SECTION II.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. March, 1852. No. 3.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Granny’s Fairy Story

Spectral Illusions

Campaigning Stories (continued)

Law and Lawyers

A Life of Vicissitudes (continued)

Milton

The Miser and His Daughter

The Lost Deed (continued)

Beauty’s Retreat

Death

The Philadelphia Art-Union

Review of New Books

Graham’s Small-Talk

Poetry and Music

Belle’s Eyes

The Page

Lines Written on St. Valentine’s Day

“What do the Birds say?”

Leora

Dei Gratia, Rex

Our Childhood

I’ll Blame Thee Not

Elpholen. A Fragment

A Charm

Life’s Voyage

Bless The Homestead Law

The Deserted

The Babes of Exile

Write Thou Upon Life’s Page

Lines on a Vase of Flowers

To a Friend in the Spirit Land

Oh Share My Cottage

Stars of the Summer Night

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A DACOTAH INDIAN COURTING.

Drawn by S. Eastman U.S.A. and Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by

F. Humphry.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: Boston Harbor.]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1852. No. 3.

* * * * *

[Illustration: An old woman leaning forward speaks to a child. “Once

upon a time.”]

GRANNY’S FAIRY STORY.

(FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.)

There was a young woman so kind and sweet-tempered that every person

loved her. Among the rest, there was an old witch who lived near where

she dwelt, and with whom she was a great favorite. One day this old

witch told her she had a nice present to give her. “See,” she said,

“here is a barley-corn, which, however, is by no means of the same sort

as those which grow in the farmer’s field, or those we give to the

fowls. Now you must plant this in a flower-pot, and then take care and

see what happens.”

“Thank you a thousand times,” said the young woman. And, thereupon, she

went straight home, and planted the barley-corn the witch had given her

in a flower-pot. Immediately there grew out of it a large, handsome

flower, but its leaves were all shut close as if they were buds.

“That is a most beautiful flower!” said the woman, while she bent down

to kiss its red and yellow leaves; but scarcely had her lips pressed the

flower, than it gave forth a loud sound and opened its cup. And now the

woman was able to see that it was a regular tulip, and in the midst of

the cup, down at the bottom, there sat a small and most lovely little

maiden; her height was about one inch, and on that account the woman

named her Ellise.

She made the little thing a cradle out of a walnut-shell, gave her a

blue violet-leaf for a mattress, and a rose-leaf for a coverlet. In this

cradle Ellise slept at night time, and during the day she played upon

the table. The woman had set a plate filled with water upon the table,

which she surrounded with flowers, and the flower-stalks all rested on

the edge of the water; on the water floated a large tulip-leaf, and upon

the tulip-leaf sat the little Ellise, and sailed from one side of the

plate to the other; and for this she used two white horse-hairs for

oars. The whole effect was very charming, and Ellise could sing too, but

with such a delicate little voice as we have never heard here.

One night as she lay in her bed, an ugly toad hopped into her through

the broken window pane. It was a large and very hideous toad; and it

sprang at once upon the table, where Ellise lay asleep under the

rose-leaf.

“That would be, now, a nice little wife for my son,” said the toad, and

seized, as she said it, the walnut-shell in her mouth, and hopped with

it out through the window into the garden again.

Through the garden flowed a broad stream, but its banks were marshy, and

among the marshes lived the toad and her son. Ha! how hideous the son

was too; exactly like his mother he was, and all that he could say, when

he saw the sweet little maiden in the walnut-shell, was “Koax! koax!

breckke ke!”

“Don’t talk so loud,” said the old one to him, “else you’ll awake her,

and then she might easily run away from us, for she is lighter than

swans’-down. We will set her upon a large plant in the stream; that will

be a whole island for her, and then she cannot run away from us; while

we, down in the mud, will build the house for you two to live in.”

In the stream there were many large plants, which all seemed as if they

floated on the water; the most distant one was, at the same time, the

largest, and thither swam the old toad and set down the walnut-shell,

with the little maiden upon it.

Early on the following morning the little Ellise awoke, and when she

looked about her and saw where she was, that her new dwelling-place was

surrounded on all sides by water, and that there remained no possible

way for her to reach land again, she began to weep most bitterly.

Meanwhile the old toad sat in the mud and adorned the building with

reeds and yellow flowers, that it might be quite grand for her future

daughter-in-law, and then, in company with her hideous son, swam to the

little leaf-island where Ellise lay.

She now wanted to fetch her pretty little bed, that it might at once be

placed in the new chamber, before Ellise herself was brought there. The

old toad bent herself courteously before her in the water, while she

presented her son in these words—“You see here my son, who is to be

your husband, and you two shall live together charmingly down in the

mud.”

“Koax! koax! breckke-ke!” was all that the bridegroom could find to say.

And, therewith, they both seized upon the beautiful little bed, and swam

away with it; while Ellise sat alone upon the leaf and cried very much,

for she did not like at all to live with the frightful toad, much less

have her odious son for her husband. Now the little fishes which swam

about under the water, had seen the toad, and heard, moreover, perfectly

well all that she said; they, therefore, raised their heads above water,

that they might have a look at the beautiful little creature. No sooner

had they seen her than they were, one and all, quite moved by her

beauty; and it seemed to them very hard that such a sweet maiden should

become the prey of an ugly toad. They assembled themselves, therefore,

round about the green stalk from which grew the leaf whereon Ellise sat,

and gnawed it with their teeth until it came in two, and then away

floated Ellise and the leaf far, far away, where the toad could come no

more.

And so sailed the little maiden by towns and villages, and when the

birds upon the trees beheld her, they sang out—“Oh, what a lovely young

girl.” But away, away floated the leaf always further and further.

Ellise made quite a foreign journey upon it.

For some time a small white butterfly had hovered over her, and at last

he sat himself down on her leaf, because he was very much pleased with

Ellise, and she, too, was very glad of the visit, for now the toad could

not come near her, and the country through which she traveled was so

beautiful. The sun shone so bright upon the water that it glittered like

gold. And now the idea occurred to her to loosen her girdle, bind one

end of it to the butterfly, the other on to the leaf; she did this and

then she flew on much faster, and saw much more of the world than she

would have done.

But, at last, there came by a cock-chafer, who seized her with his long

claws round her slender waist, and flew away with her to a tree, while

on swam the leaf, and the butterfly was obliged to follow, for he could

not come loose, so fast and firm had Ellise bound him.

Ah! how terrified was poor Ellise when the cock-chafer carried her off

to the tree. But her sorrow over the little butterfly was quite as

great, for she knew he must certainly perish, unless by some good

accident he should chance to free himself from the green leaf. But all

this made no impression upon the cock-chafer, who set her upon a large

leaf, gave her some honey to eat, and told her she was very charming,

although not a bit like a chafer. And now appeared all the other

cock-chafers who dwelt upon this tree, who waited upon Ellise, and

examined her from top to toe; while the young lady-chafers turned up

their feelers and said, “She has only two legs! how very wretched that

looks!” and added they, “she has no feelers whatever, and is as thin in

the body as a human being! Ah! it’s really hideous!” and all the young

lady-cock-chafers cried out, “Ah! it’s perfectly hideous!” And yet

Ellise was so charming! and so felt the cock-chafer; but at last,

because all the lady-chafers thought her ugly he began to think so too,

and resolved he would have nothing more to do with her; “she might go,”

he said, “wherever she liked;” and with these words he flew with her to

the ground, and set her upon a daisy. And now the poor little thing wept

bitterly, to find herself so hideous that not even a cock-chafer would

have any thing to do with her. But, notwithstanding this decisive

opinion of the young lady-cock-chafers, Ellise was the loveliest, most

elegant little creature in the world, as delicate and beautiful as a

young rose-leaf.

The whole summer through the poor little maiden lived alone in the great

forest; and she wove herself a bed out of fine grass, and hung it up to

rock beneath a creeper, that it might not be blown away by the wind and

rain; she plucked herself sweets out of the flowers, for food, and drank

of the fresh dew, that fell every morning upon the grass. And so the

summer and the autumn passed away. All the birds which had sung so

sweetly to Ellise, left her and went away, the trees lost all their

green, the flowers withered, and the great creeper which, until now, had

been her shelter, shriveled away to a bare yellow stalk. The poor little

thing shivered with cold, for her clothes were now worn out, and her

form was so tender and delicate that she certainly would perish with

cold. It began also to snow, and every flake which touched her, was to

her what a great heapfull would be to us, for her whole body was only

one inch long.

Close beside the forest in which Ellise lay, there was a corn-field, but

the corn had long since been reaped, and now, only the dry stubble rose

above the earth; yet, for Ellise was this a great forest, and hither she

came. So she reached the house of a field-mouse, which was formed of a

little hole under the stubble. Here dwelt the field-mouse warm and

comfortable, with her store-room full of food for the winter, and near

at hand a pretty kitchen and eating-room. Poor Ellise stepped up to the

door and begged for a little grain of barley, for she had tasted nothing

for the whole day.

“You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very

kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now

she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend

the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and

tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.”

Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble,

was made comfortable with her.

“Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My

neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer

than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly

velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would

be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one

thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.”

But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the

neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was

expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome

velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very

well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers.

Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the

flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he

had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she

sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest

goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her

because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it,

for he was a cautious, sensible fellow.

Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his

neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in

it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at

the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately

dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been

frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his

passage.

Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on

before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he

came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on

the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared

through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead

bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against

the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor

bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for

the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to

her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and

said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed

be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my

children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the

wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!”

“Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man,

may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the

winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!”

Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the

bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes.

“Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful

songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!”

And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight

fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not

sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of

hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all

sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground.

“Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let

me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when

the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!”

And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started

back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the

bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to

life as the warmth penetrated to him.

In the autumn, the swallows fly away to warmer countries; and when a

weak one is among them, and the cold freezes him, he falls upon the

ground, and lies there as if dead, until the cold snow covers him.

Ellise was frightened at first, when the bird raised itself, for to her

he was a great big giant, but she soon collected herself again, pressed

the hay covering close round the exhausted little animal, and then went

to fetch the curled mint-leaves which served for her own covering, that

she might lay it over his head.

The following night she slipped away to the bird again, whom she found

now quite revived, but yet so very weak, that he could only open his

eyes now and then, to look at Ellise, who lighted up his face with a

little piece of tinder.

“I thank you a thousand times, you lovely little child,” said the sick

swallow, “I am now so thoroughly warmed through, that I shall soon gain

my strength again, and shall be able to fly out in the warm sunshine.”

“Oh! it is a great deal too cold out there,” returned Ellise, “it snows

and freezes so hard! only just stay now in your warm bed, and I will

take such care of you!”

She brought the bird some water to drink out of a leaf, and then he

related to her how he had so hurt his wing against a thorny bush that he

could not fly away to the warm countries with his comrades, and at last

had fallen exhausted to the ground, where all consciousness left him.

The little swallow remained here the whole winter, and Ellise attended

to him, and became every day more and more fond of him; yet she said

nothing at all about it to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew

well enough already that neither of them could bear the poor bird.

As soon, however, as the summer came, and the warm sunbeams penetrated

the earth, the swallow said good-bye to Ellise, who had now opened the

hole in the ground, through which the mole let the light fall in. The

sun shone so kindly, that the swallow turned and asked Ellise, his dear

little nurse, whether she would not fly away with him. She could sit

very nicely upon the swallow’s back, and then they would go away

together to the green forest. But Ellise thought it would grieve the

good field-mouse if she went away secretly, and therefore she was

obliged to refuse the bird’s kind offer.

“Then, once more farewell, you kind, good maiden,” said the swallow, and

therewith he flew out into the sunshine. Ellise looked sorrowfully after

him, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for she was very fond of the

good bird.

“Quivit! quivit!” sang the swallow, and away he flew to the forest.

And now Ellise was very mournful, for she hardly ever left her dark

hole. The corn grew up far above her head, and formed quite a thick wood

round the house of the field-mouse.

“Now you can spend the summer in working at your wedding-clothes,” said

the field-mouse, for the neighbor, the wearisome mole, had at last

really proposed for Ellise. “I will give you every thing you want, that

you may have all things comfortable about you, when you are the mole’s

wife.”

And now Ellise was obliged to sit all day long busy at her clothes, and

the field-mouse took four clever spiders into her service, and kept them

weaving day and night. Every evening came the mole to pay his visit, and

every evening he expressed his wish that the summer would soon come to

an end, and the heat cease, for then, when the winter was here, his

wedding should take place. But Ellise was not at all happy to hear this,

for she could hardly bear even to look upon the ugly mole, for all his

expensive velvet coat. Every evening and every morning she went out at

the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn apart, and she could

look upon the blue heaven, she saw it was so beautiful out in the open

air, that she wished she could only see the dear swallow once more; but

the swallow never came; he preferred rejoicing himself in the warm

sunbeams in the green woods.

By the time autumn came, Ellise had prepared all her wedding-garments.

“In four weeks your wedding will take place,” said the field-mouse to

her; but Ellise wept, and said she did not want to have the stupid mole

for a husband.

“Fiddle-de-dee,” answered the field-mouse—“Come, don’t be obstinate, or

I shall be obliged to bite you with my sharp teeth. Isn’t he a good

husband that you’re going to have? Why, even the queen hasn’t such a

fine velvet coat to show as he has! His kitchen and his cellar are

well-stocked, and you ought rather to thank Providence for providing so

well for you!”

So the wedding was to be! Already was the mole come to fetch away

Ellise, who, from henceforth, was to live always with him. Deep under

the earth, where no sunbeam could ever come! The little maiden was very

unhappy, that she must take her farewell of the friendly sun, which at

all events she saw at the door of the field-mouse’s house.

“Farewell, thou beloved sun!” said she, and raised her hands toward

heaven, while she advanced a few steps from the door; for already was

the corn again reaped, and she stood once more among the stubble in the

field. “Adieu, adieu!” she repeated, and threw her arms round a flower

that stood near her, “Greet the little swallow for me, when you see him

again,” added she.

“Quivit! quivit!” echoed near her in the same moment, and, as Ellise

raised her eyes, she saw her well-known little swallow fly past. As soon

as the swallow perceived Ellise, he too, became quite joyful, and

hastened at once to his kind nurse; and she told him how unwilling she

was to have the ugly mole for her husband, and that she must go down

deep into the earth, where neither sun nor moon could ever look upon

her, and with these words she burst into tears.

“See now,” said the swallow, “the cold winter is coming again, and I am

flying away to the warm countries, will you come and travel with me? I

will carry you gladly on my back. You need only to bind yourself fast

with your girdle, so we can fly away far from the disagreeable mole, and

his dark house, far over mountains and valleys, to the beautiful

countries, where the sun shines much warmer than it does here; where

there is summer always, and always beautiful flowers blooming. Come, be

comforted, and fly away with me, dear, kind Ellise, who saved my life

when I lay frozen in the earth.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” cried Ellise joyfully. She mounted on the

back of the swallow, set her feet upon his out-spread wings, bound

herself with her girdle to a strong feather, and flew off with the

swallow through the air, over woods and lakes, valleys and mountains.

Very often Ellise suffered from the cold when they went over icy

glaciers and snowy rocks; but then she concealed herself under the wings

and among the feathers of the bird, and merely put out her head to gaze

and wonder at all the glorious things around her.

At last, too, they came into the warm countries. The sun shines there

clearer than with us; the heavens were a great deal higher, and on the

walls and in the hedges grew the most beautiful blue and green grapes.

In the woods hung ripe citrons and oranges, and the air was full of the

scent of thyme and myrtle, while beautiful children ran in the roads

playing with the gayest colored butterflies. But farther and farther

flew the swallow, and below them it became more and more beautiful. By

the side of a lake, beneath graceful acacias, there rose an ancient

marble palace, the vines clung around the pillars, while above them, on

their summits, hung many a swallow’s nest. Into one of these nests the

bird carried Ellise.

“Here is my house,” said he, “but look you for one of the loveliest

flowers, which grow down there, for your home, and I will carry you

there, and you shall have every thing you can possibly want.”

“That would be glorious indeed!” said Ellise, and she clapped her hands

together for very joy.

Upon the earth there lay a large white marble pillar, which had been

thrown down, and was broken into three pieces, but between its ruins

there grew the very fairest flowers, all white, the loveliest you would

ever wish to see.

The swallow flew with Ellise to one of these flowers, and set her down

upon a broad leaf; but how astonished was Ellise when she saw that a wee

little man sat in this flower, who was as fine and transparent as glass.

He wore a graceful little crown upon his head, and had beautiful wings

on his shoulders; and withal he was not a bit bigger than Ellise

herself. He was the angel of this flower. In every flower dwell a pair

of such like little men and women, but this was the king of all the

flower angels.

“Heavens! how handsome this king is,” whispered Ellise into the ear of

the swallow. The little prince was somewhat startled by the arrival of

the large bird; but when he saw Ellise, he became instantly in love with

her; for she was the most charming little maiden that he had ever seen.

So he took off his golden crown, set it upon Ellise, and asked what was

her name, and whether she would be his wife; if so, she should be queen

over all the other flowers—ah! this was a very different husband to the

son of the hideous toad, and the heavy, stupid mole, with his velvet

coat! So Ellise said yes, to the beautiful prince; and now, from all the

other flowers, appeared either a gentleman or a lady, all wonderfully

elegant and beautiful, to bring presents to Ellise. The best presents

offered to her was a pair of exquisite white wings, which were

immediately fastened on her; and now she could fly from flower to

flower.

And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest,

and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was

sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to

part from her again.

“You shall not be called _Ellise_ any more,” said the flower-angel, “for

it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this

moment you shall be called Maja.”

“Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again,

out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had

his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell

stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is

from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful

history.

* * * * *

BELLE’S EYES.

Those eyes, they are so bright and blue,

They seem as if just bathed in dew,

And if they but reflect aright,

Thy heart must joyous be and bright,

Where cherished images must dwell,

Oh! number mine with thine, _ma Belle_.

* * * * *

“THE PAGE.”

[Illustration: figure of a man sitting on a rock near the base of a tree

and looking upward]

Come listen, ladies! listen, knights!

Ye men of arms and glory!

Ye who have done right noble deeds,

Aye love the poet’s story.

As minstrels love the warriors bold,

And joyfully sing their fame,

O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale

Shall peaceful triumphs claim.

From distant lands Arion came,

From wandering far and long,

With gifts and gold—for princely hearts

Denied no gift to song.

The song that cheered the saddest wo,

The tale that sings of youth,

Flowing sweetly, flowing on,

Through labyrinths of truth.

Rich tributes had been poured on him,

Arion far renowned,

And fair and gentle loved the rule,

Of one by nature crowned.

But what can gifts and what can gold,

Or Fame’s loud peal avail,

Wandering from his childhood’s home,

His own Corinthian vale?

* * * * *

LINES

WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

Fair lady, on this day of love,

My spirit, like a timid dove,

Exulting flies to thee for rest,

And nestles on thy gentle breast.

Thou seemest of my life a part,

A haunting presence in my heart,

A glory in my day-dreams bright,

An angel in my dreams at night,

Like yon pure bow of airy birth

A vision more of heaven than earth.

Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft,

Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft.

I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long,

I’ve heard thy witching voice of song,

I’ve listened when thy deep words came

As if thy lips were touched with flame,

I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep.

I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep,

I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear

Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear,

And I have been supremely blest

When thou wast folded to my breast,

And thy dear lips were pressed to mine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

Dove of my spirit! gentle dove,

That bring’st the olive-bough of love

To me when waters vast and dark

Are tossing wild beneath my bark,

Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife,

Blest haunter of each thought of life.

Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse,

Sultana of my longing lips,

Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams,

Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams,

Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day,

Lone palm-tree of my desert way,

Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower,

Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower,

My star when all beside is dim,

My morning prayer, my evening hymn,

My hope, my bliss, my life, my love,

My all of earth, my heaven above,

On lightning pinions wild and free,

My panting spirit flies to thee,

And worships at thy burning shrine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

* * * * *

“What do the Birds say?”

[Illustration: figure of a woman sitting on vines with birds perched

above her]

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!”

In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;

What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather,

And singing and loving, all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green-fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,

“I love my love, and my love loves me!”

* * * * *

LEORA.

A BALLAD OF SPAIN.

At her lattice sits Leora,

In the long and mellow June,

What time when whitely westward

Shines the round and pendent moon.

Sits she silent, sits she sadly,

With her head upon her hand,

Looking outward where the Ebro

Throws its ripples on the sand.

Never lighter blew the breezes

In the vales of Aragon,

Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens

With more lovely glories on.

Such an evening ’tis as gladdens

Cavaliers of sunny Spain—

Such an evening ’tis when maidens

Recount their loves again.

Now more restless grows Leora,

Fair Leora, gentle maid,

With sweet eyes so dark and fervent,

And each tress of nightly shade.

Heaves her bosom fast and wildly

Like a billow snowed with foam,

For there’s something boding tells her

That Almagro will not come.

Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her,

On her heart their shadows rest,

And the tear-drops from their fountains

Fall embittered to her breast.

Listens now she to the gallop

Of a steed adown the vale;

Now with hope her face is radiant,

Now with fear her cheek is pale.

But no lover rideth swiftly,

Swiftly to the trysting bower,

And Leora still is waiting

Through the long and dreary hour.

And the tears cease not to gather,

And the tears cease not to flow,

And she feels like one abandoned

On the haunted paths of wo.

Where a mountain streamlet gurgles,

From that watcher leagues away—

Where the hours amid the valleys

Listen to the waters’ play—

Faithless Almagro is breathing

Vows of deeply passioned love,

To a maiden on his bosom

In the sweetness of a dove.

And he tells her how he never

To another gave his heart,

Till her innocence is fallen

In the meshes of his art.

Till another than the midnight

Throws a darkness o’er her soul,

Leaving there a troubled fountain,

Leaving there a broken bowl.

Softly sigh the sleeping branches

On the bosom of the breeze,

Sweetly stars are gazing downward

To earth’s blue, unclouded seas:

And in fragrance dream the blossoms

Pure and taintless as before—

But heart-flowers have been gathered

That shall blossom nevermore.

Lowly westward walketh Dian,

On her watches with the night,

And the hours far have stolen

To the gateways of the light.

But, ah! wo is thee, Leora,

Though hopeless, hoping on,

Till Aurora up the Orient,

Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn.

But less wo is thee, Leora,

By thy lattice weary worn—

More’s the wo for thee, Estella,

When thou wakest at the morn.

* * * * *

SPECTRAL ILLUSIONS.

BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.

A series of curious and interesting phenomena, involving the apparent

elevation and approach of distant objects, the production of aerial

images of terrestrial forms, of double images, their inversion, and

distortion into an endless variety of grotesque shapes, together with

the deceptive aspect given to the desert-landscape, are comprehended in

the class of optical illusions. Different varieties of this singular

visual effect constitute the _mirage_ of the French, the _fata morgana_

of the Italians, the _looming_ of our seamen, and the _glamur_ of the

Highlanders. It is not peculiar to any particular country, though more

common in some than others, and most frequently observed near the margin

of lakes and rivers, by the sea-shore, in mountain districts and on

level plains. These phantoms are perfectly explicable upon optical

principles, and though influenced by local combinations, they are mainly

referable to one common cause, the refractive and reflective properties

of the atmosphere, and inequalities of refraction arising from the

intermixture of strata of air of different temperatures and densities.

But such appearances in former times were really converted by the

imagination of the vulgar into supernatural realities; and hence many of

the goblin stories with which the world has been rife, not yet banished

from the discipline to which childhood is subject,—

“As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles

Placed far amid the melancholy main,

(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,

Or that aerial beings sometimes deign

To stand, embodied, to our senses plain)

Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,

The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,

A vast assembly moving to and fro,

Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.”

Pliny mentions the Scythian regions within Mount Imaus, and Pomponius

Mela those of Mauritania, behind Mount Atlas, as peculiarly subject to

these spectral appearances. Diodorus Siculus likewise refers to the

regions of Africa, situated in the neighborhood of Cyrene, as another

chosen site:—“Even,” says he, “in the severest weather, there are

sometimes seen in the air certain condensed exhalations that represent

the figures of all kinds of animals; occasionally they seem to be

motionless, and in perfect quietude; and occasionally to be flying;

while immediately afterward they themselves appear to be the pursuers,

and to make other objects fly before them.” Milton might have had this

passage in his eye when he penned the allusion to the same

apparitions:—

“As when, to warn proud cities, war appears

Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush

To battle in the clouds; before each van

Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears,

Till thickest legions close, with feats of arms

From either side of heaven the welkin rings.”

[Illustration: The Mirage of the Desert.]

The mirage is the most familiar form of optical illusion. M. Monge, one

of the French savans, who accompanied Buonaparte in his expedition to

Egypt, witnessed a remarkable example. In the desert between Alexandria

and Cairo, in all directions green islands appeared, surrounded by

extensive lakes of pure, transparent water. Nothing could be conceived

more lovely or picturesque than the landscape. In the tranquil surface

of the lakes, the trees and houses with which the islands were covered

were strongly reflected with vivid and varied hues, and the party

hastened forward to enjoy the refreshments apparently proffered them.

But when they arrived, the lake on whose bosom they floated, the trees

among whose foliage they arose, and the people who stood on the shore

inviting their approach, had all vanished; and nothing remained but the

uniform and irksome desert of sand and sky, with a few naked huts and

ragged Arabs. But for being undeceived by an actual progress to the

spot, one and all would have remained firm in the conviction that these

visionary trees and lakes had a real existence in the desert. M. Monge

attributed the liquid expanse, tantalizing the eye with an unfaithful

representation of what was earnestly desired, to an inverted image of

the cerulean sky, intermixed with the ground scenery. This kind of

mirage is known in Persia and Arabia by the name of _Serab_ or

miraculous water, and in the western deserts of India by that of

_Tehittram_, a picture. It occurs as a common emblem of disappointment

in the poetry of the orientals.

[Illustration: Atmospheric Illusion.]

In the Philosophical Transactions for the year 1798, an account is given

by W. Latham, Esq., F.R.S., of an instance of lateral refraction

observed by him, by which the coast of Picardy, with its more prominent

objects, was brought apparently close to that of Hastings. On July the

26th, about five in the afternoon, while sitting in his dining-room,

near the sea-shore, attention was excited by a crowd of people running

down to the beach. Upon inquiring the reason, it appeared that the coast

of France was plainly to be distinguished with the naked eye. Upon

proceeding to the shore, he found, that without the assistance of a

telescope, he could distinctly see the cliffs across the Channel, which,

at the nearest points, are from forty to fifty miles distant, and are

not to be discovered, from that low situation, by the aid of the best

glasses. They appeared to be only a few miles off, and seemed to extend

for some leagues along the coast. At first the sailors and fishermen

could not be persuaded of the reality of the appearance, but they soon

became thoroughly convinced, by the cliffs gradually appearing more

elevated, and seeming to approach nearer, that they were able to point

out the different places they had been accustomed to visit, such as the

Bay, the Old Head, and the Windmill at Boulogne, St. Vallery, and

several other spots. Their remark was that these places appeared as near

as if they were sailing at a small distance into the harbor. The

apparition of the opposite cliffs varied in distinctness and apparent

contiguity for nearly an hour, but it was never out of sight, and upon

leaving the beach for a hill of some considerable height, Mr. Latham

could at once see Dungeness and Dover cliffs on each side, and before

him the French coast from Calais to near Dieppe. By the telescope the

French fishing-boats were clearly seen at anchor, and the different

colors of the land on the heights, with the buildings, were perfectly

discernible. The spectacle continued in the highest splendor until past

eight o’clock, though a black cloud obscured the face of the sun for

some time, when it gradually faded away. This was the first time within

the memory of the oldest inhabitants, that they had ever caught sight of

the opposite shore. The day had been extremely hot, and not a breath of

wind had stirred since the morning, when the small pennons at the

mast-heads of the fishing-boats in the harbor had been at all points of

the compass. Professor Vince witnessed a similar apparent approximation

of the coast of France to that of Ramsgate, for at the very edge of the

water he discerned the Calais cliffs a very considerable height above

the horizon, whereas they are frequently not to be seen in clear weather

from the high lands above the town. A much greater breadth of coast also

appeared than is usually observed under the most favorable

circumstances. The ordinary refractive power of the atmosphere is thus

liable to be strikingly altered by a change of temperature and humidity,

so that a hill which at one time appears low, may at another be seen

towering aloft; and a city in a neighboring valley, may from a certain

station be entirely invisible, or it may show the tops of its buildings,

just as if its foundations had been raised, according to the condition

of the aerial medium between it and the spectator.

[Illustration: Fata Morgana at Reggio.]

Of all instances of spectral illusion, the _fata morgana_, familiar to

the inhabitants of Sicily, is the most curious and striking. It occurs

off the Pharo of Messina, in the strait which separates Sicily from

Calabria, and had been variously described by different observers,

owing, doubtless, to the different conditions of the atmosphere at the

respective times of observation. The spectacle consists in the images of

men, cattle, houses, rocks, and trees, pictured upon the surface of the

water, and in the air immediately over the water, as if called into

existence by an enchanter’s wand, the same object having frequently two

images, one in the natural and the other in an inverted position. A

combination of circumstances must concur to produce this novel panorama.

The spectator, standing with his back to the east on an elevated place,

commands a view of the strait. No wind must be abroad to ruffle the

surface of the sea; and the waters must be pressed up by currents, which

is occasionally the case, to a considerable height, in the middle of the

strait, so that they may present a slight convex surface. When these

conditions are fulfilled, and the sun has risen over the Calabrian

heights so as to make an angle of 45° with the horizon, the various

objects on the shore at Reggio, opposite to Messina, are transferred to

the middle of the strait, forming an immovable landscape of rocks,

trees, and houses, and a movable one of men, horses, and cattle, upon

the surface of the water. If the atmosphere, at the same time, is highly

charged with vapor, the phenomena apparent on the water will also be

visible in the air, occupying a space which extends from the surface to

the height of about twenty-five feet. Two kinds of morgana may therefore

be discriminated; the first, at the surface of the sea, or the marine

morgana; the second, in the air, or the aerial. The term applied to this

strange exhibition of uncertain derivation, but supposed by some to

refer to the vulgar presumption of the spectacle being produced by a

fairy or magician. The populace are said to hail the vision with great

exultation, calling every one abroad to partake of the sight, with the

cry of “Morgana, morgana!”

Father Angelucci, an eye-witness, describes the scene in the following

terms:—“On the 15th of August, 1643, as I stood at my window, I was

surprised with a most wonderful, delectable vision. The sea that washes

the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like

a chain of dark mountains; while the waters near our Calabrian coast

grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared as one clear polished

mirror, reclining against the aforesaid ridge. On this glass was

depicted, in _chiaro scuro_, a string of several thousands of pilasters,

all equal in altitude, distance, and degree of light and shade. In a

moment they lost half their height, and bent into arcades, like Roman

aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed on the top, and above it rose

castles innumerable, all perfectly alike. These soon split into towers,

which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last

ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees, even and similar. This was

the Fata Morgana, which, for twenty-six years, I had thought a mere

fable.”

Brydone, writing from Messina, evidently in a dubious vein, states:—“Do

you know, the most extraordinary phenomenon in the world is often

observed near to this place? I laughed at it at first, as you will do,

but I am now convinced of its reality, and am persuaded, too, that if

ever it had been thoroughly examined by a philosophical eye, the natural

cause must long ago have been assigned. It has often been remarked, both

by the ancients and moderns, that in the heat of summer, after the sea

and air have been much agitated by winds, and a perfect calm succeeds,

there appears, about the time of dawn, in that part of the heavens over

the straits, a great variety of singular forms, some at rest, and some

moving about with great velocity. These forms, in proportion as the

light increases, seem to become more aerial, till at last some time

before sunrise they entirely disappear. The Sicilians represent this as

the most beautiful sight in nature. Leanti, one of their latest and best

writers, came here on purpose to see it. He says the heavens appeared

crowded with a variety of objects: he mentions palaces, woods, gardens,

etc., besides the figures of men and other animals, that appear in

motion amongst them. No doubt the imagination must be greatly aiding in

forming this aerial creation; but as so many of their authors, both

ancient and modern, agree in the fact, and give an account of it from

their own observation, there certainly must be some foundation for the

story. There is one Giardini, a Jesuit, who has lately written a

treatise upon this phenomenon, but I have not been able to find it. The

celebrated Messinese Gallo has likewise published something on this

singular subject. The common people, according to custom, give the whole

merit to the devil; and, indeed, it is by much the shortest and easiest

way of accounting for it. Those who pretend to be philosophers, and

refuse him this honor, are greatly puzzled what to make of it. They

think it may be owing to some uncommon refraction or reflection of the

rays, from the water of the straits, which, as it is at that time

carried about in a variety of eddies and vortices, must consequently,

say they, make a variety of appearances on any medium where it is

reflected. This, I think, is nonsense, or at least very near it. I

suspect it is something of the nature of our aurora borealis, and, like

many of the great phenomena of nature, depends upon electrical cause;

which, in future ages, I have little doubt, will be found to be as

powerful an agent in regulating the universe as gravity is in this age,

or as the subtle fluid was in the last. The electrical fluid in this

country of volcanoes, is probably produced in a much greater quantity

than in any other. The air, strongly impregnated with this matter, and

confined betwixt two ridges of mountains—at the same time exceedingly

agitated from below by the violence of the current, and the impetuous

whirling of the waters—may it not be supposed to produce a variety of

appearances? And may not the lively Sicilian imaginations, animated by a

belief in demons, and all the wild offspring of superstition, give these

appearances as great a variety of forms? Remember, I do not say it is

so; and hope yet to have it in my power to give you a better account of

this matter.”

Ingenious as Brydone was, he here indulges a most unfortunate

speculation, which, had he enjoyed the good fortune of personally

observing the phenomenon, most likely, he would not have proposed. It is

to be accounted for upon optical principles, which M. Biot, in his

_Astronomie Physique_, thus applies, from Minasi’s dissertation upon the

subject:—“When the rising sun shines from that point whence its

incident ray forms an angle of forty-five degrees, on the sea of Reggio,

and the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed either

by wind or current—when the tide is at its height, and the waters are

pressed up by the currents to a great elevation in the middle of the

channel; the spectator being placed on an eminence, with his back to the

sun, and his face to the sea, the mountains of Messina rising like a

wall behind it, and forming the back-ground of the picture—on a sudden

there appear in the water, as in a catoptric theatre, various multiplied

objects—numberless series of pilasters, arches, castles,

well-delineated regular columns, lofty towers, superb palaces, with

balconies and windows, extended alleys of trees, delightful plains, with

herds and flocks, armies of men on foot, on horseback, and many other

things, in their natural colors and proper actions, passing rapidly in

succession along the surface of the sea, during the whole of the short

period of time while the above-mentioned causes remain. The objects are

proved, by accurate observations of the coast of Reggio, to be derived

from objects on shore. If, in addition to the circumstances already

described, the atmosphere be highly impregnated with vapor and dense

exhalations, not previously dispersed by the action of the wind and

waves, or rarified by the sun, it then happens that, in this vapor, as

in a curtain extended along the channel to the height of above forty

palms, and nearly down to the sea, the observer will behold the scene of

the same objects not only reflected on the surface of the sea, but

likewise in the air, though not so distinctly or well-defined. Lastly,

if the air be slightly hazy and opaque, and at the same time dewy, and

adapted to form the iris, then the above-mentioned objects will appear

only at the surface of the sea, as in the first case, but all vividly

colored or fringed with red, green, blue, or other prismatic colors.”

Aerial images of terrestrial objects are frequently produced as the

simple effect of reflection. Dr. Buchan mentions the following

occurrence:—“Walking on the cliff about a mile to the east of Brighton,

on the morning of the 18th of November, 1804, while watching the rising

of the sun, I turned my eyes directly to the sea, just as the solar disc

emerged from the surface of the water, and saw the face of the cliff on

which I was standing represented precisely opposite to me, at some

distance from the ocean. Calling the attention of my companion to this

appearance, we soon also discovered our own figures standing on the

summit of the opposite apparent cliff, as well as the representation of

a windmill near at hand. The reflected images were most distinct

precisely opposite to where we stood; and the false cliff seemed to fade

away, and to draw near to the real one, in proportion as it receded

toward the west. This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, till the sun

had risen nearly his own diameter above the sea. The whole then seemed

to be elevated into the air, and successively disappeared. The surface

of the sea was covered with a dense fog of many yards in height, and

which gradually receded before the rays of the sun.” In December, 1826,

a similar circumstance excited some consternation among the parishioners

of Miqué, in the neighborhood of Poitiers, in France. They were engaged

in the exercises of the jubilee which preceded the festival of

Christmas, and about three thousand persons from the surrounding

parishes were assembled. At five o’clock in the evening, when one of the

clergy was addressing the multitude, and reminding them of the cross

which appeared in the sky to Constantine and his army, suddenly a

similar cross appeared in the heavens, just before the porch of the

church, about two hundred feet above the horizon, and a hundred and

forty feet in length, of a bright silver color tinged with red, and

perfectly well-defined. Such was the effect of this vision, that the

people immediately threw themselves upon their knees, and united

together in one of their canticles. The fact was, that a large wooden

cross, twenty-five feet high, had been erected beside the church as a

part of the ceremony, the figure of which was formed in the air, and

reflected back to the eyes of the spectators, retaining exactly the same

shape and proportions, but changed in position and dilated in size. Its

red tinge was also the color of the object of which it was the reflected

image. When the rays of the sun were withdrawn the figure vanished.

[Illustration: Spectre of the Brocken.]

The peasantry in the neighborhood of the Harz Mountains formerly stood

in no little awe of the gigantic spectre of the Brocken—the figure of a

man observed to walk the clouds over the ridge at sunrise. This

apparition has long been resolved into an exaggerated reflection, which

makes the traveler’s shadow, pictured upon the clouds, appear a colossal

figure of immense dimensions. A French savan, attended by a friend, went

to watch this spectral shape, but for many mornings they traversed an

opposite ridge in vain. At length, however, it was discovered, having

also a companion, and both figures were found imitating all the motions

of the philosopher and his friend. The ancient classical fable of Niobe

on Mount Sipylus belongs to the same category of atmospheric deceptions;

and the tales, common in mountainous countries, of troops of horse and

armies marching and counter-marching in the air, have been only the

reflection of horses pasturing upon an opposite height, or of the forms

of travelers pursuing their journey. On the 19th of August, 1820, Mr.

Menzies, a surgeon of Glasgow, and Mr. Macgregor began to ascend the

mountain of Ben Lomond, about five o’clock in the afternoon. They had

not proceeded far before they were overtaken by a smart shower; but as

it appeared only to be partial, they continued their journey, and by the

time they were half way up, the cloud passed away, and most delightful

weather succeeded. Thin, transparent vapors, which appeared to have

risen from Loch Lomond beneath, were occasionally seen floating before a

gentle and refreshing breeze; in other respects, as far as the eye could

trace, the sky was clear, and the atmosphere serene. They reached the

summit about half-past seven o’clock, in time to see the sun sinking

beneath the western hills. Its parting beams had gilded the

mountain-tops with a warm glowing color; and the surface of the lake,

gently rippling with the breeze, was tinged with a yellow lustre. While

admiring the adjacent mountains, hills, and valleys, and the expanse of

water beneath, interspersed with numerous wooded islands, the attention

of one of the party was attracted by a cloud in the east, partly of a

dark red color, apparently at the distance of two miles and a half, in

which he distinctly observed two gigantic figures, standing, as it were,

on a majestic pedestal. He immediately pointed out the phenomenon to his

companion; and they distinctly perceived one of the gigantic figures, in

imitation, strike the other on the shoulder, and point toward them. They

then made their obeisance to the airy phantoms, which was instantly

returned. They waved their hats and umbrellas, and the shadowy figures

did the same. Like other travelers, they had carried with them a bottle

of usquebaugh, and amused themselves in drinking to the figures, which

was of course duly returned. In short, every movement which they made,

they could observe distinctly repeated by the figures in the cloud. The

appearance continued about a quarter of an hour. A gentle breeze from

the north carried the cloud slowly away; the figures became less and

less distinct, and at last vanished. North of the village of Comrie, in

Perthshire, there is a bold hill called Dunmore, with a pillar of

seventy or eighty feet in height built on its summit in memory of the

late Lord Melville. At about eight o’clock of the evening of the 21st of

August, of the year 1845, a perfect image of this well-known hill and

obelisk, as exact as the shadow usually represents the substance, was

distinctly observed projecting on the northern sky, at least two miles

beyond the original, which, owing to an intervening eminence, was not

itself at all in view from the station where the aerial picture was

observed. The figure continued visible for about ten minutes after it

was first seen, and was minutely examined by three individuals. One of

these fancied that there was a projection at the base of the monument,

as represented in the air, which was not in the original; but, upon

examining the latter the next morning, the image was found to have been

more faithful than his memory; for there stood the prototype of the

projection, in the shape of a clump of trees, at the base of the real

obelisk.

[Illustration: men on a dock looking at ships on the ocean which have a

duplicate image of themselves suspended in the air above them]

In northern latitudes the effects of atmospheric reflection and

refraction are very familiar to the natives. By the term of

_uphillanger_ the Icelanders denote the elevation of distant objects,

which is regarded as a presage of fine weather. Not only is there an

increase in the vertical dimensions of the objects affected, so that low

coasts frequently assume a bold and precipitous outline, the objects

sunk below the horizon are brought into view, with their natural

position changed and distorted. In 1818, Captain Scoresby relates that,

when in the polar sea, his ship had been separated for some time from

that of his father, which he had been looking out for with great

anxiety. At length, one evening, to his astonishment, he beheld the

vessel suspended in the air in an inverted position, with the most

distinct and perfect representation. Sailing in the direction of this

visionary appearance, he met with the real ship by this indication. It

was found that the vessel had been thirty miles distant, and seventeen

beyond the horizon, when her spectrum was thus elevated into the air by

this extraordinary refraction. Sometimes two images of a vessel are

seen, the one erect and the other inverted, with their topmasts or their

hulls meeting, according as the inverted image is above or below the

other. Dr. Wollaston has shown that the production of these images is

owing to the refraction of the rays through media of different

densities. Looking along a red-hot poker at a distant object, two images

of it were seen, one erect and the other inverted, arising from the

change produced by the heat in the density of the air. A singular

instance of lateral mirage was noticed upon the Lake of Geneva by MM.

Jurine and Soret, in the year 1818. A bark near Bellerire was seen

approaching to the city by the left bank of the lake; and at the same

time an image of the sails was observed above the water, which, instead

of following the direction of the bark, separated from it, and appeared

approaching by the _right_ bank—the image moving from east to west, and

the bark from north to south. When the image separated from the vessel,

it was of the same dimensions as the bark; but it diminished as it

receded from it, so as to be reduced to one-half when the appearance

ceased. This was a striking example of refraction, operating in a

lateral as well as a vertical direction.

_Ignis Fatuus._ This wandering meteor known to the vulgar as the

Will-o’-the-Wisp, has given rise to considerable speculation and

controversy. Burying-grounds, fields of battle, low meadows, valleys,

and marshes, are its ordinary haunts. By some eminent naturalists,

particularly Willoughby and Ray, it has been maintained to be only the

shining of a great number of the male glow-worms in England, and the

pyraustæ in Italy, flying together—an opinion to which Mr. Kirby, the

entomologist, inclines. The luminosities observed in several cases may

have been due to this cause, but the true meteor of the marshes cannot

thus be explained. The following instance is abridged from the

Entomological Magazine:—“Two travelers proceeding across the moors

between Hexham and Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock at night, by

the sudden appearance of a light close to the road-side, about the size

of the hand, and of a well-defined oval form. The place was very wet,

and the peat-moss had been dug out, leaving what are locally termed

‘peat-pots,’ which soon fill with water, nourishing a number of

confervæ, and the various species of sphagnum, which are converted into

peat. During the process of decomposition these places give out large

quantities of gas. The light was about three feet from the ground,

hovering over the peat-pots, and it moved nearly parallel with the road

for about fifty yards, when it vanished, probably from the failure of

the gas. The manner in which it disappeared was similar to that of a

candle being blown out.” We have the best account of it from Mr.

Blesson, who examined it abroad with great care and diligence.

[Illustration: Ignis Fatuus.]

“The first time,” he states, “I saw the ignis fatuus was in a valley in

the forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark. This valley cuts deeply in

compact loam, and is marshy on its lower part. The water of the marsh is

ferruginous, and covered with an iridescent crust. During the day

bubbles of air were seen rising from it, and in the night blue flames

were observed shooting from and playing over its surface. As I suspected

that there was some connection between these flames and the bubbles of

air, I marked during the day-time the place where the latter rose up

most abundantly, and repaired thither during the night; to my great joy

I actually observed bluish-purple flames, and did not hesitate to

approach them. On reaching the spot they retired, and I pursued them in

vain; all attempts to examine them closely were ineffectual. Some days

of very rainy weather prevented further investigation, but afforded

leisure for reflecting on their nature. I conjectured that the motion of

the air, on my approaching the spot, forced forward the burning gas, and

remarked that the flame burned darker when it was blown aside; hence I

concluded that a continuous thin stream of inflammable air was formed by

these bubbles, which, once inflamed, continued to burn, but which, owing

to the paleness of the light of the flame, could not be observed during

the day.”

The ignis fatuus of the church-yard and the battle-field arise from the

phosphuretted hydrogen emitted by animal matter in a state of

putrefaction, which always inflames upon contact with the oxygen of the

atmosphere; and the flickering meteor of the marsh may be referred to

the carburetted hydrogen, formed by the decomposition of vegetable

matter in stagnant water, ignited by a discharge of the electric fluid.

* * * * *

CAMPAIGNING STORIES.

NO. II.—THE CAPTIVE RIVALS.[1]

BY THE AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON.”

(_Concluded from page 212, Vol. XXXIX._)

PART III.

I have not seen

So likely an embassador of love.

_Merchant of Venice._

It gives me wonder, great is my content,

To see you here before me.

_Othello._

The sun had not yet climbed the hills on the east of the valley, when

Harding set forth on his uncertain mission; and not one of the indolent

people of the country was any where to be seen. The houses were all

closed—no smoke issued from their rude chimneys—no sound or motion

broke the stillness. Apart from its solitude, however, it was a

beautiful scene. The haziness of the evening before was now gone—the

valley was refreshed by the dew of the night; and the reviving influence

of the cool morning seemed to have had its effect upon the inanimate as

well as the animate. The slope of the hills on the north, where the

first rays of the sun rested for hours before they touched the southern

plateau, was dotted here and there by straggling goats, browsing

listlessly upon the scanty vegetation; while lower down the valley and

along the banks of the little river, numbers of cattle were either

standing patiently around the inclosures or wandering slowly away toward

the hills. The river, silvered by the morning light, wound thread-like

down the valley toward the west, and was visible even to the turn of the

mountain miles away, where it enters the labyrinth of ridges in the

neighborhood of Parras. There were no waving fields of grain; but the

hedges were all green and fresh; verdure was springing even at that

season, where the ground had been cleared of its products; and the

evergreen trees, and groves of oranges which dotted the land imparted an

aspect of fertile beauty. The shadows of the rugged hills were traceable

along the ground, so clearly that the line of separation could be

followed through the fields—one-half in sunlight, half in shade—the

former gradually encroaching on the latter. There were no birds to cheer

the solitude with matin songs; but so peaceful was the scene that even

their presence might have seemed unwelcome.

Harding gazed about him as he crossed the bridge as if in search of the

road. There were two paths; one leading along the front of several

_ranchos_, and apparently taking him directly to the point he wished to

reach. The other led away to the left, sweeping round the fields and

avoiding the houses, with the danger of meeting their inmates. It was

the latter that the count directed him to take; but for some reason best

known to himself he followed the first, without heeding De Marsiac’s

hail, and soon found himself riding slowly between two straggling rows

of neat cottages. There was no one astir, however, and he had ridden

nearly the whole length of the avenue without seeing any signs of

life—when, judging himself to be out of view of _Embocadura_, he turned

his horse in among the elms, and sprang to the ground.

Throwing his bridle-rein over a limb, he first carefully examined his

pistols, and then loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped out from

the cover and approached the nearest cottage. It was not until he had

knocked several times that any answer was returned. Then, however, the

door was suddenly swung open, and he was confronted by one of those

specimens of Mexican youth, whose faces combine in so remarkable a

degree, great beauty with an expression of wicked cunning. He was a

boy—perhaps eighteen years of age, with a slender figure, but evidently

very active, and unless an exception to his race, capable of enduring

great fatigue and privation. His eyes were dark as night, small, and

keen; his nose thin and straight, his lips rather pinched, but red and

clearly cut. The rest of his features were appropriate to these, and his

complexion was rather lighter than the general hue of his people. He

held a _lareat_ coiled in his hand, and his goat-skin shoes were armed

at the heel with enormous spurs.

“_Buenas dias, Señor_,” said he, in a clear, sharp voice, stepping back

at the same time, in mute invitation to Harding to enter.

The latter returned the salutation and asked—

“On whose lands are these _ranchos_?”

“On those of La Señora Eltorena,” answered the boy, promptly.

“How far is it to Anelo?” he inquired.

“Twelve leagues, sir.”

Harding reflected for a moment, and then beckoned the boy aside. The

latter gazed at him inquiringly; but drawing the door to, followed him

to the place where his horse was standing.

“You see that horse?” said he.

“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.”

“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,[2] to-day?”

“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the

officer as if to measure his liberality.

“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your

return, you may keep the horse.”

“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.”

Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the

commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then

foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy.

“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at

the _hacienda_. My name is Harding.”

“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than

Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.”

His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that

Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But

while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining

his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and

bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and

avoiding _La Embocadura_ by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among

the groves to the east.

Concluding that if he had made a mistake it was now too late to amend

it, he turned on his heel, and was about to pursue his way toward

_Piedritas_ on foot, when his attention was arrested by a voice

pronouncing his name.

“Señor Harding, let me speak with you for a moment.”

He turned, and beheld a female in the very bloom of mature

womanhood—tall, elegantly formed, and possessing a countenance of

singular force and beauty. She was standing near the door at which he

had knocked, and he had no difficulty in determining from the

resemblance that she was the mother of his messenger. He advanced with

the ordinary salutation, and followed her within the house.

“I am perfectly well acquainted,” she commenced abruptly, without

offering him a seat, “with the object of your visit to the _hacienda_.

You are here to wed the daughter of the woman who calls herself the

Señora Eltorena—”

“Calls herself!” repeated Harding.

“And you are doubtless like other men,” she continued, without noticing

the exclamation, “more attracted by the property than the bride. Now, I

wish to warn you that this estate, with all that the late Colonel

Eltorena owned, belongs to his son—and mine—the youth whom you have

just sent away; and that I hold General Santa Anna’s pledge to see him

righted as soon as the army marches this way. So, if you marry her, it

is with your eyes open.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” said Harding, after a pause given to

surprise; “I am here on no such errand: I am, on the contrary,” he

added, with a smile, “only a humble ambassador, suing for the lady’s

hand in the name of another, more potent individual.”

“In the name of the murdering thief, De Marsiac?” she exclaimed.

“Even so,” Harding replied, “the very same, without mistake.”

“You are a strange ambassador,” she said, with a laugh. “But,” she

continued, resuming her somewhat wild manner, “I warn him through you,

as I have done to his face, that the man who marries that woman’s

daughter, must take her portionless!”

“In that case,” said Harding, with another smile, “I doubt whether the

count will care to take her at all. But enlighten me about your son’s

title—it may be important to my principal.”

Her story was not an uncommon one, though it took a long time in

telling; for she dwelt with painful emphasis upon some parts, and talked

so incoherently upon others, that Harding was confirmed in his suspicion

that her mind was, upon that subject at least, quite unsettled. She had

been induced by the late Colonel Eltorena to go to his house, as his

wife, under a promise that the actual ceremony should be performed by

the first priest who came from Monclova or Saltillo. It was a remote

district in which they lived, and they might have to wait for months

before the expected visit would be made; and knowing this, and at the

earnest solicitation of her lover, she consented to an arrangement,

which was not so uncommon as it should have been. Wherever the common

law prevails as it does in the United States, this would have been a

legal marriage; and she solemnly protested that she so considered it

upon the representation of the colonel himself. Two or three priests had

passed that way within a few months; but upon various pretexts the

ceremony was postponed.

At last, after about six months, the Colonel went to the city of Mexico

on a visit, and returned with a wife! “The woman,” said the narrator,

“who now calls herself La Señora Eltorena!” _She_, the deceived and

betrayed, was generously offered an asylum in the _rancho_, where she

had lived ever since; and six months after her ejectment from the

_hacienda_ by “the proud English woman,” her son was born. For eighteen

years she had been suing for her rights; but superior influence with the

corrupt judges of that unhappy land had foiled all her efforts; and in

the meantime, she had lived in plain view of the _hacienda_, determined

never to lose sight of her object, until she saw her son in possession.

She had never been inside of its walls: “but,” said she, “I _will_ be

there—and soon! May God give me revenge upon the sorceress, who stole

away my rights!”

“It is a very hard case,” said Harding, when she had finished, “but I

fear like many other wrongs, it has no remedy.”

“There is one remedy,” said she, significantly, “when all others fail.”

And drawing aside the end of her _mantilla_, she disclosed the hilt of a

long, keen dagger. She drew it forth, ran her finger along its edge,

smiled faintly, and replaced it in its sheath.

“Well, well,” said Harding, turning away, “I am warned at all events,

and will take care that the count is enlightened, also. I must speed

upon my mission. Good morning.”

She made no reply, and he passed out, taking his way toward the

_hacienda_, which lay in view, about a mile distant. Turning to the

right, he soon reached the bank of the river, and followed its rapid but

even current, which ran sparkling beneath the court-yard wall. It was

yet quite early; and as he reached the front of the mansion, his fear,

that as yet no one would be astir, was confirmed. Returning again to the

margin of the stream, he commenced pacing up and down the sward under a

row of elms, with the intention of awaiting the rising of the family. He

had made but two or three turns, however, and had halted, gazing about

upon the still morning scene, when he thought he observed something like

drapery pass across the arches in the wall, through which the river

entered the inclosure. He advanced somewhat closer, and could distinctly

see a pair of small feet tripping across the river on a footway made by

placing large stones a step apart from bank to bank. He could not doubt

that it was Margarita; but without going again to the front of the

house, he knew of no means of ingress.

Casting his glance up and down the stream, to his delight, he discovered

a small boat moored to the bank, and slowly swinging in the current. A

moment sufficed to untie the rope which bound it, and in another, he was

seated on its light planks, rapidly floating toward the arched passage.

The waters, raised by the rains of the preceding day, left but scanty

room beneath the masonry; but lying down in the bottom of the boat, and

guiding her with his hands, he soon had the satisfaction to emerge

within the inclosure. On rising again, he found himself between an

extensive garden on one side and the offices of the mansion on the

other. The former seemed to be a neglected wilderness of trees, and

flowering plants and vines, but on reaching the footway over which the

feet had passed, he discovered an opening to the labyrinth, in a broad,

graveled walk, which wound away between rows of shrubbery, sparkling in

the morning sunlight, and lost itself in the distance.

Turning the boat broadside against the stones, to prevent its floating

away, he sprang to the bank and walked rapidly down the avenue. He

discovered neither form nor sign of life for several minutes; but as he

turned from the main walk into a smaller, which led away to the left, he

saw directly before him, walking slowly toward the place where he stood,

a young girl whose exquisite beauty well justified his eagerness. She

was slightly above the medium height, slender, but well-proportioned,

with a carriage erect and graceful. Her rich, brown hair was braided in

masses over a forehead of the purest white, and drawn back loosely so as

almost to hang upon her round, snowy neck. Her eyes were of the same

color with her hair—a rich, dark brown; and their expression, though

somewhat pensive, was yet sparkling and clear. A nose of the true

Grecian model, a round, though not full chin, a small mouth with thin,

curling lips, and cheeks now tinged by exercise in the cool morning air,

completed a face which might well have attracted a man of less taste

than the Count De Marsiac. To complete the picture, she had small,

beautiful feet, such as a sultana might have envied; and her perfect,

white hands, which now lay folded together in front, might have been a

model for a sculptor. She wore a thin morning dress of the purest white,

and as she walked slowly and unconsciously, it waved like gossamer about

her person—revealing, perhaps, too much of its contour to please our

northern prejudices, but still adding to its exquisite attraction.

Harding’s circumstances were so peculiar, that he was embarrassed for a

moment, and could not determine how to meet her. She had not yet seen

him, and acting upon the impulse of perplexity, he stepped within the

cover of the shrubbery, and allowed her to pass without speaking. She

went but a few steps, however, before he called—

“Margarita!”

She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him.

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she

extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her

feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not

tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met

him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his,

and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of

a former time was renewed!

“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say.

“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from

his embrace, but still leaning on his arm.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding.

“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile

which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that

you are here?”

“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to

ask your hand in marriage!”

“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?”

“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene

Raoul, Count De Marsiac!”

She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the

light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly

into his eyes and said—

“If the envoy does not deem my hand a prize high enough to justify his

preferring a claim on his own behalf. I must even listen to the

overtures of his sovereign.”

“Then I must deliver my credentials,” said Harding, and drawing her to

him, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “And now,” he continued, taking her

hand, “my mission is ended; and in my own proper character I claim this

hand as my own. Is it mine?”

“Forever,” she answered, and he was about to resume his “credentials,”

when a rustling among the bushes attracted his attention; and before

Margarita could disengage herself, Lieutenant Grant confronted them, and

leveled a pistol at Harding’s breast!

“Traitor!” he shouted furiously; “you shall pay for this with your

life!”

Margarita screamed loudly, and threw herself in front of her lover; but

before Grant was aware of his intention, Harding drew his sword, and

passing around her, threw himself upon him. He knocked the pistol into

the air just as it exploded; and the next instant Grant was stretched

upon the sward, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head given by the

back of Harding’s sword! The latter drew the remaining pistol from the

sash of the fallen lieutenant, and kneeling beside him raised him from

the ground on his arm.

“Bring some water from the river,” he said to Margarita.

But as he looked up, he perceived that the party had been increased by

one! A tall, handsome woman, of perhaps thirty-six, stood gazing sternly

on the scene, while Margarita shrank back abashed. She had a face once

evidently distinguished for its proud beauty, but now remarkable chiefly

for the masculine strength of its expression. Her eye was of that deep

blue, which oftener indicates coldness than tenderness; and her lips,

now compressed and white, were full of fierce resolution. It was plain

that a sneer was more natural to her than a smile, anger than affection.

Her brow was high but narrow, and her nose a thin aquiline. It was not

at all strange that she had been the dominant spirit in Colonel

Eltorena’s household.

“What is this?” she commenced, in a voice of powerful compass, but no

sweetness. “And who are you, sir, who dare to invade my private garden

to brawl with my guests?”

“You know me full well, madam,” said Harding, irritated by her tone,

“and I intend that you shall know me better. But this is no time to

instruct you. Margarita, will you bring some water from the river?”

Margarita looked doubtfully at her mother; but at a wave of her hand,

ran away toward the river. As she disappeared, her mother advanced

closer to Harding, who was endeavoring to resuscitate Grant, and said—

“You are here, I suppose, sir, for the purpose of attempting to

interfere with my domestic arrangements; but let me assure you that you

shall hang to one of these trees rather than be even admitted within the

house!”

“Your threats are brave enough, at all events,” said Harding, with a

smile. “But do you not think it would better become a woman to assist me

in a duty of humanity?”

“What does she know of humanity?” demanded a sharp female voice, close

to the group; and on turning his head Harding saw the same woman, whose

story of deception and betrayal had so much interested him two hours

before.

“What do _you_ here?” demanded the señora, with one of those scowling

looks for which her face seemed made. “Must I have you, too, thrust from

my gate!”

“_Your_ gate!” hissed the woman, advancing nearer to the object of her

hatred, and flashing insane glances from those wild, haggard eyes.

“_Your_ gate! Impostor, witch, begone! Must _I_ have _you_ thrust from

_my_ gate?”

There is something very appalling in the glance of an eye touched with

insanity; and the Englishwoman shrunk from it, if not in fear, at least

in dread. But, at the same moment, she saw Margarita returning with the

water, and called to her—

“Go back, my daughter, and send some of the men here.”

“To thrust me forth from _your gate_, I suppose,” said the woman,

advancing still closer, and fumbling with her right hand under the end

of her mantilla.

“Yes,” said the señora fiercely; “will you go without violence?”

“No!” the maniac almost screamed. “_No!_” she repeated; and with the

word, she suddenly drew her hand from its concealment, flourishing the

dagger which she had shown Harding, and with a bound like that of a

tiger, sprang upon her enemy and buried the steel in her heart! Harding

dropped Grant, and rushed forward to prevent another blow, but his

interference was too late! The señora screamed wildly, and with a

convulsive gasp fell to the ground, quite dead!

Harding seized the arm of the murderess and easily wrested the dagger

from her hand. Indeed, she made no resistance—the reaction of her

excitement sapped away her strength; and, submitting without a word to

all that Harding did, she seemed intent only upon the now fast

stiffening corpse which lay before her.

“I am sorry for her,” she murmured; “I am sorry for her—but she would

have it, and I cannot bring her to life.”

She burst into tears, and threw herself to the ground—uttering the most

terrible imprecations of God’s vengeance upon herself, mingled with

curses of the late Colonel Eltorena, and incoherent references to his

perfidy. Harding was at a loss how to act—so strangely embarrassing was

the wild scene in which he found himself.

The question was soon decided for him. He heard the approach of several

armed men, walking with quick steps along the path, and, the next

moment, Count De Marsiac suddenly entered the little area.

“Villain!” he exclaimed, striding toward Harding; “you have deceived me,

and shall die the death!”

“Back, sir!” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, presenting the point of

his sword. “If there is a greater villain than yourself here, the devil

must be present in person!”

The count recoiled from the blade, and furiously ordered his men to fire

upon the audacious American; but two of them, who had been busied with

Grant, now sprang upon him from behind, and, after a sharp struggle,

overpowered and bound him.

“I will dispose of you after awhile,” said De Marsiac, when he saw him

_hors du combat_. “Leave him where he is,” he added to his men; and

proceeding to give his orders with clearness and rapidity, the scene was

soon broken up. Grant was restored to consciousness and again made a

prisoner; the body of the señora was removed by the women summoned for

the purpose, the murderess was taken into custody, and the whole party

repaired to the house. Of this, De Marsiac at once took possession as if

he were already its master; Margarita was confined to her own chamber,

and Harding was thrust into a small, dingy room, and left alone, with

those unpleasant companions, his own thoughts.

-----

[1] The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive

Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the

December number.—Ed. Graham.

_Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861._

_G. R. Graham, Esq.,_

Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the

‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other

unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed.

[2] The reader must recollect that the leagues mentioned are Mexican.

PART IV.

All in the castle were at rest;

When sudden on the windows shone

A lightning flash, just seen and gone.

Rokeby.

’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;

But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.

Byron.

It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of

arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all

sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself

imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong,

vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened

upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could

distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding,

but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the

possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time,

before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never

disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has

perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the

meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose

power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his

fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony

of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep

window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept.

When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows

of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and

looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he

had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered.

The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall

were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he

been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood

upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his

window.

None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing

of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of

waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them

that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at

heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow

floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard

voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step

coming along the corridor.

“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once

recognized as that of the count.

“I was taking the _Americano_ something to eat,” timidly answered the

smaller of the voices, before in altercation.

“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud,

as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell the _Americano_ that he

had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!”

“_Si, señor_,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was

cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and the

_peon_ entered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some

articles of food.

Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing

since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of

his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into

execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in

time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he

knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his

resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly

round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but

before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily

bolted.

“The _señor_ will eat something?” said the boy, timidly.

“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a

wooden bench at the side of the room.

“The count told me to say you had better eat heartily,” said the _peon_,

“as this will be your last meal; and,” he continued, in a lower voice,

pointing to a roll of bread, “you must break this bread, even if you

don’t eat it.”

The gesture and tone attracted Harding’s attention. He approached the

bench and raised the roll, while the boy, repeating his injunction, went

back to the door, and was cautiously let out. The lieutenant waited

until the bolts were drawn again, and then broke the bread. A small slip

of paper fell to the floor; and, on raising it, he found the following

hopeful, though unsatisfactory words:

“_Will you pay me the twenty dollars, or shall I keep the horse?_”

“It would be cheaper,” muttered Harding, perversely, “to let him keep

the horse, if he has ridden him thirty leagues already. But,” he added,

a suspicion flashing across his mind, “that is impossible! I ought to

have known the young scoundrel would betray me—and this is only a cruel

_ruse_ of De Marsiac!”

He turned the paper over as he spoke, and his eye caught these words

written on the reverse:

“_I will be with you by 9 o’clock—McCulloch._”

“I did the boy injustice,” was his first thought; “he shall have both

the money and the horse.” And seating himself on the bench, he followed

the count’s well-meant advice, and was soon refreshed by a hearty meal.

It is wonderful how much the state of the stomach has to do with the

moods of the mind. Indeed, the two organs seem to be inter-reactive; and

I believe some physiologists now contend, with great plausibility, too,

that the brain is really the digestive organ. If this theory be true,

mental distress must be only another name for _dispepsia_; and—though I

have seen men who ate like anacondas, when under great affliction—I am

strongly inclined to endorse the speculation. At all events, Harding was

“a case, or subject, in point;” for, but a few minutes before, when he

was apprehending many certain and uncertain evils, from the resentment

of the count, he had not the least desire for refreshment; but, on the

first glimpse of hope, he had an appetite like a soldier escaped from a

beleaguered city. And, no sooner was the inner man replenished, than—on

the aforesaid principle of inter-reaction—his spirits rose almost to

the point of absolute content. Most axioms are tautological; but none is

more so than that which asserts that “man is a _strange animal_.” The

word “strange” might be advantageously and conveniently left out.

So thoroughly had the important act of receiving his rations

reinvigorated the captive, both corporeally and mentally, that, when he

resumed his walk up and down the floor, he dismissed all anxiety about

his own fate, and began to speculate in reference to the condition of

his fellow-prisoner, Grant. From regret that he had been compelled to

strike him, his mind wandered to a more pleasing subject of

contemplation—he began to long for some information about Margarita;

how she was treated by the ruffian count, and, more particularly—for

love is always egotistical—how she viewed _his_ captivity; and finally,

whether she had not forgotten her grief for her murdered mother, in

devising means of giving him his liberty. These, or such as these, are

often very pleasant fancies—the misfortune is, that, in most cases,

they are _only_ fancies, and are occasionally rather rudely dispelled.

So it was, at all events, with Harding; for, just as he had reached that

supreme apex of egotism, to which lovers so easily attain—where one’s

mistress is not supposed to know that there is any thing, or anybody

else in the world, about which, or whom, she _can_ think—when he was

recalled to more substantial realities, by hearing the count, in loud,

stern tones, giving a rapid and ominous command.

“Close the gates and bar them—muster the company, with loaded muskets,

and bring out the prisoners!” Such was the significant order of a man

who was never known to stop at half-measures!

“McCulloch will be too late, at last!” exclaimed Harding, halting

suddenly, and dashing his hand violently against the wall. The dinner

had lost its virtues, for his heart sank even below its former point of

depression. And, in truth, his apprehension was far from groundless. De

Marsiac was incensed beyond bearing, by the consciousness that Harding

had overreached him. His suspicions were first aroused by observing him

take a road to _Piedritas_, different to the one he had pointed out. He

had watched him until he halted among the elms, and had seen him

dispatch the messenger for assistance. He was ignorant, however, of his

point of destination—supposing that the nearest American force was at

Monclova, about sixty leagues[3] distant. This supposition would give

him at least forty-eight hours, in which to prepare for the reception,

should soldiers be sent, or, at least, to retreat into the mountains.

The interview between Margarita and Harding, had also been watched by

some one of the household; and when the count came in great haste after

his prisoner, this unwelcome news had met him at the threshold. A man of

his violent temper could not have brooked this under any circumstances,

least of all, when he possessed, as did the count, ample and ready means

of vengeance.

While the unfortunate prisoner was running these comfortless

circumstances over in his mind, the door was suddenly thrown open, and

several men rushed upon him and threw him to the floor. Almost before he

was aware of their object, his arms were drawn forcibly back and

pinioned behind him. They then lifted him to his feet, and

unceremoniously marched him out upon the corridor. Here he found Grant,

securely pinioned like himself, and held by two _rancheros_, one on each

arm.

“This is a pretty predicament you have brought us into,” said the

younger, sullenly; “We’re to be shot, I suppose.”

“Very probably,” answered Harding, scarcely able to resist, even in that

serious moment, an inclination to smile at Grant’s disconsolate look.

“But how came you here?”

“I escaped from _Embocadura_ about the same time with you, and was in

the garden to learn your treachery and—”

“And to get that blow on the head,” interrupted Harding, feeling again

an impulse to jest.

“I’ll settle that score with you hereafter,” said Grant, his eyes

flashing fire.

“By ‘hereafter,’ I suppose, you mean in the next world,” said Harding,

with a bitter smile. “But, seriously, Grant, this is no time for the

indulgence of such feelings; we have probably not long to live, and

ought to be thinking of more important matters. I am heartily sorry for

the blow, as well as for my insincerity—will you forgive it?”

“With all my heart,” answered the other warmly; and each made a gesture,

as if to join hands; but the cords bound them too closely.

“We can do but one thing, Grant,” said Harding, with feeling, “and that

is, die like Christian men—and brave men,” he added, after a pause;

“for these cursed _rancheros_ ought not to see any weakness in

Americans.”

“They shall see none in me,” said Grant, firmly, “though I do think it

hard to be sacrificed in this way!”

“One of the chances of war, Grant—only one of the chances of war,” said

Harding, sturdily; and, at the same moment the count, for whom the men

seemed to have been waiting, appeared on the corridor and waved his

hand. The files turned away with their prisoners, and marching around

the building, soon gained the bank of the river. Here they halted again,

awaiting the approach of the count, who, like most men when assuming a

fearful responsibility, seemed to act with much less than his usual

prompt rapidity. The sun had already set, and there was only left the

short twilight of that latitude before the falling of night, which must

suspend the bloody act, perhaps forever.

But a few minutes were lost, however, when De Marsiac came hastily round

the building, accompanied by ten of his _rancheros_ with trailed arms.

At a gesture from him the prisoners’ guards resumed their march, and

crossing the river on the stepping-stones, before mentioned, soon gained

the little open space where Harding had met Margarita. Selecting two

trees which stood near each other, the count ordered his captives to be

lashed securely to them; and then drawing his men some five paces off,

gave the preliminary commands to a cold-blooded murder.

“Keep a strong heart, Grant,” said Harding, endeavoring to sustain his

younger comrade in the awful hour. “Don’t let your courage fail now—it

is too late!”

“This is a mere assassination,” said Grant, grinding his teeth.

“And will be speedily avenged,” added Harding, “more speedily than the

vindictive scoundrel now thinks!”

De Marsiac caught these words, and paused. For a moment he seemed to

hesitate whether to proceed. But his nature was too obstinate to admit

more than a passing thought of change in his purpose; and without

further noting the words of Harding, he resumed his attitude of command.

While he seemed to hesitate, his men had brought their guns to the

ground—and they were now to be brought up again by the successive

movements of the manual. The delay arising from this cause, probably

saved the lives of both the prisoners.

A quick, light footstep was heard rapidly approaching along the main

walk, and a moment afterward, Margarita, accompanied by one of her

women, rushed into the area and threw herself, without hesitation,

between the prisoners and their executioners.

“Count!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing fire, and her voice attesting

the extremity of her emotion, “is this the way you keep your promises

with one to whose hand you aspire! Down with your arms, miscreants, and

begone! _I_ am mistress here!”

A slight sneer curled the haughty lip of the count; but, considering his

vengeance snatched from him for the present, he gave his men the order

to ground their arms, but to stand firm. Assuming, then, the most

insinuating address in his power—and he was far from ungraceful—he

approached the incensed girl, and drew her aside.

“Margarita,” said he, taking her hand, “you must pardon an act which is

prompted only by love for yourself; and you must not judge too harshly

of one who feels that the dearest price of earth has been unfairly

snatched from his grasp. Both these men have been instrumental in

blasting my hopes of obtaining this hand; I feel that while they live, I

can never rebuild the vision I have indulged—perhaps their death may

not assist me—but,” and he raised himself suddenly to his full height,

and spoke in a deep, determined tone, the meaning of which she knew too

well, “I shall at least be avenged!”

“What do you mean?” she asked, trembling.

“I mean,” he replied, calmly, “that since my hopes are wrecked at any

rate, their death will give me revenge, without harm to my

interests—_they must die!_”

“And dare you think that I would marry one whose hands were bloody with

such a deed?” she asked, proudly.

“Listen to me,” said he, laying his hand on her arm; “my hands are not

_now_ bloody—yet you reject me. If I spare these men, you will reject

me still—and I shall lose my revenge, and not gain your love.”

“Perhaps—” she commenced, but paused.

“If you will be mine,” he interrupted, perceiving that the moment had

arrived, “both these men shall be sent back, unharmed, to the American

army—and I shall be not only the happiest of men, for the requital of

my love, but will also be saved, what I feel would be a great crime!”

“If you know it to be a great crime, why commit it?” she asked.

“Ah, Margarita! you little understand man’s feelings. But come,” he

added, suddenly, “time presses—I cannot wait. You reject me—they must

die!”

He turned away as he spoke, as if to resume his commands; but Margarita

called him back.

“If I consent,” she commenced, with hesitation, “when will you demand

the fulfillment of my promise?”

“_To-night_,” he replied; “so soon as Father Aneres can be brought from

_La Embocadura_!”

“Why such haste?” she demanded. “Will not to-morrow be quite soon

enough? Remember, my mother was only buried to-day!”

“A few hours can make no difference in that matter,” he replied, “but

_might_ in another view. I must have your hand _to-night_, or these men

must die _now_.”

It was a terrible alternative. But Margarita had seen Harding’s

messenger, and knew that McCulloch, with his Rangers, might be expected

within three hours. The only question was, whether she could find

excuses enough to delay the ceremony for that length of time. Could she

do so, she was safe; but—and it was a terrible thought—should De

Marsiac use his power to hasten it, she was lost! But, running over in

her mind all the plausible reasons she might give for an hour’s delay,

and especially reflecting upon the consequences of a refusal, she at

length determined to consent.

“I can do no more,” she said.

“Then I understand you to consent?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied, “on the condition that you send these unfortunate

men to their army immediately.”

“As soon as you are mine, they shall set out,” said the count; and

Margarita was obliged to be satisfied with his pledge. He at once

ordered the prisoners unbound, and taken back to their temporary

prisons; and walking beside his intended bride, he followed the little

procession to the house, and at once gave orders to summon the priest.

The presence of a clerical functionary, in the house of such a man as De

Marsiac, was not so remarkable as at first view it would seem; for,

independent of the almost complete degradation of that order in that

part of Mexico, there was another reason for the opportune appearance of

one of its members. The count, anticipating the possibility of gaining

some advantage in the events about to happen, had manifested one of the

most valuable characteristics of a great general—preparing himself to

make the utmost of whatever success might be given him. He had summoned

Father Aneres to Embocadura, for the very purpose for which he now

called him to Piedritas.

The _padre_ exhibited the three peculiarities of the priesthood in that

country, excepting, indeed, well-shaped hands and feet, they were the

only remarkable points about him: he possessed a rotund corporation, a

full nether lip, and a small, twinkling, black eye. He was above the

ordinary level referred to, however, for the grossness of his aspect was

rather that of easy self-indulgence, than of positive sensuality.

Indolence filled up the space in him, which, in his brethren, it usually

shared with a cruel and rapacious depravity.

He entered the _hacienda_ within an hour after the dispatch of De

Marsiac’s messenger—a promptitude for which he received from none

there, excepting the count, any of the good wishes usually bestowed upon

such occasions on men of his profession. To Margarita, especially, his

coming was unwelcome in a very high degree; for, though but an hour

remained before the period fixed for McCulloch’s arrival with his

Rangers, this was space enough for one so determined as the count, and

far too much for her to dispose of in specious delays.

This was soon manifested, indeed, by the unannounced entrance of De

Marsiac, who demanded that the ceremony should proceed forthwith. She

informed him that she had but now commenced her preparations; and rashly

said, that she would be quite ready at the end of an hour.

“See that you are so, then,” said he, peremptorily; “for I will not be

cajoled into another minute’s delay. I shall be here again precisely at

nine o’clock; and if you are not ready then, I shall shoot the

prisoners, and compel you to redeem your pledge afterward.”

She was about to make an angry reply; but, reflecting that he was fully

capable, if incensed more than he seemed already, of dragging her at

once to the altar, she suppressed her indignation, and replied as calmly

as possible—

“Do you not think, count,” said she, “that such language is unbecoming

at such a time—and to me?”

“If,” said he, softening at once, approaching her and taking her hand,

“if you treated me with the confidence which I feel I deserve, no one

could be more gentle and affectionate than I would be. But you leave no

room for gentleness. Even now, you are endeavoring to gain time in order

that you may be rescued by American soldiers. But—be at once

undeceived—these soldiers cannot arrive here sooner than the day after

to-morrow, and then they will find the place vacant.”

Margarita’s heart sank within her, though she had seen Harding’s

messenger, and trusted his report. She knew not to what expedient one so

adroit as her persecutor might resort, to delay the march of the

rangers, or lead them astray; and her imagination at once conjured up

twenty plans by which he might secure his object. She made no reply,

however, other than to assert that he was mistaken in her motives, and

request that he would leave her to her preparations.

“Very well,” said he, “I will return at nine o’clock.”

As soon as his step ceased to be heard, Margarita summoned the two

confidential women who were most about her person, and a council was

held upon the ways or means of escaping or gaining time. But, fertile as

is woman’s wit, no feasible plan was suggested. Escape from the house

was impossible, for the count had every avenue guarded; the priest was

inaccessible, for he was completely under De Marsiac’s influence; even

her own men could not be depended upon, for the few who were in the

_hacienda_ were overawed by the _rancheros_ of her persecutor. The only

alternative was to stand obstinately silent at the altar; and yet by

this course, she inevitably sacrificed two lives—one of them dearer to

her than her own. Her position was terribly embarrassing; for, if she

should refuse to consent until her lover was murdered, she could not

even then be sure that the count would not force her to yield afterward;

making thus a bloody, and unavailing sacrifice.

In the midst of their deliberations—if a hopeless search after

desperate expedients could be so called—a light knock was heard at the

door, and on being opened, it admitted Harding’s trusty messenger,

Margarita’s half-brother. He paused at the threshold and gazed about

him. It was the first time he had ever been admitted into the private

apartments of a place which he had been taught to consider his own, and

the gleam of his dark eye would have betrayed his thoughts to any one

less preoccupied than Margarita. The expression soon faded away,

however, and without salutation he advanced to Margarita, and abruptly

asked—

“Are you about to marry Count De Marsiac, willingly?”

“Why do you ask?” Margarita inquired.

“I wish to prevent it,” he replied calmly.

“How can you do so?”

“By gaining time, till the _Texanos_ come,” he answered.

“If you can do this,” said Margarita, eagerly, “your reward shall even

exceed your own expectations.”

“My reward does not depend upon you,” he coldly replied. “It is quite as

much to my interest to prevent the marriage, as it can be to yours.”

“How can that be?” interposed one of the women.

“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will

follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita.

“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans

do not arrive before the hour—”

“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but

half an hour of it, now.”

“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt

the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the

altar, and you will understand what I mean.”

There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more

willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to

her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain

enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed the _hacienda_ as

his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose

grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but

small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in

preventing his union with Margarita.

* * * * *

In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the

southern wings of the _hacienda_, recruiting his energies, after an

exhausting journey of two miles from _Embocadura_. The robes and

appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which

scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to

celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the

last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished

no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the

ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate

viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large

silver bowl of red Parras wine.

He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his

arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable

again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy

_padre_ pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily

swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an

attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was

pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most

singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was

disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs

of recent violent weeping.

“_Oh, padre!_” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at

the good Father’s feet. “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_ I have sinned! I have

sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.”

The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more

intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast,

and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner.

“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may

be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.”

“_Confiteor! Confiteor!_” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, _padre_!

Pity and forgive! _Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!_”

“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the

Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.”

“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and

rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the

confession, which must be given to you alone.”

“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the

_padre_, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation.

“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the

house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with

sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the

robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_” all

the time.

“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”

“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his

grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before

you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!”

The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at

all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the

impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness

of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to

act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room,

and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a

sudden halt: a _ranchero_ stepped before them, and presented his musket.

But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity.

“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty

to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of

blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the

oppressors of God’s people!”

This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion,

nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed.

Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary

followers; for the _rancheros_ generally stood more in awe of their

leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable

that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the

Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to

be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the

priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet,

shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass.

This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of

precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular

circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon

observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with

his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever

walked before. He directed his course to a little group of _ranchos_,

which stood directly south of the _hacienda_. Having entered one of

these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in

the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming

distress—for at the end of that time he issued forth _alone_, with a

well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing.

From the door of the _rancho_ he took his way north-ward again; verging

obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river,

nearly a quarter of a mile east of the _hacienda_. At this point, a

grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the

road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows,

and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and

in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the

messenger.

A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration;

for Eltorena seemed in haste.

“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach

Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south

entrance, and approach cautiously.”

With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great

rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to

pass.

“_Quien va la?_” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena

only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached,

the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued

between _them_, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had

indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the

mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing

from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for

some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in

the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills,

there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye.

* * * * *

While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the

ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at

least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her

preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with

which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even

against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the

time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any

further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at

her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and

stepped across the threshold.

“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into

his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is

prepared, and the _padre_ awaits us.”

“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but

anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as

well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.”

“It must be performed to-night—_now_,” he replied calmly. “If you

refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.”

“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But

reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!”

“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac

replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my

mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night

as to-morrow. If you are willing to sacrifice your friends, _los

Americanos_, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!”

His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned;

Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness

to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and

said—

“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he

can reach the altar.”

The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the good

_padre_ recruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by

young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his

hand, as if in attendance upon the priest.

“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet

them in the chapel in five minutes.”

The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched

toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in

almost all the larger _haciendas_ of that part of Mexico—its size and

splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That at

_Piedritas_ had been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a

respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where

Eltorena had sought the _padre_—by two partitions, between which was

the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened

behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to

enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader

already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could

not come forth.

The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count,

holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the

two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the

bride away.” Then came three files of _rancheros_ with trailed arms—a

desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have

permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously

watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the

prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then

followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions,

numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded

in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who

had disobeyed his orders!

The count dragged his bride to the chancel-rail, and, leaving her there

for a few moments supported by her women, took upon himself the duties

of master of the ceremonies. He placed his two prisoners directly behind

the bride, well guarded however, so that they would have the

satisfaction of seeing without the power of interfering. Behind them he

ranged his followers in a compact mass, and directing the _peons_ to

seat themselves in the rear, he ordered the sentinel to close the door,

but not to leave it. Returning then to the chancel-railing, he resumed

his place beside Margarita, and took her cold and trembling hand in his.

Although these dispositions consumed full ten minutes, when he returned

to his place, the priest still delayed his coming. The count, however,

fiery and impetuous as he was, waited patiently for a period quite as

long; when, finding that the door still remained closed, he began to

knit his brows and mutter angry threats. These signs encouraged

Margarita, for they indicated delay, if not deliverance; and she had

even the audacity to smile in De Marsiac’s face.

“Antonio,” said the latter furiously, “go to Father Aneres and tell him

that we are waiting for him—_impatiently_!”

The man addressed sprang to the door and attempted to open it, but it

did not yield to his efforts.

“It is fastened on the outside,” he said. But, at the same moment, the

door behind the altar was heard to swing upon its hinges, and a slow,

heavy step was placed upon the short stairway which led up to the

platform.

“The old dotard is coming at last,” muttered the count, not observing

the ominous report of his messenger. He laid aside his gold-laced cap,

which hitherto he had kept upon his head, and resuming Margarita’s hand,

placed himself before the railing and looked up.

It was not the priest who stood at the altar! A tall, heavily-armed

man—evidently an American—rose suddenly from his cover, and, leveling

a pistol at De Maniac’s breast, gave his war-cry of “_Texano! Texano!_”

At the same moment the closed door was thrown open, and a band of near

twenty men filed speedily in and brought their carbines to bear upon the

_rancheros_—while a detachment, equally strong, rushed in from the

priest’s room, and marched past their leader—who was none other than

McCulloch of the Texan Rangers! A glance passed between Harding and

Grant—each understood the thought of the other—and, as if by

pre-concert, they broke away from their guards, sprang upon the count,

and, before his men could interfere, dragged him, a prisoner in his

turn, within the chancel! Scarcely giving him time to speak, two of the

rangers hurried him away through the priest’s room, and delivered him in

charge to the guard stationed at the door.

“Lay down your arms!” shouted McCulloch, through the din which now

arose—chiefly from the domestics—“and every man’s life shall be

spared. But the _ranchero_ that holds his arms one minute, shall hang to

the first tree that’s tall enough to stretch him.”

The word “_Texano_” had already half accomplished the conquest; the

captivity of their leader weakened their resolution, and this threat,

which every Texan was, in the estimation of a Mexican, fully capable of

executing, completed the discomfiture. Each _ranchero_ threw down his

arms with an alacrity which seemed to indicate that they were growing

hot in his hands, and the two detachments of rangers marched in and made

them all prisoners, without the least resistance.

“There’s one good job well done, boys,” said McCulloch, “and all the

better done because we have spilt no blood.”

Turning then to Harding, who was supporting Margarita upon his arm,

while Grant stood moodily aside, he said—cordially receiving the hand

extended to him—

“We were very nearly too late, at last—though, thank God! not quite. I

had information from your messenger, since we entered the _hacienda_,

that the bandit, De Marsiac, designed to take your lives, even after he

had obtained the hand which was to be their ransom.”

“I doubt not,” said Harding, frankly; “if my friend Grant and I see

to-morrow morning, we shall owe the sight to your promptness in

attending my call. You must be satisfied with our gratitude until the

chances of war shall enable us to discharge the obligation in kind.”

“If the only mode of payment,” said the captain with a smile, “is

rescuing me from a scrape like this, I hope you may never have a

creditor more pressing than I.”

“I do not know,” said the ranger lieutenant, Gillespie, coming forward

with the open manner of the soldier; “I think, if the prize, at the

outcome, were as great as it seems to be in this instance, Captain

McCulloch would have no special objection to dangers quite as imminent.”

He looked at Margarita as he spoke—for she still hung upon Harding’s

arm. The captain laughed at what he considered a compliment both to

himself and the lady; a round of introductions ensued, and

congratulations, with jests and pleasant laughs—during which the

prisoners were marched off and confined, and the _hacienda_ reassumed

its aspect of dreamy quiet.

“Gentlemen,” said Margarita, when a pause at last broke the round of

felicitations, “you have ridden far and hard, and must be both fatigued

and hungry. Will you not partake of some refreshment?”

“With the utmost pleasure,” answered McCulloch; “but I must first see my

men quartered.”

“I have already given orders for their accommodation,” said Margarita.

“Since I may soon be under their escort, it becomes me to consult their

comfort.”

“Under their escort!” exclaimed Harding.

“Yes,” she replied. “Since my mother’s death this is no longer a fit

residence for me. I have many relatives in Saltillo, and it is thither

that I wish to go. When you return to the United States,” she added, in

French, observing Harding’s doubtful look, “I shall be your

companion—if you desire it.”

He could only reply by another look, of a different meaning, when

McCulloch asked—

“What will become of the _hacienda_ in your absence? I have seen too

much of the steward system in this country, not to regret the absence of

the proprietor from every fine estate.”

“I shall give it to one,” she replied, “who, though he already claims it

unjustly, has, by his services this night entitled himself to even a

greater reward. I mean the young man who led you hither.”

“And his mother,” suggested one of the women, who did not quite relish

the generous proposition.

“She is a confirmed maniac,” said Margarita with a shudder, “and this is

only a stronger reason why I should do as I say. She will be a burthen

upon her son, and it is but just that he should have the means of

supporting her.” This closed the discussion, and the party adjourned to

supper.

* * * * *

On the following day the prisoners were mustered by the order of

McCulloch—as they supposed, for the purpose of being treated as _their_

countrymen had so often treated _his_; that is, being hung like

traitors, or shot by platoons—but really for the purpose of being

released. De Marsiac, however, as a man who might do the Americans some

injury, was retained a prisoner of war. All the rest, much to their

surprise, were dismissed with an _admonition_ not to be found again in

arms. The captain judged, very correctly, that taking their _parol_

would be an unmeaning ceremony.

About an hour afterward, the cavalcade set out for Saltillo, by way of

Anelo and Capellania—a long route which McCulloch’s orders compelled

them to take. Margarita, with a generosity which my readers may be

disposed to call romantic, but which was, after all, scarcely more than

justice—had conveyed the _Hacienda de los Piedritas_ to her

half-brother, who had so richly deserved his reward. The sacrifice was

small, too, for she had, still remaining, possessions ample even for

that country of overgrown individual fortunes.

Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where

Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was

reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and

Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed

their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the

latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair

became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita

together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the

subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his

disappointment with a good grace.

The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the

country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached

was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals

returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and

Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather

uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres,

who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were

“_Captive Rivals_!”

-----

[3] Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles.

* * * * *

DEI GRATIA, REX.

BY W. E. GILMORE.

King “by the grace of God!” where is the token

By which we know thy right it is to reign!

Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,

Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?

No! thou art king, _not_ by “the grace of God,”

But usurpation only—guiltless he

That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood

Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

* * * * *

OUR CHILDHOOD

BY JANE GAY.

How brightly did the summer’s sun

Wake up the dewy morn,

And chase the misty shadows from

The cot where we were born;

It stood amid the peaceful hills

Where worldlings never rove,

The violet-spotted earth around—

The glorious sky above.

Two tall elms were its sentinels,

With arms uplifted high;

And these were all we needed, save

The watchers of the sky;

And while amid the thick, green leaves

The moonbeams dallied bright,

The stars looked down on us at play,

Oft on the summer night.

O, every month of childhood’s years,

How well do I remember,

With all their smiles and fleeting tears,

From New Year’s till December;

No care or burden had we then—

No life-lines on the brow;

We knew it not—I wonder if

We’re any wiser now.

Were we not with ye, brothers, when

With spade or hoe ye sped

To dig the homely artichoke

From out its winter bed?

Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,

Ye ran with pole and hook,

To draw the golden-spotted trout

From out the alder-brook?

Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,

Ye’d _sometimes_ play the churls;

And cry, when we would run away—

“_Mother, call back the girls_!”

And then came tasks of knitting-work

For us, and dreaded patch,

With sullen faces, till we thought

To try a knitting match.

The summer days were ne’er too long

For busy life like ours;

For every hill had berries then,

And every meadow, flowers.

And joyfully, when school was done,

We’d stay to glean our store;

For though we loved the school-book well,

We loved the free hills more.

And very pleasant ’mid those hills

September’s sun did shine,

As we went forth to gather grapes

From many a loaded vine;

And while October’s gorgeous hues

Of red and gold were seen;

We searched for chestnuts in the wood,

Or pulled the winter-green.

And when November’s winds came chill

With icy sleet and rain,

We knew the old brown barns were filled

With stores of golden grain;

And what cared we how bleak or cold

The wintry storms might rise—

Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,

And all their wealth of pies.

Though ye have left the homestead now

Grave men to walk among,

Yet while our sire and grandsire live—

Brothers, ye still are young!

Nor, sisters, is it time for us

Life’s lantern dark to trim,

Our own dear mother has not yet

Sung her half-century hymn!

And while our childhood’s guardians live

To bless the passing years,

’Twere more than vain in sad regrets

To waste Life’s precious tears;

Yet if our summer sky is fair,

And green our summer bowers,

We know that many walk the earth

With sadder hearts than ours.

* * * * *

I’LL BLAME THEE NOT.

BY J. A. TINNON.

I’ll blame thee not—for I can love,

Another eye as bright as thine,

A form as fair, and ne’er regret,

This worship at a faithless shrine.

I’ll blame thee not—love fond and true

May still be won in beauty’s bowers,

Though I may never dare again,

To wear a wreath of fading flowers.

I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of love

And thee no more my bosom fill;

And of that dream there lingers scarce

One trace of its deep burning thrill.

I’ll blame thee not—I smile to see

The golden vision pass away,

When its bright tints a mask have been

To hide a heart of common clay.

I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,

May learn the trick of gladness well,

And none shall mark upon my brow

A trace of joy or pain to tell.

I’ll blame thee not—for I will care

No more to bind a restive heart,

Though every joy my life can know

Should with its passion-dream depart.

* * * * *

LAW AND LAWYERS.

BY JOHN NEAL.

“Once more into the breach, dear friends:

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!”

With all my heart, Graham! But inasmuch as the lecture you want a copy

of has never been reduced to writing, though portions have appeared from

time to time in the newspapers of the day; and I have no notes worth

referring to, I dare not pretend to give you the language I employ; for,

between ourselves, that depends upon the weather and the House, to say

nothing of my temper at the time. For example; if I see before me a

goodly proportion of what are called the _learned_, or the _educated_, I

never mince matters—I never talk as if butter wouldn’t melt in my

mouth, but go to work with my sleeves rolled up, as if I heard a trumpet

in the hollow sky. In other cases, where the great majority of my

hearers happen to be neither learned nor educated—though there may be a

sprinkling of both—I am apt, I acknowledge, to wander off into familiar

every-day illustrations—perhaps into down-right story-telling, or what

my brethren of the bar would be likely to denominate _unprofessional_

rigmarole. But the substance of my preaching for many years upon this

subject, and the “thing signified,” and the general arrangement, under

all sorts of provocation, I think I may venture to promise you.

Bear in mind, I pray you, that phantoms under one aspect, may be more

terrible than giants, cased in proof, under another. Every great

mischief, being once enthroned or established, is a host of itself.

In the open field, lawyers are not easily vanquished—out-manœuvered or

overborne. Walled about, as with a triple wall of fire—or

_brass_?—high up and afar off, their intrenchments are only to be

carried by storm. They must be grappled with, face to face. No quarter

must be granted—for no quarter do they give—no mercy do they show,

after their banners are afield. “Up, guards! and at ’em!” said

Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo; and so say I! whenever I see my

brethren of the bar rallying for a charge.

They will bear with me, I hope—as I have borne with them for

twenty-five years; for, while I complain of their unreasonable

ascendency throughout our land, of their imperious, overbearing,

unquestioned domination, I acknowledge that, constituted as we are—We,

the People—we cannot do without them—and the more’s the pity. Law we

must have, and with it, as if by spontaneous generation—lawyers, till

Man himself undergoes a transformation, and his very nature is changed.

Both are necessary evils—much like war, pestilence, and famine, or

lunatic-asylums, poor-houses, and penitentiaries; or apothecaries’

shops, with their adulterous abominations; and every other substitute

for, and abridgment of, human liberty, human happiness, the laws of

health, or the instinct of self-reliance. If men will not do as they

would be done by; if they will not be “temperate in all things”—then

they deserve to be drugged, and blistered, and bled here by the doctors,

and there by the lawyers, till they have come to their senses, or can no

longer be dealt with profitably by either; for, although every man,

according to the worthy Joe Miller, may be his own washerwoman—at least

in Ireland—it is very clear that in this country, he might as well

undertake to be his own jailer, as his own lawyer.

I would go further; for, like the illustrious Hungarian, I desire to

conciliate and satisfy, not the few but the many; not only my brethren

of the bar, but everybody else worth satisfying; I would even admit—and

how could I well go further, and “hope to be forgiven?”—that, in view

of Man’s nature, as developed by our social institutions, Law and

Lawyers both, may be, and sometimes are, under special circumstances,

not only a necessary evil, but a very good thing. _There!_ I have said

it—and let them make the most of it. I mean to admit all I can—and

much good may it do them! But then, I would ask, if we may not have too

much, even of a good thing?

I hold that we may; and I appeal for proof to the countless volumes of

law which cannot be understood by any but lawyers; nor by any two of

them alike, till every other word, perhaps, in a long paragraph has been

settled by adjudication—two or three different ways—after solemn

argument.

I appeal to what is called the administration of justice, by jury-trial,

in our courts of law, where twelve ignorant, unreasoning men, got

together, nobody knows how—hit or miss—are held to be better

qualified—being bound by their oaths to think alike in most cases, and

to return a unanimous verdict, whether or no—than Lord Chancellor Bacon

himself, or Chief Justice Marshall would be, to settle any and every

question, however new, and however abstruse and complicated, upon every

possible subject that may happen to be brought before them for the first

time in all their lives! And this, without any previous knowledge on

their parts, or any other preparation by the lawyers who are to

enlighten them, than may have been made the night before, by “reading

up,” or “stuffing” for the occasion.

I appeal, moreover, to the testimony of the sufferers

themselves—_parties_, they are technically called—who, after being

scorched, and sifted, and harassed, and pillaged, under one pretence or

another, year after year, and within an inch of their lives; or driven

well-nigh distracted by the vicissitudes and anxieties incident to every

well-managed law-suit, where “good pickings” are to be had, or by that

hope-deferred “which maketh the heart sick,” begin to get their eyes

opened, and to see for themselves, and are sometime ready to acknowledge

for the help of others, who are elbowing their way up—or down?—to

_see_ the elephant, that when they pass over the threshold of those

gambling-houses, that are established by law, under the name of Courts

of Justice, and put up their stakes, they will find three times out of

four—perhaps nineteen times out of twenty—that when the raffle comes

off at last—with the jury-box—it is to decide, not which of the two

parties litigant—plaintiffs or defendants—but what third party—the

lawyers—shall sweep the board.

And I might appeal to the swarming thousands of our younger professional

brethren, who, ashamed to beg, afraid to steal, and too lazy to work,

instead of following the business of their fathers, taking their places,

and maintaining themselves honestly, give way to a foolish mother, or

sister, or to some greater simpleton still more to be pitied, or to a

most unhealthy ambition—that of being an _Esquire_, and a pauper, with

very white hands, who, having studied law, will have to be provided for

at last by marriage, or office; and with that view have literally taken

possession of our high places, our kneading-troughs and our

bed-chambers—after the fashion of their predecessors in Egypt.

Nay, more—I am ready to acknowledge, and I do for myself, my executors,

administrators and assigns—or publishers—hereby acknowledge, and I

hope with no unbecoming nor uncourteous qualification, that, taken

together, as a power, body, or estate, the Lawyers of our land are to

the full as honest—and as trustworthy—by _nature_—as any other power,

body or estate among us, of equal numbers, wealth, dignity, or

intelligence; notwithstanding the opinion so generally entertained, and

so often expressed, to their disadvantage, in the plays and farces, or

newspapers and story-books of the day, (not always, nor altogether

synonymous, I hope;) but no honester, and no more trustworthy; for,

although I believe—and I mean just what I say—that no _great

advocate_, in the popular sense of the words, can be an honest man,

however conscientious he may be out of court, or in other business; and

however anxious he and others may be to distinguish between the Advocate

and the Man—as if a lawyer were allowed two consciences to practice

with, and two courts—one above and the other below—to practice in; yet

I believe that a great Lawyer, or Jurist, like Sir Matthew Hale, or

Chief Justice Marshall, or Chancellor Kent, or any one of a score that

might be named, or Judge Parsons, being translated to the bench, from

the corrupting influences and stifling atmosphere below, may be a very

honest man; just as I believe—and I don’t care who knows it—that

silver spoons and watches left within striking distance of an attorney

at law—I am only supposing a case—may be safe, “notwithstanding and

nevertheless.”

By _nature_, I say, and not by education, habit, or association at the

bar. Away from the bar, I acknowledge the integrity of my brethren as

equal to that of any other class whatever. And this being admitted—what

more would they have? Would they claim to be honester and more

trustworthy than any other class, either by education or nature?

But observe; though ready to acknowledge their honesty, by _nature_, as

men; or rather, while I acknowledge that they are, to the full, as

honest as other men are by _nature_—but no honester; and as trustworthy

in all other relations, apart from law—as good but no better, I

maintain that they are constantly exposed to such disqualifying

temptations, and to such disastrous influences peculiar to their

profession; that they have established a code of morals for themselves,

as lawyers, which would not be allowed to them as citizens; and which,

if openly avowed and persisted in, by brethren out of the profession,

would be sure to send them to the penitentiary; that they have

altogether too much power in this country—a power out of all proportion

to their numbers, their talents, their intelligence, their virtues, and

their usefulness; and that, instead of being chosen for lawgivers

throughout our land, in a proportion varying from three-fifths to nearly

seven-eighths, in all our legislative bodies, they are the very last

persons among us to be intrusted with the business of

legislation—having a direct personal interest in multiplying our

laws—in altering them—and in making them unintelligible to all the

rest of the world.

Not satisfied with their pay, as legislators, for making the law,

varying from two to ten dollars a-day—with washing and mending, where

washing and mending are possible—they require, as lawyers, from

twenty-five to one hundred dollars a-day for telling, or rather for

guessing what it means.

And what is the result? Just this. That a privileged body, anointed for

office and power, who, but for the blindness and prodigal infatuation of

the People, would often be the nobodies of every productive or efficient

class, are enabled to fare sumptuously every day, wear purple and fine

linen—at the expense of others—all their lives long; and to carry off

all the honors from every other class of the community. Think of this, I

pray you; and bear with me, while I proceed with my demonstration.

That they have learned to reverence themselves, and all that belongs to

them, I do not deny; but then, if it is only themselves, and not the

image of God—if it is only what belongs to themselves and to their

estate, or craft, as lawyers, and not as Men, they so reverence—in what

particular do they differ from other self-idolators?

Are We, the People, to be concluded by their very pretensions? Are We to

be estopped by the very deportment we complain of? Because they are

exacting and supercilious, and self-satisfied, and arrogant, and

overbearing, are we to be patient and submissive? Are we to be told, if

not in language, at least by the bearing and behavior of these gentry,

that, inasmuch as all men may be supposed to be best acquainted with

themselves, therefore Lawyers are to be taken by others at their own

valuation?

Let it be remembered that they who properly reverence themselves, always

reverence others. But who ever heard of a Lawyer with any

reverence—worth mentioning—for anybody out of the profession? This, to

be sure, is very common with ignorant and presumptuous men. It is the

natural growth of a narrow-minded, short-sighted, selfish bigotry. A

mountebank or a rope-dancer will betray the same ridiculous

self-complacency, if hard pushed. Were you to speak of a great

man—Kossuth, for example—in the presence of a fiddler, who had never

heard of him before, he would probably crook his right elbow, and cant

his head to the left, as if preparing to draw the long bow, or go

through some of the motions common to all the great men he had ever been

acquainted with, or heard of, or acknowledged, before he questioned you

further.

It would never enter his head that a truly great man could be any thing

but a fiddler; a Paganini dethroned perhaps—like Peter the Great in a

dockyard—or that “any gentleman as was a gentleman,” could ever so far

forget himself in _his_ company, as to call a man great who was no

fiddler.

“What do they say of me in England?” said the corpulent, half-naked

savage that Mungo Park saw stuffing for a cross-examination under a

bamboo tree in Africa.

Just so is it with our brethren of the bar. Law being the “perfection of

Reason,” and her seat “the bosom of God,” they, of course, are the

expounders or interpreters of both; a priesthood from the beginning,

therefore, with the privilege and power of indefinite

self-multiplication. The sum and substance of all they know, and all

they care for under Heaven, if they are greatly distinguished, being

Law, what else could be expected of them? If they are great lawyers they

are never any thing else—they are never statesmen, they are never

orators—they are never writers. Carefully speaking, Daniel Webster is

not a great lawyer—nor is Henry Clay—nor was Lord Brougham; but they

were advocates, and orators and statesmen. Sir James Scarlett and Denham

were great lawyers, before whose technical superiority and sharp

practice Lord Brougham quailed and shriveled in the Court of King’s

Bench. But when they encountered each other in the House of

Commons—what a figure the two lawyers cut, to be sure, in the presence

of the thunderer! They were phantoms, and he the Olympian Jove. William

Pinkney was a great lawyer; but for that very reason he was out of place

in the Senate chamber, and made no figure there.

But even for this they have a justification—or a plea in bar. The law

is a “jealous mistress,” we are told, and will endure no rival; a

monarch “who bears no brother near the throne.” And well do they act

upon this belief; and well do they teach it by precept and by practice;

for few indeed are they, even among the foremost, who have gathered up,

in the course of a long life, any considerable amount of miscellaneous

knowledge, notwithstanding the reputation they sometimes acquire, in a

single day, by their insolent questioning of learned, shy and modest

professional men, or experts, after they have once got them caged and

cornered, and tied up hand and foot in a witness-box, and allowed to

speak only when they are spoken to; there to be badgered for the

amusement of people outside, more ignorant, if possible, than the

learned counsel themselves; but incapable of seeing through the

counterfeit, which, while it makes them laugh, makes the “judicious

grieve;” and mistaking for cleverness and smartness the blundering

audacity of an ignorant and garrulous, though privileged pretender, who

does not know that it often requires about as much knowledge of a

subject to propound a safe and proper question, as to answer it: nor

that the veriest blockhead may ask twenty questions in a breath, which

no mortal man could ever answer, and would not even try to answer,

unless he were a still greater blockhead.

And now, having swept the stage fore and aft, and secured, as I trust, a

patient hearing from the profession, let us go to work in earnest.

I maintain that among the popular delusions of the day, there is no one

more dangerous nor alarming than that which leads our People to believe

that they constitute a republic and that they govern themselves, merely

because they are allowed to choose their own masters; _provided_ they

choose them out of a particular class—that of the lawyers.

At the opening of every great political campaign, we hear a great deal

about the privileged classes; the ruffled-shirt and silk-stocking

gentry: and sometimes men prattle about the aristocracy of talent, or

the aristocracy of wealth—but who ever heard any complaints of our

legal aristocracy—an oligarchy rather—for they make all the laws, they

expound all the laws, and they hold all the offices worth having—in

perpetuity.

And whose fault is it? If the People are such asses, why should they not

be saddled and bridled, and ridden in perpetuity? It is their nature.

They are prone to class-worship, and to family-worship—to

self-depreciation, and to a most incapacitating jealousy of one another.

Even in the day of the elder Adams, it was found that the office of a

justice of the peace, like that of a legislator, was well-nigh

hereditary in New England. Having anointed the father, how could they

help anointing the son?—or the daughter’s husband, if the father had no

son?

And now, let us look at the consequences. From Aristotle down to the

last elementary writer on Government, it has been every where, and at

all times, acknowledged, that every possible kind of sway upon earth,

between Despotism and Anarchy, may be resolved into three elements of

power, differently combined, or combined in different proportions. These

elements are: 1. The Legislative, or law-making power; 2. The Judicial,

or law-expounding power; and 3. The Executive, or law-enforcing power.

Taken together we have what is called the Sovereign Power. The power of

making laws, of saying what they mean, and of carrying them into

execution being all that is ever needed for government.

And this, the Sovereign Power, may be concentrated in one person, whence

we have the Czar, the Sultan, or the Autocrat; or it may be confined to

a few—as in Sparta, or Genoa, or Venice, or Poland—constituting either

an Aristocracy or an Oligarchy; or it may be distributed among the

people equally, as at Rome or Athens at particular periods of their

history, when they were a tumultuous unmanageable Democracy: or

unequally, as in England, or in these United States, thereby

constituting a Limited Monarchy, or a Representative Republic,

pretending to a balance, by the help of a King or President, a House of

Lords, or a Senate, and a House of Commons or a House of

Representatives, and a Judiciary, more or less dependent upon the

Executive.

Of all these different systems the worst by far is an Oligarchy—or the

government of a privileged few—no matter whether elective and shifting,

or permanent, provided that, as a body or estate, they are allowed by

common consent to make the laws—to expound the laws—and to carry the

laws into execution, by holding all the offices worth having, from that

of the monarch or president, down to that of a clerk or

sergeant-at-arms.

True it is, that by no human contrivance can the three elements of power

above mentioned, be kept entirely separate—for they will run into each

other—as where the Supreme Executive is allowed a veto, or required to

sanction a law: and where the Senate, as a branch of the Supreme

Legislative power, intermeddles with the appointing power of the

Executive under the name of confirmation; and where the Supreme

Judiciary, after being appointed by the Executive and confirmed by the

Senate, are made dependent upon that other branch of the Supreme

Legislative power for the payment of their salaries—the House

originating all money bills and voting supplies—turn about, in their

capacity of Supreme Judges, and are allowed to unsettle, if they please,

by their interpretation, whatever the Supreme Legislative power may

choose to enact for law.

But although these three elements can never be wholly separated—it does

not follow that men, who desire to be well-governed, should not try to

separate them and to keep them separated as far as they can. Still less,

that because they cannot be wholly separated, they shall therefore be

encouraged to run together and to crystalize into a mischief that may

never be resolved again but by the process of decomposition.

And now, I contend that, in effect, We, the People of these United

States, are governed by an Oligarchy; and that, by being allowed to

choose our own masters—provided we choose them, or at least, a large

majority of them, out of a particular class—we are blinded to the

inevitable consequences: till we mistake words for things, and shadows

for substances: and that our mistake is all the more dangerous and

alarming that we cannot be persuaded to treat the matter seriously.

I contend, moreover, that, inasmuch as the Lawyers of our land make all

the laws; and as Judges expound all the laws, and as office-holders

carry all the laws into execution, therefore they constitute of

themselves the Sovereign Power.

Are the facts questioned? In the Massachusetts legislature, we have had

two hundred and sixty lawyers out of three hundred and fifty members;

and in congress we had not long ago, the same number, two hundred and

sixty lawyers out of two hundred and ninety-seven members—the balance

being made up in this way. Manufacturers and farmers, fifteen:

Merchants, one: Unknown, (being mechanics or preachers, or something of

the sort,) twenty-one. Perhaps there may be some error here, as I find

the only note I have upon the subject so blurred, that I am not sure of

the figures; but the fact on which I rely is too notorious to be

questioned. Every body knows that lawyers constitute a large majority in

all our legislative bodies, and have done so for the last fifty years;

and that they make about all the speeches that are made there, or

supposed to be made there, and afterward reported by themselves for the

newspapers. Can it be doubted therefore, that they as a body do in fact

and in truth constitute our supreme legislative power—thereby absorbing

to themselves just one third part, and by far the most important part of

our whole sovereignty as a people.

As little can it be seriously questioned that, inasmuch as all our

judges, from the highest to the lowest are lawyers; or ought to be, as

they are always ready enough to acknowledge—they constitute the supreme

judiciary; another third part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

And now let us see how the account stands with the Executive Power. Are

not our presidents, and have they not been from the first—with only

three exceptions out of twelve—lawyers? And our vice presidents; and

all our secretaries of state; and most of our secretaries of war, and of

the navy; and about all our foreign ministers; our chief clerks, our

post-master generals; our collectors; our land agents; and even a large

proportion of our foreign consuls—have they not always been, and are

they not always with an ever increasing ratio—Lawyers? And if so, what

becomes of the other third part of our whole sovereignty as a

people—the Executive Power? It is in the hands of the lawyers; and as

three thirds make a whole—out of the courts of law, I mean—does it not

follow that the whole sovereign power of this mighty people—of this

great commonwealth of republics—this last refuge of the nations is in

the hands of our lawyers, hardly a fraction of the whole?

Oh! but we have nothing to fear. Lawyers are always at loggerheads. They

are incapable of working together, even for mischief. Granted—and

there, let me tell you is our only safety, and our only hope. But,

suppose they should wake up to a knowledge of their own strength—and of

our weakness—who shall say that they must always be incapable of

conspiring together? And if they did—when should we begin to perceive

our danger? Would they be likely to tell us before-hand? Or would they

go on, year after year, quietly absorbing office, power, and

prerogative, as all such bodies do; until they had become too strong for

the great unreasoning multitude. With public opinion—with long

established usage in their favor—with a sort of hallucination, hard to

be accounted for in a jealous people; acquainted with history, what have

they to fear? Neither overthrow nor disaster—till the people come to

their senses and wake up, and harness themselves; and then, they are put

upon trial, as with the voice of many thunders; and instantly and

forever dethroned, as by an earthquake.

But you do not see the danger. Granted. And this very thing is what I

complain of. Did you see the danger there would be some hope of you; and

it would soon pass away forever.

But suppose we take another case for illustration. Suppose that

three-fifths of all our law-makers were soldiers instead of lawyers.

Suppose that all our judges from the highest to the lowest were

soldiers; and that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign

ministers, and collectors, and consuls—with here and there an

exception—were all soldiers; most of them experienced

soldiers—veterans; and the others, conscripts or new levies—what would

be the consequences, think you? How long should we be at peace with the

rest of the world? How long would Cuba, Mexico, or the rest of North and

South America be unattempted? Would not our whole sea-coast, and all our

lakes and rivers, and all our frontiers be fortified and garrisoned?

Would there not be great armies constantly marching and counter-marching

through our midst? Would not our very dwelling-houses and churches be

wanted for barracks—and if wanted, would they not be taken by little

and little?

Would not all our young men be mustering for the battle-field? Would not

foolish mothers, and sisters, and sweet-hearts, be urging them to try

for a shoulder-knot or a feather, as the only thing on earth to be cared

for by a young man of spirit and enterprise?

Look at Russia. The military have dominion there—and all the rest of

the world are slaves. The greatest men we have, not bearing a military

title, would be overlooked by the emperor, while any thing in the shape

of a general, though he never “set a squadron in the field,” and was

never heard of beyond the neighborhood of a militia muster, would be

fastened on horseback, and have thousands and tens of thousands, from

the harnessed legions of the north, passed in review before him. What

wonder that in such a country, the very nurses of the bed-chamber; yea,

the very bishops of the land have military titles, and are regularly

passed up through successive grades, from that of a platoon officer to

that of a colonel, and perhaps to that of a field-marshall, by the

emperor himself.

Yet soldiers are at least as trustworthy, are they not—as lawyers?

Take another case. It will not be denied, that physicians on the whole,

are about as intelligent and trustworthy as lawyers. Now, let us suppose

that, instead of being as in the Massachusetts legislature, eighteen to

two hundred and sixty—in a body of two hundred and ninety-seven; they

should happen to be two hundred and sixty physicians, to eighteen

lawyers, and that in our other legislative bodies they should constitute

a majority of the members: that all our presidents, and secretaries, and

foreign ministers, and chief clerks, and post-masters, and collectors,

and consuls, were physicians; or as many as are now lawyers: and that

all the laws were made subject to the decision of a bench of doctors,

eminent for the knowledge of medicine, and for nothing else—what, think

you, would be the situation of our people under such an administration?

Would any mortal man dare to refuse any pill the president might offer?

Would not our dwellings and churches be converted—not into barracks,

but hospitals? Would not millions be lavished upon theories, and

experiments, and preparations for pestilence? Would not the whole

country be divided into contagionists, and non-contagionists—parties

for, and parties against the yellow fever and the cholera? Would not

platforms be established, and pledges required, and offices filled—here

by the believers in allopathy, and there by the disciples of homeopathy?

To-day, by the rain-water, screw-auger, and vegetable doctors; and

to-morrow, by the unbelievers in lobelia, bella-donna, and pulverized

charcoal, or infinitesimal silex? In a word, if the government were

allowed to have its own way—and after they were established as the

lawyers are now, how could you help it?—would not the president, and

all his secretaries be obliged to prescribe for the sovereign people—or

suffering people—gratuitously; and would not the whole country be

drugged, and physicked, and bled and blistered—samewhat as they are

now—and would not all our finest young men be rushing into the

apothecary shops, and lying-in hospitals, and clinical establishments

for diplomas—to qualify them for the business of legislation, and for

holding office?

And again. Suppose we had as many preachers of the Gospel for

lawgivers—for presidents, secretaries, ministers, etc., and for

judges—what would be our situation? However they might differ among

themselves upon the minor points of their faith and practice, would they

not combine together? And would it not be their duty to combine, for the

establishment of whatever opinion they might all, or a great majority of

them, have agreed to uphold, as vital to Christianity? And how could we

help ourselves? And what would become of our ambitious young men, or

still more ambitious daughters? And what—I beseech you to think of

this—what would become of the right we now claim of judging for

ourselves upon all subjects, that in any way belong to our everlasting

welfare? Yet these men are honest, and taken together, are they not as

trustworthy and conscientious under all circumstances, think you, as our

present masters, the lawyers? And if so, would they—or would the

physicians, or the soldiers be a whit more dangerous? Answer these

questions for yourselves.

But I have not finished. I hold that the professional training of a

lawyer disqualifies him for the very business, which might be entrusted

with comparative safety to the soldier, the physician, or the preacher.

And wherefore? Because it substitutes a new law for the law of God. He

that by his professional adroitness can secure the escape of the

bloodiest and most atrocious criminal from justice, in spite of the

clearest proof, obtains a reputation, and with it correspondent

advantages in wealth, influence, and power, which under no other

circumstances could he obtain. It is the worst cases, whether criminal

or civil—cases which he gains in defiance of law, and against

evidence—which give a lawyer reputation. To win a cause which every

body says he ought to win, _that_ never gives a man reputation, and is

therefore committed to the nobodies below him. But, if there be a case

beyond the reach of hope or palliation; clear and conclusive against the

party, so that our very blood thrills when he is mentioned, and no human

being supposes he can get clear; still if he does get clear—no matter

how—by browbeating or bothering witnesses; by bamboozling the jury, and

misrepresenting the evidence under the direction of the court; or by

down-right bullying; the advocate is complimented by his brethren of the

bar, and even by the bench; for his learned, ingenious, and eloquent,

and faithful vindication of his client; and he goes forth, carrying with

him these trophies,—and others, it may be—dabbled and stained with

blood, like the murderer’s knife, with “the gray hair stickin’ to the

haft,” only to be retained in advance by every desperate ruffian, and

every abandoned wretch, who may happen to hear of the result, and to

have the where-withal to secure his timely co-operation.

Just observe how this affair is managed. If a father should give aid and

comfort to a child, after she had been guilty of murder; if a husband

should open his doors to a wife, or a daughter to her father, at dead of

night; or furnish a horse, or money, or a mouthful of bread, or a cup of

cold water, or the means of escape to a beloved brother, hunted for his

life, with the avenger of blood at his heels, time was, when they were

all accessories after the fact, and were treated as murderers or

principals, whatever might be the offense, and put to death accordingly;

and even yet, although that most barbarous law has undergone a few

changes, so that in some portions of our country, they who stand in the

relation of husband and wife, or parent and child, may help one another

when fleeing for their lives; yet no other man, woman, or child can do

it, in the whole community, but at the risk of death or imprisonment for

life—_except he be a lawyer_, and the prisoner’s counsel. And then he

may, and he not only may, but he is expected and required to do so: in

other words, to aid and comfort, counsel and help the prisoner, heedless

of all consequences, here and hereafter. And for this, he may receive

the very gold which has been wrenched from the grasp of the murdered

man; or the bank bills that are glued together by his heart’s blood; and

nobody shall dare to question his integrity, or to have any secret

misgivings about his honesty or conscientiousness—if it can be helped.

Let me not be misunderstood. I do not deny that the worst of criminals

are to be tried fairly. I acknowledge, moreover, that they cannot be

tried fairly with men of the law against them, unless they have lawyers

to help them: and that it is as much a part of the law that they shall

be tried in a certain way, and proved guilty in a certain way, for the

satisfaction of the world, as that they shall be punished at all; and

that, if it were enough to be satisfied of another’s guilt as a

murderer, to justify us in putting him to death, without going through

the regular forms of law, then might we run him up at the next yard-arm,

or tree branch, or lamp-post; on happening to see the bloody act

perpetrated with our own eyes.

But how should we know even in such a case, that “the man was not beside

himself;” or that the homicide was not justifiable, or at least

excusable? He may have acknowledged his guilt. And what if he has? He

may have been mistaken; for such things have happened, and murders which

never took place—though intended—have been acknowledged, and the

missing parties have re-appeared after a long while, and explained the

mystery. Or he may have been deranged; or being accused, and as it were

enmeshed by a web of circumstances, he may have been led away like the

son, who charged himself and his aged father, in Vermont, with the

murder of a poor helpless creature, who was afterward found alive, by

the instinct of self-preservation; hoping to lengthen, if not to save

his life, at least until his innocence might be made to appear; and

believing his father guilty.

To prove all these things there must be a trial, and a public trial;

otherwise, whatever may be the result, he will not be _proved_ guilty,

according to the law and the evidence; nor could he be justly condemned;

and there would be no safety for others.

No matter how clear his guilt may be; nor how bad his character may be;

the greater his guilt in the judgment of those who decide against him

before trial, and without evidence upon oath, or sifting, or

cross-examination—the more precious to him and to all, is the privilege

of being put to death according to law. The fewer his rights, the more

sacred they are. The more decided and overwhelming the evidence against

him, the more necessary it is to wall him round about, as with a sword

that turneth every way, against the influence of public opinion. It was

in this way that the elder Adams reasoned, when he undertook the defense

of the British officer, charged with the murder of Boston citizens, at

the outbreak of the revolutionary war—and triumphed.

And how shall this be done without the help of a Lawyer? Law, living a

science, complicated, and full of mystery and fear, how is the poor

criminal to prepare himself? How is he to defend his few remaining

rights? And how is he to bear up against the ponderous and crushing

weight of public opinion? He cannot. The thing is impossible. He must

have help; and that help must be a lawyer; and that lawyer must be not

only faithful to him, but unable to take advantage of, or to betray him,

if he would; otherwise the culprit will never trust him, and his life

will be at the mercy of the prosecutor, generally chosen for his

knowledge of the law, and for his adroitness in making “the worse appear

the better reason.”

Well, then, a lawyer must be allowed to the greatest criminal—and the

greater criminal he is, the more lawyers he ought to be allowed—if able

to pay for them! or if the court, in consideration of his deplorable and

hopeless guilt, or the atrocious character of the charge against him, be

willing to assign them.

And now—being assigned, or otherwise engaged, what shall the _honest_

lawyer do? He must be faithful to his client, happen what may—but is he

required to lie for him? to foreswear himself? As “the indiscriminate

defender of right and wrong,” to borrow the words of Jeremy Bentham,

“seeking truth in the competition of opposite analogies,” according to

Blackstone, shall he undertake to get the fellow clear—to bring him

off—against law, and against evidence? If such be the meaning of that

faithfulness to his client, what becomes of his faithfulness to God?—to

his fellow man—to himself? And yet, where is the great Advocate who

does not glory in doing just this? and who has not gained his whole

reputation by just such cases, and no others?

There stands the murderer, with garments rolled in blood. There stands

his counsel, giving him aid and comfort, under the sanction of law, with

his right hand lifted to Heaven, and swearing to a belief in the utter

groundlessness of the charge, and calling upon Jehovah himself to

witness for him, that he speaks the truth! Such things have happened,

and are happening every day; and these honest lawyers are still suffered

to go at large, unrebuked and unappalled: nay, worse—for by these very

practices they get famous and grow rich and secure the patronage—that’s

the very word—the _patronage_ of all the inexorable and shameless

villains and cut-throats in the community.

But if the lawyer may not do these things _honestly_, what may he do for

the help of his client?

He may lay his hand reverently upon the statute book. He may show that

the law does not reach the case charged upon the prisoner at the bar,

and that he must therefore go free—though his right hand be dripping

and his garments be stiffened with blood.

He may show that the only witness against him is unworthy of belief, on

account of self-contradictions, or utter worthlessness; or that he has

become disqualified, by the commission of some offense that

incapacitates him for life; and, by producing the record of his

conviction, he may oblige the court to let the prisoner go free. All

this he may do, and still be an honest man.

Yet more. Having satisfied himself of the innocence of the accused; or

of the probability that the witnesses are mistaken, or dishonest, or

that they have conspired together to destroy a fellow creature, doomed

to death by public opinion without proof; he may put forth all his

strength, and appear in “panoply complete,” heedless of all

consequences, to save him—provided only that he sticks to the truth,

and is honest in what he says or does. I care not how eloquent he may

be, nor how able or ingenious—the more eloquent and able and ingenious

the better, and I shall reverence him all the more as an Advocate and as

a Man.

But I do insist upon it, that he shall not be allowed to forget every

thing else—and every other obligation—and every other law, whether

divine or human, for the sake of his client; and that if he does, he

shall be held answerable for the consequences, and be punished, as he

deserves, with a burst of indignation—a general outcry of shame on thee

for a traitor!—a traitor to thyself, to thy Maker, and to thy brethren

at large, under pretence of being faithful to a murderer whom it would

be death, perhaps, for his own mother to help or comfort in any way.

I would even allow him to urge upon the jury, not only in such a case,

but in every case where the punishment might be death, to bear in mind,

that no matter how perfectly satisfied they may be of the prisoner’s

guilt; still, if he has not been _proved_ _guilty_, by unquestionable

evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are

bound by their oaths to return a verdict of _not guilty_; and if they do

not, they themselves are guilty of murder.

Otherwise they would sanction the most dangerous of Lynch-laws; those

which are executed under the forms of justice, and in mockery of all

human right.

If _satisfied_ of the prisoner’s guilt, they must have seen the murder

perpetrated with their own eyes; and they must have known that there was

no excuse for it, and no palliation: and in that case, instead of

relying upon questionable testimony from others, it would be their duty

to leave the jury-box and go into the witness-box, and allow others to

judge of the truth of their story, and of the soundness of their

conclusions.

And I would allow the accused the benefit of every flaw on the statute,

of every error in the forms of procedure, and of every _reasonable_

doubt. I would even suffer him to array as many young and pretty women

as he could entrap into the witness-box fronting the jury—although,

perhaps, I might object to their appearing in tears or in mourning, like

the Ionians and Greeks and Irish, lest, peradventure, the tables should

be turned, as where an Irish barrister, pleading the cause of a little

orphan, with the mother and all the rest of the family standing about

with handkerchiefs to their eyes, held up the boy in tears. The jury,

overcome with sympathy and compassion, were about rendering a verdict at

once, and were only delayed by a question from the opposite counsel—“My

little fellow,” said he, “what makes you cry?”—“_He pinched me!_” was

the answer, and a verdict was rendered accordingly—as the Irish only

are allowed to do it—by _acclamation_.

And I should not stop here. I would go further. For the purpose of

fixing forever and ever the responsibility of a decision upon each of

the twelve jurymen—I would have them polled, and questioned separately,

and man by man (if permitted by the law,) and not lump their verdict, as

they generally do, hit or miss: and I would call upon each to remember

that if he erred in pronouncing the judgment of death—of death here,

and it might be of death hereafter, he alone would be accountable—for

he, alone, might interpose if he would, and arrest that judgment of

death, and send the prisoner back to his family—a living man: and I

would so picture his own death-bed to every man of that jury, if I had

the power, that he should hear himself shrieking for mercy, and see and

feel and acknowledge by his looks, that if he betrayed the awful trust,

or trifled with it, by deference to others, he himself would be a

man-slayer, and utterly without excuse here and hereafter, in this world

or the next.

All this I would do, or try to do: for all this might be done by the

_honest_ lawyer without a violation of God’s law. But, as I have said

before, I would not have him “play falsely,” nor yet “foully win.” I

would not have him brow-beat nor entrap honest witnesses. I would not

have him guilty of misrepresenting the evidence nor the law “with

submission to the court.” I would not have the opposite counsel

insulted, nor the bench quarreled with—if it could be helped—

“——For even in the tranquilest climes

Light breezes _will_ ruffle the flowers sometimes.”

Nor everlasting speeches made, with continual asseverations and solemn

appeals to the by-standers and the public; as if the question of life

and death were a game of chess for the amusement not only of those who

are engaged in it, but for all who may happen to be near and looking on

at the time.

And I would have the dignity of the profession upheld by courtesy and

gravity and self-possession—by varied learning—by the utmost

forbearance—by very short speeches—by the greatest regard for truth,

and by unquestionable conscientiousness under all circumstances.

Were this done, the Bar would be sifted and purged and purified to some

purpose. Nineteen twentieths of the rabble rout who mistake themselves,

and are mistaken by others for lawyers, would vanish from the face of

the earth—and the profession would then be not only respectable, but

worth following; though, in my judgment, lawyers would still be the last

among us to be intrusted with a disproportionate share of Legislative or

Executive power; though, from the nature of things they would be likely

to monopolize the whole Judiciary power.

That our leading Advocates will not relish this doctrine, I know. In

theory, they may approve—but in practice, when they and their interest,

and their professional pride are once engaged, they will never yield.

Always taking it for granted that their client tells the truth—in

proportion to the fee; and always determined to prevail, if they can,

right or wrong, their reformation will depend, not upon themselves, but

upon others—upon the People at large; for whenever the People say that

a professional acquaintance with law shall be a disqualification for the

business of law-making, and no great recommendation for office, then

will the lawyers of our country begin to mind their own business, and

cease to be mere politicians, clamoring, open-mouthed, for office all

their lives long.

And here, lest I may forget them in the proper place, allow me to

illustrate the disposition of the People to see fair play, by two or

three—Joe Millers, which I never lose an opportunity of telling under

this head. They show that my brethren of the bar sometimes get their

“come ups” where they least expect it—and very much to the satisfaction

of the multitude.

It is told of Jere. Mason, and of some forty others at home and abroad,

that on being assigned for counsel to a sad wretch whose case he found

to be hopeless, he went to his cell, and after hearing his story, became

satisfied that the poor fellow would swing for it, if tried; and so,

seeing a sort of window open, high up and far above the prisoner’s reach

if unhelped, he suggested to him that there was a beautiful prospect to

be seen from that window—perhaps “the high-road to England,” which the

amiable Dr. Johnson said was the finest prospect a Scotchman ever

sees—and then, seeing the prisoner’s eyes begin to sparkle, he offered

himself as a sort of ladder or look out, and standing with his back to

the wall, and letting the man climb over him, he never looked up till it

was too late, and the man had disappeared—whereupon he returned to the

court-room, and on being questioned, acknowledged that he had given the

fellow the best advice he could—which advice must be a secret from

everybody, since it was the privilege, not of the counsel, but of the

client.

All this, you see, was according to law, if not in fact, at least in

principle. A Lawyer might do this—and escape scot-free, as if it were

only a good joke: while a brother of the prisoner, or a father, might

have been sent to the scaffold.

Another, for the truth of which I _believe_ I may vouch, because I had

it, I think, from the lawyer himself, may serve to show that such

faithfulness to clients may sometimes meet with an appropriate reward. A

member of the Down East bar was called upon to save a man charged with

passing a large amount of counterfeit money. After a long and severely

contested trial, our “learned, eloquent, and ingenious” brother got him

clear—chiefly by dint of protestation, coupled with a personal

knowledge of the jury. On being discharged, the accused tipped him a

wink in passing out, and our learned brother followed him to the lobby.

There they stopped—the liberated man overwhelmed with thankfulness, and

speechless with emotion; being a father, perhaps, with a large family,

or a man of hitherto irreproachable character, who never knew how much

he was to be pitied till he heard the speech of his lawyer. Unable to

speak—he seized his hand—slipped something into it—and turned away,

with a word or two, almost inaudible, about the inadequacy of the

acknowledgment, and disappeared forever. Whereupon, our eloquent, able,

and most ingenious friend, who was a little shy of opening the parcel in

the presence of a bystander, withdrew to another part of the house, and

ascertained—perfectly to his own satisfaction, he would have you

believe—that he had been paid in the same sort of money which he had

been laboring all day to show that the accused never had any thing to do

with. And now, on the whole—was not this a capital joke?—a just

retribution, and exceedingly well calculated to make a lawyer insist

upon being paid before-hand, whatever might be the “contingent fee”

afterward.

Once more—for I do not like being misrepresented in the newspapers upon

this particular point—being sensitive perhaps about Joe Miller; and,

for that reason, always acknowledging my indebtedness to him and to his

fellow-laborers, the newspaper people, who never tell a story without

spoiling it, or making it look strange: there is a story told in

England, upon which a play has been founded, to this effect. A lawyer

was called to see a man charged with sheep-stealing. After a brief

consultation, he saw clearly that, upon the evidence before him, there

was no possibility of escape. And then, too—probably—the wretch was

very poor, being only a sheep-stealer, and not a murderer, nor forger,

nor house-breaker, nor highwayman, and of course, would have to be

satisfied with poor counsel. Whereupon the learned gentleman thought

proper to ask him if he had ever been deranged.

“_Deranged?_”

“Flighty—you understand?”

“Oh—yes—to be sure: all my family on my father’s side have been very

_flighty_—very.”

“That’ll do, my friend; that’s enough. You are charged with stealing

sheep—you know.”

The fellow began to roll his eyes and look savage.

“When you are called upon to plead—you know what that is?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, then, just plead to the indictment by saying _baa-aa_!”

So said—so done. The prisoner was arraigned. The indictment was read

over to him very slowly as he sat with his head on one side, looking as

sheepish as possible. And when they had got through, and he was called

upon to say _guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, by saying _baa-aa_!

The court being rather astonished, interfered, and told him what he was

required to do; but still he answered nothing but _baa_! Read over the

indictment again, said the judge, and read it very slowly. The clerk

obeyed, and when he had got through, and was again required to say

_guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, as before, nothing but

_baa-aa-aa_!

A jury was then impanneled to see if he stood mute “by the visitation of

God.” After looking at his tongue—and his eyes—and feeling his pulse,

they returned a verdict in the affirmative. The man was forthwith

discharged; and the lawyer followed him out, and touching him on the

elbow, held out his hand—_baa-aa-aa!—baa-aa-aa!_ said the

sheep-stealer—and vanished.

But enough on this point. If I were to write a book, I should not be

able to do more than I have done already, so far as the legal and

professional doings of my beloved brethren are concerned.

It remains now, that I should say something very briefly, of the

disastrous consequences flowing from their political power.

In the first place, it lures all our young men—the silliest as well as

the cleverest—who desire to live without work, and to be provided for

at the public charge, to betake themselves to the law. It is not only

the high-road—but the only high-road to political power. No other

profession has a chance with that of the law; and everybody knows it and

feels it when broad awake and thinking, instead of dozing. Hence the

profession is over-crowded, over-burthened—overwhelmed—and literally

dwarfed into comparative nothingness, apart from political power; having

not a tittle of the social power it would be fairly entitled to if it

were not so adulterated and diluted.

In the second place, we have that national reproach—the instability of

our legislation—the perpetual change, that no sober-minded business-man

is ever able to foresee or provide against.

And this I aver to be the natural, the inevitable consequence of having

for our legislators, men who have a direct personal interest in

multiplying or changing our laws, and in making them unintelligible to

others.

Let us take one of our young attorneys, and follow him up, year by year,

and step by step, to the Halls of Congress, and see how he gets there,

and what he is bound to do—for he can do nothing else—after he gets

there.

In the first place, it should be borne in mind, that the lawyers we send

to our legislative bodies, are not often the able, nor even the ablest

of their class—I speak of them as lawyers only, and not as Orators, or

Statesmen, or Scholars. They cannot afford to serve the people for the

day wages that your stripling, or blockhead of an attorney, who lives

only from hand to mouth, would snap at. He who can have a hundred

dollars for a speech, will never make speeches at two or three dollars

a-day, in our State Legislatures, nor be satisfied with eight dollars

a-day in Congress.

And these youngsters of the bar, these third and fourth-rate lawyers,

who are held to be good enough for legislators, because they cannot

support themselves by their profession, how are they trained for that

business?

You first hear of them in bar-rooms and bowling-alleys; then at

ward-caucuses; and then at all sorts of gatherings where they may be

allowed to try themselves and their hearers; and then at conventions or

town-meetings: and then, after being defeated half a dozen times,

perhaps, till it is acknowledged that if they are not elected, they are

ruined forever, they get pushed, head-foremost, into the State

Legislature.

And once there, what shall they do?—how shall they manage to become

notorious—or distinguished? They must contrive to be talked about in

the newspapers; to be heartily abused by somebody, that they may

heartily be praised by somebody else belonging to another perish. Their

names at least will be mentioned, and grow more and more familiar every

day to the public ear, until they become a sort of household words; or

it may be a rallying cry, by the simple force of repetition, like

proverbs, or slang-phrases. “Why do you take every opportunity of

calling yourself an _honest_ man?” said a neighbor to another of

doubtful reputation. “Why, bless your simple heart,” was the reply,

“don’t you see that I am laying a foundation for what is called public

opinion; and that after a few years, when my character is fairly

established, the origin of the belief will be forgotten.” So with your

newspaper characters. Idols of the day—at the end of a few months, at

most, they are dust and ashes; and the people begin to wonder at

themselves that they should ever have been made such fools of.

But how shall they manage to be talked about in the newspapers, and most

gloriously abused? There is only one way. They must make speeches—if

they cannot make speeches, they may as well give up the ghost, and be

gathered to their fathers; for most assuredly, (whatever may be their

worth, or strength, or talents, in every other way,) if they cannot make

speeches, not a man of them will ever be remembered—long enough to be

forgotten. And they must make long speeches—the longer the better; and

frequent speeches—the more frequent the better; and be their own

correspondents and report themselves for the newspapers, with tart

replies and eloquent outbreaks, and happy illustrations, never uttered,

nor dreamt of till the unpremeditated battle was over, like some that

were made by Demosthenes himself, years after the occasion had passed

by, and there was nobody alive to contradict him; or like the celebrated

oration of Cicero against Cataline.

But they cannot make speeches about nothing at all—at least such is my

present opinion—it may be qualified hereafter, and I am well aware that

common experience would appear to be against me, and that much may be

said upon both sides, as well as upon neither side, in such a question.

They must have something to work with—and to talk about: something,

too, which is likely to make a noise out of doors; to set people

together by the ears; to astonish them, and to give them a good excuse

for fretting, and scolding, and worrying. In other words, they must

introduce a new law—the more absurd the better—or attack an old law,

the older the better; and seek to modify it, or to change or repeal it.

And what is the result? Just this; that every Legislative Hall in the

land, from the least to the greatest, from the lowest to the highest,

becomes a debating-school; and the business of the whole Country is

postponed, month after month, and year after year, to the very last days

of the session, and then hurried through—just a little too late,

wherever the national honor is deeply concerned, as in the case of

French spoliations, and other honest debts owed by the Government to the

People—with a precipitation so hazardous and shameful, that much of the

little time left in future sessions must be employed in correcting the

blunders of the past: and all for what?—merely that the Lawyers may be

heard month after month, and have long speeches that were never

delivered, or when delivered, not heard, reported piecemeal, and

paragraph by paragraph, in perhaps two or three thousand

newspapers—that are forgotten before the next sun goes down, and

literally “perish in the using.”

Nor does the mischief stop here. The whole business of the country is

hung up—and sessions protracted for months—and millions upon millions

wasted year after year, of the people’s money, upon what, after all, are

nothing more—and there could not well be any thing less—than

electioneering speeches.

And then just look at the character of our legislation. Was there ever

any thing to be compared with it, for instability, for uncertainty, for

inadequacy, for superabundance, and for what my Lord Coke would call a

“tending to infiniteness!” I acknowledge, with pride, that our Revised

Statutes, all circumstances taken into consideration, are often quite

remarkable for the common sense of their language, and for

clearness—wherever common sense and clearness were possible under the

established rules of interpretation. But generally speaking, what is it?

“Unstable as water—thou shall not excel!” is written upon the great

body of our statute law, year after year, and generation after

generation.

And what are the consequences? Nations are “perplexed by fear of

change.” Better stick to a bad law, than keep changing a good. The clock

that stands still (to borrow a happy illustration) is sure to be right

twice every twenty-four hours; while that which is always going, may

always be wrong.

Let us apply this. We are now waiting and hoping for a change of the

tariff: and the more general and confident the expectation of a change

among business-men, whatever that change may be—up or down—higher or

lower—the more certainly will it put a stop, or greatly embarrass for a

time, the whole business of the country. And why? If it be generally

believed that the tariff is to be lowered, the dealers everywhere begin

to run off their stocks, to offer longer credits and better terms; and

however unwilling, shrewd cautious men may be about over-purchasing with

such a prospect before them, there will be found others, commercial

gamblers, or trading adventurers, who always profit by such occasions to

go ahead of their fellows; for what they gain is their own, and what

they lose, is their creditors’. And universal overtrading is the

consequence here—and stoppages there—till the mischief corrects itself

or dies out. Business no longer flows in its accustomed channels. It has

fallen into the hands of comparative stock-jobbers and lottery-dealers:

and a general bankruptcy often follows.

But suppose the tariff about to be raised—and the belief to be

universal. The ultimate consequences are the same, so far as the regular

business of the country is concerned. Manufacturers and jobbers hold

back; they refuse to sell on six months—they shorten the period of

credit—and require acceptances in town—as being, on the whole, better

than to demand higher rates in advance of old customers. Purchasers may

be eager—but what can they do. They are obliged to wait—and live on

from hand to mouth—till the question has been settled. And so with

every other great leading law, affecting any great commercial, farming,

or manufacturing interest of the country. The legislation of a land is a

type of itself. How can our other great institutions be safe and lasting

if our legislation be unstable?

That our legislation is unstable and changing and fluctuating, who will

deny? What great system of national policy have we ever pursued steadily

beyond the terms of two or three of our political chief-magistrates—a

paragraph at most, in the long History of the World?

And how should it be otherwise? Lawyers with us are Conveyancers and

Notaries and Special-Pleaders: and Conveyancers and Notaries and

Special-Pleaders over sea are always, and in our country, almost always

paid by the page; and a certain number of words, you know, constitute a

page at law. Again—so sure is it that a lawyer shall not only be heard,

but paid for his “much speaking,” that I do believe people are often

better satisfied to lose a case with a long speech, than to gain it by a

short one. This may appear somewhat startling; but let us see if, on the

whole, it be not substantially true and no paradox.

A man goes to consult a lawyer—you see how careful I am to distinguish

between the two—and states his case. The lawyer hears him patiently

through—having already touched the fee—and tells him, without opening

a book, or lifting his spectacles, or moving from his chair, that the

question lies in a nut-shell; and that if his view of the law should be

sustained by the court, of which he cannot be sure, it may be settled

easily and at once. Well—the case in due time goes up. The jury are

empanneled; a great speech is brewing on the opposite side; you can hear

the whiz of preparation in the very breathing of the Adversary; but up

rises our friend—by the supposition a very clear-headed, able and

honest lawyer—and so states the principle of law upon which he depends,

that the court rules in his favor, no speeches are made, and the jury

are discharged. And now comes the tug of war. The client begs a moment

of the lawyer’s time, and asks what’s to pay: “Fifty dollars.” “_Fifty

dollars!_—why, sir—pulling out his watch—you were not more than—”

The lawyer bows, and on turning away with a stately air, as of one who

truly respects himself, and will not suffer the dignity of the

profession to be trifled with nor tarnished, is stopped by—“I beg your

pardon, squire—there’s the money. Good morning.” And off goes the

client, who has gained the cause, to complain of the lawyer for

extravagance or extortion; saying that “the case was plain as a

pike-staff—any body might have managed it—could have done it himself

and without help—nothing but a word or two for the court—never opened

his mouth to the jury—and then, whew! what do you think he had the

conscience to charge? why, _fifty dollars!_—would you believe it! Very

well—much good may the fifty dollars do him; it is the last he’ll ever

see of my money, I promise you.”

And now let me suppose that, instead of going to the last mentioned,

_honest_ lawyer, he had gone to some other. He is heard, to be sure, but

with visible impatience: he is continually interrupted and questioned

and cross-questioned, by the half hour. The learned gentleman has a very

large snuff-box on the table before him—two or three very large

portfolios, and at least a wheelbarrow load of papers tied with red

tape. He takes off his spectacles and snuffs, and wipes them with his

glove and snuffs, and replaces them and snuffs; now he lifts them and

looks under them, and now he lowers them and looks over them steadfast

and solemn, though troubled and perplexed, with his mouth screwed up,

and making faces at his client all the time: he shakes his head and

jumps up, and takes a pinch, and then shakes his head and sits down, and

takes another pinch: with a huge pile of authorities before him, and

ever so many lying open, and having secured a retainer, at last he tells

his client to call on the morrow at 11¼ o’clock _precisely_. The client,

awe-struck at the vastness of that legal erudition he has been favored

with a few glimpses of, steals away on tip-toe, rubbing his hands with

delight and astonishment, and talking to himself perhaps all the way

down stairs and into the street. After three or four consultations the

case comes on for trial. The Adversary goes at the jury head-first, with

a speech varying from two hours to two days. Of course, it will require

from two hours to two days to answer it—and every thing must be

answered, you know, whether it has to do with the question or not—as in

the passage between Tristram Bulges and John Randolph, about the

buzzard, or bald-eagle, I forget which; for after all, there is no great

difference between them, as I have heretofore found to my cost; or as in

that between Webster and Hayne about poor Banquo’s ghost, in the Senate

chamber. And now, having insulted the witnesses, and the court, and the

opposite counsel, and tired the jury by an everlasting speech, when they

were already more than half asleep; or by arguing questions of law and

fact wholly supposititious, for the benefit of his younger brethren and

the by-standers—the case goes to the jury, under the charge of the

court perhaps, and is lost. But who cares?—not the client; for when

told that he has a hundred dollars to pay, instead of fifty as before,

he calls it dog-cheap, and insists upon paying more, and why? Because

_that_ lawyer had made the case his own—and he goes about saying,

“Didn’t he give it to ’em!—bench, bar and jury!—didn’t he acknowledge

they were all a set of nincompoops!—and didn’t he lather my adversary

and my adversary’s counsel, and all his witnesses, little and big, and

especially the women and children, beautifully!—handsomely!—and isn’t

he the man, therefore, not only for my money, but for the money of all

my acquaintances who may ever want a zealous and _faithful_ lawyer to

manage their business for them!”

This, though sufficiently absurd, I acknowledge, is nevertheless true:

and happens continually at the bar. I do not say that in terms a client

would prefer a long speech to a verdict; I only say that such is the

fact, although he may not always know it himself, in many a troublesome

case. And so with litigants generally; having once entered the “sacred

precincts” of a law-temple, and breathed the fiery atmosphere, and had

their names called over in a crowded court-room, and thereby having

become famous in their own little neighborhoods, and in the judgment of

their friends and witnesses, people of large experience and authority,

how are they ever afterward to forego the pleasure? If they win the

first throw, of course they can afford to throw again: if they lose,

they must throw again, the blockheads! to get back what they have lost,

when, like other gamblers, they promise to stop.

Can it be wondered after all this, that words are multiplied in our

laws, from sheer habit, as well as from a sort of professional pride,

until a mere English reader, however familiar with the spoken language

and with the best writers of the language, both at home and abroad, such

as Bacon and Bolingbroke and Hooker and Swift, or Edwards, or Channing,

or the writers of the Federalist, or Franklin, and half a hundred more I

might mention, would be unable to make head or tail of one paragraph in

three; and few men of business would be willing to hazard any

considerable investment upon his own understanding or interpretation of

any passage in any new law.

Talk of the dead languages! The deadest of all the languages I know, or

ever heard of, is the language of the law! Ask our friend, the learned

blacksmith, and I will abide by the answer. Nobody, not trained to the

business of interpretation—as a dragoman—or lawyer, would ever think

of trying to understand a new law without help. And even with help—it

is a plague and a mystery till the true meaning has been

settled—_settled!_—by adjudication: that is, by others in authority,

the priesthood and the patriarchs, who, under the name of judges, are

paid for all the thinking, as lawyers are paid for all the talking to no

purpose, permitted at law: for, be it known to all whom it may concern,

that is, to all the non-lawyers of our land, that no private

interpretation _of law_ is of any authority _at law_: nor is the right

of private judgment recognized or allowed or tolerated or endured in

courts of justice! You must believe at your peril. You must teach as you

are taught; and grow to the opinions or moulds about you as a cucumber

grows to a bottle; for such is the law, and with most of the profession,

all the law, to say nothing of the Gospel; for that, perhaps, would be

out of place here.

And now, inasmuch as almost every word of importance in our language has

more than one meaning, it follows, that in proportion as you multiply

words in a law, or in a legal instrument, you multiply the meanings, and

the chances of mistake, and of course, I may as well say it, of

litigation: and the mere habit of multiplying words as conveyancers and

special-pleaders and speech-makers, being not only a professional habit,

as every body knows, but characteristic of the profession, it may be,

and often is, continued from habit, long and long after it may cease to

appear advantageous or profitable; as in the business of legislation, or

in dealing with a jury, where the lawyer is not paid by the page, but by

the day or the trick. And why? Perhaps my friend Joe may be permitted to

answer. A tailor, while cutting a coat for himself, was seen to slip a

fragment of the cloth into his cabbage-drawer. Amazed at such a

procedure, a new apprentice took the liberty of asking why he did it.

“_To keep my hand in_,” was the answer.

Just so is it with the lawyer. He would use more words than are either

necessary or safe, merely to keep his hand in, if for no other reason.

Just compare a contract entered into between shipping-merchants for the

sale of a cargo, or between other men of business, railroad contractors,

or stock-dealers, involving the outlay of millions, perhaps, with a deed

of trust drawn by a thoroughbred conveyancer, or with articles of

co-partnership by any thing alive in the shape of an attorney-at-law, if

you wish to see the difference between the language of lawyers, and men

of business and common sense.

By this, I would not be understood to say that some lawyers are never

needed for putting the language and meaning of parties into shape; nor

that “I. O. U.” would be a model for a charter-party, or a church

settlement; for I acknowledge that the chief business of the world

cannot be carried on _safely_ without lawyers. I only say, that we have

too many of them; and that they are encouraged to intermeddle more than

is good for themselves, or us, with every sort of business and branch of

the _Lex mercatoria_, and the _Lex non scripta_.

Another reason why the people are not allowed to have the laws of their

own Country in their own language, but in that of the learned few—like

the Bible for the Roman Catholics—notwithstanding the ridiculous parade

of publishing all the laws in thousands of our newspapers in a year—a

better hoax, and a better joke by far than the celebrated bequest of a

guinea, toward paying off the national debt of our mother country—that

mother of Nations, so cleverly represented by Victoria, just now—is,

that we may _not_ be able to judge for ourselves; and that no _law_

shall be of any private interpretation; for if it did, the people would

soon be independent of most lawyers; and then, what would become of the

superannuated, and the helpless, the fledglings, and the understrappers?

They would have to rely for support in their old age upon the

interpretation of themselves, and of their own cramped penmanship,

instead of the legislative enactments.

But, say certain of my brethren, the law, after all, is a great science,

and the profession worthy of profound respect. It is over-crowded to be

sure; and some, it must be acknowledged, do not succeed at the bar, and

after trying it for a while are obliged to leave it, or starve.

Granted—but what does that prove? Can those who do not succeed be

greater blockheads, or greater knaves than many others that do? And may

it not be just possible, if they, who do not succeed in the profession

are otherwise distinguished, that they had too much self-respect, or

conscientiousness, or what may be called _honesty_? Thus much by way of

a protestanda—or the “exclusion of a conclusion,” according to my Lord

Coke.

And now, with all seriousness, what more shall be said? I have shown:

1.—That my brethren of the bar enjoy a very dangerous and altogether

very disproportionate power as the law-makers, the law interpreters, and

the law enforcers. 2.—That however honest they may be _by nature_; and

however honest in all the other relations of life; and that they are so,

I acknowledge with pleasure; yet, as Lawyers, they have a code of morals

peculiar to themselves, making it their duty to league with knaves, and

cheats, and murderers, and house-breakers, and to furnish them with aid

and comfort, _for pay_; in other words, for _a share in their profits_,

and this _duty_ is of such a nature as to lead them continually astray,

to blind their reasoning powers, to darken their consciences, until they

are incapable of distinguishing between truth and falsehood, or right

and wrong in the defense of their clients; and that under pretense of

being _faithful_ to them, they become after a while too unfaithful to

everybody else, even to themselves, and to their Maker; and that

_therefore_ they are not trustworthy as legislators. 3.—That in

consequence of their position as the holders of political power, too

large a portion of our young men—our intellectual strength and hope, is

diverted into that particular profession, to the injury of every other,

and especially to the business, and laboring, or productive professions.

4.—That another evil is our superabundant legislation—the instability

of that legislation—the prodigious cost of so many debating societies

maintained at the public charge, under pretence of law-making all over

the land; whereby the public business of the whole country is delayed,

month after month, and year after year; and sometimes never done—or if

done at all, is done at last in such a hurry, and after such a slovenly

fashion, that when the law-makers are called together again, a large

portion of the little time they are enabled to set apart from

electioneering, is spent in patching up and explaining the laws of a

previous session; here, by taking a piece off the bottom and sewing it

on the top, as the Irishman lengthens his blanket; and there, by taking

out a piece of the same, to patch a hole with: and that _therefore_,

notwithstanding a multitude of glorious exceptions to be found, year

after year, in the senate chambers and representative chambers of our

country, Lawyers are never to _be trusted in the making of laws_; and

that, if it were not for the simple fact that, as judges, they are the

only authorized expounders of the law, they ought not to be trusted even

with the wording of a statute.

And now, what more? We are all ambitious—lawyers above all the rest of

the world in this country. Not one but labors—if we may believe his

mother and sister, or his betrothed—not one “but labors with the

nightmare meanings of Ambition’s breast”—not one who does not feel—

“How hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!”

and therefore it is, that the whole country is groaning under their

oppression—over-burthened with law—and taxed, and trapped, and

crushed, and trampled on by lawyers.

But, if instead of this unhealthy ambition—this boyish uneasiness and

appetite for notoriety, which three times out of four will be satisfied

with the title of esquire, there should arise the unconquerable spirit

of one created for dominion, with the holy instincts of a reformer, and

anxious from the first hour of his revealed strength, to be the friend

of the Fatherless and the Widow, of the Wronged and the Suffering—the

champion of the poor and the helpless—the refuge of the hunted and

betrayed upon earth—let him devote himself to the study and practice of

the law, and of nothing but the law, in its vast and magnificent

comprehensiveness; let him consecrate himself with prayer, and praise,

and thanksgiving and sacrifice—let him go up to the temple with

humility and reverence, and godly fear; and let him take possession “of

the purple robe and diadem of gold,” as of right, and though his life

may be a continual warfare, and he may die in the harness at last, and

upon the battle-field, as Pinkney and Emmett, and others have died

before him—for

“He, who ascends to mountain-tops shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head.”

Yet will he die the death of the righteous, and never be forgotten: and

whole communities will pass by his grave, generation after generation,

saying to one another as if speaking of a personal friend, “that

although he was a great man, and a great lawyer, and perhaps a

statesman, he was a good neighbor, and a good citizen, a good husband

and a good father; and _therefore_ a good Christian, doing justly,

walking humbly, and loving mercy to the last.”

And would not such a death, my dear G——, be worth living for? And such

a reputation worth dying for?

* * * * *

ELPHOLEN. A FRAGMENT.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

Where many cedars shade Igondo’s shelf,

Like towering Dukes of Edom crowned with plumes;

Where seven rivers to an awful gulf

Fall, with much foam, from Himalaya’s flooms;

And where, from Baal-Phaxi’s caverned rooms,

Through ice-arched galleries pours tumultuous Ulf,

Are built across a swarthy savage glen,

The gates which bar the land of Elpholen.

Above all mountains, clouds, and smoking isles,

From one huge base three stately hills arise;

A wall extends from them a thousand miles,

Steep and unbroken, builded to the skies,

_Higher than even the gray-winged condor flies_;

And compasseth, with rocks and snowy piles

A table land, both wide and wonderful,

And only by that gated pass accessible—

Crossing a frightful plain which the sun scorches,

Which plain is full of chasms and trap-dykes,

Scoriæ, cinders, and dry river gorges,

With timber petrified, basaltic spikes,

And lava-ponds, with hard, black, stony surges

We reached the shaded pass below the peaks,

And paused to hear the roar of plunging Ulf,

And the seven rivers, far within the gulf.

Up that defile, with fear and silent wonder,

We rode; _our horses seemed but two small mice_.

The rivers in the gulf gave forth _large_ thunder,

And rocks, above the clouds, fell, bounding thrice,

With uproar, from the grim cliffs, cracked asunder.

Aloft, like Anakim, with helms of ice

The mountains raised their huge Plutonic shoulders,

Clothed in Titanic mail of ore and boulders.

Three Prophets of grand stature and bald brows

Sat by the gates. _They were much older than_

_The river Nile._ One of deep eyes arose

And said: “Speak unto us what manner of man

Thou art, O, hero; if of some fierce clan

Hyperborean, or of pagan Huns?”

He of the icebergs spoke with rhetoric fit

In words and figures following, to wit;

. . . . . .

The Prophet said, “Here shalt thou rest this night

While the sun sleeps in hollow Erebus;

And as the hours pass on in silent flight

All known philosophy will we discuss.

But thou, O wizard Etheuòlymus,

To Himmalaya’s broken pinnacle

Fly with this young esquire, that he may see

All kingdoms on the continent that be.”

Then, with the wizard in a flying mist,

I rose along the sides of that steep cone:

’Twas like an iron trunk of girdle vast;

The moon’s full globe upon all cities shone;

_Tyre_, by the waters; glimmering Ascalon;

The City of the Magians, girt with fire;

And in the East we saw those mountain ranges

Which separate the Nile from sacred Ganges.

Alas! all earthly things have been revised

Even Learning’s careful patron and Protector,

The Inquisition, is disorganized.

The world is round, and has a Radius Vector;

There’s not a ghost on duty, nor a spectre;

Sinbad is dead, and almost any loafer

Can go, in steamers, round Cape Horn to Ophir.

Then, on the blackness of the Night’s deep chasm,

The anchored earth lay, floating, like a floor:—

Beneath, the shadow and the veiled phantasm

Their local habitation had of yore;

But each veiled shadow, and each dreadful phasm

Rose with the night, above the western shore—

When, through the void, all flame and ruddy gold

The Day-god’s cavalcade, descending, rolled.

Without the continent, old Ocean’s torrent

Extended to the earth’s remotest verge:

Both jovial Tritons, and the Powers abhorrent,

Were seized of provinces upon the surge;

And from Arcturus to the Southern gorge

Black tempests bearing old Eolus’ warrant

Patrolled the seas in search of ships or steamers

Breaking the closes of the ocean emirs.

Through the dense night, archangels of strong wing,

From heaven roving, saw the earth’s vast plane—

The kingdoms of the Pole, all glimmering—

The twisted rivers, and the enfolding main—

The shining gulfs which dent the Indian chain,

And smiled to see the hollow planets swing

Above that dim abyss within whose core

Were hooked the world’s deep sunken anchors four.

Large breakers tumbling on the Arabian shoals,

With wooded regions by the Caucasian gaps—

The town of Ebony, the land of Gholes,

(Which are omitted in the modern maps)—

All these I saw; and hills with misty caps,

Where dwell the Glactophagi—blameless souls:

The wizard spoke—I was with awe oppressed:

_The words like ghosts rose from his sounding chest_—

“These mountains I have watched a thousand years;

And I _have writ one thousand solemn books:_

_Who reads them shall be wise!_ Hell’s fiercest Peers

Have oft essayed to burst these bolted rocks;

And, under Baal-Phaxi’s deepest blocks,

Mines they have digged, and loaded, and exploded.

Yea, Mogophur, the Lord of Babylon,

Came with his captains and a countless rabble on—

“Of spearmen, chariots, and Tartarian riders,

_Whose faces were the likeness of a flame_,

And elephants crept through the pass like spiders,

And the whole College of Magicians came,

Who caused sharp earthquakes and much whizzing flame

By means of diagrams, and long dividers,

And thus exclaimed each iron-harnessed savage,

‘The unseen land of Elpholen we’ll ravage.’

“I did but ope one solemn book, and say:

‘O, ye Hydraulic Goblins of the mountains,

At once your tunnels, pumps, and flooms let play;

And loose old Himmalah’s rock-bound fountains.’

Then rivers of cold foam and spouting spray,

And cataracts which broke the cliffs away,

Burst from the mountains’ inner reservoirs.

’Twas very good to see those watery Druids

Destroy that haughty host, with roaring fluids!”

. . . . . .

_But now, those noisy trumpeters, the Hours,_

_Blew the reveillé through the camps of morn:_

_Now storm-girt Taurus raised his icy horn,_

_Like blazing silver_, o’er the mists and showers;

And sunlight struck the unclouded mountain towers,

Which ranged the circuit of that snowy wall:

We then rode down a chasm from the gates,

And entered Elpholen’s enchanted states.

To a wild amphitheatre we rode,

Begirt with precipices. From an astounding

Cavern in the mountain-side, there flowed

A river deep and broad; but the surrounding

Dark hollows echoed not a single sounding;

For silently it moved—_we only heard_

_At times the plunging of some dull cascade_

_Far up the tunnel, like a cannonade._

Full many other rivers cross those lands,

Some, from the eternal snows come pouring;

Some, roll around the chasms, in foaming bends;

Some, through the hills, a ragged highway boring,

Rush to the valleys, with an angry roaring,

And hurry onward to the ocean sands;

But many a cataract and runlet trickles

Down from the glaciers, making huge icicles.

_We moved along by wooded peaks and crags,_

_Carvéd with images and hieroglyphs,_

_Ruffling their scales and quills like golden flags,_

_And, pawing their odd cubs, the hippogriffs_

_Rolled in their nests, upon the shady cliffs;_

_And in the glens, both bears and royal stags,_

_With lazy lions, goats, and yawning leopards_

_Like cattle lay, and children were their shepherds._

Along through ancient forests, vast, and slumbrous,

Roes, of the mountain, grazed beside the springs,

And often rose some bird of plumage cumbrous

Unto the branches, folding his wide wings.

There, too, were tombs of certain wizard-kings—

Antediluvians of visage sombrous—

_And holy men, before their moss-grown crypts,_

_Studied in awful Syriac manuscripts._

Beyond, there dwelleth an immortal folk,

About a stream, which to a lake enlarges:

Pine hills curve greenly round, and groves of oak,

Sometimes they rested on the river marges,

Sometimes they plowed the lake in hollow barges,

And sometimes, on the altars made _sweet_ smoke,

Some painted pictures in their pleasant tents,

And many played on all stringed instruments.

But some rode up unto the gorgeous clouds

_Around the necks of monstrous eagles clinging._

The people which do there have their abodes

Welcoméd them with flags, and wild bell-ringing;

With musical cannon from th’ embrasures flinging

Puffs of white vapor, bombs, and rattling grape:—

The Goblin-populace of Cloud-land we

Could well behold:—Ah, they a brisk folk be!

And caravans continually crossed the plains.

Camels and elephants innumerable—

With carriages, and pigmy oxen trains,

And scampering knights, in armor of black shell,

Lords, bearded patriarchs, and gay rabble,

And baggage-wagons full of chattering dames,

And mounted archers, shooting slender arrows,

Wound slowly round the curving river narrows.

But some came down the rivers on broad rafts;

_With shells, and bells, and crooked bugles, waking_

_Numberless echoes on the rocks_. The shafts

Of the forests stood, like champions unquaking,

Though many clamors, the old silence breaking,

Startled the musing Hermits. Now arose

The stars, and moon, and all the hosts of night:

We stood above a plain upon a height.

Three noble rivers, in the moonlight shining,

Sparkled from three defiles in East, and West,

And North—in silence to a blue gulf winding,

Which, by the distant mountains, lay at rest;

And there a city with a massive crest

Of turrets, overlooked that rock-bound sheet.

The rivers round it, in broad girdles pressed;

Bridges there were, and groves, and gardens meet;

And in the bay lay moored an idle fleet.

Unto that city did all people flow:

In the deep plain we saw their circular camps,

Like islands of an archipelago;

And as we looked, _a belt of fiery lamps_

_Was wound around the crowning citadel;_

Whereat each watching pilgrim said: “Full well

I know, that now within yon distant dell

The Lord of blessed Elpholen doth dwell.

“To him we will present our offering

Of fruits, and herds, and many precious ores,

Which rivers from the mountain-summits bring:—

Upon the gulf’s cool strand, and shady shores

Our ancient games we will perform long hours:

Then we will go again to our dear tribes,

And to our cattle in the pleasant meadows,

And dappled deer browsing in mountain shadows.”

That night we camped upon the sandy margent

Of an unknown sea; and when, behind sharp peaks,

The moon retired in her skiff of argent,

Then certain meteors filled the sky with streaks,

And diving, from the zenith-ridge divergent,

Through the purple heavens fell in flakes,

Which, as they struck the water, lost their light,

And grew a portion of its night.

Meanwhile we saw a corps of sentry ghosts,

Standing erect the farthest Eastern shore on,

And many thousand stars, above those coasts,

_Flashed like the Arabic of a fiery Koran;_

Then those great captains of the heavenly hosts,

Orion, Sirius, and Aldebóran,

On the dark field of Heaven took their stations;

And calmly wheeled the close-ranked constellations.

No outposts of the Morn marked the approach

Of the Hœlios’ chariot; no gleams, or tinges

Upon the tent of Darkness dared encroach;

But sudden brilliance pierced its dusky fringes;

Wide swung the Morning’s gates upon their hinges;

Those burning horses, and that flaming coach

Sprang out upon the ocean, through the gateway:

Night struck her tattered tent, and vanished straightway.

* * * * *

A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the

District Court of the United States for the District of

Massachusetts.]

(_Continued from page 147._)

A YOUNG DREAM.

Memory is certainly a very strange gift, or quality of the mind—or

whatever else it may be rightly termed; for I am no philosopher, and but

little acquainted with the technology of metaphysics. It seems often a

capricious faculty, selecting its own objects, and amusing itself with

them to the rejection of others. But I am not quite sure that this

imputation upon memory is justified. I must admit that with myself, as I

suppose is the case with others, when I try to recall the past, the lady

often proves restive with me, and without any apparent cause, recalls

all the particulars of certain scenes, and omits other passages of life

close by them. Nor is this to be attributed always to the particular

interest of the scenes she recalls; for some of them are quite

unimportant, light, and even ludicrous, while things affecting one’s

whole destiny, if not utterly forgotten, are brought back but

indistinctly. I suspect, however, that the fact is, memory is like a

sentinel who will not let any one enter the treasury she guards without

the countersign, even though it be the master of the treasure himself.

The objects and events that we remember best are, in fact, those for

which we have learned the countersign by heart, and the moment that any

accidental circumstance furnishes us with the pass-word, apparently

forgotten, the door is thrown open, and we behold them again, somewhat

dusty perhaps, but plain and distinct. Acts never die. They at least are

immortal; and I do not think they ever die to memory either. They sleep

within, and it only requires to have the key to waken them. The time

will come when all shall be awakened: when every door of the heart shall

be thrown open, and when the spirits of man’s deeds and thoughts will

stand revealed to his own eyes at least—perhaps to be his bright

companions in everlasting joy—perhaps his tormentors in the hell which

he has dug for himself.

Often, often, as I look back in life, I see a cloud hanging over a

particular spot in the prospect, which for days, sometimes for years,

will hide all beyond. Then suddenly the lightest trifle—a casual

word—a peculiar odor—the carol of a bird—the notes of some old

melody, will, as with a charm, dispel that cloud—sometimes dissolving

it in rain-drops—sometimes absorbing it in sunshine—and all that it

concealed will burst upon the sight in horror or in loveliness. Even

while I have been writing these few pages many things have thus been

brought back to remembrance by the connection of one event with another,

which seemed to have altogether passed away from memory when first I sat

down to write. Now what is the next thing I remember; for the rest of

our journey, after we left Juliers, has passed away from me?

I find myself on looking back, in a small, neat house, with a garden,

and a little fountain in the garden, upon a sandy soil, and with a

forest of long needle-leaved fir-trees stretching out to the westward.

To the east there is a city of no very great extent, but still a

capital, with a range of high hills running in a wavy line behind, and

here and there an old ruined castle upon the lower points.

Before the city lies a wide plain, rich and smiling, full of corn-fields

and vineyards, with here and there a curious-looking spire or a couple

of dome-topped towers marking the place of a village or small town, and

beyond the plain, glistening in a long, long wavy line of silver, glides

a broad river—the mighty Rhine.

Oh! what sweet sunny lapses come cheering and softening the rapid course

of life’s troubled stream. There are several of those green spots of

memory, as the poet calls it—these oases in the midst of the desert,

even within my own remembrance. But on few, if any of them can my heart

rest with as much pleasure as on the months we passed in that little

cottage. There were no events—there was no excitement—for me and

Mariette, at least. I remember wandering with her about that sunny

garden, playing with her in the cool, airy pleasure-house which stood in

one corner, helping her to gather flowers to deck her mother’s table,

wandering with her through the forest beneath the green shade, with the

dry, brown filaments of the fir crackling under our young feet. Here and

there we would come to a place where oaks and beeches mingled with the

pine and a thick growth of underwood narrowed our path; but as

compensation, we were there sure to find a rich treasure of

wild-flowers, more beautiful in our eyes than all the garden bestowed.

Very often, too, in the clear May evenings we would sit under the little

shabby porch of the house—Mariette upon my knee, with her arms clasped

round my neck—and as the sky grew gray, and the stars began to peer and

glimmer up above, would listen to the notes of the nightingale as he

prolonged his song after all the forest choir had fallen into silence;

and when some of those peculiar notes were coming which we love the best

to hear, and Mariette knew that the delicious cadence was nigh at hand,

she would raise her beautiful liquid eyes to my face, and whisper “hark”

and gaze at me still as if to share my enjoyment, and to make me share

hers.

Oh! how that child twined herself round my boy’s heart. Dear, dear, dear

Mariette. In all that I have seen in life, and strange and varied has

that life been, I have never seen any thing that I loved as much as you.

The first freshness of my thoughts—the first—the tenderest—the purest

of my affections, were all yours!

But I took other tasks in hand. Good Father Bonneville resumed his

lessons to me; but they were not very burdensome, and I began to teach

Mariette. How this came about I must explain. Madame de Salins, who had

borne up so well in times of danger and active exertion, became languid,

inactive, sorrowful in the time of repose. She was evidently exceedingly

anxious about something—often in tears—and often returned from the

neighboring city where she went almost every day to seek for letters,

with a look of gloom and disappointment. She began to teach Mariette

something herself, however; for from various circumstances the dear

child’s instruction had been neglected. It was always a task to her,

however, and her mind seemed wandering away to other things, till at

length good Father Bonneville suggested that I would teach Mariette, and

Mariette was delighted, and I rejoiced; and Madame de Salins, too, was

very well satisfied at heart, I believe. Every thing was speedily

arranged, but Mariette and I set to work formally and in good order. The

books, and the slate, and the pen and ink were produced at a fixed hour,

and if it were fine weather, we sat in the little shabby porch—if it

were raining, in the little room that looked upon it. Dear, stupid

little thing! What a world of trouble she gave me. She did not half know

her letters when I began to teach her, and was continually mistaking the

P’s and B’s, and Q’s and D’s. R and S, too, were sad stumbling-blocks,

and the putting letters together into syllables, together with pricking

the page with a pin occupied a long time. Then she was so volatile too.

When I was pouring forth my young philosophy upon her, and laboring hard

to teach her the sounds produced by different combinations of letters,

she would start up and dart out into the garden in chase of a butterfly,

or tempted by a flower. Then, when she came back and was scolded, how

she would coax and wheedle her soft young tutor, and kiss his cheek and

pat his hair, and one way or another contrive to get the words “good

Mariette” written at the end of every lesson to show her mother. I have

got the book still, all full of pin holes, and strange figures scribbled

on it with a pen; but not one lesson in it has not “good Mariette”

written at the end, though Heaven knows she was often naughty enough to

merit another comment. But I was a true lover even then, and perhaps

loved the dear child’s faults.

Moreover, at the end of that book of little reading lessons there is a

page which I have kissed a thousand times since. It represents—and not

very badly—Mariette as she appeared then with a little spaniel dog

looking up in her face. Oh! how well I recollect when it was drawn. I

could always handle my pencil well, though I don’t know when I learnt to

draw; but as we were coming near the end of the book, I promised

Mariette if she would be a very good girl indeed, and get through the

remaining lessons in a week, that I would draw her picture at the end

with an imaginary dog which she was always to have at some indefinite

period in the future; for she was exceedingly fond of dogs, and I

believe the highest ambition of her heart at that moment was to have a

spaniel of her own. Before Saturday night fell, the lessons were all

done, and I was immediately reminded of my promise. We sat in the porch,

with the western sky just growing purple, and I made her get up and

stand at a little distance, and sketched her lightly with a pen and ink,

and then at her feet, I drew from memory the best dog I could

manufacture, with its ears falling back, and its face turned up toward

her. How delighted she was when she saw it, and how she clapped her

little hands! It was all charming, but the spaniel above all, and I

doubt not she was convinced that she should soon have a dog exactly like

that. She ran with it, first to Father Bonneville, who was in the next

room, and then to her mother, who was very sad that evening; but she

kissed her child, and looked at the drawing, and dropped some tears upon

it—the traces are there still.

Then Mariette came back to me, and thanked and embraced me, and declared

that I was the dearest, best boy that ever lived, and that when she was

old enough, she would draw me at the end of one of my books, with a

great big dog as big as a horse.

This is all very trifling perhaps, and not much worthy of record, but in

those trifling times, and those trifling things lie the brightest and

the sweetest memories of my life. It was all so pure, so artless, so

innocent. We were there in that little garden, as in a Paradise, and the

atmosphere of all our thoughts was the air of Eden.

Such things never last very long. I reached my thirteenth birth-day

there, and it was kept with kindly cheerfulness by Father Bonneville and

Madame de Salins. Mariette I remember wove me a wreath of flowers, and

put it on my head after dinner; but that was her last happy day for a

long while. The next day Madame de Salins walked to the city as usual,

and Father Bonneville went with her. They were long in returning; but

when they did come back there was a sparkling light in the eyes of

Madame de Salins which I little fancied augured so much wo to me.

“Come, Louis, come,” said Father Bonneville. “Madame de Salins has heard

good news at length. She must set out this very evening for England. The

carriage and horses will be here in an hour, and we must all help her to

get ready.”

“And Mariette?” I asked, with an indescribable feeling of alarm. “Does

she stay here?”

“No, my son, no,” replied Father Bonneville, almost impatiently. “She

goes with her mother of course.”

Grown people forget the feelings of childhood, especially old people,

and appreciate too little either the pangs or joys of youth. Blessed is

the man who bestows a happy childhood upon any one. We cannot shelter

mature life from its pangs and sorrows, but we can insure, if we like,

that the brightest portion of the allotted space—the portion where the

heart is pure, and the thoughts unsullied—shall be exempt in those we

love from the pangs, and cares, and sorrows which, so insignificant in

our eyes, are full of bitter significance to a child.

Father Bonneville did not know how terribly his intelligence depressed

my heart. He rejoiced in Madame de Salins’ brightening prospects,

although they deprived him of society that cheered and comforted. I was

more selfish; I thought only that I was again to lose Mariette, and I

grieved from my very heart. I would not disgrace the first manhood of my

teens by bursting into tears, though the inclination to do so was very

strong, and I assisted in the preparations as much as I could. But oh

how I wished that some accident might happen to the horses before they

reached our door, or that the carriage might break down—that any thing

might happen which would give me one—but one day more. It was not to

be, however: the ugly brutes, and the little less ugly driver, appeared

not more than half an hour behind their time, the baggage was put up,

and Madame de Salins proceeded to the door of the house. She embraced

Father Bonneville tenderly, and then me, and taking a little gold chain

which she had in her hand, and spreading it out with her fingers, she

placed it round my neck, and I saw a small ring hanging to it, which I

found afterward contained her own hair and Mariette’s.

“Keep it, Louis, keep it always,” she said. “I do not know when we shall

meet again; but I pray God to bless you, dear boy, and repay you for all

you have done for me and mine.”

It was at that moment that the idea of a long separation seemed to

strike Mariette for the first time. She burst into the most terrible fit

of tears I ever saw, and when I took her in my arms she clung round my

neck so tight that it was hardly possible to remove her. Madame de

Salins wept too, but went slowly into the carriage, and Father

Bonneville unclasping the dear child’s arms carried her away to her

mother’s knee. I could bear no more, and running away to my own little

room, gave way to all I felt; only lifting up my head to take one more

look, when I heard the harsh grating of the carriage-wheels as they

rolled away.

A SUMMARY.

I have often thought that it must be a curious, and by no means

unimportant, or useless process, which the Roman Catholic is frequently

called upon to go through, when preparing his mind for confession.

The above sentence may startle any one who reads these pages, and he may

exclaim—

“The Roman Catholic!” Is not the writer—born in a Roman Catholic

country, educated by a Roman Catholic priest, and with the force of his

beautiful example to support all his precepts—is he not himself a Roman

Catholic, or does he mean to say that he has never himself been to

confession?

Never mind. That shall all be explained hereafter.

The process I allude to is that of making, as it were, a summary of all

the acts and events, which have occurred within a certain period of the

past, trying them by the test of reason and of conscience, and

endeavoring to clear away all the mists of passion, prejudice, and error

which crowd round man and obscure his sight in the moment of exertion or

pursuit. Such is not exactly the task I propose to myself just now. All

I propose to myself is to give a very brief and sketch-like view of the

facts which occupied the next two or three years of my life. It will be

faint enough. Rather a collection of reminiscences than of any thing

else—often detached from each other, and never, I fear, very sharply

defined. The truth is, events at that period were so hurried that they

seemed to jostle each other in the memory, and often when I wish to

render my own thoughts clear upon the particular events of the period, I

am obliged to have recourse to the written or printed records of the

events, where they lie chronicled in the regular order of occurrence.

I know that after Mariette’s departure, I was very sad and very

melancholy for several weeks. Father Bonneville with all his kindness

and tenderness, and with much greater consideration for the faults and

weaknesses of others than for his own, did not seem to comprehend my

sensations at all at first, and could not imagine—till he had turned it

in his own mind a great many times, and painted a picture of it, as it

were in imagination, that the society of a little girl of six years old

could have become so nearly a necessity to a boy of thirteen. He became

convinced, however, in the end that I was, what he called “pining after

Mariette.” He strove then to amuse me in various ways—occupied my mind

with fresh studies—procured for me many English books, and directed my

attention to the study of German, which he himself spoke well, and which

I mastered with the ready facility of youth. We all know how children

imbibe a language, rather than learn it, and I had not at that time lost

the blessed faculty of acquisition.

All this had its effect, while I was busying my mind with other

things—for I pursued every object with earnestness, nay with

eagerness—I thought little of my loneliness, but often when my lessons

were done, and I was tired of reading, and indisposed to walk, I would

sit in our little garden, and looking round upon the various objects

about me, would recall the pretty figure of my dear little lost Mariette

dancing in and out amongst the trees and shrubs, and almost fancy I

heard her sweet voice, and the prattle which used so to delight me,

strangely mingled as it was, of the innocent frankness of her nature,

and a certain portion of shy reserve, which had been forced into her

mind by the various painful scenes she had gone through.

One evening as I was thus seated and looking out upon the road, which

ran between our small house and the forest, I saw an old woman coming

down from the high road which led to the town with a slow and weary

pace. I should not have taken much notice of her, perhaps, had not her

dress been very different from that of the peasantry in the

neighborhood. It was a dress which awakened old recollections—that of

the Canton in which I had been brought up, if not born. There was the

white cap, with the long ears flapping down almost to the shoulders, and

the top running up and curling over into a sort of helmet shape—Heaven

only knows how it was constructed; but it was a very complicated piece

of architecture. Then again there was the neat little jacket of dull

colored gingham, and beneath it the short petticoat of bright red cloth,

with the blue stockings, and the red embroidered clocks, and the

high-heeled shoes with the silver buckles in them. She carried a good

sized bundle in her hand, and held her head upright, though she was

evidently tired. But as she came nearer, I saw a round, dry, apple-like

face, with two sparkling black eyes and a nose of extensive proportions.

I was upon my feet in one moment, and the next, good old Jeanette was in

my arms.

I need not say how rejoiced I was to see her, or how rejoiced was also

Father Bonneville, nor need I tell all her simple history since we had

left her in France; nor how we wondered at her achieving so long a

journey in perfect safety. Her account, however, showed how simple the

whole process had been, though I do not mean to say that Jeanette put

her statement altogether in the most simple terms. She was not without

her own little share of vanity, innocent and primeval as it was. She did

not, indeed, strive to enhance the value of her services and affection

toward us, but she seemed to consider that she was magnified in abstract

importance by dangers undergone and privations suffered. She told us how

far she had walked on foot, where she had got a Diligence, where

somebody had given her a ride in a cart, where she had got no supper,

where she had got a good one, where she had been cheated of fifteen sous

at least, and where the landlord and landlady were good honest people,

and had treated her well for a reasonable remuneration. Her great

difficulties had begun in Germany; the language of which land she

understood not at all, but by dint of patient perseverance, and asking

questions in French of every person she met—whether they understood

that language or not—she had made her way at length to the spot which

good Father Bonneville’s last letter had indicated as his place of

residence, not having gone, by the nicest calculation, more than eight

hundred and seventy-four miles out of her way. She looked upon it as a

feat of great importance, and was reasonably proud of it; but she

thought fit to assign her motives for coming at all—although those

motives were not altogether very coherent, nor did the premises

invariably agree with the deductions. Indeed, Father Bonneville was a

little shocked at some of the proceedings of his good housekeeper; for

he had a great objection to using dirty arms against those who even used

dirty arms against him. It seemed that after Jeanette had notified his

absence to the municipality, his books, papers, and furniture had been

seized for the rapacious maw of the public good. An auction had been

held on the premises, and every thing had been sold; but Jeanette boldly

produced a claim upon the effects of the absconding priest for a great

arrear of wages, which she roundly asserted had never been paid. She

brought forward the agreement between Father Bonneville and herself, in

which the amount to be paid monthly was clearly stated, and as the

commune could show no receipts it was obliged to pass the good

housekeeper’s account, and pay her the money out of the funds raised by

the sale. Some laughed, indeed, and said that the good woman had learnt

the first grand art of taking care of herself, while others defended her

on the ground that it was rather laudable than otherwise to pillage an

aristocrat. They cited even the cases of Moses and Pharaoh, where the

plunder of the Egyptians was not only lauded, but commanded. An old

touch of religious fanaticism reigned in that part of the country, and

men, even the most atheistical in profession and in action, which is

still more, could quote Scripture for their purpose when it served their

purpose.

We are told that the devil does the same—and I think it very likely.

The sum thus received from Jeanette—swelled by every item she could

think of, was by no means inconsiderable; but she had not cheated a

fraudulent and oppressive civic government for her own peculiar benefit.

The sum which had been left her by Father Bonneville, and the wages

which had been paid her, sufficed to maintain her for several months in

Angoumois—in her frugal mode of living—and to carry her across the

whole of France, leaving her with some dozen or two of livres at the

time she reached us in Germany. The money which she had obtained from

the commune, all carefully deposited in a canvas bag, she produced and

placed in the hands of Father Bonneville, who, to say sooth, did not

well know what to do in the peculiar circumstances of the case. Jeanette

justified her acts and deeds toward the commune upon the same principle

on which some members of the commune had justified her supposed acts

toward Father Bonneville. She did not know much about spoiling the

Egyptians indeed; but her mind was not sufficiently refined to see the

harm of cheating cheats, or spoiling plunderers of part of their

plunder.

I believe the good Father talked to her seriously on the subject when I

was not present; but what became of the money I do not know. All I can

tell, is, that the good Father never seemed to be actually in want of

money, and that all those romantic distresses which hinge upon the

absence of a crown-piece, were spared us even in our exile.

Time passed. Jeanette was fully established in her old post in the

household, with the addition of another German maid-servant. The one

whom she found with us was strongly imbued with despotic ideas; and was,

for good reasons, unwilling to submit either to the orders of a foreign

superior in her peculiar department, or to the inspection of accounts

and prices which she soon found was to be established. Another German

girl, consequently, was sought for and found, who being younger in age,

unhardened by experience, and of a diffident nature, willingly undertook

to receive a dollar and a half a month, and do the harder work of the

house under the orders of Jeanette, of which she did not understand one

word.

Our peaceful state of existence, however, was not destined to be of very

long duration. The successes of the allies, then combating the

republicans of France, both on the northern and eastern frontier,

insured us, for some time, tranquillity and safety. We heard of the

defeat of the French army at Neerwinden, and the fall of Valenciennes

and Condé, mixed with vague rumors of the defection of Dumouriez, and

the flight of some of the most celebrated generals in the French army.

These latter events gave great joy and satisfaction to Father

Bonneville; for his hopeful mind looked forward to the re-establishment

of law and order in his native country, and to the utter abasement of

the anarchical party in France before the skill of Dumouriez, and the

bayonets of the Austrians joined with those of all the well disposed and

moderate of the land itself.

Many others shared in the same delusions; but the manifestoes of the

Austrians, soon checked all enthusiasm, even on the part of the

emigrants. No pretence was made of coming to support the loyal and

orderly in the re-establishment of a monarchy, and a war of aggression

and dismemberment was gladly commenced against France from the moment

that Dumouriez’s more generous—and I must say, more prudent schemes,

were rendered abortive by circumstances.

Doubtless, this first raised some indignation in the bosom of Father

Bonneville, who was of too true and really loyal a nature to see

unmoved, his native land partitioned by the sword, upon any pretence or

coloring whatever. I do not know why, but these matters did not appear

to me in the same light. I thought the people of France had committed a

great crime, and deserved to be punished, as if they were but one

simple, individual man. I thought that all who were genuine loyalists or

supporters of an orderly and constitutional system were guilty of a

crime little less great than that of the anarchists, in their dastardly

holding back when great questions involving the whole fate of France,

hung upon the simple exertion of a well ordered body of the bourgeoisie;

and I saw not why they should not be punished for their culpable

negligence which was more disastrous in effect than all the virulence of

the terrorists—I saw not why those who committed tremendous crimes

under the name of justice should not be brought under the sword of

justice, and I looked forward, I confess, to a period of retribution

with no little joy and satisfaction. It mattered not to me, in my

ignorance of great affairs whether this was effected by the Austrians,

the Prussians, or any other nation on the face of the earth, but France

deserved punishment, and I hoped she might be punished.

The expectations of retribution were destined to be long unfulfilled.

The manifestoes of the Allies acted with singular power and

significance, producing combinations not at all expected. The royalists,

the constitutionalists, who still remained in France, prepared to resist

operations, the avowed object of which was the dismemberment of France

itself, and not the restoration of a purified monarchy. They were

willing to support even their mortal enemies within the land, in

resisting the newly declared enemies of the whole land, who were

advancing along two frontiers. The republicans were roused to the most

powerful and successful exertions in order to repel a slow and cautious,

but victorious enemy from their frontiers, and even the émigrés, who

were scattered all along the banks of the Rhine, protested loudly

against a scheme, which not only menaced the integrity of France as it

then existed, but threatened to deprive the monarchy of some of its

fairest provinces, if the legitimate line of their sovereigns should

ever be restored.

No contrivance could have been devised so well calculated to reunite the

greatest possible number of Frenchmen in opposition to a

counter-revolution, and to render all others indifferent to the progress

of the allied arms, as the proclamation of the Prince of Coburg. Some

few, indeed, thought with me, but mine were doubtless boyish thoughts:

for I have ever remarked that it is experience, and the hard lessons of

the world, which bring moderation.

Father Bonneville seldom talked upon these subjects with me; for he had

rightly no great opinion of my judgment in matters of which I could have

had but a very vague knowledge, and he little knew how often and how

deeply I thought upon such questions.

The siege and capture of Mayence, however: the inactivity of Custine,

and the retreat of the whole of the French armies within the frontier

line, seemed to insure to us perfect security, for a long time to come,

in our calm and pleasant retreat upon the banks of the Rhine: when

suddenly burst forth that wild and vengeful spirit of reaction which

armed all France, almost as one man, against attacks from without, and

soon retrieved all she had lost under a weak government and

inexperienced commander.

Toward the end of the year, our situation became somewhat perilous.

After a long period of successes, the fruits of which were all lost by

indecision or procrastination, the allied armies found themselves the

assailed rather than the assailers, the conquered rather than the

conquerors; and the fierce spirit of the Frank, the most war-loving, if

not the most warlike, of all the nations of the earth was soon ready to

carry the flaming sword into all the neighboring lands.

I have given this little sketch merely to connect the events together,

without at all wishing to imply that I knew or comprehended all the

facts at the time, or recollect them now, except with the aid of books.

My own memories are very slight and merely personal. I remember

lingering on for some months in that small house by the Rhine. I

recollect the warm, bright summer sinking down into heavy autumn, and

the year withering in the old age of winter. I recollect numerous

reports and rumors, and gossip’s tales, and—falser than all—newspaper

narratives, and printed dispatches, reaching us in our solitude, some of

them exciting my wonder, and some of them my alarm, and then I recollect

various passages of no great importance in a somewhat long journey, till

I find myself in a quaint old town upon the border of Switzerland, near

which the Rhine breaks over high rocks and forms the cascade of

Schaffhausen.

This place is only notable in my memory for the beauty of the

water-fall, which I have since seen surpassed in grandeur, but not in

picturesque effect, and by one little incident which there brightened

many an hour. One day, when we were there, a letter was delivered to

Father Bonneville, in my presence, which he found to contain a small

note addressed to me. It was the first letter I had ever received in my

life, although I was now between fourteen and fifteen years of age, and

the sensations which I experienced when it was placed in my hands, and I

saw my own name on the back, were very strange. Imagination went

whirling here and there, seeking to divine whence it could come. The

mystery of my own strange, isolated existence—which was frequently

present to my thoughts, was the first thing that fancy snatched at; but

I did not remain long in uncertainty. The seal was soon broken, and I

found a few lines in a round, childlike hand, very well written, and

very well expressed, with the name of “Mariette de Salins” at the

bottom.

She told me that she wrote to show me, her dear instructor, how much

progress she had made in her studies; and to tell me that although she

had now a great number of companions, she loved me as well as ever, and

better than them all. She bade me not forget her though she did not

doubt that I had grown a great, tall man, and she was still but a little

girl.

I cannot express how much pleasure this gave me; for I had been

oppressed by the thought that in new scenes and new circumstances, all

memory of her young companion would soon be obliterated in the mind of

my little Mariette. That such had not yet been the case was in itself a

pleasure; but I calculated sagaciously that the very fact of having to

write to me, and to recall our youthful intercourse would renew all her

recollections of the time we had passed together, and give memory, as it

were, a new point to start from.

Our stay in Schaffhausen only continued a few months; for the progress

of events in France, and the revolutionary spirit which began to effect

other countries, left it hardly possible for emigrants to find any

secure spot in Europe, except indeed in England, and thither Father

Bonneville did not seem inclined to go. At Schaffhausen, however, I

pursued my studies very eagerly, and had the opportunity of acquiring

some knowledge of those manly exercises which I had never yet had any

opportunity of practicing. There was a very good riding-school in the

town, to which Father Bonneville sent me every day; and a French exile,

celebrated for his knowledge of the sword exercise, had set up a fencing

school, in which I soon became a favorite pupil. I was now a tall,

powerful lad, and what between the continual exercise of the

riding-school, and the Salle d’Armes, all the powers of a frame,

naturally robust, were speedily developed. Previous to this time, I had

stooped a little from the habit of bending over books and drawings; but

my chest now became expanded, my step firm, and I acquired a sort of

military air, of which, I need hardly say, I was very proud.

Thus passed four months and a few days; but rumors of the intention of

the French to march an army up the Rhine, induced Father Bonneville to

move our quarters, and about a fortnight before my fifteenth birth-day,

we traveled up to Constance, and then across what they call the _Boden

See_—or lake of Constance, to the Vorarlberg.

CHANGING SCENES AND THOUGHTS.

We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and

never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we

were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville

protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival

of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the

general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances.

Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father

Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of

sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is

usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a

humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of

housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all

boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a

Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the

target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming

now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed,

encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old

man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however,

were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very

serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I

was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and

softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took

possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange

sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought

Rosseau’s _nouvelle Heloise_, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic

pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had

only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon

the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new

splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy

light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells

with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful

creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many

a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I

myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero.

Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could

not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with

whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that

there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect

fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose

fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon

me with looks of love.

I do not believe that amongst all the many books which have been written

to corrupt the heart of man—and they are ten times in number, I fear,

those which have been written to improve it—there is one to be found so

dangerous to youth as the works of Rousseau. The vivid richness of his

imagination, the strong enthusiasms of the man, and the indefinite

insinuation of pernicious doctrines can be only safely encountered by

reason in its full vigor, aided by experience. I happily escaped the

contamination, but it was by no powers of my own. Father Bonneville

found Rousseau lying on my table, and when I returned from one of my

long rambles he sat down to discuss with me both the character of the

man, and the tendency of his writings. He showed no heat, no vehement

disapprobation of the subject of my study; but he calmly and quietly,

and with a clearness and force of mind I have seldom seen equaled,

examined the doctrines, dissected the arguments, tore away the

glittering veils with which vice, and selfishness, and vanity are

concealed, and left with too strong a feeling of disgust for the

unprincipled author, for my admiration of his style and powers of

imagination ever to seduce me again. I felt ashamed of what I had done,

and when the good Father closed the book which he had been commenting

upon, I rose, exclaiming, “I will never read any more of his works

again.”

“Not so, Louis,” replied the good Father. “Do not read his works at

present. Pause till you are thirty. Your reason may be active, and I

believe it is; but the mind, like the body, only acquires its full vigor

after a long period of regular exercise and training. You will soon have

to mingle largely with the world, to share in its struggles, to taste

its sorrows, and to encounter its disappointments. You will see much of

man and his actions. Mark them well. Trace them back to their causes.

Follow them out to their consequences. It is a study never begun too

soon, and about five or six-and-twenty, men who wish to found virtue

upon reason, apply the lessons they have thus learned to their own

hearts. If you do this, wisely and systematically, neither the works of

Rousseau, nor of any other man will do you any harm. But here is another

thing I wish to say to you, Louis. The income that is allowed you is

intended to give you some means of practically learning to regulate your

expenditure—to teach you, in fact, the value of money. This is a branch

of study as well as every thing else, and each young man has to master

it. At first, when he possesses money, his natural desire is to spend it

upon something that he fancies will give him pleasure; it matters not

what; and when he has wasted numerous small sums upon trifles which

afford him no real satisfaction, he finds that there is some object far

more desirable, which he has not left himself the means of obtaining.

Then comes regret, and it is very salutary; for when the experiment has

been frequently repeated, reason arrives at a conclusion, applicable,

not only to the mere expenditure of money, but to the use of all man’s

possessions, including the faculties both of mind and body. The

conclusion I mean, is, that small enjoyments often kill great ones.”

That evening’s conversation I shall never forget. It afforded me much

matter for thought at the time, and I have recurred to it frequently

since.

Another little picture stands forth about this time, clear and distinct

upon the canvas of memory, and I strongly suspect that the fact I am

about to mention had a great influence on my after life.

We were then at Zurich, and I had been out on one summer evening for a

long ramble through the hills. When I re-entered the town, it was dark,

and going into the house of which we rented a part, I found a stranger

sitting with Father Bonneville. He was a very remarkable man, and you

could not even look at him for a moment without being struck by his

appearance. His dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a large,

black, horseman’s coat, with a small cape to it, and a pair of high

riding-boots; and round his neck he had a white cravat of very many

folds, tied in a large bow in front. He was tall and well-proportioned,

and of the middle age; but his head was the finest I think I ever

beheld, and his face a perfect model of manly beauty. I shall never

forget his eye—that eye so soon after to be closed in death. There was

a calm intensity in it—a bright, searching, peculiar lustre which

seemed to shed a light upon whatever it turned to; and when, as I

entered the room, it fixed tranquilly on me, and seemed to read my face

as if it were a book, the color mounted into my cheek I know not why. He

remained for nearly an hour after my arrival, conversing with my good

old friend and myself in a strain of sweet but powerful eloquence, such

as I have never heard equaled. During a part of the time the subject was

religion, and his opinions, though very strong and decided, were

expressed with gentleness and forbearance; for he and Father Bonneville

differed very considerably. The stranger, indeed, seemed to have the

best of the argument, and I think Father Bonneville felt it too; for he

became as warm as his gentle nature would permit. In the end, however,

the stranger rose, and laid his hand kindly in that of the good priest.

“Read, my good friend,” he said. “Read. Such a mind as yours should not

shut out one ray of light which God himself has given to guide us on our

way. We both appeal to the same book as the foundation of our faith, and

no man can study it too much. From the benefit I myself have received

from every word that it contains, I should feel, even were there not a

thousand other motives for such a conclusion, that there is something

wrong in that system of religion which can shut the great store-house of

light and truth against the people for whose benefit it was provided.”

The moment he was gone I exclaimed eagerly, “Who is that?”

“One of the best and greatest men in the world,” replied Father

Bonneville, “That is Lavater.”

I would fain have asked more questions, but good Father Bonneville was

evidently not in a mood for further conversation that night. The visit

of Lavater had pleased him—had interested him; but things had been said

while it lasted which had afforded him matter for deep thought—nay, I

am not sure but I might say, painful thought. I could tell quite well by

his aspect when there was any vehement struggle going on in the good

man’s mind, and from all I saw I thought that such was the case now.

A few days after, he went to call upon Lavater, who was living in the

same town, but he did not take me with him. Lavater came again and again

to see him, and they had long conversations together, at some of which I

was present, at others not; and still there seemed to be a struggle in

Father Bonneville’s mind. He was very grave and silent, though as kind

and as gentle as ever—fell often into deep reveries, and sometimes did

not hear when I spoke to him. At length, one day, when I returned

somewhat earlier than usual from my afternoon rambles, I found him bent

over a table reading attentively, and coming in front of him, I

perceived not only that the tears were in his eyes, but that some of

them had dropped upon the page. He did not at all attempt to conceal his

emotion, but wiped his eyes and spectacles deliberately, and then laying

his hand flat upon the page, he looked into my face, saying, “Louis, you

must read this book; let men say what they will, it was written for

man’s instruction—for his happiness—for his salvation. It contains all

that is necessary for him; and beyond this, there is nothing.”

I looked over his shoulder and found that it was the Bible. “I thought I

had read it long ago,” added Father Bonneville, “but I now find that I

have never read it half enough.”

“I will read it very willingly, Father,” I replied, “but Father Mezieres

to whom you sent me preparatory to my first communion, told me, that if

not an actual sin, it was great presumption in a layman to read any part

of it but the New Testament.”

“Mind not that, my son,” replied Father Bonneville. “It is hard to

struggle with old prejudices; to root out from our minds ideas planted

in our youth, which have grown with our growth and strengthened with our

strength. But in this book there is life, there is light, and God forbid

that any man should be prevented from drinking the waters of life

freely.”

A faint smile came upon his face as he spoke, and after a moment’s

pause, he continued, saying, “Do you know, Louis, I am going to become a

boy again, and recommence my studies from a new point. Some months hence

I will talk with you further, and every day in the mean time I will have

my lesson.”

He had his lesson, as he said, each day; for he would sit for hours

poring over either the pages of the Bible or some book of theology; but

from that day I am quite sure that Father Bonneville was, at heart, a

Protestant.

There is only one other incident worthy of notice which I remember in

connection with the events of which I have just spoken. That was our

separation from good Jeanette, who had hitherto been the companion of

all our travels. For more than a month after our arrival in Zurich I

remarked that she looked anxious and uneasy. She said nothing on the

subject of her own feelings, however, to me, but was less communicative

and more thoughtful than usual, would be in the same room with me for a

long time without speaking one word to him who was I knew the darling of

her heart, and was more than once spoken to without appearing to hear.

At length one day when I entered Father Bonneville’s room I found her

standing before him; and heard her say as I came in, “I must go and see

my lady. I am sure she is ill and wants help. I must go and see her. I

have done nothing but dream of her every night.”

“Well, Jeanette, well,” replied he, “you must have your way; but you

know not what you undertake. At all events you had better stay till some

favorable opportunity can be found for sending you in safety.”

Jeanette only shook her head, however, repeating in a low voice, “I must

go and see my lady.”

She remained with us two days after this interview, and I recollect

quite well her coming into my room one night just as I was going to bed,

and looking at me very earnestly, while I, with sportsman-like care, was

cleaning my rifle ere I lay down.

“Ah, Monsieur Louis,” she said in a somewhat sad tone, “you are growing

a man quite fast, and I dare say, you will soon be a soldier; but do not

get into any of their bad ways here; and never, never forget your

religion. They turn older and wiser heads than yours or mine; but do not

let them turn yours.”

“No fear, I hope, Jeanette,” I answered; “but what do you want, my dear

old dame?”

“Nothing, nothing, but only to see what you are doing,” she replied. “I

see your light burning often late of nights, and I thought you might be

reading bad books that craze many strong brains. Better clean a gun by

far, Louis—only never forget your religion.”

I smiled at her anxious care of one no longer a boy, little thinking

that I was so soon to lose one so closely connected with every memory of

my youth, but when I rose the next morning somewhat later than usual,

Jeanette was gone; and all I could learn from Father Bonneville was that

she had set out upon a long and difficult journey, the thought of which

gave him much uneasiness.

THE PLEASURES OF BATTLE.[4]

• • • • • • •

I was coming down the hill, and about five miles distant from the town,

but my eyes had been rendered more keen by my hunter’s sports, and I was

quite sure that it was so. The glittering of arms, both upon the heights

above the city, and in the valley on the other side of the river, was

perfectly distinct. Yet so still and silent was every thing, that I

could hardly believe two hostile armies were there in presence of each

other. Not a sound broke the stillness of the mountain air. No trumpet,

no drum was heard at that moment; and my companion, Karl, would not

believe that what I said was true. Soon after, we dipped into one of

those profound wooded ravines which score the side of the mountains, and

the scene was lost to our sight; but as we crossed over one of the

shoulders of the hill again, and were forced to rise a little, in order

to descend still farther, the loud boom of a cannon came echoing through

the gorges, like a short and distant clap of thunder. The moment after,

the full roar of a whole park of artillery was heard, shaking the hills

around; and when we topped the height, we could see a dense cloud of

bluish smoke rolling along to well-defined lines below.

Karl paused abruptly, saying, “We are well here, Louis. Better stay till

it is over. We can help neither party, and shall only get our heads

broke.”

Such reasoning was good enough for him—an orphan and tieless as he

was—a mere child of the mountain; but I thought of good Father

Bonneville, and told him, at once, that I should go on, and why. He

would then fain have gone with me; but I would not suffer him; and

leaving the chamois with him, I hurried as rapidly down as I could,

taking many a bold leap, and many a desperate plunge, while the sound of

cannon and musketry kept ringing in my ears, till I reached a spot where

it was absolutely necessary to pause, and consider what was to be done

next. I had come unexpectedly, not exactly into the midst of the battle

that was going on, but to a point near that at which on the right of the

French line, a strong body of infantry were pushing forward with fixed

bayonets against an earthwork cresting the plateau, well defended by

cannon. The guns were thundering upon the advancing column at the

distance of about three hundred yards upon my left, and the Austrian

infantry were already within a hundred paces of the steep ascent, along

the face of which my path led toward the town. I was myself upon a

pinnacle of the hill, a little above either party, and my only chance of

making my way forward, was by taking a leap of some ten feet down, to a

spot where a _sapin_ started from the bold rock, and thence by a small

circuit, getting into the rear of the Austrian infantry. It was a rash

attempt; for if I missed my footing on the roots of the tree, I was sure

to be dashed to pieces; and I was somewhat incumbered by my rifle. I

took the risk, however, and succeeded; and then hurried forward as fast

as I could go. But now a new danger was before me—to say nothing of the

murderous fire from the French battery—for by the time I had reached

the point from which I could best pass into the suburb, the Austrian

infantry had been repulsed for the moment, and were retreating in great

confusion. I know not how to describe my feelings at that moment—afraid

I certainly was not; but I felt my head turn with the wild bustle and

indistinct activity of the scene. A number of men passed me, running in

utter disarray. An officer galloped after them, shouting and commanding,

for some time, in vain. At length, however, he succeeded in rallying

them, just as I was passing along. The moment they were once more

formed, he turned his eyes to the front, where another regiment, or part

of a regiment, had been already rallied, and seeing me at some forty

yards distance, he spurred on and asked me, in German, whether there was

a way up the steep to the left of the line. Luckily, I spoke the

language fluently, and replied that there was, pointing out to him the

path by which I usually descended. Without paying any further attention

to me, he hurried back to the head of his corps, and I ran on as fast as

possible to get out of the way of the next charge. There was a little

bridge which I had to pass, where not more than four or five men could

go abreast, and over it a small body of Austrians were forcing their

way, at the point of the bayonet, against a somewhat superior party of

the French troops, who, in fact, were willing enough to retreat, seeing

that a considerable impression had been made upon their right, and that

they were likely to be cut off. At the same time, however, they would

not be driven back without resistance, and several men fell. I followed

impulsively the rear of the Austrians, where I observed one or two of

the Swiss hunters appareled very much like myself, who were using their

rifles, with deadly effect, amongst the officers of the Republican army;

nor was it to be wondered at, after all that had happened. I could not,

however, bring myself to give any assistance, and kept my gun under my

arm, with the belt twisted round my wrist.

As soon as the bridge was forced, the Austrians debouched upon the

ground beyond with greater rapidity and precision than the French seemed

to expect; and while their right retreated in tolerable order toward the

heights, their left scattered in confusion, and sought refuge in the

suburbs of the town. I took the same direction, and the first little

street I entered was so crowded with fugitives, comprising a number of

the townspeople, who, looking forth to see the battle, had been taken by

surprise on the sudden rush of the French soldiers in that direction,

that it was impossible to pass; and although I saw a sort of tumult

going on before me, and heard a gun or two fire, I turned away down the

first narrow street, only eager to be with my good preceptor, who lived

in a little street beyond the third turning.

When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured

straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than

two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French

soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three

persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a

French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I

could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from

violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have

certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a

little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but

the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep

groan.

I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man

whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the

soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a

musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the

name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the

bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a

messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was

at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the

Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with

the ball through his head.

I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what

it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only

thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward,

I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the

forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused.

“Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows

and lock the door.”

“Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle

in this strife!”

“Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I

will join you in an instant.”

“Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at

the rifle in my hand.

“I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected,

“and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a

moment.”

I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and

then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have

mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a

young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a

bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in

black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld

the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that

death was there.

I had knelt while doing this, when a sudden sound made me attempt to

rise—but I could not do so; for, while still upon my knee, I was struck

by the feet of two or three men, cast back upon the ground, and trampled

under foot by a number of Austrians in full flight. Every thing became

dark and confused. I saw the long gaiters, and caught a glance of arms

and accoutrements, and felt heavy feet set upon my chest, and on my

head—and then all was night.

Although the weather was hot, and summer at its height, in that high

mountain region the night was almost invariably cool. Probably that

circumstance saved my life; for I must have remained, I know, several

hours on the pavement untended, and perhaps unnoticed by any one. When I

recovered my senses, it was nearly midnight, and then I found several

good souls around me. One woman was bathing my head and chest with cold

water, while a man supported my shoulders upon his knee. The first

objects I saw, however, were three or four persons moving the body of

the woman, near whom I had fallen, to a small hand-bier. The body of

Lavater was already gone.

“Look, look, he opens his eyes!” cried the woman who was tending me so

kindly. “Poor lad! we shall get him round! Where will you be taken to,

young man?”

I named faintly the house where we lodged, and then another woman, who

was standing by, exclaimed, “Heaven! it is young Lassi! Better take him

to the hospital.”

I tried in vain to inquire after Father Bonneville; for a faint,

death-like sensation came over me, and I was obliged to let them do what

they pleased with me. A blanket was soon procured, and placed in it, as

in a hammock, I was carried up into the higher part of the town to the

hospital, and there laid upon a bed, in a ward where some hundreds of

wounded men were already congregated. A surgeon, with his hands bloody,

an apron on, and a saw under his arm, soon came to me, and asked where I

was wounded. I endeavored to answer, but could not make myself

intelligible; and putting down the saw, he ordered me to be stripped,

and examined me all over. Two of my ribs, it seemed had been broken, and

my head terribly beaten about. Indeed, I was one general bruise. But my

limbs were all sound, and in four or five days, although I suffered a

great deal of pain, and the scenes which were going on around me were

not calculated to revive the spirits of any one, I was sufficiently

recovered to make inquiries for Father Bonneville, whenever I saw a new

face, and to send a message for him to the house where we lodged, giving

him notice that I was to be found at the hospital.

Father Bonneville himself did not appear, but our landlord came in his

stead—a good, plain, honest man, of a kindly disposition. He told me,

much to my consternation, that my good friend, as he called him, had

been carried off as a prisoner by the Austrians, after they got

possession of the town; that he was suspected of being one of the French

Revolutionary Agents, and that most likely he would have been hanged at

once, without the testimony of himself, our landlord, who had come

forward to prove that he was a quiet, inoffensive man, who meddled not

with politics in any shape, and would have gladly got out of the town,

after the French occupation, had it been possible. This saved his life

for the time; but the only favor that could be obtained was that the

case should be reserved for further investigation. At the time he was

carried away, Father Bonneville was perfectly ignorant of my fate, the

landlord said, and feared that I had been killed. The good man, however,

promised that he would make every inquiry for my friend, and urged me,

in the meantime, to have myself carried to his house as soon as

possible. For more than a fortnight, during which time I was unable to

quit the hospital, he came every day to see me, but brought no

intelligence of Father Bonneville. At length he had me removed to his

own house, and there he, and his good old wife, attended upon me with

great kindness till I was quite well.

As soon as I could move about, the landlord told me that Monsieur

Charlier, as he called him, had left with him a hundred louis d’ors for

me, in case of my return. “And lucky he did so,” added the old

gentleman, “for the Austrians ransacked every thing in both your rooms,

upon the pretence of searching for papers, and left not a bit of silver

worth a batz that they could lay their hands upon.”

Days passed—weeks, and yet no tidings could be obtained of good Father

Bonneville; and thus was I left, ere I had reached the age of nineteen,

to make a way for myself in life, with a small store of clothing, a few

books, a ride, and one hundred louis.

[_To be continued._

-----

[4] Part of the manuscript, extending from page 56 to 61 is here

wanting. As far us I can judge, the deficiency refers to a period of

about 5 or 6 months, and I think the pages must have been destroyed by

the writer

* * * * *

A CHARM.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

I know not why a touch can thrill

The soul, till it doth seem

A single drop would overfill

Her pleasurable dream.

I know not, yet such moments are

Of measureless delight,

When fancy flashes, as a star

That falleth through the night!

A weary night, a solemn night,

Is Life, so stern and slow,

And gentle forms like thine, the light

Which guides us as we go.

Then, say not, maiden—never say

Thy heart in like the snow,

Thine eyes have far too fond a ray,

That we should deem it so.

I, too, have sought, with studied art.

To stay the tides that speak,

But still, the struggle at my heart

Was written on my cheek.

And now, my tuneless measure talks

One of the lonely lays

Which haunt my spirit when it walks

The melancholy ways.

I sing, and singing dwell on thee—

The Pilgrim of a Star!

Who, straining, deems he yet can see

Some solace, though afar.

Oh! in such times my harp will break

Forth in a fleeting tone,

But, ere its echo dies, I wake,

To find—I am alone!

* * * * *

LIFE’S VOYAGE.

BY TH. GREGG.

A gallant bark is wildly tossing

Upon the briny wave,

Freighted deep with human treasure—

With earnest hearts and brave.

For many a day that bark is rolling

Over the trackless sea;

For many a day those hearts are beating—

Are beating to be free!

At length the shore is dimly looming

On the horizon’s verge,

When that frail vessel boldly plunges

Unto the boiling surge.

A moment—and the ship is stranded!—

A number gain the shore—

Whilst others ’neath the boiling billows

Sink down for evermore!

’Tis thus Life’s waves are ever bearing

Our fragile bark along—

Whether freighted with Sin and Sorrow

Or joyous Mirth and Song:

And thus the surges are ever beating

Against the wreck-strewn strand

That stays the tide of Life’s rough Ocean

And bounds the Spirit-Land!

* * * * *

MILTON.[5]

BY B. H. BREWSTER.

We have had lying on our table, for some years, this beautiful edition

of Milton’s Select Prose Works, and we have often, while reading it,

resolved to set about that which we have at last attempted. But we have

been deterred not more by the importance of the subject, than by the

recollection of the great spirits who have already earned rich harvests

of applause in this field. The article by Mr. Macaulay, published in the

Edinburgh Review, would seem to forbid further comment, where the critic

has left his reader in doubt which most to admire, the splendor of his

criticism, or the lofty grandeur of his original. Then, too, Mr. St.

John, the editor of these neat and elegant volumes, has given a

preliminary discourse, which displays a keen and warm admiration for

these writings, expressed, in a fervid strain of noble eloquence, which

inspires that gentle apprehension for the “bright countenance of truth,”

so soothing “in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.”

In a fine London edition of the Prose Works of John Milton, published in

the year 1838, there is a well written review by the editor, Mr. Robert

Fletcher, in which he laments that some effort had not before been made

to “popularize, in a _multum in parvo_ shape, the prose works of our

great poet.” We have here an edition that completes his desires; an

edition in which great judgment has been exercised in selecting, from

various tracts, those portions likely to prove most agreeable to the

public. While they give a proper conception of the opinions of Milton,

they also contain some of the purest specimens of his style. Indeed, we

think that some one of our own publishing houses would find it to their

interest to bring out an edition of this work. The nice taste and the

correct discrimination displayed in this selection would command for it

a ready sale. It would be of great use to many, who know nothing of

these writings, and of service to some, who, while they know of them,

yet neglect and turn away from these rich well-springs of truth.

Like all great messengers, Milton was, while living, persecuted, and

since his death has been the object of malignant hatred, by those whose

place of abiding is fast by the “seat of the scorner.” He whose “words

are oracles for mankind, whose love embraces all countries, and whose

voice sounds through all ages,” has been slighted, misrepresented,

abused, and reviled by those whose greatest glory should have been, that

they were the countrymen of Milton—not Milton the poet—but Milton the

statesman. He who wielded a pen that made Europe quake, and perpetuated

political truths based upon eternal justice—truths that were to warm

and kindle up mankind forever after in the pursuit of right against

might.

Before we approach these fountains of living light, let us turn and see

how it was that he, who had been educated in seclusion, and mingled with

the scholars, the gentle and well-bred in his youth, did desert all, and

peril his life in the wild tumult and hot strife of religious and

political dissension, only that he might bear witness to the light that

was in him.

John Milton was the son of John Milton, a scrivener of good repute, in

the city of London. He was born in the year 1608, and was carefully

educated under the supervision of his father, who was a man of refined

taste. He was destined for the Church, and gave great promise of

eminence; for he was an assiduous and diligent youth, and was noted for

his complete learning and elegant scholarship, at the University of

Cambridge, where he obtained his degrees. But he declined to take

orders, and refused to subscribe to the articles of faith, considering

that so doing was subscribing, slave.

In thus early displaying his independence of opinion in his religious

belief, he did but follow the example set him by his father, while he

obeyed the honest impulse of his nature; for his father had been

disinherited by his grandfather for deserting the Roman Catholic faith.

Shortly after he left the University he retired into the country with

his father, who had then relinquished business with a handsome estate;

and while there he continued his studies, selecting no particular

profession, but devoting himself to the cultivation of all.

It was in these years of sweet scholastic solitude, that he produced his

Mask of Comus, than which there is not a nobler poem in any language.

This brought him great fame among the polite and refined of the day, and

was widely circulated for a while in manuscript; so that when he started

on his travels soon after this, (which was in 1638,) he carried with him

letters commanding, in his behalf, attention from the most eminent men

of the Continent.

He went first to France, and while in Paris was introduced by Lord

Scudamore, the English ambassador, to Hugo Grotius, with whom he had a

very interesting interview. From Paris he went into Italy, and coming to

Florence, in that city he mingled freely with the refined and learned,

and, by the elegant displays of his own accomplishments and learning,

won the admiration and regard of all. The scholars and wits of that

place vied with one another in entertaining him, and celebrated his many

merits in their compositions.

With many of those brilliant spirits of that favored land he formed an

intimacy, which was continued for years after his return home, as we

find by his familiar letters. From Florence he traveled to Rome, and was

there again treated with marked kindness and attention by Lucas

Holstensius, the librarian of the Vatican, the Cardinal Barberino, and

other persons of distinction in that famous city. From Rome he proceeded

to Naples, and there made the friendship of the Marquis of Villa, a man

of “singular merit and virtue,” and who was afterward celebrated by

Milton in a poem, as he had been by Tasso, in his Jerusalem Delivered,

and his Dialogue on Friendship. Happy and fortunate lot! thus to be the

object of regard, and to have his merits recorded, and his virtues

enshrined, for the admiration of posterity, in the works of these great

poetic minds!

He had intended, after having thus visited the finest parts of Italy, to

go over into Sicily, and thence to Greece; but the news from England of

the difficulties between the Parliament and the King changed his mind,

and he determined to return home, to mingle with his countrymen in their

toil for freedom, thinking it unworthy of him to be loitering away his

time in luxurious ease, while his native land was distracted, and his

fellow men at home were battling in fierce strife for liberty.

He returned to Rome, notwithstanding the desire of his friends that he

should remain away; for by the freedom of his speech when there he had

aroused the vindictive feelings of many of his hearers. And to this he

was no doubt provoked by having himself seen the dreadful persecution

undergone in the prison of the Inquisition, by one of the finest

scientific minds the world ever knew—by Galileo—whom he visited when

imprisoned for asserting the motion of the earth, and opposing the old

notions of the Dominicans and Franciscans.

From Rome he went to Florence; and after being there a while he went to

Venice, and from that port he shipped his books and music for England.

He then took his route by Verona and Milan, and along the lake of Leman

to Geneva; and thence he returned through France the same way he came,

and arrived safe in England after an absence of one year and three

months, “having seen more, learned more, and conversed with more famous

men, and made more real improvement than most others in double the

time.”

On his return home, he again devoted himself to the solitude of his

study, and to the teaching of several youths (among whom were his

nephews) who were intrusted to his care; and in his own house he formed

quite an academic institute, where his scholars, like the disciples of

the philosophers of old, gathered around him, and by assiduity added to

their stores of knowledge, while with his advice and counsel they were

purifying and elevating their feelings.

In the year 1641, the nation was in great ferment with the religious

disputes of the day, which were intimately connected with the chief

political questions then agitated. This roused Milton, who was alive to

the close association of the two subjects; and for the furtherance of

his political designs, the support of liberty, he issued a powerful

tract upon Prelatical Episcopacy. This served to work out a good end,

and strengthen the cause of the liberalists. For this, as for other

reasons of a like nature, he was prompted to write several other

polemical tracts, during that year, and then he dropped the subject

forever.

In 1643 he married, being then thirty-five years old. After a month his

wife, by his permission, went to visit her relations; and when sent for

by him—for reasons which are as yet unexplained—she refused to return,

and dismissed his messenger with contempt.

He was deeply wounded by this treatment, and maintained toward her a

dignified and resolute indifference. Mortified, and full of sorrow, he

found relief in the contemplation of his very source of wo; and after

reflection upon it, he projected and published his work upon Divorce,

which is to this day one of the most famous works on the subject ever

printed.

Affairs had now assumed a new aspect, and the Presbyterian party had,

after a great struggle with Royalty, gained the ascendency, and then

ruled supreme in the councils of the nation.

The King and his abettors were fighting in the field for that authority,

they had before vainly endeavored to establish with the arm of civil

power. The Presbyterians were now in their day of prosperity; they had

been oppressed but were now triumphant. Adversity had not been of use to

them. They did not learn charity, or humanity, from her lessons, but now

exercised authority with a lordly air, and wielded the sword of State

with presumptuous arrogance. Among other acts of great inconsistency and

oppression, they established a supervision of the press under the

control of an authorized licenser, and at the same time endeavored to

suppress the freedom of speech. This base desertion of the principles

for which they had contended, this mean exercise of authority in that,

in which they had suffered the most, and against which they had clamored

the loudest, excited Milton to the writing of the Areopagitica. This

pamphlet was written by him upon this shameful abuse. He had before

acted in concert with them, as the movement party of the day; but when

they abandoned and treasonably betrayed the rights of Man, they left him

where he had always been, standing on the rock of truth fast by his

principles.

There is not a nobler vindication of the freedom of speech, and the

liberty of the press, to be found any where, than in this pamphlet.

This book was published in 1644, and in this year he was reconciled to

his wife, who sought him out, and unexpectedly to him fell at his feet,

and with tears besought his love and forgiveness. In this, as in other

instances, have we a strong evidence of the mildness and gentleness of

his feelings; for although his resentment had been aroused by her wicked

abandonment of him, yet when she returned home, repentant and in sorrow,

he joyfully received her, and forgave all. Nay more, when defeat and

route had fallen upon the royal standard, he generously took home her

father, and his whole family—who were attached to the cause of the

monarchy—protected them during the heat of his party triumph, and

finally interested himself to secure their estates from confiscation,

although they had in their days of prosperity prompted his wife to her

disobedience and desertion of her republican husband; thus showing a

high-heartedness which was above malice, and in keeping with and but a

practical domestic application of the pure, upright faith professed by

him, which was stern and unyielding in the pursuits of right, but humane

and gentle in the use of power and advantage.

He was now an eminent man, and his bold pen had won for him a public

fame and name. About this time he was well-nigh being swept into the mid

current of popular politics, and it was contemplated making him the

adjutant general, under Sir William Waller; but this design was

abandoned upon the remodeling of the army, and he was left at his

studies.

The king was imprisoned and tried, and then it was that the true faith

and intentions of many were made clear. The Presbyterian party, who had

professed democratic republicanism, while their hopes of office were

high—like many in our own days, who, when they have attained their

hopes, or been rejected by the people for better men, desert their

cause, abandon their principles, while they hold on to their name, and

fight under their old banners, that they may more surely but more basely

injure truth—being now in the minority and out of power, became noisy

in their lamentations over the king’s fate, and endeavored by every

means to prevent his execution, using all arguments, and stopping at

nothing to undo what they themselves had brought about. For when they

found that there was an unflinching determination of the democracy to

punish this man for his enormities and wicked misgovernment.

“They who”—to use Milton’s language—“had been fiercest against their

prince, under the notion of a tyrant, and no mean incendiaries of the

war against him, when God out of his providence and high disposal hath

delivered him into the hands of their brethren, on a sudden and in a new

garb of allegiance, which their doings have long since concealed, they

plead for him, pity him, extol him, and protest against those who talk

of bringing him to the trial of justice, which is the sword of God,

superior to all mortal things, in whose hand soever, by apparent signs,

his testified will is to put it.”

Upon the happening of this event, Milton published his “Tenure of

Kings,” from which is quoted the above passage, so applicable in its

spirit to our own times, so true of all political trucksters, who shout

loudly for the democracy, while they have hopes of using and abusing it,

but who basely betray its confidence and abandon it, whenever they are

required to put in practice their own professions. This book was

published 1649, and served very much to tranquilize and calm the public

mind upon that which had passed.

After the establishment of the Commonwealth, he was called to the post

of Latin Secretary, by the Council of State, which station he held till

the Restoration. This was an office of great importance, inasmuch as all

the public correspondence with foreign States devolved upon him. While

holding this high and honorable public station, one so congenial with

his feelings, and one for which he was so well fitted, he produced many

state papers of great merit, and which contributed to advance the fame

of the republic abroad.

Upon the execution of Charles Stuart, there was published a book which

was styled “Eikōn Basilikē,” and which was pretended to have been

written by the king, and left by him as a legacy and parting word to the

world. It had a most unprecedented sale, owing to the curiosity excited

by its appearance. As it was a work which was then likely to excite

public sympathy, when public sympathy would be thrown away upon a bad

and unworthy object, while at the same time it would abuse and mislead

the public mind, the Parliament called upon Milton to write an answer to

it, and to furnish an antidote for this lying poison, which it is well

believed was never written by the king, but was manufactured and

industriously circulated by the enemies of the people, and the friends

of arbitrary power, with a hope that by its means they could unsettle

the public mind, weaken the republic, and reëstablish the tyranny.

Milton accordingly wrote his Eikonoklastes; and truly was he an

image-breaker; for with merciless force he entered the temple, and with

his own right arm shattered the idol that they had bid all mankind bow

down before.

Charles the Second, who was then residing upon the Continent, hired

Salmasius, a man of great learning, and the successor of the celebrated

Scaliger, as honorary professor at Leyden, to write a work in defense of

his father and of the monarchy. For this work Charles paid Salmasius one

hundred jacobuses. In the execution of this book, Salmasius filled it

pretty plentifully with insolent abuse of all the public men of the

Commonwealth, and those prominent in the Revolution; both from a natural

inclination, and according to directions. In this he was quite expert;

for though he was a fine scholar and very famed for his learning, yet as

it has been said of him—“This prince of scholars seemed to have erected

his throne upon a heap of stones, that he might have them at hand to

throw at every one’s head who passed by.”

Immediately upon the appearance of this book, the Council of State

unanimously selected Milton to answer it; and he, in obedience to this

call, prepared and published his Defense of the People of England, a

work of great worth and power, and which was written at intervals,

during the moments snatched from his official duties, when he was

weakened and infirm. This book was read everywhere. Europe rang with it,

and wonder at its force filled all minds.

By some it has been said that the Council presented him with £1000 as a

reward, which was no mean sum in those days of specie circulation. But

empty thanks were all that he received. Neither this nor any other of

his writings ever obtained one cent for him from the public purse, as he

asserts in his Second Defense. While Milton was thus receiving

attentions from all quarters, it was much otherwise with his arrogant

opponent; for he suffered not only by the severity of Milton’s reply,

but was slighted and treated ill by Christiana, Queen of Sweden, who had

invited him to her court, among other learned men. Upon the reading of

Milton’s “Defense,” she was so delighted therewith, that her opinion of

Salmasius changed, and she became indifferent to him, which he

perceiving, left her court, and retired to Spa, in Germany, where he

shortly after died of chagrin.

Milton had been for many years suffering from a weakness in his eyes,

arising out of his severe application to his studies. Year after year

his sight became more and more dim, until his physicians warned him that

unless he ceased his continual toil, he would become totally blind. This

for a while he heeded; but the urgent call made upon him in the

production of this answer to Salmasius, led him again to

over-application, and he became wholly blind. Notwithstanding his

blindness, he still continued the discharge of his official duties, and

employed his leisure moments in the production of various other

political tracts, in answer to the many abusive works issued by the

royalists.

On the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the taking place of the

difficulties that followed, he wrote a “Letter to a Statesman,”

[supposed to be General Monk,] in which he gave a brief delineation of a

“free Commonwealth, easy to be put in practice, and without delay.”

Finding affairs were growing worse and worse, the people more and more

unsettled, and that a king was likely to be reëstablished, and the

Commonwealth subverted, he wrote and published his “Ready and Easy Way

to Establish a Free Commonwealth, and the Excellence thereof, Compared

with the Inconveniences and Dangers of admitting Kingship in this

Nation.” This short paper was published in 1659-60, and even after this

he published his “Notes on a late Sermon entitled the Fear of God and

the King, preached at Mercer’s Chapel, on March 25th, 1660, by Dr.

Matthew Griffith,” the very year, and within a month of the Restoration;

so that his voice was the last to bear witness against the overthrow of

liberty and the restoration of tyranny.

Upon the return of Charles, he fled, and lay concealed, during which

time his books, the Eikonoklastes and “Defense of the People of

England,” were burned by the common hangman! An indictment was found

against him, and a warrant for his arrest placed in the hands of the

sergeant-at-arms. The act of indemnity was passed, and he received the

benefit of it, and came forth from his concealment, but was arrested,

and shortly after, by order of the House of Commons, discharged, upon

his paying the fees to the sergeant-at-arms, who had endeavored to exact

them from him, which he resisted, and appealed to the House. And thus,

although a prisoner, he still displayed a determination and resolution

to oppose that oppression in his own person, against which he had so

stoutly battled for the whole people.

He now retired from public life forever; and when an offer was afterward

made to him by the king, to return to his old post of secretary, he

refused it, although pressed by his wife to accept it, and to her

entreaties answered thus: “Thou art in the right; you and other women

would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honest

man.”

This offer has been denied by Doctor Johnson, in his life of Milton, and

that, too, without sufficient foundation, for the contradiction is made

without proof; and when Dr. Newton, in his admirable account of Milton,

published in his splendid edition of the Poetical Works of Milton,

confirms it, and asserts that these very words were from Milton’s wife

only twenty years before the publication of his edition. The Doctor has

in this, as in other instances, displayed a malicious desire to detract

from his merits; his envy no doubt being excited by this unbending

integrity of one, whose political opinions were serious enough in the

Doctor’s eyes to affect even his merits as a poet. For this, as for

other offenses, has he received again and again that censure which he so

richly deserved; but from no one with more force than from Mr. St. John,

in his able Preliminary Discourse to these volumes. We quote a passage.

“Another sore point with Johnson was, that Milton should be said to have

rejected, after the Restoration, the place of Latin Secretary to Charles

the Second. Few men heartily believe in the existence of virtue above

their own reach. He knew what he would have done under similar

circumstances; he knew that had he lived during the period of the

Commonwealth, a similar offer from the Regicides would have met with no

‘sturdy refusal’ from him; he knew it was in his eyes no sin to accept

of a pension from one whom he considered an usurper; how, then, could he

believe, what must have humiliated him in his own esteem, that the old

blind republican, bending beneath the weight of years and indigence,

still cherished heroic virtues in his soul, and spurned the offer of a

tyrant! Oh, but he had filled the same office under Oliver Cromwell!

“Milton regarded ‘Old Noll’ as a greater and better ‘Sylla,’ to whom, in

the motto to his work against the restoration of kingship, he compares

him, and evidently hoped to the last, what was always, perhaps, intended

by the Protector, and understood between them, that as soon as the

troubles of the times should be properly appeased, he would establish

the Republic. In this Milton consented to serve with him, not to serve

him; for Cromwell always professed to be the servant of the people. And

after all, there was some difference between Cromwell and Charles the

Second. With the former the author of Paradise Lost had something in

common; they were both great men, they were both enemies to that remnant

of feudal barbarism, which, supported by prejudice and ignorance, had

for ages exerted so fatal an influence over the destinies of their

country. Minds of such an order—in some things, though not in all,

resembling—might naturally enough coöperate; for they could respect

each other. But with what sense of decorum, or reverence for his own

character, remembering the glorious cause for which he had struggled,

could Milton have reconciled his conscience to taking office under the

returned Stuart, to mingle daily with the crowd of atheists who

blasphemed the Almighty, and with swinish vices debased his Image in the

polluted chambers of Whitehall. The poet regarded them with contemptuous

abhorrence; and, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, described them under

the names of devils, in the court of their patron and inspirer below.

Besides, even had they possessed the few virtues compatible with

servitude, it would have been a matter of constant chagrin, of taunt and

reviling on one side, and silent hatred on the other, to have brought

together republican and slave in the same bureau, and to have compelled

a democratic pen to mould correct phrases for a despicable master. So

far, however, was the biographer from comprehending the character of the

man whose life he undertook to write, that he seems to have thought it

an imputation on him, and a circumstance for which it is necessary to

pity his lot, that the dissolute nobles of the age seldom resorted to

his humble dwelling! The sentiment is worthy of Salmasius. But was there

then living a man who would not have been honored by passing under the

shadow of that roof? by listening to the accents of those inspired lips?

by being greeted and remembered by him whose slightest commendation was

immortality? Elijah, or Elisha, or Moses, or David, or Paul of Tarsus,

would have sat down with Milton and found in him a kindred spirit. But

the slave of Lady Castlemain, or the traitor Monk, or Rochester, or the

husband of Miss Hyde, or that Lord Chesterfield, who saw what Hamilton

describes, and dared not with his sword revenge the insult, might

forsooth have thought it a piece of condescension to be seen in the

Delphic Cavern in England, whence proceeded those sacred verses which in

literature have raised her above all other nations, to the level of

Greece herself!”

Upon his release from arrest he retired to the obscurity and solitude of

his own dwelling, where he passed his time in the composition of his

Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. During this time

he also produced a History of Britain, with several other prose works.

In 1674 he expired, worn out with illness and a life of toil; he died

without a groan, and so gentle and placid was his departure, that they

who were round him did not perceive it.

Although all of his political writings were called forth by the events

that were passing before him, and were for that reason local in their

immediate application, yet they are so catholic and elemental in their

spirit, that we can hardly believe that they were written in an age when

feudal tenures were not abolished, and before any people had as yet

secured their own freedom.

His Areopagitica was his first political work; and although it was

written for a special purpose, and with a view to a then existing evil,

it is still a pamphlet that might very well be published at this day, as

the declaration of our opinions upon this subject of the liberty of the

press.

The very motto of the book, taken from Euripides, and translated by

himself, indicates the whole spirit and intent of it.

“This is true liberty when freeborn men,

Having to advise the public, may speak free,

Which he who can, and will, deserves high praise,

Who neither can, or will, may hold his peace;

What can be juster in a state than this?”

After discussing the real merits of the question then before him, he

departs altogether from that topic; and as he always did, generously

claimed the same right for mankind, that he had sought for Englishmen.

And then it is he utters this fine sentence, which shows a noble

enthusiasm in his cause, and a firm belief in its justice. “Give me the

liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience

above _all liberties_!”

After this work he wrote his “Tenure of Kings.” The design of this

pamphlet has been already explained. We may judge of its liberal

character by these few passages. At first he alludes to the treasonable

desertion of principles by those, who were then turbulent for the king’s

release, and who had mainly helped to provoke and carry on the war.

Afterward he declares this general principle; “No man, who knows aught,

can be so stupid as to deny that all men naturally _were born free_,

being the image and resemblance of God himself.” And after this

proclamation of that essential truth, he proceeds to analyze the history

of society, and shows by reason, scriptural authority, general history,

and the universal opinions of mankind, that all government proceeds from

the people, is created by them for their comfort and good, and is

subject to their control, whether it be patriarchal, despotic, or

aristocratic; and that no king or potentate holds by any other authority

than the consent of the people; which being withdrawn his rule ceases,

and for his crimes his life may be forfeited—declaring that this must

be so, “unless the people must be thought created all for him singly,

which were a kind of treason against the dignity of mankind to affirm.”

And after all this he shows his charity for his fellow men, wherever

they may be, by saying, “Who knows not that there is a mutual bond of

amity and brotherhood between man and man all over the world; neither is

it the English sea that can sever us from that duty and relation.” It is

this sentiment, and such like this, that demands of us our admiration

and regard for this purest of men.

In the same manner does he fight the same fight in his Eikonoklastes,

and “Defense of the English People,” fearlessly breaking new ground in

behalf of the “Rights of Man,” as if he considered it to be his greatest

glory to be the champion of his race, while he was defending his

countrymen.

In the Eikonoklastes, after refuting the many lies uttered by the king’s

lip-workers, he says, “It is my determination that through me the truth

shall be spoken, and not smothered, but sent abroad in her native

confidence of her single self, to earn how she can her entertainment in

the world, and to find out her own readers.” Hearken then again to his

words, which now, near two hundred years after they were published, come

like a solemn and prophetic voice from out the writings of the old,

blind republican.

“Men are born and created with a better title to their freedom, than any

king hath to his crown. And liberty of person and right of

self-preservation is much nearer, and more natural, and more worth to

all men than the property of their goods and wealth.”

This is _our_ truth, the corner-stone of our faith. Here we stand, and

alone of nations have made this our practice, and thereby given a

healthful example to all men. These things he believed, and, for the

first time for ages, did he announce to the world those truths which

were to unsettle tyranny and open the way to universal freedom.

When the king was about to return, he published “The Mode of

Establishing a Free Commonwealth.” This was the last blast blown to

rouse the people from their lethargy. With a prophetic energy did he

predict the ills that would fall upon the nation, should the king again

be established. How sadly have his words been realized in the gilded

misery that now surrounds his country, where starving millions toil like

beasts of the field to fatten a licentious and debased aristocracy!

In this book he told the people that “no government was nearer the

precepts of Christ than a free Commonwealth, wherein they who are the

greatest are perpetual servants to the public, and yet are not elevated

above their brethren, live soberly in their families, walk the streets

as other men, may be spoken to freely, familiarly, friendly, without

adoration.” After extolling the excellent beauty of freedom, and

exhorting them to stand by their rights, he thus concludes, with these

passages so full of grand and pathetic eloquence.

“I have no more to say at present; few words will save us, well

considered; few and easy things, now seasonably done. But if the people

be so affected as to prostitute religion and liberty to the vain and

groundless apprehension, that nothing but Kingship can restore trade,

not remembering the frequent plagues and pestilences that then wasted

this city, such as through God’s mercy we never have felt since; and

that trade flourishes nowhere more than in the free Commonwealths of

Italy, Germany, and the Low Countries, before their eyes at this day;

yet if trade be grown so craving and importunate, through the _profuse

living of tradesmen_, that nothing can support it but the luxurious

expenses of a nation upon trifles or superfluities, so as if the people

generally should betake themselves to frugality, it might prove a

dangerous matter, lest tradesmen should mutiny for want of trading; and

that therefore we must forego, and set to sale religion, liberty, honor,

safety, all concernments, divine or human, to keep up trading. What I

have spoken is the language of that which is not called amiss, “The Good

Old Cause;” it seem strange to any, it will not seem more strange, I

hope, than convincing to back-sliders. Thus much I should perhaps have

said, though I was sure I should have spoken only to trees and stones,

and had none to cry to, but with the prophet, ‘O Earth, Earth, Earth!’

to tell the very soil itself what her perverse inhabitants are deaf to;

nay, though what I have spoke should happen, [which Thou suffer not, who

didst create mankind free! nor Thou next who didst redeem us from being

the servants of men!] to be the last words of our expiring liberty.”

The political works of this great man have been diligently suppressed,

and his political fame traduced; while they, who could not deny him

merit, have been busy before the world in lauding him as a poet,

thinking thus to lead men off from a knowledge of that wherein consisted

his true greatness. We question much whether the dullest mind could read

these books now, without being roused and filled with enthusiasm for

this apostle of liberty, and for his cause.

In them he nobly vindicates the people and their rights. “The Good Old

Cause,” as he calls it, warms him up, and he writes with an exulting

energy that would make your blood gush with delight. His opinions were

not the distempered thoughts of a factionist. He never allowed his

feelings to be warped by a selfish regard for party advancement. He knew

no party, but generously devoted his whole soul to the cause of his

country, and in defense of the rights of mankind. In his old age his

greatest glory was, that he had always written and spoken openly in

defense of liberty and against slavery.

The truths which he wrote in his matured years, as applying to the

condition of his unfortunate country, were but repetitions of the faith

of his youth, as he had powerfully expressed it in his Comus.

“Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature,

As if she would her children should be riotous

With her abundance; she, good cateress,

Means her provision only to the good,

That live according to her sober laws,

And holy dictates of spare temperance:

If every just man, that now pines with want,

Had but a moderate and beseeming share

Of that which lewdly pampered luxury

Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,

Nature’s full blessings would be well dispens’d,

In unsuperfluous even proportion,

And she no whit encumbered with her store:

And then the giver would be better thanked,

His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony

Ne’er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast

But with besotted, base ingratitude,

Crams and blasphemes his feeder.”

Even now, while we conclude these few pages our pen falters, and we feel

disposed to abandon the task. His magnificence overpowers us. How can we

point out the excellence of that which commands the admiration of all

men, and is beyond the loftiest praise of the most eloquent? Again and

again have we turned over the leaves of this work, with the intention of

selecting passages worthy of comment and regard, and so thickly have

they flowed in upon us, that page after page has been exhausted, and we

had not finished. How idle, then, to select from these masterpieces of

eloquence and storehouses of truth! How vain to dwell upon his merits,

when every line of his splendid composition tells of his measureless

learning and infinite purity of thought. His style, at once grand and

simple, is happily suited to convey conviction to the mind, and inspire

the soul with fervid energy.

While his works are filled with noble conceptions, clothed in language

of corresponding state and grandeur, we nowhere find any attempt at fine

rhetoric for mere empty display. The whole subject sweeps on with solemn

magnificence, but with no idle pomp. From the depths of his soul did he

speak, and his words were as fire, scorching to his enemies, and

life-giving and cheering to those who love “truth and wisdom, not

respecting numbers and big names.”

The most inspiring view that can be taken of the soul of these writings

is, that they are, even at this day, far in advance of the social

condition that exists in this land of liberal and enlightened principles

of government. The precepts by which he would wish us to be guided, are

the pure and humane doctrines of the Savior of man. He did not fight

only for the liberties of _Englishmen_, contending for _English_ rights,

citing the charters of _English_ liberty—no, not he—all mankind were

alike to him, and for _man_ alone he spake. No such Hebrew spirit

animated his noble soul.

He proclaimed the rights of man, as man, and asserted his rights,

natural and social, without ever launching out into Utopian speculations

and visionary conceptions, the practical utility of which no one can

affirm, and the application of which would have worked out ills

innumerable, rooting up and overthrowing ten thousand times ten thousand

social rights, that had grown up with the state itself. He asserted

abstractions; but with an intimate knowledge of men and their affairs,

he steadily avoided violating those relative rights, to suddenly

encroach on which would have been even as great a despotism as the

rugged foot of feudal barbarity, with which his country had been

oppressed.

From the generous and life-giving precepts of the Gospel did he draw his

faith. He there learned charity for the misdoings of men, as well as

belief in their power to resist evil and attain truth. He there learned

love for mankind, as he imbibed a stern, unyielding hate for tyranny and

hypocrisy.

No timid navigator, skirting along the shores and headlands, but a bold,

adventurous spirit, he pushed forth upon a wild, tempestuous sea of

troubles, with murky night of ignorance and superstition surrounding

him. The “Telemachus” of Fénelon, might have been the “first dim promise

of a great deliverance, the undeveloped germ of the charter of the

code,” for the whole French people. But in these writings of Milton, we

have a _full_ and manly assertion of those rights and duties which all

men owe one to the other, and all to society, and which are far, far

beyond the simple truths conveyed in that beautiful and easy fiction.

Well might the French monarch have “the Defense” burned by the common

hangman! Well might he for whom “a million peasants starved to build

Versailles,” look down with horror and fear upon that work, for in it

were truths which have roused up men to assert their rights. It was the

vindication of a noble people, who had trampled under their feet the

yoke that oppressed them, and had brought to punishment the tyrant who

reigned over them. These works and the events that produced them have an

interest to us. Englishmen may slight them, but we look on them with

exultation—they are associated with our own history—they are connected

with our own family legends—and as they record the mighty struggle of

the mighty with the powers and principalities of this earth, they should

be reverenced and held sacred by us; they should be our household

companions, as they were of those men whose blood now warms the hearts

of an empire of freemen, who boast their lineage from a prouder source

than kings—the Puritans of New England. The men of that Revolution have

never been fully understood. He who would wish to know the justice of

their cause, let him read Milton, and let him read the real documents of

the times. They have been abused and misrepresented by most historians.

Mr. Bancroft, in his History of his Country, has comprehended these

martyrs in the cause of democratic rights, and dared to tell the truth

concerning them. They and theirs were the settlers of this country. From

them came the mighty forest of sturdy oaks, which in years after were to

breast the storm of royal oppression and wrath, in this their refuge;

and from which tempest we—WE THE PEOPLE, came out gloriously

triumphant!

Think not ill of them. Tread lightly upon their memories as you would

upon their ashes. They who perished upon the scaffold—they who found a

home here—they who died upon the field in England, or worn out with

anxiety and public care, sank to rest forever in their homes—they who,

like Cromwell, fought in the field and ruled in the council—and they

who, like Milton, have proclaimed from the study that “_man is free_,”

have earned names that time will brighten, and have stood by truths that

will secure the affections of a world hereafter.

-----

[5] Select Prose Works of Milton, with a Preliminary Discourse and

Notes. By J. A. St. John. London: J. Hatchard & Son. 2 vols.

* * * * *

“BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.”

BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

It was a summer morning. Soft the flame

Of the early sunlight up the zenith came,

Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue

The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue,

Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near,

From farm to farm the call of chanticleer

Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long,

The robin red-breast trilled his matin song,

Hid in the high old maple, while around

From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound

The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee

Was out among the blossoms, in his glee

To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully

The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree

That drooped above the rivulet, or crept

Amid the branches of the elm that swept

A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine,

Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine,

Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild

Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled

Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place,

And like the sunny calm of some sweet face,

You would have thought in gazing on its rest,

That earth’s frail children _sometimes_ can be blest.

And yet misfortune found it;—see the group

Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop

Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves

Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves,

As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony

Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye,

He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud,

And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud

Of dread and misery. The young wife leans

By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes

Her heart is busy, for beside her stands

A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands

Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade

Her baby brother on the greensward played.

The little maiden mused, a choking swell

Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell

All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes

(Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise)

Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair,

Her clear voice melted on the morning air;—

“We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why?

Do not the birds and blossoms love us here?

Has any other home a clearer sky,

With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear,

Shall we not sigh _there_ for this old elm shade,

Where you and I and brother oft have played?

“We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell,

Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim,

Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell

Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn?

Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed,

Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?”

The haughty bosom of the strong man shook

With an internal tempest, and he took

Her tiny hand within his own; his pride

Was bending, and he earnestly replied:

“Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long,

And strange to fall upon _thy_ heart, my child;

’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong,

And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild,

To make me doubt the path my fathers trod,

And that the poor man had indeed a God!

“But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride,

Dost thou remember when thy violet eye

Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried,

It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why

Am I myself its serpent and its bane,

To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain?

“Oh! could I only bear this all alone,

The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer—

All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan

My soul would utter audibly, but here

My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life,

_They_ suffer also, child, and babe, and wife.

“We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go,

From friends, from kindred, and our native land—

My God! if _I_ have merited such wo,

Have _these_ deserved it at thy mercy’s hand?

Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan,

Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.”

He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed

With misery, and instantly the proud

Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow

Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low:

“Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us—

Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee,

Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus

Is worse than all life’s agony to me.

Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we,

E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee.

“They cannot separate our souls from thine,

They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam,

Or place aught else within the sacred shrine,

Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come,

Give me mine only _home_ within thy heart—

_I’ll bear it with me_—let us hence depart.”

It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades

Are falling through the forest everglades,

The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will

Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill,

A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines

Steals up valley, and the love-star shines,

All brightly in “Glenoran.”

Since the morn

Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn

With unavailing sorrow, now the “right”

To have a home was granted, and delight

Was blended into orisons. That line

Whose fiat echoes back a law divine,

Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw

Her loved ones singing, “_Bless the Homestead Law!_”

* * * * *

THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER.

BY H. DIDIMUS.

This man came to Louisiana many years since, a silver-smith by trade,

poor, and largely in debt. He was born in New York, and in that city

worked industriously at the business to which he had been apprenticed,

until a competency rewarded his labors, and wealth, which he had before

little thought of, was brought near enough to his door to be both seen

and desired. The hammer, the soldering-iron, and the file were now

thrown aside, as instruments of a slow getting; and the head was taxed

with schemes for the acquisition of sudden and great gains. At the close

of two years he was a bankrupt. But he was not a man of half-measures;

true courage he had enough of; and honesty has never been denied him;

so, he called his creditors together, laid before them a statement of

his affairs, surrendered all that he had, gave his notes for eighty

thousand dollars, and departed, with nerves unshaken, and a will

indomitable, in search of a new land and a new fortune.

When the ambition of wealth drew him from his work-shop, he carefully

laid aside the tools of his trade in a stout oaken box, to be kept as

mementoes of former labor; they were now all that remained to him, the

only gift which he had asked, and would receive of creditors who were

disposed to be generous. With them, at thirty-five years of age, he bid

the North good-bye, went on shipboard, entered before the mast, in

payment of a passage to New Orleans, and on his arrival there, at once

hired himself into the service of a silver-smith, who has since ranked

with the wealthiest of its citizens, and who has since met with ruin

more disastrous than that which brought the best of his journeymen to

his door.

John Cornelius, when you first scented the Mississippi marshes, and

stepped from ship to shore with a debt of eighty thousand dollars upon

your back, John Gravier had not wholly parted with that domain, which

now forms the noblest portion of the second municipality. To one with a

soul in his body, bent on money-getting, the track clear, the goal in

view, to be won with effort, eighty thousand dollars of debt is like

weight to the race-horse—it is not best to run too light at the start.

Your eye saw what John Gravier did not. You read the page written by the

hand of God, legibly enough—the Mississippi with all its tributaries,

rolling through lands of an unequalled fertility, and of every variety

of clime, and you had faith. God’s promises are certain. With the return

of spring comes the flower, and with the breath of autumn comes the

fruit; with the twinkling star comes rest, and with the rise of day

comes light and labor; every mountain, every hill and valley, every

plain and running-stream, river and ocean, speak of God’s promises, and

accomplish them. Read, and understand; this it is, which separates the

man gifted from the common herd, who are born to toil for the benefit of

the few.

John Cornelius read God’s promises in the Mississippi, and went heartily

to work. With him, there was no folding of the hands, no waiting on

Providence; for he knew that the fable of Hercules and the wagoner was

as instructive under a Christian, as under a pagan dispensation; so he

girded up his loins, made sharp his sickle, and entered upon the harvest

which was already ripe for the reaper. Economy is the handmaid of

wealth, and penuriousness is economy’s own daughter. John Cornelius took

them both to his bosom, and for ten long years he lived upon one meal a

day, and that a cold one. The larger portion of his monthly wages he

hoarded up, and when the accumulations had become sufficient,

remembering the promises of the Mississippi, he bought a lot of ground

within the precincts of John Gravier’s plantation; hoarded again, put a

small wooden tenement upon the lot, rented, and was a landlord. Thus he

went on, working, hoarding, with economy and penuriousness his whole

household, penuriousness holding the upper hand; adding lot to lot,

tenement to tenement, and lease to lease, until at the close of ten

years, he found that God’s promises written upon the Mississippi, were

fulfilled and fulfilling; and he again laid aside the tools of his trade

in a stout, oaken box, there to rest, as they do rest to this hour. He

was rich; he had kept even pace with New Orleans, in its progress toward

greatness; but, with his wealth had grown up a habit, the habit of

penuriousness, which wealth only strengthened, as a child strengthens

its parent. Habit moulds the soul, and fashions it to its will; habit

makes the writer; habit makes the poet; of habit, are born the soldier,

the statesman, and the scholar; habit created the arts, and all science;

habit gives faith and religion, and fastens every vice upon us; and

habit made John Cornelius a miser.

SECTION II.

It was many years subsequent to the period at which Mr. Cornelius found

it for his interest to retire a second time from the work-shop, and to

devote himself exclusively to the management of his increasing

rent-roll, and frequent investments in real property, and when, with the

eighty thousand dollars of debt lifted from his shoulders, he stood

erect, mighty in wealth, that he one day entered my office, and tendered

me a counselor’s fee.

Mr. Cornelius and myself were strangers to each other. I had occupied

chambers in one of his houses for the past five years, but his collector

arranged with me the terms of my lease, and received the quarterly rent;

and as my landlord was faithful to his own interests, and as I was

equally faithful to mine, no incident had transpired, growing out of our

relations, to bring us together.

“I have for some time been a tenant of yours, Mr. Cornelius,” said I,

handing the gentleman a chair; “and I suppose that I may attribute this

visit to a worthy desire on your part to become acquainted with one who,

thus far, has exhibited no sign of an intention to quit.”

“I am too old a man to wish for new acquaintances, Mr. Didimus; and had

you referred my call to a knowledge of your reputation for attention to

business, and a want of your professional services, you would have come

much nearer the truth.”

I thanked him, both for the compliment and his confidence; and requested

a statement of his case.

“Time is money,” said Mr. Cornelius; “and a few words shall not long

detain either of us. In October last, a Mr. Andrews died; my debtor to

the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars. The debt is secured by

mortgage upon his house; but his widow comes in for twice the sum, in

virtue of her paraphernal rights, and as her claim is older than mine,

it will sweep away all, unless I can show that the marriage was void in

law.”

“In what respect, Mr. Cornelius?”

“Andrews had a wife living at the time of his second marriage.”

“Had the second wife any knowledge of the fact before her cohabitation

with the deceased, or at any period thereafter, prior to the springing

of her claim, with the simultaneous mortgage which the law gives to

married women and minors as their best security?”

“Perhaps not.”

“How much does the second wife claim?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“What is the value of the succession?”

“The house may be worth twenty; and the house is all.”

“If you succeed, the widow is a beggar?”

“Yes.”

“Both law and justice are against you, Mr. Cornelius.”

“I am not here to learn what justice is, justice in the abstract, Mr.

Didimus; I might travel far and not find it. Positive justice, the

positive rules of the legislator, the justice of the law is that with

which we have to do. There is no natural right to property. Property is

a creature of the law. With one, it is just that the eldest born should

take all; and with another, it is just that the succession should be

equally divided between sons and daughters. Here, the youngest claims

the largest portion; and there, the female is preferred to the male.

Positive rules, the wisdom of many wise men, of many generations, do,

with every people, both make and unmake the right and the wrong. The law

is justice, and I ask what the law awards me. If the law gives to the

wife a tacit mortgage to secure her paraphernal rights, the law also

gives to me a judgment mortgage to recover my rights of contract. She

must show a valid marriage; I must show registration. We stand upon the

same platform; and if I prevail, it is because the law is with me. No

injustice is done, Mr. Didimus. The widow cannot have what is not here;

thank God, no injustice is done.” And the rich man, as he closed his

defense, stretched out his hands clutchingly toward me, as if to take

possession of the large sum of money which seemed passing beyond his

grasp.

“Supposing all that you have advanced to be true, Mr. Cornelius; yet, as

the widow in the case under consideration, married and cohabited with

her late husband in entire ignorance of the fraud which had been

practiced upon her, the law, both in letter and spirit protects her; and

I must respectfully decline any further action in the matter.”

Mr. Cornelius bid me good morning.