Utterly.

And did Elkanah believe in himself?

Yes,--but with certain grave doubts. Here is the difference: the

woman's faith is intuition; the man must have a reason for the faith

that is in him.

Yet Elkanah was growing. I think a man grows like the walls of a house,

by distinct stages: so far the scaffolding reaches, and then a general

stoppage while the outer shell is raised, the ladders lengthened, and

the work squared off. Now I don't know, unhappily, the common process

of growth of the artistic mind, and how far the light of today helps

the neophyte to look into the indefinite twilight of to-morrow; but

step by step was the slow rule of Elkanah's mind, and he had been now

five years an artist, and was held in no despicable repute by those few

who could rightly judge of a man's future by his past, when first it

became very clear to him that he had yet to find his _speciality_ in

Art,--that truth which _he_ might better represent than any other man.

Don't think five years long to determine so trivial a point. The right

man in the right place is still a rare phenomenon in the world; and

some men spend a lifetime in the consideration of this very point,

doubtless looking to take their chance of real work in the next world.

I mean to say it took Elkanah just five years to discover, that, though

he painted many things well, he did yet put his very soul into none,

and that, unless he could now presently find this, _his_ right place,

he had, perhaps, better stop altogether.

Elkanah considered; but he also worked unceasingly, feeling that the

best way to break through a difficulty is to pepper away at its outer

walls.

Now while he was firing away wearily at this fortress, which held, he

thought, the deepest secret of his life, Hepsy Ann sat in her pantry,

her serene soul troubled by unwonted fears. Captain Elijah Nickerson

had sailed out in his stanch schooner in earliest spring, for the

Banks. The old man had been all winter meditating a surprise; and his

crew were in unusual excitement, peering out at the weather, consulting

almanacs, prophesying (to outsiders) a late season, and winking to each

other a cheerful disbelief of their own auguries. The fact is, they

were intending to slip off before the rest, and perhaps have half their

fare of fish caught before the fleet got along. No plan could have

succeeded better--up to a certain point. Captain Elijah got off to sea

full twelve days earlier than anybody else, and was bowling merrily

down towards the eternal fog-banks when his neighbors were yet scarce

thinking of gathering up their mittens and sea-boots. By the time the

last comers arrived on the fishing-ground, one who had spoken the

"Miranda" some days before, anchored and fishing away, reported that

they had, indeed, nearly _wet her salt_,--by which is meant that she

was nearly filled with good, sound codfish. The men were singing as

they dressed their fish, and Captain Elijah, sitting high up on the

schooner's quarter, took his pipe out of his mouth, and asked, as the

vessel rose on the sea, if they had any news to send home, for three

days more like that would fill him up.

That was the last word of Captain Elijah Nickerson's ever heard by men

now living. Whether the "Miranda" was sunk by an iceberg; whether run

down in the dark and silent watches of the night by some monster packet

or swift hurling steamer, little recking the pale fisher's light feebly

glimmering up from the surface of the deep; or whether they went down

at their anchors, in the great gale which set in on the third night, as

many brave men have done before, looking their fate steadfastly in the

face for long hours, and taking time to bid each other farewell ere the

great sea swallowed them;--the particulars of their hapless fate no man

may know, till the dread day when the sea shall give up its dead.

Vainly poor Hepsy Ann waited for the well-known signal in the

offing,--daily walking to the shore, where kind old Uncle Shubael, now

long superannuated, and idly busying himself about the fish-house,

strove to cheer her fainting soul by store of well-chosen proverbs, and

yarns of how, aforetimes, schooners not larger and not so stout as the

"Miranda," starting early for the Banks, had been blown southward to

the West Indies, and, when the second-fare men came in with their fish,

had made their appearance laden with rich cargoes of tropical molasses

and bananas. Poor Hepsy Ann! what need to describe the long-drawn agony

which grew with the summer flowers, but did not wane with the summer

sun? Hour after hour, day after day, she sat by her pantry-window,

looking with wistful eyes out upon the sand, to that spot where the

ill-fated "Miranda" had last been seen, but never should appear

again,--another

"poor lone Hannah,

Sitting by the window, binding shoes,"--

cheeks paling, eyes dimming, with that hope deferred which maketh the

heart sick. Pray God you never may be so tried, fair reader! If, in

these days, she had not had the children to keep and comfort, she has

since told me, she could scarce have borne it. To calm their fears, to

soothe their little sorrows, to look anxiously--more anxiously than

ever before--after each one of her precious little brood, became now

her chief solace.

Thus the long, weary days rolled away, each setting sun crushing

another hope, until at last the autumn storms approached, the last

Banker was safe home; and by this time it was plain, even to poor Hepsy

Ann's faithful heart, that her dead would not come back to her.

"If only Elkanah were here!" she had sometimes sighed to herself;--but

in all these days she wrote him no word. And he--guessing nothing of

her long, silent agony, himself sufficiently bemired in his slough of

despond, working away with sad, unsatisfied heart in his little studio,

hoping yet for light to come to his night--was, in truth, so full of

himself, that Hepsy Ann had little of his thoughts. Shall I go farther,

and admit that sometimes this poor fellow dimly regretted his pledged

heart, and faintly murmured, "If only I were free, _then_ I might do

something"? If only the ship were rid of her helmsman, then indeed

would she go--somewhere.

At last,--it was already near Thanksgiving,--the news reached Elkanah.

"I thought you'd ha' been down afore this to see Hepsy Ann Nickerson in

her trouble," said an old coasting-skipper to him, with mild reproach,

handing him a letter from his mother,--of all persons in the world!

Whereupon, seeing ignorance in Elkanah's inquiring glance, he told the

story.

Elkanah was as one in a maze. Going to his little room, he opened his

mother's letter, half-dreading to find here a detailed repetition of

what his heart had just taken in. But the letter was short.

"MY SON ELKANAH,--

"Do you not know that Captain Elijah Nickerson will never come home

from the Banks, and that Hepsy Ann is left alone in the world?

"'For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and be joined

to his wife, and they two shall be one flesh.'"

That was all.

Elkanah sat on his stool, before his easel, looking vacantly at the

unfinished picture, as one stunned and breathless. For the purport of

this message was not to be mistaken. Nor did his conscience leave him

in doubt as to his duty, O God! was this, indeed, the end? Had he

toiled, and hoped, and prayed, and lived the life of an anchorite these

five years only for this? Was such faith, such devotion, _so_ rewarded?

But had any one the right to demand this sacrifice of him? Was it not a

devilish temptation to take him from his calling, from that work in

which God had evidently intended him to work for the world? Had he a

right to spoil his life, to belittle his soul, for any consideration?

If Hepsy Ann Nickerson had claims, had not he also, and his Art? If he

were willing, in this dire extremity, to sacrifice his love, his

prospects of married bliss, might he not justly require the same of

her? Was not Art his mistress?--Thus whispered the insidious devil of

Selfishness to this poor, tempted, anguished soul.

"Yea," whispered another still, small voice; "but is not Hepsy Ann your

promised wife?" And those fatal words sounded in his heart: "For this

cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and be joined to his

wife."

"Lord, inspire me to do what is right!" prayed poor mazed Elkanah,

sinking on his knees at his cot-side.

But presently, through his blinding tears, "Lord, give me strength to

do the right!"

And then, when he awoke next morning, the world seemed another world to

him. The foundations of his life seemed broken loose. Tears were no

longer, nor prayers. But he went about slowly, and with loving hands,

packing up his brushes, pallets, paints, easel,--all the few familiar

objects of a life which was his no longer, and on which he seemed to

himself already looking as across some vast gulf of years. At last all

was done. A last look about the dismantled garret, so long his

workshop, his home, where he had grown out of one life into another,

and a better, as he thought,--out of a narrow circle into a broader.

And then, away for the Cape. No farewells, no explanations to friends,

nothing that should hold out to his sad soul any faintest hope of a

return to this garret, this toil, which now seemed to him more heaven

than ever before. Thus this Adam, left his paradise, clinging to his

Eve.

It was the day before Thanksgiving when Elkanah arrived at home. Will

any one blame him, if he felt little thankful? if the thought of the

Thanksgiving turkey was like to choke him, and the very idea of giving

thanks seemed to him a bitter satire? Poor fellow! he forgot that there

were other hearts to whom Thanksgiving turkey seemed little tempting.

The Cape folk are not demonstrative. They have warm hearts, but the old

Puritan ice has never quite melted away from the outer shell.

"Well, Elkanah, glad to see you, boy!" said his father, looking up from

his corner by the stove; "how's things in New York?" Father and son had

not met for three years. But, going out into the kitchen, he received a

warm grasp of the hand, and his mother said, in her low, sweet voice,

"I knew you'd come." That was all. But it was enough.

How to take his sad face over to Elijah Nickerson's new house? But that

must be done, too. Looking through the little sitting-room window, as

he passed, he saw pale-faced Hepsy Ann sitting quietly by the table,

sewing. The children had gone to bed. He did not knock;--why should

he?--but, walking in, stood silent on the floor. A glad, surprised

smile lit up the sad, wan face, as she recognized him, and, stepping to

his side, said, "Oh, Elkanah! I knew you'd come. How good of you!"

Then, abashed to have so committed herself and him, she shrank to her

chair again.

Let us not intrude further on these two. Surely--Elkanah Brewster had

been less than man, had he not found his hard heart to soften, and his

cold love to warm, as he drew from her the story of her long agony, and

saw this weary heart ready to rest upon him, longing to be comforted in

his strong arms.

The next day a small sign was put up at Abijah Brewster's door:--

BOOTS AND SHOES

MADE AND MENDED

By

ELKANAH BREWSTER.

It was arranged that he should work at his trade all winter. In the

spring, he was to have his father's vessel, and the wedding would be

before he started for the Banks.

So the old life was put on again. I will not say that Elkanah was

thoroughly content,--that there were no bitter longings, no dim

regrets, no faint questionings of Providence. But hard work is a good

salve for a sore heart; and in his honest toils, in his care for Hepsy

Ann and her little brood, in her kind heart, which acknowledged with

such humility of love all he did for her and all he had cast away for

her, he found his reward.

The wedding was over,--a quiet affair enough,--and Elkanah was anchored

on the Banks, with a brave, skilful crew, and plenty of fish. His old

luck had not deserted him; wherever he dropped anchor, there the cod

seemed to gather; and, in the excitement of catching fish and guarding

against the dangers of the Banks, the old New York life seemed

presently forgotten; and, once more, Elkanah's face wore the old,

hopeful calm which belonged there. Art, that had been so long his

tyrant mistress, was at last cast off.

Was she?

As he sat, one evening, high on the quarter, smoking his pipe, in that

calm, contemplative mood which is the smoker's reward for a day of

toil,--the little vessel pitching bows under in the long, tremendous

swell of the Atlantic, the low drifting fog lurid in the light of the

setting sun, but bright stars twinkling out, one by one, overhead, in a

sky of Italian clearness and softness,--it all came to him,--that which

he had so long, so vainly sought, toiled for, prayed for in New

York,--his destiny.

Why should he paint heads, figures, landscapes, objects with which his

heart had never been really filled?

But now, as in one flash of divinest intelligence, it was revealed to

him!--This sea, this fog, this sky, these stars, this old, old life,

which he had been almost born into.--Oh, blind bat indeed, not to have

seen, long, long ago, that this was your birthright in Art! not to have

felt in your innermost heart, that this was indeed that thing, if

anything, which God had called you to paint!

For this Elkanah had drunk in from his earliest youth,--this he

understood to its very core; but the poor secret of that other life,

which is so draped about with the artistic mannerisms and fashionable

Art of New York, or any other civilized life, he had never rightly

appreciated.

In that sunset-hour was born a _painter_!

III.

It chanced, that, a few months ago, I paid my accustomed summer visit

to an old friend, living near Boston,--a retired merchant he calls

himself. He began life as a cabin-boy,--became, in time, master of an

Indiaman,--then, partner in a China house,--and after many years'

residence in Canton, returned some years ago, heart and liver whole, to

spend his remaining days among olden scenes. A man of truest culture,

generous heart, and rarely erring taste. I never go there without

finding something new and admirable.

"What am I to see, this time?" I asked, after dinner, looking about the

drawing-room.

"Come. I'll show you."

He led me up to a painting,--a sea-piece:--A schooner, riding at her

anchor, at sunset, far out at sea, no land in sight, sails down, all

but a little patch of storm-sail fluttering wildly in the gale, and

heavily pitching in a great, grand, rolling sea; around, but not

closely enveloping her, a driving fog-bank, lurid in the yellow sheen

of the setting sun; above her, a few stars dimly twinkling through a

clear blue sky; on the quarter-deck, men sitting, wrapped in all the

paraphernalia of storm-clothing, smoking and watching the roll of the

sea.

"What do you think?" asked Captain Eastwick, interrupting my rapt

contemplation.

"I never in my life saw so fine a seaview. Whose can it be?"

"A Cape-Cod fisherman's."

"But he is a genius!" cried I, enthusiastically.

"A great, a splendid genius!" said my friend, quietly.

"And a fisherman?"

"Yes, and shoemaker."

"What a magnificent career he might make! Why don't you help him? What

a pity to bury such a man in fish-boots and cod-livers!"

"My dear----," said Captain Eastwick, "you are a goose. The highest

genius lives above the littleness of making a career. This man needs no

Academy prizes or praises. To my mind, his is the noblest, happiest

life of all."

Whereupon he told me the story which I have endeavored to relate.

* * * * *

MAGDALENA.

I would have killed you, if a breath

Freighted with some insensate death,

Magdalena,

Had power to breathe your life away,

To so exhale that rose-hued clay,

Magdalena,

That it had faded from my sight,

Like roses in a single night,

Magdalena!

I could have killed you thus, and felt

My will a blessed doom had dealt,

Magdalena!

Ah, would to God! then I had been

Unconscious of your scarlet sin,

Magdalena!

Ah, when I thought your soul as white

As the white rose you wore that night,

Magdalena,

I wondered how your mother came

To give you that sin-sullied name,

Magdalena!

Did some remorseless, vengeful Fate,

In mockery of your lofty state,

Magdalena,

Because you wore the branded name,

Fling over you its scarlet shame,

Magdalena?

There is no peace for you below

That horrid heritage of woe,

Magdalena!

There is no room for you on earth,

Accursed from your very birth,

Magdalena!

But where the angels chant and sing,

And where the amaranth-blossoms spring,

Magdalena,

There's room for you, who have no room

Where lower angels chant your doom,

Magdalena!

There's room for you! The gate's ajar!

The white hands beckon from afar,

Magdalena!

And nearer yet! they stoop! they wait!

They open wide the jasper gate,

Magdalena!

And nearer yet! the hands stretch out!

A thousand silver trumpets shout,

Magdalena!

They lift you up through floods of light!

I see your garments growing white,

Magdalena!

And whiter still, too white to touch

The robes of us, who blamed you much,

Magdalena!

They lift you up through floods of light!

The streaming splendor blinds my sight,

Magdalena!

I feel the whirl of countless wings!

I lose the sense of earthly things,

Magdalena!

The starry splendors burn anew!

The starry splendors light me through,

Magdalena!

I gain the dizzy height! I see!

There's room for _me!_ There's room for _me_,

Magdalena!

"STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE."

To begin with a mild egotism,--I do not like De Sautys.

You remember De Sauty? Perched on his steadfast stool, in a deserted

telegraph-house, hard by that bay of the broken promise, De Sauty, like

Poe's raven, "still was sitting, still was sitting," watching, in

forlorn, but hopeful loneliness, the paralyzed tongue of the Atlantic

Cable, to catch the utterances that never came for all his patient

coaxing; and ever and anon he iterated, feebly and more feebly, as if

all his sinking soul he did outpour into the words, that melancholy

monotone which was his only stock and store,--"All right! De Sauty."

I never did like ravens, and I do not like De Sautys; for if, indeed,

it were all right with the De Sautys, it would be all wrong with

certain things that are most dear to the romantic part of me; since De

Sauty is to my imagination the living type of that indiscriminate

sacrilege of trade which would penetrate the beautiful illusions of

remoteness, as through an opera-glass,--which would tie the ends of the

earth together and toss it over shoulder like a peddler's bundle, to

"swop" quaint curiosities, inspiring relics, and solemn symbols, for

British prints or American pig-iron. Puck us no Pucks, De Sauty, nor

constrict our planet's rotundity with any forty-minute girdle; for in

these days of inflating crinoline and ever-increasing circumference of

hooped skirts, it becomes us to leave our Mother Earth at least in the

fashion, nor strive to reduce her to such unmodish dimensions that one

may circumnavigate her in as little time, comparatively, as he may make

the circuit of Miss Flora MacFlimsey.

I beseech you, do not call that nonsense; it is but a good-natured way

of stating the case in the aspect it presents from the De Sauty point

of view; for tightly laced as poor Mother Earth already is, with

railroad corsets and steamship stays, growing small by degrees and

beautifully less, she needs but the forty-minute girdle of Puck De

Sauty to so contract her waist at the equator that any impudent

traveller may span it with a carpet-bag and an umbrella.

On that memorable night of the Cable Celebration, when so many paper

lanterns and so many enlightened New Yorkers were sold in the name of

De Sauty,--when all the streets and all the people were alive with

gas,--when we fired off rockets and Roman candles and spread-eagle

speeches in illustrious exuberance,--when the city children lit their

little dips, and the City Fathers lit their City Hall,--when we hung

out our banners, and clanged our bells, and banged our guns,--when

there was Glory to God in the highest steeple, and Peace on Earth in

the lowest cellar,--I drifted down the Broadway current of a mighty

flood of folk, a morose and miserable sentimentalist.

I had seen locomotives, those Yankee Juggernauts, drive, roaring and

ruthless, over the beautiful bodies of fine old travellers' fictions;

and once, in Burmah, I had beheld a herd of stately elephants plunge

and scoot, scampering and squealing, like pigs on a railroad, away from

the steam scream of a new-fangled man-of-war. I had witnessed those

monstrous sacrileges, and survived,--had even, when locomotive and

steamer were passed, picked up my beautiful fictions again, and called

back my panic-stricken elephants with the gong of imagination; but here

were Gulliver and Aladdin and Sinbad the Sailor torn from their golden

thrones, and this insolent De Sauty, crowned with zinc and copper and

sceptred with gutta-percha, set up in their places to the tune of "All

Eight."

"I will build you a house of gold, and you shall be my Padshah Begum,

some day," said the whimsically cruel King of Oude to Nuna, his favorite

Cashmere dancing-girl.

For a while Nima's dreams were golden. But the time came when the King

was not in the vein. He followed vacantly her most enchanting

undulations and yawned listlessly.

"Boppery bopp!" he exclaimed, presently, "but this bores us. Is there

no better fun? Let us have a quail-fight, Khan."

The Khan rose to order in the quails. The King gazed on Nuna with

languid satiety.

"I wonder how she would look, Europe-fashion."

"Nothing is easier, Sire, than to see how she would look," said the

Khan, as he returned with the quails.

So a gown, and other articles of European female attire, were sent for

to the Khan's house; for he was a married man; and when they were

brought, Nuna was told to retire and put them on. The quail-fight

proceeded on the table.

Then Nuna reappeared in her new costume. A more miserable

transformation it is hardly possible to imagine. The clothes hung

loosely about her, in forlorn dowdyness. She felt that she was

ridiculous. All grace was gone, all beauty. It was distressing to

witness her mortified plight.

The King and the Khan laughed heartily, while scalding tears coursed

down poor Nuna's cheeks. The other nautch-girls, jealous, had no pity

for her; they chuckled at her disgrace, turning up their pretty noses,

as they whispered,--"Serve her right,--the brazen minx!"

For days, nay, for weeks, did poor Nuna thus appear, a laughing-stock.

She implored permission to leave the court, and return to her wretched

home in Cashmere; but that was refused. In the midst of the Mohurrim,

she suddenly disappeared. There were none to inquire for her.[1]

[Footnote 1: Private Life of an Eastern King.]

Oh, they may say what they please about the irresistible march of

civilization, and clearing the way for Webster's Spelling-Book,--about

pumps for Afric's sunny fountains, and Fulton ferry-boats for India's

coral strand; but there's nothing in what the Atlantic Cable gives,

like that it takes away from the heart of the man who has looked the

Sphinx in the face and dreamed with the Brahmin under his own banian.

Spare the shrinking Nunas of our poetry your Europe-fashions!

Because the De Sautys are scientifically virtuous, shall there be no

more barbaric cakes and ale for us? Because they are joined to their

improved Shanghaes, must we let our phoenixes alone? Must we deny our

crocodiles when they preach to us codfish? And shall we abstain from

crying, "In the name of the Prophet, figs!" in order that they may

bawl, "In the name of Brother Jonathan, doughnuts"?

Yes, the world is visibly shrinking in the hard grip of commerce, and

the magic and the marvels that filled our childish souls with

adventurous longing are fading away in the change. Let us make haste,

then, before it is too late,--before the very Sphinx is guessed, and

the Boodh himself baptized in Croton water; and, like the Dutchmen in

Hans Christian Andersen's story, who put on the galoches of happiness

and stepped out into the Middle Ages, let us slip our feet into the

sandals of imagination and step out into the desert or the jungle.

One who expressed his Oriental experiences in an epic of fresh and

thrilling sensations has written,--"If a man be not born of his mother

with a natural Chifney bit in his mouth, there comes to him a time for

loathing the wearisome ways of society,--a time for not liking tamed

people,--a time for not dancing quadrilles,--a time for pretending that

Milton, and Shelley, and all sorts of mere dead people are greater in

death than the first living lord of the treasury,--a time, in short,

for scoffing and railing, for speaking lightly of the opera, and all

our most cherished institutions. A little while you are free and

unlabelled, like the ground you compass; but civilization is coming,

and coming; you and your much-loved waste-lands will be surely

inclosed, and sooner or later you will be brought down to a state of

utter usefulness,--the ground will be curiously sliced into acres and

roods and perches, and you, for all you sit so smartly on your saddle,

you will be caught, you will be taken up from travel, as a colt from

grass, to be trained, and matched, and run.

"All this in time: but first come Continental tours, and the moody

longing for Eastern travel; your native downs and moors can hold you no

longer; with larger stride you burst away from these slips and patches

of free-land,--you thread your way through the crowds of Europe, and at

last, on the banks of the Jordan, you joyfully know that you are upon

the very frontier of all accustomed respectabilities.

"There, on the other side of the river, (you can swim it with one arm,)

there reigns the people that will be like to put you to death for _not_

being a vagrant, for _not_ being a robber, for _not_ being armed and

houseless. There is comfort in that,--health, comfort, and strength, to

one who is dying from very weariness of that poor, dear, middle-aged,

deserving, accomplished, pedantic, pains-taking governess, Europe."

Better the abodes of the anthropophagi, the "men whose heads do grow

beneath their shoulders," than no place to get away to at all; for to

every vigorous soul there one day comes a longing, by the light of

which magnificent distances appear beautiful, and the possibilities of

infinite far-offness delicious; to the Christian traveller, who exults

in the faith that "each remotest nation shall learn Messiah's name,"

how dear is that remoteness which renders the promise sublime! It is

these considerations which make us, old-fashioned Pucks, whose

performances go no farther than putting a girdle round about the earth

in fifty months, object to telegraphs, and protest against De Sauty.

Among your books and your lectures, you must have observed that there

are several well-defined and widely distinct kinds of traveller. One is

the professional tourist, who formally and statedly "sets out," in his

own deliberate way, packed, marked, and paid through; he is shipped

like preserved meats, hermetically sealed to foreign impressions, and

warranted to keep in any climate,--the same snug, well-arranged

"commercial traveller" who went abroad for materials, for which you are

to pay; and when he has laid in the necessary stock,--the identical

stock as per original advices,--he comes back again, and that is

all,--the very same as to himself and his baggage, except that the

latter is heavier by the addition of a corpulent carpet-bag bloated

with facts and figures, the aspect of the country, the dimensions of

monuments, the customs of the people, their productions and

manufactures; he might as well have done his tour around his own

library, with a copy of Bayard Taylor's Cyclopaedia of Travel, and an

assortment of stereoscopic views, for all the freshness of impression

or originality of narrative you'll get from him,--from whom preserve

us! Give us, rather, that truer traveller who goes by the

accommodation-train of Whim, and whom, in the language of conductors,

you may take up or put down anywhere, because he is no "dead-head," nor

"ticketed through." This is he of whom I have spoken elsewhere,--in the

magic mirror of whose memory (as to the last he saw of this wonder or

of that) "a stony statuesqueness prevails, to produce an effect the

weirdest of all; for there every living thing stands arrested in the

attitude or gesture it presented at the fine instant to which his

thought returns to find it,--seized in the midst, it may be, of the

gayest, most spirited, or most passionate action,--laughter, dance,

rage, conflict; and so fixed as unchangeable as the stone faces of the

gods, forever and forever." In the midst of a Burmese jungle I have

tried that sad experiment by its reverse, and, gazing into _my_ magic

mirror, have beheld my own dear home, and the old, familiar faces,--all

stony, pale, and dim. At such times, how painfully the exile's heart is

tried by the apparition of any object, however insignificant, to which

his happy childhood was accustomed! I think my heart was never more

sharply wrung than once at Prome, in the porch of a grim old temple of

Guadma;--a kitten was playing with a feather there.

In his enumeration of the chief points of attraction in the more

striking books of voyages and travels, Leigh Hunt, with his happy

appreciation of whatever is most quaint in description, most

sympathetic in impression, has helped us to an arrangement, which, with

a convenient modification of our own, we shall follow congenially. We

shall seek for remoteness and obscurity of place,--marvellousness of

hearsay,--surprising, but conceivable truth,--barbaric magnificence,--

the grotesque and the fantastic,--strangeness of custom,--personal

danger, courage, and suffering,--and their barbaric consolations.

In the pursuit of these, our path should wind, had we time to take

the longest, among deserts and lands of darkness,--phoenixes and

griffins and sphinxes,--human monsters, and more monstrous gods,--the

courts of Akbhar and Aurengzebe,--palaces of the Mogul and the Kathayan

Khan,--pigmies, monkey-gods, mummies, Fakeers, dancing-girls, tattooed

warriors, Thugs, cannibals, Fetishes, human sacrifices, and the Evil

Eye,--Chinese politeness, Bedouin honor, Bechuana simplicity,--the plague,

the _amok_, the bearding of lions, the graves of hero-travellers, flowers

in the desert, and the universal tenderness of women.

And as our wild way leads us onward, it shall open up visions, new and

wondrous, or beautiful as new, to those who try it for the first time.

See now, at the outset, stepping into the footprints of old Sir John

Mandeville, what do we behold?--"In that kingdom of Abcay is a great

marvel; for a province of the country, that hath in circuit three days'

journeys, that men call Hanyson, is all covered with darkness, without

any brightness or light,--so that no man may see nor hear, nor no man

dare enter into it. And nevertheless, they of that country say that

sometimes men hear voices of folks, and horses neighing, and cocks

crowing; and they know well that men live there, but they know not what

men. And they say that the darkness befell by miracle of God; for an

accursed emperor of Persia, that was named Saures, pursued all

Christian men for to destroy them, and to compel them to make sacrifice

to his idols; and rode with a great host, all that ever he could, for

to confound the Christian men. And then in that country dwelled many

good Christian men, the which left their goods, and would have fled

into Greece; and when they were in a plain called Megon, anon this

cursed emperor met with them, with his host, for to have slain them and

hewn them in pieces. And anon the Christian men did kneel to the

ground, and make their prayers to God to succor them. Then a great

thick cloud came and covered the emperor and all his host; and so they

remain in that manner, that no more may they get out on any side; and

so shall they evermore abide in darkness, till the day of doom, by the

miracle of God. And then the Christian men went whither they liked

best, at their own pleasure, without hindrance of any creature, and

their enemies were inclosed and confounded in darkness without a blow.

And that was a great miracle that God made for them; wherefore methinks

that Christian men should be more devout to serve our Lord God than any

other men of any other belief."

Thus doth the simple, willing faith of the childlike traveller of 1350

draw from his strange old story a moral which may serve to light the

way for you and me when we wend through the soul's land of darkness.

"Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."--

So sings Tennyson; and what's a cycle of Cathay? Let us ask Mandeville.

"Cathay is a great country, and a fair, noble, and rich, and full of

merchants. Thither go merchants, every year, for to seek spices, and

all manner of merchandises, more commonly than in any other part.

"In Cathay is the great city of Xanadu; and in this city is the seat of

the great Khan, in a full great palace, and the most passing fair in

all the world, of the which the walls be in circuit more than two

miles; and within the walls it is all full of other palaces. And in the

garden of the great palace there is a great hill, upon the which there

is another palace; and it is the most fair and the most rich that any

man may devise. And there is the great garden, full of wild beasts; so

that when the great Khan would have any sport, to take any of the wild

beasts, or of the fowls, he will cause them to be chased, and take them

at his windows, without going out of his chamber. The palace where the

seat is is both great and passing fair; and within the palace, in the

hall, there be twenty-four pillars of fine gold; and all the walls are

covered within with red skins of beasts, that men call panthers, that

be fair beasts, and well smelling; so that for the sweet odor of the

skins no evil air may enter into the palace. And in the midst of this

palace is the _mountour_ (high seat) for the great Khan, that is all

wrought of gold and of precious stones and great pearls; and at the

four corners of the _mountour_ be four serpents of gold, and all about

there is made large nets of silk and gold and great pearls hanging all

about the _mountour_. And the hall of the palace is full nobly arrayed,

and full marvellously attired on all parts, in all things that men

apparel any hall with. And at the chief end of the hall is the

emperor's throne, full high, where he sitteth at his meat; and that is

of fine precious stones, bound all about with purified gold and

precious stones and great pearls; and the steps that he goeth up to the

table be of precious stones mixed with gold. Under the firmament is not

so great a lord, nor so mighty, nor so rich, as the great Khan. Neither

Prester John, that is emperor of the high India, nor the Sultan of

Babylonia, nor the Emperor of Persia. All these be not in comparison to

the great Khan, neither of might, nor of nobleness, nor of royalty, nor

of riches; for in all these he passeth all earthly princes. Wherefore

it is great harm that he believeth not faithfully in God."

And here we naturally recall that wondrous vision which Coleridge

conjured up, when, opium-rapt, he dreamed in his study-chair of Kubla's

enchanted ground.

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree,

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,

Through caverns measureless to man,

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girded round;

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

"Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion,

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

"A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw;

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! beware

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your lips with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise!"

The account which Herodotus gives of the gifts that Croesus sent to the

Oracle at Delphi is a splendid example of barbaric magnificence. First,

the King offered up three thousand of every kind of sacrificial beast,

and burned upon a huge pile couches coated with silver and gold, and

golden goblets, and robes and vests of purple. Next he issued a command

to all the people of the land to offer up a sacrifice according to

their means. And when this sacrifice was consumed, he melted down a

vast quantity of gold, and ran it into one hundred and seventeen

ingots, each six palms long, three palms broad, and one palm in

thickness. He also caused the statue of a lion to be made of refined

gold, in weight ten talents. When these great works were completed,

Croesus sent them away to Delphi, and with them two bowls of enormous

size, one of gold, the other of silver. These two bowls, Herodotus

affirms, were removed when the temple of Delphi was burned to the

ground; and now the golden one is in the Clazomenian treasury, and

weighs eight talents and forty-two _minae_; the silver one stands in a

corner of the ante-chapel and holds six hundred _amphorae_ (over five

thousand gallons);--this is known, because the Delphians fill it at the

time of the Theophania. Croesus sent also four silver casks, which are

in the Corinthian treasury; and two lustral vases, a golden and a

silver one. Beside these various offerings, he sent to Delphi many

others of less account, among the rest a number of round silver basins.

He also dedicated a female figure in gold, three cubits high, which the

Delphians declared was the statue of his baking woman; and lastly, he

presented the necklace and the girdles of his wife.

When Croesus sent his Lydian messengers to the Oracle, one Alcmaeon,

who seems to have been a shrewd fellow, with a sharp eye to the main

chance, entertained them with generous hospitality; which so pleased

Croesus, when he was told of it, that he immediately invited Alcmaeon

to visit him at Sardis. When he arrived, the King told him that he was

at liberty to enter his treasury and help himself to as much gold as he

could carry off on his person at once. No sooner said than done.

Alcmaeon, without bashfulness, arrayed himself in a tunic that bagged

abominably at the waist, drew on the biggest buskins in Sardis, dressed

his hair loose, and, marching into the treasure-house, (imagine what

the treasury of Croesus must have been,) waded into a desert of gold

dust. He crammed the bosom of his tunic, crammed his bombastian

buskins, filled his hair full, and finally stuffed his mouth, so that,

as he passed out, he could only wink his fat red eyes and bob to

Croesus, who, when he had laughed till his sides ached, repaid his

funny, but voracious guest for the amusement he had afforded him by not

only confirming the gift of gold, but conferring an equal amount in

jewels and rich raiment.

But we must not remain to marvel among the overwhelming displays of

barbaric profusion. Akbhar, the imperial Mogul, who on his birthday

caused himself to be weighed in golden scales three times,--first

against gold pieces, then against silver, and lastly against fine

perfumes,--who scattered among his courtiers showers of gold and silver

nuts, for which even his gravest ministers were not too dignified to

scramble,--even Akbhar must not detain us. Nor Aurengzebe, who made his

marches, seated on a throne flashing with gold and rich brocades, and

borne on the shoulders of men; while his princesses and favorite begums

followed in all the pomp and glory of the seraglio, nestled in

delicious pavilions curtained with massy silk, and mounted on the backs

of stately elephants of Pegu and Martaban.

We must get away from these; for the realm of the Supernatural and the

Marvellous lies open before us, and on the very threshold, over which

Sir John Mandeville conducts us, broods in his fiery nest that wondrous

fowl, the Phoenix.

"In Egypt is the city of Eliopolis, that is to say, the City of the

Sun. In that city there is a temple made round, after the shape of the

temple of Jerusalem. The priests of that temple have all their writing

dated by the fowl that is called Phoenix; and there is none but one in

all the world. And he cometh to burn himself upon the altar of the

temple at the end of five hundred years; for so long he liveth. And at

the end of the five hundred years, they array their altar carefully,

and put thereon spices and live sulphur, and other things that will

burn lightly. And then the bird Phoenix cometh and burneth himself to

ashes. And the first day next after, men find in the ashes a worm; and

the second day next after, men find a bird, quick and perfect; and the

third day next after, he flieth away. And so there is no more birds of

that kind in all the world but that alone. And, truly, that is a great

miracle of God. And men may well liken that bird unto God, because

there is no God but one, and also that our Lord arose from death the

third day. This bird men see often flying in those countries; and he is

not much more than an eagle. And he hath a crest of feathers upon his

head greater than the peacock hath. And his neck is yellow, after the

color of an orial, that is a stone well shining. And his beak is

colored blue, and his wings are of purple color, and his tail is yellow

and red. And he is a full fair bird to look upon against the sun; for

he shineth full gloriously and nobly."

Let us pray that our Phoenix may not fall into the clutches of the De

Sautys, to be made goose-meat of; rather may they themselves be utterly

cast out,--into the land of giants that are hideous to look upon, and

have but one eye, and that in the middle of the forehead,--into the

land of folk of foul stature and of cursed kind, that have no heads,

and whose eyes be in their shoulders,--into the isle of those that go

upon their hands and feet, like beasts, and that are all furred and

feathered,--or into the country of the people who have but one leg, the

foot of which is so large that it shades all the rest of the body from

the sun, when they lie down on their backs to rest at noonday. But not

into the Land of Women, where all are wise, noble, and worthy. For once

there was a king in that country, and men married; but presently befell

a war with the Scythians, and the king was slain in battle, and with

him all of the best blood of his realm. So when the queen, and the

other noble ladies, saw that they were all widows, and all the royal

blood was spilled, they armed themselves, and, like mad creatures, slew

all the men that were left in the country; for they wished that all the

women might be widows, as the queen and they were. And thenceforward

they never would suffer men to dwell among them, especially men of the

De Sauty sort, who, as Hans Christian Andersen says, ask questions and

never dream.

The town of Lop, says Marco Polo, is situated near the commencement of

the great desert called the Desert of Lop. It is asserted as a

well-known fact, that this desert is the abode of many evil spirits,

which entice travellers to destruction with extraordinary delusions.

If, during the daytime, any persons remain behind on the road until the

caravan has passed a hill and is no longer in sight, they unexpectedly

hear themselves called by their names, in a tone of voice to which they

are accustomed. Supposing the call to proceed from their companions,

they are led away by it from the direct road, and, not knowing in what

direction to advance, are left to perish. In the night-time they are

persuaded they hear the march of a great cavalcade, and concluding the

noise to be the tramp of their own party, they make the best of their

way in the direction of the quarter whence it seems to come; but when

the day breaks, they find they have been misled and drawn into a

situation of danger. Sometimes, during the day, these spirits assume

the appearance of their travelling-companions, who address them by

name, and endeavor to draw them out of the proper road. It is said,

also, that some travellers, in their way across the desert, have seen

what appeared to them to be a body of armed men advancing toward them,

and, fearful of being attacked and plundered, have taken to flight.

Thus, losing the right path, and ignorant of the direction they should

take to regain it, they have miserably perished of hunger.

Marvellous, indeed, and almost passing belief, are the stories related

of these spirits of the desert, which are said to fill the air at times

with the sounds of all kinds of musical instruments, of drama, and the

clash of arms. When the journey across this dreadful waste is

completed, the trembling traveller arrives at the city of the Great

Khan.[1]

[Footnote 1: Leigh Hunt.]

In this rich chapter of horrors how finished an allegory for old John

Bunyan! With what religious unction he would have led his Christian

traveller from that unknown city on the edge of the sands, across the

Soul's Desert of Lop, with its

"Voices calling in the dead of night,

And airy tongues that syllable men's names,"

safe into the _City of the Great Khan!_

Leigh Hunt declares that he has read, in some other account, of a

dreadful, unendurable face that used to stare at people as they went

by.

The Barbaric has also its features of solemnity and grandeur, filling

the mind with exalted contemplations, and the imagination with

inspiring and ennobling apparitions. Surroundings that contribute a

quality of awfulness embrace in such scenes the soul of the traveller,

and hold him in their tremendous thrall. Mean or flippant ideas may not

enter here; but the man puts off the smaller part of him, as the

Asiatic puts off his sandals on entering the porches of his god. Of

such is the Eternal Sphinx, as Eothen Kinglake beheld her. We cannot

feel her aspect more grandly than by the aid of his inspiration.

"And near the Pyramids, more wondrous and more awful than all else in

the land of Egypt, there sits the lonely Sphinx. Comely the creature

is; but the comeliness is not of this world; the once worshipped beast

is a deformity and a monster to this generation; and yet you can see

that those lips, so thick and heavy, were fashioned according to some

ancient mould of beauty, now forgotten,--forgotten because that Greece

drew forth Cytherea from the flashing foam of the Aegean, and in her

image created new forms of beauty, and made it a law among men that the

short and proudly wreathed lip should stand for the sign and main

condition of loveliness through all generations to come. Yet still

lives on the race of those who were beautiful in the fashion of the

elder world; and Christian girls of Coptic blood will look on you with

the sad, serious gaze, and kiss you your charitable hand with the big,

pouting lips of the very Sphinx.

"Laugh and mock, if you will, at the worship of stone idols; but mark

ye this, ye breakers of images, that in one regard the stone idol bears

awful semblance of Deity,--unchangefulness in the midst of change,--the

same seeming will and intent, forever and forever inexorable. Upon

ancient dynasties of Ethiopian and Egyptian kings,--upon Greek and

Roman, upon Arab and Ottoman conquerors,--upon Napoleon dreaming of an

Eastern empire,--upon battle and pestilence,--upon the ceaseless misery

of the Egyptian race,--upon keen-eyed travellers,--Herodotus yesterday,

Warbarton to-day,--upon all, and more, this unworldly Sphinx has

watched and watched like a Providence, with the same earnest eyes, and

the same sad, tranquil mien. And we, we shall die; and Islam will

wither away; and the Englishman, leaning far over to hold his loved

India, will plant a firm foot on the banks of the Nile, and sit in the

seats of the Faithful; and still that sleepless rock will lie watching

and watching the works of the new, busy race, with those same sad,

earnest eyes, and that same tranquil mien, everlasting. You dare not

mock at the Sphinx!"

Not less stupendously placid than the Sphinx, and even grimmer in his

remoteness from the places that have heard Messiah's name, is the

Boodh, throned in trance, and multitudinously worshipped. Shall I tell

you how I first beheld him in his glory?

We were approaching some sacred caves in Burmah. Lighting our torches,

and each man taking one, we mounted the steep, tortuous, and slippery

foot-path of damp, green stones, through the thorny shrubs that beset

it, to the low entrance to the outer cavern. Stooping uncomfortably, we

passed into a small, vacant antechamber, having a low, dripping roof,

perpendicular walls, clammy and green, and a rocky floor, sloping

inward through a narrow arch to a long, double, transverse gallery,

divided in the direction of its length, partly by a face of rock,

partly by a row of pillars. Here were innumerable images of Guadma, the

counterfeit presentment of the Fourth Boodh, whose successor is to see

the end of all things,--innumerable, and of every stature, from

Hop-o'-my-thumbs to Hurlo-thrombos, but all of the identical orthodox

pattern,--with pendulous ears, one hand planted squarely on the knee,

the other sleeping in the lap, an eternity of front face, and a smooth

stagnancy of expression, typical of an unfathomable calm,--the Guadma

of a span as grim as he of ten cubits, and he of ten cubits as vacant

as the Guadma of a span,--of stone, of lead, of wood, of clay, of

earthenware and alabaster,--on their bottoms, on their heads, on their

backs, on their sides, on their faces,--black, white, red, yellow,--an

eye gone, a nose gone, an ear gone, a head gone,--an arm off at the

shoulder, a leg at the knee,--a back split, a bosom burst,--Guadma,

imperturbable, eternal, calm,--in the midst of time, timeless! It is

not annihilation which the Boodh has promised, as the blessed crown of

a myriad of progressive transmigrations; it is not Death; it is not

Sleep,--it is this.

Our entrance awoke a pandemonium. Myriads of bats and owls, and all

manner of fowls of darkness and bad omen, crazed by the glare of twenty

torches, startled the echoes with infernal clangor. Screaming and

huddling together, some fled under the wide skirts of sable, which

Darkness, climbing to the roof in fear, drew up after her; some hid

with lesser shadows between columns of great girth, or in the remotest

murky niches, or down in the black profound of resounding chasms; some,

bewildered or quite blinded by the flashes of the co-eternal beam,

dashed themselves against the stony walls, and fell crippled, gasping,

staring, at our feet. And when, at last, our guides and servants,

mounting to pinnacles and jutting points, and many a frieze and coigne

of vantage, placed blue lights on them all, and at the word illuminated

all together, there was redoubled bedlam in that abode of Hecate, and

the eternal calm of the Boodh became awful. For what deeds of outer

darkness, done long ago in that black hole of superstition, so many

damned souls shrieked from their night-fowl transmigrations, 'twere

vain to question there were no disclosures in that trance of stone.

For an experience of the oppressive awfulness of solitude, and all the

weary monotony of waste, come now, with Kinglake, into mid-desert.

"As long as you are journeying in the interior of the desert, you have

no particular point to make for as your resting-place. The endless

sands yield nothing but small stunted shrubs; even these fail after the

first two or three days; and from that time you pass over broad plains,

you pass over newly reared hills, you pass through valleys that the

storm of the last week has dug; and the hills and the valleys are sand,

sand, sand, still sand and only sand, and sand and sand again. The

earth is so samely, that your eyes turn toward heaven,--toward heaven,

I mean, in the sense of sky. You look to the sun, for he is your

task-master, and by him you know the measure of the work that you have

done, the measure of the work that remains for you to do. He comes when

you strike your tent in the early morning, and then, for the first hour

of the day, as you move forward on your camel, he stands at your near

side, and makes you know that the whole day's toil is before you. Then,

for a while, and a long while, you see him no more; for you are veiled

and shrouded, and dare not look upon the greatness of his glory; but

you know where he strides over your head by the touch of his flaming

sword. No words are spoken; but your Arabs moan, your camels sigh, your

skin glows, your shoulders ache; and, for sights, you see the pattern

and the web of the silk that veils your eyes, and the glare of the

outer light.

"Time labors on,--your skin glows, and your shoulders ache, your Arabs

moan, your camels sigh, and you see the same pattern on the silk, and

the same glare beyond; but conquering Time marches on, and by-and-by

the descending sun has compassed the heaven, and now softly touches

your right arm, and throws your lank shadow over the sand, right along

on the way to Persia. Then again you look upon his face, for his power

is all veiled in his beauty, and the redness of flames has become the

redness of roses; the fair, wavy cloud that fled in the morning now

comes to his sight once more,--comes blushing, but still comes

on,--comes burning with blushes, yet hastens, and clings to his side."

When one has been sufficiently dis-Europized by remote travel, to

become, as to his imagination, a child again, and receive a child's

impressions from the strangeness that surrounds him, the grotesque and

fantastic aspects of his situation afford him the same emotions, of

unquestioning wonder and romantic sympathy, that he derived in the old

time from the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor, the exploits of Jack the

Giant-Killer, what Gulliver saw, or Munchausen did. Behold Belzoni in

the necropolis of Thebes, crawling on his very face among the dusty

rubbish of unnumbered mummies, to steal papyri from their bosoms.

Fatigued with the exertion of squirming through a mummy-choked passage

of five hundred yards, he sought a resting-place; but when he would

have sat down, his weight bore on the body of an Egyptian, and crushed

it like a bandbox. He naturally had recourse to his hands to sustain

his weight; but they found no better support, and he sunk altogether in

a crash of broken bones, rags, and wooden cases, that raised such a

dust as kept him motionless for a quarter of an hour, waiting for it to

subside. He could not move from the place, however, without increasing

it, and every step he took smashed a mummy. Once, in forcing his way

through a steeply inclined passage, about twenty feet in length, and no

wider than his body could be squeezed through, he was overwhelmed with

an avalanche of bones, legs, arms, and hands, rolling from above; and

every forward move brought his face in contact with the abhorred

features of some decayed Egyptian.[1]

[Footnote 1: Bayard Taylor.]

Behold Denham in the Desert of Dead Bones, where his sick comrades were

constantly disheartened by the sight of the skulls and skeletons of men

who had perished on those sands. During several days, they passed from

sixty to ninety skeletons a day; but the numbers that lay about the

wells at El Hammar were countless. Those of two women, whose perfect

and regular teeth bespoke them young, perhaps beautiful, were

particularly shocking. Their arms were still clasped around each

other's neck, in the attitude in which they had expired, although the

flesh had long since been consumed in the rays of the sun, and the

blackened bones alone were left.

Parkyns, among the little greenish-gray monkeys of Tigré, enjoyed a

treat to make the mouth of our young imagination water. He saw them

conversing, quarrelling, making love; mothers were taking care of their

children, combing their hair, nursing or "trotting" them; and the

passions of all--jealousy, rage, love--were as strongly marked as in

men. They had a language as distinct to them as ours to us; and their

women were as noisy and as fond of disputation as any fish-fag in

Billingsgate.

"On their marches, a few of the heedless youth occasionally lagged

behind to snatch a handful of berries; sometimes a matron halted for a

while to nurse her baby, and, not to lose time, dressed its hair while

it took its meal. Now and then a young lady, excited by jealousy or

some sneering look or word, made an ugly mouth at one of her

companions, and then, uttering a shrill squeal, highly expressive of

rage, vindictively snatched at the offender's tail or leg, and

administered a hearty bite. This provoked a retort, and a most

unladylike quarrel ensued, till a loud remonstrance from mothers or

aunts called them to order."

According to Marco Polo, there have been among the monkeys, from time

to time, certain Asiatic Yankees, who did a lively business in the

manufacture of an article which would, no doubt, have found a ready

purchaser at Barnum's Museum.

"It should be known," says the veracious old Venetian, "that what is

reported respecting the dead bodies of diminutive human creatures or

pigmies, brought from India, is an idle tale; such pretended men being

manufactured in the island of Basman in the following manner. The

country produces a species of monkey of a tolerable size, and having a

countenance resembling that of a man. Those persons who make it their

business to catch them shave off the hair, leaving it only about the

chin. They then dry and preserve them with camphor and other drugs; and

having prepared them in such a mode that they have exactly the

appearance of little men, they put them into wooden boxes, and sell

them to trading people, who carry them to all parts of the world."

Not the least familiar of the aspects of the Barbaric are its actions

and situations of horror. I could tell tales from the later, not less

than from the older travellers, that would send my readers shuddering

to sleepless beds: the ferocities of Tippoo reënacted in the name of

Nena Sahib; the noiseless murders of Thuggee's nimble cord; the drunken

_diablerie_ of the Doorga Pooja; the monstrous human sacrifices of the

Khonds and Bheels; the dreadful rites of the Janni before the gory

altar of the Earth goddess; the indiscriminate slashing and stabbing of

the Amok; the shuddering dodges of the plague-chased Cavrite; the grim

and lonely duels of the French lion-killer under the melancholy stars;

the carrion-like exposures of the Parsee dead; the nightmarish legends

of the Evil Eye. But my hope is to part with them on pleasant terms; so

rather would I strew their pillows with the consolations of this

many-mooded Barbaric,--moss from ruins, and pretty flowers from the

desert,--that beneficent botany which maketh the wilderness to blossom

like the rose.

When Mungo Park, deserted by his guides, and stripped by thieves,

utterly paralyzed by misfortune, and misery, would have laid him down

to die in a desert place,--at that moment, of all others, the

extraordinary beauty of a small moss in fructification caught his eye.

"I mention this," he says, "to show you from what trifling

circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation; for, though

the whole plant was not larger than the top of one of my fingers, I

could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its root, leaves,

and capsule without admiration. Can that Being, thought I, who planted,

watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world,

a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon

the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image? I

started up, and, disregarding both danger and fatigue, travelled

forward, assured that relief was at hand; and I was not disappointed."

Richardson, in the midst of Sahara, beheld with brimming eyes two small

trees, the common desert acacia, and by-and-by two or three pretty blue

flowers. As he snatched them, to fold them in his bosom, he could not

help exclaiming, _Elhamdullah!_ "Praise be to God!"--for Arabic was

growing second-born to his tongue, and he began to think in it and to

pray in it. An Arab said to him, "Yakob, if we had a reed, and were to

make a melodious sound, those flowers, the color of heaven, would open

and shut their mouths."

Once, Mungo Park (the once too often of telling this story can never

come) sat all day,--without food, under a tree. The night threatened to

be very pitiless; for the wind arose, and there was every sign of a

heavy rain; and wild beasts prowled around. But about sunset, as he was

preparing to pass the night in the branches of the tree, a woman,

returning from the labors of the field, perceived how weary and

dejected he was, and, taking up his saddle and bridle, invited him to

follow her. She conducted him to her hut, where she lighted a lamp,

spread a mat on the floor, and bade him welcome. Then she went out, and

presently returning with a fine fish, broiled it on the embers, and set

his supper before him. The rites of hospitality thus performed toward a

stranger in distress, that _savage_ angel, pointing to the mat, and

assuring him that he might sleep there without fear, commanded the

females of her family, who all the while had stood gazing on him in

fixed astonishment, to resume their spinning. Then they sang, to a

sweet and plaintive air, these words: "The winds roared, and the rains

fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree.

Let us pity the white man; no mother hath he to bring him milk, no wife

to grind his corn." Flowers in the desert![1]

[Footnote 1: Leigh Hunt.]

Flowers in the desert! And De Sauty shall spare them, though he

botanize on his mother's grave. Borro-boolah-gah may know us by our

India-rubber shirts and pictorial pocket-handkerchiefs; and King Mumbo

Jumbo may reduce his rebellious locks to subjection with a Yankee

currycomb; but these, our desert flowers, are All Right, De Sauty!

BEAUTY AT BILLIARDS.

There is a lady in this case.

For three days she had sat opposite me at the table of the pleasantest

of White Mountain resorts, (of course I give no hint as to which _that_

is,--tastes differ,) and I had gradually become enthralled. Her beauty

was dazzling, and her name was Tarlingford. For the first of these

items, I was indebted to my own intelligence; for the second to the

hotel register, which also informed me that she was from New York.

I, too, had come from New York;--a coincidence too startling to be

calmly overlooked.

Our acquaintance began oddly. One morning, at breakfast, I was musing

over a hard-boiled egg, and wondering if I could perforate her

affections with anything like the success which had followed my fork as

it penetrated the shell before me, when I felt a timid touch upon my

toe, thrilling me from end to end like a telegraph-wire when the

insulation is perfect. I looked up, and detected a pink flush making

its way browward on the lovely countenance across the table.

"I beg your pardon," said I, with much concern.

"It was my fault, Sir; excuse _me_," said she, permitting the pink

flush to deepen, rosily.

"Shall I pass you the buttered toast?" said I.

"Muffins, if you please," said she, and so sweetly that I was blinded

to the absence of sugar in my second cup of coffee.

I was confused by this incident. Many men would have concealed their

disquietude by an affectation of sudden appetite, or by bullying the

waiter, or by abrupt departure from the scene. I did neither. I felt I

had a right to be confused, and I gloried in it.

Very soon Miss Tarlingford withdrew, and I experienced an aching void

within, which chops and fritters had no power to replenish.

I opened a chambermaid's heart with a half-dollar, and the treasures of

her knowledge were revealed to me. The beauty and her party were to

remain a fortnight Among her companions there were no males, except a

youthful irresponsibility. _Exultemus!_

Later in the morning I heard the tinkling of the parlor pianoforte.

Music has soothing charms for me, though I have not a savage breast. I

drew near, and found Miss Tarlingford trifling with the keys,--those

keys which lock together so many chains of human sympathy. She rose,

and gave out demonstrations of impending disappearance. I interposed,--

"Pray, continue. I am famished for music, and came specially to

listen."

"It is hardly worth while."

"How can you say so? It is I who know best what I need."

"I will play for you, then."

And she did. This was wonderful. Usually, a long and painful struggle

precedes feminine acquiescence, on such occasions. Repeated refusals,

declarations of incapacity, partial consent vouchsafed and then

waywardly withdrawn, poutings, head-tossings, feebler murmurs of

disinclination, and final reluctant yielding form the fashionable order

of proceeding. The charm of it all is, that the original intention is

the same as the ultimate action. Whence, then, this folly? Having been

many times wretchedly bored by this sort of thing, I was now

correspondingly gladdened by the contrast.

Miss Tarlingford played well, and I said so.

"Pretty well," she answered, frankly; "but not so well as I could

wish."

Shock Number Two. It is customary in good society for tolerable

performers to disavow all praises, (secretly yearning for more,) and to

assail with invective their own artistic accomplishments. Here was a

young lady who played well, and had the hardihood to acknowledge it.

This rather took away my breath, and a vacuum began to come under my

waistcoat.

For three blissful days Miss Tarlingford and I were seldom separated.

Her sister, a pale, sedate maiden, of amiable appearance, and her

brother, a small, rude boy, of intrusive habits and unguarded speech, I

consented to undergo, for the sake of conventional necessity. To the

mother of the Tarlingfords additional respect seemed due, and was

accorded.

Three blissful days of sunshine, meadowy rambles, forest explorations,

the majestic tranquillity of Nature spiced with the sauce of

flirtation, or something stronger. Sometimes we took our morning

happiness on foot, sometimes our mid-day ecstasy served up on

horseback, sometimes our evening rapture in an open wagon at two forty.

The puerile Tarlingford, interfering at first, was summarily crushed.

Aspiring to equestrian distinctions, he wrought upon maternal

indulgence, until, not without misgivings, maternal anxiety was

stifled, and, with injunctions that we should hover protectingly near

him, he was sent forth, a thorn in our sides. In half an hour he was

accidentally remembered, and was found to be nowhere within view; so we

pursued our way, well pleased. He had dropped quietly off, at the first

canter, into a miry slough, and had returned sobbingly, covered with

mortification and mud, to the arms of his parent. Keen questioning at

dinner was the result.

"Why did you so neglect him?" demanded fond mamma, adding,

reproachfully, "The child's life might have been sacrificed."

"Mother, we looked for him, and he was gone. Why didn't he cry out?"

"So I did," shouted this youth of open speech; "but you two had your

heads together, laughing and talking like anything, and couldn't hear,

I suppose." (With a juvenile sneer.)

"Oh, fie, Walter! Now I think you were so frightened that you could not

speak."

"I shall know better than to intrust him to your care again," said

indignant mamma, as one who withdrew a blessed privilege.

"Don't say that, mother; it would be a punishment too severe," said the

mischievous little pale sister, in tones of pity, and her face brimming

with mirth.

Everybody laughed, and peace was restored.

On the third evening, misery came to me in an envelope post-marked New

York:--

"My DEAR PLOVINS:--

"I shall be with you the night after you receive this. Engage a room

for me. Have you seen anything of a Miss Tarlingford, where you are

staying? You should know her. She is very brilliant and accomplished,

but is retiring. I am willing to tell you, but it must go no farther,

that we are betrothed.

"Yours, in a hurry,

"FRANK LILLIVAN."

My heart was as the mercury of a thermometer which is plunged into ice;

but I preserved an outward composure. Turning over the pile of letters

awaiting owners, I came upon one, directed in Lillivan's handwriting,

to Miss A. Tarlingford, etc., etc.

To think that a paltry superscription should carry such a weight of

tribulation with it!

I thus discovered that my lines had fallen in unpleasant places. I was

fishing in a preoccupied stream, and had got myself entangled.

I avoided the public table, and shrunk from society. During the whole

of the next morning, I kept aloof from the temptations of Tarlingford,

and took to billiards.

In the afternoon, as I sat gloomily in my room, with feet protruding

from the window, and body inclined rearward, (the American attitude of

despair,) the piano tinkled. It was the same melody which had attracted

me a few happy days before. Strengthening myself with a powerful

resolution to extricate myself from the bewitching influence which had

surrounded me, I arose, and went straightway to the parlor. Could it be

that a flash of pleasure beamed on Miss Tarlingford's face? or was I a

deluded gosling? The latter suggestion seemed the more credible, so I

cheerfully adopted it.

"We have missed you, Mr. Plovins," said the fair enslaver; "I hope you

have not been unwell?"

"Unwell?--oh, no, no!"

"You have not been near me--us, today," (reprovingly,) "not even at

dinner; and the trout were superb."

A sudden hope mounted within me.

"Miss Tarlingford, pray, excuse me,--your first name, may I ask what it

is?"

"Arabella is my name, and" (whisperingly) "you may use it, if you

like."

"Oh, hideous horror! And this is what they call flirtation," I thought.

And the hope which had risen blazing, like a rocket, went down

fuliginous, like the stick.

"Mr. Plovins, I will say you are very--very inconstant, to be absent

all day, thus."

"Miss Tarlingford, it is not inconstancy, it is billiards."

"Billiards!"

"Billiards. I adore them. You know nothing of billiards; women never

do. They are my joy. Pardon me," (with a sudden uprising of the moral

sense,) "I have an engagement at the billiard-room, and I should be

there."

"Dear me! I should like to do billiards."

"Heaven forbid!"

"Why so, Sir?"

"No, I do not mean that; but ladies never play billiards."

"I suppose there is no reason why they should not?"

"A thousand."

"Why, what harm?"

"My dear Miss Tarlingford, if your first name were not Arabella,--alas,

alas!--there would be none."

"Nonsense! now you are laughing at me. Come, you shall teach me

billiards."

"It cannot be, Miss Tarlingford." (Low tragedy tones.)

"Why not?"

"Because your name is Arabella."

"Very well, Sir,--if you do not like my name, you need not repeat it."

"I adore it; it is not that. Forgive me."

"Then I will get my hat";--and her light footsteps tapped upon the

stairs.

Here was a state of things! Where were my firmness and my resolution

now? Where was the Pythian probity for which, according to my

expectations, Lillivan was to have poured Damoniac gratitude upon me?

Was I, or was I not, rapidly degenerating into villany? I felt that I

was, and blushed for my family.

If her name had been anything but Arabella,--anything the initial of

which was not A, then I could have justified myself; but now,--and I

was about to teach her billiards! To what depth of depravity had I come

at last!

She rejoined me, beaming with anticipation and radiant with the

exercise of running down-stairs. Together we entered the billiard-room.

Now this I declare: the ball-room, with its flashing lights,

intoxicating perfumes, starry hosts of gleaming, eyes, refulgent robes,

mirrors duplicating countless splendors and ceaseless whirl of vanity,

may add a tenfold lustre to the charm of beauty, and I know it does;

the opera-box embellishments of blazing gas, and glittering gems and

flowers, fresh from native beds of millinery, all-odorous with divinest

scents of Lubin, harmoniously dulcified, have their value, which is

great and glorious, no doubt, and regally doth woman expand and glow

among them; in numberless ways, and aided by numberless accessories, do

feminine graces nimbly and sweetly recommend themselves unto our

pleasant senses; but this I will for ever and ever say,--that nowhere,

neither in gorgeous hall, nor gilded opera-box, nor in any other place,

nor under any other circumstances, may such bewildering and insidious

power of maidenly enchantment be exercised as at the billiard-table;

especially when the enchantress is utterly ignorant of the duties

required of her, and confidingly seeks manly encouragement and

guidance. Controlled by the hand of beauty, the cue becomes a magic

wand, and the balls are no longer bits of inanimate ivory, but, poked

restlessly hither and thither, circulating messengers of fascination.

I know, for I have been there.

Had Miss Tarlingford turned her thoughts toward the bowling-alley, I

might without difficulty have retained my self-possession; for her sex

are not charming at ten-pins. They stride rampant, and hurl danger

around them, aiming anywhere at random; or they make small skips and

screams, and perform ridiculous flings in the air, injurious to the

alleys and to their game; or they drop balls with unaffected languor,

and develop at an early stage of proceedings a tendency to _gutters_,

above which they never rise throughout; and all this is annoying, and

fit only for Bloomers, who can be degraded by nothing on earth.

But billiards! what statuesque postures, what freedom of gesture, what

swaying grace and vivacious energy this game involves! And then the

attendant distractions,--the pinching together of the hand, to form the

needed notch, the perfect art of which, like fist-clenching, is

unattainable by woman, who substitutes some queerness all her own,--the

fierce grasping and propulsion of the cue,--the loving reclension upon

the table when the long shots come in,--the dainty foot, uprising, to

preserve the owner's balance, but, as it gleams suspended, destroying

the observer's,--all combine, as they did this time, to scatter stern

promptings of duty beyond recalling.

First, Arabella's little hand must be moulded into a bridge, and, being

slow to cramp itself correctly, though pliant as a politician's

conscience, the operation of folding it together had to be many times

repeated. Next, shots must be made for her, she retaining her hold of

the cue, to get into the way of it. Then all went on smoothly with her,

turbulently with me, until, enthusiastically excited, she must be

lifted on to the table's edge, "just to try one lovely little shot,"

which escaped her reach from the ground.

My game was up!

We were alone. Arabella perched upon the table, jubilant at having

achieved a pocket,--I dismal and blue, beside her.

"There, take me down," she said.

I looked around through each window, inclined my ear to the door, swept

an arm around her waist, and forgot to proceed.

"Oh, Arabella! Arabella! wherefore art thou Arabella?"

"Do you wish I were somebody else?" she asked, slyly.

"No, no! but what of Frank Lillivan?"

"Frank, do you know him?" (With a luminous face.)

"And he has told me----yes."

"What?"

"Of his relations with Miss Tarlingford."

"With Anna,--yes."

"What Anna? Who is Anna?"

"Dear me! my sister Anna. Don't be absurd!"

"But I never knew"----

"No,--you knew nothing of her; the worse for you! You avoided her,--I'm

sure I don't see why,--and she is retiring."

"_Retiring!_--the very word!"

"What word? You vex me; you puzzle me; take me down."

"Forgive me, dear Arabella! I'm too delighted to explain. I never will

explain. I thought it was you on whom Frank's affections were fixed."

"Dear, no! Frank is sensible; he knows better; he has judgment"; and

she laughed a quiet laugh, and made as if she would jump down.

As she descended, two heads caromed together with a click. It was the

irrepressible influence of the billiard atmosphere, I suppose. No one

contemplated it.

That evening, when Frank Lillivan arrived, I met him at the door.

"God bless you, Frank!" said I; "I forgive you everything. Say no

more."

"Hollo! what's up?" cried Frank.

"Well, certainly, it was a little imprudent for you to neglect writing

the whole address of the letter you sent to Anna Tarlingford. I thought

it was for Arabella."

"Dear me!" said Frank, twinkling, "what then?"

That is enough.

* * * * *

ITALY, 1859.

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait?

Louis Napoleon is not Fate;

Francis Joseph is not Time;

There's One hath swifter feet than Crime;

Cannon-parliaments settle nought;

Venice is Austria's,--whose is Thought?

Minié is good, but, spite of change,

Gutenberg's gun has the longer range.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

Wait, we say; our years are long;

Men are weak, but Man is strong;

Since the stars first curved their rings,

We have looked on many things;

Great wars come and great wars go,

Wolf-tracks light on polar snow;

We shall see him come and gone,

This second-hand Napoleon.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

We saw the elder Corsican,

And Clotho muttered as she span,

While crowned lackeys bore the train

Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne,--

"Sister, stint not length of thread!

Sister, stay the scissors dread!

On St. Helen's granite bleak,

Hark, the vulture whets his beak!"

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

The Bonapartes, we know their bees,

That wade in honey, red to the knees;

Their patent-reaper, its sheaves sleep sound

In doorless garners underground:

We know false Glory's spendthrift race,

Pawning nations for feathers and lace;

It may be short, it may be long,--

"'Tis reckoning-day!" sneers unpaid Wrong.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

The cock that wears the eagle's skin

Can promise what he ne'er could win;

Slavery reaped for fine words sown,

System for all and rights for none,

Despots at top, a wild clan below,

Such is the Gaul from long ago:

Wash the black from the Ethiop's face,

Wash the past out of man or race!

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings

And snares the people for the kings:

"Luther is dead; old quarrels pass;

The stake's black scars are healed with grass";

So dreamers prate;--did man e'er live

Saw priest or woman yet forgive?

But Luther's broom is left, and eyes

Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever!

Smooth sails the ship of either realm,

Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm;

But we look down the deeps and mark

Silent workers in the dark,

Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs,

Old instincts hardening to new beliefs:

Patience, a little; learn to wait;

Hours are long on the clock of Fate.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!

Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!

Darkness is strong, and so is Sin,

But only God endures forever!

* * * * *

THE AURORA BOREALIS.

The aurora borealia, or rather, the polar aurora,--for there are

aurorae australes as well as aurorae boreales,--has been an object of

wonder and admiration from time immemorial.

Pliny and Aristotle record phenomena identical with those which later

times have witnessed. The ancients ranked this with other celestial

phenomena, as portending great events.

In a Bible imprinted at London in the year 1599, the 22d verse of the

37th chapter of Job reads thus: "The brightness commeth out of the

Northe, the praise to God which is terrible." The writer of the Book of

Job was very conversant with natural objects, and may have referred to

the aurora borealis and the phenomena immediately connected therewith.

In 1560, we are told, it was seen at London in the shape of burning

spears, a similitude which would be no less appropriate now than then.

Frequent displays are recorded during the fifteen years following that

date. During the latter half of the seventeenth century, the phenomena

were frequently visible, often-times being characterized by remarkable

brilliancy. After 1745, the displays suddenly diminished, and were but

rarely seen for the next nine years. The present century has been

favored to a remarkable degree. The displays during the years 1835,

'36, '37, '46, '48, '51, '52, and '59, have been especially grand.

What is the origin of these remarkable phenomena? The ancients asked

the question, and the moderns reply by repeating it. Before proceeding

to describe the magnificent auroral displays of August 28th and

September 2d, let us examine authorities upon this subject, and see if

we cannot arrive at some satisfactory solution of the phenomena. The

following is the description given by Humboldt in "Cosmos":--

"An aurora borealis is always preceded by the formation in the horizon

of a sort of nebulous veil, which slowly ascends to a height of 4°, 6°,

8°, and even to 10°. It is towards the magnetic meridian of the place

that the sky, at first pure, begins to get brownish. Through this

obscure segment, the color of which passes from brown to violet, the

stars are seen, as through a thick fog. A wider arc, but one of

brilliant light, at first white, then yellow, bounds the dark segment.

Sometimes the luminous arc appears agitated, for hours together, by a

sort of effervescence, and by a continuous change of form, before the

rising of the rays and columns of light, which ascend as far as the

zenith. The more intense the emission of the polar light, the more

vivid are its colors, which, from violet and bluish white, pass through

all the intermediate shades of green and purple-red. Sometimes the

columns of light appear to come out of the brilliant arc mingled with

blackish rays, resembling a thick smoke; sometimes they rise

simultaneously from different points of the horizon, and unite

themselves into a sea of flames, the magnificence of which no painting

could express; for, at each instant, rapid undulations cause their form

and brilliancy to vary. Motion appears to increase the visibility of

the phenomena. Around the point in the heaven which corresponds to the

direction of the dipping needle produced, the rays appear to meet and

form the boreal corona. It is seldom that the appearance is so

complete, and is prolonged to the formation of the corona; but when the

latter appears, it always announces the end of the phenomenon. The rays

then become more rare, shorter, and less vividly colored. Soon nothing

further is seen on the celestial vault than wide, motionless, nebulous

spots, pale, or of an ashy color; they have already disappeared, when

the traces of the dark segment whence the appearance originated still

remain on the horizon."

The connection that seems to exist, says De la Rive, between the polar

light and the appearance of a certain species of clouds is confirmed by

all observers; all have affirmed that the polar light emitted its most

brilliant rays when the high regions of the air contained heaps of

cirri,--strata of sufficient tenuity and lightness to cause a corona to

arise around the light. Sometimes these clouds are grouped and arranged

almost like the rays of an aurora borealis; they then appear to disturb

the magnetized needle. Father Secchi has remarked, that magnetic

disturbances are manifested at Rome whilst the sky is veiled with

clouds that are slightly phosphorescent, which, at night, present the

appearance of feeble aurorae boreales.

After a brilliant aurora borealis, we have been able to recognize, on

the following morning, trains of clouds, which, during the night, had

appeared as so many luminous rays.

The absolute height of aurorae boreales has been very variously

estimated by different observers. It has long been thought that we

might determine it by regarding, from two places widely distant from

each other, the same part of the aurora,--the corona, for example. But

we have started from a very inaccurate assumption, namely, that the two

observers had their eyes directed to the same point at the same

time,--whilst it is now well proved that the corona is an effect of

perspective, due to the apparent convergence of the parallel rays

situated in the magnetic meridian; so that each observer sees his own

aurora borealis, as each sees his own rainbow. The aspect of the

phenomenon depends also upon the positions of the observers. The seat

of the aurora borealis is in the upper regions of the atmosphere;

though sometimes it appears to be produced in the less elevated regions

where the clouds are formed. This, at least, is what follows from some

observations, especially from those of Captain Franklin, who saw an

aurora borealis the light of which appeared to him to illuminate the

lower surface of a stratum of clouds; whilst some twenty-five miles

farther on, Mr. Kendal, who had watched the whole of the night without

losing sight of the sky for a single moment, did not perceive any trace

of light. Captain Parry saw an aurora borealis display itself against

the side of a mountain; and we are assured that a luminous ring has

sometimes been perceived upon the very surface of the sea, around the

magnetic pole. Lieutenant Hood and Dr. Richardson, being placed at the

distance of about forty-five miles from each other, in order to make

simultaneous observations, whence they might deduce the parallax of the

phenomenon, and consequently its height, were led to the conclusion

that the aurora borealis had not a greater elevation than five miles.

M. Liais, having had the opportunity of applying a method, which he had

devised for measuring the height of aurorae boreales, to an aurora seen

at Cherbourg Oct. 31, 1853, found that the arc of the aurora was about

two and a half miles above the ground, at its lower edge.

Various observations made by Professor Olmsted, in conjunction with

Professor Twining, of New Haven, led him, on the contrary, to fix the

elevation on different occasions at forty-two, one hundred, and one

hundred and sixty miles. He claims that it is rarely less than seventy

miles from the earth, and never more than one hundred and sixty. He

also claims that its origin is cosmical,--or, in other words, that the

earth, in revolving in its orbit, at certain periods passes through a

nebulous body, which evolves this strange light in more or less

brilliancy, as the body is larger or smaller. To support this theory,

he attempted to establish that there were fixed epochs for its display

in the highest degree of brilliancy. The length of these periods was

from sixty to seventy years, and the next appearance was to be in 1890.

The remarkable displays of August 28th and September 2d show the

fallacy of his conclusions in this respect.

Mairon and Dalton had also thought that the aurora borealis was a

cosmical, and not an atmospheric phenomenon. But M. Biot, who had

himself had an opportunity of observing the aurora in the Shetland

Isles in 1817, had already been led to recognize it as an atmospheric

phenomenon, by the consideration that the arcs and the coronae of the

aurora in no way participate in the apparent motion of the stars from

east to west,--a proof that they are drawn along by the rotation of the

earth. Hence, almost all observers have arrived at the same

conclusions; we will in particular cite MM. Lottin and Bravais, who

have observed more than a hundred and forty aurorae boreales. It is

therefore now clearly proved that the aurora borealis is not an

extra-atmospheric phenomenon. To the proofs drawn from the appearance

of the phenomenon itself we may add others deduced from certain effects

which accompany it, such as the noise of crepitation, which the

dwellers nearest to the pole affirm that they have heard when there is

the appearance of an aurora, and the sulphurous odor that accompanies

it. Finally, if the phenomena took place beyond our planet and its

atmosphere, why should they take place at the polar regions only, as

they often do?

J. S. Winn, in a letter to Dr. Franklin, dated Spithead, August 12th,

1772, says: "The observation is new, I believe, that the aurora

borealis is constantly succeeded by hard southerly or southwest winds,

attended with hazy weather and small rain. I think I am warranted from

experience in saying _constantly_, for in twenty-three instances that

have occurred since I first made the observation it has invariably

obtained; and the knowledge has been of vast service to me, as I have

got out of the Channel when other men as alert, and in faster ships,

but unapprised of this circumstance, have not only been driven back,

but with difficulty escaped shipwreck."

Colonel James Capper, the discoverer of the circular nature of storms,

remarks: "As it appears, that, on all such occasions, the current of

air comes in a direction diametrically opposite to that where the

meteor appears, it seems probable that the aurora borealis is caused by

the ascent of a considerable quantity of electric fluid in the superior

regions of the atmosphere to the north and northeast, where,

consequently, it causes a body of air near the earth to ascend, when

another current of air will rush from the the opposite point to fill up

the vacuum, and thus may produce the southerly gales which succeed the

aurora borealis."

The bark "Northern Light," arrived at Boston from Africa, was at sea on

the night of the great exhibition of the aurora borealis, the 28th of

August. The vessel was struck by lightning twice, after which the red

flames of the aurora burst upon the astonished vision of the crew. Most

of them are confident that they smelt a sulphurous odor all night.

M. de Tessan, who, in the voyage of the "Venus" around the world, had

the opportunity of seeing a very beautiful aurora australis, (southern

aurora,) which he describes with much care, also considers that this

phenomenon takes place in the atmosphere. The summit of the aurora

being in the magnetic meridian, it was elevated 14° above the horizon,

and the centre of the arc was on the prolongation of the dipping

needle, the dip being about 68° at the place of the observation. M. de

Tessan did not hear the noise arising from the aurora, which he

attributes to the circumstance that he was too far distant from the

place of the phenomenon; but he reports the observation of a

distinguished officer of the French navy, M. Verdier, who, on the night

of October 13th, 1819, being in the latitude of Newfoundland, had heard

very distinctly a sort of crackling or crepitation, when the vessel he

was on board was in the midst of an aurora borealis. This was also

observed in many localities during the aurora of August 28th, 1859. A

New York paper, alluding to the subject, remarks: "Many imagined that

they heard rushing sounds, as if Aeolus had let loose the winds; others

were confident that a sweeping, as if of flames, was distinctly

audible." Burns, a good observer, if ever there was one, and not likely

to be aware of any theories on the subject, alludes in his "Vision" to

a noise accompanying the aurora, as if it were of ordinary

occurrence:--

"The cauld blue North was flashing forth

Her lights wi' hissing eerie din."

It finds confirmation also in the fact, generally admitted by the

inhabitants of the northern regions, that, when the auroras appear low,

a crackling is heard similar to that of the electric spark. The

Greenlanders think that the souls of the dead are then striking against

each other in the air. M. Ramm, Inspector of Forests in Norway, wrote

to M. Hansteen, in 1825, that he had heard the noise, which always

coincided with the appearance of the luminous jets, when, being only

ten years old, he was crossing a meadow covered with snow and

hoar-frost, near which no forests were in existence. Dr. Gisler, who

for a long time dwelt in the North of Sweden, remarks that the matter

of the aurorae boreales sometimes descends so low that it touches the

ground; at the summit of high mountains it produces upon the faces of

travellers an effect analogous to that of the wind. Dr. Gisler adds,

that he has frequently heard the noise of the aurora, and that it

resembles that of a strong wind, or the hissing that certain chemical

substances produce in the act of decomposition.

M. Necker, who has described a great number of aurorae which he

observed at the end of 1839 and at the commencement of 1840, in the

Isle of Skye, never himself heard the noise in question; but he remarks

that this noise had been very frequently heard by persons charged with

meteorological observations at the light-house of Swenburgh Head, at

the southern extremity of Shetland. M. Necker is not the only observer

who has not heard the noise; neither have MM. Lottier and Bravais, who

have observed so great a number of aurorae, ever heard it; and a great

many others are in this case. This may be due to the fact that it is

necessary to be very near to the aurora in order to hear the

crepitation in question, and also to the fact that it is possible that

it does not always take place, at least in a manner sufficiently

powerful to be heard.

We have just been pointing out, as concomitant effects of the aurora

borealis, a noise of crepitation analogous to that of distant

discharges, and a sulphurous odor similar to that which accompanies the

fall of lightning. M. Matteucci also observed at Pisa, during the

appearance of a brilliant aurora borealis, decided signs of positive

electricity in the air; but of all phenomena, those which invariably

take place at the same time as the appearance of the aurora borealis

are the magnetic effects. Magnetized needles suffer disturbances in

their normal direction which cause them to deviate generally to the

west first, afterwards to the east. These disturbances vary in

intensify, but they never fail to take place, and are manifested even

in places in which the aurora borealis is not visible. This

coincidence, proved by M. Arago without any exception, during several

years of observation, is such that the learned Frenchman was able,

without ever having been mistaken, to detect from the bottom of the

cellars of the observatory of Paris the appearance of an aurora

borealis. M. Matteucci had the opportunity of observing this magnetic

influence under a new and remarkable form. He saw, during the

appearance of the aurora borealis of November 17, 1848, the soft iron

armatures employed in the electric telegraph between Florence and Pisa

remain attached to their electro-magnets, as if the latter were

powerfully magnetized, without, however, the apparatus being in action,

and without the currents in the battery being set in action. This

singular effect ceases with the aurora, and the telegraph, as well as

the batteries, could operate anew, without having suffered any

alteration. Mr. Highton also observed in England a very decided action

of the aurora borealis, November 17, 1848. The magnetized needle was

always driven toward the same side, even with much force. But it is in

our own country that the action of the aurora upon the telegraph-wires

has been the most remarkable.

My attention was first called in 1847 to the probability of the

aurora's producing an effect upon the wires; but, although having an

excellent opportunity to observe such an effect, I was not fortunate

enough to do so until the winter of 1850, and then, owing to the feeble

displays of the aurora, only to a limited extent. In September, 1851,

however, there was a remarkable aurora, which took complete possession

of all the telegraph-lines in New England and prevented any business

from being transacted during its continuance. The following winter

there was another remarkable display, which occurred on the 19th of

February, 1852. It was exceedingly brilliant throughout the northern

portion of our continent. I extract the following account of its

effects upon the wires from my journal of that date. I should premise,

that the system of telegraphing used upon the wires, during the

observation of February, 1852, was Bain's chemical. No batteries were

kept constantly upon the line, as in the Morse and other magnetic

systems. The main wire was connected directly with the chemically

prepared paper on the disc, so that any atmospheric currents were

recorded upon the disc with the greatest accuracy. Our usual battery

current, decomposing the salts in the paper, and uniting with the iron

point of the pen wire, left a light blue mark on the white paper, or,

if the current were strong, a dark one,--the color of the mark

depending upon the quantity of the current upon the wire.

"_Thursday, February 19, 1852_.

"Towards evening a heavy blue line appeared upon the paper, which

gradually increased in size for the space of half a minute, when a

flame of fire succeeded to the blue line, of sufficient intensity to

burn through a dozen thicknesses of the moistened paper. The current

then subsided as gradually as it, had come on, until it entirely

ceased, and was then succeeded by a negative current (which bleaches,

instead of coloring, the paper). This gradually increased, in the same

manner as the positive current, until it also, in turn, produced its

flame of fire, and burned through many thicknesses of the prepared

paper; it then subsided, again to be followed by the positive current.

This state of things continued during the entire evening, and

effectually prevented any business being done over the wires."

* * * * *

Never, however, since the establishment of the telegraphic system in

this country, have the wires been so greatly affected by the aurora as

upon Sunday night, the 28th of August, 1859. Throughout the entire

northern portion of the United States and Canada, the lines were

rendered useless for all business purposes through its action. So

strongly was the atmosphere charged with the electric fluid, that lines

or circuits of only twelve miles in length were so seriously affected

by it as to render operation difficult, and, at times, impossible.

The effects of this magnetic storm were apparent upon the wires during

a considerable portion of Saturday evening, and during the whole of the

next day. At 6, P.M., the line between Boston and New Bedford (sixty

miles in length) could be worked only at intervals, although, of

course, no signs of the aurora were apparent to the eye at that hour.

The same was true of the wires running eastward through the State of

Maine, as well as those to the north.

The wire between Boston and Fall River had no battery upon it Sunday,

and yet there was an artificial current upon it, which increased and

decreased in intensity, producing upon the electromagnets in the

offices the same effect as would be produced by constantly opening and

closing the circuit at intervals of half a minute. This current, which

came from the aurora, was strong enough to have worked the line,

although not sufficiently steady for regular use.

The current from the aurora borealis comes in waves,--light at first,

then stronger, until we have, frequently, a strength of current equal

to that produced by a battery of two hundred Grove cups. The waves

occupy about fifteen seconds each, ordinarily, but I have known them to

last a full minute; though this is rare. As soon as one wave passes,

another, of the reverse polarity, always succeeds. I have never known

this to fail, and it may be set down as an invariable rule. When the

poles of the aurora are in unison with the poles of the current upon

the line, its effect is to increase the current; but when they are

opposed, the current from the battery is neutralized,--null. These

effects were observed at times during Saturday, Saturday evening, and

Sunday, but were very marked during Sunday evening.

It is hardly necessary to add here, that the effect of the aurora

borealis, or magnetic storm, is totally unlike that of common or free

electricity, with which the atmosphere is charged during a

thunderstorm. The electricity evolved during a thunder-storm, as soon

as it reaches a conductor, explodes with a spark, and becomes at once

dissipated. The other, on the contrary, is of very low tension, remains

upon the wires sometimes half a minute, produces magnetism, decomposes

chemicals, deflects the needle, and is capable of being used for

telegraphic purposes, although, of course, imperfectly.

Mr. 0.S. Wood, Superintendent of the Canadian telegraph-lines,

says:--"I never, in my experience of fifteen years in the working of

telegraph-lines, witnessed anything like the extraordinary effect of

the aurora borealis, between Quebec and Father Point, last night. The

line was in most perfect order, and well-skilled operators worked

incessantly from eight o'clock last evening till one o'clock this

morning, to get over, in even a tolerably intelligible form, about four

hundred words of the steamer "Indian's" report for the press; but at

the latter hour, so completely were the wires under the influence of

the aurora borealis, that it was found utterly impossible to

communicate between the telegraph-stations, and the line was closed for

the night."

We have seen from the foregoing examples that the aurora borealis

produces remarkable effects upon the telegraph-lines during its entire

manifestation. We have, however, to record yet more wonderful effects

of the aurora upon the wires, namely, _the use of the auroral current

for transmitting and receiving telegraphic dispatches_. This almost

incredible feat was accomplished in the forenoon of September 2,

between the hours of half past eight and eleven o'clock, on the wires

of the American Telegraph Company between Boston and Portland, and upon

the wires of the Old Colony and Fall River Railroad Company between

South Braintree and Fall River.

The auroral influence was observed upon all the lines running out of

the office in Boston, at the hour of commencing business, (eight

o'clock, A. M.,) and it continued so strong up to half past eight as to

prevent any business being done; the ordinary current upon the wires

being at times neutralized by the magnetism of the aurora, and at other

times so greatly augmented as to render operations impracticable. At

this juncture it was suggested that the batteries should be cut off,

and the wires simply connected with the earth.

It is proper to remark here, that the current from the aurora coming in

waves of greater or less intensity, there are times, both while the

wave is approaching and while it is receding, when the instruments are

enabled to work; but the time, varying according to the rapidity of the

vibrations of the auroral bands, is only from one quarter of a minute

to one minute in duration. Therefore, whatever business is done upon

the wires during these displays has to be accomplished in brief

intervals of from quarter to half a minute in duration.

During one of these intervals, the Boston operator said to the one at

Portland,--

"Please cut off your battery, and let us see if we cannot work with the

auroral current alone."

The Portland operator replied,--

"I will do so. Will you do the same?"

"I have already done so," was the answer. "We are working with the aid

of the aurora alone. How do you receive my writing?"

"Very well indeed," responds the operator at Portland; "much better

than when the batteries were on; the current is steadier and more

reliable. Suppose we continue to work so until the aurora subsides?"

"Agreed," replied the Boston operator. "Are you ready for business?"

"Yes; go ahead," was the answer.

The Boston operator then commenced sending private dispatches, which he

was able to do much more satisfactorily than when the batteries were

on, although, of course, not so well as he could have done with his own

batteries without celestial assistance.