PART II.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. II. NEW YORK, JANUARY 1, 1851. No. II.

Transcriber's note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes

moved to the end of the article.

[Illustration]

EDMUND BURKE.

Edmund Burke is the most illustrious name in the political history of

England. The exploits of Marlborough are forgotten, as Wellington's will

be, while the wisdom and genius of Burke live in the memory, and form a

portion of the virtue and intelligence of the British nation and the

British race. The reflection of this superior power and permanence of

moral grandeur over that which, at best, is but a vulgar renown,

justifies the most sanguine expectations of humanity.

It may be said of Burke, as it was said by him of another, that "his

mind was generous, open, sincere; his manners plain, simple, and noble;

rejecting all sorts of duplicity and disguise, as useless to his

designs, and odious to his nature. His understanding was comprehensive,

steady, and vigorous, made for the practical business of the state....

His knowledge, in all things which concerned his duty was profound....

He was not more respectable on the public scene, than amiable in private

life.... A husband and a father, the kindest, gentlest, most indulgent,

he was every thing in his family, except what he gave up to his

country.... An ornament and blessing to the age in which he lived, his

memory will continue to be beneficial to mankind, by holding forth an

example of pure and unaffected virtue, most worthy of imitation, to the

latest posterity."

In the last of a series of articles by Mrs. S. C. Hall, entitled

"Pilgrimages to English Shrines," and published in the London _Art

Journal_, we have an account of a visit to the residences and to the

grave of Burke, which we reproduce in the following pages, with its

interesting illustrations.

THE GRAVE OF EDMUND BURKE.

It has been said that we are inclined to over-value great men when their

graves have been long green, or their monuments gray above them, but we

believe it is only then we estimate them as they deserve. Prejudice and

falsehood have no enduring vitality, and posterity is generally anxious

to render justice to the mighty dead; we dwell upon their actions,--we

quote their sentiments and opinions,--we class them amongst our

household gods--and keep their memories green within the sanctuary of

our HOMES; we read to our children and friends the written treasures

bequeathed to us by the genius and independence of the great statesmen

and orators--the men of literature and science--who "_have been_." We

adorn our minds with the poetry of the past, and value it, as well we

may, as far superior to that of the present: we sometimes, by the aid of

imagination--one of the highest of God's gifts--bring great men before

us: we hear the deep-toned voices and see the flashing eyes of some,

who, it may be, taught kings their duty, or quelled the tumults of a

factious people: we listen to the lay of the minstrel, or the orator's

addresses to the assembly, and our pulses throb and our eyes moisten as

the eloquence flows--first, as a gentle river, until gaining strength in

its progress, it sweeps onwards like a torrent, overcoming all that

sought to impede its progress. What a happy power this is!--what a

glorious triumph over time!--recalling or creating at will!--peopling

our small chamber with the demigods of history; viewing them enshrined

in their perfections, untainted by the world; hearing their exalted

sentiments; knowing them as we know a noble statue or a beautiful

picture, without the taint of age or feebleness, or the mildew of decay.

If these sweet wakening dreams were more frequent, we should be happier;

yes, and better than we are; we should be shamed out of much

baseness--for nothing so purifies and exalts the soul as the actual or

imaginary companionship of the pure and exalted; no man who purposed to

create a noble picture would choose an imperfect model; no one who seeks

virtue and cherishes honor and honorable things, will endure the

degradation of ignoble persons or ignoble thoughts; no one ever achieved

a great purpose who did not plant his standard on high ground.

A little before the commencement of the present century, England was

rich in orators, and poets, and men of letters; the times were favorable

to such--events called them forth--and there was still a lingering

chivalric feeling in our island which the utilitarian principles or

tastes of the present period would now treat with neglect, if not

contempt.

The progress of the French Revolution agitated Europe; and men wondered

if the young Corsican would ever dare to wield the sceptre wrenched from

the grasp of a murdered king; people were continually on the watch for

fresh events; great stakes were played for all over Europe, and those

who desired change were full of hope. It was an age to create great men.

Let us then indulge in visions of those, who, in more recent times than

we have yet touched upon,--save in one or two PILGRIMAGES,--illumed the

later days of the last century; and, brightest and purest of the galaxy

was the orator, EDMUND BURKE. Ireland, which gave him birth, may well be

proud of the high-souled and high-gifted man, who united in himself all

the great qualities which command attention in the senate and the world,

and all the domestic virtues that sanctify home; grasping a knowledge of

all things, and yet having that sweet sympathy with the small things of

life, which at once bestows and secures happiness, and, in the end,

popularity.

EDMUND BURKE was born on Arran Quay, Dublin, January the 1st, 1730; his

father was an attorney: the name, we believe, was originally spelt

Bourke.

The great grandfather of Edmund inherited some property in that county

which has produced so many men of talent--the county of Cork; the family

resided in the neighborhood of Castletown Roche, four or five miles from

Doneraile, five or six miles from Mallow--now a railroad station--and

nearly the same distance from the ruins of Kilcolman Castle, whose every

mouldering stone is hallowed by the memory of the poet Spenser and his

dear friend, "the Shepherd of the Ocean," Sir Walter Raleigh. There can

be little doubt that Edmund--a portion of whose young life was passed in

this beautiful locality--imbibed much thought, as well as much poetry,

from the sacred memories which here accompanied him during his

wanderings.

Nothing so thoroughly awakens the sympathy of the young as the imaginary

presence of the good and great amid the scenes where their most glorious

works were accomplished; the associations connected with Kilcolman are

so mingled, that their contemplation produces a variety of

emotions--admiration for the poem which was created within its

walls--contemplation of the "glorious two" who there spent so much time

together in harmony and sweet companionship, despite the storms which

ravaged the country; then the awful catastrophe, the burning of the

castle, and the loss of Spenser's child in the flames, still talked of

in the neighborhood, were certain to make a deep impression on the

imagination of a boy whose delicate health prevented his rushing into

the amusements and society of children of his own age. There are plenty

of crones in every village, and one at least in every gentleman's house

to watch "the master's children" and pour legendary lore into their

willing ears, accompanied by snatches of song and fairy tale. All these

were certain to seize upon such an imagination as that of Burke, and lay

the foundation of much of that high-souled mental poetry--one of his

great characteristics; indeed, the circumstances of his youth were

highly favorable to his peculiar temperament--his delicate constitution

rendered him naturally susceptible of the beautiful; and the locality of

the Blackwater, and the time-honored ruins of Kilcolman, with its

history and traditions, nursed, as they were, by the holy quiet of a

country life, had ample time to sink into his soul and germinate the

fruitage which, in after years, attained such rich perfection.

An old schoolmaster, of the name of O'Halloran, was his first teacher;

he "played at learning" at the school, long since in ruins; and the

Dominie used to boast that "no matter how great Master Edmund (God bless

him) was, HE was the first who ever put a Latin grammar into his hands."

Edmund was one of a numerous family; his mother, who had been a Miss

Nagle,[1] having had fourteen or fifteen children, all of whom died

young, except four,--one sister and three brothers: the sister, Mrs.

French, was brought up in the faith of her mother, who was a rigid Roman

Catholic, while the sons were trained in the father's belief. This,

happily, created no unkindness between them, for not only were they an

affectionate and a united family, but perfectly charitable in their

opinions, each of the other's creed. As the future statesman grew older,

it was considered wise to remove him to Dublin for better instruction,

and he was placed at a school in Smithfield kept by a Mr. James

Fitzgerald; but, fortunately for his strength of body and mind, the

reputation of an academy in the lovely valley of Ballitore, founded in

the midst of a colony of Quakers, by a member of that most benevolent

and intelligent society--the well-known Abraham Shackleton--was

spreading far and wide; and there the three young Burkes were sent in

1741, Edmund being then twelve years old.

He was considered not so much brilliant, as of steady application. Here,

too, he was remarkable for quick comprehension, and great strength of

memory; indications which drew forth at first the commendation, and as

his powers unfolded, the warm regard of his master; under whose paternal

care the improvement of his health kept pace with that of his intellect,

and the grateful pupil never forgot his obligations: a truly noble mind

is prone to exaggerate kindnesses received, and never detracts from

their value; it is only the low and the narrow-minded who underrate the

benefits they have been blessed with at any period of their lives.

In 1743 he entered Trinity College, Dublin, as a pensioner. He gained

fair honors during his residence there, but, like Johnson, Swift,

Goldsmith, and other eminent men, he did not distinguish himself so as

to lead to any speculation as to his after greatness, although his

elders said he was more anxious to acquire knowledge than to display

it;--a valuable testimony. His domestic life was so pure, his

friendships were so firm, his habits so completely those of a well-bred,

well-born IRISH GENTLEMAN--mingling, as only Irish gentlemen can do, the

suavity of the French with the dignity of English manners--that there is

little to write about, or speculate upon, beyond his public words and

deeds.

Like most young men of his time, his first oratory was exercised at a

club, and his first efforts as a politician were made in 1749, previous

to his quitting the Dublin University, in some letters against Mr. Henry

Brooke, the author of "Gustavus Vasa." His determination was the bar,

and his entry at the Middle Temple bears date April 23, 1747. His

youthful impressions of England and its capital are recorded in graceful

language in his letters to those friends whom he never lost, but by

death; one passage is as applicable to the present as to the past. "I

don't find that genius, the 'rath primrose which forsaken dies,' is

patronized by any of the nobility, so that writers of the first talents

are left to the capricious patronage of the public."

It was the taste of his time to desire, if not solicit patronage. In our

opinion literature is degraded by _patronage_, while it is honored by

the friendship of the good and great. Nothing is so loathsome in the

history of letters as the debased dedications which men of mind some

years ago laid at the feet of the so-styled "patron!" Literature in our

days has only to assert its own dignity, to be true and faithful to the

right, to avoid ribaldry, and preserve a noble and brave independence;

and then its importance to the state, as the minister of good, must be

acknowledged. It is only when forgetful of great purposes and great

power, that literature is open to be forgotten or sneered at. Still the

indifference an Englishman feels towards genius, even while enjoying its

fruits, was likely enough to check and chill the enthusiasm of Burke,

and drive him to much mystery as to his early literary engagements. One

of his observations made during his first visit to Westminster Abbey,

while hopes and ambitions quickened his throbbing pulse, and he might

have been pardoned for wishing for a resting-place in the grand

mausoleum of England, is remarkable, as showing how little he changed,

and how completely the youth

"Was father to the man."

"Yet after all, do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern

corner of a country church-yard than in the tomb of the Capulets? I

should like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust; the

good old expression, 'family burying-grounds,' has something pleasant in

it, at least to me."

This was his last, as it seems to have been his first desire; and it has

found an echo in many a richly dowered heart.

"Lay me," said Allan Cunningham, "where the daisies can grow on my

grave;" and it is well known that Moore--

"The poet of all circles,"--

and, as a poor Irishman once rendered it--

"The _darlint_ of his own,"

has frequently expressed a desire to be buried at Sloperton beside his

children.

The future orator found the law, as a profession, alien to his habits

and feelings, for at the expiration of the usual term he was not even

called to the bar. Some say he desired the professorship of logic at the

University of Glasgow, and even stood the contest; but this has been

disputed, and if he was rejected, it is matter of congratulation, that

his talents and time were not confined to so narrow a sphere. At that

period his mind was occupied by his theories on the Sublime and

Beautiful, which were finally condensed and published in the shape of

that essay which roused the world to admiration.

Mr. Prior says, and with every show of reason, "that Mr. Burke's

ambition of being distinguished in literature, seems to have been one of

his earliest, as it was one of his latest, passions." His first avowed

work was "The Vindication of Natural Society;" but he wrote a great deal

anonymously; and the essay on "The Sublime and Beautiful," triumphant as

it was, must have caused him great anxiety; he began it before he was

nineteen, and kept it by him for seven years before it was published--a

valuable lesson to those who rush into print and mistake the desire for

celebrity, for the power which bestows immortality.

The literature which is pursued chiefly in solitude, is always the best

sort: society, which cheers and animates men in most employments, is an

impediment to an author if really warmed by true genius, and impelled by

a sacred love of truth not to fritter away his thoughts or be tempted to

insincerity.

The genius and noble mind of Burke constituted him a high priest of

literature; the lighter, and it might be the more pleasurable enjoyments

of existence, could not be tasted without interfering with his pursuits;

but he knew his duty to his God, to the world, and to himself, and the

responsibility alone was sufficiently weighty to bend a delicate frame,

even when there was no necessity for laboring to live--but where an

object is to be attained, principles put forth or combated, God or man

to be served, the necessity for exertion always exists, and the great

soul must go forth on its mission.

That sooner or later this strife, or love, or duty--pursued

bravely--must tell upon all who even covet and enjoy their labor, the

experience of the past has recorded; and Edmund Burke, even at that

early period of life, was ordered to try the effects of a visit to Bath

and Bristol, then the principal resort of the invalids of the United

Kingdom.

At Bath he exchanged one malady for another, for he became attached to

Miss Nugent, the daughter of his physician, and in a very little time

formed what, in a worldly point of view, would be considered an

imprudent marriage, but which secured the happiness of his future life;

she was a Roman Catholic; but, however unfortunate dissenting creeds are

in many instances, in this it never disturbed the harmony of their

affection.

She was a woman exactly calculated to create happiness; possessing

accomplishments, goodness of heart, sweetness of disposition and

manners, veneration for talent, a hopeful spirit to allay her husband's

anxieties, wisdom and love to meet his ruffled temper, and tenderness to

subdue it--qualities which made him frequently declare "that every care

vanished the moment he sheltered beneath his own roof."

Edmund Burke became a husband, and also continued a lover--and once

presented to his ladylove, on the anniversary of their marriage, his

idea of "a perfect wife."[2]

For a considerable time after his marriage Burke toiled as a literary

man, living at Battersea or in town, now writing, it is believed,

jointly with his brother Richard and his cousin William a work on the

"European Settlements in America," in two volumes, which, according to

tradition, brought him, or them, only fifty pounds! then planning and

commencing an abridgment of the "History of England."

Struggling, it may be with difficulties brought on by his generous

nature, and which his father's allowance of two hundred a year, and his

own industry and perseverance could hardly overcome, the birth of a son

was an additional stimulant to exertion, and, in conjunction with

Dodsley, he established the _Annual Register_. This work he never

acknowledged, but his best biographers have no doubt of his having

brought forth and nurtured this useful publication. A hundred pounds a

volume seems to have been the sum paid for this labor; and Burke's

receipts for the money were at one time in the possession of Mr. Upcott.

Long before he obtained a seat in Parliament he won the esteem of Doctor

Johnson, who bore noble testimony to his virtue and talent, and what he

especially admired, and called, his "affluence of conversation."

For a time he went to Ireland as private secretary to Mr. Hamilton,

distinguished from all others of his name as "single-speech Hamilton;"

but disagreeing with this person, he nobly threw up a pension of three

hundred a year, because of the unreasonable and derogatory claims made

upon his gratitude by Hamilton, who had procured it for him.

While in Dublin he made acquaintance with the genius of the painter

Barry, and though his own means were limited, he persuaded him to come

to England, and received him in his house in Queen Anne-street, where he

soon procured him employment; he already numbered Mr., afterwards Sir

Joshua, Reynolds amongst his friends; and his correspondence with Barry

might almost be considered a young painter's manual, so full is it of

the better parts of taste, wisdom, and knowledge.

Mr. Burke was then on the threshold of Parliament, Lord Verney arranging

for his _debut_ as member for Wendover, in Buckinghamshire, under the

Rockingham administration; another star was added to the galaxy of that

brilliant assembly, and if we had space it could not be devoted to a

better purpose than to trace his glorious career in the senate; but that

is before all who read the history of the period, and we prefer to

follow his footsteps in the under current of private life.

He was too successful to escape the poisoned arrows of envy, or the

misrepresentations of the disappointed. Certain persons exclaimed

against his want of consistency, and gave as a reason that at one

period he commanded the spirit of liberty with which the French

Revolution commenced, and after a time turned away in horror and disgust

from a people who made murder a pastime, and converted Paris into a

shambles for human flesh.

But nothing could permanently obscure the fame of the eloquent Irishman,

he continued to act with such worthiness, that, despite his schism with

Charles James Fox, "the people" did him the justice to believe, that in

his public conduct, he had no one view but the public good.

He outlived calumny, uniting unto genius diligence, and unto diligence

patience, and unto patience enthusiasm, and to these, deep-hearted

enthusiasm, with a knowledge, not only, it would seem, of all things,

but of such ready application, that in illustration or argument his

resources were boundless; the wisdom of the Ancients was as familiar to

him as the improved state of modern politics, science, and laws; the

metaphysics and logic of the Schools were to him as household words, and

his memory was gemmed with whatever was most valuable in poetry,

history, and the arts.

[Illustration: GREGORIES.]

After much toil, and the lapse of some time, he purchased a domain in

Buckinghamshire, called "Gregories;" there, whenever his public duties

gave him leisure, he enjoyed the repose so necessary to an overtaxed

brain; and from Gregories some of his most interesting letters are

dated.[3] Those addressed to the painter Barry, _whom his liberality

sent to and supported in Rome_, are, as we have said, replete with art

and wisdom; and the delicacy of both him and his excellent brother

Richard, while entreating the rough-hewn genius to prosecute his studies

and give them pleasure by his improvement, are additional proofs of the

beautiful union of the brothers, and of their _oneness_ of purpose and

determination that Barry should never be cramped by want of means.[4]

After the purchase of Gregories[5] Mr. Burke had no settled town-house,

merely occupying one for the season. In one of his letters to Barry, he

tells him to direct to Charles-street, St. James's Square; he writes

also from Fludyer-street, Westminster, and from Gerrard-street, Soho;

but traces of his "whereabouts" are next to impossible to find. Barry

was not the only artist who profited by Edmund Burke's liberality.

Barret, the landscape-painter, had fallen into difficulties, and the

fact coming to the orator's ears during his short tenure in power, he

bestowed upon him a place in Chelsea Hospital, which he enjoyed during

the remainder of his life.

Indeed, this great man's noble love of Art was part and parcel of

himself; it was no affectation, and it led to genuine sympathy with, not

only the artist's triumphs, but his difficulties. He found time, amid

all his occupations, to write letters to the irritable Barry, and if the

painter had followed their counsel, he would have secured his peace and

prosperity; but it was far otherwise: his conduct, both in Rome and

after his return to England, gave his friend just cause of offence;

though, like all others who offended the magnanimous Burke, he was soon

forgiven.

He never forgot his Irish friends, or the necessities of those who lived

on the family estate; the expansive generosity of his nature did not

prevent his attending to the minor comforts of his dependants, and his

letters "home" frequently breathe a most loving and careful spirit, that

the sorrows of the poor might be ameliorated, and their wants relieved.

We ought to have mentioned before that Mr. and Mrs. Burke's marriage was

only blessed by two sons; one died in childhood, the eldest grew up a

young man of the warmest affections, and blessed with a considerable

share of talent; to his parents he was every thing they could desire;

towards his mother he exhibited the tenderness and devotion of a

daughter, and his demeanor to his father was that of an obedient son,

and most faithful friend; at intervals he enjoyed with them the pleasure

they experienced in receiving guests of the highest consideration;

amongst them the eccentric Madame de Genlis, who put their politeness to

the test by the exercise of her peculiarities, and horrified the meek

and amiable Sir Joshua Reynolds by the assumption of talents she did not

possess.

The publication of his reflections on the French Revolution, which,

perhaps, never would have seen the light but for the rupture with Mr.

Sheridan, which caused his opinions to be misunderstood, brought down

the applause of Europe on a head then wearying of public life.

But, perhaps, a tribute Burke valued more than any, remembering the

adage--an adage which, unhappily, especially applies to Ireland--"no man

is a prophet in his own country," was, that on a motion of the provost

of Trinity College, Dublin, in 1790, the honorary degree of LL.D. was

conferred upon him in full convocation, and an address afterwards

presented in a gold box, to express the University's sense of his

services. When he replied to this distinguished compliment, his town

residence was in "Duke-street, St. James."

His term of life--over-tasked as it was--might have been extended to a

much longer period, but that his deeply affectionate nature, as time

passed on, experienced several of those shocks inseparable from even

moderate length of days; many of his friends died; among others, his

sister and his brother; but still the wife of his bosom and his son were

with him--that son whose talents he rated as superior to his own, whom

he had consulted for some years on almost every subject, whether of a

public or a private nature, that occurred, and very frequently preferred

his judgment to his own. This beloved son had attained the age of

thirty-four, when he was seized with rapid consumption. When the malady

was recognized and acknowledged, his father took him to Brompton, then,

as now, considered the best air for those affected with this cruel

malady. "Cromwell House," chosen as their temporary residence, is

standing still, though there is little doubt the rage for extending

London through this once sequestered and rural suburb, will soon raze it

to the ground, as it has done others of equal interest.

[Illustration: CROMWELL HOUSE.]

We have always regarded "Cromwell House," as it is called, with

veneration. In our earliest acquaintance with a neighborhood, in which

we lived so long and still love so well, this giant dwelling, staring

with its whited walls and balconied roof over the tangled gardens which

seemed to cut it off from all communication with the world, was

associated with our "Hero Worship" of Oliver Cromwell. We were told he

had lived there (what neighborhood has not its "Cromwell House?")--that

the ghastly old place had private staircases and subterranean

passages--some underground communication with Kensington--that there

were doors in the walls, and out of the walls; and, that if not careful

you might be precipitated through trap-doors into some unfathomable

abyss, and encounter the ghost of old Oliver himself. These tales

operated upon our imagination in the usual way; and many and many a

moonlight evening, while wandering in those green lanes--now obliterated

by Onslow and Thurloe Squares--and listening to the nightingales, have

we watched the huge shadows cast by that solitary and melancholy-looking

house, and, as we have said, associated it with the stern and grand

Protector of England. Upon closer investigation, how grieved we have

often been to discover the truth, for it destroyed not only our castles

in the air, but their inhabitants; we found that Oliver never resided

there, but that his son, Richard, had, and was a rate payer to the

parish of Kensington for some time. To this lonely sombre house Mr. and

Mrs. Burke and their son removed, in the hope that the soft mild air of

this salubrious neighborhood might restore his failing strength; the

consciousness of his being in danger was something too terrible for them

to think of. He had just received a new appointment--an appointment

suited to his tastes and expectations; he must take possession of it in

a little time. He was their child, their friend, their treasure, their

all! Surely God would spare him to close their eyes. How could death and

he meet together? They entreated him of God, by prayer, and

supplication, and tears that flowed until their eyes were dry and their

eyelids parched--but all in vain. The man, in his prime of manhood, was

stricken down; we transcribe, from an article in the _Quarterly Review_,

on "Fontenelle's Signs of Death," the brief account of his last moments:

"Burke's son, upon whom his father has conferred something of his own

celebrity, heard his parents sobbing in another room at the prospect of

an event they knew to be inevitable. He rose from his bed, joined his

illustrious father, and endeavored to engage him in a cheerful

conversation. Burke continued silent, choked with grief. His son again

made an effort to console him. 'I am under no terror,' he said; 'I feel

myself better and in spirits, and yet my heart flutters, I know not why.

Pray, talk to me, sir! talk of religion; talk of morality; talk, if you

will, of indifferent subjects.' Here a noise attracted his notice, and

he exclaimed, 'Does it rain?--No; it is the rustling of the wind through

the trees.' The whistling of the wind and the waving of the trees

brought Milton's majestic lines to his mind, and he repeated them with

uncommon grace and effect:

'His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,

With every plant, in sign of worship wave!'

A second time he took up the sublime and melodious strain, and,

accompanying the action to the word, waved his own hand in token of

worship, and sank into the arms of his father--a corpse. Not a sensation

told him that in an instant he would stand in the presence of the

Creator to whom his body was bent in homage, and whose praises still

resounded from his lips."

The account which all the biographies of Burke give of the effect this

bereavement produced upon his parents is most fearful even to read; what

must it have been to witness? His mother seems to have regained her

self-possession sooner than his father. In one of his letters to the

late Baron Smith, he writes--"So heavy a calamity has fallen upon me as

to disable me from business, and disqualifies me for repose. The

existence I have--_I do not know that I can call life_. * * Good nights

to you--I never have any." And again--"The life which has been so

embittered cannot long endure. The grave will soon close over me, and my

dejections." To Lord Auckland he writes--"For myself, or for my family

(alas! I have none), I have nothing to hope or to fear in this world."

And again in another letter--"The storm has gone over me, and I lie like

one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I

am stripped of all my honors, I lie prostrate on the earth; I am alone,

I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. I greatly deceive myself, if

in this hard season of life, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all

that is called fame and honor in the world."

There is some thing in the "wail" and character of these laments that

recalls the mournful Psalms of David; like the Psalmist he endeavored to

be comforted, but it was by an effort. His political career was shrouded

for ever--the _motive_ to his great exertions was destroyed--but his

mind, wrecked as it had been, could not remain inactive. In 1795 his

_private_ reply to Mr. Smith's letter, requesting his opinion of the

expediency of and necessity for Catholic Emancipation, got into public

circulation; and in that singular document, though he did not enter into

the details of the question with as much minuteness as he would

previously have done, he pleaded for the removal of the whole of the

disabilities of the Roman Catholic body. From time to time he put forth

a small work on some popular question. He originated several plans for

benefiting the poor in his own neighborhood. He had a windmill in his

park for the purpose of supplying the poor with cheap bread, which bread

was served at his own table; and, as if clinging to the memory of the

youth of his son, he formed a plan for the establishment of an emigrant

school at Penn, where the children of those who had perished by the

guillotine or the sword amid the French convulsions, could be received,

supported, and educated. He made a generous appeal to government for the

benefit of these children, which was as generously responded to. The

house appropriated to this humane purpose had been inhabited by Burke's

old friend, General Haviland; and after his death several emigre French

priests sheltered within its walls. Until his last fatal illness Mr.

Burke watched over the establishment with the solicitude of a friend and

the tenderness of a father. The Lords of the Treasury allowed fifty

pounds per month for its sustenance: the Marquis of Buckingham made them

a present of a brass cannon and a stand of colors. When the Bourbons

were restored in 1814 they relieved the government from this charge, and

the institution was dissolved in 1820; in 1822 "Tyler's Green House," as

it was called, was sold in lots, pulled down, and carried away; thus,

Burke's own dwelling being destroyed by fire, and this building,

sanctified by his sympathy and goodness, razed to the ground, little

remains to mark the locality of places where all the distinguished men

of the age congregated around "the Burkes," and where Edmund, almost to

the last, extended hospitalities, coveted and appreciated by all who had

any pretensions to be considered as distinguished either by talent or

fortune.

It has frequently struck us as strange, the morbid avidity with which

the world seizes upon the slightest evidence of abstraction in great

men, to declare that their minds are fading, or impoverished: the public

gapes for every trifle calculated to prove that the palsied fingers can

no longer grasp the intellectual sceptre, and that the well-worn and

hard-earned bays are as a crown of thorns to the pulseless brow. It was,

in those days whispered in London that the great orator had become

imbecile immediately after the publication of his "_Letter to a Noble

Lord_;" and that he wandered about his park kissing his cows and horses.

A noble friend went immediately to Beaconsfield to ascertain the truth,

and was delighted to find Mr. Burke anxious to read him passages from "A

Regicide Peace," which he was then writing; after a little delicate

manoeuvring on his part, to ascertain the truth, Mr. Burke told him a

touching incident which proved the origin of this calumny on his

intellectual powers.

An old horse, a great favorite of his son's, and his constant companion,

when both were full of life and health, had been turned out at the death

of his master, to take his run of the park for the remainder of his

life, at ease, with strict injunctions to the servants that he should

neither be ridden, nor molested by any one. While musing one day,

loitering along, Mr. Burke perceived this worn-out old servant come

close up to him, and at length, after some moments spent in viewing his

person, followed by seeming recollection and confidence, he deliberately

rested his head upon his bosom. The singularity of the action itself,

the remembrance of his dead son, its late master, who occupied so much

of his thoughts at all times, and the apparent attachment, tenderness

and intelligence of the creature towards him--as if it could sympathize

with his inward sorrow--rushing at once into his mind, totally

overpowered his firmness, and throwing his arms over its neck, he wept

long and loudly.

But though his lucid and beautiful mind, however agonized, remained

unclouded to the last, and his affections glowed towards his old friends

as warmly as ever, his bodily health was failing fast; one of the last

letters he ever dictated was to Mary Leadbeater, the daughter of his old

friend and master, Shackleton; this lady was subsequently well known in

Ireland as the author of "Cottage Dialogues." The first literary

attempt, we believe, made towards the improvement of the lower order of

Irish, was by her faithful and earnest pen; to this letter,

congratulating her on the birth of a son, is a PS. where the invalid

says:--"I have been at Bath these four months to no purpose, and am

therefore to be removed to my own house at Beaconsfield to-morrow, _to

be nearer to a habitation more permanent, humbly_ and fearfully hoping

that my better part may find a better mansion!"

It would seem as if he anticipated the hour of his passing away. He sent

sweet messages of loving-kindness to all his friends, entreating and

exchanging pardons; recapitulated his motives of action on various

political emergencies; gave directions as to his funeral, and then

listened with attention to some serious papers of Addison on religious

subjects and on the immortality of the soul. His attendants after this

were in the act of removing him to his bed, when indistinctly invoking a

blessing on all around him, he sunk down and expired on the 9th of July,

1797, in the sixty-eighth year of his age.

"His end," said his friend Doctor Lawrence, "was suited to the simple

greatness of mind which he displayed through life; every way unaffected,

without levity, without ostentation, full of natural grace and dignity,

he appeared neither to wish nor to dread, but patiently and placidly to

await the appointed hour of his dissolution."

[Illustration: THE TOMB OF EDMUND BURKE.]

It was almost impossible to people, in fancy, the tattered and neglected

churchyard of Beaconsfield as it now is--with those who swelled the

funeral pomp of the greatest ornament of the British senate; to imagine

the titled pall-bearers, where the swine were tumbling over graves, and

rooting at headstones. Seldom, perhaps never, in England, had we seen a

churchyard so little cared for as that, where the tomb of Waller[6]

renders the surrounding disorder "in a sacred place" more conspicuous by

its lofty pretension, and where the church is regarded as the mausoleum

of Edmund Burke.[7] Surely the "decency of churchyards" ought to be

enforced, if those to whom they should be sacred trusts, neglect or

forget their duty. That the churchyard of Beaconsfield, which has long

been considered "a shrine," should be suffered to remain in the state in

which we saw it, is a disgrace not only to the town, but to England; it

was differently cared for during Burke's lifetime, and though, like that

of the revered Queen Dowager, his Will expressed a disinclination to

posthumous honors, and unnecessary expense, never were mourners more

sincere--never did there arise to the blue vault of heaven the incense

of greater, and more deep-felt sorrow, than from the multitude who

assembled in and around the church, while the mortal remains of Edmund

Burke were placed in the same vault with his son and brother.

The tablet to his memory, placed on the wall of the south aisle of the

church, records his last resting-place with the relatives just named; as

well as the fact of the same grave containing the body of his "entirely

beloved and incomparable wife," who died in 1812, at the age of 76.

Deeply do we deplore that the dwelling where he enjoyed so much that

renders life happy, and suffered what sanctifies and prepares us for a

better world, exists no longer; but his name is incorporated with our

history, and adds another to the list of the great men who have been

called into life and received their first and best impressions in

Ireland; and if Ireland had given nothing to her more prosperous sister

than the extraordinary men of the past and present century, she merits

her gratitude for the gifts which bestow so much honor and glory on the

United Kingdoms.

Mrs. Burke, previous to her death, sold the mansion to her neighbor, Mr.

John Du Pre, of Wilton Park. Mrs. Haviland, Mr. Burke's niece, lived

with her to the last, though she did not receive the portion of her

fortune to which she was considered entitled. Her son, Thomas Haviland

Burke, grand-nephew of Edmund, became the lineal representative of the

family; but the library, and all the tokens of respect and admiration

which he received from the good, and from the whole world, went with the

property to _Mrs. Burke's_ nephew, Mr. Nugent. Some of the sculpture

which ornamented the house now graces the British Museum.

The mansion was burnt on the 23d of April, 1813. The ground where it

stood is unequal; and some of the park wall remains, and fine old trees

still flourish, beneath whose shade we picture the meeting between the

mourning father and the favorite horse of his lost son.

There is a full-length portrait of Edmund Burke in the Examination Hall

of the Dublin University. All such portraits should be copied, and

preserved in our own Houses of Parliament, a meet honor to the dead, and

a stimulant to the living to "go and do likewise." It hardly realizes,

however, the _ideal_ of Burke; perhaps no portrait could. What Miss

Edgeworth called the "ground-plan of the face" is there; but we must

imagine the varying expression, the light of the bright quick eyes, the

eloquence of the unclosed lips, the storm which could gather

thunder-clouds on the well-formed brow; but we have far exceeded our

limits without exhausting our subject, and, with Dr. Parr, still would

speak of Burke:

"Of Burke, by whose sweetness Athens herself would have been soothed,

with whose amplitude and exuberance she would have been enraptured and

on whose lips that prolific mother of genius and science would have

adored, confessed--the Goddess of Persuasion."

Alas! we have lingered long at his shrine, and yet our praise is not

half spoken.

--[The notes and drawings for this paper were contributed by F. W.

Fairhold, of the Society of Antiquaries.]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Sylvanus Spenser, the eldest son of the Poet Spenser, married Ellen

Nagle, eldest daughter of David Nagle, Esq., ancestor of the lady, who

was mother to Edmund Burke.

[2] This as a picture is outlined with so delicate a pencil, and colored

with such mingled purity and richness of tone, that we transcribe a few

passages, as much in honor of the man who could write, as the woman who

could inspire such praise:--

"The character of ----

"She is handsome, but it is beauty not arising from features, from

complexion, or from shape. She has all three in a high degree, but it is

not by these she touches a heart; it is all that sweetness of temper,

benevolence, innocence, and sensibility, which a face can express, that

forms her beauty. She has a face that just raises your attention at

first sight; it grows on you every moment, and you wonder it did no more

than raise your attention at first.

"Her eyes have a mild light, but they awe when she pleases; they command

like a good man out of office, not by authority, but by virtue.

"Her stature is not tall, she is not made to be the admiration of every

body, but the happiness of one.

"She has all the firmness that does not exclude delicacy--she has all

the softness that does not imply weakness. * *

"Her voice is a soft, low, music, not formed to rule in public

assemblies, but to charm those who can distinguish a company from a

crowd: it has this advantage--_you must come close to her to hear it_.

"To describe her body, describes her mind; one is the transcript of the

other; her understanding is not shown in the variety of matters it

exerts itself on, but in the goodness of the choice she makes.

"She does not display it so much in saying or doing striking things, as

in avoiding such as she ought _not_ to say or do."

* * * * *

"No persons of so few years can know the world better; no person was

ever less corrupted by the knowledge.

"Her politeness flows rather from a natural disposition to oblige, than

from any rules on that subject, and therefore never fails to strike

those who understand good breeding, and those who do not."

* * * * *

"She has a steady and firm mind, _which takes no more from the solidity

of the female character, than the solidity of marble does from its

polish and lustre_. She has such virtues as make us value the truly

great of our own sex. She has all the winning graces that make us love

even the faults we see in the weak and beautiful in hers."

[3] Our cut exhibits all that now remains of Gregories--a few walls and

a portion of the old stables. Mrs. Burke, before her death, sold the

mansion to her neighbor, Mr. John Du Pre, of Wilton Park. It was

destroyed by fire soon afterwards.

[4] During Barry's five years' residence abroad he earned nothing for

himself, and received no supplies save from Edmund and Richard Burke.

[5] Mr. Prior says in his admirable Life of Burke--"How the money to

effect this purchase was procured has given rise to many surmises and

reports; a considerable portion was his own, the bequest of his father

and elder brother. The Marquis of Rockingham offered the loan of the

amount required to complete the purchase; the Marquis was under

obligations to him publicly, and privately for some attention paid to

the business of his large estates in Ireland. Less disinterested men

would have settled the matter otherwise--the one by quartering his

friend, the other, by being quartered, on the public purse. To the honor

of both, a different course was pursued."

[6] Waller was a resident in this vicinity, in which his landed property

chiefly lay. He lived in the family mansion named Well's Court, a

property still in the possession of his descendants. His tomb is a table

monument of white marble, upon which rises a pyramid, resting on skulls

with bat's wings; it is a peculiar but picturesque addition to the

churchyard, and, from its situation close to the walk, attracts much

attention.

[7] Our engraving exhibits his simple tablet, as seen from the central

aisle of the church, immediately in front of the pew in which Burke and

his family always sat.

POEMS BY S. G. GOODRICH[8]

For the last twenty years the name of Mr. Goodrich has been very

constantly associated with American literature. He commenced as a

publisher, in Boston, and was among the first to encourage by liberal

copyrights, and to make attractive by elegant editions, the works of

American authors. One of his earliest undertakings was a collection of

the novels of Charles Brockden Brown, with a memoir of that author, by

his widow, with whom he shared the profits. In 1828 he began "The

Token," an annual literary souvenir, which he edited and published

fourteen years. In this appeared the first fruits of the genius of

Cheney, who has long been acknowledged the master of American engravers;

and the first poems and prose writings of Longfellow, Willis, Mellen,

Mrs. Osgood, Mrs. Child, Mrs. Sigourney, and other eminent authors. In

"The Token" also were printed his own earlier lyrical pieces. The work

was of the first rank in its class, and in England as well as in this

country it was uniformly praised.

In 1831 an anonymous romance was published by Marsh & Capen, of Boston.

It was attributed by some to Willis, and by others to Mrs. Child, then

Miss Francis. It illustrated a fine and peculiar genius, but was soon

forgotten. Mr. Goodrich appreciated its merits, and applied to the

publishers for the name of the author, that he might engage him as a

contributor to "The Token." They declined to disclose his secret, but

offered to forward a letter to him. Mr. Goodrich wrote one, and received

an answer signed by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, many of whose best productions,

as "Sights from a Steeple," "Sketches under an Umbrella," "The Prophetic

Pictures," "Canterbury Pilgrims," &c., appeared in this annual. In 1839,

Mr. Goodrich suggested to Mr. Hawthorne the publication of a collection

of his tales, surrendering his copyrights to several of them for this

purpose; but so little were the extraordinary qualities of this

admirable author then understood, that the publishers would not venture

upon such an experiment without an assurance against loss, which Mr.

Goodrich, as his friend, therefore gave. The public judgment will be

entitled to little respect, if the copyright of the works of Hawthorne

be not hereafter a most ample fortune.

Mr. Goodrich soon abandoned the business of publishing, and, though

still editing "The Token," devoted his attention chiefly to the writing

of that series of educational works, known as _Peter Parley's_, which

has spread his fame over the world. The whole number of these volumes is

about sixty. Among them are treatises upon a great variety of subjects,

and they are remarkable for simplicity of style and felicity of

illustration. Mr. Goodrich has accomplished a complete and important

revolution in juvenile reading, substituting truth and nature for

grotesque fiction in the materials and processes of instruction, and

his method has been largely imitated, at home and abroad. In England

many authors and publishers have disgraced the literary profession by

works under the name of "Parley," with which he has had nothing to do,

and which have none of his wise and genial spirit.

Besides his writings under this pseudonym, Mr. Goodrich has produced

several works of a more ambitious character, which have been eminently

popular. Among them is a series entitled "The Cabinet Library,"

embracing histories, biographies, and essays in science; "Universal

Geography," in an octavo volume of one thousand pages; and a "History of

all Nations," in two large octavos, in which he has displayed such

research, analysis, and generalization, as should insure for him an

honorable rank among historians. We cannot better illustrate his

popularity than by stating the fact, that more than four hundred

thousand volumes of his various productions are now annually sold in

this country and Europe. No living writer is, therefore, as much read,

and in the United States hardly a citizen now makes his first appearance

at the polls, or a bride at the altar, to whose education he has not in

a large degree contributed. For twenty years he has preserved the

confidence of parents and teachers of every variety of condition and

opinion, by the indefectible morality and strong practical sense, which

are universally understood and approved.

Like many other eminent persons, Mr. Goodrich lets sought occasional

relaxation from the main pursuits of his life in poetry, and the volume

before us contains some forty illustrations of his abilities, as a

worshipper of the muse whose temples are most thronged, but who is most

coy and most chary of her inspiration. They have for the most part been

previously printed in "The Token," or in literary journals, but a few

are now published the first time. In typographical and pictorial

elegance the book is unique. It is an exhibition of the success of the

first attempt to rival the London and Paris publishers in woodcut

embellishment and general beauty of execution.

That Mr. Goodrich possesses the poetical faculty in an eminent degree,

no one has doubted who has read his fine lines "To Lake Superior:"

[Illustration]

Father of Lakes! thy waters bend,

Beyond the eagle's utmost view,

When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send

Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er,

And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave

Their rugged forms along thy shore.

Nor can the light canoes, that glide

Across thy breast like things of air,

Chase from thy lone and level tide,

The spell of stillness deepening there.

Yet round this waste of wood and wave,

Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,

That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,

To all, a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings

Its grisly arms athwart the sky,

A sudden, startling image brings

To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarled and braided boughs that show

Their dim forms in the forest shade,

Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw

Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore,

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone,

For they have told the war-whoop o'er,

Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu--

Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds, ye woods!

Roll on, thou Element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes!

Thou hast no tale to tell of man.

God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves,

Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan,

Deems as a bubble all your waves!

The "Birth Night of the Humming Birds" has been declared by the London

_Athenaeum_ equal to Dr. Drake's "Culprit Fay," and it may be regarded as

in its way the best specimen of Mr. Goodrich's talents. It is too long

to be quoted in these paragraphs. In descriptions of nature he is

uniformly successful, presenting his picture with force and

distractness.

There are many examples of this in one of his longest poems, "The

Mississippi," in which the traditions that cluster around the Father of

Waters, and the advances of civility along his borders, are graphically

presented. The river is described as rising.

[Illustration]

"Far in the west, where snow-capt mountain's rise,

Like marble shafts beneath heaven's stooping dome,

And sunset's charming curtain drapes the skies

As if Enchantment there would build her home.

The bard laments that

"though these scenes are fair

As fabled Arcady, the sylph and fay,

And all their gentle kindred, shun the air,

Where car and steamer make their stormy way;"

Yet trusts that in a future time,

"Perchance some Cooper's magic art may wake

The sleeping legends of this mighty vale,

And twine fond memories round the lawn and lake,

Where Warrior fought or Lover told his tale.

In the volume are several allegorical pieces of much merit, of which the

most noticeable are the "Two Windmills," "The Bubble Chase," and "The

Rainbow Bridge." Several smaller poems are distinguished for a quaint

simplicity, reminding us of the old masters of English verse; and

others, for refined sentiment, as the "Old Oak," of which the key-note

is in the lines,

Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek

At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade,

And watch the flowers that stooped, with glowing cheek,

To meet the romping ripples as they played.

[Illustration]

The longest of Mr. Goodrich's poems is "The Outcast." It was first

published many years ago, and it appears now with the improvements

suggested by reflection and criticism. Its fault is, a certain

_intensity_, but it has noble passages, betraying a careful study and

profound appreciation of the subtler operations of the mind,

particularly, when, in its most excited action, it is influenced by the

observation of nature.

The volume will take its place in the cabinets of our choice literature,

and will be prized the more for the fact that by selecting American

themes for his most elaborate compositions, Mr. Goodrich has made

literature subservient to the purposes of patriotism.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] _Poems: by S. G. Goodrich._ New York, G. P. Putnam. [The

designs--about forty--are by Mr. Billings, the engravings by Bobbett &

Edmonds, Lossing & Barrett, Hartwell, and others, and the printing by

Mr. John F. Trow.]

[Illustration]

RICHARD B. KIMBALL.

The author of "_St. Leger_" was by that admirable work placed in the

leading rank of the new generation of American writers. The appearance

in the _Knickerbocker_ for the present month, of the commencement of a

sequel to "St. Leger," makes it a fit occasion for some notice of his

life and genius.

Mr. Kimball is by inheritance of the first class of New-England men,

numbering in his family a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a

President of the Continental Congress, and several other persons

honorably distinguished in affairs. He is a native of Lebanon, in New

Hampshire, where his father is still living--the centre of a circle

bound to him by their respect for every public and private virtue.

Though he had completed his preparatory studies before he was eleven

years of age, he did not enter college until he was nearly thirteen.

Four years after, in 1834, he graduated at Dartmouth, and upon devoting

one year to the study of the law, he went abroad; travelled in England,

Scotland, and Germany; and resided some time in Paris, where he attended

the lectures of Majendie, Broussais, and Louis, in medicine, and those

of the elder Dupin, and Coulanges, in law. Returning, he entered upon

the practice of the law, at Waterford, in this state, but soon removed

to New-York, where a year's devotion to his profession made him familiar

with its routine. In 1842 he went a second time to Europe, renewing the

associations of his travel and student-life in Great Britain and on the

continent. Since, for seven years, he has been an industrious and

successful lawyer in New-York.

Although but few works are known to be from the pen of Mr. Kimball, he

has been a voluminous author. The vigorous and polished style of his

avowed compositions, is never attained but by long practice. He has

been, we believe, a contributor to every volume of the _Knickerbocker_

published since 1842. He printed in that excellent magazine his

"Reminiscences of an Old Man," "The Young Englishman," and the

successive chapters of "St. Leger, or the Threads of Life." This last

work was published by Putnam, and by Bentley in London, about one year

ago, and it passed rapidly through two English and three American

editions. It was not raised into an ephemeral popularity, as so many

works of fiction easily are, for their lightness, by careless applauses;

it arrested the attention of the wisest critics; commanded their study,

and received their verdict of approval as a book of learning and

reflection in the anatomy of human life.

Mr. Kimball had been eminent in his class at college for a love of Greek

literature, and he studied the Roman also with reverent attention. It

was his distinction that he had thoroughly acquainted himself with the

philosophy of the ancients. At a later day he was attracted by the

speculation of the Germans, and a mastery of their language enabled him

to enter fully into the spirit of Spinosa, Kant, and Fichte, as he did

into that of the finer intelligences, Goeethe and Richter, and pervading

he found the passion to know Whence are we? What are we? Whither do we

go? In "St. Leger," a mind predisposed to superstition by some vague

prophecies respecting the destiny of his family--a mind inquisitive,

quick, and earnest, but subject to occasional melancholy, as the

inherited spell obtains a mastery of the reason--is exposed to the

influences of a various study, and startling experiences, all conceived

with a profound knowledge of human nature, and displayed with consummate

art; having a metaphysical if not a strictly dramatic unity; and

conducting by the subtlest processes, to the determination of these

questions, and the flowering of a high and genial character; as

Professor Tayler Lewis expresses it, "at rest, deriving substantial

enjoyment from the present, because satisfied with respect to the

ultimate, and perfect, and absolute."[9]

Aside from its qualities as a delineation of a deep inner experience,

"St. Leger" has very great merits as a specimen of popular romantic

fiction. The varied characters are admirably drawn, and are individual,

distinct, and effectively contrasted. The incidents are all shaped and

combined with remarkable skill; and, as the _Athenaeum_ observes, "Here,

there, everywhere, the author gives evidence of passionate and romantic

power." In some of the episodes, as in that of Wolfgang Hegewisch, for

example, in which are illustrated the tendency of a desperate philosophy

and hopeless skepticism, we have that sort of mastery of the feelings,

that chaining of the intensest interest, which distinguishes the most

wonderful compositions of Poe, or the German Hoffman, or Zschokke in his

"Walpurgis Night;" and every incident in the book tends with directest

certainty to the fulfilment of its main design.

The only other work of which Mr. Kimball is the acknowledged author, is

"Cuba and the Cubans;" a volume illustrative of the history, and social,

political, and economical condition of the island of Cuba, written

during the excitement occasioned by its invasion from the United States,

in 1849, and exhibiting a degree of research, and a judicial fairness of

statement and argument, which characterizes no other production upon

this subject. As it was generally admitted to be the most reliable,

complete, and altogether important work, upon points commanding the

attention of several nations, its circulation was very large; but it was

produced for a temporary purpose, and it will be recalled to popularity

only by a renewal of the inevitable controversies which await the

political relations of the Antilles.

"A Story of Calais," in the following pages, is an example of Mr.

Kimball's success as a tale writer. Though less remarkable than passages

in "St. Leger," it will vindicate his right to a place among the chief

creators of such literature among us.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] The Inner-Life, a Review of St. Leger, by Professor Tayler Lewis,

LL. D., &c.

THE BISHOP OF JAMAICA.

Among the distinguished strangers who visited the United States during

the last season, no one has left a more favorable impression upon

American society than the thoroughly accomplished scholar and highbred

gentleman, the Bishop of Jamaica. We propose a brief sketch of his

history:

AUBREY GEORGE SPENCER, D.D. and D.C.L., was born in London on the 12th

of February, 1795, and is the eldest son of the late Hon. William

Spencer, the poet, whose father, Lord Charles Spencer, was a son of

Charles the second Duke of Marlborough, and grandson of John Churchill,

the illustrious hero of Ramillies and Blenheim. His Christian names were

given by the Dukes of St. Albans and Marlborough, who were his great

uncles and godfathers. His mother was Susan Jennison, a countess of the

Holy Roman Empire, and a lady of singular beauty and accomplishments, to

whom Mr. William Spencer was married at the court of Hesse Darmstadt, in

1791. Aubrey Spencer and his younger brother George (subsequently Bishop

of Madras,) received the rudiments of learning at the Abbey School of

St. Albans, whence the former was soon removed to the seminary of the

celebrated Grecian, D. Burme, of Greenwich, and the latter to the

Charter house. For some time previous to his matriculation at Magdalen

Hall, Oxford, Mr. Aubrey Spencer was the private pupil of Mr. Mitchell,

the very learned translator of Aristophanes. At the house of his father

in Curzon street, at Melbourne House in Chiswick, Blenheim, and

Woolbeednig, Hallowell Hill, (the seat of the Countess Dowager Spencer,)

he was in frequent and familiar intercourse with many of the most

distinguished contemporary statesmen, philosophers, and other men of

letters; and in this society his own literary and conversational talents

obtained an early celebrity, and commended him to the regard and

friendship of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Campbell, Lord Byron, Mr. Hallam, Lord

Dudley, Mr. Coutts, Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Francis, Mr. Homer, Thomas

Moore, Mr. Southey, Lady Caroline Lamb, Mr. Crabb, and many other

authors, with some of whom he still maintains a correspondence, while

some have fallen asleep.

With the society of the county of Oxford, and with that of the

University, he was equally popular. In the early part of the year 1818,

he took leave of his College, on being ordained deacon, and entered on a

charge of the parish of Great Oakering, in the diocese of London. From

this, which is a very unhealthy part of Essex, he removed at the end of

the year to Bannam, Norfolk, where he became the neighbor and frequent

guest of the Earl of Albemarle and the Bishop of Norwich. In March,

1819, he was admitted a priest, and soon after gave up the brilliant

society in which he had hitherto lived, and devoted himself to the

Church in the Colonies, where, for a quarter of a century, he has filled

a distinguished part as archdeacon and bishop.

His first visit to the Bermudas was undertaken for the recovery of his

health, to which a colder climate has always been hostile; and when, in

the year 1825, these islands were attached to the diocese of Nova

Scotia, he was, at the instance of the late Primate, appointed to them

as Archdeacon and Ecclesiastical Commissary to the Bishop of the see.

Here he may be said to have created the Ecclesiastical Establishment

which, under his conciliatory influence, has so rapidly and largely

increased; and with it he soon associated the revival of Bishop

Berkeley's Classical Academy, and a system of general instruction, of

which a chain of schoolhouses, from either extremity of the island, are

the abiding monuments.

From his connection with the Bishop of Nova Scotia, the visits of

Archdeacon Spencer to that colony were frequent, and many of the

inhabitants both of that province and of New Brunswick retain a lively

impression of his abilities, as they were illustrated in his preaching

and in the practice of the other duties of his profession and position.

In July, 1839, Dr. Spencer was consecrated by the venerable Archbishop

of Canterbury, on the nomination of the crown, to the new see of

Newfoundland, retaining still episcopal jurisdiction over the isles of

Bermuda, under the extension of the Colonial Episcopate, which relieved

the indefatigable Bishop of Nova Scotia of a large portion of his cares.

The new Bishop was enabled, by the aid of the Society for the Promotion

of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, to quadruple the number of his clergy

within four years, and to consecrate more than twenty additional

churches within the same period. A very grateful sense of the Bishop's

exertions, and of the prosperous results of his unceasing labor, was

manifested in the several addresses presented to his lordship on his

subsequent translation to the diocese of Jamaica, by the clergy and

laity of Newfoundland and Bermuda.

In a paper which only purports to be a biographical notice of one who is

still living, it is not desirable to do more than briefly advert to the

principal topics and dates of a history which may hereafter be

advantageously amplified and filled up. The real progress of the

established church in Newfoundland at this period, would be best

gathered from the Bishop's letters to the government and the religious

societies, and to the clergy under his jurisdiction, but to these

documents it is not likely that any biographer will have unreserved

access during the life of his lordship.

On the decease of Bishop Lipscombe, in April, 1843, Bishop Spencer was

translated, under circumstances peculiarly indicative of the high

opinion which was had of his ability by the Queen's ministers and the

heads of the English church, to the see of Jamaica, one of the most

important connected with the crown. He quitted his old diocese, as the

papers of the day amply testify, with the respect of all denominations

of Christians. A national ship, the Hermes, was appointed to convey him

and his family and suite to Jamaica, where he arrived in the first week

of November, having made the land on the auspicious festival of All

Saints.

The sermon delivered by him at his installation, in the cathedral at

Spanish Town, was published at the request of the Speaker of the House

of Assembly, while the Earl of Elgin, the Governor-General, in his

speech to the Legislature, "congratulated the inhabitants of Jamaica on

the appointment of a prelate of such approved talents and piety to that

see." At every point of the Bishop's visitation, which he commenced by a

convention of eighty clergymen, at Spanish Town, he was met by

congratulatory addresses from the vestries, and other corporate bodies,

declaratory of their confidence in his projected measures, and of their

desire to aid him in the extension of the church. In consonance with his

views the local Legislature passed an act increasing the number of

island curates, and providing higher salaries for their support, while

at the same time, they granted three thousand pounds as a first

instalment to the Church Society, which had been organized by him, and

to which the Governor-General contributed the annual sum of one hundred

pounds.

On his visit to England in 1845 and in the beginning of 1846, he was

continually employed in preaching in aid of various charities, and in

assisting at public meetings which had for their object the promotion of

Christianity by the servants of the church. At the weekly meetings of

the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, in London, he was a

constant attendant; and the increase of the funds of that association,

and the conciliation to it of many powerful supporters, are result of

measures which may be traced to his projection and tact. In his reply to

an address from the clergy, on his return from a recent visitation,

published at length in the last annual report of the parent Society for

the Propagation of the Gospel, will be found the clearest exposition of

the existing state and future prospects of the church in Jamaica; and a

charge addressed by his lordship to the clergy of the Bahamas, on the

subject of a difficult and embarrassing question, for the adjustment of

which the Bishop received the thanks of the Queen's government and of

the local Executive, is full of valuable information on the condition,

principles and progress of the colonial establishment. In closing the

last session of the Bahamas Legislature, Governor Gregory declared in

his speech, with reference to this matter, that he considered the

arrival of the Bishop in the island, at that juncture, as a convincing

proof of the interposition of a special Providence in the conduct of

human affairs.

In 1822, the Bishop was married to Eliza, the daughter of John Musson,

Esq., and the sister of a former friend at the University. He has had

one son, now deceased, and has three daughters.

As a man of letters, Bishop Spencer is entitled to a very honorable

position. As a scholar and as a critic, he has evinced such abilities

as, fitly devoted, would have secured fame; as a poet and essayist, he

has unusual grace and elegance; and a collection of the various

compositions with which he has relieved the monotony and arduous labors

of his professional and official career, would vindicate his title to be

classed with those prelates who have been most eminent in the literary

world.

The following poems, from autographs of Bishop Spencer, we believe are

first given to the public in the _International_.

"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."

I tread the church-yard's path alone,

Unseen to shed the gushing tear:

I read on many a mould'ring stone

Fond records of the good and dear.

My soul is well-nigh faint with fear,

Where doubting many went to weep;

And yet what sweet repose is here--

"He giveth His beloved sleep!"

The world has but a feverish rest,

To weary pilgrims sometimes given,

When pleasure's cup has lost its zest,

And glory's hard-earned crown is riven.

Here, softer than the dews of even

Fall peaceful on the slumbering deep,

Asleep to earth, awake to heaven--

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Yes, on the grave's hard pillows rise

No cankering cares, no dreams of woe;

On earth we close our aching eyes,

And heavenward all our visions grow.

The airs of Eden round us flow,

And in their balm our slumbers steep.

God calls His chosen home, and so

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Ah! vainly could the human voice,

In this dull world of sin and folly,

Tell how the sainted dead rejoice

In those high realms where joy is holy--

Where no dim shade of melancholy

Beclouds the rest which angels keep,

Where, peace and bliss united wholly

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

If on that brow so fair, so young,

Affliction trace an early furrow,

If Hope's too dear, delusive tongue

Has broke its promise of to-morrow,

Seek not the world again, to borrow

The deathful print its votaries reap.

Man gives his loved ones pain and sorrow,

God "giveth His beloved sleep."

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN ON WITNESSING A CONFIRMATION, IN BERMUDA, IN 1826.

Veil'd in robes of snowy whiteness,

Filled with love and sacred fear,

Forms of beauty, eyes of brightness,

At the altar's foot appear.

There with hearts oppressed with feeling

What their dying Saviour felt;

At His throne of mercy kneeling

Where their pious parents knelt,

Many a youth, and many a maiden

Meekly and devoutly bow,

And from worldly cares unladen

Ratify a Christian's vow.

Hark! what voice subdued and holy

In that deep and tender tone,

Prays upon those suppliants lonely

Christ's eternal benison!

God! who call'st them to inherit

Joys no mortal tongue can speak,

Guide them with thy gracious Spirit

Through the storms that round them break.

When thou seest these children straying

From the way thy word imparts,

Then, thine anger yet delaying,

Renovate their faltering hearts.

If provoked by strong temptation

From thy paths again they swerve,

If in prideful elevation

They forget the God they serve,

Then by timely, mild correction,

Lead them, wheresoe'er they roam,

Fan the embers of affection

For their Father and their Home.

* * * * *

MIDNIGHT.

Midnight is on the earth:

Flowers that in darkness bloom,

Their odorous life pour forth

Beneath the gloom.

O'er palace and o'er stall

Her sable curtain spread,

Mantles within its pall

The living dead!

Midnight is on the sea:

A soft and still repose

Steals o'er the untroubled lea

That darkly glows.

Hushed in their ocean caves

The winds their sleep prolong,

Or mourn along the waves

In dreamlike song.

Midnight is in the Heaven:

The planets of the air

To her as vassals given,

Wander and worship there.

No sound comes from her throne,

Piled in those lofty skies,

Calmly she broods upon

Her own deep mysteries.

Yet in her silence deep,

There breathes a language fraught

With spell to wake and keep

The energies of thought;

And on her awful brow

Strange characters appear,

The portraitures to show

Of the advancing year.

Night is a fearful book,

And in her darkling skies

Did Seers and Magi look,

Searching earth's destinies.

But oh! had I the power

To ancient science given,

I would not use this hour

To rifle Heaven.

The night is Memory's sphere,

In light and shadow cast;

In her dim disk appear

The last--the past.

The lov'd ones of our youth

Hasten'd to life's last bourne;

Dear to the heart's deep truth,

Will they return?

Ask of the phantoms pale

That haunt the hollow sky,

Ask of the fitful gale

That mourns and passes by,

Invoke the spirits' home,

Unsearchable, unseen--

Where do the wanderers roam?

Are they as they have been?

Silence is on the land,

No voice comes from the sea,

No spell can reach thy strand,

Thou dim Eternity!

Fled like the cloudy rack

With morning's early breath,

What night shall bring them back?

The night that brings us death!

* * * * *

STETE SUPER VIAS ANTIGUAS.

My heart lies buried with the past,

'Mid scenes where fleeting memory strays

And time its darkening shadows cast

O'er all the marks of by-gone days;

I look in vain for ancient ways--

The olden paths are worn and gone;

No friend that trod them here delays,

I pass benighted and alone.

Yet in this mist of life and mind,

Which ever dark and darker grows,

There is one living lamp enshrin'd,

Whose ray in deathless lustre glows.

That star-like light my God bestows

To break the deep sepulchral gloom;

Its beams Eternity disclose,

And show the garden round the tomb.

ENCOURAGEMENT OF LITERATURE.

In the concluding volume of the Life of Southey, just published by the

Harpers, is a letter from the poet in answer to one by Lord Brougham, on

the subject of the encouragement of literature by government. "Your

first question," writes Southey, "is, whether Letters would gain by the

more avowed and active encouragement of the Government?

"There are literary works of national importance which can only be

performed by co-operative labor, and will never be undertaken by that

spirit of trade which at present preponderates in literature. The

formation of an English Etymological Dictionary is one of those works;

others might be mentioned; and in this way literature might gain much by

receiving national encouragement; _but Government would gain a great

deal more by bestowing it. Revolutionary governments understand this: I

should be glad if I could believe that our legitimate one would learn it

before it is too late. I am addressing one who is a statesman as well as

a man of letters, and who is well aware that the time is come in which

governments can no more stand without pens to support them than without

bayonets._ They must soon know, if they do not already know it, that the

volunteers as well as the mercenaries of both professions, who are not

already enlisted in this service, will enlist themselves against it; and

I am afraid they have a better hold upon the soldier than upon the

penman; because the former has, in the spirit of his profession and in

the sense of military honor, something which not unfrequently supplies

the want of any higher principle; and I know not that any substitute is

to be found among the gentlemen of the press.

"But neediness, my Lord, makes men dangerous members of society, quite

as often as affluence makes them worthless ones. I am of opinion that

many persons who become bad subjects because they are necessitous,

because 'the world is not their friend, nor the world's law,' might be

kept virtuous (or, at least, withheld from mischief) by being made

happy, by early encouragement, by holding out to them a reasonable hope

of obtaining, in good time, an honorable station and a competent income,

as the reward of literary pursuits, when followed with ability and

diligence, and recommended by good conduct.

"My Lord, you are now on the Conservative side. Minor differences of

opinion are infinitely insignificant at this time, when in truth there

are but two parties in this kingdom--the Revolutionists and the

Loyalists; those who would destroy the constitution, and those who would

defend it, I can have no predilections for the present administration;

they have raised the devil who is now raging through the land: but, in

their present position, it is their business to lay him if they can; and

so far as their measures may be directed to that end, I heartily say,

God speed them! _If schemes like yours for the encouragement of letters,

have never entered into their wishes, there can be no place for them at

present in their intentions._ Government can have no leisure now for

attending to any thing but its own and our preservation; and the time

seems not far distant when the cares of war and expenditure will come

upon it once more with their all-engrossing importance. But when better

times shall arrive (whoever may live to see them), it will be worthy the

consideration of any government whether the institution of an Academy,

with salaries for its members (in the nature of literary or lay

benefices), might not be the means of retaining in _its_ interests, as

connected with their own, a certain number of influential men of

letters, who should hold those benefices, and a much greater number of

aspirants who would look to them in their turn. A yearly grant of ten

thousand pounds would endow ten such appointments of five hundred pounds

each for the elder class, and twenty-five of two hundred pounds each for

younger men; the latter eligible, of course, and preferably, but not

necessarily, to be elected to the higher benefices, as those fell

vacant, and as they should have improved themselves.

"The good proposed by this, as a political measure, is not that of

retaining such persons to act as pamphleteers and journalists, but that

of preventing them from becoming such, in hostility to the established

order of things; and of giving men of letters, as a class, something to

look for beyond the precarious gains of literature; thereby inducing in

them a desire to support the existing institutions of their country, on

the stability of which their own welfare would depend.

"Your Lordship's second question,--in what way the encouragement of

Government could most safely and beneficially be given,--is, in the

main, answered by what has been said upon the first. I do not enter into

any details of the proposed institution, for that would be to think of

fitting up a castle in the air. Nor is it worth while to examine how far

such an institution might be perverted. Abuses there would be, as in the

disposal of all preferments, civil, military, or ecclesiastical; but

there would be a more obvious check upon them; and where they occurred

they would be less injurious in their consequences than they are in the

state, the army and navy, or the church.

"With regard to prizes, methinks they are better left to schools and

colleges. Honors are worth something to scientific men, because they are

conferred upon such men in other countries; at home there are precedents

for them in Newton and Davy, and the physicians and surgeons have them.

In my judgment, men of letters are better without them, unless they are

rich enough to bequeath to their family a good estate with the bloody

hand, and sufficiently men of the world to think such distinctions

appropriate. For myself, if we had a Guelphic order, I should choose to

remain a Ghibelline.

"I have written thus fully and frankly, not dreaming that your proposal

is likely to be matured and carried into effect, but in the spirit of

good will, and as addressing one by whom there is no danger that I can

be misunderstood. _One thing alone I ask from the legislature, and in

the name of justice,--that the injurious law of copyright should be

repealed, and that the family of an author should not be deprived of

their just and natural rights in his works when his permanent reputation

is established._ This I ask with the earnestness of a man who is

conscious that he has labored for posterity."

The publication of this letter, and of the correspondence between

Southey and Sir Robert Peel, in which the poet declines being knighted,

on account of his poverty--a correspondence eminently honorable to the

late Prime Minister, has occasioned an eloquent letter from Walter

Savage Landor to Lord Brougham on the same subject.

CLASSICAL NOVELS.

The _Edinburgh Review_ rebukes the daring of those uneducated

story-tellers who profane by their intrusion the holy lands, the sacred

names, and golden ages of art. We have acceptable specimens of the

"classical novel" by Dr. Croly, Lockhart, Bulwer, and Collins (the

author of "Antonini"), and in this country by Mrs. Child and William

Ware; but nineteen of every twenty who have attempted such compositions

have failed entirely. The Edinburgh Reviewer, after showing that the

writers whom he arraigns have merely parodied the exterior life of our

own time, proceeds--

"It is not uncommon to excuse such deviations from historical propriety

by saying, that if the mere accidents have been neglected, the essential

humanity has been only more fully realized: and those who quarrel with

the neglect are stigmatized as pedants having no eyes except for the

external. We think, however, that it will be found, in most cases where

the plea is set up, that the humanity for which the sacrifice has been

made is equally external with that which has been disregarded, and much

more commonplace and conventional; being in fact, only the outer life of

existing society. We are met, of course, by the triumphant answer that

Shakspeare wrote Roman plays with a very slender knowledge of the

classics. It would be sufficient to reply, that we are speaking of cases

where ignorance of antiquity is not counterbalanced by any very

exuberant or profound knowledge of human nature. Possibly posterity may

have to deal with another myriad-minded dramatist whose poverty is

better than other men's riches; but it must not be rashly presumed that

he is likely to appear at all; or, if at all, with the same deficiency

of learning which was not unnatural three hundred years back. Meanwhile,

it is a perverse and pernicious paradox to maintain that Shakspeare's

consummate genius was in any way connected with his 'little Latin and

less Greek,' or that he might not have portrayed the Romans yet more

successfully if he had known more about them. Believing this, we are not

presuming, as the same absurd reasoning would have it, to set up

ourselves against him. We do not say that any other man in his age or

our own, however great his command of learning, could possibly mend

those plays by touching them; but we say that Shakspeare himself, with

increased knowledge, might have made them yet more perfect. It is easy

to oppose inspiration to scholastic culture; to coin antitheses between

nature and art; and to say that Shakspeare's Romans are more ideally

true than Niebuhr's. There is some truth in all this; but it is not to

the purpose. A poet like Burns may have really known more of classical

life than a critic like Blair; nay, it may be that if Keats or Tennyson

had been a senior medallist at Cambridge, they would not have produced

any thing not only so beautiful but so purely Greek as _Endymion_ or

_Oenone_. In what we were just saying we were thinking of the very

highest minds. And, when we recollect how gracefully Milton could walk

under the weight of his immense learning, we need not fear that the

Alantean shoulders of Shakspeare would have been oppressed by a similar

load. The knowledge of antiquity may operate on the recipient so as to

produce mere bookishness and intellectual sophistication; but in itself

it is a real and legitimate part of all knowledge, a portion of that

truth with which poets are conversant, a lesson set in other schools

than those where man is teacher. We know not what were Shakspeare's

feelings with respect to his own deficiencies; but we cannot believe

that the same modesty which besought his friend to chide with Fortune,

'the guilty goddess of his harmful deeds,' would have shrunk from

confessing want of knowledge as an evil to be lamented, at the same time

that it was imputed to want of opportunity. If he was self-centred, it

was in his strength, not in his weakness. His eulogists may show the

greatness of their faith in him by doubting whether he could have

assimilated the learning which obstructs Ben Jonson's _Catiline_ and

_Sejanus_; but we have no proofs that he thought so meanly of himself or

of that which he happened not to possess. On the contrary, it may be

argued, from the diligent use which he has made of such information as

he had, that he would gladly have taken advantage of more. Arnold, in

his Roman History, has noted the poet's perception of historical truth

in a matter where it might well have been overlooked; and future critics

may perhaps spend their time more profitably in discovering other

indications of a like vigilant industry than in laboring to prove that

the absence of so servile a virtue has been conducive to his preeminence

as a creative artist."

SLIDING SCALE OF THE INCONSOLABLES.

The editor of _The Albion_ thus christens, while he translates, the

following lively narrative, culled from the varied columns of the

_Courrier des Etats Unis_. The malicious writer dates from Paris; but

for such experiences our own city would probably be quite as prolific a

hunting-field.

* * * * *

How rapid is the progress of oblivion with respect to those who are no

more! How many a quadrille shall we see this winter, exclusively made up

from the ranks of inconsolable widows! Widows of this order exist only

in the literature of the tombstone. In the world, and after the lapse of

a certain period, there is but one sort of widows inconsolable--those

who refuse to be comforted, because they can't get married again!

One of our most distinguished sculptors was summoned, a short time

since, to the house of a young lady, connected by birth with a family of

the highest grade in the aristocracy of wealth, and united in marriage

to the heir of a title illustrious in the military annals of the empire.

The union, formed under the happiest auspices, had been, alas! of short

duration. Death, unpitying death, had ruptured it, by prematurely

carrying off the young husband. The sculptor was summoned by the widow.

He traversed the apartments, silent and deserted, until he was

introduced into a bedroom, and found himself in presence of a lady,

young and beautiful, but habited in the deepest mourning, and with a

face furrowed by tears. "You are aware," said she, with a painful

effort, and a voice half choked by sobs, "you are aware of the blow

which I have received?" The artist bowed, with an air of respectful

condolence. "Sir," continued the widow, "I am anxious to have a funeral

monument erected in honor of the husband whom I have lost." The artist

bowed again. "I wish that the monument should be superb, worthy of the

man whose loss I weep, proportioned to the unending grief into which his

loss has plunged me. I care not what it costs. I am rich, and I will

willingly sacrifice all my fortune to do honor to the memory of an

adored husband. I must have a temple--with columns--in marble--and in

the middle--on a pedestal--his statue."

"I will do my best to fulfil your wishes, madam," replied the artist;

"but I had not the honor of acquaintance with the deceased, and a

likeness of him is indispensable for the due execution of my work.

Without doubt, you have his portrait?"

The widow raised her arm and pointed despairingly to a splendid likeness

painted by Amaury Duval.

"A most admirable picture!" observed the artist, "and the painter's name

is a sufficient guarantee for its striking resemblance to the original."

"Those are his very features, sir; it is himself. It wants but life. Ah!

would that I could restore it to him at the cost of all my blood!"

"I will have this portrait carried to my studio, madam, and I promise

you that the marble shall reproduce it exactly."

The widow, at these words, sprung up, and at a single bound throwing

herself towards the picture, with arms stretched out as though to defend

it, exclaimed, "Take away this portrait! carry off my only consolation!

my sole remaining comfort! never! never!"

"But madam, you will only be deprived of it for a short time, and--"

"Not an hour! not a minute! could I exist without his beloved image!

Look you, sir, I have had it placed here, in my own room, that my eyes

might be fastened upon it, without ceasing, and through my tears. His

portrait shall never leave this spot one single instant, and in

contemplating _that_ will I pass the remainder of a miserable and

sorrowful existence."

"In that case, madam, you will be compelled to permit me to take a copy

of it. But do not be uneasy--I shall not have occasion to trouble your

solitude for any length of time: one sketch--one sitting will suffice."

The widow agreed to this arrangement; she only insisted that the artist

should come back the following day. She wanted him to set to work on the

instant, so great was her longing to see the mausoleum erected. The

sculptor, however, remarked that he had another work to finish first.

This difficulty she sought to overcome by means of money.

"Impossible!" replied the artist, "I have given my word; but do not

distress yourself; I will apply to it so diligently, that the monument

shall be finished in as short a time as any other sculptor would

require, who could apply himself to it forthwith."

"You see my distress," said the widow; "you can make allowance for my

impatience. Be speedy, then, and above all, be lavish of magnificence.

Spare no expense; only let me have a masterpiece."

Several letters echoed these injunctions, during the few days

immediately following the interview. At the expiration of three months

the artist called again. He found the widow still in weeds, but a little

less pallid, and a little more coquettishly dressed in her mourning

garb. "Madam," said he, "I am entirely at your service."

"Ah! at last; this is fortunate," replied the widow, with a gracious

smile.

"I have made my design, but I still want one sitting for the likeness.

Will you permit me to go into your bedroom?"

"Into my bedroom? For what?"

"To look at the portrait again."

"Oh! yes; have the goodness to walk into the drawing-room; you will find

it there, now."

"Ah!"

"Yes; it hangs better there; it is better lighted in the drawing-room

than in my own room."

"Would you like, madam, to look at the design for the monument?"

"With pleasure. Oh! what a size! What profusion of decorations! Why, it

is a palace, sir, this tomb!"

"Did you not tell me, madam, that nothing could be too magnificent? I

have not considered the expense; and, by the way, here is a memorandum

of what the monument will cost you."

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed the widow, after having cast an eye over the

total adding up. "Why, this is enormous!"

"You begged me to spare no expense."

"Yes, no doubt, I desire to do things properly, but not exactly to make

a fool of myself."

"This, at present, you see, is only a design; and there is time yet to

cut it down."

"Well, then, suppose we were to leave out the temple, and the columns,

and all the architectural part, and content ourselves with the statue?

It seems to me that this would be very appropriate."

"Certainly it would."

"So let it be, then--just the statue, alone."

Shortly after this second visit, the sculptor fell desperately ill. He

was compelled to give up work; but, on returning from a tour in Italy,

prescribed by his physician, he presented himself once more before the

widow, who was then in the tenth month of her mourning. He found, this

time, a few roses among the cypress, and some smiling colors playing

over half-shaded grounds. He brought with him a little model of his

statue, done in plaster, and offering in miniature the idea of what his

work was to be. "What do you think of the likeness?" he inquired of the

widow.

"It seems to me a little flattered; my husband was all very well, no

doubt; but you are making him an Apollo!"

"Really? well, then, I can correct my work by the portrait."

"Don't take the trouble--a little more, or a little less like, what does

it matter?"

"Excuse me, but I am particular about likenesses."

"If you absolutely must--"

"It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it not? I'll go in there."

"It is not there any longer," replied the widow, ringing the bell.

"Baptiste," said she to the servant who came in, "bring down the

portrait of your master."

"The portrait that you sent up to the garret last week, madam?"

"Yes."

At this moment the door opened, and a young man of distinguished air

entered; his manners were easy and familiar; he kissed the fair widow's

hand, and tenderly inquired after her health. "Who in the world is this

good man in plaster?" asked he, pointing with his finger to the

statuette, which the artist had placed upon the mantel-piece.

"It is the model of a statue for my husband's tomb."

"You are having a statue of him made? The devil! It's very majestic!"

"Do you think so?"

"It is only great men who are thus cut out of marble, and at full

length; it seems to me, too, that the deceased was a very ordinary

personage."

"In fact, his bust would be sufficient."

"Just as you please, madam," said the sculptor.

"Well, let it be a bust, then; that's determined!"

Two months later, the artist, carrying home the bust, encountered on the

stairs a merry party. The widow, giving her hand to the elegant dandy

who had caused the statue of the deceased to be cut down, was on her way

to the mayor's office, where she was about to take a second oath of

conjugal fidelity. If the bust had not been completed, it would

willingly have been dispensed with. When, some time later, the artist

called for his money, there was an outcry about the price; and it

required very little less than a threat of legal proceedings, before the

widow, consoled and remarried, concluded by resigning herself to pay for

this funeral homage, reduced as it was, to the memory of her departed

husband.

A NEW SERIES OF TALES BY MISS MARTINEAU.

There is scarcely in English literature a collection of tales by a

simple writer that are better adapted for the instruction of the masses,

than HARRIET MARTINEAU'S _Illustrations of Political Economy_. Without

believing her a very profound philosopher, we are inclined to think

these works could be remembered longer than any of her other writings.

The pleasure and instruction we derived from them were recalled by the

announcement in the London _Leader_ that she is to contribute a new

series of stories for the people, to that journal. We copy the first of

them.

THE OLD GOVERNESS.

The afternoon was come when the Morells must go on board. They were

going to Canada at last, after having talked about it for several years.

There were so many children, that it was with much difficulty they had

got on for some years past; and there was no prospect for the lads at

home. They had, with extreme difficulty, paid their way: and they had,

to a certain extent, educated the children. That, however, was Miss

Smith's doing.

"We shall always feel, every one of us," said Mrs. Morell, with tears,

to the elderly homely governess, "that we are under the deepest

obligations to you. But for you, the children would have grown up

without any education at all. And, for the greatest service you or any

one could possibly render us, we have never been able to give you your

due,--even as regards the mere money."

"I can only say again," replied the governess, "that you do not look at

the whole of the case. You have given me a home, when it is no easy

matter for such as I am to earn one, with my old-womanish ways and my

old-fashioned knowledge."

"I will not hear any disparagement of your ways and your knowledge,"

interrupted Mrs. Morell. "They have been every thing to my children: and

if you could have gone with us...."

This, however, they all knew to be out of the question. It was not only

that Miss Smith was between fifty and sixty, too old to go so far, with

little prospect of comfort at the end of the journey; but she was at

present disabled for much usefulness by the state of her right hand. It

had been hurt by an accident a long time before, and it did not get

well. The surgeon had always said it would be a long case; and she had

no use whatever of the hand in the mean time. Yet she would not part

with the baby till the last moment. She carried him on the left arm, and

stood on the wharf with him--the mother at her side--till all the rest

were on board, and Mr. Morell came for his wife. It was no grand steamer

they were going in, but a humble vessel belonging to the port, which

would carry them cheap.

"Now, my love," said the husband. "Now, Miss Smith," taking the child

from her. "Words cannot tell...."

And if words could have told, the tongue could not have uttered them. It

was little, too, that his wife could say.

"Write to us. Be sure you write. We shall write as soon as we arrive.

Write to us."

Miss Smith glanced at the hand. She said only one word, "Farewell!" but

she said it cheerfully.

The steam-tug was in a hurry, and down the river they went. She had one

more appointment to keep with them. She was to wave her handkerchief

from the rocks by the fort; and the children were to let her try whether

she could see their little handkerchiefs. So she walked quickly over the

common to the fort, and sat down on the beach at the top of the rocks.

It was very well that she had something to do. But the plan did not

altogether answer. By the time the vessel crossed the bar it was nearly

dark, and she was not quite sure, among three, which it was, and she did

not suppose the children could see her handkerchief. She waved it,

however, according to promise. How little they knew how wet it was!

Then there was the walk home. It was familiar, yet very strange. When

she was a child her parents used to bring her here, in the summer time,

for sea air and bathing. The haven and the old gray bathing houses, and

the fort, and the lighthouse, and the old priory ruins crowning the

rocks, were all familiar to her; but the port had so grown up that all

else was strange. And how strange now was life to her! Her parents gone,

many years back, and her two sisters since; and now, the Morells! She

had never had any money to lose, and the retired way in which the

Morells lived had prevented her knowing any body out of their house. She

had not a relation nor a friend, nor even an acquaintance, in England.

The Morells had not been uneasy about her. They left her a little money,

and had so high an opinion of her that they did not doubt her being

abundantly employed, whenever her hand should get well. They had lived

too much to themselves to know that her French, learned during the war,

when nobody in England could pronounce French, would not do in these

days, nor that her trilling, old-fashioned style of playing on the

piano, which they thought so beautiful, would be laughed at now in any

boarding school; and that her elegant needleworks were quite out of

fashion; and that there were new ways of teaching even reading,

spelling, and writing.

She knew these things, and cautioned herself against discontent with the

progress of society, because she happened to be left alone behind. She

suspected, too, that the hand would not get well. The thing that she was

most certain of was, that she must not rack her brain with fears and

speculations as to what was to become of her. Her business was to wait

till she could find something to do, or learn what she was to suffer.

She thought she had better wait here. There was no call to any other

place. This was more familiar and more pleasant to her than any

other--the Morells' cottage being far away, and out of the question--and

here she could live with the utmost possible cheapness. So here she

staid.

The hand got well, as far as the pain was concerned, sooner than she had

expected. But it was in a different way from what she had expected. It

was left wholly useless. And, though the time was not long, it had

wrought as time does. It had worn out her clothes; it had emptied her

little purse. It had carried away every thing she had in the world but

the very few clothes she had on. She had been verging towards the

resolution she now took for three or four weeks. She took it finally

while sitting on the bench near the fort. It was in the dusk; for her

gown, though she had done her best to mend it with her left hand, was in

no condition to show by daylight. She was alone in the dusk, rather

hungry and very cold. The sea was dashing surlily upon the rocks below,

and there was too much mist to let any stars shine upon her. It was all

dreary enough; yet she was not very miserable, for her mind was made up.

She had made up her mind to go into the work-Pouse the next day. While

she was thinking calmly about it a fife began to play a sort of jig in

the yard of the fort behind her. Her heart heaved to her throat and the

tears gushed from her eyes. In this same spot, fifty years before, she

had heard what seemed to her the same fife. Her father was then sitting

on the grass, and she was between his knees, helping to tassel the tail

of a little kite they were going to fly; and, when the merry fife had

struck up, her father had snatched up her gay Harlequin that lay within

reach, and made him shake his legs and arms to the music. She heard her

own laugh again now, through that long course of fifty years, and in the

midst of these tears.

All that night she pondered her purpose: and the more she considered,

the more sure she was that it was right. "I might," thought she, "get

maintained by charity, no doubt: I might call on any of the clergymen of

this place, and the rich people. Or I might walk into the shops and tell

my story, and I dare say the people would give me food and clothes. And,

if it was a temporary distress, I would do so. I should think it right

to ask for help, if I had any prospect of work or independence in any

way. But I have none: and this, I am convinced, points out my duty.

Hopeless cases like mine are those which public charity--legal

charity--is intended to meet. My father little dreamed of this, to be

sure; and the Morells little dream of it at this moment. But when do our

parents and friends, when do we ourselves, dream of what our lot is

really to turn out? Those old notions have nothing to do, if we could

but think so, with the event. Nor has my disgust any thing to do with my

duty. The plain fact is, that I am growing old--that I am nearly

helpless--that I am cold and hungry, and nearly naked--that I have no

friends within reach, and no prospect whatever. I am, therefore, an

object for public charity, and I will ask for what is my due. I am

afraid of what I may find in the workhouse;--the vicious people, the

dirty people, the diseased people,--and, I suppose, not one among them

who can give me any companionship whatever.

"It is dreadful; but it can't be helped. And the worse the case is about

my companions--my fellow-paupers--(for I must learn to bear the

word)--the greater are the chances of my finding something to do for

them;--something which may prevent my feeling myself utterly useless in

the world. This is not being wholly without prospect, after all. I

suppose nobody ever is. If it were not so cold now, I could sleep upon

mine."

It was too cold for sleep; and when, in the morning, she offered her old

shawl in payment for her bed, assuring the poor old woman who let it

that she should not want the shawl, because she was going to have other

clothes, the woman shook her head sorrowfully,--her lodger looked so wan

and chilled. She had no fear that there was any thought of suicide in

the case. No one could look in Miss Smith's sensible face, and hear her

steady, cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any thing wild or

impatient.

"Who is that woman with a book in her hand?" inquired the visiting

Commissioner, some months afterwards, of the governor of the workhouse.

The governor could only say she was a single woman of the name of Smith,

who had no use of her right hand. As to who she was, he could tell no

more than this; but his wife had sometimes mentioned her as a different

sort of person from those they generally saw there. She could not only

read, but she read very well: and she read a great deal aloud to the old

people, and in the infirmary. She talked unlike the rest, too. She said

little; but her language was good, and always correct. She could not do

much on account of her infirmity: but she was always willing to do what

could be done with one hand; and she must have been very handy when she

had the use of both.

"I should have thought her eyes had been too weak for much reading,"

observed the Commissioner. "Has the medical officer attended to her?"

The governor called his wife: and the wife called a pauper woman who was

told the question. This woman said that it was not exactly a case for

the doctor. Nobody that shed so many tears could have good eyes. Ah! the

governor might be surprised; because Smith seemed so brisk in the

daytime, and cheered the old people so much. But she made up for it at

night. Many and many a time she cried the night through.

"How do you know?" asked the Commissioner.

"I sleep in the next bed, sir. I can't say she disturbs any body; for

she is very quiet. But if any thing keeps me awake I hear her sobbing.

And you need but feel her pillow in the morning. It is wet almost

through."

"And does that happen often?"

"Yes, sir. Many a time when she has turned her back,--gone into the

infirmary, or been reading to the old people,--I have got her pillow and

dried it. And I have seen her do it herself, with a smile on her face

all the time."

The Commissioner walked away. Before he left the place, the woman Smith

was beckoned out by the governor. She went with a beating heart, with

some wild idea in her head that the Morells had sent, that some friends

had turned up. While still in the passage, however, she said to herself

that she might as well look to see her parents risen from the dead.

The Commissioner had, indeed, nothing to tell. He wanted to ask. He did

ask, as much as his delicacy would allow. But he learned nothing;

except, indeed, what he ought to have considered the most important

thing, the state of her mind about being there. About that, she was

frank enough. She said over again to him what she had said to herself,

about this being the right place for one in her circumstances. She

considered that it would be an abuse of private charity for her to be

maintained in idleness at an expense which might set forward in life

some person in a less hopeless position.

"You speak cheerfully, as if you were in earnest," said the

Commissioner.

"Of course, I am in earnest," she replied.

And cheerful she remained throughout the conversation. Only once the

Commissioner saw her eyes filled and a quiver on her lips. He did not

know it; but he had unconsciously called her "Madam."

Would she prefer the children's department of the House? There was no

doubt that she could teach them much. Would she change her quarters? No.

She was too old now for that. She should not be a good companion now for

children; and they would be too much for her. Unless she was wanted--

By no means. She should be where she preferred to be.

She preferred to be where she was. The Commissioner's lady soon after

dropped in, and managed to engage Smith in conversation. But there was

no result; because Smith did not choose that there should be. Perhaps

she was more in the infirmary; and had oftener a warm seat by the fire,

and was spoken to with more deference. But this might be solely owing to

the way she made with the people by her own acts and manners. The

invalids and the infirm grew so fond of her that they poured out to her

all their complaints. She was favored with the knowledge of every

painful sensation as it passed, and every uneasy thought as it arose.

"I never thought to die in such a place as this," groaned old Johnny

Jacks.

"I wonder at that," said his old wife; "for you never took any care to

provide yourself a better--to say nothing of me." And she went on to

tell how Johnny had idled and drank his life away, and brought her here

at last. Much of Johnny's idling and drinking having been connected with

electioneering in an abominably venal city, he was a great talker on

politics, and the state was made responsible for all his troubles. He

said it was a shame that any body should die in a workhouse; he appealed

to his neighbor Smith, who was warming his broth, whether it was not so?

"Which is best?" she answered; "being here, or on a common, or the

sea-sands? Because," she added, "there was a time when old people like

us were left to die wherever they fell. There are countries now where

old people die so. I should not like that."

"You don't mean to say that you or any one likes being here?"

"Oh, no; I don't mean to say that. But things are better than they were

once: and they may be better again."

"I shall not live to see that," groaned Johnny.

"No; nor I. But it is something to think of."

"D---- it," said Johnny, "I am not the better for any good that does not

happen to me, nor to any body I know."

"Are not you?" said neighbor Smith. "Well, now, I am."

And so she was to the end. She died in that infirmary, and not very long

after. When the Morells' letter came, it was plain that they had enough

to do to take care of themselves. So she did not let them know,--in her

reply, written by the hands of the schoolmaster,--where she was. The

letter was so cheerful that they are probably far from suspecting, at

this moment, how she died and was buried. As "from the abundance of the

heart the mouth speaketh," there was so much in her letter as rather

surprised them about her hope and expectation that the time would come

when hearty work in the vigorous season of life should secure its easy

close; and when a greater variety of employment should be opened to

women. There was more of this kind of speculation and less news and

detail of facts than they would have liked. But it was a household event

to have a letter from Miss Smith; and the very little children,

forgetting the wide sea they had passed, began shouting for Miss Smith

to come to them just (as it happened) when her ear was closing to every

human voice.

ON THE ATTEMPTS TO DISCOVER THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.

There are some peculiarities of style in the following performance,

which is by no means devoid of eloquence, and which derives a certain

interest from the efforts now being made to discover the fate of Sir

John Franklin. The author is GEORGE STOVIN VENABLES, LL. D., of Jesus

College, Cambridge.

THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.

"And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold;

And ice, mast high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

And through the drifts and snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shape of men, nor beasts we ken--

The ice was all between--

The ice was here, the ice was there--

The ice was all around:

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd,

Like noises in a swound."

COLERIDGE. _Rime of the Ancient Mariner._

The secret wonders of the gloomy North bid proud defiance, in their

solitude, to man's triumphant daring. Who shall pierce the ancient

prison-house where Nature's might, in mightier chains of adamantine

frost, lies fettered, since Creation? Who shall live where promontories

huge, of piled ice, like monstrous fragments of primeval worlds tossed

on the surge of Chaos, over the waves rear their triumphant heads, and

laugh to scorn the undreaded kinghood of the lordly sea?

A fearful challenge! yet the charmed spell, which summons man to high

discovery, is ever vocal in the outward world, though they alone may

hear it, who have hearts responsive to its tone. The gale of spring,

breathing sweet balm over the western waters, called forth that gifted

old adventurer[10] to seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds, far in the

Indian Isles. Yea, there is power in Nature's solemn music. All have

heard the sighs of Winter in the middle air, and seen the skirts of his

cloud-woven robe lingering upon the misty mountain-top: but years

rolled on, ere man might understand the mystic invitation of that call

to seek the Monarch in his Arctic home.

At length that call is answered. Daringly yon gallant ship, towards the

Polar Star, walks the untrodden pathways of old Ocean, leaving the

haunts of man. Even now, the bounds are passed where silently the Boreal

Morn[11] folds and unfolds, in swiftest interchange, her silver robe of

alternating light over the midnight Heaven. There is a change in every

sight and sound. White glaciers clash on the tormented waves, in fierce

career waving eternally, and hoary whales, with musical din[12] booming

along the deep, breathe forth in giant chorus, wondrously, the welcome

of the Spirit of the North.

Joy to the brave! That old phantasmal veil which checked the view of dim

antiquity, shrinks from their eagle glance, while fabled hills and

regions of impenetrable ice fade in the blue expanse of mighty

bays[13]--now spread the bosom of the expectant sail unto the Eastern

breeze, and while the prow furrows the yielding waters, image forth high

dreams of lofty hope--the joyous bound of billows gushing between parted

shores, where Asia's rocky brow for ever frowns on the opposing

continent. And, borne on spirit-plumed wings, let fancy soar far from

that sunless clime, to the warm South, where soft skies slumber through

the cloudless noon, o'er the gold palaces of fair Cathay.

Why pause ye in mid ocean? Still the sail swells to the voiceful breeze;

the high mast bends with hideous creak, and every separate rib in the

huge fabric quivers. Yet the ship on the unmoved waters motionless

struggles, as one, who in a feverish dream nervelessly fleeing o'er a

haunted waste, strives horribly to shun some fiendish shape, with

straining sinews, and convulsive gasp, and faint limbs, magic-stricken.

There is rest, dismal and dreary, on the silent sea: most dismal quiet:

for the viewless might of the keen frost-wind[14] crisps the curling

waves, binding their motion with a clankless chain along the far

horizon. Fruitlessly the imprisoned vessel writhes, until the gale,

lulled in the embrace of evening, leaves its prey, to share the torpor

of the lifeless waste, till earth awaken from her half-year's sleep.

Yet, in those daring hearts, the cheerless voice of boding Fear or dull

Despondency can find no answering tone, whether the storm, round the

snow-rampart[15] howling, interweaves his solemn moans with the

rejoicing shouts of the glad theatre,[16] or simple strains of homely

music leave that warm recess--vibrating far into the tremulous air.

Here, even here are pleasures; those stray[17] forms of joy, which

Nature spreads throughout the world, that he who seeks may find them.

When the Sun, uprising from his long and gloomy trance, beams through

the clearer air, how beautiful, in some obscurest dell[18] of that lone

land, led by the music of an unseen river to see fair flowers, with

light-awakened buds, salute the spring tide. Happily, they smile in the

midst of nakedness, like sweet memories of laughing infancy, beaming

around the desolation of an aged heart.

Oh, that the might of Man's majestic will were self-sufficing! that the

meaner chains which bind him to this dark, material world, before the

lightning glance of Enterprise might fade, as those Philistian bonds,

that fell from him of Zorah. Back--in sorrow back--the ocean-wanderers

turn the unwilling prow; for Nature may not yield, and all is lost, save

gloomy thoughts of unrequited toil in the storm-beaten deep; and

phantasies of gorgeous dreams, for ever desolate; and hopes, which were,

and will not be again.

Yet if the race of Man, as some have deemed[19], form but one mighty

Being, who doth live, yea with intenser life, while kingly Death benumbs

each separate atom with the touch of his pale sceptre--one unchanging

ocean of everchanging waves--one deathless heaven of clouds, which to

their graves roll ceaselessly: if it be so, not vainly have long years

sent forth their heralds on the trackless deep, where high endeavors of

exalted will which in themselves find no accomplishment, shall build at

length perfection. Peacefully he[20] sleeps, who erst beheld the rifted

shores of Greenland "glister in the sun, like gold:" and that deserted

chief[21] whose angry moan once mingled wildly with the screaming winds

and the hoarse gurgle of ingulfing waves, is unremembered now. But high

Emprise died not with them. Have not our latter days beheld, with awe,

the ice-borne Muscovite[22] ride the fierce billows of the Polar Sea?

Has not the Northern hunter seen the flag of England, o'er her floating

palaces, unfurled in his dominions crystalline? And who shall mourn,

while, in the mystic race, from hand to hand still moves the unquenched

torch, that none have reached the goal? Not suddenly doth the sweet

warmth of universal life, from brumal caves advancing, interfuse the

vast abysmal air, or penetrate the deep heart of the frost-entranced

Earth. Gentle, and in its very gentleness invincible, it moves, though

ruthlessly stern Winter calls his rallied armies on, and snow-blasts

violate the joyous prime. So is it, with the silent victories of Man's

enduring spirit: we have seen Winter and Spring; and shall we not behold

the full rejoicing of the complete year?

The hour shall come, nor shall the longing heart in that dark interval

be all unblest with glance prophetic. Though no meteor shape glare from

the speaking sky, no sheeted ghost wander dim-moving in the weird

midnight, with such forshadowings true as ever wait on him who, with a

calm and reverend eye, hath viewed the mysteries of things, and dared to

image forth the future from the past--bind on the mystic robe, and from

the brow of Hope's enchanted hill look boldly forth upon the coming

ages. Saw ye not white fog-wreaths floating through the cold gray dawn

over ice-laden billows, as they roll through yon rock-cinctured chasm? A

dusky shape looms through the hazy atmosphere, and sails, as of some

struggling bark that wearily breasts the opposing strength of angry

waves,[23] float with a fitful motion to and fro. Still on and on--a

breath-suspending sight of pale Solicitude, and fearful hope--and hark!

the triple crash of Britain's joy, the magical music of her wild hurra,

peals with a sound of mighty exultation through the aerial depths. The

cloven mist unwraps its folded canopy, and lo! the blue Pacific,

boundlessly outspread, far glitters in the silvery light of morn.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Columbus.

[11] The phenomenon which is commonly called Aurora Borealis, is in high

latitudes frequently seen to the south.

[12] On entering the Arctic Circle, the musical sounds of the white

whales is first heard.

[13] Modern discoverers have frequently found an open passage in

latitudes, where chains of hills were laid down in the old charts.

[14] The effect of the change of temperature at the beginning of winter

is almost instantaneous, as young ice at the thickness of half an inch

will stop a large vessel in full sail.

[15] Captain Parry found considerable advantage from raising a wall of

snow round the ship, in its winter station.

[16] The theatrical amusements, which were introduced during the stay of

the Fury and Hecla at Melvile Island, are well known.

[17] Alluding to the following lines of Mr. Wordsworth:--

----"Pleasure is spread throughout the earth,

In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find."

[18] The beautiful effect of these Arctic Oases is described in the

account of Captain Parry's second voyage.

[19] See the speech attributed by Socrates to Diotima in the Banquet of

Plato.

[20] Sir Martin Frobisher, who in 1577 anchored on the Western coast of

Greenland, reported that in that country "the stones be altogether

sparkled, and glister in the sun like gold."

[21] Hudson.

[22] Baron Wrangle.

RECOLLECTIONS OF PAGANINI.

The "Leaves from the Portfolio of a Manager," in the December _Dublin

University Magazine_, disclose a number of interesting facts connected

with Prynne's "Histriomastix," Milton's "Samson Agonistes," Hannah

More's "Tragedies," Ireland's "Shakspeare Forgeries," and not a few very

startling disclosures respecting the extraordinary emoluments of first

class performers, from Roscius down to Jenny Lind. From this portion of

our Manager's Portfolio we select the amusing recollections of Paganini

in Ireland, twenty years ago:

"Catalani, Pasta, Sontag, Malibran, Grisi, Taglioni, Rubini, Mario,

Tamburini, Lablache, _cum multis aliis_, have received their thousands,

and tens of thousands: but, until the Jenny Lind mania left every thing

else at an immeasurable distance, Paganini obtained larger sums than had

ever before been received in modern times. He came with a prodigious

flourish of trumpets, a vast continental reputation, and a few personal

legends of the most exciting character. It was said that he had killed

his wife in a fit of jealousy, and made fiddlestrings of her intestines;

and that the devil had composed a sonata for him in a dream, as he

formerly did for Tartini. When you looked at him, you thought all this,

and more, very likely to be true. His talent was almost supernatural,

while his 'get up,' and 'mise en scene,' were original and unearthly,

such as those who saw him will never forget, and those who did not can

with difficulty conceive. The individual and his performance were

equally unlike anything that had ever been exhibited before. No picture

or description can convey an adequate idea of his entrance and his exit.

To walk simply on and off the stage appears a commonplace operation

enough, but Paganini did this in a manner peculiar to himself, which

baffled all imitation. While I am writing of it, his first appearance in

Dublin, at the great Musical Festival of 1830, presents itself to 'my

mind's eye,' as an event of yesterday. When he placed himself in

position to commence, the crowded audience were hushed into a deathlike

silence. His black habiliments; his pale, attenuated visage, powerfully

expressive; his long, silky, raven tresses, and the flash of his dark

eye, as he shook them back over his shoulders; his thin, transparent

fingers, unusually long; the mode in which he grasped his bow, and the

tremendous length to which he drew it; and, climax of all, his sudden

manner of placing both bow and instrument under his arm, while he threw

his hands behind him, elevated his head, his features almost distorted

with a smile of ecstasy, and his very hair instinct with life, at the

conclusion of an unparalleled fantasia! And there he stood, immovable

and triumphant, while the theatre rang again with peals on peals of

applause, and shouts of the wildest enthusiasm! None who witnessed this

will ever forget it, nor are they likely again to see the same effect

produced by mere mortal agency.

"The _one_ string feat I always considered unworthy this great master of

his art. It has been done by fifty others, and is at best but an

imperfect exhibition on a perfect instrument; a mere piece of

charlatanerie, or theatrical 'gag,' to use a professional term,

sufficiently intelligible. There have been, and _are_, mighty musicians

on the violin. Spagnoletti, De Beriot, Ole Bull (who according to some

plays without any string at all), Sivori, Joachim, Ernst, Levey, &c.

&c., are all in the list of great players; but there never was more than

one Paganini; he is unique and unapproachable.

"In Dublin, in 1830, Paganini saved the Musical Festival, which would

have failed but for his individual attraction, although supported by an

army of talent in every department. All was done in first-rate style,

not to be surpassed. There were Braham, Madame Stockhausen, H. Phillips,

De Begnis, &c. &c., Sir G. Smart for conductor, Cramer, Mori, and T.

Cooke for leaders, Lindley, Nicholson, Anfossi, Lidel Hermann, Pigott,

and above ninety musicians in the orchestra, and more than one hundred

and twenty singers in the chorus. The festival was held in the

Theatre-Royal, then, as now, the only building in Dublin capable of

accommodating the vast number which alone could render such a

speculation remunerative. The theatre can hold two thousand six hundred

persons, all of whom may see and hear, whether in the boxes, pit, or

galleries. The arrangement was, to have oratorios kept distinct on

certain mornings, and miscellaneous concerts on the evenings of other

days. The concerts were crushers, but the first oratorio was decidedly a

break down. The committee became alarmed; the expenses were enormous,

and heavy liabilities stared them in the face. There was no time to be

lost, and at the second oratorio, duly announced, there stood Paganini,

in front of the orchestra, violin in hand, on an advanced platform,

overhanging the pit, not unlike orator Henley's tub, as immortalized by

the poet. Between the acts of the Messiah and the Creation, he fiddled

'the Witches at the Great Walnut Tree of Benevento,' with other equally

appropriate interpolations, to the ecstatic delight of applauding

thousands, who cared not a pin for Hadyn or Handel, but came to hear

Paganini alone; and to the no small scandal of the select few, who

thought the episode a little on the north side of consistency. But the

money was thereby forthcoming, every body was paid, the committee

escaped without damage, and a hazardous speculation, undertaken by a few

spirited individuals, was wound up with deserved success.

"When the festival was over, the town empty, and a cannon-ball might

have fired down Sackville-street, without doing much injury, Paganini

was engaged by himself for a series of five performances in the theatre.

For this he received L1,143. His dividend on the first night's receipts

amounted to L330 (_horresco referens_)! without a shilling of outlay

incurred on his part. He had the lion's share with a vengeance, as the

manager cleared with difficulty L200. The terms he demanded and obtained

were a clear two-thirds of each night's receipts, twenty-five guineas

per night for the services of two auxiliaries, worth about as many

shillings, the full value allowed for every free ticket, and an express

stipulation that if he required a rehearsal on a dark morning, when

extra light might be indispensable, the expense of candles should not

fall on him--a contingency which by no possible contrivance could

involve a responsibility exceeding five or six shillings."

FOOTNOTES:

[23] A current is supposed to flow constantly from the Pacific through

the North-West Passage into the Atlantic.

A PEASANT DUCHESS.

The _Stamford Mercury_ gives an interesting account of the life and

fortunes of a young woman of that neighborhood who rose to a high

station by means of her personal attractions, and, after a checkered

life, died in Italy a few weeks ago. She was the daughter of John Peele,

a small farmer at Corringham, near Gainsborough, who eked out a somewhat

declining livelihood by dealing in horses, &c., having previously been

in better circumstances. Being an only daughter, and aware that she

possessed no small share of rustic charms, she resolved to try her

fortune in a higher sphere. She became a dressmaker in Gainsborough, and

resided subsequently in Hull, and it is said as housemaid in a good

family in London, where her attractions obtained for her the attentions

of a person of rank, to whom she afterwards averred she was married; and

she from that time occupied a position where her fortunes led her into

contact with some of the highest classes. A few years afterwards she

astonished her former companions by appearing with her carriage and

livery servants in the character of _chere amie_ to Mr. Fauntleroy, then

a flourishing banker in London. The riches of the banker were of a

doubtful character, however; some time afterward she was convicted of

forgery, and paid the penalty with his life. Affected by the ruin, but

not participating in the crime of Fauntleroy, she struggled bravely with

fate, and generally maintained a fair appearance in society both in

London and Paris. She shortly reappeared in her native county as Duchess

of Palata. At this time the fortunes of her family had reduced them to

be the occupants of a small cottage at Morton, and age rendering her

father incapable of active exertion, he filled the humble office of

rural postman. To her honor it should be recorded that she enabled her

parents to pass the remainder of their days in comfort. Six or seven

years ago she again visited her native place, a widow, his grace the

Duke of Palata having paid the debt of nature. Her mother she left at

Morton, paid the last duties to her father (somewhat ostentatiously),

and volunteered her assistance to promote the advancement of her female

relatives. Again, however, "a change came o'er the spirit of her dream;"

and some three or four years ago the public journals announced her

marriage to the son of an Irish clergyman of good family. In this

character, accompanied by her niece as _femme de chambre_, but not by

her husband, she once more visited Gainsborough and the scenes of her

youth; after making her mother an allowance, she again departed for

Italy, in good health; but death, which spares neither rank nor

character, has closed the "last scene of all, in this strange eventful

history."

* * * * *

The author of the "Nibelungenlied" is unknown, and, whether it be the

work of one poet, of two, or twenty, is still a matter of doubt, among

German critics. That the Nibelungenlied has been extensively

interpolated, is, I believe, agreed on all hands; we may conclude as

much, from having reason to believe that it was handed down for some

time (how long, nobody knows for certain), by oral tradition, and what

effect such a state of things may have on popular poetry, we may readily

collect from what Bishop Percy and Sir Walter Scott have told us of the

variations in the old ballads of England and Scotland. Lachmann

attributes it to the thirteenth century.

Original Correspondence.

PARIS, DEC. 2, 1850.

FROM time immemorial, no one knows why (for the legends which recount

her history leave it doubtful whether she performed on any instrument),

St. Cecilia has been chosen by musicians as their patron saint; and the

musicians of Paris, on the approach of winter, always celebrate a mass,

in music, to her honor, and for the benefit of the distressed members of

their body. Not that they entertain any exaggerated idea of the

consoling powers of the musical art, or hope to relieve the positive

sufferings of poverty and destitution by any combination of sounds, no

matter how harmonious; but this festival being held in the church of St.

Eustache, the largest in Paris, and all lovers of music being so eager

to gain admission, that the immense aisles of this grand old pile (which

will contain five thousand persons), are always crowded to overflowing

on these occasions, every one paying a franc for his admission: the sum

thus gained, together with the collections taken up in the middle of the

service, by the committee of ladies chosen for that purpose (who go

round among the crowd, preceded by the beadle, and followed by two or

three attendant gentlemen, carrying a little embroidered bag of a

particular shape, used for that purpose, in which they receive the

contributions of the benevolent), constitute a fund, from which many an

unfortunate or superannuated brother of the tuneful craft obtains

relief.

This vast building, with its lofty arches, is admirably calculated for

the performance of grand religious compositions; the effect of the music

being enhanced by the aspect of the building, and the accessories of

sculpture, painting, and carving, which render this church one of the

richest in the capital.

To obtain places on any occasion of the kind, it is necessary to go an

hour or two in advance; and the gradual filling of the aisles is one of

the most curious scenes which a stranger can contemplate. As there are

no pews, each person, on entering, helps himself or herself to a chair,

which he holds aloft over the heads of his already seated neighbors, as

he slowly forces his way onward through their serried ranks, until he

espies some unappropriated gap into which he can insinuate his chair and

himself; the police and the beadles always taking care to keep a little

pathway, just large enough to squeeze through, open all through the

outer aisle that runs round the church. For the unfortunate people who

form the walls of this pathway, the process of filling is a severe

infliction; the uninterrupted stream of in-comers, forcing their way

along with a ruthless disregard of the shoulders of those between whom

they pass, is really, (especially when the in-comer happens to be a very

stout man, or a very fat lady, enveloped in an unusual quantity of

drapery,) almost overpowering. Every now and then the beadle comes

along, rapping his silver-headed cane on the pavement, and crying, "Way,

there! keep out of the path!" and escorting a party of privileged

individuals for whom seats have been reserved; and, as the beadle is

always tall and stout, and always forces his way through in defiance of

apparent impossibilities, a chorus of murmurs accompanies his progress.

The beadle is a very grand personage, and his appearance sufficiently

indicates this fact. He wears a cocked hat, covered with silver lace,

and decorated with nodding white plumes; a scarf of crimson velvet,

stiff with embroidery in silver thread, covers the upper part of his

person; black velvet smalls, fastened at the knee with silver buckles,

white silk stockings and gloves, and enormous buckles in his polished

shoes, complete his attire. He wears a massive silver chain round his

neck; and a sword hangs at his side to strike terror into the hearts of

all beholders. Besides the grand beadle, there are several minor ones,

dressed in black, but wearing heavy silver chains; _gens d'armes_ also

are always present, and often soldiers, who mount guard, musket in hand,

at all the doorways, and on the steps of the chancel.

When these sapient guardians of the peace perceive that as many have

been admitted as can possibly be squeezed into the building, they shut

the doors; and the process of distribution goes on until the mass is

equalized throughout the edifice; a task of no small difficulty, as the

portions of the building contiguous to the doors are always densely

packed at an early period, so that the greater number have to pass

through these crowded centres to gain the remoter parts of the church.

Meantime people chat, and look about them, amusing themselves as they

best can; and the sonorous edifice echoes with the footsteps of the

moving mass. But at length the noise subsides; the "organ utters its

voices," and a hush, intense, unbroken, falls on the vast assembly. The

glorious music peals through the vaulted aisles, and swells upward to

the arching roof, pervading every nook and corner of the fane; and so

perfect is the stillness that one would think the winged notes the only

living things within its precincts.

On Friday last this annual solemnity was celebrated as usual at St.

Eustache; the mass, composed by Adam, a very noble and beautiful

composition, was admirably executed by a choir of two hundred and fifty

singers, and a band of one hundred musicians, including the whole

orchestra of the _Opera Comique_, and the best performers from the

Italian opera. The solos were sung by Mesdames Grimm and Couraud, and by

Bassine and Chapuis, the latter being one of the best tenors in the

city. Some of the quartettes, with accompaniments of harps and wind

instruments, were indescribably beautiful.

The Archbishop of Paris made an elegant little address, in which he

spoke of art in Pagan and in Christian days, and of its mission in the

present; and winding up with an appeal to the liberality of his hearers

on behalf of the charitable idea which had prompted this performance.

The Archbishop is a man of mild and grave countenance, but his dress was

very inharmonious. He wore a surplice of very rich lace, a cape of

violet silk, and a scarf richly embroidered in gold, which was all very

pretty, but his arms and hands were encased in sleeves, finished with

gloves, of scarlet cloth, which showed through the lace sleeves of the

surplice, and gave the hands a very frightful appearance. He wore a

little round cap on the top of his head, a golden crucifix on his bosom,

and an enormous gold ring on his right hand. He spoke very slowly,

screaming rather than speaking, in order to make himself heard in the

distant parts of the building. The service lasted two hours, and yielded

several thousand francs.

The Duchess of Narbonne, famed for her benevolence, was so desirous to

aid on this occasion, that though unable, on account of her great age,

to go among the crowd _making the guest_, as it is termed, she held a

bag at one of the great doors, adding to the sum she thus received, a

thousand francs as her own contribution, and a hundred francs for her

chair, for which the ordinary price is two sous.

The musicians are not alone in their preparations for winter. The

shopkeepers are just beginning the periodic display which betokens the

coming on of the holidays: and conspicuous among the novelties whose

appearance thus indicate the approach of Christmas, is a new style of

porcelain, of English invention, which imitates with great success the

antique marble vases, pitchers, &c., of classic days. Many of these

objects are of great beauty; the creamy hue of the ware itself, slightly

translucent, the graceful simplicity of their forms, and the delicate

mouldings of classical designs in bass-relief with which they are

adorned, producing an admirable effect, highly creditable to English

taste.

While modern art is thus successfully emulating the symmetrical

achievements of ancient times, a relic of great interest, recalling the

romantic age of Spanish history, has just been unexpectedly brought to

light. Some workmen, employed in making repairs in the Guildhall of

Burgos, in Spain, have recently discovered the tomb of the Cid, so

renowned in ancient story; a tomb whose very existence was unknown. An

old chest, long considered as mere rubbish, and on which stood the

antique chair from which, in other days, the Counts of Castille gave

judgment, having been opened through the curiosity of these workmen, was

found to contain the remains of Don Rodrigo Campeador, and his wife

Chimena, immortalized in ancient legend, in the verses of Guilhen de

Castro, of Corneille, and in our own days, in the graceful writings of

Mrs. Hemans. The remains of the renowned hero and his beautiful spouse

are to be removed to the church of San Gadeo, where a suitable monument

will be erected to their memory.

The following incident, connected with the two prevailing manias of the

day, lapdogs and balloon-ascensions, is just now amusing the gay circles

of this gossiping capital.

It seems that Madame de N., the accomplished and beautiful wife of a

triple millionaire of the quartier St. Honore, equally renowned for the

charms of her wit, and for the intensity of her passion for the barking

pets so dear to Parisian hearts, had taken a violent fancy (shared by

half Paris) to a certain tiny gray spaniel, the property of one of the

most admired of the innumerable representatives of Albion at this time

here congregated, the beautiful and distinguished Lady R., whose

intimacy was assiduously cultivated by Madame de N., all for the love of

the little gray spaniel.

Sylphide, the spaniel in question, was in sooth well calculated to make

havoc in hearts susceptible to canine charms. Her glossy fur, combed,

bathed, and perfumed every day with the utmost care, was of the most

delicate mouse-color, and softer than silk; her lustrous eyes sparkled

like jewels, and her expressive face, with the delicate drooping ears

that adorned her graceful head, were the realization of the most ideal

dream of little-doggish beauty; her tail was perfection; her slender

legs, in their light electric movements, hardly touched the ground; and

the dainty way in which she raised her charming little paws from the

sidewalk, when, by some rare chance (attired in her newest paletot of

the finest merino, lined with wadded silk, and trimmed with a rich

braid, her neck encircled with a silver collar, whose burnished chain

was attached to her mistress's waist), she honored the sidewalk with

their pressure, was so irresistibly bewitching, that all the fair round

arms of Paris opened spontaneously at the sight, as though to offer a

nestling-place to the little beauty, and raise her from a contact

unworthy of so peerless a creature.

Any price, no matter how exorbitant, that could have been asked for this

little paragon, Madame de N. would very gladly have paid; but,

unhappily, Sylphide was not to be sold: Lady R. was very fond of her,

and never seemed to understand the various hints thrown out from time to

time, with the utmost tact and delicacy, but still quite intelligibly,

by Madame de N.; and all that the latter could do was to bring her

utmost power of petting to bear on the subject of her adoration,

trusting to some unlooked-for stroke of good fortune to aid her in the

accomplishment of her heart's desire.

Sylphide was excessively fond of sugar-plums (in which she was a great

connoisseur), and also of fresh _brioche_, crumbs of which she would

eat, in the most charming manner, from the snowy hand of her admiring

friend; and as the _bonbonniere_ of Madame de N. was always well

supplied with her favorite dainties, Sylphide, who, on her side, was not

ungrateful, soon contracted a lively affection for Madame de N. and her

bonbonniere.

Such was the position of affairs, when an incident occurred which

produced a total estrangement between the two ladies. M. de S., a

gentleman well known in the diplomatic circles, whom Madame de N. had

long numbered among her conquests, fascinated by the charms of the fair

islander, deserted his brilliant countrywoman, and ranged himself among

the satellites of her rival. And by a curious coincidence, at the very

time that M. de S. quitted thus abruptly the orbit of Madame de N., the

Prince of ----, who had hitherto been one of the brightest luminaries in

the train of Lady R., left her ladyship to lay his homage at the feet of

the charming Parisian. But the acquisition of the Prince seems to have

failed to console the latter for the loss of a knight who had so long

worn her colors; and the defection of M. de S. drew from her an

expression of resentment towards her rival, which the mutual friend to

whom these angry feelings had been confided, lost no time in repeating

to the object of her displeasure. But Lady R., so far from being

affected by the indignation of Madame de N., merely replied, with a

careless shrug of her handsome shoulders, "_Mais, ma chere_, she has

really nothing to complain of; all the world knows that '_exchange is no

robbery_!'"

At this time a magnificent bracelet, the latest achievement of the

wonder-working _ateliers_ of Froment & Meurice, had been the object of

Lady R.'s most violent desire; but her lord, who was subject to

occasional attacks of a malady not uncommon to the husbands of beautiful

and fashionable ladies, was just then suffering from an attack of

jealousy so acute, that, to the despair of Lady R., he utterly refused

to gratify her desire to become the possessor of this costly ornament;

and the lady, after having vainly called to her aid all the force of her

address, and all the charms of her eloquence, found herself obliged,

though with a heavy heart, to renounce the idea of its acquisition.

Lady R.'s desire for this bracelet, and its disappointment, were no

secret to Madame de N.; and on learning, from the gossiping confidant,

the response made by her rival to her complaint, a sudden thought darted

through her mind. "_Chere amie_," said she to the confidant, "I beg you

to say to her ladyship, that, since such is her opinion, I hold her to

the acceptance of the consequences of her maxim."

The confidant lost no time in delivering this message, to which Lady R.,

thinking only of her host of admirers, laughingly replied, that Madame

de N. was quite at liberty to make any practical application of the

principle that she pleased.

Within two hours from the reception of this challenge, the beautiful

bracelet, inclosed in an elegant case, on whose lid the initials of Lady

R., surrounded by her crest, were engraved in letters of gold, had

passed from the jeweller's show-rooms to the boudoir of Madame de N.,

who thenceforth, by means of an espionage that followed every movement

of her rival, kept her constantly in view. At length the tournament, to

be followed by the balloon-ascension (held a week or two ago in the

Champ de Mars), was announced to the great delight of the

spectacle-loving public; and having learned that the fair Englishwoman

was to be present in an open carriage, Madame de N. determined to avail

herself of this occasion to execute her scheme.

Accordingly on the appointed day, the bracelet, in its elegant case,

being placed in the carriage beside her, and the coachman duly

instructed in the part he was to play, Madame de N., holding in her hand

her _bonbonniere_, supplied with fresh crumbs of the most delicate

_brioche_, followed, at short distance, the carriage of her rival to the

Champ de Mars, and took her stand just in the rear of her ladyship's

phaeton.

Lady R. was in excellent spirits, receiving the homage of a crowd of

attendant cavaliers; Sylphide, to the unspeakable joy of Madame de N.,

being seated on the front seat nearest her carriage.

Madame de N. waited patiently through the various evolutions of the

gorgeous scene; and, at its close, when the great balloon of M. Poitevin

rose majestically from the field, surrounded by its graceful band of

nymphs that seemed to float, self-sustained, in the air, their silver

wands and wreaths of flowers shining in the light of the setting sun,

when all eyes followed the aeronauts, and deafening acclamations rent

the air, in less time than we take in recounting the movement, the

carriage of Madame de N. advanced to the side of Lady R.'s; Sylphide,

attracted by the well-known _bonbonniere_, leapt lightly into the

outstretched arms of her friend; and Madame de N. depositing the morocco

case on the very spot Sylphide had quitted, bowed gracefully to her

rival, and drove rapidly away, before Lady R. had had time to comprehend

what was passing.

Great was her ladyship's amazement, as may well be supposed; and great,

for the first few moments, was also her indignation; but the mystery was

soon explained; for, in opening the case, which occupied Sylphide's

vacant place, and which was unmistakably intended for her, she perceived

the rich bracelet she had so much wished for, and beside it, the card of

Madame de N., on which was written, in pencil, these words, which

contained the key of the enigma, "_Exchange is no robbery_."

A hearty laugh, which she tried in vain to repress, broke from the lips

of the fair lady; much to the astonishment of the gentlemen who had

witnessed the scene, and to whom, notwithstanding their eager inquiries,

Lady R. very naturally declined giving any explanation of the affair.

I shall observe your instructions, to keep you advised of whatever

occurs here in the middle of the world.

STELLA.

_Authors and Books_.

The German book trade has, for some months, been fairly overwhelmed with

books upon Hungary. We notice among the latest, "Flowers from Hungarian

Battlefields," a collection of novelettes, with scenes drawn from real

life in the late war, by Sajo, one of the most popular writers of

Hungary. The stories are spirited and vivid. "Confessions of a

Civilian," and "Confessions of a Soldier," are two books, of which the

last named has been for some time before the public, and has excited

attention by the thoroughness of its absolutist tendencies. The Civilian

is the opposite of the Soldier, being a liberal of the first stamp. Both

these writers, however, oppose the present Austrian ministry. A German

translation of Horwath's "History of the Hungarians" is coming out at

Pesth in numbers, and is welcomed by the German critics. This is

regarded by the most competent judges as an excellent work. "Janos the

Hero," a Romance of Hungarian Peasant Life, by Alexander Petoefy, one of

the most popular Magyar writers, is spoken of as a most successful

delineation of national peculiarities. "The Revolution and the Jews in

Hungary," is an interesting chapter out of the history of the Hungarian

Jews, by J. Eichorn. The fidelity of the Hebrews to the cause

represented by Kossuth and his associates, and defended by the entire

nation, is as well known as the extortions with which the butcher Haynau

attempted to punish their patriotism. _Rerum Hungaricum Monumenta_ is

the last work of the lamented antiquarian Eudlicher, and is designed to

open to the literary world the authentic sources of early Hungarian

history. It is, in short, a most valuable collection of ancient

documents relating to the origin of the Magyars, their first settlement

in Hungary, and their history under the native princes of the race of

Arpad. One of the best results of this work will be the provocation of

other savans to similar investigations, which cannot fail to throw light

on many obscure historical questions.

* * * * *

A very interesting work has just made its appearance at Leipsic, giving

an intimate though by no means flattering account of the condition of

the POLISH POPULATION IN GALLICIA. The peculiarities of this race of

people are described as wild barbarism combined with elegant politeness,

dreamy melancholy, and practical cunning. The author was in Gallicia

before the peasants' insurrection in 1846. He narrates a variety of the

most striking scenes, which though highly colored are apparently true in

the main. Among other things he gives an account of a dinner-party to

which he was invited, at the house of a nobleman. The house stood in the

midst of a scattered mass of outbuildings, none of which bore the

slightest appearance of neatness, order, or comfort. Every thing, in

fact, has the appearance of neglect and decay. Many of the walls are

supported by props to prevent them from tumbling. Around the doors the

slightest rain produces a disgusting morass, while the general aspect of

the whole reminds the beholder of Attila's wooden palace in Pannonia,

where he heaped up the booty of a world, and received the ambassadors of

Rome. When the writer reached the door, he found his host with some

other gentlemen waiting to receive him. The company was numerous, and

all, especially the ladies, expensively dressed, in the last Parisian

fashion, with abundant jewelry and ornaments. The saloon in which they

were received was large but low, the walls covered with dirty paper, the

floor of rough boards, the furniture of all sorts and sizes, and nowhere

a trace of art or refined taste. The conversation was carried on in

French, and the ladies exhibited a thorough acquaintance with Paris

matters, notabilities, and gossip generally. At the table the drinking

was almost incredible, and the topic of conversation, the emancipation

of Poland. Every word was aimed at the conversion of the German guest.

The hard treatment of the serfs was spoken of as necessary, as they must

be kept in complete subjection in order to be made useful in the great

work. The festivity grew more and more ardent, till at last one of the

gentlemen took a shoe off from a lady's foot, filled it with wine, and

after drinking from it himself, passed it to the others, so that all

could pledge the ladies from such a cup. The next morning the stranger

saw by chance a sight of another kind, as he was taking a walk. Behind a

wall a man lay on the earth; another held fast his head, and a third his

feet, while a fourth stood over him with a whip, laying on with all his

might. The lord stood by in his dressing-gown, smoking a long pipe, and

coolly directing the procedure. The guest turned away from the

spectacle, but was told by his servant that this was the tenth man who

had undergone the same punishment that morning. The offence was, that

they had not begun work at sunrise. Of course a peasantry so treated

could have no affection for their masters. All the work was done in the

worst manner, while the lord was plundered in every way by his servants.

Of the supplies for the family, more than half were regularly stolen,

there being no supervision in the household. The extravagance of the

masters was boundless, and when they got out of money they resorted to

the Jews, who had the whole commerce of the country in their hands,

besides having mortgages on most of the estates.

This is the merest outline of a small portion of the book. It renders

more intelligible the atrocities which took place in the insurrection of

1846, and which the Austrian Government permitted, if they did not

foment.

* * * * *

One of the most remarkable philologists and travellers of the present

day is the Hungarian Professor REGULY, a man as yet little known out of

his own country and northern Europe. He has devoted himself a good deal

to the exposition of the affinities between the Magyar and the Finnish

languages, and his labors have impelled a number of learned Hungarians

to the same study. In the year 1839 he left his country, and passed ten

years in the north of Asia and Europe, mostly among the Finnish tribes

of the Moguls, Ostiacks, Tsheremisses, Nordwins, &c., making himself

familiar with their manners, customs, dialects, songs, and traditions,

in order to attain a thorough personal acquaintance therewith. He also

spent a long period in Kasan and St. Petersburgh, studying the other

languages of Central Asia. His adventures during this time were, as may

be supposed, remarkable. He suffered not only the privations and

exposures inseparable from such an undertaking, but was also poorly

supplied with money, and often in the greatest distress from that cause.

Nothing but scientific enthusiasm carried him through, till he became

acquainted with some Russian savans, and a Russian Councillor named

Balugyanszky, who were of great assistance to him. He left his home a

vigorous young man, and comes back broken down in strength and health.

His investigations have related not only to philology, but to geography

and ethnography. He has penetrated farther into the north of Asia than

any previous traveller. On his return, at St. Petersburgh, he prepared,

at the special request of the Geographical Society, a vast map of

Northern Asia along the Ural Mountains, between 58 and 70 deg. north

latitude, and 72 and 80 deg. east longitude, giving about five hundred

localities. This map is made on the largest scale, containing sixteen

large quarto sheets. The _St. Petersburgh Gazette_ says of it, that it

has proved Reguly to be the discoverer of a vast territory for Russia.

He is now at Pesth, engaged in preparing for publication the fruits of

his ten years' absence from home. He will treat of the languages of the

European and Asiatic Finnish tribes, their grammar and vocabularies,

with constant regard to the analogies of the Magyar tongue. By way of

introduction he will first publish a special work, containing his

philosophical views on the organism of language. After these

philological treatises he will print a series of ethnographic works on

the various races among which he has lived, with collections of their

songs and traditions, and finally a detailed narrative of his travels,

with a condensed account of their scientific results. The conclusion of

his philological studies is briefly, that the Central-Asiatic, or as it

might be called, the Ural-Altaic group of languages, is divided into six

branches or families, namely, the language of the Mandshu Tartars, the

Mongols, the Turkish-Tartar tribes, the Samoyedes, the Fins, and the

Magyars. These families have however no nearer relation to each other

than the individual tongues of the Indo-European group, as the Indian,

the Romanic, German, Celtic, Slavic, and Persian languages. Still he

regards the Magyar and Finnic languages as having greater mutual

affinities than the others, though not to such a degree that one of

these races of men can be supposed to be derived from the other. He

rather supposes all of the races whose languages form the

Central-Asiatic group to have sprung from an original race, which was

probably Scythian.

* * * * *

The Austrian government has just set on foot an enterprise which

promises to be of use to both Literature and Science. The plan is, to

prepare and publish at the expense of the Imperial Treasury, a great

work on the ethnography of the Empire, and all savans, teachers,

artists, poets, of every race, are invited to furnish materials. It is

designed to give a complete account of the origin, history, manners,

language, character and condition of each of the many tribes and peoples

included under the Austrian sceptre. This will be combined of course

with descriptions of the country, scenery, climate, soil, minerals, and

natural and industrial productions of each region. It is supposed that

the whole will be completed in eight big volumes. It will be accompanied

by a vast ethnographic map, which is now being prepared with great

energy under the superintendence of the Minister of Commerce.

* * * * *

KARL GUTZKOW is one of the most prolific and popular novel and

playwrights now living in Germany. As to his last work, _Die Ritter vom

Geiste_ (The Knights of the Spirit), of which only the first volume has

been published, the critics entertain the most contradictory opinions.

Some exclaim at its great length, which indeed is rather terrific: there

are to be nine books, and the first occupies the whole of the first

volume. Others are charmed with the skill with which the details of the

work are wrought up, and the great variety of persons who figure in the

story. The author has certainly laid out all his strength in this book,

which is designed to reproduce the present age in all the contradictions

of its doctrines and the complexity of its tendencies. But instead of

seizing these in some central and vital point, and setting them forth in

a work whose very simplicity would conceal its depth from most readers,

Gutzkow has adopted the easier and more clumsy method of multiplying his

characters and complicating the actions of his drama. Thus it is hardly

possible for it not to be tedious and a failure. But we can speak of it

more fairly when it is farther advanced.

* * * * *

Dr. NEANDER'S Library is advertised for sale by auction at Berlin, but

our correspondent thinks it will be saved from the hammer by a private

subscription, which will secure it to the University.

* * * * *

KARL SIMROCK has just brought out at Frankfort a new collection of

GERMAN POPULAR SONGS, not obsolete or artistic poems, but such as still

live among the people, and are familiar to every class. "Among

_Volkslieder_," he says in his preface, "I include only such as have

proceeded directly from the people, and still bear the tokens of their

origin, in their unsophisticated form, and simple, hearty language. The

pieces of cultivated poets which have found access and become loved with

the people, are reserved for a future collection of favorite German

songs. The distinction here hinted at between the people's songs and

popular songs is not generally understood. All previous collections have

confused the two, and some even have not a single production of the

people. For example, _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, whose great merit must be

recognized, contains antique poems which by no means issued from among

the people." In another place he says: "The songs here collected and

arranged have been newly written down, literally from the mouths of the

people; and where they could not be procured in this way, have been

corrected by comparison of all earlier versions. So that as they here

stand, they are in a sort my own property." The work is spoken of by

competent critics as perfectly successful. We believe that Simrock, who

is perhaps better qualified for the undertaking than any other man in

Germany, intends in a future edition to publish the melodies of the

songs along with the words.

* * * * *

Belgian Literature is a standing joke with the authors of Paris, and not

without reason, for the majority of the books printed by the publishers

of Belgium, are pirated from their French neighbors. There is, however,

such a thing as a Belgian literature, though it is not very extensive,

and one of its chief ornaments is Professor BORGNEL, of Liege, best

known as the author of a _Historie des Belges a la fin du dix-huilieme

Siecle_, published some six years since, to which he is about to bring

out an addition, carrying the history back to the beginning of the same

century. He has also been occupied for several years with the history of

the Flemish Provinces, under the domination of the Spaniards, and has a

work on that subject in preparation. The Introduction to it appeared not

long since among the Memoirs of the Brussels Academy, where it is

entitled: _Philippe I. et la Belgique_. In treating a subject which the

masterly pen of Schiller has already rendered familiar to the world,

Prof. Borgnel does not attempt to imitate the ardent and splendid

eloquence of that great poet and historian; Borgnel's merits are

distinctness in his outlines, remarkable clearness of arrangement,

perfect impartiality towards individuals and parties, and conscientious

use of materials. Of these he has had a greater variety, including many

manuscripts not before brought to light, than any previous writer.

* * * * *

Among the new books announced in London is _Notes on North America,

Agricultural, Social, and Economical_, by J. F. W. Johnston, author of

"Lectures on Agricultural Chemistry." We may anticipate something of

value from a man of his studies and well earned reputation. Professor

Johnston passed the greater portion of his time, while in America, in

the British Provinces. He had been led to believe that they offered the

most interesting field for his professional observation. When he came

into New-England, New-York and Pennsylvania, he was continually

surprised at the perfection and the success of our agriculture. He

regretted only, that the mistake into which he had been led by British

travellers, had detained him from the United States until the period of

his absence from home was nearly expired. Professor Johnston's lectures

in New-York were given under singular disadvantages, but the too small

audiences who heard them were pleased and instructed. All who became

acquainted with him were impressed with a belief of his candor and his

talents. We hope to see immediately an edition of his book in this

country.

* * * * *

In Geissen, Prof. LIEBIG, has published a Review of the Progress of

Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology, in the year 1849. He has been

assisted in its preparation by Professor Kopp and several other savans

connected with the University at Giessen. It is marked by his usual

completeness, breadth of scope, and exhaustive treatment of each

particular subject. Liebig is now engaged in preparing a new series of

Chemical Letters, which will be specially devoted to the growth of this

science, in connection with the history of mental progress in general.

Professor Knobel, of the same University, has also issued a work on the

Genealogies of the Book of Genesis, which excites remark by the

thoroughness of its historical investigations. Leopold Schmid's last

work is on the Spirit of Catholicism, and also highly spoken of by both

Catholic and Protestant writers. This author holds a high rank in the

Catholic literature of Germany, and has been chosen Bishop of Mayence.

Professor Hillebrand is occupied with a revision of his highly esteemed

History of German national literature since Lessing. There seems to be

no reason to fear that Giessen is doing less than its share toward

keeping the ocean of German books up at a high-water mark.

* * * * *

BERANGER, the veteran _chansonier_, is now occupying himself in writing

biographies, anecdotes, criticisms, &c., of the public men with whom, in

the course of his long career, he has been in contact. It is five years

since he announced his intention of giving such a work to the public,

and he thinks it will possess great historical value, while of his

songs, which alone will convey his name to the last ages in which the

language of France is spoken, he thinks but "indifferently well."

* * * * *

The house, at Paris, in which EUGENE SUE laid some of the most exciting

scenes of his "Wandering Jew," has lately been advertised for sale, and

has been visited by crowds of curious loungers. It is known as the Hotel

Serilly, and is situated at No. 5 Rue Neuve Saint Francois, in the

quarter called the Marais. At the time the "Wandering Jew" was

published, the street was often filled by groups of gazers at the

strange old edifice, which had been so exactly described by the

romancer, that no one could mistake it. Some even ventured to knock at

the door and seek further information. They were received by a

mysterious and taciturn old Hebrew, who looked as if he himself had

charge of the great Rennepeal treasure, and three-quarters of the

visitors went away convinced that they had seen the veritable Samuel

himself. Now that the whole house has been thrown open to the public,

there have been found under it vast sub-cellars extending under the

large garden in the rear, and in these cellars are seven wells,

partially filled up, but with walls of careful masonry, and other

indications that they were of great depth and great utility. The opinion

was at once set on foot by the explorers, that the millions of the

treasure had been concealed in one of these wells. The fact is, that the

house formerly belonged to a Protestant family which suffered extreme

persecution after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and which

doubtless found the subterranean passages extremely convenient. In the

year 1791, it was inhabited by the revolutionist Carnot.

* * * * *

The COUNT DE TOCQUEVILLE, a relative of the author of "Democracy in

America," has just published a historical work on the Reign of Louis

XVI. The writer, an old man almost sinking into the grave, enjoys the

advantage of having himself witnessed and even shared in a part of the

events he describes. He was intimate with Malasherbes, and personally

devoted to the unfortunate Louis. Of his ability as a writer, a former

work on the Reign of Louis XV. furnished proofs which are repeated in

the present volume. Of course he does full justice to the amiable

personal qualities of Marie Antoinette and her husband, without doing

injustice to their faults. But he shows that after all what was charged

upon them as political crime, was but the consequence of long-standing

causes, over which they had no control, or even of measures of reform to

which with the best intentions, they had given their consent. In

speaking of the mission of Franklin at the French Court, M. de

Tocqueville gives some interesting details. "At Paris," he says, "the

zeal for the cause of the insurgents constantly increased. The women who

exercised a great influence in the reign of Louis XVI., became

passionate supporters of the Americans, and made aiding them a question

of honor. The simple manners of their envoys,--their hair without

powder, their citizens' dress, pleased by a sort of piquant novelty. All

who approached Franklin were charmed by his wit. In him people venerated

the founder of the liberty of a great nation, and even grew enthusiastic

in behalf of that liberty." M. de Tocqueville shows however that the

prime minister Maurepas only feared the Americans because he was

embarrassed in his position, and thought to relieve himself by making

war with England. But as there was no good reason for making such a war,

the honesty of the King revolted at it. M. de Vergennes also said in the

Council, that England would be much more weakened by a long war with her

colonies, than by their loss. "But how," repeated all the women, "can we

help embracing the cause of a people which sends us ambassadors without

powder, and with shoe-strings, instead of buckles?" So weighty a reason

turned the balance, and the war was declared. That war finished the ruin

of the French monarchy, not only by inspiring the officers and soldiers

sent to the United States with new ideas, but also by completing the

exhaustion of its finances. With regard to the Revolution in which Louis

XVI. lost his head, it is enough praise for our historian, that while he

inclines always to the monarchical side, he is not altogether unjust to

the popular virtues which shone with such rare brilliancy amid the gloom

of that epoch.

* * * * *

The great work of J. G. AUDUBON and the Rev. Dr. BACHMAN, upon the

"Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America," is much praised by those

persons in Europe whose praise is of most value. The _Athenaeum_ remarks

that, hitherto, the mammalia of America have been known chiefly through

descriptions by zoologists, in the Transactions of European Societies,

and that no systematic attempt has been made to bring together into one

connected view the very varied forms of animal life presented by this

great continent, while these authors have not only used the materials

which were at hand in the works of others, but have themselves observed

with great diligence the habits of many of the creatures which they have

described. "Their work is creditable to the United States, where a large

number of subscribers have induced the authors to undertake it,--and a

most valuable addition to our general natural-history literature." The

geographical range within which the animals described in these pages are

found is not that of the government of the United States merely; it

comprehends Russian and British America, in fact, all the country which

lies north of the tropics in the New World.

* * * * *

At the last MICHAELMAS BOOK FAIR at Leipsic, the Catalogue contained the

titles of 5,023 new works published in Germany since Easter. This is

from twelve to fifteen hundred more than at any fair since the

Revolution of 1848. A great number of these books are large and of

remarkable merit, being in some sort, the accumulation of the more

profound scientific labors of the past two years.

* * * * *

The BARONESS VON BECK has just published in London two volumes of

"Personal Adventures" in the Hungarian war. She is herself a Hungarian,

and she saw her husband fall while cheering his men to defend a

barricade at Vienna. In this book Kossuth is her hero, her prophet, her

demigod; and she sacrifices all other celebrities without compunction at

the altar of his greatness. Dembinsky she treats with manifest

injustice; Georgey comes out on her pages as a very Mephistopheles.

Klapka himself does not escape without animadversion. But without

adopting her opinions, either of the man she blames or the subject she

discusses, it cannot be denied that she has great cleverness, and a

wonderful power of exciting and interesting the reader.

* * * * *

A valuable scientific periodical is the _Geographisches Jahrbuch_ for

the Communication of all the more important New Investigations, edited

by the distinguished BERGHAUS, and published by Perthes of Gotha. The

last number has an article by the editor on the system of "Mountains and

Rivers of Africa," which differs altogether from what is laid down in

the present maps. The author lays down the river Nile as flowing from

the N'Yassi, and as connected with a great number of rivers in Dar Fur,

Waday, and Fertil, with relation to which only the vaguest views have

hitherto been entertained. The article shows, too, that the newly

discovered lake N'Gami, in Southern Africa, has been long known under

the name of Nampur. The same number of the _Jahrbuch_ also contains an

article from the pen of the late lamented ALBERT GALLATIN, on the

climate of North America. This article was written in English, and was

translated into German for the _Jahrbuch_.

* * * * *

BERGHAUS has also lately issued a complete work of the highest interest,

especially now that so much attention is every where paid to

Ethnographic studies. Its title is _Grundlinien der Ethnographie_

(Outlines of Ethnography). It is in two parts, and contains a universal

tabular description of all the races of the globe, arranged

ethnographically and geographically, and according to languages and

dialects, with a comparative view of their manners, customs, and habits.

No person who undertakes to investigate the origin of the human family

and the mutual relations of its different members, can afford to be

without this work. Published in Stuttgart.

* * * * *

BERTHOLD AUERBACH has just brought out a little volume of tales, which

we may well infer from his previous performances are charmingly replete

with grace, good humor, and a keen perception of whatever is peculiar to

his subject. The title of the book is _Deutsche Abende_ (German

Evenings). It contains three stories: "Nice People," "What is

Happiness?" and "The Son of the Forester." Published at Mannheim.

* * * * *

BARON STERNBERG, a dilettante book-maker of Germany, who generally

resides at Berlin, has just added a new romance, or rather the beginning

of one, to his previous publications. It bears the promising, if not

pretentious title, of _The German Gil Blas_ (published at Bremen), and

claims to be comic, as a matter of course. As a whole, the book is a

failure. Though there are passages here and there which may be read with

satisfaction, there is not enough unity and connection between the

different parts, and the humor is generally but a thin potation. It must

be said, however, that the absence of continuous interest is the fault

of most comic novels, as well as poems. Even the matchless works of Jean

Paul grow tedious by the endeavor to read much of them at a time, a fact

which may be ascribed to the sentimentality and mere fantastics with

which the kernels of his wit are overburdened. It is certain that no

German humorous work can be compared with those great originals in that

kind, Gil Blas and Don Quixote, or even with the much inferior works of

Smollett and Dickens. Baron Sternberg's last effort forms no exception

to this remark, and there is little hope that the second and concluding

volume, whose appearance in Germany ought to be made by this time, will

prove superior to the first. His "Royalists," an anti-democratic novel,

which he had the courage to publish in the chaos of 1848, and which

excited much attention, and a great deal of severe criticism, was far

better.

* * * * *

"THE NEW FAITH SOUGHT IN ART," is the title of an anonymous little book

lately issued at Paris, which, though not of great value, has more

poetic originality of thought than is often found in printed pages. The

author thinks that the time has gone by in which the subjects of art

could properly be sought in the lives of saints and legends of the

Church, and wishes to substitute for them the lives of artists and

celebrated inventors, who have sprung from the bosom of the people. With

this writer, every thing is democratic and popular. For him the people

is alone King, and worthy of all honor. "Nothing," he says in one place,

"is truer than the song of Beethoven. It is the song of life, the voice

of truth, an infallible voice, which will create a world, and cause the

old false world to crumble. Born of the people, the people sing in him,

although they know him not." In painting, the heroes of the author are

Ruysdael, Rembrandt, Claude-Lorraine, and Paul Potter.

* * * * *

The Poet FREILIGRATH has received orders to leave the village of Bilk,

in the neighborhood of Dusseldorf; where he was residing, and to quit

the Prussian territories. He will probably go back to England, where he

passed some time in a counting-house or perhaps come to the United

States, where he has several friends, to whom he has written of such an

event as possible.

* * * * *

In AFRICAN DISCOVERY greater advances have been made in the last two

years than before since the journeys of the brothers Lander. We

mentioned in the last _International_ that the American traveller, Dr.

W. Mathews, had been heard of at Vienna, and we now learn that he has

been very successful in the five years of his adventure in the northern

and central parts of the continent. Letters received in Berlin from Drs.

Barth and Overweg, contain information of their having accomplished the

journey across the Great Desert, or Sahara, and of their arrival near

the frontiers of the kingdom of Air or Asben, (Air is the modern

Tuarick, and Asben the ancient Sudan name), the most powerful in that

part of Africa after Bornou, and never explored by Europeans. On the

24th of August--the date of their last letter--they were at Taradshit, a

small place in about 20 deg. 30' N. latitude, and 9 deg. 20' longitude E. of

Greenwich. Among their discoveries are some of peculiar interest, one of

which is of several curious and very ancient sculptures, apparently of

Egyptian origin. The King of Prussia has, at the instance of the

Chevalier Bunsen and Baron Alexander von Humboldt, augmented the funds

of the two travellers by a grant of 1,000 thalers.

While Richardson, Barth and Overweg have penetrated the _terra

incognita_ of the north, Dr. Krapf and the Rev. Mr. Rebmann have

explored the region described on the common maps as the "Great Southern

Sahara," and found it to be fertile, healthy, abounding in mountains,

valleys and rivers, and inhabited by a race altogether superior to that

which occupies the Atlantic coast. Mr. Mansfield Parkyns is endeavoring

to cross the country southward from the Nile to the river Gambia; Mr.

Charles Johnson is travelling in Abysinnia; Baron von Mueller is

conducting an expedition up the White Nile; and the American

missionaries and colonists are gradually extending their knowledge over

the various settlements on the eastern coast of the continent.

* * * * *

THE PRUSSIAN EXPEDITION TO EGYPT, _Denkmaeler aus AEgypten und AEthiopien

nach den Zeichnungen der von Sr. Majestat dem Koenige von Preussen

Friedrich Wilhelm IV. nach diesen Laendern gesendeten, und in den Jahren

1842-45, ausgefuhrten wissenschaftlichen Expedition: Herausgegeben von

Dr. R. Lepsius_; published at the expense and under the guarantee of the

Prussian Government, will be completed in eighty parts, or eight hundred

plates. Most of the plates are printed with tints, and many in the

colors of the originals. This work forms a necessary completion of the

celebrated work of the French Expedition under Napoleon. Parts I. to X.

are now advertised as ready for subscribers, in London, at three dollars

and a half each.

* * * * *

A NEW WORK ON AFRICA, by H. C. Grund, is advertised at Berlin.

* * * * *

Almanacs for popular use, offer a means much used in France for the

propagation of political, social and religious doctrines. Every sect and

party issues its Almanac, and some issue several, crammed to the brim

with the peculiar notions whose dissemination is wished for. One of the

most successful for the year 1851, is the _Almanach des Opprimes_ (The

Almanac of the Oppressed). In fact, it is aimed wholly at the Society of

Jesuits, whose history it exposes in the blackest colors. It begins with

the early life of Loyola, depicts his debaucheries, his ambition, the

religious mechanism invented by his enthusiastic and fanatical genius,

the flexibility of his morality, and goes on to give an account of the

intrigues and crimes of his successors in various countries and times,

with an analysis of their books, their missions and their miracles.

Another of these publications is called the _Almanach du Peuple_,

containing a very great variety of articles of substantial value. Among

the contributors are, F. Arago, Quinet, Charras, Carnot, Girardin,

George Sand, Pierre Leroux, Dumil Aeur, E. Lithe, Mazzini, and other

republicans distinguished in the political, literary and scientific

world. This Almanac had the honor last year of being seized by the

Government, but on trial before a jury it was acquitted of the charge

against it, of being dangerous to society, and provoking citizens to

hate the republic and despise the authorities.

* * * * *

A critic in the _Allegemeine Zeitung_, in noticing "Ottomar, a Romance

from the Present Time," the last novel from the pen of Madame Von

Zoellner, takes occasion to give some hard hits at women's novels in

general. "It always must and always will be a failure," he says, "when a

woman attempts to form a just conception of masculine character, and to

put her conception into language. Female writers always comb out

smoothly the flaxen hair of their heroes, and dress them up in the

frockcoat of innocence. They go into raptures over a sort of green

enthusiasm, and a romantic fantasticality of virtue, such as we godless

fellows are not guilty of possessing; and in this way they turn out

automatons which resemble nothing in earth, heaven, or elsewhere." The

critic however admits that Madame Zoellner, who is undoubtedly one of the

best living German novel writers, possesses remarkable and peculiar

merits. No other woman occupies so high a place with the German public,

except it be Fanny Lewald. Madame Zoellner is praised for the pure moral

tone of her writings.

* * * * *

One of the most accomplished writers in France--M. DE CORMENIN--and one

of the most _spirituel_ of that _spirituel_ nation, said at Frankfort,

"It is true that it is difficult to abolish war, but it is far more

difficult to abolish death; and yet if people would take the same pains

to avoid the one as they did to escape the other, they would certainly

accomplish their object."

* * * * *

One of the most ardent and vigorous writers of Young France, Alphonse

Esquiros, has brought out at Paris a new book called "The History of the

Martyrs of Liberty." The author aims to follow the development of

liberty in humanity; to expose the tie which unites ancient and modern

society in historic solidarity; to determine the transformation of the

doctrines, which, for a century past, have invaded the religious world

under the name of philosophy, political economy, and socialism; to set

forth the fertile sufferings which have brought about that double

triumph of liberty in ideas and in facts, namely Christianity and the

French Revolution; to indicate the questions yet undecided; and to call

to their solution both the miseries of the laboring classes and the

lights of science.

* * * * *

Whatever may be said of the more elaborate writings of GEORGE SAND, it

is impossible for the most scrupulous critic to deny or resist the charm

of her smaller works, such as the "Mosaic Workers," the "Devil's Love,"

and "Fadette." To these she has just added another, which is spoken of

with the utmost delight by all who have read it, as a work of remarkable

genius. It is intended for the use of children, and is called "The

History of the veritable Gribonille." The text is accompanied by richly

engraved illustrations, designed by Mr. Maurice Sand, the son, we

believe, of the author. Why will not some American publisher give us a

translation, with the original illustrations?

* * * * *

To the already immense literature of the French Revolution, we now have

to signalize another addition, which is worth the attention of those who

are not weary of books relating to that momentous epoch. It is a

"Biography of Camille Desmoulins," by Ed. Fleury--an octavo volume,

lately issued at Paris. The author discusses the history of this famous

pamphleteer and revolutionary rhetorician, as an advocate defends a

client before a jury.

* * * * *

THE HISTORY OF THE PRINCIPLES, INSTITUTIONS AND LAWS OF THE FRENCH

REVOLUTION, from 1789 to 1800, is an anti-revolutionary work of

elaborate character, and decided ability, published a few weeks since at

Paris, by an anonymous author, who thinks he can do something toward

getting the world right by rolling back some of its more recent

gyrations.

* * * * *

A popular History of the French Revolution, from 1789 to 1799, written

by HIPPOLITE MAGEN, and lately published at Paris, in one volume, is

having a great success among the laboring classes of Paris and other

French cities. It is of course in favor of the Montangards.

* * * * *

A valuable manual for students of French history is M. LOUIS TRIPIER'S

collection of French Constitutions, since 1789, with the decrees of the

Provisional Government of 1848. It has just been issued by Cotillon, at

Paris.

* * * * *

MIRABEAU, the great revolutionist, is the subject of a new work just

published at Vienna, from the pen of Franz Ernst Pipitz, a native of

that city, but now a teacher at the University of Zurich. It is in great

part the result of original investigations, and in many particulars

departs from the received biographies, while in others it casts a new

light on facts previously known. The critics of Vienna speak in the

highest terms of it, as worthy to be named along with the most brilliant

French productions on the same subject. They are, however, bound to say

the best thing possible for a book by a Viennese author, since they have

but few to rejoice in.

* * * * *

THE MEMOIRS OF MASSENA, which have for some time been in course of

publication at Paris, are at last completed, by the issue of the final

volume, which contains the history of the campaign of 1810-11, in

Portugal. No complete account of this campaign has ever before been

published. The book also casts a great deal of light not merely on the

history of the Marshal himself, but on the wars of Napoleon in general.

It is founded on documents left by Massena, which have not before been

published or consulted.

* * * * *

M. COUSIN, who, after having exerted a more powerful influence in

philosophy than any of his contemporaries, (though this influence was,

in a large degree, secondary in its character), has recently been almost

forgotten. We see by a paragraph in the _Debats_ that he is collecting

and editing all his various writings upon the subject of education. They

will fill several volumes.

* * * * *

Another tribute to the memory of LOUIS PHILIPPE, has just been offered

by M. R. PAIGNON, who has collected and published a volume of the

deceased King's thoughts and opinions on matters of State. This work

exhibits the mental and political history of its subject in the best

light, and has the merit of being arranged with care and fidelity.

* * * * *

M. FELIX PIGNORY, of the Commission despatched by the French Government,

in search of the tomb of Godfrey of Bouillon, has returned from Asia,

and reports some curious discoveries relative to the object of the

mission.

* * * * *

A new and enlarged edition of ZUINET'S _Genie des Religions_ has

appeared at Paris.

* * * * *

THE POLITICAL MAXIMS AND THE PRIVATE THOUGHTS OF FREDERICK THE GREAT is

the title of a curious piece in the last number of _Frazer's Magazine_.

It is unique as a sample of kingcraft; and every line supplies a proof

of the candor, hypocrisy, unscrupulousness, sense of duty, courage,

sensuality, and intellect, of the great Prussian, to whom are partially

due the literary merits or demerits of the paper.

* * * * *

The new edition of the POEMS OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, contains

besides many original pieces, her translation of the "Prometheus Bound,"

of AEschylus, never hitherto published, although, as she informs us, once

privately circulated in another and less complete form. It bears no mark

of a woman's hand: it is rugged, massive, and sublime, as befits the

grand old fate drama which the genius of the Greek moulded out of the

immortal agony of the beneficent Titan. From the new poems we select the

following exquisite love sonnets, from a series scarcely inferior to

those in which Shakspeare has given the history of his heart-life:

"I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn

The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn

Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

It might be well perhaps. But if instead

Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow

The gray dust up, ... those laurels on thine head,

O my beloved, will not shield thee so,

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

The hair beneath. Stand further off, then! Go.

"Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow. Never more

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life, I shall command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore,

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

With pulses that beat double. What I do

And what I dream include thee, as the wine

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes, the tears of two.

"Beloved, my beloved, when I think

That thou wast in the world a year ago,

What time I sat alone here in the snow,

And saw no foot-print, heard the silence sink

No moment at they voice; ... but link by link

Went courting all my chains, as if that so

They never could fall off at any blow

Struck by thy possible hand.... Why, thus I drink

Of life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful,

Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

With personal act or speech,--nor ever call

Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

Thou sawest growing! _Atheists are as dull,

Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight._

"First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,

And ever since it grew more clear and white;

How to world greetings ... quick with its 'Oh, list,'

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst

I could not wear there plainer to my sight

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed,

Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.

The third, upon my lips was folded down,

In perfect purple state! Since when, indeed,

I have been proud, and said, 'My love, my own.'"

* * * * *

The candidateship between Lord Palmerston and the historian Alison for

the office of Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, resulted in a

majority for the latter, on the gross poll, of 69. As, however, of the

"four nations" into which the students were distributed, each of the

candidates had two, the election should have been decided by the vote of

the present Rector, Mr. Macaulay; but he declines the duty, and would

not go to the university during the contest.

* * * * *

The Official Gazette announces that "the Queen has been pleased to

appoint ALFRED TENNYSON, Esq., to be Poet Laureate in ordinary to her

Majesty, in the room of William Wordsworth, Esq., deceased." There have

been poorer poets than Tennyson among the laureates; but this

appointment does not and ought not to give much satisfaction. Mr.

Tennyson had already a pension from the government, and was in no need

of the salary of this office, as one or two others, and as we conceive,

greater poets, are; and it had been hoped that the queen would appoint

to the place the _greatest poet of her own sex_ who has lived in

England--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

* * * * *

The original MS. of "WAVERLEY,"--wholly in the handwriting of Sir Walter

Scott,--the same which was sold in 1831 with the other MSS. of the

series of novels and romances--has been presented to the Advocates'

Library at Edinburgh, by Mr. James Hall, brother of the late Capt. Basil

Hall. Several of the MSS. of Scott are in this country, having been sold

here by Dr. Lardner, soon after his arrival here with Mrs. Heavyside.

* * * * *

MR. HORACE MAYHEW, author of the metropolitan "Labor and the Poor"

articles, has ceased to write for the London _Morning Chronicle_, the

conductors of that journal wishing him to suppress, in his reports on

the condition of the working classes, facts opposed to free trade. This

appears to be characteristic of the advocates of that side.

* * * * *

D'ISRAELI has published an edition of his father's "Curiosities of

Literature," with a "View of the Character and Writings of the Author."

He is now engaged upon a Life of Lord William Bentinck, which he has

undertaken at the request of the Duke of Portland. We do not think the

author of the "Wondrous Tale of Alroy" will do very well in history.

* * * * *

The EARL OF CARLISLE has recently given two lectures before the

Tradesmen's Benevolent Society of Leeds, and the Mechanics' Institute of

the same city, upon the Scenes, Institutions, and Characteristics of the

United States, which he visited when Lord Morpeth.

* * * * *

LEIGH HUNT has probably done a foolish thing in again becoming an

editor. He is too old. We have, by the last steamer, "Leigh Hunt's

Journal: a Miscellany for the Cultivation of the Memorable, the

Progressive, and the Beautiful"--certainly a characteristic title.

* * * * *

A Posthumous work of JOSEPH BALMAS,--(the celebrated Spanish priest,

whose book on Catholicism and Protestantism has lately been translated,

and published in Baltimore, and who perished prematurely in 1848), has

just been published. It is entitled _Escritos Posthumos, Poesias

Posthumos_, and contains prose and verse on science, literature, and

politics.

* * * * *

The Death of the late MRS. BELL MARTIN, at the Union Place Hotel, in

this city, was briefly noticed in the last number of the

_International_. It appears from a statement in the London _Times_ that

the vast estates known as the Connemara property, to which she had

succeeded as the daughter and heiress of the late Mr. Thomas Martin, of

Ballinahinch Castle, in Galway, was among the first brought into the new

"Encumbered Estates Court," and has been for some months advertised for

sale. The Dublin _Evening Mail_ has the following remarks upon the

melancholy history of Mrs. Martin, whose novel of "Julia Howard" must

preserve for her a very distinguished rank among the literary women, of

our time:

"The vicissitudes of life have seldom produced a sadder or more

rapid reverse than that by which the fortunes of this excellent

lady were darkened and overthrown. Born to a noble inheritance

which extended over a territory far exceeding the domain of

many a reigning German prince, her name was known throughout

the United Kingdom as that of "the Irish heiress." Five years

ago her expectancy was considered to be equivalent, over and

above all encumbrances and liabilities, to a yearly income of

5,000_l._ Before two years of the interval had elapsed she

found herself at the head of her patrimonial estates, without a

shilling that she could call her own. The failure of the potato

crop, the famine and pestilence which followed, the scourging

laws enacted and enforced by an ignorant Legislature to redress

the calamity, and the claims of money-lenders, swept every inch

of property from under her feet. Her hopes and her prospects

were for ever blighted. Her projects for the improvement of the

wild district over which she had reigned as a sort of native

sovereign were at an end; and she went forth from the roof of

her fathers as a wanderer, without a home, and, as it would

almost appear, without a friend. Never was hard fate less

deserved; for her untiring and active benevolence had been

devoted from her childhood to the comfort and relief of those

who suffered, and her powerful and original mind was

incessantly employed in devising means of moral and physical

amelioration in the condition of the tenantry on her father's

estates. She gave up her whole time to such pursuits, avoiding

the haunts of fashion and those amusements which might be

considered suitable to her age and place, that she might

perform the various duties of physician, almoner,

schoolmistress, and agricultural instructor. Her almost daily

habit was to visit the poor and the sick in the remote recesses

of that wild region, sometimes on foot--more frequently in her

little boat, well provided with medicaments and food, which she

impelled by the vigor of her own arm through the lakes which

stretch along the foot of the mountains. How grievous it is to

reflect that she should so soon have been driven across the

ocean in search of a place to lay her head. The American editor

intimates that the object of her voyage was to collect

materials for literary works. We have no doubt that such was

among her projects; for she was a very distinguished writer,

and would by no means eat the bread of idleness or dependence;

but there is reason to believe that it was a more stringent

compulsion which obliged her, at an advanced period of the

year, and in a peculiarly delicate situation, when even

peasants remain on shore, to encounter the tedium and perils of

a voyage in a sailing vessel. We have heard, in fact, from a

quarter which ought to be correctly informed, that she was

proceeding to the residence of a near relative of her father,

with the intention of remaining there till some favorable

change might come over the color of her life."

* * * * *

Our countrywoman, MRS. MOWATT, has revised and partially rewritten her

novels of "The Fortune Hunter," and "Evelyn, or the Heart Unmasked," and

they have just been published in London. The _Athenaeum_ says of them:

"These tales give us a higher idea of Mrs. Mowatt's talents as

an authoress, than her plays did. Taken in conjunction with

those dramas, and with the pleasing powers as an actress

displayed by the lady,--they not only establish a case of more

than common versatility, but indicate that with labor and

concentration, so gifted a person might have taken a high

place, whether on the library shelf or on the stage. In another

point of view, they are less agreeable. Alas, for those

primitive souls, who with a perverse constancy may still wish

to fancy America a vast New-England of simple manners and

superior morals! The society which Mrs. Mowatt

describes--whether in 'Evelyn,' which begins with a wedding out

of Fleecer's boarding-house, or in 'The Fortune Hunter,' which

opens with table-talk at Delmonico's--is as sophisticated as

any society under which this wicked old world groans, and which

our Sir E. Lytton and Mrs. Gore have satirized--or Balzac (to

shame the French) has "shown up." _Major Pendennis_ himself

could hardly have produced anything more _blase_ in tone than

some of the pictures of 'New-York Society' drawn by this

American lady,--drawn, moreover, when the lady was young.

Evelyn is married to a rich man, without her heart having any

thing to say in the matter,--by a mother who is a superfine

_Mrs. Falcon_:--and wretched mischief comes of it. Brainard,

the fortune hunter, is a heartless and cynical illustration

that a Broadway hunter can be as unblushingly mercenary, and as

genteelly dishonorable as the veriest old Bond Street hack,

bred up in the traditions of the Regency, who ever began life

on nothing and a showy person--continued it on nothing and the

reputation of fashion--and ended no one cares how or where.

There are character, smartness and passion in both these

tales--though a certain looseness of structure and

incompleteness of style prevent us from being extreme in

praising them, or from recommending them by quotation,--and

though, as has been said, the tone and taste of the life which

they describe must jar on the feelings of those who are

unwilling to see the decrepitude of elderly civilization coming

down upon a new country, ere its maturity has been reached--or

even ere its youth has been sufficiently and steadily trained."

* * * * *

MRS. SOUTHWORTH, the authoress of "Retribution," "The Deserted Wife,"

&c., has a new novel in the press of the Appletons, entitled

"Shannondale." Mrs. Southworth is the most popular of our female

novelists, notwithstanding the doubtful morality of her works.

* * * * *

CHARLES MACKAY, who, two or three years ago, passed some months in

New-York, and who is known for his very candid and intelligent book upon

the United States, entitled "The Western World," has gone to India, as

an agent of the Manchester Chamber of Commerce, for the purpose of

inquiring into the state and prospects of Indian cotton cultivation. Mr.

Mackay has had experience in the collection of statistical information;

he has lived long enough abroad to know that essential differences

sometimes lurk beneath external resemblances in the social arrangements

of two countries, and to be on his guard against the erroneous

inferences to which ignorance of this fact leads. He is naturally acute,

energetic, and cautious. For the difficult task of investigating and

reporting upon the condition of an important branch of industry, and the

circumstances which are likely to promote or retard its progress among a

community so different from the English as that of India, he is probably

as well fitted as any man who could have been selected. The foundation

of the British Indian empire and the establishment of the United States

as an independent nation, were contemporary events. The loss of her

American colonies helped to concentrate the attention and exertions of

England upon her Indian dominions. The progress made by British India

since 1760, in civilization, material wealth, and intelligent

enterprise, is barely perceptible; while the United States have expanded

from a few obscure colonies into a nation second only to Great Britain

in the value and extent of their commercial relations, second to none in

intelligence and successful enterprise. The Anglo-Norman inhabitants of

the "Old Thirteen" provinces have made the valley of the Mississippi,

and the prairies beyond it, which little more than half a century ago

were mere wastes, the thronged abodes of a vigorous and wealthy European

population. They have done this without the aid of the aboriginal

tribes, who have proved irreclaimably addicted to their nomade habits.

The Anglo-Normans who rule British India have had to deal with a country

thickly peopled with races far advanced in civilization, though of a

peculiar character; yet, in every respect, the results of their efforts

lag far behind those visible in America. To place the difference in a

most striking point of view, it is only necessary to contrast the cotton

produce and the mercantile marine of British India with those of the

United States. There is actually a more fully-developed steam navigation

between Panama and California than between Bombay and China. The causes

of these results are plain enough to us, but to the English they are

enigmas. The mission of Mr. Mackay will scarcely end in a revelation of

the truth, that liberty and independence have kept healthy the blood in

the vigorous limbs of the Americans, while trammels and vassalage have

deadened the energies of the Indies; but it may have an important

influence upon the question whether the East India Company's charter

shall be renewed, and it certainly will develop much information

interesting to the cotton-growers of the United States.

* * * * *

MR. DE QUINCEY is one of the greatest of the elder race of literary men

now living in Great Britain, and we believe he is in no very affluent

circumstances. The bestowal of a pension by the Government upon Mr.

James Bailey, an editor of the classics, residing at Cambridge, on the

ground of his "literary services," causes _The Leader_ thus to refer to

the author of "The Opium Eater"--

"Where is Thomas De Quincey's pension? Some may not regard him,

as we do, the very greatest living master of the English

language; some may think lightly of those fragmentary works and

fugitive articles with which he has for more than thirty years

enriched our literature; but, whatever may be the individual

estimate of his services, one fact is patent, namely, that you

cannot mention De Quincey in any circle of the British Islands,

pretending to literary culture, but his name will sound

familiar; in most it will awaken responses of gratitude for

high pleasures bestowed, in none will it arouse indignation of

high power to base uses. Now, this we call a clear case for

national beneficence. He has done the state service, and they

know it; but they will not reward it."

Apropos of pensions: Upon the whole, we have the best exchequer in the

world, and to _soldiers_ we have evinced no special lack of liberality.

To give five hundred dollars a year to Mr. Audubon, R. H. Dana, Moses

Stuart, Edward Robinson, H. R. Schoolcraft, James G. Percival, C. F.

Hoffman, and some half dozen others, would be something toward an

"honorable discharge" of the country's obligations in the premises, and

probably no slight addition to the happiness of men who have added much

to the real glory of the nation, while it would cost less than a

morning's useless debate in Congress. In a recent letter to Lord

Brougham, on a cognate subject, Savage Landor exclaims:

"Probably the time is not far distant when the arts and

sciences, and even literary genius, may be deemed no less

worthy of this distinction than the slaughter of a thousand

men. But how, in the midst of our vast expenditure, spare so

prodigious a sum as five hundred a year to six, and three

hundred a year to six more!"

* * * * *

A MR. CHUBB has published in London, in a small volume, a paper which he

read before the Institution of Civil Engineers, on the construction of

locks and keys. It embraces a history of the lock and key from the

earliest ages, illustrated profusely with wood cuts. It forms an

instructive and entertaining essay; but we think Mr. Chubb might have

learned something more of the subject in the lock factories of Newark

and this city.

* * * * *

MR. TICKNOR'S History of Spanish Literature has been translated into

German, and is announced for publication by Brockhaus.

* * * * *

MR. DICKEN'S "David Copperfield" is at length completed, and Mr. Wiley

has published it in two handsome volumes, profusely illustrated. There

is a variety of opinions among the critics as to its rank among the

works of "Boz"; but it is not contended by any that it evinces a decay

of his extraordinary and peculiar genius. We copy a paragraph which

strikes us as just, from the _Spectator_:

"This story has less of London life and town-bred character

than most of its predecessors; but what may thus be gained in

variety is lost in raciness, breadth, and effect. The peculiar

classes forced into existence by the hotbed of a great city,

and owing a part of their gusto to town usage, may be narrow

enough if compared with general nature, but they are broader

than the singularities whom Mr. Dickens copies or invents as

representatives of genteel country life, or human nature in

general. In the mere style there is frequently an

improvement--less effort and greater ease, with occasional

touches of the felicity of Goldsmith; but we should have

thought the work was likely to be less popular than many of the

previous tales of Mr. Dickens, as well as rather more open to

unfavorable criticism. Any prose fiction that is to take rank

in the first class, must have what in epic poetry is called a

fable,--some lesson of life embodied in a story that combines

the utile and the dulce. This fable should not only please the

reader by its succession of coherent events, and by the variety

of its persons and fortunes, but should touch by appeals to the

common kinship of humanity, and teach worldly conduct of

ethical lessons by particular incidents, as well as by the

general development. And when this end is attained, whether by

design or instinct, technical rules are readily forgotten; even

the great rule of unity of action can be dispensed with. It

does not appear that Mr. Dickens has the critical training

necessary to feel the importance of this principle, or a

knowledge of life sufficiently deep and extensive to enable him

to embody it unconsciously, as a well-chosen story will always

compel an author to do. So far as _David Copperfield_ appears

designed with any other object than as a vehicle for writing a

number of sketches, it would seem intended to trace the London

career of an inexperienced young man, with infirmity of

purpose, a dangerous friend, and no very experienced advisers.

Any purpose of this kind is only prosecuted by snatches; "the

theme" is constantly deserted, and matters are introduced that

have no connection with the hero further than his being present

at them, or their occurring to his acquaintance. In fact, from

the time that David Copperfield emerges from boyhood, the

interest in _his_ adventures ceases, beyond that sort of

feeling which many readers entertain of wishing to know 'how it

ends.'"

* * * * *

MR. DAVID DUDLEY FIELD, of this city, one of the three commissioners who

prepared the amended Code of the State of New-York, abolishing the

distinction in procedure between law and equity, being in England for a

brief visit, was invited by the leading members of the Law Amendment

Society to give some account of the great changes effected here in the

administration of justice. He complied, and a meeting of the Society was

summoned specially to hear him. The result is much remarked upon in

nearly all the London journals. Mr. Field is a clear headed man, master

of his subject, perspicuous in his rhetoric, and distinct in his

elocution, so that our new constitution was most advantageously

displayed before his learned and critical hearers. The _Spectator_ says

of the subject:

"The visit of Mr. Dudley Field to England, and his interesting

statements to the members of our Law Amendment Society, are

real events in the progress of law reform in this country. The

injustice which the English people submit to in the revered

name of Law, and in the sacred but in their case profaned name

of Equity, is more enormous than the future historian will be

able remotely to conceive. The keystone of the barbarous Gothic

portal to Justice in our common-law procedure was struck out

some twenty years ago, when the logical forms of legal contest

were reduced to their now moderate number; other heavy blows

have further undermined the ruin, and almost cleared away

whatever was feudal in that portion of the edifice; and then

came the raising of the new and noble portal of the County

Courts. Still, in all but the most trivial litigation the delay

and expense are such that justice can only be had at a

percentage utterly disgraceful to a nation either honest or

merely clearheaded and commercial. We still preserve a

diversity of tribunals, to administer laws that ought not to be

inharmonious; and we are prevented from making the laws

harmonious by the difficulties of finding tribunals able to

rule the concord and administer the whole field of law as a

single empire. In this case, as in a multitude of others, our

young relations across the Atlantic have done that which we

only longed to do. In this rivalry of nations, far above all

other rivalries, they have pushed development of institutions

which they received from forefathers common to us both, to a

more rapid perfection than we. Mr. Dudley Field is one of three

men who framed a constitutional law for the State of New York,

under which the courts of legal and equitable jurisdiction have

been successfully merged; the enactment has succeeded in

practical working; and the spectacle of "Equity swallowing up

Law" has been so edifying to the citizens of his State, that

three other States of the Union have resolved to enact, and

four further States have appointed conferences to deliberate

upon, a similar procedure. It is impossible--however

narrow-minded lawyers may object--that what Americans find

practicable and beneficial should be either impracticable or

disadvantageous to Englishmen."

* * * * *

A second part of the "Historical Collections of Louisiana," by B. F.

French, has been published by Mr. Putnam. It contains some interesting

papers, among which are translations of an original letter of Hernando

de Soto, on the Conquest of Florida, of a brief account of de Soto's

memorable expedition to Florida, from a recently discovered manuscript

by a writer named Biedma, and Hackluyt's translation of the longer

narrative "by a gentleman of Elvas." It is to be followed, we

understand, by a second volume.

* * * * *

ELIHU BURRITT is one of those people who are filled with the comfortable

assurance of their own greatness. He seems always to regard the mob of

men as very diminutive creatures, while his introverted glances are

through a lens which reveals a character of qualities and proportions

the most extraordinary. This is unfortunate. It renders Mr. Elihu

Burritt, _par excellence_, the bore of his generation. He is really a

person of very small abilities; of very little information, considering

the opportunities presented by his travels; and the "_learned_

blacksmith" has no learning at all. He had, indeed, an unusual facility

in acquiring words, but he knows nothing of languages; not having in any

a particle of scholarship; of the philosophy, even of his mother tongue,

being as ignorant as the bellows-hand in his smithy at Worcester. But

because of this not uncommon faculty of acquiring words--acquiring them

as Zerah Colburn did a certain mastery of figures, without being able to

comprehend any principle of mathematics--Mr. Everett, or some one else,

advertised him as "learned," and ever since he has neglected his fit

vocation to crowd himself into conspicuous places, all over Christendom;

to blow continually his penny whistle in the ears of the little people

called philanthropists; to speak and write in addresses and letters

immense aggregations of ambitious platitudes, to pontiffs, emperors,

kings, parliaments, etc., respecting their particular affairs, all of

which addresses and letters are as cogent as the barkings sent by a

lap-dog toward the moon, and receive from all sorts of people, except

diminutives and impertinents whose profession is "philanthropy," just

about as much consideration as Dian yields to the fast-yelping cur. It

is all unfortunate, for poor Elihu Burritt will never be persuaded that

he is a subject of derision only, instead of admiration; that men pause

to regard him as a miracle of conceit and assurance rather than as a

prophet; and that his commonplaces about "olive leaves," "calumets,"

"universal brotherhood," "fatherland," etc., have no more influence than

the maudlin rigmarole of the madman whose preternatural force is lost in

senility. It is time for Elihu Burritt to go back to his shop: the world

wants a new fool.

* * * * *

JOHN MILLS, remembered by some unfortunate New-Yorkers as John _St.

Hugh_ Mills, has written half a dozen tolerable novels since he went

home, and he is now publishing, in the _United Service Magazine_, a

series of papers illustrative of his American travels, in which he

illustrates his knowledge and veracity by certain anecdotes, which are

described as having occurred on "_the western prairies of Louisiana_."

* * * * *

PRESIDENT HITCHCOCK, of Amherst College, who is capable of a very

conclusive treatment of the subject, has in the press of Philips &

Sampson, a work on the connection of Geology and Religion.

* * * * *

DR. LATHAM'S very important work on the "Varieties of Man," we are glad

to hear is to be republished by the Appletons. Though much less

voluminous than the work of Pritchard, and therefore less particular

generally in its illustrations, it may be regarded as decidedly the most

masterly and satisfactory production that has yet appeared in ethnology.

The prospect of its republication affords us the more satisfaction,

because the superficial and flippant infidelity of Dr. Robert Knox has

been reproduced here by a respectable publishing house, and widely

diffused. The "Races of Man," by Dr. Knox, is what is called a clever

book; the Yankees might style it "smart;" but it is no more entitled to

consideration as an exhibition of scholarship, intellectual strength, or

fairness, than the rigmarole of the Millerite or the Mormon.

* * * * *

THE HOMOEOPATHIC REVIEW AND QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF MEDICAL SCIENCE, is a

new periodical, commencing with the year, of which the general character

is indicated by the title. It is edited by Dr. Marcy, author of "The

Homoeopathic Theory and Practice," one of the most eminent scholars

and successful practitioners of the new school; Dr. Herring, of

Philadelphia, whose name is familiar to the students of German

literature and science, and who was one of the most trusted friends of

Hahnemann; and Dr. Metcalfe, who has been known as an able lawyer and

ingenious critic, and who is regarded as a very accomplished physician.

Under such direction, the Homoeopathic Review can hardly fail of

success. It will certainly, we think, commend the doctrines of the

Hahnemannists to the favorable consideration of all thoughtful readers,

and compel those who have been accustomed to deride the new principles

to a courteous treatment of them. Mr. Radde is the publisher.

* * * * *

The cheapness of good books and good editions is one of the wonders of

our time. American publishers have done much toward bringing literature

into the homes of the poor, but the cheap books manufactured in this

country have, for the most part, been badly printed, and in every

respect so wretchedly put together, that they were hardly worth

preserving after a first reading. The English are now competing

vigorously for the popular market here, and mainly, through the house of

Bangs & Brother of this city. Bohn and other great London publishers are

supplying us with well printed, well bound, and excellently illustrated

books, at prices altogether lower than those for which the American

manufacturers have offered or can afford them. To sell such a book as

_Lodge's Portrait Gallery_, in eight volumes, with all its finely

engraved heads, for ten dollars, one must have the world for a market;

and so with the long list of important writings in the compactly but

correctly and elegantly printed volumes of Bohn's Standard Library--the

best and cheapest popular series ever issued in any country.

* * * * *

Many very correct writers are very poor authors, and there are abundance

of good books with imperfect rhetoric; yet we have a right to ask some

attention to the details of style in a literary critic. Professor Henry

Reed has a delicate appreciation in poetry, but his remarks are nearly

always marred by verbal infelicities incompatible with a knowledge of

literary art. Thus, within a few pages of his Memoir of Gray, just

published, he says of Jacob Bryant, who has been dead a century, that

"he _has_ recorded;" that "Gray retained a high admiration of Dryden's

poetry, _as_ was strongly expressed," &c.; that an ode published in

1747, "being the first publication _of_ his English verse" (meaning his

first publication in English verse); that Gray could not "break through

the circumspection of so contracted a system of metaphysics _as that of

Locke's_;" that "it is apparent from what Gray _has_ done" (as if Gray

were now living, or present), &c. &c. &c. &c. &c., all through every

thing he publishes. Such things in a professor of mathematics would

attract no attention, but they will be observed in a "Professor of

English Literature."

* * * * *

Mr. BANCROFT is not, as we were led by some newspaper to state in the

_International_, engaged in printing his History of the Revolution; and

when he does give it to the press, it is by no means likely that he will

have to leave New-York to find a publisher for it. The History of the

Colonization of America--introductory to the History of the United

States--has secured for Mr. Bancroft a place among the greatest

historians; he has now the assurance that he is writing for other ages;

and he will not endanger his fame, nor fail of the utmost perfection in

his work, for any needless haste. This second part of his History will

probably occupy five volumes; and although the story has been written by

many hands, with more or less fulness and various degrees of justice,

Mr. Bancroft will have studied it from beginning to end in the original

materials, of which his collection is by far the best that has ever been

made. If upon this field any one successfully competes with him for the

historic wreath, he must come after him, and be guided by his light.

* * * * *

HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT, LL. D., is occupied, as his official duties

permit, in the composition of memoirs of his long and honorably

distinguished life. His great work upon the History and Condition of the

Indians, now in press, and to be published in some half-dozen splendid

quarto volumes by Lippencott, Grambo & Co., of Philadelphia, will

contain the fruits of his observations in that department which he has

made so peculiarly his own, and upon which he will always be the chief

and highest authority; but his personal adventures, and his

reminiscences of his contemporaries, will form the subject of this

additional performance.

* * * * *

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON, the father of the Protestant Episcopal Church in

Connecticut, and the first President of King's College, now Columbia

College, in New-York, was one of the most interesting characters in our

social history. His abilities, learning, activity, and influence,

entitle him to be ranked in the class of Franklin (who was his friend

and correspondent, and who printed, at his press in Philadelphia,

several of his works), as a promoter of the highest civilization in the

colonies. Except the Memoirs of Franklin, we have hitherto had no more

attractive specimen of biography than the book known as Dr. Chandler's

Life of Dr. Johnson. Franklin's Memoirs, it is well known, never came

before the public in the form in which they were written, until a few

years ago, and it has lately been discovered that Dr. Johnson's had

suffered a similar disadvantage. Dr. Johnson amused himself in his old

age by writing recollections of his life and times, which, after his

death, were placed in the hands of Dr. Chandler, who changed them from

the first to the third person, omitted many particulars which he did not

deem it expedient to publish, and added others which the modesty of Dr.

Johnson had not allowed him to write. The book thus made by Dr. Chandler

was printed by his son-in-law, the late Bishop Hobart, who probably was

not aware of its origin. But Dr. Johnson's MS. has now been discovered,

and it will immediately be given to the public, under the supervision of

the Rev. Mr. Pitkin, of Connecticut, who is adding to it many notes and

illustrative documents. It is very much to be regretted that so little

of the extensive correspondence of Dr. Johnson with the chief persons of

his time in the literary and the religious world abroad, has been

preserved; but the book will contain numerous letters by his more

eminent contemporaries which have not appeared elsewhere.

* * * * *

Somebody has made the "discovery" that General Charles Lee, of the

revolutionary army, was not unwilling to be considered the author of

"Junius;" and two or three of our contemporaries have been busy with the

subject of the internal and other evidence in the case. These critics

are about as wise as the editor of an evening paper who published one of

the old Washington forgeries, lately, as an important historical

document. It was "characteristic," that the chief wrote so familiarly to

his wife of affairs! In the same way, the history of the _Book of

Mormon_ (originally composed as a religious novel by the Rev. Solomon

Spaulding), appears as a curious and altogether new exposure! We shall

not be surprised if the same journals advise us that Walter Scott wrote

the Waverley Novels.

* * * * *

EMILIE GIRARDIN has a new book _L'Abolition de la Misere_, in which he

proposes the entire abolition of suffering. He has "found the

philosopher's stone."

* * * * *

Somebody is writing for the _United Service_, "Reminiscences of a Voyage

to Canada," and we have looked into a couple of his chapters to see what

sort of stuff, respecting America, is thus submitted to the officers of

her Majesty's Army and Navy. The style of a fellow who talks of his

"fellow countrymen" (not meaning, as the words do, persons who live with

him in rural neighborhoods), is scarcely deserving of criticism; but the

silliness of the falsehoods of this latest English traveller among us,

may be referred to as illustrating the causes of the common prejudices

in England against the United States. After describing his arrival at

the Tremont House, in Boston, he says:

"A clerk [meaning our old friend Parker], dressed in the height

of fashion, presided at the bar [meaning the office] at which

we applied for rooms, wherein to perform our duties of the

toilet. The one to which I was directed contained several beds

without curtains, from which the occupants had evidently but a

short time previously taken their departure. This was however a

matter of indifference, as I imagined the apartment would have

been entirely at my own disposal. In the course of a few

minutes however, the door was opened, and in walked an

individual, who, depositing a small carpet bag on the floor,

commenced operations of a similar nature to those I myself was

engaged in--not a word was at first exchanged between us; he

eyed me critically, I returned the compliment, till at length I

was favored with 'Stranger, I guess you are from Europe' (a

strong accent on the last syllable), immediately followed by

questions as to where I was going, what was my business, &c.

This was somewhat amusing, so I informed my gentleman I was

journeying to New-York, whereupon he told me I should see an

'almighty fine city.' His curiosity being next attracted by my

portmanteau, which was lying open on a chair, he strode up and

peered into it most attentively. Thinking I might as well

follow his example, I did the same by his carpet bag; whereupon

giving a grunt of dissatisfaction, he collected his valuables

and soon after took himself off."

Thirty years ago, the Duke of Saxe Weimar published a western story of a

coachman who said, "I am the gentleman what's to drive you." Our very

original _United Service_ tourist tells of a visit to Mount Auburn, and

adds:

"Whilst driving back to the hotel I happened to remark, 'That

is the _man_ who drove us from the steamer in the morning.'

Upon which 'Jehu' quickly replied, 'I reckon I'm the

_gentleman_ that drove you.' This information was received on

our part with all the respect due to the elevated rank of our

charioteer."

In a paragraph about luggage:

"The American trunk is a ponderous solid affair made of wood,

secured with braces of iron, studded with brass or iron nails,

and usually having the name or initials of the owner, and

frequently the state of which he is a native, painted on it in

large white letters. Owing to this custom, the traveller is

liable to be addressed by any peculiarity appertaining to his

trunk being affixed thereto. Thus a gentleman passing through

the states, found himself designated as 'Mr. Air Tight,'

because this simple term was marked on the outside of a

tin-box, and no affirmations on his part could induce the

bystanders to believe to the contrary. They 'reckoned it was on

his box,' and that was sufficient."

Of the personal appearance of the Americans:

"To a stranger newly arrived from England, the absence of fresh

complexions and of bright and cheerful faces among the male

part of the creation is very striking. They are gaunt, sallow,

cadaverous looking creatures; their general, far from

prepossessing, appearance, in no way improved by the habit of

wearing long, straight hair, combed entirely off the face, the

bare throat, the never absent 'quid,' and that abominably nasty

habit of constant expectoration."

And this trash is from one of the most reputable periodicals published

in London--the one of all most especially addressed to _gentlemen_.

In the next number of his "Reminiscences" the author promises a sketch

of the city of New-York, for which his authority will probably be Mrs.

Trolloppe, Mr. Joseph Miller, and the last pick-pocket who went home to

London.

* * * * *

The "Peace Congress," in which we have most faith--the only one that is

likely to exert any very desirable influence, is that to assemble next

year in Hyde Park. This will be a display of works rather than one of

words; and _apropos_ of its lingual character, which will show very

conclusively that as yet "all the nations of the earth" are not "as one

people," we find in _The Leader_ this paragraph:

"The Exhibition of 1851, seems to promise a whole literature of its own.

Journals are already established for the record of its proceedings.

Useful information will be at a premium--unless there should happen to

be a "glut;" while in the shape of translations and dialogue-books,

every facility will be offered to foreigners. What a Babel it will be!

How the English ear will be rasped by Slavonic and Teutonic gutturals,

or distended by the breadth of Southern vowels. It will be a marvel if

this incursion of barbarians do not very much affect the purity of our

own tongue, and damage the tender susceptibility of the London ear,

already so delicate that when an actor says--as it _sometimes_

happens--"_Donnar Elvirar_ is coming," the whole audience rises in a

mass to protest against the outrages on taste. We are told the Athenians

were also merciless critics in such matters. Nay, there is a famous

anecdote perpetually cited as an illustration of Athenian delicacy in

matters of pronunciation, that Theophrastus was known to be a foreigner

even by a herbseller. People who wonder at every thing recorded of the

Greeks, will regard us probably as reckless iconoclasts if we break that

by a stone flung from common sense; but really, with the daily

experience of Scotchmen and Irishmen before us, we must say the most

wonderful part of the anecdote is, that it should have been recorded.

Theophrastus came from Lesbos--if we remember rightly--and his

pronunciation, therefore, naturally preserved some of the Lesbian

flavor, as Carlyle's does that of Annandale. Would any critic compliment

the cockney on delicacy of ear because it detects the accent of Carlyle,

or Sheridan Knowles, to be other than its own true London accent? Yet,

this is precisely what critics do with respect to the Athenians."

* * * * *

MILTON, BURKE, MAZZINI, and DANIEL WEBSTER, present the most

extraordinary examples of the harmonious and effective combination of

political and literary genius, that have appeared in modern times. There

have been and there are now many politicians who are eminent as authors:

but these are preeminently great in both statesmanship and letters.

Mazzini is now the chief apostle of republicanism in Europe, as Milton

was in the time of the Protector. He devises and executes the schemes

which promise advances of liberty and happiness, and he is equal to the

defence with the pen of every thing he essays in affairs. "Young Italy,"

since it was put down by French bayonets, has had as little quarter from

parasite writers as from patristic governors; but Mazzini has come to

her defence with as vigorous a pen as that with which Milton vindicated

the people of England against the hireling Salmasius, under similar

circumstances. In another part of this number of the _International_, we

have copied from the London _Examiner_ a reviewal of Mazzini's work on

the Italian revolution. We should be glad to see it criticised by Mr.

Walsh also, or by Professor Bowen, in his _North American Review_.

* * * * *

Since SIR FRANCIS HEAD went home from Canada, and finished the last

edition of his "Bubbles" and "Travels," and the funny anathema of poor

Mr. William Lyon Mackenzie, in the _Times_, he has been very quiet,

except now and then, when he has given an explosive and amusing paper in

the _Quarterly_. But now he has published a new book, on "The

Defenceless State of Great Britain," in which, the _Examiner_ says "he

has made up for lost time." Says the critic, "It is calculated to rouse

all the old women in the country. Such a fee-fa-fum of a book we never

read. The Duke's letter to Sir John Burgoyne was nothing to it, and it

beats even Lord Ellesmere hollow." The baronet thinks every thing

portends a French invasion, and he advocates the largest "war footing."

* * * * *

The REV. DR. BLOOMFIELD, whose edition of the Greek Testament is so well

known in this country, has just published two volumes of additional

Notes, critical, philological, and explanatory, in fulfilment of a

promise made in the third edition of his New Testament, in 1839. This

promise was, that he would make no further change in the notes to the

New Testament, but reserve all additions for a separate supplementary

work. That work, after the direct labor of eleven years, is now

published; forming a companion to all the editions of Bloomfield's Greek

Testament except the first two. The annotations relate to a critical

examination of the readings of the text, with the reasons for that

selected, philological notes on the meaning of words, and exegetical

annotations on the verbal interpretations of passages.

* * * * *

MR. COOPER has a new book in press which, in New-York, will produce a

profounder sensation, than any he has yet written. It is entitled "The

Men of Manhattan," and reveals the social condition of the city, past

and present, as it is known only to the author of "The Littlepage

Manuscripts." Mr. Cooper is a thorough New-Yorker; he is intimately

acquainted with all the sources of her past and present and prospective

greatness; and he has watched, with such emotions as none but a

gentleman of the old school can feel, the infusion and gradual diffusion

of those principles of plebeianism and ruffianism, from discontented

improvidence, immigration, and other causes, which threaten to destroy

whatever has justified the wisest pride; and to sink--not raise--all the

mob of people to a common level. He has his whims, and though they have

won for him little popularity, we regret that they are not shared more

largely by the public, which will never appreciate his merits as a

censor, until the best features of our civilization are quite

obliterated.

* * * * *

MR. JUDD, the author of "Margaret," an original, indigenous, striking,

and in many respects brilliant New-England story, and of "Philo," a

crude, extravagant, ridiculous mass of versified verbiage, has lately

published (through Phillips & Sampson, of Boston,) a new work entitled

"Richard Edney, or the Governor's Family; a Rus-Urban Tale, simple and

popular, yet cultured and noble, of morals, sentiment and life." It is

worthy of the author of "Margaret." Though it evinces very little of the

constructive faculty, it illustrates in every page a quick and

intelligent observation, a happy talent for characterization, and great

independence in speculation.

* * * * *

Mr. C. P. CASTANIS, formerly known in this country as an agreeable

lecturer upon various subjects connected with Modern Greece, has just

published (through Lippencott, Grambo & Co., of Philadelphia), a

narrative of his captivity and escape during the massacre by the Turks

on the Island of Scio, together with various adventures in Greece and

America.

* * * * *

MR. E. G. SQUIER, whose large work upon American antiquities, published

by the Smithsonian Institute, made for him a most desirable reputation,

is now engaged in the preparation of an elaborate work upon the remains

of ancient civilization in Central America, to contain the results of

investigations during his recent official residence there.

* * * * *

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S new work, "The House of Seven Gables," is in the

press of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston.

* * * * *

MISS FENIMORE COOPER, whose beautiful work entitled "Rural Hours in

America" has been so much and so justly applauded, has a new volume in

the press of Putnam.

* * * * *

In the new novel of "Olive," republished by the Harpers, (which is much

praised by the London critics), the heroine, who has a lofty, noble

nature, full of poetic feeling and enthusiasm for art, determines to

devote herself to its study, urged on by a desire of liquidating a debt

contracted by her father. _Apropos_ of the purpose of her life, and the

sphere of her sex:

"She became an artist--not in a week, a month, a year. Art

exacts of its votaries no less service than a lifetime. But in

her girl's soul the right chord had been touched, which began

to vibrate into noble music, the true seed had been sown, which

day by day grew into a goodly plant. Vanbrugh had said truly,

that genius is of no sex; and he had said likewise truly, that

no woman can be an artist--that is, a great artist. The

hierarchies of the soul's dominion belong only to man, and it

is right they should. He it was whom God created first, let him

take pre-eminence. But among those stars of lesser glory, which

are given to lighten the nations, among sweet-voiced poets,

earnest prose writers, who, by lofty truth that lies hid

beneath legend and parable, purify the world, graceful painters

and beautiful musicians, each brightening their generation with

serene and holy lustre--among these, let woman shine! But her

sphere is, and ever must be, bounded; because, however lofty

her genius may be, it always dwells in a woman's breast.

Nature, which gave to man the dominion of the intellect, gave

to her that of the heart and affections. These bind her with

everlasting links from which she cannot free herself,--nay, she

would not if she could. Herein man has the advantage. He,

strong in his might of intellect, can make it his all in all,

his life's sole aim and guerdon. A Brutus, for that ambition

which is misnamed patriotism, can trample on all human ties. A

Michael Angelo can stand alone with his genius, and so go

sternly down into a desolate old age. But there scarce ever

lived the woman who would not rather sit meekly by her own

hearth, with her husband at her side, and her children at her

knee, than be the crowned Corinne of the Capitol.

"Thus woman, seeking to strive with man, is made feebler by the

very spirit of love which in her own sphere is her chiefest

strength. But sometimes chance, or circumstance, or wrong,

sealing up her woman's nature, converts her into a

self-dependant human soul. Instead of life's sweetness, she has

before her life's greatness. The struggle passed, her genius

may lift itself upward, expand and grow mighty; never so mighty

as man's, but still great and glorious. Then, even while she

walks over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest

upon her up-turned brow, and she may become a light unto her

generation."

* * * * *

DAUTZENBERG, a Flemish poet, has issued at Brussels a volume of small

compositions, which, apart from freshness of fancy and beauty of

thought, are remarkable for the correctness and smoothness of their

form. The Flemish tongue is used by him with a lyrical success that

would reflect honor on a writer in the more melodious dialects of

Southern Europe. He has also licked that jaw-cracking tongue so far into

shape, that it serves for regular hexameters.

* * * * *

MISS STRICKLAND'S LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND, republished by Lea &

Blanchard of Philadelphia, in ten or twelve volumes, is a work of very

great interest and value, for its illustrations of the higher and

progressive British civilization. Her Lives of the Queens of Scotland,

soon to be issued from the press of the Harpers, resembles generally her

former work, by the success of which it was probably suggested, as much

as by the desirableness of the biographies of the Northern Queens, as

"adjuncts" to the lives of those of England. A good deal of matter was

collected in reference to the later Queens of Scotland during the

biographer's researches for the Queens of England; and this, augmented

by further inquiries among public and private archives, especially among

the muniment-chests of noble Scottish families, forms the materials of

the present undertaking. The "lives" do not begin till the Tudor times,

when the nearer relationship with England imparts a greater interest to

the subject, not only from the closer communication between the courts,

but from the prospects of the Scottish succession to the English crown.

* * * * *

JOHN S. DWIGHT, of Boston, has recently delivered an admirable lecture

before the Mercantile Library Association of this city, on "Operatic

Music," illustrated by a critical examination of Rossini's _Don

Giovanni_. Mr. Dwight's rare musical learning and accomplishments, his

exquisite taste in art, and his remarkable felicity of expression, were

displayed to singular advantage in this masterly lecture, and won the

cordial applauses of the most appreciative critics in his large and

highly intelligent audience.

* * * * *

A History of the Greek Revolution is soon to be given to the public by

Baron PROKESH OSTEN, who for many years was Austrian ambassador at

Athens, and who now fills the same office at Berlin. Of course his book

will be published at Vienna.

* * * * *

A NEW EDITION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF GOeETHE, in thirty volumes (it

would look much better and be far more convenient in fifteen), is

advertised in Berlin. Two volumes are ready, and the whole are to be

issued before the close of 1851.

* * * * *

W. G. SIMMS, LL. D., is referred to in the _Southern Literary Gazette_

as having delivered in Charleston lately an elaborate poem entitled "The

City of the Silent," on the occasion of the consecration of a beautiful

rural cemetery near that city.

* * * * *

DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES is writing a biographical sketch of the late

Dr. Parkman, to form a part of a work called "The Benefactors of the

Medical School of Harvard University," of which the poet is himself one

of the professors.

* * * * *

PIERRE DUPONT, the Parisian Socialist poet, has lately issued a new book

containing six songs that have not before been published. Dupont is as

much a favorite with the people as Beranger, and though he does not

equal the latter in originality of fancy and gayety of spirit, he even

excels him in revolutionary point and enthusiasm. His songs are heard in

every workshop and at every popular banquet, their words and music are

universally familiar, and when the clubs were permitted, each meeting

was opened and closed with a song of Dupont's, the whole audience

joining in the chorus. This was done instinctively and without previous

arrangement. It often happened, too, that after some orator had

delivered an ardent speech, Dupont would appear at the tribune with a

new song which he had composed on the inspiration of the moment. Now

each new political event is sure of a response from this poet; one of

his late productions is the _Chant du Vote_ (vote song), in which he

denounces the attempt of the Government to destroy universal suffrage.

Perhaps his most powerful production is the _Marsellaise of Hunger_; the

hold this has taken on the public may be judged from the fact, that when

at the theatre of the Porte St. Martin a piece was performed, called

_Misery_, founded on incidents in the Irish famine, when the curtain

went down at the end of the first act, the beholders spontaneously set

up this song. So in the same theatre, when the piece representing the

downfall of Rome was performed (this piece afterwards became famous

through its prohibition by the Government), one of the spectators in the

pit began the chorus of Dupont's Soldier's Song:

"Les peuples sont pour nous des freres

Et les tyrans des ennemis,"

the whole house joined in, and the performance had to be interrupted

till the song was ended. The _Chant des Transportes_ wherever it is

heard moves the people to tears and indignation. The Peasant's Song

prophecies the time when independent industry shall render the earth

blooming with fertility, and the corn and wine shall "be free as warmth

in summer weather." While the majority of his poems are political and

social, some of them are full of love and appreciation of outward

nature. In one, the Romance of the Poplar, this sentiment is finely

combined with the spirit of liberty.

* * * * *

ARAGO'S great work, which was some time since announced in the

_International_, is now nearly complete and will soon be given to the

public. The scientific and literary world of Europe expect it with

impatience. It is said even that Alexander von Humboldt intends to be

its translator into German, but this is not probable. It is also rumored

that the author gives an appendix in which he for the moment abandons

science for politics, in order to pay off some of the attacks he has

suffered from Proudhon. Our own opinion is that he had better stick to

his trade and leave Proudhon alone.

* * * * *

CHARLES SUMNER has published (through Ticknor, Reed & Fields of Boston,)

two volumes of his "Orations and Addresses." Mr. Sumner is a scholar of

the finest and rarest capacities and accomplishments. He is of the

school of Everett, but has more earnestness, and consequently more

compactness of expression, and more force. He enters heartily into all

the 'progressive' movements of the day, and is of many the intellectual

leader. His bravery is equal to every emergency into which he may be led

by a search after truth, and to all combats he brings arms of the truest

metal and most exquisite polish. There are in New-England many more

fervid and powerful orators, but we know of none whose orations are

delivered with a more pleasing eloquence. We have not leisure now to

review Mr. Sumner's volumes; but if among our readers there are any who

desire to see displayed the "very form and spirit" of the new age, we

commend them to "The True Grandeur of Nations," and the other

discourses, speeches, and essays, here published.

* * * * *

"THE MANHATTANER IN NEW-ORLEANS" is the title of a small volume, from

the press of J. S. Redfield, which was written by an accomplished

New-York lawyer who had resided some time in the Crescent City. It is a

very graphic and delightful picture of the social life of the metropolis

of the South; betraying a quick insight, a genial appreciation of what

is manly, and fairness in regard to every thing. We have had need of

such a book, for hitherto we northerners have generally known less of

our southern neighbors than even Professor Bowen knew of the Hungarians,

before Mrs. Putnam enlightened him. We are sorry that Mr. Hall, to whom

we are indebted for "The Manhattaner in New-Orleans," intimates that it

is the last book for the preparation of which he will ever have

withdrawn his attention from the law.

* * * * *

"ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, MARGARET FULLER D'OSSOLI AND GEORGE SAND,"

is the title of an article in which the characters and genius of these

three remarkable women is discussed, in the last number of _The

Palladium_, a new English monthly.

* * * * *

IKE MARVEL'S "Reveries of a Bachelor," (printed by Baker & Scribner),

appears to be the "book of the season." All the critics praise it as one

of the choicest specimens of half-romance and half-essay, that has

appeared in our time. But for ourselves--we have not read it.

* * * * *

The subject of "Junius" is again discussed in "Junius and his Works,

Compared with the character and Writings of the Earl of Chesterfield,"

by W. Cramp, just published in London.

* * * * *

PARKE GODWIN'S beautiful story of "Vala," suggested by the career of

Jenny Lind, has been issued in a luxurious quarto, by Putnam.

The Fine Arts.

GIFT FROM THE BAVARIAN ARTISTS TO KING LOUIS.--The artists and artisans

of Munich have combined to make to ex-King Louis of Bavaria a gift such

as monarchs have not often received. It consists of a writing-desk and

album. The desk is of oak varnished, adorned with rich carving, and with

locks and the Bavarian arms in gilt bronze enamel. The carving contains

the most charming figures representing the various arts and trades. The

album is bound in crimson velvet, the clasps and ornaments of gilt

bronze. On the outside is a medallion, designed by Widnmann, set in

brilliants, representing King Louis surrounded by artists. A smaller

medallion stands in each corner, one representing architects with plans

and models by Hautman; sculptors and bronze workers with the statue of

Bavaria, by Halbig; historic painters by Esseling; and landscape and

genre painters by Widnmann. Between the two upper medallions is a rich

ornament with the arms of the four tribes of Bavaria in enamel, and the

inscription "Louis I. King of Bavaria:" between the lower medallions is

a similar ornament with "The German Artists, A. D. 1850." All the

ornaments are in the old German style of the fifteenth century. In the

Album are 177 sheets, each containing a contribution from some artist.

The title-page is by Esseling. Kaulbach has a drawing of unusual

freshness and beauty, representing the King calling to new life, at

Rome, the neglected art of Germany. But we have not space to speak of

the works of individual artists in this remarkable collection. It is

enough to say that every distinguished painter and sculptor in Germany

is represented in it.

* * * * *

CHARLES EASTLAKE has been chosen _President of the Royal Academy_, and

the Queen has made him a knight. Sir Charles Eastlake is in some

respects a great painter, and he has produced many works which evince

very remarkable talents. Among the few pictures by him which evince

_genius_, is that owned by Mr. Henry Carey Baird, of Philadelphia, of

"Hagar and Ishmael." He has done something in literature, and from his

own account of himself we quote, that, like Haydon, he was born at

Plymouth, a soil congenial to art, for in its environs was also the

birth-place of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Like Rembrandt, Reynolds, and so

many before them, Eastlake showed an early aversion to the Latin

Grammar. He fled the Charter-house school; and a glimpse of Haydon's

picture of "The Dentatus," which was at that period exhibited at

Plymouth, made him a painter. After studying in the Academy two years,

under Fuseli, he produced "The Raising of Jairus's Daughter." This won

him a patron, in Mr. Harman, by whom he was commissioned to make studies

of the miracles of art, at that time collected in the Louvre by

Napoleon. Here also Lawrence, Haydon, Wilkie, and we believe Allston

also, came at this time to study. In the Louvre Eastlake made his first

acquaintance with the wonders of Roman art. But the pleasant task of

copying these old masters was relinquished on the sudden return of

Napoleon from Elba. At a not much later period, the fallen hero became

himself the subject of his pencil. Eastlake made a sketch of the

ex-Emperor as he appeared from the gangway of the Bellerophon, when at

anchor in Plymouth roads, interesting as the last delineation of a noble

visage, then untinged with chagrin. In 1817 and 1819 he visited Italy

and Greece, rather stirring up their living treasures than measuring

antiquity with the inch rule of the archaeologist. Nor yet did Eastlake

confine himself to the external forms of art and nature; he then laid

the foundation of that intimate knowledge of the arts, be they called

formative, architectural, plastic, or pictorial, the able elucidation of

which renders his writings so valuable. Thus, whilst all the technical

skill of ancient colorists is found in his style of painting, all the

principles on which Dutch and Venetian masters proceeded are found in

his writings. Those who reflect on the unceasing labors of the Secretary

of the Fine Art Commission, will be rather inclined to believe that the

title of President was alone wanting to render Eastlake the legitimate

leader of art in England. We need only mention his translation of

Goeethe's "Theory of Colors," the "Notes to Kugler," and the "Materials

for a History of Oil Painting."

* * * * *

NEW PICTURE BY KAULBACH. The King of Bavaria has ordered from Kaulbach a

picture some twenty feet high, to represent the Apotheosis of a Good

Prince. The lucky potentate is to be painted rising from the tomb, and

conducted up to heaven by attending angels, where the Saviour, enthroned

between the cherubim of Power and Justice, receives him with open arms.

The purple mantle and crown, the signs and adornments of earthly might,

sink from the transfigured monarch upon the tomb, around which the Seven

Works of Mercy bear witness for him, while the Seven Deadly Sins lie

under the earth asleep and in chains. The idea of the composition was

suggested by the King. Kaulbach has advanced so far with its execution

that the cartoon is nearly completed.

* * * * *

THE ROYAL RUSSIAN PORCELAIN MANUFACTORY, at Berlin, is known over the

world for the elegance and excellence of its productions; most of the

porcelain transparencies which are so common in all countries, and so

much admired, are from this source. An honorary council has just been

named to have the supervision of the artistic department of the

institution. Among its members, are the eminent painter CORNELIUS, the

sculptor RAUCH, and the architect HULER.

* * * * *

Mr. HEALEY, according to a letter by Mr. Walsh in the _Journal of

Commerce_, is proceeding rapidly in Paris with his picture of the

American Senate, during the debate so famous for the passages between

Mr. Webster and Col. Hayne. Mr. Healey is said to be a very worthy

person, and it is to be regretted that his skill and genius are not

equal to his morals, in which case we might not despair of his producing

a work not altogether unworthy of this subject. Some accident introduced

Mr. Healey to the late King of the French, who gave him various orders,

the reception of which was so noticed in the journals as to be of the

greatest possible advantage to him. He was suddenly elevated in the

common opinion to the condition of the first rank of artists. But he is

really a painter of very ordinary capacities. We have probably some

hundreds who are very much superior to him. It is impossible to point to

even _one_ portrait by him that is remarkable for any excellence; and

all his fame rests, rather than upon his productions, upon his having

received orders from Louis Philippe. We remember the general surprise

with which groups of his portraits, displayed in the rotunda of the

capitol, were viewed by critics. The "study" of Daniel Webster, upon

whose every feature God has set the visible stamp of greatness, was

among them, and it looked like the prim keeper of the accounts in a

respectable grocery-store. So of all the rest. Men sat to him from

deference to the wishes of the King, but every body felt that he was not

an artist. Accidents and newspapers may confer a transient reputation,

but they can endow no one with abilities; and to espouse the cause of

newspapers against the cause of nature is a grievous wrong, in the end,

to both newspapers and nature.

* * * * *

AN ELEGANT work of much value to the students of modern art has lately

appeared at Berlin, under the title of _Rimische Studien_ (Roman

Studies), from the pen of VON KESTNER, a diplomatist by profession. The

author, who by the way is a son of the famous CHARLOTTE, the heroine of

Goeethe's "Werther," dwells with the utmost partiality on these German

artists, who have developed their talents by long and intimate

acquaintance with Roman art, and who are now at work in the fatherland.

To the productions of "Cornelius," he devotes a great deal of space. The

special purpose of the work, as the author says in his preface, is to

glorify Germany in the great creations of its artists.

* * * * *

THE PHILHARMONIC SOCIETY of Paris, at one of its recent concerts, gave a

piece of original Russian music, called the "Song of the Cherubim," by

BORTNIANSKY, a composer who has written a good deal for the Imperial

Chapel at St. Petersburg. It is a chorus without accompaniment, and is

spoken of by the critics as most original and striking, in fact unlike

any thing familiar to Western or Southern ears. We can easily conceive

of a peculiar style of music being produced from the bosom of the Greek

Church. Those who have heard the melancholy and touching, half-barbaric

music usually employed in its ritual, will not be surprised that out of

it there should arise a quite new order of compositions.

* * * * *

THE GOeETHE'S INHERITANCE--an extensive collection of models, engravings,

sculptures, carvings, gems, minerals, fossils, original drawings, &c.,

collected by the great poet,--is to be sold at Weimar, for the benefit

of his heirs, two grandsons. A _catalogue raisonnee_ has been published

by Fromman, at Jena, and it makes a very interesting book. It is

suggested in the _Art-Journal_ for December, that if the collection were

distributed in separate lots, in America, or England, or Germany, the

heirs would realize three or four times as much as they will by a single

sale for the whole, which they have determined upon. Letters upon the

subject may be addressed to Baron Walther Von Goethe, at Vienna.

* * * * *

The author of the following remarks on ART-UNIONS, is an eminent artist,

whose name has never been associated with any discussions of these

Institutions, or with any controversies connected with them, and he has

not, we believe, since the foundation of the first Art-Union in America,

had any production of his own in the market.

ART-UNIONS: THEIR TRUE CHARACTER CONSIDERED.

ART-UNIONS, and their management, have recently attracted much attention

in this country, if we may judge from the numerous articles on the

subject which have appeared in some of the most reputable journals. It

is now about ten years since the first Art-Union was established in this

city. Others, in various sections, have followed, and all, whatever

their peculiarities, have been more or less successful in their chief

objects.

Now it is reasonable to suppose, that the result of these ten years'

efforts to promote the cultivation of the Fine Arts among us, should

furnish some evidence of their capabilities for the accomplishment of so

worthy and so great a work. The whole subject of their usefulness

resolves itself into the following queries:

I. Has any person of decided genius, who was unknown, friendless, and in

need, been sought out by them, assisted, encouraged, and at last added

to the effective number of artists who are profitably employed among us?

II. Have those artists who have received the larger share of the

patronage of these institutions, shown by their works a corresponding

advance in the knowledge and love of excellence and truth in art?

III. Have they furnished any peculiar advantages to artists, as a body,

by supplying the means of their improvement, in a free access to books,

casts, pictures, or good engravings?

IV. Do Art-Unions promote the interests and reward the labors of those

who are most eminently deserving?

V. Do they elevate the pursuit of art, in the minds of the people, and

teach them its value, by distributing to them, in return for their

subscriptions, _only_ the best specimens which they can purchase from

the studios of our artists?

VI. Are there a dozen well known artists who will openly testify to a

conviction of their usefulness?

It is believed by many that an affirmative response cannot be given to

these questions; and if not, then the subject of their influence need be

no longer discussed.

It is not my intention, nor my desire, to inquire into the _management_

of these institutions. It is only at the system itself that I wish to

direct the attention of the reader. If it is proved that, as a system,

this is not calculated to elevate and enlarge the sphere of the arts,

but on the contrary, that its tendency is to degrade and stifle all that

is lovely and desirable in their pursuit, then there will be no need of

troubling ourselves with the lower and baser subject of management; for

there is no bad system, which, by any method, can be managed into a good

one, and satisfy the just demands of those whose interests it professes

to hold in its keeping.

Numbers rather than quality seem to govern the Art-Unions in their

purchases of works, that they may give to subscribers a greater number

of _chances_ to draw something for their money, and thus encourage them

to future _patronage_. This is the principle on which all lotteries

live: and when we come to sift the matter to the bottom, we cannot but

acknowledge that Art-Unions are nothing else but lotteries, under

another and more popular name. Both exist ostensibly for the good of

others, who in reality are but the dupes of a most deceitful and vicious

system, against which every good citizen should indignantly turn his

face. It cannot be justly said in defence of Art-Unions, that they spend

more money for art than was ever done in the same period of time, nor

that they have distributed works amongst a class of people who never

thought of giving money for such things before. They must first prove

that this great amount of money which they have collected, has been

spent _judiciously_, for the benefit of deserving and meritorious

artists, and that the works distributed are such as to elevate the

judgment and enlarge the feelings in relation to art, among those who

may have received them.

It is for the interest of lotteries to offer some very large and

valuable prizes at the head of their list, to attract the attention of

the public, and thus to sell their tickets.

Similar means are adopted by Art-Unions to increase their subscription

lists, which show that the system is _managed_ in the most efficient

manner. Those who can look back fifteen and twenty years, will remember

that our country was literally flooded with the bulletin boards of

lotteries, printed in the most gaudy and attractive colors, showing a

brilliant schedule of prizes, and pledging almost certain wealth to all

who would venture their money on the "grand scheme." They will also call

to mind how many a victim there was to this deceptive and depraved

system of legal fraud, until it became so injurious to the public

morals, that Legislatures were forced to hurl the bolts of the law

against them, in all parts of the United States, and so put an end to

their iniquity. Lotteries have been justly prohibited by wise

governments, because they attract men from legitimate pursuits, into the

speculative, uncertain, and, morally, illegitimate pursuit of fortune.

The case is similar in its results to that of Art-Unions. They attract

many from a calling for which their talents have fitted them, into a

sphere so much above their natural powers, that they must in time fall

back, victims to vanity and love of gain, into a lower plane of life

perhaps, than that they once happily occupied. The effect of these

Unions is seen rather in the great number of persons of mediocre

abilities they have _encouraged_ to enter upon the cultivation of art,

than in the bringing forth greater powers and excellence in those whose

undoubted genius is apparent to the world.

It was remarked by Carlyle, that our modern intellect is of the spavined

kind, "all action and no go;" and so it appears to be in regard to the

efforts that are being made to "promote the interests of art," in this

country. Art-Unions have been active enough, for many years, and have

possessed themselves of hundreds of thousands of dollars, and yet it is

"no go;" the interests of art still lie gasping, without much hope of a

change for the better. There is a great display made every year in the

"distribution of prizes," and every means used to gain public

confidence, by holding up the names of the most respectable citizens as

guarantees that nothing under their control can go wrong; and by issuing

bulletins in which is proved, by figures, the flourishing state of the

institution, and consequently of the beautiful arts; yet in spite of all

this, the great mass of common-sense minds and of true lovers of art,

heretics that they are, go away and exclaim, "Well, after all it's 'no

go,' the works distributed are no better than those of last year, and we

are really afraid there are no hopes for the arts in this country, so

long as no other plan is adopted for their improvement."

Some of the petty states in Germany and in southern Europe obtain a

large revenue from lotteries, which are entirely under the control of

the crown, and are hence commonly called "Royal," or "Imperial." The

prizes are comparatively small, but the tickets are fixed at such a very

low sum, say from ten to twenty cents, that they come within the reach

of the poorest inhabitants. The consequence is that nearly all persons

who are ignorant of the scheme which the Government has laid to tax

them, spend more or less every year for lottery tickets. We have known

persons who, under the excitement produced by these plans for rapidly

gaining fortunes, have pawned the last blanket from their beds, to

obtain the means of purchasing a ticket. At every drawing of these

"Imperial" lotteries, there is nothing left undone by Royalty to strike

the people with a sense of their importance, and the honesty with which

they are conducted. In an open square is erected a kind of stage large

enough to be occupied by some twenty persons. Rich canopies of scarlet

and gold overhang it, and above all are figures of Justice, Plenty,

Virtue, &c. &c. The "Royal" band of music is stationed near, and amidst

its enlivening tones, holding in silence many thousands of anxious

hearts, the cortege, preceded by Royalty itself, ascends, and is seated

in the order of its dignity. In front of the throne are placed, upon

pedestals, two large revolving globes half filled with tickets, and by

the side of each stands a page, in magnificent costume, blindfolded.

Then commences the distribution of the prizes, in the usual way, by

drawing numbers from the globes, by the hands of the pages, which are

announced from the throne, and so along to the ears of the most distant

in the multitude. At intervals, the drawing ceases, while most charming

music serves to keep the crowd together, and possibly to drive for the

moment, from many a heart, the pangs of disappointment or despair. Now

there is some excuse for ignorance on this subject, among those poor

people, for there are no means by which they can be enlightened and

warned of the evil. But in this country, where the press is free, and

the means of information abundant, it would be sad to reflect that such

things can, under any name or phrase, long continue unmasked and unshorn

of their power.

There is consolation in the belief, that however prosperous this species

of gaming may be, the time is not far distant when its true character

and tendency will be made manifest; and when the unseen but certain

operations of the moral sense of our people will put an end to its

inglorious career; if not directly, through the action of the laws, yet

indirectly, by withholding the necessary contributions to its further

support.

This parallel between Art-Unions and Lotteries is drawn that the

character of the former may be more readily comprehended by the reader.

In the recent drawing of the American Art-Union there were distributed

_one thousand works of art_, making about one prize to sixteen blanks.

But where did all these "thousand works" come from? and what are they?

Have they all been executed by living American artists? Are they

paintings, or sculptures, or engravings, purchased from the artists who

made them, and who have received an adequate price for them? We know

from their advertisement that _sixty_ of them are "impressions from the

large engravings after Col. Trumbull's pictures of the _Battle of Bunker

Hill_ and the _Death of Montgomery_." Now the purchase of these

engravings from the pictures of a long deceased painter can be of no

possible service to the painters living and laboring among us, nor to

the progress of art in any way. As well might the Art-Union purchase for

distribution sixty copies of Dunlap's History of the Arts of Design, or

of Allston's Lectures on Art, or any object pertaining to the subject

that may be procured at any time of the book or print sellers. It is

true, they must manage to offer a number of small prizes, the best way

they can, that they may in some plausible way meet the expectations of

their very extended lists of subscribers, to which, it seems, they never

attempt to set a limit. Here is another proof that they are mere

speculators upon the labors of artists, and only seek to enlarge their

subscriptions, and usurp a power and control over the great body of

artists, which should never, with their consent, be allowed to any, no

matter how respectable, body of men.

Let us turn to the "_Western Art-Union_." Having but few good prizes to

offer, nothing indeed which would ensure them a large subscription list,

it became necessary to procure some well known production for this

purpose, as a capital prize. The managers therefore negotiated, in a

very quiet manner, with a Mr. Robb, of New Orleans, for one of HIRAM

POWERS'S finest statues, the "_Greek Slave_," then in the possession of

Mr. Robb, and it was accordingly taken to Cincinnati, and placed on

exhibition in the Art-Union, as one of the prizes to be distributed this

year. Handbills were then sent over the United States announcing this

fact. Of course, with such a celebrated work as this, thousands would be

seduced to purchase a ticket, and thus place the _Art-Union_ in a most

flourishing condition, and probably secure to it at least double the sum

which it had paid, or the sculptor had originally received, for the

statue.

Now let us consider this transaction in its true light. The Art-Union

was established solely for the purpose of benefiting artists, protecting

their interests, and increasing the knowledge of art among the people.

From these facts it is evident that neither of these purposes were kept

in view or carried out. Instead of negotiating with the sculptor himself

for one of his works, and giving him a liberal price for it, they never

mentioned the subject to him, but secretly purchased one of another

person--a rich man, who was in nowise whatever connected with the arts.

One would have supposed that even if there were very strong inducements

to such a procedure on the part of this institution, for the sake of

gain, still that a friendly feeling towards the great sculptor, of whom

the Queen City is so proud, and a due regard for his interests and his

fame, would have prevented the consummation of such an act. It can be

no pleasing reflection to Mr. Powers, that a work which many persons in

Europe, as well as in America, would have purchased at any reasonable

price, should, by any movement of his own townsmen, be disposed of at a

public raffle, so that of its final destination he must long remain in

ignorance.

It seems, from what has here been adduced, that Art-Unions have not

proved of service to art or artists, notwithstanding the immense amount

annually collected for this ostensible purpose; but that they are in

reality only lotteries operating under another but less objectionable

name.

If a corporation can be granted by the Legislature, with the privilege

of selling pictures, or statuary, by lottery, every other branch of

industry is as much entitled to such a privilege, or our laws are

onesided and unjust. We would then see distributions of prizes from

every quarter, until the whole mechanical and commercial interests of

the country would be turned into Lotteries or Unions. Following the

example of the Art-Union in this state, we have already advertised a

"_Homestead Art-Union_," the grand prize of which is a "house and lot

situated in Williamsburgh, which cost nearly $5,000." Subscribers are

entitled to "an elegant and valuable engraving, which has heretofore

sold at $7.50, (being $2.50 more than the price of subscription,) and

superior in execution and elegance to any picture distributed in this

manner." It has in its collection for distribution "ninety-nine elegant

and costly oil paintings and engravings, richly framed in ornamental and

plain gilt frames." All the difference between these Unions, seems to be

in the fact that the "Homestead" has limited the number of

tickets--certainly an improvement on the other, so far as the public

interest is concerned. We may expect to hear very soon of _Bread and

Meat Art-Unions_, when the whole community, for a very small outlay, may

live like princes, and snap their fingers at haggard want.

The tendency of these hotbed methods of cultivating an appreciation of

art and of rewarding its professors, has been to discourage artists from

any suitable efforts to provide instruction, upon a liberal scale, to

those who are seeking for it. Indeed it takes from them the power to do

so, by drawing away funds necessary to such an object, which, but for

these grand schemes, would be likely to come into their hands. One has

but to observe the motives which induce persons to subscribe to an

Art-Union, to be convinced that the great majority do so for the sake of

self-aggrandizement, that is, to have a chance of getting the works of

our best artists for a mere tithe of their value, or in the language of

the advertisements, "of obtaining a valuable return, for a small

investment;" as they would buy any other lottery tickets: to make the

most out of their money. But there are many who subscribe from nobler

motives--real lovers of art, whose only object is to lend a helping hand

to its interests, and to show a generous sympathy in the struggles and

self-denying endeavors of all whose souls are so wrapt up in its pursuit

that they scarcely arrive at the knowledge requisite to a charge of

their own pecuniary and worldly affairs. This latter class of

subscribers believe they are gratifying this genuine love of the

beautiful and good, when they give annually their five dollars to an

institution chartered for the express design of protecting and

cherishing the interests of art, and of enlarging the field of its

labors and usefulness among the people. These genuine _patrons_ give,

without a hope or thought of drawing a prize, or receiving in any shape

a return for their subscriptions. Did they reflect upon, or know, that

these funds were worse than misapplied, they would withhold them, and

seek in some other way to make a proper appropriation of them.

We have said that these Art-Unions prevent artists from taking any steps

to provide the means of instruction for those who need and seek it. As

an illustration of this we may mention the present state of the

_National Academy of Design_. It is, and has been for two or three

years, quite prostrate for want of funds; its schools have been closed,

and without assistance it must soon die. A few years ago it was in a

flourishing state, and offered the advantages of study which their fine

collection of casts from the best antique statues, and a small but well

selected and growing library could afford to students. Such have been

the results of Art-Unions upon schools of art everywhere. To be sure the

members of the National Academy are not entirely free from censure in

this matter, for many of them, smitten with the "Union" mania, gave it

their countenance, and even something more substantial, to assist its

infant struggles for popularity, little suspecting, certainly, that they

were lending a club which would sooner or later strike them to the

ground. It may not be out of place here to remark, that it is firmly

believed that the Academy of Design can yet rise up from its ashes, and

overthrow all such schemes as Art-Unions, by placing itself upon a more

liberal and popular footing; and by disclaiming all exclusive titles as

utterly unworthy the ambition of every sensible and right-feeling

artist. Institutions in this country, to be useful, must be placed on a

popular foundation; and to be popular, they must rest upon the broad

republican principle of equal rights and equal privileges to all. Let

the members of the Academy open their doors wide enough to admit all

classes of artisans who desire to study the principles of design--the

basis upon which the beauty and the saleability of their works mainly

depends. There might then, in addition to the sections of Painting and

Sculpture, be added those of Architecture, Ornamental Marble and Stone

Workers, Carvers in Wood and Metal, Gold and Silver Smiths, Cabinet

Makers, and indeed, as many other occupations as chose to unite

themselves, in separate sections, for the purposes of mutual instruction

in the Art of Design. This would at once be practical and popular, and

with such objects in view, the Academy could with very little additional

funds be put into immediate and successful operation, and become a

highly honorable and most useful institution. These are mere

suggestions, thrown out for the consideration of the members of the

Academy and others interested. This is not the proper place to enlarge

upon such a subject.

Artists must learn, if they do not know, how to control their own

affairs, and if they are determined to succeed, they must not think of

trusting their interests to the keeping of those not of their

profession, and entirely uneducated in art, and who consequently cannot

be qualified to discharge so delicate a duty with judgment and fidelity.

It is an old saying, but very applicable to the present instance, that

"if you neglect your own business, you need not expect others to attend

to it for you." Let artists depend more upon private sales of their

works to those who can appreciate them for a just remuneration, than

upon the deceptive offers which chartered schemes may hold out to them.

They will then, by their worth and their artistic merits, build up about

them a solid body of friends and patrons, of whom nothing but death

itself can rob them; and the number of whom time will but increase,

until they may look forward with well-founded hopes to a peaceful and

honorable old age, and a full reward for all their labors. They cannot

justly suppose that permanent success and a distinguished name can be

attained through any other channel than by honesty, and excellence in

their works. Honors and rewards from private sources may be very laggard

in their approach, but they must ultimately come--especially in this

enlightened, progressive, and prosperous country--to those who have

fairly earned them.

Recent Deaths.

Those who have been accustomed to visit the bookstore of Bartlett &

Welford, under the Astor House, during the last half-dozen years, must

have been familiar with the commanding figure and gentle but uneasy

expression of our late excellent friend, the Rev. SERENO E. DWIGHT, D.

D., who died in Philadelphia on the thirtieth of November, in the

sixty-fourth year of his age. Dr. Dwight was born in Greenfield,

Connecticut, in 1786, and was educated at Yale College, where he was

graduated in 1803, being then about seventeen years of age. He became a

tutor in the college, but soon abandoned this occupation to commence the

study of the law at Burlington in Vermont, and in a few years he was

admitted to practice in the highest courts of the country. An early and

ever-increasing predilection, however, led him to the profession of his

father, and upon completing his theological studies he was settled over

the Park-street Congregational church, in Boston, where, he rapidly

acquired the fame of being one of the ablest, most eloquent, and most

useful divines in New-England.

He had contracted a cutaneous disease, from the injudicious use of

calomel, while a tutor in Yale College; and its effects increased so

much now, that his parishioners, who had become quite attached to him,

in 1825 induced him to undertake a voyage to Europe. A year's travel, in

Great Britain, Germany, France, and other countries, failed to restore

his health, and soon after his return to the United States he resigned

his charge of the Park-street church, and undertook the Presidency of

Hamilton College, which in turn he was compelled to surrender, and in

1830 he opened, at New-Haven, an Academy, in which he was assisted by

his wife, a daughter of the late Judge Daggett. The decline of Mrs.

Dwight's health, and other circumstances, induced him to relinquish the

business of teaching; he visited the Southern States, was during several

sessions chaplain to the United States Senate, and, devoting himself to

literature, wrote an elaborate memoir of his great-grandfather, Jonathan

Edwards, and several works of less importance, one of which was "The

Hebrew Wife," written to illustrate the Jewish laws of marriage, and

published in New-York in 1836.

The death of his wife, and increasing physical infirmities, led him to

adopt a habit of the utmost seclusion in New-York, where he passed

nearly all the residue of his life. His last appearance in public was in

the summer of 1848, when he consented to act with Mr. John R. Bartlett

(now the chief of the Mexican Boundary Commission) and the writer of

these paragraphs, as an examiner of one of the departments of the

Rutgers Female Institute. He died suddenly, while upon a visit to

Philadelphia for the purpose of trying the effect of the hydropathic

treatment of his disease, on the 30th of September. In the _Home

Journal_ of December 14, Mr. Willis says of him:--

"In the death of this excellent man we have lost a friend,

whose loss to ourself we most sincerely mourn, though the grave

was, to him, a welcome relief from an insufferable disease,

that had made life wretched for years. Mr. Dwight was the son

of Rev. Dr. Dwight, President of Yale College. He became pastor

of Park-st. church, in Boston, while we attended it in boyhood,

and it is our pride to record that we were so fortunate as to

secure his friendship at that time, and to retain it, in

undiminished warmth and kindness, to the day of his death. Mr.

Dwight was a man of qualities unusual in his profession. When

he first came to Boston, in perfect health, he was, in personal

appearance, the ideal of a high-souled and faultlessly elegant

gentleman--with more of manly and refined beauty, indeed, than

we remember to have combined in any other man. He wore these

winning gifts most unconsciously, being beloved by the humblest

for his open and accessible simplicity and kindness: and his

health first gave way under the laborious discharge of his

parochial duties. He was too severely critical and polished a

scholar to be either a very eloquent preacher or an easy

writer, but his sermons were models of purity of style, study,

and elevated thought, and his pastoral intercourse and counsel

were too delightful ever to be forgotten by those who enjoyed

it. Sent to Europe for his health, by his congregation, Mr.

Dwight was received and followed with a degree of enthusiastic

and flattering attention which fully confirmed his mark as a

man, and showed how Nature's noblemen are recognized and

honored everywhere. He resumed his duties on his return, but

was soon obliged by illness to relinquish them, and, from that

time forward, he was never again well. His weakness took the

shape of a cutaneous disease of the most irritating and

incurable form, and though he made one or two attempts at

re-commencing his usefulness, it was sadly in vain. He resided

secludedly in New-York during the latter years of his life,

giving to books and scholarship what mind he could withdraw

from pain, and, even thus, ready always with kindness and

delightful earnestness, to give counsel or sympathy to those he

loved. Mr. Dwight was a martyr to that great wrong of our

country toward all clergymen--to express it by a common saying,

"the working a free horse to death"--and we have only to look

at the pale faces, the stooping chests, and the slender frames

of most of our clerical men, to see how mind, patience,

attention, needful leisure and more needful sleep, are cruelly

overdrawn upon, by the service expected of them. But for his

share of suffering by this exacting system, Mr. Dwight might

have been, for years to come, the ornament and pride to his

country which his unequalled combination of fine gifts

qualified him to be; and we should not mourn, as we now do,

over his life embittered while it lasted, and sent to the grave

in what might have been its meridian of usefulness and

ornament."

* * * * *

COUNT BRANDENBURGH, the Prussian Prime Minister, died on the 6th

November at Berlin. He was a natural brother of the late King of

Prussia, being the illegitimate son of the present King's grandfather,

by the Countess Doenhoff Frederichstein, and was acknowledged, educated,

and admitted as such, by the Prussian Royal family, by whom he was

invariably treated as a friend and relative, although not with royal

honors. He was born on the 23d of January, 1792, and had nearly

completed his 59th year. He was educated for the military profession and

entered the service in 1807; his promotion continued regularly, and in

1812 he was a captain on the staff of General Von York, under whom he

saw some service. In 1813 he became major, and in that rank took part in

the numerous actions between the Prussian and the French armies,

including the battles of Leipsic, and Bautzen, Brienne, Laon, and Paris.

At the passage of the Rhine at Caub, Count Brandenburgh was the first

who reached the French bank. For his good conduct at Mokern and

Wartenburg, he received the Iron Cross of the first class. In 1814 he

was made lieutenant-colonel. In 1816 he received the command of the

regiment in which he first entered the service. From 1816 to 1846 he

received various promotions, charges, and decorations. In 1848 he was

made general in command of the 8th army corps. Up to this time he had

taken no part in politics. The London _Times_ says:

"It was in the midst of those scenes of anarchy and violence

which, about two years ago, had shaken the Prussian monarchy to

its foundations--when a furious Assembly, beleaguered and

intimidated by a more furious mob, had usurped sovereign power

in the capital, and a democratic constitution was all but

grafted on the military throne of Frederic the Great,--that we

remember to have exclaimed, in the wonder and the dread of that

terrible period, "Will no one save the house of Hohenzollern?"

The state seemed to be on the brink of a cataract, and even the

leaders of the popular movement were ignorant of the dark and

stormy course before them. At that moment, it was announced one

morning, to the amazement of the Prussians and of Europe, that

an elderly gentleman, who had never taken any active part in

politics, but had lived in the most exclusive circles of the

aristocracy, and the Prussian Guards, was about to enter on the

task which the boldest men had found beyond their courage, and

the ablest beyond their capacity. But though he laid small

claim to skill in political tactics, or experience in the

administration of affairs, Count Brandenburgh brought to the

service of his sovereign precisely those plain qualities which

no one else appeared to possess. He had sense, he had firmness,

he absolutely contemned the storm of unpopularity which greeted

his appointment, and he proceeded to conduct the Government

with full confidence that, although his countrymen were

peculiarly subject to fits of enthusiasm, they respect nothing

so much in the long run as a clear will and definite authority.

After about fifteen months the citizens of Berlin hailed Count

Brandenburgh as the saviour of his country."

* * * * *

GEORGE GRENVILLE, LORD NUGENT, died on the 26th of November at Lillies,

near Aylesbury, aged sixty-one. He was the second son of the Marquis of

Rockingham, and inherited the Irish Barony of Nugent, on the death of

his mother, in 1812. During the same year he was elected M. P. for

Aylesbury, and continued to represent that borough on the Liberal

interest, until 1832, when he was appointed Lord High Commissioner of

the Ionian Isles. He held that office until 1836, when he returned to

England. In 1847 he was re-elected for Aylesbury. He enjoyed a very fair

literary reputation. He was the author of "Lands, Classical and Sacred,"

"Memorials of Hampden," and other interesting productions. In

conjunction with Lady Nugent, he also brought out the popular "Legends

of the Library at Lillies."

* * * * *

M. ALEXANDRE FRAGONARD, the eminent French painter and sculptor, died in

October. He was a pupil of David. As a statuary, his great work is the

frontispiece of the old Chamber of Deputies; and, as a painter, he

executed several fine pieces, amongst others a ceiling of the Louvre,

representing Tasso reading his "Jerusalem." His chief works were

engraved in 1840.

* * * * *

M. JOSEPH DROZ, a member of the French Institute, died in Paris in

November. The youth of M. Droz was devoted to stormier occupations than

that in which he gathered the laurels now laid upon his grave. For three

years he was a soldier:--for upwards of fifty he has been devoted to

letters and to philosophy. His last escort was composed of the men who

had been his comrades in that latter field,--and over his grave MM.

Guizot and Bartholemy Saint-Hilaire, pronounced eulogies.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR SCHORN, died in Augsburgh on the 7th of October, at the

premature age of forty-seven years. In the formation of the Munich

Gallery, he was the most trusted and active emissary, and traversed

considerable portions of Europe, including England and Italy, in search

of those treasures which now enrich this famous gallery. When in London,

his companion was Von Martins, the eminent Brazilian traveller and

naturalist.

* * * * *

GUSTAVE SCHWAB, one of the most popular poets of Germany, died at

Stuttgart on the 4th of November, aged fifty-eight. Schwab was the

friend of Uhland. His death was very sudden. On the morning of the day

on which he was summoned, he had entertained a party of his friends at

breakfast, and read to them passages of a translation into German verse,

which he was making of the poetical works of M. de Lamartine.

Spirit of the English Annuals.

NEW TALES BY THACKERAY, BULWER, MRS. HALL, &c.

The holiday souvenirs for the present season are less numerous in

England, as in this country, than in some previous years; but the

_Keepsake_, edited formerly by Lady Blessington, and now by her niece,

Miss Power, is among the few favorite annuals that are continued, and it

is as good as in its best days. We quote several of its chief

attractions, and first

VOLTIGUER:

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE "HISTORY OF PENDENNIS."

There arose out of the last Epsom races a little family perplexity,

whereon the owner of Voltiguer little speculated: and as out of this

apparently trivial circumstance a profound and useful moral may be

drawn, to be applied by the polite reader; and as Epsom Races will

infallibly happen next year, and, I dare say, for many succeeding

generations; perhaps the moral which this brief story points had better

be printed upon Dorling's next "Correct Card," as a warning to future

patrons and patronesses of the turf.

This moral, then--this text of our sermon, is, NEVER----but we will keep

the moral, if you please, for the end of the fable.

It happened, then, that among the parties who were collected on the Hill

to see the race, the carriage of a gentleman, whom we shall call Sir

Joseph Raikes, occupied a commanding position, and attracted a great

deal of attention amongst the gentlemen sportsmen. Those bucks upon the

ground who were not acquainted with the fair occupant of that

carriage--as indeed, how should many thousands of them be?--some being

shabby bucks; some being vulgar bucks; some being hot and unpleasant

bucks, smoking bad cigars, and only staring into Lady Raikes's carriage

by that right which allows one Briton to look at another Briton, and a

cat to look at a king;--of those bucks, I say, who, not knowing Lady

Raikes, yet came and looked at her, there was scarce one that did not

admire her, and envy the lucky rogue her husband. Of those ladies who,

in their walks from their own vehicles, passed her ladyship's, there was

scarce one lady in society who did not say, "is that all?--is that the

beauty you are all talking about so much? She is overrated; she looks

stupid; she is over-dressed; she squints;" and so forth; whilst of the

men who _did_ happen to have the honor of an acquaintance with Lady

Raikes and her husband (and many a man, who had thought Raikes rather

stupid in his bachelor days, was glad enough to know him now), each as

he came to the carriage, and partook of the excellent luncheon provided

there, had the most fascinating grins and ogles for the lady, and the

most triumphant glances for all the rest of the world,--glances which

seemed to say, "Look, you rascals, I know Lady Raikes; you don't know

Lady Raikes. I can drink a glass of champagne to Lady Raikes's health.

What would you give, you dog, to have such a sweet smile from Lady

Raikes? Did you ever see such eyes? did you ever see such a complexion?

did you ever see such a killing pink dress, and such a dear little

delightfully carved ivory parasol?"--Raikes had it carved for her last

year at Baden, when they were on their wedding-trip. It has their coats

of arms and their ciphers intertwined elegantly round the stalk--a J and

a Z; her name is Zuleika; before she was married she was Zuleika

Trotter. Her elder sister, Medora, married Lord T--mn--ddy; her younger,

Haidee, is engaged to the eldest son of the second son of a noble D-ke.

The Trotters are of a good family. Dolly Trotter, Zuleika's brother, was

in the same regiment (and that, I need not say, an extremely heavy one)

with Sir Joseph Raikes.

He did not call himself Joseph then: quite the contrary. Larkyn Raikes,

before his marriage, was one of the wildest and most irregular of our

British youth. Let us not allude--he would blush to hear them--to the

particulars of his past career. He turned away his servant for screwing

up one of the knockers which he had removed during the period of his own

bachelorhood, from an eminent physician's house in Saville Row, on the

housekeeper's door at Larkyn Hall. There are whole hampers of those

knockers stowed away somewhere, and snuff-taking Highlanders, and tin

hats, and black boys,--the trophies of his youth, which Raikes would

like to send back to their owners, did he know them; and when he carried

off these spoils of war he was not always likely to know. When he goes

to the Bayonet and Anchor Club now (and he dined there twice during Lady

Raikes's ... in fine, when there was no dinner at home), the butler

brings him a half-pint of sherry and a large bottle of Seltzer water,

and looks at him with a sigh, and wonders--"Is this Captain Raikes, as

used to breakfast off pale hale at three, to take his regular two

bottles at dinner, and to drink brandy and water in the smoking

billiard-room all night till all was blue?" Yes, it is the same Raikes;

Larkyn no more--riotous no more--brandivorous no longer. He gave away

all his cigars at his marriage; quite unlike Screwby, who also married

the other day, and offered to _sell_ me some. He has not betted at a

race since his father paid his debts and forgave him, just before the

old gentleman died and Raikes came into his kingdom. Upon that

accession, Zuleika Trotter, who looked rather sweetly upon Bob Vincent

before, was so much touched by Sir Joseph Raikes's determination to

reform, that she dismissed Bob and became Lady Raikes.

Dolly Trotter still remains in the Paddington Dragoons; Dolly is still

unmarried; Dolly smokes still; Dolly owes money still. And though his

venerable father, Rear-admiral Sir Ajax Trotter, K.C.B., has paid his

debts many times, and swears if he ever hears of Dolly betting again, he

will disinherit his son, Dolly--the undutiful Dolly--goes on betting

still.

Lady Raikes, then, beamed in the pride of her beauty upon Epsom

race-course, dispensed smiles and luncheon to a host of acquaintances,

and accepted, in return, all the homage and compliments which the young

men paid her. The hearty and jovial Sir Joseph Raikes was not the least

jealous of the admiration which his pretty wife caused; not even of Bob

Vincent, whom he rather pitied for his mishap, poor fellow! (to be sure,

Zuleika spoke of Vincent very scornfully, and treated his pretensions as

absurd); and with whom, meeting him on the course, Raikes shook hands

very cordially, and insisted upon bringing him up to Lady Raikes's

carriage, to take refreshment.

There _could_ have been no foundation for the wicked rumor, that Zuleika

had looked sweetly upon Vincent before Raikes had carried her off. Lady

Raikes received Mr. Vincent with the kindest and frankest smile; shook

hands with him with perfect politeness and indifference, and laughed and

talked so easily with him, that it was impossible there could have been

any previous discomfort between them.

Not very far off from Lady Raikes's carriage, on the hill, there stood a

little black brougham--the quietest and most modest equipage in the

world, and in which there must have been nevertheless something very

attractive, for the young men crowded around this carriage in numbers;

and especially that young reprobate Dolly Trotter was to be seen,

constantly leaning his great elbows on the window, and poking his head

into the carriage. Lady Raikes remarked that, among other gentlemen, her

husband went up and spoke to the little carriage, and when he and Dolly

came back to her, asked who was in the black brougham.

For some time Raikes could not understand which was the brougham she

meant--there was so many broughams. "The black one with the red blinds

was it? Oh, that--that was a very old friend--yes, old Lord Cripplegate,

was in the brougham: he had the gout, and he couldn't walk."

As Raikes made this statement he blushed as red as a geranium; he looked

at Dolly Trotter in an imploring manner, who looked at him, and who

presently went away from his sister's carriage bursting with laughter.

After making the above statement to his wife, Raikes was particularly

polite and attentive to her, and did not leave her side; nor would he

consent to her leaving the carriage. There were all sorts of vulgar

people about: she would be jostled in the crowd: she could not bear the

smell of the cigars--she knew she couldn't (this made Lady Raikes wince

a little): the sticks might knock her darling head off; and so forth.

Raikes is a very accomplished and athletic man, and, as a bachelor,

justly prided himself upon shying at the sticks better than any man in

the army. Perhaps, as he passed the persons engaged in that fascinating

sport, he would have himself liked to join in it; but he declined his

favorite entertainment, and came back faithfully to the side of his

wife.

As Vincent talked at Lady Raikes's side, he alluded to this

accomplishment of her husband. "Your husband has not many

accomplishments," Vincent said (he is a man of rather a sardonic humor),

"but in shying at the sticks he is quite unequalled: he has quite a

genius for it. He ought to have the sticks painted on his carriage, as

the French marshals have their batons. Hasn't he brought you a

pincushion or a jack-in-the-box, Lady Raikes? and has he begun to

neglect you so soon? Every father with a little boy at home" (and he

congratulated her ladyship on the birth of that son and heir) "ought

surely to think of him, and bring him a soldier, or a monkey, or a toy

or two."

"Oh, yes," cried Lady Raikes, "her husband must go. He must go and bring

back a soldier, or a monkey, or a dear little jack-in-the-box, for dear

little Dolly at home."

So away Raikes went; indeed nothing loth. He warmed with the noble

sport: he was one of the finest players in England. He went on playing

for a delightful half-hour; (how swiftly, in the blessed amusement, it

passed away!) he reduced several of the sticksters to bankruptcy by his

baculine skill; he returned to the carriage laden with jacks, wooden

apples and soldiers, enough to amuse all the nurseries in Pimlico.

During his absence Lady Raikes, in the most winning manner, had asked

Mr. Vincent for his arm, for a little walk; and did not notice the sneer

with which he said that his arm had always been at her service. She was

not jostled by the crowd inconveniently; she was not offended by the

people smoking (though Raikes was forbidden that amusement); and she

walked up on Mr. Vincent's arm, and somehow found herself close to the

little black brougham, in which sat gouty old Lord Cripplegate.

Gouty old Lord Cripplegate wore a light blue silk dress, a lace mantle

and other gimcracks, a white bonnet with roses, and ringlets as long as

a chancellor's wig, but of the most beautiful black hue. His lordship

had a pair of enormous eyes, that languished in a most killing manner;

and cheeks that were decorated with delicate dimples; and lips of the

color of the richest sealing-wax.

"Who's that?" asked Lady Raikes.

"That," said Mr. Vincent, "is Mrs. Somerset Montmorency."

"Who's Mrs. Somerset Montmorency?" hissed out Zuleika.

"It is possible you have not met her in society, Mrs. Somerset

Montmorency doesn't go much into society," Mr. Vincent said.

"Why did he say it was Lord Cripplegate?"

Vincent, like a fiend, burst out laughing.

"Did Raikes say it was Lord Cripplegate? Well, he ought to know."

"What ought he to know?" asked Zuleika.

"Excuse me, Lady Raikes," said the other, with his constant sneer;

"there are things which people had best not know. There are things which

people had best forget, as your ladyship very well knows. You forget;

why shouldn't Raikes forget? Let by-gones be by-gones. Let's all forget,

Zulei--I beg your pardon. Here comes Raikes. How hot he looks! He has

got a hat full of jack-in-the-boxes. How obedient he has been! He will

not set the Thames on fire--but he's a good fellow. Yes; we'll forget

all: won't we?" And the fiend pulled the tuft under his chin, and gave a

diabolical grin with his sallow face.

Zuleika did not say one word about Lord Cripplegate when Raikes found

her and flung his treasures into her lap. She did not show her anger in

words, but in an ominous, boding silence; during which her eyes might be

seen moving constantly to the little black brougham.

When the Derby was run, and Voltigeur was announced as the winner, Sir

Joseph, who saw the race from the box of his carriage--having his arm

around her ladyship, who stood on the back seat, and thought all men the

greatest hypocrites in creation (and so a man _is_ the greatest

hypocrite of all animals, save one)--Raikes jumped up and gave a

"Hurrah!" which he suddenly checked when his wife asked, with a

deathlike calmness, "And pray, sir, have you been betting upon the race,

that you are so excited?"

"Oh no, my love; of course not. But you know it's a Yorkshire horse, and

I--I'm glad it wins; that's all," Raikes said; in which statement there

was not, I am sorry to say, a word of truth.

Raikes wasn't a betting man any more. He had forsworn it: he would never

bet again. But he had just, in the course of the day, taken the odds in

_one_ little bet; and he had just happened to win. When his wife charged

him with the crime, he was about to avow it. "But no," he thought; "it

will be a surprise for her. I will buy her the necklace she scolded me

about at Lacy and Gimcrack's; it's just the sum. She has been sulky all

day. It's about that she is sulky now. I'll go and have another shy at

the sticks." And he went away, delighting himself with this notion, and

with the idea that at last he could satisfy his adorable little Zuleika.

As Raikes passed Mrs. Somerset Montmorency's brougham, Zuleika remarked

how that lady beckoned to him, and how Raikes went up to her. Though he

did not remain by the carriage two minutes, Zuleika was ready to take an

affidavit that he was there for half an hour; and was saluted by a

satanical grin from Vincent, who by this time had returned to her

carriage side, and was humming a French tune, which says that "_on

revient toujours a ses premi-e-res amours, a se-es premieres amours_."

"What is that you are singing? How dare you sing that?" cried Lady

Raikes, with tears.

"It's an old song--you used to sing it," said Mr. Vincent. "By the way,

I congratulate you. Your husband has won six hundred pounds. I heard

Betterton say so, who gave him the odds."

"He is a wretch! He gave me his word of honor that he didn't bet. He is

a gambler--he'll ruin his child! He neglects his wife for that--that

creature! He calls her Lord Crick--crick--ipplegate," sobbed her

ladyship, "Why did I marry him?"

"Why, indeed!" said Mr. Vincent.

As the two were talking, Dolly Trotter, her ladyship's brother, came up

to the carriage; at which, with a scowl on his wicked countenance, and

indulging inwardly in language which I am very glad not to be called

upon to report, Vincent retired, biting his nails, like a traitor, and

exhibiting every sign of ill-humor which the villain of a novel or of a

play is wont to betray.

"Don't have that fellow about you, Zuly," Dolly said to his darling

sister. "He is a bad one. He's no principle: he--he's a gambler, and

every thing that's bad."

"I know others who are gamblers," cried out Zuleika. "I know others who

are every thing that's bad, Adolphus," Lady Raikes exclaimed.

"For heaven's sake, what do you mean?" said Adolphus, becoming red and

looking very much frightened.

"I mean my husband," gasped the lady. "I shall go home to papa. I shall

take my dear little blessed babe with me and go to papa, Adolphus. And

if you had the spirit of a man, you would--you would avenge me, that you

would."

"Against Joe!" said the heavy dragoon; "against Joe, Zuly? Why, hang me

if Joe isn't the greatest twump in Chwistendom. By Jove he is!" said the

big one, shaking his fist; "and if that scoundwel, Vincent, or any other

wascal, has said a word against him, by Jove--"

"Pray stop your horrid oaths and vulgar threats, Adolphus," her ladyship

said.

"I don't know what it is--you've got something against Joe. Something

has put you against him; and if it's Vincent, I'll wring his--"

"Mercy! mercy! Pray cease this language." Lady Raikes said.

"You don't know what a good fellow Joe is," said the dragoon. "The best

twump in England, as _I've_ weason to say, sister: and here he comes

with the horses. God bless the old boy!"

With this, honest Sir Joseph Raikes took his seat in his carriage; and

tried, by artless blandishments, by humility, and by simple

conversation, to coax his wife into good humor; but all his efforts were

unavailing. She would not speak a word during the journey to London; and

when she reached home, rushed up to the nursery and instantly burst into

tears upon the sleeping little Adolphus's pink and lace cradle.

"It's all about that necklace, Mrs. Prince," the good-natured Baronet

explained to the nurse of the son and heir. "I know it's about the

necklace. She rowed me about it all the way down to Epsom; and I can't

give it her now, that's flat. I've _no_ money. I _won't_ go tick, that's

flat; and she ought to be contented with what she has had; oughtn't she,

Prince?"

"Indeed she ought, Sir Joseph; and you're an angel of a man, Sir Joseph;

and so I often tell my lady, Sir Joseph," the nurse said: "and the more

you will spile her, the more she will take on, Sir Joseph."

But if Lady Raikes was angry at not having the necklace, what must have

been her ladyship's feelings when she saw in the box opposite to her at

the Opera, Mrs. Somerset Montmorency, with that very necklace on her

shoulders for which she had pined in vain! How she got it? Who gave it

her? How she came by the money to buy such a trinket? How she dared to

drive about at all in the Park, the audacious wretch! All these were

questions which the infuriate Zuleika put to herself, her confidential

maid, her child's nurse, and two or three of her particular friends; and

of course she determined that there was but one clue to the mystery of

the necklace, which was that her husband had purchased it with the six

hundred pounds which he had won at the Derby, which he denied having won

even to her, which he had spent in this shameful manner. Nothing would

suit her but a return home to her papa--nothing would satisfy her but a

separation from the criminal who had betrayed her. She wept floods of

tears over her neglected boy, and repeatedly asked that as yet

speechless innocent, whether he would remember his mother when her place

was filled by another, and whether her little Adolphus would take care

that no insult was offered to her untimely grave?

The row at home at length grew so unbearable, that Sir Joseph Raikes,

who had never had an explanation since his marriage, and had given into

all his wife's caprices--that Sir Joseph, we say, even with his 'eavenly

temper, he broke out into a passion; and one day after dinner, at which

only his brother-in-law Dolly was present, told his wife that her

tyranny was intolerable, and that it must come to an end.

Dolly said he was "quite wight," and backed up Raikes in every way.

Zuleika said they were a pair of brutes, and that she desired to return

to Sir Ajax.

"Why, what the devil is urging you?" cried the husband; "you drive me

mad, Zuleika."

"Yes; what are you at, Zuleika? You dwive him cwazy," said the brother.

Upon which Zuleika broke out. She briefly stated that her husband was a

liar; that he was a gambler; that he had deceived her about betting at

Epsom, and had given his word to a lie; that he had deceived her about

that--that woman,--and given his word to another lie; and that, with the

fruits of his gambling transactions at Epsom, he had purchased the

diamond necklace, not for her, but for that--that person! That was

all--that was enough. Let her go home and die in Baker Street, in the

room which, she prayed Heaven, she never had quitted! That was her

charge. If Sir Joseph Raikes had any thing to say he had better say it.

Sir Joseph Raikes said, that she had the most confounded jealous temper

that ever a woman was cursed with; that he had been on his knees to her

ever since his marriage, and had spent half his income in administering

to her caprices and extravagancies; that as for these charges, they were

so monstrous, he should not condescend to answer them; and as she chose

to leave her husband and her child, she might go whenever she liked.

Lady Raikes upon this rang the bell, and requested Hickson the butler to

tell Dickson her maid to bring down her bonnet and shawl; and when

Hickson quitted the dining-room, Dolly Trotter began:

"Zuleika," said he, "you are enough to twy the patience of an angel;

and, by Jove, you do! You've got the best fellow for a husband (a sneer

from Zuleika) that ever was bullied by a woman, and you tweat him like a

dawg. When you were ill, you used to make him get up of a night to go to

the doctor's. When you're well, you plague his life out of him. He pays

your milliner's bills, as if you were a duchess, and you have but to ask

for a thing and you get it."

"Oh, yes, I have necklaces!" said Zuleika.

"Confound you, Zuly! had'nt he paid three hundwed and eighty for a new

cawwiage for you the week before? Hadn't he fitted your dwawing-woom

with yellow satin at the beginning of the season? Hadn't he bought you

the pair of ponies you wanted, and gone without a hack himself, and he

gettin' as fat as a porpoise for want of exercise, the poor old boy? And

for that necklace, do you know how it was that you didn't have it, and

that you were very nearly having it, you ungwateful little devil you? It

was _I_ prevented you! He _did_ win six hundwed at the Derby; and he

would have bought your necklace, but he gave me the money. The governor

said he never would pay another play-debt again for me; and bet I would,

like a confounded, gweat, stooped fool: and it was this old Joe--this

dear old twump--who booked up for me, and took me out of the hole, like

the best fellow in the whole world, by Jove! And--and I'll never bet

again, so help me----! And that's why he couldn't tell--and that's why

he wouldn't split on me--and that's why you didn't have your confounded

necklace, which old Cwipplegate bought for Mrs. Montmowency, who's going

to marry her, like a confounded fool for his pains!"

And here the dragoon being blown, took a large glass of claret; and when

Hickson and Dickson came down stairs, they found her ladyship in rather

a theatrical attitude, on her knees, embracing her husband's big hand,

and calling down blessings upon him, and owning that she was a wretch, a

monster, and a fiend.

She was only a jealous, little spoiled fool of a woman; and I am sure

those who read her history have never met with her like, or have ever

plagued their husbands. Certainly they have not, if they are not

married: as, let us hope, they will be.

As for Vincent, he persists in saying that the defence is a fib from

beginning to end, and that the Trotters were agreed to deceive Lady

Raikes. But who hasn't had his best actions misinterpreted by calumny?

And what innocence or good will can disarm jealousy?

* * * * *

Very different from THACKARAY is the genial Mrs. S. C. HALL, from whom

we have

EDWARD LAYTON'S REWARD.

"I could not have believed it!" exclaimed Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. "I could

not have believed it!" she repeated, over and over again; and she fell

into a fit of abstraction.

Her husband, who had been glancing wearily over a magazine, turning leaf

after leaf without reading, or perhaps seeing even the heading of a

page, at length said, "I could!"

"You have large faith, my dear," observed the lady.

"Fortunately for Selina, I had no faith in him," was the reply.

Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw was not an eloquent person; she never troubled her

husband or any one else with many words; so she only murmured, in a

subdued tone, "Fortunately, indeed!"

"What a fellow he was!" said Mr. P. Bradshaw, as he closed the magazine.

"Do you remember how delighted you were with him the evening of the

_tableaux_ at Lady Westrophe's? There was something so elegant and

dignified in his bearing; so much ease and grace of manner; his address

was perfect--the confidence of a well-bred gentleman, subdued almost,

but not quite, into softness by the timidity of youth. This was thrown

into strong relief by the manners of the young men of the family, whose

habits and voices might have entitled them to take the lead, even now,

in the go-a-head school, which then was hardly in existence--at all

events in England."

"You were quite as much taken with him as I was."

"No, my dear, not _quite_. Edward Layton was especially suited for the

society of ladies. His tastes and feelings are--or _were_ at that

time--all sincerely refined; he was full of the impulse of talent, which

he never had strength to bring forth: his thoughts were ever wandering,

and he needed perpetual excitement, particularly the excitement of

beauty and music, to bring them and keep them where he _was_. He was

strongly and strangely moved by excellence of any kind, so that it _was_

excellence; and the only thing I ever heard him express contempt for was

wealth!--yes wealth!"

"I could not have believed it," said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw again.

"That particular night it was whispered he was engaged to Lelia Medwin.

When she sung, he stood like a young Apollo at her harp, too entranced

to turn over the leaves of music, his eyes overflowing with delight, and

the poor little girl so bewitched by his attentions that she fancied

every whisper a declaration of love."

"Shameful!" said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"Then her mother showed every one what a lovely sketch he had made of

Lelia's head, adding, that indeed it was too lovely; but then, he was a

_partial_ judge."

"She was a silly woman," observed the lady.

"She would not have been considered so if they had been married,"

replied the gentleman. "Mammas have no mercy on each other in those

delicate manoeuvrings. Well, he waltzed with her always; and bent over

her--willow-fashion; looked with her at the moon; and wrote a sonnet

which she took to herself, for it was addressed 'To mine own dear ----;'

and then when, about eight weeks afterwards, we met him at the

_dejeuner_ at Sally Lodge, he was as entranced with Lizzie Grey's guitar

as he had been with Lelia's harp, sketched her little tiger head for her

grandmamma, waltzed with _her_, bent over _her_ willow-fashion, looked

with her at the moon, and wrote another sonnet, addressed 'To the loved

one.'"

"Such men----" exclaimed Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw. She did not finish the

sentence, but looked as if such men ought to be exterminated. And so

they ought!

"There was so much about him that I liked: his fine talents, good

manners, excellent position in society, added to his good nature,

and----"

"Good fortune," added Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"No, Mary," said her husband, quietly, "I never was a _mammon

worshipper_. This occurred, if you remember, before the yellow

pestilence had so completely subverted London, that the very aristocracy

knelt and worshipped the golden calf; and no blame to the calf to

_receive_ the homage, whatever we may say of those who paid it.

"I did not mean _that_ as a reproof, Pierce," replied his wife, most

truly. "_I_ think it quite natural to like young men of fortune--we

could not get on without them, you know; and it would be very

imprudent--very imprudent, indeed--to invite any young man, however

excellent. When we want to get these young girls, our poor nieces, off,

I declare it is quite melancholy. Jane is becoming _serious_ since she

has grown so thin; and I fear the men will think Belle a blue, she has

so taken to the British Museum. Oh, how I wish people would live, and

bring up, and get off their own daughters! Four marriageable nieces,

with such farthing fortunes, are enough to drive any poor aunt

distracted!"

This was the longest speech Mrs. Bradshaw ever made in her life, and she

sighed deeply at its conclusion.

"You may well sigh!" laughed the gentleman; "for the case seems

hopeless. But I was going to say, that as I knew him better, I was

really going to take the young gentleman a little to task on the score

of his philandering. Lelia was really attached to him, and had refused a

very advantageous offer for his sake; but the very next week, at another

house, I found him enchained by a sparkling widow--correcting her

drawings, paying the homage of intelligent silence and sweet smiles to

her wit, leaning his white-gloved hand upon her chair, and looking in

her eyes with his most bewitching softness. The extent of this

flirtation no one could anticipate; but the sudden appearance of Lady

Di' Johnson effected a total change. She drove four-in-hand, and was a

dead shot--the very antipodes of sentiment. We said her laugh would

drive Edward Layton distracted, and her _cigarette_ be his death. But,

no! the magnificence of her tomboyism caught his fancy. He enshrined her

at once as Diana, bayed the moon with hunting-songs, wrote a sonnet to

the chase, and then, with his own hands, twisted it into a _cigarette_,

with which her ladyship puffed it to the winds of heaven, while

wandering with the Lothario amid a grove of fragrant limes. The miracle

was, that at breakfast the next morning Lady Di' was subdued, voted

driving unfeminine, and asked Edward to take the reins for her after

lunch. You remember we left them there; and I next met him at Killarney,

giving his chestnut locks to the breeze, his arm to the oar, and his

eyes to a lady of blue-stocking celebrity, who, never having had many

lovers, was inclined to make the most of the present one. Circumstances

rendered me acquainted with some facts relating to his 'flirtations,' if

his soft and sentimental ways could be called by such a name. I had seen

poor Lelia at Baden-Baden; and I dare say you can recall what we heard

of another love of his nearer home. Well, I encountered my Hero of

Ladies that very evening, wandering amid the ruined aisles of Mucross

Abbey. I saw that his impressible nature had taken a thoughtful, if not

a religious tone, from the scene. And he commenced the conversation by

declaring, that 'He was a great fool.'"

"Knave, rather," said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"No," replied her husband; "not a knave, but a singular example of a man

whose feelings and susceptibilities never deepen into

affection--unstable as water--tossed hither and thither for want of

fixed principles, and suffering intensely in his better moods from the

knowledge of the weakness he has not the courage to overcome. I was not

inclined to let him spare himself, and did not contradict his opinion

that he was a 'fool,' but told him he might be what he pleased himself,

as long as he did not make fools of others."

"'I tell every woman I know that I am not a marrying man,' he replied.

"'That,' I said, 'does not signify as long as you act the lover, each

fair one believing you will revoke in her favor.'

"'I give you my honor,' he exclaimed, 'as a man and a gentleman, I never

entertained for twenty-four hours the idea of marrying any woman I ever

knew.'"

"The villain!" exclaimed the lady. "I hope, Pierce, you told him he was

a villain!"

"No; because I knew the uncertainty of his disposition: but I lectured

him fully and honestly, and yet said nothing to him so severe as what he

said of himself. I told him he would certainly be caught in the end by

some unworthy person, and then he would look back with regret and misery

upon the chances he had lost, and the unhappiness he had caused to those

whose only faults had been in believing him true when he was false."

"'Better that,' he answered, 'than marrying when he could not make up

his mind.'

"'Then why play the lover?'

"'He only did so while infatuated--he was certain to find faults where

he imagined perfection.'"

"What assurance!" said Mrs. Pierce Bradshaw.

"'I am sure,' I said, 'Lelia was very charming. Lelia Medwin was an

excellent, amiable little creature, with both good temper and good

sense.'

"'That was it,' he said: 'only fancy the six-foot-one-and-three-quarters

wedded to bare five feet! The absurdity struck me one night as we were

waltzing and whirling past a looking-glass; I was obliged to bend

double, though I never felt it till I saw it.'"

"Really, I have not patience," observed Mrs. Bradshaw. "And so her

feelings were to be trampled upon because she was not tall enough to

please _him_! Why did he not think of that before?"

"'But there was Lizzy Grey, related to half the aristocracy, with a

voice like an angel.'

"'A vixen,' he said, 'though of exquisite beauty--could have torn my

eyes out for the little attention I paid Mrs. Green.'

"'_Little attention!_' I repeated; 'more than little.'

"'Her wit was delicious,' he replied; 'but she was a widow! Only fancy

the horror of being compared with 'My dear first husband!'

"'Then your conquest of Lady Di' Johnson! How badly you behaved to her!'

"'She was magnificent on horseback; and her _cigarette_ as fascinating

as the fan of a Madrid belle, or the _tournure_ of a Parisian lady. They

were her _two points_. But when she relinquished both, I believe in

compliment to _me_, she became even more commonplace than the most

commonplace woman.'"

"The puppy!" muttered the lady: "the dreadful puppy! I could not have

believed it!"

Mr. Bradshaw did not heed the interruption, but continued:

"'And who,' I inquired, 'was the Lady of the Lake? I do not mean of

_this lake_, for I see her reign is already over--your passion expired

with the third chapter of her novel, which I know she read to you by

moonlight--but the fair Lady of Geneva, whose betrothed called you out?'

"'Her father was a sugar-boiler,' was the quiet reply: 'a sugar-boiler,

or something of the kind. What would my aristocratic mother say to that?

Of course I could have had no serious intention _there_. Indeed I never

_had_ a serious intention for a whole week.'

"'But, my dear fellow, when presents are given, and letters written, and

locks of hair and vows exchanged----'

"'No, no!' he exclaimed; '_no_ vows exchanged! I never broke my word to

a woman yet. It was admiration for this or that--respect, esteem,

perhaps a tender bewilderment--mere _brotherly_ love. And in that

particular instance her intended got angry at my civility. I know I was

wrong; and, to confess the truth, I am ashamed of that transaction--it

taught me a lesson; and, but for the confounded vacillation of my taste

and temper, I might perhaps have been a Benedick before this. You may

think it puppyism, if you please; but I am really sorry when I make an

impression, and resolve never to attempt it again: but the next fine

voice, or fine eyes----'

"'Or cigarette,' I suggested; and then I said as much as one man can say

to another, for you know a woman can say much more to a man in the way

of reproof than he would bear from his own sex; but he silenced me very

quickly by regrets and good resolutions. It was after that our little

niece, Selina, made an impression upon him."

"I did not know all you have now told me," expostulated his wife. "I own

I thought it would have been a good match for Selina; and he was

evidently deeply smitten before he knew she was your niece. I managed it

beautifully; but you cut the matter short by offending him."

"There, say no more about it," said the sensible husband; "you thought

your blue-eyed, fair-haired, doll-like favorite, could have enchained a

man who had escaped heart-whole from the toils of the richest and rarest

in the land. It really is fearful to see how women not only tolerate,

but pursue this sort of men. You call them 'villains,' and I know not

what, when you are foiled; but if you succeed, you temper it; they have

been a little wild, to be sure--but then, and then, and then--you really

could not refuse your daughter; and add, "Men _are_ such creatures that

if the world knew but all, _he_ is not worse than others."

"For shame, Pierce! how can you?" said the lady.

"I told him then," continued Mr. Bradshaw, "that he would take '_the

crooked stick at last_;' but that he should not add a tress of Selina's

hair to his collection, to be turned over by _his_ WIFE one of those

days. Of course he was very indignant, and we parted; but I did not

think my prophecy would come true so soon. I have long since given up

speculating how marriages will turn out, for it is quite impossible to

tell. If women could be shut up in a harem, as in the East, a man who

was ashamed of his wife might go into society without her; but for a

refined and well-educated gentleman, as Edward Layton certainly is, to

be united to the _widow_ of a sugar-boiler!--yes, absolutely!--who is an

inch shorter than pretty Lelia and more tiger-headed than Lizzy Grey,

and who declares she hates music, although her dear first husband took

her _h_often to the Hopera--who adds deformity to shortness, talks

loudly of the _h_influence of wealth, and compares the presentations at

the Mansion House, that she has seen, to those at St. James's which she

has not yet seen! Verily, Edward Layton has had _his reward_!"

* * * * *

BULWER LYTTON contributes to the "Keepsake" an essay, characteristic of

his earlier rather than of his later style:

THE CONFIRMED VALETUDINARIAN.

Certainly there is truth in the French saying, that there is no ill

without something of good. What state more pitiable to the eye of a man

of robust health than that of the Confirmed Valetudinarian? Indeed,

there is no one who has a more profound pity for himself than your

Valetudinarian; and yet he enjoys two of the most essential requisites

for a happy life; he is never without an object of interest, and he is

perpetually in pursuit of hope.

Our friend Sir George Malsain is a notable case in point: young, well

born, rich, not ill educated, and with some ability, they who knew him

formerly, in what were called his "gay days," were accustomed to call

him "lucky dog," and "enviable fellow." How shallow is the judgment of

mortals! Never was a poor man so bored--nothing interested him. His

constitution seemed so formed for longevity, and his condition so free

from care, that he was likely to have a long time before him:--it is

impossible to say how long that time seemed to him. Fortunately, from

some accidental cause or other, he woke one morning and found himself

ill; and, whether it was the fault of the doctor or himself I cannot

pretend to say, but he never got well again. His ailments became

chronic; he fell into a poor way. From that time life has assumed to him

a new aspect. Always occupied with himself, he is never bored. He may be

sick, sad, suffering, but he has found his object in existence--he lives

to be cured. His mind is fully occupied; his fancy eternally on the

wing. Formerly he had travelled much, but without any pleasure in

movement: he might as well have stayed at home. Now, when he travels, it

is for an end; it is delightful to witness the cheerful alertness with

which he sets about it. He is going down the Rhine;--for its scenery?

Pshaw! he never cared a button about scenery; but he has great hopes of

the waters at Kreuznach. He is going into Egypt;--to see the Pyramids?

Stuff! the climate on the Nile is so good for the mucous membrane! Set

him down at the dullest of dull places, and he himself is never dull.

The duller the place the better; his physician has the more time to

attend to him. When you meet him he smiles on you, and says, poor

fellow, "The doctor assures me that in two years I shall be quite set

up." He has said the same thing the last twenty years, and will say it

the day before his death!...

What a busy, anxious, fidgety creature Ned Worrell was? That iron frame

supported all the business of all society! Every man who wanted any

thing done, asked Ned Worrell to do it. And do it Ned Worrell did! You

remember how feelingly he was wont to sigh,--"Upon my life I'm a perfect

slave." But now Ned Worrell has snapped his chain; obstinate dyspepsia,

and a prolonged nervous debility, have delivered him from the carks and

cares of less privileged mortals. Not Ariel under the bough is more

exempt from humanity than Edward Worrell. He is enjoined to be kept in a

state of perfect repose, free from agitation, and hermetically shut out

from grief. His wife pays his bills, and he is only permitted to see his

banker's accounts when the balance in his favor is more than usually

cheerful. His eldest daughter, an intelligent young lady, reads his

letters, and only presents to him those which are calculated to make a

pleasing impression. Call now on your old friend, on a question of life

and death, to ask his advice, or request his interference--you may as

well call on King Cheops under the Great Pyramid. The whole houseguard

of tender females block the way.

"Mr. Worrell is not to be disturbed on any matter of business whatever,"

they will tell you. "But, my dear ma'am, he is trusted to my marriage

settlement; his signature is necessary to a transfer of my wife's

fortune from those cursed railway shares. To-morrow they will be down at

zero. We shall be ruined!"

"Mr. Worrell is in a sad, nervous way, and can't be disturbed, sir." And

the door is shut in your face!

It was after some such occurrence that I took into earnest consideration

a certain sentiment of Plato's, which I own I had till then considered

very inhuman; for that philosopher is far from being the tender and

sensitive gentleman generally believed in by lovers and young ladies.

Plato, in his "Republic," blames Herodicus (one of the teachers of that

great doctor Hippocrates) for showing to delicate, sickly persons, the

means whereby to prolong their valetudinary existence, as Herodicus

himself (naturally a very rickety fellow) had contrived to do. Plato

accuses this physician of having thereby inflicted a malignant and

wanton injury on those poor persons;--nay, not only an injury on them,

but on all society. "For," argues this stern, broad-shouldered Athenian,

"how can people be virtuous who are always thinking of their own

infirmities?" And therefore he opines, that if a sickly person cannot

wholly recover health and become robust, the sooner he dies the better

for himself and others! The wretch, too, might be base enough to marry,

and have children as ailing as their father, and so injure, _in

perpetuo_, the whole human race. Away with him!

But, upon cool and dispassionate reflection, it seemed to me, angry as I

was with Ned Worrell, that Plato stretched the point a little too far;

and certainly, in the present state of civilization, so sweeping a

condemnation of the sickly would go far towards depopulating Europe.

Celsus, for instance, classes amongst the delicate or sickly the greater

part of the inhabitants of towns, and nearly all literary folks

(_omnesque pene cupidi literarum_). And if we thus made away with the

denizens of the towns, it would be attended with a great many

inconveniencies as to shopping, &c., be decidedly injurious to house

property, and might greatly affect the state of the funds; while,

without literary folks, we should be very dull in our healthy

country-seats, deprived of newspapers, novels, and "The Keepsake."

Wherefore, on the whole, I think Herodicus was right; and that sickly

persons should not only be permitted but encouraged to live as long as

they can.

That proposition granted, if in this attempt to show that your confirmed

Valetudinarian is not so utterly miserable as he is held to be by those

who throw physic to the dogs--and that in some points he may be a

decided gainer by his physical sufferings--I have not wholly

failed--then I say, with the ingenious Author who devoted twenty years

to a work "On the Note of the Nightingale,"--"I have not lived in

vain!"

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[24]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from Page 44._

CHAPTER VI.

Reader, can you go back for twenty years? You do it every day. You say,

"Twenty years ago I was a boy--twenty years ago I was a youth--twenty

years ago I played at peg-top and at marbles--twenty years ago I

wooed--was loved--I sinned--I suffered!" What is there in twenty years

that should keep us from going back over them? You go on so fast, so

smoothly, so easily on the forward course--why not in retrogression? But

let me tell you: it makes a very great difference whether Hope or Memory

drives the coach.

But let us see what we can do. Twenty years before the period at which

the last chapter broke off, Philip Hastings, now a father of a girl of

fifteen, was a lad standing by the side of his brother's grave. Twenty

years ago Sir John Hastings was the living lord of these fine lands and

broad estates. Twenty years ago he passed, from the mouth of the vault

in which he had laid the clay of the first-born, into the open splendor

of the day, and felt sorrow's desolation in the sunshine. Twenty years

ago, he had been confronted on the church-yard path by a tall old woman,

and challenged with words high and stern, to do her right in regard to a

paltry rood or two of land. Twenty years ago he had given her a harsh,

cold answer, and treated her menaces with impatient scorn.

Do you remember her, reader? Well, if you do, that brings us to the

point I sought to reach in the dull flat expanse of the far past; and we

can stand and look around us for awhile.

That old woman was not one easily to forget or lightly to yield her

resentments. There was something perdurable in them as well as in her

gaunt, sinewy frame. As she stood there menacing him, she wanted but

three years of seventy. She had battled too with many a storm--wind and

weather, suffering and persecution, sorrow and privation, had beat upon

her hard--very hard. They had but served to stiffen and wither and

harden, however. Her corporeal frame, shattered as it seemed, was

destined to outlive many of the young and fair spirit-tabernacles around

it--to pass over, by long years, the ordinary allotted space of human

life; and it seemed as if even misfortune had with her but a preserving

power. It is not wonderful, however, that, while it worked thus upon her

body, it should likewise have stiffened and withered and hardened her

heart.

I am not sure that conscience itself went untouched in this searing

process. It is not clear at all that even her claim upon Sir John

Hastings was not an unjust one; but just or unjust his repulse sunk deep

and festered.

Let us trace her from the church-yard after she met him. She took her

path away from the park and the hamlet, between two cottages, the ragged

boys at the doors of which called her "Old Witch," and spoke about a

broom-stick.

She heeded them little: there were deeper offences rankling at her

heart.

She walked on, across a corn-field and a meadow, and then she came upon

some woodlands, through which a little sandy path wound its way, round

stumps of old trees long cut down, amidst young bushes and saplings just

springing up, and catching the sunshine here and there through the

bright-tinted foliage overhead. Up the hill it went, over the slope on

which the copse was scattered, and then burst forth again on the

opposite side of wood and rise, where the ground fell gently the other

way, looking down upon the richly dressed grounds of Colonel Marshall,

at the distance of some three miles.

Not more than a hundred yards distant was poor man's cottage, with an

old gray thatch which wanted some repairing, and was plentifully covered

with herbs, sending the threads of their roots into the straw. A little

badly cultivated garden, fenced off from the hill-side by a loose stone

wall, surrounded the house, and a gate without hinges gave entrance to

this inclosed space.

The old woman went in and approached the cottage door. When near it she

stopped and listened, lifting one of the flapping ears of her cotton cap

to aid the dull sense of hearing. There were no voices within; but there

was a low sobbing sound issued forth as if some one were in bitter

distress.

"I should not wonder if she were alone," said the old woman; "the

ruffian father is always out; the drudging mother goes about this time

to the town. They will neither stay at home, I wot, to grieve for him

they let too often into that door, nor to comfort her he has left

desolate. But it matters little whether they be in or out. It were

better to talk to her first. I will give her better than

comfort--revenge, if I judge right. They must play their part

afterwards."

Thus communing with herself, she laid her hand upon the latch and opened

the door. In an attitude of unspeakable grief sat immediately before her

a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, of hardly seventeen years of

age. The wheel stood still by her side; the spindle had fallen from her

hands; her head was bowed down as with sorrow she could not bear up

against; and her eyes were dropping tears like rain.

The moment she heard the door open she started, and looked up with fear

upon her face, and strove to dash the tears from her eyes; but the old

woman bespoke her softly, saying, "Good even, my dear; is your mother in

the place?"

"No," replied the girl; "she has gone to sell the lint, and father is

out too. It is very lonely, and I get sad here."

"I do not wonder at it, poor child," said the old woman; "you have had a

heavy loss, my dear, and may well cry. You can't help what is past, you

know; but we can do a good deal for what is to come, if we but take care

and make up our minds in time."

Many and strange were the changes of expression which came upon the poor

girl's face as she heard these few simple words. At first her cheek

glowed hot, as with the burning blush of shame; then she turned pale and

trembled, gazing inquiringly in her visitor's face, as if she would have

asked, "Am I detected?" and then she cast down her eyes again, still

pale as ashes, and the tears rolled forth once more and fell upon her

lap.

The old woman sat down beside her, and talked to her tenderly; but,

alas! very cunningly too. She assumed far greater knowledge than she

possessed. She persuaded the poor girl that there was nothing to conceal

from her; and what neither father nor mother knew, was told that day to

one comparatively a stranger. Still the old woman spoke tenderly--ay,

very tenderly; excused her fault--made light of her fears--gave her

hope--gave her strength. But all the time she concealed her full

purpose. That was to be revealed by degrees. Whatever had been the

girl's errors, she was too innocent to be made a party to a scheme of

fraud and wrong and vengeance at once. All that the woman communicated

was blessed comfort to a bruised and bleeding heart; and the poor girl

leaned her head upon her old companion's shoulder, and, amidst bitter

tears and sobs and sighs, poured out every secret of her heart.

But what is that she says, which makes the old woman start with a look

of triumph?

"Letters!" she exclaimed; "two letters: let me see them, child--let me

see them! Perhaps they may be more valuable than you think."

The girl took them from her bosom, where she kept them as all that she

possessed of one gone that day into the tomb.

The old woman read them with slow eyes, but eager attention; and then

gave them back, saying, "That one you had better destroy as soon as

possible--it tells too much. But this first one keep, as you value your

own welfare--as you value your child's fortune, station, and happiness.

You can do much with this. Why, here are words that may make your father

a proud man. Hark! I hear footsteps coming. Put them up--we must go to

work cautiously, and break the matter to your parents by degrees."

It was the mother of the girl who entered; and she seemed faint and

tired. Well had the old woman called her a drudge, for such she was--a

poor patient household drudge, laboring for a hard, heartless, idle, and

cunning husband, and but too tenderly fond of the poor girl whose beauty

had been a snare to her.

She seemed somewhat surprised to see the old woman there; for they were

of different creeds, and those creeds made wide separation in the days I

speak of. Perhaps she was surprised and grieved to see the traces of

tears and agitation on her daughter's face; but of that she took no

notice; for there were doubts and fears at her heart which she dreaded

to confirm. The girl was more cheerful, however, than she had been for

the last week--not gay, not even calm; but yet there was a look of some

relief.

Often even after her mother's entrance, the tears would gather thick in

her eyes when she thought of the dead; but it was evident that hope had

risen up: that the future was not all darkness and terror. This was a

comfort to her; and she spoke and looked cheerfully. She had sold all

the thread of her and her daughter's spinning, and she had sold it well.

Part she hid in a corner to keep a pittance for bread from her husband's

eyes; part she reserved to give up to him for the purchase of drink: but

while she made all these little arrangements, she looked somewhat

anxiously at the old woman, from time to time, as if she fain would have

asked, "What brought you here?"

The crone was cautious, however, and knew well with whom she had to

deal. She talked in solemn and oracular tones, as if she had possessed

all the secrets of fate, but she told nothing, and when she went away

she said in a low voice but authoritative manner, "Be kind to your

girl--be very kind; for she will bring good luck and fortune to you

all." The next day she laid wait for the husband, found and forced him

to stop and hear her. At first he was impatient, rude, and brutal;

swore, cursed, and called her many and evil names. But soon he listened

eagerly enough: looks of intelligence and eager design passed between

the two, and ere they parted they perfectly understood each other.

The man was then, on more than one day, seen going down to the hall. At

first he was refused admission to Sir John Hastings; for his character

was known. The next day, however, he brought a letter written under his

dictation by his daughter, who had been taught at a charitable school of

old foundation hard by; and this time he was admitted. His conversation

with the Lord of the Manor was long; but no one knew its import. He came

again and again, and was still admitted.

A change came over the cottage and its denizens. The fences were put in

order, the walls were repaired, the thatch renewed, another room or two

was added; plenty reigned within; mother and daughter appeared in

somewhat finer apparel; and money was not wanting.

At the end of some months there was the cry of a young child in the

house. The neighbors were scandalized, and gossips spoke censoriously

even in the father's ears; but he stopped them fiercely, with proud and

mysterious words; boasted aloud of what they had thought his daughter's

shame; and claimed a higher place for her than was willingly yielded to

her companions. Strange rumors got afloat, but ere a twelvemonth had

passed, the father had drank himself to death. His widow and her

daughter and her grandson moved to a better house, and lived at ease on

money none knew the source of, while the cottage, now neat and in good

repair, became the dwelling of the old woman, who had been driven with

scorn from Sir John's presence. Was she satisfied--had she sated

herself? Not yet.

CHAPTER VII.

There was a lady, a very beautiful lady indeed, came to a lonely house,

which seemed to have been tenanted for several years by none but

servants, about three years after the death of Sir John Hastings. That

house stood some miles to the north of the seat of that gentleman, which

now had passed to his son; and it was a fine-looking place, with a

massive sort of solemn brick-and-mortar grandeur about it, which

impressed the mind with a sense of the wealth and long-standing of its

owners.

The plural has slipped from my pen, and perhaps it is right; for the

house looked as if it had had many owners, and all of them had been

rich.

Now, there was but one owner,--the lady who descended from that

lumbering, heavy coach, with the two great leathern wings on each side

of the door. She was dressed in widow's weeds, and she had every right

to wear them. Though two-and-twenty only, she stood there orphan,

heiress, and widow. She had known many changes of condition, but not of

fate, and they did not seem to have affected her much. Of high-born and

proud parentage, she had been an only child for many years before her

parents' death. She had been spoiled, to use a common, but not always

appropriate phrase; for there are some people who cannot be spoiled,

either because the ethereal essence within them is incorruptible, or

because there is no ethereal essence to spoil at all. However, she had

been spoiled very successfully by fate, fortune, and kind friends. She

had never been contradicted in her life; she had never been

disappointed--but once. She had travelled, seen strange countries--which

was rare in those days with women--had enjoyed many things. She had

married a handsome, foolish man, whom she chose--few knew rightly why.

She had lost both her parents not long after; got tired of her husband,

and lost him too, just when the loss could leave little behind but a

decent regret, which she cultivated as a slight stimulant to keep her

mind from stagnating. And now, without husband, child, or parents, she

returned to the house of her childhood, which she had not seen for five

long years.

Is that all her history? No, not exactly all. There is one little

incident which may as well be referred to here. Her parents had entered

into an arrangement for her marriage with a very different man from him

whom she afterwards chose,--Sir Philip Hastings; and foolishly they had

told her of what had been done, before the young man's own assent had

been given. She did not see much of him--certainly not enough to fall in

love with him. She even thought him a strange, moody youth; but yet

there was something in his moodiness and eccentricity which excited her

fancy. The reader knows that he chose for himself; and the lady also

married immediately after.

Thus had passed for her a part of life's pageant; and now she came to

her own native dwelling, to let the rest march by as it might. At first,

as she slowly descended from the carriage, her large, dark, brilliant

eyes were fixed upon the ground. She had looked long at the house as she

was driving towards it, and it seemed to have cast her into a thoughtful

mood. It is hardly possible to enter a house where we have spent many

early years, without finding memory suddenly seize upon the heart and

possess it totally. What a grave it is! What a long line of buried

ancestors may not _the present_ always contemplate there.

Nor are there many received into the tomb worth so much respect as one

dead hour. All else shall live again; lost hours have no resurrection.

There were old servants waiting around, to welcome her, new ones

attending upon her orders; but for a moment or two she noticed no one,

till at length the old housekeeper, who knew her from a babe, spoke out,

saying, "Ah, madam! I do not wonder to see you a little sad on first

coming to the old place again, after all that has happened."

"Ah, indeed, Arnold," replied the lady, "many sad things have happened

since we parted. But how are you, Goody? You look blooming:" and walking

into the house, she heard the reply in the hall.

From the hall, the old housekeeper led her lady through the house, and

mightily did she chatter and gossip by the way. The lady listened nearly

in silence; for Mrs. Arnold was generous in conversation, and spared her

companion all expense of words. At length, however, something she said

seemed to rouse her mistress, and she exclaimed with a somewhat bitter

laugh, "And so the good people declared I was going to be married to Sir

Philip Hastings?"

"_Mr._ Hastings he was then, madam," answered the housekeeper; "to be

sure they did. All the country around talked of it, and the tenants

listened at church to hear the banns proclaimed."

The lady turned very red, and the old woman went on to say, "Old Sir

John seemed quite sure of it; but he reckoned without his host, I

fancy."

"He did indeed," said the lady with an uncheerful smile, and there the

subject dropped for the time. Not long after, however, the lady herself

brought the conversation back to nearly the same point, asked after Sir

Philip's health and manner of living, and how he was liked in the

neighborhood, adding, "He seemed a strange being at the time I saw him,

which was only once or twice--not likely to make a very pleasant

husband, I thought."

"Oh dear, yes, madam, he does," answered Mrs. Arnold, "many a worse, I

can assure you. He is very fond of his lady indeed, and gives up more to

her than one would think. He is a little stern, they say, but very just

and upright; and no libertine fellow, like his brother who was

drowned--which I am sure was a providence, for if he was so bad when he

was young, what would he have been when he was old?"

"Better, perhaps," replied her mistress, with a quiet smile; "but was he

so very wicked? I never heard any evil of him."

"Oh dear me, madam! do not you know?" exclaimed the old woman; and then

came the whole story of the cotter's daughter on the hill, and how she

and her father and old Mother Danby--whom people believed to be a

witch--had persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings into making rich

people of them.

"Persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings!" said the lady in a tone of

doubt. "I knew him better than either of his sons; and never did I see a

man so little likely to yield to persuasion or to bow to menace;" and

she fell into a deep fit of musing, which lasted long, while the old

housekeeper rambled on from subject to subject, unlistened to, but very

well content.

Let us dwell a little on the lady, and on her character. There is always

something to interest, something to instruct, in the character of a

woman. It is like many a problem in Euclid, which seems at first sight

as plain and simple as the broad sunshine; but when we come to study it,

we find intricacies beneath which puzzle us mightily to resolve. It is a

fine, curious, delicate, complicated piece of anatomy, a woman's heart.

I have dissected many, and I know the fact. Take and lay that fibre

apart--take care, for heaven's sake! that you do not tear the one next

to it; and be sure you do not dissever the fragments which bind those

most opposite parts together! See, here lies a muscle of keen

sensibility; and there--what is that? A cartilage, hard as a nether

millstone. Look at those light, irritable nerves, quivering at the

slightest touch; and then see those tendons, firm, fixed, and powerful

as the resolution of a martyr. Oh, that wonderful piece of organization!

who can describe it accurately?

I must not pretend to do so; but I will give a slight sketch of the

being before me.

There she stands, somewhat above the usual height, but beautifully

formed, with every line rounded and flowing gracefully into the others.

There is calmness and dignity in the whole air, and in every movement;

but yet there is something very firm, very resolute, very considerate,

in the fall of that small foot upon the carpet. She cannot intend her

foot to stay there for ever; and yet, when she sets it down, one would

be inclined to think she did. Her face is very beautiful--every feature

finely cut--the eyes almost dazzling in their dark brightness. How

chaste, how lovely the fine lines of that mouth. Yet do you see what a

habit she has of keeping the pearly teeth close shut--one pure row

pressed hard against the other. The slight sarcastic quiver of the upper

lip does not escape you; and the expanded nostril and flash of the eye,

contradicted by the fixed motionless mouth.

Such is her outward appearance, such is she too within--though the

complexion there is somewhat darker. Much that, had it been cultivated

and improved, would have blossomed into womanly virtue; a capability of

love, strong, fiery, vehement, changeless--not much tenderness--not much

pity,--no remorse--are there. Pride, of a peculiar character, but

strong, ungovernable, unforgiving, and a power of hate and thirst of

vengeance, which only pride can give, are there likewise. Super-add a

shrewdness--a policy--a cunning--nay, something greater--something

approaching the sublime--a divination, where passion is to be gratified,

that seldom leads astray from the object.

Yes, such is the interior of that fair temple, and yet, how calm, sweet,

and promising it stands.

I have omitted much perhaps; for the human heart is like the caldron of

the witches in Macbeth, and one might go on throwing in ingredients till

the audience became tired of the song. However, what I have said will be

enough for the reader's information; and if we come upon any unexplained

phenomena, I must endeavor to elucidate them hereafter.

Let us suppose the lady's interview with her housekeeper at an end--all

her domestic arrangements made--the house restored to its air of

habitation--visits received and paid. Amongst the earliest visitors were

Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. He came frankly, and in one of his most

happy moods, perfectly ignorant that she had ever been made aware of

there having been a marriage proposed between himself and her; and she

received him and his fair wife with every appearance of cordiality. But

as soon as these visits and all the ceremonies were over, the lady began

to drive much about the country, and to collect every tale and rumor she

could meet with of all the neighboring families. Her closest attention,

however, centred upon those affecting the Hastings' race; and she found

the whole strange story of the cottage girl confirmed, with many another

particular added. She smiled when she heard this--smiled blandly--it

seemed to give her pleasure. She would fain have called upon the girl

and her mother too. She longed to do so, and to draw forth with skill,

of which she possessed no small share, the key secret of the whole. But

her station, her reputation, prevented her from taking a step which she

knew might be noised abroad and create strange comments.

She resolved upon another move, however, which she thought would do as

well. There would be no objection to her visiting her poorer neighbors,

to comfort, to relieve; and she went to the huts of many. At length one

early morning, on a clear autumn day, the carriage was left below on the

high road, and the lady climbed the hill alone towards the cottage,

where the girl and her parents formerly lived. She found the old woman,

who was now its occupant, busily cooking her morning meal; and sitting

down, she entered into conversation with her. At first she could obtain

but little information; the old woman was in a sullen mood, and would

not speak of any thing she did not like. Money was of no avail to unlock

her eloquence.

She had never asked or taken charity, the old woman said, and now she

did not need it.

The lady pondered for a few minutes, considering the character of her

ancient hostess, trying it by her experience and intuition; and thus she

boldly asked her for the whole history of young John Hastings and the

cottage girl.

"Tell me all," she said, "for I wish to know it--I have an interest in

it."

"Ay?" said the old woman, gazing at her, "then you are the pretty lady

Sir Philip was to have married, but would not have her?"

"The same," replied the visitor, and for an instant a bright red spot

arose upon her cheek--a pang like a knife passed through her heart.

That was the price she paid for the gratification of her curiosity. But

it probably was gratified, for she stayed nearly an hour and a half in

the cottage--so long, indeed, that her servants, who were with the

carriage, became alarmed, and one of the footmen walked up the hill. He

met his lady coming down.

"Poor thing," she said, as if speaking of the old woman she had just

left, "her senses wander a little; but she is poor, and has been much

persecuted. I must do what I can for her. Whenever she comes to the

house, see she is admitted."

The old woman did come often, and always had a conference with the lady

of the mansion; but here let us leave them for the present. They may

appear upon the stage again.

CHAPTER VIII.

"MY DEAR SIR PHILIP:

"I have not seen you or dear Lady Hastings for many months; nor your

sweet Emily either, except at a distance, when one day she passed my

carriage on horseback, sweeping along the hill-side like a gleam of

light. My life is a sad, solitary one here; and I wish my friends would

take more compassion upon me and let me see human faces

oftener--especially faces that I love.

"But I know that you are very inexorable in these respects, and,

sufficient to yourself, cannot readily conceive how a lone woman can

pine for the society of other more loving friends than books or nature.

I must, therefore, attack the only accessible point I know about you,

meaning your compassion, which you never refuse to those who really

require it. Now I do require it greatly; for I am at this present

engaged in business of a very painful and intricate nature, which I

cannot clearly understand, and in which I have no one to advise me but a

country attorney, whose integrity as well as ability I much doubt. To

whom can I apply so well as to you, when I need the counsel and

assistance of a friend, equally kind, disinterested, and clear-headed? I

venture to do so, then, in full confidence, and ask you to ride over as

soon as you can, to give me your advice, or rather to decide for me, in

a matter where a considerable amount of property is at stake, and where

decision is required immediately. I trust when you do come you will stay

all night, as the business is, I fear, of so complicated a nature, that

it may occupy more than one day of your valuable time in the affairs of

Your faithful and obliged servant,

CAROLINE HAZLETON."

"Is Mrs. Hazleton's messenger waiting?" asked Sir Philip Hastings, after

having read the letter and mused for a moment.

The servant answered in the affirmative; and his master rejoined, "Tell

him I will not write an answer, as I have some business to attend to;

but I beg he will tell his mistress that I will be with her in three

hours."

Lady Hastings uttered a low-toned exclamation of surprise. She did not

venture to ask any question--indeed she rarely questioned her husband on

any subject; but when any thing excited her wonder, or, as was more

frequently the case, her curiosity, she was accustomed to seek for

satisfaction in a somewhat indirect way, by raising her beautiful

eyebrows with a doubtful sort of smile, or, as in the present instance,

by exclaiming, "Good gracious! Dear me!" or giving voice to some other

little vocative, with a note of interrogation strongly marked after it.

In this case there was more than one feeling at the bottom of her

exclamation. She was surprised; she was curious; and she was, moreover,

in the least degree in the world, jealous. She had her share of

weaknesses, as I have said; and one of them was of a kind less uncommon

than may be supposed. Of her husband's conduct she had no fear--not the

slightest suspicion. Indeed, to have entertained any would have been

impossible--but she could not bear to see him liked, admired, esteemed,

by any woman--mark me, I say by _any woman_; for no one could feel more

triumphant joy than she did when she saw him duly appreciated by men.

She was a great monopolizer: she did not wish one thought of his to be

won away from her by another woman; and a sort of irritable feeling came

upon her even when she saw him seated by any young and pretty girl, and

paying her the common attentions of society. She was too well bred to

display such sensations except by those slight indications, or by a

certain petulance of manner, which he was not close observer enough of

other people's conduct to remark.

Not to dwell too long on such things, Sir Philip Hastings, though

perfectly unconscious of what was going on in her heart, rarely kept her

long in suspense, when he saw any signs of curiosity. He perhaps might

think it a point of Roman virtue to spoil his wife, although she had

very little of the Portia in her character. On the present occasion, he

quietly handed over to her the letter of Mrs. Hazleton; and then

summoned a servant and gave orders for various preparations.

"Had not I and Emily better go with you?" asked Lady Hastings, pointing

out to him the passage in the letter which spoke of the long absence of

all the family.

"Not when I am going on business," replied her husband gravely, and

quitted the room.

An hour after, Philip Hastings was on horseback with a servant carrying

a valise behind him, and riding slowly through the park. The day was far

advanced, and the distance was likely to occupy about an hour and a half

in travelling; but the gentleman had fallen into a reverie, and rode

very slowly. They passed the park gates; they took their way down the

lane by the church and near the parsonage. Here Sir Philip pulled in his

horse suddenly, and ordered the man to ride on and announce that he

would be at Mrs. Hazleton's soon after. He then fastened his horse to a

large hook, put up for the express purpose on most country houses of

that day in England, and walked up to the door. It was ajar, and without

ceremony he walked in, as he was often accustomed to do, and entered the

little study of the rector.

The clergyman himself was not there; but there were two persons in the

room, one a young and somewhat dashing-looking man, one or two and

twenty years of age, exceedingly handsome both in face and figure; the

other personage past the middle age, thin, pale, eager and keen-looking,

in whom Sir Philip instantly recognized a well known, but not very well

reputed attorney, of a country town about twenty miles distant. They had

one of the large parish books before them, and were both bending over it

with great appearance of earnestness.

The step of Sir Philip Hastings roused them, and turning round, the

attorney bowed low, saying, "I give you good day, Sir Philip. I hope I

have the honor of seeing you well."

"Quite so," was the brief reply, and it was followed by an inquiry for

the pastor, who it seemed had gone into another room for some papers

which were required.

In the mean time the younger of the two previous occupants of the room

had been gazing at Sir Philip Hastings with a rude, familiar stare,

which the object of it did not remark; and in another moment the

clergyman himself appeared, carrying a bundle of old letters in his

hand.

He was a heavy, somewhat timid man, the reverse of his predecessor in

all things, but a very good sort of person upon the whole. On seeing the

baronet there, however, something seemed strangely to affect him--a sort

of confused surprise, which, after various stammering efforts, burst

forth as soon as the usual salutation was over, in the words, "Pray, Sir

Philip, did you come by appointment?"

Sir Philip Hastings, as the reader already knows, was a somewhat

unobservant man of what was passing around him in the world. He had his

own deep, stern trains of thought, which he pursued with a passionate

earnestness almost amounting to monomania. The actions, words, and even

looks of those few in whom he took an interest, he could sometimes watch

and comment on in his own mind with intense study. True, he watched

without understanding, and commented wrongly; for he had too little

experience of the motives of others from outward observation, and found

too little sympathy with the general motives of the world, in his own

heart, to judge even those he loved rightly. But the conduct, the looks,

the words of ordinary men, he hardly took the trouble of remarking; and

the good parson's surprise and hesitation, passed like breath upon a

mirror, seen perhaps, but retaining no hold upon his mind for a moment.

Neither did the abrupt question surprise him; nor the quick, angry look

which it called up on the face of the attorney attract his notice; but

he replied quietly to Mr. Dixwell, "I do not remember having made any

appointment with you."

The matter was all well so far; and would have continued well; but the

attorney, a meddling fellow, had nearly spoiled all, by calling the

attention of Philip Hastings more strongly to the strangeness of the

clergyman's question.

"Perhaps," said the man of law, interrupting the baronet in the midst,

"Perhaps Mr. Dixwell thought, Sir Philip, that you came here to speak

with me on the business of the Honorable Mrs. Hazleton. She told me she

would consult you, and I can explain the whole matter to you."

But the clergyman instantly declared that he meant nothing of the kind;

and at the same moment Sir Philip Hastings said, "I beg you will not,

sir. Mrs. Hazleton will explain what she thinks proper to me, herself. I

desire no previous information, as I am now on my way to her. Why my

good friend here should suppose I came by appointment, I cannot tell.

However, I did not; and it does not matter. I only wish, Mr. Dixwell, to

say, that I hear the old woman Danley is ill and dying. She is a papist,

and the foolish people about fancy she is a witch. Little help or

comfort will she obtain from them, even if they do not injure or insult

her. As I shall be absent all night, and perhaps all to-morrow, I will

call at her cottage as I ride over to Mrs. Hazleton's and inquire into

her wants. I will put down on paper, and leave there, what I wish my

people to do for her; but there is one thing which I must request you to

do, namely, to take every means, by exhortation and remonstrance, to

prevent the ignorant peasantry from troubling this poor creature's

death-bed. Her sad errors in matters of faith should only at such a

moment make us feel the greater compassion for her."

Mr. Dixwell thought differently, for though a good man, he was a

fanatic. He did not indeed venture to think of disobeying the injunction

of the great man of the parish--the man who now held both the Hastings

and the Marshal property; but he would fain have detained Sir Philip to

explain and make clear to him the position--as clear as a demonstration

in Euclid to his own mind--that all Roman Catholics ought to be, at the

very least, banished from the country for ever.

But Sir Philip Hastings was not inclined to listen, and although the

good man began the argument in a solemn tone, his visitor, falling into

a fit of thought, walked slowly out of the room, along the passage,

through the door, and mounted his horse, without effectually hearing one

word, though they were many which Mr. Dixwell showered upon him as he

followed.

At his return to his little study, the parson found the young man and

the lawyer, no longer looking at the book, but conversing together very

eagerly, with excited countenances and quick gestures. The moment he

entered, however, they stopped, the young man ending with an oath, for

which the clergyman reproved him on the spot.

"That is very well, Mr. Dixwell," said the attorney, "and my young

friend here will be much the better for some good admonition; and for

sitting under your ministry, as I trust he will, some day soon; but we

must go I fear directly. However, there is one thing I want to say; for

you had nearly spoiled every thing to-day. No person playing at cards--"

"I never touch them," said the parson, with a holy horror in his face.

"Well, others do," said the attorney, "and those who do never show their

hand to their opponent. Now, law is like a game of cards--"

"In which the lawyer is sure to get the odd trick," observed the young

man.

"And we must not have Sir Philip Hastings know one step that we are

taking," continued the lawyer. "If you have conscience, as I am sure you

have, and honor, as I know you have, you will not suffer any thing that

we have asked you, or said to you, to transpire; for then, of course,

Sir Philip would take every means to prevent our obtaining information."

"I do not think it," said the parson.

"And justice and equity would be frustrated," proceeded the attorney,

"which you are bound by your profession to promote. We want nothing but

justice, Mr. Dixwell: justice, I say; and no one can tell what card Sir

Philip may play."

"I will trump it with the knave," said the young man to himself; and

having again cautioned the clergyman to be secret, not without some

obscure menaces of danger to himself, if he failed, the two gentlemen

left him, and hurried down, as fast as they could go, to a small

alehouse in the village, where they had left their horses. In a few

minutes, a well known poacher, whose very frequent habitation was the

jail or the cage, was seen to issue forth from the door of the alehouse,

then to lead a very showy looking horse from the stable, and then to

mount him and take his way over the hill. The poacher had never

possessed a more dignified quadruped than a dog or a donkey in his life;

so that it was evident the horse could not be his. That he was not

engaged in the congenial but dangerous occupation of stealing it, was

clear from the fact of the owner of the beast gazing quietly at him out

of the window while he mounted; and then turning round to the attorney,

who sat at a table hard by, and saying, "he is off, I think."

"Well, let him go," replied the lawyer, "but I do not half like it,

Master John. Every thing in law should be cool and quiet. No

violence--no bustle."

"But this is not a matter of law," replied the younger man, "it is a

matter of safety, you fool. What might come of it, if he were to have a

long canting talk with the old wretch upon her death-bed?"

"Very little," replied the attorney, in a calm well-assured tone, "I

know her well. She is as hard as a flint stone. She always was, and time

has not softened her. Besides, he has no one with him to take

depositions, and if what you say is true, she'll not live till morning."

"But I tell you, she is getting frightened, as she comes near death!"

exclaimed the young man. "She has got all sorts of fancies into her

head; about hell, and purgatory, and the devil knows what; and she spoke

to my mother yesterday about repentance, and atonement, and a pack of

stuff more, and wanted extreme unction, and to confess to a priest. It

would be a fine salve, I fancy, that could patch up the wounds in her

conscience; but if this Philip Hastings were to come to her with his

grave face and solemn tone, and frighten her still more, he would get

any thing out of her he pleased."

"I don't think it," answered the lawyer deliberately; "hate, Master

John, is the longest lived passion I know. It lasts into the grave, as I

have often seen in making good men's wills when they were

dying--sanctified, good men, I say. Why I have seen a man who has spent

half his fortune in charity, and built alms-houses, leave a thoughtless

son, or a runaway daughter, or a plain-spoken nephew, to struggle with

poverty all his life, refusing to forgive him, and comforting himself

with a text or a pretence. No, no; hate is the only possession that goes

out of the world with a man: and this old witch, Danby, hates the whole

race of Hastings with a goodly strength that will not decay as her body

does. Besides Sir Philip is well-nigh as puritanical as his father--a

sort of cross-breed between an English fanatic and an old Roman cynic.

She abominates the very sound of his voice, and nothing would reconcile

her to him but his taking the mass and abjuring the errors of Calvin.

Ha! ha! ha! However, as you have sent the fellow, it cannot be helped.

Only remember I had nothing to do with it if violence follows. That man

is not to be trusted, and I like to keep on the safe side of the law."

"Ay, doubtless, doubtless," answered the youth, somewhat thoughtfully;

"it is your shield; and better stand behind than before it. However, I

don't doubt Tom Cutter in the least. Besides, I only told him to

interrupt them in their talk, and take care they had no private gossip;

to stick there till he was gone, and all that."

"Sir Philip is not a man to bear such interruption," said the attorney,

gravely; "he is as quiet looking as the deep sea on a summer's day; but

there can come storms, I tell you, John, and then woe to those who have

trusted the quiet look."

"Then, if he gets in a passion, and mischief comes of it," replied the

young man, with a laugh, "the fault is his, you know, Shanks."

"True," answered the attorney, meditating, "and perhaps, by a little

clever twisting and turning, we might make something of it if he did,

were there any other person concerned but this Tom Cutter, and we had a

good serviceable witness or two. But this man is such a rogue that his

word is worth nothing; and to thrash him--though the business of the

beadle--would be no discredit to the magistrate. Besides, he is sure to

give the provocation, and one word of Sir Philip's would be worth a

thousand oaths of Tom Cutter's, in any court in the kingdom."

"As to thrashing him, that few can do," replied the youth; "but only

remember, Shanks, that I gave no orders for violence."

"I was not present," replied the attorney, with a grin; "you had better,

by a great deal, trust entirely to me, in these things, Master John. If

you do, I will bring you safely through, depend upon it; but if you do

not, nobody can tell what may come. Here comes Folwell, the sexton. Now

hold your tongue, and let me manage him, sir. You are not acquainted

with these matters."

CHAPTER IX.

Did you ever examine an ant-hill, dear reader? What a wonderful little

cosmos it is--what an epitome of a great city--of the human race! See

how the little fellows run bustling along upon their several

businesses--see how some get out of each other's way, how others jostle,

and others walk over their fellows' heads! But especially mark that

black gentleman, pulling hard to drag along a fat beetle's leg and

thigh, three times as large as his own body. He cannot get it on, do

what he will; and yet he tugs away, thinking it a very fine haunch

indeed. He does not perceive, what is nevertheless the fact, that there

are two others of his own race pulling at the other end, and thus

frustrating all his efforts.

And thus it is with you, and me, and every one in the wide world. We

work blindly, unknowing the favoring or counteracting causes that are

constantly going on around us, to facilitate or impede our endeavors.

The wish to look into futurity is vain, irrational, almost impious; but

what a service would it be to any man if he could but get a sight into

Fate's great workshop, and see only that part in which the events are on

the anvil that affect our own proceedings. Still, even if we did, we

might not understand the machinery after all, and only burn or pinch our

fingers in trying to put pieces together which fate did not intend to

fit.

In the mean time--that is to say while the attorney and his companion

were talking together at the alehouse--Sir Philip Hastings rode quietly

up the hill to the cottage I have before described, and therefore shall

not describe again, merely noticing that it now presented an appearance

of neatness and repair which it had not before possessed. He tied his

horse to the palings, walked slowly up the little path, gazing right and

left at the cabbages and carrots on either side, and then without

ceremony went in.

The cottage had two tenants at this time, the invalid old woman, and

another, well-nigh as old but less decrepit, who had been engaged to

attend upon her in her sickness. How she got the money to pay her no one

knew, for her middle life and the first stage of old age had been marked

by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a natural

affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like corns; and

certainly she never wanted money now.

There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She

was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like, fleshy

fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged, brown,

carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and dry-rot

gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century before, and

the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for their loss;

but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull and filmy.

The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the

ashes where the spark of life itself lingered but faintly. At first she

could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now reached

but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his voice, as

he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at once showed

her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold ear of death."

For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no

meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip

Hastings?"

"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do for

you?"

"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."

"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed

on which you lie."

"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."

He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great

struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted

for a minute before she spoke again.

At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than

before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she

exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own

destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make you

a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom perish

by----"

But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted

flush came upon his cheek.

"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"

The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning to

the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite evil

feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit counsellors

for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can tend to her

bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it. The servants

have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her spiritual

comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."

"She often asks for a priest, your worship," said the nurse. "Perhaps if

she could see one she might think better before she died."

"Alas, I doubt it," replied the visitor; "but at all events we cannot

afford her that relief. No such person can be found here."

"I don't know, Sir Philip," said the old woman, with a good deal of

hesitation; "they do say that at Carrington, there is--there is what

they call a seminary."

"You do not mean a papist college!" exclaimed the baronet, with

unfeigned surprise and consternation.

"Oh, dear, no sir," replied the nurse, "only a gentleman--a seminary--a

seminary priest, I think they call it; a papist certainly; but they say

he is a very good gentleman, all but that."

Sir Philip mused for a minute or two, and then turned to the door,

saying, "Methinks it is hard that a dying woman cannot have the

consolations of the rites of her own faith--mummery though they be. As a

magistrate, my good woman, I can give no authority in this business. You

must do as you think fit. I myself know of no priest in this

neighborhood, or I should be bound to cause his apprehension. I shall

take no notice of your word, however, and as to the rest, you must, as I

have said, act as you think fit. I did not make the laws, and I may

think them cruel. Did I make them, I would not attempt to shackle the

conscience of any one. Farewell," and passing through the door, he

remounted his horse and rode away.

It was in the early autumn time of the year, and the scene was

peculiarly lovely. I have given a slight description of it before, but I

must pause and dwell upon it once more, even as Sir Philip Hastings

paused and dwelt upon its loveliness at that moment, although he had

seen and watched it a thousand times before. He was not very impressible

by fine scenery. Like the sages of Laputa, his eyes were more frequently

turned inwards than outwards; but there was something in that landscape

which struck a chord in his heart, that is sure to vibrate easily in the

heart of every one of his countrymen.

It was peculiarly English--I might say singularly English; for I have

never seen any thing of exactly the same character anywhere else but in

Old England--except indeed in New England, where I know not whether it

be from the country having assimilated itself to the people, or from the

people having chosen the country from the resemblance to their own

paternal dwelling place, many a scene strikes the eye which brings back

to the wandering Englishman all the old, dear feelings of his native

land, and for a moment he may well forget that the broad Atlantic rolls

between him and the home of his youth.

But let me return to my picture. Sir Philip Hastings sat upon his

horse's back, very nearly at the summit of the long range of hills which

bisected the county in which he dwelt. I have described, in mentioning

his park, the sandy character of the soil on the opposite slope of the

rise; but here higher up, and little trodden by pulverizing feet, the

sandstone rock itself occasionally broke out in rugged maps,

diversifying the softer characteristics of the scene. Wide, and far

away, on either hand, the eye could wander along the range, catching

first upon some bold mass of hill, or craggy piece of ground, assuming

almost the character of a cliff, seen in hard and sharp distinctness,

with its plume of trees and coronet of yellow gorse, and then,

proceeding onward to wave after wave, the sight rested upon the various

projecting points, each softer and softer as they receded, like the

memories of early days, till the last lines of the wide sweep left the

mind doubtful whether they were forms of earth or clouds, or merely

fancy.

Such was the scene on either hand, but straightforward it was very

different, but still quite English. Were you ever, reader, borne to the

top of a very high wave in a small boat, and did you ever, looking down

the watery mountain, mark how the steep descent, into the depth below,

was checkered by smaller waves, and these waves again by ripples? Such

was the character of the view beneath the feet of the spectator. There

was a gradual, easy descent from the highest point of the whole county

down to a river-nurtured valley, not unbroken, but with lesser and

lesser waves of earth, varying the aspect of the scene. These waves

again were marked out, first by scattered and somewhat stunted trees,

then by large oaks and chestnuts, not undiversified by the white and

gleaming bark of the graceful birch. A massive group of birches here and

there was seen; a scattered cottage, too, with its pale bluish wreath of

smoke curling up over the tree-tops. Then, on the lower slope of all,

came hedgerows of elms, with bright, green rolls of verdant turf

between; the spires of churches; the roofs and white walls of many sorts

of man's dwelling-places, and gleams of a bright river, with two or

three arches of a bridge. Beyond that again appeared a rich wide

valley--I might almost have called it a plain, all in gay confusion,

with fields, and houses, and villages, and trees, and streams, and

towns, mixed altogether in exquisite disorder, and tinted with all the

variety of colors and shades that belong to autumn and to sunset.

Down the descent, the eye of Sir Philip Hastings could trace several

roads and paths, every step of which he knew, like daily habits. There

was one, a bridle-way from a town about sixteen miles distant, which,

climbing the hills almost at its outset, swept along the whole range,

about midway between the summit and the valley. Another, by which he had

come, and along which he intended to proceed, traversed the crest of the

hills ere it reached the cottage, and then descended with a wavy line

into the valley, crossing the bridle-path I have mentioned. A wider

path--indeed it might be called a road, though it was not a

turnpike--came over the hills from the left, and with all those easy

graceful turns which Englishmen so much love in their highways, and

Frenchmen so greatly abhor, descended likewise into the valley, to the

small market-town, glimpses of which might be caught over the tops of

the trees. As the baronet sat there on horseback, and looked around,

more than one living object met his eye. To say nothing of some sheep

wandering along the uninclosed part of the hill, now stopping to nibble

the short grass, now trotting forward for a sweeter bite,--not to notice

the oxen in the pastures below, there was a large cart slowly winding

its way along an open part of the road, about half a mile distant, and

upon the bridle-path which I have mentioned, the figure of a single

horseman was seen, riding quietly and easily along, with a sauntering

sort of air, which gave the beholder at once the notion that he was what

Sterne would have called a "picturesque traveller," and was enjoying the

prospect as he went.

On the road that came over the hill from the left, was another rider of

very different demeanor, going along at a rattling pace, and apparently

somewhat careless of his horse's knees.

The glance which Sir Philip Hastings gave to either of them was but

slight and hasty. His eyes were fixed upon the scene before him,

feeling, rather than understanding, its beauties, while he commented in

his mind, after his own peculiar fashion. I need not trace the

procession of thought through his brain. It ended, however, with the

half uttered words,

"Strange, that such a land should have produced so many scoundrels,

tyrants, and knaves!"

He then slowly urged his horse forward, down the side of the hill, soon

reached some tall trees, where the inclosures and hedgerows commenced,

and was approaching the point at which the road he was travelling,

crossed the bridle-path, when he heard some loud, and as it seemed to

him, angry words, between two persons he could not see.

"I will soon teach you that;" cried a loud, coarse tongue, adding an

exceedingly blasphemous oath, which I will spare the reader.

"My good friend," replied another milder voice, "I neither desire to be

taught any thing, just now, nor would you be the teacher I should chose,

if I did, though perchance, in case of need, I might give you a lesson,

which would be of some service to you."

Sir Philip rode on, and the next words he heard were spoken by the first

voice, to the following effect; "Curse me, if I would not try that, only

my man might get off in the mean time; and I have other business in hand

than yours. Otherwise I would give you such a licking in two minutes,

you would be puzzled to find a white spot on your skin for the next

month."

"Two minutes would not detain you long," replied the calmer voice, "and,

as I have never had such a beating, I should like to see, first, whether

you could give it, and secondly, what it would be like."

"Upon my soul, you are cool!" exclaimed the first speaker with another

oath.

"Perfectly," replied the second; and, at the same moment, Sir Philip

Hastings emerged from among the trees, at the point where the two roads

crossed, and where the two speakers were face to face before his eyes.

The one, who was in truth the sauntering traveller whom he has seen

wending along the bridle-path, was a tall, good-looking young man, of

three or four and twenty years of age. In the other, the Baronet had no

difficulty in recognizing at once, Tom Cutter, the notorious poacher and

bruiser, whom he had more than once had the satisfaction of committing

to jail. To see him mounted on a very fine powerful horse, was a matter

of no slight surprise to Sir Philip; but, naturally concluding that he

had stolen it, and was making off with his prize for sale to the

neighboring town, he rode forward and put himself right in the way,

determined to stop him.

"Ay, ay! Here is my man!" cried Tom Cutter, as soon as he saw him. "I

will settle with him first, and then for you, my friend."

"No, no, to an old proverb, first come must be first served," replied

the traveller, pushing his horse forward a few steps.

"Keep the peace, in the King's name!" exclaimed Sir Philip Hastings. "I,

as a magistrate, charge you, sir, to assist me in apprehending this

man!--Thomas Cutter, get off that horse!"

The only reply was a coarse and violent expletive, and a blow with a

thick heavy stick, aimed right at Sir Philip's head. The magistrate put

up his arm, which received the blow, and was nearly fractured by it; but

at the same moment, the younger traveller spurred forward his horse upon

the ruffian, and with one sweep of his arm struck him to the ground.

Tom Cutter was upon his feet again in a moment. He was accustomed to

hard blows, and like the immortal hero of Butler, could almost tell the

quality of the stick he was beat withal. He was not long in discovering,

therefore, that the fist which struck him was of no ordinary weight, and

was directed with skill as well as with vigor; but he was accustomed to

make it his boast, that he had never taken a licking "from any man,"

which vanity caused him at once to risk such another blow, in the hope

of having his revenge.

Rushing upon the young stranger then, stick in hand, he prepared to

knock him from his horse; for the other appeared to have no defensive

arms, but a slight hazel twig, pulled from a hedge.

"He will jump off the other side of his horse," thought Tom Cutter; "and

then, if he do, I'll contrive to knock the nag over upon him. I know

that trick, well enough."

But the stranger disappointed him. Instead of opposing the horse between

him and his assailant, he sprung with one bound out of the saddle, on

the side next to the ruffian himself, caught the uplifted stick with one

hand, and seized the collar of the bruiser's coat with the other.

Tom Cutter began to suspect he had made a mistake; but, knowing that at

such close quarters the stick would avail him little, and that strength

of thews and sinews would avail him much, he dropped the cudgel, and

grappled with the stranger in return.

It was all the work of a moment. Sir Philip Hastings had no time to

interfere. There was a momentary struggle, developing the fine

proportions and great strength and skill of the wrestlers; and then, Tom

Cutter lay on his back upon the ground. The next instant, the victor put

his foot upon his chest, and kept the ruffian forcibly down,

notwithstanding all is exclamations of "Curse me, that isn't fair! When

you give a man a fall, let him get up again!"

"If he is a fair fighter, I do," replied the other; "but when he plays

pirate, I don't--" Then turning to Sir Philip Hastings, who had by this

time dismounted, he said, "What is to be done with this fellow, sir? It

seems he came here for the express purpose of assaulting you, for he

began his impertinence, with asking if you had passed, giving a very

accurate description of your person, and swearing you should find every

dog would have his day."

"His offence towards myself," replied the Baronet, "I will pass over,

for it seems to me, he has been punished enough in his own way; but I

suspect he has stolen this horse. He is a man of notoriously bad

character, who can never have obtained such an animal by honest means."

"No, I didn't steal him, I vow and swear," cried the ruffian, in a

piteous tone; for bullies are almost always cravens; "he was lent to me

by Johny Groves--some call him another name; but that don't signify.--He

lent him to me, to come up here, to stop your gab with the old woman,

Mother Danty; and mayhap to give you a good basting into the bargain.

But I didn't steal the horse no how; and there he is, running away over

the hill-side, and I shall never catch him; for this cursed fellow has

well nigh broken my back."

"Served you quite right, my friend," replied the stranger, still keeping

him tightly down with his foot. "How came you to use a cudgel to a man

who had none? Take my advice, another time, and know your man before you

meddle with him."

In the mean time Sir Philip Hastings had fallen into a profound reverie,

only repeating to himself the words "John Groves." Now the train of

thought which was awakened in his mind, though not quite new, was

unpleasant to him; for the time when he first became familiar with that

name was immediately subsequent to the opening of his father's will, in

which had been found a clause ordering the payment of a considerable sum

of money to some very respectable trustees, for the purpose of

purchasing an annuity in favor of one John Groves, then a minor.

There had been something about the clause altogether which the son and

heir of Sir John Hastings could not understand, and did not like.

However, the will enjoined him generally to make no inquiry whatsoever

into the motives of any of the bequests, and with his usual stern

rigidity in what he conceived right, he had not only asked no questions,

but had stopped bluntly one of the trustees, who was about to enter

into some explanations. The money was paid according to directions

received, and he had never heard the name of John Groves from that

moment till it issued from the lips of the ruffian upon the present

occasion.

"What the man says may be true," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length;

"there is a person of the name he mentions. I know not how I can have

offended him. It may be as well to let him rise and catch his horse if

he can; but remember, Master Cutter, my eye is upon you; two competent

witnesses have seen you in possession of that horse, and if you attempt

to sell him, you will hang for it."

"I know better than to do that," said the bruiser, rising stiffly from

the ground as the stranger withdrew his foot; "but I can tell you, Sir

Philip, others have their eyes upon you, so you had better look to

yourself. You hold your head mightily top high, just now: but it may

chance to come down."

Sir Philip Hastings did not condescend to reply, even by a look; but

turning to the stranger, as if the man's words had never reached his

ear, he said, "I think we had better ride on, sir. You seem to be going

my way. Night is falling fast, and in this part of the country two is

sometimes a safer number to travel with than one."

The other bowed his head gravely, and remounting their horses they

proceeded on the way before them, while Tom Cutter, after giving up some

five minutes to the condemnation of the eyes, limbs, blood, and soul of

himself and several other persons, proceeded to catch the horse which he

had been riding as fast as he could. But the task proved a difficult

one.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.

James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States

for the Southern District of New York.

CYPRUS AND THE LIFE LED THERE.

"Eidolon, or the Trial of a Soul, and other Poems," is the title of a

new volume of verses from the press of Pickering, written by WALTER R.

CASSELS, a student of the school of Shelley, and Keats, and Tennyson,

and Browning. A favorable specimen of his abilities is offered in the

following description of Cyprus:

Amid it riseth Olympus,

Stately and grand as the throne of the gods,

And the island sleeps 'neath its shadow

Like a fair babe 'neath the care of its father.

Streams clear as the diamond

Evermore wander around it,

Like the vein'd tide through our members,

Quick with the blessings of beauty,

And health and verdurous pleasure,

Filling with yellow sheaves

And plenty the bosom of Ceres;

Calling forth flowers from the slumbering earth,

Like thoughts from the dream of a poet,

Till the island throughout is a garden,

The child and the plaything of summer.

"In luscious clusters the fruit hangs

In the sunshine, melting away

From swetness to sweetness;

The grapes clustering 'mid leaves,

That give their bright hue to the eye

Like the setting of rubies;

The nectarines and pomegranates

Glowing with crimson ripeness,

And the orange trees with their blossoms

Yielding sweet odor to every breeze,

As the incense flows from the censer.

"The air is languid with pleasure and love,

Lulling the senses to dreams Elysian,

Making life seem a glorious trance,

Full of bright visions of heaven,

Safe from the touch of reality,

Toil none--woe none--pain,

Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations.

Time to be poured like wine from a chalice

Sparking and joyous for aye,

Drain'd amid mirth and music,

The brows circled with ivy,

And the goblets at last like a gift

Thrust in the bossom of slumber.

"Thus are the people of Cyprus;

Young men and old making holiday,

Decking them daintily forth

In robes of Sidonian purple;

The maidens all beauteous, but wanton,

Foolishly flinging youth's gifts,

Its jewels--its richest adornment,

Like dross on the altar of pleasure;

Letting the worm of mortality

Eat out their hearts till they bear

Only the semblance of angels."

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE,

OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[25]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.

DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 60._

BOOK THIRD.

We left young Rovero in despair, yielding to the stupefaction which

overpowered him, just as the singer leaned over his bed to be assured

that he was asleep. La Felina looked at him for some time in silence,

with pity in her eyes. "Why does he love me?" said she; "what have I

done? why should this poor lad love one who scarcely knew him?"

Rovero moved. "Heavens! is the effect of the narcotic over? Will he

awaken?"

"Felina!" murmured Taddeo.

"My name ever on his lips and in his heart. Yes! I was right in avoiding

another interview: this letter tells all." She took a paper from her

bosom. "But if he resist my prayer, if he shrink from the duty imposed

on him by honor and humanity! He alone can accomplish it--all my hope is

in him!"

She approached the table, and by the pale moonlight looked at the flask

of Massa wine. A single glass had been taken from it. "_One glass!_"

said she, "_only one glass?_ His sleep cannot be long. This torpor will

terminate before any one enters his cell. But Lippiani the turnkey is

devoted to me, and will see nothing."

Drawing near the bed she took out of her fine hair a long gold pin, with

which to fasten the letter on his pillow, so that his eyes would rest on

it when he awoke. While Felina's face was near Rovero's as she put the

letter beneath his head, her warm breath hung on his lips; they pressed

hers, and, terrified, she sprang from his side.

The prisoner dreamed of happiness, and doubted not that his fancy was

realized. Whether this kiss had overcome his torpor, or whether, as La

Felina thought, the narcotic had been taken in such small quantity that

it had produced but a slight effect, Taddeo tossed on his bed. The

singer, terrified at these signs, which were the precursors of his

awakening, disappeared by the secret passages through which she had

entered. An hour rolled by before Taddeo could triumph over his sleep.

His heavy eyes shut together in spite of himself, and his eyelashes

rested on each other. All sensation was lost in general lassitude. In

the first disorder of his mind, he asked himself if he had not again

dreamed of the appearance of La Felina. Had he not seen her approaching

his bed just as he sunk to sleep, he would have been sure of it. He

shuddered at the thought that he had lost the opportunity so anxiously

expected. At last he recovered his strength, and attempted to rise. As

he did so, his hand touched La Felina's letter on the pillow. When he

drew out the diamond-headed pin which fastened it, he no longer doubted

that he had actually seen her. Having been unable to rouse him, she had

written to him. He felt angry with himself. He would have given ten

years of his life to regain that one lost hour. He went to the tall

window of the chapel to invoke a single ray of the moon to enable him to

read the lines which had been traced by the hand of the woman he

worshipped. This consolation was denied him. The moon was hidden by

clouds, and the completest obscurity pervaded the prison. What Taddeo

suffered during the time till day, which it seemed to him would never

dawn, may be fancied, but not described. His fate was in his own hands,

yet it was unknown. Ardently clasping to his heart and to his lips the

perfumed paper on which Felina had written, his heart became

intoxicated. He passionately kissed the sheet on which the singer had

left her words, and a sad presentiment of misfortune took possession of

him. He almost feared the coming of day, the light of which would reveal

to him his fate.

Day dawned, at first feeble, then brighter, and still brighter, and

finally brilliant and clear. He opened the letter, and his eyes glanced

over it with tender earnestness. A livid pallor overcast his features, a

nervous tremor shook him. The lines traced by La Felina he could not

read; and overcome by despair, he sank to his seat. The keeper entered.

"Signor," said he to Taddeo, "the person who visited you three days ago

asks permission to see you again."

"Who is he?" said Taddeo--his voice choked with grief.

"The Marquis de Maulear."

The name recalled to the prisoner his mother and Aminta. This memory

soothed his wounded heart. "My mother, my sister," thought he; "but for

their tenderness what now would be my life! Show the Marquis in."

While the keeper was absent, he hurried to the bed, examined it

anxiously as if in search for something which had escaped his

observation. Seizing the letter, he read anxiously the last lines,

approached the bed, and discovered the mysterious deposit La Felina had

placed under the pillow. He took it and concealed it carefully in his

clothing; and with an accent which betrayed the contest in his crushed

heart, he said aloud, as if he wished some one to hear him, "You judged

me correctly, Felina; misfortune will not make me unjust; I will do what

you ask!"

A cry of joy echoed beneath the vault of the old chapel. Taddeo turned.

The cry had penetrated his heart. But he was alone. Just then Henri de

Maulear entered.

"Yesterday evening, Signor Rovero, confiding your promise, I informed

the minister that, consulting with prudent reflections, you would accept

the pardon offered by the King. You are free, and can now accompany me."

"Let us hurry to my mother, Monsieur," said Taddeo, casting one last

look on the chapel walls, which had shut up so much sorrow, happiness

and torment. He followed the Marquis. An hour afterwards two gentlemen

on noble English steeds--the best the stables of the Marquis

afforded--rode toward Sorrento. One of these riders, Rovero, was

melancholy, so that even the French amiability of the Marquis could not

divert him from gloomy meditations. Ever and anon a smile hung on his

lips, till chased away by some painful memory. The Marquis de Maulear,

satisfied that Taddeo concealed a secret from him, avoided any allusion

to it, with the delicacy and good taste which above all things fears

indiscretion. He feigned to attribute to the reserve of a new

acquaintance his companion's coldness and absence of mind. For his own

part, delighted at being able to restore this prodigal son to the

parental roof, anxious to see her whom he loved (to whom, relying on

Taddeo's promise, he had gone the evening before to announce her

brother's return), he could scarcely repress his delight.

"Signor," said he to Taddeo, at a moment when the state of the road

forced them to slacken their pace, "we have arranged all: we have left

the festivities and pleasures of Naples, and have nothing to say of your

suffering and captivity."

"Not one word, Monsieur, if you please, either of what I have passed

through, or of the sufferings of my friends."

"I think your mother and sister know nothing of what you have undergone.

Had they, their suffering and alarm would have been great. But do not

flatter yourself that the arrest of Count Monte-Leone is unknown to

them. One of the Neapolitan papers informed them yesterday of that fact;

and I do not hide from you, that in my presence, your mother deplored

your unfortunate intimacy with one so adventurous and rash."

"And what said Aminta?" asked Rovero anxiously, as if struck by a

thought, which hitherto had escaped him.

"Signorina said nothing," observed Maulear, with an air of surprise;

"and he heard the news with the most perfect indifference."

"To him she is unchanged," murmured Rovero.

Low as was the tone in which this was uttered, Maulear heard it, and

could not repress the question, which he put with great anxiety, "To

whom is the Signorina always the same?"

"To him--to the Count," said Taddeo. "I confide to you almost a family

secret. Count Monte-Leone deeply loves my sister. He never told me so,

but it is the case. If he be restored to liberty, as his friends hope,

it will be a good match for Aminta."

Every word of Rovero fell like a drop of boiling oil on the heart of

Maulear.

"My father," said Taddeo, "left us but a moderate fortune. Perhaps some

day we may be rich--richer than the Monte-Leone--for we are the only

heirs of the Roman Cardinal Justiniani, my mother's brother, who, as

eldest son, inherited all the property of my maternal grandfather. As

yet, however, our fortune in small, though sufficient for my tastes and

ideas. But my mother and sister have other notions; and the marriage of

Aminta and Count Monte-Leone would assure her a magnificent and

brilliant portion."

"But if your sister does not love Count Monte-Leone?"

"Her refusal would make two persons unhappy; first the Count of

Monte-Leone, and in the second place----"

"And in the second place?" said Maulear.

"Myself."

"Yourself!" said Maulear, with surprise; "Are you intent on their

marriage?"

"Yes," replied Taddeo, with emotion; "now, all my happiness depends on

it."

Maulear was amazed at these singular words. Scarcely had they been

uttered, when Taddeo spurred his horse sharply, and rode toward the

house of his mother, which he saw a few hundred yards distant. Henri

followed him, troubled, and for the first time, with a care-marked brow,

paused at Aminta's door. A fond mother clasped her son to her bosom,

with that pleasure which a mother only knows. Aminta, entirely recovered

from her accident, kissed her brother affectionately.

"My son," said Madame Rovero to Taddeo, as she clasped the hand of

Maulear, "beyond all doubt the Marquis has told you what we owe him."

"The Marquis has only told me how devoted he was to you."

"Well," said Aminta, "I will be less discreet." With exquisite grace she

told Taddeo all that had passed.

"Ah, Monsieur," said he, opening his arms to the Marquis, "I would I

could find some dearer name than friend to give you."

Aminta blushed, and looked down. Maulear saw the motion, and a gentle

hope stole over him. The name which Taddeo could not think of, perhaps,

suggested itself to Aminta. It was the name Maulear was so anxious to

give Rovero.

Aminta's brother wished to see the courageous child who had so

heroically sacrificed himself for her. All followed Signora Rovero to

the room of the invalid. He was better. The great inflammation of his

face had disappeared, and his eyes had returned to their orbits.

Apparently he was rapidly recovering; but the cruel prediction of the

physician seemed about to be verified: _He will live, but will never

speak again_. Only harsh and broken sounds escaped the invalid's lips.

Aminta, who had become Scorpione's nurse as soon as she was able to

leave her room, had already learned to discriminate between the

modulations of his voice. A kind of mute groan called her to him; a hiss

expressed pain or impatience; but when his violent and almost savage

nature was excited, a terrible bellowing was heard, and the bravest

heart might quail at the inhuman sound. Tonio was asleep when the

visitors entered his room, but he awoke, and without seeming surprised

at the curious faces that surrounded his bed, looked at them earnestly.

He first recognized Taddeo, and a contraction of his lips, which, bent

from their deformity, might have been called a smile, testified his

pleasure at the visit. Aminta's presence always produced a strange

effect on Scorpione, which his inability to speak enhanced. His eyes, of

pale green, became suddenly lighted up with a peculiar and gentle

languor, which was so tender that they seemed almost attractive. This

singular magnetism had a novel effect on the invalid. But his brow soon

became contracted; a violent storm seemed to agitate his heart; and the

hissing was heard.

"What is the matter?" asked Taddeo. Aminta said she did not know. He had

perhaps some new suffering, or something put him out of humor. Following

the direction of Tonio's eyes, she saw they rested sparkling and bright

on those of Maulear. Aminta quailed, and Henri, who saw her tremble,

hurried to sustain her. He thought the strength of the young

convalescent needed this aid. But at the moment when the girl accepted

the arm of Maulear, Scorpione rose and uttered the horrible cry by which

he expressed his impotent fury. All shuddered as they heard him. Aminta

let go Maulear's arm, and quickly sought, by gesture and words, to

soothe the Cretin, as she would appease an angry child. He became

soothed at once, and Signora Rovero left him, followed by Taddeo,

Maulear, and Aminta; but Aminta did not take Maulear's arm.

II. A NIGHT AT SORRENTO.

A feeling of uneasiness had suddenly taken possession of Maulear while

in the presence of Aminta and Tonio. But he had not remarked the smile

of happiness which played on the features of the invalid when Aminta,

with the most natural air in the world, took the arm of her mother

instead of his own.

"Signor," said Aminta's mother to the Marquis, as they went into the

hall, "do not suffer this festival in honor of the return of my son to

be celebrated without your presence. Share our family meal, and be

satisfied that in doing so you will gratify us all."

The offer delighted Maulear, and time flew by with the rapidity love

only confers on it when passed in the presence of loved ones.

About dinner time two strangers came to the villa, the Count Brignoli

and his son. The Count was an old minister of war of Murat, and had been

a colleague of Taddeo's father. He was one of the best friends of

Rovero's widow and daughter. A country neighbor, he often visited them.

His son Gaetano had been educated and brought up with Aminta, and a

close friendship had been the consequence. Gaetano was twenty years of

age, and his features bore the imprint of masculine and impressive

Neapolitan beauty, deficient neither in the dark locks nor black though

somewhat glassy eye, which is as it were the ordinary seal of the

countenances of the men of the south.

The arrival of these visitors displeased Maulear. The beauty of Gaetano

struck him unpleasantly. The intimacy between Aminta and the young man,

though thus explained, wounded him. During the whole day he fancied that

he discovered a thousand of those little trifles which a lover treasures

up so carefully, and also that Aminta seemed happy in his presence. His

anxiety had begun to pass away, when a new circumstance revived it.

Aminta, who was a perfect musician, went to the piano, and sang some of

those charming canzonets which are so sweet and touching, like the

flowers of this country of melody. The voice of Aminta found an echo in

the heart of Maulear, and his ecstasy was at its height, when Gaetano

joined her and sang the charming duo from Romeo e Julietta, the

_chef-d'oeuvre_ of Zingarelli. The jealous Maulear, as he heard this

passionate music, could not believe that art alone inspired the singer.

He trembled when he thought, that as Julietta loved Romeo, Aminta might

adore Gaetano.

Unable to repress the agitation which took possession of him, Maulear

left the saloon at the end of the duo, to superintend the preparations

for his departure. The night was dark, and pale lightning shot through

the sky, foreboding a storm. The Marquis could not repress his

mortification. The voices of Aminta and the young Italian, blended

together, followed him wherever he went "People," thought he, "only sing

thus when they are linked together by love. Art alone cannot give so

passionate an expression to their tones. Indeed, what sentiment can be

more natural? Educated together, always near each other, their affection

cannot but have grown up with them, so that now they perceive the effect

without being aware of the cause. They love each other because they were

born to do so, as birds mate in the spring because it is the season of

love. The spring of Gaetano and Aminta is come. How can I, a stranger to

this young girl, hope to please her? Her real preserver was not I, but

the unfortunate Tonio. Her gratitude to me then must be very feeble.

Besides, does gratitude lead to love?"

As he indulged in these painful reflections, his eyes became fixed on

the skies, already damascened with black clouds. He strode rapidly

across the court of the villa until he saw in front of him Gaetano

Brignoli. Maulear could not repress a sentiment of anger at seeing him,

and one of those emotions inconsiderately indulged in, and which

reflection often punishes, though too late, took possession of him.

"Signor," said he to the young man, "you love the Signorina Aminta

Rovero." Gaetano, surprised at the sudden rencontre in the dark, and yet

more amazed at the excited tone of the Marquis, looked at him, and in

his dark black eyes shone neither anger nor indignation, but only

astonishment at the question.

"I have the honor to ask you," said Maulear, now become more calm,

having more command of himself, and blushing at his first uncivil

question, "if you do not (and it is very natural) feel a deep and tender

affection for your childhood's friend, the Signorina Aminta Rovero?"

"If I love Aminta?" replied Gaetano. "Ah! Monsieur, who would not love

her! Do you know a more beautiful girl in Naples? Do you know any one

more cultivated and refined than she?"

"Certainly not," said the Marquis, with a voice of half-stifled emotion.

"She is my childhood's friend, the companion of my sports. With her I

received my first lessons in music. The divine art I adore. You all know

we accord, exactly. I often sing false, my teacher tells me, but she

never does."

To hear one the heart loves and adores, spoken of with qualification and

familiarity by a stranger, is often an acute pain to a lover, so acute,

that even the familiarity of a brother with a sister often causes

distress to certain minds. Some jealous souls think this a robbery of

friendship, and a profanation of their idol.

Maulear, wounded that the cherished name of Aminta should be so

cavalierly treated by Gaetano, replied with ill-disguised temper,

"I understand, Signor, that there is nothing false, even musically

speaking, in the sentiments expressed by you to Signora Rovero. Perhaps

this is an exception to your usual habits, as your professor says. But

were he to find fault with the correctness of your tones, he could not

censure the sincerity of the passion breathed through them."

"Is not that true?" said Gaetano, really flattered at Maulear's

compliment. "It is exalted, distinct, and intense. It is of a good

school, and of the lofty style of Tacchinardi."

"Ah! Signor," replied Maulear impatiently, "you know as well as I do,

that no artist, however skilful and great, can express love as lovers

do."

"The fact is," continued Gaetano, "that Zingarelli must have loved some

Julietta, when he wrote his Romeo."

"And you," answered Maulear, "must adore Signorina Aminta, to play so

well the part of Romeo!"

"Certainly," said Gaetano, smiling; "and I know very few tenors in San

Carlo who sing that _duo_ as I do. All must confess that there is no

Julietta like her."

Maulear was amazed, and could make no reply. The young man either was

sincere, and had not understood him, or he had affected not to do so,

assuming the remarks of his companion to refer to the singer, and not to

the lover. He positively refused to become Maulear's confidant, and by

his adroitness and tact made himself understood. The result of all this

was, that Maulear remained in a cruel state of doubt in relation to the

sentiments Gaetano entertained for Aminta, and, what was yet more

painful, in relation to those of Aminta for Gaetano.

"Excuse me, Marquis," said the young man to Maulear, "our conversation

is so unexpected, that I, in my surprise, forgot a commission with which

I was charged by Signora Rovero. I sought you to inform you of it, when

our conversation was diverted to something else. Signora Rovero,

fancying that you were superintending the preparations for your

departure, wishes you to postpone them until to-morrow, as the night is

dark and the road difficult and dangerous. Look," said he, "at these

large drops of rain, which are the avant-couriers of a violent storm."

"Indeed," said Maulear, "I will then accompany you to the ladies."

When they returned to the room, they found Signora Rovero talking with

the Count Brignoli, and Taddeo, with his head on his hand, lost in sad

meditation. Leaning on the back of his chair, was the poetic figure of

Aminta. Her long black curls fell over her brother's brow, and when he

looked up to see what it was that hung over him, she leaned her face

towards his until their lips met.

"Brother," said she, "I closed your eyes on purpose that I might hide

what I see in them."

"What do you see there, my dear sister?"

"I see," said she, "by their sadness and languor, that my brother has

three pieces of a heart. Two he keeps for my mother and myself, but the

third--"

"Is for none," said Taddeo, rising.

"Very well, very well, Monsieur," said Aminta, piqued. "No one asks you

for your secret. We take an interest only in those we love--and I love

you no more."

"My good sister," said Taddeo, clasping her hands with emotion, "love

me, love me better than ever, for I have more need of your affection."

Aminta threw herself in his arms.

"What is all that?" said their mother, looking around.

"A family drama," said Gaetano, who had just come in with Maulear.

"Yes, Gaetano," said Signora Rovero, "and a happy scene of that drama;

for I know of no family more fortunate than mine."

Aminta drew near to Maulear, and her manner was so kind, and she paid

such attention to her guest, that Maulear felt his uneasiness pass away

and his confidence return. Just then the storm burst in all its fury.

The wind whistled violently among the tall trees of the park. Signora

Rovero kept her three guests. A night passed beneath the same roof with

Aminta, gratified every wish of the Marquis, and promised him an

opportunity on the next day to declare himself to the Rose of Sorrento,

and confirm or dissipate his jealous doubts.

Signora Rovero wished to discharge every duty of hospitality to her

guest, and escorted him herself to the room he was to occupy. "This

room," said she to Maulear, "was long occupied by my dear daughter; but

after the death of her father we altered our arrangements, and Aminta is

now in my own room. Since that time it has been occupied by our young

friend Gaetano Brignoli. I have to-night placed him elsewhere, to be

able to give you the best room."

Maulear quivered with joy at the idea of occupying the room in which she

he adored had slept, and it was with a kind of veneration that he took

possession of it. The room was on the first story, in the right wing of

the villa, and looked on a terrace covered with flowers, and

communicating with all the rooms of the first floor. It was possible to

reach, in two ways, the rooms of the first story--from the interior of

the building, and from the exterior by this elegant terrace. But Maulear

did not observe that night the situation of his room.

The early days of March having been colder than those of February, after

a strange season, which well-nigh had deposed winter from its throne,

and the injury Aminta had received not having permitted her to leave her

room, during his previous visits the Marquis had not examined the

residence of Signora Rovero. The terrace on which his window opened was

therefore completely unknown to him.

For about two hours after Maulear had been conducted to the old room of

Aminta by Signora Rovero, he was so agitated by the events of the

evening that he could not consent to seek repose. Love, hope, and

jealousy, disputed for the possession of his heart. Seated in a vast

arm-chair, near the hearth, the fire on which flickered faintly, the

eyes of Maulear were mechanically directed to one of the windows of his

room, by the beating of the rain against it. All at once he saw, or

thought he saw, a white figure on the other side of the window pause for

a few instants, as if it sought to enter his room. Maulear fancied

himself under the influence of a dream. He rubbed his eyes, to be sure

that he was awake, and that his sight did not deceive him. He hurried

towards the window and opened it hastily. But as he moved, and his steps

were heard, the nocturnal visitor disappeared, and Maulear lost sight of

it amid the shadows of night. For a moment he thought it some aerial

being, flitting through space, and coming, like the _djinns_ of the

East, to watch by night over the faithful believer. But his poetry gave

way to material evidence, and the sight of the terrace, of whose

existence he had had no suspicion, proved that the _djinn_ was really a

human being, who for some unknown motive had wandered across it, and was

by no means so unreal as he had supposed. The idea of crime and theft

occurred to him. He was about to follow the person who fled, when he saw

on the terrace, before his window, an object which he immediately picked

up, and examined by the light of his lamp. It was a veil of white lace,

at that time the ordinary dress of Neapolitan women, a vaporous cloud in

which they framed their features, the relic of a fashion imported from

France, and made illustrious by the pencil of our Irabey, the great

portrayer of the grace and beauty of the empire.

"It is beyond doubt some love-scrape," thought Maulear, "interrupted by

my occupying this bedroom; and the heroine of the adventure, having come

to the window to ascertain whether or not I slept, has fled, losing a

portion of her drapery, like a frightened sheep running through thorns."

When, however, he had examined the veil more closely, Maulear observed

its elegance and richness, and began to think which of the inmates of

the villa was likely to wear such a one. Was this the headdress of a

chambermaid? If not, who else but Aminta could wear it, unless indeed

her mother did? Lost in conjectures, the Marquis was roused by hearing a

door in the same corridor on which his room was, open. He listened. Two

persons spoke in a low tone; and walking with such precaution that it

was evident they had no disposition to be overheard. Such an occurrence,

in a house usually so silent and calm, excited Maulear's curiosity so

much, that he resolved to know who the mysterious personages were.

Silently leaving his room, he went down the long corridor through which

those he wished to follow had preceded him. A faint light from a dark

lantern, borne by one of the strangers, fell on the path in front of

them, and was a guide to Maulear. Thus they descended the principal

staircase of the villa, crossed the ground floor, and entered the front

court. A puff of wind just then put out the lantern, as the person who

bore it was attempting to brighten its flame.

"Fool!" said one of the two men to his companion. "How can I saddle my

horse now?"

"It is already saddled," said the other.

"Then I have nothing to do but mount!"

"And you will not have occasion to use the spur," said the man with the

lantern, "for he is wild, from having been three weeks in his stable."

As the two speakers thus communed, they entered the second courtyard of

the villa. Maulear had followed them thither, hidden in the deep shadow.

A horse, ready saddled, was waiting there. One of the two men sprang

lightly into the saddle, and the other, as he opened a gate into the

fields, through which the horseman rode, said, in a voice full of fear,

"May God protect you in this terrible midnight storm, Signor Taddeo.

Beware of the road down the ravine, and be careful whom you meet."

III.--THE AVOWAL.

Maulear, uneasy and disturbed by what he had seen, returned to his room.

What could induce Taddeo thus to leave his mother's house, alone, at

midnight, and in a storm? Could it be that, so recently liberated, he

was about to begin again that life of plot and sedition which already

had cost him his liberty? A deep interest united Maulear to Taddeo. The

love he felt toward the sister, made him devoted to the brother, and the

new dangers which might befall the young man seriously affected Maulear.

The night passed away without his being able to sleep. In addition to

fear on account of Taddeo, his heart was yet agitated by the emotions of

the previous day; but above all, he thought of the woman who had stood

at his window, and whose appearance he could not forget. A terrible idea

then occurred to him. The room he occupied had been that of Gaetano

Brignoli. Had this young girl, apparently so pure and modest, had the

White Rose of Sorrento, any secret amour or intrigue? The young man who

had seen the companion of her infancy might know of it. Could this

charming flower be already scorched by the hot breath of passion?

Maulear reproached himself as with a crime, for the mental profanation

of his divinity.

The morning meal assembled together all the family and guests. Taddeo

participated in it as naturally as if he had passed the whole night in

the villa, and not a word was said of his nocturnal expedition. He was

not so melancholy and moody as he had been on the previous night, and a

careful observer might have marked on his features the satisfaction

following the performance of a painful duty. The Brignoli bade adieu to

Signora Rovero immediately after breakfast, and returned to their villa.

Maulear was delighted at their departure.

"Marquis," said Taddeo, "permit me to treat you as a friend, and ask a

favor of you--a favor that will require you to renounce the brilliant

saloons of Naples, whose chief ornaments are the _attaches_ of the

French embassy, to lead for a time a retired country-life with my mother

and sister?"

"If that be the favor you ask of me," said Maulear with joy, "you confer

one on me. I accept your proposition with gratitude."

"What are you thinking of, brother? How can you propose such an exile to

the Marquis? Our life in the country is so sad and melancholy; what can

we offer him as a compensation for the amusements he would sacrifice?"

"Where would be the merit of the service, unless its performance cost

some sacrifice?" said Taddeo. "In one word, this is the state of

affairs. An obligation, my honor imposes on me, requires me for at least

a week to be absent from Sorrento. The trial of Count Monte-Leone will

begin in a few days, and I must be present at it. It is said," added he,

with hesitation and a significant glance at the Marquis, "that the

Count's partisans will on that occasion be active. His enemies too are

numerous, and as he is known to have come to this house, I cannot feel

satisfied unless some courageous and energetic man replaces me, and

deigns to watch over the two dear beings I am forced to leave. This,

Marquis, is what I expect from you."

"My heart, my arm, my life, are all at the ladies' disposal. You may

rely on me."

Aminta looked down, for the first consecration made by Maulear was

evidently intended for her. Taddeo did not remark it, and clasped with

gratitude the hand of his new friend. Signora Rovero, terrified at the

idea of losing her son again, looked sadly at him.

"I do not know what is going on," said she with emotion, and with that

instinct which reveals to a mother the danger of a beloved son. "I

shudder, however, Taddeo, when I see you surrounded by danger. You do

not like the government, I know, for by the fall of Murat a brilliant

career was closed before you, for your father was one of his greatest

favorites. But in your father's name I, your mother, his widow, whose

hope and support you are, beseech you not to expose the life which does

not belong to you alone. Remember, my child, your sister and myself have

no other support in life than yourself, and that my weak and failing

existence could not withstand your loss."

Taddeo grew pale, for the association with which he was affiliated might

expose him to all the dangers of which his mother was apprehensive. He

concealed his agitation by caresses and iterations of love, mentally

resolving to turn aside in time from his sad career, as if those who

involve themselves in perdition can pause in the rapid descent down the

declivity to sorrow and death, whither the sturdiest champions are

hurried to be entombed in the grave they have dug for themselves.

"You will go then to Naples?" said Signora Rovero to her son. "God grant

that Monte-Leone recover his liberty, since he is your friend! But,

Taddeo, do not trust to his adventurous mind; he is a hurricane,

enveloping all in his path. Heaven grant he may not bear you away with

him."

This conversation on this subject, so painful to the mother and annoying

to the son, ended here.

"Will you deign, Signorina," said the Marquis to Aminta, "to accept me

as a guest for a few days?"

"Certainly, if you are not afraid of our retreat. Besides," added she,

with a smile, "_one must have suffered as much as Leonora's lover, not

to be happy in the paradise of Sorrento_."

Maulear remembered the words he had written on the wall of Tasso's

house. But before he could express his astonishment and joy, Aminta was

gone. Just then it was announced to Maulear, that his horse waited him

at the gate of the park.

"We will accompany you thither (my sister and I)," said Taddeo.

Signora Rovero called Aminta to her, and added: "The air is keen, my

child: cover your head with your lace veil. It becomes you."

Maulear turned quickly toward Aminta with his mind full of fear and

surprise--

"I am afraid I have lost my veil. I looked for it this morning, but

could not find it." Aminta seemed annoyed. Her emotion was perceived at

once by Maulear, who said to himself: "What mystery is this? why conceal

it from me?" The coincidence of a veil being found by him, and of Aminta

having lost one, made him keenly anxious: he was terrified, confounded,

and so excited, that he could scarcely speak to Taddeo and Aminta as he

crossed the park with them.

"Remember," said Rovero to him, "that my mother and sister will expect

you here in a few days."

"In a few days," said Aminta, giving the Marquis her sweetest smile.

"In a few days," replied Maulear, as he mounted his horse, and cast on

the young girl a look of doubting love. He then galloped off, and soon

disappeared in the long road to Sorrento.

When he returned to Naples, the whole city was busy with the approaching

trial of Monte-Leone, who was so beloved by one portion of the community

and so unpopular with the other. The nobility of the two Sicilies

deplored the errors of the Count, and regretted that one of the most

illustrious of the great names of Naples should embrace and defend so

plebeian a cause; one in their eyes so utterly without interest as that

of popular rights. But it was wounded at the idea that a peer should die

by the hand of the executioner. The old leaven of independence, innate

in all the aristocracies of Europe; the feudal aspirations which Louis

XI. and Richelieu had so completely annihilated and subdued in France,

yet germinated in the minds of the nobles of Naples. They loved the king

because he maintained their privileges, and had re-established the

rights of their birth. They would have revolted had he touched them.

From pride of birth they would have applauded the execution of a

plebeian conspirator, but were prepared to cry out _en masse_ against

that of Monte-Leone, because he was one of themselves.

The people looked on the illustrious prisoner as a defender of their

rights, and sympathized with him. To sharpen this sympathy, the adepts

of the Italian _vente_ everywhere represented their chief as a martyr to

his love of the people, and a victim of monarchy. Most injurious charges

were everywhere circulated against Fernando IV. It was said that he had

inherited the hatred of Carlos III. to the Monte-Leoni, and sought to

follow out on the son the vengeance to which the father had fallen a

victim. Nothing was omitted that could stimulate the favor of the

superstitious and impressionable people of Naples. The same executioner,

block and axe, which had been used at the father's death, by a strange

fatality, would come in play again at the murder of the son. The

imprisonment of the son at the Castle _Del Uovo_, where the father had

died, gave something of plausibility to this story. But what most

excited public curiosity was the strange incident which had taken place

at _Torre-del-Greco_. All were impatient for its explanation. The double

and impossible presence of the Count at the house of Stenio Salvatori,

and within the fifty locks of the Castle _Del Uovo_, his contest with

his enemy, the wound he was accused of having given him, his ubiquity at

the same hour in different places, produced a thousand incredible

versions, a thousand bets on this wonderful fact, unrivalled in the

judicial annals of Naples.

The name of Monte-Leone was so closely and intimately linked with the

destiny of the Marquis de Maulear, with his friendship to Taddeo, and

his love of Aminta, that he partook of the general interest inspired by

the Count, and as a man of honor hoped for acquittal, notwithstanding

the influence it might exert on his happiness.

To lose confidence in one we love, is the greatest agony possible. The

four days, therefore, which separated him from Aminta, were four

centuries to Maulear. Like the majority of rich young men of our times,

yielding at an early age to _liaisons_, he had formed an erroneous and

unjust opinion of women in general. The withered myrtles he had often

gathered, the passing amours in which almost all the men of his rank,

fortune and appearance indulge, had distorted his mind in relation to a

sex, the least respectable portion of which alone he was acquainted

with. But the young Marquis had exalted sentiments, and his high spirit

turned aside from vulgar, common pleasures. His first loves, or not to

profane that word, his first indulgences, had for their object those

women who lead astray an ardent mind or passionate natures; those women

who, betrayed into marriage, seek elsewhere a recompense for their

misfortunes or the deceptions practised upon them, and fancy they can

find it in the inexperience and youth of young men, whom chance throws

in their way. The latter proudly, and at first eagerly, accepting their

conquests, soon discover, that often they are not heroes. They become

themselves the accomplices of the criminal devices, the studied

falsehoods, employed by married women to abuse those on whom they

depend. In either case they see each other insensibly change, and in

spite of themselves conceive an aversion to those pleasures, even in

sharing which they blush. The idol becomes a mere woman, and the hero of

these adventures fancies himself right in estimating all women by a few

exceptions, and becomes an atheist in love because he has sacrificed to

false gods.

This deplorable theory had taken possession of Maulear. His naturally

pure sentiments, the poetry of his heart, had been dissipated in

ephemeral indulgences. The Countess of Grandmesnil, the guardian of the

young man, fearing lest a serious passion should contravene his father's

views,--encouraged him in his _liaisons_, or at least she did nothing to

induce him to abandon them. Under this sad opinion, which is

unfortunately too common in our days, that female virtue is but a name,

and that the most prudent only need opportunity to go astray, Maulear

came to Naples, where we must say much success in gallantry fortified

his faith in these detestable principles.

His meeting with one so pure as Aminta had wrought a complete change in

his ideas. He saw woman under a new aspect, as we dream of her at

twenty, when the young soul first awakes. He suffered intensely when

suspicion gnawed at his heart. "What," said he, yet under the influence

of the pernicious theories of his youth, "not one woman worthy of

respect! Even this young girl, apparently so modest and pure, unworthy

the confidence I reposed in her." The recollection of the chaste and

maidenly appearance of Aminta soon put such ideas to flight, and Maulear

thenceforth had but one idea, but one desire. He sought to clear up the

strange mystery of his nocturnal vision, and extricate himself from his

cruel perplexity.

On the day appointed for his return to Sorrento, as the clock struck

ten, he stopped his horse at the garden gate where four days before he

had left Aminta. The gate was open. He entered the orange grove which

lay between it and the house. A secret hope told him he would find

Aminta there. He was not mistaken. She sat beneath a rustic porch, which

served as a portal to the prettiest cottage imaginable. This building,

constructed of the slightest material, had windows closed with

gayly-covered verandahs, and served to shelter walkers from the heat of

the summer's sun. It was Aminta's favorite retreat, and thither she came

in the morning to paint her sisters, the white Bengal roses, the red

cactus and the graceful clematides, which surrounded her charming

retreat. There in the evening, pensive and reflective, the young girl

suffered her glance to stray over the vast horizon of the sea gilded by

the sun's expiring rays. On the day we speak of, Maulear found her

reading, or rather seeming to read, for her book rested on her knee, her

ivory brow supported by her hand. Her eyes, lifted up to heaven, seemed

to ask the realization of some gentle dream inspired doubtless by the

author. Perhaps the nature of the dream might have been devised by the

book--Tasso's Divine Poem! Maulear glided rather than walked to her, so

fearful was he of destroying the beautiful tableau presented to him by

chance. Then he paused some moments behind a screen of leaves, and

looked at the beautiful dreamer, in mute but passionate adoration. As he

scanned her girlish form, becoming intoxicated with her modest charms,

Maulear blushed at his suspicions, and resolved to abandon them. God did

not make such angels for men to distrust, and Aminta, beautiful as the

heavenly beings, must be pure and spiritual as they.

He left his concealment, and approached Aminta. She moved when she saw

him, for he had surprised her in a dream. The dreams of young girls are

treasures to be concealed from the profane in the most profound

sanctuary of the heart. Aminta advanced a step or two towards Maulear,

thus testifying her wish to return to the villa. But the Marquis, afraid

of losing this favorable opportunity to see her for a short time alone,

begged her to be seated, and took his place beside her, making, as an

excuse, an allusion to the fatigue of riding rapidly from Naples to

Sorrento.

Aminta sat down, but with an embarrassment which Maulear could not but

see. "You have kept your promise, Signor," said she, seeking to disguise

her trouble by speaking first.

"How could I not keep my promise?" said Maulear. "It was to see you

again."

"We know what such devotion must cost you," Aminta replied, speaking

aloud, as if her words were not intended only for Maulear. "Both my

mother and myself are very grateful to you."

"Signorina," said Maulear, with an effort, for he was afraid of wasting

in commonplaces moments in which every word he uttered had a priceless

value, "I did not think, as I wrote on the wall of Tasso's house the

simple lines you deigned to read and remember, that I thus wrote out my

horoscope, and divined the happiness fate marked out for me at

Sorrento."

"Happiness?" said Aminta, and she trembled as she spoke. "You must refer

to the service you have rendered me."

"I speak," said Maulear, unable to restrain himself, "of a new and

strange feeling to me, full of pleasure and pain, of hope and fear. I

speak of a love, which will be the pride and joy of my existence, if it

be shared; which will bring despair and torment, if she who inspires it

rejects it."

"Pray be silent," said Aminta, rising and looking with fear around her.

"Ah, you have understood me," said Maulear, attributing to his

confession Aminta'a emotion.

The young girl was silent. Her eyes turned towards the door of the hut,

as if she feared some one would open it.

"What I say here, Signorina, with nought near me but the passing cloud

and flying bird, I wish to repeat to those who love you--before your

mother and brother, whom I would look on as my own. It is for you to

tell me whether I shall speak to them or be silent."

Just then a faint noise was heard in the summer-house.

Maulear did not perceive it, for Aminta, more and more disturbed by the

mysterious noise, had suffered the Marquis to take her hand, and the

latter, interpreting this favor as his heart wished, fell on his knees

before the young girl, who, overcome with emotion, sat down.

"Aminta," said he, passionately, "since the first day I saw you, my

soul, my life, have been your own. If you but will it, your life shall

be my own--my own, to make every hour of your life one of joy and

pleasure--mine, in adoring you as we do the saints in heaven."

Maulear, with his eyes fixed on Aminta's, sought an echo to the

outpourings of his soul. His lips were on Aminta's hand, when, between

the young girl and himself, he saw a hideous head, made yet more horrid

by the agony it expressed. Aminta suddenly withdrew, and Maulear

experienced that terror of which the bravest are sensible when they

tread on a reptile.

"Scorpione!" said the Marquis.

This name, on the lips of the Marquis at such a time, made such an

impression, that a stream of blood, mingled with white froth, burst from

his lips, and fell at Aminta's feet.

"Help, Signor!" said she to Maulear, "help, I pray you, for this

unfortunate man! This is the first time he has gone out since that cruel

day. See, he dies!"

"What is the meaning of all this?" said Maulear to himself, as he

hurried towards the villa. "Twice my being with Aminta has exercised

the same effect on this unfortunate being. Can she love him? Can he be

jealous?"

IV. THE GRAND JUDGE.

The trial of Count Monte-Leone, which had been so anxiously looked for,

and had given rise to so many disputes about the curious story which

occupied both the high and low of Naples, was about to begin.

The Duke of Palma had not been able to make good his promise to the

prisoner, and bring him promptly before his judges. The incident at

_Torre-del-Greco_ made a new inquiry necessary, and the examinations,

researches, and inquiries of every kind it led to daily, retarded the

trial, much to the regret of the king and his minister of police, who

were aware of the extent to which the public imagination was excited,

and feared its consequences. Monte-Leone began to feel grave

apprehensions in relation to the dangerous game he had played. On the

evening of his excursion, faithful to his word, the Count had presented

himself again to the keeper of the Castle del Uovo in the costume in

which he had left it, and the pious wicket-keeper, when he saw the false

assistant jailer, who had gone out on the previous evening, return with

a trembling and uncertain step, read a long lecture on intemperance and

the results of drunkenness, deplorable faults, especially to be

regretted in one of his profession, where, added the turnkey proudly,

one needs morality, reason, and vigilance especially, to unravel the

plots of the prisoners confided to him, and to triumph over their

detestable _mania for liberty_.

When Pietro on that evening, palpitating as he was with fear, saw

Monte-Leone, whom he waited for at the postern of the castle, return,

his joy was so great that he was ready to clasp the Count's neck. The

latter was not much flattered by his transports.

"Well," said the head-jailer, "you are a noble and true gentleman. A

scoundrel in your place would have escaped, and put his keeper in

trouble. You are of a good race, of a noble and generous blood, you have

paid me well, and have been unwilling to hang the father of a family.

Now," added he, "do not let us talk together, or even look at each

other. Our looks may be watched and interpreted."

From that time Pietro became more brutal, more savage and stern than

ever. The visit of the minister of police justly enough increased the

terror of the jailer. He had from public rumor heard of the terrible

episode at _Torre-del-Greco_, though he did not precisely understand the

motives of the prisoner. He was aware that he had become an accomplice

of his crime, and shuddered more and more at its probable results.

Whenever, therefore, the Count sought to ask him any question, Pietro

exhibited such terror, and his countenance was so complete a picture of

fright, that Monte-Leone at last ceased to speak to him. No news from

without, nothing enlightened the Count in relation to the consequences

of his daring conduct, and for the first time he despaired of the

result. One morning his door opened as usual at meal time; but instead

of withdrawing, the keeper approached Monte-Leone kindly, his ugly face,

on account of the complaisance which lit it up, seeming yet more horrid.

He said:

"Excellence, the great day approaches, and we must arrange some little

details about which the High Court will no doubt be ill-mannerly enough

to question us!"

"You can speak then," replied Monte-Leone, with surprise.

"To-day is not yesterday. Then and ever since your escape, my gossip,

the Headsman, who lives up there as you know, distrusts me. I learn from

his assistant, who is a friend of mine, that the story of the cell

undermined by the sea has made him fancy I wish to deprive him of his

perquisites. I know that while he waters his flowers on the platform he

keeps an eye and ear open for all that passes here. Besides, he would

not be at all sorry to obtain my place for his first assistant--a

promising lad who becomes his son-in-law to-day."

"Ah!" said Monte-Leone, "the executioner's daughter is to be married."

"A love match. He wished to postpone the wedding until after _your

affaire_, as he calls it, for on such cases he always has large

perquisites, and would be able largely to increase the bride's portion.

The young girl, however, was in love, and was unwilling to wait for you.

The worthy father then determined to make her happy, and I have just

seen all the party set out for the church of Santa-Lucia. The

executioner, his wife, the bride, and the little executioners, all in

their best garb. The procession was so imposing, they might have been

taken for a family of turnkeys. Lest, however, the people should disturb

the ceremony by a volley of stones, they set out early, at five o'clock.

As, therefore, we have no inquisitive neighbors, I am come to have an

understanding with your excellency, in order that I may not be

compromised in the trial."

"So be it!" said the Count, "let us have an understanding. In the first

place, have they any suspicions?"

"Of whom?"

"Of you to be sure, for unless I have wings and flew out of the window

to _Torre-del-Greco_, no one but you can have opened the prison gate to

me."

"That is true, then," said Pietro, "you went to _Torre-del-Greco_ to

stab Stenio Salvatori. I really would not have believed it, for it seems

that twenty thousand piasters is too large a sum for the pleasure of a

poniard thrust--in the arm too! After all, though, we Neapolitans regard

nothing valuable compared with revenge!"

"It matters little to you whether it was for revenge or another purpose.

All I wish is, for you alone to know that I was away for twelve hours.

As neither you or I will mention it, I am at ease."

"You are right in the main, your Excellency. But we have placed our

heads in the balance, and I am determined yours shall not outweigh mine.

The hand of justice weighs heavily, especially on the poor. It would be

very bad if now, when I am prepared to live happily and pleasantly on

the proceeds of our little operation, I were called on to dangle at the

end of a rope, to the great delight of the dealers in ice-water and

macaroni, whom the people of Naples on that day would enrich. Few would

miss the entertainment which would be given at my expense."

"What makes you fear this?" asked the Count.

"One idea. They might take it into their heads to examine separately all

the inhabitants of the castle. First your Excellency, as its principal

guest, then your humble servant, the gate-keeper, and even my assistant

Crespo. If all did not tell the same story the Grand Judge would see

some trick."

"You think so?" said the Count, moodily.

"I know so," said Pietro. "The Grand Judge, as the child's story-book

says of ogres, loves fresh meat, and would see a spot on the brow of an

angel. Now, I am not exactly an angel--and if he saw a spot, your

excellency's head might be safe, but for want of a chicken he might

twist my neck. The jailer would be the victim, and my friend the

executioner would have to do with me. I know him. He would be

enthusiastic in the operation, to make a vacancy in my place. He is

bound up in his family."

For an instant the Count had not heard the jailer. One single name

inspired him with the greatest terror, for it recalled one of the

participators in his escape. This man held in his own hands his own and

his accomplice's escape. Pietro had not foreseen all. This assistant,

the character and dress of whom he had assumed, this Crespo, this mole,

would be summoned before the magistrate. The keeper had seen and spoken

to him, had opened the gate of the castle to suffer him to pass out, or

at least fancied he had. What then would the man say? With great

emotion, then, Monte-Leone said,

"The danger does not come from the place you apprehend. One witness,

however, may ruin all."

"Of whom do you speak?" said Pietro, trembling.

"Of Crespo," said the Count.

"Ah--what have you to fear of Crespo?"

"Have you gained him over?"

"No. I was spared the trouble. At this moment the poor fellow is

probably in the other world."

"Have you killed him?" said the Count, with terror.

"For what does your excellency take me? One may yield to the prayers of

a prisoner, and secure a fortune by permitting him a few hours'

exercise, yet be no murderer. If Crespo dies, it is in consequence of

his unfortunate passion."

"Was he in love?"

"No. He was fond of water-rats."

"Horrible appetite."

"Not at all," said the jailer. "Crespo says the animal is very savory,

especially when fat as those in the ditches of the castle are. The

waters bear hither all the offal of Naples, and the rats live like

canons."

"And Crespo eats them?"

"He has a passion for game of that kind, and does nothing but hunt them.

He makes some very ingenious traps to catch them with. I do not molest

him, because the taste is so innocent, and besides, saves me the expense

of several cats."

"But how came that passion to endanger Crespo's life?"

"Ah--one is not always lucky. Perhaps the last rats Crespo ate, had

feasted on arsenic--rats are so whimsical. The poor devil, perhaps, was

poisoned in that manner. Rather an expensive taste. Unfortunately, the

lesson will do him no good."

After this touching funeral oration, the jailer took out a blue and torn

handkerchief, and dried his eyes. The Count shuddered at this story. He

understood the atrocious plan adopted by Pietro to get rid of a

dangerous witness, and forgetful of his own safety, said,

"Perhaps, if you hurry for a physician, the poor man may yet be saved."

"Bah! do you think the Governor would let one of his officers die

without assistance? The doctor, however, was too late; and when I came

hither, Crespo was dying."

Notwithstanding his firmness, the horror of Monte-Leone at the wretch

was so great that he hastened to terminate the conversation. The quasi

complicity in a crime committed in cold blood, and with premeditation;

was odious to him.

"Do not fear lest my examination should compromise you. I will be

prudent. Now, one word more, or if you please to consider it so, one

favor more--when will I be tried?"

"In two days. To-night they will come to take you to _Castello Capuano_,

where the supreme court will meet."

Pietro left, and Monte-Leone relapsed into a profound reverie. The drama

was about to begin. What the Count hitherto had done, was as it were but

a prelude, an exposition, or rather a skilful introduction. On the eve

of the event he did not quail, but like a sagacious tactician asked

himself if he had been guilty of no neglect, if he had taken advantage

of all the circumstances. One thing alone made him uneasy. When he

returned to the Etruscan villa, to assume the clothes of the

assistant-jailer, he saw with terror that he had lost the great emerald,

the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Benvenuto, the family ring, so long celebrated

and so well known. He readily enough fancied that it had been lost

during his rapid flight, and did not suspect that it had fallen into the

hands of his enemies. Reassured on this point, he waited patiently for

the hour when, as the jailer said, they would come to take him to

_Castello Capuano_. It came at last, and Monte-Leone was glad of it, for

it seemed to bring him nearer to liberty. It was about midnight when the

Governor came to the Count's cell, accompanied by the worthy jailer and

several officers.

"Excellency," said he to Monte-Leone, "I have an order from the Duke of

Palma, minister of police, to take you to _Castello Capuano_, to be

tried."

"I am ready to obey the orders of the Duke," said Monte-Leone, "late as

the hour and bad as the weather are. But, Signor, the Duke treats me

like those curious monsters, who travel by night to avoid the anxious

eyes of the public, and to enhance the profits received from their

exhibition."

"Signor, the Duke of Palma," said the Governor, piqued by this irony in

relation to his patron, "has a more exalted object than exciting or

allaying the curiosity of the people of Naples. He wishes to prevent any

demonstration of your numerous partisans in your favor. Such conduct

would certainly injure your cause."

The sarcasm of the Count had made the Governor say too much. He had

revealed to Monte-Leone the interest he had excited, and the efforts

which might be made to save him. To a man like Monte-Leone nothing was

lost, and like a skilful geometer, he knew how to take advantage of the

errors of his adversary.

"Let us go, Signor," said Monte-Leone to the Governor. "I am impatient

to make an acquaintance with the new castle which the king honors me

with. Let me change once or twice again, and I will be able to publish a

statistical account of all the dungeons in the kingdom, for the

information of his majesty's beloved subjects."

An hour after this scene the Count was in a room of _Castello Capuano_,

appropriated to the reception of great and distinguished criminals to be

tried by the high court.

On the next day, a man of cold and ascetic air waited on Monte-Leone.

This person was Felippo San Angelo, the ogre of whom Pietro had spoken,

the terror of all criminals, the Grand Judge of Naples. If the _morale_

of the Judge had been calumniated by Pietro, his physique bore a strong

analogy to that of certain beasts of prey to which carnivorous appetite

is attributed. His nose was hooked like an eagle's, his brow was

prominent, oblong and bald, his lips were thin and fixed as if he had

never smiled, his body was long and attenuated, and he never met the

glance of those with whom he spoke.

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, "I am come to announce to you, as the

law requires, that you will appear before the court on the day after

to-morrow. You will be allowed to choose an advocate, and, as Grand

Judge of the Kingdom, I come to invite you to do so."

"I am deeply sensible of your Excellency's consideration," said

Monte-Leone, "but I must say, the first act of your _justice_ is

_unjust_. If my enemies have had two months to prepare their accusation,

it is cruel to allow me but two days to prepare my defence."

"This is the provision of the laws which regulate at Naples the special

courts, like the one which is to try you, Signor Comte. I do not make

the law, but only administer it."

"But, Excellency, a man of your character should not administer an

unjust law; nothing should compel him to do so."

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, much annoyed at finding himself

unexpectedly drawn into such a discussion, "the legislator gives us the

text of law, we find the interpretation. Your judges, the chief of whom

I am, have carefully studied them, and if we have assumed on our honor

and conscience their application, it is because we think them just. We

do not permit the accused to contest their forms. When a man is

unfortunately brought before a court, he must submit."

"I do, Excellency," said Monte-Leone, "I will even court their severity,

and will not take advantage of the very short time allowed me to choose

a defender. For humanity's sake alone I address you as I do. It seems to

me, however, that it is necessary that I should know, in the first

place, of what I am accused; and I wait until it please your Excellency

to tell me."

"You are charged, Signor, with two capital crimes. First, of having, on

the night of the 20th December, 1815, conspired against the security of

the state, near the ruins of Pompeii, where you presided over a secret

society, the object of which is the overthrow of royalty. You are, in

the second place, accused of having attempted to assassinate Stenio

Salvatori, of _Torre-del-Greco_, to avenge yourself on account of his

testimony."

"Is this all?" asked Monte-Leone.

"It is, Signor," said the Grand Judge; "I think such charges are

important enough to induce you to remember that you must now choose your

counsel."

"You are right, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "For such a cause a skilful

advocate is required, one who shall be able to impress your heart with

the conviction of my innocence, for on his word depends my life or

death."

"Find such a one, then, Signor," said the Grand Judge. "Believe me,

however, the most eloquent advocate has less influence over a

conscientious judge than the facts of the case, the light which

illumines them, and which it is their duty to make brilliant in our

eyes, rather than seek an opportunity to display their fluency and their

political opinions, or, worse yet, to produce public or private

scandal--"

"You are right, Signor, but the person who will speak in my behalf is

neither eloquent nor skilful, yet the most famous pleas, the most

powerful defences of Naples, will not produce so much effect as the

words of that man."

"You, Signor, alone," said the Grand Judge, "can choose your defender.

But let me know his name--"

"That can only be revealed at the trial."

"But you do not know, Signor, you thus deprive yourself of a precious

right to all who are accused, secured them by law, the right of

communicating with their defenders."

"That right I waive. The man who will defend me will know his grave

mission only when called on in the face of the supreme tribunal to

fulfil it."

The Grand Judge looked with amazement at Monte-Leone. "Why, Signor,

cannot he be informed of his grave duty?"

"God forbid he should!"

"Why?"

"Because in that case I would lose my cause." The Count laughed.

"Act then, Signor, as you please. Strange and whimsical as your conduct

is, I have no authority to speak of its advantages and disadvantages."

He bowed to Monte-Leone and withdrew.

"He is mad," said he, as he was leaving _Castello Capuano_.

"He is a fool," said Monte-Leone, as the Grand Judge left. "He did not

understand that one defends himself from the effects of a crime

committed, but not when no crime has been committed."

V.--THE TRIAL.

The appointed day came at last, and all Naples assumed a strange and

unusual air. One subject of interest took possession of all the city,

one idea occupied it, and from the Senator to the Lazzarone all had one

name on their lips. Monte-Leone, Count Monte-Leone.

"Monte-Leone, the people's friend," said some.

"Monte-Leone, the conspirator," said others.

"Monte-Leone, the assassin of Stenio Salvatori," said the enemies of the

Count.

"Monte-Leone, the victim of Fernando," said the enemies of the King.

As all this was going on around the prison, calm and thoughtful

Monte-Leone waited for the hour of trial.

_Castello Capuano_, usually called la Vicaria, had been for several

centuries the palace of the Kings and Viceroys, until Pedro de Toledo

abandoned for a more splendid palace, that of the existing Kings, and

devoted la Vicaria or _Castello Capuano_ to the civil and criminal

courts of the realm. Nothing can be more sad and melancholy than the

portion of the palace in which the prisons are. As if to enhance this

appearance, the outside of the prison was hung with iron cages, in which

were the heads and hands of persons who had been executed. These relics

of humanity, long before dried up, and the skeletons of which alone

remained, rattled in the night wind horribly, and filled with

superstitious terror the minds of belated travellers returning through

the _Porta Capuano_, from which the Castle took its name, to Naples.

La Vicaria was then from an early hour in the morning besieged by a

numerous crowd, awaiting the opening of its gates to rush into the hall

of audience. The doors were opened. The hall was instantly occupied by a

crowd of curious persons, who everywhere in Europe are attracted by

criminal trials. It is a matter of surprise that in France women, and

especially those of rank, are attracted in numbers sufficient sometimes

to form a majority of the audience. But the reason is, that women are

nervous and impressionable, and that they constantly require excitement.

They are not often careful in the selection of these emotions, provided

there are violent shocks, revulsions of feeling, terror, hope, surprise.

Such are the fruits of criminal trials. The head of the prisoner becomes

a shuttlecock between the advocate and magistrate. The varied chances of

such a scene offer great and real interest, effacing all the fictions of

tragedy. There, far more than on the stage, women take delight in the

dark dramas, and are the first to resent the terrible effect of the

denouements.

The beautiful women of Naples did not fail to add to the interest of the

representation of this drama, the hero of which possessed the admiration

of all and the good graces of many. Some of the upper seats were

occupied by women of high rank, who did not dare to show themselves

publicly at this strange spectacle, and came, like beggars, to enjoy a

scene which they would be ashamed to have acknowledged. Places, too, had

been reserved for the patrician women, near the bench of the judges and

advocates. These cold, careless creatures, attracted by mere curiosity,

were not the most numerous of the agitated crowd. The private friends of

the Count, his partisans, the members of the society of which he was the

chief, formed an imposing mass agitated by the most tumultuous

sentiments. Two hearts beat violently, and, though in different places,

a skilful clock-maker would have declared that one was not faster than

the other by a single second. These two hearts were full of the same

object, desired the same thing, pursued the same end. One sentiment

united both, and they were equally tortured by hope and fear.

One of these was a woman dressed in black, and having a half disclosed,

fresh and beautiful face. A fine and delicately gloved hand was placed

upon her heart as if to restrain its pulsations. Her other hand, from

time to time, was passed beneath her veil, to bear to her lips an

exquisitely embroidered and perfumed handkerchief. She sat alone on one

of the remote benches. For a long time she remained motionless, but

suddenly seeming anxious to avoid observation, she approached, as

nearly as possible, the front of the recess in which the bench on which

she had been sitting was placed. She then cast a quick, anxious glance

on the crowd which filled every portion of the court-room, returned, and

became again motionless, and apparently calm as she had been before.

The other actor in this silent scene, was a young man with a pale and

agitated countenance, which betrayed the anxiety of his mind, and the

deep interest he took in the events of the day. Yet not to the place

reserved for the judges, nor the doors through which the prisoner would

be led, did he look. Suspiciously examining every bench in the hall,

perceiving (so to speak) the mass of spectators, the long lines of which

rose one above another, he examined the most remote, even, without

perceiving what he was evidently so anxious to find. At last, by a

sudden start, he attracted the attention of those near him,--a

half-stifled cry burst from his lips; he had perceived the lonely woman

on the remote bench.

"Do you know that lady?" said a young man who sat upon the advocates'

bench.

"I know her?" said he, "not at all."

"Excuse me, you seemed surprised when you saw her."

"The fact was, I had not remarked those seats; they are real opera

boxes."

"Look again, Signor, the lady amuses herself strangely."

"I see nothing, sir," said the pale young man, who still kept his eyes

fixed upon the lady.

"Three times," said the first speaker, "she has placed her hand upon her

hair, as if she would point out to somebody a diamond pin which shines

amid her jetty locks like a star in a stormy sky."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it, it is a signal--and see, she has taken her pin from

her hair, and is imploring. Ah! sir, what a pretty Venus hand. One kiss

on her hand, and I would die content!"

"To be sure," said the other mechanically, and without knowing what he

said.

"It is some intrigue," said the gossiper, "the women of our country go

everywhere, to the church, to the court, and to the theatre. It would be

odd if it were the judge's wife. They who always condemn others,

sometimes must atone for it."

"Speak lower, Signor, speak lower; you may compromise her."

"True, true, but by St. Januarius, see what she is about now;" he spoke

lower.

"What!" said the young man.

"She has placed her finger upon her pin, and looks this way, as if she

was interrogating you."

"You are mistaken; besides, how can you see under a veil which way she

looks?"

"There is no doubt about it, it is intended for us, and she wishes to

speak either to you or to me."

Looking towards the person of whom they spoke, for the purpose of giving

more force to his asseveration, he was amazed to see her white hand

holding the diamond pin to her lips. The scene we have been so long

describing had taken place in a few seconds. Prompt as was the reply of

the young man to the interrogatory of the woman, his companion had

perceived it. The latter being a man of good taste, and perfectly expert

in the telegraphs of love, was persuaded that he had interfered in some

love affair, and hastened to say to the hero of the adventure,

"Do not be afraid, sir, I have seen nothing. Well-bred people, such as

you and I are, never speak of secrets we thus become acquainted

with--and I am ready to maintain with my lip and with my sword, that you

have not the slightest acquaintance with the lady there."

"Thank you, sir," said the young man; "your conduct proves you to be a

gentleman."

Just then all the assemblage became full of eager expectation at the

entrance of the High Court, preceded by the President.

"The court is opened--produce the prisoner," said the Grand Judge.

The agitation became stronger. Women stood up in their chairs, men

climbed up on the banisters, and others, vexed at not being able to see,

protested against the appropriation of seats by the legs and boots of

those in front of them. The disorder was quickly put an end to by the

imperious voice of the Grand Judge, who threatened to have the hall

cleared if order were not at once restored, and the respect due to the

court maintained. All became immediately quiet; the audience sat down,

those in the rear ceased to complain, and many an eye was fixed on Count

Monte-Leone.

The Count sat in the lofty seat reserved for him, an arm-chair replaced

the stool used by vulgar criminals. The respect due to rank and birth

was religiously observed in this aristocratic tribunal. The noble, if

found guilty, was certainly sentenced to death, as the merest

commoner--the form of trial, though, always exhibited respect for

illustrious names, which was most gratifying to the people. The fact

was, at that time people believed in social superiority, had faith in

their God, king and nobles, and though they demanded that their nobles

should be punished, did not expect them to die like common people; the

difference was the difference between the rope and the sabre. That very

difference, however, between the two deaths--the terrible theatrical

effect of the latter, made a great impression on the masses.

The public accuser arose, and pronounced an eloquent harangue against

Monte-Leone, as guilty of two crimes, the nature of which the Grand

Judge had already described to him in prison.

First crime: Conspiracy against the State, in having presided at the

secret _venta_ of Pompeia, as chief of a society, having for its object

the overturning of the monarchy.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by Stringer

& Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United

States for the Southern District of New-York.

From Graham's Magazine.

BALLAD OF JESSIE CAROL.

BY ALICE CAREY.

I.

At her window, Jessie Carol,

As the twilight dew distils,

Pushes back her heavy tresses,

Listening toward the northern hills.

"I am happy, very happy,

None so much as I am blest;

None of all the many maidens

In the Valley of the West,"

Softly to herself she whispered;

Paused she then again to hear

If the step of Allen Archer,

That she waited for, were near.

"Ah, he knows I love him fondly!--

I have never told him so!--

Heart of mine be not so heavy,

He will come to-night, I know."

Brightly is the full moon filling

All the withered woods with light,

"He has not forgotten surely--

It was later yesternight!"

Shadows interlock with shadows--

Says the maiden, "Woe is me!"

In the blue the eve-star trembles

Like a lily in the sea.

Yet a good hour later sounded,--

But the northern woodlands sway!--

Quick a white hand from her casement

Thrust the heavy vines away.

Like the wings of restless swallows

That a moment brush the dew,

And again are up and upward,

Till we lose them in the blue,

Were the thoughts of Jessie Carol,--

For a moment dim with pain,

Then with pleasant waves of sunshine,

On the hills of hope again.

"Selfish am I, weak and selfish,"

Said she, "thus to sit and sigh;

Other friends and other pleasures

Claim his leisure well as I.

Haply, care or bitter sorrow

'Tis that keeps him from my side,

Else he surely would have hasted

Hither at the twilight tide.

Yet, sometimes I can but marvel

That his lips have never said,

When we talked about the future,

Then, or then, we shall be wed!

Much I fear me that my nature

Cannot measure half his pride,

And perchance he would not wed me

Though I pined of love and died.

To the aims of his ambition

I would bring nor wealth nor fame.

Well, there is a quiet valley

Where we both shall sleep the same!"

So, more eves than I can number,

Now despairing, and now blest,

Watched the gentle Jessie Carol

From the Valley of the West.

II.

Down along the dismal woodland

Blew October's yellow leaves,

And the day had waned and faded,

To the saddest of all eves.

Poison rods of scarlet berries

Still were standing here and there,

But the clover blooms were faded,

And the orchard boughs were bare.

From the stubble fields the cattle

Winding homeward, playful, slow,

With their slender horns of silver

Pushed each other to and fro.

Suddenly the hound upspringing

From his sheltering kennel, whined,

As the voice of Jessie Carol

Backward drifted on the wind,

Backward drifted from a pathway

Sloping down the upland wild,

Where she walked with Allan Archer,

Light of spirit as a child!

All her young heart wild with rapture

And the bliss that made it beat--

Not the golden wells of Hybla

Held a treasure half so sweet!

But as oft the shifting rose-cloud,

In the sunset light that lies,

Mournful makes us, feeling only

How much farther are the skies,--

So the mantling of her blushes,

And the trembling of her heart,

'Neath his steadfast eyes but made her

Feel how far they were apart.

"Allan," said she, "I will tell you

Of a vision that I had--

All the livelong night I dreamed it,

And it made me very sad.

We were walking slowly, seaward,

In the twilight--you and I--

Through a break of clearest azure

Shone the moon--as now--on high;

Though I nothing said to vex you,

O'er your forehead came a frown,

And I strove, but could not soothe you--

Something kept my full heart down;

When, before us, stood a lady

In the moonlight's pearly beam,

Very tall and proud and stately--

(Allan, this was in my dream!--)

Looking down, I thought, upon me,

Half in pity, half in scorn,

Till my soul grew sick with wishing

That I never had been born.

'Cover me from woe and madness!'

Cried I to the ocean flood,

As she locked her milk-white fingers

In between us where we stood,--

All her flood of midnight tresses

Softly gathered from their flow,

By her crown of bridal beauty,

Paler than the winter snow.

Striking then my hands together,

O'er the tumult of my breast,--

All the beauty waned and faded

From the Valley of the West!"

In the beard of Allan Archer

Twisted then his fingers white,

As he said, "My gentle Jessie,

You must not be sad to-night;

You must not be sad, my Jessie--

You are over kind and good,

And I fain would make you happy,

Very happy--if I could!"

Oft he kissed her cheek and forehead,

Called her darling oft, but said,

Never, that he loved her fondly,

Or that ever they should wed;

But that he was grieved that shadows

Should have chilled so dear a heart;

That the time foretold so often

Then was come--and they must part!

Shook her bosom then with passion,

Hot her forehead burned with pain,

But her lips said only, "Allan,

Will you ever come again?"

And he answered, lightly dallying

With her tresses all the while,

Life had not a star to guide him

Like the beauty of her smile;

And that when the corn was ripened

And the vintage harvest prest,

She would see him home returning

To the Valley of the West.

When the moon had veiled her splendor,

And went lessening down the blue,

And along the eastern hill-tops

Burned the morning in the dew,

They had parted--each one feeling

That their lives had separate ends;

They had parted--neither happy--

Less than lovers--more than friends.

For as Jessie mused in silence,

She remembered that he said,

Never, that he loved her fondly,

Or that ever they should wed.

'Twas full many a nameless meaning

My poor words can never say,

Felt without the need of utterance,

That had won her heart away.

O the days were weary! weary!

And the eves were dull and long,

With the cricket's chirp of sorrow,

And the owlet's mournful song.

But in slumber oft she started

In the still and lonesome nights,

Hearing but the traveller's footstep

Hurrying toward the village lights.

So, moaned by the dreary winter--

All her household tasks fulfilled--

Till beneath the last year's rafters

Came the swallows back to build.

Meadow-pinks, like flakes of crimson,

Over all the valleys lay,

And again were oxen ploughing

Up and down the hills all day.

Thus the dim days dawned and faded

To the maid, forsaken, lorn,

Till the freshening breeze of summer

Shook the tassels of the corn.

Ever now within her chamber

All night long the lamp-light shines,

But no white hand from her casement

Pushes back the heavy vines.

On her cheek a fire was feeding,

And her hand transparent grew--

Ah, the faithless Allan Archer!

More than she had dreamed was true.

No complaint was ever uttered,

Only to herself she sighed,--

As she read of wretched poets

Who had pined of love and died.

Once she crushed the sudden crying

From her trembling lips away,

When they said the vintage harvest

Had been gathered in that day

Often, when they kissed her, smiled she,

Saying that it soothed her pain,

And that they must not be saddened--

She would soon be well again!

Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing,

Meekly bore she all her pain.

Till the red leaves of the autumn

Withered from the woods again;

Till the bird had hushed its singing

In the silvery sycamore,

And the nest was left unsheltered

In the lilac by the door;

Saying, still, that she was happy--

None so much as she was blest--

None, of all the many maidens

In the Valley of the West.

III.

Down the heath and o'er the moorland

Blows the wild gust high and higher,

Suddenly the maiden pauses

Spinning at the cabin fire,

And quick from her taper fingers

Falls away the flaxen thread,

As some neighbor entering, whispers,

"Jessie Carol lieth dead."

Then, as pressing close her forehead

To the window-pane, she sees

Two stout men together digging

Underneath the church-yard trees.

And she asks in kindest accents,

"Was she happy when she died?"--

Sobbing all the while to see them

Void the heavy earth aside;

Or, upon their mattocks leaning,

Through their fingers numb to blow,

For the wintry air is chilly,

And the grave-mounds white with snow;

And the neighbor answers softly,

"Do not, dear one, do not cry:

At the break of day she asked us

If we thought that she must die;

And when I had told her, sadly,

That I feared it would be so,

Smiled she, saying, ''Twill be weary

Digging in the churchyard snow!'

'Earth,' I said, 'was very dreary--

That its paths at best were rough;

And she whispered, she was ready,

That her life was long enough.

So she lay serene and silent,

Till the wind, that wildly drove,

Soothed her from her mortal sorrow,

Like the lullaby of love."

Thus they talked, while one that loved her

Smoothed her tresses dark and long,

Wrapped her white shroud down, and simply

Wove her sorrow to this song:

IV.

Sweetly sleeps she: pain and passion

Burn no longer on her brow--

Weary watchers, ye may leave her--

She will never need you now!

While the wild spring bloomed and faded,

Till the autumn came and passed,

Calmly, patiently, she waited--

Rest has come to her at last!

Never have the blessed angels,

As they walked with her apart,

Kept pale Sorrow's battling armies

Half so softly from her heart

Therefore, think not, ye that loved her,

Of the pallor hushed and dread,

Where the winds, like heavy mourners,

Cry about her lonesome bed,

But of white hands softly reaching

As the shadow o'er her fell,

Downward from the golden bastion

Of the eternal citadel.

[From "The Memorial," just published by Putnam.]

A STORY OF CALAIS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ST. LEGER."

Some years ago, I was detained unexpectedly in Calais for an entire

week. It was with difficulty I could occupy the time. For a while my

chief resource was to inspect the different faces which daily presented

themselves at the Hotel de Meurice, where one could see every variety of

features belonging to every country, age, sex, and condition. I grew

tired of this presently, for I had been on the continent a considerable

period, and had seen the human species under as many different phases as

could well be imagined. Therefore, when the third day brought with it

one of those disagreeable storms peculiar to the coast--half drizzle,

half sleet and rain--it found me weary of the amusement of attending on

new arrivals and departures, and of the nameless petty doings by which

time, in a bustling hotel, is attempted to be frittered away. A misty,

dreary, damp, offensive day! An out-and-out tempest, a thorough

right-down drenching rain, would have been in agreeable contrast with

the previous hot, dusty, sunny weather; but this--it seemed absolutely

intolerable! I was, besides, in no particular condition to be pleased. I

was neither setting out upon a tour, nor returning from one, but had

been interrupted in my progress and forced to stand still at this most

uninteresting spot. I came down, and with a bad grace, to order

breakfast.

"Garcon, Cafe--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I was about repeating this in a louder tone, for the waiter seemed

engrossed with something more important than attending to my wants, when

I heard a quiet voice behind me--

"Garcon, Cafe--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I turned angrily upon the speaker, doubtful of the design of this

repetition of my order.

The reader will perceive that my breakfast was a substantial one;

indeed, such a breakfast as an American, who had not so far lost himself

in "European society" as to forget his appetite, would be very likely to

call for. The idea that I was watched, doubtless made me a little

suspicious, or sensitive, or irritable; at any rate, I turned, as I have

said, angrily upon the speaker. He was a slightly made, elderly man, at

least fifty, with pleasant features, a calm appearance, and quiet

manners--a person evidently at home with the world. I recollected at the

same moment, that the stranger had been at the hotel ever since my

arrival there, although I had not, from his unobtrusive habit, given him

more than a passing notice. His appearance at once dispelled the frown

which I had brought to bear upon him; but when he answered my stare with

a respectful yet half familiar bow, I could have sworn that it came

from an old acquaintance. I need not say that I returned the salutation

cordially. At the same time my new friend rose, came towards me, and

held out his hand.

"I am quite sure," he said, "that you are an American--perhaps a New

Englander; _I_ am both; why, then, should not countrymen beguile an

unpleasant day in company? Excuse me--I did hear your order just now,

and as it suited my own taste, I proposed to myself that we should

breakfast together;--we may trust to Francois; he has been here, to my

knowledge, more than twenty years, and pleases every body."

I pressed the hand of my new acquaintance--acknowledged myself to be

from New Hampshire--gave my name, and received in return--"Philip

Belcher."

We sat down to the same table, and very soon Francois appeared with a

well-served breakfast.

"Pray," said I, "what _can_ one do to relieve the monotony of this

intolerable place? If the country about were agreeable--nay, if it were

bearable! but as it is, I repeat, what is to be done?"

"Done!" said Mr. Belcher, rather sharply, "a hundred things! Put on your

Mackintosh and overshoes; come with me to the Courtgain, and see the

fishermen putting to sea, their boats towed out by their wives and

daughters; a sight, I will be bound, you have not beheld, although you

may have coursed Europe over, and been at Calais half a dozen times."

Mr. Belcher proceeded in this vein, detailing many things that could be

seen to advantage even in Calais; but as he suggested nothing which

interested me so much as he himself did, I had the boldness to tell him

so, and that my curiosity was excited to know more of him.

"There is nothing in my history that can amuse a stranger; indeed, it is

without incident or marvel. To be sure, I am alone in the world, but I

have never been afflicted, or suffered misfortune, within my

recollection. My parents died when I was very young; my father and

mother were both only children; a small property which the former left

was carefully invested, and faithfully nursed during my minority, by a

scrupulous and honest lawyer, in no way connected with us, but whom my

father named as executor in his will, and my guardian. Ill health

prevented my getting on at school. I can't say that I was an invalid,

but my constitution was delicate and my temperament nervous. I tried to

make some progress in the study of a profession, under my excellent

guardian, but was forced to give it up as too trying to my nerves. The

excitement of a court-room I could not endure for a day, much less for a

lifetime. Before I was twenty-five, my income had so much increased that

I could afford to travel. I have gained in this way my health, which,

however, would become impaired should I return to a sedentary life; so,

as a matter of necessity, I have wandered about the world. You see my

story is soon told."

I found Mr. Belcher was not in the habit of talking about himself, and I

liked him the better for it. Without pressing for a more particular

account, I led the conversation to treat of the different countries he

had visited, referring, by the way, to some principal objects of

attraction. Here I touched an idiosyncrasy of my new friend.

"I never formed," he said, "any distinct 'plan' of travel. I never 'did'

Paris in eight days, nor the gallery of the Louvre in half an hour, as

they have been done by an acquaintance. I never opened a guide-book in

my life; I never employed a _commissionere_, a _valet_, a _courier_, a

_cicerone_, or a _dragoman_. My pleasure has been to let the

remarkable--the beautiful--the interesting--burst upon me without

introduction, and I have found my account in it. I have quitted the Val

d'Arno, turned off from the Lake of Como, passed to the wrong side of

Lake Leman and its romantic castles, pursuing my way, regardless of

these well-worn attractions, while I beheld rarer--at least familiar

scenes--and enjoyed with zest what was fresh and unhackneyed. No

everlasting 'route'--no mercenary and dishonest landlords--no troops of

travellers, travelling that they may become 'travelled'--but in place of

all this, I saw every thing naturally--the country in its

simplicity--the inhabitants in their simplicity--while, I trust, I have

preserved my own simplicity. Indeed, I rather prefer what your tourist

calls an 'uninteresting region.'"

"For that reason," I remarked, pleasantly, "you have come here to Calais

to spend a few weeks; you must enjoy the barren sand-plain which extends

all the way from this to St. Omer. How picturesque are those pollards

scattered along the road, with here and there a superannuated windmill,

looking like an ogre with three arms and no legs: then, to relieve the

dreariness of the place, you have multitudes of miserable cabins,

grouped into more miserable villages, to say nothing of the chateaux of

dingy red, in which painters of the brick-dust school so much delight.

Really, Mr. Belcher, you will have a capital field here!"

My new acquaintance shook his head a little seriously, as if deprecating

further pleasantry.

"You are like the rest of them, I fear," he remarked, "a surface

traveller; at least you will force me to believe so if you go on in this

way. But come," he continued, "the storm threatens to last the morning;

if you wish, I will help to make away with part of it, by recounting a

little adventure which happened to me hard by those very pollards, which

you are pleased to abuse so freely."

It is needless to add that I joyfully assented to the proposal, and was

soon seated in Mr. Belcher's room before a cheerful fire--for he had

managed even in Calais to procure one--when he commenced as follows:

"I think it was during the first season I was on the continent, that I

visited St. Omer. After spending a day or two in that place, I concluded

to walk to Calais, and set out one morning accordingly.

"The weather was fine; but after I had been a few hours on the road, the

wind began to blow directly in my face, and soon enveloped me in a cloud

of sand from which there seemed no escape, and which threatened actually

to suffocate me. To avoid this I left the highway, but keeping what I

supposed to be in the general direction of the road, I struck out into

the adjacent fields. There was nothing for a considerable distance to