CHAPTER XIV.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. III. NEW-YORK, MAY 1, 1851. No. II.

GEORGE WILKINS KENDALL.

[Illustration]

We have here a capital portrait of the editor in chief of the New

Orleans _Picayune_, GEORGE W. KENDALL, who, as an editor, author,

traveller, or _bon garcon_, is world-famous, and every where entitled to

be chairman in assemblies of these several necessary classes of people.

Take him for all in all, he may be described as a new Chevalier Bayard,

baptized in the spirit of fun, and with a steel pen in lieu of a blade

of Damascus. He is a Vermonter--of the state which has sent out Orestes

Brownson, Herman Hooker, the Coltons, Hiram Powers, Hannah Gould, and a

crowd of other men and women with the sharpest intellects, and for the

most part the genialist tempers too, that can be found in all the

country. His boyhood was passed in the delightful village of Burlington,

from which, when he was of age, he came to New-York, and here he lived

until about the year 1835, when he went to New Orleans, where his

subsequent career may be found traced in the most witty and brilliant

and altogether successful journal ever published in the southern or

western states.

Partly for the love of adventure and partly for advantage to his health,

in the spring of 1841 Mr. Kendall determined to make an excursion into

the great south-western prairies, and the contemplated trading

expedition to Santa-Fe offering escort and agreeable companions, he

procured passports from the Mexican vice-consul at New-Orleans, and

joined it, at Austin. The history of this expedition has become an

important portion of the history of the nation, and its details,

embracing an account of his own captivity and sufferings in Mexico, were

written by Mr. Kendall in one of the most spirited and graphic books of

military and wilderness adventure, vicissitude, and endurance, that has

been furnished in our times. The work was published in two volumes, by

the Harpers, in 1844. It has since passed through many editions, and for

the fidelity and felicity, the bravery and _bon hommie_, that mark all

its pages, it is likely to be one of the choicest chronicles that will

be quoted from our own in the new centuries.

After the publication of his narrative of the Santa Fe Expedition, Mr.

Kendall resumed his more immediate services in the _Picayane_--always,

it may be said without injustice to his associates, most attractive

under his personal supervision; and in the angry and war-tending

controversies with Mexico which filled the public mind in the succeeding

years, he was one of the calmest as well as wisest of our journalists.

When at length the conflict came on, he attended the victorious Taylor

as a member of his staff along the mountains and valleys which that

great commander marked with the names of immortal victories, and had

more than satisfaction for all griefs of his own in seeing the flag of

his country planted in every scene in which his country had been

insulted in his own person.

Upon the conclusion of the war, Mr. Kendall commenced the preparation of

the magnificent work which has lately been published in this city by the

Appletons, under the title of _The War between the United States and

Mexico, by George W. Kendall, illustrated by pictorial drawings by Carl

Nebel_. Mr. Nebel may be regarded as one of the best battle-painters

living. He accompanied Mr. Kendall during the war, and made his sketches

while on the several fields where he had witnessed the movements of the

contending armies; and in all the accessories of scenery, costume, and

general effect, he has unquestionably been as successful as the actors

in the drama admit him to have been in giving a vivid and just

impression of the distinguishing characteristics of each conflict. The

subjects of the plates are the Bombardment of Vera Cruz, the Battle of

Cerro Gordo, the Storming of Chepultepec, the Assault on Contreras, the

Battle of Cherubusco, the Attack on Molino del Rey, General Scott's

Entrance into Mexico, the Battle of Buena Vista, the Battle of Palo

Alto, and the Capture of Monterey. In some cases, there are two

representations of the same scene, taken from different points of view.

These have all been reproduced in colored lithography by the best

artists of Paris. The literary part of the work, comprising very careful

and particular accounts of these events, is excellently written--so

compactly and perspicuously, with so thorough a knowledge and so pure a

taste, as to be deserving of applause among models in military history.

Mr. Kendall passed about two years in Europe for the purpose of

superintending its publication, and its success must have amply

satisfied the most sanguine anticipations with which he entered upon its

composition.

New England is largely represented among the leading editors of the

South and West, and it is a little remarkable that the two papers most

conspicuous as representatives of the idiosyncrasies which most obtain

in their respective states--the _Picayune_ and George D. Prentice's

_Louisville Journal_--are conducted by men from sections most

antagonistical in interest and feeling, men who have carried with them

to their new homes and who still cherish there all the reciprocated

affections by which they were connected with the North. When George W.

Kendall leaves New Orleans for his summer wandering in our more

comfortable and safe latitudes, an ovation of editors awaits him at

every town along the Mississippi, and, crossing the mountains, he is the

most popular member of the craft in Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia,

New-York, or Boston--an evidence that the strifes of party may exist

without any personal ill-feeling, if the editor never forgets in his own

person to sustain the character of a gentleman.

WASHINGTON.

It is a truth, illustrated in daily experience, and yet rarely noted or

acted upon, that, in all that concerns the appreciation of personal

character or ability, the instinctive impressions of a community are

quicker in their action, more profoundly appreciant, and more reliable,

than the intellectual perceptions of the ablest men in the community.

Upon all those subjects that are of moral apprehension, society seems to

possess an intelligence of its own, infinitely sensitive in its

delicacy, and almost conclusive in the certainty of its determinations;

indirect, and unconscious in its operation, yet unshunnable in sagacity,

and as strong and confident as nature itself. The highest and finest

qualities of human judgment seem to be in commission among the nation,

or the race. It is by such a process, that whenever a true hero appears

among mankind, the recognition of his character, by the general sense of

humanity, is instant and certain: the belief of the chief priests and

rulers of mind follows later, or comes not at all. The perceptions of a

public are as subtly-sighted as its passions are blind. It sees, and

feels, and knows the excellence, which it can neither understand, nor

explain, nor vindicate. These involuntary opinions of people at large

explain themselves, and are vindicated by events, and form at last the

constants of human understanding. A character of the first order of

greatness, such as seems to pass out of the limits and courses of

ordinary life, often lies above the ken of intellectual judgment; but

its merits and its infirmities never escape the sleepless perspicacity

of the common sentiment, which no novelty of form can surprise, and no

mixture of qualities can perplex. The mind--the logical

faculty--comprehends a subject, when it can trace in it the same

elements, or relations, which it is familiar with elsewhere; if it finds

but a faint analogy of form or substance, its decision is embarrassed.

But this other instinct seems to become subtler, and more rapid, and

more absolute in conviction, at the line where reason begins to falter.

Take the case of Shakspeare. His surpassing greatness was never

acknowledged by the learned, until the nation had ascertained and

settled it as a foregone and questionless conclusion. Even now, to the

most sagacious mind of this time, the real ground and evidence of its

own assurance of Shakspeare's supremacy, is the universal, deep,

immovable conviction of it in the public feeling. There have been many

acute essays upon his minor characteristics; but intellectual criticism

has never grappled with Shaksperian ART in its entireness and grandeur,

and probably it never will. We know not now wherein his greatness

consists. We cannot demonstrate it. There is less indistinctness in the

merit of less eminent authors. Those things which are not doubts to our

consciousness, are yet mysteries to our mind. And if this is true of

literary art, which is so much within the sphere of reflection, it may

be expected to find more striking illustration in great practical and

public moral characters.

[Illustration: THE NATIONAL MONUMENT AT WASHINGTON.]

These considerations occur naturally to the mind in contemplating the

fame of Washington. An attentive examination of the whole subject, and

of all that can contribute to the formation of a sound opinion, results

in the belief that General Washington's _mental_ abilities illustrate

the very highest type of greatness. His _mind_, probably, was one of the

very greatest that was ever given to mortality. Yet it is impossible to

establish that position by a direct analysis of his character, or

conduct, or productions. When we look at the incidents or the results of

that great career--when we contemplate the qualities by which it is

marked, from its beginning to its end--the foresight which never was

surprised, the judgment which nothing could deceive, the wisdom whose

resources were incapable of exhaustion--combined with a spirit as

resolute in its official duties as it was moderate in its private

pretensions, as indomitable in its public temper as it was gentle in its

personal tone--we are left in wonder and reverence. But when we would

enter into the recesses of that mind--when we would discriminate upon

its construction, and reason upon its operations--when we would tell how

it was composed, and why it excelled--we are entirely at fault. The

processes of Washington's understanding are entirely hidden from us.

What came from it, in counsel or in action, was the life and glory of

his country; what went on within it, is shrouded in impenetrable

concealment. Such elevation in degree of wisdom, amounts almost to a

change of kind, in nature, and detaches his intelligence from the

sympathy of ours. We cannot see him as he was, because we are not like

him. The tones of the mighty bell were heard with the certainty of Time

itself, and with a force that vibrates still upon the air of life, and

will vibrate for ever. But the clock-work, by which they were regulated

and given forth, we can neither see nor understand. In fact, his

intellectual abilities did not exist in an analytical and separated

form; but in a combined and concrete state. They "moved altogether when

they moved at all." They were in no degree speculative, but only

practical. They could not act at all in the region of imagination, but

only upon the field of reality. The sympathies of his intelligence dwelt

exclusively in the national being and action. Its interests and energies

were absorbed in them. He was nothing out of that sphere, because he was

every thing there. The extent to which he was identified with the

country is unexampled in the relations of individual men to the

community. During the whole period of his life he was the thinking part

of the nation. He was its mind; it was his image and illustration. If we

would classify and measure him, it must be with nations and not with

individuals.

This extraordinary nature of Washington's capacities--this impossibility

of analyzing and understanding the elements and methods of his

wisdom--have led some persons to doubt whether, intellectually, he was

of great superiority; but the public--the community--never doubted of

the transcendent eminence of Washington's abilities. From the first

moment of his appearance as the chief, the recognition of him, from one

end of the country to the other, as THE MAN--the leader, the counsellor,

the infallible in suggestion and in conduct--was immediate and

universal. From that moment to the close of the scene, the national

confidence in his capacity was as spontaneous, as enthusiastic, as

immovable, as it was in his integrity. Particular persons, affected by

the untoward course of events, sometimes questioned his sufficiency; but

the nation never questioned it, nor would allow it to be questioned.

Neither misfortune, nor disappointment, nor accidents, nor delay, nor

the protracted gloom of years, could avail to disturb the public trust

in him. It was apart from circumstances; it was beside the action of

caprice; it was beyond all visionary, and above all changeable feelings.

It was founded on nothing extraneous; not upon what he had said or done,

but upon what he was. They saw something in the man, which gave them

assurance of a nature and destiny of the highest elevation--something

inexplicable, but which inspired a complete satisfaction. We feel that

this reliance was wise and right; but why it was felt, or why it was

right, we are as much to seek as those who came under the direct

impression of his personal presence. It is not surprising, that the

world, recognizing in this man a nature and a greatness which philosophy

cannot explain, should revere him almost to religion.

The distance and magnitude of those objects which are too far above us

to be estimated directly--such as stars--are determined by their

parallax. By some process of that kind we may form an approximate notion

of Washington's greatness. We may measure him against the great events

in which he moved; and against the great men, among whom, and above

whom, his figure stood like a tower. It is agreed that the war of

American Independence is one of the most exalted, and honorable, and

difficult achievements related in history. Its force was contributed by

many; but its grandeur was derived from Washington. His character and

wisdom gave unity, and dignity, and effect to the irregular, and often

divergent enthusiasm of others. His energy combined the parts; his

intelligence guided the whole: his perseverance, and fortitude, and

resolution, were the inspiration and support of all. In looking back

over that period, his presence seems to fill the whole scene; his

influence predominates throughout; his character is reflected from every

thing. Perhaps nothing less than his immense weight of mind could have

kept the national system, at home, in that position which it held,

immovably, for seven years; perhaps nothing but the august

respectability which his demeanor threw around the American cause

abroad, would have induced a foreign nation to enter into an equal

alliance with us, upon terms that contributed in a most important degree

to our final success, or would have caused Great Britain to feel that no

great indignity was suffered in admitting the claim to national

existence of a people who had such a representative as Washington. What

but the most eminent qualities of mind and feeling--discretion

superhuman--readiness of invention, and dexterity of means, equal to the

most desperate affairs--endurance, self-control, regulated ardor,

restrained passion, caution mingled with boldness, and all the

contrarieties of moral excellence--could have expanded the life of an

individual into a career such as this?

If we compare him with the great men who were his contemporaries

throughout the nation; in an age of extraordinary personages, Washington

was unquestionably the first man of the time in ability. Review the

correspondence of General Washington--that sublime monument of

intelligence and integrity--scrutinize the public history and the public

men of that era, and you will find that in all the wisdom that was

accomplished was attempted, Washington was before every man in his

suggestions of the plan, and beyond every one in the extent to which he

contributed to its adoption. In the field, all the able generals

acknowledged his superiority, and looked up to him with loyalty,

reliance, and reverence; the others, who doubted his ability, or

conspired against his sovereignty, illustrated, in their own conduct,

their incapacity to be either his judges or his rivals. In the state,

Adams, Jay, Rutledge, Pinckney, Morris--these are great names; but there

is not one whose wisdom does not vail to his. His superiority was felt

by all these persons, and was felt by Washington himself, as a simple

matter of fact, as little a subject of question, or a cause of vanity,

as the eminence of his personal stature. His appointment as

commander-in-chief, was the result of no design on his part, and of no

efforts on the part of his friends; it seemed to take place

spontaneously. He moved into the position, because there was a vacuum

which no other could supply: in it, he was not sustained by government,

by a party, nor by connections; he sustained himself, and then he

sustained every thing else. He sustained Congress against the army, and

the army against the injustice of Congress. The brightest mind among his

contemporaries was Hamilton's; a character which cannot be contemplated

without frequent admiration, and constant affection. His talents took

the form of genius, which Washington's did not. But active, various, and

brilliant, as the faculties of Hamilton were, whether viewed in the

precocity of youth, or in the all-accomplished elegance of maturer

life--lightning quick as his intelligence was to see through every

subject that came before it, and vigorous as it was in constructing the

argumentation by which other minds were to be led, as upon a shapely

bridge, over the obscure depths across which his had flashed in a

moment--fertile and sound in schemes, ready in action, splendid in

display, as he was--nothing is more obvious and certain than that when

Mr. Hamilton approached Washington, he came into the presence of one who

surpassed him in the extent, in the comprehension, the elevation, the

sagacity, the force, and the ponderousness of his mind, as much as he

did in the majesty of his aspect, and the grandeur of his step. The

genius of Hamilton was a flower, which gratifies, surprises, and

enchants; the intelligence of Washington was a stately tree, which in

the rarity and true dignity of its beauty is as superior, as it is in

its dimensions.

[Illustration: THE GRAVE OF WASHINGTON.]

WILLIAM HOGARTH.

The great comedian in pictorial art forms one of the subjects of Mrs.

Hall's sketches, in the _Pilgrimages to English Shrines_, and we think

her article upon visiting his tomb as interesting as any in this popular

series:

Hogarth, the great painter-teacher of his age and country, was born in

the parish of St. Bartholomew the Great, in London, on the 10th of

November, 1697, and his trusty and sympathizing biographer, Allan

Cunningham, says, "we have the authority of his own manuscripts for

believing he was baptized on the 28th of the same month;" but the parish

registers have been examined for confirmation with "fruitless

solicitude." Cunningham gives December as the month of his birth; this

is a mistake; so also is his notice of the painter's introduction of the

Virago into his picture of the "Modern Midnight Conversation." No female

figure appears in this subject. It is in the third plate of the "Rake's

Progress" the woman alluded to is introduced. A small critic might here

find a fit subject for vituperation, and loudly condemn Cunningham as a

writer who was too idle to examine the works he was describing; pouncing

on his minute errors, and forgetting the totality of his generous

labors. Much of this spirit infests literature; and merges the kindly

exposition of error into the bitterness of personal attack. The

fallibility of human nature should teach us charity, and our own faults

lead us to "more gently scan our brother man,"--a thing too often

unthought of by those who are nothing if not critical, and as frequently

nothing when they are. The painter was descended from a Westmoreland

family. Sprung from an industrious race of self-helping yeomen, whose

hardy toil brought them health and contentment, Hogarth had an early

advantage, derived from his father's love of letters, which eventually

drew him away from field and wood to the great London mart. Like

thousands of others, he was unsuccessful. Fortunately, in this instance,

his want of success in literature stimulated the strong mind of his son

to seek occupation of more certain profit; and those who feel interest

in the whereabouts of celebrated men, may think upon the days when

William Hogarth wrought in silver, as the apprentice of Ellis Gamble, in

Cranbourne Street, and speculate upon the change of circumstances,

wrought by his own exertions, when, as a great painter, in after time,

he occupied the house, now known as the Sabloniere Hotel, in Leicester

Square.

Hogarth's character of mind, evidenced in his works and proved by his

biography, is so perfectly honest, open, home-bred English, that we

claim him with pride--as belonging exclusively to England. His

originality is of English growth; his satire broad, bold, fair-play

English. He was no screened assassin of character, either with pen or

pencil; no journalist's hack to stab in secret--concealing his name, or

assuming a forged one; no masked caricaturist, responsible to none. His

philosophy was of the straightforward, clear-sighted English school; his

theories--stern, simple, and unadorned--thoroughly English; his

determination--proved in his love as well as in his hate--quite English;

there is a firmness of purpose, a rough dignity, a John-Bull look in his

broad intelligent face; the very fur round his cap must have been plain

English rabbit-skin! No matter what "schools" were in fashion, Hogarth

created and followed his own; no matter what was done, or said, or

written, Hogarth maintained his opinion unflinchingly; he was not to be

moved or removed from his resolve. His mind was vigorous and inflexible,

and withal, keen and acute; and though the delicacy of his taste in this

more refined age may be matter of question, there can be no doubt as to

his integrity and uprightness of purpose--in his determination to

denounce vice, and by that means cherish virtue.

Professor Leslie, in his eloquent and valuable Lectures on Painting,

delivered in the spring of the present year to the students of the Royal

Academy, has nobly vindicated Hogarth as an artist and a man, in words

that all who heard will long remember. "Hogarth," he said, "it is true,

is often gross; but it must be remembered that he painted in a less

fastidious age than ours, and that his great object was to expose vice.

_Debauchery is always made by him detestable, never attractive._"

Charles Lamb, one of the best of his commentators, who has viewed his

labors in a kindred spirit, speaking of one of his most elaborate and

varied works, the "Election Entertainment," asks, "What is the result

left on the mind? Is it an impression of the vileness and worthlessness

of our species? Or is not the general feeling which remains after the

individual faces have ceased to act sensibly on the mind, _a kindly one

in favor of the species_?" Leslie speaks of his "high species of humor,

pregnant with moral meanings," and no happier choice of phrase could

characterize his many works. Lamb, with true discrimination, says: "All

laughter is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening tendency. There is the

petrifying sneer of a demon, which excludes and kills love, and there is

the cordial laughter of a man, which implies and cherishes it."

Hogarth's works are before us all; and are lessons as much for to-day as

they were for yesterday. We have no intention of scrutinizing their

merits or defects; we write only of the influence of a class of art such

as he brought courageously before the English public. Every one is

acquainted with the "Rake's Progress," and can recall subject after

subject, story after story, which he illustrated. Comparatively few can

judge of him as a painter, but all can comprehend his moral

essays--brave as true!

His fearlessness and earnestness are above all price; independent, in

their high estate, of all praise. We would send "Marriage a la Mode"

into general circulation during the London season, where the market for

wives and husbands is presided over by interest rather than affection.

The matrimonial mart was as bravely exposed by the great satirist, as

the brutal and unmanly cock-fight, which at that period was permitted to

take place at the Cock-pit _Royal_, on the south side of St. James's

Park.

Society always needs such men as William Hogarth--true, stern men--to

grapple with and overthrow the vices which spring up--the very weeds

both of poverty and luxury,--the latter filled with the more bitter and

subtle poison. Calling to mind the period, we the more honor the great

artist's resolution; if the delicacy of our improved times is offended

by what may seem deformity upon his canvas, we must remember that we do

not shrink from _Hogarth's_ coarseness, but from the coarseness he

labored, by exposing, to expel. He painted what Smollett, and Fielding,

and Richardson wrote far more offensively; but he surpassed the

novelists both in truth and in intention. He painted without

sympathizing with his subjects, whom he lashed with unsparing bitterness

or humor. He never idealized a vice into a virtue--he never compromised

a fact, much less a principle.

He has, indeed, written fearful sermons on his canvas; sermons which,

however exaggerated they may seem to us in some of their painful details

of human sin and human misery, are yet so real, that we never doubt that

such things _were_, and _are_. No one can suspect Hogarth to have been

tainted by the vices he exposed. In this he has the advantage of the

novelists of his period: he gives vice no loophole of escape: it is

there in its hideous aspect, each step distinctly marked, each character

telling its own tale of warning, so that "he who runs may read."

Whoever desires to trace the life of this English artist--to note him in

his apprenticeship--when he tamed as well as his rough nature would

permit, his hand to the delicate graving so cherished by his master,

Ellis Gamble; and when freed from his apprenticeship, he sought art

through the stirring scenes of life, saying quaintly enough, that

"copying other men's works resembled pouring wine out of one vessel into

another; there was no increase of quantity, and the flavor of the

vintage was liable to evaporate;"--whoever would study the great, as

well as the small, peculiarities of the painter who converted his

thumb-nail into a palette, and while transcribing characters and events

both rapidly and faithfully, complained of his "constitutional

idleness:"--whenever, we say, our readers feel desirous of revelling in

the biography of so diligent, so observing, so faithful, so brave a

spirit, we should send them to our old friend Allan Cunningham's most

interesting history of the man. Honest Allan had much in common with our

great national artist: though of different countries, they sprung from

the same race--sturdy yeomen; they were alike lovers of independence,

fighting for the best part of life manfully and faithfully enjoying the

noble scorn of wrong, and battling for the right from the cradle to the

grave. Self-educated--that is to say, educated by Nature, which gave and

nourished his high intellect and independent soul--Allan could

comprehend and appreciate the manly bearing and stern self-reliance of

the painter, whose best resources were in himself; thus the biography of

Hogarth is among the finest examples of its class which our language

supplies. Allan's sympathies were with his subject; and his knowledge

also came to his aid: for the poet was thoroughly imbued with a love of

art.

Allan Cunningham was a better disciplinarian, and less prone to look for

or care for enjoyment, than Hogarth; though we have many pleasant

memories how he truly relished both music and conversation. But there

was more sentiment in the Scottish poet than in the English painter; and

the deep dark eyes of the Scot had more of fervor and less of sarcasm in

their brightness. We repeat, Allan, of all writers, could thoroughly

appreciate Hogarth; and his biography is written _con amore_. He says

that "all who love the dramatic representations of actual life,--all who

have hearts to be gladdened by humor,--all who are pleased with

judicious and well-directed satire,--all who are charmed with the

ludicrous looks of popular folly, and all who can be moved with the

pathos of human suffering, are admirers of Hogarth." But to our

thinking; Hogarth had a calling even more elevated than the Scottish

poet has given him in this eloquent summing-up of his attributes; "he is

one of our greatest teachers--a TEACHER to whom is due the _highest_

possible honor; and the more we feel the importance of the teacher, the

more we value those who teach well. In grappling with folly and in

combating with crimes, he was compelled to reveal the nature of that he

proposed to satirize; he was obliged to set up sin in its high place

before he could crown it with infamy." The times were full of internal

as well as foreign disturbance, and Hogarth's studio was no hermitage to

exclude passing events or their promoters. He lived with the living,

moving _present_,--his engravings being his pleasures; portraits, as

they are now to many a high-hearted man of talent, his means of

subsistence; heavy weights of mortality that fetter and clog the

ascending spirit.

His controversies and encounters with the worthless Wilkes,--his defence

of his own theories,--his determined dislike to the establishment of a

Royal Academy--his various other controversies--rendered his exciting

course very different from that of the lonely artists of the present

day, who are but too fond of living in closed studios, "pouring," as

Hogarth would have said,--"pouring wine from one vessel into

another,"--pondering over tales and poems for inspiration, and

transcribing the worn-out models of many seasons into attitudes of

bounding and varied life! Is it not wonderful, as sad, that the artist

will not feel his power, will not take his own place, assume his high

standing as of old, and demand the duty of respect from the world by the

just exercise of his glorious privilege! "Entertainment and information

are not all the mind requires at the hand of an artist; we wish to be

elevated by contemplating what is noble,--to be warmed, by the presence

of the heroic,--and charmed and made happy by the light of purity and

loveliness. We desire to share in the lofty movements of fine minds--to

have communion with their image of what is godlike, and to take a part

in the rapture of their love, and in the ecstasies of all their musings.

This is the chief end of high poetry, of high painting, and high

sculpture; and the man misunderstands the true spirit of those arts who

seeks to deprive them of a portion of their divinity, and argues that

entertainment and information constitute their highest aim." We have

quoted this passage because it expresses our notions of the power of art

more happily than we are able to express it; but we must add that the

_teaching_ as well as the _poetic_ painter has much to complain of from

society; it is impossible to mingle among the "higher classes" without

being struck by their indifference to every phase of British

art,--except portraiture. "Have you been to the Exhibition? Are there

many nice miniatures? are the portraits good? Lady D.'s lace is perfect;

Mrs. A.'s velvet is inimitable." Such observations strike the ear with

painful discord, when the mind is filled with memories of those who are

brave or independent enough to "look forward" with creative genius.

There are many noble exceptions among our aristocracy; but with far too

great a number art is a mere fashion.

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S HOUSE.]

As a people, neither our eyes nor our ears are yet opened to its

instructive and elevating faculty. We mistake the outlay of money for an

expenditure of sympathy.

Hogarth's portraits were almost too faithful to please his sitters: he

was too truthful to flatter, even on canvas; and the wonder is that he

achieved any popularity in this fantastic branch of his art. Allan

Cunningham has said of him, that he regarded neither the historian's

page, nor the poet's song. He was contented with the occurrences of the

passing day, with the folly or the sin of the hour; yet to the garb and

fashion of the moment, he adds story and sentiment for all time. It is

quite delicious to read the excuses Allan makes for the foibles of the

man whose virtues had touched his own generous heart; he confesses with

great _naivete_ that he looked coldly--"too coldly, perhaps"--on foreign

art, and perhaps too fondly on his own productions; and then adds that,

"where vanity soonest misleads the judgment he thought wisely; he

contemplated his own works, not as things excellent in themselves, but

as the rudiments of future excellence, and looked forward with the hope

that some happier Hogarth would raise, on the foundation he had laid, a

perfect and lasting superstructure."

We must humbly differ from the poet in this matter; we believe, if the

characteristic cap were removed from that sturdy brow, we should find an

admirable development of the organ of self-esteem. He thought as little

of a future and "happier Hogarth," as he did of the old masters. He was

Monarch of the Present--and he knew it!

The age we live in talks much about renovation, but it is not a

conservative age; on the contrary, it would pull down Temple Bar, if it

dared, to widen the passage from the Strand into Fleet Street; and it

demolishes houses, shrines of _noble memories_, with a total absence of

respect for what it ought to honor. We never hear of an old house

without a feeling that it is either going to be destroyed or modernized;

and this inevitably leads to a desire to visit it immediately. Having

determined on a drive to Chiswick to make acquaintance with the dwelling

of Hogarth, and look upon his tomb--we became restless until it was

accomplished.

We had seen, by the courtesy of Mr. Allison, the piano-forte

manufacturer in Dean Street, the residence of Sir James Thornhill, whose

daughter Hogarth married: the proprietor bestows most praiseworthy care

on the house, which was formerly one of considerable extent and

importance. Mr. Allison says there can be little doubt that the grounds

extended into Wardour Street. Once, while removing a chimney-piece in

the drawing-room, a number of cards tumbled out--slips of

playing-cards, with the names of some of the most distinguished persons

of Hogarth's time written on the backs; the residences were also given,

proving that the "gentry" then dwelt where now the poorer classes

congregate. But the most interesting part of the house is the staircase,

with its painted ceiling; the wall of the former is divided into three

compartments, each representing a sort of ball-room back-ground, with

groups of figures life-size, looking down from a balcony; they are well

preserved, and one of the ladies is thought to be a very faithful

portrait of Mrs. Hogarth. Hogarth must have spent some time in that

house:--but we were resolved, despite the repute of its being old and

ugly, to visit his dwelling-place at Chiswick; and though we made the

pilgrimage by a longer _route_ than was necessary, we did not regret

skirting the beautiful plantations of the Duke of Devonshire, nor

enjoying the fragrance of the green meadows, which never seem so green

to us, as in the vale of the Thames. The house is a tall, narrow,

abrupt-looking place, close to the roadside wall of its inclosed garden;

numbers of cottage dwellings for the poor have sprung up around it, but

in Hogarth's day it must have been very isolated: not leading to the

water, as we had imagined, but having a dull and prison-like aspect; if,

indeed, any place can have that aspect where trees grow, and grass is

checkered by their ever-varying shadows. The house was occupied from

1814 to 1832 by Cary, the translator of Dante; and it would be worth a

pilgrimage if considered only as the residence of this truly-excellent

and highly-gifted clergyman.

[Illustration: ROOM IN HOGARTH'S HOUSE.]

We have received from his son an interesting note relative to its

features at the period when it came into his father's possession. "The

house," he says, "stands in one corner of a high-walled garden of about

three quarters of an acre, that part of the garden which faced the house

was divided into long, narrow, formal flower-beds. Five large trees,

whose ages bespoke their acquaintance with Hogarth, showed his love of

the beautiful as well as the useful, a mulberry, walnut, apricot,

double-blossomed cherry, and a hawthorn: the last of these was a great

favorite with my father, from its beauty, and the attraction it was to

the nightingale, which never failed to visit it in the spring: the

gardeners were their mortal enemies, and alas, have at length prevailed.

A few years ago, when I went to visit the old place, only one of the

trees remained, (the mulberry seen in our sketch); in a nook at one side

of the garden was a nut-walk, with a high wall and a row of

filbert-trees that arched triumphantly over it; at one end of this walk

was a stone slab, on which Hogarth used to play at nine-pins; at the

other end were the two little tombstones to the memory of a bird and a

dog." The house is as you see it here, the rooms with low ceilings and

all sorts of odd shapes,--up and down, in and out,--yet withal pleasant

and comfortable, and rendered more so by the gentle courtesy of their

mistress and her kindly servant; the very dogs seemed to partake of the

human nature of their protector, and attended us wherever we went, with

more than ordinary civility. Hogarth might have been tempted to

immortalize one of them for its extreme ugliness, and the waggish spirit

with which it pulled at its companion's ears, who in vain attempted to

tug at the bits of stumps that stuck out at either side of its

tormentor's head. Mr. Fairholt was permitted to sketch the drawing room;

the open door leads to the chamber from whence, it is said, Miss

Thornhill eloped with Hogarth.

Mr. Cary, in the note to which we have already alluded, says, "there can

hardly be a doubt that the house belonged to Sir James Thornhill, and

that Hogarth inherited it from him. Mrs. Hogarth lived there after her

husband's death, and left it by will to a lady from whose executor my

father bought it in the year 1814. The room from which Miss Thornhill is

said to have eloped is the inner room, on the first floor; this room was

used by my father as his study. Over the dining-room fireplace was a

spirited pencil sketch of five heads, and under them written 'five jolly

fellows,' by Hogarth--during an absence the servants of a tenant

carefully washed all out."

We can easily imagine how the union between Hogarth and his daughter,

commenced after such a fashion, outraged not only the courtliness, but

the higher and better feelings of Sir James Thornhill. Hogarth's innate

consciousness of power may at that time have appeared to him vulgar

effrontery; and it is not to be wondered at, that, until convinced of

his talent, he refused him all assistance. There is something so false

and wrong in the concealment that precedes an elopement, and the

elopement of an only child from an aged father, that we marvel how any

one can treat lightly the outraged feelings of a confiding parent.

Earnest tender love so deeply rooted in a father's heart may pardon, but

cannot reach forgetfulness as quickly as it is the custom of

play-writers and novelists to tell us it may do.

Sir James Thornhill was greatly the fashion; he was the successor of

Verrio, and the rival of La Guerre, in the decorations of our palaces

and public buildings. His demands for the painting of Greenwich Hall

were contested; and though La Fosse received two thousand pounds for his

works at Montague House, besides other allowances, Sir James, despite

his dignity as Member of Parliament for his native town of Weymouth,

could obtain but forty shillings a square yard for painting the cupola

of St. Paul's! Thus the patronage afforded "native talent" kept him

poor; and though it must have been necessary (one of the cruel

necessities induced by love of display in England), to have an

establishment suited to his public position in London, nothing could be

more unpretending than his _menage_ at Chiswick. Mrs. Hogarth, advised

by her mother, skilfully managed to let her father see one of her

husband's best productions under advantageous circumstances. Sir James

acknowledged its merit at once, exclaiming, "Very well! very well! The

man who can make works like this can maintain a wife without a portion;"

and soon after became not only reconciled, but generous to the young

people. Hogarth had tasted the bitterness of labor; he had even worked

for booksellers, and painted portraits!--so that this summer brightness

must have been full of enjoyment. He appreciated it thoroughly, and was

ever the earnest admirer and the ready defender of Sir James Thornhill;

thus the old knight secured a friend in his son; and it was pleasanter

to think of the hours of reconciliation and happiness they might have

passed within the walls of that inclosed garden, beneath the crumbling

trellice, or the shadow of the old mulberry tree, than of the

fortuneless artist wooing the confiding daughter from her home and her

filial duties.

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S PAINTING-ROOM.]

We were invited to inspect Hogarth's painting-room--a mere loft, of most

limited dimensions, over the stable, which the imagination could easily

furnish with the necessary easel, or still less cumbrous graver's

implements. It is situated at the furthest part of the garden from the

house; a small door in the garden-wall leads into a little inclosure,

one side of which is occupied by the stable. The painting-room is over

the stable, and is reached by a stair; it has but one window which looks

towards the road. It must have been sufficiently commodious for

Hogarth's purposes; but possesses not the conveniences of modern

painting-rooms. The house at Chiswick could only have been a place for

recreation and repose, where relaxation was cared for, and where

sketches were prepared to ripen into publication.

There are traditions about Chiswick of Hogarth having, while studying

and taking notes, frequented a little inn by the roadside, and almost

within sight of his dwelling. It has been modernized throughout--and

supplies no subject for the pencil--yet it retains some indications, not

without interest, of a remote date. The Painter must have been familiar

with every class of character; and Chiswick was then enough of a country

village to supply him amply with material. But, although a keen

satirist, it is certain that he had as much tenderness for the lower

orders of creation, as a young loving girl. In a corner of this quaint

old garden, two tiny monuments are affixed to the wall, one chiselled

perhaps by Hogarth's own hand, to the memory of his canary bird! The

_thinking_ character of the painter's mind is evidenced in this as in

every thing he did--the engraving on the tomb suggesting reflection.

Charles Lamb said of him truly, that the quantity of _thought_ which he

crowded into every picture, would alone "_unvulgarize_" every subject he

might choose; and the refined Coleridge exclaims, "Hogarth! in whom the

satirist never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as

a poet." There is something inexpressibly tender and touching in this

memento of his affection for a little singing bird: the feeling must

have been entirely his own, for he had no child to suggest the tribute

to a feathered favorite. The tomb was afterwards accompanied with one to

Mrs. Hogarth's dog. They are narrow, upright pieces of white stone laid

against the brick-wall, but they are records of gentle and generous

sympathies not to be overlooked. That Hogarth was more than on friendly

terms with the canine race, the introduction of his own dog into his

portrait clearly tells, and doubtless his bird often brought with its

music visions of the country into the heat and dust of Leicester

Square--soothing away much of his impatience. Men who have to fight the

up-hill battle of life, must have energy and determination; and Hogarth

was too out-spoken and self-confident not to have made many enemies. In

after years his success (limited though it was, in a pecuniary point of

view, for he died without leaving enough to support his widow

respectably), produced its ordinary results--envy and enmity: and

insults were heaped upon him. He was not tardy of reply, but Wilkes and

Churchill were in strong health when nature was giving way with the

great painter; an advantage they did not fail to use with their

accustomed malignity. The profligate Churchill, turning the poet's

nature into gall, infested the death-bed of Hogarth with unfeeling

sarcasm, anticipating the grave, and exulting over a dying man.

[Illustration: TOMBS OF DOG AND BIRD.]

Hogarth, warned by the autumn winds, and suffering from the restlessness

of approaching dissolution, left Chiswick on the 25th of October, 1764,

and returned to his residence in Leicester Square. He was cheerful--in

full possession of his mental faculties, but lacked the vigor to exert

them. The very next day, having received an agreeable letter from Doctor

Franklin, he wrote a rough copy of his answer, but exhausted with the

effort, retired to bed. Seized by a sudden sickness, he arose--rung the

bell with alarming violence--and within two hours expired!

Of all the villages in the neighborhood of London, rising from the banks

of the Thames, (and how numerous and beautiful they are!) few are so

well known as that of Chiswick. The horticultural fetes are anticipated

with anxiety similar to that our grandmothers felt for the fetes of

Ranelagh; the _toilettes_ of the ladies rival the flowers, and the only

foe to the fascinating fair ones is the weather; but all which the crowd

care about in Chiswick is confined to the "Duke's grounds" and the

Society's Gardens. The Duke's beautiful little villa, erected by the

last Earl of Burlington, is indeed a shrine worthy of deep homage;

within its walls both Charles James Fox and George Canning breathed

their last; and if, for a moment, we recall the times of Civil War, when

each honest English heart fought bravely and openly for what was

believed "the right," we may picture the struggle between Prince Rupert

and the Earl of Essex, terminating with doubtful success, for eight

hundred high born cavaliers were left dead on the plain that lies within

sight of the gardens so richly perfumed by flowers, and echoing not to

the searching trumpet or rolling drum, but to the gossamer music of

Strauss and Jullien.

The Duke of Devonshire's grounds, containing about ninety acres, are

filled with mementos, pleasant to the eye and suggestive to the

imagination; but we must seek and find a more solemn scene, where the

churchyard of Chiswick incloses the ashes of some whose names are

written upon the pages of History. Though the church is, in a degree,

surrounded by houses, there is much of the repose of "a country

churchyard" about it; the Thames belts it with its silver girdle, and

when we visited its sanctuary, the setting sun cast a mellow light upon

the windows of the church, touching a headstone or an urn, while the

shadows trembled on the undulating graves. Like all church-yards it is

crowded, and however reverently we bent our footsteps, it was impossible

to avoid treading on the soft grass of the humble grave, or the gray

stone that marks the resting-place of one of "the better order."

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S TOMB.]

How like the world was that silent churchyard! High and low, rich and

poor, mingled together, and yet avoiding to mingle. The dust of the

imperious Duchess of Cleveland found here a grave; while here too, as if

to contrast the pure with the impure, repose the ashes of Mary, daughter

of Oliver Cromwell; Holland the actor, the friend of David Garrick, here

cast aside his "motley." Can we wonder at the actor's love of

applause?--posterity knows him not; present fame alone is his--the

lark's song leaves no record in the air!--Lord Macartney, the famous

ambassador to China, a country of which our knowledge was then almost as

dim as that we have of the moon--the ambassador rests here, while a

Chinese junk is absolutely moored in the very river that murmurs beside

his grave! Surely the old place is worthy of a pilgrimage. Loutherbourg,

the painter, found a resting-place in its churchyard. Ralph, the

historian and political writer, whose histories and politics are now as

little read as the Dunciad which held them up to ridicule, is buried

here; and confined as is the space, it is rich in epitaphs,--three are

from the pen of David Garrick, two from that of Arthur Murphy.

Hogarth's monument has been very faithfully copied by Mr. Fairholt.

It is remarkable among the many plainer "stones" with which the

churchyard is crowded, but is by no means distinguished for that

artistic character--which it might have received as covering the remains

of so great an artist. A small slab, in relief, takes from it, however,

the charge of insipidity; it contains a comic mask, an oak branch,

pencils and mahl-stick, a book and a scroll, and the palette, marked

with the "line of beauty."

It has been remarked, that "while he faithfully followed nature through

all her varieties, and exposed, with inimitable skill, the infinite

follies and vices of the world, he was in himself an example of many

virtues." And the following poetical tribute by David Garrick is

inscribed on the tomb:

"Farewell! great painter of mankind,

Who reached the noblest point of Art;

Whose pictured morals charm the mind,

And through the eye correct the heart

If Genius fire thee, reader, stay;

If Nature touch thee, drop a tear;

If neither move thee, turn away,

For Hogarth's honored dust lies here!"

Dr. Johnson also composed an epitaph, which Cunningham considers "more

to the purpose, but still unworthy:"

"The hand of him here torpid lies,

That drew the essential forms of grace;

Here closed in death the attentive eyes

That saw the manners in the face."

The tributes--in poetry and prose--are just, examine the works of this

great painter-teacher as closely and suspiciously as we may, we can

discover nothing that will induce a momentary doubt of his integrity of

purpose in all he did; his shafts were aimed at Vice,--in no solitary

instance was he ever guilty of arraigning or assailing Virtue. Compare

him with the most famous of the Dutch masters, and he rises into glory;

coarseness and vulgarity in them had no point out of which could come

instruction. If they picture the issues of their own minds, they must

have been gross and sensual; they ransacked the muck of life, and the

grovelling in character, for themes that one should see only by

compulsion. But Hogarth's subjects were never without a lesson, and,

inasmuch as he resorted for them to the open volume of humanity, like

those of the most immortal of our writers, his works are "not for an age

but for all time."

[Illustration]

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

[Illustration]

The author of _The House of Seven Gables_ is now about forty-five years

of age. He was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and is of a family which

for several generations has "followed the sea." Among his ancestors, I

believe, was the "bold Hawthorne," who is celebrated in a revolutionary

ballad as commander of the "Fair American." He was educated at Bowdoin

College in Maine, where he graduated in 1825.

Probably he appeared in print before that time, but his earliest volume

was an anonymous and never avowed romance which was published in Boston

in 1832. It attracted little attention, but among those who read it with

a just appreciation of the author's genius was Mr. S. G. Goodrich, who

immediately secured the shrouded star for _The Token_, of which he was

editor, and through which many of Hawthorne's finest tales and essays

were originally given to the public. He published in 1837 the first and

in 1842 the second volume of his _Twice-Told Tales_, embracing whatever

he wished to preserve from his contributions to the magazines; in 1845

he edited _The Journal of an African Cruiser_; in 1846 published _Mosses

from an Old Manse_, a second collection of his magazine papers; in 1850

_The Scarlet Letter_, and in the last month the longest and in some

respects the most remarkable of his works, _The House of Seven Gables_.

In the introductions to the _Mosses from an Old Manse_ and _The Scarlet

Letter_ we have some glimpses of his personal history. He had been

several years in the Custom-House at Boston, while Mr. Bancroft was

collector, and afterwards had joined that remarkable association, the

"Brook Farm Community," at West Roxbury, where, with others, he appears

to have been reconciled to the old ways, as quite equal to the

inventions of Fourier, St. Simon, Owen, and the rest of that ingenious

company of schemers who have been so intent upon a reconstruction of the

foundations of society. In 1843, he went to reside in the pleasant

village of Concord, in the "Old Manse," which had never been profaned by

a lay occupant until he entered it as his home. In the introduction to

_The Mosses_ he says:

"A priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other

priestly men, from time to time, had dwelt in it; and children,

born in its chambers, had grown up to assume the priestly

character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons must have

been written there. The latest inhabitant alone--he, by whose

translation to Paradise the dwelling was left vacant--had

penned nearly three thousand discourses, besides the better, if

not the greater number, that gushed living from his lips. How

often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue,

attuning his meditations, to the sighs and gentle murmurs, and

deep and solemn peals of the wind, among the lofty tops of the

trees! In that variety of natural utterances, he could find

something accordant with every passage of his sermon, were it

of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs over my head

seemed shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling

leaves. I took shame to myself for having been so long a

writer of idle stories, and ventured to hope that wisdom would

descend upon me with the falling leaves of the avenue; and that

I should light upon an intellectual treasure, in the Old Manse,

well worth those hoards of long-hidden gold, which people seek

for in moss-grown houses. Profound treatises of morality--a

layman's unprofessional, and therefore unprejudiced views of

religion;--histories (such as Bancroft might have written, had

he taken up his abode here, as he once purposed), bright with

picture, gleaming over a depth of philosophic thought;--these

were the works that might fitly have flowed from such a

retirement. In the humblest event, I resolved at least to

achieve a novel, that should evolve some deep lesson, and

should possess physical substance enough to stand alone. In

furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext for

not fulfilling it, there was, in the rear of the house, the

most delightful little nook of a study that ever offered its

snug seclusion to a scholar. It was here that Emerson wrote

'Nature;' for he was then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used

to watch the Assyrian dawn and the Paphian sunset and moonrise,

from the summit of our eastern hill. When I first saw the room,

its walls were blackened with the smoke of unnumbered years,

and made still blacker by the grim prints of puritan ministers

that hung around. These worthies looked strangely like bad

angels, or, at least, like men who had wrestled so continually

and so sternly with the devil, that somewhat of his sooty

fierceness had been imparted to their own visages. They had all

vanished now; a cheerful coat of paint, and gold tinted paper

hangings, lighted up the small apartment; while the shadow of a

willow-tree, that swept against the overhanging eaves,

attempered the cheery western sunshine. In place of the grim

prints there was the sweet and lovely head of one of Raphael's

Madonnas, and two pleasant little pictures of the Lake of Como.

The only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers,

always fresh, and a bronze one containing graceful ferns. My

books (few, and by no means choice; for they were chiefly such

waifs as chance had thrown in my way) stood in order about the

room, seldom to be disturbed."

In his home at Concord, thus happily described, in the midst of a few

congenial friends, Hawthorne passed three years; and, "in a spot so

sheltered from the turmoil of life's ocean," he says, "three years

hasten away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the

cloud-shadows across the depths of a still valley." But at length his

repose was invaded by that "spirit of improvement," which is so

constantly marring the happiness of quiet-loving people, and he was

compelled to look out for another residence.

"Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner

of the old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next

appeared, making a tremendous racket among the outbuildings,

strewing green grass with pine shavings and chips of chesnut

joists, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their

discordant renovations. Soon, moreover, they divested our abode

of the veil of woodbine which had crept over a large portion of

its southern face. All the aged mosses were cleared unsparingly

away; and there were horrible whispers about brushing up the

external walls with a coat of paint--a purpose as little to my

taste as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of one's

grandmother. But the hand that renovates is always more

sacrilegious than that which destroys. In fine, we gathered up

our household goods, drank a farewell cup of tea in our

pleasant little breakfast-room--delicately-fragrant tea, an

unpurchasable luxury, one of the many angel-gifts that had

fallen like dew upon us--and passed forth between the tall

stone gate-posts, as uncertain as the wandering Arabs where our

tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by the hand,

and--an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no

irreverence in smiling at--has led me, as the newspapers

announce while I am writing, from the old Manse into a Custom

House! As a story-teller, I have often contrived strange

vicissitudes for my imaginary personages, but none like this.

The treasure of intellectual gold which I had hoped to find in

our secluded dwelling, had never come to light. No profound

treatise of ethics--no philosophic history--no novel, even,

that could stand unsupported on its edges--all that I had to

show, as a man of letters, were these few tales and essays,

which had blossomed out like flowers in the calm summer of my

heart and mind."

The _Mosses from an Old Manse_ he declared the last offering of their

kind he should ever put forth; "unless I can do better," he wrote in

this Introduction, "I have done enough in this kind." He went to his

place in the Custom House, in his native city, and if President Taylor's

advisers had not been apprehensive that in his devotion to ledgers he

would neglect the more important duties of literature, perhaps we should

have heard no more of him; but those patriotic men, remembering how much

they had enjoyed the reading of the _Twice-Told Tales_ and the _Mosses_,

induced the appointment in his place of a whig, who had no capacity for

making books, and in the spring of last year we had _The Scarlet

Letter_.

Like most of his shorter stories, The Scarlet Letter finds its scene and

time with the earlier Puritans. Its argument involves the analysis and

action of remorse in the heart of a person who, himself unsuspected, is

compelled to assist in the punishment of the partner of his guilt. This

peculiar and powerful fiction at once arrested attention, and claimed

for its author the eminence as a novelist which his previous

performances had secured for him as a writer of tales. Its whole

atmosphere and the qualities of its characters demanded for a creditable

success very unusual capacities. The frivolous costume and brisk action

of the story of fashionable life are easily depicted by the practised

sketcher, but a work like The Scarlet Letter comes slowly upon the

canvas, where passions are commingled and overlaid with the deliberate

and masterly elaboration with which the grandest effects are produced in

pictorial composition and coloring. It is a distinction of such works

that while they are acceptable to the many, they also surprise and

delight the few who appreciate the nicest arrangement and the most high

and careful finish. The Scarlet Letter will challenge consideration in

the name of Art, in the best audience which in any age receives

Cervantes, Le Sage, or Scott.

Following this romance came new editions of _True Stories from History

and Biography_, a volume for youthful readers, and of the _Twice-Told

Tales_. In the preface to the latter, underrating much the reputation he

has acquired by them, he says:

"The author of _Twice-Told Tales_ has a claim to one

distinction, which, as none of his literary brethren will care

about disputing it with him, he need not be afraid to mention.

He was for a good many years the obscurest man of letters in

America. These stories were published in magazines and annuals,

extending over a period of ten or twelve years, and comprising

the whole of the writer's young manhood, without making (so far

as he has ever been aware) the slightest impression on the

public. One or two among them, the _Rill from the Town Pump_,

in perhaps a greater degree than any other, had a pretty wide

newspaper circulation; as for the rest, he has no grounds for

supposing that on their first appearance they met with the good

or evil fortune to be read by any body. Throughout the time

above specified he had no incitement to literary effort in a

reasonable prospect of reputation or profit; nothing but the

pleasure itself of composition--an enjoyment not at all amiss

in its way, and perhaps essential to the merit of the work in

hand, but which, in the long run, will hardly keep the chill

out of a writer's heart, or the numbness out of his fingers. To

this total lack of sympathy, at the age when his mind would

naturally have been most effervescent, the public owe it (and

it is certainly an effect not to be regretted, on either part),

that the author can show nothing for the thought and industry

of that portion of his life, save the forty sketches, or

thereabouts, included in these volumes. Much more, indeed, he

wrote; and some very small part of it might yet be rummaged out

(but it would not be worth the trouble) among the dingy pages

of fifteen or twenty year old periodicals, or within the shabby

morocco covers of faded Souvenirs. The remainder of the works

alluded to had a very brief existence, but, on the score of

brilliancy, enjoyed a fate vastly superior to that of their

brotherhood, which succeeded in getting through the press. In a

word, the author burned them without mercy or remorse, and,

moreover, without any subsequent regret, and had more than one

occasion to marvel that such very dull stuff as he knew his

condemned manuscripts to be, should yet have possessed

inflammability enough to set the chimney on fire!...

"As he glances over these long-forgotten pages, and considers

his way of life while composing them, the author can very

clearly discern why all this was so. After so many sober years,

he would have reason to be ashamed if he could not criticise

his own work as fairly as another man's; and, though it is

little his business and perhaps still less his interest, he can

hardly resist a temptation to achieve something of the sort. If

writers were allowed to do so, and would perform the task with

perfect sincerity and unreserve, their opinions of their own

productions would often be more valuable and instructive than

the works themselves. At all events, there can be no harm in

the author's remarking that he rather wonders how the

_Twice-Told Tales_ should have gained what vogue they did, than

that it was so little and so gradual. They have the pale tint

of flowers that blossomed in too retired a shade--the coolness

of a meditative habit, which diffuses itself through the

feeling and observation of every sketch. Instead of passion,

there is sentiment; and, even in what purport to be pictures of

actual life, we have allegory, not always so warmly dressed in

its habiliments of flesh and blood as to be taken into the

reader's mind without a shiver. Whether from lack of power or

an unconquerable reserve, the author's touches have often an

effect of tameness; the merriest man can hardly contrive to

laugh at his broadest humor, the tenderest woman, one would

suppose, will hardly shed warm tears at his deepest pathos. The

book, if you would see any thing in it, requires to be read in

the clear, brown, twilight atmosphere in which it was written;

if opened in the sunshine, it is apt to look exceedingly like a

volume of blank pages....

"The author would regret to be understood as speaking sourly or

querulously of the slight mark made by his earlier literary

efforts on the public at large. It is so far the contrary, that

he has been moved to write this preface, chiefly as affording

him an opportunity to express how much enjoyment he has owed to

these volumes, both before and since their publication. They

are the memorials of very tranquil, and not unhappy years. They

failed, it is true--nor could it have been otherwise--in

winning an extensive popularity. Occasionally, however, when he

deemed them entirely forgotten, a paragraph or an article, from

a native or foreign critic, would gratify his instincts of

authorship with unexpected praise,--too generous praise,

indeed, and too little alloyed with censure, which, therefore,

he learned the better to inflict upon himself. And, by-the-by,

it is a very suspicious symptom of a deficiency of the popular

element in a book, when it calls forth no harsh criticism. This

has been particularly the fortune of the _Twice-Told Tales_.

They made no enemies, and were so little known and talked

about, that those who read, and chanced to like them, were apt

to conceive the sort of kindness for the book, which a person

naturally feels for a discovery of his own. This kindly feeling

(in some cases, at least) extended to the author, who, on the

internal evidence of his sketches, came to be regarded as a

mild, shy, gentle, melancholic, exceedingly sensitive, and not

very forcible man, hiding his blushes under an assumed name,

the quaintness of which was supposed, somehow or other, to

symbolize his personal and literary traits. He is by no means

certain that some of his subsequent productions have not been

influenced and modified by a natural desire to fill up so

amiable an outline, and to act in consonance with the character

assigned to him; nor, even now, could he forfeit it without a

few tears of tender sensibility. To conclude, however,--these

volumes have opened the way to most agreeable associations, and

to the formation of imperishable friendships; and there are

many golden threads, interwoven with his present happiness,

which he can follow up more or less directly, until he finds

their commencement here; so that his pleasant pathway among

realities seems to proceed out of the Dream-Land of his youth,

and to be bordered with just enough of its shadowy foliage to

shelter him from the heat of the day. He is therefore

satisfied with what the _Twice-Told Tales_ have done for him,

and feels it to be far better than fame."

That there should be any truth in this statement that the public was so

slow to recognize so fine a genius, is a mortifying evidence of the

worthlessness of a literary popularity. But it may be said of

Hawthorne's fame that it has grown steadily, and that while many who

have received the turbulent applause of the multitude since he began his

career are forgotten, it has widened and brightened, until his name is

among the very highest in his domain of art, to shine there with a

lustre equally serene and enduring.

Mr. Hawthorne's last work is _The House of Seven Gables_, a romance of

the present day. It is not less original, not less striking, not less

powerful, than The Scarlet Letter. We doubt indeed whether he has

elsewhere surpassed either of the three strongly contrasted characters

of the book. An innocent and joyous child-woman, Phoebe Pyncheon,

comes from a farm-house into the grand and gloomy old mansion where her

distant relation, Hepzibah Pyncheon, an aristocratical and fearfully

ugly but kind-hearted unmarried woman of sixty, is just coming down from

her faded state to keep in one of her drawing-rooms a small shop, that

she may be able to maintain an elder brother who is every moment

expected home from a prison to which in his youth he had been condemned

unjustly, and in the silent solitude of which he has kept some

lineaments of gentleness while his hair has grown white, and a sense of

beauty while his brain has become disordered and his heart has been

crushed and all present influences of beauty have been quite shut out.

The House of Seven Gables is the purest piece of imagination in our

prose literature.

The characteristics of Hawthorne which first arrest the attention are

imagination and reflection, and these are exhibited in remarkable power

and activity in tales and essays, of which the style is distinguished

for great simplicity, purity and tranquillity. His beautiful story of

Rappacini's Daughter was originally published in the Democratic Review,

as a translation from the French of one M. de l'Aubepine, a writer whose

very name, he remarks in a brief introduction, (in which he gives in

French the titles of some of his tales, as _Contes deux foix racontees_,

_Le Culte du Feu,_ etc.) "is unknown to many of his countrymen, as well

as to the student of foreign literature." He describes himself, under

this _nomme de plume_, as one who--

"Seems to occupy an unfortunate position between the

transcendentalists (who under one name or another have their

share in all the current literature of the world), and the

great body of pen-and-ink men who address the intellect and

sympathies of the multitude. If not too refined, at all events

too remote, too shadowy and unsubstantial, in his mode of

development, to suit the taste of the latter class, and yet too

popular to a satisfy the spiritual or metaphysical requisitions

of the former, he must necessarily find himself without an

audience, except here and there an individual, or possibly an

isolated clique."

His writings, to do them justice, he says--

"Are not altogether destitute of fancy and originality; they

might have won him greater reputation but for an inveterate

love of allegory, which is apt to invest his plots and

characters with the aspect of scenery and people in the clouds,

and to steal away the human warmth out of his conceptions. His

fictions are sometimes historical, sometimes of the present

day, and sometimes, so far as can be discovered, have little or

no reference either to time or space. In any case, he generally

contents himself with a very slight embroidery of outward

manners,--the faintest possible counterfeit of real life,--and

endeavors to create an interest by some less obvious

peculiarity of the subject. Occasionally a breath of nature, a

rain-drop of pathos and tenderness, or a gleam of humor, will

find its way into the midst of his fantastic imagery, and make

us feel as if, after all, we were yet within the limits of our

native earth. We will only add to this cursory notice, that M.

de l'Aubepine's productions, if the reader chance to take them

in precisely the proper point of view, may amuse a leisure hour

as well as those of a brighter man; if otherwise, they can

hardly fail to look excessively like nonsense."

Hawthorne is as accurately as he is happily described in this curious

piece of criticism, though no one who takes his works in the "proper

point of view," will by any means agree to the modest estimate which, in

the perfect sincerity of his nature, he has placed upon them. He is

original, in invention, construction, and expression, always

picturesque, and sometimes in a high degree dramatic. His favorite

scenes and traditions are those of his own country, many of which he has

made classical by the beautiful associations that he has thrown around

them. Every thing to him is suggestive, as his own pregnant pages are to

the congenial reader. All his productions are life-mysteries,

significant of profound truths. His speculations, often bold and

striking, are presented with singular force, but with such a quiet grace

and simplicity as not to startle until they enter in and occupy the

mind. The gayety with which his pensiveness is occasionally broken,

seems more than any thing else in his works to have cost some effort.

The gentle sadness, the "half-acknowledged melancholy," of his manner

and reflections, are more natural and characteristic.

His style is studded with the most poetical imagery, and marked in every

part with the happiest graces of expression, while it is calm, chaste,

and flowing, and transparent as water. There is a habit among nearly all

the writers of imaginative literature, of adulterating the conversations

of the poor with barbarisms and grammatical blunders which have no more

fidelity than elegance. Hawthorne's integrity as well as his

exquisite--taste prevented him from falling into this error. There is

not in the world a large rural population that speaks its native

language with a purity approaching that with which the English is spoken

by the common people of New England. The vulgar words and phrases which

in other states are supposed to be peculiar to this part of the country

are unknown east of the Hudson, except to the readers of foreign

newspapers, or the listeners to low comedians who find it profitable to

convey such novelties into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Vermont. We

are glad to see a book that is going down to the next ages as a

representative of national manners and character in all respects

correct.

Nathaniel Hawthorne is among the first of the first order of our

writers, and in their peculiar province his works are not excelled in

the literature of the present day or of the English language.

YEAST: A PROBLEM.

The Rev. Mr. KINGSLEY, author of _Alton Locke_, has collected into a

book the series of vehement and yeasty papers which have appeared from

his pen in _Fraser's Magazine_ under the above title, and a new impulse

is thus given in England to the discussion of the Problem of Society.

The declared object of the work--which is of the class of philosophical

novels--is to exhibit the miseries of the poor; the conventionalisms,

hypocrisies, and feebleness of the rich; the religious doubts of the

strong, and the miserable delusions and superstitions of the weak; the

mammon-worship of the middling and upper classes, and the angry humility

of the masses. The story is very slight, but sufficient for the

effective presentation of the author's opinions. The best characters are

an Irish parson, a fox-hunting squire and his commonplace worldly wife,

and a thoughtless and reckless but not unkind man of the world. Here is

a sketch of a commonplace old English vicar, such as has been familiar

in the pages of novels and essays time out of mind:

"He told me, hearing me quote Schiller, to beware of the

Germans, for they were all Pantheists at heart. I asked him

whether he included Lange and Bunsen, and it appeared that he

had never read a German book in his life. He then flew

furiously at Mr. Carlyle, and I found that all he knew of him

was from a certain review in the _Quarterly_. He called Boehmen

a theosophic Atheist. I should have burst out at that, had I

not read the very words in a High Church review, the day

before, and hoped that he was not aware of the impudent

falsehood which he was retailing. Whenever I feebly interposed

an objection to any thing he said (for, after all he talked

on), he told me to hear the Catholic Church. I asked him which

Catholic Church? He said the English. I asked him whether it

was to be the Church of the sixth century, or the thirteenth,

or the seventeenth, or the eighteenth? He told me the one and

eternal Church, which belonged as much to the nineteenth

century as to the first. I begged to know whether, then, I was

to hear the Church according to Simeon, or according to Newman,

or according to St. Paul; for they seemed to me a little at

variance? He told me, austerely enough, that the mind of the

Church was embodied in her Liturgy and Articles. To which I

answered, that the mind of the episcopal clergy might, perhaps,

be; but, then, how happened it that they were always quarreling

and calling hard names about the sense of those very documents?

And so I left him, assuring him that living in the nineteenth

century, I wanted to hear the Church of the nineteenth century,

and no other; and should be most happy to listen to her, as

soon as she had made up her mind what to say."

English travellers in America give very minute accounts of the bad

grammar and questionable pronunciation they sometimes hear among our

common people: with what advantage they might go into the rural

neighborhoods of their own country for exhibitions in this line is shown

by the following description of a scene in a booth, which one of the

characters of Mr. Kingsley enters at night:

"Sadder and sadder, Lancelot tried to listen to the

conversation of the men around him. To his astonishment he

hardly understood a word of it. It was half articulate, nasal,

guttural, made up almost entirely of vowels, like the speech of

savages. He had never before been struck with the significant

contrast between the sharp, clearly-defined articulation, the

vivid and varied tones of the gentleman, or even of the London

street-boy, when compared with the coarse, half-formed growls,

as of a company of seals, which he heard round him. That single

fact struck him perhaps more deeply than any; it connected

itself with many of physiological fancies; it was the parent of

many thoughts and plans of his after-life. Here and there he

could distinguish a half sentence. An old shrunken man opposite

him was drawing figures in the spilt beer with his pipestem,

and discoursing of the glorious times before the great war,

'when there was more food than there were mouths, and more work

than there hands.' 'Poor human nature,' thought Lancelot, as he

tried to follow one of those unintelligible discussions about

the relative prices of the loaf and the bushel of flour, which

ended, as usual, in more swearing and more quarreling, and more

beer to make it up: 'poor human nature! always looking back, as

the German sage says, to some fancied golden age, never looking

forward to the real one which is coming."

The descriptive powers of the author are illustrated in many fine

passages, of which this delineation of an English day in March will

serve as a specimen:

"A silent, dim, distanceless, steaming, rotting day in March.

The last brown oak-leaf, which had stood out the winter's

frost, spun and quivered plump down, and then lay, as if

ashamed to have broken for a moment the ghastly stillness, like

an awkward guest at a great dumb dinner-party. A cold suck of

wind just proved its existence, by toothaches on the north side

of all faces. The spiders, having been weather-be-witched the

night before, had unanimously agreed to cover every brake and

brier with gossamer-cradles, and never a fly to be caught in

them; like Manchester cotton-spinners madly glutting the

markets in the teeth of 'no demand.' The steam crawled out of

the dank turf, and reeked off the flanks and nostrils of the

shivering horses, and clung with clammy paws to frosted hats

and dripping boughs. A soulless, skyless, catarrhal day, as if

that bustling dowager, old mother Earth--what with

match-making in spring, and _fetes champetres_ in summer, and

dinner-giving in autumn--was fairly worn out, and put to bed

with the influenza, under wet blankets and the cold-water

cure."

"Yeast," says the _Spectator_, "may be looked at as a series of

sketches, loosely strung together, descriptive of palpable social evils

in the mass, and of metaphysical broodings among the more thoughtful

youth; a struggle which perhaps is always taking place, and which is no

further distinctive of the present age than the form that is given by

our intellectual and religious activity. The origin of evil, its

presence in the world, what man was made for, what he struggles for,

what becomes of him, have been questions that excited the speculative of

all ages, taking various channels according to the circumstances of the

time. Considered from this point of view, as a life-like picture of the

heavings of the mass, and the mental fermentation going on among

individuals--of the _yeast_ of society--the book displays great ability,

and challenges careful attention. It is powerful, earnest, feeling, and

eloquent; the production of a man acquainted with society, who has

looked closely upon its various classes, and has the power of reading

the signs of the times. He has a truthful vigor of description, a

rhetorical rather than a dramatic power; or he sacrifices the latter to

his habit of expressing his opinions in dialogue, where the author talks

rather than the dramatis personae. There is a genial warmth of feeling in

the book, and wide human sympathies, but with a tendency to extremes in

statement and opinion--a disposition to deepen the shadows of English

life; for go where the author would, pictures quite as bad or worse may

be drawn of the condition of mankind, from the 'noble savage,' the beau

ideal of Rousseau, to the educated 'Prussian,' who was within a little

while the model man of a certain school of philosophers."

THE LITTLENESS OF A GREAT PEOPLE.

The future historians of this age will have to record no more mortifying

illustration of the difficulties which in a republic prevent the success

of great ideas than that which is presented in the case of Mr. Whitney,

who early in the last month sailed for England. We transcribe with

especial approval the following paragraphs respecting him and his

labors, from the _Tribune_:

"If we are not mistaken, it is now nearly ten years since Mr.

Whitney first devoted himself to his great project, and he has

pursued it with a force of purpose, an intelligent apprehension

of all its bearings and consequences upon the world, a nobility

of ambition, and a sustained, intellectual enthusiasm which

belongs to the rarest and most admirable characters. We do not

know in any country a man in whom great intellectual and

practical elements are more happily combined. It is not with

the warm partiality of private friendship that we thus speak of

Mr. Whitney, for, like all men of ideas, and all of nature

positive and deep enough to have a special mission in the

world, he puts others into relation with the thoughts which

engage him rather than with his own personality, and you become

intimate with them, not with him. A native, as we believe, of

Connecticut, brought up to business in this city, where he

acquired a competence, having conceived the idea of a vaster

and more inspiring enterprise than the political and industrial

world had ever attempted, he quitted the pursuits of trade, and

the certain wealth they promised him, to perfect and realize

his conception. He studied the great routes of the world, and

the causes of their adoption. In a residence in Europe and by

voyages in the East he made himself acquainted with the facts

relating to the trade and productive capacities of Asia. He

thoroughly surveyed and mastered the whole subject before

beginning its discussion. Then he proposed the scheme to his

countrymen, and for many years has sought exclusively to

commend it to their favor. He has travelled in every direction,

addressing public bodies and meetings of citizens, writing

newspaper articles and pamphlets, and sparing no occasion to

bring the idea and the facts connected with it to the knowledge

of all. Wherever he has gone he has left some sparks of his own

genial enthusiasm. The plan has found advocates in every

section; many state legislatures have formally endorsed it, and

a large party in Congress have been in its favor. Dependent

altogether on his own pecuniary resources, Mr. Whitney, without

compensation or assistance, has labored with a constancy and

fidelity which could only proceed from a great purpose. But

after this period of arduous exertion he has failed to carry

his plan through Congress, while a great part of the lands on

which he must depend for its execution, have already passed

from the control of the federal Legislature. Accordingly,

though he would greatly prefer that his own country should reap

the splendid harvest of honor and substantial power which the

building of this world's highway would assure, he has no choice

but to consider the means which may be offered him for making

it through British America. To the world at large the

consequences would be the same, though to the United States

very different.

"The route through British America is, in some respects, even

preferable to that through our own territory. By the former,

the distance from Europe to Asia is some thousand miles shorter

than by the latter. Passing close to the northern shore of Lake

Superior, traversing the watershed which divides the streams

flowing toward the Arctic Sea from those which have their exit

southward, and crossing the Rocky Mountains at an elevation

some three thousand, feet less than at the South Pass, the road

could here be constructed with comparative cheapness, and would

open up a region abounding in valuable timber and other natural

products, and admirably suited to the growth of grain and to

grazing. Having its Atlantic seaport at Halifax, and its

Pacific Depot near Vancouver's Island, it would inevitably draw

to it the commerce of Europe, Asia, and the United States. Thus

British America, from a mere colonial dependency, would assume

a controlling rank in the world. To her other nations would be

tributary, and in vain would the United States attempt to be

her rival; for we could never dispute with her the possession

of the Asiatic commerce, or the power which that confers."

But the matter reaches beyond the suggestions of national

interest, and has a wider scope than the mere sentiment of

patriotism. We have hoped that this republic might make the

easy effort necessary to grasp a prize so magnificent, but we

shall hail with satisfaction the actual commencement of such a

work, wherever and by whomsoever it is undertaken.

A JEW AND A CHRISTIAN.

A few days ago, a man of various genius and acquirement, with whose

writings people of many countries have been delighted, entered an

office, holding in his hand two black-bordered notes, inviting him to

funerals.

So--other friends have gone! who now?

Two persons very unlike each other. Truly I have never known more

striking contrasts. I was meditating of popular prejudices by which

their lives were more or less affected, by which their reputations were

certainly much affected: one was a Jew, and the other a Christian.

Proceed with your morality.

I was very poor when I came to this country. I sought occupation in the

pursuits for which I was best fitted by my education: for a time with

little success; and at length I was offered for the translation of two

wretched French novels, the meager sum of fifty dollars. I sold some of

my wife's trinkets to purchase paper and ink, and worked diligently, you

can guess how many weeks, until they were in English as readable as the

French of their author. The task accomplished, I went to my patron,

expecting of course to have the pittance counted down in current notes

or gold; but----the market for such literature was by this time over

stocked; he had supplied it too liberally; and with some insulting

excuse he refused the manuscripts.

You have an invitation to his funeral?

Yes--he was rich--always speculating in the sweat of brains--and we had

business relations afterward.

The other history?

I chanced one day to meet a gentleman, with whom I had no personal

acquaintance, though our names were known to each other, and conversing

of a subject with which I was familiar he inquired if I would write

something upon it for his journal. I replied that I would be very happy

to do so, and as we shook hands, at parting, he left in my palm two

twenty-dollar notes. He would gladly have avoided a word of explanation,

but seeing my surprise he said, "It is merely a retainer, as the lawyers

have it; consider it upon account of the articles you will write me." I

wrote the articles; it was but an evening's work; and wrote frequently

afterward for the same person, always receiving a liberal reward--always

more than I asked--though my employer was himself by no means rich. You

will think that in the first place he expected a profit for the money he

gave me, but I knew better: he cared not a fig for the papers I was to

prepare; he simply suspected that I was in need of money, and took that

delicate way to relieve me, as, in his time, he relieved hundreds of

men.

A noble characteristic of a man perhaps in all respects deserving of

admiration: But what of the prejudice you were meditating?

It is this--that even in this land, where many an old world superstition

has found life impossible--the community regard a _Jew_ as an

incarnation of all selfishness, meanness and dishonor. A hundred to one,

being told that the hero of one of these two histories was an Israelite,

would swear instantly that the name of him who swindled me was Moses.

But it was not: that person will to-morrow have Christian burial, and

the other--one of the most sincere and generous men of the age, was an

officer of the synagogue. You know--we both know--that the Hebrew race

are not only before the other races in all fine intelligence, but that

in defiance of prejudices and disabilities which might turn any other

people into hordes of robbers, they are of the most honorable portion of

mankind.

POLICARPA LA SALVARIETTA,

THE HEROINE OF COLOMBIA.

There are not many subjects for poetry or romance in American history

more suggestive than that furnished in the following incidents,

translated from Restrepo's _Historia de la Revolucion de la Colombia_:

"After the standard of liberty had been raised in all the

provinces, and the people had struck a successful blow for

freedom, Morillo, with an overwhelming force, re-conquered the

country for Spain. During six months this fiendish savage held

undisputed sway over Colombia. The best men of the provinces

were by him seized and shot, and each of his officers had the

power of death over the inhabitants of the districts in which

they were stationed. It was during this period that the

barbarous execution of Policarpa La Salvarietta--a heroic girl

of New Granada--roused the Patriots once more to arms, and

produced in them a determination to expel their oppressors or

die. This young lady was enthusiastically attached to the cause

of liberty, and had, by her influence, rendered essential aid

to the Patriots. The wealth of her father, and her own superior

talents and education, early excited the hostility of the

Spanish commander against her and her family. She had promised

her hand in marriage to a young officer in the Patriot service,

who had been compelled by Morillo to join the Spanish army as a

private soldier. La Salvarietta, by means that were never

disclosed, obtained, through him an exact account of the

Spanish forces, and a plan of their fortifications. The

Patriots were preparing to strike a decisive blow, and this

intelligence was important to their success. She had induced

Sabarain, her lover, and eight others, to desert. They were

discovered, and apprehended. The letters of La Salvarietta,

found on the person of her lover, betrayed her to the vengeance

of the tyrant of her country. She was seized, brought to the

Spanish camp, and tried by court martial. The highest rewards

were promised her if she would disclose the names and plans of

her associates. The inducements proving of no avail, torture

was employed to wring from her the secret, in which so many of

the best families of Colombia were interested, but even on the

rack she persisted in making no disclosure. The accomplished

young lady, hardly eighteen years of age, was condemned to be

shot. She calmly and serenely heard her sentence, and prepared

to meet her fate. She confessed to a Catholic priest, partook

of the sacrament, and with a firm step walked to the open

square, where a file of soldiers, in presence of Morillo and

his officers, were drawn up, with loaded muskets. Turning to

Morillo, she said, "I shall not die in vain, for my blood will

raise up heroes from every hill and valley of my country." She

had scarcely uttered the above, when Morillo himself gave the

signal to the soldiers to fire, and in the next moment La

Salvarietta was a mangled and bleeding corpse. The Spanish

officers and soldiers were overwhelmed with astonishment at the

firmness and patriotism of this lovely girl, but the effect

upon her own countrymen was electrical. The Patriots lost no

time in flying to arms, and their war cry, "_La Salvarietta_!"

made every heart burn to inflict vengeance upon her murderers.

In a very short time the army of Morillo was nearly cut to

pieces, and the commander himself escaped death only by flight,

and in disguise."

In Mexico a dramatic piece, which we have seen described as possessing

considerable merit, has been founded upon this tragical history. In the

Spanish American wars there have been numerous instances of remarkable

heroism by women, which is the more noticeable for the little the sex

has had to gain by the political independence of the Spanish race on

this continent.

A REAL AMERICAN SAINT.

Mrs. Jameson, in her beautiful book lately published in London, _Legends

of the Monastic Orders_, has the following account of the only American

woman ever canonized:

"Santa Rosa di Lima was born at Lima, in Peru, in 1586. This

flower of sanctity, whose fragrance has filled the whole

Christian world, is the patroness of America, the St. Theresa

of Transatlantic Spain. She was distinguished, in the first

place, by her austerities. 'Her usual food was an herb bitter

as wormwood. When compelled by her mother to wear a wreath of

roses, she so adjusted it on her brow that it became a crown of

thorns. Rejecting a host of suitors, she destroyed the lovely

complexion to which she owed her name, by an application of

pepper and quicklime. But she was also a noble example of

filial devotion, and maintained her once wealthy parents,

fallen on evil days, by the labor of her hands.' All day she

toiled in a garden, and at night she worked with her needle.

She took the habit of the third order of St. Dominic, and died

in 1617. She was canonized by Clement X. According to the

Peruvian legend, the Pope, when entreated to canonize her,

absolutely refused, exclaiming, 'India y santa! asi como

llueven rosas!' (India and saint! as much so as that it rains

roses!') Whereupon, a miraculous shower of roses began to fall

in the Vatican, and ceased not till the incredulous pontiff

acknowledged himself convinced."

Among men saints have been more plentiful.

Authors and Books.

We have already briefly spoken of Dr. ANDREE'S work on America which is

now publishing at Brunswick, Germany, by the house of Westermann, a

branch of which is established in this city at the corner of Broadway

and Duane-streets. The book in question is to consist of three volumes

of some six hundred and fifty octavo pages each, devoted respectively to

North, Central, and South America. It is published in numbers of some

eighty pages each; of these numbers four are already issued, and we have

read them with great satisfaction. The broad and philosophical spirit,

the exhaustive learning, and the spirited and picturesque style of Dr.

Andree are beyond praise; among all the books on America which we have

met with this impresses us as unique, and if the remainder shall prove

equal to what is already published, we hope that some American publisher

may undertake a translation of the whole into English.

The work opens with an introduction of some forty odd pages, in which,

first, the physical characteristics of the new world are set forth with

great clearness and beauty: its mountains, rivers, lakes, climate,

vegetable and animal kingdoms; the origin of the aboriginal inhabitants,

their languages, races, manners, customs, and civilization; the

settlements of Europeans, the Spaniards, the Spanish and Portuguese

states, the Creoles, Mexico, Brazil, &c. Amalgamation of races, the

negroes, Slavery, influence of the Latin races, the Teutonic race, the

United States, their growth and destiny, are made the subjects of a

continuous discussion, remarkable alike for an air at least of breadth

and profundity, careful and comprehensive knowledge, and for concise and

often eloquent expression. The introduction is followed by chapters on

Iceland, Greenland, and the various expeditions to the polar regions of

the north, treating those topics both historically and ethnographically,

and with a clear presentation of every interesting and important fact.

Next follows a general survey of the continent north of the fiftieth,

degree of latitude, its rivers, lakes, forests, animals, men, and

commerce, including an account of the various Indian tribes, and the

trading companies dealing with them. The trading posts of the Hudson's

Bay Company, Lord Selkirk's colony on Red River, Labrador, Newfoundland,

the British Possessions on the West coast, Russian America, are

successively treated. Next the Indians in Canada and the United States

are considered at length, in respect of their history, traditions,

languages, monuments, customs, the influence of the whites upon them,

and their probable destiny. In this connection we notice that Dr. Andree

frequently cites Gallatin, Schoolcraft, Squier, and other American

writers. The remainder of the first volume will treat of the United

States, their political history and organization, their soil, climate,

people, &c., not failing to give whatever information may be useful to

the European settler looking for a new home, as well as to the _savan_

looking for light upon ethnographic and social problems.

From this general outline the scope of the book may be inferred, but our

readers will permit us to refer to one or two points which are dwelt

upon in the introduction. Dr. Andree contends with the earnestness of a

determined partisan for the originality of the vegetable and animal

creations, as well as of the human race upon this continent, rejecting

entirely the theory that either was transplanted from the eastern

hemisphere. The unity of the human family, he maintains with a class of

writers distinguishable chiefly for a sleepless activity in assailing

the authority of the Christian religion, does not require the assumption

of numerical identity of origin, but rather the contrary. "It is not

necessary," he says, "to assume the arithmetical _oneness_ of mankind,

and the derivation of all from a single pair, thus arbitrarily confining

and limiting the creative power of the Highest Being;" and this position

he proceeds to advocate by a variety of arguments, at the same time

controverting the opposite opinion, and especially the notion of the

late Major Noah that the Indians of this continent were descendants of

the lost ten tribes of Israel. In this impertinence is the only

noteworthy fault we discover in the book. Discussions of such

controverted points as this belong exclusively to the audience of

scholars. A far more interesting and satisfactory part of the

introduction is that devoted to the Spanish and Portuguese in America,

and their influence on the native tribes, and _vice versa_. The contrast

which these races and the states they have founded exhibit to the

Germanic race in North America is brought out by Dr. Andree in a

striking manner. All the South American republics except Chili are in a

condition of comparative or actual disorder: no signs of expanding life

and progress are visible among them; every where the conflict of races

and castes is active or only partially suppressed; Brazil alone, by the

monarchical form of its executive, (though its institutions are

fundamentally democratic,) is spared from the anarchy which prevails

among its neighbors, and there too, alone, the black, yellow, and red

races are politically equal and in the way of complete amalgamation; but

in all these states the European element, instead of growing more

powerful and influential, tends constantly to greater weakness, and is

likely to be completely absorbed and swallowed up; since the wars of

independence the white race has diminished, not increased in number; and

instead of conferring on the native races the civilization and

refinement which was its native property, it is so far dominated by them

as to relapse toward their ignorance and rudeness; and after three

centuries all Spanish America, the West Indies included, contains not

more than fifteen millions of inhabitants, about a fifth of whom are

whites, that is to say as many as are found in the State of New-York

alone. Or, reckoning for all America south of the United States, five

millions of whites, this population still falls far short of that which

within thirty years has taken possession of the country between the

Alleghanies and the Mississippi. Such is the difference between the

Latin and the Saxon races. The latter has spread itself with astonishing

rapidity, never mixing, to any extent, with negroes or Indians, nor

allowing mixed races to get the upper hand, or even exercise any

influence. The Anglo-Saxon civilizes the other races or devotes them to

extinction. And yet South America is naturally better than North. It is

richer and more productive, and endowed with a system of rivers compared

with which that of the Mississippi seems trifling. Had it been settled

by Anglo-Saxons and Germans instead of Creoles and mixed breeds, it

would long since have worn another aspect; steamboats would have covered

the rivers up to the very foot of the Cordilleras, and the vast plains

would have been occupied by flourishing towns and cultivated fields.

The parallel which Dr. Andree draws between the history of the United

States and Europe for the last fifty years is so strikingly put, that we

make room for a single passage by way of specimen:

"A comparison of the history of Europe and of North America

during the time since the first French revolution is in every

respect to the advantage of the United States. The old world

has been convulsed by wars, a military emperor has had the sway

of Europe, and broken kingdoms into fragments; blood has flowed

in torrents, and thousands of millions have been wasted for

unproductive purposes and on royal vanity. Since the fall of

the Great Soldier the nations have incessantly risen against

their rulers, and more than a million of men now stand in arms

to restrain the people and serve the passions of monarchs and

their cabinets. Only sixty years ago the entire valley of the

Mississippi was still a desert, a wide wilderness, with hardly

here and there a settlement. Now we see this empire in

subjection--conquered, not by soldiers, with waving banners and

sounding trumpets, but by the toil of the farmer, the skill of

the artisan, the enterprising spirit of the merchant. They have

drained morasses, cleared up forests, opened roads, dug canals,

built ships, and founded flourishing states. Within the period

of two generations they have peopled that wilderness with ten

millions of industrious inhabitants, and opened a new home to

the arts of peace, to civil and religious liberty, to culture

and progress. In these sixty years, not so much blood has been

shed in wars against Indians in the Mississippi valley as in

one of the hundreds of battles fought by the soldiers of

European states, most of them for useless or even pernicious

ends. No blessing has followed the wars and conquests in

Europe, but in the Great West, conquered by labor and

enterprise, all is progress and unexampled prosperity."

There are numerous other passages tempting us to translate them, but

our space is already exhausted, and we forbear.

* * * * *

We have already taken occasion to commend the _Tausend und ein Tag im

Orient_ (Thousand and One Days in the East) by BODENSTEDT, the

well-known author of the Wars of the Circassians. No writer gives so

just an insight into the character of that portion of the great Oriental

family which he visited--the Circassians and Georgians. The second part

of his present book (lately published at Berlin) contains some

interesting criticisms of a Tartar poet, whom Bodenstedt knew at Tiflis,

upon European poetry. Our traveller, partly by way of practice in the

Tartar language, and partly to inspire his eastern friend with greater

respect for the bards of the Occident, used to translate English and

German songs into Tartar. Mirza Shaffy, the name of the Tartar sage and

poet, proved himself no contemptible critic of these foreign

productions. Not once could he be induced to tolerate a poem whose only

merit was the beauty and melody of its language in the original, nor to

swallow the mere sentimentalism which plays so great a part in German

poetry especially. This sentimentalism, says Bodenstedt, is as unknown

as it is unintelligible to the Oriental poet. He aims always at a real

and tangible object, and in gaining it puts heaven and earth in motion.

No image is too remote, no thought too lofty for his purpose. The new

moon is a golden shoe for the hoof of his heroes' steed. The stars are

golden nails, with which the Lord has fastened the sky, lest it should

fall with admiration and desire for his fair one. The cypresses and

cedars grow only to recall the lithe and graceful form of Selma. The

weeping willow droops her green hair to the water, grieving because she

is not slender like Selma. The eyes of his beloved are suns which make

all the faithful fire-worshippers. The sun itself is but a gleaming

lyre, whose beams are golden strings, whence the dawn draws the

loveliest accords to the praise of the earth's beauty and the power of

love.

Mirza Shaffy was a great lover of Moore and Byron, and some of their

songs which were translated needed no explanation to render them

intelligible to him. Wolfe's marvellous poem on the death of Sir John

Moore made a deep impression on him, and was a special favorite. Goethe

and Heine he liked greatly, especially Goethe's song of Mignon, "Knowst

thou the Land," and Heine's Fisher's Song (which Schubert has set to

such delicious and befitting music) which ends--

"My heart is like the ocean,

Has storm, and ebb, and flow,

And many a lovely pearlet

Rests in its depths below."

Schiller he could not so well understand, and often the attempt

adequately to translate this poet had to be given up in despair.

However, Mirza Shaffy admitted that some of his poems had substance in

them. Uhland and Geibel were not much to his mind. One day, Bodenstedt

translated into Tartar a song by the latter, which we in our turn thus

render into English:

The silent water lily

Springs from the earth below,

The leaves all greenly glitter,

The cup is white as snow.

The moon her golden radiance

Pours from the heavens down,

Pours all her beams of glory

This virgin flower to crown.

And, in the azure water,

A swan of dazzling white

Floats longing round the lily,

That trances all his sight.

Ah low he sings, ah sadly,

Fainting with sweetest pain;

O lily, snow white lily,

Hear'st thou the dying strain?

Mirza Shaffy cast the song aside, with the words, "A foolish swan!"

"Don't the song please you?" asked the translator.

"The conclusion is foolish," replied the Tartar; "what does the swan

gain by fainting?--he only suffers himself, and does no good to the

rose. I would have ended--

"Then in his beak he takes it,

And bears it with him home."

* * * * *

Mr. Ross, the editor of _Allgemeine Auswanderungszeitung_ (Universal

Journal of Emigration), an excellent and useful German periodical, has

just published in Germany the _Auswanderer's Handbuch_ (Emigrant's

Manual), devoted especially to the service of those who design

emigrating to the United States. His manual is a valuable collection of

whatever a new comer into this country should know. The constitution and

political arrangements of the Union, its legislation, its means of

intercourse, the peculiarities of soil and climate proper to different

sections, the state of agriculture, and the chances of employment for

persons of different classes, professions, and degrees of education, are

all given. Mr. Ross was himself born in the United States, and

understands what he writes about. At the same time his book gives a fair

and thorough view of the difficulties with which the emigrant to this

country must contend.

* * * * *

At Pesth, Hungary, is about to appear a biographical work on Hungarian

statesmen and orators who were prominent before the revolutionary

period. Paul Nagy, Eugen Beoethy, Franz Deak, Stephan Bezeredy,

Bartholomaus Szemere, the two Wesselenyis, the two Dionys Pazmandys,

Stephan Szechenyi, and Joseph Eoetvos (the last known in the United

States by translations of his novels), are among the characters

described.

* * * * *

A new book on the new world is the _Europa ed America_, by Dr. ANT.

CACCIA, an Italian litterateur, who has apparently been in this country

and describes it, as he professes to do, from nature. He says that he

found the people of New-York occupied mainly in making money.

The German authoress FANNY LEWALD, has in press a book entitled _England

und Schottland_ (England and Scotland), made up from the notes of a

journey through those countries. Its publication just at this moment is

for the benefit of the crowds of Germans who are going to the World's

Fair, and who may find in it all sorts of preparatory information. A

specimen chapter published in one of our German papers reads pleasantly.

Fanny Lewald is a phenomenon, of a class of women who know something

about every thing. Nothing is too high or too low to become an object of

consideration to these female Teufelsdroecks, petticoated professors of

"the science of things in general." The intellectual cultivation among

the middle and higher class of society in Prussia, the patronage

bestowed by the court upon learning, the arts, and sciences; the

encouragement to discuss freely every imaginable theme in politics or

religion, with the single exception of the measures of the

administration, all tended to create a taste for mental display in which

it was necessary that women should participate, if they wished to retain

their old position in the social world. In the salons of Berlin,

therefore, women have been heard taking a prominent part in

conversations in which the most abstruse questions in religion,

politics, and general science were discussed. The philosophers, male and

female, debarred by the spy system from any open investigation of

passing political events, revenged themselves by treating these events

as mere temporary phases of the great system of evolutions which forms

the _material_ of history, scarcely worthy of notice, and directed their

attention to the great principles which underlie all great social and

religious developments. A strange tone was thus given to conversation.

Listening to the talkers at a Berlin conversazione, one might have

fancied, judging from the nature of the subjects of conversation, that a

number of gods and goddesses were debating on the construction of a

world. Vulgar bricks and mortar they ignored, and were anxious only

about primary and secondary geological formations. The actual state of

any society was scarcely cared for, except in illustration of a

principle, and the great forces which must unite to form the best

possible society, were the only subjects of investigation. It may be

taken as a great proof of the wonderful facility of adaptation of the

female mind, that women joined in these conversations as readily as men,

and frequently with far more brilliancy, in spite of the range of

reading which it must require to obtain even a superficial knowledge of

the subjects of discourse. Fanny Lewald is one of these prodigies. She

has studied every thing from the Hegelian philosophy downwards. She is

as great in revolutions as in ribbons, and is as amusing when talking

sentiment over oysters and Rheinwein, in the Rathskiller at Bremen, as

when meditating upon ancient art and philosophy in Wilhelm von

Humboldt's castle of Tegel near Berlin.

* * * * *

We have read with great interest a series of articles which have

appeared in the recent numbers of the _Grenzboten_ upon GEORGE SAND.

Though we have often failed to agree with the view of the writer, Mr.

Julian Schmidt, one of the editors of that paper, we have rarely met

with literary criticism of more ability, and a more just and catholic

spirit. We translate the conclusion of the last article, in which Mr.

Schmidt gives the result of his careful analysis of all the works of the

author: "The novel, on account of its lax and variable form, and the

caprice which it tolerates, is in my opinion not to be reckoned among

those kinds of art, which, as classic, will endure to posterity. The

authors who have been most read in modern times have already been

checked in their popularity by the greater attraction of novelty offered

by their successors. This is the case even with Walter Scott. Besides,

in most of her writings, George Sand has dealt with problems whose

justification later times will not understand; and thus it may happen

that hereafter she will be regarded as of consequence in the history of

literature alone. But in that sphere she will have a permanent

importance. Future centuries will regard her as the most significant

image of the morbid but intense striving which marks this generation.

When it has long been agreed that the lauded works of Victor Hugo,

Eugene Sue, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset, and others, are but the barren

outgrowths of an untamed and unrestrained fancy, and a perverted

reflection; when the same verdict has been pronounced on the poems of M.

de Chateaubriand, whose value is now taken as a matter of belief and

confidence, because there are few who have read them; then the true

poetic element in the works of George Sand will, in spite of all its

vagaries, still be recognized. And more than this, since the period of

sentimentalism will be seen as more extensive, and as the works of

Richardson, Rousseau (of course only those which belong in this

category), and of Madame de Stael and others, will be included in it,

then we say that the better productions of our authoress will carry off

the prize from all the rest."

* * * * *

Two collections of songs, national and lyric, have made their appearance

in Germany. The one is by GEORGE SCHERER, and is called _Deutsche

Volkshelier_, the other, by WOLFGAND MENZEL, is entitled _Die Gesange

der Volker_ (The Songs of the Nations). The former is exclusively

German; the latter contains songs from every civilized tongue under

heaven, as well as from many of the uncivilized, in German versions, of

course. Both are elegantly printed, and highly commended by the knowing

in that line of literature.

* * * * *

HENRI MURGER has published a companion volume to his _Scenes de la

Boheme_ in the shape of some stories called _Scenes de la Vie de

Jeunesse_.

* * * * *

A curious specimen of what may be done by a ready writer who is

scrupulous only about getting his pay, is afforded by a book just

published at Leipzic, called _Zahme Geschichten aus wilder Zeit_ (Tame

Stories of a Wild Time), by Frederick Ebeling. In these "tame stories"

the heroes of the late revolutionary movements are held up now in one

light, and now in another, with the most striking disregard of

consistency. Jellachich, for instance, is lauded in one place as the

most genial and charming of men, a scholar and gentleman, without equal,

and almost in the next page he is called a ferocious butcher, who never

wearies of slaughtering human beings. These discrepancies are accounted

for by the fact that Mr. Ebeling wrote for both conservative and radical

journals, and adapted his opinions to the wants of the market he was

serving. He would have done well to reconcile his articles with each

other before putting them into a book.

* * * * *

A valuable work on national law is entitled _Du Droits et des Devoirs

des Nations Neutres en Temps de Guerre Maritime_, by M. L. B.

Hautefeuille, a distinguished French jurist, lately published at Paris

in four octavos. It is praised by no less an authority than the eminent

advocate M. Chaix d'Est Ange, as the fruit of mature and conscientious

study: he calls it the most complete and one of the best works on modern

national law ever produced. The author in the historical part of his

treatise, criticises the monopolizing spirit and policy of the English

without mercy, and insists that the balance of power on the sea is of no

less importance than that on land. He would have established a permanent

alliance of armed neutrality, with France and the United States at its

head, to maintain the maritime rights of weaker states in time of war,

against the encroachments of British commerce and ambition.

* * * * *

A Vienna publishing establishment has offered GRILLPARZER, the German

dramatist, $4,000 for his writings, but he refuses, not because he

thinks the price too low, but because he will not take the trouble of

preparing and publishing a collected edition of his dramas, the last of

which was entitled _Maximilian Robespierre_, a five act tragedy. He has

also a variety of unpublished manuscripts, which it is feared will never

see the light.

* * * * *

Students and amateurs of music will find their account in taking the

_Rheinische Musikzeitung_ (Rhine Musical Gazette), published at Cologne,

under the editorial care of Prof. Bisehof. Its criticism is impartial,

intelligent, and free from the prejudices of the schools. German musical

criticism has no better organ.

* * * * *

The German poet SIMROCK has just published a new version of the two

Eddas, with the mythical narratives of the Skalda, which is spoken of as

a valuable contribution to literature.

* * * * *

The _Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries_ held its annual session on

the 15th February at the palace of Christianbourg, the King of Denmark

presiding. Mr. RAFN read the report of the transactions of the Society

during the year, and laid before the meeting a new number of the Annals

of the archaeology and history of the North, and the completed volume of

the Archaeological Journal, published by the Society. He also announced

that the second volume of his own work on Russian Antiquities was in

preparation, and that about half of it was already printed. To give an

idea of this work, he read from it a biographical notice on Biorucon, of

Arngeirr, an Icelander by birth, distinguished alike as a warrior and a

poet, and by his exploits in Russia where he served Vladimir the Great.

After this, other members of the Society gave interesting accounts of

the results of their various labors during the year. The King presented

a paper on excavations made under his personal direction in the ruins of

the castles of Saborg and Adserbo, in the North of Seland. These castles

date from the middle ages; the memoir was accompanied by drawings.

* * * * *

The _Historisches Tashcenbuch_ (Historical Pocket-Book), edited by the

learned Prussian Raumer is a publication eminently worthy of notice. The

number for the year 1851 opens with biographical sketches of three

women, Ines de Castro and Maria and Lenora Telley, who played important

parts in Spanish and Portuguese history in the XIVth Century. They are

followed by a concise history of the German marine by Bartholdy, twelve

letters by John Voigt on the manners and social life of the princes at

the German Diets, a picture from the XVIth Century, the sequel of a

memoir by Guhrauer on Elizabeth, Abbess of Herford, a friend of William

Penn, and a correspondent of Malebranche, Leibnitz and Descartes, &c.,

&c. &c.

* * * * *

An interesting account of a most eventful period and country is the

_Bilder aus Oestreich_, just published at Leipzic, by a German

traveller. The traveller is understood to be one of the editors of the

_Grenzboten_, and the period he describes comprises the revolutionary

years 1848-9. His account of Vienna in the memorable October days of

1848, is graphic, and even thrilling.

* * * * *

COTTA, of Stuttgart, has just published a new collection of poems by

FRANZ DINGELSTEDT, under the title of "Night and Morning." The themes

are drawn from the revolution, its hopes and its disappointments.

* * * * *

FREDERIC LOUIS JAHN, the celebrated German professor, who invented the

modern system of gymnastics, is writing his personal memoirs. He is

about seventy years of age, and his long life has been full of

significant incidents.

To those who seek a good acquaintance with the current belles-lettres

literature of Germany, we can cordially recommend the _Deutsches

Museum_, published semi-monthly at Leipsic, under the editorial care of

Professor Robert Prutz and Wilhelm Wolffson, and sold in this city by

Westermann, 290 Broadway. Each number contains eighty-five close pages,

filled by some of the leading writers of German science, art and

politics. In the number now before us, are articles by Gutzkow, Boech,

the philologist, Berthold Auerbach, Emanuel Geibel and Julius Mosen. The

entire range of politics, philosophy, antiquities, art, poetry, romances

and literary criticism is included in the scope of the _Museum_, except

that it is designed not for the learned world, but for the mass of the

people, and accordingly aims at general not technical instruction. Among

the art notices, we observe a brief criticism on the Gallery of

Illustrious Americans, in which the lithography of the pictures is

praised as well as the faces themselves. The critic is delighted with

the energy, originality and freshness of character expressed in their

features.

* * * * *

A valuable contribution to current political history is the

_Verfassungskampf in Kurhessen_ (Constitutional Struggle in Electoral

Hesse), by Dr. H. Graefe, which has just made its appearance in Germany.

The conflict of the people and parliament and public officers, against

the selfish, arbitrary and foolish Elector, is the turning point of

recent German politics, and the defeat of the former after their

patience and firmness, acting always within the limits of the

constitution, had gained a decided victory, and compelled the faithless

prince to fly the country,--a defeat accomplished only by the

intervention of Austrian and Prussian troops, was the final downfall of

every form of political liberty in Germany. Dr. Graefe has wisely

abstained from treating the events of this crisis as a philosophical

historian; they are too fresh, and his own share in them was too decided

to allow him to undertake that successfully. He accordingly does little

more than simply report the transactions in a compendious way, with all

the documents necessary to a full understanding of the subject. Whoever

wishes for a thorough apprehension of the German tragi-comedy, may

derive aid from his work.

* * * * *

The resources of philology have just been enriched by the publication at

Tubingen of a dictionary of six of the dialects of Eastern Africa,

namely, the Kisuaheli, Kinika, Kikamba, Kipokomo, Kihian, and Kigalla.

This is accompanied by a translation of Mark's Gospel into the Kikamba

dialect, and a short grammar of the Kisuaheli. The author of these works

is the Protestant minister Krap, who has been for fifteen years in

Ethiopia, and has collected and presented to the University at Tubingen

a considerable number of most valuable Ethiopian manuscripts.

* * * * *

A notable and interesting book is BEHSE'S _Geschichte des preussischen

Hofes und Adels_ (History of the Prussian Court and Nobility) of which

the two first volumes have just been published at Hamburg by Hoffman &

Campe. The whole work will contain from thirty to forty small volumes,

and will treat all the states of Germany, only some half dozen volumes

being devoted to Prussia. The two now published bring the history down

to the reign of Frederic William II. They abound in most curious

historic details. For instance, the acquisition of the title of King of

Prussia by the Elector of Brandenburgh, Frederic III., is narrated at

length. It seems that this prince, who was deformed in body, but as

politic as he was ambitious in spirit, after many fruitless efforts

obtained from the Emperor at Vienna the grant of the royal dignity, by a

bribe of two hundred thousand thalers, paid to the Jesuit Father Wolff,

as a compensation for the influence of the Society, whose members were

flattered that the most powerful of the Protestant princes of Germany

should solicit their assistance. The whole cost of the grant was six

millions of thalers, an enormous sum for these times. The Papal Court

refused to recognize the new king, and did not until Frederic the Great.

* * * * *

We believe a general _Biographical Dictionary of Illustrious Women_, now

in course of publication in Berlin, is to be reproduced here, with

suitable additions. We need, while discussions of the sphere and

capacities of women are so common among us, a work of real learning and

authority, in which the part which the sex has borne and is capable of

bearing in the business of civilizing, shall be carefully and honestly

exhibited. There are fifteen or twenty volumes of short biographies of

women now in print in this country, with prospects of others--all

worthless except this extensive German work, which is considerably

advanced, and for its literary merit as well as for the interest of its

materials, will command an unusual degree of attention.

* * * * *

Countess Ida Hahn Hahn is writing a work to be called _My Way from

Darkness to Light, from Error to Truth_. She has became a Catholic, and

this book is intended to tell why. A cheap edition of her works is

publishing at Berlin. We presume they are no longer in her control, but

belong to her publishers, as she could scarcely consent to reprint some

of them.

* * * * *

A new work bearing as its title the single word _Italia_, is about to be

published at Frankfort on the Main. It is a complete artistic, historic

and poetic manual for travellers in that lovely peninsula.

* * * * *

The Cologne Musical Society lately offered a prize for the best

symphony. Eighty-three have been offered, of which one only seems to be

a pure plagiarism.

* * * * *

A book just published in Germany under the title of _Berlin und die

Berliner_ contains some exceedingly interesting details concerning the

great naturalist ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT, from which the _International_

translates the following: "When, in the years 1834-5, we young students

thronged into lecture room No. VIII., at eight o'clock on winter

mornings, to hear Boeckh on Greek literature and antiquities, we used to

see in the crowd of students in the dark corridor a small, white-haired,

old, and happy-looking man, dressed in a long brown coat. This man was

the _studiosus philologiae_, Alexander von Humboldt, who came, as he

said, to go through again what he had neglected in his youth. When we

met him in the lecture-room we respectfully made way for him; for though

we had no respect for any body, especially professors, Humboldt was an

exception, for he knew 'a hellish deal.' To his own honor, the German

student still respects this quality. During the lecture Humboldt sat on

the fourth or fifth bench near the window, where he drew a piece of

paper from a portfolio in his pocket, and took notes. In going home he

liked to accompany Boeckh, so as in conversation to build some logical

bridge or other from the old world to the new, after his ingenious

fashion. There was then in the class a man who has since distinguished

himself in political literature, but whom we had nicknamed 'Mosherosh,'

that is Calves'-head, on account of his stupid appearance. As Mosherosh

generally came in late, it was the fashion to receive him with a

magnificent round of stamping. One day, Humboldt came too late, and just

at the usual time of Mosherosh, and without looking up we gave the

regular round, while Humboldt, blushing and embarrassed, made his way to

his place. In a moment the mistake was seen, and a good-natured laugh

succeeded. Humboldt also attended the evening lectures of Ritter on

universal geography, and let the weather be as bad as it might, the

gray-haired man never failed. If for a rarity he chanced not to come, we

said among ourselves in students' jargon, 'Alexander cuts the college

to-day, because he's gone to King's to tea.' Once, on occasion of

discussing an important problem of physical geography, Ritter quoted

him, and every body looked up at him. Humboldt bowed to us, with his

usual good nature, which put the youngsters into the happiest humor. We

felt ourselves elevated by the presence of this great thinker and most

laborious student. We seemed to be joined with him in the pursuit of

great scientific ends."

* * * * *

The rewards of Authors, we suspect, are greatest in France. In Germany,

England and the United States they are about the same. Cooper, Irving

and Prescott, in this country, have each received for copyrights more

than one hundred thousand dollars. In England, Dickens has probably

received more than any other living author--and in France Lamartine,

Victor Hugo, Dumas, Scribe, Thiers, and many others, have obtained large

fortunes by writing. In Germany Dieffenbach received for his book on

Operative Surgery some $3,500; and Perthes of Hamburg, paid to Neander

on a single work, more than $20,000, exclusive of the interest his heirs

still have in it. Poets like Uhland, Freiligrath, Geibel, have also

received as much as $6,000 or $12,000 on the sales of a single volume.

Long ago in Boston, Robert Treat Paine received $1,500 for a song. Of

our living poets, Longfellow has been most liberally paid.

* * * * *

George Stephens, the learned translator of the _Frithiof's Saga_ of

BISHOP TEGNER, in a letter to _The International_ states that he is now

printing at Copenhagen three Anglo-Saxon poems of the eleventh century,

namely: _The Old Testament Story, On the Sixth Day's Work_, and _The New

Testament Story_, by Aelfric, Archbishop of York, now just translated

into the metre and alliteration of the original. The three poems will

make a quarto volume of about thirty sheets, and copies may be ordered

(price three dollars), through the Hon. H. W. Ellsworth, late United

States _Charge d'Affaires_ in Sweden, at New-York, or Dr. S. H. Smith,

of Cincinnati. Of the ability and fidelity with which the work will be

executed, the readers of the Frithiof's Saga need no other assurance.

* * * * *

"Etherization," after all, is not a modern discovery, and Wells,

Jackson, and Morton, are alike undeserving of the praise they have

received on account of it. The Paris _Siecle_ states that a manuscript,

written by Papin, known, for his experiments connected with the motive

power of steam, has been discovered near Marburg in Electoral Hesse;

that the work bears the name of _Traite des Operations sans Douleur_,

and that in it are examined the different means that might be employed

to deaden, or altogether nullify, sensibility when surgical operations

are being performed on the human body, Papin composed this work in 1681,

but his contemporaries treated it with ridicule, and he abandoned the

medical profession.

* * * * *

A new five-act play, tragic of course, has just appeared at Berlin,

founded on the history of Philip Augustus of France. It is by a lady of

the aristocratic circles of the Prussian capital, who now makes her

debut in literature. It is praised as excellent by those who are not in

the habit of being satisfied with the writings of ladies. A collection

of poems from the same pen is shortly to appear.

* * * * *

M. Bianchi's _Turkish and French Dictionary_, in two large octavos, has

reached a second edition at Paris. It is all that could be desired for

the use of diplomatic and consular agents, traders, navigators, and

other travellers in the Levant, but not designed for critics in the

language or its literature.

* * * * *

The students of geography and foreign modes of life, owe a debt to the

French General DAUMAS, for his three works on north-western Africa. The

first entitled, _Le Sahara Algerien_, is an exact and thorough and

scientific account of the desert in Algiers, given, however, with a flow

of manly, soldatesque imagination, which imparts life and charm to the

narrative, and even adorned with frequent quotations from the Arab

poets, who have sung the various localities he describes. The second of

these works is called _Le Grand Desert_: in form it is a series of

romances, the author having chosen that as the best manner of conveying

to the reader a distinct impression. The hero is a dweller in the

interior, a member of the tribe of Chambas, who came to Algiers, as he

says, because he had predestined him to make that journey. The general

interrogates him, and the Arab recounts his adventures. As he had thrice

traversed the desert to the negro country beyond, and had seen beside

all the usual events in the life of that savage region, the author

violates no probability in putting into his mouth the most strange and

characteristic stories. The whole are told with a fictitious

reproduction of the teser and somewhat monotonous, yet figurative style,

proper to all savages. _La Grande Kabylie_ recounts the personal

experiences of the author in that yet unconquered country of the Arabs,

whither he went with Marshal Bugeaud in his last expedition. Kabylia he

describes as a picturesque and productive region. There are deep,

sheltered valleys, where along the shores of winding streams, nature has

planted hedges of perpetual flowers, while the mountains on each side

stand yellow with the ripe and ripening grain. The people are braver and

more energetic, their habitations more substantial, and their fields

more valuable than those in other parts of Algeria. Gen. Daumas would

have France subjugate this country and add it to her African dominions.

* * * * *

M. de Conches, who is well known for his illustrations of early French

literature, is an enthusiastic admirer of La Fontaine: and he has spent

a vast sum in having printed _one copy_ only, and for himself alone, of

an edition of his works, illustrated by the first artists of the day,

accompanied by notes and prefaces of the most eminent writers, and

forming a very miracle of expensive and _recherche_ typography and

binding. Dibdin had never so good a subject for his _Bibliomania_.

* * * * *

Jules Sandeau, one of the most _spirituel_ and elegant of French romance

writers, announced a new novel, _Catherine_, to appear on the 15th of

April.

* * * * *

Another book on the _Fall of Louis Philippe_ has been published at Paris

by M. Francois de Groiseillez. It is in the Orleanist interest, and is

praised by the _Journal des Debats_.

* * * * *

The most profligate woman of whom we have any account in Roman history

was the empress Massalina, and nothing is more natural than that she

should be selected for a heroin by a Frenchman. In a new five act play

of which the Parisian journals give us elaborate criticisms, she is

represented as a very virtuous wife, by the ingenious contrivance of

giving a certain courtezan such a striking personal resemblance to her

that it was impossible to distinguish between the two, and making the

courtezan commit all the atrocities of the real Massalina. The play is

not without literary merit. It is called _Valeria_--the heroine's

_other_ name being considered too strong to figure on a play-bill.

Rachel plays the two characters of Massalina and the courtezan--of

course with the most perfect success.

* * * * *

A new Review has been established in Paris under the title of _La

Politique Nouvelle_. It comes out as the rival of the _Revue des Deux

Mondes_, and as the champion of the new republican _regime_ (as opposed

to the conservative tendencies of the older established Review), offers

battle with a promising array of names of future contributors. The

department of English criticism is confided to M. Leon de Wailly, author

of _Stella and Vanessa_ and the translator of Burns; whose name promises

a knowledge and intelligent appreciation of English literature. The

first two numbers contain contributions from the brilliant and caustic

pen of Eugene Pelletan, and a serial from Madame Charles Reybaud, author

of the _Cadet de Calubrieres, Helene, &c_.

* * * * *

Victor Hugo, since the appearance of the last volume of _Le Rhine_, four

or five years ago, has not printed a new book. The proprietor of his

copyrights, who had brought out two splendid editions of his complete

works, one in twenty-five volumes, and another, illustrated by the best

artists of France, in twelve, made a contract with him by which he has

been prevented from any original publications. The term is now nearly

expired, and it is announced that he will at once issue three volumes of

poetry, and twelve of romances. He is now engaged in finishing a novel

entitled _Misery_, which is spoken of by those who have seen portions of

it as a magnificent work.

* * * * *

M. de St. Beuve, since October, 1849, the literary critic of _Le

Constitutionnel_, a writer who has pushed himself up in the world far

ahead of his merits, has published at Paris a volume, _Causeries du

Lundi_ (Monday Gossipings), which is no great things. These gossipings

are taken from the columns of that journal, where they are regularly

published on Mondays, and where we have occasionally had the benefit of

seeing them. If they were not written by a member of the French Academy,

and an eminent _litterateur_, we should say they were rather stupid, as

far as ideas go, and not very elegant in respect of style.

* * * * *

We had recently the _Cooks of Paris_, in a handsome volume, with

portraits; _The Journals and Editors of Paris_, in another volume, and

now one Paul Lacroix, sometimes called _bibliophile Jacob_, has

announced a _History_, _Political_, _Civil_, _Religious_, _Military_,

_Legislative_, _Judicial_, _Moral_, _Literary_, _and Anecdotic_, _of the

Shoe and the Bootmakers of France_. He treats of the ancient

corporations, their discipline, regulations, and of the fraternities,

with their obligations and devices, sketching the whole history of _La

Chaussure_. Shoemakers have been well represented among the famous men

of all nations, and the craft may be proud of Hans Sachs, Jacob Boehme,

Gifford, Bloomfield, Drew, Holcraft, Lackington, Sherman, William Carey,

George Fox, and a hundred others, besides the heroes of Monsieur

Lacroix.

* * * * *

_Bibliophile Jacob_ LACROIX, we see by the Paris papers, has also

discovered a _comedie-ballet_ by Moliere, written in 1654, and never

included in any edition of his works. It is entitled _Le Ballet des

incompatibies_, and appears to have been written by order of the Prince

de Conti, and acted before him by Moliere himself and other persons of

the Prince's circle. That it remained so long unknown is explained by

the circumstance of a few copies only having been printed for the

favored spectators. The plot is described as ingenious, and the verses

not unworthy of the author. It is known that when the Prince de Conti

presided over the states of Languedoc in 1654, he invited thither

Moliere and his company. He professed so much admiration for the actor

that he offered him the confidential situation of secretary, which was

declined; but it seems natural enough that he should have shown his

gratitude by composing one of those entertainments which cost him so

little trouble. This Prince de Conti was at one time so passionately

fond of theatricals that he made it his occupation to seek out subjects

for new plays, but at a later period he wrote a treatise in which

theatres were severely condemned on religious grounds, and Moliere

himself was personally and violently attacked.

* * * * *

Among the new biographical works announced in Paris, is one on the Life,

Virtues and Labors of the late Right Rev. Dr. FLAGET, Roman Catholic

Bishop of Bardstown and Louisville, Kentucky. The author is a clergyman,

who accompanied the late Bishop in one of his last missions to Europe.

Bishop Flaget died at the age of eighty-seven.

* * * * *

M. Xavier Marmier, whose visit to the United States we noticed some

months ago, has published his _Letters on Canada, the United States,

Cuba, and Rio La Plata_, in two volumes--constituting one of the most

agreeable works ever published in Paris upon this country. We shall

soon, we believe, have occasion to review a translation of the Letters,

by a New-Yorker.

* * * * *

Guizot and Thiers--the most eminent living statesmen of France, as well

as her greatest living historians--were for a long time connected with

the Paris journals, and each made his first appearance as a writer in

criticisms on the Fine Arts. For several years the former published

series of articles on the exhibitions of the Louvre, which were

remarkable both for artistic knowledge and literary _verve_. The latter

also published in 1810 a pamphlet on the exhibition in the Louvre, which

excited great sensation--more, however, from its having a political

tendency than for its critical importance.

* * * * *

MR. MIGNET, whose condensed _History of the French Revolution_ is best

known to American readers in the cheap reprint of Bohn's Library, and

which in Paris has passed through numberless editions--will soon have

completed his History of Mary Stuart, which is destined, probably, to

supersede every other in the French language. Mignet is perpetual

Secretary of the Academy of Moral Sciences, and was for many years head

of the department of Archives in the Foreign Office. As a man of letters

and a sedulous inquirer, no French author enjoys higher reputation.

* * * * *

Lamartine has just published in Paris _The History of the Restoration,

from 1814 to_ 1830, in eight volumes. The work has been composed

hastily, and probably by several hands, for money. The poet has also

published _The Stone Cutter of Saint-Pont_, to which we have before

referred--a new book of sentimental memoirs: they pall after two

administrations.

* * * * *

The _Histoire des Races Maudites et les Classes Reprouves_, by

Francisque Michel and Edouard Fournier, publishing at Paris, with

illustrations, has advanced to the twentieth number. The whole is to

contain a hundred numbers, forming three volumes.

* * * * *

M. Michelet, the well-known professor of history in the College de

France, has incurred a vote of censure from his associates on account of

his lectures to the students, which, we infer from notices of them, are

quite too republican and socialistic to be approved by the directors of

affairs.

* * * * *

A new work, by M. Theophile Lavallee, entitled _L'Histoire de Paris et

ses Monumens_ from ancient times to 1850, has just been published at

Paris, with illustrations by M. Champin. It is warmly commended by the

_Debats_.

* * * * *

MULLIE, of the University of France, has published in two large octavos,

a Biographical Dictionary of the Military Celebrities of France, from

1789 to 1850.

* * * * *

A second edition of the new _Life of the great Chancellor D'Auguesseau_,

by M. BOUILLE, has been published in Paris. The book continues to be

praised.

* * * * *

A Romance and Tales, said to have been written by NAPOLEON BONAPARTE,

when he was a youth, are announced for publication in the Paris

_Siecle_. Though the _Siecle_ is a very respectable journal, and it

engages that these compositions are perfectly authentic, and shall be

accompanied by proofs of their genuineness, we do not believe a word of

the pretence of their authorship. It is a fact, however, not unworthy of

note, in a psychological point of view, that the earliest development of

Napoleon's ambition and powers, before a fit field of action had been

opened to them, was in a literary form. At the age of fifteen, when at

the royal school at Paris, he voluntarily prepared a memoir upon the

luxury and expense attending education at that place, in which he urged

the propriety of the students adopting hardy habits and a simple fare,

and themselves to such toils and exposure as they would encounter in

war. In 1787, at the age of eighteen, at Valence, he gained,

anonymously, a prize proposed to the Academy of Lyons by the Abbe

Raynal, on the question, "What are the principles and institutions best

adapted to advance mankind in happiness?" In this essay he defined

happiness as consisting in the "perfect enjoyment of life according to

the laws of our physical and moral organization:" and the forcible

views, well adapted to the temper of the times, and the vivid style of

writing, attracted much attention. When he was emperor, he was one day

conversing with Talleyrand about this essay, and the latter, a few days

after, took occasion to present it to him, having procured it from the

archives of the academy at Lyons. The emperor took it, and after reading

a few pages, threw it into the fire, saying, "One can never observe

every thing." Talleyrand had not taken the precaution to transcribe it;

but it has been said that Louis Bonaparte had had it copied, and that it

is now in print. About the same time he began a history of Corsica,

which he dedicated to the Abbe Raynal, by whom he had been noticed and

caressed. He corresponded with Paoli in relation to it, and was in

treaty with M. Joly, a bookseller of Dole, for its publication. Raynal,

who read the manuscript, advised its completion; but some change of

purpose prevented its being finished, and it is now lost. During his

residence at Auxonne, in 1790, Napoleon wrote and printed a letter to

Buttafoco, the Corsican deputy for the nobles in the National Assembly.

It is a brilliant and powerful piece of argument and invective, strongly

on the revolutionary side. It produced a marked impression, and was

adopted and reprinted by the patriotic society at Ajaccio. While at

Marseilles, in 1793, Napoleon wrote and published a political dialogue,

called "The Supper of Beaucaire"--a judicious, sensible, and able essay,

intended to allay the agitation then existing in that city. A copy of it

was brought to him in later days, but seeing no advantage in reviving,

under the circumstances of a different time, a production written for a

temporary and local excitement, he ordered its suppression.

* * * * *

The Life of Calvin, by Paul Henry, has been translated from the German

by the Rev. Dr. Henry Stebbing, of London, and we have the first of the

two octavos of which it consists, from the press of Robert Carter &

Brothers. So much inexcusable ignorance, so much perverse

misrepresentation, so much insolent lying, may be found scattered

through modern literature, respecting the great Genevan, that Dr. Henry

deserves well the thanks of the christian world for exhibiting the chief

facts of his history, so plainly that every partisan knave who would

repeat the old slanders, shall be silent hereafter for very shame. John

Calvin was unquestionably subject to the infirmities of our human

nature; so was John Milton; but the inherent and indefectable greatness

of these two men was such, that they dwell apart like stars, in glory

scarcely approachable by mortal virtue or intelligence. John Calvin and

John Milton were in an extraordinary degree the authors of modern

institutions of liberty, and it would be difficult to decide which has

most merit of this praise. The late Albert Gallatin was wont to say that

when we celebrated our condition on the fourth of July, we should first

drink to the memory of John Calvin, and then to the immediate authors of

the Declaration of Independence. Mr. Gallatin did not hold to all the

dogmas of Calvin, but he could not speak of the creatures--like Dyer,

for example--who employ their pennyworth of wit to prejudice the vulgar

against him, without some signs of scorn. We can never forget his

merciless characterization of a malicious feeble-mind, who in a book

entitled _A Monograph of Moral Sense_, declared that Calvin never had

enough humanity in his nature to select even one verse by the

_Evangelists_ for pulpit illustration,--though the Reformer really

preached some folio volumes of commentaries upon the Gospels, preached

from them as much as he did from any other portion of the Bible. This

person--his name was Smith--was not more reckless of truth than it has

been the fashion for anti-Calvinists to be, when writing of that great

man and his doctrines, which they seem to have thought could be put down

by petty libels.

Calvin is now being born into a new life, as it were; the critics and

printers of each particular language are as busy with him as the English

have been with Shakspeare. His amazing wit, and genius, and learning,

are found as attractive and powerful now as they were three hundred

years ago. And this life of him by Henry, embodying whatever of

contemporary records is most needful for the illustration of his

writings, will be likely to have a large sale with every class of

historical students, as they discover that the popular and partisan

notions of him are untrue. Certainly no one should attempt to form an

opinion of Calvin without thoroughly acquainting himself with Henry.

* * * * *

In Paris, M. MILLER, librarian to the Assembly, has made an important

discovery among some old Greek MSS. of a lost work by Origen. The

_Journal des Debats_ describes the original work as being in ten books;

the first of which is already known to the world under the title of

_Philosophumena_. The last seven books have just been printed at the

university press in Oxford, under the editorial direction of M. Miller,

who went to England for that purpose. They make an octavo volume of

about three hundred and fifty pages. The _Debats_ says the work is "a

refutation of heresies, in which the author endeavors to prove that the

heresiarchs have all taken their doctrines from the ancient

philosophers:"--a very curious task for Origen to perform, since he was

himself chiefly remarkable for the mixture of Zeno, Plato, and

Aristotle, which he compounded with his Christianity. But apart from its

controversial interest, the recovered manuscript will throw new light on

the opinions and practices of the Neo-Platonists, and on the manners and

customs of ancient times. Discoveries like this point out the necessity

for a larger and more combined action of learned societies in the search

for ancient manuscripts. Origen's _Stromata_ might even yet be

completed: and it is not to be supposed that all the existing fragments

of his _Hexapla_ were collected by Montfaucon.

* * * * *

From Constantinople we learn that very important discoveries of ancient

Greek MSS. have been made, in a cave, near the foot of Mount Athos,

bringing to light a vast quantity of celebrated works quoted by various

ancient writers, and hitherto deemed entirely lost. They furnish,

according to the accounts in the journals, an extensive list of proper

names calculated to throw great light upon many obscure periods of

history. Among these volumes, it is said, some are calculated to give a

complete interpretation of hieroglyphic writing--the discoverer having

already successfully applied them to the interpretation of the

inscriptions engraved on the obelisk of the Hippodrome at

Constantinople. This may be quite true, but such statements are to be

received with some suspicion.

* * * * *

A literal prose translation of Homer, by Mr. T. A. Buckley, has just

appeared in London. No prose version will cause any just notion of the

spirit of Homer. Of the half dozen metrical translations published

recently, we think that of our countryman Munford the best. Henry W.

Herbert has given us parts of the Iliad in admirable style. No one,

however, has yet equalled old Chapman--certainly not Pope nor Cowper.

The most successful translation into a modern language is unquestionably

the German one by Voss. Mure and Grote have written the ablest

dissertations in English upon the Homeric controversy, but they are not

poets, and could not if they would translate the great bard.

* * * * *

R. P. GILLIES, a contemporary of the great authors of the last age, has

published in three volumes _Memoirs of a Literary Veteran_. More than

half a century spent in the society of the lions of literature, could

hardly fail to furnish a store of amusing anecdotes, and a sprinkling of

interesting information. Mr. Gillies has also this advantage over many

collectors of similar reminiscences, that he was not only an author

among authors, but that his social position in early life gave him

access to the best circles. Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, the Ettrick

Shepherd, Rogers, Galt, Maginn, Haydon, and many more names of interest,

figure frequently in his pages. Upon the whole, however, his work is

tedious, and quite too much occupied with matters that can be

entertaining only to his most intimate associates. Gillies was one of

the early contributors to "Blackwood," and figured as "Kemperhausen" in

the _Noctes Ambrosianae_. He was also the originator and first editor of

the Foreign Quarterly Review, and was one of the first to make German

literature familiar in England.

* * * * *

It appears that only the Harpers' edition of Lord HOLLAND'S

_Reminiscences_ is complete. The London copies are full of asterisks,

marking the places of cancelled passages. The cancellings, it was

suggested, were occasioned by the interposition of Lord John Russel. A

correspondent of _The Times_, however, (understood to be Mr. Panizzi of

the British Museum,) came out with a denial, saying "his lordship never

saw a word of the _Reminiscences_ till after they were published, and

that no responsibility whatever could attach to him. I speak thus," he

adds, "of my own knowledge, and beg to inclose my name as a voucher for

the truth of this statement." The _Athenaeum_ thinks that if Mr. Panizzi

had said "printed" instead of "published," his voucher would have been

less rashly ventured, as "Lord John _did_ see the work before it was

actually published, but not before it had been actually printed; and

here, if we be not misinformed, arises a somewhat amusing _contretemps_,

which is likely to render the cancels ineffectual. Lord John, in fact,

had not the opportunity of interfering until the work had been so far

published to the world that an 'uncancelled' copy, with all the passages

since sought to be suppressed, had been dispatched to America beyond

recall. The next American mail will, doubtless, supply us with the whole

of the suppressed passages."

* * * * *

The meeting of the _British Association_, at Ipswich, is to commence on

Wednesday, July the 2d, and extend over seven or eight days. The

secretaries have received the names of several hundred intending

visitors, among whom are Lucien Buonaparte, Sir R. Murchison, Sir H. de

la Beche, Sir W. Jardine, Sir Charles Lyell, Sir David Brewster;

Professors Daubeny, Silliman (of America), Owen, Ansted, and the

celebrated naturalist, M. Lorrillier, a relative of the late Baron

Cuvier.

* * * * *

Of the new book on _Man's Nature and Development_, by Miss Martineau and

Mr. Atkinson, the _Westminster Review_ for April says:

"Strange and wonderful is the power of self-delusion! Here we have two

clever well-informed people, persuading themselves that they experience

extraordinary raptures mingled with the most exquisite philosophic calm,

from believing that unconscious matter is the cause of conscious

thought, that the truest human affection is nothing worthier than the

love of a spoonful of nitric acid for a copper half-penny, and that

annihilation is the most satisfactory end of human life. From such views

both the intellect and the heart of man will recoil with well-founded

disgust--his logical powers will perceive the absurdity of the argument,

and his taste and affections will lead him to exclaim with Wordsworth:--

----'Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn:

So might I standing on this pleasant lea

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.'

"The new lights promised by our authors turn out to be chiefly composed

of very old-fashioned rays of darkness, and, after a careful perusal,

many will come to the conclusion that the way to be a modern

philosopher, is to quote the ancients, praise Bacon, and talk 'bosh.'"

* * * * *

New editions of the works of Fielding and Smollett, profusely

illustrated by Cruikshank and Kenny Meadows, will soon be published by

Stringer & Townsend. These great classics will never cease to be read

with the keenest relish by all the English race. The London publishers

of the present edition of Fielding observe in their advertisement:

"It is altogether unnecessary to enlarge upon the genius of

Henry Fielding. There is no man in the brilliant history of

English literature, with the single exception of Shakspeare, to

whose genius has been paid the homage of a more general

attestation. Calumny and misrepresentation--the offspring of

envy and malice--these, in his day, he had to endure or to

deride, and these, with their authors, have long sunk into

oblivion. The greatest of his contemporaries knew and

acknowledged his transcendent merit, and since his death, there

has not been one man of genius whose opinion of Fielding is

recorded, that has not spoken of him with veneration and

delight. Dr. Johnson, spite of a personal enmity, could not but

concede his extraordinary powers. Lady Mary Wortley Montague

reluctantly confessed that 'cousin Fielding' was the greatest

original genius of the age; the fastidious Gray was charmed

with him; and the more fastidious Gibbon has left his opinion

on record, that the illustrious house of Hapsburg, from which

Fielding was descended--its name erased, its towers

crumbled,--will be forgotten, when the romance of _Tom Jones_

shall flourish in eternal youth. If Coleridge classed him, as

one of the true immortals, with Shakspeare, Goethe could not,

nor was willing to contest, that he was so; if Byron could

cheer his heart and refresh his mind with his pages, so can,

and so does, Wordsworth. In a word, the matchless drawing of

his characters, which are not likenesses from life, but copies

from Nature--the one being a shallow art, the other a

profoundly creative power--his exquisite wit, his abounding

humor, his natural and manly pathos--in these no writer of

narrative fiction has ever approached him.

"While, therefore, nothing can be less likely than that the

fame of Fielding should ever be suffered to die, or that, as

long as literature exists it can ever diminish, nothing can be

more proper than to attempt to extend his popularity--a

consummation inevitably to be effected by producing his works

at a price accessible, and in a form attractive, to all

classes. The late Rowland Hill once observed, that it was not

fitting that the arch-enemy of mankind should have all the best

tunes to himself. In a like spirit it may be remarked, that it

ought not to be permitted to inferior writers to monopolize all

the appliances and means of popularity that art can bestow.

Accordingly, the proprietors have secured the hearty and

zealous co-operation of Kenny Meadows. It would be invidious,

and from the purpose, to institute a comparison between this

gentleman and his contemporaries; but it may be asserted that

no living artist has shown an equal versatility of genius,

which points him out as the man best fitted to trace the

many-colored life of Fielding. From the illustration, almost

page by page, of Shakspeare, where is the man but would have

shrunk? but that work of our artist has secured not merely an

English, not only a European reputation, but a world-wide

celebrity. The proprietors are assured, that from the hand of

Kenny Meadows such an edition of Fielding will proceed as we

have not yet seen, and shall not hereafter see."

* * * * *

Of Mr. JOHN BIGELOW'S work on _Jamaica_, (published a few weeks ago by

Putnam,) the London _Examiner_ of April 5th, remarks:

"It contains the most searching analysis of the present state

of Jamaica, and, moreover, the most sagacious prognostications

of the future prospects of the island that have ever been

published. Mr. Bigelow is an accomplished, acute, and liberal

American. As such, an eye-witness and a participator of the

greatest and most successful colonial experiment which the

world has ever seen, he is, necessarily, a better and more

impartial judge of the subject he treats of than any Englishman

of equal capacity and acquirement. Mr. Bigelow makes short and

easy work of planters, attornies, book-keepers, sophistries,

and Stanleys. In doing so, his language is invariably that of a

man of education and a gentleman. He might have crushed them

with a sledge-hammer, but he effects his purpose as effectually

with a pass or two of a sharp and polished broad-sword."

* * * * *

The publication of a translation in the Bohemian language of Lamartine's

_History of the Girondins_, has been recently prohibited at Prague by

the Austrian authorities.

* * * * *

MACREADY, in retiring from the stage, had more honors showered upon him

than ever before sweetened the leave-taking of any hero of the buskin:

among them, this dedication of George Sand's latest publication, _Le

Chateau des Desertes_, which is now appearing in _La Revue des Deux

Mondes_:

"To W. C. MACREADY:--This little work, attempting to set forth

certain ideas on Dramatic Art, I place under the protection of

a great name, and of an honorable friendship.

GEORGE SAND."

* * * * *

The first volume of _The Stones of Venice_, by Mr. RUSKIN, has been

republished by Mr. Wiley, and we trust it will have a very large sale in

this country, which was never in greater need of instructions upon any

subject than it is now upon that of architecture. In all our cities

there is remarkable activity in building; the surplus wealth of the

American people is largely applied for the increase of the magnificence

of town and country residences--for the most part so ignorantly applied,

that the Genius of Architecture might almost be frightened from our

shores by the spectacles reared here to vex and astonish the next ages.

To bring about a reform, to lead the way for rationalism, in the noblest

of the practical arts, Mr. Ruskin has approved himself worthy by his

previous works. The _Stones of Venice_ will increase the fame won by his

"Modern Painters." The _Literary Gazette_ says:

"It is a book for which the time is ripe, and it cannot fail to

produce the most beneficial results, directly and indirectly,

on our national architecture. The low condition into which that

has fallen has been long felt. Mr. Ruskin has undertaken to

lead us back to the first principles of the art, and, in doing

so, to enable every reader who will bestow the necessary

attention to his exposition, to discover for himself the causes

of this decline, and to master the principles, by attention to

which, the significance and dignity of the art may be restored.

The subject is one of the widest interest; but it has been so

hedged about with technical difficulties as to debar from its

study all who had not more leisure, more perseverance, and more

money, than fall to the lot of the majority of even cultivated

minds. At once popular and profound, this book will be

gratefully hailed by a circle of readers even larger than Mr.

Ruskin has found for his previous works. He has so written as

to catch the ear of all kinds of persons: 'Every man,' he says

truly, 'has at some time of his life personal interest in

architecture. He has influence on the design of some public

building; or he has to buy, or build, or alter his own house.

It signifies less, whether the knowledge of other arts be

general or not; men may live without buying pictures or

statues; but in architecture all must in some way commit

themselves; they _must_ do mischief, and waste their money, if

they do not know how to turn it to account. Churches, and

shops, and warehouses, and cottages, and small row, and place,

and terrace houses, must be built and lived in, however joyless

and inconvenient. And it is assuredly intended that all of us

should have knowledge, and act upon our knowledge, in matters

in which we are daily concerned, and not be left to the caprice

of architects, or mercy of contractors."

"Those who live in cities are peculiarly dependent for

enjoyment upon the beauty of its architectural features. Shut

out from mountain, river, lake, forest, cliff, and hedgerow,

they must either find in streets and squares food for pleasant

contemplation, or be drawn into indifference by meaningless,

ill-proportioned, or unsightly forms. 'We are forced,' says Mr.

Ruskin, 'for the sake of accumulating our power and knowledge,

to live in cities; but such advantage as we have in association

with each other, is in great part counterbalanced by our loss

of fellowship with nature. We cannot all have our gardens now,

nor our pleasant fields to meditate in at eventide. Then the

function of our architecture is, as far as may be, to replace

these; to tell us about nature; to possess us with memories of

her quietness; to be solemn and full of tenderness like her,

and rich in portraitures of her; full of delicate imagery of

the flowers we can no more gather, and of the living creatures

now far away from us in their own solitude. If ever you felt or

found this in a London street; if ever it furnished you with

one serious thought, or any ray of true and gentle pleasure; if

there is in your heart a true delight in its green railings,

and dark casements, and wasteful finery of shops, and feeble

coxcombry of club-houses, it is well; promote the building of

more like them. But if they never taught you any thing, and

never made you happier as you passed beneath them, do not think

they have any mysterious goodness of occult sublimity. Have

done with the wretched affectation, the futile barbarism, of

pretending to enjoy; for, as surely as you know that the meadow

grass, meshed with fairy rings, is better than the wood

pavement cut into hexagons; and as surely as you know the fresh

winds and sunshine of the upland are better than the choke-damp

of the vault, or the gaslight of the ball-room, you may know

that the good architecture which has life, and truth, and joy

in it, is better than the bad architecture, which has death,

dishonesty, and vexation of heart in it from the beginning to

the end of time.

"To show what this good architecture is, how it is produced,

and to what end, is the object of the present volume. It is,

consequently, purely elementary, and introductory merely to the

illustration, to be furnished in the next volume from the

architectural riches of Venice, of the principles, to the

development of which it is devoted. Beginning from the

beginning, Mr. Ruskin carries his reader through the whole

details of construction with an admirable clearness of

exposition, and by a process which leaves him at the close in a

position to apply the principles which he has learned by the

way, and to form an intelligent and independent judgment upon

any form of architectural structure. The argument of the book

hangs too closely together to be indicated by extracts, or by

an analysis within the limits to which we are confined."

We perceive that the work of which the first volume is here noticed, is

to be followed immediately by _Examples of the Architecture of Venice_,

selected and drawn to measurement from the edifices, by Mr. Ruskin: to

be completed in twelve parts, of folio imperial size, price one guinea

each. These will not be reproduced in this country, and as the author

probably has little advantage from the American editions of his works,

we trust that for his benefit as well as for the interests of art, the

_Examples_ will be largely imported.

* * * * *

The new play written by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, as his contribution

towards the fund raising for the new Literary Institute, is in the hands

of the literary and artistic amateurs by whom it is to be enacted, and

rehearsals are in progress. The first performance will take place

probably in June.

* * * * *

It was a custom when the world was younger than it is now, for

disappointed lovers, and outlaws, and portionless youths too proud to

labor and afraid to steal, to go into the wars; nobility, that would not

suffer them to become journeymen mechanics, led them to hire out as

journeymen butchers. But at length the field of military adventure is

almost every where closed. There is no region, ever so remote, where a

spirited and adventurous youth could hope ever to learn the art martial.

A few skirmishes on the Parana and the Plata, on the Fish River, or the

Keiskamma, form all the fighting that is going on upon the globe; and

that fighting offers no premium to the adventurer. There is no native

prince of great wealth and numerous followers, no mogul, or sultan, or

sikh, with whom the turbulent European might make a good bargain for his

courage. The last field for such enterprise was the country of the

Mahrattas, where French and English mercenaries--with a sprinkling of

Americans--created a colony which enabled the ignorant, bigoted and

jealous savages to keep in check the best European armies. A Frenchman

named Person was a pioneer in the business. He was succeeded by the

Savoyard, De Boigne, whose statue now adorns the principal square of

Chamberry. James Skinner, whose _Memoirs_ have just been published in

London by the novelist and traveler Mr. Bailie Fraser, began a similar

career under De Boigne. Some idea may be formed of the Mahratta army,

when the Peishwa at times brought 100,000 horse into the field. A

trusted officer, as Skinner afterwards became, might thus command a

division of twenty, thirty, or forty thousand men, equal in fact to the

largest European armies in the last century. When men played with such

tools as these, it may be easily imagined how they themselves rose and

fell; how empires crumbled, or were reared anew. When Wellesley and Loke

overthrew the Mahrattas, Skinner entered the British service, and it

appears from the book before us that he died in 1836 a knight of the

Bath.

* * * * *

"Hitherto," says M. de Sainte Beuve, "the real learning of women has

been found to be pretty much the property of their lovers;" and he

ridicules the notion that even Mrs. Somerville has any scholarship that

would win the least distinction for a man. It may be so. We see,

however, that a Miss FANNY CORBAUX has lately communicated to the

Syro-Egyptian Society in London a very long and ambitious paper _On the

Raphaim and their connexion with Egyptian History_, in which she quotes

Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, &c., with astonishing liberality.

* * * * *

Carlyle's translation of the _Apprenticeship and Travels of Wilhelm

Meister_, has been issued in a very handsome edition, by Ticknor, Reed &

Fields, of Boston.

* * * * *

Mr. Macaulay has been passing the Winter and Spring in Italy.

* * * * *

The Late Mr. John Glanville Taylor, an Englishman, left in MS. a work

upon _The United States and Cuba_, which has just been published by

Bentley, and is announced for republication by Mr. Hart of Philadelphia.

Mr. Taylor was born in 1810, and when about twenty-one years of age he

left Liverpool for the United States, on a mining speculation. After

travelling a few months in this country, he was induced to go to Cuba to

examine a gold vein of which he thought something might be made. The

place in Cuba which was to be the scene of his operations, was the

neighborhood of Gibara, on the north-eastern side of the island, which

he reached by sailing from New-York to St. Jago de Cuba, and travelling

across the island forty-five leagues. The gold vein turned out a

wretched failure; and, after having been put to some disagreeable shifts

to maintain himself, Mr. Taylor resolved to settle as a planter in

Holguin--the district to which Gibara forms the port of entry. Returning

to the United States, he made the necessary arrangements; and in the

summer of 1843, was established on his _hacienda_, in partnership with

an American who had been long resident in that part of the island. In

this and the following year, however, the east of Cuba was visited by an

unprecedented drought; causing famine which, though it destroyed many

lives and ruined thousands of proprietors, attracted no more attention,

he says, in England, than was implied by "a paragraph of three lines in

an English newspaper." The west of Cuba was at the same time devastated

by a tremendous hurricane, accompanied by floods; and, all his Cuban

prospects being thus blasted, the author was glad to return to New-York

in September, 1845, whence, after a short stay, he returned to England.

He did not long, however, remain in his native country, but left it for

Ceylon, where he died suddenly in January, of the present year. His

_United States and Cuba: Eight Years of Change and Travel_, was left in

MS., and within a few weeks has been printed. It is a work of much less

value than Mr. Kimball's _Cuba and the Cubans_, published in New-York

last year. Of that very careful and judicious performance Mr. Taylor

appears to have made considerable use in the preparation of his own, and

his agreement with Mr. Kimball may be inferred from the fact that,

though pointedly protesting that he does not advocate the annexation of

Cuba to the United States, he holds that "worse things might

happen,"--and indeed hints that sooner or later the event is inevitable.

Of _Cuba and the Cubans_, we take this opportunity to state that a new

and very much improved edition will soon be issued by Mr. Putnam.

* * * * *

Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley has in the press of Bentley her _Travels in

the United States_. She passed about two years, we believe, in this

country. She has written several books, in verse and prose, but we never

heard that any body had read one of them.

* * * * *

The _Nile Notes_, by Mr. CURTIS, have been republished in London by

Bentley, and the book is as much approved by English as by American

critics. The _Daily News_ says:

"The author is evidently a man of great talent."

Leigh Hunt, in his _Journal_, that--

"It is brilliant book, full of thought and feeling."

The _Athenaeum_, that--

"The author of _Nile Notes_, we may now add, is richly

poetical, humorous, eloquent, and glowing as the sun, whose

southern radiance seems to burn upon his page. An affluence of

fancy which never fails, a choice of language which chastens

splendor of expression by the use of simple idioms, a love for

the forms of art whether old or new, and a passionate enjoyment

of external nature such as belongs to the more poetic order of

minds--are the chief characteristics of this writer."

The _Literary Gazette_--

"The genial and kindly spirit of this book, the humor and

vivacity of personal descriptions, redeemed by an exquisite

choice of expression from the least taint of the common or the

coarse; the occasional melody and music of the diction,

cadenced, as it were, by the very grace and tenderness of the

thought it clothes, or the images of beauty it evokes; the

broad, easy touches, revealing as at a glance the majestic and

tranquil features of the Eastern landscape, and the ultimate

feeling of all its accessories of form and hue; the varied

resources of learning, tradition, poetry, romance, with which

it is not encumbered but enriched, as a banquet table with

festal crowns and sparkling wines--all these, and many other

characteristics, to which our space forbids us to do justice,

render these 'Nile Notes' quite distinct from all former books

of Eastern travel, and worthy 'to occupy the intellect of the

thoughtful and the imagination of the lively.' Never did a

wanderer resign his whole being with more entire devotion to

the silence and the mystery that brood, like the shadow of the

ages, over that dead, dumb land. A veritable lotus-eater is our

American Howadji!'"

And a dozen other London journals might be quoted to the same effect.

But critics disagree, as well as doctors, and the Boston _Puritan

Recorder_ comes down on the Howadji in the following exemplary manner:

"This is a much-vaunted book, by a young American, but one in

which we take no pleasure. In the first place, it is written in

a most execrable style,--all affectation, and verbal wriggling

and twisting for the sake of originality. The veriest sophomore

ought to be "rusticated" for such conceited phrases as

"beautiful budburstiness of bosom,"--"her twin eyes shone forth

liquidly lustrous"--and innumerable expressions in the same

namby-pamby dialect. But dellacruscan folly is but a trifle

compared with the immoral tendency of the descriptions of the

_gahzeeyah_, or dancing girls of Egypt, and the luscious

comments on their polluted ways and manners. We thought the

Harpers had done publishing this indecent trash."

* * * * *

D. M. Moir, the "Delta" of _Blackwood's Magazine_, has just published in

Edinburgh, _Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half

Century_, in six Lectures, delivered at the Edinburgh Philosophical

Institution.

* * * * *

The Rev. Satan Montgomery, otherwise called _Robert_ Montgomery, is not

dead, as some have supposed, but is still making sermons and

verses--probably sermons and verses of equally bad quality; and we see

with some alarm that the Rivingtons advertise, as in preparation, a

complete edition of his _Poetical Works_ [we never saw any works by him

that were poetical] in one octavo volume, similar in size and appearance

to the octavo editions of Southey, Wordsworth, &c., &c., and including

the whole of the author's poems--_Satan_, _Woman_, _Hell_, and all the

rest,--in a revised form, with some original minor pieces, and a general

preface. We don't suppose he will take our counsel, yet we will venture

it, that he make use of Macaulay's reviewal of his poems, instead of any

"general preface" of his own.

* * * * *

Documentary History of New-York.--The forthcoming (third) volume of this

State contribution to our historical literature will well sustain the

reputation of its predecessors and of its zealous editor. Dr.

O'CALLAGHAN is an enthusiast in his zeal for lighting up "the dark ages

of our history," as Verplanck called the Dutch period; and he has done

as much as any man living to rescue the fast perishing memorials of the

founders of the Empire State. It is fortunate for the State that his

industry and patient research are secured for the proper arrangement of

the Archives--too long neglected and subject to loss and mutilation. The

new volume has come to hand too late for any elaborate notice or review

of its contents; but a glance at the list of papers and illustrations

alone warrants the opinion we have expressed. We notice particularly the

account of Champlain's explorations in Northern New-York, &c., from 1609

to 1615--translated from the edition of 1632. The historical student

cannot fail to note the coincidence of discovery and exploration by the

Dutch and French; and the credit due to the "Founder of New France;" to

which we have alluded in the article on the Jesuit Relations. The

translations of the extracts from Wassenaar (1624, etc.), give an

interesting cotemporaneous view of the progress of the European

discoveries and settlements in America. A chapter on Medals and Coins

contains attractive matter, particularly that portion which relates to

the "Rosa Americana coins," connected as they are with the "Wood's

half-pence," immortalized by Dean Swift. The notes and biographical

sketches by the editor, scattered through the volume, add materially to

its value--as also the numerous maps and engravings. We have heard hints

that some small suggestions of disinterested economists of the public

money, or other considerations less creditable, have been brought to

bear against the continuation of this publication--but we trust that

they will end when they begin. New-York owes it to her own great history

to make its material accessible to all.

* * * * *

Colonel Albert J. Pickett, of Montgomery, has in the press of Walker and

James, of Charleston, _The History of Alabama, and incidentally of

Georgia and Mississippi, from the Earliest Period_. It will make two

handsome volumes, and from some passages of it which we have read, we

believe it will be a work of very unusual attraction. It will embrace an

account of the invasion of Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi,

by De Soto, in 1539-41; of the Aborigines of these states, their

appearance, manners and customs, games, amusements, wars, and religious

ceremonies, their ancient mounds and fortifications, and of the modern

Indians, the Creeks, Chickasaws Choctaws, Alabamas, Uchees, Cherokees,

and other tribes; the discovery and settlement of Alabama and

Mississippi by the French, and their occupation until 1763; the

occupation of Alabama and Mississippi by the British for eighteen years;

the colonization of Georgia by the English; the occupation of Alabama

and Mississippi by the Spaniards for thirty years; and the occupation of

these states by the Americans from 1800 until 1820. One whole chapter is

taken up with an interesting account of the arrest of Aaron Burr in

Alabama in 1807; and the exciting controversies between Georgia, the

Federal Government, Spain, and the Creek Indians, are treated at length.

The work will be illustrated by really valuable engravings, after

original drawings made by a French traveller in 1564.

* * * * *

Mrs. Farnham, author of _Prairie-Land_, (a very clever book published

three or four years ago by the Harpers), and widow of the late Mr.

Farnham who wrote a book of travels in Oregon and other parts of the

Pacific country, is now living in a sort of paradise, about seventy

miles south of San Francisco. In a published letter she gives the

following description of her farm:

"It is very heavily timbered and watered with clear living

streams running through valleys of the most fertile soil, on

which delicious vegetables grow ten months of the year. The

region is especially famed for potatoes, which become almost a

fruit here. The farm I live on is charmingly situated about a

mile from the old Mission, and two from the beach, on which a

tremendous surf breaks and thunders day and night. From my

house I look over the coast-table and range of mountains, the

hills of Monterey, the bay, and a near landscape, exquisitely

diversified by plain and wood, hill and valley, and almost

every shade that herbage and foliage, in a country without

frost, can show. The rainy season is about a month old, and the

earth as green as it is at home in June. Another month will

pile it with clover, and less than another variegate it with an

inconceivable variety of the most exquisite flowers--for this

is the land of flowers as well as of gold. Our prairies are

quite insignificant in their floral shows, compared to it. The

country and climate are faultless--except in the lack of

showers through the dry months. Nearly every thing one can

desire may be grown upon one's own farm here."

* * * * *

Mr. Charles Gayarre, a gentleman distinguished in the affairs of

Louisiana, in which state he has held some important offices, has just

published in a handsome octavo, _Louisiana, its Colonial History and

Romance_, (Harper & Brothers.) It appears from the preface, that Mr.

Gayarre has had excellent opportunities for the collection of materiel

for a really good book of the sort indicated by his title; but this

performance is utterly worthless, or worse than worthless, being neither

history nor fiction, but such a commingling of the two that no one can

tell which is one or which the other. The uncertainty with which it is

read will be disagreeable in proportion to the interest that it excites;

and, knowing something of the colonial history of Louisiana, we are

inclined to think that a book quite as entertaining as this might have

been composed of authenticated facts. Indeed the _Historical Collections

of Louisiana_, by Mr. French, (published by Daniels and Smith,

Philadelphia,) must be to even the most superficial reader a far more

attractive volume.

* * * * *

The _Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution_, by BENSON J. LOSSING,

(Harper & Brothers,) is a work that cannot well be praised overmuch.

There have been an immense number of illustrated and pictorial histories

of this country, all or nearly all of which are worthless patchwork; but

Mr. Lossing's is a production of equal attractive interest and value.

The first volume only has been completed; one more will follow with all

convenient haste, ending the work. The letter-press is written from

original materials, the drawings of scenery are made from original

surveys, the engravings are executed, all by Mr. Lossing himself; and in

every department he evinces judgment and integrity. The Field Book will

not serve the purposes of a general history, but to the best informed

and most sagacious it will be a useful companion in historical reading,

while to those who seek only amusement in books, it may be commended,

for its pleasant style and careful art, as one of the most entertaining

works of the time.

* * * * *

We are glad to perceive that Mr. J. H. INGRAHAM, author of _The

Southwest, by a Yankee; Burton, or the Sieges_; and a large number of

the vilest yellow-covered novels ever printed in this country, has been

admitted to the deaconate in the Episcopal church at Natchez, and

intends shortly to remove to Aberdeen, in the same state, to found a

society in that city.

* * * * *

Mrs. Judson ("Fanny Forrester") left Calcutta in January for the United

States, by way of England, and she is now daily expected home, by her

old and warmly attached friends here. We see suggested a volume of her

poems--some of which have much tenderness and beauty; and hope that

measures will be taken to insure such a publication, for her exclusive

benefit, immediately.

* * * * *

Our contemporary, the Philadelphia _Lady's Book_, is a little out of

season in its fashions. The April number of that excellent periodical

contains the Parisian Fashions which appeared in _The International_ for

February; and for this present month of May, we see in _The Lady's Book_

the altogether too warm and heavily made dresses given in _The

International_ for last January--mid-winter. Certainly Philadelphia

ought not to be so far behind New-York in these matters. In its literary

character the _Lady's Book_ is still sustained by the contributions of

its favorite critic Mr. Henry T. Tuckerman, with those of Mr. T. S.

Arthur, Miss Adaliza Cutter, and Mrs. Sarah J. Hale.

* * * * *

We regret that the terms in which we lately announced Mr. J. R. TYSON'S

forthcoming _History of the American Colonies_ were capable of any

misapprehension. We know Mr. Tyson quite too well to entertain a doubt

of his perfect integrity as a historian; but it has been a subject of

frequent observation in the middle and southern states that the

New-England writers, who have furnished most of our histories, have

exaggerated the influence of the Puritans and depreciated that of the

Quakers and Cavaliers: Mr. Tyson himself, we believe, has been of this

opinion; and we merely look for an able, fair, and liberal history, from

his point of view.

* * * * *

Mr. VALENTINE is preparing a new volume of his _Manual of the Common

Council of New-York_. The volumes hitherto published have been edited

with great care and judgment; they embody an extraordinary amount and

variety of interesting and important facts connected with the

advancement and condition of the city; and the series is indispensable

to any one who would write a history of New-York, or the lives of its

leading citizens. The last volume was unusually rich in maps and

statistics, and we understand that the next one will be even more

interesting and valuable.

* * * * *

Mr. WILLIS has just published (through Charles Scribner) a new volume

under the characteristic title of _Hurry-graphs, or Sketches of Scenery,

Celebrities and Society_, taken from life. It embraces the author's

letters to the Home Journal, from Plymouth, Montrose, the Delaware, the

Hudson, the Highlands, and other summer resorts, with personal

descriptions of Webster, Everett, Emerson, Cooper, Jenny Lind, and many

other notabilities. It will be a delightful companion for the watering

places this season.

* * * * *

Among the most beautiful books from the American press is _Episodes of

Insect Life_, by ACHETA DOMESTICA, just reprinted by J. S. Redfield. The

natural history and habits of insects of every class are delineated by a

close observer with remarkable minuteness, and in a style of unusual

felicity; and the peculiar illustrations of the book are more spirited

and highly finished than we have noticed in any publication of a similar

character.

* * * * *

The Harpers have published a new edition of the _Greek Grammar_ of

Philip Buttman, revised and enlarged by his son, Alexander Buttman, and

translated from the eighteenth German edition by Dr. EDWARD ROBINSON. It

is not to be doubted, we suppose, that this grammar, in the shape in

which it is now presented, is altogether the best that exists of the

Greek language. We are not ourselves competent to a judgment in the

case, but from all we have seen upon the subject by the best scholars,

we take this to be the general opinion.

* * * * *

JOHN P. KENNEDY has in the press of Putnam a new and carefully revised

edition of his _Swallow Barn, or a Sojourn in the Old Dominion_, one of

the most pleasant books illustrative of local manners and rural life

that has ever been written. It is more like Irving's Bracebridge Hall

than any other work we can think of, and is as felicitous a picture of

old Virginia as Jeffrey Crayon has given us of Merrie England. The first

edition of Swallow Barn was published twenty years ago; the new one is

to be beautifully illustrated in the style of Irving's _Sketch Book_.

* * * * *

Dr. FRANCIS LIEBER, the learned Professor of the South Carolina College,

has been elected a member of the National Institute of France. Dr.

Lieber is a German, but he has resided in this country many years. Among

Americans who have been thus complimented are Mr. Prescott and Mr.

Bancroft. The late Henry Wheaton was also a member of the Institute.

* * * * *

The entertaining book, _Ship and Shore_, by the late Rev. WALTER COLTON,

has just been published by A. S. Barnes & Co., who will as soon as

practicable complete the republication of all Mr. Colton's works, under

the editorship of the Rev. Henry T. Cheever.

* * * * *

The _Domestic Bible_, by the Rev. Ingram Cobbin, just published in a

very handsome quarto volume in this city by S. Hueston, we think

decidedly the best edition of the Scriptures for common use that has

ever been printed in the English language. Its chief merit consists in

this, that without embracing a syllable of debatable matter in the form

of notes, it contains every needful explanation and illustration of the

text that can be gathered from ancient art, literature and history,

expressed with great distinctness and compactness, together with such

well-executed wood engravings as unquestionable knowledge in this age

could suggest--omitting altogether the absurd fancy embellishments which

in most of the illustrated Bibles are so offensive to the taste, and so

worthless as guides to the understanding. The editor we believe is a

clergyman of the Episcopal Church in England, but he has had the good

sense to avoid, so far as we can see, everything that would vex the

sectarian feelings of any one who admits that the Bible itself is true.

* * * * *

The _Life, Speeches, Orations, and Diplomatic Papers of Lewis Cass_, are

in press at Baltimore, under the editorship of Mr. George H. Hickman.

_The Speeches, Forensic Arguments, and Diplomatic Papers_ of Daniel

Webster (to be comprised in six large octavo volumes), are in the press

of Little & Brown of Boston, under the care of Mr. Edward Everett. _The

Memoirs and Works of the late John C. Calhoun_ are soon to be published

in Charleston, by Mr. R. K. Craller, and we hear of collections of the

Speeches and Public Papers of Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Benton. All these are

important works in literature, affairs or history.

* * * * *

Professor GILLESPIE, of Union College, has just published (Harper &

Brothers) a translation of The Philosophy of Mathematics, from the

_Cours de Philosophie Positive_ of AUGUSTE COMTE. The intellect of

Europe in this century has evolved no greater work than the Philosophie

Positive, and Professor Gillespie has done a wise thing in rendering

into English that part of it which relates to the field of mathematical

science.

* * * * *

Professor LINCOLN'S edition of Horace (recently published by the

Appletons) is the subject of much commendatory observation from critical

scholars. For purposes of instruction it is likely to have precedence of

any other that has been printed in this country. Those having marginal

translations may be very convenient for indolent boys, but they are not

altogether the most serviceable.

* * * * *

A work of very great ability has appeared in Paris, under the title of

_De la Certitude_, (Upon Certainty), by A. JAVARY. It makes an octavo of

more than five hundred pages, and for originality of ideas and

illustrations, and cumulative force of logic, is almost unrivalled. The

sceptical speculation of the time is reduced by it to powder, and thrown

to the winds.

* * * * *

Mr. MCCONNELL, who gave us last year a brilliant volume under the title

of "Talbot and Vernon," has just published, _The Glenns, a Family

History_, by which his good reputation will be much increased. It

displays much skill in the handling, and is altogether an advance from

his previous performance. (C. Scribner.)

* * * * *

The wife of a shipmaster trading from Boston in the Pacific, has just

published a volume entitled _Life in Fejee, or Five Years among the

Cannibals_. It is a very entertaining book, and we are obliged to the

cannibals for not eating the author.

* * * * *

Noticing the appointment of Mr. S. G. GOODRICH to be consul for the

United States at Paris, the London _News_ says: "In these days of

testimonials and compliments, we should not be surprised to hear of an

address of congratulation to the admired Peter, from the 'children of

England.'"

* * * * *

Of recent American Novels, the best that have fallen under our notice

(except those of Hawthorne and McConnell, before noticed), are, _The

Rangers, or the Tory's Daughter_, a very interesting tale illustrative

of the revolutionary history of Vermont, by D. P. Thompson, author of

"The Green Mountain Boys," (B. B. Mussey & Co., Boston); _Mount Hope, or

Philip, King of the Wampanoags_, by C. H. Hollister, (Harper &

Brothers); _Rebels and Tories, or the Blood of the Mohawk_, by Lawrence

Labree, (Dewitt and Davenport); and _Second Love_, a pleasant domestic

story, by an anonymous writer, (G. P. Putnam.)

* * * * *

The Hakluyt Society, in London, has commenced its series of publications

with _Divers Voyages touching the Discovery of America and the Islands

adjacent_, collected and published by Richard Hakluyt, Prebendary of

Bristol, in the year 1582: edited, with notes and an introduction, by

John Winter Jones. The society should have many subscribers in this

country.

* * * * *

Dr. MAYO has published a new book of tales, not unworthy of the author

of "Kaloolah" and "The Berber," under the title of "_Romance Dust from

the Historic Placers._" We shall give it attention hereafter. (Putnam.)

* * * * *

MASANIELLO is suppressed at Berlin, as _Tell_ had been--not modern

imitations of those heroes, but the operas so called, by Rossini and

Auber. The Prussian Government, liberal as it was a few months ago in

professions, cannot stand the performance of operas!

* * * * *

Mr. THACKERAY is to commence in London, about the middle of the present

month, a course of lectures embracing biographical reminiscences of some

of the comic writers of England during the eighteenth century.

* * * * *

Mr. ALISON, the historian, has been chosen Rector of the University of

Glasgow, by the casting vote of Col. Mure, the historian of Greek

Literature, who occupied the same place before Macaulay.

The Fine Arts.

The engravings of the several Art-Unions of this country for the coming

year will be from excellent pictures. The American Art-Union will offer

its subscribers Mr. Woodville's _Mexican News_, engraved by Alfred

Jones; the Philadelphia Art-Union, Huntington's _Christiana and Her

Children_, by Andrews; and for the same purpose, Mr. Perkins, of Boston,

has allowed the New-England Art-Union to make use of his magnificent

picture of _Saul and the Witch of Endor_, painted by Alston, and

generally considered one of the finest historical productions of that

eminent artist. Each of the Unions, we believe, will also publish some

less important works for distribution or prizes.

The twenty-sixth exhibition of the _National Academy of Design_, has

commenced under favorable auspices. Upon the whole, the collection of

pictures is the best ever made by the society. We have not space for any

particular criticism, but must refer to Mr. Durand's admirable

landscapes; the Greek Girl and full length portrait of General Scott by

Mr. Kellogg; Mount Desert Island by Mr. Church; The Defence of

Toleration by Mr. Rothermel; The Edge of the Wood by Mr. Huntington; Mr.

Gignoux's Winter Sunset, and other pictures in the same department by

Richards, Cropsey, and Kensett; and portraits by Elliott, Osgood, Hicks

and Flagg,--are the works which strike us as deserving most praise.

* * * * *

The _Bulletin of the American Art-Union_ for April, describes the

opposition to the institution of which it is the organ, as directed by

"envy, malice, and uncharitableness," and intimates that it is

occasioned by the inability or unwillingness of the committee to

purchase the trashy productions of incompetent painters constantly

offered to them. We submit to the gentlemen connected with the

Art-Union, that they should not suffer the hirelings they may sometimes

employ upon the Bulletin, thus to refer to such artists and such men as

Durand, Wier, Kellogg, Elliott, and many others, who have ventured to

think that their Association does not present altogether the best means

to be devised for the promotion of the fine arts. Taste may be displayed

in writing, as well as in buying pictures.

* * * * *

There was recently sold at auction at Paris, for 2,700 francs, a picture

by GIRODET, which in its time caused not a little amusement to the

Parisians. It was originally a portrait of an actress of the Theatre

Francais, who married a rich banker. Girodet tried to get the pay for

his picture, but the lady and her husband obstinately refused. Hereupon

he transformed her into a Danae, receiving the shower of gold, adding

other figures, such as a turkey cock representing the eagle of Jove,

which rendered the whole work as laughable as it was uncomplimentary to

its subject. It was exhibited in one of the expositions in the time of

the empire, and no picture was ever more successful with the public.

* * * * *

KOTZBUE, a historical painter, now residing at Munich, has nearly

completed a large picture representing the battle of Zuellichau, in 1759,

where the Germans under General Wedel were defeated by the Russians

under Soltikoff. The work is highly praised, and its author even

compared with Horace Vernet for vividness of narrative, truth in detail,

and force and harmony of color.

* * * * *

Mr. ELLIOTT, probably the best portrait painter now living, will soon

visit Marshfield, where Mr. Webster has promised to sit to him, for a

friend of his in this city.

* * * * *

Two statues by the lamented SCHWANTHALER have just been set up in the

royal library at Munich. The first represents Albert V., Duke of

Bavaria, the founder of the library, and a great patron of science. Of

course, he is presented in middle-age costume; his head is bare, his

face reflective, and his right hand supports his chin,--an image of

repose, after a work is accomplished. The other statue is of King Louis

(of Lola Montes memory), in royal robes, the left hand resting on his

sword, and his right holding the plan of the edifice containing the

library, which was built by him. His whole expression is the opposite to

that of the Duke, not repose, but restless activity in search of new

objects. A critic says that these statues do not stand well on their

feet, and that the knees are bent as if one leg was lame, a fault, he

says, not peculiar to Schwanthaler.

* * * * *

We last month spoke of the New Museum at Berlin, one of the finest

edifices of modern times. It may be interesting to our readers to know

that the total expense of the building and interior decoration was in

round numbers $1,100,000. Of this sum the execution of the ornamental

work and works of art in the interior, including the frescoes of

Kaulbach and others, with the arrangement of objects of art and

furniture necessary for their display, cost upwards of $220,000.

* * * * *

The Exhibition of the Munich Art-Union took place in the beginning of

March. Among the pictures, attention was particularly drawn to a series

of sketches from Syria, Palestine, and Asia Minor, by Loefller. Baade

exhibited a Norwegian picture, representing an effect of moonlight:

Peter Hess two small humorous pieces from military life, which were

greatly admired, as was especially a series of aquarelles representing

scenes in Switzerland and Italy, by Suter, a Swiss artist.

* * * * *

KAULBACH only works at Berlin on his frescoes in the New Museum during

the pleasant season. The second picture, the Destruction of Jerusalem,

was nearly finished last fall when the cold came on. He left it, and it

is now covered and concealed by brown paper till he shall again set to

work on it.

* * * * *

M. LAMARTINE recently presented in the French Assembly a petition from

William Tell Poussin, formerly minister of the Republic in the United

States, praying the French Government to grant a block of granite, taken

from the quarries of Cherbourg, for the national monument to Washington.

* * * * *

WIDNMANN, the sculptor, of Munich, has recently completed in plaster a

group of the size of life, of a man defending his wife and child against

the attack of a tiger. The figures are nude, and the only figure yet

finished, that of the man, is spoken of as a model.

HAS THERE BEEN A GREAT POET IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY!

The _Eclectic Review_ for the last month, in an article upon the

writings of Joanna Baillie, answers this question in the manner

following:

"We may enumerate the following names as those of real poets,

dead or alive, included in the first half of the nineteenth

century in Britain:--Bloomfield, Wordsworth, Coleridge,

Southey, Campbell, Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Professor

Wilson, Hogg, Croly, Maturin, Hunt, Scott, James Montgomery,

Pollok, Tennyson, Aird, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Hemans, Joanna

Baillie, and the author of 'Festus.' We leave this list to be

curtailed, or to be increased, at the pleasure of the reader.

But, we ask, which of those twenty-three has produced a work

uniquely and incontestably, or even, save in one or two

instances, professedly GREAT? Most of those enumerated have

displayed great powers; some of them have proved themselves fit

to begin greatest works; but none of them, whether he has

begun, or only thought of beginning, has been able to finish.

Bloomfield, the tame, emasculate Burns of England, has written

certain pleasing and genuine poems smelling of the soil, but

the 'Farmer's Boy' remained what the Scotch poet would have

called a 'haflin callant,' and never became a full-grown and

brawny man. Wordsworth was equal to the epic of the age, but

has only constructed the great porch leading up to the edifice,

and one or two beautiful cottages lying around. Coleridge could

have written a poem--whether didactic, or epic, or

dramatic--equal in fire and force to the 'Iliad,' or the

'Hamlet,' or the 'De Rerum Natura,' and superior to any of the

three in artistic finish and metaphysical truth and religious

feeling--a work ranking immediately beside the 'Paradise Lost;'

but he has, instead, shed on us a shower of plumes, as from the

wing of a fallen angel--beautiful, ethereal, scattered, and

tantalizing. Southey's poems are large without being

great--massive, without being majestic--they have rather the

bulk of an unformed chaos than the order and beauty of a

finished creation. Campbell, in many points the Virgil of his

time, has, alas! written no Georgies; his odes and lesser poems

are, 'atoms of the rainbow;' his larger, such as 'Gertrude of

Wyoming,' may be compared to those segments of the showery arch

we see in a disordered evening sky; but he has reared no

complete 'bow of God.' Moore's 'Lalla Rookh' is an elegant and

laborious composition--not a shapely building; it is put

together by skilful art, not formed by plastic power. Byron's

poems are, for the most part, disjointed but melodious groans,

like those of Ariel from the centre of the cloven pine; 'Childe

Harold' is his soliloquy when sober--'Don Juan' his soliloquy

when half-drunk; the 'Corsair' would have made a splendid

episode in an epic--but the epic, where is it? and 'Cain,' his

most creative work, though a distinct and new world, is a

bright and terrible abortion--a comet, instead of a sun. So,

too, are the leading works of poor Shelley, which resemble

Southey in size, Byron in power of language, and himself only

in spirit and imagination, in beauties and faults. Keats, like

Shelley, was arrested by death, as he was piling up enduring

and monumental works. Professor Wilson has written '_Noctes_'

innumerable; but where is his poem on a subject worthy of his

powers, or where is his _work_ on any subject whatever? Hogg

has bound together a number of beautiful ballads, by a string

of no great value, and called it the 'Queen's Wake.' Scott

himself has left no solid poem, but instead, loose, rambling,

spirited, metrical romances--the bastards of his genius--and a

great family of legitimate chubby children of novels, bearing

the image, but not reaching the full stature, of their parent's

mind. Croly's poems, like the wing of his own 'seraph kings,'

standing beside the sleeping Jacob, has a 'lifted, mighty

plume,' and his eloquence is always as classic as it is

sounding; but it is, probably, as much the public's fault as

his, that he has never equalled his first poem, 'Paris in

1815,' which now appears a basis without a building. Maturin

has left a powerful passage or two, which may be compared to a

feat performed by the victim of some strong disease, to imitate

which no healthy or sane person would, could, or durst attempt.

James Montgomery will live by his smaller poems--his larger are

long lyrics--and when was a long lyric any other than tedious?

Hunt has sung many a joyous carol, and many a pathetic ditty,

but produced no high or lasting poem. Pollok has aimed at a

higher object than almost any poet of his day; he has sought,

like Milton, to enshrine religion in poetic form, and to

attract to it poetic admirers: he did so in good faith, and he

expended great talents and a young life, in the execution; but,

unfortunately, he confounded Christianity with one of its

narrowest shapes, and hence the book, though eloquent in

passages, and dear to a large party, is rather a long and

powerful, though unequal and gloomy sermon, than a poem; he has

shed the sunshine of his genius upon his own peculiar notions,

far more strongly than on general truths; and the spirit of the

whole performance may be expressed in the words of Burns,

slightly altered,--'Thunder-tidings of damnation.' _His_ and

_our_ friend, Thomas Aird, has a much subtler, more original

and genial mind than Pollok's, and had he enjoyed a tithe of

the same recognition, he might have produced a Christian epic

on a far grander scale; as it is, his poems are fragmentary and

episodical, although Dante's 'Inferno' contains no pictures

more tremendously distinct, yet ideal, than his 'Devil's Dream

upon Mount Acksbeck. Tennyson is a greater Calvinist in one

sense than either of the Scotch poets we have named--he owes

more to the general faith of others in his genius than to any

special or strong works of his own; but let us be dumb, he is

now Laureate--the crowned grasshopper of a summer day! Bailey

of 'Festus' has a vast deal more power than Tennyson, who is

only his delicate, consumptive brother; but 'Festus' seems

either different from, or greater than, a _work_. We are

reminded of one stage in the history of the nebular hypothesis,

when Sir W. Herschel, seeing a central mass in the midst of a

round burr of light, was almost driven to the conclusion that

it was _something immensely greater than what we call a

star_--a kind of monster sun. So with the prodigious birth men

call 'Festus.' Our gifted young friend Yendys is more likely

than any, if he live and avoid certain tendencies to diffusion

and over-subtlety, to write a solid and undying POEM.

"It were easy to extend the induction to our lady authors, and

to show that Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Browning, and Joanna Baillie,

Mrs. Shelley, &c., have abounded rather in effusions or

efforts, or tentative experiments, than in calm, complete, and

perennial works."

The critic appears never to have heard of our Bryant, Dana, Halleck,

Poe, Longfellow, or Maria Brooks, any one of whom is certainly superior

to some of the poets mentioned in the above paragraph; and his doctrine

that a great poem must necessarily be a long one--that poetry, like

butter and cheese, is to be sold by the pound--does not altogether

commend itself to our most favorable judgment.

THE REAL ADVENTURES AND ACHIEVEMENTS OF GEORGE BORROW.

Generally, we believe, _Lavengro_, though it has sold well everywhere,

has not been very much praised. It has been conceded that the author of

"the Bible in Spain" must be a Crichton, but his last performance looked

overmuch like trifling with the credulity of his readers. We find in

Colburn's _New Monthly Magazine_ for April a sort of vindication of

Borrow, which embraces some curious particulars of his career, and quote

the following passages, which cannot fail to interest his American

readers:

"We have yet to learn where our author was during the years

intervening from the epoch of the dingle to the date of Spanish

travel; that he was neither in mind nor body inactive, ample

testimony may be adduced, not only in the form of writings made

public during that interval, but in the internal evidence

afforded by them of laborious research. In a work published at

St. Petersburgh in 1835, known but to few, entitled "Targum;

or, Metrical Translations from Thirty Languages and Dialects,

by George Borrow," we find indications of how those intervening

years were spent. He says, in the preface to this work, "The

following pieces, selections from a huge and undigested mass of

translation, accumulated during several years devoted to

philological pursuits, are with much diffidence offered to the

public," &c. These translations are remarkable for force and

correct emphasis, and afford demonstration of what power the

author possesses over metre. We shall cite but few examples,

however, for it is believed that not only that huge mass, but

many an additional song and ballad now is digested, and lies

side by side with the glorious "Kaempe Viser," the "Ab Gwilym,"

and other learned translations, by means of which it may be

hoped that the gifted Borrow will ere long vindicate his

lasting claim to scholarship--a claim to which it is to be

feared he is indifferent, for he is no boaster, and does

himself no justice; or, if he boasts at all, prefers, as with a

species of self-sarcasm, the mention of his lesser, on which he

dwells with zest, to that of his greater and more enduring

triumphs. The "Targum" consists of translations from the

following languages: Hebrew, Arabic, Persian, Turkish, Tartar,

Tibetian, Chinese, Mandchou, Russian, Malo-Russian, Polish,

Finnish, Anglo-Saxon, Ancient Norse, Suabian, German, Dutch,

Danish, Ancient Danish, Swedish, Ancient Irish, Irish, Gaellic,

Ancient British, Cambrian British, Greek, Modern Greek, Latin,

Provencal, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, French, and Rommany. A

few specimens from this work may be acceptable to the English

reader--a work so rare, that the authorities of a German

university not long ago sent a person to St. Petersburgh to

endeavor to discover a copy:"

ODE TO GOD.

FROM THE HEBREW.

Reign'd the Universe's master ere were earthly things begun;

When his mandate all created, Ruler was the name he won;

And alone He'll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;

He no equal has, nor consort, He the singular and lone

Has no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;

He's my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;

He's my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call'd upon;

In his hand I place my spirit, at nightfall and rise of sun,

And therewith my body also;--God's my God,--I fear no one.

PRAYER.

FROM THE ARABIC.

O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;

Who ever art ready whate'er may betide;

In whom the distressed can hope in their woe,

Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied--

Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;

All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;

To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,

And of Thee all my poverty's wants are supplied;

What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?

If 'tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?

'Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,

If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?

But, oh! though rebellious full often I grow,

Thy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.

O LORD! I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.

FROM THE TARTAR.

O Thou from whom all love doth flow,

Whom all the world doth reverence so,

Thou constitut'st each care I know;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

O keep me from each sinful way;

Thou breathedst life within my clay;

I'll therefore serve Thee night and day;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

I ope my eyes, and see Thy face,

On Thee my musings all I place,

I've left my parents, friends, and race;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

Take Thou my soul, my every thing;

My blood from out its vessels wring;

Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

I speak--my tongue on Thee doth roam;

I list--the winds Thy title boom;

For in my soul has God his home;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

The world the shallow worldling craves,

And greatness need ambitious knaves;

The lover of his maiden raves;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

The student needs his bookish lore,

The bigot shrines to pray before,

His pulpit needs the orator;

Oh Lord! I nothing crave but thee.

Though all the learning 'neath the skies,

And th' houries all of paradise,

The Lord should place before my eyes,

O Lord! I'd nothing crave but Thee.

When I through paradise shall stray,

Its houries and delights survey,

Full little gust awake will they;

O Lord! I'll nothing crave but Thee.

For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,

My heart with love of God doth flame;

Here and above I'll bide the same;

O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

Nor was this the only literary labor performed by Mr. Borrow

while at St. Petersburgh: to the "Targum" he appended a

translation of "The Talisman," and other pieces from the

Russian of Alexander Pushkin. He also edited the Gospel in the

Mandchou Tartar dialect while residing in that city. In

connection with the latter undertaking there is an anecdote

told of which, like the story of his making horse-shoes, shows

his resources, and redounds to his credit. It runs thus:--"It

was known that a fountain of types in the Mandchou Tartar

character existed at a certain house in the city of St.

Petersburgh, but there was no one to be found who could set

them up. In this emergency the young editor demanded to

inspect the types; they were brought forth in a rusty state

from a cellar; on which, resolved to see his editorial labors

complete, he cleaned the types himself, and set them up with

his own hand."

Of his journeyings in Spain Mr. Borrow has been his own biographer; but

here again his higher claims to distinction are lightly touched on, or

not named. In 1837 a book was printed at Madrid, having the following

curious title-page:

"_Embeo e Mafaro Lucas. Brotoboro randado andre la chipe

griega, acaana chibado andre o Romano, o chipe es Zincales de

Sese._

"_El Evangelio segun S. Lucas, traducido al Romani, o dialecto

de los Gitanos de Espana. 1837._"

And this work is no other than the remarkable antecedent of the

"Zincali,"--the translation of St. Luke's Gospel into the Gipsy

dialect of Spain.[A] Of the Bible in Spain it is unnecessary to

speak; there can be no better evidence of the estimation it is

held in than the fact of its having been translated into French

and German, while it has run through at least thirty thousand

copies at home. But it is on the "Zincali" that Borrow's

reputation will maintain its firm footing; the originality and

research involved in its production, the labors and dangers it

entailed, are duly appreciated at home and abroad. During the

past year a highly interesting account of the Gipsies and other

wandering people of Norway, written in Danish, was published at

Christiana; it is entitled "Beretning om Fante--eller

Landstrygerfolket i Norge" (Account of the Fant, or Wandering

People of Norway), by Eilert Sundt. At the twenty-third page of

this work, the Danish author, in allusion to the subject of

this notice, says: "This Borrow is a remarkable man. As agent

for the British Bible Society he has undertaken journeys into

remote lands, and acquainted from his early youth, not only

with many European languages, but likewise with the Rommani of

the English Gipsies, he sought up with zest the Gipsies every

where, and became their faithful missionary. He has made

himself so thoroughly master of their ways and customs that he

soon passed for one of their blood. He slept in their tents in

the forests of Russia and Hungary, visited them in their robber

caves in the mountainous _pass_ regions of Italy, lived with

them five entire years (towards 1840) in Spain, where he, for

his endeavors to distribute the Gospel in that Catholic land,

was imprisoned with the very worst of them for a time in the

dungeons of Madrid. He at last went over to North Africa, and

sought after his Tartars even there. It is true, no one has

taken equal pains with Borrow to introduce himself among this

rude and barbarous people, but on that account he has been

enabled better than any other to depict the many mysteries of

this race; and the frequent impressions which his book has

undergone within a short period, show with what interest the

English public have received his graphic descriptions."

Of the extraordinary acquisitions of Mr. Borrow in languages, a pleasant

story is told by Sir William Napier, who, looking into a courtyard, from

the window of a Spanish inn, heard a man converse successively in a

dozen tongues, so fluently and so perfectly, that he was puzzled to

decide what was his country,--Germany, Holland, France, Italy, Russia,

Portugal, or Spain; and coming down he joined his circle, asked the

question of him, and was astonished by the information that he was an

English Bible agent. Between the historian of the Peninsular War and the

missionary an intimacy sprung up, which we believe has continued without

any interruption to the present time.

THE FAUN OVER HIS GOBLET.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

I.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful;

It was the jewel of my cave; I had

A corner where I hid it in the moss,

Between the jagged crevices of rock,

Where no one but myself could find it out;

But when a nymph, or wood-god passed my door,

I filled it to the brim with bravest wine,

And offered them a draught, and told them Jove

Had nothing finer, richer at his feasts,

Though Ganymede and Hebe did their best:

"His nectar is not richer than my wine,"

Said I, "and for the goblet, look at it!"

But I have broken my divinest cup

And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

II.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.

Sometimes my brothers of the woods, the fauns,

Held gay carousals with me in my cave;

I had a skin of Chian wine therein,

Of which I made a feast; and all who drank

From out my cup, a feast within itself,

Made songs about the bright immortal shapes

Engraven on the side below their lips:

But we shall never drain it any more,

And never sing about it any more;

For I have broken my divinest cup

And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

III.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.

For Pan was 'graved upon it, rural Pan;

He stood in horror in a marshy place

Clasping a bending reed; he thought to clasp

Syrinx, but clasped a reed, and nothing more!

There was another picture of the god,

When he had learned to play upon the flute;

He sat at noon within a shady bower

Piping, with all his listening herd around;

(I thought at times I saw his fingers move,

And caught his music: did I dream or not?)

Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped

From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees;

And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought--

The simple god!--he heard another Pan

Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes!

But I have broken my divinest cup,

And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

IV.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.

For Jove was there transformed into the Bull

Bearing forlorn Europa through the waves,

Leaving behind a track of ruffled foam;

Powerless with fear she held him by the horns,

Her golden tresses streaming on the winds;

In curved shells, young Cupids sported near,

While sea gods glanced from out their weedy caves,

And on the shore were maids with waving scarfs,

And hinds a-coming to the rescue--late!

But I have broken my divinest cup,

And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

V.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.

For rosy Bacchus crowned its rich designs:

He sat within a vineyard full of grapes,

With Ariadne kneeling at his side;

His arm was thrown around her slender waist,

His head lay in her bosom, and she held

A cup, a little distance from his lips,

And teased him with it, for he wanted it.

A pair of spotted pards where sleeping near,

Couchant in shade, their heads upon their paws;

And revellers were dancing in the woods,

Snapping their jolly fingers evermore!

But all is vanished, lost, for ever lost,

For I have broken my divinest cup,

And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The writer has before him another translation of St. Luke's Gospel

in the Basque, edited by George Borrow while in Spain--(Evangeloia S.

Lucasen Guissan.--El Evangelio segun S. Lucas. Traducido al Vascuere.

Madrid. 1838).

THE JESUIT RELATIONS.

DR. O'CALLAGHAN'S MEMOIR--NEW DISCOVERIES IN ROME, &c.

At the stated meeting of the New-York Historical Society, in October,

1847, Dr. E. B. O'CALLAGHAN, well known as the author of a valuable

history of New-York under the Dutch,[B] and now engaged in

superintending the publication of the Documentary History of the State,

under the act of March 13, 1849, communicated a paper, which was read at

the subsequent meeting in November, and published in the "Proceedings,"

on the "_Jesuit Relations of Discoveries and other Occurrences in Canada

and the Northern and Western States of the Union, 1632-1672_."[C] This

memoir embraces notices of the authors of the Relations, a catalogue

raisonnee, and a table showing what volumes are in this country and

Canada, and where they are to be found. A French translation of this

work, with notes, corrections and additions, has been published (in

1850) at Montreal, by the Rev. Father MARTIN, Superior of the Jesuits in

Canada. As the notes and additions contain valuable information,

especially upon the discovery of new matter for the illustration of the

general subject, we shall endeavor to present an intelligible compend of

their substance.

The French editor carries back the history to 1611, when the first

Jesuit missionaries to North America, Father Pierre Biard and Enmond

Masse, arrived in Acadia. They took part in the establishment of Port

Royal and that of St. Sauveur, in Pentagoet, now Mount Desert Island.

The former wrote a Relation of his voyage.

Dr. O'Callaghan had spoken of the _nomadic_ race which was to be

subjected to the influences of the gospel, under the auspices of the

Jesuit missionaries, as inhabiting the country extending from the island

of Anticosti to the Mississippi. The translator qualifies this statement

by a note, in which he says that this term _nomadic_ is applicable to

the nations of Algonquin origin, but not to the Hurons nor the Iroquois,

who had fixed abodes and regularly organized villages or towns. The Five

Nations were the Agniers (Mohawks), the Oneionts (Oneidas), the

Onontagues (Onondagas), the Goiogoiens (Cayugas), and the Tsonnontouans

(Senecas). The Tuscaroras, a tribe from the south, were admitted to the

confederation, making thus Six Nations, during the last century.

CHAMPLAIN was the first European who reached the Atlantic shores of the

state of Maine from the St. Lawrence by way of the Kennebec. This

illustrious discoverer was sent in 1629 to explore that route as far as

the coast of the Etechemins, "in which he had been before in the time of

the Sieur du Mont."[D]

The French editor adds the following notices of two of the fathers who

filled the office of Superior in Canada, not mentioned by Dr.

O'Callaghan.

PIERRE BIARD, according to the history of Jouvency, was born at

Grenoble, and entered the Society of Jesus while yet very young. He came

to Port Royal in 1611, and took part in the establishment of St. Sauveur

a Pentagoet, in 1613. The English came from Virginia to destroy this

settlement, scarcely yet commenced. After having suffered greatly from

the enemies of Catholicism and the Jesuits, Father Biard was sent back

to France. He taught theology at Lyons for nine years, and died at

Avignon, November 17, 1622. He was then chaplain to the King's troops.

He left a _Relation de la Nouvelle France_, and of the _Voyage of the

Jesuits_, as well as some other works.

CHARLES LALEMANT was born at Paris in 1587, and entered the Society of

Jesus, at the age of twenty. Two of his brothers, Louis and Jerome,

shortly afterwards followed his example, and the second labored for a

long time in the Canadian mission. He first came to Canada in 1625.

Charlevoix says he accompanied the expedition from Acadia in 1613, for

the establishment of Pentagoet. He crossed the ocean four times in

behalf of his beloved mission, and was twice shipwrecked. Having been

captured by the English in one of these voyages, he was retained some

time as a prisoner. His last voyage to Canada was made in 1634. In the

following year, he took charge of the House of our Lady of Recovery,

which was then established in the lower city of Quebec, and commenced at

the same time the first schools for the French children. It was this

father who was with Champlain in his last moments. Many years afterward,

he returned to France, when he was successive chief of the Colleges of

Rouen, of La Fleche and Paris, and Superior of the Maison Professe in

the last named city. He died there, on the eighteenth of November, 1674,

aged eighty-seven years.

Father CHARLES wrote an interesting _Relation on Canada_, inserted under

the date of August 1, in the _Mercure Francais_ of 1626, and a letter on

his shipwrecks, which Champlain published in his edition of 1632. We

have also some religious works left by him.

The _Relation_ of Father Biard was published at Lyons, 1612 and 1616, in

32mo. It gives an account of his travels and labors--the nature of the

country, its mineral and vegetable productions, &c.

That of Father Lalemant is a long letter addressed to his brother

Jerome, and inserted in the _Mercure Francais_, 1627-28: Paris, 1629. It

treats of the manners and customs of the Indians, the nature of the

country, and the fatal change which trade had undergone since it had

become a monopoly.

Continuing the researches of Dr. O'Callaghan, Father Martin found, from

a catalogue of manuscripts on Canada, preserved among the archives of

the Jesuits at Rome, that there was a _Relation du Canada_ for 1676 and

for 1677: but it was not ascertained whether these were complete. Other

manuscripts were found in the same collection, but fragmentary, and

could only serve as the materiel of a general Relation. But a more

important acquisition was made in the recovery of valuable manuscripts

in Canada. There have been found two complete Relations, following that

of 1672, and continuing the series to 1679. One is the Relation of 1673,

and the other comprises a period of six years, from 1673 to 1679. They

fortunately escaped the pillage of the Jesuit College at Quebec, Father

Casot, the last of the old race of Jesuits, dying at Quebec in 1800, had

confided them, with other manuscripts, to the pious hands of the nuns of

the Hotel Dieu, in that city, who preserved them for a long time as a

sacred trust, and restored them, to the Jesuits, when they returned to

Canada in 1842.

What increases the value of these historical monuments, is the fact,

that they are contemporary with the facts to which they relate. They

bear numerous corrections, notes, and even entire pages, in the

handwriting of Father Dablon, then superior of the missions in Canada,

who, without doubt, prepared them for publication.

That of 1672-3 is anonymous, and in three parts. The first is on the

Huron mission near Quebec, the second on the Iroquois missions, and the

third on the various missions to the west of the great lakes. In the

last part, consisting of eighty-seven pages, the thirty-ninth and

fortieth are missing.

The Relation for 1673-9 is also anonymous and without a general title,

but on the back of the last leaf is an endorsement in the handwriting of

Father Dablon, "Relation en 1679, abrege des precedentes." On the first

page the writer announces that the relation embraces a period of six

years. It is divided into eight chapters, subdivided into paragraphs.

The second chapter is devoted to an account of the last labors and

heroic death of Father MARQUETTE, on the lonely shore of the "Lac des

Illinois," now Lake Michigan. This relation passes in review all the

missions of the west, and enters into minute details concerning the

missions to the Iroquois, the Montagnais, the Gaspesiens, those of the

Sault St. Louis, and Lorette. It extends to 147 pages, but unfortunately

one entire sheet is lost, embracing the pages 109 to 118.

This last Relation should have included the other voyages of Father

Marquette, and especially the discovery of the Mississippi in 1673; but

another manuscript of the same epoch, and which bears the same evidence

of authenticity, explains the omission. Under the title of "Voyage and

Death of Father Marquette," it recites in sixty pages the labors which

have immortalized that celebrated missionary. This curious manuscript

furnished Thevenot with the materiel for his publication in 1687,

entitled "Voyage et Decouverte de quelques Pays et Nations de l'Amerique

Septentrionale, par le P. Marquette et le Sr. Joliet."[E] What adds

great value to the manuscript is the fact that it is much more extended

than the publication of Thevenot. The causes and the preparations for

the expedition are recounted; and we can follow the missionary in his

various travels, even to his last moments in 1675.

Two other documents, which complete this valuable historical discovery,

are noticed by Father Martin:

1. The autograph journal of Marquette's last voyage, from the

twenty-fifth of October 1674 to the sixth of April 1679, about a month

before his death.

2. The autograph map (by Marquette) of the Mississippi, as discovered by

him. This extends no farther than the "A Kansea" (Arkansas), where his

voyage in that direction terminated.

The map published by Thevenot, and recently reproduced by Rich,

Bancroft, and others, is incorrect in many particulars, especially with

regard to this fact of the Arkansas being the lowest point reached by

Marquette.

Besides the two Relations (MS.) aforesaid, and the Marquette

manuscripts, fragments of the Relations for the years 1674, 1676, 1678,

and the following years, have been found, but incomplete.

In addition to all these, Father Martin calls attention to one of the

printed Relations, little known out of Italy, in the language of which

it was written. It was printed at Macerata in 1653. A recent letter from

Father Martin announces that he has completed translations into French

and English, which will soon be published. It is the work of Father

Francois Joseph Bressani, and is thus noticed by Charlevoix:

"Father Bressani, a Roman by birth, was one of the most illustrious

missionaries to Canada, where he suffered a cruel captivity, and severe

tortures. He speaks little of himself in his history, which is well

written, but which relates almost entirely to the Huron mission, in

which he labored with great zeal so long as it continued. After the

almost entire destruction of that nation, and the dispersion of the

remainder, he returned to Italy, where he continued to preach until his

death, with the greater success, inasmuch as he bore in his mutilated

hands the glorious marks of his apostleship among the heathen."[F]

The translation by Father Martin will be illustrated by maps and

engravings.

Recent letters from Italy announce further discoveries in the library of

the Dominican Friars at Rome. We congratulate the historical student on

the recovery of these and similar memorials of the early history of the

country. Especially the labors of the Jesuit missionaries deserve to be

more generally familiar to the readers of history; and we cordially

respond to the sentiment of approbation with which the services of Dr.

O'Callaghan and Father Martin have been greeted heretofore by the press.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] History of New Netherland, or New-York under the Dutch. &c. 2 vols.

8vo. New-York: Appleton & Co., 1846-8.

[C] Proceedings of the New-York Historical Society. For the year 1847,

pp. 140-158.

[D] Voyage du Champlain. Ed. 1632. p. 209.

[E] A copy of this very rare work was destroyed with the valuable

library in the burning of the Parliament House in Montreal, 26th April,

1849.

[F] Charlevoix: Hist. Nouv. France. Liste des Auteurs.

THE HAT REFORM AGITATION.

New hats are inevitable. Genin, who appears to be as clever in writing

as in making hats, has avowed himself a conservative, and in a long

argument has vindicated the style of which he is so eminent a

manufacturer. But the "people" are for reform, and we must all bend to

the will of the people; land reform, bank reform, all kinds of reform,

now are forgotten in the cry for a reform in hats; this has rallied

around it all ranks, classes and orders: they say, "Take off your

funnels!"

It has been responded to with enthusiasm. From the lord of one hundred

thousand acres to the hard-worker for his daily bread--from the

ultra-conservative to the ultra-destructive--from the High-Churchman to

the No-Churchman--from the Puseyite to the Presbyterian--from the

gentleman down to the veriest "gent," this new question of Reform has

drawn unanimous adhesion. In fact, the attempted revolution in our head

gear, more fortunate than the other revolutions talked about of late

years, promises to be successful.

Says the London _News_, "The ladies are as unanimous as the gentlemen on

the subject, and give the potent assistance of their voices to the

movement, and wonder how it is that men, who have so keen a sense of the

beautiful, should have been so long blinded to the ugliness imposed upon

their lordly foreheads by the hat-makers. A few of the most conservative

of these hat-makers are the only persons who venture a word in defence

of the ancient barbarism which it is the object of the revolutionists to

remove. Now and then a hatter of all novelties, whether of hats or of

ideas, will venture to come to the aid of the hat-makers, and to ask if

any one can suggest a better head 'accoutrement' than the old familiar

hat which it is attempted to scout out of society with such hasty

ignominy. But, if hatters and the hat conservatives are closely pressed

to tell us what recommendation the article has, they are obliged to give

up the argument in despair--to intrench themselves in the old fortress

of such reasoners, and to defend what is, merely because it is. They

would stand on the old ways, were they knee-deep in slush; and they

would wear the old hat, were it not only of the shape, but of the

material and the color of a chimney-pot.

"Every body who has worn a hat, has perceived it to be a nuisance,

although he may never have said any thing on the subject till the

present cry was raised. As soon as a man gets out of the streets of the

capital, or of his own accustomed provincial town, and sets foot in a

railway carriage or on board of a steamboat, his first care is to make

himself comfortable by disembarrassing his aching temples of his hat.

The funnel is put away, and a cap, more ornamental and a thousand times

more easy, is elevated to the place of honor, to the great satisfaction

of the wearer. Who ever wears a hat at the sea-side? One might as well

go to bed in a hat, as wear one out of the purlieus of the town. At the

sea-side, or in travelling, or sporting, or rambling over the hills, the

ordinary hat is utterly out of the question. Not only is the hat

unsightly, expensive, and incommodious;--not only does it offend those

_aesthetic_ notions which are so fashionable in our time, but it may be

safely alleged that it is hostile to all mental effort. Did any man ever

make an eloquent speech with a hat on? Could a painter paint a good

picture if he had a hat on while engaged at the easel? Could a

mathematician solve a problem? could a musician compose a melody or

arrange a harmony? could a poet write a song, or a novelist a novel, or

a journalist a leading article, with a hat on? The thing is impossible.

Would any man who respected himself, or the feelings of his family and

friends, consent to have his portrait painted with the offensive article

upon his cranium? It would be almost a proof of insanity, both in the

sitter who should insist upon, and the artist who should lend himself

to, the perpetration of such an atrocity. We have but to fancy one out

of the thousand statues of bronze or marble which it is proposed to

erect to the memory of Sir Robert Peel in our great towns and cities,

surmounted with a hat of marble or of bronze, to see, at a glance, the

absurdity of the thing, and the reasonableness of the demand for a

change. There is a very good bust of Chaucer, with a cap on, and there

is a still more excellent bust of Lorenzo de Medici, which has also a

cap; but we put the question to the most conservative of hatters, and to

the greatest stickler for the _etatus quo_ in head attire, whether he

would tolerate the marble or bronze portraiture of either of those

worthies with the modern hat upon its head? The idea is so preposterous,

that, if fairly considered, it would make converts of the most obstinate

sticklers for the hat of the nineteenth century.

"Seriously, the suggestion for the reform of this article of costume is

entitled to the utmost respect. Already Englishmen, when they throw off

the trammels of ceremony, and wish to be at their ease, substitute for

the stiff, uncomfortable, and inelegant hat, such other article as the

taste and enterprise of the hat and cap manufacturers have provided; and

in France and Germany the hat has, for the last six or seven years, been

gradually altering its form and substance, until it bids fair to be

restored, at no distant day, to the more sensible and picturesque shape

which it had a couple of centuries ago. So much unanimity has been

expressed on the desirability of a change, so much sober truth has been

uttered under the thin veil of jest on this matter, and so keenly felt

are the inconveniences--to say nothing of the inelegance--of the tube

which has usurped and maintained a place upon our heads for so long a

period, that there can be no doubt the time is ripe for the introduction

of an article of male head-dress more worthy of an educated, civilized,

and sensible people. The Turks, under the influence of that great

reformer, Sultan Mahmoud, and his worthy successor, Abdul Medjid, have

been for some time assimilating themselves in dress to the other

inhabitants of Europe. They have adopted our coats, our trousers, our

vests, our boots. They have got steamboats and newspapers--but Sultan

Mahmoud stopped short at the hat. With all his _penchant_ for imitating

the 'Giaours,' he could not bring himself to recommend the hat to a

people whom he was desirous to civilize. Any man of taste and

enterprise, who would take advantage of the present feeling on the

subject to manufacture a hat or cap of a more picturesque form, would

confer a public benefit, and would not lack encouragement for his wares.

An article which would protect the face from the sun, which the present

'funnel' does not--which should be light, which the hat is not--which

should be elegant, and no offence to the eye of taste if painted in a

portrait or sculptured in a statue, which the hat is not--and which

should meet the requirements of health, as well as those of comfort and

appearance, which the hat is very far from doing--would, all jest and

_persiflage_ apart, be a boon to the people of this generation. It needs

but example to effect the change, for the feeling is so strong and

universal that a good substitute would meet with certain popularity. We

have no doubt that, sooner or later, this reform will be made; and that

the historian, writing fifty years hence, will note it in his book as a

remarkable circumstance, and a proof of the pertinacity with which men

cling to all which habit and custom have rendered familiar--that for

three-quarters of a century, if not longer, a piece of attire so

repugnant to the eye of taste, and so deficient in any quality which

should recommend it to sensible people, should have been not only

tolerated, but admired. In all seriousness, we hope that the days of the

tubular hat are numbered, and that in this instance philosophy in sport

will become reformation in earnest."

PROFESSIONAL DEVOTION.

Lord Campbell said lately in the House of Lords, that the bill for the

Registration of Assurances was drawn by Mr. Duval, and he related an

anecdote illustrative of that gentleman's entire devotion to his

professional pursuits. A gentleman one day said to him, "But do you not

find it very dull work poring from morning until night over those dusty

sheep-skins?" "Why," said Duval, "to be sure it is a little dull, but

every now and then I come across a brilliant deed, drawn by a great

master, and the beauty of that recompenses me for the weariness of all

the others."

"THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN."

In an early number of _The International_ we mentioned a MS. comedy by

the late Mrs. OSGOOD, in connection with the commendations which the

dramatic pieces of that admirable woman and most charming poet had

received from Sheridan Knowles and other critics in that line. We

transcribe the opening scene of the play, which strikes us as

excellently fitted for the stage. The friends of the lamented authoress

will perceive that it is an eminently characteristic production, though

having been written at an early age it scarcely illustrates her best

style of dialogue.

ACT FIRST.--SCENE FIRST.

_A room in the Chateau de Beaumont. Victorine de Vere and Rosalinde--the

former sitting._

ROSALINDE.--But consider, sweet lady, you have been betrothed from

childhood to my lord the Count. You say it was your father's dying wish

that you should marry him, and he has been brought up to consider you

his own.

VICTORINE.--And for that reason wed I _not_ the Count;

I might have loved him had I not been _bid_,

For he is noble, brave, and passing kind.

But, Rosalinde, when 'mid my father's vines,

A child I roamed, I shunned the rich, ripe fruit

Within my reach, and stretched my little arm

Beyond its strength, for that which farthest hung,

Though poorest too perchance. Years past away,

The wilful child is grown a woman now,

Yet wilful still, and wayward as the child.

(_She Sings._)

Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest

That ever illumined the brow of a queen,

I should think the least one that were wanting, the fairest,

And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen.

Tho' the diamond should lighten there, regal in splendor,

The topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,

And the emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender--

If the pearl were not by, I should sigh for the pearl!

Though you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers

That Summer is waking in forest and field,

I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers

For some little blossom spring only could yield.

Take the rose, with its passionate beauty and bloom,

The lily so pure, and the tulip so bright--

Since I miss the sweet _violet's_ lowly perfume,

The violet _only_ my soul can delight!

I prize not Henri--for a breath, a nod,

Can make him mine for ever. _One_ I prize

Whose pulse ne'er quickened at my step or voice,

Who cares no more for smile from Victorine,

Whom princes sue--than Victorine for them.

But he _shall_ love me--ay, and when he too

Lies pleading at my feet!--I make no doubt

But I shall weary of mine idle whim,

And rate him well for daring to be there!

ROS.--Please you, my lady, who is this new victim?

VIC.--Whom think you, Rosalinde? Eugene Legard! the brave young

captain--lover of Carille--betrothed to her--about to marry her!

ROS.--But who's Carille, my lady?

VIC.--(_Impatiently_.) Now know you not the youthful village belle whose

face my gallant cousin raves about? I would he'd wed the girl, and leave

Legard and me _as free_, to wed! (_Enter the Count._) What, torment!

here again! (_Exit Rosalinde._)

COUNT HENRI.--Where should I be, sweet coz? I love the sunshine!

VIC.--So love you not this room--for here the sun ne'er shines.

COUNT.--The sun--_my_ sun is smiling on me now!

VIC.--Oh, don't! I'm so tired of all that!

COUNT.--Lady, it shall not weary you again; I've borne your light

caprice too long already. For the last time I come to ask of you, madam,

Is it your pleasure we fulfil at once your father's last injunction?

VIC.--Ah! but this isn't the _last_ time, Henri; I'll wager you this

hand with my heart in it, you will ask me the same question a dozen

times yet ere you die.

COUNT.--I'll not gainsay you, lady; time will show. (_A short pause._)

Yet, by my sword, if such your wager be, I will be dumb till doomsday.

VIC.--Then book the bet! and claim my heart and hand--(_she pauses--he

waits in eager hope_)--on--doomsday morning, cousin!

COUNT.--I claim thee now or never!

VIC.--If they only hadn't said we _must_, Henri!

COUNT.--Pshaw!

VIC.--Beside, all the world _expects_ it you know; I do so hate to

fulfil people's expectations: it is so commonplace and humdrum!

COUNT.--Depend upon it, Lady Victorine, nobody ever expected you to do

any thing reasonable or commonplace or humdrum!

(_He Sings._)

Archly on thy cheek,

Worth a god's imprinting,

Starry dimples speak,

Rich with rosy tinting,--

What a pity, love,

Anger's burning flushes

E'er should rise above

Those bewitching blushes!

Warm thy lip doth glow,

With such lovely color,

Ruby's heart would show

Hues of beauty duller,--

What a shame, the while,

Scorn should ever curl it,

And o'ercast the smile

That should still enfurl it!

Soft thy dark eye beams,

With the star-night's splendor,

Now with joy it gleams,

Now with tears 'tis tender,--

Ah! what pain to feel,

Ere another minute,

Passion's fire may steal

All the softness in it!

VIC.--There! you CAN _sing_! I'll give the----hem!--his due. I only wish

you could make love as well as you make verses.

COUNT.--And how should I make love?

VIC.--How? You should be at my feet all day and under my window all

night; you should call black white when _I_ call it so, and--wear a

single hair of my eyelash next your heart for ever.

COUNT.--Hum! Any thing more, cousin?

VIC.--Yes: you should write sonnets on the sole of my shoe, and study

every curve of my brow, as if life and death were in its rise or fall!

(_He turns away._) Henri, come here! (_He approaches._) Come! you are a

good-looking man enough, after all! Ah! why couldn't my poor father have

_forbidden_ me to marry you! He might have known I should have been

_sure_ in that case to have fallen desperately in love with you, Henri!

COUNT.--By Heaven, I will bear this trifling no longer! I will write

instantly and propose to the peasant girl, Carille--_she_ will be proud

to be called La Contesse de Beaumont.

VIC.--_Will_ you do so? Oh, you darling cousin! I shall love you dearly

when you are once married! And, cousin, I don't believe she'll live till

doomsday, do you? Don't forget that I'm to be your second--on doomsday

morning, cousin. (_Exit Count in a rage._) I am so happy--and Carille

will be so happy too--I am sure she will! I know if I were a village

girl I should be dying to be a lady--for now I am a lady I am dying to

be a village girl--heigh-ho. (_Exit._)

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[G]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from page 57._

CHAPTER XXII.

In a very gaudily furnished parlor, and in a very gaudy dress, sat a

lady of some eight or nine and thirty years of age, with many traces of

beauty still to be perceived in a face of no very intellectual

expression. Few persons perhaps would have recognized in her the fair

and faulty girl whom we have depicted weeping bitterly over the fate of

Sir Philip Hastings' elder brother, and over the terrible situation in

which he left her. Her features had much changed: the girlish

expression--the fresh bloom of youth was gone. The light graceful figure

was lost; but the mind had changed as greatly as the person, though,

like it, the heart yet retained some traces of the original. When first

she appeared before the reader's eyes, though weak and yielding, she was

by no means ill disposed. She had committed an error--a great and fatal

one; but at heart she was innocent and honest. She was, however, like

all weak people, of that plastic clay moulded easily by circumstances

into any form; and, in her, circumstances had shaped her gradually into

a much worse form than nature had originally given her. To defraud, to

cheat, to wrong, had at one time been most abhorrent to her nature. She

had taken no active part in her father's dealings with old Sir John

Hastings, and had she known all that he had said and sworn, would have

shrunk with horror from the deceit. But during her father's short life,

she had been often told by himself, and after his death had been often

assured by the old woman Danby, that she was rightly and truly the widow

of John Hastings, although because it would be difficult to prove, her

father had consented to take an annuity for himself and her son, rather

than enter into a lawsuit with a powerful man; and she had gradually

brought herself to believe that she had been her lover's wife, because

in one of his ardent letters he had called her so to stifle the voice of

remorse in her bosom. The conviction had grown upon her, till now, after

a lapse of more than twenty years, she had forgotten all her former

doubts and scruples, believed herself and her son to be injured and

deprived of their just rights, and was ready to assert her marriage

boldly, though she had at one time felt and acknowledged that there was

no marriage at all, and that the words her seducer had used were but

intended to soothe her regret and terror. There was a point however

beyond which she was not prepared to go. She still shrunk from giving

false details, from perjuring herself in regard to particular facts. The

marriage, she thought, might be good in the sight of heaven, of herself,

and of her lover; but to render it good in the eyes of the law, she had

found would require proofs that she could not give--oaths that she dared

not take.

Another course, however, had been proposed for her; and now she sat in

that small parlor gaudily dressed, as I have said, but dressed evidently

for a journey. There were tears indeed in her eyes; and as her son stood

by her side she looked up in his face with a beseeching look as if she

would fain have said, "Pray do not drive me to this!"

But young John Ayliffe had no remorse, and if he spoke tenderly to her

who had spoiled his youth, it was only because his object was to

persuade and cajole.

"Indeed, mother," he said, "it is absolutely necessary or I would not

ask you to go. You know quite well that I would rather have you here:

and it will only be for a short time till the trial is over. Lawyer

Shanks told you himself that if you stayed, they would have you into

court and cross-examine you to death; and you know quite well you could

not keep in one story if they browbeat and puzzled you."

"I would say any where that my marriage was a good one," replied his

mother, "but I could not swear all that Shanks would have had me,

John--No, I could not swear that, for Dr. Paulding had nothing to do

with it, and if he were to repeat it all over to me a thousand times, I

am sure that I should make a blunder, even if I consented to tell such a

falsehood. My father and good Mrs. Danby used always to say that the

mutual consent made a marriage, and a good one too. Now your father's

own letter shows that he consented to it, and God knows I did. But these

lawyers will not let well alone, and by trying to mend things make them

worse, I think. However, I suppose you have gone too far to go back; and

so I must go to a strange out of the way country and hide myself and

live quite lonely. Well, I am ready--I am ready to make any sacrifice

for you, my boy--though it is very hard, I must say."

As she spoke, she rose with her eyes running over, and her son kissed

her and assured her that her absence should not be long. But just as she

was moving towards the door, he put a paper--a somewhat long one--on the

table, where a pen was already in the inkstand, saying, "just sign this

before you go, dear mother."

"Oh, I cannot sign any thing," cried the lady, wiping her eyes; "how can

you be so cruel, John, as to ask me to sign any thing just now when I am

parting with you? What is it you want?"

"It is only a declaration that you are truly my father's widow," said

John Ayliffe; "see here, the declaration, &c., you need not read it, but

only just sign here."

She hesitated an instant; but his power over her was complete; and,

though she much doubted the contents, she signed the paper with a

trembling hand. Then came a parting full of real tenderness on her part,

and assumed affection and regret on his. The post-chaise, which had been

standing for an hour at the door, rolled away, and John Ayliffe walked

back into the house.

When there, he walked up and down the room for some time, with an

impatient thoughtfulness, if I may use the term, in his looks, which had

little to do with his mother's departure. He was glad that she was

gone--still gladder that she had signed the paper; and now he seemed

waiting for something eagerly expected.

At length there came a sound of a quick trotting horse, and John Ayliffe

took the paper from the table hastily, and put it in his pocket. But the

visitor was not the one he expected. It was but a servant with a letter;

and as the young man took it from the hand of the maid who brought it

in, and gazed at the address, his cheek flushed a little, and then

turned somewhat pale. He muttered to himself, "she has not taken long to

consider!"

As soon as the slipshod girl had gone out of the room, he broke the seal

and read the brief answer which Emily had returned to his declaration.

It would not be easy for an artist to paint, and it is impossible for a

writer to describe, the expression which came upon his face as he

perused the words of decided rejection which were written on that sheet;

but certainly, had poor Emily heard how he cursed her, how he vowed to

have revenge, and to humble her pride, as he called it, she would have

rejoiced rather than grieved that such a man had obtained no hold upon

her affection, no command of her fate. He was still in the midst of his

tempest of passion, when, without John Ayliffe being prepared for his

appearance, Mr. Shanks entered the room. His face wore a dark and

somewhat anxious expression which even habitual cunning could not

banish; but the state in which he found his young client, seemed to take

him quite by surprise.

"Why what is the matter, John?" he cried, "what in the name of fortune

has happened here?"

"What has happened!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "look there," and he handed

Mr. Shanks the letter. The attorney took it, and with his keen weazel

eyes read it as deliberately as he would have read an ordinary law

paper. He then handed it back to his young client, saying, "The

respondent does not put in a bad answer."

"Damn the respondent," said John Ayliffe, "but she shall smart for it."

"Well, well, this cannot be helped," rejoined Mr. Shanks; "no need of

putting yourself in a passion. You don't care two straws about her, and

if you get the property without the girl so much the better. You can

then have the pick of all the pretty women in the country."

John Ayliffe mused gloomily; for Mr. Shanks was not altogether right in

his conclusion as to the young man's feelings towards Emily. Perhaps

when he began the pursuit he cared little about its success, but like

other beasts of prey, he had become eager as he ran--desire had arisen

in the chase--and, though mortified vanity had the greatest share in his

actual feelings, he felt something beyond that.

While he mused, Mr. Shanks was musing also, calculating results and

combinations; but at length he said, in a low tone, "Is she gone?--Have

you got that accomplished?"

"Gone?--Yes.--Do you mean my mother?--Damn it, yes!--She is gone, to be

sure.--Didn't you meet her?"

"No," said Mr. Shanks; "I came the other way. That is lucky, however.

But harkee, John--something very unpleasant has happened, and we must

take some steps about it directly; for if they work him well, that

fellow is likely to peach."

"Who?--what the devil are you talking about?" asked John Ayliffe, with

his passion still unsubdued.

"Why, that blackguard whom you would employ--Master Tom Cutter,"

answered Mr. Shanks. You know I always set my face against it, John; and

now----"

"Peach!" cried John Ayliffe, "Tom Cutter will no more peach than he'll

fly in the air. He's not of the peaching sort."

"Perhaps not, where a few months' imprisonment are concerned," answered

Mr. Shanks; "but the matter here is his neck, and that makes a mighty

difference, let me tell you. Now listen to me, John, and don't interrupt

me till I've done; for be sure that we have got into a very unpleasant

mess, which we may have some difficulty in getting out of. You sent over

Tom Cutter, to see if he could not persuade young Scantling, Lord

Selby's gamekeeper, to remember something about the marriage, when he

was with his old father the sexton. Now, how he and Tom manage their

matters, I don't know; but Tom gave him a lick on the head with a stick,

which killed him on the spot. As the devil would have it, all this was

seen by two people, a laborer working in a ditch hard by, and

Scantling's son, a boy of ten years old. The end of it is, Tom was

instantly pursued, and apprehended; your good uncle, Sir John, was

called to take the depositions, and without any remand whatever,

committed our good friend for trial. Tom's only chance is to prove that

it was a case of chance-medley, or to bring it under manslaughter, as a

thing done in a passion, and if he thinks that being employed by you

will be any defence, or will show that it was a sudden burst of rage,

without premeditation, he will tell the whole story as soon as he would

eat his dinner."

"I'd go over to him directly, and tell him to hold his tongue," cried

John Ayliffe, now fully awakened to the perils of the case.

"Pooh, pooh! don't be a fool," said Mr. Shanks, contemptuously. "Are you

going to let the man see that you are afraid of him--that he has got you

in his power? Besides, they will not let you in. No, the way must be

this. I must go over to him as his legal adviser, and I can dress you up

as my clerk. That will please him, to find that we do not abandon him;

and we must contrive to turn his defence quite another way, whether he

hang for it or not. We must make it out that Scantling swore he had been

poaching, when he had done nothing of the kind, and that in the quarrel

that followed, he struck the blow accidentally. We can persuade him that

this is his best defence, which perhaps it is after all, for nobody can

prove that he was poaching, inasmuch as he really was not; whereas, if

he were to show that he killed a man while attempting to suborn

evidence, he would speedily find himself under a cross-beam."

"Suborn evidence," muttered John Ayliffe to himself; for though ready to

do any act that might advance his purpose, he did not like to hear it

called by its right name.

However that might be, he agreed to the course proposed by the attorney,

and it was determined that, waiting for the fall of night, they should

both go over to the prison together, and demand admittance to the

felon's cell. The conversation then reverted to Emily's distinct

rejection of the young man's suit, and long did the two ponder over it,

considering what might be the effect upon the plans they were pursuing.

"It may hurry us desperately," said Mr. Shanks, at length, "unless we

can get her to hold her tongue; for depend upon it, as soon as Sir

Philip hears what we are doing, he will take his measures accordingly.

Don't you think you and Mrs. Hazleton together can manage to frighten

her into silence? If I were you, I would get upon my horse's back

directly, ride over, and see what can be done. Your fair friend there

will give you every help, depend upon it."

John Ayliffe smiled. "I will see," he said. "Mrs. Hazleton is very kind

about it, and I dare say will help, for I am quite sure she has got some

purpose of her own to serve."

The attorney grinned, but made no answer, and in the space of a quarter

of an hour, John Ayliffe was on the road to Mrs. Hazleton's dwelling.

After quarter of an hour's private conversation with the lady of the

house, he was admitted to the room in which Emily sat, unconscious of

his being there. She was displeased and alarmed at seeing him, but his

words and his conduct after he entered, frightened and displeased her

still more. He demanded secrecy in a stern and peremptory tone, and

threatened with vague, but not ill-devised menaces, to be the ruin of

her father and his whole house, if she breathed one word of what had

taken place between them. He sought, moreover, to obtain from her a

promise of secrecy; but that Emily would on no account give, although he

terrified her greatly; and he left her still in doubt as to whether his

secret was safe or not.

With Mrs. Hazleton he held another conference, but from her he received

better assurances. "Do not be afraid," she said; "I will manage it for

you. She shall not betray you--at least for a time. However, you had

better proceed as rapidly as possible, and if the means of pursuing your

claim be necessary--I mean in point of money--have no scruple in

applying to me."

Putting on an air of queenly dignity, Mrs. Hazleton proceeded in search

of Emily, as soon as the young man was gone. She found her in tears; and

sitting down by her side, she took her hand in a kindly manner, saying,

"My dear child, I am very sorry for all this, but it is really in some

degree your own fault. Nay, you need not explain any thing. I have just

had young Ayliffe with me. He has told me all, and I have dismissed him

with a sharp rebuke. If you had confided to me last night that he had

proposed to you, and you had rejected him, I would have taken care that

he should not have admittance to you. Indeed, I am surprised that he

should presume to propose at all, without longer acquaintance. But he

seems to have agitated and terrified you much. What did he want?"

"He endeavored to make me promise," replied Emily, "that I would not

tell my father, or any one, of what had occurred."

"Foolish boy! he might have taken that for granted," replied Mrs.

Hazleton, forgetting for an instant what she had just said. "No woman of

any delicacy ever speaks of a matter of this kind, when once she has

taken upon herself to reject a proposal unconditionally. If she wishes

for advice," continued the lady, recollecting herself, "or thinks that

the suit may be pressed improperly, of course she's free to ask counsel

and assistance of some female friend, on whom she can depend. But the

moment the thing is decided, of course, she is silent for ever; for

nothing can be more a matter of honorable confidence than an avowal of

honorable love. I will write him a note, and tell him he is in no

danger, but warn him not to present himself here again, so long as you

are with me."

Emily made no answer, trying to decide in her own mind whether Mrs.

Hazleton's reasoning was right; and that lady, choosing to take her

assent for granted, from her silence, hurried away, to give her no

opportunity for retracting.

FOOTNOTES:

[G] 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.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Before the door of a large brick building, with no windows towards the

street, and tall walls rising up till they overtopped the neighboring

houses, stood two men, about an hour after night had fallen, waiting for

admittance. The great large iron bar which formed the knocker of the

door, had descended twice with a heavy thump, but yet no one appeared in

answer to the summons. It was again in the hand of Mr. Shanks and ready

to descend, when the rattling of keys was heard inside; bolts were

withdrawn and bars cast down, and one half of the door opened,

displaying a man with a lantern, which he held up to gaze at his

visitors. His face was fat and bloated, covered with a good number of

spots, and his swollen eyelids made his little keen black eyes look

smaller than they even naturally were, while his nose, much in the shape

of a horsechestnut, blushed with the hues of the early morning.

"How are you, Cram, how are you?" asked the attorney. "I haven't been

here for a long time, but you know me, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, I know you, Master Shanks," replied the jailer, winking one of

his small black eyes; "who have you come to see? Betty Diaper, I'll

warrant, who prigged the gentleman's purse at the bottom of the hill.

She's as slink a diver as any on the lay; but she's got the shiners and

so must have counsel to defend her before the beak, I'll bet a gallon."

"No, no," answered Mr. Shanks, "our old friend Tom Cutter wants to see

me on this little affair of his."

"You'll make no hand of that, as sure as my name's Dionysius Cram,"

replied the jailer. "Can't prove an _alibi_ there, Master Shanks, for I

saw him do the job; besides he can't pay. What's the use of meddling

with him? He must swing some time you know, and one day's as good as

another. But come in, Master Shanks, come in. But who's this here other

chap?"

"That's my clerk," replied Mr. Shanks, "I may want him to take

instructions."

The man laughed, but demurred, but a crown piece was in those days the

key to all jailers' hearts, and after a show of hesitation, Shanks and

his young companion were both admitted within the gates. They now found

themselves in a small square space, guarded on two sides by tall iron

railings, which bent overhead, and were let into the wall somewhat after

the manner of a birdcage. On the left-hand side, however, was another

brick wall, with a door and some steps leading up to it. By this

entrance Mr. Dionysius Cram led them into a small jailer's lodge, with a

table and some wooden chairs, in the side of which, opposite to the

entrance, was a strong movable grate, between the bars of which might be

seen a yawning sort of chasm leading into the heart of the prison.

Again Mr. Cram's great keys were put in motion, and he opened the grate

to let them pass, eyeing John Ayliffe with considerable attention as he

did so. Locking the grate carefully behind him, he lighted them on with

his lantern, muttering as he went in the peculiar prison slang of those

days, various sentences not very complimentary to the tastes and habits

of young John Ayliffe, "Ay, ay," he said, "clerk be damned! One of Tom's

pals, for a pint and a boiled bone--droll I don't know him. He must be

twenty, and ought to have been in the stone pitcher often enough before

now. Dare say he's been sent to Mill Dol, for some minor. That's not in

my department, I shall have the darbies on him some day. He'd look

handsome under the tree."

John Ayliffe had a strong inclination to knock him down, but he

restrained himself, and at length a large plated iron door admitted the

two gentlemen into the penetralia of the temple.

A powerful smell of aqua vitae and other kinds of strong waters now

pervaded the atmosphere, mingled with that close sickly odor which is

felt where great numbers of uncleanly human beings are closely packed

together; and from some distance was heard the sounds of riotous

merriment, ribald song, and hoarse, unfeeling laugh, with curses and

execrations not a few. It was a time when the abominations of the prison

system were at their height.

"Here, you step in here," said Mr. Cram to the attorney and his

companion, "and I'll bring Tom to you in a minute. He's having a lush

with some of his pals; though I thought we were going to have a mill,

for Jack Perkins, who is to be hanged o' Monday, roused out his slack

jaw at him for some quarrel about a gal, and Tom don't bear such like

easily. Howsumdever, they made it up and clubbed a gallon. Stay, I'll

get you a candle end;" and leaving them in the dark, not much, if the

truth must be told, to the satisfaction of John Ayliffe, he rolled away

along the passage and remained absent several minutes.

When he returned, a clanking step followed him, as heavy irons were

dragged slowly on by unaccustomed limbs, and the moment after, Tom

Cutter stood in the presence of his two friends.

The jailer brought them in a piece of candle about two inches long,

which he stuck into a sort of socket attached to an iron bar projecting

straight from the wall; and having done this he left the three together,

taking care to close and lock the door behind him.

Chair or stool in the room there was none, and the only seat, except the

floor, which the place afforded was the edge of a small wooden bedstead

or trough, as it might be called, scantily furnished with straw.

Both Mr. Shanks and John Ayliffe shook hands with the felon, whose face,

though somewhat flushed with drinking, bore traces of deeper and sterner

feelings than he chose to show. He seemed glad to see them, however, and

said it was very kind of them to come, adding with an inquiring look at

Mr. Shanks, "I can't pay you, you know, Master lawyer; for what between

my garnish and lush, I shall have just enough to keep me till the

'sizes; I shan't need much after that I fancy."

"Pooh, pooh," cried the attorney, "don't be downhearted, Tom, and as to

pay, never mind that. John here will pay all that's needful, and we'll

have down counsellor Twistem to work the witnesses. We can't make out an

_alibi_, for the folks saw you, but we'll get you up a character, if

money can make a reputation, and I never knew the time in England when

it could not. We have come to consult with you at once as to what's the

best defence to be made, that we may have the story all pat and right

from the beginning, and no shifting and turning afterwards."

"I wish I hadn't killed the man," said Tom Cutter, gloomily; "I shan't

forget his face in a hurry as he fell over and cried out 'Oh, my

poor--!' but the last word choked him. He couldn't get it out; but I

fancy he was thinking of his wife--or maybe his children. But what could

I do? He gave me a sight of bad names, and swore he would peach about

what I wanted him to do. He called me a villain, and a scoundrel, and a

cheat, and a great deal more besides, till my blood got up, and having

got the stick by the small end, I hit him with the knob on the temple. I

didn't know I hit so hard; but I was in a rage."

"That's just what I thought--just what I thought," said Mr. Shanks. "You

struck him without premeditation in a fit of passion. Now if we can make

out that he provoked you beyond bearing--"

"That he did," said Tom Cutter.

"That's what I say," continued Mr. Shanks, "if we can make out that he

provoked you beyond bearing while you were doing nothing unlawful and

wrong, that isn't murder, Tom."

"Hum," said Tom Cutter, "but how will you get that up, Mr. Shanks? I've

a notion that what I went to him about was devilish unlawful."

"Ay, but nobody knew any thing of that but you and he, and John Ayliffe

and I. We must keep that quite close, and get up a likely story about

the quarrel. You will have to tell it yourself, you know, Tom, though

we'll make counsellor Twistem let the jury see it beforehand in his

examinations."

A gleam of hope seemed to lighten the man's face, and Mr. Shanks

continued, "We can prove, I dare say, that this fellow Scantling had a

great hatred for you."

"No, no, he had not," said Tom Cutter, "he was more civil to me than

most, for we had been boys together."

"That doesn't matter," said Mr. Shanks, "we must prove it; for that's

your only chance, Tom. If we can prove that you always spoke well of

him, so much the better; but we must show that he was accustomed to

abuse you, and to call you a damned ruffian and a poacher. We'll do

it--we'll do it; and then if you stick tight to your story, we'll get

you off."

"But what's the story to be, master Shanks?" asked Tom Cutter, "I can't

learn a long one; I never was good at learning by heart."

"Oh, no; it shall be as short and simple as possible," replied Shanks;

"you must admit having gone over to see him, and that you struck the

blow that killed him. We can't get over that, Tom; but then you must say

you're exceedingly sorry, and was so the very moment after."

"So I was," replied Tom Cutter.

"And your story must refer," continued Mr. Shanks, "to nothing but what

took place just before the blow was struck. You must say that you heard

he accused you of putting wires in Lord Selby's woods, and that you went

over to clear yourself; but that he abused you so violently, and

insulted you so grossly, your blood got up and you struck him, only

intending to knock him down. Do you understand me?"

"Quite well--quite well," replied Tom Cutter, his face brightening; "I

do think that may do, 'specially if you can make out that I was

accustomed to speak well of him, and he to abuse me. It's an accident

that might happen to any man."

"To be sure," replied Mr. Shanks; "we will take care to corroborate your

story, only you get it quite right. Now let us hear what you will say."

Tom Cutter repeated the tale he had been taught very accurately; for it

was just suited to his comprehension, and Shanks rubbed his hands,

saying, "That will do--that will do."

John Ayliffe, however, was still not without his anxieties, and after a

little hesitation as to how he should put the question which he

meditated, he said, "Of course, Tom, I suppose you have not told any of

the fellows here what you came over for?"

The ruffian knew him better than he thought, and understood his object

at once.

"No, no, John," he said, "I have'nt peached, and shall not; be you sure

of that. If I am to die, I'll die game, depend upon it; but I do think

there's a chance now, and we may as well make the best of it."

"To be sure--to be sure," answered the more prudent Shanks; "you don't

think, Mr. Ayliffe, that he would be fool enough to go and cut his own

throat by telling any one what would be sure to hang him. That is a very

green notion."

"Oh, no, nor would I say a word that could serve that Sir Philip

Hastings," said Tom Cutter; "he's been my enemy for the last ten years,

and I could see he would be as glad to twist my neck as I have been to

twist his hares. Perhaps I may live to pay him yet."

"I'm not sure you might not give him a gentle rub in your defence," said

John Ayliffe; "he would not like to hear that his pretty proud daughter

Emily came down to see me, as I'm sure she did, let her say what she

will, when I was ill at the cottage by the park gates. You were in the

house, don't you recollect, getting a jug of beer, while I was sitting

at the door when she came down?"

"I remember, I remember," replied Tom Cutter, with a malicious smile; "I

gave him one rub which he didn't like when he committed me, and I'll do

this too."

"Take care," said Mr. Shanks, "you had better not mix up other things

with your defence."

"Oh, I can do it quite easily," replied the other with a triumphant

look; "I could tell what happened then, and how I heard there that

people suspected me of poaching still, though I had quite given it up,

and how I determined to find out from that minute who it was accused

me."

"That can do no harm," said Shanks, who had not the least objection to

see Sir Philip Hastings mortified; and after about half an hour's

farther conversation, having supplied Tom Cutter with a small sum of

money, the lawyer and his young companion prepared to withdraw. Shanks

whistled through the key-hole of the door, producing a shrill loud sound

as if he were blowing over the top of a key; and Dionysius Cram

understanding the signal, hastened to let them out.

Before we proceed farther, however, with any other personage, we may as

well trace the fate of Mr. Thomas Cutter.

The assizes were approaching near at this time, and about a fortnight

after, he was brought to trial; not all the skill of counsellor Twistem,

however, nor the excellent character which Mr. Shanks tried to procure

for him, had any effect; his reputation was too well established to be

affected by any scandalous reports of his being a peaceable and orderly

man. His violence and irregular life were too well known for the jury to

come to any other conclusion than that it would be a good thing to rid

the country of him, and whether very legally or not, I cannot say, they

brought in a verdict of wilful murder without quitting the box. His

defence, however, established for him the name of a very clever fellow,

and one portion of it certainly sent Sir Philip Hastings from the Court

thoughtful and gloomy. Nevertheless, no recommendation to mercy having

issued from the Judge, Tom Cutter was hanged in due form of law, and to

use his own words, "died game."

CHAPTER XXIV.

We must go back a little, for we have somewhat anticipated our tale.

Never did summons strike more joyfully on the ear of mortal than came

that of her recall home to Emily Hastings. As so often happens to all in

life, the expected pleasure had turned to ashes on the lip, and her

visit to Mrs. Hazleton offered hardly one point on which memory could

rest happily. Nay, more, without being able definitely to say why, when

she questioned her own heart, the character of her beautiful hostess had

suffered by close inspection. She was not the same in Emily's esteem as

she had been before. She could not point out what Mrs. Hazleton had said

or done to produce such an impression; but she was less amiable,--less

reverenced. It was not alone that the trappings in which a young

imagination had decked her were stripped off; but it was that a baser

metal beneath had here and there shown doubtfully through the gilding

with which she concealed her real character.

If the summons was joyful to Emily, it was a surprise and an unpleasant

one to Mrs. Hazleton. Not that she wished to keep her young guest with

her long; for she was too keen and shrewd not to perceive that Emily

would not be worked upon so easily as she had imagined; and that under

her very youthfulness there was a strength of character which must

render one part of the plans against her certainly abortive. But Mrs.

Hazleton was taken by surprise. She could have wished to guard against

construction of some parts of her conduct which must be the more

unpleasant, because the more just. She had fancied she would have time

to give what gloss she chose to her conduct in Emily's eyes, and to

prevent dangerous explanations between the father and the daughter.

Moreover, the suddenness of the call alarmed her and raised doubts.

Whereever there is something to be concealed there is something to be

feared, and Mrs. Hazleton asked herself if Emily had found means to

communicate to Sir Philip Hastings what had occurred with John Ayliffe.

That, however, she soon concluded was impossible. Some knowledge of the

facts, nevertheless, might have reached him from other sources, and Mrs.

Hazleton grew uneasy. Sir Philip's letter to his daughter, which Emily

at once suffered her hostess to see, threw no light upon the subject. It

was brief, unexplicit, and though perfectly kind and tender, peremptory.

It merely required her to return to the Hall, as some business rendered

her presence at home necessary.

Little did Mrs. Hazleton divine the business to which Sir Philip

alluded. Had she known it, what might have happened who can say? There

were terribly strong passions within that fair bosom, and there were

moments when those strong passions mastered even strong worldly sense

and habitual self-control.

There was not much time, however, for even thought, and less for

preparation. Emily departed, after having received a few words of

affectionate caution from Mrs. Hazleton, delicately and skilfully put,

in such a manner as to produce the impression that she was speaking of

subjects personally indifferent to herself--except in so much as her

young friend's own happiness was concerned.

Shall we say the truth? Emily attended but little. Her thoughts were

full of her father's letter, and of the joy of returning to a home where

days passed peacefully in an even quiet course, very different from that

in which the stream of time had flowed at Mrs. Hazleton's. The love of

strong emotions--the brandy-drinking of the mind--is an acquired taste.

Few, very few have it from nature. Poor Emily, she little knew how many

strong emotions were preparing for her.

Gladly she saw the carriage roll onward through scenes more and more

familiar at every step. Gladly she saw the forked gates appear, and

marked the old well-known hawthorns as they flitted by her; and the look

of joy with which she sprang into her father's arms, might have

convinced any heart that there was but one home she loved.

"Now go and dress for dinner at once, my child," said Sir Philip, "we

have delayed two hours for you. Be not long."

Nor was Emily long; she could not have been more rapid had she known

that Marlow was waiting eagerly for her appearance. Well pleased,

indeed, was she to see him, when she entered the drawing-room; but for

the first time since she had known him--from some cause or other--a

momentary feeling of embarrassment--of timidity, came upon her; and the

color rose slightly in her cheek. Her eyes spoke, however, more than her

lips could say, and Marlow must have been satisfied, if lovers ever

could be satisfied.

Lady Hastings was lying languidly on a couch, not knowing how to

intimate to her daughter her disapproval of a suit yet unknown to Emily

herself. She could not venture to utter openly one word in opposition;

for Sir Philip Hastings had desired her not to do so, and she had given

a promise to forbear, but she thought it would be perfectly consistent

with that promise, and perfectly fair and right to show in other ways

than by words, that Mr. Marlow was not the man she would have chosen for

her daughter's husband, and even to insinuate objections which she dare

not state directly.

In her manner to Marlow therefore, Lady Hastings, though perfectly

courteous and polite--for such was Sir Philip's pleasure--was as cold as

ice, always added "Sir" to her replies, and never forgot herself so far

as to call him by his name.

Emily remarked this demeanor; but she knew--I should rather have said

she was aware; for it was a matter more of sensation than thought--a

conviction that had grown up in her mind without reflection--she was

aware that her mother was somewhat capricious in her friendships. She

had seen it in the case of servants and of some of the governesses she

had had when she was quite young. One day they would be all that was

estimable and charming in Lady Hastings' eyes, and another, from some

slight offence--some point of demeanor which she did not like--or some

moody turn of her own mind, they would be all that was detestable. It

had often been the same, too, with persons of a higher station; and

therefore it did not in the least surprise her to find that Mr. Marlow,

who had been ever received by Lady Hastings before as a familiar friend,

should now be treated almost as a stranger.

It grieved her, nevertheless, and she thought that Marlow must feel her

mother's conduct painfully. She would fain have made up for it by any

means in her power, and thus the demeanor of Lady Hastings had an effect

the direct reverse of that which she intended. Nor did her innuendos

produce any better results, for she soon saw that they grieved and

offended her husband, while her daughter showed marvellous stupidity, as

she thought, in not comprehending them.

Full of love, and now full of hope likewise, Marlow, it must be

confessed, thought very little of Lady Hastings at all. He was one of

those men upon whom love sits well--they are but few in the world--and

whatever agitation he might feel at heart, there was none apparent in

his manner. His attention to Emily was decided, pointed, not to be

mistaken by any one well acquainted with such matters; but he was quite

calm and quiet about it; there was no flutter about it--no forgetfulness

of proprieties; and his conversation had never seemed to Emily so

agreeable as that night, although the poor girl knew not what was the

additional charm. Delightful to her, however, it was; and in enjoying it

she forgot altogether that she had been sent for about business--nay,

even forgot to wonder what that business could be.

Thus passed the evening; and when the usual time for retiring came,

Emily was a little surprised that there was no announcement of Mr.

Marlow's horse, or Mr. Marlow's carriage, as had ever been the case

before, but that Mr. Marlow was going to spend some days at the hall.

When Lady Hastings rose to go to rest, and her daughter rose to go with

her, another thing struck Emily as strange. Sir Philip, as his wife

passed him, addressed to her the single word "Beware!" with a very

marked emphasis. Lady Hastings merely bowed her head, in reply; but when

she and Emily arrived at her dressing-room, where the daughter had

generally stayed to spend a few minutes with her mother alone, Lady

Hastings kissed her, and wished her good night, declaring that she felt

much fatigue, and would ring for her maid at once.

Lady Hastings was a very good woman, and wished to obey her husband's

injunctions to the letter, but she felt afraid of herself, and would not

trust herself with Emily alone.

Dear Emily lay awake for half an hour after she had sought her pillow,

but not more, and then she fell into a sleep as soft and calm as that of

childhood, and the next morning rose as blooming as the flower of June.

Sir Philip was up when she went down stairs, and walking on the terrace

with Marlow. Lady Hastings sent word that she would breakfast in her own

room, when she had obtained a few hours' rest, as she had not slept all

night. Thus Emily had to attend to the breakfast-table in her mother's

place; but in those days the lady's functions at the morning meal were

not so various and important as at present; and the breakfast passed

lightly and pleasantly. Still there was no mention of the business which

had caused Emily to be summoned so suddenly, and when the breakfast was

over, Sir Philip retired to his library, without asking Emily to follow,

and merely saying, "You had better not disturb your mother, my dear

child. If you take a walk I will join you ere long."

For the first time, a doubt, a notion--for I must not call it a

suspicion--came across the mind of Emily, that the business for which

she had been sent might have something to do with Mr. Marlow. How her

little heart beat! She sat quite still for a minute or two, for she did

not know, if she rose, what would become of her.

At length the voice of Marlow roused her from her gently-troubled

reverie, as he said, "Will you not come out to take a walk?"

She consented at once, and went away to prepare. Nor was she long, for

in less than ten minutes, she and Marlow were crossing the park, towards

the older and thicker trees amidst which they had rambled once before.

But it was Marlow who now led her on a path which he chose himself. I

know not whether it was some memory of his walk with Mrs. Hazleton, or

whether it was that instinct which leads love to seek shady places, or

whether, like a skilful general, he had previously reconnoitred the

ground; but something or other in his own breast induced him to deviate

from the more direct track which they had followed on their previous

walk, and guide his fair companion across the short dry turf towards the

thickest part of the wood, through which there penetrated, winding in

and out amongst the trees, a small path, just wide enough for two,

bowered overhead by crossing branches, and gaining sweet woodland scenes

of light and shade at every step, as the eye dived into the deep green

stillness between the large old trunks, carefully freed from underwood,

and with their feet carpeted with moss, and flowers, and fern. It was

called the deer's track, from the fact that along it, morning and

evening, all the bucks and does which had herded on that side of the

park might be seen walking stately down to or from a bright,

clear-running trout-stream, that wandered along about a quarter of a

mile farther on; and often, in the hot weather, a person standing half

way down the walk might see a tall antlered fellow standing with his

forefeet in the water and his hind-quarters raised upon the bank, gazing

at himself in the liquid mirror below, with all his graceful beauties

displayed to the uttermost by a burst of yellow light, which towards

noon always poured upon the stream at that place.

Marlow and Emily, however, were quite alone upon the walk. Not even a

hind or shart was there; and after the first two or three steps, Marlow

asked his fair companion to take his arm. She did so, readily; for she

needed it, not so much because the long gnarled roots of the trees

crossed the path from time to time, and offered slight impediments, for

usually her foot was light as air, but because she felt an unaccountable

languor upon her, a tremulous, agitated sort of unknown happiness unlike

any thing else she had ever before experienced.

Marlow drew her little hand through his then, and she rested upon it,

not with the light touch of a mere acquaintance, but with a gentle

confiding pressure which was very pleasant to him, and yet the

capricious man must needs every two or three minutes, change that kindly

position as the trees and irregularities of the walk afforded an excuse.

Now he placed Emily on the one side, now on the other, and if she had

thought at all (but by this time she was far past thought,) she might

have fancied that he did so solely for the purpose of once more taking

her hand in his to draw it through his arm again.

At the spot where the walk struck the stream, and before it proceeded

onward by the bank, there was a little irregular open space not twenty

yards broad in any direction, canopied over by the tall branches of an

oak, and beneath the shade about twelve yards from the margin of the

stream, was a pure, clear, shallow well of exceedingly cold water, which

as it quietly flowed over the brink went on to join the rivulet below.

The well was taken care of, kept clean, and basined in plain flat

stones; but there was no temple over it, Gothic or Greek. On the side

farthest from the stream was a plain wooden bench placed for the

convenience of persons who came to drink the waters which were supposed

to have some salutary influence, and there by tacit consent Marlow and

Emily seated themselves side by side.

They gazed into the clear little well at their feet, seeing all the

round variegated pebbles at the bottom glistening like jewels as the

branches above, moved by a fresh wind that was stirring in the sky, made

the checkered light dance over the surface. There was a green leaf

broken by some chance from a bough above which floated about upon the

water as the air fanned it gently, now hither, now thither, now gilded

by the sunshine, now covered with dim shadow. After pausing in silence

for a moment or two, Marlow pointed to the leaf with a light and

seemingly careless smile, saying, "See how it floats about, Emily. That

leaf is like a young heart full of love."

"Indeed," said Emily, looking full in his face with a look of inquiry,

for perhaps she thought that in his smile she might find an

interpretation of what was going on in her own bosom. "Indeed! How so?"

"Do you not see," said Marlow, "how it is blown about by the softest

breath, which stirs not the less sensitive things around, how it is

carried by any passing air now into bright hopeful light, now into dim

melancholy shadow?"

"And is that like love?" asked Emily. "I should have thought it was all

brightness."

"Ay, happy love--love returned," replied Marlow, "but where there is

uncertainty, a doubt, there hope and fear make alternately the light and

shade of love, and the lightest breath will bear the heart from the one

extreme to the other--I know it from the experience of the last three

days, Emily; for since last we met I too have fluctuated between the

light and shade. Your father's consent has given a momentary gleam of

hope, but it is only you who can make the light permanent."

Emily shook, and her eyes were bent down upon the water; but she

remained silent so long that Marlow became even more agitated than

herself. "I know not what I feel," she murmured at length,--"it is very

strange."

"But hear me, Emily," said Marlow, taking her unresisting hand, "I do

not ask an immediate answer to my suit. If you regard me with any

favor--if I am not perfectly indifferent to you, let me try to improve

any kindly feelings in your heart towards me in the bright hope of

winning you at last for my own, my wife. The uncertainty may be

painful--must be painful; but--"

"No, no, Marlow," cried Emily, raising her eyes to his face for an

instant with her cheek all glowing, "there must be no uncertainty. Do

you think I would keep you--you, in such a painful state as you have

mentioned? Heaven forbid!"

"Then what am I to think?" asked Marlow, pressing closer to her side and

gliding his arm round her. "I am almost mad to dream of such happiness,

and yet your tone, your look, my Emily, make me so rash. Tell me

then--tell me at once, am I to hope or to despair?--Will you be mine?"

"Of course," she answered, "can you doubt it?"

"I can almost doubt my senses," said Marlow; but he had no occasion to

doubt them.

They sat there for nearly half an hour; they then wandered on, with

marvellous meanderings in their course, for more than an hour and a half

more, and when they returned, Emily knew more of love than ever could be

learned from books. Marlow drew her feelings forth and gave them

definite form and consistency. He presented them to her by telling what

he himself felt in a plain and tangible shape, which required no long

reverie--none of their deep fits of thoughtfulness to investigate and

comprehend. From the rich store of his own imagination, and the treasury

of deep feeling in his breast, he poured forth illustrations that

brightened as if with sunshine every sensation which had been dark and

mysterious in her bosom before; and ere they turned their steps back

towards the house, Emily believed--nay, she felt; and that is much

more--that without knowing it, she had loved him long.

CHAPTER XXV.

This must be a chapter of rapid action, comprising in its brief space

the events of many months--events which might not much interest the

reader in minute detail, but which produced important results to all the

persons concerned, and drew on the coming catastrophe.

The news that Mr. Marlow was about to be married to Emily, the beautiful

heiress of Sir Philip Hastings, spread far and wide over the country;

and if joy and satisfaction reigned in the breasts of three persons in

Emily's dwelling, discontent and annoyance were felt more and more

strongly every hour by Lady Hastings. A Duke, she thought, would not

have been too high a match for her daughter, with all the large estates

she was to inherit; and the idea of her marrying a simple commoner was

in itself very bitter. She was not a woman to bear a disappointment

gracefully; and Emily soon had the pain of discovering that her

engagement to Marlow was much disapproved by her mother. She consoled

herself, however, by the full approval of her father, who was somewhat

more than satisfied.

Sir Philip for his part, considering his daughter's youth, required that

the marriage should be delayed at least two years, and, in his

theoretical way, he soon built up a scheme, which was not quite so

successful as he could have wished. Marlow's character was, in most

respects, one after his own heart; but as I have shown, he had thought

from the first, that there were weak points in it,--or rather points

rendered weak by faults of education and much mingling with the world.

He wanted, in short, some of that firmness--may I not say hardness of

the old Roman, which Sir Philip so peculiarly admired; and the scheme

now was, to re-educate Marlow, if I may use the term, during the next

two years, to mould him in short after Sir Philip's own idea of

perfection. How this succeeded, or failed, we shall have occasion

hereafter to show.

Tidings of Emily's engagement were communicated to Mrs. Hazleton, first

by rumor, and immediately after by more certain information in a letter

from Lady Hastings. I will not dwell upon the effect produced in her. I

will not lift up the curtain with which she covered her own breast, and

show all the dark and terrible war of passions within. For three days

Mrs. Hazleton was really ill, remained shut up in her room, had the

windows darkened, admitted no one but the maid and the physician; and

well for her was it, perhaps, that the bitter anguish she endured

overpowered her corporeal powers, and forced seclusion upon her. During

those three days she could not have concealed her feelings from all eyes

had she been forced to mingle with society; but in her sickness she had

time for thought--space to fight the battle in, and she came forth

triumphant.

When she at length appeared in her own drawing-room no one could have

imagined that the illness was of the heart. She was a little paler than

before, there was a soft and pleasing languor about her carriage, but

she was, to all appearance, as calm and cheerful as ever.

Nevertheless she thought it better to go to London for a short time. She

did not yet dare to meet Emily Hastings. She feared _herself_.

Yet the letter of Lady Hastings was a treasure to her, for it gave her

hopes of vengeance. In it the mother showed but too strongly her dislike

of her daughter's choice, and Mrs. Hazleton resolved to cultivate the

friendship of Lady Hastings, whom she had always despised, and to use

her weakness for her own purposes.

She was destined, moreover, to have other sources of consolation, and

that more rapidly than she expected. It was shortly before her return to

the country that the trial of Tom Cutter took place; and not long after

she came back that he was executed. Many persons at the trial had

remarked the effect which some parts of the evidence had produced on Sir

Philip Hastings. He was not skilful in concealing the emotions that he

felt, and although it was sometimes difficult, from the peculiarities of

his character, to discover what was their precise nature, they always

left some trace by which it might be seen that he was greatly moved.

Information of the facts was given to Mrs. Hazleton by Shanks the

attorney, and young John Ayliffe, who dwelt with pleasure upon the pain

his successful artifice had inflicted; and Mrs. Hazleton was well

pleased too.

But the wound was deeper than they thought. It was like that produced by

the bite of a snake--insignificant in itself, but carrying poison into

every vein.

Could his child deceive him? Sir Philip Hastings asked himself. Could

Emily have long known this vulgar youth--gone secretly down to see him

at a distant cottage--conferred with him unknown to either father or

mother? It seemed monstrous to suppose such a thing; and yet what could

he believe? She had never named John Ayliffe since her return from Mrs.

Hazleton's; and yet it was certain from Marlow's own account, that she

had seen him there. Did not that show that she was desirous of

concealing the acquaintance from her parents?

Sir Philip had asked no questions, leaving her to speak if she thought

fit. He was now sorry for it, and resolved to inquire; as the fact of

her having seen the young man, for whom he felt an inexpressible

dislike, had been openly mentioned in a court of justice. But as he rode

home he began to argue on the other side of the question. The man who

had made the assertion was a notorious liar--a convicted felon. Besides,

he knew him to be malicious; he had twice before thrown out insinuations

which Sir Philip believed to be baseless, and could only be intended to

produce uneasiness. Might not these last words of his be traced to the

same motive? He would inquire in the first place, he thought, what was

the connection between the convict and John Ayliffe, and stopping on the

way for that purpose, he soon satisfied himself that the two were boon

companions.

When he reached his own dwelling, he found Emily seated by Marlow in one

of her brightest, happiest moods. There was frank candor, graceful

innocence, bright open-hearted truth in every look and every word. It

was impossible to doubt her; and Sir Philip cast the suspicion from him,

but, alas! not for ever. They would return from time to time to grieve

and perplex him; and he would often brood for hours over his daughter's

character, puzzling himself more and more. Yet he would not say a

word--he blamed himself for even thinking of the matter; and he would

not show a suspicion. Yet he continued to think and to doubt, while poor

unconscious Emily would have been ready, if asked, to solve the whole

mystery in a moment. She had been silent from an unwillingness to begin

a painful subject herself; and though she had yielded no assent to Mrs.

Hazleton's arguments, they had made her doubt whether she ought to

mention, unquestioned, John Ayliffe's proposal and conduct. She had made

up her mind to tell all, if her father showed the slightest desire to

know any thing regarding her late visit; but there was something in the

effects which that visit had produced on her mind, which she could not

explain to herself.

Why did she love Mrs. Hazleton less? Why had she lost so greatly her

esteem for her? What had that lady done or said which justified so great

a change of feeling towards her? Emily could not tell. She could fix

upon no word, no act, she could entirely blame--but yet there had been a

general tone in her whole demeanor which had opened the poor girl's eyes

too much. She puzzled herself sadly with her own thoughts; and probably

would have fallen into more than one of her deep self-absorbed reveries,

had not sweet new feelings, Marlow's frequent presence, kept her awake

to a brighter, happier world of thought.

She was indeed very happy; and, could she have seen her mother look

brighter and smile upon her, she would have been perfectly so. Her

father's occasional moodiness she did not heed; for he often seemed

gloomy merely from intense thought. Emily had got a key to such dark

reveries in her own heart, and she knew well that they were no true

indications either of discontent or grief, for very often when to the

eyes of others she seemed the most dull and melancholy, she was enjoying

intense delight in the activity of her own mind. She judged her father

from herself, and held not the slightest idea that any word, deed or

thought of hers had given him the slightest uneasiness.

Notwithstanding the various contending feelings and passions which were

going on in the little circle on which our eyes are fixed, the course of

life had gone on with tolerable smoothness as far as Emily and Marlow

were concerned, for about two months, when, one morning, Sir Philip

Hastings received a letter in a hand which he did not know. It reached

him at the breakfast table, and evidently affected him considerably with

some sort of emotion. His daughters instantly caught the change of his

countenance, but Sir Philip did not choose that any one should know he

could be moved by any thing on earth, and he instantly repressed all

agitation, quietly folded up the letter again, concluded his breakfast,

and then retired to his own study.

Emily was not deceived, however. There were moments in Sir Philip's life

when he was unable to conceal altogether the strong feelings of his

heart under the veil of stoicism--or as he would have termed it--to curb

and restrain them by the power of philosophy. Emily had seen such

moments, and knew, that whatever were the emotions produced by that

letter, whether of anger or grief or apprehension--her father was

greatly moved.

In his own study, Sir Philip Hastings seated himself, spread the letter

before him, and read it over attentively. But now it did not seem to

affect him in the least. He was, in fact, ashamed of the feelings he had

experienced and partly shown. "How completely," said he to himself,

"does a false and fictitious system of society render us the mere slaves

of passion, infecting even those who tutor themselves from early years

to resist its influence. Here an insolent young man lays claim to my

name, and my inheritance, and coolly assumes not only that he has a

title to do so, but that I know it; and this instead of producing calm

contempt, makes my heart beat and my blood boil, as if I were the

veriest schoolboy."

The letter was all that Sir Philip stated; but it was something more. It

was a very artful epistle, drawn up by the joint shrewdness of Mr.

Shanks, Mr. John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Hazleton. It concisely stated the

claims of the young man who signed it, to all the property of the late

Sir John Hastings and to the baronetcy. It made no parade of proofs, but

assumed that those in the writer's possession were indisputable, and

also that Sir Philip Hastings was well aware that John Ayliffe was his

elder brother's legitimate son. The annuity which had been bought for

himself and his mother was broadly stated to have been the

purchase-money of her silence, negotiated by her father, who had no

means to carry on a suit at law. As long as his mother lived, the writer

said, he had been silent out of deference to her wishes, but now that

she was dead in France, he did not feel himself bound to abide by an

arrangement which deprived him at once of fortune and station, and which

had been entered into without his knowledge or consent. He then went on

to call upon Sir Philip Hastings in the coolest terms to give up

possession and acknowledge his right without what the writer called "the

painful ceremony of a lawsuit;" and in two parts of the letter allusion

was made to secret information which the writer had obtained by the kind

confidence of a friend whom he would not name.

It was probably intended to give point to this insinuation at an after

period, but if it was aimed at poor Emily, it fell harmless for the

time, as no one knew better than Sir Philip that she had never been

informed of any thing which could affect the case in question.

Indeed, the subject of the annuity was one which he had never mentioned

to any one since the transaction had been completed many years before;

and the name of John Ayliffe had never passed his lips till Marlow

mentioned having seen that young man at Mrs. Hazleton's house.

When he had read the letter, and as soon as he thought he had mastered

the last struggle of passion, he dipped the pen in the ink and wrote the

few following words:

"Sir Philip Hastings has received the letter signed John Ayliffe

Hastings. He knows no person of that name, but has heard of a young man

of the name of John Ayliffe. If that person thinks he has any just claim

on Sir Philip Hastings, or his estate, he had better pursue it in the

legal and ordinary course, as Sir Philip Hastings begs to disclaim all

private communication with him."

He addressed the letter to "Mr. John Ayliffe," and sent it to the post.

This done, he rejoined Marlow and Emily, and to all appearance was more

cheerful and conversable than he had been for many a previous day.

Perhaps it cost him an effort to be cheerful at all, and the effort went

a little beyond its mark. Emily was not altogether satisfied, but Lady

Hastings, when she came down, which, as usual, was rather late in the

day, remarked how gay her husband was.

Sir Philip said nothing to any one at the time regarding the contents of

the letter he had received. He consulted no lawyer even, and tried to

treat the subject with contemptuous forgetfulness; but his was a

brooding and tenacious mind, and he often thought of the epistle, and

the menaces it implied, against his own will. Nor could he or any one

connected with him long remain unattentive or ignorant of the matter,

for in a few weeks the first steps were taken in a suit against him,

and, spreading from attorneys' offices in every direction, the news of

such proceedings travelled far and wide, till the great Hastings case

became the talk of the whole country round.

In the mean time, Sir Philip's reply was very speedily shown to Mrs.

Hazleton, and that lady triumphed a good deal. Sir Philip was now in the

same position with John Ayliffe, she thought, that she had been in some

time before with Mr. Marlow; and already he began to show, in her

opinion, a disposition to treat the case very differently in his own

instance and in hers.

There he had strongly supported private negotiation; here he rejected it

altogether; and she chose to forget that circumstances, though broadly

the same, were in detail very different.

"We shall see," she said to herself, "we shall see whether, when the

proofs are brought forward, he will act with that rigid sense of

justice, which he assumed here."

When the first processes had been issued, however, and common rumor

justified a knowledge of the transaction, without private information,

Mrs. Hazleton set out at once to visit "poor dear Lady Hastings," and

condole with her on the probable loss of fortune. How pleasant it is to

condole with friends on such occasions. What an accession of importance

we get in our own eyes, especially if the poor people we comfort have

been a little bit above us in the world.

But Mrs. Hazleton had higher objects in view; she wanted no accession of

importance. She was quite satisfied with her own position in society.

She sought to see and prompt Lady Hastings--to sow dissension where she

knew there must already be trouble; and she found Sir Philip's wife just

in the fit frame of mind for her purpose. Sir Philip himself and Emily

had ridden out together; and though Mrs. Hazleton would willingly have

found an opportunity of giving Sir Philip a sly friendly kick, and of

just reminding him of his doctrines announced in the case between

herself and Mr. Marlow, she was not sorry to have Lady Hastings alone

for an hour or two. They remained long in conference, and I need not

detail all that passed. Lady Hastings poured forth all her grief and

indignation at Emily's engagement to Mr. Marlow, and Mrs. Hazleton did

nothing to diminish either. She agreed that it was a very unequal match,

that Emily with her beauty and talents, and even with her mother's

fortune alone, might well marry into the highest family of the land.

Nay, she said, could the match be broken off, she might still take her

rank among the peeresses. She did not advise, indeed, actual resistance

on the part of her friend; she feared Lady Hastings' discretion; but she

insinuated that a mother and a wife by unwavering and constant

opposition, often obtained her own way, even in very difficult

circumstances.

From that hour Mrs. Hazleton was Lady Hastings' best friend.

NATURAL REVELATION.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Does not the heart alone a God proclaim!

Blot revelation from the mind of man!

Yea, let him not e'en Nature's features scan;

There is within him a low voice, the same

Throughout the varied scenes of being's span,

That whispers, God. And doth not conscience speak

Though sin its wildest force upon it wreak!

Born with us--never dying--ever preaching

Of right and wrong, with reference aye to Him--

And doth not Hope, on toward the future reaching--

The aspirations struggling from the Dim

Up toward the Bright--a ceaseless unrepose

Of something unattained--a ceaseless teaching

Of unfulfilled desire--the eternal truth disclose!

HEART-WHISPERS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

What if he loved me!--How the unwhispered thought

Comes o'er me, with a thrill of ecstacy!

And yet, when constant eve his step hath brought,

I timid shrink as he approaches me.

Last night, when greeting words were on his lips,

My ears grew deaf between my faint replies;

And when he pressed my trembling finger tips,

I felt me turn to marble 'neath his eyes.

What if he loved me! If 'twere mine to share

His thought! to be of his proud being part!

Hush! lest the tell-tale wind should idly bear

To him this wild, wild beating of my heart

For should he guess--who in my soul hath name--

That I, unsought, love him, ah! I should die of shame.

THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW.

BY SYDNEY YENDYS.

O full of Faith! The Earth is rock,--the Heaven

The dome of a great palace all of ice,

Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies

Thickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing,

And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snow

Lies every thought of any pleasant thing.

I have forgotten the green earth; my soul

Deflowered, and lost to every summer hope,

Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole;

My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes

Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime;

The Sun himself is heavy and lacks cheer

Or on the eastern hill or western slope;

The world without seems far and long ago;

To silent woods stark famished winds have driven

The last lean robin--gibbering winds of fear!

Thou only darest to believe in spring,

Thou only smilest, Lady of the Time!

Even as the stars come up out of the sea

Thou risest from the Earth. How is it down

In the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower,

For beauty? Shall I find the Summer there

Met manifold, as in an ark of peace?

And Thou, a lone white Dove art thou sent forth

Upon the winter deluge? It shall cease,

But not for thee--pierced by the ruthless North

And spent with the Evangel. In what hour

The flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wings

For ever. When the happy living things

Of the old world come forth upon the new

I know my heart shall miss thee; and the dew

Of summer twilights shall shed tears for me

--Tears liker thee, ah, purest! than mine own--

Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair!

Thou shouldst have noble destiny, who, like

A Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin!

Who on the winter silence comest in

A still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year,

Flower of the Wilderness! oh, not for thee

The jocund playmates of the maiden spring.

For when the danceth forth with cymballed feet,

Waking a-sudden with great welcoming,

Each calling each, they burst from hill to dell

In answering music. But thou art a bell.

A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet.

As is the Poet to his fellow-men,

So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou.

Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no less

A snowdrop. And thou shalt complete his lot

And bloom as fair as now when they are not.

Thou art the wonder of the seasons, O

First-born of Beauty. As the Angel near

Gazed on that first of living things which, when

The blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sere

Leaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain,

Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive,

So gaze I upon thee amid the reign

Of Winter. And because thou livest, I live.

And art thou happy in thy loneliness?

Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods,

Oh couldst thou know the star among the trees

When--as the herald-voice of breeze on breeze

Proclaims the marriage pageant of the Spring

Advancing from the South--each hurries on

His wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ring

Thro' nuptial valleys! No, serene and lone,

I will not flush thy cheek with joys like these.

Songs for the rosy morning; at gray prime

To hang the head and pray. Thou doest well.

I will not tell thee of the bridal train.

No; let thy Moonlight die before their day

A Nun among the Maidens, thou and they.

Each hath some fond sweet office that doth strike

One of our trembling heartstrings musical.

Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May?

And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voice

Hails, like an answering sister, to the woods?

Is not the maiden blushing in the rose?

Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice,

Twins in one meadow? Are not violets all

By name or nature for the breast of Dames!

For them the primrose, pale as star of prime,

For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh,

For them the dew stands in the eyes of day

That blink in April on the daisied lea?

Like them they flourish and like them they fade

And live beloved and loving. But for thee--

For such a bevy how art thou arrayed

Flower of the Tempests? What hast thou with them?

Thou shalt be pearl unto a diadem

Which the Heavens jewel. _They_ shall deck the brows

Of joy and wither there. But _thou_ shalt be

A Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed,

To thy spring dreams art true amid the snows

As he to better dreams amid the flames.--_Athenaeum._

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[H]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.

DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 70._

V.--THE ENTERTAINMENT.

The name of Count Monte-Leone produced great sensation in the numerous

assemblage. The adventures of the Count and the report of his trial had

been published in all the Parisian papers, and in the eyes of some he

was a lucky criminal, and of others a victim and a martyr to his

opinions, whom God alone had preserved. The women especially were

interested in the hero of this judicial drama, on account of the

exaggerated representations of his personal attractions. Received with

general curiosity, which, however, he did not seem to notice, and

crossing the rooms with his usual dignified air, Monte-Leone approached

the Duchess of Palma and expressed his gratitude for her kindness in

including him among her guests. The Duchess recognized the Count

politely, and replied to him with a few meaningless phrases. She then

left him to meet the young Marquise de Maulear, who came in leaning on

the arm of her father, the old Prince. The Prince knew the Neapolitan

Ambassador, whom he had often seen with the Duchess. He had been one of

the first to visit the Duchess of Palma. A man of intelligence and

devotion to pleasure, he thought he did not at all derogate from his

dignity by civility to a young and beautiful woman, who bore so nobly

the name which was conferred on her by love and hymen.

"Duchess," said the Prince, presenting Aminta, "you have often

questioned me about my daughter-in-law, and know what I told you. I am,

I confess, proud for you to be able now to judge for yourself." In the

_interim_ La Felina had taken in the whole person of Aminta at a single

glance, and the result of this rapid examination exerted a strange

influence on her. She grew pale, and her voice trembled, as she told the

Prince that the praises he had bestowed on the Marquise were far less

than the truth.

"The Marquis de Maulear," added she, "is an old acquaintance," and

bowing kindly to him, she offered Aminta a seat and then left her, under

the influence of an emotion which, actress as she was, she could repress

with great difficulty.

The Prince sat by his daughter-in-law, and passing in review before her

the distinguished personages of the room, described them with that

skeptical wit, that courteous irony, of which the nobles of other days

were so completely the masters. He spoke like the Duke d'Ayer of old,

that caustic wit, of whom a lady of the court said that she was amazed

that his tongue was not torn out twenty times a day, so full of pointed

needles was all he said. Aminta smiled at the pencil sketches of the

Prince, or rather at his dagger blow. Had the old man, however, been

twenty times as bitter, she would not have found fault with her

father-in-law, for she knew he was kind and she was grateful to him--one

day we shall know whence these sentiments originated in his mind. The

Marquis de Maulear had left his young wife to speak to his numerous

acquaintances: and while the Prince for Aminta's amusement flayed alive

the various personages who were led before him by their evil fate, Count

Monte-Leone, who had seen the Ambassador, sought in vain to pierce the

crowd which surrounded him. The Duke was not in the room when

Monte-Leone was announced. It was then with surprise and almost with

terror that he saw the Count approach him.

"I have not had the honor," said he, "to approach your Excellency since

the visit paid me at the Castle _Del Uovo_. And I am doubly gratified at

being able to return it in your hotel amid so splendid a festival."

"Count," said the Duke, seeking to conquer the emotion caused by the

unexpected presence of Monte-Leone, "I dared not hope that you would

honor me by accepting my invitation; for you cannot be ignorant that an

Ambassador represents his king. It is then, in some degree, as if we

meet to-day in the palace of his Majesty Fernando King of Naples: and I

think I may venture to tell you, in the name of my Sovereign, that if

your conduct is a token of reconciliation offered by you to his cause,

Fernando IV will acknowledge it as cheerfully as I do now."

Count Monte-Leone appreciated the graceful perfidy of the language of

the Duke, and was ready to curse the secret motive which had led him to

the Embassy. His eyes, however, turned, almost contrary to his wishes,

to the other side of the room, and there he seemed to find something to

sustain him. He replied to the Duke as naturally as possible, that in

coming to his house, he had remembered only the urbanity of his host and

his frankness, being aware that the Duke would never convert a mere

visit of pleasure into a political question.

The Duke bit his lips when he heard this evasive answer, and saw that he

had met his equal in diplomacy. A young man then approached and passed

his arm into that of Monte-Leone's, thus putting an end to this annoying

interview. This young man had an eloquent and _distingue_ air, and

handsome features, though they were delicate and betokened but feeble

health.

"Do you know, my dear Duke," said the new comer to the Ambassador, "that

one must have a very perfect character, and be invited to a very

charming ball, to come as I do to your house, after the manner we parted

eighteen months ago at Naples. Listen!--one goes for health-sake to

Naples to pass the winter, to enjoy the Carnival in peace. After one or

two intrigues with beautiful women having dark eyes, not, however,

comparable with those of the Duchess of Palma, one fine night in the

middle of a Pulcinello supper, you send us in place of a dessert a

company of black-looking _sbirri_, who rush like vultures upon us, and

rust with dirty hands our Venetian daggers which they wrest from us.

Twelve to three, they then separate Taddeo, Von Apsbury and myself, and

placing us in rickety carriages, take one of us to prison, another to

the frontier, and hurry me on board a miserable little vessel, from

which they tumble me like a package of damaged goods on the _quai_ of

Marseilles. I had expected to make the tour of Italy."

"Vicompte," said the Duke, with a smile, "the air of Italy was not

healthy for you. Very excellent physicians told me your life was unsafe

in that country, and that you should leave it as soon as possible. So

complain to the faculty, but thank me for having followed their

directions."

"Now what mistakes," said the young man, "people make. I have always

heard that the climate of Naples was excellent for the chest."

"True," said the Duke, "but it is bad for the head."

"Of that I know something," said Monte-Leone, bowing to the Duke.

"Well, then, suppose it is," continued d'Harcourt, who wished at any

price to avenge himself on the _sbirri_ of his Excellency, in the person

of the Duke himself. "It may be the climate exaggerates and sometimes

destroys the head, but it is excellent for the heart--a suffering

heart--a heart which is attacked is easily cured in Naples. True, the

remedies are sometimes priceless, but patients in desperate cases do not

hesitate on that account."

"I hope, Count," said the Duke, who would not understand the allusion of

the young man to his marriage, "that the climate of Paris suits you

better than that of Naples. Besides, the Duc d'Harcourt, your father,

that most influential nobleman, will prevent you henceforth from

endangering an existence you held too cheaply in Italy."

"Luckily," said D'Harcourt, with a smile, "your Excellency watched over

me, and it is no slight honor to have as a physician the minister of

police of a kingdom. Excuse me, however," added he to the Duke, "I hear

the prelude of Collinet's orchestra, and I have a family duty to fulfil:

my sister Mary has promised to dance this contradance with me, and I

must humor the whim of a spoiled child."

The wild young man hurried to take his sister's arm, and to get into

place with her. Marie d'Harcourt, Rene's sister, was a charming girl,

with blonde hair and a rosy complexion, fair and lithe as a northern

elf. The blue veins were visible beneath her transparent skin, so fair

that one might often have fancied the blood was about to come gushing

through it. The Duke d'Harcourt had lost two of his sons of that

terrible pulmonary disease against which medicine, alas, is powerless.

The distress of the father was intense, for two of the scions of this

family had been cut off by death; and of the five offshoots from the

family tree, but two remained. All his love was therefore centred in

Rene, now his only son, and in Marie, the young girl of whom we have

just spoken. From a sentiment of tender respect, the Duke had not

permitted his last son to assume the title of those he had lost, and

Rene continued to be called the Vicompte d'Harcourt. There were already

apparent sad indications that Rene would become a prey to the monster

which had devoured his two brothers: Marie, a few years younger, gave

her father great uneasiness, on account of the excessive delicacy of her

constitution and organization. All Paris had participated in the grief

of the Duke d'Harcourt; for all Paris respected him. Rich, kind, and

benevolent, in an enlightened manner, and within the bounds of reason,

rejecting all social Utopias, popular as they might make all who

sustained them, the Duke d'Harcourt was a Christian philanthropist, that

is to say, a charitable man. Charity is the holiest and purest of

earthly virtues, and that in which this patriarch indulged shunned noise

and renown. He did not wait until misfortune came to him to soothe it,

but sought it out. When this second providence was known to those whom

he aided, the Duke imposed secrecy on them as a reward for all he had

done. He was, so to say, an impersonation of French honor, and the

arbiter of all the differences which arose between the members of the

great aristocratic families of France. His word was law, and his

decisions sovereign.

The Prince de Maulear had determined to marry his son to the daughter of

this noble old man, and had been forced by the Marquis's marriage to

abandon the plan. The Duke still remained the friend of the Prince,

though he had not unfrequently blamed his somewhat lax principles.

Whenever he discovered the Prince in any peccadillo, he used to say,

"Well, we must be lenient to youth." Now, the Prince de Maulear was a

young man of seventy. The beauty of Aminta, her extreme paleness alone,

would have sufficed to fix attention, and created a very revolution in

the saloons of the Embassy. The Duchess of Palma did not produce her

ordinary effect. The animation she experienced in the beginning of the

evening gradually left her, and the sadness under which she had

previously suffered, but which she had thrown off during the early hours

of the entertainment, began again to take possession of her features and

person. One man alone remarked the Duchess, for he had never lost sight

of her. Leaning against the door of the boudoir, his eye followed her

wherever she went, and appeared to sympathize with all the constraint

inflicted on her as mistress of the house. When, however, the Duchess

thought she had paid sufficient personal attention, and was satisfied

that the pleasures of the evening would be sustained without her, the

man who examined her with such care, saw her come towards the boudoir

where he was. He went in without being seen by her, and yielding to one

of those promptings which a man in his cooler moments would resist, went

behind a drapery which covered a door leading into a gallery of

pictures, and waited motionless. The Duchess of Palma entered the

boudoir, and assuring herself by a glance that she was alone, fell

rather than sat on a divan, and suffered two streams of tears to flow

from her eyes. "I was strangling," said she. "I would die a thousand

deaths. My cruel experiment has succeeded. _He loves her yet_--I am sure

of it. For her sake he came to this entertainment, to which he would not

have come for mine. He would have made an excuse of his old difficulties

with the Duke, of his political position. I would have believed him, and

have sacrificed my wish to see him to propriety and his honor. He never

ceases to look at her. He thinks of her alone. He is busied with her

alone, yet he has no look, no thought for me." The Duchess began to weep

again. Steps were heard in the gallery--the drapery at the door was

agitated. "Oh, my God!" said the Duchess, "if met with here, and in this

condition, what shall I do and say!" The steps approached. Hurrying then

to one of the outlets of the boudoir, she opened it hastily, and went

into the garden. The steps the Duchess had heard were those of two

persons, who, after having been the rounds of the room, were about to go

into the picture-gallery. The two persons were Rene d'Harcourt and Count

Monte-Leone.

"Ah ha!" said the Count, "what the devil is Taddeo doing there against

the drapery, there like a jealous Spaniard at a corner of Seville,

listening to a serenade given by his rival?"

"True! true!" replied d'Harcourt, "but I think the serenade has been

given, for his features express the most malevolent expression."

The emotion of Taddeo was so violent when he heard the words of the

Duchess, that he had not strength to leave. He, however, restrained

himself, and listened to the raillery of his friends.

"Like yourselves," said he, with a quivering voice, "I was in search of

fresh air, for it is fearfully warm."

"Do not get sick here," said d'Harcourt, "for Doctor Matheus is not here

to cure you."

"Silence," said Taddeo, changing his expression at once, "how imprudent

you are to pronounce his name."

All three of them entered the boudoir.

"True," said d'Harcourt, "my tongue is always quicker than my mind. I

will however try and make them keep time."

"When will there be a consultation?" asked Taddeo, trying to be calm.

"Eight days hence!"

"At what hour?"

"Midnight!"

"Are there many patients?"

"More than ever," said the Count, "and the poor devils are anxious as

possible to be cured!"

"Then," said d'Harcourt, "the practice of the Doctor increases."

"Every day. He will soon be unable to turn around."

"That does not make me uneasy," said d'Harcourt, "our Doctor is a

skilful man, a great philosopher, and fully acquainted with the new

medicine."

"Yes, very new;--he treats the mind, rather than the body."

"Ah, that is its very essence," replied the Vicompte, "and I know some

wonderful cures of his--so wonderful, indeed, that on the other day I

presented him to my father."

"To the Duke?" said Monte-Leone,--"introduce Doctor Matheus to the Duke

d'Harcourt?" Then in a low voice he continued, "Why did you present him

to the Doctor?"

"For a reason which was important and very dear to my heart. My young

sister was suffering; my father, who consulted in behalf of my brothers

the most eminent practitioners of Paris, lost all confidence in the

faculty when he lost his sons. He did not know whom to consult about his

daughter; I spoke to him of Matheus, and told him several wonderful

cures he had effected, and the Duke became very anxious to see him."

"And did the stern Matheus consent to go to your father's house?"

"He was anxious to do so, and as his house is not far from ours, I in a

few minutes was able to introduce him into the patient's room; and would

you believe it, a few of the simplest remedies possible exerted a great

effect. The agitation of my sister was calmed--her cough arrested--and

this evening you see her dancing and waltzing, pretty and gay as

possible."

The conversation of the three friends was soon interrupted by the

entrance of two other of the personages of our story. The Prince de

Maulear entered with the _Marquise_ on his arm, seeking in this retired

spot some repose from the fatigues of the ball, and a less heated air

than that of the ball-rooms. Aminta leaned heavily on the arm of the

Prince when she saw Monte-Leone thus unexpectedly. She had observed him

during the evening, and in the course of the winter they had more than

once met together. The Count, however, had never referred to their

parting at Sorrento. Far from seeking her out, Monte-Leone seemed to

avoid her. Satisfied with saluting her respectfully as often as they

met, the Count used always to leave her. This reserved and proper

conduct was sufficiently explained by the old rivalry of the Marquis de

Maulear and the Count. Recollection of this rivalry, without doubt,

caused in Aminta's mind the great emotion she always felt when in the

presence of Monte-Leone.

"What," said the Prince, when he saw the Count, "are you here, my dear

colleague? This chance delights me. My daughter," said he to the young

Marquise, "let me introduce to you the Count Monte-Leone, a great

traveller, to whom I am indebted for the best chapter of my Italian

voyages; all action, I will read it to you one of these days! Ah! but

for the Count, I would never have perfected it."

"Monsieur," said Monte-Leone, with a low bow, "I have the honor of the

_Marquise_'s acquaintance; and Signora Rovero, her mother, deigned

sometimes to receive me at her house before the marriage of the Marquis

de Maulear and Madame--"

The Count as he spoke felt as if his heart would burst. The Prince,

however, did not perceive it.

"You know my daughter," said the Count, "yes, you have not called on

her, you did not seek to see me, who am so glad to see you. This is bad,

Count--you will not, however, remain away any longer, and I will not

quit you until you promise me a speedy visit."

"I do not know if I should," said the Count, with a hesitation which was

not natural to him--and looking timidly at Aminta.

"We shall be happy to receive the Count; but you know, Monsieur, I

receive no one without the consent of the Marquis--"

"But the Marquis," said the Prince, "will be delighted to receive so

charming a gentleman and erudite a traveller as Count Monte-Leone."

"But I also know M. de Maulear," said the Count.

"Indeed! then you know every one," said the old man. "Why then be so

ceremonious? People of our rank easily understand each other. Besides,

if the invitation of my son is all you need, here he comes to speak for

himself."

D'Harcourt and Taddeo, especially the latter, who knew how devotedly

Monte-Leone had loved Aminta, participated in the embarrassment of the

scene. Aminta trembled. "Ah! you here at last, Monsieur," said the

Prince to his son, as he appeared at the door of the boudoir. "You are a

lucky fellow to have your father as your wife's _cavalier servente_, for

you have not been near her during the whole evening." The Marquis turned

pale, and said with agitation, "Excuse me, sir, but I met some old

friends who kept possession of me all the evening."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "_apropo_ of old friends--or old acquaintances,

if you will, here is one of yours--the Count Monte-Leone, who wants only

for a word from your mouth to renew his acquaintance and visit me."

Henri looked at Monte-Leone, whom he had not seen before.

Without trouble, without agitation, or any apparent effort, he said,

"Count Monte-Leone will always be welcome whenever he pleases to visit

me."

Aminta cast a glance full of surprise, grief, and reproach on the

Marquis, and a secret voice repeated in her very heart:--"He is no

longer jealous, and therefore does not love me."

"Very well," said the Prince to his son, and turning to Monte-Leone, and

giving him his hand, he said, "We shall meet again, my dear colleague."

He continued, "We will talk of our travels, and especially of the

chapter of Ceprano."

Then taking the arm of Aminta, who could scarcely support herself, he

returned to the ball-room.

VI.--JOURNAL OF A HEART.

The entertainment continued, and the joyous sounds of the orchestra

reached the very extremity of the garden of the Hotel, where the Duchess

of Palma had taken refuge to conceal her tears from all observers. She

heard a faint noise beneath a neighboring hedge, and looking towards it,

saw Taddeo gazing at her with an expression of great grief.

"Taddeo," said she.

"Yes," said the young man, "Taddeo, who pities and suffers with you

because he knows all and suffers all that unappreciated love can inflict

on the heart--"

This was said with an expression of deep pity.

"Who has told you," said the Duchess proudly, "that I suffered as you

say?"

"Your tears," said Taddeo, "and the memory of the past. Better still,

yourself. The words you uttered not long ago in the boudoir, and which

by chance I heard."

"Signor," replied the Duchess with indignation, "do not attribute to

chance what you owe to ignoble curiosity. To watch a woman--to surprise

the secrets of her heart, is infamous, and betrays the hospitality

extended to you. It shows a want of respect for me, and absence of honor

in yourself."

"Signora, my only excuse is my ardent passion, which has lasted in spite

of time and contempt. I have no motive for my fault but my sad interest

in your suffering, the cruel progress of which I have read on your

features since the commencement of the entertainment;--that is all----"

"But, Signor, what have I said? What words have I uttered?" said the

Duchess, every feature being instinct with terror.

"Nothing, alas! that my heart has not long been aware of. He that you

loved, you love still, and his coldness and insensibility for your

devotion, makes you lament his ingratitude and indifference."

The Duchess seemed, as it were, relieved of an enormous burden which

oppressed her. She breathed more freely and murmured these words with a

burst of gratitude to God who had preserved her--"He knows nothing."

"Taddeo," said she, giving him her hand, "I pardon you, for I am myself

guilty, very guilty in still preserving my old sentiments in the face of

my new obligations, voluntarily contracted. I have, I am certain, lost

the right to reproach you with a fault, which passion induced you to

commit, while I commit one far greater. For pity's sake forget what you

have heard, and to ask me to explain it would be an offence. Pity me in

your heart. Ah! pity me, for I am most unfortunate." Then drying her

eyes, she continued, "No more of this--be a friend to me as you promised

six months ago, when we came to Paris. On this condition alone you know

that I permitted you to see me. Now give me your arm, and let us return

to the ball-room, whence, probably, our absence has been remarked." They

walked in silence down the alley which led to the ball-room.

Two hours after, all was calm and silent where every thing had been gay

and brilliant. The lights were out, and the darkness of night replaced

the thousand lamps which a few minutes before were seen to glitter

within the palace windows. But one person in all the Hotel of the Duke

of Palma was awake. A woman sat alone, in a room of rare elegance, still

wearing her ball attire, but with her hair dishevelled and her heart

crushed. Her eyes were fixed and dry, and yet red with the tears she had

shed. She was in all the brilliancy of youth and beauty, but which was

already defaced somewhat, by the iron claws of sorrow, which by

sleepless nights and the ravages of jealousy seemed resolved yet more to

lacerate her. With her head resting on her hands, beautiful and touching

as Canova's Magdalen, she looked with sorrow over the papers which lay

strewn on a rich ebony desk before her. A lamp, the upper portion of

which was shrouded in blue tulle, cast a pale and sad light over her

brow. Her fine white hand rested on the papers which she seemed afraid

to touch. "No," said she, "it is impossible; all that these contain are

but falsehoods. No, this journal of my heart, written by myself, day by

day, cannot be a romance created by the imagination in its delirium. No!

all I wrote there was true. I felt the joys and bitternesses, yet it now

seems to me a dream. A dream! can it be a dream?"

Taking up the papers convulsively she read as follows:--"It is he. I

have seen him again and free. I thought that he, like myself, had

contracted a life-long obligation. Is this joy or grief? The ties he was

about to form, the ties the mere thought of which caused me a terrible

anguish, were imposed on me by myself. Oh my God! what have I done? What

perfidious demon inspired me when I yielded to another than to him the

_right_ to love me? When I promised a love I knew could be given to no

other than to him? Why on the day of that fatal marriage did I see him

only when I was about to leave the church? I would have broken off had I

stood at the foot of the altar--I would have told him who was about to

give me his name--ask me not to perjure myself! do not ask me to pledge

you a faith I cannot keep! my heart, my soul, my love are his. I

thought, alas! because he was not free that I too might cease to be. I

fancied my agony to be power, my spite to be courage. When, however, I

saw him pale and sombre, leaning against the door of the temple, I felt

the coldness of death take possession of me, and I doubted long after

that sad day, if I had seen a shadow, if some hallucinations of my

senses had not evoked a phantom of my vanished love, to inspire me with

eternal regret. Yet HE it was! HE it was! and when at the risk of my

very life I would have flown towards that man, I was forced to follow

another." The poor woman paused; for a mist obscured her sight, a

distillation of burning tears. She resumed her task:--"I am a Duchess

but of what value is that vain title which I sought, as an aegis against

memory, to me? Have I found it such? For a long time, I thought so. I

should, however, never have seen him again. I should have passed no

happy days near him, and have been ignorant of the delirium and

intoxication of his presence, which I never can forget. I had been the

wife of the Duke of Palma six months, when a mission of the King of

Naples forced him to leave me at a villa on the _Lago di Como_, while he

went in a foreign country to discharge the duties his monarch had

imposed on him. I scarcely dared to confess to myself, in spite of the

kindness of the Duke, how I was delighted during his absence, for it

gave me a liberty of mind and thought which was absolutely necessary to

my heart. Resolved to discharge all my duties, I lived, or rather

vegetated, in this existence, so unoccupied and objectless as all

marriages contracted without love must be. Amid, however, the dead calm

of a marriage contracted without love, there glittered sometimes a burst

of passion repressed, but alas! not stifled. Dark passions filled my

bosom, and I felt the poison of regret. I found myself often longing for

my independence, which, however, would not have contributed to my

happiness, but would at least have permitted me to indulge in my secret

sorrow. My temporary solitude, therefore, became precious to me, for I

was about to abandon myself to sadness without annoying any one, and

without exciting a curiosity which it was impossible for me to satisfy.

When one evening I had been wandering alone on the banks of the lake, I

was terrified by a terrible scene on the water. At a great distance a

man made every effort to approach the shore--for his boat was evidently

sinking beneath him. Some opening, beyond doubt, permitted the water to

penetrate, and his danger became every moment more imminent. I was too

far from the villa to send him any assistance, and as a secret

presentiment was joined to the horror and pity caused by the spectacle,

I felt the greatest anxiety about the stranger. The night was near, and

the sky became darker every moment. By the flashes of lights here and

there, I saw the bark almost sinking, and ere long, it was entirely

gone--and the tranquil waves of the lake, calm as they are wont to be,

rolled over it. My strength deserted me, and almost in a fainting

condition, I fell on the strand. I did not absolutely lose

consciousness; for far in the distance I heard the sound of sudden blows

on the water, for which at the time I could not account. The noise

approached, and grew every moment more distinct. I then heard the sound,

as it were, of a body falling on the sand, accompanied by a painful cry.

I heard no more. Soon I saw the light of the torches of my servants, who

being uneasy, had come to look for me. They found me, and also a half

inanimate body, dripping with water. It was doubtless the person whose

boat had foundered in the water, and I ordered him to be taken to the

villa and carefully attended to. It was late, and I returned. A few

hours had passed since the event, and I was sitting alone at the piano.

Fancy bore me back to my last appearance at San-Carlo, where a mad and

infatuated public had bade me so enthusiastic an adieu. While all that

crowd had eyes, for him alone I wished to be beautiful--for him alone to

be worthy of the admiration I excited. Dreaming this, my fingers run

over the keys, and joining my voice to the instrument, I sang almost

unconsciously that touching air in which I had been so much applauded.

My song was at first low and half-whispered, but gradually increased in

power. I thought I spoke to him, and that his eyes were fixed on mine.

At last I paused, pale with surprise, joy and terror. In the glass

before me I saw Count Monte-Leone."

The memory of this event was so distinct and exciting, that the Duchess

paused and looked around for the apparition which had caused her such

keen emotion. Then, as if she delighted to place the knife in the wound,

she took up the manuscript, and continued:--

"'Excuse me, Madame,' said the Count, 'for having thus introduced myself

into your house; but I am come to thank you for the cares I have

received in your name.'

"'You--you here?' said I, yet doubting my eyes. 'Is it a dream or

vision? Speak, speak once more, that, I may be sure I do not dream.'

"'Felina,' said he, in a tone full of melancholy, 'I know not why our

fate should thus constantly bring us together. But one might think, that

still faithful to your old oath, you continue the providence you used to

be to me. When a few months since, after the wreck of all my hopes of

happiness, after having been misconceived by those for whom I had done

so much, when sad and desperate, I cursed my egotistical and cold

career, you appeared to me in the Church of Ferentino and cast on me, in

the face of your marriage vows, one of those deep-loving looks which

cheer the heart and attach it to life. And when on the lake, exhausted

with fatigue and ready to yield under the struggle necessary to avert my

threatened fate, you again came to my relief. You see, then,' continued

he, smiling sadly, 'that in becoming the good angel of the Duke of

Palma, you do not cease to be mine.'

"Never had the Count spoken thus to me. He had always been cold, and

seemed most unwillingly to acknowledge the services I had rendered him.

I had never received an affectionate word from his mouth before. He saw

the trouble he gave me, and taking my hand, said, with a voice full of

sensibility, 'Are you happy?' At this question, it seemed as if my heart

would break, and I burst into tears.

"'Felina,' said he, 'why do you weep? what is the meaning of this?'

"'Do not question me,' said I. 'Let me keep the cause of those tears a

secret, for you can neither dry up nor understand them. Tell me though

about yourself, said I. Tell me of your marriage.'

"Monte-Leone grew pale, and said, 'I am not married, I am free.'

"I could not repress a feeling of joy.

"'Ah!' said he, bitterly, 'Do you enjoy my misfortune?'

"This word restored me to my _sang-froid_. I became more calm, and

questioned him. The Count told me all.

"For many months, he had travelled and returned to Europe to arrange

some pecuniary matters previous to his return to France, where he

purposed to remain. Passing by _la Tremezzina_, he learned, indirectly,

that certain malevolent reports had been circulated in relation to him

by the brothers of the powerful association, of which he had been the

chief. A venta was to meet on the opposite shore of Lake Como. Taking a

rude costume--he had gone thither, for the purpose of protesting against

the perfidious insinuations of his enemies. Afraid, however, of being

watched by some agent of his enemies, he resolved to cross the lake

alone and at night. Thus he became so near being lost. The Count wished

to leave me that night, for he was aware of the absence of the Duke of

Palma, and was afraid of compromising me. I, however, retained him for

several days in the villa, for the purpose of throwing off the vigilance

of his enemies. Alas! how have I regretted those days, the only happy

ones of my life. How rapidly they passed away! The Count knew the

mystery I wished to hide from him. He read it in my soul, the only

thought of which he long had been. He knew why I had married, what tears

and sorrow I had known, and what anguish it had caused me. Touched by

this vast sacrifice, understanding the extent of my love, I saw the ice

of his heart gradually begin to melt. But as his heart warmed to mine, a

secret terror took possession of me. Tasting all the joy of seeing arise

in the heart of the Count, sentiments which, when I was free I could not

have heard without pride and satisfaction, I trembled at the idea of

being able to listen to them only with crime. Soon it was I who besought

the Count to fly--to leave me--to see me no more. Strange, however, is

the human heart; the passion of Monte-Leone seemed to feed on my

opposition. He forgot the past, he could not realize it to have existed.

"Sitting by my side during the long days, beneath the flowery bowers of

the villa, the Count, as he said, saw through the darkness in which he

had been enveloped--his eyes recovered their vision, and at last I

appeared to him, for the first time, the most charming, the most

adorable of women. Never was there a more eloquent tenderness than

his--and to me who lived for him alone--whose image was ever before me,

who had loved him in spite of his coldness and indifference, almost his

contempt, to me he used this language of entreaty.... Yet he did so to a

woman who loved him. A month passed in this cruel contest of love and

duty. The contest was not equal, and passion triumphed. The Count had

left the villa, but was concealed in the vicinity, and I saw him every

day become more tender and affectionate. One must have suffered as I

have to understand the intoxication of my happiness. To be loved by him

had never seemed possible; and to possess this life-dream, to read in

his looks a passion I alone had experienced hitherto, was a veil, thin

indeed, but this prevented me from discerning how great was my fault. If

it did become known to me, I loved it; for in my delirium I thought that

I gave to this man a heart which belonged to him, and a person of which,

in defiance of his rights, another was possessed. The other though, whom

I doubly injured by this thought, had given me truly, loyally, and

nobly, his heart, his rank, his name. So completely, however, was I led

astray, that I censured the Duke for this very generosity. Sometimes,

however, my life of love had its sorrows. The Count would be sad, and in

his moments of melancholy, forgot my presence, and spoke slightingly on

the volatility of women and of their caprices. I used to look at him

with surprise, and seek to discover his secret thoughts. One day it was

revealed to me.

"'When women are young,' said he, 'they suffer themselves to be led away

by brilliant exterior, and by that studied gallantry of which the French

make such a display.' A few words full of venom escaped him

involuntarily in relation to a rival that she whom he _had_ loved

preferred to him. So shocked was I, that I asked him, if ill-humor at

his repulse alone had led him to my feet. Without knowing how he had

done so, the Count saw he had wounded me, and by increased care and

tenderness lulled a suspicion which ultimately was to rise in all its

power and agony.

"One day, we were to separate. The Count was obliged to go to Naples,

where he was impatiently waited for. My despair at this intelligence was

terrible. How could I leave this sweet happiness which had grown around

me in two months! It seemed above my power and ability. Nothing seemed

to influence the Count. I knew him well, and was aware that he never

yielded. I soon ceased to contend, and he left me--not, however, without

the tenderest oaths of constancy. 'We will soon meet again,' he

remarked, 'and in Paris: in that vast city where mystery is so easy,

and where secret love finds an impenetrable shelter, we will reside--you

still as beautiful, I devoted as ever.'"

This was the end of the manuscript.

"Vain promises," said La Felina, crushing the papers in her hands. "I

wished to read these pages once more. I wrote them after he had gone,

and they are the history of my fleeting happiness. I wished to be

satisfied that I had been happy. I doubt it sometimes, for during the

three months the Count has been here, I see him every day resume more

and more his old coldness to me. Formerly, I could reproach myself with

nothing. I had betrayed no one; and he, in his disdain, had violated no

promise. Now, though, he has created eternal remorse and regret. He has

revived in my heart a flame which was nearly out--yet has nothing but

indifference and contempt for me. He forgets, though, how dangerous it

is to offend an Italian woman. He has forgotten what he read in my

letter to his friend: 'Had I been to the Count but an ordinary woman,

the charms of whom would have fixed him for a time, but whom he would

repudiate as he has his other conquests, _I would have killed him_.'"

VII.--DOCTOR MATHEUS.

At the time we write of, there was in _la rue Babylonne_, near the

faubourg Saint-Germain, an old house, the owner of which was really to

be pitied. In consequence of a kind of fate which overhung this house,

no room had been occupied for many years, and the persons who went

thither in search of room, terrified at their sombre air, heard,

subsequently, such stories of what had happened within its walls, took

good care not to take up their abode there, even if they had given the

_denier-a-Dieu_, an important matter in Paris, and a kind of bargain

between the lodger and landlord, made in the presence of the porter, who

is the notary, witness, and depository of the contract. If, however, any

quiet family, led astray by the retirement of the house, established

themselves in it, the servants soon heard such stories from their

neighbors in No. 15, that they lived in perpetual terror--madame grew

pale, and as often as monsieur sang louder than usual, or came in

without noise, had nervous attacks. The unfortunate lodgers, menaced by

jaundice or some other bilious complaint, in consequence of the repeated

emotions to which they were subjected, were anxious always to go, even

under the penalty of indemnifying the landlord. The latter saw himself

again forced to submit to the reign of solitude in the old halls, which

were gilt and painted _a la Louis XV._, and saw the mildew and dust

again rest on the windows and cells, as soon as the fires ceased to

burn; not even the presence of a trunk, belonging to a chance sojourner

in this desert isle, relieved the landlord from apprehensions of the

recurrence of his old calamity. The Crusoe of this desert island had

declared that he had rather pay the lodging three, six, or nine-fold,

than live in such proximity with the miserable ideas which the house

suggested. True, the Crusoe was an Englishman, predisposed to the

_spleen_, and the sadness of his abode would soon have led him to

augment by a new scene the dramas which had already happened in this

house. The landlord, afraid that he would do so, hurried to conclude

matters as soon as possible with the islander.

The following was the reason of the bad repute of No. 13:

A man had hung himself there for love. This was a horrid story,

but it was not the whole drama. Three years after, two very old

men, who were very rich, and said to be retired merchants, were

found stifled beneath their mattress, and the criminal was

never found out. The people of the quartier, however, knew all

about it, and said who was the murderer. They maintained it was

the old suicide, the shadow of whom was ill at ease, and had a

mortal aversion to any one who disagreed with him about a

suitable and pleasant residence.

Yet for some time No. 13 had looked like all the other houses in the

vicinity. People went in and came out, just as if it had been the

domicile of no ghost. The knocker on the door was often heard, and when

the porter opened his door, a little flower-garden was seen, with

various horticultural treasures, expanding beneath the spring sun.

At length a lodger was found, a very godsend to No. 13, whose lofty

reason was superior to all the fables told of the house, and, by his

presence defended it from the calumny which had been circulated about

it; not by words but deeds, for he lived there, and was neither hung nor

stifled, like the old merchants, who had several very evil disposed

nephews, and who, to say the least, assisted the man that was hung in

procuring the rich inheritance for them. This house had a large

ground-floor, and many handsome rooms on the first story. The second

story was very expensive, having previously been the _studio_ of a

painter, but which had been appropriated by the new lodger to an object

which we will describe by and by. We will not attempt a description of

this new lodger, but will introduce to our readers one more competent to

do it. This person is Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, an old maid between

thirty-seven and forty-nine years of age. She was tall and thin, and had

all her life rejoiced at this, for she had a form three fingers in

diameter. True, a broomstick can be grasped between the thumb and index

finger, and yet is not very graceful. Let not any one think, though, in

spite of this infantine vanity, that Mlle. Crepineau was of those

virgins whom the Bible condemns _as foolish about their beauty_. She was

a prudent honest-minded girl, the heart of whom if it ever spoke, did so

in such low terms, that no one ever heard it. Mademoiselle Celestine's

virtue was a proverb. Mothers in all that part of the town spoke of her

as a model of prudence, and fathers pointed her out to their sons as a

warning against the passions of youth. Without father or mother, from

her very childhood Mlle. Crepeneau had no protector but her god-father,

an old lawyer, who owned No. 13 of Babylonne-street. The worthy lawyer

had provided for the youth of Mlle. Celestine, and had long intrusted

her with the control of his kitchen: discovering, however, how

little talent his god-daughter had for the art of _Cussy_ and

_Brillot-Savarin_, and wishing to provide an honorable and comfortable

home for her, he removed her from the charge of her personal to that of

his real property. We will see how fully Mlle. Celestine justified the

esteem of her god-father: with what martial courage she took possession

of this kingdom of shadows; and how, after sprinkling the whole house

with holy water and hung a bough of a blessed tree, she had declared

that this asylum, thus purified, henceforth would be unapproachable to

the man who had been hung.

The fact is, for three years, neither the suicide nor any one else had

violated this sanctuary of virtue. But Mlle. Celestine was not only a

virtuous and sensible woman, but a woman of eloquence. Nothing could be

more attractive than the harangues she made use of to induce lodgers to

occupy her rooms. Honey flowed from her mouth, and many persons were led

away by the siren's song. But generally they soon became terrified and

fled from the terrors which besieged them. Mlle. Celestine Crepeneau

therefore could not praise her new lodger too highly. "What a charming

man," said she to her neighbors in 11 and 51, the porters of which

looked on her as an oracle. "Doctor Matheus is an angel, pure as those

of Paradise. God forgive me for saying so, for I think he is handsomer

than they, with his magnificent whiskers and moustache. I do not see why

angels do not wear them! I am sure they are very becoming. Besides, he

is so kind to other people. Only the other day he wished to set

_Tamburin's_ leg, which some Jacobin had broken." In Mlle. Crepeneau's

mind, a Jacobin was capable of any thing. "And what a magnificent room

he has! how beautiful: all full of noble skeletons, Jacobins' heads, and

books enough to fill all the Place Louis XV. He has also a fine

practice, and patients of every kind coming on horseback, in carriages,

on foot, and in wooden shoes. He refuses no one, and cures every

body--even _Tamburin_. The poor animal is very fond of him, never

barking when he passes, but wagging his tail as if he knew his

physician. I alone attend to Doctor Matheus," continued Mlle. Crepeneau,

"and I flatter myself he is well waited on. He has a great deal of

trouble, too, especially on his consultation days. One would think then

all Paris met at his house. He is a brave man, and is not afraid of

ghosts! Yet he said the other day, 'I have killed so many people that

one more would run me mad.'"

Yet while Mlle. Crepineau was thus prodigal of her praises, in front of

No. 13, her lodger, as she called him, was in the third story of the

house, and was shut up in his room engaged in the strangest manner. The

studio had preserved nothing of its original destination but its name.

Instead of pictures, plaster casts, statuettes, and manikins, the table

was covered with manuscripts, books, pamphlets, and loose papers; on

this battle-field, where science, art and politics seemed to contend

together, stood a noble Japan vase from which arose a noble bouquet of

white camelias--above this hung the portrait of a protestant preacher.

Doctor Matheus, as Mlle. Celestine had said, was young and handsome. He

had luxuriant fair hair, hanging in clusters around his face and falling

on his shoulders, so as to give a seraphic air to his face, very well

calculated to touch the heart of pious Celestine. In his mild blue eyes,

however, there was an expression of will, decision and daring which

strangely contrasted with the rest of his face. The Doctor was tall and

elegantly formed, and wore at home the costume yet popular at Leipsig,

Gottingen and Heidelberg, a doublet of velvet and a kind of cap

surmounted by a plume. He had suppressed the plume. This is exactly the

costume of Karl de Moor in Schiller's robber; and in 1847 we saw the

pupils of those venerable universities strolling through the streets of

the German capitals in this very theatrical costume, precisely that of

Wilhelm Meister's actors when they met Mignon on the Ingolstadt road

just after their unfortunate representation of Hamlet. The Doctor, we

have said, was strangely engaged. He leaned over a vast chart of Europe,

extended before him like a body waiting for the knife of the anatomist.

His eyes were expanded, his brow flushed, and from time to time he stuck

black pins into this chart, and whenever he did so consulted the

manuscripts which he held in his hand. When he had inserted the last

pin, he arose, and with a cry of joy looked around like a conqueror; as

great men are wont to survey their fields of triumphs. "Europe is ours,"

said he, "and the world is Europe's." The vaccine of _Carbonarism_ has

taken, and courses from vein to vein, to the very noblest portion of the

social body. It has reached and taken possession of the heart. The old

man is dead and a new being is about to be born. Better still, Lazarus,

regenerated, is about to burst from the tomb.

Afraid to yield to a false hope, trembling lest he should be deceived in

his calculations, the Doctor leaned again over his chart, and began to

compute the black pins which, like a mourning cloak, covered the map of

Europe. And indeed the terrible monster he had named was a pall thrown

over the happiness of the people of the world. The idealists and

ambitious men who sought to extend it were the murderers of all

prosperity. A Gothic clock which leaned against the wall struck eleven.

The features of the Doctor at once changed their expression, and

infinite grief replaced the enthusiasm which pervaded them. He hurried

to a low window of his cabinet, and pushing aside the curtain, looked

anxiously into a garden which was behind the house he dwelt in, and from

which he was separated only by the _parterre_ of which we have spoken

before. This garden belonged to a magnificent hotel in the street of

Verennes. A large portal decked with flower vases led to rooms on the

ground-floor. This door was just then opened and a beautiful girl

hurried past, when the Doctor went to the window of his cabinet. The

young girl walked down an alley well lighted; she seemed to seek for the

generous heat of the sun, and turned toward it like a true Heliotrope.

She seemed to take no care of her complexion, for her head was scarcely

covered by a straw-hat which could not avert the heat. A thin dress of

embroidered muslin with short sleeves displayed her arms, and a blue

sash surrounded her thin and delicate form. She gathered a few flowers,

and cut away a few bad branches of the rose-trees with an elegant

English pruning-knife. Then after having passed two or three times up

and down the alley in front of the portal, she put her hand to her brow

as if to make a visor to shield her eyes from the burning rays of the

sun. Just in front of her was the window--the curtain of which Doctor

Matheus had drawn aside, and there he stood more beautiful and radiant

than ever. The young girl blushed slightly and looked hastily away, for

the sun probably appeared too bright just then. The Doctor seemed

fascinated by what he had seen, and we cannot say how long his ecstasy

continued. At last a well-known voice exclaimed on the other side of the

door, which was closed even to Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, "Doctor--you

are wanted in the parlor. A gentleman--a patient. He has given me his

card to bring you."

"Very well," said the Doctor, "I am coming."

"But, sir, if you will open the door I will give you his card."

"Keep it," said the Doctor, "as I am coming down and do not need it."

"Yet," said the inquisitive porteress.--"Monsieur may wish to know the

name in advance."

"I do not," said the Doctor, "and hope Mlle. Crepineau that you will go

away."

"My God!" said Mlle. Celestine, terrified at the Doctor's manner. "What

is the matter with my new lodger? Why will he not let me enter his

cabinet? Perhaps though he is cutting up some human body, and has

respect for my sex."

The Doctor left his room, and locked the door carefully; putting the key

in his pocket, he went down. When he entered the room he was amazed to

see who was waiting for him.

"The Duke d'Harcourt here!" said he, bowing respectfully to his visitor.

The Duke said, "My visit should not surprise you, for I came, after all,

only to thank you for your services to my dear Marie."

"Duke," said Doctor Matheus, "your benevolent reception, when I had the

honor to be presented to you, has converted a duty into a pleasure. The

natural interest," added he, with profound emotion, "with which your

daughter inspires all who see her, would make me most proud of her

cure."

"Doctor," said the Duke, looking most earnestly at the physician, "you

inspire me with a confidence I have had in none of your brethren. Your

reply, therefore, to my question, I shall look on as a sentence. Do not

fear to be frank, Doctor, for I am prepared for every misfortune;

already crushed by my sufferings, my heart looks forward to no earthly

happiness. The lives of my two surviving children are the objects of my

own life, but uncertainty is too much for me. Reply therefore, I beg

you, sincerely to me whether the life of my child is in danger."

"Duke," said Doctor Matheus, "the hand of God is more powerful than that

of science.--HE often strikes down the strong, and preserves the weak,

so that none here can tell when to expect his blows. I can, however,

assure you on my honor, that your daughter, delicate as she is, at this

time has not even a germ of the terrible malady which has ravaged your

hearth. This germ is always in the blood of members of the same family.

Art establishes this, though it can provide no remedy.--This secret

enemy, however," said the physician, with a kind of pride, "before which

all known remedies are powerless, I can perhaps oppose and conquer."

"Tell me, Doctor, tell me!" said the Duke, clasping the Doctor's hands,

"save my child, grant her life, and my fortune is yours."

"Duke," said Matheus, "if I had the honor of a better acquaintance with

you, I would not listen to such language as you have used.--Gold has

little value in my eyes, and reputation no more, for I do not place my

hopes for the future in my profession. Since, however, study has

revealed to me the art of assisting those who suffer, and of saving

those who are in danger, I would esteem it a crime not to do so; and I

promise this art shall be employed in the cure of Mlle. d'Harcourt.

"And," said the Duke, "will this be a secret to me?"

"No, Duke; I will use it in your presence. I will also own that I have

already made use of it, though but slightly, in the case of Mlle.

d'Harcourt; what I have done, satisfies me that I may hope to see her

completely restored."

"It is true;" said the Duke. "The interview and the simple remedies you

prescribed, have sufficed to soothe the sufferings of my daughter. Ah!

Monsieur," added he, clasping the Doctor's hand kindly, "how can I

discharge my obligations towards you?"

"By granting me a boon, invaluable to me, and which all Paris will envy,

and of which I know you are prodigal indeed, your esteem--the respect

of the Duke d'Harcourt--the most honorable and virtuous of men. You see,

Monsieur, I place a great value on my consultations; and few persons

have received so noble a recompense from you."

"Doctor," said the Duke d'Harcourt, with a smile, "in that case you are

already paid; for I know all that you do in Paris, and especially in

this neighborhood. I know that want meets here with a better reception

than opulence, and that you look on all sufferers as having an equal

claim on your attention. You must be aware, that knowing this I have

already given you all you ask."

"Well, then," said the Doctor, "let me continue to have your respect,

and we shall be equal."

Just then Mlle. Celestine Crepineau knocked at the door.

"Come in," said Doctor Matheus.

"Sir, there are in the reception-room an English Milord, and two

miserable creatures waiting to see you."

"Who are the latter?"

"One is an Auvergnat, very badly dressed, with a bandage over his eye,

who has already been here once or twice."

Doctor Matheus seemed annoyed, and turned away lest the Duke should

observe it.

"The other is a peasant from the environs, who has a handkerchief over

his face as if he _enjoyed a fluxion_."

"I will go," said the Duke, "for your visitors are impatient, and sorrow

should not wait. I will give place to Milord."

"Mademoiselle," said the Doctor, "show in the poor wretches."

"Very well," said the Duke, "the poor before the rich, I expected that."

Bowing kindly to the Doctor, the old nobleman left.

As he passed through the reception room, he saw the Doctor's visitors,

each of whom looked towards him. The _Milord_ rushed towards a window,

which luckily was closed. The other two were introduced to the Doctor's

room. No sooner were they there, than the one threw off his

handkerchief, and the Auvergnat his bandage. The Doctor gave them his

hand and exclaimed, "MONTE-LEONE! Taddeo."

"And here, too, am I," said the Milord, entering the room and throwing

aside his red wig and burning whiskers.

"D'Harcourt, too"--said the Doctor, hurrying to meet the new comer--and

then closing the curtains, "Here we all are," said he.

"Yes, dear Von Apsbury," said the Count, embracing him. "_The Pulcinelli

of the Etruscan villa are again united._"

* * * * *

Dr. Franklin's father had seventeen children. He was the fifteenth. He

says in his autobiography, that his father died at the age of

eighty-nine, and his mother at the age of eighty-five, and that neither

were ever known to have any sickness except that of which they died.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer

& Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United

States for the Southern District of New-York.

From Fraser's Magazine.

LIFE AT A WATERING PLACE.

THE DOG OF ALCIBIADES.

BY C. ASTOR BRISTED.

We left Tom Edwards mysteriously swallowed up, like a stage ghost down a

trap-door. And do you know, reader, I am very near leaving him so for

good and all, and suspending these sketches indefinitely,--yea, even to

the time of the Mississippi dividends, or any other period beyond the

Greek Calends that your imagination can conjure up. For the wise

men--and the wise women, too--of Gotham are wroth with me, and one says

that I am writing on purpose to libel this man or puff that woman, and

another charges me with sketching my own life in _Fraser_, for

self-glorification, and a third holds up the last number of _Pendennis_

at me and says, "If you could write like _that_, there would be some

excuse for you, but you won't as long as you live." "Alas, no!" said I,

and was just going to burn my unfinished papers, and vow that I would

never again turn aside from my old craft of reviewing. But then came

reflection in the shape of a bottle of true Dutch courage--genuine

Knickerbocker Madeira--and said, "Why should you be responsible for

resemblances you never meant, if people will insist on finding them?

Consider how prone readers, and still more hearers who take their

reading at second-hand, are to suppose that the author, be he great or

small, must have represented himself in some one of his personages."

True enough, Mr. Bottle; for instance, any one of our fashionables will

tell you that "our _spirituel_ and accomplished friend" (as Slingsby

calls him), M. Le Vicomte Vincent Le Roi, is the hero of his thrilling

romance, _Le Chevalier Bazalion_--why they should, or what possible

resemblance they can find between the real man in New-York, and the

ideal one in the novel, it passeth my poor understanding to discover.

Bazalion is a stalwart six-footer, who goes about knocking people's

brains out, scaling inaccessible precipices, defending castles

single-handed against a regiment or two, and, by way of relaxation after

this hard work, victimizing all the fair dames and blooming damsels that

come in his way--breaking the hearts of all the women when he has broken

the heads of all the men. Le Roi is a nice gentlemanly man, of the

ordinary size, who sings prettily and talks well, and makes himself

generally agreeable, and not at all dangerous in society--much the more

Christian and laudable occupation, it seems to me. If ever he does bore

you, it is with his long stories, not with a long pike as Bazalion used

to do. Be the absurdity, then, on the head of him who makes it; _Qui

vult decipi decipiatur_: if any one chooses to think that I am bodied

forth under the character of Harry Benson, and am, in consequence, a

handsome young man, who can do a little of every thing instead of----but

never mind what; your actor has not yet sufficient standing to come down

before the footlights, and have his little bit of private chaff with

the audience. Only this will I say, so help me N. P. Willis, I mean to

go on with these sketches till they are finished, provided always that

_Fraser_ will take them so long and that you continue to read them, or

fall into a sweet and soothing slumber over them, as the case may be.

For if we are all to shut up shop until we can write as well as Mr.

Titmarsh, there will be too extensive a bankruptcy of literary

establishments.

Before Ashburner could form any conjecture to account for the

evanishment of Edwards--indeed before he could altogether realize it to

himself--the little man's head reappeared above the ground, though there

were no signs of his horse; and at the same time Benson began to ride

round the scene of the catastrophe, at an easy canter, laughing

immoderately. The Englishman shook up his brute into the best gallop he

could get out of him, and a few more strides brought him near enough to

see the true state of things. There was a marsh at no great distance,

which rendered the grass in the immediate vicinity moist and sloppy, and

just in this particular spot the action of the water had caved away a

hole precisely large enough to receive a horse and rider--it could

hardly have made a more accurate grave had they been measured for

it--and so marked by a slight elevation in front, that it was ten to one

any person riding over the ground at such a rate, and unacquainted with

the position of this trap, but must fall headlong into it, as Edwards

had done. There was some reason to suspect that our friend Harry, who

was an habitual rider, and knew all the environs of Oldport pretty well,

and was fonder of short cuts and going over grass than most American

horsemen are, had not been altogether ignorant of the existence of the

pitfall; it looked very much as if he had led Edwards, who was no

particular friend of his, purposely into it: but if such was the case,

he kept his own counsel. When the fallen man and mare had scrambled out

of the hole, which they did before Benson had offered to help them, or

Ashburner had time to be of any assistance, it appeared that she had

sprained her off foreankle, and he his nigh wrist. But they were close

to the main road; by good luck a boy was found to conduct the animal

home, and by a still greater piece of good luck the Robinsons' carriage

happened to be coming along just then, so the little man, who did not

take up much room, was popped into it, and as much pitied and mourned

over by the lady occupants as was _pere Guilleri_ in the French song.

And, to do him justice, even without this consolation, he had taken his

mishap very quietly from the first, as soon as he found himself not

injured in any vital, _i. e._ dancing part.

Having finished their road at a more leisurely pace, our two horsemen

arrived at the glen after most of the company were assembled there. And

as the place was one of general resort, they noticed traces of other

parties, people of the Simpson class, hail-fellow-well-met men, who

didn't dance but took it out in drinking, and who in their intercourse

with the other sex, betrayed more vulgar familiarity and less refined

indecency than characterized the men and boys of White, Edwards,

Robinson, and Co.'s set. But of these it may be supposed that the set

took no heed. There was some really pretty scenery about the glen, but

they took no heed of that either--to be sure, most of them had seen it

at least once before. They had gone straight to the largest parlor of

the house, and led, as usual, by the indefatigable Edwards, had begun

their tricks with the chairs. Booted and spurred as he was, and with his

arm in a sling, the ever-ready youth had already arranged the German

cotillion, taking the head himself, and constituting Sumner his second

in command. Benson was left out of this dance for coming too late, one

of the ladies told him; but he did not find the punishment very severe,

as he rather preferred walking with Ashburner, and showing him the

adjacent woods. As they passed out through several specimens of the

Simpson species, who were smoking and lounging around the door,

Ashburner nearly ran over a very pretty young woman who was coming up

the steps. She was rather rustically, but not unbecomingly dressed, and

altogether so fresh and rosy that it was a treat to see her after the

fine town ladies, even the youngest of whom were beginning to look faded

and jaded from the dissipation of the season. But when she opened her

mouth in reply to Benson's affable salutation, it was like the girl in

the fairy tale dropping toads and adders, so nasal, harsh, and

inharmonious was the tone in which she spoke.

"That's Mrs. Simpson," said Harry, as they went on, "the Bird's wife.

Pretty little woman: what a pity she has that vulgar accent! She belongs

to New England originally; one finds many such girls here, every way

charming until they begin to talk. But I suppose you saw no difference

between her and any of us. In your ears we all speak with a barbarous

accent--at least you feel bound to think so."

"What do you think yourself? You have known a good many of my

countrymen, and heard them talk, and are able to make the comparison. Do

you, or do you not, find a difference?"

"To say the truth, I do; it is a thing I never think seriously of

denying, for it seems to me neither singular nor to be ashamed of. You

can tell an Irishman from a Londoner by his accent; so you can a

Scotchman; or a Yorkshireman for that matter: why should you not be able

to tell an American? The error of your countrymen consists in

attributing to all our people the nasal twang, which is almost peculiar

to one section of the country. If I were asked the peculiar

characteristic of a New-Yorker's speech, I should say _monotone_.

Notice any one of our young men--you will find his conversational voice

pitched in the same key. Sumner goes on at the same uniform growl,

Edwards in an unvaried buzz. When I first landed in England, I was

struck with the much greater variety of tone one hears in ordinary

conversation. Your women, especially, seemed to me always just going to

sing. And I fancied the address of the men affected--just as, very

likely, this monotone of ours seems affected to you."

"What I remark most is a hardness and dryness of voice, as if the

extremes of climate here had an injurious effect on the vocal organs."

"Perhaps they do; and yet I think you will find a better average of

singers, male and female, in our society than in yours, notwithstanding

our fashionables are so engrossed by dancing. Holla! here's Harrison.

How are you, old fellow? and how are the Texas Inconvertibles?"

It was indeed the broker, wandering moodily alone. What had he in common

with the rest of the company--the fops and flirts, the dancing men and

dancing women? The males all snubbed and despised him, from tall White

down to little Robinson; the women were hardly conscious of his

existence. He knew, too, that he could thrash any man there in a fair

stand-up fight, or buy out any three of them, ay, or talk any of them

down in the society of sensible and learned people; and this very

consciousness of superiority only served to embitter his position the

more. There were other sets, doubtless, who would have welcomed him

gladly, but either they were not sufficiently to his taste to attract

him, or he was in no mood to receive consolation from their sympathy. So

he had wandered alone, untouched by the charming scenery about him--a

man whom nobody cared for; and when Benson addressed him genially, and

in an exuberance of spirits threw his arm over the other's neck as they

walked side by side, the broker's heart seemed to expand towards the man

who had shown him even this slight profession of kindness, his

intelligent eyes lighted up, and he began to talk out cheerfully and

unassumingly all that was in him.

Harrison's own narrative of his personal prowess, as well as the

qualified panegyric pronounced upon him by Benson, had led Ashburner to

expect to find in him a manly person with some turn for athletic sports

and good living, but no particular intellectual endowments beyond such

as his business demanded. He was, therefore, not a little astonished at

(inasmuch as he was altogether unprepared for) the variety of knowledge

and the extent of mental cultivation which the broker displayed as their

conversation went on. They talked of the hills and valleys, and ravines

and water-courses around them, and Harrison compared this place with

others in a way that showed a ready observer of the beauties of nature.

They talked of Italy, and Harrison had at his fingers' ends the

principal palaces in every city, and the best pictures in every palace.

They talked of Greece, and Harrison quoted Plato. They talked of England

and France, and Harrison displayed a familiar acquaintance, not merely

with the statistics of the two countries, but also with the habits and

characteristics of their people. Finally, they talked on the puzzling

topic of American society--puzzling in its transition state and its

singular contrasts--and, whether the broker's views were correct or not,

they were any thing but commonplace or conventional.

"Our fashionable society has been all a mistake hitherto," said Harry

(Ashburner could not well make out whether there was a spice of irony in

his observation); "Mrs. Benson and some others are going to reform it

indifferently. The women thus far have been lost sight of after

marriage, and have left the field to the young girls. Now they are

beginning to wake up to their rights and privileges."

"They will not remedy any of the present evils in that way," answered

Harrison, apparently addressing himself to Ashburner, but he seemed to

be talking at Benson and through him at Benson's wife, or his own, or

both of them. "Our theory and practice was that a young girl should

enjoy herself in all freedom; that her age and condition were those of

pleasure and frolic--of dissipation, if you will--that after her

marriage she, comparatively speaking, retired from the world, not

through any conventional rule or imaginary standard of propriety, but of

her own free will, and in the natural course of things; because the

cares of maternity and her household gave her sufficient employment at

home. A woman who takes a proper interest in her family gives them the

first place in her thoughts, and is always ready to talk about them. Now

these domestic details are the greatest possible bore to a mere

fashionable casual drawing-room acquaintance. Hence you see that the

French, whose chief aim is to talk well in a drawing-room or an opera

box, utterly detest and unmercifully ridicule every thing connected with

domesticity or home life. On the other hand, if a married woman never

talks of these things or lets you think of them, she does not take a

proper interest in her family. No, the fault of youth is with the other

sex. There are too few men about, and too many boys. And the more

married belles there are the more will the boys be encouraged. For your

married belles like to have men about them younger than themselves--it

makes them appear younger, or at least they think so; and besides, such

youths are more easily managed and more subservient. But, still worse,

the more these boys usurp the place of men in society, the more boyish

and retrograde will the few men become who continue to divide the honors

of society with them. When Plato enumerated among the signs of a

republic in the last stage of decadence, that the youth imitate and

rival old men, and the old men let themselves down to a level with the

youth, he anticipated exactly the state of things that has come to pass

among us. Look at that little friend of yours with the beard--I don't

mean Edwards, but an older man about his size."

"Dicky Bleecker, I suppose you mean," growled Benson: "he's as much your

friend--or your wife's--as he is mine."

"Well, he is my contemporary, I may say; perhaps five years at most my

junior. What perceptible sign of mature age or manliness is there about

him? In what is he superior to or distinguishable from young Snelling,

who but this season rejoices in his first white tie and first horse, and

in the fruits of his first course of dancing lessons?"

"Well, but consider," said Benson, who was always ready to take up any

side of an argument--it was one of the first criticisms Ashburner made

on American conversation, that the men seemed to talk for victory rather

than for truth--"it stands to reason, that an intelligent married woman

must be better able than a girl to converse with a mature man, and her

conversation must have more attraction for him. As to our boys coming

out too soon, doubtless they do, but that depends not on the persons

ready to receive them, but on the general social system of the country

which pushes them into the world so early. For instance, I was left my

own master at twenty-one. So, too, with the want of proper progress and

growth in knowledge of the men. It is and must be so with the man of

fashion every where, for he is not occupied in learning things that have

a tendency to develop or improve his mind, but the contrary. I myself

have seen Frenchmen of fifty as easily amused and as eager after trifles

as boys."

"Frenchmen?" sneered the other; "yes, but they _are_ boys all their

lives, except in innocence."

"Very amusing and pleasant, at any rate; the best people for travelling

acquaintances that I know."

"Exactly--very pleasant to know for a little while. I have met with a

great many Frenchmen who impressed me favorably, and I used to think as

you say, what amusing people they were, but I never had occasion to live

with one for any length of time without finding him a bore and a

nuisance. A Frenchman turns himself inside out, as it were, at once. He

shows off all that there is to show on first acquaintance. You see the

best of him immediately, and afterwards there is nothing left but

repetitions of the same things, and eternal dissertations on himself and

his own affairs. He is like a wide, shallow house, with a splendid front

externally, and scanty furniture inside."

"Very true, and an Englishman (don't blush Ashburner) is like a suite of

college-rooms in one of his own university towns--a rusty exterior, a

dark, narrow passage along which you find your way with difficulty; and

when you do get in, jolly and comfortable apartments open suddenly upon

you; and as you come to examine them more carefully, you discover all

sorts of snug, little, out-of-the-way closets and recesses, full of old

books and old wine, and all things rich and curious. But the entrance is

uninviting to a casual acquaintance. Now, when you find an American of

the right stamp (here Benson's hands were accidentally employed in

adjusting his cravat), he hits the proper medium, and is accessible as a

Frenchman and as true as an Englishman."

Ashburner was going to express a doubt as to the compatibility of the

two qualities, when Harrison struck in again.

"On that account I never could see why Frenchmen should be dreaded as

dangerous in society. They fling out all their graces at once, exhaust

all their powers of fascination, and soon begin to be tiresome. How many

cases I have seen where a Frenchman fancied he was making glorious

headway in a lady's affections, and that she was just ready to fall into

his arms, when she was only ready to fall asleep in his face, and was

civil to him only from a great sacrifice of inclination to politeness!"

"Very pleasant it must be to a lady," said Ashburner, "that a man should

be at the same time wearying her to death with his company, and

perilling her reputation out of doors by his language."

"By Jove, it's dinner time!" exclaimed Benson, pulling out a microscopic

Geneva watch. "I thought the clock of my inner man said as much." And

back they hurried through the woods to the Glen House, but were as late

for the dinner as they had been for the dance. Harrison and Benson found

seats at the lower end of the table, where they established themselves

together and began, _a propos_ of Edwards's misadventure, to talk horse,

either because they had exhausted all other subjects, or because they

did not think the company worthy a better one. Mrs. Benson beckoned

Ashburner up to a place by her, but, somehow, he found himself opposite

Mrs. Harrison's eyes, and though he could not remember any thing she

said ten minutes after, her conversation, or looks, or both, had the

effect of transferring to her all the interest he was beginning to feel

for her husband--of whom, by the way, she took no more notice than if he

had not belonged to her.

"Poor Harrison!" said Benson, as he and Ashburner were walking their

horses leisurely homeward that evening (they both had too much sense to

ride fast after dinner), "he is twice thrown away! He might have been a

literary gentleman and a lover of art, living quietly on a respectable

fortune; but his father would make him go into business. He might be a

model family man, and at the same time a very entertaining member of

society; but his wife has snubbed and suppressed him for her own

exaltation. If, instead of treating him thus, she would only show him a

little gratitude as the source of all her luxury and magnificence, her

dresses and her jewelry, her carriage and horses (what a pair of

iron-grays she does drive!), and all her other splendors--if she would

only be proud of him as the great broker--not to speak of his varied

knowledge, of which she might also well be proud--if she would take some

little pains to interest herself in his pleasures and to bring him

forward in society--how easily she could correct and soften his little

uncouthnesses of person and dress, if she would take the trouble! Why

should she be ashamed of him? He is older than she--how much? ten years

perhaps, or twelve at most. He is not a beauty; but in a man, I should

say, mind, comes before good looks; and how infinitely superior he is in

mind and soul to any of the frivolous little beaux, native or foreign,

whom she delights to draw about her!"

"I fear I shall never be able to regard Mr. Harrison with as much

respect as you do. It may be ignorance, but I never could see much

difference between a speculator in stocks and a gambler."

"When a man is in his predicament domestically there are three things,

to one, two, or all of which he is pretty sure to take--drink, gambling,

and horses. Harrison is too purely intellectual a man to be led away by

the vulgar animal temptation of liquor, though he has a good cellar, and

sometimes consoles himself with a snug bachelor dinner. Stock-jobbing

is, as you say, only another sort of gambling, and this is his vice: at

the same time you will consider that it is his business, to which he was

brought up. Then, for absolute relaxation, he has his 'fast crab.' Put

him behind his 2' 45" stepper and he is happy for an hour or two, and

forgets his miseries--that is to say, his wife."

"But you talk as if his marriage was the cause of his speculations,

whereas you told me the other day that his speculations were the

indirect cause of his marriage."

"You are right: I believe the beginning of that bad habit must be set

down to his father's account; but the continuance of it is still

chargeable on his wife. I have heard him say myself that he would have

retired from business long ago but for Mrs. Harrison--that is to say, he

had to go on making money to supply her extravagance."

One fine morning there was a great bustle and flurry; moving of trunks,

and paying of bills, and preparations for departure. The fashionables

were fairly starved out, and had gone off in a body. The brilliant

equipages of Ludlow and Loewenberg, the superfine millinery of the

Robinsons, the song and story of the Vicomte, the indefatigable

revolutions of Edwards, were all henceforth to be lost to the sojourners

at Oldport. Mr. Grabster heeded not this practical protest against the

error of his ways. He had no difficulty in filling the vacant rooms, for

a crowd of people from all parts of the Union constantly thronged

Oldport, attracted by its reputation for coolness and salubrity; and he

rather preferred people from the West and South, as they knew less about

civilized life, and were more easily imposed upon. To be sure, even they

would find out in time the deficiencies of his establishment, and report

them at home; but meanwhile he hoped to fill his pockets for two or

three seasons under cover of _The Sewer's_ puffs, and then, when

business fell off, to impose on his landlord with some plausible story,

and obtain a lowering of his rent.

Some few--a very few--of "our set" were left. Our friend Harry stayed,

because the air of the place agreed remarkably with the infant hope of

the Bensons; and a few of the beaux remained--among them Sumner, White,

and Sedley--either out of friendship for Benson, or retained by the

attractions of Mrs. Benson, or those of Mrs. Harrison; for the _lionne_

stayed of course, it being her line to do just whatever the exclusives

did not do. But though Benson remained, he was not disposed to suffer in

silence. All this while _The Sewer_ had been filled with letters lauding

every thing about the Bath Hotel; and communications equally

disinterested, and couched in the same tone, had found their way into

some more respectable prints. Benson undertook the thankless task of

undeceiving the public. He sat down one evening and wrote off a spicy

epistle to _The Blunder and Bluster_, setting forth how things really

were at Oldport. Two days after, when the New-York mail arrived, great

was the wrath of Mr. Grabster. He called into council the old gentleman

with the melodious daughter, _The Sewer_ reporters, and some other

boarders who were in his confidence; and made magnificent, but rather

vague promises, of what he would do for the man who should discover the

daring individual who had thus bearded him in his very den;

simultaneously he wrote to _The Blunder and Bluster_, demanding the name

of the offender. With most American editors such a demand (especially if

followed up with a good dinner or skilfully-applied tip to the reporter

or correspondent) would have been perfectly successful. But he of _The

Blunder and Bluster_ was a much higher style of man. As Benson once said

of him, he had, in his capacity of the first political journalist in the

country, associated so much with gentlemen, that he had learned to be

something of a gentleman himself. Accordingly he replied to Mr.

Grabster, in a note more curt than courteous, that it was impossible to

comply with his request. So the indignant host was obliged to content

himself for the time with ordering _The Sewer_ to abuse the incognito.

Before many days, however, he obtained the desired information through

another source, in this wise.

Oldport had its newspaper, of course. Every American village of more

than ten houses has its newspaper. Mr. Cranberry Fuster, who presided

over the destinies of _The Oldport Daily Twaddler_, added to this

honorable and amiable occupation the equally honorable and amiable one

of village attorney. Though his paper was in every sense a small one,

he felt and talked as big as if it had been _The Times_, or _The

Moniteur_, or _The Blunder and Bluster_. He held the President of the

United States as something almost beneath his notice, and was in the

habit of lecturing the Czar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria, and other

foreign powers, in true Little Pedlington style. Emboldened by the

impunity which attended these assaults, he undertook to try his hand on

matters nearer home, and boldly essayed one season to write down the

polka and redowa as indecent and immoral. But here he found, as

Alexander, Napoleon, and other great men, had done before him, that

there is a limit to all human power. He might better have tried to write

off the roof of the Bath Hotel, which was rather a fragile piece of

work, and might have been carried away by much less wind than usually

served to distend the columns of _The Twaddler_. The doughty Tom Edwards

snapped his heels, so to speak, in the face of the mighty editor, and

the exclusives continued to polk more frantically than ever in the teeth

of his direst fulminations. One practical effect, however, these home

diatribes had, which his luminous sallies on foreign affairs altogether

failed to effect--they put money into his pocket. The next thing

Americans like to hearing themselves well praised, is to hear somebody,

even if it be themselves, well abused; and accordingly, on the mornings

when Mr. Fuster let out an anti-polka article, the usually small

circulation of his small sheet was multiplied by a very large

factor--almost every stranger bought a copy, the million to see the

abuse of the fashionables, the fashionables to see the abuse of

themselves.

Benson, in the course of his almost annual visits to Oldport Springs,

had been frequently amused by the antics of this formidable gentleman,

and had laudably contributed to make them generally known. Once, when

Mr. Fuster had politely denominated the Austrian emperor "a scoundrel,"

Harry moved _The Blunder and Bluster_ to say, that it was very sorry for

that potentate, who would undoubtedly be overwhelmed with mortification

when he learned that _The Twaddler_ entertained such an opinion of him.

Whereupon Fuster, who was of a literal dulness absolutely joke-proof,

struck off a flaming article on "the aristocratic sympathies" of _The

Blunder and Bluster_, which, like a British Whig and Federal journal as

it was, always came to the rescue of tyrants and despots, &c. &c. On

another occasion--the very morning of a State election--_The Twaddler_

had announced, with a great flourish, "that before its next sheet was

issued Mr. Brown would be invested with the highest honors that the

State could confer upon him." But even American editors are not always

infallible; Mr. Brown came out sadly in the minority, and the day after

_The Blunder and Bluster_ had a little corner paragraph to this

effect:--

"_We sincerely regret to see that our amusing little contemporary, THE

OLDPORT DAILY TWADDLER, has suspended publication_."

At this Mr. Fuster flared up fearfully, and threatened to sue _The

Blunder and Bluster_ for libel.

Now this magniloquent editor, who professed to be a great moral reformer

at home, and to regulate the destinies of nations abroad, was in truth

the mere creature and toady of Mr. Grabster, the greater part of the

revenue of his small establishment being derived from printing the bills

and advertisements of the Bath Hotel. As in duty bound, therefore, he

set to work to abuse the anonymous assailant of that atrociously-kept

house, calling him a quantity of heterogeneous names, and more than

insinuating that he was a person who had never been in good society, and

did not know what good living was, _because_ he found fault with the

living at the Bath Hotel. The leader wound up with a more than ever

exaggerated eulogy of Mr. Grabster and his "able and gentlemanly

assistants." Benson happened to get hold of this number of _The

Twaddler_ one evening when he had nothing to do, and those dangerous

implements, pen, ink, and paper, were within his reach. Beginning to

note down the absurdities and _non sequiturs_ in Mr. Fuster's article,

he found himself writing a very chaffy letter to _The Twaddler_. He had

an unfortunate talent for correspondence had Benson, like most of his

countrymen; so, giving the reins to his whim, he finished the epistle,

making it very spicy and satirical, with a garnish of similes and

classical quotations--altogether rather a neat piece of work, only it

might have been objected to as a waste of cleverness, and building a

large wheel to break a very small bug upon. Then he dropped it into the

post-office himself, never dreaming that Cranberry would publish it, but

merely anticipating the wrath of the little-great man on receiving such

a communication. It chanced, however, not long before, that Benson, in

the course of some legal proceedings, had been to sign papers, and "take

fifty cents' worth of affidavit," as he himself phrased it, before Mr.

Fuster in his legal capacity. The latter gentleman had thus the means of

identifying by comparison, the handwriting of the pseudonymous letter.

In a vast fit of indignation, not unmingled with satisfaction, he

brought out next day Harry's letter at full length, to the great peril

of the Latin quotations, and then followed it up with a rejoinder of his

own, in which he endeavored to take an attitude of sublime dignity,

backed up by classical quotations also, to show that he understood Latin

as well as Benson. But the attempt was as unsuccessful as it was

elaborate, for his anger broke through in every other sentence, making

the intended "smasher" an extraordinary compound of superfine writing

and vulgar abuse.

When in the course of human events (he began) it becomes necessary for

men holding our lofty and responsible position to stoop to the

chastisement of pretentious ignorance and imbecility, we shall not be

found to shrink from the task. The writer of the above letter is Mr.

Henry Benson, a young man of property, and a Federal Whig. He

insinuates that we are very stupid. It's no such thing; we are not

stupid a bit, and we mean to show Mr. B. as much before we have done

with him. Mr. Benson is a pompous young aristocrat, and Mr. Grabster is

more of a gentleman than he is--and so are we too for that matter. He

says the Bath Hotel is a badly kept house. We say it isn't, and we know

a great deal better than he does. We have dined there very often, and

found the fare and attendance excellent: and so did the Honorable

Theophilus Q. Smith, of Arkansas, last summer, when he came to enjoy the

invigorating breezes of this healthful locality. That distinguished and

remarkable man expressed himself struck with the arrangements of the

Bath Hotel, which left him no cause, he said, to regret the comforts of

his western home. But this establishment cannot please the fastidious

Mr. Benson! _O tempora, O Moses!_ as Cicero said to Catiline, _quousque

tandem_?

And so on for three columns.

Likewise, _The Sewer_, which had begun to blackguard _The Blunder and

Bluster's_ correspondent while he remained under the shelter of his

pseudonym, now that his name was known, came out with double virulence,

and filled half a sheet with filthy abuse of Harry, including collateral

assaults on his brother, grandmother, and second cousins, and most of

the surviving members of his wife's family. But as Benson never read

_The Sewer_, this part of the attack was an utter waste of Billingsgate

so far as he was concerned. What did surprise and annoy him was to find

that _The Inexpressible_, which, though well-known to be a stupid, was

generally considered a decent paper, had taken the enemy's side, and

published some very impertinent paragraphs about him. Afterwards he

discovered that he had been the victim of a principle. _The

Inexpressible_ and _Blunder and Bluster_ had a little private quarrel of

their own, and the former felt bound to attack every thing in any way

connected with the latter.

Nevertheless Benson was not very much distressed even at this

occurrence, for a reason which we shall now give at length, and which

will at the same time explain the propriety of the heading we have given

to this number. While every body was reading _The Sewer_ and _The

Twaddler_, and the more benevolent were pitying Harry for having started

such a nest of editorial and other blackguards about his ears, and the

more curious were wondering whether he would leave the hotel and resign

the field of battle to the enemy, our friend really cared very little

about the matter, except so far as he could use it for a blind to divert

attention from another affair which he had on hand, and which it was of

the greatest importance to keep secret, lest it should draw down the

interference of the local authorities: in short, he had a defiance to

mortal combat impending over him, which dangerous probability he had

brought upon himself in this wise.

Among the beaux who remained after the Hegira of the fashionables was a

Mr. Storey Hunter, who had arrived at Oldport only just before that

great event, for he professed to be a traveller and travelling man, and,

to keep up the character never came to a place when other people did,

but always popped up unexpectedly in the middle, or at the end, of a

season, as if he had just dropped from the moon, or arrived from the

antipodes. He had an affectation of being foreign--not English, or

French, or German, or like any particular European nation, but foreign

in a general sort of way, something not American; and always, on

whichever side of the Atlantic he was, hailed from some locality; at one

time describing himself in hotel books as from England, at another as

from Paris, at another from Baden--from anywhere, in short, except his

own native village in Connecticut. In accordance with this principle,

moreover, he carefully eschewed the indigenous habits of dress; and

while all the other men appeared at the balls in dress coats, and black

or white cravats, he usually displayed a flaming scarlet or blue tie, a

short frock coat, and yellow or brown trousers. A man six feet high, and

nearly as many round, is a tolerably conspicuous object in most places,

even without any marked peculiarities of dress; and when to this it is

added, that Mr. Hunter exhibited on his shirt-front and watch-chain

trinkets enough to stock a jeweller's shop, and that he was always

redolent of the most fashionable perfumes, it may be supposed that he

was not likely to escape notice at Oldport. His age no one knew exactly;

some of the old stagers gave him forty years and more, but he was in a

state of wonderful preservation, had a miraculous dye for his whiskers,

and a perpetually fresh color in his cheeks. Sedley used to say he

rouged, and that you might see the marks of it inside his collar; but

this may have been only an accident in shaving. He rather preferred

French to English in conversation; and with good reason, for when he

used the former language, you might suppose (with your eyes shut) that

you were talking to a very refined gentleman, whereas, so soon as he

opened his mouth in the vernacular, the provincial Yankee stood revealed

before you. As to his other qualities and merits, he appeared to have

plenty of money, and was an excellent and indefatigable dancer.

Ashburner, when he saw him spin round morning after morning, and night

after night, till he all but melted away himself, and threatened to

drown his partner, thought he must have the laudable motive of wishing

to reduce his bulk, which, however, continued undiminished.

Notwithstanding his travels and accomplishments, which, especially the

dancing, were sufficient to give him a passport to the best society,

there were some who regarded him with very unfavorable eyes, more

particularly Sumner and Benson. Supposing this to be merely another of

the frivolous feuds that existed in the place, and among "our set,"

Ashburner was not over-anxious or curious to know the cause of it. Nor,

if he had been, did the parties seem disposed to afford him much

information. Benson had, indeed, observed one day, that _that_ Storey

Hunter was the greatest blackguard in Oldport, except _The Sewer_

reporters; but as he had already said the same thing of half-a-dozen

men, his friend was not deterred thereby from making Hunter's

acquaintance--or rather, from accepting it; the difficulty at Oldport

being, _not_ to make the acquaintance of any man in society. And he

found the fat dandy, to all appearance, an innocent and good-natured

person, rather childish for his years, and well illustrating Harrison's

assertion, that the men in fashionable life rather retrograded than

developed from twenty to forty; but in no apparent respect formidable,

save for a more than American tendency to gossip. He had some story to

the prejudice of every one, but seemed to tell all these stories just as

an _enfant terrible_ might, without fully understanding them, or at all

heeding the possible consequences of repeating them.

The glory of the balls had departed with Edwards and the Robinsons, but

the remaining fashionables kept up their amusement with much vigor; and

the absence of the others, though detracting much from the brilliancy of

the place, was in some respects the gain of a loss. White came out in

all his glory now that most of the young men were gone. With his

graceful figure, neat dress, and ever-ready smile and compliment, he

looked the very ideal of the well-drilled man of fashion. Sumner, though

he could not have talked less if he had been an English heavy

dragoon-officer, or an Hungarian refugee, understanding no language but

his own, was very useful for a quiet way he had of arranging every thing

beforehand without fuss or delay, and, moreover, had the peculiar merit

(difficult to explain, but which we have all observed in some person at

some period of our lives) of _being good company without talking_.

Benson, with less pretence and display than he had before exhibited,

showed an energy and indefatigableness almost equal to Le Roi's;

whatever he undertook, he "kept the pot a-boiling." In short, the people

of "our set," who were left, went on among themselves much better than

before, because the men's capabilities were not limited to dancing, and

the women had less temptation to be perpetually dressing. Besides, the

removal of most of the fashionables had encouraged the other portions of

the transient population to come more forward, and exhibit various

primitive specimens of dancing, and other traits worth observing. One

evening there was a "hop" at the Bellevue. Ashburner made a point of

always looking in at these assemblies for an hour or so, and

scrutinizing the company with the coolness and complacency which an

Englishman usually assumes in such places, as if all the people there

were made merely for his amusement. Benson, who had literally polked the

heel off one of his boots, and thereby temporarily disabled himself, was

lounging about with him, making observations on men, women, and things

generally.

"You wouldn't think that was only a girl of seventeen," said Harry, as a

languishing brunette, with large, liquid black eyes, and a voluptuous

figure, glided by them in the waltz. "How soon these Southerners

develope into women! They beat the Italians even."

"I wonder the young lady has time to grow, she dances so much. I have

watched her two or three evenings, and she has never rested a moment

except when the music stopped.--Something must suffer, it seems to me.

Does her mind develope uniformly with her person? She is a great centre

of attraction, I observe; is it only for her beauty and dancing?"

"I suppose a beautiful young woman, with fifty or sixty thousand a year,

may consider mental accomplishments as superfluous. She knows, perhaps,

as much as a Russian woman of five-and-twenty. How much that is, you,

who have been on the Continent, know."

"Ah, an heiress; acres of cotton-fields, thousands of negroes, and so

on."

"Exactly. I put the income down at half of what popular report makes it;

these southern fortunes are so uncertain: the white part of the property

(that is to say, the cotton) varies with the seasons; and the black part

takes to itself legs, and runs off occasionally. But, at any rate, there

is quite enough to make her a great prize, and an object of admiration

and attention to all the little men--not to the old hands, like White

and Sumner; they are built up in their own conceit, and wouldn't marry

Sam Weller's 'female marchioness,' unless she made love to them first,

like one of Knowles's heroines. But the juveniles are crazy about her.

Robinson went off more ostentatiously love-sick than a man of his size I

ever saw; and Sedley is always chanting her praises--the only man,

woman, or child, he was ever known to speak well of. I don't think any

of them will catch her. Edwards might dance into her heart, perhaps, if

he were a little bigger; but as it is, she will, probably, make happy

and rich some one in her own part of the world. She says the young men

there suit her better, because they are 'more gentlemanly' than we

Northerners."

"I have heard many strangers say the same thing," said Ashburner,

prudently refraining from expressing any opinion of his own for he knew

Benson's anti-southern feelings.

"If education has any thing to do with being a gentleman, then, whether

you take _education_ in the highest sense, as the best discipline and

expansion of the mind by classical and scientific study; or in the

utilitarian sense, as the acquisition of useful knowledge, and a

practical acquaintance with men and things; or in the fine lady sense,

as the mastery of airs, and graces, and drawing-room accomplishments; or

in the moralist's sense, as the curbing of our mischievous propensities,

and the energizing of our good ones--in every case, we are more of

gentlemen than the Southerners. If the mere possession of wealth, and

progress in the grosser and more material arts of civilization, have any

thing to do with it, then, too, we are more of gentlemen. Their claims

rest on two grounds: first, they live on the unpaid labor of others,

while we all work, more or less, for ourselves, holding idleness as

disgraceful as they do labor; secondly, they are all the time fighting

duels."

"Are there no duels ever fought in this part of the country?"

"Scarcely any since Burr shot Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton was one of

our greatest men, and his death excited a feeling throughout the

Northern States which put down the practice almost entirely; and I

certainly think it a step forward in real civilization."

"Do you mean to say that it is with you as with us, where, if a man

becomes so involved in a quarrel that he is challenged, it is against

him and almost ruin to him whether he fights or does not fight? Or is

public opinion decidedly in favor of the man who does not fight, and

against the man who does? For instance, suppose you were challenged

yourself?"

"A man can't say beforehand what he would do in an emergency of the

kind; but my impression is that I should not fight, and that the opinion

of society would bear me out."

"But suppose a man insulted your wife or sister?"

"It is next door to impossible that an American gentleman should do such

a thing; but if he did, I should consider that he had reduced himself to

the level of a snob, and should treat him as I would any snob in the

streets,--knock him down, if I was able; and if I wasn't, take the law

of him: and if a man had wronged me irreparably, I fancy I should do as

these uncivilized Southerners themselves do in such a case,--shoot him

down in the street, wherever I could catch him. What sense or justice is

there in a duel? It is as if a man stole your coat, and instead of

having him put into prison, you drew lots with him whether you or he

should go."

"But suppose a man was spreading false reports about you; suppose he

said you were no gentleman, or that you had cheated somebody?"

"Bah!" replied Benson, dexterously evading the most important part of

the question, "if I were to fight all the people that spread false

reports about me, I should have my hands full. There is a man in this

room that slandered me as grossly as he could four years ago, and was

very near breaking off my marriage. That fat man there, with all the

jewelry--Storey Hunter."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the other, really surprised, for he had just seen

Mrs. Benson conversing with the ponderous exquisite, apparently on most

amicable terms.

"Yes, and it was entirely gratuitous. I never gave the scamp any

provocation. By Jupiter!" Benson turned very white and then very red,

"if he isn't dancing with my wife! His impudence is too much, and----. I

believe one of our women would put up with any thing from a man here if

he can only dance well. They have no self-respect."

Benson appeared to have very little himself at that moment, and not to

care much what he said or did. He trembled all over with rage, and his

friend expected to see an immediate outbreak; but, as if recollecting

himself, he suddenly stammered out something about the necessity of

changing his boots, and limped off accordingly for that purpose. He was

not gone more than five minutes, but in that time had contrived not only

to supply his pedal deficiency, but also to take a drink by way of

calming himself; and after the drink he took a turn with Miss Friskin,

and whirled her about the room, till he knocked over two or three

innocent bystanders, all of which tended very much to compose his

feelings. Ashburner had a presentiment that something would happen, and

stayed longer that night than his wont; indeed, till the end of the

ball, which, as there was now no German cotillion, lasted till only one

in the morning.

But the universal panacea of the polka had its mollifying effect on

Benson, and every thing might have passed off quietly but for an unlucky

accident. Some of the young Southerners had ordered up sundry bottles of

champagne, and were drinking the same in a corner. Hunter, who was much

given to toadying Southerners (another reason for Benson's dislike of

him), mingled among them, and partook of the inspiring beverage. _In

vino veritas_ is true as gospel, if you understand it rightly as meaning

that wine develops a man's real nature. Hunter, being by nature gossipy

and mendacious, waxed more and more so with every glass of Heidseck he

took down. Ashburner chancing to pass near the group, had his attention

arrested by hearing Benson's name. He stopped, and listened: Hunter was

going on with a prolix and somewhat confused story of some horse that

Benson had sold to somebody, in which transaction Sumner was somehow

mixed up, and the horse hadn't turned out well, and the purchaser wasn't

satisfied, and so on.

"If Benson hear this!" thought Ashburner.

And Benson did hear it very promptly, for Sedley was within ear-shot,

and, delighted at having a piece of mischief to communicate, he tracked

Harry out at the further extremity of the room, to inform him of the

liberties Storey Hunter was taking with his name. Whereupon the

slandered one, with all his wrath reawakened, traversed the apartment in

time to hear the emphatic peroration that, "bad as Sumner was, Benson

was a thousand times worse."

"I can't stand this," exclaimed he. "Where is Frank Sumner?" Sumner was

not visible. "Ashburner, will you stand by me if there's a row?"

By this time the ball was breaking up, and Benson, on going back to look

for his party, found that Mrs. B., like a true watering-place _belle_,

had gone off without waiting for him. This was exactly what he wanted.

Keeping his eye on Hunter, he followed him out to the head of the

staircase, where he had just been bidding good night to some ladies. No

one was in sight but Ashburner, who happened to be standing just outside

the door-way. The fat man nodded to Harry as if they had been the best

friends in the world.

"Curse his impudence!" exclaimed Benson, now fairly boiling over.

"Holloa, you Hunter! did you know you were an infernal scoundrel?

Because you are."

"What for?" quoth the individual in question, half sobered and half

disconcerted by this unceremonious address.

"And a contemptible blackguard," continued Benson, following up his

verbal attack.

"You're another," retorted Hunter.

Ashburner wondered if the two men were going to stand slanging each

other all night.

"I ought to have pulled your nose three years ago, and now take that!"

and Benson, who had been working at his glove ever since the parley

began, twitched it off and slapped Hunter in the face with it.

When an Irishman sees two people fighting, or going to fight, his

natural impulse is to urge them on. A Scotchman or an American tries to

part them. A Frenchman runs after the armed force. An Englishman does

nothing but look quietly on, unless one side meets with foul play. Thus

it was with Ashburner in the present instance. He took Benson's request

"to stand by him in case of a row," _au pied de la lettre_. He stood by

him, and that was all.

As soon as Hunter felt the glove in his face he struck out at Benson,

who stopped the blow very neatly, and seemed about to return it with a

left-hander; then suddenly changing his style of attack, he rushed

within the other's guard, and catching him by the throat with both

hands, did his best to strangle him. Hunter, unable to call for help or

to loosen the throttling grasp of his assailant, threw himself bodily

upon him. As he was about twice Benson's size and weight, the experiment

succeeded. Harry was thrown off his feet and precipitated against the

banisters, which being of slight material, gave way like so much paper,

and both men tumbled over into the landing-place below amid a great

scattering of splinters. Lighting on their feet, they began to pummel

each other without doing more damage than a couple of children, for they

were at such close quarters and so blinded by rage that they hit wild;

but Benson had caught his man by the throat again and was just getting

him into chancery, when White, Sedley, and some of the Southerners,

attracted by the noise, ran down stairs, calling on the "gentlemen" to

"behave as such," and words proving ineffectual, endeavoring to pull

them apart; which was no easy matter, for Benson hung on like grim

death, and when his hand was removed from Hunter's collar, caught him

again by the nose, nor would he give up till Mr. Simson, who was one of

the stoutest and most active men in the place, caught him up from behind

and fairly carried him off to the hall below. Then he seemed to come to

himself all at once, and recollected that he had invited the remains of

"our set" to supper that night. And accordingly, after taking a rapid

survey of himself in a glass, and finding that his face bore no mark of

the conflict, and that his dress was not more disordered than a man's

usually is when he has been polkaing all the evening, he went off to

meet his company, and a very merry time they had of it. Ashburner was

surprised to find that the spectators of the fray were able to ignore it

so completely. If they had been old men and old soldiers, they could not

have acted with more discretion, and it was impossible to suspect from

their conversation or manner that any thing unpleasant had occurred.

"These people do know how to hold their tongues sometimes," thought he.

Next morning while strolling about before breakfast (he was the earliest

riser of the young men in the place, as he did not dance or gamble), he

heard firing in the pistol-gallery. He thought of his conversation with

Benson and the occurrences of last night, and then recollected that he

was out of practice himself, and that there would be no harm in trying a

few shots. So he strode over to the gallery, and there, to his

astonishment, found on one side of the door the keeper, on the other

Frank Sumner (who had given a most devoted proof of friendship by

getting up two hours earlier in the morning than he had ever been known

to do before); and between them Benson, blazing away at the figure, and

swearing at himself for not making better shots.

"Take time by the forelock, you see," said he as he recognized

Ashburner. "_Nunquam non paratus_. The fellow will send me a challenge

this morning, I suppose, and I want to be ready for him."

"But do you know," said the Englishman, "if after this you should kill

your man, we in our country would call it something very like murder?"

"That may be," answered Harry, as he let fly again, this time ringing

the bell; "but we only call it practice."

* * * * *

John Adams, in his Diary, states, that out of eight prominent members of

the Boston bar in 1763, with whom he was one evening discussing the

encroachments of England upon the colonies, only one, Adams himself,

lived through the Revolution, as an advocate of American independence.

Five adhered to Great Britain: Gridley, Auchmuty, Fitch, Kent, and

Hutchinson. Thatcher died in 1765, and Otis became incapacitated in

1771.

From Colburn's New Monthly Magazine

THE TWIN SISTERS.

A TRUE STORY.

BY W. WILKIE COLLINS, AUTHOR OF "ANTONINA."

Among those who attended the first of the King's _levees_, during the

London season of 18--, was an unmarried gentleman of large fortune,

named Streatfield. While his carriage was proceeding slowly down St.

James's Street, he naturally sought such amusement and occupation as he

could find in looking on the brilliant scene around him. The day was

unusually fine; crowds of spectators thronged the street and the

balconies of the houses on either side, all gazing at the different

equipages with as eager a curiosity and interest, as if fine vehicles

and fine people inside them were the rarest objects of contemplation in

the whole metropolis. Proceeding at a slower and slower pace, Mr.

Streatfield's carriage had just arrived at the middle of the street,

when a longer stoppage than usual occurred. He looked carelessly up at

the nearest balcony; and there among some eight or ten ladies, all

strangers to him, he saw one face that riveted his attention

immediately.

He had never beheld any thing so beautiful, any thing which struck him

with such strange, mingled, and sudden sensations, as this face. He

gazed and gazed on it, hardly knowing where he was, or what he was

doing, until the line of vehicles began again to move on. Then--after

first ascertaining the number of the house--he flung himself back in the

carriage, and tried to examine his own feelings, to reason himself into

self-possession; but it was all in vain. He was seized with that amiable

form of social monomania, called "love at first sight."

He entered the palace, greeted his friends, and performed all the

necessary Court ceremonies, feeling the whole time like a man in a

trance. He spoke mechanically, and moved mechanically--the lovely face

in the balcony occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of every thing

else. On his return home, he had engagements for the afternoon and the

evening--he forgot and broke them all; and walked back to St. James's

Street as soon as he had changed his dress.

The balcony was empty; the sight-seers, who had filled it but a few

hours before, had departed--but obstacles of all sorts now tended only

to stimulate Mr. Streatfield; he was determined to ascertain the

parentage of the young lady, determined to look on the lovely face

again--the thermometer of his heart had risen already to Fever Heat!

Without loss of time, the shopkeeper to whom the house belonged was

bribed to loquacity by a purchase. All that he could tell, in answer to

inquiries, was that he had let his lodgings to an elderly gentleman and

his wife, from the country, who had asked some friends into their

balcony to see the carriages go to the _levee_. Nothing daunted, Mr.

Streatfield questioned and questioned again. What was the old

gentleman's name?--Dimsdale.--Could he see Mr. Dimsdale's servant?--The

obsequious shopkeeper had no doubt that he could: Mr. Dimsdale's servant

should be sent for immediately.

In a few minutes the servant, the all-important link in the chain of

Love's evidence, made his appearance. He was a pompous, portly man, who

listened with solemn attention, with a stern judicial calmness, to Mr.

Streatfield's rapid and somewhat confused inquiries, which were

accompanied by a minute description of the young lady, and by several

explanatory statements, all very fictitious, and all very plausible.

Stupid as the servant was, and suspicious as all stupid people are, he

had nevertheless sense enough to perceive that he was addressed by a

gentleman, and gratitude enough to feel considerably mollified by the

handsome _douceur_ which was slipped into his hand. After much pondering

and doubting, he at last arrived at the conclusion that the fair object

of Mr. Streatfield's inquiries was a Miss Langley, who had joined the

party in the balcony that morning, with her sister; and who was the

daughter of Mr. Langley, of Langley Hall, in ----shire. The family were

now staying in London, at ---- Street. More information than this, the

servant stated that he could not afford--he was certain that he had made

no mistake, for the Miss Langleys were the only very young ladies in the

house that morning--however, if Mr. Streatfield wished to speak to his

master, he was ready to carry any message with which he might be

charged.

But Mr. Streatfield had already heard enough for his purpose, and

departed at once for his club, determined to discover some means of

being introduced in due form to Miss Langley, before he slept that

night--though he should travel round the whole circle of his

acquaintance--high and low, rich and poor--in making the attempt.

Arrived at the club, he began to inquire resolutely, in all directions,

for a friend who knew Mr. Langley, of Langley Hall. He disturbed

gastronomic gentlemen at their dinner; he interrupted agricultural

gentlemen who were moaning over the prospects of the harvest; he

startled literary gentlemen who were deep in the critical mysteries of

the last Review; he invaded billiard-room, dressing-room, smoking-room;

he was more like a frantic ministerial whipper-in, hunting up stray

members for a division, than an ordinary man; and the oftener he was

defeated in his object, the more determined he was to succeed. At last,

just as he had vainly inquired of every body that he knew, just as he

was standing in the hall of the clubhouse thinking where he should go

next, a friend entered, who at once relieved him of all his

difficulties--a precious, an estimable man, who was on intimate terms

with Mr. Langley, and had been lately staying at Langley Hall. To this

friend all the lover's cares and anxieties were at once confided; and a

fitter depositary for such secrets of the heart could hardly have been

found. He made no jokes--for he was not a bachelor; he abstained from

shaking his head and recommending prudence--for he was not a seasoned

husband, or an experienced widower; what he really did was to enter

heart and soul into his friend's projects--for he was precisely in that

position, the only position, in which the male sex generally take a

proper interest in match-making: he was a newly married man.

Two days after, Mr. Streatfield was the happiest of mortals--he was

introduced to the lady of his love--to Miss Jane Langley. He really

enjoyed the priceless privilege of looking again on the face in the

balcony, and looking on it almost as often as he wished. It was perfect

Elysium. Mr. and Mrs. Langley saw little or no company--Miss Jane was

always accessible, never monopolized--the light of her beauty shone, day

after day, for her adorer alone; and his love blossomed in it, fast as

flowers in a hot-house. Passing quickly by all the minor details of the

wooing to arrive the sooner at the grand fact of the winning, let us

simply relate that Mr. Streatfield's object in seeking an introduction

to Mr. Langley was soon explained, and was indeed visible enough long

before the explanation. He was a handsome man, an accomplished man, and

a rich man. His two first qualifications conquered the daughter, and his

third the father. In six weeks Mr. Streatfield was the accepted suitor

of Miss Jane Langley.

The wedding-day was fixed--it was arranged that the marriage should take

place at Langley Hall, whither the family proceeded, leaving the

unwilling lover in London, a prey to all the inexorable business

formalities of the occasion. For ten days did the ruthless

lawyers--those dead weights that burden the back of Hymen--keep their

victim imprisoned in the metropolis, occupied over settlements that

never seemed likely to be settled. But even the long march of the law

has its end like other mortal things: at the expiration of the ten days

all was completed, and Mr. Streatfield found himself at liberty to start

for Langley Hall.

A large party was assembled at the house to grace the approaching

nuptials. There were to be _tableaux_, charades, boating-trips,

riding-excursions, amusements of all sorts--the whole to conclude (in

the play-bill phrase) with the grand climax of the wedding. Mr.

Streatfield arrived late; dinner was ready: he had barely time to dress,

and then bustle into the drawing-room, just as the guests were leaving

it, to offer his arm to Miss Jane--all greetings with friends and

introductions to strangers being postponed till the party met round the

dining-table.

Grace had been said; the covers were taken off; the loud, cheerful hum

of conversation was just beginning, when Mr. Streatfield's eyes met the

eyes of a young lady who was seated opposite, at the table. The guests

near him, observing at the same moment, that he continued standing after

every one else had been placed, glanced at him inquiringly. To their

astonishment and alarm, they observed that his face had suddenly become

deadly pale--his rigid features looked struck by paralysis. Several of

his friends spoke to him; but for the first few moments he returned no

answer. Then, still fixing his eyes upon the young lady opposite, he

abruptly exclaimed, in a voice, the altered tones of which startled

every one who heard him:--"_That_ is the face I saw in the

balcony!--_that_ woman is the only woman I can ever marry!" The next

instant, without a word more of either explanation or apology, he

hurried from the room.

One or two of the guests mechanically started up, as if to follow him;

the rest remained at the table, looking on each other in speechless

surprise. But before any one could either act or speak, almost at the

moment when the door closed on Mr. Streatfield, the attention of all was

painfully directed to Jane Langley. She had fainted. Her mother and

sisters removed her from the room immediately, aided by the servants. As

they disappeared, a dead silence again sank down over the company--they

all looked around with one accord to the master of the house.

Mr. Langley's face and manner sufficiently revealed the suffering and

suspense that he was secretly enduring. But he was a man of the

world--neither by word nor action did he betray what was passing within

him. He resumed his place at the table, and begged his guests to do the

same. He affected to make light of what had happened; entreated every

one to forget it, or, if they remembered it at all, to remember it only

as a mere accident which would no doubt be satisfactorily explained.

Perhaps it was only a jest on Mr. Streatfield's part--rather too serious

a one, he must own. At any rate, whatever was the cause of the

interruption to the dinner which had just happened, it was not important

enough to require every body to fast around the table of the feast. He

asked it as a favor to himself, that no further notice might be taken of

what had occurred. While Mr. Langley was speaking thus, he hastily wrote

a few lines on a piece of paper, and gave it to one of the servants. The

note was directed to Mr. Streatfield; the lines contained only these

words:--"Two hours hence, I shall expect to see you alone in the

library."

The dinner proceeded; the places occupied by the female members of the

Langley family, and by the young lady who had attracted Mr.

Streatfield's notice in so extraordinary a manner, being left vacant.

Every one present endeavored to follow Mr. Langley's advice, and go

through the business of the dinner, as if nothing had occurred; but the

attempt failed miserably. Long, blank pauses occurred in the

conversation; general topics were started, but never pursued; it was

more like an assembly of strangers, than a meeting of friends; people

neither ate nor drank, as they were accustomed to eat and drink; they

talked in altered voices, and sat with unusual stillness, even in the

same positions. Relatives, friends, and acquaintances, all alike

perceived that some great domestic catastrophe had happened; all

foreboded that some serious, if not fatal, explanation of Mr.

Streatfield's conduct would ensue: and it was vain and hopeless--a very

mockery of self-possession--to attempt to shake off the sinister and

chilling influences that recent events had left behind them, and resume

at will the thoughtlessness and hilarity of ordinary life.

Still, however, Mr. Langley persisted in doing the honors of his table,

in proceeding doggedly through all the festive ceremonies of the hour,

until the ladies rose and retired. Then, after looking at his watch, he

beckoned to one of his sons to take his place; and quietly left the

room. He only stopped once, as he crossed the hall, to ask news of his

daughter from one of the servants. The reply was, that she had had a

hysterical fit; that the medical attendant of the family had been sent

for; and that since his arrival she had become more composed. When the

man had spoken, Mr. Langley made no remark, but proceeded at once to the

library. He locked the door behind him, as soon as he entered the room.

Mr. Streatfield was already waiting there--he was seated at the table,

endeavoring to maintain an appearance of composure, by mechanically

turning over the leaves of the books before him. Mr. Langley drew a

chair near him; and in low, but very firm tones, began the conversation

thus:--

"I have given you two hours, sir, to collect yourself, to consider your

position fully--I presume, therefore, that you are now prepared to favor

me with an explanation of your conduct at my table, to-day."

"What explanation can I make?--what can I say, or think of this most

terrible of fatalities?" exclaimed Mr. Streatfield, speaking faintly and

confusedly; and still not looking up--"There has been an unexampled

error committed!--a fatal mistake, which I could never have anticipated,

and over which I had no control!"

"Enough, sir, of the language of romance," interrupted Mr. Langley,

coldly; "I am neither of an age nor a disposition to appreciate it. I

come here to ask plain questions honestly, and I insist, as my right, on

receiving answers in the same spirit. _You_, Mr. Streatfield, sought an

introduction to _me_--you professed yourself attached to my daughter

Jane--your proposals were (I fear unhappily for _us_) accepted--your

wedding-day was fixed--and now, after all this, when you happen to

observe my daughter's twin-sister sitting opposite to you--"

"Her twin-sister!" exclaimed Mr. Streatfield; and his trembling hand

crumpled the leaves of the book, which he still held while he spoke.

"Why is it, intimate as I have been with your family, that I now know

for the first time that Miss Jane Langley has a twin-sister?"

"Do you descend, sir, to a subterfuge, when I ask you for an

explanation?" returned Mr. Langley, angrily. "You must have heard, over

and over again, that my children, Jane and Clara, were twins."

"On my word and honor, I declare that--"

"Spare me all appeals to your word or your honor, sir; I am beginning to

doubt both."

"I will not make the unhappy situation in which we are all placed, still

worse, by answering your last words, as I might, at other times, feel

inclined to answer them," said Mr. Streatfield, assuming a calmer

demeanor than he had hitherto displayed. "I tell you the truth, when I

tell you that, before to-day, I never knew that any of your children

were twins. Your daughter Jane has frequently spoken to me of her absent

sister Clara, but never spoke to me of her as her twin-sister. Until

to-day, I have had no opportunity of discovering the truth; for until

to-day, I have never met Miss Clara Langley since I saw her in the

balcony of the house in St. James's street. The only one of your

children who was never present during my intercourse with your family in

London, was your daughter Clara--the daughter whom I now know, for the

first time, as the young lady who really arrested my attention on my way

to the _levee_--whose affections it was really my object to win in

seeking an introduction to you. To _me_, the resemblance between the

twin-sisters has been a fatal resemblance; the long absence of one, a

fatal absence."

There was a momentary pause, as Mr. Streatfield sadly and calmly

pronounced the last words. Mr. Langley appeared to be absorbed in

thought. At length he proceeded, speaking to himself:--

"It _is_ strange! I remember that Clara left London on the day of the

_levee_, to set out on a visit to her aunt; and only returned here two

days since, to be present at her sister's marriage. Well, sir," he

continued, addressing Mr. Streatfield, "granting what you say, granting

that we all mentioned my absent daughter to you, as we are accustomed to

mention her among ourselves, simply as 'Clara,' you have still not

excused your conduct in my eyes. Remarkable as the resemblance is

between the sisters, more remarkable even, I am willing to admit, than

the resemblance usually is between twins, there is yet a difference,

which, slight, indescribable though it may be, is nevertheless

discernible to all their relations and to all their friends. How is it

that you, who represent yourself as so vividly impressed by your first

sight of my daughter Clara, did not discover the error when you were

introduced to her sister Jane, as the lady who had so much attracted

you."

"You forget, sir," rejoined Mr. Streatfield, "that I have never beheld

the sisters together until to-day. Though both were in the balcony when

I first looked up at it, it was Miss Clara Langley alone who attracted

my attention. Had I only received the smallest hint that the absent

sister of Miss Jane Langley was her _twin-sister_, I would have seen

her, at any sacrifice, before making my proposals. For it is my duty to

confess to you, Mr. Langley (with the candor which is your undoubted

due), that when I was first introduced to your daughter Jane, I felt an

unaccountable impression that she was the same as, and yet different

from, the lady whom I had seen in the balcony. Soon, however, this

impression wore off. Under the circumstances, could I regard it as any

thing but a mere caprice, a lover's wayward fancy? I dismissed it from

my mind; it ceased to affect me, until to-day, when I first discovered

that it was a warning which I had most unhappily disregarded; that a

terrible error had been committed, for which no one of us was to blame,

but which was fraught with misery, undeserved misery, to us all!"

"These, Mr. Streatfield, are explanations which may satisfy _you_," said

Mr. Langley, in a milder tone, "but they cannot satisfy _me_; they will

not satisfy the world. You have repudiated, in the most public and most

abrupt manner, an engagement, in the fulfilment of which the honor and

the happiness of my family are concerned. You have given me reasons for

your conduct, it is true; but will those reasons restore to my daughter

the tranquillity which she has lost, perhaps for ever? Will they stop

the whisperings of calumny? Will they carry conviction to those

strangers to me, or enemies of mine, whose pleasure it may be to

disbelieve them? You have placed both yourself and me, sir, in a

position of embarrassment--nay, a position of danger and disgrace, from

which the strongest reasons and the best excuses cannot extricate us."

"I entreat you to believe," replied Mr. Streatfield, "that I deplore

from my heart the error--the fault, if you will--of which I have been

unconsciously guilty. I implore your pardon, both for what I said and

did at your table to-day; but I cannot do more. I cannot and I dare not

pronounce the marriage vows to your daughter, with my lips, when I know

that neither my conscience nor my heart can ratify them. The commonest

justice, and the commonest respect towards a young lady who deserves

both, and more than both, from every one who approaches her, strengthen

me to persevere in the only course which it is consistent with honor and

integrity for me to take."

"You appear to forget," said Mr. Langley, "that it is not merely your

own honor, but the honor of others, that is to be considered in the

course of conduct which you are now to pursue."

"I have by no means forgotten what is due to _you_," continued Mr.

Streatfield, "or what responsibilities I have incurred from the nature

of my intercourse with your family. Do I put too much trust in your

forbearance, if I now assure you, candidly and unreservedly, that I

still place all my hopes of happiness in the prospect of becoming

connected by marriage with a daughter of yours? Miss Clara Langley--"

Here the speaker paused. His position was becoming a delicate and a

dangerous one; but he made no effort to withdraw from it. Almost

bewildered by the pressing and perilous emergency of the moment,

harassed by such a tumult of conflicting emotions within him as he had

never known before, he risked the worst, with all the blindfold

desperation of love. The angry flush was rising on Mr. Langley's cheek;

it was evidently costing him a severe struggle to retain his assumed

self-possession; but he did not speak. After an interval, Mr.

Streatfield proceeded thus:--

"However unfortunately I may express myself, I am sure you will do me

the justice to believe that I am now speaking from my heart on a subject

(to _me_) of the most vital importance. Place yourself in my situation,

consider all that has happened, consider that this may be, for aught I

know to the contrary, the last opportunity I may have of pleading my

cause; and then say whether it is possible for me to conceal from you

that I can only look to your forbearance and sympathy for permission to

retrieve my error, to--to--Mr. Langley! I cannot choose expressions at

such a moment as this. I can only tell you that the feeling with which I

regarded your daughter Clara, when I first saw her, still remains what

it was. I cannot analyze it; I cannot reconcile its apparent

inconsistencies and contradictions; I cannot explain how, while I may

seem to you and to every one to have varied and vacillated with insolent

caprice, I have really remained, in my own heart and to my own

conscience, true to my first sensations and my first convictions. I can

only implore you not to condemn me to a life of disappointment and

misery, by judging me with hasty irritation. Favor me, so far at least,

as to relate the conversation which has passed between us to your two

daughters. Let me hear how it affects each of them towards me. Let me

know what they are willing to think and ready to do under such

unparalleled circumstances as have now occurred. I will wait _your_

time, and _their_ time; I will abide by _your_ decision and _their_

decision, pronounced after the first poignant distress and irritation of

this day's events have passed over."

Still Mr. Langley remained silent; the angry word was on his tongue; the

contemptuous rejection of what he regarded for the moment as a

proposition equally ill-timed and insolent, seemed bursting to his lips;

but once more he restrained himself. He rose from his seat, and walked

slowly backwards and forwards, deep in thought. Mr. Streatfield was too

much overcome by his own agitation to plead his cause further by another

word. There was a silence in the room now, which lasted for some time.

We have said that Mr. Langley was a man of the world. He was strongly

attached to his children; but he had a little of the selfishness and

much of the reverence for wealth of a man of the world. As he now

endeavored to determine mentally on his proper course of action--to

disentangle the whole case from all its mysterious intricacies--to view

it, extraordinary as it was, in its proper bearings, his thoughts began

gradually to assume what is called, "a practical turn." He reflected

that he had another daughter, besides the twin-sisters, to provide for;

and that he had two sons to settle in life. He was not rich enough to

portion three daughters; and he had not interest enough to start his

sons favorably in a career of eminence. Mr. Streatfield, on the

contrary, was a man of great wealth, and of great "connections" among

people in power. Was such a son-in-law to be rejected, even after all

that had happened, without at least consulting his wife and daughters

first? He thought not. Had not Mr. Streatfield, in truth, been the

victim of a remarkable fatality, of an incredible accident, and were no

allowances, under such circumstances, to be made for him? He began to

think there were. Reflecting thus, he determined at length to proceed

with moderation and caution at all hazards; and regained composure

enough to continue the conversation in a cold, but still in a polite

tone.

"I will commit myself, sir, to no agreement or promise whatever," he

began, "nor will I consider this interview in any respect as a

conclusive one, either on your side or mine; but if I think, on

consideration, that it is desirable that our conversation should be

repeated to my wife and daughters, I will make them acquainted with it,

and will let you know the result. In the mean time, I think you will

agree with me, that it is most fit that the next communications between

us should take place by letter alone."

Mr. Streatfield was not slow in taking the hint conveyed by Mr.

Langley'a last words. After what had occurred, and until something was

definitely settled, he felt that the suffering and suspense which he was

already enduring would be increased tenfold if he remained longer in the

same house with the twin sisters--the betrothed of one, the lover of the

other! Murmuring a few inaudible words of acquiescence in the

arrangement which had just been proposed to him, he left the room. The

same evening he quitted Langley Hall.

The next morning the remainder of the guests departed, their curiosity

to know all the particulars of what had happened remaining ungratified.

They were simply informed that an extraordinary and unexpected obstacle

had arisen to delay the wedding; that no blame attached to any one in

the matter; and that as soon as every thing had been finally determined,

every thing would be explained. Until then, it was not considered

necessary to enter in any way into particulars. By the middle of the day

every visitor had left the house; and a strange and melancholy spectacle

it presented when they were all gone. Rooms were now empty and silent,

which the day before had been filled with animated groups, and had

echoed with merry laughter. In one apartment, the fittings for the

series of "Tableaux" which had been proposed, remained half completed:

the dresses that were to have been worn, lay scattered on the floor; the

carpenter who had come to proceed with his work, gathered up his tools

in ominous silence, and departed as quickly as he could. Here lay books

still open at the last page read; there was an album, with the drawing

of the day before unfinished, and the color-box unclosed by its side. On

the deserted billiard-table, the positions of the "cues" and balls

showed traces of an interrupted game. Flowers were scattered on the

rustic tables in the garden, half made into nosegays, and beginning to

wither already. The very dogs wandered in a moody, unsettled way about

the house, missing the friendly hands that had fondled and fed them for

so many days past, and whining impatiently in the deserted

drawing-rooms. The social desolation of the scene was miserably complete

in all its aspects.

Immediately after the departure of his guests, Mr. Langley had a long

interview with his wife. He repeated to her the conversation which had

taken place between Mr. Streatfield and himself, and received from her

in return such an account of the conduct of his daughter, under the

trial that had befallen her, as filled him with equal astonishment and

admiration. It was a new revelation to him of the character of his own

child.

"As soon as the violent symptoms had subsided," said Mrs. Langley, in

answer to her husband's first inquiries, "as soon as the hysterical fit

was subdued, Jane seemed suddenly to assume a new character, to become

another person. She begged that the Doctor might be released from his

attendance, and that she might be left alone with me and with her sister

Clara. When every one else had quitted the room, she continued to sit in

the easy-chair where we had at first placed her, covering her face with

her hands. She entreated us not to speak to her for a short time, and,

except that she shuddered occasionally, sat quite still and silent. When

she at last looked up, we were shocked to see the deadly paleness of her

face, and the strange alteration that had come over her expression; but

she spoke to us so coherently, so solemnly even, that we were amazed; we

knew not what to think or what to do; it hardly seemed to be _our_ Jane

who was now speaking to us."

"What did she say?" asked Mr. Langley, eagerly.

"She said that the first feeling of her heart, at that moment, was

gratitude on her own account. She thanked God that the terrible

discovery had not been made too late, when her married life might have

been a life of estrangement and misery. Up to the moment when Mr.

Streatfield had uttered that one fatal exclamation, she had loved him,

she told us, fondly and fervently; _now_, no explanation, no repentance

(if either were tendered), no earthly persuasion or command (in case

Mr. Streatfield should think himself bound, as a matter of atonement, to

hold to his rash engagement), could ever induce her to become his wife."

"Mr. Streatfield will not test her resolution," said Mr. Langley,

bitterly; "he deliberately repeated his repudiation of his engagement in

this room; nay, more, he--"

"I have something important to say to you from Jane on this point,"

interrupted Mrs. Langley. "After she had spoken the first few words

which I have already repeated to you, she told us that she had been

thinking--thinking more calmly perhaps than we could imagine--on all

that had happened; on what Mr. Streatfield had said at the dinner-table;

on the momentary glance of recognition which she had seen pass between

him and her sister Clara, whose accidental absence, during the whole

period of Mr. Streatfield's intercourse with us in London, she now

remembered and reminded me of. The cause of the fatal error, and the

manner in which it had occurred, seemed to be already known to her, as

if by intuition. We entreated her to refrain from speaking on the

subject for the present; but she answered that it was her duty to speak

on it--her duty to propose something which should alleviate the suspense

and distress we were all enduring on her account. No words can describe

to you her fortitude, her noble endurance--." Mrs. Langley's voice

faltered as she pronounced the last words. It was some minutes ere she

became sufficiently composed to proceed thus:

"I am charged with a message to you from Jane--I should say, charged

with her entreaties, that you will not suspend our intercourse with Mr.

Streatfield, or view his conduct in any other than a merciful light--as

conduct for which accident and circumstances are alone to blame. After

she had given me this message to you, she turned to Clara, who sat

weeping by her side, completely overcome; and said that _they_ were to

blame, if any one was to be blamed in the matter, for being so much

alike as to make all who saw them apart doubt which was Clara and which

was Jane. She said this with a faint smile, and an effort to speak

playfully, which touched us to the heart. Then, in a tone and manner

which I can never forget, she asked her sister--charging her, on their

mutual affection and mutual confidence, to answer sincerely--if _she_

had noticed Mr. Streatfield on the day of the _levee_, and had

afterwards remembered him at the dinner-table, as _he_ had noticed and

remembered _her_? It was only after Jane had repeated this appeal, still

more earnestly and affectionately, that Clara summoned courage and

composure enough to confess that she _had_ noticed Mr. Streatfield on

the day of the _levee_, had thought of him afterwards during his absence

from London, and had recognized him at our table, as he had recognized

her.

"Is it possible! I own I had not anticipated--not thought for one moment

of that," said Mr. Langley.

"Perhaps," continued his wife, "it is best that you should see Jane now,

and judge for yourself. For _my_ part, her noble resignation under this

great trial, has so astonished and impressed me, that I only feel

competent to advise, as she advises, to act as she thinks fit. I begin

to think that it is not _we_ who are to guide _her_, but _she_ who is to

guide _us_."

Mr. Langley lingered irresolute for a few minutes; then quitted the

room, and proceeded along to Jane Langley's apartment.

When he knocked at the door, it was opened by Clara. There was an

expression partly of confusion, partly of sorrow on her face; and when

her father stopped as if to speak to her, she merely pointed into the

room, and hurried away without uttering a word.

Mr. Langley had been prepared by his wife for the change that had taken

place in his daughter since the day before; but he felt startled, almost

overwhelmed, as he now looked on her. One of the poor girl's most

prominent personal attractions, from her earliest years, had been the

beauty of her complexion; and now, the freshness and the bloom had

entirely departed from her face; it seemed absolutely colorless. Her

expression, too, appeared to Mr. Langley's eye, to have undergone a

melancholy alteration; to have lost its youthfulness suddenly; to have

assumed a strange character of firmness and thoughtfulness, which he had

never observed in it before. She was sitting by an open window,

commanding a lovely view of wide, sunny landscape; a Bible which her

mother had given her, lay open on her knees; she was reading in it as

her father entered. For the first time in his life, he paused,

speechless, as he approached to speak to one of his own children.

"I am afraid I look very ill," she said, holding out her hand to him;

"but I am better than I look; I shall be quite well in a day or two.

Have you heard my message, father? have you been told?"--

"My love, we will not speak of it yet; we will wait a few days," said

Mr. Langley.

"You have always been so kind to me," she continued, in less steady

tones, "that I am sure you will let me go on. I have very little to say,

but that little must be said now, and then we need never recur to it

again. Will you consider all that has happened, as something forgotten?

You have heard already what it is that I entreat you to do; will you let

_him_--Mr. Streatfield--" (She stopped, her voice failed for a moment,

but she recovered herself again almost immediately.) "Will you let Mr.

Streatfield remain here, or recall him if he is gone, and give him an

opportunity of explaining himself to my sister? If poor Clara should

refuse to see him for my sake, pray do not listen to her. I am sure this

is what ought to be done; I have been thinking of it very calmly, and I

feel that it is right. And there is something more I have to beg of you,

father; it is, that, while Mr. Streatfield is here, you will allow me

to go and stay with my aunt.--You know how fond she is of me. Her house

is not a day's journey from home. It is best for every body (much the

best for _me_) that I should not remain here at present; and--and--dear

father! I have always been your spoiled child; and I know you will

indulge me still. If you will do what I ask you, I shall soon get over

this heavy trial. I shall be well again if I am away at my aunt's--if--"

She paused; and putting one trembling arm round her father's neck, hid

her face on his breast. For some minutes, Mr. Langley could not trust

himself to answer her. There was something, not deeply touching only,

but impressive and sublime, about the moral heroism of this young girl,

whose heart and mind--hitherto wholly inexperienced in the harder and

darker emergencies of life--now rose in the strength of their native

purity superior to the bitterest, cruellest trial that either could

undergo; whose patience and resignation, called forth for the first time

by a calamity which suddenly thwarted the purposes and paralyzed the

affections that had been destined to endure for a life, could thus

appear at once in the fullest maturity of virtue and beauty. As the

father thought on these things; as he vaguely and imperfectly estimated

the extent of the daughter's sacrifice; as he reflected on the nature of

the affliction that had befallen her--which combined in itself a

fatality that none could have foreseen, a fault that could neither be

repaired nor resented, a judgment against which there was no appeal--and

then remembered how this affliction had been borne, with what words and

what actions it had been met, he felt that it would be almost a

profanation to judge the touching petition just addressed to him, by the

criterion of _his_ worldly doubts and _his_ worldly wisdom. His eye fell

on the Bible, still open beneath it; he remembered the little child who

was set in the midst of the disciples, as teacher and example to all;

and when at length he spoke in answer to his daughter, it was not to

direct or to advise, but to comfort and comply.

They delayed her removal for a few days, to see if she faltered in her

resolution, if her bodily weakness increased; but she never wavered;

nothing in her appearance changed, either for better or for worse. A

week after the startling scene at the dinner-table, she was living in

the strictest retirement in the house of her aunt.

About the period of her departure, a letter was received from Mr.

Streatfield. It was little more than a recapitulation of what he had

already said to Mr. Langley--expressed, however, on this occasion, in

stronger and, at the same time, in more respectful terms. The letter was

answered briefly: he was informed that nothing had, as yet, been

determined on, but that the next communication would bring him a final

reply.

Two months passed. During that time, Jane Langley was frequently visited

at her aunt's house, by her father and mother. She still remained calm

and resolved; still looked pale and thoughtful, as at first. Doctors

were consulted: they talked of a shock to the nervous system; of great

hope from time, and their patient's strength of mind; and of the

necessity of acceding to her wishes in all things. Then, the advice of

the aunt was sought. She was a woman of an eccentric, masculine

character, who had herself experienced a love-disappointment in early

life, and had never married. She gave her opinion unreservedly and

abruptly, as she always gave it. "Do as Jane tells you!" said the old

lady, severely; "that poor child has more moral courage and

determination than all the rest of you put together! I know better than

any body what a sacrifice she has had to make; but she has made it, and

made it nobly--like a heroine, as some people would say; like a good,

high-minded, courageous girl, as _I_ say! Do as she tells you! Let that

poor, selfish fool of a man have his way, and marry her sister--he has

made one mistake already about a face--see if he doesn't find out, some

day, that he has made another, about a wife! Let him!--Jane is too good

for _him_, or for any man! Leave her to me; let her stop here; she

shan't lose by what happened! You know this place is mine--I mean it is

to be hers, when I'm dead. You know I've got some money--I shall leave

it to her. I've made my will: it's all done and settled! Go back home;

send for the man, and tell Clara to marry him without any more fuss! You

wanted my opinion--There it is for you!"

At last Mr. Langley decided. The important letter was written, which

recalled Mr. Streatfield to Langley Hall. As Jane had foreseen, Clara at

first refused to hold any communication with him; but a letter from her

sister, and the remonstrances of her father, soon changed her

resolution. There was nothing in common between the twin-sisters but

their personal resemblance. Clara had been guided all her life by the

opinions of others, and she was guided by them now.

Once permitted the opportunity of pleading his cause, Mr. Streatfield

did not neglect his own interests. It would be little to our purpose to

describe the doubts and difficulties which delayed at first the progress

of his second courtship--pursued as it was under circumstances, not only

extraordinary, but unprecedented. It is no longer with him, or with

Clara Langley, that the interest of our story is connected. Suffice it

to say, that he ultimately overcame all the young lady's scruples; and

that, a few months afterwards, some of Mr. Langley's intimate friends

found themselves again assembled round his table as wedding-guests, and

congratulating Mr. Streatfield on his approaching union with Clara, as

they had already congratulated him, scarcely a year back, on his

approaching union with Jane!

The social ceremonies of the wedding-day were performed soberly--almost

sadly. Some of the guests (especially the unmarried ladies) thought

that Miss Clara had allowed herself to be won too easily--others were

picturing to themselves the situation of the poor girl who was absent;

and contributed little toward the gayety of the party. On this occasion,

however, nothing occurred to interrupt the proceedings; the marriage

took place; and, immediately after it, Mr. Streatfield and his bride

started for a tour on the Continent.

On their departure, Jane Langley returned home. She made no reference

whatever to her sister's marriage; and no one mentioned it in her

presence. Still the color did not return to her cheek, or the old gayety

to her manner. The shock that she had suffered had left its traces on

her for life. But there was no evidence that she was sinking under the

remembrances which neither time nor resolution could banish. The strong,

pure heart had undergone a change, but not a deterioration. All that had

been brilliant in her character was gone; but all that was noble in it

remained. Never had her intercourse with her family and her friends been

so affectionate and so kindly as it was now.

When, after a long absence, Mr. Streatfield and his wife returned to

England, it was observed, at her first meeting with them, that the

momentary confusion and embarrassment were on _their_ side, not on

_hers_. During their stay at Langley Hall, she showed not the slightest

disposition to avoid them. No member of the family welcomed them more

cordially, entered into all their plans and projects more readily, or

bade them farewell with a kinder or better grace, when they departed for

their own home.

Our tale is nearly ended: what remains of it, must comprise the history

of many years in a few words.

Time passed on; and Death and Change told of its lapse among the family

at Langley Hall. Five years after the events above related, Mr. Langley

died; and was followed to the grave, shortly afterwards, by his wife. Of

their two sons, the eldest was rising into good practice at the bar; the

youngest had become _attache_ to a foreign embassy. Their third daughter

was married, and living at the family seat of her husband, in Scotland.

Mr. and Mrs. Streatfield had children of their own, now, to occupy their

time and absorb their care. The career of life was over for some--the

purposes of life had altered for others--Jane Langley alone, still

remained unchanged.

She now lived entirely with her aunt. At intervals--as their worldly

duties and avocations permitted them--the other members of her family,

or one or two intimate friends, came to the house. Offers of marriage

were made to her, but were all declined. The first, last love of her

girlish days--abandoned as a hope, and crushed as a passion; living only

as a quiet grief, as a pure remembrance--still kept its watch, as

guardian and defender, over her heart. Years passed on and worked no

change in the sad uniformity of her life, until the death of her aunt

left her mistress of the house in which she had hitherto been a guest.

Then it was observed that she made fewer and fewer efforts to vary the

tenor of her existence, to forget her old remembrances for awhile in the

society of others. Such invitations as reached her from relations and

friends were more frequently declined than accepted. She was growing old

herself now; and, with each advancing year, the busy pageant of the

outer world presented less and less that could attract her eye.

So she began to surround herself, in her solitude, with the favorite

books that she had studied, with the favorite music that she had played,

in the days of her hopes and her happiness. Every thing that was

associated, however slightly, with that past period, now acquired a

character of inestimable value in her eyes, as aiding her mind to

seclude itself more and more strictly in the sanctuary of its early

recollections. Was it weakness in her to live thus; to abandon the world

and the world's interests, as one who had no hope, or part in either?

Had she earned the right, by the magnitude and resolution of her

sacrifice, thus to indulge in the sad luxury of fruitless remembrance?

Who shall say!--who shall presume to decide that cannot think with _her_

thoughts, and look back with _her_ recollections!

Thus she lived--alone, and yet not lonely; without hope, but with no

despair; separate and apart from the world around her, except when she

approached it by her charities to the poor, and her succor to the

afflicted; by her occasional interviews with the surviving members of

her family and a few old friends, when they sought her in her calm

retreat; and by the little presents which she constantly sent to

brothers' and sisters' children, who worshipped, as their invisible good

genius, "the kind lady" whom most of them had never seen. Such was her

existence throughout the closing years of her life: such did it

continue--calm and blameless--to the last.

* * * * *

Reader, when you are told, that what is impressive and pathetic in the

Drama of Human Life has passed with a past age of Chivalry and Romance,

remember Jane Langley, and quote in contradiction the story of the TWIN

SISTERS!

* * * * *

When about nine years old, Southey attended a school at Bristol, kept by

one Williams, a Welshman, the one, he says, of all his schoolmasters,

whom he remembered with the kindliest feelings. This Williams used

sometimes to infuse more passion into his discipline than was becoming,

of which Southey records a most ridiculous illustration. One of his

schoolmates--a Creole, with a shade of African color and negro

features--was remarkable for his stupidity. Williams, after flogging him

one day, made him pay a half-penny for the use of the rod, because he

required it so much oftener than any other boy in school.

From Fraser's Magazine.

ALFIERI.

Vittorio Alfieri was born at Asti, a city of Piedmont, on the 17th of

January, 1749,--the year in which his great contemporary, Goethe, first

saw the light. His father, Antonio Alfieri, was a nobleman of high rank

in his own country; his mother, whose name was Monica Maillard di

Tournon, was of Savoyard descent. At the time of Vittorio's birth his

father was sixty years of age; and as until then he had had no son, the

entrance of the future poet into the world was to him a subject of

unspeakable delight: but his happiness was of short duration, for he

overheated himself one day by going to see the child at a neighboring

village where he was at nurse, and died of the illness that ensued, his

son being at the time less than a year old. The countess, his widow, did

not long remain so, as she very shortly married again, her third husband

(she was a widow when the count married her) being the Cavalier Giacinto

Alfieri, a distant member of the same family.

When about six years old, Alfieri was placed under the care of a priest

called Don Ivaldi, who taught him writing, arithmetic, Cornelius Nepos,

and Phaedrus. He soon discovered, however, that the worthy priest was an

ignoramus, and congratulates himself on having escaped from his hands at

the age of nine, otherwise he believes that he should have been an

absolute and irreclaimable dunce. His mother and father-in-law were

constantly repeating the maxim then so popular among the Italian

nobility, that it was not necessary that a gentleman should be a doctor.

It was at this early age that he was first attacked by that melancholy

which gradually assumed entire dominion over him, and throughout life

remained a most prominent feature in his character. When only seven

years of age, he made an attempt to poison himself by eating some

noxious herbs, being impelled to this strange action by an undefined

desire to die. He was well punished for his silliness by being made very

unwell, and by being, moreover, shut up in his room for some days. No

punishment for his youthful transgressions was, however, so effectual as

being sent in a nightcap to a neighboring church. "Who knows," says he,

"whether I am not indebted to that blessed nightcap for having turned

out one of the most truthful men I ever knew?"

In 1758, his paternal uncle and guardian, seeing what little progress he

was making, determined to send him to the Turin Academy, and accordingly

he started in the month of July.

"I cried (he says, in his autobiography) during the whole of the first

stage. On arriving at the post-house, I got out of the carriage while

the horses were being changed, and feeling thirsty, instead of asking

for a glass, or requesting any body to fetch me some water, I marched up

to the horse-trough, dipped the corner of my cap in the water, and drank

to my heart's content. The postilions, seeing this, told my attendant,

who ran up and began rating me soundly; but I told him that travellers

ought to accustom themselves to such things, and that no good soldier

would drink in any other manner. Where I fished up these Achilles-like

ideas I know not, as my mother had always educated me with the greatest

tenderness, and with really ludicrous care for my health."

He describes his character at this period, where he ends what he calls

the epoch of childhood, and begins that of adolescence, as having been

as follows:

"I was taciturn and placid for the most part, but occasionally very

talkative and lively; in fact, I generally ran from one extreme to

another. I was obstinate and restive when force was exerted, most docile

under kind treatment; restrained more by fear of being scolded than by

any thing else; susceptible of shame even to excess, and inflexible when

rubbed against the grain."

He entered the Academy on the 1st of August. It was a magnificent

quadrangular building, of which two of the sides were occupied by the

King's Theatre and the Royal Archives; another side was appropriated to

the younger students, who composed what were called the second and third

apartments, while the fourth contained the first apartment, or the older

students, who were mostly foreigners, besides the king's pages, to the

number of twenty or twenty-five. Alfieri was at first placed in the

third apartment, and the fourth class, from which he was promoted to the

third at the end of three months. The master of this class was a certain

Don Degiovanni, a priest even more ignorant than his good friend Ivaldi.

It may be supposed that under such auspices he did not make much

progress in his studies. Let us hear his own account:

"Being thus an ass, in the midst of asses, and under an ass, I

translated Cornelius Nepos, some of Virgil's _Eclogues_, and such-like;

we wrote stupid, nonsensical themes, so that in any well-directed school

we should have been a wretched fourth class. I was never at the bottom;

emulation spurred me on until I surpassed or equalled the head boy; but

as soon as I reached the top, I fell back into a state of torpor. I was

perhaps to be excused, as nothing could equal the dryness and insipidity

of our studies. It is true that we translated Cornelius Nepos; but none

of us, probably not even the master himself, knew who the men were whose

lives we were translating, nor their countries, nor the times in which

they lived, nor the governments under which they flourished, nor even

what a government was. All our ideas were contracted, false, or

confused; the master had no object in view; his pupils took not the

slightest interest in what they learned. In short, all were as bad as

bad could be; no one looked after us, or if they did, knew what they

were about."

In November, 1759, he was promoted to the humanity class, the master of

which was a man of some learning. His emulation was excited in this

class by his meeting a boy who could repeat 600 lines of the _Georgics_

without a single mistake, while he could never get beyond 400. These

defeats almost suffocated him with anger, and he often burst out crying,

and occasionally abused his rival most violently. He found some

consolation, however, for his inferior memory, in always writing the

best themes. About this time he obtained possession of a copy of Ariosto

in four volumes, which he rather believes he purchased, a volume at a

time, with certain half-fowls that were given the students on Sundays,

his first Ariosto thus costing him two fowls in the space of four weeks.

He much regrets that he is not certain on the point, feeling anxious to

know whether he imbibed his first draughts of poetry at the expense of

his stomach. Notwithstanding that he was at the head of the humanity

class, and could translate the _Georgics_ into Italian prose, he found

great difficulty in understanding the easiest of Italian poets. The

master, however, soon perceived him reading the book by stealth, and

confiscated it, leaving the future poet deprived for the present of all

poetical guidance.

During this period he was in a wretched state of health, being

constantly attacked by various extraordinary diseases. He describes

himself as not growing at all, and as resembling a very delicate and

pale wax taper. In 1760 he passed in the class of rhetoric, and

succeeded, moreover, in recovering his Ariosto, but read very little of

it, partly from the difficulty he found in understanding it, and partly

because the continued breaks in the story disgusted him. As to Tasso, he

had never even heard his name. He obtained a few of Metastasio's plays

as _libretti_ of the Opera at carnival time, and was much pleased with

them, and also with some of Goldoni's comedies that were lent to him.

"But the dramatic genius, of which the germs perhaps existed in me, was

soon buried or extinguished for want of food, of encouragement, and

every thing else. In short, my ignorance and that of my instructors, and

the carelessness of every body in every thing exceeded all conception."

The following year he was promoted into the class of philosophy, which

met in the adjoining university. The following is his description of the

course:

"This school of peripatetic philosophy was held after dinner. During the

first half-hour we wrote out the lecture at the dictation of the

professor, and in the subsequent three-quarters of an hour, when he

commented upon it, Heaven knows how, in Latin, we scholars wrapped

ourselves up comfortably in our mantles, and went fast asleep; and among

the assembled philosophers, not a sound was heard except the drawling

voice of the professor himself, half asleep, and the various notes of

the snorers, who formed a most delightful concert in every possible

key."

During his holidays this year, his uncle took him to the Opera for the

first time, where he heard the _Mercato di Malmantile_. The music

produced a most extraordinary effect upon him, and for several weeks

afterwards he remained immersed in a strange but not unpleasing

melancholy, followed by an absolute loathing of his usual studies. Music

all through life affected him most powerfully, and he states that his

tragedies were almost invariably planned by him when under its

influence. It was about this time that he composed his first sonnet,

which was made up of whole or mutilated verses of Metastasio and

Ariosto, the only two Italian poets of whom he knew any thing. It was in

praise of a certain lady to whom his uncle was paying his addresses, and

whom he himself admired. Several persons, including the lady herself,

praised it, so that he already fancied himself a poet. His uncle,

however, a military man, and no votary of the Muses, laughed at him so

much, that his poetical vein was soon dried up, and he did not renew his

attempts in the line till he was more than twenty-five years old. "How

many good or bad verses did my uncle suffocate, together with my

first-born sonnet!"

He next studied physics and ethics--the former under the celebrated

Beccaria, but not a single definition remained in his head. These

studies, however, as well as those in civil and canon law, which he had

commenced, were interrupted by a violent illness, which rendered it

necessary for him to have his head shaved, and to wear a wig. His

companions, at first, tormented him greatly about this wig, and used to

tear it from his head; but he soon succeeded in appeasing the public

indignation, by being always the first to throw the unhappy ornament in

question up in the air, calling it by every opprobrious epithet. From

that time he remained the least persecuted wig-wearer among the two or

three who were in this predicament.

He now took lessons on the piano, and in geography, fencing, and

dancing. He imbibed the most invincible dislike to the latter, which he

attributed to the grimaces and extraordinary contortions of the master,

a Frenchman just arrived from Paris. He dates from this period that

extreme hatred of the French nation which remained with him through

life, and which was one of the strangest features in his character. His

uncle died this year (1763), and as he was now fourteen, the age at

which, by the laws of Piedmont, minors are freed from the care of their

guardians, and are placed under curators, who leave them masters of

their income, and can only prevent the alienation of their real estates,

he found himself possessed of considerable property, which was still

farther increased by his uncle's fortune. Having obtained the degree of

master of arts, by passing a public examination in logic, physics, and

geometry, he was rewarded by being allowed to attend the riding-school,

a thing he had always ardently desired. He became an expert horseman,

and attributes to this exercise the recovery of his health, which now

rapidly improved.

"Having buried my uncle, changed my guardian into a curator, obtained my

master's degree, got rid of my attendant Andrea, and mounted a steed, it

is incredible how proud I became. I told the authorities plainly that I

was sick of studying law, and that I would not go on with it. After a

consultation, they determined to remove me into the first apartment,

which I entered on the 8th May, 1763."

He now led an extremely idle life, being little looked after. A crowd of

flatterers, the usual attendants upon wealth, sprung up around him, and

he indulged in amusements and dissipations of every kind. A temporary

fit of industry, which lasted for two or three months, came over him,

and he plunged deeply into the thirty-six volumes of Fleury's

_Ecclesiastical History_. Soon, however, he resumed his old course, and

conducted himself so badly that the authorities found it necessary to

place him under arrest, and he remained for some months a prisoner in

his own apartment, obstinately refusing to make any apology, and leading

the life of a wild beast, never putting on his clothes, and spending

most of his time in sleep. He was at length released, on the occasion of

his sister Giulia's marriage to the Count Giacinto di Cumiana, in May,

1764.

On regaining his former position he bought his first horse, and soon

afterwards another, on the pretence of its being delicate. He next

purchased two carriage horses, and went on thus till in less than a year

he had eight in his possession. He also had an elegant carriage built

for him, but used it very seldom, because his friends were obliged to

walk, and he shrunk from offending them by a display of ostentation. His

horses, however, were at the service of all, and as his love for them

could not excite any feelings of envy, he took the greatest delight in

them.

It was now that he first felt the symptoms of love, excited by a lady

who was the wife of an elder brother of some intimate friends of his, to

whom he was on a visit. His transient passion, however, soon passed

away, without leaving any trace behind it. The period had now arrived

for his leaving the academy, and in May, 1766, he was nominated ensign

in the provincial regiment of Asti, which met only twice a-year for a

few days, thus allowing ample opportunity for doing nothing; the only

thing, he says, he had made up his mind to do. But he soon got tired of

even this slight restraint. "I could not adapt myself to that chain of

graduated dependence which is called subordination, and which although

the soul of military discipline, could never be the soul of a future

tragic poet." He therefore obtained permission, though with great

difficulty, to accompany an English Catholic tutor, who was about to

visit Rome and Naples with two of his fellow-students. He chooses this

moment for commencing the epoch of youth, which he describes as

embracing ten years of travel and dissipation.

On reaching Milan, the travellers visited the Ambrosian library.

"Here the librarian placed in my hands a manuscript of Petrarch, but,

like a true Goth, I threw it aside, saying it was nothing to me. The

fact was, I had a certain spite against the aforesaid Petrarch; for

having met with a copy of his works some years before, when I was a

philosopher, I found on opening it at various places by chance that I

could not understand the meaning in the least; accordingly I joined with

the French and other ignorant pretenders in condemning him, and as I

considered him a dull and prosy writer, I treated his invaluable

manuscript in the manner above described."

At this time he always spoke and wrote in French, and read nothing but

French books.

"As I knew still less of Italian, I gathered the necessary fruit of my

birth in an amphibious country, and of the precious education I had

received."

They proceeded afterwards to Florence, Rome, and Naples. At the latter

place he obtained permission from his own court, through the

intercession of the Sardinian minister, to leave the tutor, and travel

for the future alone. Attended only by his faithful servant Elia, who

had taken the place of the worthless Andrea, and for whom he felt a

great affection, he returned to Rome, and had the honor of kissing the

Pope's toe. The pontiff's manner pleased him so much, that he felt no

repugnance to going through the ceremony, although he had read Fleury,

and knew the real value of the aforesaid toe.

Having obtained leave to travel for another year, he determined to visit

France, England, and Holland. He went first to Venice, and there was

assailed by that melancholy, _ennui_, and restlessness, peculiar to his

character.

"I spent many days without leaving the house, my chief employment being

to stand at the window, and make signs, and hold brief dialogues with a

young lady opposite; the rest of the day I spent in sleeping, in

thinking of I know not what, and generally crying, I knew not why."

All through life he was subject to these periodical fits, which came on

every spring, and materially influenced his powers of composition.

He proceeded afterwards to France, expecting to be delighted with Paris;

but on arriving there he found it so unlike what he had anticipated,

that he burst into a violent fit of passion at having made so much

haste, undergone so much fatigue, and had his fancy excited to such a

pitch of frenzy, only to plunge into that filthy sewer, as he calls it!

His anger is quite ludicrous; but he, notwithstanding, remained there

five months, during which time he was presented to Louis XV. at

Versailles, but the cold reception he met with greatly annoyed him.

"Although I had been told that the king did not speak to ordinary

foreigners, and although I did not care much for his notice, yet I could

not swallow the Jove-like superciliousness of the monarch, who surveyed

from head to foot the people presented to him, without appearing to

receive the slightest impression. It was as if somebody said to a giant,

'I beg to present an ant to you;' and he were either to stare or to

smile, or to say, it may be, 'Oh, what a little creature!'"

He was as much delighted with England as he had been disgusted with

France. He falls into perfect raptures when speaking of our national

character and our national institutions, and regrets that it was not in

his power to remain here for ever. In June, 1768, he went to Holland,

and at the Hague fell violently in love with the wife of a rich

gentleman whom he knew. When the lady was obliged to go into

Switzerland, he was thrown into such a state of frenzy that he attempted

to commit suicide, by tearing off the bandages from the place where he

had had himself bled, under pretence of illness. His servant, however,

suspected his intentions, and prevented him from carrying his resolution

into effect. He gradually recovered his spirits, and determined to

return to Italy. On reaching Turin, he was seized by a desire to study.

The book in which he took most delight was Plutarch's Lives:

"Some of these, such as Timoleon, Caesar, Brutus, Pelopidas, and Cato, I

read four or five times over, with such transports of shouting, crying,

and fury, that any person in the next room must have thought me mad. On

reading any particular anecdotes of those great men, I used often to

spring to my feet in the greatest agitation, and quite beside myself,

shedding tears of grief and rage at seeing myself born in Piedmont, and

in an age and under a government where nothing noble could be said or

done, and where it was almost useless to think or to feel."

His brother-in-law now strongly urged him to marry, and he consented,

although unwillingly, that negotiations should be entered into on his

behalf with the family of a young, noble, and rich heiress, whose

beautiful black eyes would, doubtless, soon have driven Plutarch out of

his head. The end, however, was that she married somebody else, to

Alfieri's internal satisfaction. "Had I been tied down by a wife and

children, the Muses would certainly have bid me good bye."

The moment he felt himself free he determined to start again on his

travels. On reaching Vienna, the Sardinian minister offered to introduce

him to Metastasio; but he cared nothing at that time for any Italian

author, and, moreover, had taken a great dislike to the poet, from

having seen him make a servile genuflexion to the Empress Maria Theresa

in the Imperial Gardens at Schoenbrunn. On entering the dominions of

Frederick the Great, he was made extremely indignant by the military

despotism that reigned there. When presented to the king he did not

appear in uniform.

"The minister asked me the reason of this, seeing that I was in the

service of my own sovereign. I replied, 'Because there are already

enough uniforms here.' The king said to me his usual four words; I

watched him attentively, fixing my eyes respectfully on his, and thanked

Heaven that I was not born his slave."

Denmark, Sweden, and Russia, were then successively visited by him. He

had heard so much of the latter country, that when he reached St.

Petersburgh his expectations were wrought up to a great pitch.

"But, alas! no sooner did I set foot in this Asiatic encampment of

tents, than I called to mind Rome, Genoa, Venice, and Florence, and

began to laugh. The longer I remained in the country, the more were my

first impressions confirmed, and I left it with the precious conviction

that it was not worth seeing."

He refused to be presented to the celebrated female autocrat, Catherine

II., whom he stigmatizes as "a philosophical Clytemnestra."

He next visited England for the second time, arriving at the end of

1770. During his stay in London, which lasted for seven months, he

became involved in an affair which excited an extraordinary sensation at

the time, and which is even remembered by the scandal-mongers of the

present day. He formed the acquaintance of the wife of an officer of

high rank in the Guards, and this intimacy soon assumed a criminal

character. Her husband, a man of a very jealous temperament, suspected

his wife's infidelity, and had them watched. On finding his suspicions

confirmed, he challenged Alfieri, and they fought a duel with swords in

the Green Park, in which the future poet was wounded in the arm. The

husband pressed for a divorce, and Alfieri announced his intention of

marrying the lady as soon as she was free; but, to his horror, she

confessed to him one day, what was already known to the public through

the newspapers, although he was ignorant of it, that before she knew him

she had been engaged in an intrigue with a groom of her husband! Despite

this discovery, it was some time before his affection for her abated;

but at length, on her announcing her determination to enter a convent in

France, he quitted her at Rochester, and left this country himself

almost immediately afterwards. He went to Paris, and there bought a

collection of the principal Italian poets and prose-writers in

thirty-six volumes, which from that time became his inseparable

companions, although he did not make much use of them for two or three

years. However, he now learned to know at least something of the six

great luminaries, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, Boccaccio, and

Machiavelli.

He next proceeded to Spain and Portugal. At Lisbon he formed the

acquaintance of the Abate Tommaso di Caluso, younger brother of the

Sardinian minister. The society of this distinguished man produced the

most beneficial effect on him. One evening, when the Abate was reading

to him the fine _Ode to Fortune_ of Alessandro Guidi, a poet whose name

he had never even heard, some of the stanzas produced such extraordinary

transports in him, that the former told him that he was born to write

verses. This sudden impulse of Apollo, as he calls it, was however only

a momentary flush, which was soon extinguished, and remained buried for

a long time to come.

He now bent his steps homewards, and reached Turin in May, 1772, after

an absence of three years. He took a magnificent house in the Piazza di

San Carlo, furnished it sumptuously, and commenced leading a merry life

with about a dozen friends, who formed a society, which met at his house

every week. This Society was governed by strict rules, one of which was

that all should contribute something in writing for their reciprocal

amusement; these contributions being placed in a chest, of which the

president for the time being kept the key, and read aloud by him at

their meetings. They were all written in French, and Alfieri mentions

one of his which was very successful. It described the Deity at the last

judgment demanding from every soul an account of itself, and the

characters he drew were all those of well-known individuals, both male

and female, in Turin.

It was not long before he fell in love for the third time, the object of

his passion now being a lady some years older than himself, and of

somewhat doubtful reputation. For the space of nearly two years she

exercised unbounded dominion over him. Feeling that he could not support

the fetters of Venus and of Mars at one and the same time, he with some

little difficulty obtained permission to throw up his commission in the

army.

While attending at his mistress's bedside, during an illness by which

she was attacked in January, 1744, the idea first struck him of writing

a dramatic sketch. He wrote it without the slightest plan, in the form

of a dialogue between three persons, called respectively, Photinus,

Lachesis, and Cleopatra. He gives a specimen of it in a note, and it is

certainly not of the very highest order of merit. On the recovery of the

lady he placed it under the cushion of her couch, where it remained

forgotten for a year, and thus were the first fruits of his tragic

genius brooded over, as it were, by the lady and all who chanced to sit

upon the couch.

At length he threw off the chains which had so long bound him. The

exertion was, however, so great that he was actually obliged to get his

servant Elia to tie him to his chair, that he might not quit the house.

When his friends came to see him, he dropped his dressing gown over the

bandages, so that his forced imprisonment was not perceived. His first

appearance in public was at the carnival of 1775, where he dressed

himself up as Apollo, and recited at the public ball at the theatre a

masquerade he had composed on the subject of love, twanging a guitar

vigorously all the time. He was afterwards heartily ashamed of this

freak, which he wonders he could ever have been guilty of. An ardent

desire for glory now seized him, and after some months spent in constant

poetical studies, and in fingering grammars and dictionaries, he

succeeded in producing his first tragedy; which, like the sketch already

mentioned, he entitled _Cleopatra_. It was performed at Turin, on the

16th June, 1775, at the Carignan Theatre, and was followed by a comic

after-piece, also written by him, called _The Poets_, in which he

introduced himself under the name of Giusippus, and was the first to

ridicule his own tragedy; which, he says, differed from those of his

poetical rivals, inasmuch as their productions were the mature offspring

of an erudite incapacity, whilst his was the premature child of a not

unpromising ignorance. These two pieces were performed with considerable

success for two successive evenings, when he withdrew them from the

stage, ashamed at having so rashly exposed himself to the public. He

never considered this _Cleopatra_ worthy of preservation, and it is not

published with his other works. From this moment, however, he felt every

vein swollen with the most burning thirst for real theatrical laurels,

and here terminates the epoch of Youth and commences that of Manhood.