CHAPTER II.

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. XV.--AUGUST, 1851.--VOL. III.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 289

THE SOMNAMBULE. 304

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S. MORE. 310

REMINISCENCES OF AN ATTORNEY. 314

VILLAGE LIFE IN GERMANY. 320

A PEEP AT THE "PERAHARRA." 322

A TOBACCO FACTORY IN SPAIN. 326

INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS. 327

RACE HORSES AND HORSE RACES. 329

HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 334

THE ORIENTAL SALOONS IN MADRID. 335

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 337

THE FEET-WASHING ON GOOD FRIDAY IN MUNICH. 349

A PEDESTRIAN IN HOLLAND. 351

THE LAST PRIESTESS OF PELE. 354

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT. 359

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE. 360

FRENCH COTTAGE COOKERY. 369

STUDENT LIFE IN PARIS. 373

A FAQUIR'S CURSE. 375

LOVE AND SMUGGLING.--A STORY OF THE ENGLISH COAST. 378

AMERICAN NOTABILITIES. 384

THE HUNTER'S WIFE. 388

THE WARNINGS OF THE PAST. 391

THE PIE SHOPS OF LONDON. 392

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. 394

Monthly Record of Current Events. 411

Literary Notices. 419

Editor's Drawer. 420

WOMAN'S EMANCIPATION. 424

Three Leaves from Punch. 425

FASHIONS FOR AUGUST. 431

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT

I. CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.

The island of Corsica, sublimely picturesque with its wild ravines and

rugged mountains, emerges from the bosom of the Mediterranean Sea, about

one hundred miles from the coast of France. It was formerly a province

of Italy, and was Italian in its language, sympathies, and customs. In

the year 1767 it was invaded by a French army, and after several most

sanguinary conflicts, the inhabitants were compelled to yield to

superior power, and Corsica was annexed to the empire of the Bourbons.

At the time of this invasion there was a young lawyer, of Italian

extraction, residing upon the island, whose name was Charles Bonaparte.

He was endowed with commanding beauty of person, great vigor of mind,

and his remote lineage was illustrious, but the opulence of the noble

house had passed away, and the descendant of a family, whose line could

be traced far back into the twilight of the dark ages, was under the

fortunate necessity of being dependent for his support upon the energies

of his own mind. He had married Letitia Raniolini, one of the most

beautiful and accomplished of the young ladies of Corsica. Of thirteen

children born to them eight survived to attain maturity. As a successful

lawyer the father of this large family was able to provide them with an

ample competence. His illustrious descent gave him an elevated position

in society, and the energies of his mind, ever in vigorous action,

invested him with powerful influence.

The family occupied a town house, an ample stone mansion, in Ajaccio,

the principal city of the island. They also enjoyed a very delightful

country retreat near the sea-shore, a few miles from Ajaccio. This rural

home was the favorite resort of the children during the heats of summer.

When the French invaded Corsica, Charles Bonaparte, then quite a young

man, having been married but a few years, abandoned the peaceful

profession of the law, and grasping his sword, united with his

countrymen, under the banner of General Paoli, to resist the invaders.

His wife, Letitia, had then but one child, Joseph. She was expecting

soon to give birth to another. Civil war was desolating the little

island. Paoli and his band of patriots, defeated again and again, were

retreating before their victorious foes into the fastnesses of the

mountains. Letitia followed the fortunes of her husband, and,

notwithstanding the embarrassment of her condition, accompanied him on

horseback in these perilous and fatiguing expeditions. The conflict,

however, was short, and, by the energies of the sword, Corsica became a

province of France, and the Italians who inhabited the island became the

unwilling subjects of the Bourbon throne. On the 15th of August, 1769,

in anticipation of her confinement, Letitia had taken refuge in her town

house at Ajaccio. On the morning of that day she attended church, but,

during the service, admonished by approaching pains, she was obliged

suddenly to return home, and throwing herself upon a couch, covered with

an ancient piece of tapestry, upon which was embroidered the battles and

the heroes of the Illiad, she gave birth to her second son, Napoleon

Bonaparte. Had the young Napoleon seen the light two months earlier he

would have been by birth an Italian, not a Frenchman, for but eight

weeks had then elapsed since the island had been transferred to the

dominion of France.

The father of Napoleon died not many years after the birth of that child

whose subsequent renown has filled the world. He is said to have

appreciated the remarkable powers of his son, and, in the delirium which

preceded his death, he was calling upon Napoleon to help him. Madame

Bonaparte, by this event, was left a widow with eight children, Joseph,

Napoleon, Lucien, Jerome, Eliza, Pauline, and Caroline. Her means were

limited, but her mental endowments were commensurate with the weighty

responsibilities which devolved upon her. Her children all appreciated

the superiority of her character, and yielded, with perfect and

unquestioning submission, to her authority. Napoleon in particular ever

regarded his mother with the most profound respect and affection. He

repeatedly declared that the family were entirely indebted to her for

that physical, intellectual, and moral training, which prepared them to

ascend the lofty summits of power to which they finally attained. He was

so deeply impressed with the sense of these obligations that he often

said, "My opinion is that the future good or bad conduct of a child,

depends entirely upon its mother." One of his first acts, on attaining

power, was to surround his mother with every luxury which wealth could

furnish. And when placed at the head of the government of France, he

immediately and energetically established schools for female education,

remarking that France needed nothing so much to promote its regeneration

as good mothers.

Madame Bonaparte after the death of her husband, resided with her

children in their country house. It was a retired residence, approached

by an avenue overarched by lofty trees and bordered by flowering shrubs.

A smooth, sunny lawn, which extended in front of the house, lured these

children, so unconscious of the high destinies which awaited them, to

their infantile sports. They chased the butterfly; they played in the

little pools of water with their naked feet; in childish gambols they

rode upon the back of the faithful dog, as happy as if their brows were

never to ache beneath the burden of a crown. How mysterious the designs

of that inscrutable Providence, which, in the island of Corsica, under

the sunny skies of the Mediterranean, was thus rearing a Napoleon, and

far away, beneath the burning sun of the tropics, under the shade of the

cocoa groves and orange-trees of the West Indies, was moulding the

person and ennobling the affections of the beautiful and lovely

Josephine. It was by a guidance, which neither of these children sought,

that they were conducted from their widely separated and obscure homes

to the metropolis of France. There, by their united energies, which had

been fostered in solitary studies and deepest musings they won for

themselves the proudest throne upon which the sun has ever risen; a

throne which in power and splendor eclipsed all that had been told of

Roman, or Persian, or Egyptian greatness.

[Illustration: THE BIRTH-HOUSE OF NAPOLEON.]

The dilapidated villa in Corsica, where Napoleon passed his infantile

years, still exists, and the thoughtful tourist loses himself in pensive

reverie as he wanders over the lawn where those children have played--as

he passes through the vegetable garden in the rear of the house, which

enticed them to toil with their tiny hoes and spades, and as he

struggles through the wilderness of shrubbery, now running to wild

waste, in the midst of which once could have been heard the merry shouts

of these infantile kings and queens. Their voices are now hushed in

death. But the records of earth can not show a more eventful drama than

that enacted by these young Bonapartes between the cradle and the grave.

There is, in a sequestered and romantic spot upon the ground, an

isolated granite rock, of wild and rugged form, in the fissures of which

there is something resembling a cave, which still retains the name of

"Napoleon's Grotto." This solitary rock was the favorite resort of the

pensive and meditative child, even in his earliest years. When his

brothers and sisters were in most happy companionship in the garden, or

on the lawn, and the air resounded with their mirthful voices, Napoleon

would steal away alone to his loved retreat. There, in the long and

sunny afternoons, with a book in his hand, he would repose, in a

recumbent posture, for hours, gazing upon the broad expanse of the

Mediterranean, spread out before him, and upon the blue sky, which

overarched his head. Who can imagine the visions which in those hours

arose before the expanding energies of that wonderful mind?

Napoleon could not be called an amiable child. He was silent and

retiring in his disposition, melancholy and irritable in his

temperament, and impatient of restraint. He was not fond of

companionship nor of play. He had no natural joyousness or buoyancy of

spirit, no frankness of disposition. His brothers and sisters were not

fond of him, though they admitted his superiority. "Joseph," said an

uncle at that time, "is the eldest of the family, but Napoleon is its

head." His passionate energy and decision of character were such that

his brother Joseph, who was a mild, amiable, and unassuming boy, was

quite in subjection to his will. It was observed that his proud spirit

was unrelenting under any severity of punishment. With stoical firmness,

and without the shedding of a tear, he would endure any inflictions. At

one time he was unjustly accused of a fault which another had committed.

He silently endured the punishment and submitted to the disgrace, and to

the subsistence for three days on the coarsest fare, rather than betray

his companion; and he did this, not from any special friendship for the

one in the wrong, but from an innate pride and firmness of spirit.

Impulsive in his disposition, his anger was easily and violently

aroused, and as rapidly passed away. There were no tendencies to cruelty

in his nature, and no malignant passion could long hold him in

subjection.

There is still preserved upon the island of Corsica, as an interesting

relic, a small brass cannon, weighing about thirty pounds, which was the

early and favorite plaything of Napoleon. Its loud report was music to

his childish ears. In imaginary battle he saw whole squadrons mown down

by the discharges of his formidable piece of artillery. Napoleon was the

favorite child of his father, and had often sat upon his knee; and, with

a throbbing heart, a heaving bosom, and a tearful eye, listened to his

recital of those bloody battles in which the patriots of Corsica had

been compelled to yield to the victorious French. Napoleon hated the

French. He fought those battles over again. He delighted, in fancy, to

sweep away the embattled host with his discharges of grape-shot; to see

the routed foe, flying over the plain, and to witness the dying and the

dead covering the ground. He left the bat and the ball, the kite and the

hoop for others, and in this strange divertisement found exhilarating

joy.

He loved to hear, from his mother's lips, the story of her hardships and

sufferings, as, with her husband and the vanquished Corsicans, she fled

from village to village, and from fastness to fastness before their

conquering enemies. The mother was probably but little aware of the

warlike spirit she was thus nurturing in the bosom of her son, but with

her own high mental endowments, she could not be insensible of the

extraordinary capacities which had been conferred upon the silent,

thoughtful, pensive listener. There were no mirthful tendencies in the

character of Napoleon; no tendencies in childhood, youth, or manhood to

frivolous amusements or fashionable dissipation. "My mother," said

Napoleon, at St. Helena, "loves me. She is capable of selling every

thing for me, even to her last article of clothing." This distinguished

lady died at Marseilles in the year 1822, about a year after the death

of her illustrious son upon the island of St. Helena. Seven of her

children were still living, to each of whom she bequeathed nearly two

millions of dollars; while to her brother, Cardinal Fesch, she left a

superb palace, embellished with the most magnificent decorations of

furniture, paintings, and sculpture which Europe could furnish. The son,

who had conferred all this wealth--to whom the family was indebted for

all this greatness, and who had filled the world with his renown, died a

prisoner in a dilapidated stable, upon the most bleak and barren isle of

the ocean. The dignified character of this exalted lady is illustrated

by the following anecdote: Soon after Napoleon's assumption of the

imperial purple, he happened to meet his mother in the gardens of St.

Cloud. The Emperor was surrounded with his courtiers, and half playfully

extended his hand for her to kiss. "Not so, my son," she gravely

replied, at the same time presenting her hand in return, "it is your

duty to kiss the hand of her who gave you life."

"Left without guide, without support," says Napoleon, "my mother was

obliged to take the direction of affairs upon herself. But the task was

not above her strength. She managed every thing, provided for every

thing with a prudence which could neither have been expected from her

sex nor from her age. Ah, what a woman! where shall we look for her

equal? She watched over us with a solicitude unexampled. Every low

sentiment, every ungenerous affection was discouraged and discarded. She

suffered nothing but that which was grand and elevated to take root in

our youthful understandings. She abhorred falsehood, and would not

tolerate the slightest act of disobedience. None of our faults were

overlooked. Losses, privations, fatigue had no effect upon her. She

endured all, braved all. She had the energy of a man, combined with the

gentleness and delicacy of a woman."

A bachelor uncle owned the rural retreat where the family resided. He

was very wealthy, but very parsimonious. The young Bonapartes, though

living in the abundant enjoyment of all the necessaries of life, could

obtain but little money for the purchase of those thousand little

conveniences and luxuries which every boy covets. Whenever they ventured

to ask their uncle for coppers, he invariably pleaded poverty, assuring

them that though he had lands and vineyards, goats and poultry, he had

no money. At last the boys discovered a bag of doubloons secreted upon a

shelf. They formed a conspiracy, and, by the aid of Pauline, who was too

young to understand the share which she had in the mischief, they

contrived, on a certain occasion, when the uncle was pleading poverty,

to draw down the bag, and the glittering gold rolled over the floor. The

boys burst into shouts of laughter, while the good old man was almost

choked with indignation. Just at that moment Madame Bonaparte came in.

Her presence immediately silenced the merriment. She severely

reprimanded her sons for their improper behavior, and ordered them to

collect again the scattered doubloons.

When the island of Corsica was surrendered to the French, Count

Marboeuf was appointed, by the Court at Paris, as its governor. The

beauty of Madame Bonaparte, and her rich intellectual endowments,

attracted his admiration, and they frequently met in the small but

aristocratic circle of society, which the island afforded. He became a

warm friend of the family, and manifested much interest in the welfare

of the little Napoleon. The gravity of the child, his air of pensive

thoughtfulness, the oracular style of his remarks, which characterized

even that early period of life, strongly attracted the attention of the

governor, and he predicted that Napoleon would create for himself a path

through life of more than ordinary splendor.

[Illustration: THE HOME OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD.]

When Napoleon was but five or six years of age, he was placed in a

school with a number of other children. There a fair-haired little

maiden won his youthful heart. It was Napoleon's first love. His

impetuous nature was all engrossed by this new passion, and he inspired

as ardent an affection in the bosom of his loved companion as that which

she had enkindled in his own. He walked to and from school, holding the

hand of Giacominetta. He abandoned all the plays and companionship of

the other children to talk and muse with her. The older boys and girls

made themselves very merry with the display of affection which the

loving couple exhibited. Their mirth, however, exerted not the slightest

influence to abash Napoleon, though often his anger would be so aroused

by their insulting ridicule, that, regardless of the number or the size

of his adversaries, with sticks, stones, and every other implement which

came in his way, he would rush into their midst and attack them with

such a recklessness of consequences, that they were generally put to

flight. Then, with the pride of a conqueror, he would take the hand of

his infantile friend. The little Napoleon was, at this period of his

life, very careless in his dress, and almost invariably appeared with

his stockings slipped down about his heels. Some witty boy formed a

couplet, which was often shouted upon the play-ground, not a little to

the annoyance of the young lover.

Napoleone di mezza calzetta

Fa l'amore a Giacominetta.

Napoleon with his stockings half off

Makes love to Giacominetta.

When Napoleon was about ten years of age, Count Marboeuf obtained for

him admission to the military school at Brienne, near Paris. Forty years

afterward Napoleon remarked that he never could forget the pangs which

he then felt, when parting from his mother. Stoic as he was, his

stoicism then forsook him, and he wept like any other child. His journey

led him through Italy, and crossing France, he entered Paris. Little did

the young Corsican then imagine as he gazed awe-stricken upon the

splendors of the metropolis, that all those thronged streets were yet to

resound with his name, and that in those gorgeous palaces the proudest

kings and queens of Europe were to bow obsequiously before his unrivaled

power. The ardent and studious boy was soon established in school. His

companions regarded him as a foreigner, as he spoke the Italian

language, and the French was to him almost an unknown tongue. He found

that his associates were composed mostly of the sons of the proud and

wealthy nobility of France. Their pockets were filled with money, and

they indulged in the most extravagant expenditures. The haughtiness with

which these worthless sons of imperious but debauched and enervated

sires, affected to look down upon the solitary and unfriended alien,

produced an impression upon his mind which was never effaced. The

revolutionary struggle, that long and lurid day of storms and desolation

was just beginning darkly to dawn; the portentous rumblings of that

approaching earthquake, which soon uphove both altar and throne, and

overthrew all of the most sacred institutions of France in chaotic ruin,

fell heavily upon the ear. The young noblemen at Brienne taunted

Napoleon with being the son of a Corsican lawyer; for in that day of

aristocratic domination the nobility regarded all with contempt who were

dependent upon any exertions of their own for support. They sneered at

the plainness of Napoleon's dress, and at the emptiness of his purse.

His proud spirit was stung to the quick by these indignities, and his

temper was roused by that disdain to which he was compelled to submit,

and from which he could find no refuge. Then it was that there was

implanted in his mind that hostility which he ever afterward so signally

manifested to rank founded not upon merit but upon the accident of

birth. He thus early espoused this prominent principle of republicanism:

"I hate those French," said he, in an hour of bitterness, "and I will do

them all the mischief in my power."

Thirty years after this Napoleon said, "Called to the throne by the

voice of the people, my maxim has always been, '_A career open to

talent_,' without distinction of birth."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AT BRIENNE.]

In consequence of this state of feeling, he secluded himself almost

entirely from his fellow-students, and buried himself in the midst of

his books and his maps. While they were wasting their time in

dissipation and in frivolous amusements, he consecrated his days and his

nights with untiring assiduity to study. He almost immediately elevated

himself above his companions, and, by his superiority, commanded their

respect. Soon he was regarded as the brightest ornament of the

institution, and Napoleon exulted in his conscious strength and his

undisputed exaltation. In all mathematical studies he became highly

distinguished. All books upon history, upon government, upon the

practical sciences he devoured with the utmost avidity. The poetry of

Homer and of Ossian he read and re-read with great delight. His mind

combined the poetical and the practical in most harmonious blending. In

a letter written to his mother at this time, he says, "With my sword by

my side, and Homer in my pocket, I hope to carve my way through the

world." Many of his companions regarded him as morose and moody, and

though they could not but respect him, they still disliked his recluse

habits and his refusal to participate in their amusements. He was seldom

seen upon the play-ground, but every leisure hour found him in the

library. The Lives of Plutarch he studied so thoroughly, and with such

profound admiration, that his whole soul became imbued with the spirit

of these illustrious men. All the thrilling scenes of Grecian and Roman

story, the rise and fall of empires, and deeds of heroic daring absorbed

his contemplation. Even at this early period of his life, and in all

subsequent years, he expressed utter contempt for those enervating tales

of fiction, with which so many of the readers of the present day are

squandering their time and enfeebling their energies. It may be doubted

whether he ever wasted an hour upon such worthless reading. When

afterward seated upon the throne of France, he would not allow a novel

to be brought into the palace; and has been known to take such a book

from the hands of a maid of honor, and after giving her a severe

reprimand to throw it into the fire. So great was his ardor for

intellectual improvement, that he considered every day as lost in which

he had not made perceptible progress in knowledge. By this rigid mental

discipline he acquired that wonderful power of concentration by which he

was ever enabled to simplify subjects the most difficult and

complicated.

He made no efforts to conciliate the good-will of his fellow-students;

and he was so stern in his morals and so unceremonious in his manners

that he was familiarly called the Spartan. At this time he was

distinguished by his Italian complexion, a piercing eagle eye, and by

that energy of conversational expression which, through life, gave such

an oracular import to all his utterances. His unremitting application to

study, probably impaired his growth, for his fine head was developed

disproportionately with his small stature. Though stubborn and

self-willed in his intercourse with his equals, he was a firm friend of

strict discipline, and gave his support to established authority. This

trait of character, added to his diligence and brilliant attainments,

made him a great favorite with the professors. There was, however, one

exception. Napoleon took no interest in the study of the German

language. The German teacher, consequently, entertained a very

contemptible opinion of the talents of his pupil. It chanced that upon

one occasion Napoleon was absent from the class. M. Bouer, upon

inquiring, ascertained that he was employed that hour in the class of

engineers. "Oh! he does learn something, then," said the teacher,

ironically. "Why, sir!" a pupil rejoined; "he is esteemed the very first

mathematician in the school." "Truly," the irritated German replied, "I

have always heard it remarked, and have uniformly believed, that any

fool, and none but a fool, could learn mathematics." Napoleon afterward

relating this anecdote, laughingly said, "It would be curious to

ascertain whether M. Bouer lived long enough to learn my real character,

and enjoy the fruits of his own judgment."

Each student at Brienne had a small portion of land allotted to him,

which he might cultivate, or not, as he pleased. Napoleon converted his

little field into a garden. To prevent intrusion, he surrounded it with

palisades, and planted it thickly with trees. In the centre of this, his

fortified camp, he constructed a pleasant bower, which became to him a

substitute for the beloved grotto he had left in Corsica. To this grotto

he was wont to repair to study and to meditate, where he was exposed to

no annoyances from his frivolous fellow-students. In those trumpet-toned

proclamations which subsequently so often electrified Europe, one can

see the influence of these hours of unremitting mental application.

At that time he had few thoughts of any glory but military glory. Young

men were taught that the only path to renown was to be found through

fields of blood. All the peaceful arts of life, which tend to embellish

the world with competence and refinement, were despised. He only was the

chivalric gentleman, whose career was marked by conflagrations and

smouldering ruins, by the despair of the maiden, the tears and woe of

widows and orphans, and by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying.

Such was the school in which Napoleon was trained. The writings of

Voltaire and Rousseau had taught France, that the religion of Jesus

Christ was but a fable; that the idea of accountability at the bar of

God was a foolish superstition; that death was a sleep from which there

was no awaking; that life itself, aimless and objectless, was so

worthless a thing that it was a matter of most trivial importance how

soon its vapor should pass away. These peculiarities in the education of

Napoleon must be taken into account in forming a correct estimate of his

character. It could hardly be said that he was educated in a Christian

land. France renounced Christianity and plunged into the blackest of

Pagan darkness, without any religion, and without a God. Though the

altars of religion were not, at this time, entirely swept away, they

were thoroughly undermined by that torrent of infidelity which, in

crested billows, was surging over the land. Napoleon had but little

regard for the lives of others and still less for his own. He never

commanded the meanest soldier to go where he was not willing to lead

him. Having never been taught any correct ideas of probation or

retribution, the question whether a few thousand illiterate peasants,

should eat, drink, and sleep for a few years more or less, was in his

view of little importance compared with those great measures of

political wisdom which should meliorate the condition of Europe for

ages. It is Christianity alone which stamps importance upon each

individual life, and which invests the apparent trivialities of time

with the sublimities of eternity. It is, indeed, strange that Napoleon,

graduating at the schools of infidelity and of war, should have

cherished so much of the spirit of humanity, and should have formed so

many just conceptions of right and wrong. It is, indeed, strange that

surrounded by so many allurements to entice him to voluptuous indulgence

and self-abandonment, he should have retained a character, so

immeasurably superior in all moral worth, to that of nearly all the

crowned heads who occupied the thrones around him.

The winter of 1784 was one of unusual severity. Large quantities of snow

fell, which so completely blocked up the walks, that the students at

Brienne could find but little amusement without doors. Napoleon

proposed, that to beguile the weary hours, they should erect an

extensive fortification of snow, with intrenchments and bastions,

parapets, ravelins, and horn-works. He had studied the science of

fortification with the utmost diligence, and, under his superintendence

the works were conceived and executed according to the strictest rules

of art. The power of his mind now displayed itself. No one thought of

questioning the authority of Napoleon. He planned and directed while a

hundred busy hands, with unquestioning alacrity, obeyed his will. The

works rapidly rose, and in such perfection of science, as to attract

crowds of the inhabitants of Brienne for their inspection. Napoleon

divided the school into two armies, one being intrusted with the defense

of the works, while the other composed the host of the besiegers. He

took upon himself the command of both bodies, now heading the besiegers

in the desperate assault, and now animating the besieged to an equally

vigorous defense. For several weeks this mimic warfare continued, during

which time many severe wounds were received on each side. In the heat of

the battle, when the bullets of snow were flying thick and fast, one of

the subordinate officers, venturing to disobey the commands of his

general, Napoleon felled him to the earth, inflicting a wound which left

a scar for life.

[Illustration: THE SNOW FORT.]

In justice to Napoleon it must be related that when he had attained the

highest pitch of grandeur, this unfortunate school-boy, who had thus

experienced the rigor of Napoleon's military discipline, sought to

obtain an audience with the Emperor. Calamities had darkened the path of

the unfortunate man, and he was in poverty and obscurity. Napoleon, not

immediately recalling his name to mind, inquired if the applicant could

designate some incident of boyhood which would bring him to his

recollection. "Sire!" replied the courtier; "he has a deep scar upon his

forehead which he says was inflicted by your hand." "Ah!" rejoined

Napoleon, smiling; "I know the meaning of that scar perfectly well. It

was caused by an ice bullet which I hurled at his head. Bid him enter."

The poor man made his appearance, and immediately obtained from Napoleon

every thing that he requested.

At one time the students at Brienne got up a private theatre for their

entertainment. The wife of the porter of the school, who sold the boys

cakes and apples, presented herself at the door of the theatre to obtain

admission to see the play, of the death of Caesar, which was to be

performed that evening. Napoleon's sense of decorum was shocked at the

idea of the presence of a female among such a host of young men, and he

indignantly exclaimed, in characteristic language, "Remove that woman,

who brings here the license of camps."

Napoleon remained in the school at Brienne for five years, from 1779

till 1784. His vacations were usually spent in Corsica. He was

enthusiastically attached to his native island, and enjoyed exceedingly

rambling over its mountains, and through its valleys, and listening at

humble firesides to those traditions of violence and crime with which

every peasant was familiar. He was a great admirer of Paoli, the friend

of his father and the hero of Corsica. At Brienne the students were

invited to dine, by turns, with the principal of the school. One day

when Napoleon was at the table, one of the professors, knowing his young

pupil's admiration for Paoli, spoke disrespectfully of the distinguished

general, that he might tease the sensitive lad. Napoleon promptly and

energetically replied, "Paoli, sir, was a great man! He loved his

country; and I never shall forgive my father, for consenting to the

union of Corsica with France. He ought to have followed Paoli's fortunes

and to have fallen with him."

Paoli, who upon the conquest of Corsica had fled to England, was

afterward permitted to return to his native island. Napoleon, though in

years but a boy, was, in mind a full-grown man. He sought the

acquaintance of Paoli, and they became intimate friends. The veteran

general and the manly boy took many excursions together over the island;

and Paoli pointed out to his intensely-interested companion, the fields

where sanguinary battles had been fought, and the positions which the

little army of Corsicans had occupied in the struggle for independence.

The energy and decision of character displayed by Napoleon produced such

an impression upon the mind of this illustrious man, that he at one time

exclaimed, "Oh, Napoleon! you do not at all resemble the moderns. You

belong only to the heroes of Plutarch."

Pichegru, who afterward became so celebrated as the conqueror of Holland

and who came to so melancholy a death, was a member of the school at

Brienne at the same time with Napoleon. Being several years older than

the young Corsican, he instructed him in mathematics. The commanding

talents and firm character of his pupil deeply impressed the mind of

Pichegru. Many years after, when Napoleon was rising rapidly to power,

the Bourbons proposed to Pichegru, who had espoused the royalist cause,

to sound Napoleon and ascertain if he could be purchased to advocate

their claims. "It will be but lost time to attempt it," said Pichegru:

"I knew him in his youth. His character is inflexible. He has taken his

side, and he will not change it."

One of the ladies of Brienne, occasionally invited some of the

school-boys to sup with her at her chateau. Napoleon was once passing

the evening with this lady, and, in the course of conversation, she

remarked, "Turenne was certainly a very great man; but I should have

liked him better had he not burned the Palatinate." "What signifies

that," was Napoleon's characteristic remark, "if the burning was

necessary to the object he had in view?"[1] This sentiment, uttered in

childhood, is a key to the character of Napoleon. It was his great moral

defect. To attain an end which he deemed important, he would ride over

every obstacle. He was not a cruel man. He was not a malignant man. It

was his great ambition to make himself illustrious by making France the

most powerful, enlightened, and happy empire upon the surface of the

globe. If, to attain this end, it was necessary to sacrifice a million

of lives, he would not shrink from the sacrifice. Had he been educated

in the school of Christianity, he might have learned that the end will

not sanctify the means. Napoleon was not a Christian.

[1] Turenne was a marshal of France, and a distinguished

military leader in the reign of Louis XIV. He marched an

invading army into the Palatinate, a province of Germany, on

the Rhine, and spread devastation every where around him. From

the top of his castle at Manheim, the Elector of the

Palatinate, at one time saw two of his cities and twenty five

of his villages in flames.

His character for integrity and honor ever stood very high. At Brienne

he was a great favorite with the younger boys, whose rights he defended

against the invasions of the older. The indignation which Napoleon felt

at this time, in view of the arrogance of the young nobility, produced

an impression upon his character, the traces of which never passed away.

When his alliance with the royal house of Austria was proposed, the

Emperor Francis, whom Napoleon very irreverently called "an old

granny,"[2] was extremely anxious to prove the illustrious descent of

his prospective son-in-law.

[2] Some one repeated, to Maria Louisa, this remark of

Napoleon. She did not understand its meaning, and went to

Talleyrand, inquiring, "What does that mean, Monsieur, _an old

granny_, what does it mean?" "It means," the accomplished

courtier replied, with one of his most profound bows, "it

means a venerable sage."

He accordingly employed many persons to make researches among the

records of genealogy, to trace out the grandeur of his ancestral line.

Napoleon refused to have the account published, remarking, "I had rather

be the descendant of an honest man than of any petty tyrant of Italy. I

wish my nobility to commence with myself, and to derive all my titles

from the French people. I am the Rodolph of Hapsburg of my family. My

patent of nobility dates from the battle of Montenotte."[3]

[3] Rodolph of Hapsburg, was a gentleman, who by his own

energies had elevated himself to the imperial throne of

Germany; and became the founder of the house of Hapsburg. He

was _the ancestor_ to whom the Austrian kings looked back with

the loftiest pride.

Upon the occasion of this marriage, the Pope, in order to render the

pedigree of Napoleon more illustrious, proposed the canonization of a

poor monk, by the name of Bonaparte, who for centuries had been quietly

reposing in his grave. "_Holy Father!_" exclaimed Napoleon, "_I beseech

you, spare me the ridicule of that step. You being in my power, all the

world will say that I forced you to create a saint out of my family._"

To some remonstrances which were made against this marriage Napoleon

coolly replied, "I certainly should not enter into this alliance, if I

were not aware of the origin of Maria Louise being equally as noble as

my own."

Still Napoleon was by no means regardless of that mysterious influence

which illustrious descent invariably exerts over the human mind. Through

his life one can trace the struggles of those conflicting sentiments.

The marshals of France, and the distinguished generals who surrounded

his throne, were raised from the rank and file of the army, by their own

merit; but he divorced his faithful Josephine, and married a daughter of

the Caesars, that by an illustrious alliance he might avail himself of

this universal and innate prejudice. No power of reasoning can induce

one to look with the same interest upon the child of Caesar and the child

of the beggar.

Near the close of Napoleon's career, while Europe in arms was crowding

upon him, the Emperor found himself in desperate and hopeless conflict

on that very plain at Brienne, where in childhood he had reared his

fortification of snow. He sought an interview with the old woman, whom

he had ejected from the theatre, and from whom he had often purchased

milk and fruit.

"Do you remember a boy by the name of Bonaparte," inquired Napoleon,

"who formerly attended this school?" "Yes! very well," was the answer.

"Did he always pay you for what he bought?" "Yes;" replied the old

woman, "and he often compelled the other boys to pay, when they wished

to defraud me." "Perhaps he may have forgotten a few sous," said

Napoleon, "and here is a purse of gold to discharge any outstanding debt

which may remain between us." At this same time he pointed out to his

companion a tree, under which, with unbounded delight, he read, when a

boy, Jerusalem Delivered, and where, in the warm summer evenings, with

indescribable luxury of emotion, he listened to the tolling of the bells

on the distant village-church spires. To such impressions his

sensibilities were peculiarly alive. The monarch then turned away sadly

from these reminiscenses of childhood, to plunge, seeking death, into

the smoke and the carnage of his last and despairing conflicts.

It was a noble trait in the character of Napoleon, that in his day of

power he so generously remembered even the casual acquaintances of his

early years. He ever wrote an exceedingly illegible hand, as his

impetuous and restless spirit was such that he could not drive his pen

with sufficient rapidity over his paper. The poor writing-master at

Brienne was in utter despair, and could do nothing with his pupil. Years

after, Napoleon was sitting one day with Josephine, in his cabinet at

St. Cloud, when a poor man, with threadbare coat, was ushered into his

presence. Trembling before his former pupil, he announced himself as the

writing-master of Brienne, and solicited a pension from the Emperor.

Napoleon affected anger, and said, "Yes, you were my writing-master,

were you? and a pretty chirographist you made of me, too. Ask Josephine,

there, what she thinks of my handwriting!" The Empress, with that

amiable tact, which made her the most lovely of women, smilingly

replied, "I assure you, sir, his letters are perfectly delightful." The

Emperor laughed cordially at the well-timed compliment, and made the

poor old man comfortable for the rest of his days.

In the days of his prosperity, amidst all the cares of empire, Napoleon

remembered the poor Corsican woman, who was the kind nurse of his

infancy, and settled upon her a pension of two hundred dollars a year.

Though far advanced in life, the good woman was determined to see her

little nursling, in the glory of whose exaltation her heart so

abundantly shared. With this object in view she made a journey to Paris.

The Emperor received her most kindly, and transported the happy woman

home again with her pension doubled.

In one of Napoleon's composition exercises at Brienne, he gave rather

free utterance to his republican sentiments, and condemned the conduct

of the royal family. The professor of rhetoric rebuked the young

republican severely for the offensive passage, and to add to the

severity of the rebuke, compelled him to throw the paper into the fire.

Long afterward, the professor was commanded to attend a levee of the

First Consul to receive Napoleon's younger brother Jerome as a pupil.

Napoleon received him with great kindness, but at the close of the

business, very good-humoredly reminded him that times were very

considerably changed since the burning of that paper.

Napoleon remained in the school of Brienne for five years, from 1779

till 1784. He had just entered his fifteenth year, when he was promoted

to the military school at Paris. Annually, three of the best scholars,

from each of the twelve provincial military schools of France, were

promoted to the military school at Paris. This promotion, at the

earliest possible period in which his age would allow his admission,

shows the high rank, as a scholar, which Napoleon sustained. The records

of the Minister of War contain the following interesting entry:

"State of the king's scholars eligible to enter into service, or to pass

to the school at Paris. Monsieur de Bonaparte (Napoleon), born 15th

August, 1769; in height five feet six and a half inches; has finished

his fourth season; of a good constitution, health excellent, character

mild, honest, and grateful; conduct exemplary; has always distinguished

himself by application to mathematics; understands history and geography

tolerably well; is indifferently skilled in merely ornamental studies,

and in Latin, in which he has only finished his fourth course; would

make an excellent sailor; deserves to be passed to the school at Paris."

The military school at Paris, which Napoleon now entered, was furnished

with all the appliances of aristocratic luxury. It had been founded for

the sons of the nobility, who had been accustomed to every indulgence.

Each of the three hundred young men assembled in this school had a

servant to groom his horse, to polish his weapons, to brush his boots,

and to perform all other necessary menial services. The cadet reposed on

a luxurious bed, and was fed with sumptuous viands. There are few lads

of fifteen who would not have been delighted with the dignity, the ease,

and the independence of this style of living. Napoleon, however,

immediately saw that this was by no means the training requisite to

prepare officers for the toils and the hardships of war. He addressed an

energetic memorial to the governor, urging the banishment of this

effeminacy and voluptuousness from the military school. He argued that

the students should learn to groom their own horses, to clean their

armor, and to perform all those services, and to inure themselves to

those privations which would prepare them for the exposure and the toils

of actual service. No incident in the childhood or in the life of

Napoleon shows more decisively than this his energetic, self-reliant,

commanding character. The wisdom, the fortitude, and the foresight, not

only of mature years, but of the mature years of the most powerful

intellect, were here exhibited. The military school which he afterward

established at Fontainebleau, and which obtained such world-wide

celebrity, was founded upon the model of this youthful memorial. And one

distinguishing cause of the extraordinary popularity which Napoleon

afterward secured, was to be found in the fact, that through life he

called upon no one to encounter perils, or to endure hardships which he

was not perfectly ready himself to encounter or to endure.

At Paris the elevation of his character, his untiring devotion to study,

his peculiar conversational energy, and the almost boundless information

he had acquired, attracted much attention. His solitary and recluse

habits, and his total want of sympathy with most of his fellow students

in their idleness, and in their frivolous amusements, rendered him far

from popular with the multitude. His great superiority was, however,

universally recognized. He pressed on in his studies with as much

vehemence as if he had been forewarned of the extraordinary career

before him, and that but a few months were left in which to garner up

those stores of knowledge with which he was to remodel the institutions

of Europe, and almost change the face of the world.

About this time he was at Marseilles on some day of public festivity. A

large party of young gentlemen and ladies were amusing themselves with

dancing. Napoleon was rallied upon his want of gallantry in declining to

participate in the amusements of the evening. He replied, "It is not by

playing and dancing that a _man_ is to be formed." Indeed he never, from

childhood, took any pleasure in fashionable dissipation. He had not a

very high opinion of men or women in general. He was perfectly willing

to provide amusements which he thought adapted to the capacities of the

masculine and feminine minions flitting about the court; but his own

expanded mind was so engrossed with vast projects of utility and renown,

that he found no moments to spare in cards and billiards, and he was at

the furthest possible remove from what may be called a lady's man.

On one occasion a mathematical problem of great difficulty having been

proposed to the class, Napoleon, in order to solve it, secluded himself

in his room for seventy-two hours; and he solved the problem. This

extraordinary faculty of intense and continuous exertion both of mind

and body, was his distinguishing characteristic through life. Napoleon

did not blunder into renown. His triumphs were not casualties; his

achievements were not accidents; his grand conceptions were not the

brilliant flashes of unthinking and unpremeditated genius. Never did man

prepare the way for greatness by more untiring devotion to the

acquisition of all useful knowledge, and to the attainment of the

highest possible degree of mental discipline. That he possessed native

powers of mind, of extraordinary vigor it is true; but those powers were

expanded and energized by Herculean study. His mighty genius impelled to

the sacrifice of every indulgence, and to sleepless toil.

The vigor of Napoleon's mind, so conspicuous in conversation, was

equally remarkable in his exercises in composition. His professor of

Belles-Lettres remarked that Napoleon's amplifications ever reminded him

of "flaming missiles ejected from a volcano." While in the military

school at Paris the Abbe Raynal became so forcibly impressed with his

astonishing mental acquirements, and the extent of his capacities, that

he frequently invited him, though Napoleon was then but a lad of

sixteen, to breakfast at his table with other illustrious guests. His

mind was at that time characterized by great logical accuracy, united

with the most brilliant powers of masculine imagination. His

conversation, laconic, graphic, oracular, arrested every mind. Had the

vicissitudes of life so ordered his lot, he would undoubtedly have been

as distinguished in the walks of literature and in the halls of science,

as he became in the field and in the cabinet. That he was one of the

profoundest of thinkers all admit; and his trumpet-toned proclamations

resounded through Europe, rousing the army to almost a frenzy of

enthusiasm, and electrifying alike the peasant and the prince. Napoleon

had that comprehensive genius which would have been pre-eminent in any

pursuit to which he had devoted the energies of his mind. Great as were

his military victories, they were by no means the greatest of his

achievements.

In September, 1785, Napoleon, then but sixteen years of age, was

examined to receive an appointment in the army. The mathematical branch

of the examination was conducted by the celebrated La Place. Napoleon

passed the ordeal triumphantly. In history he had made very extensive

attainments. His proclamations, his public addresses, his private

conferences with his ministers in his cabinet, all attest the

philosophical discrimination with which he had pondered the records of

the past, and had studied the causes of the rise and fall of empires. At

the close of his examination in history, the historical professor,

Monsieur Keruglion, wrote opposite to the signature of Napoleon, "A

Corsican by character and by birth. This young man will distinguish

himself in the world if favored by fortune." This professor was very

strongly attached to his brilliant pupil. He often invited him to

dinner, and cultivated his confidence. Napoleon in after years did not

forget this kindness, and many years after, upon the death of the

professor, settled a very handsome pension upon his widow. Napoleon, as

the result of this examination, was appointed second lieutenant in a

regiment of artillery. He was exceedingly gratified in becoming thus

early in life an officer in the army. To a boy of sixteen it must have

appeared the attainment of a very high degree of human grandeur.

That evening, arrayed in his new uniform, with epaulets and the enormous

boots which at that time were worn by the artillery, in an exuberant

glow of spirits, he called upon a female friend, Mademoiselle Permon,

who afterward became Duchess of Abrantes, and who was regarded as one

of the most brilliant wits of the imperial court. A younger sister of

this lady, who had just returned from a boarding-school, was so much

struck with the comical appearance of Napoleon, whose feminine

proportions so little accorded with this military costume, that she

burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, declaring that he resembled

nothing so much as "Puss in Boots." The raillery was too just not to be

felt. Napoleon struggled against his sense of mortification, and soon

regained his accustomed equanimity. A few days after, to prove that he

cherished no rancorous recollection of the occurrence, he presented the

mirthful maiden with an elegantly bound copy of Puss in Boots.

[Illustration: LIEUTENANT BONAPARTE.]

Napoleon soon, exulting in his new commission, repaired to Valence to

join his regiment. His excessive devotion to study had impeded the full

development of his physical frame. Though exceedingly thin and fragile

in figure, there was a girlish gracefulness and beauty in his form; and

his noble brow and piercing eye attracted attention and commanded

respect. One of the most distinguished ladies of the place, Madame du

Colombier, became much interested in the young lieutenant, and he was

frequently invited to her house. He was there introduced to much

intelligent and genteel society. In after life he frequently spoke with

gratitude of the advantages he derived from this early introduction to

refined and polished associates. Napoleon formed a strong attachment for

a daughter of Madame du Colombier, a young lady of about his own age and

possessed of many accomplishments. They frequently enjoyed morning and

evening rambles through the pleasant walks in the environs of Valence.

Napoleon subsequently speaking of this youthful attachment said, "We

were the most innocent creatures imaginable. We contrived short

interviews together. I well remember one which took place, on a

midsummer's morning, just as the light began to dawn. It will scarcely

be credited that all our felicity consisted in eating cherries

together." The vicissitudes of life soon separated these young friends

from each other, and they met not again for ten years. Napoleon, then

Emperor of France, was, with a magnificent retinue, passing through

Lyons, when this young lady, who had since been married, and who had

encountered many misfortunes, with some difficulty gained access to him,

environed as he was with all the etiquette of royalty. Napoleon

instantly recognized his former friend and inquired minutely respecting

all her joys and griefs. He immediately assigned to her husband a post

which secured for him an ample competence, and conferred upon her the

situation of a maid of honor to one of his sisters.

From Valence Napoleon went to Lyons, having been ordered, with his

regiment, to that place in consequence of some disturbances which had

broken out there. His pay as lieutenant was quite inadequate to support

him in the rank of a gentleman. His widowed mother, with six children

younger than Napoleon, who was then but seventeen years of age, was

quite unable to supply him with funds. This pecuniary embarrassment

often exposed the high-spirited young officer to the keenest

mortification. It did not, however, in the slightest degree, impair his

energies or weaken his confidence in that peculiar consciousness, which

from childhood he had cherished, that he was endowed with extraordinary

powers, and that he was born to an exalted destiny. He secluded himself

from his brother officers, and, keeping aloof from all the haunts of

amusement and dissipation, cloistered himself in his study, and with

indefatigable energy devoted himself anew to the acquisition of

knowledge, laying up those inexhaustible stores of information and

gaining that mental discipline which proved of such incalculable

advantage to him in the brilliant career upon which he subsequently

entered.

While at Lyons, Napoleon, friendless and poor, was taken sick. He had a

small room in the attic of an hotel, where, alone, he lingered through

the weary hours of hunger and pain. A lady from Geneva, visiting some

friends at Lyons, happened to learn that a young officer was sick in the

hotel. She could only ascertain, respecting him, that he was quite

young--that his name was Bonaparte--then an unknown name; and that his

purse was very scantily provided. Her benevolent feelings impelled her

to his bedside. She immediately felt the fascination with which Napoleon

could ever charm those who approached him. With unremitting kindness she

nursed him, and had the gratification of seeing him so far restored as

to be able to rejoin his regiment. Napoleon took his leave of the

benevolent lady with many expressions of gratitude for the kindness he

had experienced.

After the lapse of years when Napoleon had been crowned Emperor, he

received a letter from this lady, congratulating him upon the eminence

he had attained, and informing him that disastrous days had darkened

around her. Napoleon immediately returned an answer, containing two

thousand dollars, and expressing the most friendly assurances of his

immediate attention to any favors she might in future solicit.

The Academy at Lyons offered a prize for the best dissertation upon the

question: "What are the institutions most likely to contribute to human

happiness?" Napoleon wrote upon the subject, and though there were many

competitors, the prize was awarded to him. Many years afterward, when

seated upon the throne, his Minister Talleyrand sent a courier to Lyons

and obtained the manuscript. Thinking it would please the Emperor, he,

one day, when they were alone, put the essay into Napoleon's hands,

asking him if he knew the author. Napoleon immediately recognizing the

writing, threw it into the flames, saying at the same time, that it was

a boyish production full of visionary and impracticable schemes. He

also, in these hours of unceasing study, wrote a History of Corsica,

which he was preparing to publish, when the rising storms of the times

led him to lay aside his pen for the sword.

Two great parties, the Royalists and the Republicans, were now

throughout France contending for the supremacy. Napoleon joined the

Republican side. Most of the officers in the army being sons of the Old

Nobility, were of the opposite party; and this made him very unpopular

with them. He, however, with great firmness, openly avowed his

sentiments, and eagerly watched the progress of those events, which he

thought would open to him a career of fame and fortune. He still

continued to prosecute his studies with untiring diligence. He was, at

this period of his life, considered proud, haughty, and irascible,

though he was loved with great enthusiasm by the few whose friendship he

chose to cultivate. His friends appreciated his distinguished character

and attainments, and predicted his future eminence. His remarkable

logical accuracy of mind, his lucid and energetic expressions, his

immense information upon all points of history and upon every subject of

practical importance, his extensive scientific attainments, and his

thorough accomplishments as an officer, rendered him an object of

general observation, and secured for him the respect even of the idlers

who disliked his unsocial habits.

About this time, in consequence of some popular tumults at Auxonne,

Napoleon, with his regiment, was ordered to that place. He, with some

subaltern officers, was quartered at the house of a barber. Napoleon, as

usual, immediately, when off of duty, cloistered himself in his room

with his law books, his scientific treatises, his histories, and his

mathematics. His associate officers loitered through the listless days,

coquetting with the pretty wife of the barber, smoking cigars in the

shop, and listening to the petty gossip of the place. The barber's wife

was quite annoyed at receiving no attentions from the handsome,

distinguished, but ungallant young lieutenant. She accordingly disliked

him exceedingly. A few years after as Napoleon, then commander of the

army of Italy, was on his way to Marengo, he passed through Auxonne. He

stopped at the door of the barber's shop and asked his former hostess,

if she remembered a young officer by the name of Bonaparte, who was once

quartered in her family. "Indeed, I do," was the pettish reply, "and a

very disagreeable inmate he was. He was always either shut up in his

room or, if he walked out, he never condescended to speak to any one."

"Ah! my good woman," Napoleon rejoined; "had I passed my time as you

wished to have me, I should not now have been in command of the army of

Italy."

The higher nobility and most of the officers in the army were in favor

of Royalty. The common soldiers and the great mass of the people were

advocates of Republicanism. Napoleon's fearless avowal, under all

circumstances, of his hostility to monarchy and his approval of popular

liberty, often exposed him to serious embarrassments. He has himself

given a very glowing account of an interview at one of the fashionable

residences at Auxonne, where he had been invited to meet an aristocratic

circle. The revolution was just breaking out in all its terror, and the

excitement was intense throughout France. In the course of conversation

Napoleon gave free utterance to his sentiments. They all instantly

assailed him, gentlemen and ladies, pell-mell. Napoleon was not a man to

retreat. His condensed sentences fell like hot shot among the crowd of

antagonists who surrounded him. The battle waxed warmer and warmer.

There was no one to utter a word in favor of Napoleon. He was a young

man of nineteen, surrounded by veteran generals and distinguished

nobles. Like Wellington at Waterloo he was wishing that some "Blucher or

night were come." Suddenly the door was opened, and the mayor of the

city was announced. Napoleon began to flatter himself that a rescue was

at hand, when the little great man in pompous dignity joined the

assailants and belabored the young officer at bay, more mercilessly than

all the rest. At last the lady of the house took compassion upon her

defenseless guest, and interposed to shield him from the blows which he

was receiving in the unequal contest.

One evening, in the year 1790, there was a very brilliant party in the

drawing-rooms of M. Neckar, the celebrated financier. The Bastile had

just been demolished. The people, exulting in newly found power, and

dimly discerning long-defrauded rights, were trampling beneath their

feet, indiscriminately, all institutions, good and bad, upon which ages

had left their sanction. The gay and fickle Parisians, notwithstanding

the portentous approachings of a storm, the most fearful earth has ever

witnessed, were pleased with change, and with reckless curiosity awaited

the result of the appalling phenomenon exhibited around them. Many of

the higher nobility, terrified at the violence, daily growing more

resistless and extended, had sought personal safety in emigration. The

tone of society in the metropolis had, however, become decidedly

improved by the greater commingling, in all the large parties, of men

eminent in talents and in public services, as well as of those

illustrious in rank.

The entertainments given by M. Neckar, embellished by the presence, as

the presiding genius, of his distinguished daughter, Madame de Stael,[4]

were brilliant in the extreme, assembling all the noted gentlemen and

ladies of the metropolis. On the occasion to which we refer, the

magnificent saloon was filled with men who had attained the highest

eminence in literature and science, or who, in those troubled times, had

ascended to posts of influence and honor in the state. Mirabeau was

there,[5] with his lofty brow and thunder tones, proud of his very

ugliness. Talleyrand[6] moved majestically through the halls,

conspicuous for his gigantic proportions and courtly bearing. La

Fayette, rendered glorious as the friend of Washington and his companion

in arms, had gathered around him a group of congenial spirits. In the

embrasure of a window sat Madame de Stael. By the brilliance of her

conversational powers she had attracted to her side St. Just, who

afterward obtained such sanguinary notoriety; Malesherbes, the eloquent

and intrepid advocate of royalty; Lalande, the venerable astronomer;

Marmontel and Lagrange, illustrious mathematicians, and others, whose

fame was circulating through Europe.

[4] Napoleon, at St. Helena, gave the following graphic and

most discriminating sketch of the character of Madame de

Stael. "She was a woman of considerable talent and great

ambition; but so extremely intriguing and restless, as to give

rise to the observation, that she would throw her friends into

the sea, that, at the moment of drowning, she might have an

opportunity of saving them. Shortly after my return from the

conquest of Italy, I was accosted by her in a large company,

though at that time I avoided going out much in public. She

followed me every where, and stuck so close that I could not

shake her off. At last she asked me, 'Who is at this moment

the first woman in the world?' intending to pay a compliment

to me, and thinking that I would return it. I looked at her,

and replied, 'She, madame, who has borne the greatest number

of children,' an answer which greatly confused her." From this

hour she became the unrelenting enemy of Napoleon.

[5] "Few persons," said Mirabeau, "comprehend the power of my

ugliness." "If you would form an idea of my looks," he wrote

to a lady who had never seen him, "you must imagine a tiger

who has had the small-pox." "The life of Mirabeau," says

Sydney Smith, "should embrace all the talents and all the

vices, every merit and every defect, every glory and every

disgrace. He was student, voluptuary, soldier, prisoner,

author, diplomatist, exile, pauper, courtier, democrat,

orator, statesman, traitor. He has seen more, suffered more,

learned more, felt more, done more, than any man of his own or

any other age."

[6] Talleyrand, one of the most distinguished diplomatists,

was afterward elevated by the Emperor Napoleon to be Grand

Chamberlain of the Empire. He was celebrated for his

witticisms. One day Mirabeau was recounting the qualities

which, in those difficult times, one should possess to be

minister of state. He was evidently describing his own

character, when, to the great mirth of all present, Talleyrand

archly interrupted him with the inquiry, "_He should also be

pitted with the small-pox, should he not?_"

In one corner stood the celebrated Alfieri, reciting with almost

maniacal gesticulation his own poetry to a group of ladies. The grave

and philosophical Neckar was the centre of another group of careworn

statesmen, discussing the rising perils of the times. It was an

assemblage of all which Paris could afford of brilliance in rank,

talent, or station. About the middle of the evening, Josephine, the

beautiful, but then neglected wife of M. Beauharnais, was announced,

accompanied by her little son Eugene. Madame de Genlis, soon made her

appearance, attended by the brother of the king; and, conscious of her

intellectual dignity, floated through that sea of brilliance, recognized

wherever she approached, by the abundance of perfumery which her dress

exhaled. Madame Campan, the friend and companion of Maria Antoinette,

and other ladies and gentlemen of the Court were introduced, and the

party now consisted of a truly remarkable assemblage of distinguished

men and women. Parisian gayety seemed to banish all thoughts of the

troubles of the times, and the hours were surrendered to unrestrained

hilarity. Servants were gliding through the throng, bearing a profusion

of refreshments consisting of delicacies gathered from all quarters of

the globe.

As the hour of midnight approached there was a lull in the buzz of

conversation, and the guests gathered in silent groups to listen to a

musical entertainment. Madame de Stael took her seat at the piano, while

Josephine prepared to accompany her with the harp. They both were

performers of singular excellence, and the whole assembly was hushed in

expectation. Just as they had commenced the first notes of a charming

duet the door of the saloon was thrown open, and two new guests entered

the apartment. The one was an elderly gentleman, of very venerable

aspect, and dressed in the extreme of simplicity. The other was a young

man, very small, pale, and slender. The elderly gentleman was

immediately recognized by all as the Abbe Raynal, one of the most

distinguished philosophers of France; but no one knew the pale, slender,

fragile youth who accompanied him. They both, that they might not

interrupt the music, silently took seats near the door. As soon as the

performance was ended, and the ladies had received those compliments

which their skill and taste elicited, the Abbe approached Madame de

Stael, accompanied by his young protege, and introduced him as Monsieur

Napoleon Bonaparte. Bonaparte! that name which has since filled the

world, was then plebeian and unknown, and upon its utterance many of the

proud aristocrats in that assembly shrugged their shoulders, and turned

contemptuously away to their conversation and amusement.

Madame de Stael had almost an instinctive perception of the presence of

genius. Her attention was instantly arrested by the few remarks with

which Napoleon addressed her. They were soon engaged in very animated

conversation. Josephine and several other ladies joined them. The group

grew larger and larger as the gentlemen began to gather around the

increasing circle. "Who is that young man who thus suddenly has gathered

such a group around him?" the proud Alfieri condescended to ask of the

Abbe Raynal. "He is," replied the Abbe, "a protege of mine, and a young

man of very extraordinary talent. He is very industrious, well read, and

has made remarkable attainments in history, mathematics, and all

military science." Mirabeau came stalking across the room, lured by

curiosity to see what could be the source of the general attraction.

"Come here! come here!" said Madame de Stael, with a smile, and in an

under tone. "We have found a little great man. I will introduce him to

you, for I know that you are fond of men of genius."

Mirabeau very graciously shook hands with Napoleon, and entered into

conversation with the untitled young man, without assuming any airs of

superiority. A group of distinguished men now gathered round them, and

the conversation became in some degree general. The Bishop of Autun

commended Fox and Sheridan for having asserted that the French army, by

refusing to obey the orders of their superiors to fire upon the

populace, had set a glorious example to all the armies of Europe;

because, by so doing, they had shown that men by becoming soldiers did

not cease to be citizens.

"Excuse me, my lord," exclaimed Napoleon, in tones of earnestness which

arrested general attention, "if I venture to interrupt you; but as I am

an officer I must claim the privilege of expressing my sentiments. It is

true that I am very young, and it may appear presumptuous in me to

address so many distinguished men; but during the last three years I

have paid intense attention to our political troubles. I see with sorrow

the state of our country, and I will incur censure rather than pass

unnoticed principles which are not only unsound but which are subversive

of all government. As much as any one I desire to see all abuses,

antiquated privileges, and usurped rights annulled. Nay! as I am at the

commencement of my career, it will be my best policy as well as my duty

to support the progress of popular institutions, and to promote reform

in every branch of the public administration. But as in the last twelve

months I have witnessed repeated alarming popular disturbances, and have

seen our best men divided into factions which threaten to be

irreconcilable, I sincerely believe that now _more than ever_, a strict

discipline in the army is absolutely necessary for the safety of our

constitutional government and for the maintenance of order. Nay! if our

troops are not compelled unhesitatingly to obey the commands of the

executive, we shall be exposed to the blind fury of democratic passions,

which will render France the most miserable country on the globe. The

ministry may be assured that if the daily increasing arrogance of the

Parisian mob is not repressed by a strong arm, and social order rigidly

maintained, we shall see not only this capital, but every other city in

France, thrown into a state of indescribable anarchy, while the real

friends of liberty, the enlightened patriots, now working for the best

good of our country, will sink beneath a set of demagogues, who, with

louder outcries for freedom on their tongues, will be in reality but a

horde of savages worse than the Neros of old."

These emphatic sentences uttered by Napoleon, with an air of authority

which seemed natural to the youthful speaker, caused a profound

sensation. For a moment there was perfect silence in the group, and

every eye was riveted upon the pale and marble cheek of Napoleon. Neckar

and La Fayette listened with evident uneasiness to his bold and weighty

sentiments, as if conscious of the perils which his words so forcibly

portrayed. Mirabeau nodded once or twice significantly to Tallyrand,

seeming thus to say "that is exactly the truth." Some turned upon their

heels, exasperated at this fearless avowal of hostility to democratic

progress. Alfieri, one of the proudest of aristocrats, could hardly

restrain his delight, and gazed with amazement upon the intrepid young

man. "Condorcet," says an eye witness, "nearly made me cry out, by the

squeezes which he gave my hand at every sentence uttered by the pale,

slender, youthful speaker."

As soon as Napoleon had concluded, Madame de Stael, turning to the Abbe

Raynal, cordially thanked him for having introduced her to the

acquaintance of one, cherishing views as a statesman so profound, and so

essential to present emergencies. Then turning to her father and his

colleagues, she said, with her accustomed air of dignity and authority,

"Gentlemen, I hope that you will heed the important truths which you

have now heard uttered." The young Napoleon, then but nineteen years of

age, thus suddenly became the most prominent individual in that whole

assembly. Wherever he moved many eyes followed him. He had none of the

airs of a man of fashion. He made no attempts at displays of gallantry.

A peaceful melancholy seemed to overshadow him, as, with an abstracted

air, he moved through the glittering throng, without being in the

slightest degree dazzled by its brilliance. The good old Abbe Raynal

appeared quite enraptured in witnessing this triumph of his young

protege.

Soon after this, in September, 1791, Napoleon, then twenty years of age,

on furlough, visited his native island. He had recently been promoted to

a first-lieutenancy. Upon returning to the home of his childhood, to

spend a few months in rural leisure, the first object of his attention

was to prepare for himself a study, where he could be secluded from all

interruption. For this purpose he selected a room in the attic of the

house, where he would be removed from all the noise of the family. Here,

with his books spread out before him, he passed days and nights of the

most incessant mental toil. He sought no recreation; he seldom went out;

he seldom saw any company. Had some guardian angel informed him of the

immense drafts which, in the future, were to be made upon his mind, he

could not have consecrated himself with more sleepless energy, to

prepare for the emergency. The life of Napoleon presents the most

striking illustration of the truth of the sentiment,

"The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight;

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night."

[Illustration: THE WATER-EXCURSION.]

One cloudless morning, just after the sun had risen, he was sauntering

along by the sea-shore, in solitary musings, when he chanced to meet a

brother officer, who reproached him with his unsocial habits, and urged

him to indulge, for once, in a pleasure excursion. Napoleon, who had,

for some time, been desirous of taking a survey of the harbor, and of

examining some heights, upon the opposite side of the gulf, which, in

his view, commanded the town of Ajaccio, consented to the proposal, upon

the condition that his friend should accompany him upon the water. They

made a signal to some sailors on board a vessel riding at anchor, at

some distance from the shore, and were soon in a boat propelled by

vigorous rowers. Napoleon seated himself at the stern, and taking from

his pocket a ball of pack-thread, one end of which he had fastened upon

the shore, commenced the accurate measurement of the width of the gulf.

His companion, feeling no interest in the survey, and seeking only

listless pleasure, was not a little annoyed in having his amusement thus

converted into a study for which he had no relish. When they arrived at

the opposite side of the bay, Napoleon insisted upon climbing the

heights. Regardless of the remonstrances of his associate, who

complained of hunger, and of absence from the warm breakfast which was

in readiness for him, Napoleon persisted in exploring the ground.

Napoleon in describing the scene says: "My companion, quite uninterested

in researches of this kind, begged me to desist. I strove to divert him,

and to gain time to accomplish my purpose, but appetite made him deaf.

If I spoke to him of the width of the bay, he replied that he was

hungry, and that his warm breakfast was cooling. If I pointed out to

him a church steeple or a house, which I could reach with my

bomb-shells, he replied, "Yes, but I have not breakfasted." At length,

late in the morning, we returned, but the friends with whom he was

expecting to breakfast, tired of the delay, had finished their repast,

so that, on his arrival he found neither guests nor banquet. He resolved

to be more cautious in future as to the companion he would choose, and

the hour in which he would set out, on an excursion of pleasure."

Subsequently the English surmounted these very heights by a redoubt, and

then Napoleon had occasion to avail himself very efficiently of the

information acquired upon this occasion.

THE SOMNAMBULE.

About twelve months ago Andre Folitton, horticulturist and herbalist of

St. Cloud, a young man of worth and respectability, was united in

marriage to Julienne, daughter of an apothecary of the same place. Andre

and Julienne had long loved each other, and congeniality of disposition,

parity of years, and health and strength, as well as a tolerably

comfortable setout in the world, seemed to promise for them many years

of happiness. Supremely contented, and equally disposed to render life

as pleasant and blithe as possible, the future seemed spread before

them, a long vista of peace and pleasantness, and bright were the

auguries which rose around them during the early days of their espousal.

Though he loved mirth and fun as much as any one, Andre was extremely

regular in his habits, and every engagement he made was pretty sure of

being punctually attended to. Julienne quickly discovered that thrice

every week, precisely at seven o'clock in the evening, her husband left

his home, to which he returned generally after the lapse of two hours.

Whither he went she did not know, nor could she find out.

Andre always parried her little inquisitions with jokes and laughter.

She perceived, however, that his excursions might be connected with

business in some way or other, for he never expended money, as he would

had he gone to a cafe or estaminet. Julienne's speculations went no

further than this. As to the husband and wife, had they been left to

themselves, not the slightest interruption of mutual good-feeling would

ever have arisen out of this matter.

But it is a long lane which has no turning, and a very slight

circumstance gave an unhappy twist to the path which had promised such a

direct and pleasant voyage through life. Julienne had almost ceased to

puzzle herself about her husband's periodical absences, indeed had

ceased to joke when he returned from them, having easily learned--the

good-tempered little woman--to consider them as nothing more than some

engagement connected with the ordinary course of business. One night,

however, a neighbor, Madame Margot, stepped into the bowery cottage of

the young pair to have a chat and a cup of coffee with Madame Folitton.

Madame Margot, though she had more words than Julienne, and could keep

the conversation going at a more rattling pace, had by no means so sweet

and gracious a presence. Her sharp eye and thin lips were true indices

to a prying and somewhat ill-natured disposition; and the fact is, that

Madame Margot, having several times seen Andre pass her house alone in

the evening, as if taking a walk by himself, had been seized with a

strong desire to know "how things were going on" between him and his

wife. Madame Margot had never joined other folks in their profuse

prophesies of future happiness when Andre and Julienne were wedded. She

was not the woman to do it; her temper had spread her own bed, and her

husband's too, with thorns and briars, and so she declared that the

happiness of wedded life was something worse than a _mauvaise

plaisanterie_. "Eh, bien!" she exclaimed, when folks spoke of Andre and

his wife. "I wish them well, but I have lived too long to suppose that

such a beginning as theirs can hold on long! We shall hear different

tales by and by!" So Madame Margot, with her sharp eye and thin lips,

eager to verify her prognostications, had visited Andre's house to

reconnoitre.

"M. Folitton? he is not here?" said she, in the course of conversation.

"He is from home," answered Julienne; and as she saw the peering

expression of Madame Margot's face, she answered in such a manner as to

check further inquiry.

"I knew it!" thought Madame Margot. "I was sure there was something

wrong!"

"Andre will be in presently," added Julienne.

"Ah, well," exclaimed her companion, with the look of one resigned to

the inconveniences of life, "it is well that he is so attentive to

business; and very glad I am to see how much he has upon his hands:

early in the morning till late at night. Fortune and leisure await those

who work like him."

"You are kind," said Julienne. "It is true that Andre works very hard.

Let me fill your cup."

"Ah, Julienne! On your wedding-day, my dear, all the songs were hosannas

and jubilates, and it really does seem that you are very happy and

comfortable. Is it not so?"

"You are right, Madame Margot. Andre and I are very happy, and we have

many blessings to be thankful for."

"There is one thing," rejoined the wily lady, "which, allow me to say,

people who have businesses to look after feel rather strongly. Ay, well

do I and Margot know that business interferes terribly with domestic

happiness."

"In what manner?" asked Julienne, in some surprise, for Madame Margot's

experience did not "come home" to her. "I have never thought so, nor

Andre either, I believe."

"Why, my dear, when people are abroad they can't be at home," continued

the inquisitress. "And as I and Margot feel that it is hard we can be

so very little together, I naturally think that other people must feel

the same. But, however, we _can_ enjoy our little walk in the evening. I

am sure, my dear, you would like it all the better if you could do the

same."

"I should," said Julienne; "but as Andre's time is occupied, there is no

use thinking about it. I can't think where he goes," added she,

unguardedly and pensively.

Madame Margot pricked up her ears.

"Why, my dear!" exclaimed she, lowering her voice, as if about to say

something of momentous importance, "do you mean to say that you don't

know where he goes so many evenings in the week?" The good lady had

always exercised a sharp scrutiny over the movements of her lord, and

the bare idea of Julienne being ignorant of Andre's proceedings excited

her indignation and pity.

"I don't know, nor have I ever taken any trouble to know," answered

Julienne, frankly and carelessly.

"Well, it's very good of you, I daresay," returned her visitor, with

something like contemptuous commiseration in her tone. "But, my friend,

you should think how necessary it is that husband and wife should be as

one person. It vexes me to find that Andre does not acquaint you with

all his doings--especially with that to which he seems to pay such

unfailing attention. You shouldn't let it go on any longer, my dear, for

you don't know what may happen. It never smokes but there is fire. No

one can tell what might have happened between me and Margot had I not

always kept my eyes open: a little watchfulness has saved us worlds of

annoyance and trouble." Observing that Julienne looked offended, and was

about to say something, Madame Margot dextrously handed her cup with a

most gracious and winning bow, and launched into another topic,

resolving by all means not to spoil the effect of the stimulants and

hints she had let fall.

When Andre returned this night, Julienne, to his surprise, asked him

where he had been, and implored him to tell her. With a serious look he

answered that it was impossible, and begged her not to inquire into a

matter which in nowise concerned her, and which would cause her no sort

of surprise if she knew all. As usual, the two bantered each other over

the mystery, and the subject was dropped. But Madame Margot, though she

had not succeeded in setting the young folks by the ears, had

nevertheless implanted in a woman's breast an ardent desire to probe a

secret. Julienne, good as she was, could not vanquish nature, and a

curiosity possessed her as strong as Fatima's.

One day as she was glancing over the columns of a newspaper of which

Andre was a constant reader, an advertisement of a peculiar description

met her eye. It was headed _La Somnambule_, and announced that

Mademoiselle Trompere, whose _prodigieuses facultes_ and _lucidite

extreme_ had caused the greatest astonishment and excitement, continued

to give mesmeric _seances_ on such and such days. Julienne then turned

the paper and read other matters, but now and then she looked back at

this advertisement, read it again and again, and presently laid it down

with a merry little laugh. There was a promise of inviolable secrecy at

the end of the announcement: that she regarded particularly. She had

heard stories of the wonders of clairvoyance, she was artless, and knew

little or nothing of the world, and thought it would be a capital joke

to try the power of Mademoiselle Trompere's _lucidite_. She was going

into Paris on business the very next day, and she resolved to put her

project into execution. She laughed gayly as she anticipated the

astonishment her husband would evince while she might let fall, some of

these days, when they were alone, that she knew his secret.

Behold the young wife, with sparkling eyes, and a smile upon her fresh

lips, wending her way up the long and narrow Rue St. Nicholas in Paris!

Arrived at the house of the clairvoyante, she asked at the concierge for

Mademoiselle Trompere.

"_Quatrieme a gauche!_" cried the porter, and Julienne hurried up the

narrow staircase. Arrived at the fourth story, she rang the bell at the

door on the left, and awaited the issue of the summons in something like

trepidation. The door was opened, and there came forth an old man of

really venerable and imposing appearance. Thick locks of curling silver

hair were combed back off a high and well-formed forehead; and beneath

this appeared a countenance pale, but clear, and of serious and

benign expression. Thin, and of middle height, a long dark-green

robe-de-chambre made him appear tall, and the little Julienne

thought she had never seen so grand an old man before. From his

slightly-abstracted air, and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles still

resting on his visage, one would have fancied he had just risen from

profound study. Julienne felt quite abashed that she should have

interrupted the labors of one who looked so much like a good seer,

especially as she thought what a trumpery and childish errand she had

come upon. It was with a faltering voice and a deprecating smile that

she asked for Mademoiselle Trompere.

"Ah!" exclaimed the old man, as if just awakened to full presence of

mind; "you wish to see her? Wait one moment, my child."

He spoke softly and tenderly, conveying the idea that he was good and

wise as well as aged. Julienne waited in the lobby of the suite of

apartments while he entered the salon. He returned after the lapse of a

few minutes, which seemed hours to the visitor, who began to grow

nervous, and to feel, to use a common phrase "ashamed of herself."

"I am sorry," said the old man as he returned, "Mademoiselle is fully

engaged to-day. I might have told you so before, but I am forgetful. Can

your business be postponed, my child?"

"Oh, indeed, yes!" answered Julienne, readily.

"It is well," continued he. "To-day is Friday: can you return on

Monday? Mademoiselle will be most happy to assist in any investigation

you may wish to make."

"Really"--commenced Julienne, intending, as haply Mademoiselle Trompere

was engaged at present, to have postponed her contemplated interview

_sine die_.

"I will tell her to expect you on Monday," said the old man, gently

shaking Julienne's unresisting hand. "Pray, what may be your name?"

"Folitton."

"Married, I see," added he, looking at the ring upon her finger. "It is

well! Of the Folittons of the Rue St. Lazare?"

"No," said Julienne; "I live at St. Cloud, where M. Folitton is a

florist and botanist."

"Ah, I know him: a worthy and clever young man!" answered the seer. And

thus, holding her hand, they enjoyed a pleasing and confidential chat.

Julienne, wishing she had never undertaken her adventure, or that, being

commenced, it were well over, kept her appointment on the Monday--it

being a very common thing for her in the summer-time to start off to

Paris. Something was continually being wanted from the vast storehouses

of the metropolis. Thus her journey attracted no attention.

When she rang Mademoiselle Trompere's bell this second time, the summons

was answered by a little girl, who conducted her into the salon. On

entering, she perceived the old man whom she had before seen, writing at

a table covered with papers and large books, many of the latter being

open. A young woman, dressed in black, and of genteel appearance, but

the expression of whose features Julienne did not altogether like, was

sitting by the window busied with her crotchet-needles. The latter

personage rose from her seat, and inclined her head to Julienne.

"Madame Folitton?"

"Yes."

"My father has prepared me to expect you. I was much engaged when you

came the other day, but now I am at your service." She touched the old

man whom she called father upon the shoulder, but she had to repeat the

operation twice or thrice ere he turned his eyes from his manuscript, so

profoundly was his attention engaged thereon. He shifted his position

slowly, raised his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes like one awakened

from a dream.

"He studies much," said Mademoiselle Trompere to Julienne, as if by way

of apology for the old man's abstraction. "Do you see?--here is Madame

Folitton."

"Ah, it is well!" exclaimed he, as, with half sigh half smile, he

advanced to the young visitor and shook her hand. "She comes to consult

you, my child, as I have told you; and I half suspect the little lady is

not so anxious for the mere solving of what seems a riddle to her, as

she is to test the truth of clairvoyance; so we must be upon our metal.

Saucy little bird! She is not the only one who doubts the wondrous

insight into the mysteries of nature which science has in our day

obtained."

Mademoiselle Trompere, the somnambule, then deposited herself in a large

and handsome armchair, softly cushioned in crimson velvet. She sat

upright for a while, and the old man and his daughter looked fixedly at

each other, while the former passed his right hand slowly up and down

before her face. After eight or ten "passes," her eyes suddenly closed,

her face grew white as death, and she sank back in an attitude of

complete repose. The old man continued making the "passes" for a minute

or two longer, and then going softly round to the back of the

somnambule, laid his hand lightly upon her head.

"Mademoiselle is now ready for your interrogations," said he to

Julienne.

Poor Julienne was frightened, and had she known beforehand that such a

mysterious operation as she had just witnessed would have been necessary

to the gratification of her whim, she would rather a thousand times have

let it remain unsatisfied. So flurried was she, that she knew not what

to ask, and would have been very glad to have paid her fee at once and

gone home again without testing the _lucidite extreme_. As if divining

her thoughts, the old man turned them into a different channel by

himself asking the question which Julienne had intended.

"Can you give your visitor any information respecting M. Folitton at St.

Cloud?"

"At St. Cloud say you?" said the somnambule, in a low, dreamy voice.

"Wait one moment Ah! now I see him. He is in a large garden. There are

workmen round him who ask him questions respecting the labor next to be

taken in hand. Now they leave him, each proceeding to his appointed

task. M. Folitton goes into his house. He takes a billet from his breast

and reads it. I can see the signature: it is _Marie Colonne_."

Julienne started. The old man looked toward her wistfully, and then, as

if interpreting her thoughts, asked the somnambule, "Can you read the

contents of the billet?"

"It is not very distinct," was the reply; "apparently written in haste.

The words are--_'Your fears, Andre, are needless. What matters it that

Fate would seem to demand our eternal separation? Can we not be superior

to Fate? Have we not proved it? Do not fail to-night; but this I need

not tell you, for since you first discovered the grand mistake of your

life, you have not wavered.'_ Monsieur Folitton reads it again and

again, and replaces it in his breast. He opens his desk and examines

something. I see it now: it is the miniature of a lady. She is young:

her hair is very long, her eyes dark and bright."

"It is enough," said Julienne, rising quickly. "Be it true or false, I

will hear no more." She moved hurriedly toward the door, as if to escape

as quickly as possible from a cruel torment. The old man followed her.

"I forgot," exclaimed the agitated girl, as she paused and drew from

her little glove the stipulated fee.

That very evening Madame Margot repeated her visit, and requested to see

Julienne alone. She found her alone, but, as if she had something too

weighty to be said in the salle-a-manger, she insisted that they should

shut themselves up in Julienne's bedroom, while she relieved her loaded

mind.

"Ah, poor Julienne!" said she, "I never come to see her of an evening

but I find her alone! Poor child! so innocent and unsuspecting too!

Well, we all have our trials; but to see one whom I love as if she were

my own child so treated, is enough to drive me mad!"

"What do you mean?" asked Julienne, nervously, for her adventure with

the clairvoyante had given her a shock.

"My dear, do you mean still to say that you don't know where your

husband spends his evenings?"

"It is true; I do not know," said Julienne, blushing deeply; then

adding, in a tone which, though meant to be firm and resolute, was

painfully faint and timid--"nor do I wish to--"

"Well, my child, _I_ happen to know!" exclaimed Madame Margot, her sharp

eyes flashing with eager excitement. "By the merest chance in the world

I have made the discovery, and I considered it my duty to speak to you

directly, in the hope of saving you and your husband, if possible, from

much future misery. My love, prepare yourself for what I have to

tell:--Your husband repairs to M. Colonne's nearly every evening, and is

always admitted and let out by Mademoiselle Marie! She is the one who

gives him welcome, and bids him _adieu_! Oh, it is enough to drive one

crazy! My tears flowed for you last night, poor Julienne!"

"Oh, restez tranquille!" said Julienne, coldly. She had started and

trembled upon hearing a tale which coincided so completely with the

revelations of the somnambule, but Madame Margot's acrid and triumphant

manner roused her indignation, and whether the story she told and the

inference she so readily founded upon it were true or false, Julienne

heartily wished her away--never to see her malignant eyes or hear her

bitter voice again. She was too proud to ask any questions for the sake

of proving what foundation her sympathizing companion had for her

suspicions. She loved Andre warmly, and sincerely believed him to be

worthy of her love; but there was something in his own secrecy and in

the similarity of the different reports which had reached her ears this

day which staggered her earnest faith. A dreary feeling overcame her:

the radiance of her life was clouded over. The anchor which had held her

safely in a tranquil and beautiful bay seemed to have lost its hold

suddenly, and now she was tossing upon a strange and restless sea. And

Madame Marmot watched the quivering of her lip and the fevered flushing

of her face, and gloated upon the agony she had caused.

"I have done my errand," said she, "and now my mind is a little more at

ease. Take what steps you think proper, my poor child; the sooner the

matter is settled the better for all parties; and if you should have any

difficulty, pray do not hesitate to apply to me. It might not yet be too

late to prevent mischief."

Andre came home that night as hearty and good-tempered as ever. He saw

that his little wife looked but poorly, and he affectionately inquired

what ailed her; caressed her, and tried to comfort and revive her.

Indescribably oppressed, she burst into tears. This relieved her, but

she was silent and _triste_ the rest of the evening. She could not bear

to think of telling him what she had heard, and what she felt. Indeed a

deep feeling of reproach rose up in her heart as she looked in his frank

and sympathetic face; but she could not comprehend the mystery, and felt

miserable and crushed.

The days passed on, and Andre grieved to find his young wife grow no

better. At length, satisfied, from the peculiarity of her malady, from

her silent behavior, and the strange brooding manner in which he

sometimes found her regarding him--feeling assured that the change owed

its existence to something relating to himself--he gravely asked her

what had brought it about, and solemnly conjured her to conceal nothing

from him. So repugnant to her, however, was the idea of exhibiting a

feeling so gross, and so unjust to her husband, as she determined to

think, was her jealousy, that she still withheld the secret.

She seemed to be pining day by day. Andre's pain and vexation were as

deep as her own sadness. A mutual dissatisfaction was fast springing up

between them. While matters were at this pass, Madame Margot, who, like

the bats, rarely moved out before the evening, paid her third visit to

the house of the botanist. Andre coming home earlier than usual this

night, she spent some time with the husband as well as the wife. Eagerly

she watched the behavior of the two, and acutely she judged how things

stood. Supper passed, however, without any allusion thereto, and Andre

led madame to the door.

"Poor Julienne!" said she when they were alone. "You do not take care of

her; she is looking very so-so."

"It is true," said Andre, sadly; "I can not understand it. She says she

is well, but there is something the matter I am sure."

"Ah! don't tell me!" exclaimed Madame Margot, lifting her right arm,

protruding her head, and shaking her forefinger at him. "You can not

understand, eh? Ah, I'm too old a bird for that, and I haven't forgotten

how _I_ was treated once by Margot!"

"What do you mean?" inquired Andre, seriously.

"Mean! Ah, ah! it is very good, M. Folitton! You should have been made

an actor!"

"Madame Margot, I can not joke with you, nor read your riddles.

Julienne's ailment is a serious matter to me."

"Well, well! It is amusing to hear him! But one word in your ear, my

good Andre. How can you expect your poor wife to look happy and pleased

when it is known all over St. Cloud that you are forever with Marie

Colonne? There!"

"What--what!" cried Andre; but Madame Margot was off, muttering and

tittering as she walked rapidly home. Andre was thunderstruck. The

conversation between him and his young wife when he returned to the room

was any thing but satisfactory. He wished to draw from her all she knew;

but Julienne was cold and mysterious; and at length the husband became

angry, or else feigned to do so, as she half-suspected, by way of a

cloak for his misdeeds.

"It seems we did not know much of each other after all," said Andre,

ruefully one day. "After being together so many years too! Had any one

told me that so shortly after our marriage my house would be filled with

gloom and grief, I should have laughed finely, or taken offense."

"Oh, Andre, Andre, Andre!" cried poor Julienne, laying her face upon his

breast, while her tears flowed fast and thick--all the inward pride,

which, though creditable to her heart, was capable of effecting so much

misunderstanding, completely vanquished. "Why have there been secrets

between us? Why have we sought to conceal any thing from each other? I

am sure that our love is not dried up, and that there is something

mysterious to each of us in the bitterness of these days! We have both

had secrets: let me have what blame I may for mine--I can keep it no

longer." And then, with some shame and humiliation, she recounted to

Andre the little history of her own feelings and doings--how at first

she cared nothing whither he went, or what he did, satisfied that he was

good, and that he loved her truly; how Madame Margot had paid her a

visit, and had stimulated her curiosity by sarcasm and pity; how she

came, after seeing an advertisement in the newspaper, to think of

visiting the somnambule, more by way of a joke than any thing else; the

revelations that were made to her, and the apparent confirmation they

received from what Madame Margot afterward told her. She was in too much

fear of making him angry to tell him before; but how could her little

head be expected to see through all this, and how withstand the

inevitable influences of such a trial?

Andre was aghast. Trembling with excitement, and muttering imprecations

against the clairvoyante and Madame Margot, he bade Julienne quickly

prepare to accompany him to Paris. He got his horse and gig ready, and

in a few minutes himself and his wife, the latter greatly agitated and

alarmed, were proceeding at a rapid pace along the road to Paris. Andre

drove his good horse as he had never been driven before, and the five

miles betwixt St. Cloud and the capital were quickly passed. The Rue St.

Nicholas was presently gained, and the bell of the somnambule's

apartment sharply rung. The old man appeared, looking sage and

benevolent as ever. His attitude and aspect, imposing and tranquil,

somewhat checked the impetuosity of the angry husband. The latter even

bowed, and took off his hat as he asked to see Mademoiselle Trompere,

but his voice and quick breathing still betrayed his excitement. His

eagerness appeared to take the old man by surprise; he looked at

Julienne; but her head being turned away, he did not recognize her; and

after an instant of consideration, bade them enter. Mademoiselle the

clairvoyante was discovered sitting in the same place, and occupied in

the same manner, as she had before been found by Julienne. She looked up

from her employment, and scanned both husband and wife with a quick,

penetrating glance as they advanced toward her. Her features for an

instant betrayed some excitement as she noted the flushed cheek and

wrathful eye of the former. It was but for an instant, however: almost

immediately they were resolved into an expression of perfect

nonchalance.

"Woman, your second-sight has cost us dear!" cried Andre.

"Monsieur!" interrupted Mademoiselle Trompere, sternly.

"Your impositions will bring you into trouble, as they do other people,"

continued Andre. "Your lies bear seed--do you know it?--and grow into

poison, blighting and working mischief wherever you spread them. If you

do not fully contradict the tale you told my silly wife the other day, I

will let you know that you carry on a dangerous trade."

"Your wife! My good man, you are mad!" returned the somnambule.

"I am nearly so," said Andre; "so take care what you say. My wife--look

at her--you have seen her before; you need not attempt to deny _that_.

She, in a foolish whim, came to you the other day, and you told her

certain falsehoods respecting me, which I now demand that you own to be

such. Acknowledge your trick, and I will have no more to say; but

refuse, and I go instantly to the prefet of police." The old man stood

by with a wandering look, as if stricken with sudden imbecility; but his

bolder companion regarded the furious visitor with absolute

_sang-froid_, fixing upon him a glance that never wavered.

"My profession, my good man," said she, coldly, leaning back in her

cushioned chair, "is to discover truth, not to deny it. People consult

me when they find the course of their lives disturbed by secret causes,

and when the clearing up of such little mysteries is desirable. Your

wife, prompted by a very justifiable and proper curiosity, has availed

herself of the grand discovery of which I am an exponent. M. Folitton,

you accuse me of falsehood, and ask me to deny what I know to be true.

Of course I refuse to do any thing of the sort. Doubtless you think to

make yourself appear guiltless in the eyes of the wife whom you have

wronged, by frightening a woman, and forcing her to declare that you are

perfectly faithful and true. Impostor as you style me, I am neither

weak nor wicked enough for that!"

"Then I must consult the prefet," said Andre.

"And I also," said the clairvoyante. "If necessary, I will not scruple

to make manifest to the whole world the truth of the revelations your

wife heard from me."

"You are bold, woman!"

"Yes, in common with the meanest living thing, I am bold when attacked.

You will not find it easy to turn me to your own account. Try, if you

are so disposed, by all means; but as surely as I know the truth, you

had better not!" This was uttered with such complete assurance, so

firmly and hardily, and her whole demeanor exhibited such supreme

defiance of him and reliance upon herself, that Andre's indignation was

turned into bewilderment and perplexity. He abruptly seized the arm of

his agitated wife, and drawing it within his own, strode out of the

room, telling his contemptuous opponent that she should soon hear what

step he would take next. As yet, not a word of reconciliation or

explanation had passed between himself and Julienne. He was too proud to

make his peace with her before he had fully justified himself, do it how

he could.

But the same evening he brought Mademoiselle Marie Colonne and her

father and mother to his house, and to them, in the presence of his

wife, related the story of his troubles, up to the passage between

himself and the lady of vaunted _lucidite_ that morning. The worthy

family were highly indignant, but displayed much good-feeling toward

Julienne, who, sick at heart, was really deserving of commiseration. She

in her turn warmly denied that she had been actuated by any feeling of

suspicion or jealousy in consulting Mademoiselle Trompere: she had done

a very silly thing, and should repent it as long as she lived; but it

was merely a careless whim, and indeed was contemplated more as a joke

than any thing else, for being sure that Andre was faithful to her, she

never had an idea that misunderstanding and misery to herself, induced

by remarkable coincidences, would result from what she did. She was now

perfectly satisfied, and trusted that Marie and her husband would

forgive her.

"That all may be made perfectly clear," said Andre, "let me now say

that, in thinking over it, as I never happened to do before, I can

hardly wonder Julienne took my frequent absences and my secrecy

concerning them amiss. I never dreamed that misery would happen from a

husband concealing so small a matter from his wife; but I now see how

very possible it is, and in future am resolved never to refuse to answer

when she inquires where I have been."

He then explained to his wife that he had been a member of one of those

secret clubs which sprang up in such numbers all over France, but

especially in the neighborhood of Paris, immediately after the

Revolution of 1848. M. Colonne was the president of that club, and at

his house its meetings were held. All society was one great vortex of

antagonistic parties; and this club, consisting of several of the

substantial inhabitants of St. Cloud, owed its birth to the anxiety so

very commonly felt by the lovers of order and quiet to lay down for

themselves some unanimous and practical course of conduct in the event

of another outbreak. The continuance of tranquillity had for the

present, however, caused its dissolution, until, mayhap, another season

of disorder and violence should occur; "so in future," said Andre, "I

shall spend my evenings at home!"

Julienne heard this explanation with mingled feelings of pleasure and

regret. She humbly asked Marie to forgive her, and was quickly in the

embrace of the sympathizing young girl.

M. Colonne, exceedingly wounded by the imputations which had been cast

upon the character of his daughter, of whom he was at once fond and

proud, paid Madame Margot a visit on his way home, and talked to the old

lady in a manner which caused her considerable trepidation, and no doubt

went far to check the propensity so strongly developed in the

composition of her character for picking holes in her neighbors'

jackets. He also resolved to prosecute Mademoiselle Trompere and her

confederate. This Andre was hardly ready to do, being perfectly

satisfied, now the misunderstanding was cleared up; but M. Colonne

declared that no member of his family should be aspersed with impunity;

and even if it were solely on public grounds, to protect the unguarded

and the credulous from imposition and misery, he would spend a thousand

francs to make an example of the pair. Andre was very reluctant,

however, to carry the affair before the public, and persuaded M.

Colonne, in the first place, to visit Mademoiselle Trompere with Marie,

and force her to contradict her tale; "Indeed," said he, "they had

better all go together, and then the woman would have no possible room

for subterfuge or persistence in her calumnies."

They were off to Paris the next day. As it happened, M. Colonne and his

daughter preceded Andre and Julienne at the house of the somnambule. M.

Colonne was a man of warm and quick temperament.

"My name is Colonne," said he abruptly, the moment he stood before the

somnambule and her father; "this is my daughter Marie. We have made a

journey from St. Cloud purposely to inform you that your clairvoyance is

defective, and to warn you that, not being overskilled in the profession

you now follow, you had better choose another--a more honest and safe

one; for when people deal in slanders and lies, they risk intimate

acquaintance with police-officers and jails."

"Ah, my father, did I not say so?" exclaimed Mademoiselle Trompere,

turning tranquilly to the old man. "I told you we should shortly have a

little sequel to the romance of the poor Folittons."

"There will be another little sequel, mademoiselle, unless you quickly

apologize to my daughter!" said M. Colonne, warmly.

"M. Colonne," returned the somnambule, coolly, and even dictatorially,

"you have no doubt been induced to come here by a parental and honorable

feeling; but perhaps you are not aware that you yourself have been

duped."

"No, indeed!" said M. Colonne, with a smile; "I am not so easily duped."

"You think so, no doubt," continued Mademoiselle Trompere, smiling in

her turn. "Still, it is true: you are a dupe all the time. Your daughter

and M. Folitton know it well. They seek to escape suspicion of

intrigue--the one from her father, the other from his wife--by boldly

facing it out, and seeking to compel me, who happen to know all

concerning it, to declare that their virtue and honor are unimpeachable.

That I do not choose to do. They might content themselves, if they were

wise, with the satisfaction of knowing that such matters as I am engaged

to discover, do not go forth to the world, but remain solely betwixt

myself and them."

"Admirable!" cried M. Colonne, amazed at this immense impudence.

"Yes," said Mademoiselle Trompere, smiling ironically, "the case is so.

Poor M. Folitton the other day was going to turn the world upside down

because I would not contradict what I revealed to his wife. He

threatened me with the police, and I know not what more. Let him do it:

the result will be, that I shall be obliged to prove to the world the

truth of all I have said, and in doing that I should not have much

difficulty."

"Well, well!" cried M. Colonne, fairly overcome. "Talking is of no use

here, I perceive!" and as he and his daughter hurried down the stairs,

the triumphant and derisive laughter of the somnambule tended by no

means to the restoration of their good temper.

Andre and his wife were just about to ascend as they arrived at the

bottom of the staircase, and to them they related the result of their

visit.

Proceedings were now immediately commenced against Mademoiselle Trompere

and her alleged father, and the latter shortly found themselves before

the tribunal of correctional police. The case was made out so very

clearly--Julienne, Marie, and Andre, the sole parties whom the

revelations of the sibyl concerned, being arrayed against her--that she

was immediately convicted of imposture, and the old man as a

confederate. In the course of the trial the wig of silver hair was

unceremoniously lifted from the head of the male prisoner by an officer

of police. The change effected in his appearance by this simple

operation was remarkable, and greatly to his disadvantage. The officer

then read from his police record a list of no fewer than nine

convictions for imposition and misconduct against the aged sinner. The

female was truly, it appeared, his daughter. They had visited many parts

of France and Belgium under different names, and the diligent inquiries

of the police had been successful in establishing against them a long

course of guilt--one scheme of imposture having been tried after

another, and each terminated by disgrace and punishment. They were now

sentenced to two years' imprisonment and a thousand francs' fine.

All has gone brightly and pleasantly at Andre's house since this

unpleasant affair, and so will continue, it is my belief. Husband and

wife seem on better terms with each other than ever. Madame Margot

sedulously keeps herself out of the way of the Folittons and the

Colonnes, nor do I suppose she will ever take coffee with Julienne any

more.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S. MORE.[7]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE. QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIAE INCEPTVS.

"Nulla dies sine linea."

Soe my fate is settled. Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance before

sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speake of chance and of fate,

but we must not. Ruth's _hap_ was to light on y^e field of Boaz: but

what she thought casual, y^e Lord had contrived.

[7] Continued from the July Number.

Firste, he gives me y^e marmot. Then, the marmot dies. Then, I, having

kept y^e creature soe long, and being naturallie tender, must cry a

little over it. Then Will must come in and find me drying mine eyes.

Then he must, most unreasonablie, suppose that I c^d not have loved the

poor animal for its owne sake soe much as for his; and thereupon, falle

a love-making in such downrighte earneste, that I, being alreadie

somewhat upset, and knowing 'twoulde please father ... and hating to be

perverse ... and thinking much better of Will since he hath studdied soe

hard, and given soe largelie to y^e poor, and left off broaching his

heteroclite opinions.... I say, I supposed it must be soe, some time or

another, soe 'twas noe use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now

there's an end, and I pray God give us a quiet life.

Noe one w^d suppose me reckoning on a quiet life if they knew how I've

cried alle this forenoon, ever since I got quit of Will, by father's

carrying him off to Westminster. He'll tell father, I know, as they goe

along in the barge, or else coming back, which will be soone now, though

I've ta'en no heed of the hour. I wish 'twere cold weather, and that I

had a sore throat or stiff neck, or somewhat that might reasonablie send

me a-bed, and keep me there till to-morrow morning. But I'm quite well,

and 'tis the dog-days, and cook is thumping the rolling-pin on the

dresser, and dinner is being served, and here comes father.

* * * * *

Father hath had some words with the Cardinall. 'Twas touching the

draught of some forayn treaty which y^e Cardinall offered for his

criticism, or rather, for his commendation, which father c^d not give.

This nettled his Grace, who exclaimed,--"By the mass, thou art the

veriest fool of all the council." Father, smiling, rejoined, "God be

thanked, the King our master hath but one fool therein."

The Cardinall may rage, but he can't rob him of the royal favour. The

King was here yesterday, and walked for an hour or soe about the garden,

with his arm round father's neck. Will coulde not help felicitating

father upon it afterwards; to which father made answer, "I thank God I

find his Grace my very good lord indeed, and I believe he doth as

singularly favour me as any subject within this realm. Howbeit, son

Roper, I may tell thee between ourselves, I feel no cause to be proud

thereof, for if my head would win him a castle in France, it shoulde not

fail to fly off."

--Father is graver than he used to be. No wonder. He hath much on his

mind; the calls on his time and thoughts are beyond belief: but God is

very good to him. His favour at home and abroad is immense: he hath good

health, soe have we alle; and his family are established to his mind and

settled alle about him, still under y^e same fostering roof. Considering

that I am the most ordinarie of his daughters, 'tis singular I s^d have

secured the best husband. Daisy lives peaceablie with Rupert Allington,

and is as indifferent, me seemeth, to him as to all y^e world beside.

He, on his part, loves her and theire children with devotion, and woulde

pass half his time in y^e nurserie. Dancey always had a hot temper, and

now and then plagues Bess; but she lets noe one know it but me.

Sometimes she comes into my chamber and cries a little, but the next

kind word brightens her up, and I verilie believe her pleasures far

exceed her payns. Giles Heron lost her through his own fault, and might

have regained her good opinion after all, had he taken half the pains

for her sake he now takes for her younger sister: I cannot think how

Cecy can favour him; yet I suspect he will win her, sooner or later. As

to mine own deare Will, 'tis the kindest, purest nature, the finest

soul, the ... and yet how I was senselesse enow once to undervalue him.

Yes, I am a happy wife; a happy daughter; a happy mother. When my little

Bill stroaked dear father's face just now, and murmured "pretty!" he

burst out a-laughing, and cried,--

"You are like the young Cyrus, who exclaimed,--'Oh! mother, how pretty

is my grandfather!' And yet, according to Xenophon, the old gentleman

was soe rouged and made up, as that none but a child woulde have admired

him!"

"That's not the case," I observed, "with Bill's grandfather."

"He's a More all over," says father, fondly. "Make a pun, Meg, if thou

canst, about Amor, Amore, or Amores. 'Twill onlie be the thousand and

first on our name. Here, little knave, see these cherries: tell me who

thou art, and thou shalt have one. 'More! More!' I knew it, sweet

villain. Take them all."

I oft sitt for an hour or more, watching Hans Holbein at his brush. He

hath a rare gift of limning; and has, besides, the advantage of deare

Erasmus his recommendation, for whom he hath alreddie painted our

likenesses, but I think he has made us very ugly. His portraiture of my

grandfather is marvellous; ne'erthelesse. I look in vayn for y^e

spirituallitie which our Lucchese friend, Antonio Bonvisi, tells us is

to be found in the productions of y^e Italian schools.

Holbein loves to paint with the lighte coming in upon his work from

above. He says a lighte from above puts objects in theire proper lighte,

and shews theire just proportions; a lighte from beneath reverses alle

y^e naturall shadows. Surelie, this hath some truth if we spirituallize

it?

* * * * *

Rupert's cousin, Rosamond Allington, is our guest. She is as beautiful

as ... not as an angel, for she lacks the look of goodness, but very

beautiful indeed. She cometh hither from Hever Castle, her account of

y^e affairs whereof I like not. Mistress Anne is not there at present;

indeed, she is now always hanging about court, and followeth somewhat

too literallie the Scripturall injunction to Solomon's spouse--to forget

her father's house. The King likes well enow to be compared with

Solomon, but Mistress Anne is not his spouse yet, nor ever will be, I

hope. Flattery and Frenchified habitts have spoilt her, I trow.

Rosamond says there is not a good chamber in the castle; even y^e

ball-room, which is on y^e upper floor of alle, being narrow and low. On

a rainy day, long ago, she and Mistress Anne were playing at shuttlecock

therein, when Rosamond's foot tripped at some unevennesse in y^e floor,

and Mistress Anne, with a laugh, cried out, "Mind you goe not down into

y^e dungeon"--then pulled up a trap-door in the ball-room floor, by an

iron ring, and made Rosamond look down into the unknown depth; alle in

y^e blacknesse of darkness. 'Tis an awfulle thing to have onlie a step

from a ball-room to a dungeon. I'm glad we live in a modern house, we

have noe such fearsome sights here.

Rosamond is sociable with alle, and mightilie taken with my husband,

who, in his grave way, jests with her pleasantlie enough. Daisy, who

seldom thinks anything worth giving an opinion on, said yestereven, when

they were bantering eache other in Robin Hood's Walk, "I'm glad, Meg,

she fancies your husband insteade of mine." 'Twas a foolish speech, and

had better have beene left unsaid. What a pity that folks who say soe

little shoulde say aught amiss. I have noe jealousy in my composition.

* * * * *

Father, hearing little Tom Allington hammering over y^e 34th Psalm this

morning,--

"Child," says he, "don't say O! as unemphaticallie as if 'twere A, E, I,

or U. David is labouring to expresse a thoughte too big for

utterance.... '_Oh_,--_taste_ and _see_ that the Lord is good.' Try it

agayn. That's better, my little man. Yet once more."

I'm glad Rosamond is going. That tiresome saying of Daisy's rankles. A

poisoned shaft will infect the soundest flesh. What a pity we ever use

such. I never will.

* * * * *

Yes, she's gone, but Will is not happy. Oh, God, that I should ever

know this feeling! We can never be sure of ourselves; we can never be

sure of one another; we can never be sure of any but Thee. For Thou art

love itself, without a shadowe of turning; and dost even condescend, in

Thine exquisite tendernesse, to call Thyself a _jealous_ God ... for of

whom are we jealous but of those whom we passionately love? And such is

the love, not the sternnesse, wherewith Thou sayest unto our souls,

"Thou _shalt_ not love any God but me! thou _shalt_ not make to thyself

anie earthlie idol! for I the Lord _thy_ God am ... a _jealous_ God,"--I

cannot bear a rival on my throne, which is your heart. Love me firste,

him next, even as much as you love yourself; and then I will bless you

both.

Fecisti nos, etc.

* * * * *

Sancta mater, ora pro nobis, ora, ora.

Alas! am I awake, or dreaming still? He beganne to talk indistinctlie in

his sleep last night, and as I cannot beare to heare people speak when

they sleep but their heart waketh, I gently shooke him, and made him

turn about; but not until that he had distinctlie exclaimed, "Tu, Jesu,

es justicia mea." Thereon, a suddain light broke in on me, and I felt, I

know not how to expresse what sense of relief, at the apprehension that

his disquietation was not for Rosamond, but on y^e old count of

justification by faith. Waking up, he says,--"Oh, sweet Meg, I am soe

unhappy," and gives way to tears; but I try to relieve him. But the

matter is too hard for me; we cannot unravel it, soe he holds his peace,

and sleeps, or affects to sleep, the while I pray to every saint in y^e

calendar.

I am glad I did him injustice; which is a strange thing for a wife to

say.

* * * * *

How many, many tears have I shed! Poor, imprudent Will!

To think of his escape from y^e Cardinall's fangs, and yet that he will

probablie repeat y^e offence. This morning father and he had a long,

and, I fear me, fruitless debate in the garden; on returning from which,

father took me aside and sayd,--

"Meg, I have borne a long time with thine husband; I have reasoned and

argued with him, and still given him my poor, fatherly counsel; but I

perceive none of alle this can call him home agayn. And therefore, Meg,

I will no longer dispute with him.".... "Oh, father!".... "Nor yet will

I give him over; but I will set another way to work, and get me to God

and pray for him."

And have I not done so alreadie?

* * * * *

I feare me they parted unfriendlie; I hearde father say, "Thus much I

have a right to bind thee to, that thou indoctrinate not her in thine

own heresies. Thou shalt not imperill the salvation of my child."

Since this there has beene an irresistible gloom on our spiritts, a

cloud between my husband's soul and mine, without a word spoken. I pray

but my prayers seem dead.

... Last night, after seeking unto this saint and that, methought "why

not applie unto y^e fountain head? Maybe these holy spiritts may have

limitations sett to y^e power of theire intercessions--at anie rate, the

ears of Mary-mother are open to alle."

Soe I beganne, "Pia mater, fons amoris...."

Then, methoughte, "but I am onlie asking _her_ to intercede--I'll mount

a step higher still...."

Then I turned to y^e great Intercessor of alle. But methought, "Still he

intercedes with another, although the same. And his owne saying was, 'In

that day ye shall ask _me nothing_. Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name,

_he_ will give it you.'" Soe I did.

I fancy I fell asleep with y^e tears on my cheek. Will had not come up

stairs. Then came a heavie, heavie sleep, not such as giveth rest; and a

dark, wild dream. Methought I was tired of waiting for Will, and became

alarmed. The night seemed a month long, and at last I grew soe weary of

it, that I arose, put on some clothing, and went in search of him whom

my soul loveth. Soon I founde him, sitting in a muse; and said, "Will,

deare Will?" but he hearde me not; and, going up to touch him, I was

amazed to be broughte short up or ever I reached him, by something

invisible betwixt us, hard, and cleare, and colde, ... in short, a wall

of ice! Soe it seemed, in my strange dreame. I pushed at it, but could

not move it; called to him, but coulde not make him hear: and all y^e

while my breath, I suppose, raised a vapor on the glassy substance, that

grew thicker and thicker, soe as slowlie to hide him from me. I coulde

discerne his head and shoulders, but not see down to his heart. Then I

shut mine eyes in despair, and when I opened 'em, he was hidden

altogether.

Then I prayed. I put my hot brow agaynst y^e ice, and I kept a weeping

hot tears, and y^e warm breath of prayer kept issuing from my lips; and

still I was persisting, when, or ever I knew how, y^e ice beganne to

melt! I felt it giving way! and, looking up, coulde in joyfulle

surprize, just discerne the lineaments of a figure close at t'other

side; y^e face turned away, but yet in the guise of listening. And,

images being apt to seem magnified and distorted through vapours,

methought 'twas altogether bigger than Will, yet himself,

nothingthelesse; and, y^e barrier between us having sunk away to

breast-height, I layd mine hand on's shoulder, and he turned his head,

smiling, though in silence; and ... oh, heaven! 'twas not Will, but

----.

What coulde I doe, even in my dreame, but fall at his feet? What coulde

I doe, waking, but the same? 'Twas grey of morn; I was feverish and

unrefreshed, but I wanted noe more lying-a-bed. Will had arisen and gone

forthe; and I, as quicklie as I could make myself readie, sped after

him.

I know not what I expected, nor what I meant to say. The moment I opened

the door of his closett, I stopt short. There he stoode, in the centre

of the chamber; his hand resting flat on an open book, his head raised

somewhat up, his eyes fixed on something or some one, as though in

speaking communion with 'em; his whole visage lightened up and glorifide

with an unspeakable calm and grandeur that seemed to transfigure him

before me; and, when he hearde my step, he turned about, and 'steade of

histing me away, helde out his arms.... We parted without neede to utter

a word.

* * * * *

Events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. Firste,

father's embassade to Cambray, which I shoulde have grieved at more on

our owne accounts, had it not broken off alle further collision with

Will. Thoroughlie home-sick, while abroad, poor father was; then, on his

return, he noe sooner sett his foot a-land, than y^e King summoned him

to Woodstock. 'Twas a couple o' nights after he left us, that Will and I

were roused by Patteson's shouting beneath our window, "Fire, fire,

quoth Jeremiah!" and the house was a-fire sure enow. Greate part of y^e

men's quarter, together with alle y^e outhouses and barns, consumed

without remedie, and alle through y^e carelessness of John Holt.

Howbeit, noe lives were lost, nor any one much hurt; and we thankfullie

obeyed deare father's behest, soe soone as we received y^e same, that we

woulde get us to church, and there, upon our knees, return humble and

harty thanks to Almighty God for our late deliverance from a fearfulle

death. Alsoe, at fathers desire, we made up to y^e poor people on our

premises theire various losses, which he bade us doe, even if it left

him without soe much as a spoon.

But then came an equallie unlookt for, and more appalling event: y^e

fall of my Lord Cardinall, whereby my father was shortlie raised to y^e

highest pinnacle of professional greatnesse, being made Lord Chancellor,

to y^e content, in some sort, of Wolsey himself, who sayd he was y^e

onlie man fit to be his successor.

The unheard-of splendour of his installation dazzled the vulgar; while

the wisdom that marked y^e admirable discharge of his daylie duties, won

y^e respect of alle thinking men, but surprized none who alreadie knew

father. On y^e day succeeding his being sworn in, Patteson marched

hither and thither bearing a huge placard, inscribed, "Partnership

Dissolved;" and apparelled himself in an old suit, on which he had

bestowed a coating of black paint, with weepers of white paper;

assigning for't that "his brother was dead." "For now," quoth he, "that

they've made him Lord Chancellor, we shall ne'er see Sir Thomas more."

Now, although y^e poor Cardinal was commonlie helde to shew much

judgment in his decisions, owing to y^e naturall soundness of his

understanding, yet, being noe lawyer, abuses had multiplied during his

chancellorship, more especiallie in y^e way of enormous fees and

gratuities. Father, not content with shunning base lucre in his proper

person, will not let anie one under him, to his knowledge, touch a

bribe; whereat Dancey, after his funny fashion, complains, saying:

"The fingers of my Lord Cardinall's veriest door-keepers were tipt with

gold, but I, since I married your daughter, have got noe pickings; which

in your case may be commendable, but in mine is nothing profitable."

Father, laughing, makes answer:

"Your case is hard, son Dancey, but I can onlie say for your comfort,

that, soe far as honesty and justice are concerned, if mine owne father,

whom I reverence dearly, stoode before me on y^e one hand, and the

devil, whom I hate extremely, on y^e other, yet, the cause of y^e latter

being just, I shoulde give the devil his due."

Giles Heron hath found this to his cost. Presuming on his near connexion

with my father, he refused an equitable accommodation of a suit, which,

thereon, coming into court, father's decision was given flat against

him.

His decision against mother was equallie impartiall, and had something

comique in it. Thus it befelle. A beggar-woman's little dog, which had

beene stolen from her, was offered my mother for sale, and she bought it

for a jewel of no greate value. After a week or soe, the owner finds

where her dog is, and cometh to make complaynt of y^e theft to father,

then sitting in his hall. Sayth father, "Let's have a faire hearing in

open court; thou, mistress, stand there where you be, to have impartiall

justice; and thou, Dame Alice, come up hither, because thou art of y^e

higher degree. Now, then, call each of you the puppy, and see which he

will follow." Soe Sweetheart, in spite of mother, springs off to y^e old

beggar-woman, who, unable to keep from laughing, and yet moved at

mother's losse, sayth:

"Tell'ee what, mistress ... thee shalt have 'un for a groat."

"Nay," saith mother, "I won't mind giving thee a piece of gold;" soe the

bargain was satisfactorily concluded.

Father's despatch of business is such, that, one morning before the end

of term, he was tolde there was no other cause nor petition to be sett

before him; the which, being a case unparallelled, he desired mighte be

formally recorded.

He ne'er commences businesse in his owne court without first stepping

into y^e court of King's Bench, and there kneeling down to receive my

grandfather's blessing. Will sayth 'tis worth a world to see y^e unction

with which the deare old man bestows it on him.

In Rogation-week, following the Rood as usuall, round y^e parish, Heron

counselled him to go a horseback for y^e greater seemlinesse, but he

made answer that 'twoulde be unseemlie indeede for y^e servant to ride

after his master going a-foot.

His grace of Norfolk, coming yesterday to dine with him, finds him in

the church-choir, singing, with a surplice on.

"What!" cries y^e Duke, as they walk home together, "my Lord Chancellor

playing the parish clerk? Sure, you dishonor the King and his office."

"Nay," says father, smiling, "your grace must not deem that the King,

your master and mine, will be offended at my honoring _his_ Master."

Sure, 'tis pleasant to heare father taking y^e upper hand of these great

folks: and to have 'em coming and going, and waiting his pleasure,

because he is y^e man whom y^e King delighteth to honor.

True, indeede, with Wolsey 'twas once y^e same; but father neede not

feare y^e same ruin; because he hath Him for his friend, whom Wolsey

said woulde not have forsaken him had he served Him as he served his

earthly master. 'Twas a misproud priest; and there's the truth on't. And

father is not misproud; and I don't believe we are; though proud of him

we cannot fail to be.

And I know not why we may not be pleased with prosperitie, as well as

patient under adversitie; as long as we say, "Thou, Lord, hast made our

hill soe strong." 'Tis more difficult to bear with comelinesse,

doubtlesse; and envious folks there will be; and we know alle things

have an end, and everie sweet hath its sour, and everie fountain its

fall; but ... 'tis very pleasant for all that.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

REMINISCENCES OF AN ATTORNEY.

THE CHEST OF DRAWERS.

I am about to relate a rather curious piece of domestic history, some of

the incidents of which, revealed at the time of their occurrence in

contemporary law reports, may be in the remembrance of many readers. It

took place in one of the midland counties, and at a place which I shall

call Watley; the names of the chief actors who figured in it must also,

to spare their modesty or their blushes, as the case may be, be changed;

and should one of those persons, spite of these precautions, apprehend

unpleasant recognition, he will be able to console himself with the

reflection, that all I state beyond that which may be gathered from the

records of the law courts will be generally ascribed to the fancy or

invention of the writer. And it is as well, perhaps, that it should be

so.

Caleb Jennings, a shoemender, cobbler, snob--using the last word in its

genuine classical sense, and by no means according to the modern

interpretation by which it is held to signify a genteel sneak or

pretender--he was any thing but that--occupied, some twelve or thirteen

years ago, a stall at Watley, which, according to the traditions of the

place, had been hereditary in his family for several generations. He may

also be said to have flourished there, after the manner of cobblers; for

this, it must be remembered, was in the good old times, before the

gutta-percha revolution had carried ruin and dismay into the

stalls--those of cobblers--which in considerable numbers existed

throughout the kingdom. Like all his fraternity whom I have ever fallen

in with or heard of, Caleb was a sturdy Radical of the Major Cartwright

and Henry Hunt school; and being withal industrious, tolerably

skillful, not inordinately prone to the observance of Saint Mondays,

possessed, moreover, of a neatly-furnished sleeping and eating apartment

in the house of which the projecting first floor, supported on stone

pillars, overshadowed his humble workplace, he vaunted himself to be as

really rich as an estated squire, and far more independent.

There was some truth in this boast, as the case which procured us the

honor of Mr. Jennings's acquaintance sufficiently proved. We were

employed to bring an action against a wealthy gentleman of the vicinity

of Watley for a brutal and unprovoked assault he had committed, when in

a state of partial inebriety, upon a respectable London tradesman who

had visited the place on business. On the day of trial our witnesses

appeared to have become suddenly afflicted with an almost total loss of

memory; and we were only saved from an adverse verdict by the plain,

straightforward evidence of Caleb, upon whose sturdy nature the various

arts which soften or neutralize hostile evidence had been tried in vain.

Mr. Flint, who personally superintended the case, took quite a liking to

the man; and it thus happened that we were called upon some time

afterward to aid the said Caleb in extricating himself from the

extraordinary and perplexing difficulty in which he suddenly and

unwittingly found himself involved.

The projecting first floor of the house beneath which the humble

work-shop of Caleb Jennings modestly disclosed itself, had been occupied

for many years by an ailing and somewhat aged gentleman of the name of

Lisle. This Mr. Ambrose Lisle was a native of Watley, and had been a

prosperous merchant of the city of London. Since his return, after about

twenty years' absence, he had shut himself up in almost total seclusion,

nourishing a cynical bitterness and acrimony of temper which gradually

withered up the sources of health and life, till at length it became as

visible to himself as it had for some time been to others, that the oil

of existence was expended, burnt up, and that but a few weak flickers

more, and the ailing man's plaints and griefs would be hushed in the

dark silence of the grave.

Mr. Lisle had no relatives at Watley, and the only individual with whom

he was on terms of personal intimacy was Mr. Peter Sowerby, an attorney

of the place, who had for many years transacted all his business. This

man visited Mr. Lisle most evenings, played at chess with him, and

gradually acquired an influence over his client which that weak

gentleman had once or twice feebly but vainly endeavored to shake off.

To this clever attorney, it was rumored, Mr. Lisle had bequeathed all

his wealth.

This piece of information had been put in circulation by Caleb Jennings,

who was a sort of humble favorite of Mr. Lisle's, or, at all events, was

regarded by the misanthrope with less dislike than he manifested toward

others. Caleb cultivated a few flowers in a little plot of ground at

the back of the house, and Mr. Lisle would sometimes accept a rose or a

bunch of violets from him. Other slight services--especially since the

recent death of his old and garrulous woman-servant, Esther May, who had

accompanied him from London, and with whom Mr. Jennings had always been

upon terms of gossiping intimacy--had led to certain familiarities of

intercourse; and it thus happened that the inquisitive shoe-mender

became partially acquainted with the history of the wrongs and griefs

which preyed upon, and shortened the life of the prematurely-aged man.

The substance of this every-day, commonplace story, as related to us by

Jennings, and subsequently enlarged and colored from other sources, may

be very briefly told.

Ambrose Lisle, in consequence of an accident which occurred in his

infancy, was slightly deformed. His right shoulder--as I understood, for

I never saw him--grew out, giving an ungraceful and somewhat comical

twist to his figure, which, in female eyes--youthful ones at

least--sadly marred the effect of his intelligent and handsome

countenance. This personal defect rendered him shy and awkward in the

presence of women of his own class of society; and he had attained the

ripe age of thirty-seven years, and was a rich and prosperous man,

before he gave the slightest token of an inclination toward matrimony.

About a twelvemonth previous to that period of his life, the

deaths--quickly following each other--of a Mr. and Mrs. Stevens threw

their eldest daughter, Lucy, upon Mr. Lisle's hands. Mr. Lisle had been

left an orphan at a very early age, and Mrs. Stevens--his aunt, and then

a maiden lady--had, in accordance with his father's will, taken charge

of himself and brother till they severally attained their majority.

Long, however, before she married Mr. Stevens, by whom she had two

children--Lucy and Emily. Her husband, whom she survived but two months,

died insolvent; and in obedience to the dying wishes of his aunt, for

whom he appears to have felt the tenderest esteem, he took the eldest of

her orphan children to his home, intending to regard and provide for her

as his own adopted child and heiress. Emily, the other sister, found

refuge in the house of a still more distant relative than himself.

The Stevenses had gone to live at a remote part of England--Yorkshire, I

believe--and it thus fell out, that till his cousin Lucy arrived at her

new home he had not seen her for more than ten years. The pale, and

somewhat plain child, as he had esteemed her, he was startled to find

had become a charming woman; and her naturally gay and joyous

temperament, quick talents, and fresh young beauty, rapidly acquired an

overwhelming influence over him. Strenuously but vainly he struggled

against the growing infatuation--argued, reasoned with himself--passed

in review the insurmountable objections to such a union, the difference

of age--he leading toward thirty-seven, she barely twenty-one; he

crooked, deformed, of reserved, taciturn temper--she full of young

life, and grace, and beauty. It was useless; and nearly a year had

passed in the bootless struggle when Lucy Stevens, who had vainly

striven to blind herself to the nature of the emotions by which her

cousin and guardian was animated toward her, intimated a wish to accept

her sister Emily's invitation to pass two or three months with her. This

brought the affair to a crisis. Buoying himself up with the illusions

which people in such an unreasonable frame of mind create for

themselves, he suddenly entered the sitting-room set apart for her

private use, with the desperate purpose of making his beautiful cousin a

formal offer of his hand. She was not in the apartment, but her opened

writing-desk, and a partly-finished letter lying on it, showed that she

had been recently there, and would probably soon return. Mr. Lisle took

two or three agitated turns about the room, one of which brought him

close to the writing-desk, and his glance involuntarily fell upon the

unfinished letter. Had a deadly serpent leaped suddenly at his throat,

the shock could not have been greater. At the head of the sheet of paper

was a clever pen-and-ink sketch of Lucy Stevens and himself; he,

kneeling to her in a lovelorn ludicrous attitude, and she laughing

immoderately at his lachrymose and pitiful aspect and speech. The letter

was addressed to her sister Emily; and the engaged lover saw not only

that his supposed secret was fully known, but that he himself was

mocked, laughed at for his doting folly. At least this was his

interpretation of the words which swam before his eyes. At the instant

Lucy returned, and a torrent of imprecation burst from the furious man,

in which wounded self-love, rageful pride, and long pent-up passion,

found utterance in wild and bitter words. Half an hour afterward Lucy

Stevens had left the merchant's house--forever, as it proved. She,

indeed, on arriving at her sister's, sent a letter supplicating

forgiveness for the thoughtless, and, as he deemed it, insulting sketch,

intended only for Emily's eye; but he replied merely by a note written

by one of his clerks, informing Miss Stevens that Mr. Lisle declined any

further correspondence with her.

The ire of the angered and vindictive man had, however, begun sensibly

to abate, and old thoughts, memories, duties, suggested partly by the

blank which Lucy's absence made in his house, partly by remembrance of

the solemn promise he had made her mother, were strongly reviving in his

mind, when he read the announcement of her marriage in a provincial

journal, directed to him, as he believed, in the bride's hand-writing;

but this was an error, her sister having sent the newspaper. Mr. Lisle

also construed this into a deliberate mockery and insult, and from that

hour strove to banish all images and thoughts connected with his cousin

from his heart and memory.

He unfortunately adopted the very worst course possible for effecting

this object. Had he remained amid the buzz and tumult of active life, a

mere sentimental disappointment, such as thousands of us have sustained

and afterward forgotten, would, there can be little doubt, have soon

ceased to afflict him. He chose to retire from business, visited Watley,

and habits of miserliness growing rapidly upon his cankered mind, never

afterward removed from the lodgings he had hired on first arriving

there. Thus madly hugging to himself sharp-pointed memories which a

sensible man would have speedily cast off and forgotten, the sour

misanthrope passed a useless, cheerless, weary existence, to which death

must have been a welcome relief.

Matters were in this state with the morose and aged man--aged mentally

and corporeally, although his years were but fifty-eight--when Mr. Flint

made Mr. Jennings's acquaintance. Another month or so had passed away

when Caleb's attention was one day about noon claimed by a young man

dressed in mourning, accompanied by a female similarly attired, and from

their resemblance to each other, he conjectured, brother and sister. The

stranger wished to know if that was the house in which Mr. Ambrose Lisle

resided. Jennings said it was; and with civil alacrity left his stall

and rang the front-door bell. The summons was answered by the landlady's

servant, who, since Esther May's death, had waited on the first-floor

lodger: and the visitors were invited to go up-stairs. Caleb, much

wondering who they might be, returned to his stall, and from thence

passed into his eating and sleeping room just below Mr. Lisle's

apartments. He was in the act of taking a pipe from the mantle-shelf, in

order to the more deliberate and satisfactory cogitation on such an

unusual event, when he was startled by a loud shout, or scream rather,

from above. The quivering and excited voice was that of Mr. Lisle, and

the outcry was immediately followed by an explosion of unintelligible

exclamations from several persons. Caleb was up-stairs in an instant,

and found himself in the midst of a strangely-perplexing and distracted

scene. Mr. Lisle, pale as his shirt, shaking in every limb, and his eyes

on fire with passion, was hurling forth a torrent of vituperation and

reproach at the young woman, whom he evidently mistook for some one

else; while she, extremely terrified, and unable to stand but for the

assistance of her companion, was tendering a letter in her outstretched

hand, and uttering broken sentences, which her own agitation and the

fury of Mr. Lisle's invectives rendered totally incomprehensible. At

last the fierce old man struck the letter from her hand, and with

frantic rage ordered both the strangers to leave the room. Caleb urged

them to comply, and accompanied them down stairs. When they reached the

street, he observed a woman on the other side of the way, dressed in

mourning, and much older apparently, though he could not well see her

face through the thick vail she wore, than she who had thrown Mr. Lisle

into such an agony of rage, apparently waiting for them. To her the

young people immediately hastened, and after a brief conference the

three turned away up the street and Mr. Jennings saw no more of them.

A quarter of an hour afterward the house-servant informed Caleb that Mr.

Lisle had retired to bed, and although still in great agitation, and, as

she feared, seriously indisposed, would not permit Dr. Clarke to be sent

for. So sudden and violent a hurricane in the usually dull and drowsy

atmosphere in which Jennings lived, excited and disturbed him greatly:

the hours, however, flew past without bringing any relief to his

curiosity, and evening was falling, when a peculiar knocking on the

floor overhead announced that Mr. Lisle desired his presence. That

gentleman was sitting up in bed, and in the growing darkness his face

could not be very distinctly seen; but Caleb instantly observed a vivid

and unusual light in the old man's eyes. The letter so strangely

delivered was lying open before him; and unless the shoemender was

greatly mistaken, there were stains of recent tears upon Mr. Lisle's

furrowed and hollow cheeks. The voice, too, it struck Caleb, though

eager, was gentle and wavering. "It was a mistake, Jennings," he said;

"I was mad for the moment. Are they gone?" he added in a yet more

subdued and gentle tone. Caleb informed him of what he had seen; and as

he did so, the strange light in the old man's eyes seemed to quiver and

sparkle with a yet intenser emotion than before. Presently he shaded

them with his hand, and remained several minutes silent. He then said

with a firmer voice: "I shall be glad if you will step to Mr. Sowerby,

and tell him I am too unwell to see him this evening. But be sure to say

nothing else," he eagerly added, as Caleb turned away in compliance with

his request; "and when you come back, let me see you again."

When Jennings returned, he found to his great surprise Mr. Lisle up and

nearly dressed; and his astonishment increased a hundredfold upon

hearing that gentleman say, in a quick but perfectly collected and

decided manner, that he should set off for London by the mail-train.

"For London--and by night!" exclaimed Caleb, scarcely sure that he heard

aright.

"Yes--yes, I shall not be observed in the dark," sharply rejoined Mr.

Lisle; "and you, Caleb, must keep my secret from every body, especially

from Sowerby. I shall be here in time to see him to-morrow night, and he

will be none the wiser." This was said with a slight chuckle; and as

soon as his simple preparations were complete, Mr. Lisle, well wrapped

up, and his face almost hidden by shawls, locked his door, and assisted

by Jennings, stole furtively down stairs, and reached unrecognized the

rail way station just in time for the train.

It was quite dark the next evening when Mr. Lisle returned; and so well

had he managed that Mr. Sowerby, who paid his usual visit about half an

hour afterward, had evidently heard nothing of the suspicious absence of

his esteemed client from Watley. The old man exulted over the success of

his deception to Caleb the next morning, but dropped no hint as to the

object of his sudden journey.

Three days passed without the occurrence of any incident tending to the

enlightenment of Mr. Jennings upon these mysterious events, which,

however, he plainly saw had lamentably shaken the long-since failing

man. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Mr. Lisle walked, or rather

tottered, into Caleb's stall, and seated himself on the only vacant

stool it contained. His manner was confused, and frequently purposeless,

and there was an anxious, flurried expression in his face which Jennings

did not at all like. He remained silent for some time, with the

exception of partially inaudible snatches of comment or questionings,

apparently addressed to himself. At last he said: "I shall take a longer

journey to-morrow, Caleb--much longer: let me see--where did I say? Ah,

yes! to Glasgow; to be sure, to Glasgow!"

"To Glasgow, and to-morrow!" exclaimed the astounded cobbler.

"No, no--not Glasgow; they have removed," feebly rejoined Mr. Lisle.

"But Lucy has written it down for me. True--true; and to-morrow I shall

set out."

The strange expression of Mr. Lisle's face became momentarily more

strongly marked, and Jennings, greatly alarmed, said: "You are ill, Mr.

Lisle; let me run for Dr. Clarke."

"No--no," he murmured, at the same time striving to rise from his seat,

which he could only accomplish by Caleb's assistance, and so supported,

he staggered indoors. "I shall be better to morrow," he said faintly,

and then slowly added: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow! Ah, me!

Yes, as I said, to-morrow, I--" He paused abruptly, and they gained his

apartment. He seated himself, and then Jennings, at his mute

solicitation, assisted him to bed.

He lay some time with his eyes closed; and Caleb could feel--for Mr.

Lisle held him firmly by the hand, as if to prevent his going away--a

convulsive shudder pass over his frame. At last he slowly opened his

eyes, and Caleb saw that he was indeed about to depart upon the long

journey from which there is no return. The lips of the dying man worked

inarticulately for some moments; and then with a mighty effort, as it

seemed, he said, while his trembling hand pointed feebly to a bureau

chest of drawers that stood in the room: "There--there, for Lucy; there,

the secret place is--" Some inaudible words followed, and then after a

still mightier struggle than before, he gasped out: "No word--no

word--to--to Sowerby--for her--Lucy."

More was said, but undistinguishable by mortal ear; and after gazing

with an expression of indescribable anxiety in the scared face of his

awestruck listener, the wearied eyes slowly reclosed--the deep silence

flowed past; then the convulsive shudder came again, and he was dead!

Caleb Jennings tremblingly summoned the house-servant and the landlady,

and was still confusedly pondering the broken sentences uttered by the

dying man, when Mr. Sowerby hurriedly arrived. The attorney's first care

was to assume the direction of affairs, and to place seals upon every

article containing or likely to contain any thing of value belonging to

the deceased. This done, he went away to give directions for the

funeral, which took place a few days afterward; and it was then formally

announced that Mr. Sowerby succeeded by will to the large property of

Ambrose Lisle; under trust, however, for the family, if any, of Robert

Lisle, the deceased's brother, who had gone when very young to India,

and had not been heard of for many years--a condition which did not at

all mar the joy of the crafty lawyer, he having long since instituted

private inquiries, which perfectly satisfied him that the said Robert

Lisle had died, unmarried, at Calcutta.

Mr. Jennings was in a state of great dubiety and consternation. Sowerby

had emptied the chest of drawers of every valuable it contained; and

unless he had missed the secret receptacle Mr. Lisle had spoken of, the

deceased's intentions, whatever they might have been, were clearly

defeated. And if he had _not_ discovered it, how could he, Jennings, get

at the drawers to examine them? A fortunate chance brought some relief

to his perplexities. Ambrose Lisle's furniture was advertised to be sold

by auction, and Caleb resolved to purchase the bureau chest of drawers

at almost any price, although to do so would oblige him to break into

his rent-money, then nearly due. The day of sale came, and the important

lot in its turn was put up. In one of the drawers there were a number of

loose newspapers, and other valueless scraps; and Caleb, with a sly

grin, asked the auctioneer if he sold the article with all its contents.

"Oh yes," said Sowerby, who was watching the sale; "the buyer may have

all it contains over his bargain, and much good may it do him." A laugh

followed the attorney's sneering remark, and the biddings went on. "I

want it," observed Caleb, "because it just fits a recess like this one

in my room underneath." This he said to quiet a suspicion he thought he

saw gathering upon the attorney's brow. It was finally knocked down to

Caleb at L5, 10s., a sum considerably beyond its real value; and he had

to borrow a sovereign in order to clear his speculative purchase. This

done, he carried off his prize, and as soon as the closing of the house

for the night secured him from interruption, he set eagerly to work in

search of the secret drawer. A long and patient examination was richly

rewarded. Behind one of the small drawers of the _secretaire_ portion of

the piece of furniture was another small one, curiously concealed, which

contained Bank-of-England notes to the amount of L200, tied up with a

letter, upon the back of which was written, in the deceased's

handwriting, "To take with me." The letter which Caleb, although he read

print with facility, had much difficulty in making out, was that which

Mr. Lisle had struck from the young woman's hand a few weeks before and

proved to be a very affecting appeal from Lucy Stevens, now Lucy Warner,

and a widow, with two grown-up children. Her husband had died in

insolvent circumstances, and she and her sister Emily, who was still

single, were endeavoring to carry on a school at Bristol, which promised

to be sufficiently prosperous if the sum of about L150 could be raised,

to save the furniture from her deceased husband's creditors. The claim

was pressing, for Mr. Warner had been dead nearly a year, and Mr. Lisle

being the only relative Mrs. Warner had in the world, she had ventured

to entreat his assistance for her mother's sake. There could be no moral

doubt, therefore, that this money was intended for Mrs. Warner's relief;

and early in the morning Mr. Caleb Jennings dressed himself in his

Sunday's suit, and with a brief announcement to his landlady that he was

about to leave Watley for a day or two on a visit to a friend, set off

for the railway station. He had not proceeded far when a difficulty

struck him: the bank-notes were all twenties; and were he to change a

twenty-pound note at the station, where he was well known, great would

be the tattle and wonderment, if nothing worse, that would ensue. So

Caleb tried his credit again, borrowed sufficient for his journey to

London, and there changed one of the notes.

He soon reached Bristol, and blessed was the relief which the sum of

money he brought afforded Mrs. Warner. She expressed much sorrow for the

death of Mr. Lisle, and great gratitude to Caleb. The worthy man

accepted with some reluctance one of the notes, or at least as much as

remained of that which he had changed; and after exchanging promises

with the widow and her relatives to keep the matter secret, departed

homeward. The young woman, Mrs. Warner's daughter, who had brought the

letter to Watley, was, Caleb noticed, the very image of her mother, or

rather of what her mother must have been when young. This remarkable

resemblance it was, no doubt, which had for the moment so confounded and

agitated Mr. Lisle.

Nothing occurred for about a fortnight after Caleb's return to disquiet

him, and he had begun to feel tolerably sure that his discovery of the

notes would remain unsuspected, when, one afternoon, the sudden and

impetuous entrance of Mr. Sowerby into his stall caused him to jump up

from his seat with surprise and alarm. The attorney's face was deathly

white, his eyes glared like a wild beast's, and his whole appearance

exhibited uncontrollable agitation. "A word with you, Mr. Jennings," he

gasped--"a word in private, and at once!" Caleb, in scarcely less

consternation than his visitor, led the way into his inner room, and

closed the door.

"Restore--give back," screamed the attorney, vainly struggling to

dissemble the agitation which convulsed him--"that--that--which you have

purloined from the chest of drawers!"

The hot blood rushed to Caleb's face and temples; the wild vehemence and

suddeness of the demand confounded him; and certain previous dim

suspicions that the law might not only pronounce what he had done

illegal, but possibly felonious, returned upon him with terrible force,

and he quite lost his presence of mind.

"I can't--I can't," he stammered. "It's gone--given away--"

"Gone!" shouted, or more correctly howled, Sowerby, at the same time

flying at Caleb's throat as if he would throttle him. "Gone--given away!

You lie--you want to drive a bargain with

me--dog!--liar!--rascal!--thief!"

This was a species of attack which Jennings was at no loss how to meet.

He shook the attorney roughly off, and hurled him, in the midst of his

vituperation, to the further end of the room.

They then stood glaring at each other in silence, till the attorney,

mastering himself as well as he could, essayed another and more rational

mode of attaining his purpose.

"Come, come, Jennings," he said, "don't be a fool. Let us understand

each other. I have just discovered a paper, a memorandum of what you

have found in the drawers, and to obtain which you bought them. I don't

care for the money--keep it; only give me the papers--documents."

"Papers--documents!" ejaculated Caleb in unfeigned surprise.

"Yes--yes; of use to me only. You, I remember, can not read writing; but

they are of great consequence to me--to me only, I tell you."

"You can't mean Mrs. Warner's letter?"

"No--no; curse the letter! You are playing with a tiger! Keep the money,

I tell you; but give up the papers--documents--or I'll transport you!"

shouted Sowerby with reviving fury.

Caleb, thoroughly bewildered, could only mechanically ejaculate that he

had no papers or documents.

The rage of the attorney when he found he could extract nothing from

Jennings was frightful. He literally foamed with passion, uttered the

wildest threats; and then suddenly changing his key, offered the

astounded cobbler one--two--three thousand pounds: any sum he chose to

name, for the papers--documents! This scene of alternate violence and

cajolery lasted nearly an hour; and then Sowerby rushed from the house,

as if pursued by the furies, and leaving his auditor in a state of

thorough bewilderment and dismay. It occurred to Caleb, as soon as his

mind had settled into something like order, that there might be another

secret drawer; and the recollection of Mr. Lisle's journey to London

recurred suggestively to him. Another long and eager search, however,

proved fruitless; and the suspicion was given up, or, more correctly,

weakened.

As soon as it was light the next morning, Mr. Sowerby was again with

him. He was more guarded now, and was at length convinced that Jennings

had no paper or document to give up. "It was only some important

memoranda," observed the attorney carelessly, "that would save me a

world of trouble in a lawsuit I shall have to bring against some heavy

debtors to Mr. Lisle's estate; but I must do as well as I can without

them. Good-morning." Just as he reached the door, a sudden thought

appeared to strike him. He stopped, and said: "By the way, Jennings, in

the hurry of business I forgot that Mr. Lisle had told me the chest of

drawers you bought, and a few other articles, were family relics which

he wished to be given to certain parties he named. The other things I

have got; and you, I suppose, will let me have the drawers for--say a

pound profit on your bargain?"

Caleb was not the acutest man in the world; but this sudden proposition,

carelessly as it was made, suggested curious thoughts. "No," he

answered; "I shall not part with it. I shall keep it as a memorial of

Mr. Lisle."

Sowerby's face assumed, as Caleb spoke, a ferocious expression. "Shall

you?" said he. "Then be sure, my fine fellow, that you shall also have

something to remember me by as long as you live!"

He then went away, and a few days afterward Caleb was served with a writ

for the recovery of the two hundred pounds.

The affair made a great noise in the place; and Caleb's conduct being

very generally approved, a subscription was set on foot to defray the

cost of defending the action--one Hayling, a rival attorney to Sowerby,

having asserted that the words used by the proprietor of the chest of

drawers at the sale barred his claim to the money found in them. This

wise gentleman was intrusted with the defense; and, strange to say, the

jury--a common one--spite of the direction of the judge, returned a

verdict for the defendant, upon the ground that Sowerby's jocular or

sneering remark amounted to a serious, valid leave and license to sell

two hundred pounds for five pounds ten shillings!

Sowerby obtained, as a matter of course, a rule for a new trial; and a

fresh action was brought. All at once Hayling refused to go on, alleging

deficiency of funds. He told Jennings that in his opinion it would be

better that he should give in to Sowerby's whim, who only wanted the

drawers in order to comply with the testator's wishes. "Besides,"

remarked Hayling in conclusion, "he is sure to get the article, you

know, when it comes to be sold under a writ of _fi fa_." A few days

after this conversation, it was ascertained that Hayling was to succeed

to Sowerby's business, the latter gentleman being about to retire upon

the fortune bequeathed him by Mr. Lisle.

At last Caleb, driven nearly out of his senses, though still doggedly

obstinate, by the harassing perplexities in which he found himself,

thought of applying to us.

"A very curious affair, upon my word," remarked Mr. Flint, as soon as

Caleb had unburdened himself of the story of his woes and cares; "and in

my opinion by no means explainable by Sowerby's anxiety to fulfill the

testator's wishes. He can not expect to get two hundred pence out of

you; and Mrs. Warner, you say, is equally unable to pay. Very odd

indeed. Perhaps if we could get time, something might turn up."

With this view Flint looked over the papers Caleb had brought, and found

the declaration was in _trover_--a manifest error--the notes never

admittedly having been in Sowerby's actual possession. We accordingly

demurred to the form of action, and the proceedings were set aside.

This, however, proved of no ultimate benefit. Sowerby persevered, and a

fresh action was instituted against the unhappy shoemender. So utterly

overcrowed and disconsolate was poor Caleb, that he determined to give

up the drawers, which was all Sowerby even now required, and so wash his

hands of the unfortunate business. Previous, however, to this being

done, it was determined that another thorough and scientific examination

of the mysterious piece of furniture should be made; and for this

purpose Mr. Flint obtained a workman skilled in the mysteries of secret

contrivances, from the desk and dressing-case establishment in

King-street, Holborn, and proceeded with him to Watley.

The man performed his task with great care and skill: every depth and

width was gauged and measured, in order to ascertain if there were any

false bottoms or backs; and the workman finally pronounced that there

was no concealed receptacle in the article.

"I am sure there is," persisted Flint, whom disappointment as usual

rendered but the more obstinate; "and so is Sowerby: and he knows, too,

that it is so cunningly contrived as to be undiscoverable, except by a

person in the secret, which he no doubt at first imagined Caleb to be.

I'll tell you what we'll do: You have the necessary tools with you.

Split the confounded chest of drawers into shreds: I'll be answerable

for the consequences."

This was done carefully and methodically, but for some time without

result. At length the large drawer next the floor had to be knocked to

pieces; and as it fell apart, one section of the bottom, which, like all

the others, was divided into two compartments, dropped asunder, and

discovered a parchment laid flat between the two thin leaves, which,

when pressed together in the grooves of the drawer, presented precisely

the same appearance as the rest. Flint snatched up the parchment, and

his eager eye had scarcely rested an instant on the writing, when a

shout of triumph burst from him. It was the last will and testament of

Ambrose Lisle, dated August 21, 1838--the day of his last hurried visit

to London. It revoked the former will, and bequeathed the whole of his

property, in equal portions, to his cousins Lucy Warner and Emily

Stevens, with succession to their children; but with reservation of

one-half to his brother Robert or children, should he be alive, or have

left offspring.

Great, it may be supposed, was the jubilation of Caleb Jennings at this

discovery; and all Watley, by his agency, was in a marvelously short

space of time in a very similar state of excitement. It was very late

that night when he reached his bed; and how he got there at all, and

what precisely had happened, except, indeed, that he had somewhere

picked up a splitting headache, was, for some time after he awoke the

next morning, very confusedly remembered.

Mr. Flint, upon reflection, was by no means so exultant as the worthy

shoemender. The odd mode of packing away a deed of such importance, with

no assignable motive for doing so, except the needless awe with which

Sowerby was said to have inspired his feeble-spirited client, together

with what Caleb had said of the shattered state of the deceased's mind

after the interview with Mrs. Warner's daughter, suggested fears that

Sowerby might dispute, and perhaps successfully, the validity of this

last will. My excellent partner, however, determined, as was his wont,

to put a bold face on the matter; and first clearly settling in his own

mind what he should and what he should _not_ say, waited upon Mr.

Sowerby. The news had preceded him, and he was at once surprised and

delighted to find that the nervous, crest-fallen attorney was quite

unaware of the advantages of his position. On condition of not being

called to account for the moneys he had received and expended, about

L1200, he destroyed the former will in Mr. Flint's presence, and gave up

at once all the deceased's papers. From these we learned that Mr. Lisle

had written a letter to Mrs. Warner, stating what he had done, and where

the will would be found, and that only herself and Jennings would know

the secret. From infirmity of purpose, or from having subsequently

determined on a personal interview, the letter was not posted; and

Sowerby subsequently discovered it, together with a memorandum of the

numbers of the bank notes found by Caleb in the secret drawer--the

eccentric gentleman appears to have had quite a mania for such

hiding-places--of a writing-desk.

The affair was thus happily terminated: Mrs. Warner, her children, and

sister, were enriched, and Caleb Jennings was set up in a good way of

business in his native place, where he still flourishes. Over the centre

of his shop there is a large nondescript sign, surmounted by a golden

boot, which, upon close inspection, is found to bear some resemblance to

a huge bureau chest of drawers, all the circumstances connected with

which may be heard, for the asking, and in much fuller detail than I

have given, from the lips of the owner of the establishment, by any lady

or gentleman who will take the trouble of a journey to Watley for that

purpose.

VILLAGE LIFE IN GERMANY.

THE CLUB.

Lesmona possesses a club. Its meetings are suspended during summer, but

are resumed as autumn wanes. Professedly, it is a whist club; but

card-playing is in reality the least of its objects, its chief intention

being to cultivate a kindly feeling among the inhabitants of the village

and the neighborhood, by bringing them periodically together. I was duly

balloted for and admitted. On the Friday evening after this honor was

conferred on me, I was introduced. The meetings were held in Meyerholz's

inn, and in the same apartment which had served as a ball-room. Here I

found a dozen or fifteen of the notabilities of the place assembled. In

a short time they assorted themselves, and sat down, some to whist, some

to chess, while others contented themselves with looking on. The points

at whist were fixed at a grote, about equivalent to a halfpenny--any

higher play would have been considered gambling, and would have been

regarded with extreme disfavor. Doctor W----'s phrase, "To be, or not to

be," was, I now found, the usual signal for the end as well as the

beginning of the game. Wine, and still more commonly beer, were imbibed

during the course of it. The wine usually drank in that part of the

world is French wine--St. Julian or some other Bordeaux wine is the

commonest. Rhenish wine is very rare. Some indulged in what they called

"grogs"--a "grog" is a small tumbler of brandy-punch. Almost all smoked;

indeed the pastor of the village was the only person in it who never

did. The pipe was much preferred to the cigar, the smoke from the latter

being apt to be troublesome when the hands are engaged. Of course the

pipe was the long German one, consisting of mouth-piece, flexible tube,

polished or cherry-tree stem, schwammdose or receiver, and the more or

less ornamented head or bowl. Since I am speaking of pipes, I may

mention that in Germany every smoker possesses several--and these, of

course, vary much in length, calibre, and value. There is abundant

opportunity of displaying the owner's taste. Some have their armorial

bearings painted on the bowl. Among students, again, it is common to

present a friend with a bowl bearing one's likeness, the said likeness

being a _silhouette_ or shade in profile. There are, of course, all the

other varieties of bowl; some have female figures, others landscapes or

public buildings, others the likenesses of well-known characters--John

Ronge was rather a favorite at the time I speak of. As to the stem, the

most esteemed are those of the cherry-tree, brought from the Vistula.

These stems disengage a pleasant odor.

But to return. "To be, or not to be," says Dr. W---- as he rises. The

rest of the party finish their games, and think of supper. It is a

slight repast; each orders what he chooses, and there is no set table. A

beefsteak or a sandwich are the most common viands. The German

expression for sandwich, by the way, is rather circumlocutory--the

literal translation of it is, "a butter-bread-with-meat;" it is like

some of the other composite terms in that language which strike a

beginner as being so odd--_hand-shoes_, for instance, or _finger-hat_,

for gloves and a thimble.

The club used to meet every Friday. Each alternate week, however, we had

what was called a ladies' club. On these occasions, the female portions

of the families of members were entitled to be present. The only other

difference was, that, when ladies came, the gentlemen abstained from

smoking pipes, and confined themselves to cigars.

But it is time to break up. Cloaks and great-coats are donned. There is

a lighting of lanterns, for the roads are dark, and some of us have a

considerable way to go. We separate with a simultaneous "Good-night--may

you sleep well."

A TEMPERANCE MEETING.

A temperance meeting was announced as being about to be held at a

village called Blumenthal, situated a few miles from Lesmona. On the

appointed day, I proceeded thither with some friends. On our arrival at

the place, we found a large canvas-covered booth erected on the border

of an extensive wood; this booth was open on every side, being meant as

a protection only against the rays of the sun. Adjacent was an inn, a

solitary house, the village being at some little distance. Entering

here, I was not a little surprised to find the majority of the promoters

of temperance drinking wine. It was just ten o'clock of the forenoon.

The fact, however, was, first, that many had come from a considerable

distance, and stood in need of some refreshment, and secondly, that the

pledge given on entering the society went no further than a promise to

abstain from ardent spirits. Total abstinence seems not to find much

favor in Germany, and the efforts of the Maessigkeit-Verein are directed

almost entirely against the use of the deadly branntwein of the country.

This branntwein is made from the potato, and is not merely intoxicating,

but, even in small quantities, is of a most pernicious effect on the

human system, destroying the stomach, and affecting the nerves, even

when far from being indulged in to any thing like excess.

At last the meeting began. A clergyman opened it with a short prayer,

and then the assembly sang a temperance hymn. The air to which it was

adapted was no other than our National Anthem--which, by the way, the

Germans fondly but erroneously claim as a German composition. Then came

the usual succession of speeches, then another hymn, and then the

meeting, it being past noon, adjourned for dinner. The meal was served

in the inn, and also in booths similar to that constructed for the

meeting; but many had brought their provisions with them, and stretched

themselves on the turf under the shade of the forest. Altogether--and

especially as a large number of women had attended, and these of all

classes, from the peasant in gaudy colors to the more simply-dressed

lady--the scene was most picturesque: it looked like a pic-nic on a

great scale. After dinner, there were more speeches and more music. The

speeches tired me, and I wandered into the wood, where I found the music

much improved by being heard at a distance. The fact is, that the

country people in this part of Germany are any thing but the proficients

in music, which, according to the idea commonly entertained on the

subject in Britain, all Germans are. They, on the contrary, know

scarcely any thing whatever of the art; even in the churches,

part-singing is unknown. While I was at Lesmona, the pastor of that

place had indeed begun to instruct the children of his parish in

psalmody, and, as he is perfectly competent to do so, a change may

ultimately be effected; but in my time the church music was absolutely

painful to listen to; the vocal was deafening and discordant, and, as

for the instrumental, I shall not to my dying day forget the inhuman

turn which old Mr. Mueller the organist introduced, and with evident

complacency, too, at the end of every two or three bars. Even among the

upper classes in the country, music is but scantily cultivated. In

Lesmona, for instance, one family, and one alone, paid any attention to

the art. That family, however--all its members included--had attained to

a very high degree of excellence in it. In the large towns, on the other

hand, the case is very different. In Bremen, for example, I heard the

Paulus of Mendelssohn given entirely by amateurs, and both in the

choruses, and in the solos, the finish of the performance was perfect.

In the neighborhood of Hamburg, too, I have met small companies of

workmen from the town enjoying a short walk into the country, and

singing in parts with admirable precision and _ensemble_.

But to return to Blumenthal. The meeting at last broke up. As soon as it

did, a fire balloon was sent up. What connection, however, this had with

the objects of the assembly, I never was able to ascertain.

Since I have introduced the word Verein--union, or society--I may notice

one of another kind, a branch of which had its head-quarters at Lesmona.

I mean the Gustavus-Adolphus Society. Its object is to unite by a common

bond the common Protestantism of Germany. I have not heard lately of its

progress and success, but I always greatly doubted of its possibility,

and am convinced it can not endure, on its original footing at least. On

what common ground (unless it be a negative one, and that is worth

nothing), can the evangelical party and the rationalists take their

stand? Even while I was in Lesmona, the elements of discord had begun to

show themselves; for in that remote nook were found keen partisans; and

it was only by a compromise effected with the greatest difficulty that

the Lesmona branch of the union did not fall to pieces before it was

completely established. And, as for the compromise, such things never

last long.

EVENING PARTIES.

I found the inhabitants of Lesmona exceedingly hospitable. It is the

custom in that part of the world for any new-comer to pay a visit to

those people of the place, to whom he desires to make himself known. It

is in their option to return the visit or not. If the visit is not

returned, it is understood that the honor and pleasure and so forth of

your visit is declined; if, on the contrary, even a card is left for you

within a few days, you may count on the friendship of the family.

One of the first visits I made was to Dr. W----. As is usual, I was

offered coffee and a cigar. When they were finished, and my small-talk

exhausted, I took my leave, after what I thought a somewhat stiff

interview. Indeed I almost regretted I had gone. So much for first

impressions. I changed my mind, when within a very few days I received a

kind invitation to an evening party at the worthy doctor's house. Doctor

W----, as I found out when I came to know him, was quite a _character_.

Bred to the bar, he was soon found totally unqualified for his

profession, from the extraordinary benevolence of his nature. Instead of

seeking for practice, he did all he could to prevent his clients from

going to law. The consequence was, that, whatever may have been the

rewards of his conscience, his profession gave him but few. Finding,

therefore, that he had mistaken his vocation, and that his purse

remonstrated strongly against his continuing in the pursuit of forensic

distinction, he wisely abandoned the line he had at first chosen, and

accepted the post of chief custom-house-officer on the frontier of

Hanover and Bremen. Here, modestly but comfortably settled, he gave his

leisure hours to the study of history, and, in a congenial retirement,

soon found himself quite happy. He soon became remarkable for the

accuracy of his information, and more especially for his acquaintance

with minute points and details. Thus, for example, when on his return

from his journey to Marienbad, to which I have already alluded, he

visited the town and field of battle of Leipsic, he found himself as

much at home, with regard to the topography, as did the very guide he

had engaged to point out the places rendered famous by the great fight.

On the evening appointed, I duly made my appearance in Madame W----'s

saloon or drawing-room. It was the handsomest I saw in the country, and

possessed a carpet. In general, this article, so indispensable to

English comfort, is represented, and that indeed but barely, by a few

straw mats scattered about. Tea was handed round. This the Germans drink

with cream, or wine, or neither. It is esteemed a great luxury, as it

costs dear, but they make it so weak, that there is not an old woman in

England who would not regard it with contempt. After tea, we began to

play at what they call company-games. Many of these are identical with

our own inn-door amusements. Thus, they have hide-the-handkerchief,

blind-man's-buff (which they call _the blind cow_), and many others.

One, however, seems to me quite peculiar, not merely to Germany, but to

this part of it. It is called _Luitye lebt noch_--literally, _the little

fellow is still alive_. _Luitye_ is Plattdeutsch, or low German, the

dialect, as I have already said, of this district. The game is played

thus: The party form a circle. Some splints of wood, three or four

inches long, have been provided. One of these is lighted, and blown out

again in a few seconds. This is _luitye_. There is, of course, for some

little time, a part of the charcoal which remains red. The stick is

passed from hand to hand, each player, as he gives it to his neighbor,

exclaiming, "Luitye lebt noch!" He or she in whose hands it is finally

extinguished has to pay a forfeit. No one can refuse it when offered;

and one of the most amusing parts of the matter is to hold luitye--the

little fellow--till he is on the very point of expiring, and then to

force him on the person next you, so that he goes out before he can get

him further. It is, however, more amusing still, when he who would thus

victimize his friend delays too long, and is himself caught.

After this, and some other German games, which I did not much enjoy, as

they consisted chiefly in the repetition of certain formal phrases,

without much meaning, we acted charades--not very successfully, I must

admit. Then we seated ourselves round a table, in the middle of which a

piece of light cotton was placed. At this we all began to blow fiercely,

and a tempest arose, on which the cotton was tossed about in all

directions. When it finally found refuge on the person of any of us, the

recipient was condemned to a forfeit. This game is entertaining enough,

and was carried on amidst much boisterous puffing and laughing, till

suddenly the cotton mysteriously disappeared. It appeared it had

actually been carried into the open mouth of a gentleman, whose powers

had been so severely taxed that he had lost his wind. This put an end to

the amusement, and we proceeded to draw the forfeits.

Then we had supper. It was a less substantial and more judicious meal

than I had generally seen in the neighborhood. It was also a more

ambitious one; not a few of the dishes were disguised with the artistic

skill which is the pride of modern cookery. In particular, I remember

that I accepted a spoonful of what I thought was a composition of

raspberries, strawberries, and red currant jelly. It turned out to be a

sort of hashed lobster pickle. Shortly after supper we broke up.

In such parties, I should remark that all present took part in them,

from the oldest to the youngest. What distinguished them most, besides

this, was a kind of homely cheerfulness that was quite delightful. Every

one came in good humor, and resolved to enjoy himself. And in this it

was very evident all succeeded. I never saw any dancing at any of these

soirees, and rarely was there any music. When, however, there was any of

the latter, it was excellent. I shall not soon forget the way in which

the music of Schiller's "Founding of the Bell" was performed by some of

my Lesmona and Ritterhude friends.

A PEEP AT THE "PERAHARRA."

Of the religious festivals of the Buddhists of Ceylon, that known as the

Peraharra is the most important. It is observed at Kandy, the capital of

the ancient kings of Ceylon, and at Ratnapoora, the chief town of the

Saffragam district. Few good Buddhists will be absent from these

religious observances; and whole families may be seen journeying on foot

for many miles, over mountains, through dense jungles and unwholesome

swamps, across rapid and dangerous streams, along hot sandy pathways,

loaded with their pittance of food and the more bulky presents of fruit,

rice, oil, and flowers, to lay at the foot of the holy shrine of Buddha,

to be eventually devoured by the insatiable priests.

In the month of July, 1840, I had a peep at the celebrated Peraharra of

Ratnapoora, where the shrine sacred to the memory of _Saman_ rivals in

attraction the great _Dalada Maligawa_ of Kandy. Like its mountain

competitor, it has its relic of Buddha enshrined in a richly-jeweled

casket, which is made an object of especial veneration to the votaries

of that god. _Saman_ was the brother of the famed Rama, the Malabar

conqueror who invaded Ceylon in ages long past, and extirpated from its

flowery shores the race of mighty giants who had held its people in

subjection for many centuries--a sort of Oriental King Arthur. To Saman

was given the district of Saffragam; and the people of that country at

his death, promoted him to the dignity of a deity, as a slight token of

their regard.

The Ratnapoora festival is the more attractive by reason of its being

made the occasion of a large traffic in precious stones, with which the

neighborhood abounds. In this way the great part of the Buddhists manage

to combine commerce with devotion.

The road to the Saffragam district was, in the time at which I traveled

it, a very barbarous and dangerous affair, differing widely from the

excellent traces which existed through most of the maritime provinces of

Ceylon. It was then, in fact, little more than a mere bullock-track, or

bridle-path, with no bridges to aid in crossing the streams which

intersect it. The journey from Colombo to Ratnapoora may now be easily

performed in one day: at that time it required a good nag and careful

diligence to accomplish it in two.

Day dawned as I got clear of the Pettah, or Black Town of Colombo, and

crossed a small stream which led me to the jungle, or village road, I

was to follow. In England, we should call such a muddy lane; but here

one knows little between the good high roads and the bullock-track.

Strange as it may sound to home travelers, one is often glad to see the

sun rise, and feel it warm the heavy, damp air in the tropics. Before me

lay a long straggling line of low jungle, indicating the road: far away

in the distance rose the high, bluff hill and rocks towering over the

once royal domain of _Avishawella_. Around, on every side, was water,

completely hiding the fields from view, and only allowing a bush, or a

tree, or a hut-top, to be seen peeping up through the aqueous vail,

dotting the wide expanse like daisies in a field. The rains had flooded

the whole of the low country, which, inundated by many mountain

torrents, could not discharge the mass of streams nearly so fast as it

received them. Over and across all this watery wilderness huge masses of

misty vapor came rolling and tumbling along, as though shrouding some

Titanic water-sprites who had been keeping it up rather late the night

before, and were not quite sure of the way home. One might have

imagined, indeed, that it was some universal washing-day, and that the

great lid of the national copper had just been lifted up.

As the sun rose above the line of black rocks in the distance, its rays

lit up those misty monsters of the flood, imparting to them life-like

tints, which gave them beauty, and forms they had not known before. As

these sun-lit fogs rolled on, a thousand shapes moved fitfully among

them: troops of wild horsemen; crystal palaces with gilded gates; grim

figures playing at bopeep; hills, towns, and castles; with many a ship

at sea, and lovely cottages in quiet, sunny glades; all these, and more,

seemed there. With the sea-breeze, all that array of cloudy creatures

departed, leaving the air hot and stifling from the reflection of the

sun's rays in the endless flood above me. But where were the poor

Singalese villagers, their families, and their goods, amidst all this

wreck? As I jogged along, the cry of a child, the crowing of a cock, the

bark of a dog, floated across the ocean of mist, but whence came they? I

looked to the right and to the left. I strained my eyes straightforward,

but not a soul, or a feather, or a snout was to be seen. Presently the

fog cleared away, and I could see overhead into the trees. There,

chairs, tables, chatties, paddy-pounders, boxes of clothes, children in

cots, men, women, cats, dogs, all were there in one strange medley,

curiously ensconced among the wide-spreading branches of the trees. Over

their heads, and on each side, mats and cocoa-nut leaves were hung to

keep off rain and damp fogs, while against each side of the tree was

placed a thick notched stick, which served as a ladder for the whole

party. Here and there canoes were to be seen paddled across the fields

to keep up communication between the different villages. It was a

strange but desolate spectacle, and I was glad to find myself, at last,

free from the watery neighborhood, and once more riding on _terra

firma_.

During the heat of the next day I turned aside to a shady green lane. A

mile along this quiet pathway I was tempted to rest myself at the mouth

of a dark-looking cave, by the side of a running stream of beautiful

water. Tying my pony to a bush, I entered at the low archway, and found

myself at once in utter darkness; but after a short time I began to

distinguish objects, and then saw, close to me, one whom I should have

least looked for in that strange, desolate spot. It was a Chinese, tail

and all. My first idea was, as I looked at the figure through the dim

light of the cave, that it was nothing more than a large China jar, or,

perhaps a huge tea-chest, left there by some traveler; but, when the

great, round face relaxed into a grin, and the little pea-like eyes

winked, and the tail moved, and the thick lips uttered broken English, I

took a proper view of the matter, and wished my cavern acquaintance

"good-morning." I soon gathered the occupation of See Chee in this

strange place; the cave we were then in was one of the many in that

neighborhood, in which a particular kind of swallow builds the edible

nests so highly prized by the Chinese and Japanese for conversion into

soups, stews, and, for aught we know, into tarts. The Chinaman told me,

what I was scarcely prepared to learn, that he rented from the Ceylon

government the privilege to seek these birds' nests in this district,

for which he paid the yearly sum of one hundred dollars, or seven

pounds, ten shillings. Procuring a _chule_, or native torch, the Chinese

nest-hunter showed me long ledges of shelving rock at the top of the

cavern, whereon whole legions of curious little gummy-like excrescences

were suspended; some were perfect nests, others were in course of

formation, and these latter I learned were the most valued; those which

had had the young birds reared in them being indifferently thought of,

and were only bought by the lower orders of soup-makers. Having rested

myself and pony, I once more pushed on for Ratnapoora, where I arrived,

heated, jaded, and dusty, by high noon.

A chattie bath seldom fails to refresh the Indian traveler, and fit him

for the enjoyment of his meal. In the cool of the evening I strolled out

to watch the preparations for the nightly festivities. These continue

for about a fortnight, chiefly after sunset, though devotees may be seen

laying their simple offerings at the foot of the shrine, during most

part of the afternoon. The little bazaar of the town was alive with

business; all vestiges of its wonted filth and wretchedness were hidden

beneath long strips of white linen, and garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and

flowers hung round by bands of bright red cloth. Piles of tempting wares

were there; beads, bangles, and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and

sweetmeats to eat, and innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in

profuse array. The streets and lanes poured forth long strings of human

beings, heated with the sun, flushed with drink, and bedizened with

trumpery jewelry and mock finery. Poor tillers of the soil; beggarly

fishermen; mendicant cinnamon peelers; half-starved coolies; lean,

sickly women, and poor, immature children, passed onward in the motley

throng, burying their every-day misery beneath the savage mirth of a

night or two at the Peraharra.

Following the living, dark stream, as closely as the heat, dust, and

strange odors would allow me, I arrived, at length, near to the Temple

of Saman. The edifice, of which I caught a distant glimpse, was half

concealed beneath the heavy, luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes,

arekas, plantains, and banyan trees. An ocean of human heads filled up

the space around the building, from which proceeded the well-known

sounds of the reed and the tom-tom. Gay flags fluttered from the four

corners, and the lofty pinnacle in the centre; wreaths of flowers,

plaited leaves and ribbons of many colors, waved jauntily from roof to

door; while round the pillars of the walls and door posts clustered rich

bunches of most tempting fruit.

Close by this busy scene, another group was forming under a large and

lofty _Pandahl_, or open bungalow. Forcing my way to one corner of the

shed, I found a company of Indian jugglers consisting of two men, a

girl, and a child of perhaps three years. The men were habited in

strange uncouth dresses, with large strings of heavy black beads round

their necks; the girl was simply and neatly clad in white, with silver

bangles and anklets, and a necklace of native diamonds. It would be

impossible to detail all their extraordinary performances, which far

exceeded any thing I had ever read of their art. The quantity of iron

and brass ware which they contrived to swallow was truly marvelous;

ten-penny nails, clasp-knives, gimlets, were all treated as so many

items of pastry or confectionary, and I could but picture to myself the

havoc a dozen of these cormorants would commit in an ironmonger's shop.

Not the least remarkable of their feats was that of producing a sheet of

water upon the sand close at our feet; and, after conjuring upon its

clear surface half-a-dozen young ducks and geese, suddenly causing it to

freeze in such a solid mass as to allow of our walking across it without

causing so much as a crack in its crystal body. One more feat I must

relate; which was that of suspending the girl while seated on a sort of

ottoman, to the ridge-pole of the shed; and, at a given signal, removing

the rope by which she hung, leaving her still suspended in the air--not

with a regular apparatus, such as is used by the performers of a similar

trick in London and Paris, but apparently with no apparatus at all! For,

to my exceeding amazement, a sword was given to me, as the only European

of the company, and I was told to cut and slash as much as I pleased

above and around the girl. After some hesitation, I hacked and hewed the

air in every direction, around and close to the suspended maiden with a

vigor which would inevitably cut asunder any means of support; yet there

she swung unmoved, without any sort of apparent agent of suspension

except the air itself! Snake-charming and dancing completed the

entertainment. When I left the place it was night.

Near the temple, all was noise and confusion, and it was with some

difficulty that I forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached the

steps of the venerated shrine. The priest stationed at the entrance made

a way in for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was

intense. Hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach the

flight of huge stone stairs which led up to the sacred depositary. It

was as bad as a crush to get into the Crystal Palace. My passage was so

slow that I had time to examine and admire the fine antique carved work

on the pillars and ceiling of the entrance-hall, as well as on the tall

pilasters which lined the ample staircase. There was a beauty of style

and a high degree of finish about this work that could not be attained

in Ceylon in the present day. Arrived, at length, at the inner temple or

sacred shrine above, I passed with the rest, between a richly brocaded

curtain which hung in folds across the entrance at the top of the

stairs, and stood before the famed relic of Buddha, or rather the

jeweled casket which contained it. I felt disappointed at the spectacle

here, arising, perhaps, from my taking no interest in the exhibition as

a religious ceremony, and looking at it merely as an empty show, not far

removed from the status of Bartholemew Fair. The strong glare of a

hundred lights, the heat and crowd of so many in so small a place, the

sickly perfume of the piles of Buddha flowers heaped before the shrine

by the pilgrims, the deafening, discordant din of a score of tom-toms,

and vile screeching pipes, made me glad enough to descend the stairs,

and, flinging a rupee into the poor-box of the god, to escape once more

into the fresh air.

From the votaries of Saman I entered another crowd, assembled round a

gayly decorated building, which I at once perceived was a Hindoo temple.

Here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many lamps, a

group of young dancing-girls were delighting the motley crowd. There

were but three of them, one a finely-made, tall, sylph-like creature,

with really graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, and far

less pleasing. A good deal of pains had evidently been taken with their

dress, which sparkled at all points with what I was assured were

precious stones. I have heard that it is not uncommon for these Nautch

girls to have jewelry about their dress to the value of twenty thousand

pounds. The graceful little jacket which the chief dancer wore over her

flowing white robes sparkled and glistened with something which was

quite new to me as articles of ornament: along the edge of her pure

white garment, shone a whole host of fire-flies, which by some ingenious

arrangement had been secured to the dress, and gave a strange and

pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire, as she swept

gracefully round in slow and measured steps. The music to which these

people dance is any thing but pleasing to an English ear: indeed, there

is scarcely a trace of rhythm in it; yet they contrive to measure their

mazy and difficult dance by its notes with admirable precision. Long

custom has so attached them to their empty meaningless music that they

can appreciate no other. I am certain that M. Julien's band would

scarcely be listened to by the Singalese if there were a few tom-toms

within hearing. It is a curious fact that in the districts in which

these Nautch girls are brought up, education is so rare, that these

dancers are generally the only lay persons within many days' journey who

can either read or write. The priests can all read, if not write, and

they take care to instruct the temple-girls in order to enable them to

learn the various songs and legends for recital at their periodic

festivals. The rest of the population they keep in the densest

ignorance.

Leaving the dancers and priests, I strolled toward the river

Kaloo-ganga, whose quiet, palm-shaded banks stood out in sweetest

contrast to the noisy revelry I had just beheld. The moon was near the

full, and rising high above the many rich green topes of palms, and

gorgeous plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with radiance not of

earth. It is hardly possible to conceive the magic beauty of moonlight

in the tropics; those who have witnessed it, can never forget their

feelings under its influence. The master hand of our finest painters

might attempt to depict it, but the affair would be a dead failure; and

did it succeed, strangers to these climes would pronounce it an

unnatural painting. Even in its reality, it bears the impress of

something half unearthly, and it requires the testimony of the huge

fingery leaves, as they wave to the breeze, to assure one that the whole

scene is not imaginary. Fully as bright and radiating, though softer in

its hue, than the broad sunshine, the moon poured down in living streams

its gifts of ether-light. The monster palms, the slender arekas, the

feathery bamboos and tamarinds, reveled in the harmony and glow of

radiant moonlight, which leaping down in phosphorescent waves, sprang on

from leaf to flower, from bud to herb, and streaming through the waving

seas of giant, emerald grass, died sparkling at its feet.

Some of the topes along this gentle river grew so thickly that not the

faintest ray of light found its soft way among them; the deepest shade

was there, and only in one of these could I trace any vestiges of living

beings. A little hut was buried far away in the inmost recesses of a

tope--all bright above, all gloom below. The door was open, and from it

shone a faintly glimmering light; so tiny was the ray amidst that heavy

shade, so distant did it seem, that it defied all conception of space,

and made my eyes ache to gaze at it. I, at length, distinguished faint

sounds proceeding from it. They were those of a regular harmony.

Strolling nearer, I heard that they proceeded from cultivated voices.

What a sensation! The music was that of the "Evening Hymn!" and it came

upon me with the echoes of the uncouth Babel of Heathenism I had just

left still ringing in my ears, like the sunlight on a surging sea. When

I recovered from the delightful surprise, I found that the singers were

the family of a native missionary who had embraced Christianity.

The next day the bazaar was crowded with dealers in and diggers for

precious stones. Hundreds of Moormen, Chitties, Arabs, Parsees, and

Singalese were busily employed in barter; and a most noisy operation it

was. In the neighborhood of Ratnapoora exist many tracts of clayey and

gravelly land, rich in rubies, sapphires, garnets, turquoise, and

cat's-eyes. For the privilege of digging for these, or of sifting them

from the sands of some of the rivers, the natives pay heavy rents to

Government; often sub-letting the ground, at large profits, to needy

speculators. Their harvest is usually offered for sale during the

Peraharra; and, be their gains what they may, they are generally rid of

the whole amount before the end of the festival. The existence of this

source of wealth is, unfortunately, a bane, rather than a blessing, to

the district; for whole villages flock to the ruby-grounds, delving and

sifting for weeks together, utterly neglecting their rice-fields and

gardens. Arrack taverns have multiplied, intemperance has increased,

long tracts of fertile land have ceased to be sown with paddy, and the

country-people now buy their food from strangers, in place of growing

it, as formerly. It will be a happy time for Saffragam when its stores

of precious stones shall be exhausted; for not till then will peaceful

industry be once more sought.

Struggling and forcing a way through the busy crowd were to be seen one

or two Hindoo fakeers, most repulsive objects, depending for subsistence

on the alms of pilgrims and others. One of these wretched creatures, in

the fulfillment of a vow, or as an act of fancied righteousness, had

held his left arm for so many years erect above his head, that it could

not now be moved--and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. It seemed

more like a dry, withered stick tied to the body than a part of itself.

The other fakeer had closed his hands so long that the finger-nails had

grown quite through the palms, and projected at the back of them; these

miserable-looking objects appeared to reap a tolerable harvest, and

seemed to be then in no pain.

Under the shade of a banyan tree, a grave-looking Moorman was amusing a

crowd of boys and women with the recital of some wonderful or silly

legend. The trade of story-telling, in the East, is still a profitable

one, if I might judge from the comfortable appearance of this well-clad

talker.

When I left Ratnapoora, crowds were still flocking into the town, for on

the morrow the huge temple elephants were expected to march in

procession through the place, decked out in all sorts of finery, and

bearing the casket and relic; but it was a wearisome spectacle, and I

was heartily glad to find myself once more on my pony, quietly winding

through green paddyfields and under shady topes.

A TOBACCO FACTORY IN SPAIN.

This is the most immense establishment of the kind in Spain, and is

devoted exclusively to the manufacture of snuff and cigars. "Chewing" is

a habit to which the Spaniards are not addicted. Tobacco, being a

government monopoly, yields an enormous revenue to the crown; the

factories being the most extensive in the world, and the demand for the

weed even greater than the supply. The Fabrica of Seville, though

utterly devoid of architectural merit, is only surpassed in size by the

famous monastery of the Escurial. It is six hundred and sixty-two feet

in length, by five hundred and twenty-four in width: having been erected

by a fat Dutchman about the middle of the last century, its slight

claims to symmetry and elegance are in no degree to be wondered at. Its

substantiality, however, and excellent adaptation to the purposes for

which it was intended, render it well worthy of a careful examination,

either by the fastidious cigar-smoker or indefatigable snuff-taker. For

the edification of such in particular have we undertaken this brief

description of the edifice.

Within its walls it has twenty-eight courts, while externally the

building is encompassed by a deep moat, in order to guard against the

possibility of smuggling on the part of the operatives. The number of

persons usually employed, ranges from five to six thousand, though

several thousand additional hands are sometimes called into requisition

in years of extraordinary demand. By far the greater proportion of these

are females, perhaps even four-fifths. Our application for admission was

readily granted, and such was the politeness of the managers, that they

put us immediately under the charge of a young Spaniard connected with

the building, with instructions to him to show us every part of the

establishment which we might desire to see. This mission he performed to

our entire satisfaction. We soon dispatched the snuff department which

occupies the ground floor, and which gave us such a terrible fit of

sneezing, that we were somewhat fearful our nasal organs would never

recover from the severe shock they had experienced. None but males were

employed in the snuff rooms, and more wretched-looking objects I think I

never saw.

They were frightfully cadaverous and pale, showing distinctly in their

countenances the pernicious influence of such a poisoned and tobacco

impregnated atmosphere upon their constitutions. Their appearance was

more like that of demons than human beings, and it was with a sense of

the deepest aversion, that we left their dark and dismal quarters.

Ascending to the upper story, we entered an immense hall, running nearly

the whole length of the building, in which between three and four

thousand females, seated at tables, were busily engaged in the

manufacture of cigars. It was indeed a strange spectacle. Not a man was

to be seen among the enormous concourse, and even had there been half a

dozen, well might we have exclaimed, "What are these among so many?" The

females were of every age, from childhood upward, and, as a general

rule, their complexions were characterized by a sallow and unhealthy

look. The animation which prevailed among them on our sudden advent, was

perfectly overwhelming: such a din and clattering of voices were

absolutely deafening. Every mouth was in rapid motion, and quite rivaled

in its vibrations the meteoric movements of their hands. _We_ were

evidently the engrossing subject of conversation, and our vanity was

consequently on the alert to overhear some of the remarks that were

made, and thus discover what impression our appearance had caused upon

the thickly-clustered damsels around us. But to our great dismay, we

heard but little of a complimentary nature, which aroused our

indignation to such a height, that we were half inclined to make a

terrific charge amid the mighty throng, and seek revenge by kissing in

turn each beautiful culprit upon whom we could lay our hands. But

seriously, we saw very little beauty among them, which we attributed in

a great measure to the unwholesome nature of their occupation. Certainly

I never saw such a striking want of good looks among any other class in

Spain. In Seville these girls are termed _cigarreras_, and they have a

not very enviable reputation.

INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS.

We must, in the first place, deny that there is any _necessary_

connection between genius and vice, or madness, or eccentricity. Genius

is a ray from heaven; and is naturally akin to all those things on earth

"which are lovely and pure, and of a good report." Its very name shows

its connection with the _genial_ nature; its main moral element is love.

Men are now in their hearts so conscious of this, that when they hear of

instances of disconnection between genius and virtue, it is with a start

of surprise and horror; and we believe that though all the men of genius

who ever lived had been tainted with vice, still the _thoughtful_ would

have been slow of drawing the horrible inference, that the brightest and

most divine-seeming power in the human mind was a fiend in the garb of a

radiant angel, and would have sought elsewhere for the real solution of

the problem. But when we remember that so many of this gifted order

_have_ been true to themselves and to their mission, the belief is

strengthened, that the instances of a contrary kind can be accounted for

upon principles or facts which leave intact alike the sanity, the

health, and the morality, of genius _per se_.

Such principles and facts there do exist; and we now proceed to

enumerate some of them. And first, some of the most flagrantly bad of

literary men have had no real pretensions to genius. Savage, for

example, Boyce, and Dermody, were men of tolerable talent, and

intolerable impudence, conceit, and profligacy. Churchill was of a

higher order, but has been ridiculously overrated by whoever it was that

wrote a paper on him, not long since, in the "Edinburgh Review"--a

disgraceful apology for a disgraceful and disgusting life. Swift and

Chatterton, with all their vast talents, wanted, we think, the fine

differentia, and the genial element of real poetic genius. And time

would fail us to enumerate the hundreds of lesser spirits who have

employed their small modica of light, which they mistook for genius, as

lamps allowing them to see their way more clearly down to the chambers

of death. Talent, however great, is not genius. Wit, however refined, is

not genius. Learning, however profound, is not genius. But genius has

been confounded not only with these respectable and valuable powers, but

with glibness of speech, a knack of rhyming, the faculty of echoing

others, elegance of language, fury of excitation, and a hundred other

qualities, either mechanical or morbid, and then the faults of such

feeble or diseased pretenders have been gravely laid down at the door

of the insulted genius of poetry.

Secondly, real genius has not always received its due meed from the

world. Like real religion, it has found itself in an enemy's land.

Resisted, as it has often been, at every step, it has not been able

uniformly to maintain the dignity, or to enjoy the repose, to which it

was entitled. Men of genius have occasionally soured in temper, and this

has bred now the savage satisfaction with which Dr. Johnson wrote and

printed, in large capitals, the line in his "London"--

"Slow rises worth by poverty depressed;"

and now feelings still fiercer, more aggressive, and more destructive to

the moral balance of the soul. It is a painful predicament in which the

man of genius has often felt himself. Willing to give to all men a

portion of the bread of life, and unable to obtain the bread that

perisheth--balked in completing the unequal bargain of light

from heaven with earthly pelf--carrying about fragments of God's great

general book of truth from reluctant or contemptuous bookseller to

bookseller--subject even after his generous and noble thoughts are

issued to the world, to the faint praise, or chilly silence, or abusive

fury of oracular dunces--to the spurn of any mean slave who can find an

assassin's cloak in the "Anonymous," and who does not even, it may be,

take the trouble of looking at the divine thing he stabs, but strikes in

blind and brutal fury; such has been and is the experience of many of

whom the world is not worthy; and can it be wondered at, that some of

them sink in the strife, and that others, even while triumphing, do so

at the expense of much of the bloom, the expansive generosity, the

all-embracing sympathy which were their original inheritance? Think of

Byron's first volume, trampled like a weed in the dust--of Shelley's

magnificent "Revolt of Islam," insulted and chased out of public

view--of Keats's first volume and its judicial murder--of other

attempts, less successful, such as the treatment of Carlyle's "French

Revolution," at its first appearance, by a weekly journal (the

"Athenaeum"), which _now_ follows his proud path with its feeble and

unaccepted adulation, and then speak with more pity of the aberrations

into which the weaker sons of the muse have been hurried, and with more

respect of the stern insulation and growing indifference to opinion and

firmness of antagonistic determination which characterize her stronger

children.

Thirdly, the aberrations of genius are often unduly magnified. The spots

in a star are invisible--those in a sun are marked by every telescope.

No man is a hero to his _valet de chambre_. And the reason often is, the

valet is an observant but malicious and near-sighted fool. He sees the

spots without seeing their small proportion to the magnitude of the orb.

Nay, he creates spots if he can not see them. The servants of Mrs.

Siddons, while she was giving her famous private readings from Milton

and Shakspeare, thought their mistress mad, and used to say, "There's

the old lady making as much noise as ever." Many and microscopic are

the eyes which follow the steps of genius; and, too often, while they

mark the mistakes, they are blind to the motives; to the palliations, to

the resistance, and to the remorse. The world first idolizes

genius--rates it even beyond its true worth--calls it perfect--remembers

its divine derivation, but forgets that it must shine on us through

earthly vessels, and then avenges on the earthly vessels the

disappointment of its own exaggerated expectations. Hence each careless

look, or word, or action of the hapless son of publicity, is noted, and,

if possible, misinterpreted; his occasional high spirits are traced to

physical excitement; his occasional stupidity voted a sin; his rapture

and the reaction from it are both called in to witness against him: nay,

an entire class of creatures arises, whose instinct it is to discover,

and whose trade it is to tell his faults as a writer, and his failings

as a man. It is under such a broad and searching glare, like that of a

stage, that many men of warm temperament, strong passions, and sensitive

feelings, have been obliged to play their part. And can we wonder

that--sometimes sickened at the excessive and unnatural heat, sometimes

dazzled by the overbearing and insolent light, and often disgusted at

the falsehood of their position, and the cruelty or incompetence of

their self-constituted judges--they have played it ludicrously or

woefully ill?

But again, till of late, the moral nature, and moral culture of genius,

were things ignored by general opinion, by critics, and even by men of

genius themselves. Milton and a few others were thought lucky and

strange exceptions to the general rule. The general rule was understood

to be that the gifted were MOST apt to go astray--that the very light

that was in them was darkness--that aberration, in a word, was the law

of their goings. One of their own number said that

"The light that led astray,

Was light from heaven."

Critics, such as Hazlitt, _too_ well qualified to speak of the errors of

the genius which they criticised, were not content to palliate those by

circumstances, but defended them on the dangerous principle of necessary

connection. The powers of high intellect were magnified--its errors

excused--and its solemn duties and responsibilities passed over in

silence. The text, "Where much is given, much also shall be required,"

was seldom quoted. Genius was regarded as a chartered libertine--not as

a child of divine law--guided, indeed, rather by the spirit than the

letter, but still in accordance with law, as well as with liberty--as a

capricious comet, not a planet, brighter and swifter than its fellows.

Now, we think all this is changing, and that the true judges and friends

of the poet, while admitting his fallibility, condemning his faults, and

forewarning him of his dangers, are ever ready to contend that his gift

is moral, that his power is conferred for holy purposes, that he is a

missionary of God, in a lower yet lofty sense--and that if he desecrate

his powers, he is a traitor to their original purposes, and shall share

in the condemnation of that servant who "was beaten with many stripes."

But must not the long--the written--the sung, the enacted prevalence of

a contrary opinion--of a false and low idea of genius, as a mere

minister of enjoyment, or child of impulse, irresponsible as the wind,

have tended to perpetuate the evils it extenuated, and to render the

gifted an easier prey to the temptations by which they were begirt, and

infinitely less sensible to the mischiefs which their careless or

vicious neglect of their high stewardship was certain to produce? Must

THEY bear the whole blame? Must not a large portion of it accrue to the

age in which they lived, and to that public opinion which they breathed

like an atmosphere?

We attribute the higher and purer efforts which genius is _beginning_ to

make, both in art and in life, to the growing prevalence of a purer

opinion, and of a more severe, yet charitable criticism. The _public_,

indeed, has, as we have intimated above, much to learn yet, in its

treatment of its gifted children; but the wiser and better among the

critics have certainly been taught a lesson by the past. Into the

judgment of literary works the consideration of their moral purpose has

now entered as an irresistible element. And the same measure is also

fast being applied, mercifully, yet sternly, to our literary men.

Finally, it follows from these remarks, that we expect every year to

hear less and less of the aberrations of genius. And that for various

reasons. First, fewer and fewer will, under our present state of

culture, claim to be considered as men of genius, and the public is less

likely to be troubled with the affected oddities of pretenders, and the

_niaiseries_ of monkeys run desperate. Then, again, the profession of

letters is now less likely to be chosen by men of gifts, it is so

completely overdone; and need we say, that as a profession, its

exceeding precariousness and the indefinite position it gives to the

literary man have been very pernicious to his morals and his peace. Then

"The old world _is_ coming right,"

and as it rights, is learning more to respect the literary character, to

understand its peculiar claims, and to allow for its SINLESS

infirmities. Lastly--and chief of all, men of letters are _beginning_ to

awaken--are feeling the strong inspiration of common sense--are using

literature less as a cripple's crutch and more as a man's staff--are

becoming more charitable to each other, and are sensible with a

profounder conviction that literature, as well as life, is a serious

thing, and that for all its "idle words" they must give an account at

the day of judgment. May this process be perfected in due time. And may

all, however humble, who write, feel that they have each his special

part to play in this work of perfectionment!

We are very far from being blind worshipers of Thomas Carlyle. We

disapprove of much that he has written. We think, that unintentionally,

he has done deep damage to the realities of faith, as well as to the

"shams" of hypocrisy. He has gone out from the one ark and has not

returned like the dove with the olive leaf--but rather, like the raven,

strayed and croaked hopelessly over the carcasses of this weltering age.

And our grief, at reading one or two of his recent pamphlets (which

posterity will rank with such sins of power, as the wilder works of

Swift and Byron), resembled that of a son whose father had disgraced his

gray hairs by a crime or outrage. But even in the depth of this

undiminished feeling of sorrow, we must acknowledge that no writer, save

Milton and Wordsworth, has done so much in our country to restore the

genuine respectability, and to proclaim the true mission of literature.

In his hands and on his eloquent tongue it appears no idle toy for the

amusement of the lovesick or the trifling--no mere excitement--but a

profound, as well as beautiful reality--to be attested, if necessary, by

a martyr's tears and blood, and at all events by the life and

conversation of an honest and virtuous man. And he has himself so

attested it. With Scott, literature was a great money-making machine.

With Byron it was the trunk of a mad elephant, through which he squirted

out his spite at man, his enmity at God, and his rage at even his own

shadow. Carlyle has held his genius as a trust--has sought to unite it

to his religion (whatever _that_ may be)--has expressed it in the

language of a determined life--and has made, by the power of his

example, many to go and do likewise. If he has not produced a yet

broader and more permanent effect--if Carlyleism, as a system, is fast

weakening and dying away--if the young minds of the age are beginning to

crave something better than a creed with no articles, a gospel of

negations, a faith with no forms, a hope with no foundations, a

Christianity without facts (like a man with life and blood, but without

limbs)! the fault lies in the system, and not in the author of it.

Although, to this also we are tempted to attribute his well-known

disgust _latterly_ at literature. He has tried to form his own sincere

love and prosecution of it into a religion, and has failed. And why?

Literature is only a subjective, and not an objective reality. It is

made to adorn and explain religion--but no sincerity of prosecution, or

depth of insight can change it into a religion itself. _That_ must have

not only an inward significance, but an outward sign, more vital and

lasting than the Nature of the Poet. This the Christian finds in Jesus,

and the glorious facts connected with him. But Carlyle, with all his

deep earnestness, and purity of life, has become, we fear, a worshiper

without a God, a devotee with the object of the devotion extinct--a

strong swimmer in a Dead Sea, where no arm can cleave the salt and

sluggish waters--and although he seems to despise the mere adorer of

beauty, yet nothing else does he adore, and nothing else has he hitherto

taught, but this, that one may worship no distinctly objective Deity,

and be, nevertheless, a sincere, worthy, and high-minded man. But he

has left the questions unanswered: Will such a faith produce results on

the generality of men--will it _stand_? and, although it may so far

satisfy the conscience as to produce in one man, or a few like unto him,

the satisfaction of sincerity, can it produce the perseverance of

action, the patience of hope, and the energy of faith, which have

worked, and are working, in thousands and millions of Christian

men--alike high and humble, rich and poor, ignorant and refined? Still,

great should be the praise of a man who has redeemed literature from

degradation, and changed it into a noble, if not a thoroughly religious

thing, by the sheer force of genius, and rugged sincerity.

RACE HORSES AND HORSE RACES.

It is Monday--the Monday before the Derby Day, and a railway takes us,

in less than an hour, from London Bridge to the capital of the racing

world, close to the abode of its Great Man, who is--need we add! the

Clerk of the Epsom Course. It is, necessarily, one of the best houses in

the place; being--honor to literature--a flourishing bookseller's shop.

We are presented to the official. He kindly conducts us to the Downs, to

show how the horses are temporarily stabled; to initiate us into some of

the mysteries of the "field;" to reveal to us, in fact, the private life

of the race-horse.

We arrive at a neat farm-house, with more outbuildings than are usually

seen appended to so modest a homestead. A sturdy, well-dressed,

well-mannered, purpose-like, sensible-looking man, presents himself. He

has a Yorkshire accent. A few words pass between him and the Clerk of

the Course, in which we hear the latter asseverate with much emphasis

that we are, in a sporting sense, quite artless--we rather think

"green," was the exact expression--that we never bet a shilling, and are

quite incapable, if even willing, to take advantage of any information,

or of any inspection vouchsafed to us. Mr. Filbert (the trainer)

hesitates no longer. He moves his hat with honest politeness; bids us

follow him, and lays his finger on the latch of a stable.

The trainer opens the door with one hand; and, with a gentleman-like

wave of the other, would give us the precedence. We hesitate. We would

rather not go in first. We acknowledge an enthusiastic admiration for

the race-horse; but at the very mention of a race-horse, the stumpy

animal whose portrait headed our earliest lesson of equine history, in

the chapters of the "Universal Spelling Book," vanishes from our view,

and the animal described in the Book of Job prances into our mind's eye:

"The glory of his nostril is terrible. He mocketh at fear and is not

affrighted. He swalloweth the ground with the fierceness of his rage."

To enjoy, therefore, a fine racer--not as one does a work of art--we

like the point of sight to be the point of distance. The safest point,

in case of accident (say, for instance, a sudden striking-out of the

hinder hoofs), we hold to be the vanishing point--a point by no means

attainable on the inside of that contracted kind of stable known as a

"loose-box."

The trainer evidently mistakes our fears for modesty. We boldly step

forward to the outer edge of the threshold, but uncomfortably close to

the hind-quarters of Pollybus, a "favorite" for the Derby. When we

perceive that he has neither bit nor curb; nor bridle, nor halter, that

he is being "rubbed down" by a small boy, after having taken his

gallops; that there is nothing on earth--except the small boy--to

prevent his kicking, or plunging, or biting, or butting his visitors to

death; we breathe rather thickly. When the trainer exclaims, "Shut the

door, Sam!" and the little groom does his master's bidding, and boxes us

up, we desire to be breathing the fresh air of the Downs again.

"Bless you, sir!" says our good-tempered informant, when he sees us

shrink away from Pollybus, changing sides at a signal from his cleaner;

"these horses" (we look round, and for the first time perceive, with a

tremor, the heels of another high-mettled racer protruding from an

adjoining stall) "these horses are as quiet as you are; and--I say it

without offense--just as well-behaved. It is quite laughable to hear the

notions of people who are not used to them. They are the gentlest and

most tractable creeturs in creation. Then, as to shape and symmetry, is

there any thing like them?"

We acknowledge that Pretty Perth--the mare in the adjoining box--could

hardly be surpassed for beauty.

"Ah, _can_ you wonder at noblemen and gentlemen laying out their twenty

and thirty thousand a year on them?"

"So much?"

"Why, my gov'nor's stud costs us five-and-twenty thousand a-year, one

year with another. There's an eye, sir!"

The large, prominent, but mild optics of Pretty Perth are at this moment

turned full upon us. Nothing, certainly, can be gentler than the

expression that beams from them. She is "taking," as Mr. Filbert is

pleased to say, "measure of us." She does not stare vulgarly, or peer

upon us a half-bred indifference; but, having duly and deliberately

satisfied her mind respecting our external appearance, allows her

attention to be leisurely diverted to some oats with which the boy had

just supplied the manger.

"It is all a mistake," continues Mr. Filbert, commenting on certain

vulgar errors respecting race-horses; "thorough-breds are not nearly so

rampagious as mongrels and half-breds. The two horses in this stall are

gentlefolks, with as good blood in their veins as the best nobleman in

the land. They would be just as back'ard in doing any thing unworthy of

a lady or gentleman, as any lord or lady in St. James's--such as

kicking, or rearing, or shying, or biting. The pedigree of every horse

that starts in any great race, is to be traced as regularly up to James

the First's Arabian, or to Cromwell's White Turk, or to the Darley or

Godolphin barbs, as your great English families are to the Conqueror.

The worst thing they will do, is running away now and then with their

jockeys. And what's that? Why, only the animal's animal-spirit running

away with _him_. They are not," adds Mr. Filbert, with a merry twinkle

in his eye, "the only young bloods that are fond of going too fast."

To our question whether he considers that a race-horse _could_ go too

fast, Mr. Filbert gives a jolly negative, and remarks that it is all

owing to high feeding and fine air; "for, mind you, horses get much

better air to breathe than men do, and more of it."

All this while the two boys are sibillating lustily while rubbing and

polishing the coats of their horses; which are as soft as velvet, and

much smoother. When the little grooms come to the fetlock and pastern,

the chamois-leather they have been using is discarded as too coarse and

rough, and they rub away down to the hoofs with their sleek and their

plump hands. Every wish they express, either in words or by signs, is

cheerfully obeyed by the horse. The terms the quadruped seems to be on

with the small biped, are those of the most easy and intimate

friendship. They thoroughly understand one another. We feel a little

ashamed of our mistrust of so much docility, and leave the stable with

much less awe of a race-horse than we entered it.

"And now, Mr. Filbert, one delicate question--What security is there

against these horses being drugged, so that they may lose a race?"

Mr. Filbert halts, places his legs apart, and his arms akimbo, and

throws into his reply a severe significance, mildly tinged with

indignation. He commences with saying, "I'll tell you where it is: there

is a deal more said about foul play and horses going amiss, than there

need be."

"Then the boys are never heavily bribed?"

"Heavily bribed, sir!" Mr. Filbert contracts his eyes, but sharpens up

their expression, to look the suspicion down. "Bribed! it may not be

hard to bribe a man, but it's not so easy to bribe a boy. What's the use

of a hundred-pound note to a child of ten or twelve years old? Try him

with a pen'north of apples, or a slice of pudding, and you have a better

chance; though I would not give you the price of a sugar-stick for it.

Nine out of ten of these lads would not have a hair of their horse's

tails ruffled if they could help it; much more any such harm as drugs or

downright poison. The boy and the horse are so fond of one another, that

a racing stable is a regular happy family of boys and horses. When the

foal is first born, it is turned loose into the paddock; and if his

mother don't give him enough milk, the cow makes up the deficiency. He

scampers about in this way for about a year: then he is 'taken up;' that

is, bitted, and backed by a 'dumb-jockey'--a cross of wood made for the

purpose. When he has got a little used to that, we try him with a

speaking jockey--a child some seven or eight years old, who has been

born, like the colt, in the stables. From that time till the horse

retires from the turf, the two are inseparable. They eat, drink, sleep,

go out and come in together. Under the directions of the trainer, the

boy tells the horse what to do, and he does it; for he knows that he is

indebted to the boy for every thing he gets. When he is hungry, it is

the boy that gives him his corn; when he is thirsty, the boy hands him

his water; if he gets a stone in his foot, the boy picks it out. By the

time the colt is old enough to run, he and the boy have got to like one

another so well that they fret to be away from one another. As for

bribing! Why, you may as well try to bribe the horse to poison the boy,

as the boy to let the horse be injured."

"But the thing _has_ happened, Mr. Filbert?"

"Not so much as is talked about. Sometimes a likely foal is sent to a

training stable, and cracked up as something wonderful. He is entered to

run. On trial, he turns out to be next to nothing; and the backers, to

save their reputation, put it about that the horse was played tricks

with. There is hardly a great race, but you hear something about horses

going amiss by foul play."

"Do many of these boys become jockeys?"

"Mostly. Some of them are jockeys already, and ride 'their own' horses

as they call them. Here comes one."

A miniature man, with a horsewhip neatly twisted round the crop or

handle, opens the gate.

"Well, Tommy, how are you, Tommy?"

"Well, sir, bobbish. Fine day, Mr. Filbert."

Although Mr. Filbert tells us in a whisper that Tommy is only twelve

next birth-day, Tommy looks as if he had entered far into his teens. His

dress is deceptive. Light trowsers terminating in buttons, laced shoes,

long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a colored cravat, a collar to

which juveniles aspire under the name of "stick-ups," and a Paris silk

hat, form his equipment.

"Let's see, Tommy; what stakes did you win last?"

Tommy flicks, with the end of his whip-crop, a speck of dirt from the

toe of his "off" shoe, and replies carelessly, "The Great

Northamptonshire upon Valentine. But then, I have won a many smaller

stakes, you know, Mr. Filbert."

"Are there many jockeys so young as Tommy?"

"Not many so young," says Tommy, tying a knot in his whip thong, "but a

good many smaller." Tommy then walks across the straw-yard to speak to

some stable friend he has come to see. Tommy has not only the

appearance, but the manners of a man.

"That boy will be worth money," says Mr. Filbert. "It is no uncommon

thing for a master to give a lad like that a hundred pound when he wins

a race. As he can't spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or marbles

(the young rogue _does_, occasionally, get rid of a pound or two in

cigars), he saves it. I have known a racing-stable lad begin the world

at twenty, with from three to four thousand pound."

Tommy is hopping back over the straw, as if he had forgotten something.

"O, I beg your pardon for not asking before," he says, "but--how does

Mrs. Filbert find herself?"

"Quite well, thank you, Tommy." Tommy says he is glad to hear it, and

walks off like a family-man.

Our interview with Mr. Filbert is finished, and we pace toward the

race-course with its indefatigable clerk. Presently, he points to a huge

white object that rears its leaden roof on the apex of the highest of

the "Downs." It is the Grand Stand. It is so extensive, so strong, and

so complete, that it seems built for eternity, instead of for busy use

during one day in the year, and for smaller requisitions during three

others. Its stability is equal to St. Paul's, or the Memnonian Temple.

Our astonishment, already excited, is increased when our cicerone tells

us that he pays as rent and in subscriptions to stakes to be run for,

nearly two thousand pounds per annum for that stand. Expecting an

unusually great concourse of visitors this year, he has erected a new

wing, extended the betting inclosure, and fitted up two apartments for

the exclusive use of ladies.

Here we are! Let us go into the basement. First into the weighing-house,

where the jockeys "come to scale" after each race. We then inspect the

offices for the Clerk of the Course himself; wine-cellars, beer-cellars,

larders, sculleries, and kitchens, all as gigantically appointed, and as

copiously furnished as if they formed part of an ogre's castle. To

furnish the refreshment-saloon, the Grand Stand has in store two

thousand four hundred tumblers, one thousand two hundred wine-glasses,

three thousand plates and dishes, and several of the most elegant vases

we have seen out of the Glass Palace, decorated with artificial flowers.

An exciting odor of cookery meets us in our descent. Rows of spits are

turning rows of joints before blazing walls of fire. Cooks are trussing

fowls; confectioners are making jellies; kitchen-maids are plucking

pigeons; huge crates of boiled tongues are being garnished on dishes.

One hundred and thirty legs of lamb, sixty-five saddles of lamb, and one

hundred and thirty shoulders of lamb; in short, a whole flock of

sixty-five lambs have to be roasted, and dished, and garnished, by the

Derby Day. Twenty rounds of beef, four hundred lobsters, one hundred and

fifty tongues, twenty fillets of veal, one hundred sirloins of beef,

five hundred spring chickens, three hundred and fifty pigeon-pies; a

countless number of quartern loaves, and an incredible quantity of ham

have to be cut up into sandwiches; eight hundred eggs have got to be

boiled for the pigeon-pies and salads. The forests of lettuces, the

acres of cress, and beds of radishes, which will have to be chopped up;

the gallons of "dressings" that will have to be poured out and converted

into salads for the insatiable Derby Day, will be best understood by a

memorandum from the chief of that department to the _chef de-cuisine_,

which happened, accidentally, to fall under our notice: "Pray don't

forget a large tub and a birch-broom for mixing the salad!"

We are preparing to ascend, when we hear the familiar sound of a

printing machine. Are we deceived? O, no! The Grand Stand is like the

kingdom of China--self-supporting, self-sustaining. It scorns foreign

aid; even to the printing of the Racing Lists. This is the source of the

innumerable cards with which hawkers persecute the sporting world on its

way to the Derby, from the Elephant and Castle to the Grand Stand.

"Dorling's list! Dorling's correct list! with the names of the horses,

and colors of the riders!"

We are now in the hall. On our left, are the parlors--refreshment rooms

specially devoted to the Jockey Club; on our right, a set of seats,

reserved, from the days of Flying Childers, for the members of White's

Clubhouse.

We step out upon the lawn; in the midst is the betting-ring, where sums

of money of fabulous amounts change hands.

The first floor is entirely occupied with a refreshment-room and a

police court. Summary justice is the law of the Grand Stand. Two

magistrates sit during the races. Is a pick-pocket detected, a

thimble-rigger caught, a policeman assaulted? The delinquent is brought

round to the Grand Stand, to be convicted, sentenced, and imprisoned in

as short a time as it takes to run a mile race.

The sloping roof is covered with lead, in steps; the spectator from that

point has a bird's-eye view of the entire proceedings, and of the

surrounding country, which is beautifully picturesque. When the

foreground of the picture is brightened and broken by the vast multitude

that assembles here upon the Derby Day, it presents a whole which has no

parallel in the world.

On that great occasion, an unused spectator might imagine that all

London turned out. There is little perceptible difference in the bustle

of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading to Epsom Downs are so

thronged and blocked by every description of carriage, that it is

marvelous to consider how, when, and where they were all made--out of

what possible wealth they are all maintained--and by what laws the

supply of horses is kept equal to the demand. Near the favorite bridges,

and at various leading points of the leading roads, clusters of people

post themselves by nine o'clock to see the Derby people pass. Then come

flitting by, barouches, phaetons, Broughams, gigs, four-wheeled chaises,

four-in-hands, Hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note, chaise-carts,

donkey-carts, tilted vans made arborescent with green boughs, and

carrying no end of people, and a cask of beer--equestrians, pedestrians,

horse-dealers, gentlemen, notabilities, and swindlers, by tens of

thousands--gradually thickening and accumulating, until, at last a mile

short of the turnpike, they become wedged together, and are very slowly

filtered through layers of policemen, mounted and a-foot, until, one by

one, they pass the gate, and skurry down the hill beyond. The most

singular combinations occur in these turnpike stoppages and presses.

Four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over the shoulders of ladies,

in bright shawls, perched in gigs; poles of carriages appear, uninvited,

in the midst of social parties in phaetons; little, fast, short-stepping

ponies run up carriage-wheels before they can be stopped and hold on

behind like footmen. Now, the gentleman who is unaccustomed to public

driving, gets into astonishing perplexities. Now, the Hansom cab whisks

craftily in and out, and seems occasionally to fly over a wagon or so.

Now the post-boy, on a jibbing or a shying horse, curses the evil hour

of his birth, and is ingloriously assisted by the shabby hostler out of

place, who is walking down with seven shabby companions, more or less

equine, open to the various chances of the road. Now, the air is fresh,

and the dust flies thick and fast. Now, the canvas booths upon the

course are seen to glisten and flutter in the distance. Now, the

adventurous vehicles make cuts across, and get into ruts and

gravel-pits. Now, the heather in bloom is like a field of gold, and the

roar of voices is like a wind. Now, we leave the hard road and go

smoothly rolling over the soft green turf, attended by an army of

importunate worshipers in red jackets and stable jackets, who make a

very Juggernaut car of our equipage, and now breathlessly call us My

Lord, and now, Your Honor. Now, we pass the outer settlements of tents,

where pots and kettles are--where gipsy children are--where airy

stabling is--where tares for horses may be bought--where water, water,

water, is proclaimed--where the Tumbler in an old pea-coat, with a

spangled fillet round his head, eats oysters, while his wife takes care

of the golden globes, and the knives, and also of the starry little boy,

their son, who lives principally upside-down. Now, we pay our one pound

at the barrier, and go faster on, still Juggernautwise, attended by our

devotees, until at last we are drawn, and rounded, and backed, and

sidled, and cursed, and complimented, and vociferated, into a station on

the hill opposite the Grand Stand, where we presently find ourselves on

foot, much bewildered, waited on by five respectful persons, who _will_

brush us all at once.

Well, to be sure, there never was such a Derby Day, as this present

Derby Day! Never, to be sure, were there so many carriages, so many

fours, so many twos, so many ones, so many horsemen, so many people who

have come down by "rail," so many fine ladies in so many Broughams, so

many of Fortnum and Mason's hampers, so much ice and champagne! If I

were on the turf, and had a horse to enter for the Derby, I would call

that horse Fortnum and Mason, convinced that with that name he would

beat the field. Public opinion would bring him in somehow. Look where I

will--in some connection with the carriages--made fast upon the top, or

occupying the box, or tied up behind, or dangling below, or peeping out

of window--I see Fortnum and Mason. And now, Heavens! all the hampers

fly wide open, and the green Downs burst into a blossom of

lobster-salad!

As if the great Trafalgar signal had been suddenly displayed from the

top of the Grand Stand, every man proceeds to do his duty. The weaker

spirits, who were ashamed to set the great example, follow it instantly,

and all around me there are table-cloths, pies, chickens, hams, tongues,

rolls, lettuces, radishes, shell-fish, broad-bottomed bottles, clinking

glasses, and carriages turned inside out. Amid the hum of voices a bell

rings. What's that? What's the matter? They are clearing the course.

Never mind. Try the pigeon-pie. A roar. What's the matter? It's only the

dog upon the course. Is that all? Glass of wine. Another roar. What's

that? It's only the man who wants to cross the course, and is

intercepted, and brought back. Is that all? I wonder whether it is

always the same dog and the same man, year after year! A great roar.

What's the matter? By Jupiter, they are going to start.

A deeper hum and a louder roar. Every body standing on Fortnum and

Mason. Now they're off! No. _Now_ they're off! No. _Now_ they're off!

No. _Now_ they are! Yes!

There they go! Here they come! Where? Keep your eye on Tattenham Corner,

and you'll see 'em coming round in half a minute. Good gracious, look at

the Grand Stand, piled up with human beings to the top, and at the

wonderful effect of changing light as all their faces and uncovered

heads turn suddenly this way! Here they are! Who is? The horses! Where?

Here they come! Green first. No: Red first. No: Blue first. No: the

Favorite first! Who says so? Look! Hurrah! Hurrah! All over. Glorious

race. Favorite wins! Two hundred thousand pounds lost and won. You don't

say so? Pass the pie!

Now, the pigeons fly away with the news. Now, every one dismounts from

the top of Fortnum and Mason, and falls to work with greater earnestness

than before, on carriage boxes, sides, tops, wheels, steps, roofs, and

rumbles. Now, the living stream upon the course, dammed for a little

while at one point, is released, and spreads like parti-colored grain.

Now, the roof of the Grand Stand is deserted. Now, rings are formed upon

the course, where strong men stand in pyramids on one another's heads;

where the Highland lady dances; where the Devonshire Lad sets-to with

the Bantam; where the Tumbler throws the golden globes about, with the

starry little boy tied round him in a knot.

Now, all the variety of human riddles who propound themselves on

race-courses, come about the carriages, to be guessed. Now, the gipsy

woman, with the flashing red or yellow handkerchief about her head, and

the strange silvery-hoarse voice, appears, My pretty gentleman, to tell

your fortin, sir; for you have a merry eye, my gentleman, and surprises

is in store for you, connected with a dark lady as loves you better than

you love a kiss in a dark corner when the moon's a-shining; for you have

a lively 'art, my gentleman, and you shall know her secret thoughts, and

the first and last letters of her name, my pretty gentleman, if you will

cross your poor gipsy's hand with a little bit of silver, for the luck

of the fortin as the gipsy will read true, from the lines of your hand,

my gentleman, both as to what is past, and present, and to come. Now,

the Ethiopians, looking unutterably hideous in the sunlight, play old

banjoes and bones, on which no man could perform ten years ago, but

which, it seems, any man may play now, if he will only blacken his face,

put on a crisp wig, a white waistcoat and wristbands, a large white tie,

and give his mind to it. Now, the sickly-looking ventriloquist, with an

anxious face (and always with a wife in a shawl) teaches the alphabet to

the puppet pupil, whom he takes out of his pocket. Now, my sporting

gentlemen, you may ring the Bull, the Bull, the Bull; you may ring the

Bull! Now, try your luck at the knock-em-downs, my Noble Swells--twelve

heaves for sixpence, and a pincushion in the centre, worth ten times the

money! Now, the Noble Swells take five shillings' worth of "heaves," and

carry off a halfpenny wooden pear in triumph. Now, it hails, as it

always does hail, formidable wooden truncheons round the heads, bodies

and shins of the proprietors of the said knock-em-downs, whom nothing

hurts. Now, inscrutable creatures in smock frocks, beg for bottles. Now,

a coarse vagabond, or idiot, or a compound of the two, never beheld by

mortal off a race-course, minces about, with ample skirts and a tattered

parasol, counterfeiting a woman. Now, a shabby man, with an overhanging

forehead, and a slinking eye, produces a small board, and invites your

attention to something novel and curious--three thimbles and one little

pea--with a one, two, three--and a two, three, one--and a one--and a

two--in the middle--right hand, left hand--go you any bet from a crown

to five sovereigns you don't lift the thimble the pea's under! Now,

another gentleman (with a stick) much interested in the experiment, will

"go" two sovereigns that he does lift the thimble, provided strictly

that the shabby man holds his hand still, and don't touch 'em again.

Now, the bet's made, and the gentleman with the stick, lifts obviously

the wrong thimble, and loses. Now, it is as clear as day to an innocent

bystander, that the loser must have won if he had not blindly lifted the

wrong thimble--in which he is strongly confirmed by another gentleman

with a stick, also much interested, who proposes to "go him" halves--a

friendly sovereign to _his_ sovereign--against the bank. Now, the

innocent agrees, and loses; and so the world turns round bringing

innocents with it in abundance, though the three confederates are

wretched actors, and could live by no other trade if they couldn't do it

better.

Now, there is another bell, and another clearing of the course, and

another dog, and another man, and another race. Now, there are all

these things all over again. Now, down among the carriage-wheels and

poles, a scrubby growth of drunken post-boys and the like has sprung

into existence, like weeds among the many-colored flowers of fine ladies

in Broughams, and so forth. Now, the drinking-booths are all full, and

tobacco-smoke is abroad, and an extremely civil gentleman confidentially

proposes roulette. And now, faces begin to be jaded, and horses are

harnessed, and wherever the old gray-headed beggarman goes, he gets

among traces and splinter-bars, and is roared at.

So, now, we are on the road again, going home. Now, there are longer

stoppages than in the morning; for we are a dense mass of men and women,

wheels, horses, and dust. Now, all the houses on the road seem to be

turned inside out, like the carriages on the course, and the people

belonging to the houses, like the people belonging to the carriages,

occupy stations which they never occupy at another time--on leads, on

housetops, on out-buildings, at windows, in balconies, in doorways, in

gardens. Schools are drawn out to see the company go by. The academies

for young gentlemen favor us with dried peas; the Establishments for

Young Ladies (into which sanctuaries many wooden pears are pitched),

with bright eyes. We become sentimental, and wish we could marry

Clapham. The crowd thickens on both sides of the road. All London

appears to have come out to see us. It is like a triumphant

entry--except that, on the whole, we rather amuse than impress the

populace. There are little love-scenes among the chestnut trees by the

roadside--young gentlemen in gardens resentful of glances at young

ladies from coach-tops--other young gentlemen in other gardens, whose

arms, encircling young ladies, seem to be trained like the vines. There

are good family pictures--stout fathers and jolly mothers--rosy cheeks

squeezed in between the rails--and infinitesimal jockeys winning in

canters on walking-sticks. There are smart maid-servants among the

grooms at stable-doors, where Cook looms large and glowing. There is

plenty of smoking and drinking among the tilted vans and at the

public-houses, and some singing, but general order and good-humor. So,

we leave the gardens and come into the streets, and if we there

encounter a few ruffians throwing flour and chalk about, we know them

for the dregs and refuse of a fine, trustworthy people, deserving of all

confidence and honor.

And now we are at home again--far from absolutely certain of the name of

the winner of the Derby--knowing nothing whatever about any other race

of the day--still tenderly affected by the beauty of Clapham--and

thoughtful over the ashes of Fortnum and Mason.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

While reading Hartley Coleridge's life, we have been often grieved, but

never for a moment have been tempted to anger. There is so much

bonhomie, so much unaffected oddity, he is such a queer being, such a

_character_, in short, that you laugh more than you cry, and wonder more

than you laugh. The judge would be a severe one who could keep his

gravity while trying him. One mischief, too, which often attends faulty

men of genius is wanting in him. He has not turned his "diseases into

commodities"--paraded his vices as if they were virtues, nor sought to

circulate their virus. He is, as the old divines were wont to say, a

"_sensible_ sinner," and lies so prostrate that none will have the heart

to trample on him. His vices, too, were so peculiarly interwoven with

his idiosyncrasy, which was to the last degree peculiar, that they can

find no imitators. When vice seems ludicrous and contemptible, few

follow it; it is only when covered with the gauzy vail of

sentimentalism, or when deliberately used as a foil to set off brilliant

powers, that it exerts an attraction dangerously compounded of its

native charm, and the splendors which shine beside it. Men who are

disposed to copy the sins of a gifted, popular, and noble poet like

Byron, and who, gazing at his sun-like beams, absorb his spots into

their darkened and swimming eyes, can only look with mockery, pity, and

avoidance upon the slips of an odd little man, driveling amid the

hedgerows and ditches of the lake country, even although his

accomplishments were great, his genius undoubted, and his name

Coleridge.

His nature was, indeed, intensely singular. One might fancy him

extracted from his father's side, while he slept, and _dreamed_. He was

like an embodied dream of that mighty wizard. He had not the breadth,

the length, or the height of S. T. Coleridge's mind, but he had much of

his subtlety, his learning, his occasional sweetness, and his tremulous

tenderness. He was never, and yet always a child. The precocity he

displayed was amazing--and precocious, and nothing more, he continued to

the end. His life was a perpetual promise to _be_--a rich unexpanded

bud--while his father's was a perpetual promise to _do_--a flower

without adequate fruit. It was no wonder that when the father first saw

his child his far-stretching eye was clouded with sorrow as he thought,

"If I--a whole, such as has seldom been created, have had difficulty in

standing alone, how can this be part of myself? If a frail tendency,

running across my being, has damaged me, what is to become of one whose

name is Frailty?" Some such thought was apparently in his prophetic mind

when he wrote the sonnet beginning with

"Charles, my slow heart was only sad," &c.

Nor did the future history of the child belie the augury of this poetic

sigh of a fond, yet fearing parent, over the extracted, embodied frailty

and fineness of his own being.

Indeed, a circle of evil auguries surrounded the childhood of little

Hartley. The calm, quiet eye of Wordsworth surveyed the sports of the

child, and finding them those of no common infant, he wrote the poem to

"H. C., six years old," where he says--

"Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,

Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth."

His power of youthful fancy and language was wonderful. Not even Scott's

story-telling faculty was equal to his. He delighted in recounting to

his brother and companions, not a series of tales, but "one continuous

tale, regularly evolved, and possessing a real unity, enchaining the

attention of his auditors for a space of years." "This enormous romance,

far exceeding in length the compositions of Calprenede, Scudery, or

Richardson, though delivered without premeditation, had a progressive

story with many turns and complications, with salient points recurring

at intervals, with a suspended interest varying in intensity, and

occasionally wrought up to a very high pitch, and at length a final

catastrophe and conclusion." While constructing this he was little more

than twelve years of age.

A _curiosity_, Hartley Coleridge commenced life by being--and a

curiosity, somewhat battered and soiled, he continued to the end. His

peculiarity lay in such a combination of wonderful powers and wonderful

weaknesses, of the mind of a man, the heart of a child, and the body of

a dwarf, of purposes proud and high, and habits mean and low--as has

seldom been witnessed. The wild disorganization produced by such a

medley of contradictory qualities, no discipline, no fortunate

conjuncture of circumstances, nothing, perhaps, but death or miracle

could have reconciled. He was not _deranged_--but he was _disarranged_

in the most extraordinary degree. And such dark disarrangements are

sometimes more hopeless than madness itself. There is nothing for them

but that they be taken down, and cast into the new mould of the grave.

This original tendency and formation are thus described by his brother:

"He had a certain infirmity of will--the specific evil of his life. His

sensibility was intense, and he had not wherewithal to control it. He

could not open a letter without trembling. He shrank from mental

pain--he was beyond measure impatient of constraint. He was liable to

paroxysms of rage, often the disguise of pity, self-accusation, or other

painful emotion--anger it could hardly be called--during which he bit

his arm or finger violently. He yielded, as it were unconsciously, to

slight temptations, slight in themselves, and slight to him, as if

swayed by a mechanical impulse apart from his own volition. It looked

like an organic defect--a congenital imperfection."

"Of such materials wretched men are made."

And so it fared with poor Hartley Coleridge. Up, indeed, to the time

(1814) when he left school, he seems to have been as happy as most

schoolboys are--nay, happier than most, in constant intercourse with Mr.

Wordsworth, carrying on his English studies in his library at Allanbank,

in the vale of Grasmere, and having become acquainted with John Wilson,

then residing at his beautiful seat, Elleray, on the banks of

Windermere, who became from that time, and continued to the last, one of

his kindest friends. Through Mr. Southey's active intervention, he was

sent to Merton College, Oxford. His curriculum there was at first

distinguished. If inferior in scholarship to many, he yielded to none in

general knowledge, in genius, and, above all, in conversation.

Ultimately he gained a fellowship in Oriel, with high distinction. But

his powers of table-talk became snares to him, and at the close of his

probationary year he "was judged to have forfeited his fellowship on the

ground mainly of intemperance." Great efforts were made by his father

and others to reverse the sentence--but in vain. His ruin was now only a

question of time. He repaired to London, but the precarious life of a

man of letters was fitted to nurse instead of checking his morbid

tendencies and unhappy habits. He next returned to the Lake country,

commenced a school in conjunction with another gentleman, and even

talked of entering into holy orders. But nothing would prosper with him.

His school dwindled away, and he was reduced to make a scrambling

livelihood by contributing to periodicals; domesticated the while at

Grasmere, in the house of a farmer's widow. Various attempts were made,

ever and anon, to make him useful--by taking him to Leeds to edit a

biographical work, assisting a friend in teaching school at Ledbergh,

&c; but all in vain. To Grasmere he as uniformly found his way back, to

resume his erratic existence. In 1845, his mother's death brought him an

annuity, which placed him on a footing of complete independence. During

all this time he was employed fitfully in literary effort, wrote poems,

contributed papers to "Blackwood's Magazine," and delivered occasional

addresses to literary societies. He was gentle, amiable, frank; and,

notwithstanding his oddities and errors, was a great favorite with all

classes in Cumberland. He was, as a churchman and politician, liberal,

almost radical, in his opinions. He was a daily reader of his Bible. To

the last, he struggled sore to unloose the accursed bands of indolence

and sensualism which bound him; but to little purpose.

At length, in the beginning of 1849, he departed this life, after giving

various evidences of a penitent spirit. He lies now in a spot, beside

which, in little more than a year, the dust of one--alike, but oh, how

different!--Wordsworth, was to be consigned. He was in his fifty-second

year. "His coffin, at the funeral, was light as that of a child." "It

was," says his brother, "a winter's day when he was carried to his last

earthly home, cold, but fine, with a few slight scuds of sleet and

gleams of sunshine, one of which greeted us as we entered Grasmere, and

another smiled brightly through the church-window. May it rest upon his

memory!"

THE ORIENTAL SALOONS IN MADRID.

"Come," said Don Philippe to us one evening, "come with me to a ball at

the Salon de Oriente, where you will see a picture of Madrilenian life,

too characteristic to be overlooked--a miniature of its beauty, its

taste, and its profligacy combined, which no stranger who visits the

metropolis should fail to note, and studiously observe." Having nothing

of greater importance before us, we assented forthwith to the proposal

of our entertaining teacher, who escorted us thither, as soon as we

could put ourselves in proper trim for the occasion. The first glimpse

of the ball-room was like a fairy scene. It was built in imitation of an

Oriental palace, tastefully painted and illuminated with glittering

chandeliers, in the most brilliant manner. The hall was quite thronged

with persons of both sexes, a large proportion of whom were engaged in

dancing the "Polka Mazurka," to the inspiring music of a full and

splendid band. So exciting was the spectacle, that it was with the

greatest difficulty we restrained ourselves for a few moments from

rushing into the midst of the throng, and finally we broke from all

restraint, and bade defiance to the counsels of Don Philippe, who

evidently regarded us in the light of a couple of hot headed youths,

whose harvest of wild oats had not yet been fully gathered. Away we

dashed into the very midst of the merry sport as if, with military

ardor, we intended to carry the place by storm; having secured a pair of

female prizes, whose brilliant eyes, like lodestones, had drawn us

toward them, while under our sudden spell of excitement we mingled with

the concourse of laughing dancers, and became ourselves the gayest of

the gay. The bright glances which gleamed around us, from every female

eye, were softer than the blushes of the moonbeams! Every cheek was

flushed with pleasure; every lip was red with joy! The men were wild

with frolic, and the youthful damsels intoxicated with delight. Among

the former, whom should I recognize, to my infinite surprise and

astonishment, but my faithful guide to Segovia and the Escurial. In his

dress he was completely metamorphosed into a fashionable gentleman, with

white waistcoat and gloves, and the remainder of his suit of fine black

broadcloth. In manners, he had not a superior in the room. Approaching

me with respect, but with the polished ease of a man well acquainted

with the world, he saluted us with unaffected cordiality, and then

invited us to partake of some refreshments with him in an adjoining

apartment, expressly intended and adapted for this purpose. We did not

wish to offend him by a refusal, and therefore assented to his desire.

Seating ourselves at a table together, we called for a favorite beverage

among the Spaniards, composed of small-beer and lemon, mixed in

proportions to suit the taste of those desiring it. An immense bowl,

supplied with a certain quantity of iced lemonade, was first brought and

placed in the centre of the table before us. Two or three bottles of

beer were then opened and poured into this general receptacle, the

contents of which were stirred up briskly with a kind of ladle or large

spoon. Each of us then helped himself to the frothy compound, which, at

the same time that it is very agreeable to the palate, does not produce

the slightest inebriating effect.

Turning to me, my quondam guide asked if I had passed a pleasant

evening. I replied in the affirmative, and told him I had been much

struck with his skillful performance upon "the light fantastic toe." He

seemed delighted with the compliment, and praised us highly in return,

for the manner in which we had conducted ourselves throughout the

entertainment. "These saloons," said he, "are resorted to by all classes

of gentlemen in the metropolis, without distinction of rank or station,

though they do not sustain so high a public reputation now as they

possessed in former years. This is owing to the fact, that ladies of

station no longer honor them with their presence, save during the period

of the 'masquerades,' when it is said that even the queen herself has

mingled among the general throng, confident that her disguise would

secure her from either scrutiny or recognition. The females whom you

have seen here to-night," continued my guide, "notwithstanding their

modest appearance and genteel manners, are most of them either

kept-mistresses or public courtesans, while the younger ones, apparently

under the protection of their mothers and aunts, by whom they are

accompanied, have been brought hither as to a market, in order to secure

an '_amante_' or lover, and make the most profitable sale of their

charms! This may sound very horrible to your ears, yet I assure you that

it is truth. You can scarcely have any conception of the extent of vice

which prevails in Madrid, nor of the lightness and indifference with

which it is regarded by the community. She who would be called by an

evil name in any other country, is only regarded as a gay and lively

girl in Spain, so low is the general standard of women. Absolute penury,

and the want of respectable employment, have tended to produce this

deplorable result, which must necessarily ensue, wherever the poverty

and mismanagement of a Government, and the consequent inactivity of

industry and commerce, does not create sufficient occupation for the

poorer classes, to keep them above starvation, without having recourse

to vice. It really offends me," continued my guide, with considerable

warmth, "to hear a noble people abused for the existence of faults which

do not properly belong to them." "Bravo," cried Don Philippe, "good,

good, good! Down with the government! Send the cursed ministers to the

infernals, and we'll have a grand Spanish republic. Then you'll see if

the Spaniards are not as industrious and brave, and the women as

virtuous and chaste, as those of any other land under the sun. Give the

people a fair chance, and they will rise, like the bird you call a

phoenix, and become a great and powerful nation. Success, I say, to

the glorious cause of liberty and republicanism in Spain!"

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[8]

PART THE THIRD--NIGHT.

IV.

The interval of suspense to which we were doomed before we received any

tidings of Forrester seemed to us interminable; and our speculations on

the cause of his silence did not contribute to make our solitude the

more endurable. We clung together, it is true; but it was like people on

a raft, with our heads stretched out, looking apart into the distance

for succor.

[8] Concluded from the July Number.

At last, at the end of a fortnight, there came a note in Forrester's

handwriting (which I well remembered), signed only with an initial

letter, requiring to see me alone in a roadside hostelrie about half a

mile inland. The note was cautiously worded, so that if it fell into

other hands, its purport would be unintelligible.

I thought this strange; but Forrester was always fond of a little

mystery, and on the present occasion there might be a necessity for it.

I am ashamed to say, that after I had read this note two or three times,

I felt some hesitation about giving him the meeting. The doubt was

unworthy of us both; yet I could not help asking myself, over and over

again, why he wished me to go alone?--why he appointed to meet me at

night?--why he should act under a mask in an affair which demanded the

utmost candor on all sides?--and a hundred other uncomfortable

questions. Circumstances had made me anxious and distrustful; and I was

so conscious of the irritable state of my nerves, that, even while these

suspicions were passing through my brain, I made an effort to do justice

to my friend by recalling to mind the incidents of our former

intercourse, throughout which he had displayed a fidelity and

steadfastness that entitled him to my most implicit confidence. Even if

it had been otherwise, I had no choice but to trust to him; it was

indispensable that we should know the determination of our implacable

enemy, and it was through Forrester alone we could obtain that

information.

The night was dark and stormy. The solitary walk to the little inn

afforded me time to collect myself for an interview which I approached

with no slight uneasiness. I had left Astraea behind me in a depressed

and fretful mood. She could not comprehend why she was excluded from our

councils, and seemed to regard it as a sort of conspiracy to dishonor

and humiliate her. Every trifling circumstance that affected her

personally was viewed in the same light, with jealousy and suspicion.

Poor Astraea! Her life was already beginning to jar with mental discords,

and the shadows of the future were falling thickly upon her, and

darkening her path.

The hostelrie at which I had the appointment with Forrester stood on the

edge of a bleak common. In that part of the country there are many

similar wastes, stretching a half mile or more into the interior,

covered with a scant and sickly herbage, and presenting on the surface

an arid picture of sand, stones, and shells, as if these great,

unprofitable pastures had been redeemed from the sea without being

converted into available land. There is a salt flavor in the air over

these wild inland stretches; the sea seems to pursue you with its saline

weeds, its keen winds, and measured murmurs; and the absolute solitude

of a scene in which you very rarely meet a house or a tree, is

calculated to make a dismal impression on a person otherwise out of

humor with the world. I felt it forcibly that night. I thought the

northeast wind that swept diagonally across the common was more wintry

and biting than usual; and the red light in the distant window of the

"Jolly Gardeners" (of all conceivable signs for such a spot!) looked as

if it were dancing away further and further from me as I advanced across

the heath.

At last I reached the inn--a low tiled house, with a tattered portico

jutting out upon the road some ten or twelve feet, a few latticed

windows, and a narrow passage, lighted by a single candle in a sconce on

the wall, leading into a sanded parlor beyond a little square "bar" that

looked like the inside of a cupboard, decorated with a variety of jugs,

teacups, saucers, and other ware hung up in rows all round. The house

was altogether a very tolerable specimen of what used to be called an

ale-house in remote country districts; a place suggestive of the

strictest caution about liquors, but where you might repose with

confidence on an impromptu entertainment of rashers and eggs. It was

exactly the sort of house that Forrester would have preferred to a

well-appointed hostel in the days of our summer vagrancy, when we used

to wander toward Hampstead and Highgate, avoiding beaten tracks and

crowded localities, and seeking out for ourselves, whenever we could

find it, a secluded "Barley Mow" shut up in a nest of orchards. He had

not lost his early tastes--nor had I! That little "bar," with its

innumerable samples of delft, threw me back sundry years of my life, to

the time when I was free to dream or idle, to go into the haunts of men,

or to desert them at will. The incident was a trifling one in itself;

but it shot through my heart like a bolt of fire. It was the first time

I had gone out and left Astraea alone behind me. I thought of her, seated

in her lonely room, brooding over her desolation, and torturing herself

with speculations upon the business in which I was engaged: while I?--I

was out again on the high road, exulting in a man's privilege to act for

myself, with her destiny, for good or evil, at my disposal, and

possessing the power of returning into the world from whence I had drawn

her, and in which she could never again appear! I?--I was at large once

more, with the memories of the freedom and tranquillity I had

relinquished tempting my thoughts into rebellion. And she?--alas! she

never seemed in my eyes so forlorn and lost as at that moment!

A single glance at the boxed-up "bar," and the honest round face, with a

skin-cap over it, that gaped at me behind a complete breastwork of

pewter and glass, awakened me from the state of reverie in which I had

entered the house. I dare say I looked rather bewildered, like a man

just shaking off a fit of abstraction, for the honest round face

immediately started out of the chair which served as a socket for the

body to which it belonged, and without waiting to hear me ask any

questions, instantly proposed to conduct me to the gentleman up-stairs,

who had been for some time expecting my arrival.

I found Forrester in a small room which was reached by a flight of

stairs, so sharp and precipitate, that they looked as if they were

inserted on the face of the wall. Having lighted me into the room, the

honest face disappeared, and left us alone together.

Forrester stretched out his hand, as I thought, somewhat formally; then

motioning me to a seat opposite to him, waited in silence till the

landlord had left the room.

"You are surprised I should have asked you to come here," he said.

"No," I replied, interrupting him, hastily; "but I am surprised we did

not hear from you sooner. In the name of Heaven, what can have been the

cause of your silence?"

"How long is it since I saw you?"

"How long? Upward of a fortnight, and we expected a letter every day.

But the world forgets us when we forget ourselves."

"It might be well with some people, if the world _did_ forget them," he

rejoined; "but that is no affair of mine. I have not forgotten you,

whatever you may have deserved from others."

This was uttered in a tone of asperity unusual with Forrester. But I

felt that I had provoked it by the unacknowledging spirit in which I had

met him after all the trouble he had taken on my account, and I was

proceeding to make the best apology I could, when he cut me short with a

wave of his hand, and entered upon the business that brought us

together.

"You were aware when I undertook to negotiate between you and the

husband of Astraea, that I was his friend as well as yours. He had even

stronger claims upon my friendship; I had known him in our boyhood; and

when I returned, after an interval of years, and found him bereaved, as

I had been myself--and by the same person--you can not be astonished

that I should feel some interest in his situation."

"I do not blame you for that," I returned, hardly knowing what I said, I

was so amazed by the tone and substance of this unexpected opening.

"Blame me?" reiterated Forrester. "Blame me for sympathizing with an

early friend, whose life, like my own, had been blasted to the root? You

must suppose my nature to be something different from that of other men,

if you imagine I could witness his sufferings unmoved."

"To what is this intended to lead?" I demanded. "When I saw you last,

your sympathies were not so exclusive. You were then, Forrester, the

friend of both?"

"Am I not so still? What brings me here? It is not exactly the sort of

weather a man would select for a trip of pleasure into the country.

What brings me here? Your business. Does this look like a failure of

friendship? You are soured--isolation and self-reproaches, which pride

will not suffer you to acknowledge, have turned your blood to acid. You

are ready to quarrel for straws, and your whole care is how to escape

the responsibility which passion and selfishness have brought upon you."

I leaped from my chair at these words, and looked fiercely at Forrester.

He was perfectly calm, and continued to speak in a voice of freezing

quietness.

"Pray, resume your seat. It is sheer waste of time to lose your temper

with me. Either I must speak candidly to you, or there is an end to our

intercourse."

"Yes--candidly, but not insultingly," I replied, seizing my chair, and,

after giving it a very ill-tempered fling upon the ground, throwing

myself into it.

"How foolish it is in you to exhibit this humor to me," he resumed after

a short pause. "I imagine I have a right to speak to you exactly what I

think, and that the interest I have taken in your concerns ought to

protect me from the suspicion of desiring to insult you. Were it my cue

to insult you, it is not in this affair I should look for the grounds of

quarrel. But let that pass. I have seen the man whom you have made your

mortal enemy, and have endeavored to prevail upon him to break the

marriage. I have failed."

"Failed? How? Why? What does he say? He is a fiend!"

"Strange that he should have just the same opinion of you. Beelzebub is

rather a respectable and virtuous person in his estimation compared with

you. Just possible both may be right!"

I never saw Forrester in this sort of vein before. It was as if he were

determined to lacerate my feelings and lay them bare; and yet there was

a certain eccentric kindness under this rough treatment, which helped to

reconcile me to it. At all events, I was bound to endure it; I knew that

if I outraged him by any show of distrust or violence, his lips would be

closed forever. I felt, too, that I had given him some provocation in

the first instance by the temper I had betrayed; and that the fault was

at least as much mine as his.

"Well," I cried, "you must forgive me, Forrester, if I am a little

chafed and galled, and, as you say, soured. Circumstances have pressed

hardly upon me. Remember how long I have been shut out from

communication with society--and the state of anxiety and suspense in

which I have lived. You must make allowances for me."

"Exactly. _I_ must make allowances for _you_. But when I ask _you_ to

make allowances for _him_, who has gone through sufferings a

hundred-fold more acute, which you have inflicted upon him, what kind of

response do I receive? No matter. I _do_ make allowances for you. If you

are not entirely absorbed by selfish considerations, you will endeavor

to comprehend the wrong you have committed, and do what you can to avoid

making it worse."

"Wrong? Premeditated wrong I never will admit. My conscience is clear of

that. But I will not argue with you. What would you have me do?"

"Leave the country. You have no other alternative."

"What? Fly from this demon, who first tempted me, and who now wants to

triumph over my ruin?"

"You say your conscience is clear of wrong. You have a happy conscience.

But it deceives you. It is true, that when you first knew Astraea, you

were ignorant of his rights; but you were not ignorant of them when he

found you together and claimed her. Up to that moment, you might have

had some excuse. There was yet time to save her, yourself, and him. How

did you act, then? If we are to discuss this matter with any hope of

arriving at a rational conclusion, you must rid yourself of the

flattering deception that you have been doing no wrong. We are not

children, but grown-up men and responsible agents."

"Well, I put myself in your hands. But that I should become an exile

because this man chooses to pursue me with vindictive feelings, _does_

seem something monstrous."

"From your point of sight, I dare say it does. Just change places with

him. A man who desires to decide justly will always endeavor to look at

both sides of a question. Put yourself in his position. He loves this

woman. I am satisfied he loves her more truly and tenderly, and less

selfishly now than he ever loved her from the beginning. You sneer at

that. You do not credit the possibility of such a thing. It is a

constitutional fallacy of yours to believe that no man loves as you

do--that there is a leaven of earth in other men which mixes with their

devotion and corrupts it. You have nursed this creed all your life, and

it has grown with your growth. You alone are pure and spiritual. I

remember you had that notion once before. I remember how you exalted

yourself on the intensity and endurance of your passion. Surely by this

time you should have outlived that delusion; for even then you might

have seen men with hearts as--But I am wandering from the subject."

"I understand you. I was young, superstitious, ignorant--"

"I will speak plainly. You are not capable of a great devotion. Your

character is not strong enough. You have none of the elements of power

necessary to the maintenance of the martyrdom of love. In a nature

constituted like yours, passion burns up fiercely, and goes out

suddenly. I have heard you say--some years gone by!--that you were

consumed by a love which would end only with your life. I was silent. I

loved, too; but I vailed my eyes, and spoke not, as the coffin which

contained all I cherished in the world was lowered into the grave.

Hope--affection--the desire of life, were buried with it. You see me now

wasted, haggard, solitary, a wreck upon the waters. And you? I find you

plunged into the ecstasies of a new passion. And what of the old one?

Where are the traces of it now? Some men can not live except in this

condition of excitement. You are one of them. But do not deceive

yourself into the belief that others have not hearts, because they do

not show them in spasms such as these. Do not despise the faithful

agonies even of the dwarf!"

I felt the severe justice of the reproach less in Forrester's words than

in his pallid face, and the pangs he struggled to conceal. I was even

secretly compelled to admit that there was a miserable truth in what he

said about Mephistophiles; yet it was difficult for me to give utterance

to the expression of any sympathy in the sufferings of a man who seemed

to have directed his whole energies to the pursuit of an insane and

unprofitable vengeance.

"The portrait is not flattering," I observed. "But why do you thus put

me on the rack? What has all this to do with the matter that has brought

us together?"

"It has every thing to do with it. The instability of your

character--the certainty of remorse and disappointment, passion sated

and exhausted, romance broken up, and nothing left but mutual

reproaches, which will not be the less bitter because they may not find

expression in words--the certainty that such is the fate to which Astraea

is doomed under your protection, justifies me in laying before you those

secrets of your nature which, without the help of some friendly monitor

like me, you would never be able to discover."

This was said in a tone of sarcasm. No man knows himself. With much

modesty and humility in some things (springing, perhaps, from weakness

rather than discretion or reserve), I had always overrated myself in

others. I had a strong faith in my own constancy of purpose--in the

steadfastness of my principles and feelings. But it was true that I was

self-deceived, if Forrester and Astraea had read my character accurately.

Their agreement was something wonderful. They used almost the very same

words in describing the points on which my strength was likely to break

down. I was beginning to fear that they were right; but I owed a grave

responsibility to Astraea, and could not yet be brought to admit, even to

myself, that it was possible I should fail in it.

"You judge from the rest of the world, and not from me, Forrester," I

replied. "But granted that it is as you say, how can that mend the

business? Believe me, you are ignorant of Astraea's character and mine.

No matter--let that pass. Suppose we should hereafter find our lives

wearisome and joyless, may we not justly trace the cause to the malice

that will not suffer us to redeem ourselves."

"Is your redemption, by the strength of your own efforts, so sure, then?

Neither he whom you have wronged, nor I, have any faith in your

fortitude. We believe that if you were free to marry Astraea, a certain

sense of justice would induce you at once to make her your wife; but we

believe also, that the enchantment would perish at the altar.

Attachments that begin in one form of selfishness generally end in

another--even with people of the most amiable intentions."

There was a scoff in his voice that made my blood tingle; but I subdued

myself. "Pray, come to the point," I exclaimed, impatiently.

"The point is simple enough," he returned. "My mission has failed. He

will make no terms, take no steps for a divorce, listen to no

expostulations until a separation shall have taken place between you and

Astraea."

"A separation?"

"It is clear to me that, in looking forward to such a contingency, it is

not because he hopes or desires, under such circumstances, to see her

again; but because it would enable him, without pain or humiliation, to

become the guardian of her future life. It is the passion of his soul to

dedicate himself, unseen, to the sacred duty of watching over her."

"Preposterous. He watch over her? The recollection of his former

guardianship is not so agreeable as to induce her to trust herself under

it again. As to separation, her devotion to me would make her spurn such

a proposition."

"H--m! It is because I believed her pride would make her spurn it that I

recommended you to go abroad."

"And why should we go abroad on that account?"

"Because his revenge, sleepless and insatiable, will render it

impossible for you to remain in England."

"His revenge! Pshaw! I am sick of hearing of it. Believe me, the word

has lost its terrors--if it ever had any."

"You are wrong. My advice is prudent, and is given honestly, for both

your sakes. In England there is danger; abroad, you will be beyond his

reach."

"Why," answered I, with a forced smile, "one would suppose that you were

speaking of the Grand Inquisition, or the Council of Ten, and that we

lived in a country where there was neither law nor social civilization.

What do you imagine I can possibly have to fear from him?"

"A vengeance that you can not evade, so subtle and unrelenting as to

leave no hour of your existence free from dread and misery. Can you not

understand how a man whose life you have laid waste may haunt you with

his curse? Can you not comprehend the workings of a mortal hate, ever

waiting for its opportunity, patient, silent, untiring, never for an

instant losing sight of its object, and making all things and all

seasons subservient to its deadly purpose? _I_ can understand this in

the most commonplace natures, when they are strongly acted upon; but in

him, fiery, self-willed, and vindictive, it is inevitable."

"Is this an inference of your own, drawn from your knowledge of his

character, or has he confided his intentions to you?"

"Even if he had not confided his intentions to me, I know him too well

not to foresee the course he will take; but he has concealed nothing of

his designs from me, except the mode in which he intends to work them

out. Of that I know nothing. But it is enough, surely, that such a man

should swear an oath of vengeance in my presence, to justify me in the

warning I have given you."

"I thank you. And this warning--upon which we seem to put very different

valuations--is the result of your friendly interference?"

"You are at liberty to doubt my friendship; but I will not leave my

motives open to misconstruction. I repeat to you that I give you this

warning, for _his_ sake as much as for yours."

"And why for his sake?"

"Because if you avoid him you may save him from the perpetration of a

crime. The whole energies of his mind are directed to one end. He lives

for nothing else, and will pursue it at any cost or peril to himself. I

know him. If you are wise, you will heed my warning. If not, take your

own course. I have discharged my conscience, and have done."

As he spoke these words, he drew his chair toward the fire, and sat

musing as if he had dropped out of the conversation.

"Forrester," I exclaimed, "one question more! Why did you not

communicate this to Astraea yourself? Why did you leave to me the pain of

carrying home such ill news?"

"Home!" repeated Forrester, involuntarily; then, raising his voice, he

went on: "Why did I not go to her, and tell her that she ought to

separate from you, if she had any regard for her own future security?

What should you have thought of my friendship if I had done that? Why,

you distrust me as it is."

"No--I have no distrusts. It is evident on which side your sympathies

are engaged."

"With whom should I sympathize--the wronged, or the wrong-doer?"

"When we parted last, I believed that you felt otherwise."

"When we parted last, you had made impressions upon me which I have

since found to be deceptive. I do not blame you for that. You told your

story in your own way, from your own point of sight: I believed it to be

true. Nor had I then looked into this man's heart--this suffering man in

his agony, whom you painted as a monster: I did not then know how

capable he was of loving and of suffering for love's sake--the noblest

and the most sorrowful of all suffering! nor how gently that heart,

crushed and struck to the core, had risen again to life, strengthened

and sweetened by the injuries it had learned to forgive! You can not

judge of that tenderness of soul, out of which a happier fortune and a

prosperous love might have drawn a life of kindliness and charity.

You--who, having accomplished your desires, are now reposing in the lull

of your sated passions--you can see nothing in him but the evil which

you have helped to nourish; his sacrifices and magnanimity are all

darkness to you."

"I will listen no longer," I said, starting up from my chair. "I see

distinctly what is before me. Old friends fall from us in our

adversities. Well! new ones must be made. It is some comfort that the

world is wide enough for us all, and that the loss, even of such a

friend as you, is not irreparable."

"H--m! a successful epitome of your creed and character! You can cast

old affections and memories from you with as little emotion as a bird

moults its feathers; and having got rid of one set of sensations, you

can begin again, and so go on, destroying and renewing, and still

thinking yourself misunderstood and injured, and taking your revenge in

fresh indulgences."

"I will endure no more of this," I exclaimed, seizing my hat and going

toward the door; "let us part, before I forget the ties that once bound

us together."

"Forget them?" he echoed, and his face grew ghastly pale; but, forcibly

controlling his agitation, he went on, in a low voice: "Have you not

forgotten them already? Have you not shaken them off like dust from your

feet? Ay, let us part; I am unfit to be your friend or companion. Leave

me to mate with him you have bereaved, and whose heart is desolate like

mine! There, at least, I shall find a community of feeling on one

point--the blight which we both owe to you. Go! Leave me--no words--no

words!"

Had I spoken it would have been angrily. But although my pride was

wounded, and I was bitterly mortified and disappointed at the result of

a meeting, which, instead of alleviating my anxiety, had only loaded me

with miseries, I felt that it would have been barbarous at that moment,

had I given way to my own feelings. I stood and gazed upon him in

silence while I held the half-opened door in my hand.

The old feeling was all at once revived, and as he buried his head in

his broad, shapeless hands, and bent over the table, the night when he

related to me the singular history with which he prefaced the

introduction to Gertrude, came back upon me with all its agonies and

terrors as freshly as if but a few weeks, instead of long and checkered

years, had elapsed in the interval. His great anguish on that occasion,

and the grandeur of the sacrifice he made to what he hoped would have

been the foundation of the life-long happiness of her he loved, returned

with painful distinctness. He was changed in nothing since, except in

the haggard expression of his face and figure. His heart--his strong,

manly heart--was still the same. His affections were in the grave with

Gertrude; he had traversed half the world, had been thrown into trying

circumstances, and doubtless, like other men, had been exposed to many

temptations, yet he had never swerved from his early attachment, and had

brought back with him from his wanderings the same truthfulness and the

same sorrow he had carried with him into exile. How strange it was that

he, of all men, should be cast by the force of accidental occurrences

into close communion with the dwarf! that the only men on earth who in

the depths of their hearts could--whether justly or unjustly, mattered

little--find a cause for hating and denouncing me, should be drawn

together, not by any sympathy of their own, but by a common resentment

against me! these two men, so utterly unlike each other in every thing

else, whose natures were as widely different and opposed as night and

day! And then in the midst of this rose up the memory of Gertrude, of

whom I could recollect nothing but a macilent figure, stretched upon a

sofa and scarcely breathing. The lineaments were gone, but there were

the spirit and the reproach, and the gloom that had settled on the

opening of my life, making all the rest wayward, fantastical, and

unreasoning.

I paused at the door, looked for the last time on Forrester, and

noiselessly leaving the room, descended the stairs. In the next moment I

was out again on the bleak heath.

V.

On my return, I found Astraea pacing up and down the room in a state of

nervous irritation at my long absence. Her usual self-command was broken

down. The grace and dignity that once imparted to her an aspect of

calmness and power, were gone. Isolation was doing its work upon her!

Isolation and the feeling of banishment and disgrace which we struggled

with darkly in our minds, but which were slowly and surely destroying

our confidence in ourselves, and our trust in the future.

She was impatient to hear what I had to relate to her, yet was so

ruffled by it, that she constantly interrupted me by exclamations of

scorn and anger. The suggestion of our separation, and the subsequent

guardianship of the dwarf, which I stated simply, without coloring or

comment, affected her differently. She looked at me in silence, as I

slowly repeated the words of Forrester, her lips trembled slightly, and

a faint flush spread over her face and forehead. There was a great

conflict going on, and I could see that her strength was unequal to it.

Gradually the flush deepened, and tears sprang into her eyes. I shall

never forget it! A sob broke from her, and crushing up her face in her

outspread hands with a wildness that almost terrified me, she exclaimed:

"I never was humiliated till now! never till now! till now! O God! what

have I done that this bitterness should come upon me?"

"Astraea! for Heaven's sake do not give way to these violent emotions.

After all, what does it come to?"

She threw back her head with an expression of fierce reproach in her

eyes, and replied:

"Disgrace! _You_ do not feel it. _You_ are safe, free, unscathed; but

_I_--_I_--and this is what women suffer who sacrifice themselves as I

have done!"

"Come, you are nervous and desponding, Astraea. Why do you talk of

suffering? No body has the power to inflict suffering upon you now."

"It is idle--idle--idle!" she answered, moving to and fro; "you can not

comprehend it. Men have no sense of these things. Happy for them it is

so. I believe you mean all in kindness--I believe your manhood, your

pride would not allow you to see me unprotected, lost, degraded so

early! No! don't speak! Let me go on. He makes a condition that I should

leave you--that I should violate the most solemn obligation of my life,

and proclaim myself that which my soul recoils from, and my lips dare

not utter; then, when I shall have damned myself, he will protect me!

With a forbearance, for which I ought to be thankful he will watch over

me unseen--provide for my wants--take care that I am fed and housed; and

having secured my dependence on him, and broken my rebellious heart, he

will take infinite credit to himself for the delicacy and magnanimity

with which he has treated me. Oh man--man! how little you know our

natures, and how superior we are to you, even in our degradation! I ask

you, in what light must he regard me who could presume to make such a

proposition? And in what light should I deserve to be regarded if I

accepted it?"

"It is quite true, Astraea. I feel the whole force of your observations.

The proposition is an insult."

"Thank you--thank you, for that word!" she exclaimed, throwing herself

into my arms, and bursting into a flood of tears. "There is something

yet left to cling to. Thank God, I am not yet so lost but that you

should feel it to be an insult to me. It is something not to be yet

quite beyond the reach of insult."

"Astraea," I said, folding her tenderly in my arms, "compose yourself,

and trust to me. We must trust to each other. There--there--dear

Astraea!"

"What a wretch should I be," she replied, "if _this_ were all--if it

were for _this_ I forfeited every thing; no, no, _you_ don't think so.

It is my last hold--self-respect!--and it is in your keeping. For you I

gave up all--and would have given up life itself--it would be hard if I

should perish in my sin by his hands for whom I sinned!" Then releasing

herself from me, she grasped my arm, and looking earnestly into my face,

she demanded, "And what answer did you give to this proposal?"

"Why, what answer should I give, but that I knew you would spurn it?"

"That was right!" she cried; "right--manly--honest. We must let him know

that I am not the defenseless outcast he supposes; he must see and feel

that we can walk abroad as proudly in the open day as he or his. _His_

vengeance? What have we to fear? Let us cast the shame from us and show

ourselves to the world. We make our own disgrace by hiding and flying

from our friends. You see how our forbearance has been appreciated, and

what a charitable construction has been put upon our conduct. We owe it

to ourselves to vindicate ourselves. I will endure those dismal whispers

that carry a blight in every word no longer. I would rather die!

Come--let us decide once and forever our future course!"

These were brave words, and bravely uttered. Toward the close, Astraea

had regained much of her original power; the strength of purpose and

towering will, which I remembered so well in former days, and which gave

so elevated a character to her beauty, came back once more, and lighted

up her fine features.

It was late; but what were hours to us? Day or night made little

difference. We had no objects to call us up early--we had no occupations

for the next day--it was immaterial whether we retired or sat up; and so

in this listless mode of life we always followed the immediate impulse,

whatever it might be. When we found ourselves weary, we betook ourselves

to repose; when we felt inclined to talk and maunder over the fire, we

never troubled ourselves to ask what o'clock it was. In short, time had

no place in our calendar, which was governed, not by the revolutions of

the earth, but by our own moods and sensations.

We discussed a great question that night. No theme before a debating

club--such as the choice between Peace and War, between Society or

Solitude, or any of those grand abstract antitheses that agitate

nations--was ever more completely exhausted in all its details than the

question--Whether we should leave England, or remain at home, and go

boldly into public, with the determination to live down the persecutions

of the dwarf.

It was a question of life or death with us. We both felt that any fate

would be more welcome than the life to which we were then condemned. We

pined for human faces and human voices. We were sick at heart of eternal

loneliness. We longed for free intercourse with educated people like

ourselves, who would sympathize with our intellectual wants, and talk to

us in our own language. We had arrived at the discovery that the

solitude we had colored so brightly in those happy hours of romance

which love takes such pains in filling up with delusions, would be

rendered much more agreeable by an occasional variety, or an incidental

shock from without--any thing that would stir the pulses and awaken the

life-blood that was growing stagnant in our veins. We were not weary of

each other; on the contrary, anxiety had brought our hearts more closely

together; but we had drunk all the light out each other's eyes, and our

aspects were becoming wan and passionless from lack of change and

movement; we yearned for the presence even of strangers, to break up the

dullness and uniformity, and make us feel that we had an interest in the

living world, and that our love, sweet as it was in seclusion, was

sweeter still as a bond that linked us to the great family, from which

in our desolate retreat we felt ourselves entirely cut off.

I need not detail the arguments by which our final resolution was

determined. To go abroad, and embrace a voluntary banishment, would have

looked like an admission of guilt, which Astraea persisted in

repudiating. Whatever verdict society might choose to pronounce, Astraea

would be governed only by her own. Her justice adapted itself expressly

to the occasion, setting aside the larger views which laws designed for

the general security must include. But such is woman's logic

ever!--circumstantially sensitive, clear, and narrow! Her voice was for

war. I had no motive for opposing her; my pride agreed with her--my

reason took the other side; but, in reality, I saw no great choice

either way. I knew, or felt, that society would never be reconciled to

us. Men have instincts on such points; but women, with their wild sense

of what may be called natural law, never can see these things in the

same light. This was a matter I could not argue with Astraea. I merely

told her that in our anomalous situation, we must not look for much

sympathy or consideration; that, in fact, I had known similar cases

(perhaps not quite so peculiar, but that made no difference in the eyes

of society), and that the issue of the struggle to get back always ended

in increased humiliation; yet I was, nevertheless, ready to adopt any

plan of life that would satisfy her feelings. I was bound to think of

that first, and perfectly willing to take chance for the rest.

It was settled at last, at the close of our long council, that we should

adopt a sort of middle course; and before we returned to London, which

we now fully resolved to do at the opening of the season, we projected a

visit to Brighton, and one or two other places on the coast.

VI.

Talk of the sagacity of the lower animals, and the reasoning faculties

of man! We are the most inconsistent of all creatures; we are

perpetually contradicting ourselves, perpetually involved in anomalies

of our own making. It is impossible to reconcile half the things we do

with the exercise of that reason which we boast of as the grand

distinction that elevates us above the horse, the dog, the elephant. We

never find any of these animals doing unaccountable things, or

practically compromising their sagacity.

For my part, looking back on my life, I feel that it is full of

contradictions, which, although apparent to me now, were not so in the

whirl of agitation out of which they surged. Here, for example, after a

flight from the world, and nearly six months' burial in the severest

solitude, behold us on a sudden in the midst of the gay crowds of

Brighton. The transition is something startling. It was so to us at the

time; and I confess that at this distance from the excitement which led

to it, I can not help regarding it as an act of signal temerity,

considering the circumstances in which we were placed.

Astraea's spirits grew lighter; she cast off her gloom and reserve, and

surrendered herself to the full tide of human enjoyment in which we were

now floating. Whatever might have been the terror or misgiving at either

of our hearts, we did not show it in our looks. We wore a mask to each

other--a mask of kindness, each desiring to conceal the secret pang, and

to convey to the other a notion that all was at peace within! We were

mutually conscious of the well-meant deception, but thought it wiser and

more generous on both sides to affect entire confidence in the gayety we

assumed! Upon this hollow foundation we set about building the

superstructure of our future lives.

We had a cheerful lodging facing the sea--rather a handsome and

extravagant lodging; for being intent upon our project of asserting

ourselves in the eyes of the world, we resolved to test any friends we

might happen to meet, by inviting them to our house. The landlady, a

respectable widow, was one of the most civil and obliging persons in the

world. Her whole establishment was at our disposal, and she never could

do too much to make us feel perfectly at our ease. Emerging as we had

just done from utter loneliness, with a strong fear that the hand of the

world was against us, all this attention and kindness touched us deeply.

Slight an incident as it was, it made us think better of our species,

and look forward more hopefully for ourselves. There was yet something

to live for! There always is, if we will only suffer our hearts to

explore for us, and find it out.

Any person who has moved much in the London circles is sure to find a

numerous acquaintance at Brighton. We met several people we had known in

the great maelstrom of the West End. It was pleasant to us to exchange

salutes with them. It was like coming back after a long voyage, and

finding one's self at home again among old faces and household scenes.

We were intimate with none of these people; and as our knowledge of them

did not justify more than a passing recognition, which was generally

very cordial on both sides, we used to return from our drive every day,

exulting in the success of our experiment upon society. The world, after

all, was not so bad as we supposed.

One day, sauntering on the sands, Astraea saw a lady at a distance whose

figure seemed to be familiar to her. She was an old schoolfellow of

hers, who had been recently married. They flew into each other's arms.

The meeting, indeed, was marked by such affectionate interest on the

part of the lady, who was a stranger to me, that I apprehended she was

entirely ignorant of our story. Almost the first question that passed

between them determined that fact; and as they had a great deal of news

to communicate to each other, it was arranged between them that they

should meet the next morning for a long gossip.

Astraea went alone, and staid away half the day. She returned to me full

of glee. Her friend had listened to her history with the deepest

interest, and entirely agreed with her that she could not have acted

otherwise, adopting, at the same time, without hesitation, Astraea's

opinion of the sanctity of our union. It was not our fault that we had

not been married in a church and this generous lady, seeing the

embarrassment of our situation, enthusiastically declared that the world

might take its own course, but that _she_, at least, would never abandon

a friend under such circumstances. This was very cheering. I must

remark, however, that this lady was several years younger than Astraea,

under whose protection she had been taken at school, where Astraea had

been a resident for convenience, rather than a pupil, when she entered

it. In this way their attachment originated. It would have been

difficult for any young person to have been placed in such close and

endearing intimacy with Astraea, and not to have acquired an enthusiastic

regard for her. She always inspired that sort of feeling--a deep and

passionate love, great admiration of her intellect, implicit respect for

her judgment. In the eyes of her schoolfellow she was the model of all

human excellence. As easily would she have believed in an error of the

planetary system, as that Astraea could commit an aberration of any kind.

Whatever Astraea did, appeared to her unimpeachable. A feeling of

veneration like this carried away from school will stand many severe

shocks in the mind of a true-hearted girl before it will give way.

This was all very well so far as the lady herself was concerned; but how

could we answer for the view her husband might take of the matter? She

volunteered in the most courageous way to take all that upon herself.

She could answer for her husband. She was very young, and very pretty,

and very giddy, and only just married, and her husband never denied her

any thing, and she ruled him with as queenly an influence as the heart

of the most imperious little beauty could desire. Nor did she reckon

without her host, as the event proved. Her husband, in the most

good-humored way, fell into her view of the case. He was one of those

easy-natured souls who, when they marry school-girls, feel themselves

called upon to marry the whole school, and to take its romps, and its

vows, and its bridesmaid pledges, to heart and home along with their

wives. He had heard her speak of Astraea a thousand times, and professed

to be very curious to see her; and so it was arranged that we should all

meet, and make the merriest double-bridal party in the universe. The

reunion was curious between these open-hearted, innocent young people,

with their track of bright flowers before them, and those who sat

opposite to them, with a terrible conviction that the path which lay

before _them_ was covered with ashes.

Our new friends had a large acquaintance at Brighton, and saw a great

deal of company; yet they were always glad to get away when they could,

and make a little holyday with us. Her husband entered into our meetings

with an ease and friendliness that were quite charming. He was an

indolent man, taking no trouble to look after pleasure, but ready to be

pleased in a passive way with any thing that other people enjoyed. As

for his wife, she was always in the highest spirits with Astraea. The

chatter they made together was quite an ecstasy. It seemed as if there

was no end to the things they had to talk about. Poor Astraea had been

shut up from her own sex so long, that the delight with which the

companionship of this young creature inspired her appeared to me

extremely pathetic and affecting.

One morning we were walking on the Parade as usual. Among the carriages

that were flying about, we recognized the open phaeton of our friends.

It passed quite close to us--so close that we could have shaken hands

with them as they swept by. We expected that they would have stopped as

usual, and we stood and put out our hands--but the carriage went on.

There was a hasty bow from the lady, and then her head was quickly

turned aside, as if something had suddenly attracted her attention.

Astraea looked at me, and asked me what I thought of it? I evaded her

question, by saying that they had other friends, and that we must not be

too _exigeant_. Astraea made no remark, but merely shook her head and

walked on.

In the afternoon we met them again. There was a gay crowd of people

walking, and our friends, in the midst of a group, were coming up toward

us. There was no possibility, at either side, of avoiding the meeting,

for the place was narrow, and we were compelled to pass each other

slowly. I could perceive, from the way in which Astraea's cheeks kindled,

that she was resolved to put her schoolfellow's friendship to the proof

at once. I anticipated the result, but thought it best not to interfere,

lest Astraea might suppose I shrank from the ordeal. We met face to face.

The lady grew very white, and then red, and then white again, and caught

her husband by the arm, and moved her lips as if she wished to appear to

be speaking to him, although she did not utter a word. Astraea looked

full into her eyes. Had the young wife seen a spectre from the grave,

she could not have been more effectually paralyzed. That look seemed to

turn her to stone. Not a single expression of greeting took place

between them. Upon the husband's part, the feeling was even less

equivocal. There was a dark, scowling frown upon his face as we came up;

he looked straight at us--and walked on. These _insouciant_ men, who

take the world so indifferently on ordinary occasions, are always the

most fierce when roused. They hate the trouble of being obliged to act

with decision, and when compelled to do so, they cut it short by an

energetic demonstration, that they may fall back the sooner upon their

habitual lassitude.

We returned to our lodging with a clear sense of our position. Galled as

I was on my own account, I felt it a hundred times more acutely on

account of Astraea. Here was her young friend and enthusiastic disciple,

who had always looked up to her with confidence and admiration, who had

heard her story, and clung all the more lovingly and protectingly to her

in pity for the unhappy circumstances in which she was placed, and this

friend had now abandoned and disowned her!--a blow under which some

women would have sunk at once, and which would have made others

reckless and desperate. Upon Astraea it acted slowly and painfully.

Externally it did not seem to affect her much; but I could perceive from

that time a tendency to lapse into fits of silence, and a desire to be

alone, which I had not noticed before. Whenever she alluded to her

friend, she spoke of her as a weak person, who had never been remarkable

for much character, with a kind heart and no understanding, and always

carried away by the last speaker. Ascribing her inconsistency on this

occasion to the influence of her husband, we agreed to dismiss the

subject--not from our thoughts, that was impossible--but from our

conversation. Astraea was bruised and hurt; and through all her efforts

to conceal it, I saw that she suffered severely. It was the first touch

she had directly experienced of the ice of the world's contumely, and it

had struck in upon her heart.

A few days passed away, and we were reconciling ourselves by daily

practice to the personal humiliation of passing and being passed in the

streets by the friends with whom we had been recently on terms of

absolutely hilarious alliance; when, on one occasion, on returning to

our solitary lodging, we were received at the door by our obliging

landlady in a manner which plainly showed that her opinion of us had

undergone a most singular change during our absence. Her quiet, sleepy

eyes scintillated with anger; her face was hot with excitement, and

instead of the civility she had hitherto invariably shown us, she all at

once broke out into a tirade which I will spare the reader the

unpleasantness of hearing: there can be no difficulty in guessing what

it was all about. This worthy woman had heard our history--falsified in

detail, and blackened by the most venomous exaggeration; and being a

very pure lodging-house keeper, standing upon the whiteness of her

morals and her caps, and trusting much to the patronage of the rector,

who allowed her to refer to him for the proprieties and respectabilities

of her establishment, she thought that the best way to vindicate her own

reputation was to assail ours in the most open and public manner.

Accordingly, she took care that every word she said should be overheard

by every body within reach, so that the whole neighborhood should know

of her indignation, and report it to her friend the rector. There never

was such a change in a woman; it was a saint turned into a demon. I

demanded her authority for the injurious aspersions she cast upon us,

and threatened her with a variety of tremendous, though exceedingly

vague, legal consequences--but to no effect. She desired us to leave the

house, and take our remedy; she would give us no satisfaction; she had

good grounds for what she said; that was enough for her; she knew what

"kind" we were; and a great deal more to the same purpose.

We were deeply aggrieved at discovering that our private affairs were

talked of in this scandalous way. As to the vulgar violence of this

woman, we thought no more of it after the immediate irritation of her

assault on us was over. It was one of those coarse incidents, which,

like striking against an awkward person in the streets, happen to us all

in life, and are forgotten with the momentary annoyance. But these

reports of our situation being afloat, rendered it impossible to remain

in Brighton; so that very night we moved down the coast to Worthing. In

this dull little watering-place, where the people always seem bent on

avoiding each other, we thought we should be secure from evil tongues.

It was late when we arrived, and we put up at the hotel, which, like

every thing else in Worthing, has an air of languor and idleness about

it. We liked the tone of the house. An eternal twilight brooded over the

rooms and passages. Every chamber was occupied, yet the place was as

still as a church. If you heard a footstep, it went stealthily as if it

were muffled, or "shod with felt;" and the only signs of life you caught

from the adjoining apartments, were when some noiseless lady in a

morning dress glided into the balcony, and after a side-long look at the

sea, glided back again. Out of doors, the order of the day was vigorous

promenading, but even this was conducted almost speechlessly, except

when a friendly group happened to collect and stop short, and then you

could hear an occasional joke and burst of laughter. The promenade was

the grand thing. It was not sauntering for relaxation, but brisk

exercise, that threw the blood into activity and exhilarated the

spirits. In the course of a week, we came to know every face in Worthing

by the introduction which this lusty amusement afforded us, and every

body in Worthing knew our faces. We were all out at a given hour,

tramping up and down at a swinging pace, and passing and repassing each

other so often, that we were as familiar with the whole guest population

of the place, and the whole guest population with us, as if we had known

each other all our lives. Every body had acquaintances there except

ourselves. We could see them making up little parties for excursions,

soirees, and other amusements; trifles that amused us as lookers-on,

but, nevertheless, made us feel our loneliness. We were _in_ the crowd,

but not _of_ it. Yet it was better to be in the open air among strangers

than to dwell in the desert.

But it was not to be. Our story followed us. We began to perceive, after

a little time, that we were observed and noticed, and that people used

to turn and look after us. This was the first hint we received of what

was now becoming rather an alarming fact to us--that we were known. To

be known with us, was to be shunned, or impertinently gazed at, as if we

were either great criminals, or notorieties of no very respectable

order. At last, it became difficult for us to walk about, from the

universality of the notice we attracted; and at the hotel there was no

possibility of mistaking the nature of the curiosity, not of the most

respectful kind, which tracked us up the stairs and down the stairs, and

penetrated even to our rooms, in the person of a sinister-looking

waiter, who had the oddest conceivable way of looking at us out of the

corner of one eye, which he pursed up and concentrated into a focus

expressly for the purpose. This sort of persecution was wearing us out.

It was like water dropped, drop by drop, upon a stone. The whisper of

shame came after us wherever we went. There was no escaping it; and I

began to suspect that there must be some mark upon us by which we were

known and detected. I believe there is more truth in this than most

people imagine. The habit of evasion and reserve, the apprehension of

being watched, and the secret consciousness of having something to

conceal, doubtless give an expression to one's entire action and

physiognomy which is likely to suggest unfavorable speculations. The

world is apt to think ill of the man who does not look it straight in

the face; and, upon the whole, perhaps the world is right.

This doom pursued us wherever we went. We tried two or three other

places on the coast with the same result. Within a week we were sure to

be found out, and avoided or gazed at. The sight of human beings

enjoying themselves, and the right of looking on at them, were dearly

purchased at such a price as this. Our spirits were beginning to give

way under it; our nerves were so affected by the minute persecution

which we daily endured, that when we got into strange quarters, where we

were as yet unknown, we fancied that all eyes were upon us. A little

more of this sort of racking suspicion, mixed with fear and rage, and I

think I should have gone mad.

Astraea bore it more heroically. She was tolerably calm, and used to

smile while I was glowing over with anger. I frequently felt inclined to

rush upon some of the people who stared at us, and demand of them what

they meant; but Astraea always checked me, and reminded me, that in these

small watering-places scandal was the entire occupation--that the

visitors had, in fact, nothing else to do all day long; and that if

every person who was tormented by their vicious curiosity were to

indulge in resentment, three-fourths of the time of the community would

be wasted in endeavoring to patch up the reputations that had been torn

to bits in the remaining fourth.

Notwithstanding the courage with which she set herself against the

waters that were visibly closing round us on all sides, and the light,

yet earnest and fearful way she talked about it, her health was rapidly

declining. Her color was gone. She was growing thin; there was a slight

cough hovering upon her nerves; and she had become so fanciful, that she

could not bear to go out in the dusk of the evenings, although that was

the only time when we could walk out at our ease.

These changes brought others. Her temper was altered; she tried to

subjugate herself, but could not; a notion seemed to have taken

possession of her that she was a weight upon me, and that the necessity

of sharing disgrace and exclusion with her was preying upon my mind. In

the first few months she was jealous of every hour I was absent from

her, and used to consider it a slight, and a proof that I was becoming

weary of her. Then all was new, and the gloss of novelty and enthusiasm

was yet upon her feelings. Now it was totally different; she had no

longer any care about herself; it was all for me. The dream of love had

been dreamed out, and she had ceased to regard herself as the object of

a devotion which was ready to incur shame and suffering for her sake.

She had seen that delusion to an end; and, having a real fear that,

being pent up continually with her, contracting the man's activity

within the sphere of the woman's limited range, would make our way of

life hateful to me at last, she now used to urge me to go out for long

walks in the country, or to visit the reading-rooms, and keep myself _au

courant_ with the events of the day. Exercise, mental and physical, was

healthful for me, and she would not have me moped to death in the house.

For her own part, she would say to me, she rather liked having a little

time to herself; a woman has always something to do, and is never at a

loss for occupation; and while I was out, she hardly missed me till I

came back--she was so busy! These professions and entreaties were kindly

and judiciously meant, but the difficulty was to act upon them. She

could not endure solitude. She always dreaded to be left alone, and,

only that it was a greater dread to her to make a prisoner of me at the

risk of rendering my existence wretched, nothing could have induced her

to go through the hours of misery she suffered in my absence. This

conflict made her temper unequal and sometimes unreasonable; but in such

a situation, what else could be expected? We were haunted by shadows

that were forever falling about our path; move where we would, these

dark phantoms pursued us.

Our lives were not like the lives of other people: we had no kindred, no

associations, no stir in the sad stagnation of day and night. Time

seemed to be mantling over us, and the breath of heaven to be becoming

less and less perceptible in our dreariness. Astraea was like a person

who was dying from the heart; and with all the fortitude I could bring

to my help, I felt it no easy task to lift myself out of the dismal

depression which occasionally seized upon me. At last we agreed that our

scheme of traveling about had disappointed our expectations, and that,

after all, London was the best of all places for people who sought

either of the extremes of society or seclusion. And so to London we

forthwith repaired.

VII.

The heart of the town, or the suburbs? The question was speedily decided

in favor of a small detached house, not very far from the Regent's Park.

We had the whole park for a pleasure-ground, a little scrap of verdure

of our own, and an open space and airy situation to regale our lungs in.

We entered upon our new locality with sensations of security we had felt

nowhere else. We seemed to have left behind us the gloom and terror

that had been so long dogging our footsteps. Even Astraea brightened, and

grew better; her fretfulness was disappearing, and a tone of contentment

and cheerfulness supervening upon it. We were each of us more free in

our movements, and the dread of observation which had so long kept us in

a state of perpetual alarm, was gradually passing away.

But what had become all this time of the vengeance of the dwarf? Had he

abandoned his great plan of revenge? Had he thought better of it, and,

finding that Astraea was immovable, addressed himself to some more

sensible pursuit than that of plaguing us? I sometimes touched upon the

subject to Astraea, but could not extract from her what her suspicions

were. She did not like to talk about him. She seemed to be ruled by a

superstitious fear of reviving the topic. It was like the old wives'

adage, "Talk of the devil, and he'll appear!"

I can not exactly remember how long this lasted, or when it was that I

first detected in Astraea the return of the nervousness which had in some

degree abated upon our arrival in town. It could not, however, have been

more than two or three months after we had taken this house, that I

observed a striking change in her. Haggard lines seemed all of a sudden

to have been plowed round her eyes and cheeks, and her look had become

wild and unsettled. I never saw any body so completely shattered in so

short a time, and the transition from comparative tranquillity to a

state of excessive nervous excitement was so alarming, that I thought

there must have been some cause for it beyond that of mere physical

illness. I questioned her upon it, but always got the same

unsatisfactory answers, ending by entreating of me not to notice her,

but to let her go on in her own way. I can not recall what there was

about her manner--some strangeness in the way she looked at me or spoke

to me--that aroused the most painful suspicions. I confess I did not

know what to suspect; but there was a mental reservation of some kind,

and I was resolved to ascertain what it was. I had the utmost confidence

in Astraea; love with her was the most sacred of all obligations; and she

loved me sincerely--at least, she had loved me enthusiastically in the

beginning. What revolutions had since taken place in her heart, I could

not answer for. She had passed through a chaos in the interval that

might have destroyed the capacity of loving. That there was something

more in her thoughts than she had revealed, I felt sure; and the first

shape my suspicions took--natural enough in our circumstances, although

not the more just on that account--was a shape of jealousy. My alarm

immediately flew to the defense of my pride, or, as Forrester in his

cauterizing way would have called it, my selfishness; I resolved to

observe her closely, and I did so some time without being able to glean

any thing further.

At last the secret of her wasting frame and pallid face was suddenly

divulged.

One evening, toward the close of the summer, she remained out longer

and later than usual. Her walk, sometimes alone and sometimes with me,

was through the more secluded parts of the park. On this occasion, the

twilight was setting in, and she had not returned. With a dark and sulky

apprehension brooding in my mind, I resolved to go out in search of her.

We had not been confidential with each other of late; the old dreariness

had come back upon us, embittered with a captiousness and acerbity which

extracted all the sweets from our intercourse. A new element had found

its way between us: we had thoughts which we concealed from each other:

my distrust--her secret, whatever it was. This was a great evil; it

filled every hour of the day with lurking jealousies on both sides,

which one word would have dispelled forever.

I seized my hat, and was about to leave the house, when I heard a sudden

noise at the street-door, and a flurry of agitated steps up the stairs.

Immediately afterward, the door of the room was thrown violently open,

and Astraea rushed in, pale and disheveled. She was evidently in a state

of great alarm and consternation, and turning wildly round, beckoned me

to see that the door was made fast. She could not speak, drawing her

breath hysterically, like a person laboring under the effects of a

serious fright.

"Tranquilize yourself, Astraea," I cried; "there is nothing to fear here.

What is it? What has alarmed you?"

"It is _he_," she replied, fixing her eyes wildly upon me--"_he_ is

coming."

"Who?"

"He who has been upon our track ever and ever--who has never quitted

us--who never will leave us till we are dead."

I did not dare to ask in words, but I asked with my eyes if it was the

dwarf she meant.

"Ay, it is he. Be calm. It is your turn now to show your strength of

mind--to show whether you value the life I have devoted to you. I hoped

to have concealed this from you. We have suffered enough, and I hoped to

have hidden from you what I have suffered. But it is too late now. Hush!

O God!--that was his voice. You do not hear it--I do! It rings through

and through my brain. He is here--he has followed me. If you ever loved

me--and I know you did once!--prove it to me now. Go into the next room,

and promise me to stay there whatever happens. Listen; but speak

not--stir not. He is on the stairs!--will you not give me your promise?

Trust all to me--rely on me--be sure of me. Let go the door--he is

here!"

I made no answer, but conveying to Astraea by a searching look that it

was my purpose to watch the issue, I withdrew by one door, while the

dwarf entered by the other. His voice, as he approached her, sounded in

my ears like the hiss of a serpent.

"I have found you, then, at last--and alone, Astraea!"

"Why do you follow me thus?" exclaimed Astraea, who stood motionless in

the centre of the room, making a great effort to appear bold and calm,

but shuddering in every fibre beneath.

"Why do I follow you? What should I do else?"

"Live like other men. Seek occupation--any thing, rather than plunge

your own life and mine into this eternal horror."

"Have I not occupation? Am I not attending you every where? Have I not

enough to do in waiting upon you from place to place?"

"Abandon that fiendish mockery, and speak like a human being. What is it

you want?"

The dwarf coiled himself up at this question, as if he were distilling

all the venom out of his black heart into the answer.

"Revenge! It was for my revenge I hung upon your track, showed myself to

you at all times and in all places, letting you know that the destroyer

was at hand, so that you might go home and blast _his_ happiness by your

broken spirits and shattered nerves. I have seen it work; I see it now,

in your quivering lip and emaciated hands. Where are the holiday roses

now--the exulting lover--the secret blisses?"

Here, then, was poor Astraea's secret! The monster had been upon her

steps wherever we went; and, as I afterward learned, used to start up

suddenly before her in her solitary walks, to terrify her with threats

of sleepless vengeance, knowing that her fear of consequences would

prevent her from revealing to me the persecution under which she was

sinking. This ghastly pursuit of us (to which we were also indebted for

the scorn and obloquy we suffered) had gradually broken up Astraea's

health, and made the strong mind almost weak and superstitious. But I

must hasten on.

"And this," cried Astraea, "is the generosity I was to have received at

your hands--this the magnanimity your friend gave you credit for!"

"There was a condition to my magnanimity which you have forgotten. Had

you fulfilled that condition, I would have poured out my heart's blood

at your feet, could it have made you more secure and happy. Why did you

not forsake him, and trust to my generosity? No; you clung to him. You

maddened me, and left me nothing but--revenge. Did you suppose he could

escape me? I have no other life but this--to follow you as the

executioner follows the condemned to the scaffold, and make _his_ life a

curse to _him_, as he has made _mine_ to _me_. There's justice in

that--call it cruel, if you please; 'tis just--just--just!"

"'Tis monstrous, and will draw down the punishment of Heaven on your

head."

"Heaven will judge strictly between us. What am I? What have I to live

for? You have poisoned the earth for me. Every spot where we have been

together is accursed to me. I dare not look on the old haunts. I dare

not seek new scenes, for my soul is lonely, and no pleasure or delight

of nature can reach it. I should go mad were I not near you; it supplies

me with work--something to employ me--to keep my hands from

self-destruction. I weave stratagems all night, and watch my time all

day, day after day, patiently, to execute them. I have but one purpose

to fulfill, and when that is done, life is over. If I live long enough

to drive him mad, as he has maddened me, I shall be content, and go to

my grave happy. And I will do it; every hour gives me more strength. I

see the end nearer and nearer--it grows upon me. I awaken to my business

early; it is my first thought--my last; it never leaves me. Day after

day I have watched you, and have tracked you home at last. And here it

is you live--you, Astraea, whom I loved--whom I still--no, not that! You

live here with him--his wife! You call yourself his wife? Ha! ha! That

is good--his wife! I wonder to see you living, Astraea. I should have

looked for your corpse in this room rather than the living Astraea--the

proud, soaring, ambitious Astraea! Why do you not die? It would be

happier for you?"

During the latter part of this speech, Astraea, who had made a great

struggle throughout to sustain the attitude she had "taken" in the first

instance, grew weak from terror and exhaustion, and sunk or tottered

upon a chair. The inflections of voice with which these inhuman taunts

were delivered, ending in a tone that came apparently, if I may so

express it, laden with tears from the heart of the speaker, were so

ingeniously varied and so skillfully employed, that it would have been

impossible, even for an indifferent listener, to have heard them without

being alternately agitated and enraged. For my part, a kind of frenzy

possessed me. I restrained myself as long as I could. I tried to obey

poor Astraea's injunction, for, seeing how much I had wronged her in my

thoughts, and what misery she must have suffered and concealed on my

account, I felt that I ought to spare her any further alarm my

forbearance could avert. But the harrowing scoffs of the fiend were

beyond my endurance--my self-control gave way at last, and bursting open

the door of the room in which I was concealed, I rushed out upon the

malignant wretch, who, to do him justice, courageously turned upon me,

and met me with his eyes glaring fiercely as of old.

"Devil!" I exclaimed, "what do you do here? What do you want? Revenge?

Take it--in any shape you will. Only rid me of your presence, lest I

spurn you with my foot, and trample upon you."

"You should have told me," he said, turning with an air of mockery to

Astraea, "that he was listening in the next room. I would have dressed my

phrases accordingly."

"Again, I ask you why you come here? Answer me, or leave the room at

once."

"Why do I come here? To gladden myself by looking at your wretchedness.

You are worse than I am--sunk below me a thousand fathoms deep in

degradation--every finger is pointed at you--you are steeped in

scorn--despised and loathed. I came to see this. It makes me supremely

happy."

"Go--there is the door," I cried, the blood tingling in my ears, and in

the tips of my fingers. Astraea saw that the excitement was rising, and

looked at me imploringly; but it was too late to attend to her scruples.

The dwarf looked at the door superciliously, and almost smiled when I

repeated my warning.

"You will not leave the room? Be advised. I am not responsible for what

may happen after this. I am not master of myself. Go--it is the last

time I will utter the word. Go--or I will kill you on the spot!"

He did not move, but looked at me wonderingly and incredulously. I

rushed upon him and grappled him by the neck. Astraea sprang up, and

begged of me to desist, for I was hanging over him, with my hand upon

his throat.

"Let him go--let him go!" she exclaimed; "for my sake do not commit a

murder. Loosen your hold--there--there--have mercy on him, for my

sake--for the love of God, spare him--remember, we have injured him

enough already--remember that!"

I would not loosen my hold; passion had given me the power and the

cruelty of a demon. There was a brief struggle, in which I flung him

heavily to the ground. I had seized his handkerchief, and twisted my

hand in it--he was nearly choked--his face was growing black; but I was

hardly conscious of all this, for the room was swimming round me as I

knelt over him. Astraea saw the change in his color, and with a shriek of

horror fell upon my arm. This action made me relax my hold. She had

fainted on his body.

CONCLUSION.

Why should I dwell any longer on these painful events? Had I known then,

as I afterward discovered, that the unhappy object of my wrath and

hatred had, ever since the flight of Astraea, betrayed symptoms of

aberration, and that the scheme of vengeance he nurtured so

relentlessly, was the stratagem of a disordered brain, I should have

treated him with mercy and compassion. But I was ignorant of the real

condition of his mind, and dealt with him as I should have dealt with a

responsible being. The violent excitement of that scene brought on a

crisis, which ended in a seizure of insanity. He still lives; if that

may be called living in which all memory of the past is extinguished,

and the present is a mere tangled skein of day-dreams.

Astraea's health was utterly broken. It was not her physique that died,

but her heart, her spirits, her self-reliance, and her hope of the

future. She felt that there was nothing for her in this world but

remorse. The desolation that was round her killed her. She braved it

earnestly at first. Her noble heart and her true love she thought were

proof against the world and its hollow scorn. Alas! for true love and

noble hearts! They can not stand up alone in ice and storms. They must

be out in the sun with their allies round them, like frailer loves and

meaner hearts, or they will perish in their strength!

THE FEET-WASHING ON GOOD FRIDAY IN MUNICH.

I have just witnessed the ceremony of the Feet-washing, which has been

announced for this month past as one of the great sights of the season.

My good friend at the _Kreigs Ministerium_ kept his word faithfully

about procuring tickets for us. Accordingly, Myra F. and I have seen the

whole ceremony. At nine o'clock Myra was with me, and, early as it was,

Madame Thekla advised us to set off to the Palace, as people were always

wild about places, and if we came late, spite of our tickets, we should

see nothing. The good old soul also accompanied us, on the plea that, as

she was big and strong, she could push a way for us through the crowd,

and keep our places by main force. She stood guard over us--the good

creature!--for two mortal hours, and when the door at length was opened

by a grand lacquey, had the satisfaction of seeing us step through the

very first. But before this happy moment arrived, we had to wait, as I

said, two hours; and leaving, therefore, the patient old lady as our

representative before the little door which led into the gallery of the

Hercules Hall, whither our tickets admitted us, and before which door no

one but ourselves had yet presented themselves, Myra and I ranged along

the queer whitewashed galleries of the old portion of the palace in

which we were. Can not you see these vistas of whitewashed wall, with

grim old portraits of powdered ladies and gentlemen, in hoops, ruffles,

gold lace, and ermine, and framed in black frames, interspersed amid

heavy wreaths and arabesques of stucco?--dazzlingly white walls,

dazzlingly white arched ceilings, diminishing in long perspective! Now

we came upon a strange sort of a little kitchen in the thick wall, where

a quaint copper kettle, standing on the now cold hearth, told of coffee

made for some royal servant some hours before; we were now before the

door of some _Kammer-Jungfer_; now in the gallery with the whitewash,

but without the portraits, where, opposite to every door, stood a large,

white cupboard; a goodly row of them.

Once we found ourselves below stairs and in one of the courts. There, on

passing through the door-way, you stood on a sort of terrace, above your

head a ceiling rich with ponderous wreaths of fruit and flowers, and

other stucco ornaments of the same style, which probably had once been

gilt, and with fading frescoes of gods, goddesses, and Cupids!

This old part of the Royal Palace of Munich is quite a little town. We

discovered also a little tiny chapel, now quite forgotten in the glory

of Hess's frescoes, and the beauty of the new _Hof-Kapelle_. To-day this

old chapel was open, hung with black cloth, and illuminated with

numberless waxen tapers, and the altar verdant with shrubs and plants,

placed upon the altar steps. There was, however, a remarkably mouldy,

cold smell in the place; but I suppose the royal procession visited this

old chapel as well as the new one, on its way to the Hercules Hall.

This _cortege_, with the king and his brother walking beneath a splendid

canopy, and attended priests and courtiers, went, I believe, wandering

about a considerable time, to the edification of the populace, out of

all this, excepting from hearsay, I can not speak, having considered it

as the wiser thing for us to return to Madame Thekla and our door,

rather than await it.

The Hercules Hall is rather small; and certainly more ugly than

beautiful, with numbers of old-fashioned chandeliers hanging from the

ceiling; a gallery at each end supported by marble pillars, with a row

of tall windows on either side; a dark, inlaid floor of some brown wood;

but with no sign whatever of Hercules to be seen. Suffice it to say,

that having noticed all this at a glance, we observed, in the centre of

the hall, a small altar covered with white linen, and bearing upon it

golden candlesticks, a missal bound in crimson velvet, a vailed

crucifix, and a golden ewer standing in a golden dish. On one side of

the altar rose a tall reading-desk, draped with sulphur-colored cloth,

upon which lay a large open book: a row of low, crimson stools stood

along the hall, opposite the altar; on the other side, across the

windows, ran a white and very long ottoman, raised upon a high step

covered with crimson cloth, and chairs of state were arranged at either

end of the hall below the galleries. The arrival of people below was

gradual, although our gallery and the gallery opposite had been crowded

for hours. We at length had the pleasure of seeing something commence.

The door at the further end opened, and in streamed a crowd. Then

tottered in ancient representations of the twelve "apostles," clothed in

long violet robes, bound round the waist with white bands striped with

red, and with violet caps on their heads: on they tottered, supported on

either side by some poor relative, an old peasant-woman, a stalwart man

in a black velvet jacket, and bright black boots reaching to the knee,

or by a young, buxom girl in her holiday costume of bright apron and gay

bodice. On they come, feeble, wrinkled, with white locks falling on

their violet apparel, with palsied hands resting on the strong arms that

supported them--the oldest being a hundred and one, the youngest

eighty-seven years old! My eyes swam with sudden tears. There was a deal

of trouble in mounting them upon their long snowy throne; that crimson

step was a great mountain for their feeble feet and stiff knees to

climb. But at last they were all seated, their poor friends standing

behind them. A man in black marshaled them like little school-children;

he saw that all sat properly, and then began pulling off a black shoe

and stocking from the right foot of each. There, with drooped heads and

folded withered hands, they sat meekly expectant. A group of twelve

little girls, in lilac print frocks and silver swallow-tailed caps,

headed by an old woman in similar lilac and silver costume, took its

place to the right of the old men in a little knot; they were twelve

orphans who are clothed and educated by the queen, and who receive a

present on this day.

The hall at the further end was by this time filled with bright

uniforms--blue, scarlet, white, and green. In front were seen King Max

and his brothers, also in their uniforms; numbers of ladies and

children; and choristers in white robes, who flitted, cloud-like, into a

small raised seat, set apart for them in a dark corner behind the

uniforms. A bevy of priests in gold, violet, blue, and black robes, with

burning tapers and swinging censers, enter; prostrate themselves before

the king of Bavaria, and before the King of Hosts, as typified to them

on the altar; they chant, murmur, and prostrate themselves again and

again. Incense fills the hall with its warm, odorous breath. They

present open books to the king and princes. And now the king, ungirding

his sword, which is received by an attendant gentleman, approaches the

oldest "apostle;" he receives the golden ewer, as it is handed from one

brother to another; he bends himself over the old foot; he drops a few

drops of water upon it; he receives a snowy napkin from the princes, and

lays it daintily over the honored foot; he again bows over the second,

and so on, through the whole twelve; a priest, with a cloth bound round

his loins, finishing the drying of the feet. A different scene must that

have been in Jerusalem, some eighteen hundred years ago!

And now the king, with a gracious smile, hangs round the patient neck of

each old man a blue and white purse, containing a small sum of money.

The priests retire; the altar and reading-desk are removed. Six tables,

covered with snowy cloths, upon each two napkins, two small metal

drinking-cups, and two sets of knives, forks, and spoons, are carried

in, and joined into one long table, placed before the crimson step. In

the mean time the man in black has put on the twelve stockings and the

twelve shoes, and, with much ado, has helped down the twelve "apostles,"

who now sit upon the step as a seat. Enter twelve footmen, in blue and

white liveries, each bearing a tray, covered with a white cloth, upon

which smoke six different meats, in white wooden bowls; a green

soup--remember it is _green Thursday_--two baked fish; two brown

somethings; a delicious-looking pudding; bright green spinach, upon

which repose a couple of tempting eggs, and a heap of stewed prunes.

Each footman, with his tray, is followed by a fellow-footman, carrying a

large bottle of golden-hued wine, and a huge, dark, rich looking roll on

silver waiters. The twelve footmen, with the trays, suddenly veer round,

and stand in a line opposite to the table, and each opposite to an

"apostle;" the twelve trays held before them, with their seventy-two

bowls, all forming a kind of pattern--soup, fishes, spinach; soup,

fishes, spinach; pudding, prunes, brown meats; puddings, prunes, brown

meats--all down the room. Behind stand the other footmen, with their

twelve bottles of wine and their twelve rolls. I can assure you that,

seen from the gallery above, the effect was considerably comic.

A priest, attended by two court-pages, who carry tall burning tapers,

steps forth in front of the trays and footmen, and chants a blessing.

The king and his brothers again approach the "apostles;" the choristers

burst forth into a glorious chant, till the whole hall is filled with

melody, and the king receives the dishes from his brothers, and places

them before the old men. Again I felt a thrill rush through me; it is so

graceful--though it be but a mere form, a mere shadow of the true

sentiment of love--any gentle act of kindness from the strong to the

weak, from the powerful to the very poor. As the king bowed himself

before the feeble old man of a hundred--though I knew it to be but a

mere ceremony--it was impossible not to recognize a poetical idea.

It took a long time before the seventy and two meats were all placed on

the table, and then it took a very long time before the palsied old

hands could convey the soup to the old lips; some were too feeble, and

were fed by the man in black. It was curious to notice the different

ways in which the poor old fellows received the food from the king; some

slightly bowed their heads; others sat stolidly; others seemed sunk in

stupor.

The Court soon retired, and twelve new baskets were brought by servants,

into which the five bowls of untasted food were placed; these, together

with the napkin, knife, fork, spoon and mug, bottle of wine, and bread,

are carried away by the old men; or, more properly speaking, are carried

away for them by their attendant relatives. Many of the poor old

fellows--I see by a printed paper which was distributed about, and which

contains a list of their names and ages--come from great distances; they

are chosen as being the oldest poor men in Bavaria. One only is out of

Munich, and he is ninety-three.

We went down into the hall to have a nearer view of the "apostles;" but,

so very decrepit did the greater number appear, on a close inspection;

their faces so sad and vacant; there was such a trembling eagerness

after the food in the baskets, now hidden from their sight; such a

shouting into their deaf ears; such a guiding of feeble steps and

blinded, blear eyes; that I wished we had avoided this painful part of

the spectacle.

A PEDESTRIAN IN HOLLAND.

While pacing along to Meppel, I made up my mind at all events to visit

Ommerschans; instead, therefore, of halting on reaching the town about

sunset, I left the main thoroughfare for a by-road, which, as usual,

formed the towing-path of a canal. With the aid of a countryman going in

the same direction, I passed for several miles through by-ways, and soon

after dusk arrived at De Wyk. Almost the first house in the village was

a _herbergje_; but there being no room, I went further, and presently

came to another--one of the long, low edifices which appear to be

peculiar to the rural districts in the northern provinces, the same roof

sheltering quadrupeds and bipeds. On opening the door, I found myself in

a large kitchen, dimly lighted by a single candle standing on a table,

round which sat a dozen rustics finishing their supper. Each one laid

down his spoon, and stared at me vigorously, and for some time my

question--"Kan ik hier overnachten?" ("Can I pass the night here?")

remained unanswered: sundry ejaculations alone were uttered. By and by,

both a mistress and maid appeared to minister to my needs, and tea and

eggs were quickly in preparation. Meanwhile, the men at the table were

making me the subject of discussion among themselves, and eying me with

curious looks. At length one of them asked me whence I came, and why I

was there; which queries were answered to their satisfaction, when

another rejoined,

"And so mynheer comes from Fredericksoord, and is going to

Ommerschans?"--an observation which elicited a grunt of approval from

the whole company.

"But how does mynheer find his way?" inquired the first speaker.

"That is not very difficult. With a map in his pocket, and a tongue in

his head, a man may go all over the world."

"Ja, that is good; but it is not easy sometimes to know which turning to

take. What does mynheer do then?"

"I generally get to know the direction of the place I want to go to

before starting, and then steer my way by the sun or wind; and seldom

fail to arrive, as you may see by my being here."

This explanation sufficed them for a time as a topic for further

discussion, and left me free to attend to my personal wants, which were

in the imperative mood. Before long, however, one of them began again by

asking, "What has mynheer to sell?"

"Nothing: my knapsack contains only articles for my own use." Here a

brief confabulation followed, and I began to fancy the Dutchmen not less

expert in gathering information than the New Englanders, when the

question came.

"Mynheer travels, then, for his own pleasure?"

"Why not?"

"Ah, mynheer says why not; but when one travels for pleasure, he must

have so much money in hand;" and, as he said this, the speaker tapped

significantly the palm of one of his hands with the fingers of the

other.

Whether it was that they voted such journeyings an unwholesome

extravagance, or that their ideas were all exhausted, the group said no

more; and shortly afterward kicking off their stained and clumsy sabots,

they retired, without any further process of undressing, to their

sleeping-lairs. Some crept into a loft, others into beds contrived, as

berths in a ship, in recesses in the walls of the kitchen, two into

each; and before I had finished my tea, a concert of snores was going

on, where the bass certainly had the best of it.

I have often found that a fatiguing walk on a hot day takes away all

relish for ordinary food: the appetite seems to demand some novelty--and

it was with no small pleasure that I accepted the landlady's offer to

add a plate of _framboose_ (raspberries) to my repast; their cool and

agreeable flavor rendered them even more refreshing than the tea.

In the intervals of talking and eating I had taken a survey of the

apartment, as far as it was illuminated by the solitary candle: it was

one that carried you back a century or two. The large hearth projected

several feet into the room, overhung by a canopy near the ceiling of

equal dimensions; and the top and back being lined with glazed white,

blue, and brown tiles, glistened as the light fell upon them from the

turf fire, and presented a cheerful aspect. A wooden screen fixed at one

side kept off draughts of air, and formed a snug corner for cold

evenings. The tables and chairs had been fabricated in the days when

timber was cheap, and strength was more considered than elegance. They

had little to fear from contact with the uneven paved floor. A goodly

array of bright polished cooking utensils hung upon the walls, and in

racks overhead a store of bacon and salt provisions, and bags and

bundles of dried herbs. Although rude in its appointments, and coarse in

its accommodations, the dwelling betrayed no marks of poverty; it was

perhaps up to the standard of the neighborhood, and in accordance with

the thrift that considers saving better than spending. The greatest

discomfort--to me at least--was the close, overpowering smell of cattle

which pervaded the whole place, and made you long for an inspiration of

purer air. From my seat I could see into an adjoining apartment,

similar, but better in character to the one described: this was to be my

_slaap-kamer_. I requested to have the window left partly open all

night, and immediately a look of suspicion came over the old woman's

face as she answered,

"Neen, mynheer, neen; best not to have the window open; thieves will

come in."

"Surely," I replied, "there are no thieves in this little village?"

"Ah, but there were some thieves at Meppel last week."

The landlady's apprehensions seemed so painful to her, that I ceased to

press the question, and followed her into the room, where she assured me

I should find the air sufficiently respirable, and bade me _goede

nacht_.

In this room there were several wall-recesses, as in the other, but

cleaner and better fitted up. A bedstead at one corner, behind a narrow

screen extending a few feet from the door, was intended for me; the

sheets and coverlids, though coarse, were clean. Three wardrobes or

presses stood against the walls, so richly dark and antique in

appearance, and of such tasteful workmanship, that you at once knew the

date to be assigned to their manufacture, probably about the time that

the Prince of Orange fell beneath Geraart's pistol-shot; at all events,

when, instead of working by contract, artificers interfused a portion of

their own spirit into the productions of their skill. The chairs, by

their dimensions, had been clearly intended for the past generations,

who wore the broad skirts at which we so often smile in prints of old

costumes. The projection of the largest articles of furniture produced

sundry picturesque effects of light and shade, relieved and diversified

by the rows of polished pewter dishes ranged on racks against the wall

alternately with dishes of rare old china, that would have gladdened the

eyes of a virtuoso. There were rows of spoons, also, of shining, solid

pewter, all betokening resources of substantial comfort, and assisting

to give effect to a picture which fully occupied my attention while

undressing.

The hostess, when she went out, had not closed the door; this I cared

little about, as it afforded some facility for circulation of air; but

her remark touching the thieves made me take the precaution to place my

watch and purse under the pillow, leaving such loose florins as were in

my pocket for any prowler who might think it worth while to pay me a

visit, that, finding some booty, he might there cease his search for

more. I left the candle burning on the table, and soon afterward the

girl came in and wished me a _goede nacht_ as she carried it away.

Presently all became still in the house, and as weariness softens the

hardest bed, I was soon asleep, notwithstanding the annoyance from

certain insects, which were neither bugs nor fleas, that came crawling

over me. I had lain thus in quiet repose for two or three hours, when I

was disturbed by a light shining in the room, and half-raising my

eyelids, I saw a tall figure clothed in white, holding a candle in its

hand, and gazing stealthily at me from behind the screen at the foot of

the bed. I did not start up or cry out, for a sufficient reason--I was

too drowsy. The figure withdrew; the room again became dark; I turned

round, and slept soundly until morning.

I was up soon after five, being desirous to recommence my walk before

the heat came on, and, it need scarcely be said, found all my property

as I had left it. The old presses looked not less imposing than in the

faintly-illuminated gloom some hours previously; and I could see in the

daylight several articles which had then escaped my notice. Among them

was the _groote bijbel_, a portly folio in black letter, and in good

condition. How many suffering hearts had found support and consolation

in those ancient pages! When I went into the next room, the laborers had

taken their breakfast, and gone to their work, and the old lady sat near

the window mending stockings. She saluted me by inquiring if I had _wel

geslaapt_, and what I would take for breakfast. I chose raspberries with

milk and bread, and highly enjoyed the fresh-gathered fruit that looked

so tempting, coated with its early bloom. It was the most acceptable

breakfast of any which I ate in Holland. The hostess chatted on various

topics: in one of my replies, I chanced to mention the large Bible which

I had seen in the other room--"Ah," she said, "it is the best of books:

what should we do without it?" I then told her that a little Bible was

part of the contents of my knapsack, and on hearing this her manner at

once changed; the suspicion disappeared, and the benevolent demeanor

resumed its place. My request of the night before concerning the window

had made her very anxious; she had, it seemed, been led to regard me as

a suspicious character--as one likely to let in a confederate, or to

decamp myself surreptitiously. From this I at once understood it was she

who, clad in white, and holding a candle, had come into my room during

the night; perhaps to see whether her guest were lying still as an

honest traveler ought. We became, however, very excellent friends, and I

regretted not having time to stay two or three days, to get a little

further insight into village life, and the pursuits and resources of its

inhabitants: but that could not be. I was somewhat surprised on asking,

"_Hoe veel betalen?_" (How much to pay?) at the cheapness of my lodging

and entertainment: the charge was only eighteen stivers. I handed a

florin to the old lady, with an intimation that the two stivers' change

might go to the maid for her alacrity in raspberry plucking, on which

she replied, "_Dank voor haar_," with much emphasis. Then holding out

her hand, after assisting to place my knapsack in position, she bade me

good-by, with many wishes for a prosperous journey.

It was a pleasant morning, with a bright sky and a hot sun, and a

feeling of exhilaration came over me as I left the close, sickening

smell of the house for the free and fresh air outside. The aspect of the

country was again different from that which I had already traversed.

Willows, so plentiful in the southern provinces, are rare on the dry

heath-lands of the north, while small plantations, and woods of birch,

beech, and oak are frequently met with. At times the route led along

narrow, winding lanes, between tangled hedges and overhanging trees,

where the shade and coolness made you feel the contrast the greater on

emerging upon the unsheltered and unfenced fields. Before long, I came

to another village, where the houses were built at random around a real

village green, such as you may see in some parts of Berkshire or

Hampshire, with tall umbrageous trees springing from the soft turf, and

old folk lounging, and children playing in their shadow. The post, which

visits the towns of Holland every day throughout the year, comes to such

villages as this two or three times a week, and thus keeps up its

communications with the great social world around. In another particular

they are well provided for--the means of instruction. Here, at one end

of the green, stood the schoolhouse, built of brick, well lighted, and

in good condition, decidedly the best building in the place. Indeed I do

not remember to have seen a shabby schoolhouse in Holland. It was too

early to see the scholars at their duties, but I looked in at the

windows, and saw that the interior was perfectly clean and well-ordered;

fitted with desks, closets, and shelves, with piles of books placed

ready for use on the latter, and maps hanging on the walls. How I wished

for a six months' holiday, to be able to linger at will among these

out-of-the-world communities, or wherever any thing more particularly

engaged my attention! Something to inform the mind or instruct the heart

is to be given or received wherever there are human beings. Soon after

passing the village, the road terminated suddenly on a part of the wild

heath, where the sand for nearly a mile on all sides lay bare, gleaming

palely in the sun, and no sign of a track visible in any direction. For

a few minutes I stood completely at fault, but at last bent my steps

toward some scattered trees in the distance. The deserts of Africa can

hardly be more dreary or trying to the wayfarer than that mile of sand

was to me. On reaching the trees, I again found a lane leading through

cultivated grounds; now a patch of grass, then barley, or wheat, or

potatoes, or buckwheat--the delicate blossoms of the latter scenting the

whole atmosphere, and alive with "innumerable bees." While standing

still to listen to their labor-inspired hum, I heard the cuckoo telling

his cheerful name to the neighborhood, although past the middle of July.

Then followed homely farms, standing a little off the road, the

homestead surrounded by rows of trees, somewhat after the fashion of

Normandy; and in one corner of the inclosure the never-failing

structure--four tall poles, erected in a parallelogram, with a square

thatched roof fitted upon them, sloping down on each side to form a

central point. The poles pass through the corners of this roof, which

thus can be made to slide up and down, according as the produce stored

beneath it is increased or diminished. Such a contrivance would perhaps

be useful to small farmers in England, when straitened for room in their

barns. Now and then I caught glimpses of haymakers working far off on a

meadow patch, and more than once the signs of tillage disappeared, and

there was the broad black heath under my feet, and stretching away to

the horizon, here and there intersected by a series of drains, cut

smooth and deep in the sandy soil, inclosing some acres of the barren

expanse--the preliminaries of cultivation. Then would come a mile or so

of woodland, with the thinnings and loppings of the trees cut into

lengths, and piled in stacks ready for the market, as I had seen on the

wharfs at Rotterdam, where firewood sells at eleven cents the bundle. A

party of woodcutters, with their wives and children, were encamped at

the entrance of a cross-road, disturbing the general stillness by the

sound of their voices and implements. The men and women were alike tall

and stout--remarkable specimens of the well-developed population of the

province, and reminding you of the peasantry in Westmoreland. The stacks

which they had set up were so long and high as to resemble a street with

little alleys between, where the children played while their fathers

chopped and sawed, and their mothers tied the bundles, or tended the

fire over which the round pot swung with the breakfast. They called out

a friendly "Good-day, mynheer," as I passed.

As the day advanced, it became oppressively hot; not a drop of drinkable

water was any where to be seen. I went to a cottage near the road to ask

for a draught, when a pitcherful was given to me that looked like pale

coffee, and was vapid and unrefreshing. The occupants of the cottage

told me that they were always obliged to strain it before drinking, to

free it from the fibres of turf held in suspension. These people, their

child, and their house were positively dirty, and looked comfortless:

the pigs lay in one corner of the kitchen, and the domestic utensils

stood about in apparently habitual disorder. They, however, were kind in

their manner, and wished me to sit down for a time and rest.

Besides these and the woodcutters, I scarcely met a soul during the

walk, which lasted nearly four hours, by which time I came to the

outskirts of Ommerschans. I went into the tavern that stood at the

extremity of the long straight road leading through the centre of the

colony, where, after half-an-hour's rest, ten minutes' sleep, and a cup

of tea, I felt able to go and present myself to the director.

THE LAST PRIESTESS OF PELE.

My erratic habits have led me through a variety of climes and scenes,

and, on two occasions, to the distant regions of Polynesia, even to the

shores of Hawaii, memorable as the death-scene of our famous navigator,

Cook. Hawaii is the principal of the Sandwich Islands, a group not

exceeded in interest by any which stud the broad bosom of the Pacific.

Their local situation, advantageous for purposes of commerce, is highly

important; but these remote shores present various subjects of interest

besides geographical position. The primitive race who inhabit them, so

long and totally isolated from the rest of the world, the enchanting

beauty of their scenery, the luxurious productions of their salubrious

climate, indicative of peace and plenty, furnish subjects worthy of

investigation; while, strangely contrasted with these bounties of

nature, is the awful sublimity of their volcanic mountains, that too

often burst forth into eruptions which spread frightful devastation over

scenes glowing with beauty, particularly the volcano of Kiranea,

probably the largest in the world. Even the first view of this island

struck me as remarkable, for it looks like congeries of mountains on one

common base, heaving their huge cones to the height of fourteen or

sixteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, while the lower

grounds, every where irregular, were covered with trees and with the

richest verdure. We were hospitably received by a native chief. An

Englishman who had long resided on the island acted as interpreter, and

by this means, as well as some knowledge which we had acquired of the

Polynesian language during a visit to Tahiti, my brother officers and I

made arrangements for a visit to the great volcano. It is well I should

here remind the reader of an event which proved to be an influential

epoch in the history of the people we were now among--the abolition of

their ancient and cruel system of idolatry, which was effected in the

year 1819, by a king whose natural good sense had enabled him to

perceive its absurdity and ill-consequences; so that when, some months

after, a few missionaries arrived from America with the philanthropic

intention of introducing the blessings of Christianity among them, they

found, by what was unquestionably a providential interposition, the

nation without any religion, released from the trammels of their ancient

superstitions, and, so far, prepared to receive the truths which they

were come to proclaim. These missionaries had been settled in the

islands a few years when my visit took place, and had many converts.

The volcano we were desirous of seeing was thirty miles from the place

of our landing, and we set out for it on the following day, attended by

some of the natives, and also by the English settler, to act as

interpreter. The commencement of our journey seemed auspicious, leading

through a wood, where trees afforded a grateful shade from the heat of a

tropical sun, while gorgeous birds fluttered among their boughs, or

regaled us with the melody of their songs. The fragrant gardenia, and

other beautiful flowers, so highly prized in our own country as

hot-house plants, profusely adorned our path. But too soon the scene

began to change. By degrees, trees, shrubs, and flowers disappeared--all

traces of vegetation, except an occasional oasis. We were traversing a

tract of lava that looked like an inland sea, over which the wand of an

enchanter had suddenly waved while it was agitated by violent

undulations, and turned it into stone. Not only were the swells and

hollows distinctly marked, but the surface of the billows seemed covered

by a smaller ripple. Our passage over this petrified ocean was most

laborious, owing to the heat of the sun, the reflection of its light

from the lava, and also the unevenness of the way, which was as slippery

as glass.

Just as day declined, we hailed with pleasure the residence of a chief,

where we were to pass the night, our friend at the harbor having

commissioned our attendants to introduce us as strangers in need of the

owner's hospitality, which was readily accorded. Our host and his

establishment evinced that advancement toward civilization was not

limited to the coast. His dwelling was divided into separate apartments

by screens of native cloth, and we were ushered into a large, airy,

reception-room, where we reposed our weary limbs on a divan covered with

mats, which extended the whole length of the apartment. A feast was

prepared for our entertainment; but I refrain from an account of the

baked dogs, hogs, and other dainties which adorned the board. During the

repast, a native bard sang, in a monotonous but sweet voice, "the deeds

of the days of other years," accompanying himself by beating a little

drum formed of a beautifully stained calabash; and then a group of

dancers were introduced for our amusement. But nothing interested me so

much as our host, who sat next to me at supper, performing the duties of

hospitality with an intuitive good-breeding and tact which I thought

quite a sufficient substitute for the conventional usages of European

society. He was, in common with all the aristocratic race of Hawaii,

tall, well-formed, with fine, muscular limbs, and a commanding air; his

complexion clear olive, and his handsome features wore an open and

intelligent expression. To my surprise, he spoke very tolerable English;

this was accounted for by long intimacy with our friend the interpreter,

and with the missionaries, who, since their settlement in the island,

had taught him to read. I was glad when he announced his intention of

accompanying us to the volcano, our journey to which we recommenced the

following morning. A toilsome one it proved, but Toleho, the young

chief, stuck close to me, and from such snatches of conversation as I

could hold with him, while we scrambled over masses of vitrified lava

and basaltic blocks jumbled together in wild confusion, the interest I

had felt in him at first sight was considerably increased. At length we

reached the great plain of the volcano, and the mountain of Mauna Loa

burst upon our view in all its magnificence, like an immense dome, of a

bronze color, rising from a plain twenty miles in breadth; its head was

covered with snow, the effect of which is peculiar when beheld under a

tropical sun.

Nearly overcome with heat and fatigue, we sat down to rest. Through the

fissures of the rocks, there grew an abundance of small bushes bearing

fruit of a pleasant flavor, which we eagerly gathered to allay our

thirst. To this some of the natives objected, asserting that the berries

belonged to Pele, the goddess of the volcano, who would be much incensed

by our eating them, until some had been thrown into the crater as a

propitiatory oblation. The English settler who accompanied us, set about

proving the absurdity of their fears, and, while the point was being

discussed, I observed that Toleho, who was seated with me apart from the

others, was quietly refreshing himself with the forbidden fruit. I

inquired why he also did not fear the wrath of the formidable goddess?

"Toleho knows better," he replied. "Toleho knows that there is but one

God; without His leave, the volcano can not hurt us. He looketh on the

earth, and it trembleth; he toucheth the hills, and they smoke."

I now learned from him that, under the instruction of the missionaries,

he had been led to embrace the truths of Christianity.

"I have lately avowed this conviction," he said; "and were I to remain

in this country, would do my utmost to promote a knowledge of the Bible

among my friends and people."

"And have you any idea of leaving this country?" I inquired, with

surprise.

"Alas! yes, I _must_ leave it," he replied, in a voice and with a look

of such deep dejection, that I understood it to be a subject of too

distressing a nature for further interrogatories, and we spoke about

other matters until the party was sufficiently rested to proceed to the

crater of Kiranea. I expected that we were for this purpose to ascend

the mountain which stood before us in such majestic beauty, and,

undaunted by the magnitude of the task, I longed to climb its stupendous

sides, and to inhale the pure atmosphere at its summit, so that it was

with a feeling of disappointment I heard myself called upon to behold

the crater upon the very plain to which we had already attained. At

first view, it seemed to be nothing but a huge black pit, totally

different from all we had imagined. There were no jets of fire, nothing

but a body of black smoke, rising high to the clear blue heavens, and

then spreading widely over the hemisphere. We journeyed onward, till we

found ourselves on the edge of a steep precipice inclosing a sunken

plain, in the middle of which was the crater. Our guides led to a part

of the precipice where descent was practicable, and, with some falls and

bruises, we all reached the basin beneath, which sounded hollow under

our tread, giving evidence, by smoking fissures here and there, of

subterranean burnings. As we advanced, the impression of vastness and

grandeur increased at every step; but, when we stopped at the edge of

the great crater, the sight was appalling. There we stood, mute with

astonishment and awe, transfixed like statues, our eyes riveted on the

abyss below, a vast flood of burning matter rolling to and fro in a

state of frightful ebullition. I know not how long we thus gazed, in

speechless wonder; but the natives had, meanwhile, employed themselves

in constructing, of branches of trees, ferns, and rushes, which,

nourished by the moisture of vapors, grew in chasms of lava, huts to

shelter us during the night, now fast approaching, and to them we were

glad to repair, when our emotion had somewhat subsided. The attendants

now cooked our supper in a crevice from which steam issued, and, after

doing ample justice to their labors in this volcanic _cuisine_, I again

walked to the edge of the crater, accompanied by Toleho.

It was now quite dark, and truly it has been said, that what is

wonderful in the day becomes ten times more so at night. Now was the

time for viewing the volcano in all its magnificence. We seated

ourselves at a height of four or five hundred feet, directly over that

lake of fire: its cherry-colored waves were rolling below, with billows

crested and broken into sheets and spray of fire, like waters when the

hurricane sweeps them over a reef of rocks. There was a low murmuring

noise, and occasionally masses of red-hot matter were ejected seventy

feet into the air, which fell back into the lake with a hissing sound.

My companion, though accustomed from childhood to these wonders, seemed

fully to participate in my feelings. He evidently possessed a soul

susceptible of the sublime and beautiful and the scene on which we

gazed was associated in his mind, as I afterward learned, with early and

endearing recollections. He was gratified by my admiration of it, and

this congeniality of taste soon led him to treat me with the confidence

of an old friend. Presuming upon this, I ventured to recur to the hint

he had dropped that morning of an intention to quit his native island,

inquiring whether his profession of Christianity had subjected him to

any kind of persecution? He told me in reply, that Hawaiian converts

were nearly exempted from this ordeal of sincerity by the edict which

had abolished idolatry before the missionaries' arrival. "But," he

added, with intense feeling, "Toleho found the change hard,

notwithstanding. No fear of Pele; even were there any such, what could

that cruel goddess do to one who trusted in Jesus? But Pele's

priestess--the last she will ever have, but the loveliest, the dearest

of women--it was _that_ Toleho found so hard." My expression of sympathy

elicited his full confidence, and, in a conversation which followed,

interrupted as our colloquial intercourse necessarily was by our

imperfect acquaintance with each other's language, I became possessed of

an outline of Toleho's previous history, which subsequent information

enabled me to fill up, as I shall now give it in detail.

The young Hawaiian chief had, when a child, been betrothed to the

hereditary priestess of Pele, the Goddess of Fire, supposed to inhabit

the volcano of Kiranea. Whether this redoubtable deity be in any way

related to Bel, the Oriental god of the same terrible element, greater

scholars and antiquarians than I am must determine; but it seems to me

that the similarity of the names is a curious coincidence, which would

be not an uninteresting subject of investigation. The young priestess

was the only child of the khan, or steward of Pele, an office of honor

and emolument, his duty being to provide materials for the sacrifices,

such as cloth, hogs, fowls, and fruit, with which he was abundantly

furnished by her worshipers. The young lovers were constant companions

during their childhood, and were linked together by the endearing bonds

of early affection, which grew with their growth, and strengthened with

their strength. It appeared that the devotion of Toleho had never been

so ardently rendered to the imaginary goddess as to her beautiful young

priestess, for his natural acuteness often led him to skeptical

conclusions when he considered the national system of theology; nor had

his superior mind long dwelt upon such subjects, when, in the words of a

poet who has well described a somewhat similar case,[9]

[9] J. Montgomery, in the "Pelican Island."

"The gods whom his deluded countrymen

Acknowledged, were no gods to him; he scorn'd

The impotence of skill that carved such figures,

And pitied the fatuity of those

Who saw not in the abortions of their hands,

The abortions of their minds."

It was, in truth, interesting to trace the history of

"This dark, endungeon'd spirit roused,

And struggling into glorious liberty."

Emancipated from the trammels of superstition, you will not wonder to

hear that his mind joyfully received the truths which God has revealed

to mankind, when, after the arrival of the missionaries, he had an

opportunity of hearing them: and I had reason to believe, that not only

was his understanding enlightened, but his heart deeply imbued with the

spirit of the gospel. Toleho's first wish was, to lead her he loved to

the joy and peace in believing which he now experienced. After a rumor

of the young chief's apostasy from the religion of his fathers had gone

forth, on returning one day from a visit to the missionary station, he

hastened to the dwelling of the khan.

Oani was seated under the shade of a large eugenia tree, where she had

often before awaited his arrival, but she did not now spring forward to

meet him; her eyes were no longer lit up with joy when she beheld his

approach, and, after one look, expressive of deep sorrow, were turned

away. Toleho eagerly inquired if any misfortune had occurred? Was her

father ill?

She burst into tears, and replied, "No--I weep because Oani must not

love Toleho any longer."

He soon discovered that his change had awakened in the breast of the

khan feelings of opposition beyond any he had anticipated. Ancestral

pride--the office of khan being hereditary--early prejudices,

strengthened by time and self-interest, often too influential over the

actions of those who possess a better faith, exercised combined power on

the old man's mind. Perhaps he was also stimulated by the more generous

and romantic sentiment with which we are inclined to regard the decay of

what has been hallowed by antiquity; and he stigmatized those who

forsook the ancient idolatries as meanly subservient to the will of the

great, endeavoring to imbue the mind of his daughter with similar

feelings.

Poor Oani had neither ability nor inclination for controversial

disquisitions. When her lover tried to lay before her the truths which

had influenced him to the change she deplored, a knowledge of which

would enable her to appreciate his motives, she would only weep, and

say, "Toleho, I am sad--sleep has gone from me, and my food has lost its

sweetness. If you do not worship Pele, her priestess must try not to

love you. No more may I sing for you when you are weary; no more gather

summer fruits to refresh you; nor bind sweet flowers in a chaplet for

your brow."

When the chief remarked, that by her embracing Christianity these

objections to their union would be obviated, her only answer was, "Could

I leave my father? _He_ never will forsake Pele. Could I--the only light

of his eyes--the last flower left to gladden the winter of his

life--could I leave his old age desolate?"

The separation of these Polynesian lovers was now inevitable, and it was

a sore trial, for they were fondly attached. It was at this era of

their story that I became acquainted with the young chief, and great

was the interest with which I listened to his simple narration,

heightened, probably, by the extraordinary circumstances under which I

heard it, seated together as we were, at midnight, upon the brink of the

fiery abyss, contemplating a scene so stupendous, so "horribly

beautiful," that probably no other in this world can compete with it.

I could now understand the cause of poor Toleho's intended expatriation.

Oani would probably be given to another. Could he bear to witness it? to

see her miserable? No; he would quit the scenes of his happy days, and,

far away from objects which might agitate his mind, and interfere with

duty, would spend his life in the service of Him who had graciously

"called him from darkness to light." His friends at the mission-house

had already arranged the matter with a captain, who would give him a

passage in his ship to the American States, where he was to use every

exertion in his power for the purpose of awakening an interest in the

cause of the Polynesian mission. Toleho then informed me, that on the

following morning would take place a great annual feast in honor of

Pele, designed to deprecate the wrath of the volcanic goddess, and

secure the country from earthquakes or inundations of lava, at which, of

course, the khan and the young priestess would preside. This would

afford him an opportunity of once more beholding the latter before he

left the islands--the last time he could ever hope to do so; and, for

the purpose of enjoying this melancholy pleasure, he had joined our

party to the volcano.

We now returned to the hut, and I went to repose, rejoicing that I

should have an occasion of witnessing some of the idolatrous rites of

the natives before their final abolition.

Next morning, while my companions prepared to examine the various

natural phenomena of the place, I put myself under the guidance of my

new friend, who took me across the lava plain to the heiau, or temple,

dedicated to Pele, an inclosure, with several stone idols standing in

the midst of it. Votaries had already assembled around the shrine,

adorning these frightful images with wreaths of flowers; and innumerable

offerings were laid before them. As the devotees continued to arrive, my

companion stood, watching every new comer, with an expression of anxiety

and agitation. At length the sound of music was heard, and a procession

approached, for which the crowd opened an avenue to the temple. At its

head was an old man, attired in what I supposed were the pontifical

robes, leading by the hand a young female. Over their heads was borne a

canopy, and they were followed by a train of attendants, each carrying a

staff of state, ornamented with polished tortoise-shell, the upper ends

being of feathers. The sage was the khan, and his companion the

priestess of Pele, whose beauty, I soon perceived had not been

exaggerated in her lover's glowing description. Never had I beheld a

form of more exquisite symmetry, set off by the simple elegance of the

native costume--a robe of white cloth confined round the waist with a

cincture of flowers; her head-dress was only "an od'rous chaplet of

sweet summer buds," binding her dark tresses; while round her neck,

arms, and slender ankles, were wreaths of the snowy and fragrant

gardenia. The features of this young creature were faultless, but wore

an expression of thoughtful abstraction, strikingly contrasted with

those of the persons who surrounded and gazed upon her, all, even the

old khan's, evincing a state of excitement.

After some ceremonies had been performed in the temple, the various

contributions of the people were taken to the volcano, to be presented

to the goddess. Thither the procession moved, and Toleho and I followed

in the crowd. Arrived at the crater, the khan made an oration in praise

of Pele, deploring the national apostasy from her worship, until wrought

up to a state of great excitement, in which his auditors seemed to

participate, except the beautiful priestess, who, standing on the verge

of the gulf, still wore her look of calm dejection, while she received

small specimens of the various offerings from the votaries, and threw

them into the volcano, saying, in a voice of peculiar sweetness, "Accept

these offerings, Pele. Restrain thy wrath, and pour not the floods of

vengeance over our land. Save us, O Pele?"

Toleho darted from the crowd, and stood beside her. His stately form was

drawn up to its full height; from his shoulders hung a splendid mantle

of green and scarlet feathers; his right arm was extended, and in it he

held a small book.

"Oani! beloved Oani!" he exclaimed; "call not upon Pele to save you.

There is but one Saviour, and to know Him is life."

"Recreant," cried the khan, "you have forsaken the great goddess

yourself, and you would now draw away her priestess."

"Khan, and thou beloved Oani, listen," the chief replied, in a solemn

tone. "If there be such a deity as Pele, is she worthy of your

adoration? Is she not ever busy in works of mischief--destroying the

people, devastating our hills, and filling up our fruitful valleys with

floods of lava? Are they not cruel gods, who even require human

sacrifices? Could such beings have created that bright pure sky over our

heads, or that glorious sun which sends light and heat to ripen our corn

and our fruit? No! The Creator of all must be good, as well as great--an

object of love as well as of fear. Friends, countrymen, this book can

tell you of Him."

This seemed to make some impression on the people, but the khan was even

more exasperated than before.

"Traitor," he cried, "would you persuade us to disown our gods, while we

stand gazing on their terrible abode? They dwell in yonder fiery lake;

behold their houses!" pointing to the black conical craters which rose

here and there above the waves. "Do you not hear the roaring and

crackling of the flames? That is the music to which they dance; and in

yonder red surge they often play, sporting in its rolling billows. Pele

is a great goddess; acknowledge her power, Toleho, and Oani--her

priestess, the playmate of your childhood, the betrothed of your

youth--shall be yours, for she pines in secret for her loved one. Reject

Pele, and part with Oani forever."

As he said this, a bright smile lit up the countenance of the young

priestess, as if hope had suddenly revived in her bosom. She turned

toward her lover with a look of imploring affection, laying her small

hands on his arm, and said, "Toleho will not leave me; we may love one

another still."

He made a movement as if instinctively about to clasp her to his breast,

but seemed, with a strong effort, to resist the impulse; a convulsive

motion passed over his manly features; his strong frame trembled; and,

in a voice half-choked by contending feelings, he said, "Oani, I must--I

must leave you. There is but one God, and Him only will I serve. Beloved

maiden, trust to Him--not to senseless idols."

She withdrew her hands, and clasped them together in mute despair. Her

father exclaimed, "Heed him not. Great is the power of Pele. My

daughter, you are her priestess; and, though you flung yourself from

that shelving rock on which you stand, into the gulf below, Pele could

save you." He was now in a state of frenzy. "She could and she _would_

save you; _prove_ to them her power."

"I will, I will," cried the unfortunate girl. "And I want her not to

save me if she can. Toleho forsakes me, and I wish not for life."

Ere the outstretched hand of her lover could prevent it, she had turned

and sprung down the precipice.

A yell of horror burst from the crowd, and there was a general rush

toward the spot, so great, that for several minutes I could not approach

it. Minutes of intense anxiety they were. I heard one voice exclaim, "He

will perish--Toleho--the pride of Hawaiian chiefs."

"No," cried another, "he has almost reached the spot where she lies."

An interval of silence followed. The people evidently watched some

critical event in breathless suspense. Then there was a shout of

joy--Toleho and his loved one were both in safety. There was, as I

afterward learned, a crag projecting from the wall-faced cliff over

which the young priestess had flung herself; on that spot she had

fallen, the elasticity of some shrubs and herbs with which it was

covered preserving her from any serious injury. Toleho, with wonderful

presence of mind and activity, had succeeded in descending to that

place, and, by means of a kind of ropes flung to him from the summit,

re-ascended, and, pale as death, but still firm and composed, had laid

his almost senseless burden in the arms of her father.

The scene which followed would be difficult to describe. When, after

some time, a flood of tears had relieved the old khan, and enabled him

to speak, he tried to express gratitude to the deliverer of his

daughter, but could not say much. "Toleho," he cried, "you have saved

her life. We can not forsake the gods to whom our ancestors have been

priests for hundreds of years, to learn the religion of strangers who

come from distant lands whence originate the winds, but can not Oani

minister to Pele, and still be your wife?"

Here was a trying offer to my poor friend. Again Oani turned on him that

bright smile, that beseeching look, which were hard to be withstood;

but, though there were symptoms of yielding, of a violent internal

struggle, he soon regained composure, and said, "It must not, can not

be--it is forbidden here," holding up the book. "Farewell, Oani. Never

will I forget you. I go to distant lands, but I will love you still.

Keep this book: in it are the words of life. In our happy days, I was

teaching you to read. Get some other teacher, and, for Toleho's sake,

learn all this book teaches, and we may yet meet where there is no

sorrow."

One embrace, and he darted away. I followed with difficulty, keeping by

his side, as rapidly and silently he walked to the place where we had

agreed to meet our companions.

In a few days, we sailed from Hawaii, but not before we had seen the

young Hawaiian chief bid adieu to his native land, and sail for America.

Years passed away. Constant change of scene and variety of events had

nearly obliterated from my memory the story of the priestess and her

lover, when my wanderings once more brought me among the Polynesian

islands, and again to the shores of Hawaii. We were to remain but for a

few days, and, having visited the great volcano before, I now directed

my steps to the next object of interest in the neighborhood, what my

informant called "the Cascade of the Rainbow." This is a waterfall in

the river Wairuku, and surpassed in beauty all my anticipations. The

water, projected from a rock over a hundred feet in height, falls into a

circular basin, as smooth as a mirror, except where the stream plunges

in, and from its bright bosom reflects the enchanting scenery which

surrounds it; while trees and shrubs, laden with blossoms of various

hues, adorn its banks. Nor was the poetical appellation of this romantic

valley inappropriate, for, on the silver spray flung up by the fall of

waters, "an Iris sat" in its variegated beauty. "What a spot to spend

the evening of one's days in after a life of turmoil," I exclaimed. "But

probably, I have been anticipated in this idea, as there is, I see, a

cottage beyond that green lawn, and a tasteful, picturesque edifice it

appears." I walked toward it, and the neatness and comfort of every

thing were a new proof of the wonderful improvement which I had already

observed among the islanders, arising from the spread of Christianity

and civilization. The lady of the mansion, holding by one hand a child

who walked at her side, while with the other she supported a baby in her

arms, advanced to meet and invite me in. She had, to a high degree, the

air of dignity, I had almost said of graceful elegance, which

characterizes the aristocracy of the island; and, when she bade me

welcome, the tones of her voice and the contour of her features seemed

familiar. "Oani!" thought I; "Oani, a wife and a mother. Poor Toleho! So

much for woman's constancy." But I wronged her--I wronged that sex who,

if inferior in other things, surpass us in depth and unchangeableness of

affection. We entered the sitting-room; her husband rose to receive

me--it was Toleho.

After the departure of the chief, Oani had found no comfort in any thing

but in trying to fulfill his last request. One of the missionaries

assisted her, and she was soon able to read the Testament, which had

been his parting gift. Conviction of its truth, and a profession of

Christianity followed, in which she was uninfluenced by interested

motives, as she had not the most remote hope of ever seeing Toleho

again, but the missionaries, who held communication with him through the

American Society, informed him of the change, and he returned to Hawaii,

and claimed her as his own. I found them a loving and happy pair, and

left them so.

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT.

One day Don Philippe insisted upon taking us to witness a bull-fight,

which was about to take place, and which it was reported, the queen

herself was expected to attend. This was a spectacle we had never yet

beheld, and our curiosity was therefore aroused to the highest possible

pitch of excitement. Visions of blood floated before our fancy, and

flashing steel gleamed across our sight. Anxiety stood on tip-toe, and

the moments flew slowly by, until the wished-for hour arrived. We left

the business of securing seats in the arena to Philippe, who, by early

application, succeeded in obtaining for us as eligible positions for

witnessing the spectacle as we could reasonably desire. The critical

moment was now at hand, our hearts almost leaped from our mouths, so

deeply were we excited in contemplation of the sanguinary event. At

length the trumpets sounded, and forthwith entered, in martial array,

the entire body of combatants, gayly dressed, and presenting together a

most striking and brilliant effect. Marching to the opposite side of the

ring, they respectfully bowed to the appointed authorities, and then

took their places, in complete readiness for action. At a given signal,

a small iron gate was suddenly opened, and in an instant a furious bull

bounded frantically into the arena; and then, as if petrified with

astonishment at the wonderful scene around him, he stood motionless for

a few seconds, staring wildly at the immense assembly, and pawing

vehemently the ground beneath his feet. It was a solemn and critical

moment, and I can truly say that I never before experienced such an

intense degree of curiosity and interest. My feelings were wound up to

the highest pitch of excitement, and I can scarcely believe that even

that terrible human tragedy, a bloody gladiatorial scene, could have

affected me more deeply. The compressed fury of the bull lasted but an

instant: suddenly his glaring eye caught the sight of a red flag, which

one of the _chulos_, or foot combatants, had waved before him, and

immediately he rushed after his nimble adversary, who evaded his pursuit

by jumping skillfully over the lower inclosure of the ring. The

herculean animal, thus balked in his rage, next plunged desperately

toward one of the _picadores_, or mounted horsemen, who calmly and

fearlessly awaited his approach, and then turned off his attack by the

masterly management of his long and steel-capped pike. Thwarted once

more in his purpose, he became still more frantic than before, while his

low and suppressed roar, expressive of the concentrated passion and rage

which burned within him, sounded like distant thunder to my ears. Half

closing his eyes, and lowering his formidable horns, he darted again at

one of the picadores, and with such tremendous power, that he completely

unhorsed him. Then shouts of applause from the spectators filled the

arena: "Bravo toro!" "Viva toro!" and other exclamations of

encouragement for the bull broke from every mouth. The picador lost no

time in springing to his feet and re-mounting his horse, which, however,

could scarcely stand, so weak was the poor creature from the stream of

blood issuing from the deep wound in his breast. As soon as the enraged

bull, whose attention had been purposely withdrawn by the chulos, beheld

his former adversary now crimsoned with gore, he rushed at him with the

most terrific fury, and, thrusting his horns savagely into the lower

part of the tottering animal, he almost raised him from his feet, and so

lacerated and tore open his abdomen, that his bowels gushed out upon the

ground. Unable any longer to sustain himself, the pitiable animal fell

down in the awful agonies of death, and in a few moments expired. Two

other horses shortly shared the same miserable fate, and their mangled

bodies were lying covered with blood, in the centre of the arena. The

bull himself was now becoming perceptibly exhausted, and his own end was

drawing nigh. For the purpose of stimulating and arousing into momentary

action his rapidly-waning strength, the assailants on foot attacked him

with barbed darts, called _banderillos_, which they thrust with skill

into each side of his brawny neck. Sometimes these little javelins are

charged with a prepared powder, which explodes the instant that the

sharp steel sinks into the flesh. The torture thus produced drives the

wretched animal to the extreme of madness, who bellows and bounds in his

agony, as if endued with the energy of a new life.

On the present occasion, the arrows used were not of an explosive

character, yet they served scarcely less effectually to enrage the

furious monster. But hark! the last trumpet is sounding the awful

death-knell of the warrior-beast. The ring becomes instantly cleared,

and the foaming animal stands motionless and alone, sole monarch of the

arena. But the fiat has gone forth, and the doom of death is impending

over him. The _matador_ enters the ring by a secret door, and after

bowing to the president, and throwing down his cap in token of respect,

slowly and deliberately approaches his terrific adversary, who stands as

if enchained to the spot by a consciousness of the fearful destiny that

awaits him. The matador, undismayed by the ferocious aspect of the bull,

cautiously advances, with his eyes fixed firmly and magnetically upon

him; a bright Toledo blade glistens in his right hand, while in his left

he carries the _muleta_, or crimson flag, with which to exasperate the

declining spirit of his foe. An intense stillness reigns throughout the

vast assemblage, the most critical point of the tragedy is at hand, and

every glance is riveted upon the person and movements of the matador. A

single fatal thrust may launch him into eternity, yet no expression of

fear escapes him; cool, and self-possessed, he stands before his victim,

studious of every motion, and ready to take advantage of any chance.

It is this wonderful display of skill and bravery that fascinates the

attention of a Spanish audience, and not the shedding of blood or the

sufferings of the animal, which are as much lost sight of in the

excitement of the moment as the gasping of a fish or the quivering of a

worm upon the hook is disregarded by the humane disciple of Izaak

Walton. The bull and matador, as motionless as if carved in marble,

present a fearfully artistic effect. At length, like an electric flash,

the polished steel of the matador flies in the air, and descends with

tremendous force into the neck of the doomed animal, burying itself in

the flesh, even up to the hilt. The blow is well made, and from the

mouth of the bull a torrent of blood gushes forth in a crimson stream;

he staggers, drops on his knees, recovers himself for an instant, and

then falls dead at the feet of his conqueror, amid the tumultuous

plaudits of the excited throng of spectators.

Such is a slight sketch of a Spanish bull-fight. The impression made

upon our minds by the first representation was so deeply tinctured with

horror that we resolved never to attend another, though it is but fair

to state that this good resolution, like many others we have made in our

lives, was eventually overcome by temptations.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[10]

CHAPTER XXXV.

A NOVEL COUNCIL OF WAR.

I had scarcely finished my breakfast, when a group of officers rode up

to our quarters to visit me. My arrival had already created an immense

sensation in the city, and all kinds of rumors were afloat as to the

tidings I had brought. The meagreness of the information would, indeed,

have seemed in strong contrast to the enterprise and hazard of the

escape, had I not had the craft to eke it out by that process of

suggestion and speculation in which I was rather an adept.

[10] Continued from the July Number.

Little in substance as my information was, all the younger officers were

in favor of acting upon it. The English are no bad judges of our

position and chances, was the constant argument. _They_ see exactly how

we stand; they know the relative forces of our army, and the enemy's;

and if the "cautious islanders"--such was the phrase--advised a _coup de

main_, it surely must have much in its favor. I lay stress upon the

remark, trifling as it may seem; but it is curious to know, that with

all the immense successes of England on sea, her reputation, at that

time, among Frenchmen, was rather for prudent and well-matured

undertakings, than for those daring enterprises which are as much the

character of her courage.

My visitors continued to pour in during the morning, officers of every

arm and rank, some from mere idle curiosity, some to question and

interrogate, and not a few to solve doubts in their minds as to my being

really French, and a soldier, and not an agent of that _perfide Albion_,

whose treachery was become a proverb among us. Many were disappointed at

my knowing so little. I neither could tell the date of Napoleon's

passing St. Gothard, nor the amount of his force; neither knew I whether

he meant to turn eastward toward the plains of Lombardy, or march direct

to the relief of Genoa. Of Moreau's success in Germany, too, I had only

heard vaguely; and, of course, could recount nothing. I could overhear,

occasionally, around and about me, the murmurs of dissatisfaction my

ignorance called forth, and was not a little grateful to an old

artillery captain for saying "That's the very best thing about the lad;

a spy would have had his whole lesson by heart."

"You are right, sir," cried I, catching at the words; "I may know but

little, and that little, perhaps, valueless and insignificant; but my

truth no man shall gainsay."

The boldness of this speech from one wasted and miserable as I was, with

tattered shoes and ragged clothes, caused a hearty laugh, in which, as

much from policy as feeling, I joined myself.

"Come here, mon cher," said an infantry colonel, as, walking to the door

of the room, he drew his telescope from his pocket, "you tell us of a

_coup de main_--on the Monte Faccio, is it not?"

"Yes," replied I, promptly, "so I understand the name."

"Well, have you ever seen the place?"

"Never."

"Well, there it is yonder," and he handed me his glass as he spoke; "you

see that large beetling cliff, with the olives at the foot. There, on

the summit stands the Monte Faccio. The road--the pathway rather, and a

steep one it is--leads up where you see those goats feeding, and crosses

in front of the crag, directly beneath the fire of the batteries.

There's not a spot on the whole ascent where three men could march

abreast, and wherever there is any shelter from fire, the guns of the

'Sprona,' that small fort to the right, take the whole position. What do

you think of your counsel now?"

"You forget, sir, it is not my counsel. I merely repeat what I

overheard."

"And do you mean to say, that the men who gave that advice were serious,

or capable of adopting it themselves?"

"Most assuredly; they would never recommend to others what they felt

unequal to themselves. I know these English well, and so much will I say

of them."

"Bah!" cried he, with an insolent gesture of his hand, and turned away;

and I could plainly see that my praises of the enemy were very

ill-taken. In fact, my unlucky burst of generosity had done more to

damage my credit, than all the dangerous or impracticable features of my

scheme. Every eye was turned to the bold precipice, and the stern

fortress that crowned it, and all agreed that an attack must be

hopeless.

I saw, too late, the great fault I had committed, and that nothing could

be more wanting in tact than to suggest to Frenchmen an enterprise which

Englishmen deemed practicable, and which yet, to the former, seemed

beyond all reach of success. The insult was too palpable and too direct,

but to retract was impossible, and I had now to sustain a proposition

which gave offense on every side.

It was very mortifying to me to see how soon all my personal credit was

merged in this unhappy theory. No one thought more of my hazardous

escape, the perils I encountered, or the sufferings I had undergone. All

that was remembered of me was the affront I had offered to the national

courage, and the preference I had implied to English bravery.

Never did I pass a more tormenting day; new arrivals continually

refreshed the discussion, and always with the same results; and although

some were satisfied to convey their opinions by a shake of the head or a

dubious smile, others, more candid than civil, plainly intimated that if

I had nothing of more consequence to tell, I might as well have staid

where I was, and not added one more to a garrison so closely pressed by

hunger. Very little more of such reasoning would have persuaded myself

of its truth, and I almost began to wish that I was once more back in

"the sick bay" of the frigate.

Toward evening I was left alone; my host went down to the town on duty;

and after the visit of a tailor, who came to try on me a staff

uniform--a distinction, I afterward learned, owing to the abundance of

this class of costume, and not to any claims I could prefer to the

rank--I was perfectly free to stroll about where I pleased unmolested,

and, no small blessing, unquestioned.

On following along the walls for some distance, I came to a part where a

succession of deep ravines opened at the foot of the bastions,

conducting by many a tortuous and rocky glen to the Apennines. The sides

of these gorges were dotted here and there with wild hollies and fig

trees; stunted and ill-thriven as the nature of the soil might imply.

Still, for the sake of the few berries, or the sapless fruit they bore,

the soldiers of the garrison were accustomed to creep from the

embrasures, and descend the steep cliffs, a peril great enough in

itself, but terribly increased by the risk of exposure to the enemy's

"Tirailleurs," as well as the consequences such indiscipline would bring

down on them.

So frequent, however, had been these infractions, that little footpaths

were worn bare along the face of the cliff, traversing in many a zigzag

a surface that seemed like a wall. It was almost incredible that men

would brave such peril for so little; but famine had rendered them

indifferent to death; and although debility exhibited itself in every

motion and gesture, the men would stand unshrinking and undismayed

beneath the fire of a battery. At one spot, near the angle of a bastion,

and where some shelter from the north winds protected the place, a

little clump of orange trees stood, and toward these, though fully a

mile off, many a foot-track led, showing how strong had been the

temptation in that quarter. To reach it, the precipice should be

traversed, the gorge beneath and a considerable ascent of the opposite

mountain accomplished, and yet all these dangers had been successfully

encountered, merely instigated by hunger!

High above this very spot, at a distance of perhaps eight hundred feet,

stood the Monte Faccio--the large black and yellow banner of Austria

floating from its walls, as if amid the clouds. I could see the muzzles

of the great guns protruding from the embrasures; and I could even catch

glances of a tall bearskin, as some soldier passed, or repassed behind

the parapet, and I thought how terrible would be the attempt to storm

such a position. It was, indeed, true, that if I had the least

conception of the strength of the fort, I never should have dared to

talk of a _coup de main_. Still I was in a manner pledged to the

suggestion. I had periled my life for it, and few men do as much for an

opinion; for this reason I resolved, come what would, to maintain my

ground, and hold fast to my conviction. I never could be called upon to

plan the expedition, nor could it by any possibility be confided to my

guidance; responsibility could not, therefore, attach to me. All these

were strong arguments, at least quite strong enough to decide a wavering

judgment.

Meditating on these things, I strolled back to my quarters. As I entered

the garden, I found that several officers were assembled, among whom was

Colonel de Barre, the brother of the general of that name, who afterward

fell at the Borodino. He was _Chef d'Etat Major_ to Massena, and a most

distinguished, and brave soldier. Unlike the fashion of the day, which

made the military man affect the rough coarseness of a savage, seasoning

his talk with oaths, and curses, and low expressions, De Barre had

something of the _petit maitre_ in his address, which nothing short of

his well-proved courage would have saved from ridicule. His voice was

low and soft, his smile perpetual; and although well-bred enough to have

been dignified and easy, a certain fidgety impulse to be pleasing made

him always appear affected and unnatural. Never was there such a

contrast to his chief; but indeed it was said, that to this very

disparity of temperament he owed all the influence he possessed over

Massena's mind.

I might have been a General of Division at the very least, to judge from

the courteous deference of the salute with which he approached me--a

politeness the more striking, as all the others immediately fell back,

to leave us to converse together. I was actually overcome with the

flattering terms in which he addressed me on the subject of my escape.

"I could scarcely at first credit the story," said he, "but when they

told me that you were a 'Ninth man,' one of the old Tapageurs, I never

doubted it more. You see what a bad character is, Monsieur de Tiernay!"

It was the first time I had ever heard the prefix to my name, and I own

the sound was pleasurable. "I served a few months with your corps

myself, but I soon saw there was no chance of promotion among fellows

all more eager than myself for distinction. Well, sir, it is precisely

to this reputation I have yielded my credit, and to which General

Massena is kind enough to concede his own confidence. Your advice is

about to be acted on, Mons. de Tiernay."

"The _coup de main_--"

"A little lower, if you please, my dear sir. The expedition is to be

conducted with every secrecy, even from the officers of every rank below

a command. Have the goodness to walk along with me this way. If I

understand General Massena aright, your information conveys no details,

nor any particular suggestions as to the attack."

"None whatever, sir. It was the mere talk of a gun-room--the popular

opinion among a set of young officers."

"I understand," said he, with a bow and a smile; "the suggestion of a

number of high-minded and daring soldiers, as to what they deemed

practicable."

"Precisely, sir."

"Neither could you collect from their conversation any thing which bore

upon the number of the Austrian advance guard, or their state of

preparation?"

"Nothing, sir. The opinion of the English was, I suspect, mainly founded

on the great superiority of our forces to the enemy's in all attacks of

this kind."

"Our 'esprit Tapageur,' eh?" said he, laughing, and pinching my arm

familiarly, and I joined in the laugh with pleasure. "Well, Monsieur de

Tiernay, let us endeavor to sustain this good impression. The attempt is

to be made to-night."

"To-night!" exclaimed I, in amazement: for every thing within the city

seemed tranquil and still.

"To-night, sir; and, by the kind favor of General Massena, I am to lead

the attack; the reserve, if we are ever to want it, being under his own

command. It is to be at your own option on which staff you will serve."

"On yours, of course, sir," cried I, hastily. "A man who stands unknown

and unvouched for among his comrades, as I do, has but one way to

vindicate his claim to credit, by partaking the peril he counsels."

"There could be no doubt either of your judgment, or the sound reasons

for it," replied the colonel; "the only question was, whether you might

be unequal to the fatigue."

"Trust me, sir, you'll not have to send me to the rear," said I,

laughing.

"Then you are extra on my staff, Mons. de Tiernay."

As we walked along, he proceeded to give me the details of our

expedition, which was to be on a far stronger scale than I anticipated.

Three battalions of infantry, with four light batteries, and as many

squadrons of dragoons, were to form the advance.

"We shall neither want the artillery, nor cavalry, except to cover a

retreat," said he; "I trust, if it came to _that_, there will not be

many of us to protect; but such are the general's orders, and we have

but to obey them."

With the great events of that night on my memory, it is strange that I

should retain so accurately in my mind, the trivial and slight

circumstances, which are as fresh before me as if they had occurred but

yesterday.

It was about eleven o'clock, of a dark but starry night, not a breath of

wind blowing, that passing through a number of gloomy, narrow streets, I

suddenly found myself in the court yard of the Balbe Palace. A large

marble fountain was playing in the centre, around which several lamps

were lighted; by these I could see that the place was crowded with

officers, some seated at tables drinking, some smoking, and others

lounging up and down in conversation. Huge loaves of black bread, and

wicker-covered flasks of country wine formed the entertainment; but even

these, to judge from the zest of the guests, were no common delicacies.

At the foot of a little marble group, and before a small table, with a

map on it, sat General Massena himself, in his gray over-coat, cutting

his bread with a case knife, while he talked away to his staff.

"These maps are good for nothing, Bressi," cried he. "To look at them,

you'd say that every road was practicable for artillery, and every river

passable, and you find afterward that all these fine chaussees are

by-paths, and the rivulets downright torrents. Who knows the Chiavari

road?"

"Giorgio knows it well, sir," said the officer addressed, and who was a

young Piedmontese from Massena's own village.

"Ah, Birbante!" cried the general, "are you here again?" and he turned

laughingly toward a little bandy-legged monster, of less than three feet

high, who, with a cap stuck jauntily on one side of his head, and a

wooden sword at his side, stepped forward with all the confidence of an

equal.

"Ay, here I am," said he, raising his hand to his cap, soldier fashion;

"there was nothing else for it but this trade," and he placed his hand

on the hilt of his wooden weapon; "you cut down all the mulberries, and

left us no silkworms; you burned all the olives, and left us no oil;

you trampled down our maize-crops and our vines. Per Baccho! the only

thing left was to turn brigand like yourself, and see what would come of

it."

"Is he not cool to talk thus to a general at the head of his staff?"

said Massena, with an assumed gravity.

"I knew you when you wore a different-looking epaulet than that there,"

said Giorgio, "and when you carried one of your father's meal-sacks on

your shoulder, instead of all that bravery."

"Parbleu! so he did," cried Massena, laughing heartily. "That scoundrel

was always about our mill, and, I believe, lived by thieving!" added he,

pointing to the dwarf.

"Every one did a little that way in our village," said the dwarf; "but

none ever profited by his education like yourself."

If the general and some of the younger officers seemed highly amused at

the fellow's impudence and effrontery, some of the others looked angry

and indignant. A few were really well-born, and could afford to smile at

these recognitions; but many who sprung from an origin even more humble

than the general's, could not conceal their angry indignation at the

scene.

"I see that these gentlemen are impatient of our vulgar recollections,"

said Massena, with a sardonic grin; "so now to business, Giorgio. You

know the Chiavari road--what is't like?"

"Good enough to look at, but mined in four places."

The general gave a significant glance at the staff, and bade him go on.

"The white coats are strong in that quarter, and have eight guns to bear

upon the road, where it passes beneath Monte Ratte."

"Why, I was told that the pass was undefended!" cried Massena, angrily;

"that a few skirmishers were all that could be seen near it."

"All that could be seen!--so they are; but there are eight

twelve-pounder guns in the brushwood, with shot and shell enough to be

seen, and felt too."

Massena now turned to the officers near him, and conversed with them

eagerly for some time. The debated point, I subsequently heard, was how

to make a feint attack on the Chiavari road, to mask the _coup de main_

intended for the Monte Faccio. To give the false attack any color of

reality required a larger force and greater preparation than they could

afford, and this was now the great difficulty. At last it was resolved

that this should be a mere demonstration, not to push far beyond the

walls, but, by all the semblance of a serious advance, to attract as

much attention as possible from the enemy.

Another and a greater embarrassment lay in the fact, that the troops

intended for the _coup de main_ had no other exit than the gate which

led to Chiavari; so that the two lines of march would intersect and

interfere with each other. Could we even have passed out our Tirailleurs

in advance, the support could easily follow; but the enemy would, of

course, notice the direction our advance would take, and our object be

immediately detected.

"Why not pass the skirmishers out by the embrasures, to the left

yonder?" said I; "I see many a track where men have gone already."

"It is steep as a wall," cried one.

"And there's a breast of rock in front that no foot could scale."

"You have at least a thousand feet of precipice above you, when you

reach the glen, if ever you do reach it alive."

"And this to be done in the darkness of a night!"

Such were the discouraging comments which rattled, quick as musketry,

around me.

"The lieutenant's right, nevertheless," said Giorgio. "Half the

voltigeurs of the garrison know the path well already; and as to

darkness--if there were a moon you dared not attempt it."

"There's some truth in that," observed an old major.

"Could you promise to guide them, Giorgio," said Massena.

"Yes, every step of the way; up to the very wall of the fort."

"There, then," cried the general, "one great difficulty is got over

already."

"Not so fast, general mio," said the dwarf; "I said I could, but I never

said that I would."

"Not for a liberal present, Giorgio: not if I filled that leather pouch

of yours with five-franc pieces, man?"

"I might not live to spend it, and I care little for my next of kin,"

said the dwarf, dryly.

"I don't think that we need his services, general," said I: "I saw the

place this evening, and however steep it seems from the walls, the

descent is practicable enough--at least I am certain that our

Tirailleurs, in the Black Forest, would never have hesitated about it."

I little knew that when I uttered this speech I had sent a shot into the

very heart of the magazine, the ruling passion of Massena's mind being

an almost insane jealousy of Moreau's military fame; his famous campaign

of Southern Germany, and his wonderful retreat upon the Rhine, being

regarded as achievements of the highest order.

"I've got some of those regiments you speak of in my brigade here, sir,"

said he, addressing himself directly to me, "and I must own that their

discipline reflects but little credit upon the skill of so great an

officer as General Moreau; and as to light-troops, I fancy Colonel de

Vallence yonder would scarcely feel it a flattery, were you to tell him

to take a lesson from them."

"I have just been speaking to Colonel de Vallence, general," said

Colonel de Barre. "He confirms every thing Mons. de Tiernay tells us of

the practicable nature of these paths; his fellows have tracked them at

all hours, and neither want guidance nor direction to go."

"In that case I may as well offer my services," said Giorgio, tightening

his belt; "but I must tell you that it is too late to begin to-night--we

must start immediately after nightfall. It will take from forty to fifty

minutes to descend the cliff, a good two hours to climb the ascent, so

that you'll not have much time to spare before daybreak."

Giorgio's opinion was backed by several others, and it was finally

resolved upon that the attempt should be made on the following evening.

Meanwhile, the dwarf was committed to the safe custody of a sergeant,

affectedly to look to his proper care and treatment, but really to guard

against any imprudent revelations that he might make respecting the

intended attack.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

GENOA DURING THE SIEGE.

If the natural perils of the expedition were sufficient to suggest grave

thoughts, the sight of the troops that were to form it was even a

stronger incentive to fear. I could not believe my eyes, as I watched

the battalions which now deployed before me. Always accustomed, whatever

the hardships they were opposed to, to see French soldiers

light-hearted, gay, and agile, performing their duties in a spirit of

sportive pleasure, as if soldiering were but fun, what was the shock I

received at sight of these care-worn, downcast, hollow-cheeked fellows,

dragging their legs wearily along, and scarcely seeming to hear the

words of command; their clothes patched and mended, sometimes too big,

sometimes too little, showing that they had changed wearers without

being altered; their tattered shoes, tied on with strings round their

ankles; their very weapons dirty and uncared for; they resembled rather

a horde of bandits than the troops of the first army of Europe. There

was, besides, an expression of stealthy, treacherous ferocity in their

faces, such as I never saw before. To this pitiable condition had they

been brought by starvation. Not alone the horses had been eaten, but

dogs and cats; even the vermin of the cellars and sewers was consumed as

food. Leather and skins were all eagerly devoured; and there is but too

terrible reason to believe that human flesh itself was used to prolong

for a few hours this existence of misery.

As they defiled into the "Piazza," there seemed a kind of effort to

assume the port and bearing of their craft; and although many stumbled,

and some actually fell, from weakness, there was an evident attempt to

put on a military appearance. The manner of the adjutant, as he passed

down the line, revealed at once the exact position of affairs. No

longer inspecting every little detail of equipment, criticising this, or

remarking on that, his whole attention was given to the condition of the

musket, whose lock he closely scrutinized, and then turned to the

cartouch-box. The ragged uniforms, the uncouth shakos, the belts dirty

and awry, never called forth a word of rebuke. Too glad, as it seemed,

to recognize even the remnants of discipline, he came back from his

inspection apparently well satisfied and content.

"These fellows turn out well," said Colonel de Barre, as he looked along

the line; and I started to see if the speech were an unfeeling jest. Far

from it; he spoke in all seriousness! The terrible scenes he had for

months been witnessing; the men dropping from hunger at their posts; the

sentries fainting as they carried arms, and borne away to the hospital

to die; the bursts of madness that would now and then break forth from

men whose agony became unendurable, had so steeled him to horrors, that

even this poor shadow of military display seemed orderly and imposing.

"They are the 22d, colonel," replied the adjutant, proudly, "a corps

that always have maintained their character, whether on parade or under

fire!"

"Ah! the 22d, are they? They have come up from Ronco, then?"

"Yes, sir; they were all that General Soult could spare us."

"Fine-looking fellows they are," said De Barre, scanning them through

his glass. "The third company is a little, a very little to the

rear--don't you perceive it?--and the flank is a thought or so restless

and unsteady."

"A sergeant has just been carried to the rear ill, sir," said a young

officer, in a low voice.

"The heat, I have no doubt; a '_colpo di sole_,' as they tell us

everything is," said De Barre. "By the way, is not this the regiment

that boasts the pretty vivandiere? What's this her name is?"

"Lela, sir."

"Yes, to be sure, Lela. I'm sure I've heard her toasted often enough at

cafes and restaurants."

"There she is, sir, yonder, sitting on the steps of the fountain;" and

the officer made a sign with his sword for the girl to come over. She

made an effort to arise at the order; but tottered back, and would have

fallen if a soldier had not caught her. Then suddenly collecting her

strength, she arranged the folds of her short scarlet jupe, and

smoothing down the braids of her fair hair, came forward, at that

sliding, half-skipping pace that is the wont of her craft.

The exertion, and possibly the excitement had flushed her cheek; so that

as she came forward her look was brilliantly handsome; but as the color

died away, and a livid pallor spread over her jaws, lank and drawn in by

famine, her expression was dreadful. The large eyes, lustrous and

wild-looking, gleamed with the fire of fever, while her thin nostrils

quivered at each respiration.

Poor girl, even then, with famine and fever eating within her, the

traits of womanly vanity still survived, and as she carried her hand to

her cap in salute, she made a faint attempt at a smile.

"The 22d may indeed be proud of their vivandiere," said De Barre,

gallantly.

"What hast in the 'tonnelet,' Lela?" continued he, tapping the little

silver-hooped barrel she carried at her back.

"Ah, _que voulez vous_?" cried she, laughing, with a low, husky sound,

the laugh of famine.

"I must have a glass of it to your health, ma belle Lela, if it cost me

a crown piece," and he drew forth the coin as he spoke.

"For such a toast, the liquor is quite good enough," said Lela, drawing

back at the offer of money; while slinging the little cask in front, she

unhooked a small silver cup, and filled it with water.

"No brandy, Lela?"

"None, colonel," said she, shaking her head, "and if I had, those poor

fellows yonder would not like it so well."

"I understand," said he, significantly, "theirs is the thirst of fever."

A short, dry cough, and a barely perceptible nod of the head, was all

her reply; but their eyes met, and any so sad an expression as they

interchanged I never beheld! It was a confession in full of all each had

seen of sorrow, of suffering, and of death. The terrible events three

months of famine had revealed, and all the agonies of pestilence and

madness.

"That is delicious water, Tiernay," said the colonel, as he passed me

the cup, and thus trying to get away from the sad theme of his thoughts.

"I fetch it from a well outside the walls every morning," said Lela,

"ay, and within gun-shot of the Austrian sentries too."

"There's coolness for you, Tiernay," said the colonel; "think what the

22d are made of when their vivandiere dares to do this."

"They'll not astonish _him_," said Lela, looking steadily at me.

"And why not, ma belle?" cried De Barre.

"He was a Tapageur, one of the 'Naughty Ninth,' as they called them."

"How do you know that, Lela? Have we ever met before?" cried I eagerly.

"I've seen _you_, sir," said she, slily. "They used to call you the

corporal that won the battle of Kehl. I know my father always said so."

I would have given worlds to have interrogated her further; so

fascinating is selfishness, that already at least a hundred questions

were presenting themselves to my mind. Who could Lela be? and who was

her father? and what were these reports about me? Had I really won fame

without knowing it? and did my comrades indeed speak of me with honor?

All these, and many more inquiries, were pressing for utterance, as

General Massena walked up with his staff. The general fully corroborated

De Barre's opinion of the "22d." They were, as he expressed, a

"magnificent body." "It was a perfect pleasure to see such troops under

arms." "Those fellows certainly exhibited few traces of a starved-out

garrison." Such and such like were the jesting observations bandied from

one to the other, in all the earnest seriousness of truth! What more

terrible evidence of the scenes they had passed through, than these

convictions! What more stunning proof of the condition to which long

suffering had reduced them!

"Where is our pleasant friend, who talked to us of the Black Forest last

night?"

"Ah, there he is; well, Monsieur Tiernay, do you think General Moreau's

people turned out better than that after the retreat from

Donaueschingen?"

There was no need for any reply, since the scornful burst of laughter of

the staff already gave the answer he wanted; and now he walked forward

to the centre of the piazza, while the troops proceeded to march past.

The band, a miserable group, reduced from fifty to thirteen in number,

struck up a quick step, and the troops, animated by the sounds, and more

still, perhaps, by Massena's presence, made an effort to step out in

quick time; but the rocking, wavering motion, the clinking muskets, and

uncertain gait, were indescribably painful to a soldier's eye. Their

colonel, De Vallence, however, evidently did not regard them thus, for

as he joined the staff, he received the general's compliments with all

the good faith and composure in the world.

The battalions were marched off to barracks, and the group of officers

broke up to repair to their several quarters. It was the hour of dinner,

but it was many a day since that meal had been heard of among them. A

stray cafe here and there was open in the city, but a cup of coffee,

without milk, and a small roll of black bread, a horrid compound of rye

and cocoa, was all the refreshment obtainable; and yet, I am bold to

say, that a murmur or a complaint was unheard against the general or the

government. The heaviest reverses, the gloomiest hours of ill-fortune

never extinguished the hope that Genoa was to be relieved at last, and

that all we had to do was to hold out for the arrival of Bonaparte. To

the extent of this conviction is to be attributed the wide disparity

between the feeling displayed by the military and the townsfolk.

The latter, unsustained by hope, without one spark of speculation to

cheer their gloomy destiny, starved, and sickened, and died in masses.

The very requirements of discipline were useful in averting the

despondent vacuity which comes of hunger. Of the sanguine confidence of

the soldiery in the coming of their comrades, I was to witness a strong

illustration on the very day of which I have been speaking.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, the weather had been heavy

and overcast, and the heat excessive, so that all who were free from

duty had either lain down to sleep, or were quietly resting within

doors, when a certain stir and movement in the streets, a rare event

during the hours of the siesta, drew many a head to the windows. The

report ran, and like wildfire it spread through the city, that the

advanced guard of Bonaparte had reached Ronco that morning, and were

already in march on Genoa! Although nobody could trace this story to any

direct source, each believed and repeated it; the tale growing more

consistent and fuller at every repetition. I need not weary my reader

with all the additions and corrections the narrative received, nor

recount how now it was Moreau with the right wing of the army of the

Rhine; now it was Kellermann's brigade; now it was Macdonald, who had

passed the Ticino, and last of all Bonaparte. The controversy was often

even an angry one, when, finally, all speculation was met by the

official report, that all that was known lay in the simple fact, that

heavy guns had been heard that morning, near Ronco, and as the Austrians

held no position with artillery there, the firing must needs be French.

This very bare announcement was, of course, a great "come down" for all

the circumstantial detail with which we had been amusing ourselves and

each other, but yet it nourished hope, and the hope that was nearest to

all our hearts, too! The streets were soon filled; officers and soldiers

hastily dressed, and with many a fault of costume, were all

commingled, exchanging opinions, resolving doubts, and even bandying

congratulations. The starved and hungry faces were lighted up with an

expression of savage glee. It was like the last flickering gleam of

passion in men, whose whole vitality was the energy of fever! The heavy

debt they owed their enemy was at last to be paid, and all the insulting

injury of a besieged and famine-stricken garrison to be avenged. A

surging movement in the crowd told that some event had occurred; it was

Massena and his staff, who were proceeding to a watch-tower in the

bastion, from whence a wide range of country could be seen. This was

reassuring. The general himself entertained the story, and here was

proof that there was "something in it." All the population now made for

the walls; every spot from which the view toward Ronco could be obtained

was speedily crowded, every window filled, and all the house-tops

crammed. A dark mass of inky cloud covered the tops of the Apennines,

and even descended to some distance down the sides. With what shapes and

forms of military splendor did our imaginations people the space behind

that sombre curtain! What columns of stern warriors, what prancing

squadrons, what earth-shaking masses of heavy artillery! How longingly

each eye grew weary watching--waiting for the vail to be rent, and the

glancing steel to be seen glistening bright in the sun-rays!

As if to torture our anxieties, the lowering mass grew darker and

heavier, and rolling lazily down the mountain, it filled up the valley,

wrapping earth and sky in one murky mantle.

"There, did you hear that?" cried one, "that was artillery."

A pause followed, each ear was bent to listen, and not a word was

uttered, for full a minute or more; the immense host, as if swayed by

the one impulse, strained to catch the sounds, when suddenly, from the

direction of the mountain top, there came a rattling, crashing noise,

followed by the dull, deep booming that every soldier's heart responds

to. What a cheer then burst forth! never did I hear--never may I hear

such a cry as that was--it was like the wild yell of a shipwrecked crew,

as some distant sail hove in sight; and yet, through its cadence, there

rang the mad lust for vengeance! Yes, in all the agonies of sinking

strength, with fever in their hearts, and the death sweat on their

cheeks, their cry was, Blood! The puny shout, for such it seemed now,

was drowned in the deafening crash that now was heard; peal after peal

shook the air, the same rattling, peppering noise of musketry continuing

through all.

That the French were in strong force, as well as the enemy, there could

now be no doubt. Nothing but a serious affair and a stubborn resistance

could warrant such a fire. It had every semblance of an attack with all

arms. The roar of the heavy guns made the air vibrate, and the clatter

of small arms was incessant. How each of us filled up the picture from

the impulses of his own fancy! Some said that the French were still

behind the mountain, and storming the heights of the Borghetto; others

thought that they had gained the summit, but not "en force," and were

only contesting their position there; and a few more sanguine, of whom I

was one myself, imagined that they were driving the Austrians down the

Apennines, cleaving their ranks as they went, with their artillery.

Each new crash, every momentary change of direction of the sounds,

favored this opinion or that, and the excitement of partisanship rose to

an immense height. What added indescribably to the interest of the

scene, was a group of Austrian officers on horseback, who, in their

eagerness to obtain tidings, had ridden beyond their lines, and were now

standing almost within musket range of us. We could see that their

telescopes were turned to the eventful spot, and we gloried to think of

the effect the scene must be producing on them.

"They've seen enough!" cried one of our fellows, laughing, while he

pointed to the horsemen, who suddenly wheeling about, galloped back to

their camp at full speed.

"You'll have the drums beat to arms now; there's little time to lose.

Our cuirassiers will soon be upon them," cried another, in ecstasy.

"No, but the rain will, and upon us, too," said Giorgio, who had now

come up; "don't you see that it's not a battle yonder, it's a 'borasco.'

There it comes." And as if the outstretched finger of the dwarf had been

the wand of a magician, the great cloud was suddenly torn open with a

crash, and the rain descended like a deluge, swept along by a hurricane

wind, and came in vast sheets of water, while high over our heads, and

moving onward toward the sea growled the distant thunder. The great

mountain was now visible from base to summit, but not a soldier, not a

gun to be seen! Swollen and yellow, the gushing torrents leaped madly

from crag to crag, and crashing trees, and falling rocks, added their

wild sounds to the tumult.

There we stood, mute and sorrowstruck, regardless of the seething rain,

unconscious of any thing save our disappointment. The hope we built upon

had left us, and the dreary scene of storm around seemed but a type of

our own future! And yet we could not turn away, but with eyes strained

and aching, gazed at the spot from where our succor should have come.

I looked up at the watch-tower, and there was Massena still, his arms

folded on a battlement; he seemed to be deep in thought. At last he

arose, and drawing his cloak across his face, descended the

winding-stair outside the tower. His step was slow, and more than once

he halted, as if to think. When he reached the walls, he walked rapidly

on, his suite following him.

"Ah, Mons. Tiernay," said he, as he passed me, "you know what an

Apennine storm is now; but it will cool the air, and give us delicious

weather;" and so he passed on with an easy smile.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MONTE DI FACCIO.

The disappointment we had suffered was not the only circumstance adverse

to our expedition. The rain had now swollen the smallest rivulets to the

size of torrents; in many places the paths would be torn away and

obliterated, and every where the difficulty of a night march enormously

increased. Giorgio, however, who was, perhaps, afraid of forfeiting his

reward, assured the general that these mountain streams subside even

more rapidly than they rise; that such was the dryness of the soil, no

trace of rain would be seen by sunset, and that we should have a calm,

starry night; the very thing we wanted for our enterprise.

We did not need persuasion to believe all he said, the opinion chimed in

with our own wishes, and better still, was verified to the very letter

by a glorious afternoon. Landward, the spectacle was perfectly

enchanting; the varied foliage of the Apennines, refreshed by the rain,

glittered and shone in the sun's rays, while in the bay, the fleet, with

sails hung out to dry, presented a grand and an imposing sight. Better

than all, Monte Faccio now appeared quite near us; we could, even with

the naked eye, perceive all the defenses, and were able to detect a

party of soldiers at work outside the walls, clearing, as it seemed,

some water-course that had been impeded by the storm. Unimportant as the

labor was, we watched it anxiously, for we thought that perhaps before

another sunset many a brave fellow's blood might dye that earth. During

the whole of that day, from some cause or other, not a shot had been

fired either from the land-batteries or the fleet, and as though a truce

had been agreed to, we sat watching each other's movements peacefully

and calmly.

"The Austrians would seem to have been as much deceived as ourselves,

sir," said an old artillery sergeant to me, as I strolled along the

walls at nightfall. "The pickets last night were close to the glacis,

but see now they have fallen back a gun-shot or more."

"But they had time enough since to have resumed their old position,"

said I, half-doubting the accuracy of the surmise.

"Time enough, parbleu; I should think so, too! but when the whitecoats

manoeuvre, they write to Vienna to ask, 'What's to be done next?'"

This passing remark, in which, with all its exaggeration, there lay a

germ of truth, was the universal judgment of our soldiers on those of

the Imperial army; and to the prevalence of the notion may be ascribed

much of that fearless indifference with which small divisions of ours

attacked whole army corps of the enemy. Bonaparte was the first to point

out this slowness, and to turn it to the best advantage.

"If our general ever intended a sortie, this would be the night for it,

sir," resumed he; "the noise of those mountain streams would mask the

sounds of a march, and even cavalry, if led with caution, might be in

upon them before they were aware."

This speech pleased me, not only for the judgment it conveyed, but as an

assurance that our expedition was still a secret in the garrison.

On questioning the sergeant further, I was struck to find that he had

abandoned utterly all hope of ever seeing France again; such he told me

was the universal feeling of the soldiery. "We know well, sir, that

Massena is not the man to capitulate, and we can not expect to be

relieved." And yet with this stern, comfortless conviction on their

minds--with hunger, and famine, and pestilence on every side--they never

uttered one word of complaint, not even a murmur of remonstrance. What

would Moreau's fellows say of us? What would the Army of the Meuse

think? These were the ever present arguments against surrender; and the

judgment of their comrades was far more terrible to them than the

grape-shot of the enemy.

"But do you not think when Bonaparte crosses the Alps he will hasten to

our relief?"

"Not he, sir! I know him well. I was in the same troop with him, a

bombardier at the same gun. Bonaparte will never go after small game

where there's a nobler prey before him. If he does cross the Alps he'll

be for a great battle under Milan; or, mayhap, march on Venice. _He's_

not thinking of our starved battalions here: he's planning some great

campaign, depend on it. He never faced the Alps to succor Genoa."

How true was this appreciation of the great general's ambition, I need

scarcely repeat; but so it was at the time; many were able to guess the

bold aspirings of one who, to the nation, seemed merely one among the

numerous candidates for fame and honors.

It was about an hour after my conversation with the sergeant, that an

orderly came to summon me to Colonel de Barre's quarters; and with all

my haste to obey, I only arrived as the column was formed. The plan of

attack was simple enough. Three Voltigeur companies were to attempt the

assault of the Monte Faccio, under De Barre; while to engage attention,

and draw off the enemy's force, a strong body of infantry and cavalry

was to debouch on the Chiavari road, as though to force a passage in

that direction. In all that regarded secrecy and dispatch our expedition

was perfect: and as we moved silently through the streets, the sleeping

citizens never knew of our march. Arrived at the gate, the column

halted, to give us time to pass along the walls and descend the glen, an

operation which, it was estimated, would take forty-five minutes; at the

expiration of this they were to issue forth to the feint attack.

At a quick step we now pressed forward toward the angle of the bastion,

whence many a path led down the cliff in all directions. Half-a-dozen of

our men well-acquainted with the spot, volunteered as guides, and the

muskets being slung on the back, the word was given to "move on," the

rallying-place being the plateau of the orange trees I have already

mentioned.

"Steep enough, this," said De Barre to me, as, holding on by briars and

brambles, we slowly descended the gorge; "but few of us will ever climb

it again."

"You think so?" asked I, in some surprise.

"Of course, I know it;" said he. "Vallence, who commands the battalions

below, always condemned the scheme; rely on it, he's not the man to make

himself out a false prophet. I don't pretend to tell you that in our

days of monarchy there were neither jealousies nor party grudges, and

that men were above all small and ungenerous rivalry; but, assuredly, we

had less of them than now. If the field of competition is more open to

every one, so are the arts by which success is won; a pre-eminence in a

republic means always the rain of a rival. If we fail, as fail we must,

he'll be a general."

"But why must we fail?"

"For every reason; we are not in force: we know nothing of what we are

about to attack; and, if repulsed, have no retreat behind us."

"Then, why--?" I stopped, for already I saw the impropriety of my

question.

"Why did I advise the attack?" said he, mildly, taking up my

half-uttered question. "Simply because death outside these walls is

quicker and more glorious than within them. There's scarcely a man who

follows us has not the same sentiment in his heart. The terrible scenes

of the last five weeks have driven our fellows to all but mutiny.

Nothing, indeed, maintained discipline but a kind of tigerish thirst for

vengeance--a hope that the day of reckoning would come round, and in one

fearful lesson teach these same whitecoats how dangerous it is to drive

a brave enemy to despair."

De Barre continued to talk in this strain as we descended, every remark

he made being uttered with all the coolness of one who talked of a

matter indifferent to him. At length the way became too steep for much

converse, and slipping and scrambling, we now only interchanged a chance

word as we went. Although two hundred and fifty men were around and

about us, not a voice was heard; and, except the occasional breaking of

a branch, or the occasional fall of some heavy stone into the valley,

not a sound was heard. At length a long, shrill whistle announced that

the first man had reached the bottom, which, to judge from the faintness

of the sound, appeared yet a considerable distance off. The excessive

darkness increased the difficulty of the way, and De Barre continued to

repeat, "that we had certainly been misinformed, and that even in

daylight the descent would take an hour."

It was full half an hour after this when we came to a small rivulet, the

little boundary line between the two steep cliffs. Here our men were all

assembled, refreshing themselves with the water, still muddy from recent

rain, and endeavoring to arrange equipments and arms, damaged and

displaced by many a fall.

"We've taken an hour and twenty-eight minutes," said De Barre, as he

placed a fire-fly on the glass of his watch to see the hour. "Now, men,

let us make up for lost time. _En avant!_"

"En avant!" was quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and never was a word

more spirit-stirring to Frenchmen! With all the alacrity of men fresh

and "eager for the fray," they began the ascent, and, such was the

emulous ardor to be first, that it assumed all the features of a race.

A close pine wood greatly aided us now, and in less time than we could

believe it possible, we reached the plateau appointed for our

rendezvous. This being the last spot of meeting before our attack on the

fort, the final dispositions were here settled on, and the orders for

the assault arranged. With daylight the view from this terrace, for such

it was in reality, would have been magnificent, for even now, in the

darkness, we could track out the great thoroughfares of the city, follow

the windings of the bay and harbor, and, by the lights on board, detect

the fleet as it lay at anchor. To the left, and for many a mile, as it

seemed, were seen twinkling the bivouac fires of the Austrian army;

while, directly above our heads, glittering like a red star, shone the

solitary gleam that marked out the "Monte Faccio."

I was standing silently at De Barre's side, looking on this sombre

scene, so full of terrible interest, when he clutched my arm violently,

and whispered--

"Look yonder; see, the attack has begun."

The fire of the artillery had flashed as he spoke, and now, with his

very words, the deafening roar of the guns was heard from below.

"I told you he'd not wait for us, Tiernay. I told you how it would

happen!" cried he; then, suddenly recovering his habitual composure of

voice and manner, he said, "now for our part, men, forward."

And away went the brave fellows, tearing up the steep mountain side,

like an assault party at a breach. Though hidden from our view by the

darkness and the dense wood, we could hear the incessant din of large

and small arms; the roll of the drums summoning men to their quarters,

and what we thought were the cheers of charging squadrons.

Such was the mad feeling of excitement these sounds produced, that I can

not guess what time elapsed before we found ourselves on the crest of

the mountain, and not above three hundred paces from the outworks of the

fort. The trees had been cut away on either side, so as to offer a

species of "glacis," and this must be crossed under the fire of the

batteries, before an attack could be commenced. Fortunately for us,

however, the garrison was too confident of its security to dread a _coup

de main_ from the side of the town, and had placed all their guns along

the bastion, toward Borghetto, and this De Barre immediately detected. A

certain "alert" on the walls, however, and a quick movement of lights

here and there, showed that they had become aware of the sortie from the

town, and gradually we could see figure after figure ascending the

walls, as if to peer down into the valley beneath.

"You see what Vallance has done for us," said De Barre, bitterly; "but

for _him_ we should have taken these fellows, _en flagrant delit_, and

carried their walls before they could turn out a captain's guard."

As he spoke, a heavy, crashing sound was heard, and a wild cheer.

Already our pioneers had gained the gate, and were battering away at it;

another party had reached the walls, and thrown up their rope ladders,

and the attack was opened! In fact, Giorgio had led one division by a

path somewhat shorter than ours, and they had begun the assault before

we issued from the pine wood.

We now came up at a run, but under a smart fire from the walls, already

fast crowding with men. Defiling close beneath the wall, we gained the

gate, just as it had fallen beneath the assaults of our men; a steep

covered way led up from it, and along this our fellows rushed madly, but

suddenly from the gloom a red glare flashed out, and a terrible

discharge of grape swept all before it. "Lie down!" was now shouted from

front to rear, but even before the order could be obeyed, another and

more fatal volley followed.

Twice we attempted to storm the ascent; but, wearied by the labor of the

mountain pass--worn out by fatigue--and, worse still, weak from actual

starvation, our men faltered! It was not fear, nor was there any thing

akin to it; for even as they fell under the thick fire, their shrill

cheers breathed stern defiance. They were utterly exhausted, and failing

strength could do no more! De Barre took the lead, sword in hand, and

with one of those wild appeals, that soldiers never hear in vain,

addressed them; but the next moment his shattered corpse was carried to

the rear. The scaling party, alike repulsed, had now defiled to our

support; but the death-dealing artillery swept through us without

ceasing. Never was there a spectacle so terrible, as to see men,

animated by courageous devotion, burning with glorious zeal, and yet

powerless from very debility--actually dropping from the weakness of

famine! The staggering step--the faint shout--the powerless charge--all

showing the ravages of pestilence and want!

Some sentiment of compassion must have engaged our enemies' sympathy,

for twice they relaxed their fire, and only resumed it as we returned to

the attack. One fearful discharge of grape, at pistol range, now seemed

to have closed the struggle; and as the smoke cleared away, the earth

was seen crowded with dead and dying. The broken ranks no longer showed

discipline--men gathered in groups around their wounded comrades, and,

to all seeming, indifferent to the death that menaced them. Scarcely an

officer survived, and, among the dead beside me, I recognized Giorgio,

who still knelt in the attitude in which he had received his

death-wound.

I was like one in some terrible dream, powerless and terror-stricken, as

I stood thus amid the slaughtered and the wounded.

"You are my prisoner," said a gruff-looking old Croat grenadier, as he

snatched my sword from my hand, by a smart blow on the wrist, and I

yielded without a word.

"Is it over?" said I; "is it over?"

"Yes, parbleu, I think it is," said a comrade, whose cheek was hanging

down from a bayonet wound. "There are not twenty of us remaining, and

_they_ will do very little for the service of the 'Great Republic.'"

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

FRENCH COTTAGE COOKERY.

I had frequently remarked a neat little old woman, in a clean,

stiff-starched, quilted cap, going to and from a neighboring chapel,

without however its ever coming into my head to ask who she was; until

one day a drove of oxen alarmed her so visibly, that I opened the gate

of my little garden, and begged her to remain there in safety till the

cattle had passed by.

"Madame is very polite; she has no doubt been in France?"

"Yes," answered I in her native language, "I resided there many years,

and perceive I have the pleasure of addressing a Frenchwoman."

"I was born in England, madame; but at eight years of age went with my

father to Honfleur, where I married, and continued to reside until four

years ago, when my poor husband followed the remains of his last

remaining child to the grave, and in less than a fortnight after died of

the _grippe_ himself. I had no means of living then, being too old to go

out as a _femme de journee_, my only means of gaining a livelihood; so I

returned to the place where I was born, and my mother's youngest brother

allows me thirty-five pounds a year, upon condition that I am never more

than a month out of England again."

We soon became great friends, and by degrees I learned her history. This

uncle of hers was a year younger than herself--a thorough John Bull, who

hated the French, and ridiculed every thing that was foreign. His heart,

however, was kind and generous, and he no sooner heard of the destitute

condition in which his aunt was left, than he hastened across the

channel for her, bought in her clothes and furniture, which she was

forced to sell to enable her to satisfy her creditors, and then made her

a present of them all again, offering to convey her to her native

country, and settle upon her enough to enable her to live there

decently; which allowance, however, was to cease if she was ever known

to be more than a month out of England. "Time enough for her to pray

over her French friends' graves, poor benighted Catholic that she be!

but I won't have more of my money spent among them foreign frog-eaters

nor I can help." The poor woman had no other choice; but it was several

years before she reconciled herself to habits so different from those to

which she had been so long accustomed; and to the last she preserved the

French mode in dressing, eating, and manner. At the topmost story of a

high house she took two unfurnished rooms; the largest contained her

bed, _secretaire_, _commode_, _pendule_, _prie-dieu_, and whatever was

best and gayest of her possessions. The room behind was _consacree_, as

she called it, to pots and pans, basins and baskets, her night-quilt and

pillow, and whatever else was not "convenable" to display to "le monde;"

but the front apartment was where she lived, slept, cooked, ate, and

prayed; and a nice, clean, cheerful, well-furnished room it was, and

many a pleasant hour have I spent in it with the old lady, conversing

upon cookery and politeness--two requisites she found the English quite

deficient in, she said. I confess I am somewhat inclined to agree with

her, especially as to the former; and those who agree with me in opinion

will perhaps be glad to have her recipes for the inexpensive French

dishes which fine cooks despise too much to print in cookery-books.

We shall begin with the pot au feu, in Madame Miau's own words:--"Get

from the butcher a nice, smooth, pretty piece of beef, with as little

skin, fat, strings, and bones, as possible: one pound does for me, but

for a family we shall say three pounds. Put this into--not an iron pot,

not a brass pot, not a tin pot--but an earthen pan with a close-fitting

lid, and three quarts of filtered water, and some salt. This you must

put, not on the fire, but on the top of the oven, which is heated from

the fire, and which will do just the same as a hot hearth: let it boil

up; skim and deprive it of all grease. When this is accomplished, take

three large carrots, cut in three pieces--three, remember!--one large

parsnip cut in two, two turnips, as many leeks as possible--you can't

have too many; two cloves ground, and the least little idea of pepper,

and onions if you like--I only put a burnt one to color. Now cover up,

and let it stay, going tic-tic-tic! for seven hours; not to _boil_,

pray. When I hear my bouillon bubble, the tears are in my eyes, for I

know it is a _plat manque_. When ready, put the beef--what we country

people call bouillie--which word, they say, is vulgar--never mind!--put

it on a dish, and with tasteful elegance dispose around the carrots,

parsnip, and turnip. Then on slices of bread at the bottom of a bowl

pour your soup, and thank God for your good dinner.

"I sometimes tie the white part of my leeks in bundles, like asparagus,

and serve on roasted (she never would say toasted) bread. Next day I

warm the soup again, introducing rue, vermicelli, or fresh carrots cut

in shapes, as my fancy may lead me, and eat the beef cold with tarragon

vinegar. Madame Fouache, my sister-in-law, puts in celery, parsley, and

a hundred other things; but that is modern--mine is the old, respectable

pot au feu; and I never have nonplus, what all the Fouaches are so fond

of, which is properly a Spanish, not a French dish, called _olla

podrida_--very extravagant. Not only have they beef, but a fowl, a ham,

or piece of one; a Bologna or Spanish sausage; all the vegetables named

above; _pois chiches_ (large hard peas), which must be soaked a night; a

cabbage, a hard pear, and whatever they can gather, in the usual

proportion of a small quart to a large pound of meat; and not liking

oil, as the Spaniards do, Madame Fouache adds butter and flour to some

of the soup, to make sauce. The fowl is browned before the fire, and

served with pear, peas, celery, and the ham with the cabbage, the beef

with the carrots, leeks, and parsnips, the sausage by itself; and the

soup in a tureen over a _crouton_. This takes nine hours of slow

cooking; but mine, the veritable pot au feu Francais, is much better, as

well as simpler and cheaper."

"Thank you, Madame Miau," said I; "here it is all written down. Is that

batter-pudding you have arranged for frying?"

"No, madame; it is _sarrasin_. It was my dinner yesterday, _en

bouillie_; to-day I fry it, and with a gurnet besides, am well dined."

"How do you cook it?"

"In France I take half a pint of water and a pint and a half of milk;

but here the milkman saves me the trouble: so I take two pints of his

milk, and by degrees mix in a good half pint of buckwheat flour, salt,

an egg if you have it, but if not, half an hour's additional boiling

will do as well. This mess must boil long, till it is quite, quite

thick: you eat some warm with milk, and put the remainder into a deep

plate, where, when cold, it has the appearance you see, and is very nice

fried."

"And the gurnet?"

"I boil it, skin it, and bone it, and pour over it the following sauce:

A dessert-spoonful of flour rubbed smooth into a half tumbler of water;

this you boil till it is thick, and looks clear; then take it off the

fire, and pray don't put it on again, to spoil the taste, and pop in a

good lump of Dutch butter, if you can't afford fresh, which is much

better, and a small tea-spoonful of vinegar; pour this over your fish:

an egg is a great improvement. I can't afford that, but I sometimes add

a little drop of milk, if I have it."

"I am sure it must be very good: and, by-the-by, can you tell me what to

do with a miserable, half-starved chicken that the dogs killed, to make

it eatable?"

"Truss it neatly, stuff it with sausage and bread-crumbs; mix some flour

and butter, taking care it does not color in the pan, for it must be a

white rout; plump your chicken in this, and add a little water, or soup

if you have it; take four little onions, two small carrots cut in half;

tie in a bundle the tops of celery, some chives, a bay-leaf, and some

parsley; salt to taste, with a bit of mace--will be all you require

more; cover close, so that the air is excluded, and keep it simmering

two hours and a quarter: it will turn out white and plump; place the

vegetables round it; stir in an egg to thicken the sauce, off the fire,

and your dish will not make you blush." I did as she directed, and found

it very good.

I went very often to Madame Miau's, and invariably found her reading her

prayer-book, and she as invariably put it down unaffectedly without

remark, and entered at once into conversation upon the subject I

introduced, never alluding to her occupation.

"I fear," said I, one day, "I interrupt your devotions."

"_Du tout_, madame, they are finished; I am so far from chapel I can

only get there upon Sundays, or on the very great saints' days; but I

have my _good corner_ here," pointing to the _prie-dieu_, which stood

before what I had always imagined shelves, protected from the dust by a

green baize curtain; "and you see I have my little remembrances behind

this," added she, pulling the curtain aside, and displaying a crucifix,

"the Virgin mild and sweet St. John" standing by, her string of beads,

the crowns of everlastings from her parents', husband's, and children's

graves, several prints of sacred subjects, and a shell containing holy

water.

Her simple piety was so sincere that I felt no desire to cavil at the

little harmless superstitions mixed with it, but said, "You must have

many sad and solitary hours; but you know where to look for consolation,

I find."

"Yes, indeed, madame. Without religion how could I have lived through my

many sorrows! but God sustains me, and I am not unhappy, although

wearing out my age in poverty and in a strange land, without one of

those I loved left to comfort me; for if the longest life be short, the

few years I have before _me_ are shorter still, and I thank Him daily

for the comfort I derive from my Christian education."

She was too delicate-minded to say Catholic, which I knew she meant, and

I changed the subject, lest our ideas might not agree so well if we

pursued it much further. "Pray, Madame Miau, what is the use of that

odd-looking iron stand?"

"It is for stewing or boiling: the baker sells me the burnt wood out of

his oven (we call it _braise_ in France), which I mix with a little

charcoal; this makes a capital fire, and in summer I dress my dinner.

You see there are three pots, one above the other; this saves me the

heat, and dirt, and expense of a fire in the grate, for it stands in the

passage quite well, and stewed beefsteak is never so good as when

dressed by it."

"How do you manage?"

"I make a rout, and put to it a quantity of onions minced small, and a

bit of garlic, when they are quite soft; I add salt, a little pepper,

and some flour and water, if I have no gravy or soup. Into this I put

slices of beef, and let it stew slowly till quite done, and then thicken

the sauce with polder starch. The neighbors down stairs like this so

much, that we often go halves in both the food and firing, which greatly

reduces the cost to both; and it keeps _so_ well, and heats up _so_

nicely! They eat it with boiled rice, which I never before saw done, and

like very much; but I boil my rice more than they do, and beat it into a

paste, with salt and an egg, and either brown it before the fire or fry

it, which I think an improvement; but neighbor Green likes it all

natural."

"Oh, do tell me about _soupe a la graisse_; it sounds very uninviting."

"I seldom take it in this country, where vegetables are so dear, and you

must prepare your _graisse_ yourself."

"How do you prepare it?"

"By boiling dripping with onions, garlic, and spices; a good

table-spoonful of this gives a nice taste to water, and you add every

kind of vegetable you can obtain, and eat it with brown bread steeped in

it. The very poor abroad almost live on it, and those who are better off

take a sou from those who have no fire, _pour tremper leur soupe_; and

surely on a cold day this hot mess is more acceptable to the stomach

than cold bread and cheese."

"You seem very fond of onions with every thing."

"Yes; they make every thing taste well: now _crevettes_, what you call

shrimps, how good they are with onions!"

"How! onions with shrimps!--what an odd combination! Tell me how to

dress this curious dish."

"When the shrimps are boiled, shell them, take a pint or a quart,

according to your family; make a rout, adding pepper; jump (_sautez_)

them in it, adding, as they warm, minced parsley; when quite hot, take

them off the fire, and stir round among them a good spoonful of sour

cream. _Pois de prud'homme_ and _pois mange-tout_ are dressed the same,

leaving out the flour and pepper."

"I don't know what _pois_ you mean."

"The _prud'hommes_, when they first come in, are like lupin-pods, and

contain little square white beans. You do not shell them till they are

quite old, and then they are good also, but not nearly so good or so

wholesome as in the green pods. The _pois tirer_ or _mange-touts_ are

just like every other pea--only as you can eat the pods, you have them

full three weeks before the others are ready, and a few handfuls make a

good dish: you must take the string off both, as you do with

kidney-beans, unless when young."

"I suppose you eat the white dry beans which are to be bought at the

French shop here."

"No, never: they don't agree with me, nor indeed are they very

digestible for any but strong workers."

"How should they be dressed?"

"Steeped from five to twelve hours; boiled till tender; then jumped with

butter and parsley in a pan after draining well; and milk and an egg

stirred in them off the fire, or what is much better, a little sour

cream or thick buttermilk. They eat well with roast mutton, and are much

more delicate than the red beans, which, however, I have never seen sold

in this country."

"Do you drink tea?"

"I would do so were I confined to the wishy-washy stuff people of my

rank in England call coffee--bad in itself, and worse prepared."

"How do _you_ manage?"

"I buy coffee-beans, ready roasted or not: a coffee-mill costs me 1_s._

6_d._, and I grind it every now and then myself; but I always freshen my

beans by jumping them in a clean frying-pan, with a little new butter,

till quite dry and crisp--very easy to do, and the way to have good

coffee. I do a little at a time, and use that small coffee-biggen, which

is now common even in this country: two well-heaped tea-spoonfuls serve

me; but were I richer, I should put three. Upon these two spoonfuls I

pour a cup of boiling water, and while it is draining through, heat the

same quantity of milk, which I mix with the clear coffee, and I have my

two cups. Chiccory I don't like, spite of the doctor, who says it is

wholesome. All French doctors preach against coffee; but I, who have

drunk it all my life, am of opinion they talk nonsense. You may take it

stronger or weaker; but I advise you always to make it this way, and

never try the foolish English practices of boiling, simmering, clearing,

and such like absurdities and fussings. I generally, however, breakfast

upon _soupe a la citronille_, which is very nice."

"Tell me how to make it."

"You cut your citronille (pumpkin, I believe you call it) in slices,

which you boil in water till soft enough to press through a cullender

into hot milk; add salt and pepper, stir smooth, and give one boil, and

it is ready to pour upon your bread as a _puree_. A little white wine

improves it, or you may make it _au gras_, mixing a little white meat

gravy; but to my mind the simple soup is the best, although I like a bit

of butter in it, I confess. Turnips and even carrots eat very well

prepared this way, many think; but I prefer the latter prepared _a la

Crecy_, which you do very well in England."

"You use a great deal of butter, which at one time of the year is very

dear in England."

"And in France, also; therefore I buy it at the cheap seasons, put it on

the fire, and give it a boil, skimming it well; then I let it settle,

and pour off all that is clear into bottles and pots, and it keeps until

the dear time is past, quite well for cooking."

"And eggs."

"Nothing so simple, when quite new laid; butter them well with fresh

butter; remember if a pin's point is passed over, the egg spoils--rub it

well into them, and place in jars, shaking over them bran or dry sand;

wash when about to use them, and you would say they had been laid two

days back only."

"Do you eat your prepared butter upon bread?"

"I never do any thing so extravagant as to eat butter upon bread: I

prefer to use it in my cookery; but I don't think boiled butter would

taste well so, though it fries beautifully on maigre days; and on others

I use lard to my potato."

"Does one satisfy you?" asked I, laughing.

"Oh yes, if it is of a tolerable size. I cut it in pieces the size of a

hazel-nut, dry, and put them into a common saucepan, with the least bit

of butter, shaking them about every few minutes; less than half an hour

does them; they are eaten hot, with some salt sifted over."

"I suppose you often have an omelet?"

"Not often; but let me offer you one now."

I had scarcely assented, when the frying-pan was on the fire to heat

three eggs broken, some chives and parsley minced, and mixed with a

little pepper and salt all together--Madame Miau throwing in a drop of

milk, because she happened to have it, in order to increase the size of

the omelet, although in general she seldom used it--and flour _never_.

It was thrown upon the boiling fat, and as it hardened, lifted up with

two wooden forks round and round, and then rolled over, _never_

turned--the upper part, which was still slightly liquid, serving for

sauce, as it were. This was all, and very good I found it. Another time

she put in grated cheese, which was also excellent.

"I can't comprehend how you contrive to make every thing so good at so

little expense," said I.

"There is no merit in making good things if you are extravagant: any one

can do that."

"No, indeed, not every one."

"Cookery, in a little way," continued Madame Miau, "appears to me _so_

simple. To fry well, the fat must _boil_ before putting what you wish

fried into it; and this you ascertain by throwing in a piece of bread,

which should gild immediately: the color should be yellow or

light-brown--never darker. To _stew_, the only rule is to let your meat

simmer gently for a long time, and keep in the steam, and all sorts

should be previously sauted in a rout, which keeps in the juice: the

look, also, is important, and a burnt onion helps the color."

Madame Miau, however, could cook more elaborate dishes than those she

treated herself to, and I shall subjoin some of her recipes, all of

which I have tried myself; and if the preceding very economical but

thoroughly French dishes please as a foundation, I may give in a future

number _plats_ of a rather higher description.

STUDENT LIFE IN PARIS.

The first impression of the Student of Students in Paris is one of

curiosity. "When do the students find time to study?" is the natural

inquiry. The next impression solves the mystery, by leading to the

satisfactory conclusion, that the students do _not_ find time to study.

To be sure, eminent physicians, great painters, and acute lawyers, do

occasionally throw sufficient light upon society to render its

intellectual darkness visible. And the probabilities are that these

physicians are not born with diplomas, as children are, occasionally,

with cauls; nor the painters sent into the world with their pencils at

their fingers' ends; nor the lawyers launched into existence sitting

upon innate woolsacks. The inference, then, is, that education has done

something toward their advancement, and that they, necessarily, have

done something toward their education.

But the lives of great men are the lives of individuals, not of masses.

And with these I have nothing now to do. It is possible that the

Quartier Latin contains at the present moment more than one "mute

inglorious" Moliere, or Paul de Kock, guiltless, as yet, of his readers'

demoralization. Many a young man who now astonishes the Hotel Corneille,

less by his brains than his billiards, may one day work hard at a

barricade, and harder still, subsequently, at the galleys! But how are

we to know that these young fellows, with their long legs, short coats,

and faces patched over with undecided beards, are geniuses, unless, as

our excellent friend, the English plebeian has it, they "behave as

such?" Let us hope, at any rate, that, like glow-worms, they appear mean

and contemptible in the glare of society, only to exhibit their shining

qualities in the gloom of their working hours.

It is only, then, with the outward life of the students that I have to

deal. With this, one may become acquainted without a very long residence

in the Quartier Latin--that happy quarter where every thing is

subservient to the student's taste, and accommodated to the student's

pocket--where amusement is even cheaper than knowledge--where braces are

unrespected, and blushes unknown--where gloves are not enforced, and

respectability has no representative.

If the student be opulent--that is to say, if he have two hundred francs

a month (a magnificent sum in the quarter) he lives where he

pleases--probably in the Hotel Corneille; if he be poor, and is

compelled to vegetate, as many are, upon little more than a quarter of

that amount, he lives where he can--no one knows where, and very few

know how. It is principally from among this class, who are generally the

sons of peasants or _ouvriers_, that France derives her great painters,

lawyers, and physicians. They study more than their richer comrades;

not only because they have no money to spend upon amusement, but because

they have, commonly, greater energy and higher talents. Indeed, without

these qualities they would not have been able to emancipate themselves

from the ignoble occupations to which they were probably born; unlike

the other class of students, with whom the choice of a profession is

guided by very different considerations.

It is a curious sight to a man fresh from Oxford or Cambridge to observe

these poor students sunning themselves, at mid-day, in the gardens of

the Luxembourg--with their sallow, bearded faces, bright eyes, and long

hooded cloaks, which, notwithstanding the heat of the weather,

"circumstances" have not yet enabled them to discard. Without stopping

to inquire whether there really be any thing "new under the sun," it may

be certainly assumed that the garments in question could not be included

in the category. If, however, they are heavy, their owners' hearts are

light, and their laughter merry enough--even to their last pipe of

tobacco. After the last pipe of tobacco, but not till then, comes

despair.

The more opulent students resemble their poorer brethren in one respect:

they are early risers. Some breakfast as early as seven o'clock; others

betake themselves by six to their _ateliers_, or lectures--or pretend to

do so--returning, in two or three hours, to a later meal. This is of a

substantial character, consisting of two or three courses, with the

eternal _vin ordinaire_. When living in a hotel, the student breakfasts

in the midst of those congenial delights; the buzz of conversation, the

fumes of tobacco, and the click of the billiard-balls. By means of these

amusements, and sundry _semi tasses_ and _petits verres_, he contrives

to kill the first two or three hours after breakfast. Cards and dominoes

are also in great request from an early hour, and present to an

Englishman a curious contrast with his own national customs. In England,

he is accustomed to find card-playing in the morning patronized only by

the most reckless; in France it is the commonest thing in the world to

see a pair of gentlemen with gray hairs and every attribute of

respectability, employed, at nine o'clock, upon a game of _ecarte_,

enlivened by little glasses of brandy and the never-failing pipe. If a

young Englishman in London, instead of an old Frenchman in Paris, was to

addict himself to such untimely recreations, he would probably be cut

off with a shilling.

When the heat and smoke of the _cafe_ become too much even for French

students, they drop off by twos and threes, and seek the fresh air. The

Luxembourg Gardens are close by, and here they principally congregate.

Amusing figures they look, too, in their present style of costume, which

is a burlesque upon that of the Champs Elysees, which is a burlesque

upon that of Hyde Park. The favorite covering for the head is a very

large white hat, with very long nap; which I believe it is proper to

brush the wrong way. The coat, is of the paletot description, perfectly

straight, without shape or make, and reaching as little below the hips

as the wearer can persuade himself is not utterly absurd. The remainder

of the costume is of various shades of eccentricity, according to the

degree of madness employed upon its manufacture. As for the beard and

mustaches, their arrangement is quite a matter of fancy: there are not

two persons alike in this respect in the whole quarter: it may be

remarked, however, that shaving is decidedly on the increase.

The Luxembourg Garden is principally remarkable for its statues without

fingers, almond trees without almonds, and _grisettes_ without number.

Its groves of horse-chestnuts would be very beautiful if, in their

cropped condition, they did not remind the unprejudiced observer--who is

of course English--of the poodle dogs, who in their turn are cropped, it

would seem, to imitate the trees. The queens of France, too, who look

down upon you from pedestals at every turn, were evidently the work of

some secret republican; and the lions that flank the terraces on either

side, are apparently intended as a satire upon Britain. However, if one

could wish these animals somewhat less sweet and smiling, one could

scarcely wish the surrounding scene more so than it is, with its

blooming shrubs and scarcely less blooming damsels, gayly decorated

parterres, and gayly attired loungers, the occasional crash of a

military band, and the continual recurrence of military manoeuvres.

Just outside the gates, near the groves of tall trees leading to the

Barriere d'Enfer, there is always something "going on"--more soldiers,

of course, whom it is impossible to avoid in Paris, besides various

public exhibitions, all cheap, and some gratuitous. On one side, you are

attracted by that most irresistible of attractions--a crowd. Edging your

way through it, as a late arrival always does, you find yourself, with

the body of students whom you followed from the hotel, "assisting" at

the exhibition of a wonderful dog, who is doing nothing, under the

direction of his master, in general a most repulsive-looking rascal,

bearded and bloused as if hot for a barricade. The dog, by doing

nothing, is not obeying orders; on the contrary, he is proving himself a

most sagacious animal by having his own way in defiance of all

authority. This the master attributes, not to the stupidity of the dog,

but to the absence of contributions from the spectators. A few sous are

showered down upon this hint; which proceeding, perhaps, brings out the

dog's talents to a slight extent; that is to say, he is induced to lie

down and pretend to be asleep; but it is doubtful, at the same time,

whether his compliance is attributable to the coppers of his audience,

or the kicks of his spirited proprietor. This is probably the only

performance of the wonderful animal; for it is remarkable that whatever

the sum thrown into the circle, it is never sufficient, according to the

exhibitor, to induce him to show off his grand tricks, so high a value

does he place upon his own talents.

Who, among a different class of the animal creation, does not know what

is called a "genius," who sets even a higher value upon his talents, who

is equally capricious, and who certainly has never yet been persuaded to

show off his "grand trick?"

You are probably next attracted by a crowd at a short distance,

surrounding an exhibition, dear to every English heart--that of "Punch."

The same familiar sentry-box, hung with the same green baize, hides the

same mysteries which are known to every body. But the part of

"Hamlet"--that is to say, "Punch"--though not exactly omitted, is

certainly not "first business." His hunch has lost its fullness; his

nose, its rubicundity; and his profligacy, its point. He is a feeble wag

when translated into French, and has a successful rival in the person of

one Nicolet--who, by the way, gives its name to the theatre--and who is

chiefly remarkable for a wonderful white hat, and a head wooden enough,

even for a low comedian.

Nicolet is supposed to be a fast man. His enemies are not policemen and

magistrates, as in the case of "Punch," but husbands--for the reason

that his friends are among the wives. This seems to be the "leading

idea" of the drama of Nicolet, in common, indeed, with that of every

other French piece on record. If it were not considered impertinent in

the present day to draw morals, I might suggest that something more than

amusement is to be gained by contemplating the young children among the

crowd, who enjoy the delinquencies of this _Faublas_ for the million,

with most precocious sagacity. It is delightful, in fact, to see the

gusto with which they anticipate innuendoes, and meet improprieties half

way, with all the well-bred composure of the most fashionable audience.

It is not customary among the students to wait for the end of Nicolet's

performances. The fashionable hour for departure varies; but it is

generally about the period when the manager's wife begins to take round

the hat.

Any one who accompanies a party of students in their morning rambles,

will most probably find himself, before long, in the "Closerie des

Lilacs," which is close by the same spot. The "Closerie" is associated

in name with lilacs, probably from the fact that it contains fewer

flowers of that description than any other place in the neighborhood. It

is a garden somewhat resembling Vauxhall; and at dusk there is an

attempt made at lighting it up, especially on certain evenings in the

week which are devoted to balls. These balls do not vary materially from

any other twopenny dances, either in London or Paris; but as a morning

lounge, the place is not without attractions. One of them, is the fact

that there is no charge for admission, the proprietor merely expecting

his guests to _convenue_ something--a regulation which is generally

obeyed without much objection.

Throughout the whole day may here be seen numerous specimens of the two

great clashes of the quarter--students and grisettes, some smoking, and

drinking beer and brandy in pretty little bosquets, others disporting

themselves on a very high swing, which would seem to have been expressly

constructed for the purpose of breaking somebody's neck, and to have

failed in its object, somehow, like many other great inventions.

_Ecarte_ is also very popular; but the fact that its practice requires

some little exertion of the intelligence, so very inconvenient to some

persons, will always prevent it from attaining entire supremacy in a

place so polite as Paris. To meet this objection, however, some

ingenious person has invented an entirely different style of game; an

alteration for which the Parisians appear deeply grateful. A small toad,

constructed of bronze, is placed upon a stand, and into its open mouth

the player throws little leaden dumps, with the privilege of scoring

some high number if he succeeds, and of hitting the legs of the

spectators if he fails. At this exciting game a party of embryo doctors

and lawyers will amuse themselves at the "Closerie" for hours, and

moreover exhibit indications of a most lively interest. The great

recommendation of the amusement, I believe, is, that the players _might_

be doing something worse; a philosophical system of reasoning which will

apply to most diversions--from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.

A few hours of this amusement is scarcely necessary to give the student

that sometimes inconvenient instinct--an appetite. Accordingly, at about

five, he begins to think about dining; or rather, he begins to perform

that operation, for he has been thinking about it for some time.

Dining, in the weak imagination of conventional persons, usually induces

visions of Vefour, and is suggestive of Provencal fraternity. But the

student of the Quartier Latin, if he indulges in any such visions, or is

visited by any such suggestions, finds their end about as substantial as

their beginning. His dreamy dinners have, alas! no possibility of

realization. Truffles to him are tasteless, and his "trifles" are

literally "light as air." Provence provides him, unfortunately, with

more songs than suppers, and the fraternal associations with which he is

best acquainted are those of the Cuisiniers in the Rue Racine or Rue des

Mathurins.

It is, very probably, with one of these "Fraternal Associations of

Cooks" that the student proceeds to dine. These societies, which are

fast multiplying in every quarter of Paris, are patronized principally

by Republicans who are red, and by Monarchists who are poor. The former

are attracted by sympathy, the latter are driven by necessity. Indeed, a

_plat_ at six sous, which is the usual price at these establishments, is

a very appropriate reward for the one, or refuge for the other. At these

establishments--which had no existence before the last revolution--every

body is equal; there are no masters, and there are no servants. The

_garcons_ who wait upon the guests are the proprietors, and the guests

themselves are not recognized as having any superior social position.

The guest who addresses the waiter as "_garcon_" is very probably

insulted, and the _garcon_ who addresses a guest as "_monsieur_" is

liable to be expelled from the society. In each case, "_citoyen_" is the

current form of courtesy, and any person who objects to the term is free

to dine elsewhere. Even the dishes have a republican savor. "_Macaroni a

la Republique_," "_Fricandeau a la Robespierre_," or "_Filet a la

Charrier_," are as dear to republican hearts as they are cheap to

republican pockets.

A dinner of this kind costs the student little more than a franc. If he

is more ostentatious, or epicurean, he dines at Risbec's, in the Place

de l'Odeon. Here, for one franc, sixty centimes, he has an entertainment

consisting of four courses and a dessert, inclusive of half a bottle of

_vin ordinaire_. If he is a sensible man, he prefers this to the

Associated Cooks, who, it must be confessed, even by republicans of

taste, are not quite what might be expected, considering the advancing

principles they profess.

After dinner, the student, if the Prado or some equally congenial

establishment is not open, usually addicts himself to the theatre. His

favorite resort is, not the Odeon, as might be supposed, from its

superior importance and equal cheapness, but the "Theatre du

Luxembourg," familiarly called by its frequenters--why, is a

mystery--"Bobineau's." Here the student is in his element. He talks to

his acquaintance across the house; indulges in comic demonstrations of

ecstasy whenever Mademoiselle Hermance appears on the scene, and, in

short, makes himself as ridiculous and contented as can be. Mademoiselle

Hermance, it is necessary to add, is the goddess of the quarter, and has

nightly no end of worshipers. The theatre itself is every thing that

could be desired by any gentleman of advanced principles, who spurns

propriety, and inclines himself toward oranges.

After the theatre the student probably goes home, and there I will leave

him safely. My object has been merely to indicate the general

characteristics of his ordinary life, from which he seldom deviates,

unless tempted by an unexpected remittance to indulge in more costly

recreations, afforded by the Bal Mobile or the Chateau Rouge.

A FAQUIR'S CURSE.

Among the many strange objects which an Englishman meets with in India,

there are few which tend so much to upset his equanimity as a visit from

a wandering faquir.

The advent of one of these gentry in an English settlement is regarded

with much the same sort of feeling as a vagrant cockroach, when he makes

his appearance unannounced in a modern drawing-room. If we could imagine

the aforesaid cockroach brandishing his horns in the face of the

horrified inmates, exulting in the disgust which his presence creates,

and intimating, with a conceited swagger, that, in virtue of his

ugliness, he considered himself entitled to some cake and wine, perhaps

the analogy would be more complete.

The faquir is the mendicant friar of India. He owns no superior; wears

no clothing; performs no work; despises every body and every thing;

sometimes pretends to perpetual fasting; and lives on the fat of the

land.

There is this much, however, to be said for him, that when he does

mortify himself for the good of the community, he does it to some

purpose. A lenten fast, or a penance of parched peas in his shoes, would

be a mere bagatelle to him. We have seen a faquir who was never "known"

to eat at all. He carried a small black stone about with him, which had

been presented to his mother by a holy man. He pretended that by sucking

this stone, and without the aid of any sort of nutriment, he had arrived

at the mature age of forty; yet he had a nest of supplementary chins,

and a protuberant paunch, which certainly did great credit to the

fattening powers of the black stone. Oddly enough, his business was to

collect eatables and drinkables; but, like the Scottish gentleman who

was continually begging brimstone, they were "no for hissel, but for a

neebor." When I saw him he was soliciting offerings of rice, milk, fish,

and ghee, for the benefit of his patron Devi. These offerings were

nightly laid upon the altar before the Devi, who was supposed to

_absorb_ them during the night, considerately leaving the fragments to

be distributed among the poor of the parish. His godship was very

discriminating in the goodness and freshness of these offerings; for he

rejected such as were stale, to be returned next morning, with his

maledictions, to the fraudulent donors.

Sometimes a faquir will take it into his head that the community will be

benefited by his trundling himself along, like a cart-wheel, for a

couple of hundred miles or so. He ties his wrists to his ankles, gets a

_tire_, composed of chopped straw, mud, and cow-dung, laid along the

ridge of his backbone; a bamboo-staff passed through the angle formed by

his knees and his elbows, by way of an axle, and off he goes; a brazen

cup, with a bag, and a _hubble-bubble_, hang like tassels at the two

extremities of the axle. Thus accoutred, he often starts on a journey

which will occupy him for several years, like Milton's fiend,

"O'er bog, or steep, through straight, rough, dense, or rare,

With head, hands, feet, or wings, pursues his way."

On arriving in the vicinity of a village, the whole population turn out

to meet and escort him with due honors to the public well or tank; the

men beating drums, and the women singing through their noses. Here his

holiness unbends, washes off the dust and dirt acquired by perambulating

several miles of dusty road; and, after partaking of a slight

refreshment, enters into conversation with the assembled villagers just

as if he were an ordinary mortal; making very particular inquiries

concerning the state of their larders, and slight investigations as to

their morals. Of course every one is anxious to have the honor of

entertaining a man so holy as to roll to their presence doubled up into

a hoop; and disputes get warm as to who is to have the preference.

Whereupon the faquir makes a speech, in which he returns thanks for the

attentions shown him and intimates that he intends taking up his

quarters with the man who is most capable of testifying his appreciation

of the honor. After some higgling, he knocks himself down, a decided

bargain, to be the guest of the highest bidder, in whose house he

remains, giving good advice to the community, and diffusing an odor of

sanctity throughout the whole village. When the supplies begin to fail,

he ties his hands to his heels again, gets a fresh tire put on, and is

escorted out of the village with the same formalities as accompanied his

entrance.

Like other vermin of his class, he is most apt to attach himself to the

"weaker vessels" of humanity, with whom he is generally a prodigious

favorite. He is not, certainly, indebted to his personal advantages for

this favor, for a more hideously ugly race of men is seldom met with. As

if nature had not made him sufficiently repulsive, he heightens his

hideousness by encircling his eyes with bands of white paint; daubing

his cheeks a rich mustard yellow: a white streak runs along the ridge of

his nose, and another forms a circle round his mouth: his ribs are

indicated by corresponding bars of white paint, which give a highly

venerable cross-bones effect to his breast. When I add, that he wears no

clothes, and that the use of soap is no part of his religion, some idea

may be gained of the effect the first view of him occasions in the mind

of a European.

On the afternoon of a very sultry day in June, I had got a table out in

the veranda of my bungalow, and was amusing myself with a galvanic

apparatus, giving such of my servants as had the courage, a taste of

what they called _Wulatee boiujee_ (English lightning), when a long

gaunt figure, with his hair hanging in disordered masses over his face,

was observed to cross the lawn. On arriving within a few paces of where

I stood, he drew himself up in an imposing attitude--one of his arms

akimbo, while the other held out toward me what appeared to be a pair of

tongs, with a brass dish at the extremity of it.

"Who are you?" I called out.

"Faquir," was the guttural response.

"What do you want?"

"Bheek" (alms).

"Bheek!" I exclaimed, "surely you are joking--a great stout fellow like

you can't be wanting bheek?"

The faquir paid not the slightest attention, but continued holding out

his tongs with the dish at the end of it.

"You had better be off," I said; "I never give bheek to people who are

able to work."

"We do Khooda's work," replied the faquir, with a swagger.

"Oh! you do--then," I answered, "you had better ask Khooda for bheek."

So saying, I turned to the table, and began arranging the apparatus for

making some experiments. Happening to look up about five minutes after,

I observed that the faquir was standing upon one leg, and struggling to

assume as much majesty as was consistent with his equilibrium. The

tongs and dish were still extended--while his left hand sustained his

right foot across his abdomen. I turned to the table, and tried to go on

with my work; but I blundered awfully, broke a glass jar, cut my

fingers, and made a mess on the table. I had a consciousness of the

faquir's staring at me with his extended dish, and could not get the

fellow out of my head. I looked up at him again. There he was as grand

as ever, on his one leg, and with his eyes riveted on mine. He continued

this performance for nearly an hour, yet there did not seem to be the

faintest indication of his unfolding himself--rather a picturesque

ornament to the lawn, if he should take it into his head--as these

fellows sometimes do--to remain in the same position for a twelvemonth.

"If," I said, "you stand there much longer, I'll give you such a taste

of boinjee (lightning) as will soon make you glad to go."

The only answer to this threat was a smile of derision that sent his

mustache bristling up against his nose.

"Lightning!" he sneered--"your lightning can't touch a faquir--the gods

take care of him."

Without more ado, I charged the battery and connected it with a coil

machine, which, as those who have tried it are aware, is capable of

racking the nerves in such a way as few people care to try, and which

none are capable of voluntarily enduring beyond a few seconds.

The faquir seemed rather amused at the queer-looking implements on the

table, but otherwise maintained a look of lofty stoicism; nor did he

seem in any way alarmed when I approached with the conductors.

Some of my servants who had already experienced the process, now came

clustering about with looks of ill-suppressed merriment, to witness the

faquir's ordeal. I fastened one wire to his still extended tongs, and

the other to the foot on the ground.

As the coil machine was not yet in action, beyond disconcerting him a

little, the attachment of the wires did not otherwise affect him. But

when I pushed the magnet into the coil, and gave him the full strength

of the battery, he howled like a demon; the tongs--to which his hand was

now fastened by a force beyond his will--quivered in his unwilling grasp

as if it were burning the flesh from his bones. He threw himself on the

ground, yelling and gnashing his teeth, the tongs clanging an irregular

accompaniment. Never was human pride so abruptly cast down. He was

rolling about in such a frantic way that I began to fear he would do

himself mischief; and, thinking he had now had as much as was good for

him, I stopped the machine and released him.

For some minutes he lay quivering on the ground, as if not quite sure

that the horrible spell was broken; then gathering himself up, he flung

the tongs from him, bounded across the lawn, and over the fence like an

antelope. When he had got to what he reckoned cursing distance, he

turned round, shook his fists at me, and fell to work--pouring out a

torrent of imprecations--shouting, screeching, and tossing his arms

about in a manner fearful to behold.

There is this peculiarity in the abuse of an Oriental, that, beyond

wishing the object of it a liberal endowment of blisters, boils, and

ulcers (no inefficient curses in a hot country), he does not otherwise

allude to him personally; but directs the main burden of his wrath

against his female relatives--from his grandmother to his

grand-daughter--wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, and grand-aunts

inclusive. These he imprecates individually and collectively through

every clause of a prescribed formulary, which has been handed down by

his ancestors, and which, in searchingness of detail, and

comprehensiveness of malediction, leaves small scope to additions or

improvements.

Leaving me, then, to rot and wither from the face of the earth, and

consigning all my female kindred to utter and inevitable death and

destruction, he walked off to a neighboring village to give vent to his

feelings and compose his ruffled dignity.

It so happened, that a short time after the faquir had gone, I

incautiously held my head, while watching the result of some

experiments, over a dish of fuming acid, and consequently became so ill

as to be obliged to retire to my bedroom and lie down. In about an hour,

I called to my bearer to fetch me a glass of water; but, although I

heard him and some of the other servants whispering together behind the

purda, or door-curtain, no attention was paid to my summons. After

repeating the call two or three times with the same result, I got up to

see what was the matter. On drawing aside the purda, I beheld the whole

establishment seated in full conclave on their haunches round the door.

On seeing me, they all got up and took to their heels, like a covey of

frightened partridges. The old kidmudgar was too fat to run far; so I

seized him just as he was making his exit by a gap in the garden fence.

He was, at first, quite incapable of giving any account of himself; so I

made him sit a minute among the long grass to recover his wind, when he

broke out with, "Oh! _re-bab-re-bab_!" and began to blubber, as only a

fat kidmudgar can, imploring me to send instantly for the faquir, and

make him a present; if I did not, I would certainly be a dead man before

to-morrow's sun; "For," said he, "a faquir's curse is good as

_kismut-ke-bat_" (a matter of fate). Some of his fellows now seeing that

the murder was out, ventured to come back, and joined in requesting me

to save my life while there was yet time.

A laugh was the only answer I could make. This somewhat reassured them,

but it was easy to see that I was regarded by all as a doomed man. It

was to no purpose that I told them I was now quite well, and endeavored

to explain the cause of my sickness. They would have it that I was in a

dying state, and that my only salvation lay in sending off a messenger

with a kid and a bag of rupees to the faquir. The durdzee (tailor), who

had just come from the village where the faquir had taken refuge, told

me, that as soon as the faquir heard that I was ill, he performed a _pas

seul_ of a most impressive character, shouting and threatening to curse

every body in the village as he had cursed me and mine. The consequence

was that pice, cowries, rice, and ghee were showered upon him with

overwhelming liberality.

Without saying a word, I armed myself with a horsewhip, set out for the

village, and found the faquir surrounded by a dense crowd of men and

women; to whom he was jabbering with tremendous volubility; telling them

how he had withered me up root and branch, and expressing a hope that I

would serve as a lesson to the other children of Sheitan who ventured to

take liberties with a faquir. The crowd hid me from him till I broke in

upon his dreams with a slight taste of my whip across his shoulders. His

eyes nearly leaped out of their sockets when he turned round and saw me.

Another intimation from my thong sent him off with a yell, leaving the

rich spoil he had collected from the simple villagers behind. What

became of him I can not tell. I heard no more of him.

A few such adventures as these would tend to lessen the gross, and, to

them, expensive superstitions under which the natives of India at

present labor.

LOVE AND SMUGGLING.--A STORY OF THE ENGLISH COAST.

My name is Warneford--at least it is not very unlike that--and I was

born at Itchen, a village distant in those days about a mile and a half,

by land and ferry, from Southampton. How much nearer the, as I hear and

read, rapidly-increasing town has since approached I can not say, as it

will be twenty-nine years next July since I finally quitted the

neighborhood. The village, at that time, chiefly inhabited by ferry and

fishermen, crept in a straggling sort of way up a declivity from the

margin of the Itchen river, which there reaches and joins the

Southampton estuary, till it arrives at Pear-Tree Green, an eminence

commanding one of the finest and most varied land-and-water views the

eye of man has, I think, ever rested upon. My father, a retired

lieutenant of the royal navy, was not a native of the place, as his name

alone would sufficiently indicate to a person acquainted with the then

Itchen people--almost every one of whom was either a Dible or a

Diaper--but he had been many years settled there, and Pear-Tree

church-yard contained the dust of his wife and five children--I and my

sister Jane, who was a year older than myself, being all of his numerous

family who survived their childhood. We were in fair circumstances, as

my father, in addition to his half-pay, possessed an income of something

above a hundred pounds a year. Jane and I were carefully, though of

course not highly or expensively educated; and as soon as I had attained

the warrior-age of fifteen, I was dispatched to sea to fight my

country's battles--Sir Joseph Yorke having, at my father's request,

kindly obtained a midshipman's warrant for me; and not many weeks after

joining the ship to which I was appointed, I found myself, to my great

astonishment, doubling the French line at the Nile--an exploit which I

have since read of with far more satisfaction than I remember to have

experienced during its performance.

Four years passed before I had an opportunity of revisiting home; and it

was with a beating as well as joyful heart, and light, elastic step,

that I set off to walk the distance from Gosport to Itchen. I need

hardly say that I was welcomed by Jane with tears of love and happiness.

It was not long, however, before certain circumstances occurred which

induced my worthy but peremptory father to cut my leave of absence

suddenly and unmercifully short. I have before noticed that the

aborigines of my native place were for the most part Dibles or Diapers.

Well, it happened that among the former was one Ellen Dible, the

daughter of a fisherman somewhat more prosperous than many of his

fellows. This young lady was a slim, active, blue-eyed, bright-haired

gipsy, about two years younger than myself, but somewhat tall and

womanly for her age, of a light, charming figure, and rather genteel

manners; which latter quality, by-the-by, must have come by nature, for

but little education of any kind had fallen to her share. She was, it

may be supposed, the _belle_ of the place, and very numerous were her

rustic admirers; but they all vanished in a twinkling, awestruck by my

uniform, and especially by the dangling dirk which I occasionally

handled in a very alarming manner; and I, sentimental moon-calf that I

was, fell, as it is termed, deeply and earnestly in love with the

village beauty! It must have been her personal graces alone--her

conversation it could not be--which thus entangled me; for she seldom

spoke, and then in reply only, and in monosyllables; but she listened

divinely, and as we strolled in the evening through the fields and woods

between Itchen and Netley Abbey, gazed with such enchanting eloquence in

my face, as I poured forth the popular love and nonsense poetry of the

time, that it is very possible I might have been sooner or later

entrapped into a ruinous marriage--not by her, poor girl! she was, I am

sure, as guileless as infancy, but by her parents, who were scheming,

artful people--had not my father discovered what was going on, and in

his rough way dispelled my silly day-dreams at once and forever.

The church-yard at the summit of Pear-Tree Green, it used to be commonly

said, was that in which Gray composed his famous "Elegy," or at all

events which partially inspired it. I know not if this be correct; but I

remember thinking, as I sat one fine September evening by the side of

Ellen Dible upon the flat wooden railing which then inclosed it, that

the tradition had great likelihood. The broad and tranquil waters of the

Southampton and Itchen rivers--bounded in the far distance by the New

Forest, with its wavy masses of varying light and shade, and on the

left by the leafy woods, from out of which I often think the gray ruins

of the old abbey must in these days look grimly and spectre-like forth

upon the teeming, restless life which mocks its hoary solitude--were at

the full of a spring tide. It was just, too, the hour of "parting day;"

and as the sun-tipped spires of the Southampton churches faded gradually

into indistinctness, and the earlier stars looked out, the curfew,

mellowed by distance into music, came to us upon the light air which

gently stirred fair Ellen's glossy ringlets, as she, with her bonnet in

her hand--for our walk had tired her--looked with her dove-innocent,

transparent eyes in mine, while I repeated Gray's melodious lines. The

Elegy was concluded, and I was rapturizing even more vehemently than was

my wont, when, whack! I received a blow on my shoulder, which sent us

both off the rail; for Ellen held me by the arm, and it was quite as

much as I could do to keep my feet when I reached them. I turned

fiercely round, only to encounter the angry and sardonic countenance of

my father. "I'll have no more of this nonsense, Bob," he gruffly

exclaimed. "Be off home with you, and to-morrow I'll see you safe on

board your ship, depend upon it. As for this pretty minx," he continued,

addressing Ellen, who so trembled with confusion and dismay that she

could scarcely tie her bonnet-strings, "I should think she would be

better employed in mending her father's shirts, or darning her brother's

stockings, than in gossiping her time away with a brainless young lubber

like you." I was, of course, awfully incensed, but present resistance, I

knew, was useless; and after contriving to exchange a mute gesture with

Ellen of eternal love, constancy, and despair, we took our several ways

homeward. Before twelve o'clock the next day I was posting to Gosport,

accompanied by my father, but not till after I had obtained, through the

agency of my soft-hearted sister, a farewell interview with Ellen, when

we of course made fervent vows of mutual fidelity--affirmed and

consecrated, at Ellen's suggestion, by the mystical ceremony of breaking

a crooked sixpence in halves--a moiety to be worn by each of us about

our necks, as an eternal memorial and pendant protest against the flinty

hearts of fathers.

This boyish fancy faded but slowly and lingeringly away with the busy

and tumultuous years which passed over my head, till the peace of 1815

cast me an almost useless sea-waif upon the land, to take root and

vegetate there as I best might upon a lieutenant's half-pay. My father

had died about two years before, and the hundred a year he left us was

scarcely more than sufficient for the support of my sister, whose

chances of an eligible marriage had vanished with her comeliness, which

a virulent attack of small-pox had utterly destroyed, though it had in

nothing changed the patient sweetness of her disposition, and the gentle

loving spirit that shone through all its disfiguring scars and seams. I

had never heard directly from Ellen Dible, although, during the first

months of separation, I had written to her many times; the reason of

which was partially explained by a few lines in one of Jane's letters,

announcing Ellen Dible's marriage--it seemed under some kind of moral

compulsion--to a person of their own grade, and their removal from

Itchen. This happened about six months after my last interview with her.

I made no further inquiries, and, Jane thinking the subject might be a

painful one, it happened that, by a kind of tacit understanding, it was

never afterward alluded to between us.

The utter weariness of an idle shore life soon became insupportable, and

I determined to solicit the good offices of Sir Joseph Yorke with the

Admiralty. The gallant admiral had now taken up his permanent residence

near Hamble, a village on the river of that name, which issues into the

Southampton water not very far from opposite Calshot Castle. Sir Joseph

was drowned there about eight or nine years after I left the station. A

more perfect gentleman, let me pause a moment to say, or a better

seaman, than Sir Joseph, never, I believe, existed; and of a handsome,

commanding presence too--"half-way up a hatchway" at least, to use his

own humorous self-description, his legs scarcely corresponding in

vigorous outline to the rest of his person. He received me with his

usual frank urbanity, and I left him provided with a letter to the

secretary of the admiralty--the ultimate and not long-delayed result of

which was my appointment to the command of the _Rose_ revenue-cutter,

the duties attached to which consisted in carefully watching, in the

interest of His Majesty's customs, the shores of the Southampton river,

the Solent sea, the Wight, and other contiguous portions of the seaboard

of Hants and Dorset.

The ways of smugglers were of course new to me; but we had several

experienced hands on board, and as I zealously applied myself to the

study of the art of contraband, I was not long in acquiring a competent

knowledge of the traditional contrivances employed to defraud the

revenue. Little of interest occurred during the first three or four

weeks of my novel command, except that by the sharpened vigilance of our

look-out, certain circumstances came to light, strongly indicating that

Barnaby Diaper, the owner of a cutter-rigged fishing-vessel of rather

large burden, living near Hamble Creek, was extensively engaged in the

then profitable practice of running moonshine, demurely and

industriously as, when ashore, he appeared to be ever-lastingly mending

his nets, or cobbling the bottom of the smack's boat. He was a hale,

wiry fellow this Barnaby--Old Barnaby, as he was familiarly called,

surnames in those localities being seldom used--with a wooden stolidity

of countenance which utterly defied scrutiny, if it did not silence

suspicion. His son, who was a partner in the cutter, lived at Weston, a

beautifully-situated hamlet between Itchen and Netley. A vigilant watch

was consequently kept upon the movements of the Barnabys, father, son,

and grandson--this last a smart, precocious youngster, I understood, of

about sixteen years of age, by which family trio the suspicious

_Blue-eyed Maid_ was, with occasional assistance, manned, sailed, and

worked. Very rarely, indeed, was the _Blue-eyed Maid_ observed to be

engaged in her ostensible occupation. She would suddenly disappear, and

as suddenly return, and always, we soon came to notice, on the nights

when the _Rose_ happened to be absent from the Southampton waters.

We had missed her for upward of a week, when information reached us that

a large lugger we had chased without success a few nights previously

would attempt to run a cargo at a spot not far from Lymington, soon

after midnight. I accordingly, as soon as darkness had fallen, ran down,

and stood off and on, within signal-distance of the shore-men with whom

I had communicated, till dawn, in vain expectation of the promised

prize. I strongly suspected that we had been deceived; and on rounding

Calshot Castle on our return, I had no doubt of it, for there, sure

enough, was the _Blue-eyed Maid_ riding lightly at anchor off Hamble

Creek, and from her slight draught of water it was quite evident that

her cargo, whatever it might have consisted of, had been landed, or

otherwise disposed of. They had been smart with their work, for the

summer night and our absence had lasted but a few hours only. I boarded

her, and found Old Barnaby, whom I knew by sight, and his two

descendants, whom I had not before seen, busily engaged swabbing the

cutter's deck, and getting matters generally into order and ship-shape.

The son a good deal resembled the old man, except that his features wore

a much more intelligent and good-humored expression; and the boy was an

active, bold-eyed, curly-headed youngster, whose countenance, but for a

provoking sauciness of expression apparently habitual to him, would have

been quite handsome. I thought I had seen his face somewhere before, and

he, I noticed, suddenly stopped from his work on hearing my name, and

looked at me with a smiling but earnest curiosity. The morning's work

had, I saw, been thoroughly performed, and as I was in no humor for a

profitless game of cross questions and crooked answers, I, after

exchanging one or two colloquial courtesies, in which I had by no means

the advantage, returned to the _Rose_ more than ever satisfied that the

interesting family I had left required and would probably repay the

closest watchfulness and care.

On the evening of the same day the _Blue-eyed Maid_ again vanished: a

fortnight slipped by, and she had not re-appeared; when the _Rose_,