was a grand inquisitor of

the Inquisition. Vanity of vanities! all was vanity with him, while with

me all was love. I did not trouble myself about being of an illustrious

family; I was handsome, I was worshipped, and, what was still better, I

was young.

"In the middle of the night I heard my door open; it was the Count de

Melun. I was not asleep, I was expecting him. It is not every woman who

would like it that is run away with. I was going to be run away with.

"Love is not only charming in itself, it is so also from its romance. A

passion without adventure is like a mistress without caprice. I was seated

upon my bed. ’Is it you, Jacqueline?’ I said, affecting fright. ’It is I,’

said the count, falling upon his knees. ’You, sir! Your letter was not a

joke then?’ ’My horses are at hand; there is no time to lose; leave this

sad prison: my hotel, my fortune, my heart, all are at your service.’ At

that moment a light appeared at the door. ’My father!’ I cried, with

affright, as I concealed myself behind the bed curtains. ’All is lost,’

muttered the count. It was Sophy. I recognized her light step. She

approached with the light in her hand, and in silence, toward the count.

’My sister,’ said she, with some degree of excitement, but without losing

her presence of mind, ’here I am, all ready.’ I did not understand; I

looked at her with surprise; she was all dressed, from head to foot. ’What

are you saying? You are mad.’ ’Not by any means; I want to be run away

with, like yourself.’ The Count de Melun could not help laughing.

’Mademoiselle,’ he said to her, ’you forget your dolls and toys. ’Sir,’

replied she, with dignity, ’I am thirteen years old. It was not yesterday

that I made my _début_ at the opera; I take a part on the stage in the

ravishment of Psyche.’ ’Good,’ says the count, ’we will carry you off

too.’ ’It is as well,’ whispered the count in my ear; ’this is the only

way of getting rid of her.’

"I was very much put out by this contretemps, which gave a new

complication to our adventure. My father might forgive my being carried

off, but Sophy! I tried to dissuade her from her mad enterprise. I offered

her my ornaments; she would not listen to reason. She declared, that if

she was not carried off with me she would inform against us, and thus

prevent the adventure. ’Do not oppose her.’ said the count; ’with such a

tendency she will be sure to be carried off sooner or later.’—’Well, let

us depart together,’ The chambermaid, who had approached with the

stealthy, quiet step of a cat, told us to hurry, for she was afraid that

the noise of the horses, that were pawing the ground near by, would awaken

Monsieur de Camargo. We were off; the carriage drove us to the count’s

hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Gervais. Sophy laughed and sung. In the

morning I wrote to the manager of the opera, that by the advice of my

physician it was impossible for me to appear for three weeks. To tell you

the truth, gentlemen, in a week’s time I went myself to inform the manager

that I would dance that evening. This, you perceive, is not very

flattering to the Count de Melun; but there are so few men in this world

who are sufficiently interesting for a week together. I loved the count,

doubtless, but I wanted to breathe a little without him. I desired the

excitement of the theatre. I opened my window, constantly, as if I would

fly out of it.

"As soon as I appeared at the opera my father followed my track, and

discovered the retreat of his daughters. One evening behind the scenes, he

went straight to the count and insulted him. The count answered him, with

great deference, that he would avoid the chance of taking the life of a

gallant gentleman who had given birth to such a daughter as I was. My

father did his best to prove and establish his sixteen quarterings, the

count was not willing to fight him. It was about that time that my father

presented his famous petition to the Cardinal de Fleury: ’Your petitioner

would state to the Lord Cardinal, that the Count de Melun, having carried

off his two daughters in the night, between the 10th and 11th of the month

of May, 1728, holds them imprisoned in his hotel, rue de la

Culture-Saint-Gervais. Your petitioner having to do with a person of rank,

is obliged to have recourse to his majesty’s ministers; he hopes, through

the goodness of the king, justice will be done him, and that the Count de

Melun will be commanded to espouse the elder daughter of your petitioner,

and endow the younger.’

"A father could not have done better. The Cardinal de Fleury amused

himself a good deal with the petition, and recommended me, one day that we

were supping together, for full penance, to make over to my father my

salary at the opera. But I find I am not getting on with my story. But

what would you have? The beginning is always where we dwell with the

greatest pleasure. I had been living in the count’s hotel a year; Sophy

had returned to my father’s house, where she did not remain long; but it

is not her history that I am relating. One morning a cousin of the count

arrived at the hotel in a great bustle; he was about spending a season in

Paris, in all the wildness of youth. He took us by surprise at breakfast;

he took his seat at table, without ceremony, on the invitation of the

count.

"In the beginning he did not strike my fancy; I thought him somewhat of a

braggadocio. He cultivated his mustachios with, great care (the finest

mustachios in the world), and spoke quite often enough of his prowess in

battle. Some visitor interrupting us, the count went into his library, and

left us together, _tête-à-tête_. Monsieur de Marteille’s voice, until then

proud and haughty in its tone, softened a little. He had at first looked

at me with the eye of a soldier; he now looked at me with the eye of a

pupil.—’Excuse, madame,’ said he, with some emotion, ’my rude soldier-like

bearing; I know nothing of fine manners; I have never passed through the

school of gallantry. Do not be offended at any thing I may say.’—’Why,

sir,’ said I, smiling, ’you do not say any thing at all.’—’Ah, if I knew

how to speak! but, in truth, I would feel more at home before a whole army

than I do before your beautiful eyes. The count is very happy in having

such a beautiful enemy to contend with.’—While speaking thus, he looked at

me with a supplicating tenderness which contrasted singularly with his

look of the hero. I do not know what my eyes answered him. The count then

came in, and the conversation took another turn.

"Monsieur de Marteille accepted the earnest invitation of his cousin to

stay at his hotel. He went out; I did not see him again till evening. He

did not know who I was; the count called me Marianne, and,

unintentionally, perhaps, he had not spoken a word to his cousin about the

opera, or my grace and skill as a dancer. At supper, Monsieur de Marteille

had no longer the same frank gayety of the morning; a slight uneasiness

passed like a cloud over his brow; more than once I caught his melancholy

glance.—’Cheer up your cousin,’ I said to the count.—’I know what he

wants,’ answered Monsieur de Melun; ’I will take him to-morrow to the

opera. You will see that in that God-forsaken place he will find his

good-humor again.’—I felt jealous, without asking myself why.

"Next day the _Triumph of Bacchus_ was played. I appeared as Ariadne, all

covered with vine-leaves and flowers. I never danced so badly. I had

recognized Monsieur de Marteille among the gentlemen of the court. He

looked at me with a serious air. I had hoped to have had an opportunity to

speak with him before the end of the ballet, but he had already gone. I

was offended at his abrupt departure.—’How!’ said I to myself, ’he sees me

dance, and this is the way he makes me his compliments.’—Next morning, he

breakfasted with us; he did not say a word about the evening; finally, not

being able to resist my impatience, ’Well, Monsieur de Marteille,’ said I

to him, somewhat harshly, ’you left early last night; it was hardly polite

of you.’—’Ah! when you were to dance no more!’ said he, with a sigh. This

was the first time that I was ever spoken to thus. Fearing that he had

said too much, and in order to divert Monsieur de Melun, who observed him

with a look of surprise, he began to speak of a little singer of no great

moment, who had a voice of some freshness.

"In the afternoon, the count detained at home for some reason or other,

begged his cousin to accompany me in a ride to the woods. He was to join

us on horseback. The idea of this ride made my heart beat violently. It

was the first time that I had listened with pleasure to the beatings of my

heart.

"We started on a fine summer’s day. Every thing was like a holyday: the

sky, the houses, the trees, the horses, and the people. A veil had fallen

from my eyes. For some minutes we remained in the deepest silence; not

knowing what to do, I amused myself by making a diamond that I wore

glisten in the rays of the sun that entered the carriage. Monsieur de

Marteille caught hold of my hand. We both said not a word the whole time.

I tried to disengage my hand; he held it the harder. I blushed; he turned

pale. A jolt of the carriage occurred very opportunely to relieve us from

our embarrassment; the jolt had lifted me from my seat; it made me fall

upon his bosom.—’Monsieur,’ said I, starting. ’Ah, madame, if you knew how

I love you!’—He said this with a tenderness beyond expression; it was love

itself that spoke! I had no longer the strength to get angry. He took my

hand again and devoured it with kisses. He did not say another word; I

tried to speak, but did not know what to say myself. From time to time our

looks met each other; it was then that we were eloquent. Such eternal

pledges, such promises of happiness!

"Notwithstanding, we arrived at the woods. All of a sudden, as if seized

with a new idea, he put his head out of the window, and said something to

the coachman. I understood, by the answer of La Violette, the coachman,

that he was not willing to obey; but Monsieur de Marteille having alluded

to a caning and fifty pistoles, the coachman made no further objections. I

did not understand very well what he was about. After an hour’s rapid

travelling, as I was looking with some anxiety as to where we were, he

tried to divert me by telling me some episodes of his life. Although I did

not listen very intelligently to what he said, I heard enough to find out

that I was the first woman he had ever loved. They all say so, but he told

the truth, for he spoke with his eyes and his heart. I soon found out that

we were no longer on our right road; but observe how far the feebleness of

a woman in love will go: I hadn’t the courage to ask him why he had

changed our route. We crossed the Seine in a boat, between Sèvres and St.

Cloud; we regained the woods, and after an hour’s ride through them, we

reached an iron park-gate, at the extremity of the village of Velaisy.

"Monsieur de Marteille had counted without his host. He expected not to

have found a soul in his brother’s chateau, but, since the evening before,

his brother had returned from a journey to the coast of France. Seeing

that the chateau was inhabited, Monsieur de Marteille begged me to wait a

little in the carriage. As soon as he had gone, the coachman came to the

door.—’Well, madame, we breathe at last! my opinion is that we should make

our escape. Depend upon the word of La Violette, we shall be in less than

two hours at the hotel.’—’La Violette,’ said I, ’open the door.’—I ran a

great risk. La Violette obeyed.—’Now,’ said I to him, when I had alighted

upon the ground, ’you may go!’—He looked at me with the eye of an old

philosopher, mounted his box, and snapped his whip; but he had hardly

started, when he thought it better to return.—’I will not return without

madame, for if I return alone, I shall be sure of a good heating, and of

being discharged.’—’Indeed, La Violette! as you please.’ At that moment I

saw the count returning.—’It is all for the best,’ he cried out, in the

distance; ’my brother has only two days to spend in Paris: he has stopped

here to give his orders; he wishes, at all hazards, to see Camargo dance!

I told him that she was to appear this evening. He will leave in a moment.

You must wait in the park till he is gone. I will return to him, for I

must take my leave of him, and wish him a pleasant journey.

"An hour afterward we were installed in the chateau. La Violette remained,

at our order, with his carriage and horses. In the evening there was great

excitement at the opera. It was solemnly announced to the public that

Mademoiselle de Camargo had been carried off! The Count de Melun surprised

at not finding us in the woods, had gone to the theatre. He was hissed; he

swore revenge. He sought every where; he found neither his horses, nor his

carriage, nor his mistress. For three months the opera was in mourning!

Thirty bailiffs were on my track; but we made so little noise in our

little chateau, hid away in the woods, that we were never discovered."

Mademoiselle de Camargo became pale; she was silent, and looked at her

listeners as if she would say by her looks that had been lighted up at

that celestial flame which had passed over her life: "Oh, how we loved

each other during those three months!"

She continued as follows: "That season has filled a greater space in my

life than all the rest of my days. When I think of the past, it is there

where my thoughts travel at once. How relate to you the particulars of our

happiness? When destiny protects us, happiness is composed of a thousand

charming nothings that the hearts of others cannot understand. During

those three months I was entirely happy; I wished to live for ever in this

charming retreat for him that I loved a thousand times more than myself. I

wished to abandon the opera, that opera that the Count de Melun could not

make me forget for a week!

"Monsieur de Marteille possessed all the attraction of a real passion; he

loved me with a charming simplicity; he put in play, without designing it,

all the seductions of love. What tender words! what impassioned looks!

what enticing conversation! Each day was a holyday, each hour a rapture. I

had no time to think of the morrow.

"Our days were spent in walks, in the shade of the woods, in the thousand

windings of the park. In the evening I played the harpsichord, and I sang.

It often occurred that I danced, danced for him. In the middle of a dance

that would have excited a furor at the opera, I fell at his feet,

completely overcome; he raised me up, pressed me to his heart and forgave

me for having danced. I always hear his beautiful voice, which was like

music, but such music as I dream of, and not such as Rameau has