CHAPTER II.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. 1. NEW YORK, OCTOBER 1, 1850. No. 3.

[Illustration:

HENRY BROUGHAM, LORD BROUGHAM AND VAUX.

FROM A SKETCH BY ALFRED CROWQUILL, MADE IN JULY, 1850.]

LORD BROUGHAM.

It is generally understood that this most illustrious Englishman now

living, will, in the course of the present year, visit the United States.

Whatever may be the verdict of the future upon his qualities or his

conduct as a statesman, it is scarcely to be doubted that for the variety

and splendor of his abilities, the extent, diversity and usefulness of

his labors, and that restless, impatient and feverish activity which has

kept him so long and so eminently conspicuous in affairs, he will be

regarded by the next ages as one of the most remarkable personages in the

age now closing--the second golden age of England. Lord Brougham is of a

Cumberland family, but was born in Edinburgh (where his father had

married a niece of the historian Robertson), on the 19th of September,

1779. He was educated at the University of his native city, and we first

hear of him as a member of a celebrated debating society, where he

trained himself to the use of logic. He was not yet sixteen years of age

when he communicated a paper on Light to the Royal Society of London,

which was printed in their transactions; and before he was twenty he had

written discussions of the higher geometry, which, appearing in the same

repository of the best learning, attracted the general attention of

European scholars. In 1802, with his friends Jeffrey, Francis Homer, and

Sidney Smith, he established the Edinburgh Review. In 1806 he published

his celebrated "Inquiry into the Colonial Policy of the European Powers,"

and soon after was called to the English bar, and settled in London,

where he rapidly rose to the highest eminence as a counselor and an

advocate. On the 16th of March, 1808, he appeared in behalf of the

merchants of London, Liverpool, Manchester, &c., before the House of

Commons, in the matter of the Orders in Council restricting trade with

America, and greatly increased his fame by one of the most masterly

arguments he ever delivered. In 1810 he became a member of Parliament,

and he soon distinguished himself here by his speeches on the slave trade

and against the Orders in Council, which, mainly through his means, were

rescinded. Venturing, at the general election of 1812, to contest the

seat for Liverpool with Mr. Canning, he was defeated, and for four years

he devoted himself chiefly to his profession. In this period he made many

of his most famous law arguments, and acquired the enmity of the Prince

Regent by his defense of Leigh Hunt, and his brother, in the case of

their famous libel in "_The Examiner_." In 1816 he commenced those

powerful and indefatigable efforts in behalf of education, by which he is

perhaps best entitled to the gratitude of mankind. As chairman of the

educational committee of forty, he drew up the two voluminous and

masterly reports which disclosed the exact condition of British

civilization, and induced such action on the part of government as

advanced it in ten years more than it had been previously advanced in a

century. In 1820 he displayed in their perfection those amazing powers of

knowledge, reason, invective, sarcasm, and elocution, on the trial of

Queen Caroline, which more than anything else have made

that trial so memorable among legal and forensic conflicts. In 1822 he

made his unparalleled speech in the case of the Dean and Chapter of

Durham against Williams, and in the following year was elected Lord

Rector of the University of Glasgow. On the downfall of the Wellington

administration, in 1830, and the consequent general election, he was

returned to Parliament as one of the members for Yorkshire, and a few

weeks afterward was made Lord High. Chancellor, and elevated to the

peerage under the title of Lord Brougham and Vaux. He continued in the

office of Lord Chancellor until the dissolution of the Melbourne cabinet,

in 1834. In 1823 he wrote his "Practical Observations on the Education of

the People," and was engaged with Dr. Birkbeck in the formation of the

first Mechanics' Institution. In 1827 he was one of the originators of

the London University, and in the same year he founded the Society for

the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, of which he was the first president,

and for which he wrote its first publication, the admirable "Treatise on

the Objects, Pleasures, and Advantages of Science." In 1830 he was

elected a member of the Institute of France, and about the time of his

resignation of the chancellorship he published his "Discourse on Natural

Theology." In 1840 he published his "Historical Sketches of the Statesmen

who flourished in the Time of George the Third;" in 1845-6, "Lives of Men

of Letters and Science who flourished in the Time of George the Third;"

and he has since given to the world works on "The French Revolution," on

"Instinct," "Demosthenes' Oration on the Crown," &c., &c. Collections of

his Speeches and Forensic Arguments, and of his Critical Essays, as well

as the other works above referred to, have been republished in

Philadelphia, by Lea and Blanchard.

In the language of the Editor of his "Opinions", Lord Brougham is

remarkable for uniting, in a high degree of perfection, three things

which are not often found to be compatible. His learning is all but

universal: his reason is cultivated to the perfection of the

argumentative powers; and he possesses in a rare and eminent degree the

gift of eloquence.

Of his learning it may be said that there is scarcely a subject, on which

ingenuity or intellect has been exercised, that he has not probed to its

principles, or entered into with the spirit of a philosopher. That he is

a classical scholar of a high order, is shown by his criticisms on the

internal peculiarities of the works of the ancients and their styles of

composition. They evince an intimate acquaintance with the great master

pieces of antiquity. The book-worms of Universities--those scholastic

giants who are great on small questions of quantity and etymology,--who

buckle on the ponderous armor of the commentators in the contest with

more subtle wits, on the interesting doubt of a wrong reading; such men,

in the spirit of pedantry, have refused to Lord Brougham the merit of

profundity, while they allow that he possesses a sort of superficial

knowledge of the classics; they say that he can gracefully skim the

surface of the stream, but that its depths would overwhelm him. Now,

while this may be true as regards the fact, we dissent from it as regards

the inference. It is a question to be decided between the learned drones

of a by-gone school and the quicker intellects of a ripening age, which

is the better thing,--criticism on words--on accidental peculiarities of

style--or a just and sympathizing conception of the feelings of the poet

or the wisdom of the philosopher. Men are beginning to disregard the

former, while they set a high value upon the latter: so much

laboriously-earned learning is at a discount, and allowance should be

made for the petty spite, the depreciating superciliousness, of

disappointment. Lord Brougham's classical knowledge partakes more of that

intimate regard and appreciation which we accord to the great writers,

than of this pedantry of the schools. Hence the cry of want of depth,

that has been raised against him. Like many other great men of his age,

he has read the authors of Greece and Rome in a spirit that has

identified him with their thoughts and feelings, by taking into account

the circumstances of their times; and the result has been, that he has

exchanged the formalities and critical sharp-sightedness of acquaintance

for the intimacy of friendship.

In point of general political knowledge, and particularly of that branch

called political economy, Lord Brougham stands prominently among his

contemporaries. In his speeches and writings will be found the first

principles of every new view of these subjects that has been taken by the

moderns. Of not a few he has himself been the originator. In the party

history of the last century he is well versed, as many of his speeches

show; and no public man of the present day is so well acquainted with the

theory and practice of the constitution, whether as regards the broad

principles of liberty on which it is based, or its gradual formation

during the different periods of our history. It may not be amiss here to

observe, that notwithstanding his long connection with the movement

party, and the countenance he has from time to time given to measures of

a decidedly liberal cast, he never was, and is still as far from being, a

Democrat. Throughout his career he has been a consistent Liberal: always

advocating such measures of reform as were calculated to remove abuses,

while they in no way affected the stability and integrity of the

institutions of the country. While, on the one hand, he has declared his

most unequivocal opposition to the ballot and universal suffrage, on the

other he has advocated popular education, as the ultimate panacea for all

the evils to be feared from the extension of popular influence.

The legal knowledge of Lord Brougham has been questioned by the members

of the profession whose abuses he desired to reform. It was even said,

that while his elevation to the Chancellorship was the unjustifiable act

of a party to serve party purposes, it was at the same time desirable to

Mr. Brougham in a pecuniary point of view, from a falling off in his

professional practice, caused by his hostility to those abuses. Now,

although this is a question really of more interest to lawyers, than to

the public in general, and one which might, therefore, be left to their

decision, yet there was an _animus_ at the time among this class of men,

that rendered them not disinterested judges. Their opinion therefore must

be taken with a qualification, as well on the score of particular

immediate drawbacks, as on the score of their general professional

prejudices. Lord Brougham respected too much the principles of justice,

and he too little regarded the technicalities of law, to be agreeable to

that body. He had a faculty too, for giving speedy judgments, and a

determination to prevent unnecessary expenses, that were particularly

disagreeable to men imbued with a conscientious desire that justice

should not be prejudiced by an unprecedented and informal haste in its

dispensation, or by a reduction of the number of its advocates. The new

Lord Chancellor, too, thought that when one or two intelligent barristers

had been engaged at a large expense, and had well stated the case of

their client, it was quite unnecessary that the same ground should be

again gone over by juniors, whose arguments marred more than they helped

the interests of their employers. When, therefore, he either put them

down, or was droned into a short nap, while the industrious advocate was

earning his unnecessary fee, it was a specimen of "the arrogance of an

upstart wholly unacquainted with Chancery Law," or "of an eccentricity

bordering on insanity, and wholly unfitting its exhibitor for the high

and responsible situation he held." Posterity will do justice to Lord

Brougham in this respect. It will be felt to have been impossible that a

man of such vast acquirements, who had been so successful in his

profession, and who had, in all other branches of knowledge, evinced such

clearness of intellect, could have been the inefficient lawyer his

detractors have represented him to be.

There is another great department in which he has proved his

excellence--that of physical science. With the principles of all the

sciences, his works show him to be familiar. His treatise "on the

Objects, Pleasures, and Advantages of Science" is admirable, as a

bird's-eye view of the subject, while at the same time it is an enticing

stimulant to study. The work on "Natural Theology" necessarily touches

upon the physical sciences, and their connection with the great mechanism

of nature. The geometrical and optical papers, published in the

Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, when he was only fifteen

years of age, show at least a firm groundwork of scientific knowledge.

And if it be said that Lord Brougham's attainments are superficial only,

we say that knowledge of detail does not of itself make a man competent.

The _principles_ of all sciences are a _sine qua non_.

Lord Brougham is eminently clear-headed; and he is distinguished for his

argumentative powers. He has peculiarly the faculty of analysis; that of

keeping in his own mind a comprehensive view of the whole bearings of a

question, even while running at large into the minutest details; no man

detects the fallacy of an opponent's argument more easily; nor can any

man be more skillful in concocting a fallacy to suit a temporary purpose.

Lord Brougham's eloquence most distinguishes him from his contemporaries.

Learning may be acquired; the habit of reasoning may be induced by

constant dialectic contest; but eloquence is far more than these the gift

of nature. Lord Brougham's eloquence savors of the peculiar constitution

of his mind. It is eminently adapted for educated men. He was never

intended for a demagogue; for he never condescends to the art of

pandering to the populace. His speeches are specimens of argumentative

eloquence; and their only defect arises from his fertility of

illustration. The extraordinary information he possesses has induced the

habit of drawing too largely upon it; and he is apt to be led aside from

the straight road of his argument, to elucidate some minor disputed

point. But the argumentative style of which we speak is almost peculiar

to himself. There is a ripeness, a fruitfulness, in his mind, that places

him above the fetters of ordinary speakers. Such men, from the difficulty

of clearing their heads for the contest, too often present a mere

fleshless skeleton, as it were, very convincing to the judgment, but

powerless over the feelings; so that no lasting impression is produced.

But Lord Brougham, from being a master in argument, is free to pursue his

bent in illustration, and thus conjures up a whole picture that dwells on

the mind, and is remembered for its effect on the feelings or the

imagination, even by men whose levity or dullness precluded their being

fixed by the argument. The very structure of his sentences is more

adapted for this kind of speaking than any other. They sometimes appear

involved, to an ordinary mind, from their length, and the abundance of

illustration and explanation which they embrace; but the extraordinary

vigor with which the delivery is kept up, and the liveliness of fancy or

of humor that flashes at every turn of the thought, soon dispel the

temporary cloud.

In irony and in sarcasm, Lord Brougham is unrivaled among the public men

of the day. That his exuberant power of ridicule led him while Lord

Chancellor, into some excess of its use, cannot be denied, although a

ready excuse can be found in the circumstances of his situation. He might

be held to be the representative of liberal principles in a place where

almost the name of Liberal had, till then, been proscribed; and the

animosity toward the new Chancellor, evinced by many peers, was

calculated to induce reprisals. The eccentricities, too, of men of genius

are of such value that they may well be said to atone for themselves.

A quality of Lord Brougham's mind, that is almost as extraordinary as his

extent of information, is its singular activity. His energies never seem

to flag--even for an instant; he does not seem to know what it is to be

fatigued, or jaded. Some such quality as this, indeed, the vastness and

universality of his acquirements called for, in order to make the weight

endurable to himself, and to bear him up during his long career of

political excitement. Take the routine of a day for instance. In his

early life he has been known to attend, in his place in court, on

circuit, at an early hour in the morning. After having successfully

pleaded the cause of his client, he drives off to the hustings; and

delivers, at different places, eloquent speeches to the electors. He then

sits in the retirement of his closet to pen an address to the Glasgow

students, perhaps, or an elaborate article in the Edinburgh Review. The

active labors of the day are closed with preparation for the court

business of the following morning; and then instead of retiring to rest,

as ordinary men would, after such exertions, he spends the night in

abstruse study, or in social intercourse. Yet he would be seen as early

as eight next morning, actively engaged in the Court, in defense of some

unfortunate object of government persecution; astonishing the auditory,

and his fellow lawyers no less, with the freshness and power of his

eloquence.

A fair contrast with this history of a day, in early life, would be that

of one at a more advanced period; say in 1832. A watchful observer might

see the Lord Chancellor in the Court over which he presided, from an

early hour in the morning until the afternoon, listening to the arguments

of counsel, and mastering the points of cases with a grasp that enabled

him to give those speedy and unembarrassed judgments that have so injured

him with the profession. If he followed his course, he would see him,

soon after the opening of the House of Lords, addressing their Lordships

on some intricate question of Law, with an acuteness that drew

approbation even from his opponents, or, on some all-engrossing political

topic, casting firebrands into the camp of the enemy, and awakening them

from the complacent repose of conviction to the hot contest with more

active and inquiring intellects. Then, in an hour or so, he might follow

him to the Mechanics' Institution, and hear an able and stimulating

discourse on education, admirably adapted to the peculiar capacity of

his auditors; and, toward ten perhaps, at a Literary and Scientific

Institution in Marylebone, the same Proteus-like intellect might be found

expounding the intricacies of physical science with a never tiring and

elastic power. Yet, during all these multitudinous exertions, time would

be found for the composition of a discourse on Natural Theology,

that bears no marks of haste or excitement of mind, but presents as calm

a face as though it had been the laborious production of a contemplative

philosopher.

It would be a great mistake that would suppose the man who has thus

multiplied the objects of his exertion to be of necessity superficial;

superficial, that is, in the sense of shallowness or ignorance. Ordinary

minds are bound by fetters, no doubt. Custom has rendered the pursuit of

more than one idea all but impossible to them, and the vulgar adage of

"Jack of all trades, master of none," applies to them in full force. But

it must be remembered that a public man like Lord Brougham, who has

chosen his peculiar sphere of action, and who prefers being of general

utility to the scholar-like pursuit of any one branch of science

exclusively, is not bound to present credentials of full and perfect

mastership, such as are required from a professor of a university. His

pursuit of facts must of necessity be for the purpose of illustrating

general principles in political or moral science; and where more than a

certain amount of knowledge is not laid claim to, the absence of more is

no imputation.

Lord Brougham is thoroughly individualized as regards his talents and all

that constitutes idiosyncratic difference, even while he is identified

with the political and moral advancement of the people. During all the

agitations of a period almost unparalleled, he has remained untainted by

the influence of party spirit. That he has entered, and hotly too, into

almost every question of any moment that has come before the Legislature

during many years is true; but he has never appeared in the character of

a partisan; he has always been the consistent supporter of liberal

measures _per se_, and not because they were the means adopted by a party

to gain political power. With his political steadfastness he has

preserved his intellectual integrity from profanation. For although, had

he early devoted his powers to the study of abstract or practical

science, as a leading and not a subsidiary pursuit, the acuteness of his

mind was such, that he must have risen to eminence upon the basis of

discovery, yet it is no slight proof how little the struggles of the

world affect superior intellects, that he has all along turned aside,

with a never cloying avidity, to the pursuits of mind--to science, to

literature, and to philosophy.

* * * * *

THE WHITE LADY.

The readers of _The International_ may have seen some account of an

apparition said to have been seen recently in the royal palace at Berlin,

and known under the name of the "White Lady." M. Minutoli, lately chief

of the Police at Berlin, has been amusing himself by looking up the

history of this visitant from the unknown world, and has published a

variety of curious particulars respecting her, drawn in a measure from

documents preserved in the royal archives, as well as from old-time

chronicles and dissertations, Latin and German middle age doggerel, and

the records of jurists, historians and theologists. Several persons are

designated in the early history of the family of Hohenzollern as that

unquiet soul who for some three hundred years has performed the functions

of palace-ghost. Many writers agree that she was a Countess named

Orlamünde, Beatrice, or Cunigunde, and that she was desperately in love

with Count Albert of Nuremberg, and was led by her passion to a crime

which is the cause of her subsequent ghostly disquiet. Mr. Minutoli

proves that this lady cannot be the same that alarms the palace with her

untimely visitations. The accounts of the White Lady ascend to 1486, and

she was first seen at Baireuth. Subsequently two ghosts were heard of,

one white and one black. They were several times boldly interrogated and

interesting discoveries arrived at. In 1540, Count Albert the Warrior

laid in wait for the apparition, seized it with his powerful arm and

flung it head over heels down into the castle court-yard. The next

morning the chancellor, Christopher Hass, was found there with his neck

broken, and upon his person a dagger and a letter proving him to have had

treasonable designs. Notwithstanding the spirit has several times been

thus compromised, it has maintained itself to the present day. It was

first seen in Berlin January 1, 1598, eight days before the death of the

Prince Royal John George. When the French invasion took place, it

returned to Baireuth and was patriotic enough to take up its abode in the

new chateau which had never been occupied before the arrival of the

French officer. Even Napoleon called the place _ce maudit chateau_, on

account of its mysterious inhabitant, and had to give up his lodgings

to the ghost. He stopped in the chateau on his way to Russia but when he

returned next year he avoided passing the night there. With regard to the

last appearance at the palace at Berlin just before the late attempt on

the life of the king, and which has been described as "a fearful

apparition of a White Lady dressed in thin and flowing garments, moving

slowly and silently around and around the fountain to the terror of a

corporal standing near the entrance to the silver chamber," M. Minutoli

proves it to have been an old woman once a cook at the chateau who has

since lived there and is known, by the nickname of Black Minna.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MRS. FANNY KEMBLE READING SHAKSPEARE AT THE ST. JAMES'

THEATER.]

MRS. FANNY KEMBLE'S "READINGS" IN LONDON.

MRS. KEMBLE has been giving a series of dramatic readings in London, and

her success in the scene of her early triumphs appears to have been as

decided as it was in New York. She was never in a situation more

agreeable to her temper and ambition than that represented in the above

engraving, which we have copied from one in _The Illustrated News_. She

is triumphant, and "alone in her glory."

Mrs. Kemble is now about forty years of age. Gentleness is acquired in

three generations; she is removed but two from the most vulgar condition;

and by the mother's side but one. The Kembles of the last age were

extraordinary persons. John Philip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons had both

remarkable genius, and Charles Kemble has been an actor of consummate

talent. Whatever intellect remains in the family is in his children; one

of whom is a man of learning and refinement, another a woman of some

cleverness in musical art, and Frances Anne, of whom we write more

particularly.

The first appearance of Miss Kemble on the stage was on the evening of

the 5th October, 1829, at Covent Garden, and was hazarded with the view

of redeeming the fortunes of the theater. The play was "Romeo and

Juliet," and the heroine was sustained by the debutante with unexpected

power. Her Siddonian countenance and expressive eyes were the general

theme of admiration; while the tenderness and ardor of her action went to

the soul of the spectator, and her well-instructed elocution satisfied

the most critical ear. It was then, also, that her father took the part

of "Mercutio," for the first time. It is recorded that he earned by it

thirteen rounds of applause. Nor was its merit overrated. It was then,

and continued to be, a wonderful impersonation of the poetic-comic ideal.

On the 21st of the same month of October, the performers of Covent Garden

presented to Miss Kemble a gold bracelet as a testimony of the services

which she had rendered to the company by her performance of "Juliet." It

was not until the 9th of December that she had to change her _role_. She

then performed Belvidera in "Venice Preserved," and achieved another

triumph. For some time the part was alternated with that of "Juliet." The

latter, during the season, was performed thirty-six times; the former,

twenty-three. The "Grecian Daughter," and Mrs. Beverley, Portia in "The

Merchant of Venice," Isabella, and Lady Townley, followed, and in all

she was eminently successful. Her season finished on the twenty-eighth

of May, and in it she performed altogether, one hundred and two times.

Her reputation, however, proved to be greater in the metropolis than in

the provinces. Nevertheless, on her return to London, she was greeted

with an enthusiastic reception. The next season was celebrated by the

failure of the "Jew of Aragon," and the affair with Mr. Westmacott;

however, Miss Kemble added to her _répertoire_ the characters of Mrs.

Haller, Beatrice, Lady Constance, and Bianca in "Fazio."

In 1832 she came with her father to the United States, where she played

with unprecedented success in the principal cities, confirming the

reputation she had acquired, of being the greatest British actress of the

age. While here she published her dramas, "The Star of Seville" and

"Francis the First," and at this period she was a frequent contributor

to the literary journals,--many of her best fugitive poems having

appeared in the old "New York Mirror."

In 1834 she retired from the stage, and was married to Mr. Pierce Butler

of Philadelphia, a gentleman of fortune, accomplishments, and an

honorable character. The history of this union is sufficiently notorious.

On both sides there was ambition: it was a distinction to be accepted by

a woman of so much genius; it was a great happiness to change the

dominion of a spendthrift and sometimes tyrannical father for that of a

rich and indulgent husband. But a woman accustomed to the applause of the

theater never yet was content with the repose of domestic life, and she

was of all her sex the most ill-fitted by nature for such an existence.

Her second resort to the stage in 1847, her fortunes at Manchester and in

London, her return to America, her public readings of Shakspeare here,

her divorce, and the very curious and unexplained circumstance of her

translation of a profligate French play, and disposal of it as a piece of

her own original composition, are all matters of too late occurrence to

need recapitulation.

She is a woman of masculine abilities, tastes, and energies; fitted

better for the camp than for the drawing-room, and often evincing a

degree of discontent that she is not a man. She always _acts_, and has

seldom, except when on the stage, the tact or ability even to seem

natural. Her equestrian exhibitions in Boston and New York, during her

more recent visits, illustrated the quality of her aspirations. Every

day, at a particular hour, so that a crowd might assemble to look upon

the performance, her horse was brought to the front of her hotel, and

when mounted, with affected difficulty, made to rear and pitch as if he

never before had felt the saddle or bit, and then to dash off as if upon

a race-course or to escape an avalanche. The letters to her husband, with

much tact but without any necessity displayed to the public, in her

answer to his process for divorce, were admirable as compositions, and

seemed to have been written in the very phrensy of passion; but their

effect upon the reader was changed somewhat when he reflected that she

had been sufficiently self-possessed meanwhile to make _careful copies_

before sending them, to be exhibited, as specimens of her genius, to a

mob of the pit, which never fails to recognize a _point_. Indeed, in

petticoats or in pantaloons, making a show of her "heart" in the

publication of these letters to a gentleman whom she had treated with

every species of contempt, obloquy, and insult, until she had made his

home insupportable, or courting the wondering admiration of country

bumpkins by unsexing herself for feats of horsemanship, or for other

athletic diversions, she is always anxious to produce a sensation,

anxious to stir up the gentle public to a roar.

Still, with all her infirmities of taste and temper, Mrs. Kemble is a

woman of unquestionable and very decided genius; a genius frequently

displayed in literature, where its growth may be traced, in prose, from

her foolish "Journal in America" to her more artistic "Year of

Consolation;" and in poetry, where its development is seen from its

budding in "Frances the First" to its most perfect blossoming in the

recent collection of her "Poems." As an actress, her powers and

qualifications are probably greater than those of any other _tragedienne_

now on the English stage; and her characteristics and supremacy are

likely to be far more profitably as well as distinctly evinced in her

"Shakspeare Readings" than in any appearance before the footlights.

* * * * *

LITERATURE IN AFRICA.

The Bible has been translated into the principal language of eastern

Africa, and the American Bible Society has lately received a copy of

"EVANGELIO za avioondika LUCAS. The Gospel according to St. Luke,

translated into Kinika, by the Rev. JOHN LEWIS KRAPF, Phil. Dr.; Bombay

American Mission Press: T. Graham, printer; 1848." The Kinika language

is spoken by the tribes living south of Abyssinia, toward Zanzibar. Dr.

Krapf is a German missionary, in the service of the Church Missionary

Society. He is now in Germany for the recovery of his health. The

language resembles in some particulars the dialects used in Western

Africa. The _Independent_ copies, as a philological curiosity, the Lord's

Prayer in Kinika:

"Babawehu urie mbinguni, Rizuke zinaro. Uzumbeo uze. Malondogo gabondeke

hahikahi ya zi, za gafiohendeka mbinguni. Mukahewehu utosao, hu-ve suisui

ziku kua ziku. Hu-ussire suisui maigehu; hakika suisui kahiri

huna-mu-ussira kulla mutu akos saye zuluyehu. Si-hu-bumire suisui

magesoni, ela hu-lafie suisui wiini."

* * * * *

[Illustration: SIR DAVID BREWSTER, PRESIDENT OF THE BRITISH

ASSOCIATION.]

THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING.

The British Association for the Advancement of Science assembled this

year at Edinburgh, and its first general meeting was held on Wednesday,

the 31st of July, when Sir DAVID BREWSTER, upon taking the chair,

delivered a very interesting address upon the history of the Association,

and the progress of the Sciences. On Thursday, business began in all the

sections, and in the evening Prof. Bennett delivered a lecture on the

passage of the blood through the minute vesicles of animals, in

connection with nutrition. On Friday, a party of about seventy started

under the direction of Mr. R. Chambers, to examine into the groovings on

the western face of Corstophine Hill, and the striæ on the sandstone

near Ravelstone. They afterward visited Arthur's Seat and St. Margaret's,

where they examined the striated rocks and stones. In the evening there

was a conversazione and promenade. Saturday was devoted to excursions. On

Monday afternoon upward of two hundred members dined together, Sir David

Brewster presiding. In the evening, Dr. Mantell delivered a lecture on

the extinct birds of New Zealand. On Tuesday evening there was a

full-dress promenade and _soirée_. On Wednesday, the general committee

assembled to sanction the grants that had passed the Committee of

Recommendations: and in the afternoon of the same day the concluding

general meeting of the Association, for the accustomed ceremonial

proceedings, was held. The next annual meeting is to take place at

Ipswich, and Mr. Airy, the Astronomer Royal, will preside. The meeting,

altogether, was one of unusual interest; among the persons present were

the chief lights of science, in the empire and from the continent, and

our own country was represented by Prof. Hitchcock and several other

scholars. The papers read in the various sections were numerous, and some

of them are described as of very remarkable freshness and value. They

will soon be accessible in the published Transactions, which will this

year be more voluminous than ever.

The retiring President, Dr. Robinson, at the opening meeting,

congratulated himself on being able to surrender his dominion to his

successor in a more prosperous condition than he had received it, and

spoke in glowing terms of the character and scientific achievements of

that successor, of whose labors he gave a brief but glowing history. Sir

David Brewster, who was one of the founders of the Association, is a

native of Jedburgh, in Roxburgshire; where he was born December 11, 1781.

He was educated for the Church of Scotland, of which he became a

licentiate; and in 1800 he received the honorary degree of M. A. from the

University of Edinburgh. While studying here he enjoyed the friendship

of Robison, who then filled the Chair of Natural Philosophy; Playfair, of

Mathematics; and Dugald Stewart that of Moral Philosophy. In 1808, he

undertook the editorship of the "Edinburgh Encyclopaedia," which was only

finished in 1830. In 1807 he received the honorary degree of LL. D. from

the University of Aberdeen; and in 1808 was elected a Fellow of the Royal

Society of Edinburgh. Between 1801 and 1812 he devoted his attention

greatly to the study of Optics; and the results were published in a

"Treatise on New Philosophical Instruments," in 1813. In 1815 he received

the Copley Medal of the Royal Society for one of his discoveries in

optical science; and soon after was admitted a Fellow of that body. In

1816, the Institute of France adjudged to him half of the physical prize

of 3000 francs, awarded for two of the most important discoveries made in

Europe, in any branch of science, during the two preceding years; and in

1819, Dr. Brewster received from the Royal Society the Rumford gold and

silver medals, for his discoveries on the Polarization of Light. In 1816

he invented the Kaleidoscope, the patent-right of which was evaded, so

that the inventor gained little beyond fame, though the large sale of the

instrument must have produced considerable profit. In 1819, in

conjunction with Dr. Jameson, he established the "_Edinburgh

Philosophical Journal_"; and subsequently he commenced the "_Edinburgh

Journal of Science_," of which sixteen volumes appeared. In 1825, the

Institute of France elected him a Corresponding Member; and he has

received the same honor from the Royal Academies of Russia, Prussia,

Sweden, and Denmark. In 1831, he received the Decoration of the

Hanoverian Guelphic Order; and in the following year, the honor of

Knighthood from William the Fourth.

Sir David Brewster has edited and written various works, besides

contributing largely to the _Edinburgh Review_, the _Transactions of the

British Association_, and other scientific societies, and the _North

British Review_. Among his more popular works are "A Treatise on the

Kaleidoscope;" an original Treatise on Optics for the _Cabinet

Cyclopaedia;_ and Letters on Natural Magic and a Life of Sir Isaac Newton

for the "Family Library." The latter work has been translated into

German.

Sir David Brewster is likewise one of the editors of the _London and

Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine_.

The discoveries of Sir David Brewster range from the kaleidoscope to the

law of the angle of polarization, the physical laws of metallic

reflection, and the optical properties of crystals; and the venerable

philosopher is the author of an immense number of facts and practical

applications in every branch of optics.

* * * * *

The AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC ASSOCIATION assembled this year at New Haven, and

Was presided over by Alex. D. Bache, LL. D. of the Coast Survey. It was

attended by many of the most eminent men of science in this country,

among whom were President Woolsey, Professor Denison Olmsted, the elder

and the younger Silliman, E. C. Herrick, and E. Loomis, of Yale College;

Professors Louis Agassiz, E. N. Hosford and Benjamin Pierce of Harvard

University; Lieutenant Charles H. Davis, U. S. N.; Professor O. M.

Mitchell, Superintendent of the Cincinnati Observatory; Dr. A. L. Elwyn

of Philadelphia; Professor Walter R. Johnson of Washington; Professor

Joseph Henry, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution; William C.

Redfield of New York; and an unusual number of amateur scholars from

various parts of the Union. There were several papers of remarkable

value, among which that of Mr. Squier, our Charge d'Affaires for Central

America, was perhaps at this period of the most general interest. Others

were puerile, and as unfit in subject as in ability for presentation in

such an assembly. It is to be regretted that the Association does not

adopt the only protection against such discreditable annoyances, by

insisting upon the submission of everything offered for its consideration

to a competent private committee.

* * * * *

A GREAT NATIONAL SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING, is said to have

been discussed recently at the meetings of inferior societies, and we

have read a circular upon the subject, which contemplates a convention of

scholars and men of letters, at Washington, some time in the coming

winter. The American Philosophical Society, founded by Franklin, and made

respectable by the labors of many eminent men, is no longer in authority,

and its proceedings command little attention. The various societies for

the cultivation of the natural sciences, in Philadelphia, Boston, and

New York, are undoubtedly accomplishing much good, but the spheres and

degrees of their influence would be greatly enlarged under a central

organization. In such a design, the initiative should be taken by men of

nerve as well as men of abilities, so that the dead weights of mediocrity

so constantly obtruding into and making ridiculous the present societies,

should be altogether excluded.

Hitherto, in this city, the most reputable and dignified association

connected with the advancement of learning, has been the Ethnological

Society. It is to be feared that with the death of Mr. Gallatin, its

president, and the dispersion of so many of its active members in the

diplomatic service, its action hereafter will deserve less consideration

than has thus far been awarded to it.

LAMARTINE'S APOLOGY FOR HIS CONFIDENCES.

Lamartine has just commenced the publication of a second part of his

Confidences, in the feuilleton of _La Presse_, and precedes it by the

following letter to the editor of that paper, which we translate for _The

International_ from _La Presse_ of July 30. It relates to the way in

which he came to publish the work, and gives a deeply interesting account

of the pecuniary embarrassments under which he had for some time been

laboring, and then eloquently defends the publication of what is real,

and glowing in private life and experience.

_To M. de Girardin:_

In addressing to you, my dear Girardin, this third volume of private

notes, to which the public have given the name of _Confidences_, I cannot

repress an emotion of pain. What I foresaw but too well has happened. I

have opened my life, and it has evaporated. This journal of my

impressions has found grace, indulgence, interest even, with some

readers, if I may judge from the anonymous friends who have written me.

But the unsparing critics, men who mingle even our tears with their ink,

in order to give more bitterness to their sarcasms, have not pardoned

those outbursts of a soul of twenty. They have believed, or have

pretended to believe, that I was seeking a miserable celebrity in the

ashes of my own heart: they have said, that by an anticipation of vanity,

I desired to gather and enjoy in advance, while yet living, the sad

Flowers which might one day grow after me upon my tomb. They have cried

out at the profanation of the inner feeling; at the effrontery of a soul

shown naked; at the scandal of recollections made public; at the venality

of sacred things; at the _simony_ of the poet selling his own fibers to

save the roof and the tree that overshadowed his cradle. I have read and

heard in silence all their malign interpretations of an act, the true

nature of which had been revealed to you long before it was to the

public. I have answered nothing. What could I say? The appearances were

against me. You alone knew that these notes had long existed, shut up in

my casket of rosewood, along with the ten volumes of the notes of my

mother; that they were intended never to be taken thence; that I rejected

the first suggestion of publishing them, with all possible warmth of

resolution; that I refused the ransom of a king for those leaves of no

real value; and that finally, one day--a day for which I reproach

myself-constrained fatally to choose between the necessity of selling my

poor _Charmettes_--_Charmettes_, as dear and more holy than the

_Charmettes_ of the _Confessions_--and the necessity of publishing these

pages, I preferred myself to suffer rather than cause suffering to good

old servants, by selling their roofs and their vines to strangers. With

one hand I received the price of the _Confidences_, and with the other I

gave it to others in order to purchase time.

Behold here all the crime that I am expiating.

And let the critics rejoice till their vengeance is satiated. This

sacrifice was in vain. It is in vain that I have cast upon the wind these

leaves, torn from the book of my most pious memories. The time that their

price procured has not proved sufficient to conduct me to the threshold

of that abode where we cease to regret anything. My _Charmettes_ have

been sold. Let them be content. I have had the shame of publishing these

_Confidences_, but not the joy of having saved my garden. Steps of

strangers will efface there the steps of my father and mother. God is

God, and sometimes he commands the wind to uproot the oak of a hundred

years, and man to uproot his own heart. The oak and the heart are his, we

must yield them to him, and yield him therewith justice, glory, and

benedictions!

And now that my acceptance of these critics is complete, and that I

confess myself guilty, and still more, afflicted--am I as guilty as they

say, and is there no excuse, which, in the eyes of indulgent and

impartial readers, can extenuate my crime?

In order to judge as to this, I have but one question to ask you, and the

public, which deigns with distracted finger to turn these pages. My

question is this:

Is it to myself, or to others, that the published pages of these

_Confidences_ can have done injury in the view of those who have read

them? Is there a single man now living, is there a single memory of one

of the dead, on whom these recollections have cast an odious or even

unfavorable light, whether on his name, his family, his life, or his

grave? Have they brought sadness to the soul of our mother in the heaven

where she resides? Has the manly face of our father been lessened in the

respect of his descendants? Has _Graziella_, that precocious and withered

flower of my early manhood, received aught beyond a few tears of young

girls shed on a tomb at Portici? Has Julia, the worship of my young

enthusiasm, lost in the imagination of those who know the name, that

purity which she has preserved in my heart? And my masters, those pious

Jesuits, whose name I love not, but whose virtue I venerate; my friends,

dearest and first harvested, Virieu Vignet, the Abbe Dumont, could they

complain, returning here below, that I have disfigured their beautiful

natures, discolored their noble images, or soiled one place in their

lives? I appeal to all who have read. Would a single shade command me to

efface a single line? Many of whom I have spoken are still living, or

their sisters, or their sons, or their friends: have I humiliated them?

They would have told me.

No! I have embalmed only pure recollections. My shroud was poor, but it

was spotless. The modest name I have wrapped there for myself will

neither be adorned nor dishonored by it. No tenderness will reproach me;

no family will accuse me of profanation in naming it. A remembrance is an

inviolable thing because it is voiceless, and must be approached with

piety. I could never console myself if I had allowed to fall from this

life into that other life, whence no one can answer, one word which could

wound those absent immortals whom we call the dead. I desire that not a

single word, thoughtfully uttered, should remain after me against one of

the men who will one day be my survivors. Posterity is not the sewer of

our passions--it is the urn of our memories, and should preserve nothing

but perfumes.

These _Confidences_ have then done injury or caused pain to no one, among

the living or among the dead. I mistake, they have done injury to me, but

to me alone. I have depicted myself such as I was: one of those natures,

alas! so common among the children of women, wrought not of one clay

only, not of that purified and exceptional substance which forms heroes,

saints, and sages, but moulded of every earth which enters into the

formation of the weak and passionate man; of lofty aspirations, and

narrow wings; of great desires, and short hands to reach whither they are

extended; sublime in ideal, vulgar in reality; with fire in the heart,

illusion in the mind, and tears in the eyes; human statues, which attest

by the diversity of the elements that compose them, the mysterious

failings of our poor nature; in which, as in the metal of Corinth, we

find after the fire the traces of all the melted metals which were

mingled and confounded in it, a little gold and much lead. But, I repeat,

whom have I injured but myself?

But they say, these unvailed exposures of sentiments and of life offend

that virginal modesty of soul, of which outward modesty is but an

imperfect emblem? You show ourself unvailed, and you do not blush! Who

then are you?

Alas! I am what you see, a poor writer; a writer, that is to say, a

thinker, in public. I am, less their genius and virtue, what were St.

Augustine, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Chateaubriand, Montaigne, all those men

Who have silently interrogated their souls and replied aloud, so that

their dialogue with themselves might also be a useful conversation with

the century in which they lived, or with the future. The human heart is

an instrument which has neither the same number nor quality of chords in

every bosom, and on which new notes may eternally be discovered and added

to the infinite scale of sentiments and melodies in the universe. This is

our part, poets and writers in spite of ourselves, rhapsodists of the

endless poem that nature chants to men and God! Why accuse me, if you

excuse yourselves? Are we not of the same family of the _Homeridae_, who

from door to door recount histories, of which they are by turns the

historians and the heroes? Is it, then, in the nature of thought to

become a crime in becoming public? A thought, vulgar, critical,

skeptical, dogmatic, may, according to you, be unvailed innocently:

a sentiment, commonplace, cold, not intimate, awaking no palpitation

within you, no response in others, may be revealed without violation of

modesty; but a thought that is pious, ardent, lighted at the fire of the

heart or of heaven, a sentiment burning, cast forth by an explosion of

the volcano of the soul; a cry of the inmost nature, awaking by its

accent of truth young and sympathetic voices in the present age or the

future: and above all, a tear! a tear not painted like those which flow

upon your shrouds of parade, a tear of water and salt, falling from the

eyes, instead of a drop of ink, falling from the pen! This is crime! this

is shame! this is immodesty, for you! That is to say, that whatever is

cold and artificial is innocent in the artist, but what is warm and

natural is unpardonable in the man. That is to say, modesty in a writer

consists in exposing what is false, immodesty in setting forth what is

true. If you have talent, show it, but not your soul, carrying mine away!

Oh, shame! What logic!

But after all, you are right at bottom, only you do not know how to

express it. It is perfectly true that there are mysteries, nudities,

parts of the soul not shameful but sensitive, depths, personalities, last

foldings of thought and feeling, which would cost horribly to uncover,

and which an honorable and natural scruple would never permit us to lay

bare, without the remorse of violated modesty. There is, I agree with

you, such a thing as indiscretion of heart. I felt this cruelly myself,

the first time when, having written certain poetic dreams of my soul

certain too real utterances of my sentiments, I read them to my most

intimate friends. My face was covered with blushes, and I could not

finish. I said to them: "No, I cannot go farther; you shall read it."

"And how is it," answered my friends, "that you cannot read to us what

you are about to give to all Europe to read?" "No," I said, "I cannot

tell why, but I feel no shame in letting the public read it, though I

experience an invincible repugnance to reading it myself, face to face to

only two or three of my friends."

They did not understand me--I did not understand myself. We together

exclaimed at the inconsistency of the human heart. Since then I have felt

the same instinctive repugnance at reading to a single person what cost

me not a single effort of violated modesty to give to the public: and

after having long reflected on it, I find that this apparent

inconsistency is at bottom only the perfect logic of our nature.

And why is this? The reason is, that a friend is somebody and the public

nobody; a friend has a face, the public has not; a friend is a being,

present, hearing, looking, a real being--the public is an invisible

being, a being of the reason, an abstraction; a friend has a name, and

the public is anonymous; a friend is a confidant, and the public is a

fiction. I blush before the one, because he is a man; I do not blush

before the other, because it is an idea. When I write or speak before the

public, I feel myself as free, as exempt from the susceptibilities of one

man to another, as if I were speaking or writing before God and in the

desert; the crowd is a solitude; you see it, you know that it exists, but

you know it only as a mass. As an individual it does not exist. Now this

modesty of which you speak, being the respect of one's self before some

other person, when there is no person distinct on account of the

multitude, becomes without a motive. Psyche blushed under a lamp because

the hand of a single god passed over her, but when the sun gazed at her

with his thousand rays from the height of Olympus, that personification

of the modest soul did not blush before the whole heaven. Here is the

exact image of the modesty of a writer before a single auditor, and of

the freedom of his utterance before all the world. Do you accuse me of

violating mysteries before you? You have not the right: I do not know

you, I have confided nothing to you personally. You are guilty of

impropriety in reading what is not addressed to you. You are _somebody_,

you are not the public. What do you want with me? I have not spoken to

you: you have nothing to say to me, and I nothing to reply.

So thought St. Augustine, Plato, Socrates, Cicero, Cæsar, Bernardin de

St. Pierre, Montaigne, Alfieri, Chateaubriand, and all other men who have

confided to the world the genuine palpitations of their own hearts. True

gladiators they are in the human Colosseum, not playing miserable

comedies of sentiment and style to distract an academy, but struggling

and dying in earnest on the stage of the world, and writing on the sand,

with the blood of their own veins, the heroism, the failings, or the

agonies of the human heart.

Having said this, I resume these notes where I left them, blushing for

one thing only before these critics, that is, for not having either the

soul of St. Augustine or the genius of Jean Jacques Rousseau, in order to

merit, by indiscretions as sacred and touching, the pardon of tender

hearts and the condemnation of narrow minds, that take every movement of

the soul for an obscenity, and hide their faces whenever they are shown a

heart.

* * * * *

BALZAC.

We have news from Paris of the death of Honore De Balzac, one of the most

eminent French writers of the nineteenth century. "Eighteen months ago,"

says a Paris letter, "already attacked by dropsy, he quitted France to

contract a marriage with a Russian lady, to whom he was devotedly

attached. To her he had dedicated 'Seraphitus,' and he had accumulated in

his hotel of the Beaujoin quarters all the luxuries which could

contribute to her pleasure. He returned to France three months ago, in a

state of extreme danger. Last week he underwent an operation for abscess

in his legs: mortification ensued. On the morning of the 18th he became

speechless, and at midnight he expired. His sister, Madame de Surville,

visited his deathbed, and the pressure of her hand was the last sign he

gave of intelligence." We must defer for another occasion what we have

to say of the great novelist-the idol of women, even at seventy-the

Voltaire of our age, as he was accustomed to style himself in

private--the historian of society--French society--as it is. The author

of _Le Peau de Chagrin, Le Physiologie du Marriage, Le Dernier Chauan,

Eugene Grandet_, and the _Scenes de la Vie Parisienne_, and _Scenes de la

Vie de Province_, was one of the marks of the era, and being dead, we

will speculate upon him. At present we can only translate for the

_International_ the following funeral oration by Victor Hugo, pronounced

at his grave:

"GENTLEMEN--The man who has just descended into this tomb is one of those

whom the public sorrow follows to the last abode. In the times where we

are all fictions have disappeared. Henceforth our eyes are fixed not on

the heads that reign but on the heads that think, and the whole country

is affected when one of them disappears. At this day, the people put on

mourning for the man of talent, the nation for the man of genius.

"Gentlemen, the name of Balzac will be mingled in the luminous trace that

our epoch will leave in the future.

"M. de Balzac belonged to that potent generation of writers of the

nineteenth century who came after Napoleon, just as the illustrious

pleiades of the seventeenth century came after Richelieu, and in the

development of civilization a law caused the domination of thought to

succeed the domination of the sword.

"M. de Balzac was one of the first among the greatest, one of the highest

among the best. This is not the place to say all or that splendid and

sovereign intelligence. All his books form only one hook, living,

luminous, profound, in which we see moving all our contemporaneous

civilization, mingled with I know not what of strange and terrible; a

marvelous book, that the poet has entitled comedy, and which he might

have called history; which assumes all forms and all styles: which goes

beyond Tacitus and reaches Suetonius, which crosses Beaumarchais and

reaches Rabelais; a book which is observation itself, and imagination

itself; which is prodigal of the true, the passionate, the common, the

trivial, the material, and which at moments throws athwart realities,

suddenly and broadly torn open, the gleam of the most somber and tragic

ideal.

"Without knowing it, whether he will or not, whether he consents or not,

the author of this strange and immense work is of the mighty race of

revolutionary writers. Balzac goes directly to his object. He assails

modern society face to face. From all he forces something: from some

illusions, from others hope, from these a cry of pain, from those a mask.

He unvails vice and dissects passion. He penetrates and sounds the heart,

the soul, the sentiments, the brain, the abyss that each man has within

him. And by a gift of his free and vigorous nature, by a privilege of the

intelligences of our times,--who, having seen revolutions nearly and with

their own eyes, perceive better the end of humanity and comprehend better

the course of Providence,--Balzac came forth serene and smiling from

those redoubtable studies which produced melancholy in Moliere and

misanthropy in Rousseau.

"This is what he has accomplished among us. Such is the work he has left

us, lofty and solid, a pile of granite, a monumental edifice, from whose

summit his renown will henceforth shine. Great men make their own

pedestals: the future charges itself with their statues.

"His death has struck Paris with stupor. But a few months since he

returned to France. Feeling that he was about to die, he desired to see

his country, like one who on the eve of a long voyage comes to embrace

his mother.

"His life was brief, but crowded; fuller of labors than of days.

"Alas, the powerful and indefatigable laborer, the philosopher, the

thinker, the poet, the man of genius, lived among us the life of storms,

of struggles, of quarrels, of combats, common in all times to all great

men. Today, behold him here at peace. He leaves collisions and

hostilities. The same day he enters on glory and the tomb. Henceforth

he will shine above all the clouds over our heads, among the stars of our

country.

"And you all who are here, are you not tempted to envy him?

"Gentlemen, whatever be our sorrow in the presence of such a loss, let us

resign ourselves to these catastrophes. Let us accept them in their

poignancy and severity. It is good perhaps, and necessary, in an epoch

like ours, that from time to time a great death should communicate a

religious book to minds devoured by doubt and skepticism. Providence

knows what it does when it thus puts a whole people face to face with the

supreme mystery, and gives it Death to meditate upon, which is at once

the great equality and the great liberty.

"Providence knows what it does, for here is the highest of instructions.

There can be in all hearts only austere and serious thoughts when a

sublime spirit majestically makes its entrance upon the other life; when

one of those beings whom the visible wings of genius have long sustained

above the crowd, suddenly puts forth those other wings that we cannot

see, and disappears in the unknown!

"No, it is not the unknown! No, I have already said it on another mournful

occasion, and I shall not weary in repeating it, it is not darkness, it

is light! It is not the end, it is the beginning! It is not nothing, it

is eternity! Is not this true, I ask all that hear me? Such graves as

this are proofs of immortality. In the presence of the illustrious dead

we feel more distinctly the divine destinies of this intelligence called

man, which traverses the earth to suffer and to be purified; and we know

that those who have shone with genius during life, must be living souls

after death."

* * * * *

DR. GUTZLAFF, THE MISSIONARY.

CHARLES GUTZLAFF the famous missionary in China is described in the

_Grenzboten_ by a writer who lately heard him preach at Vienna, as a

short, stout man, with a deep red face, a large mouth, sleepy eyes,

pointed inward and downward like those of a China man, vehement

gesticulations, and a voice more loud than melodious. He has acquired

in his features and expression something like the expression of the

people among whom he lives. His whole manners also, as well as his

face, indicate the genuine son of Jao and Chun, so that the Chinese when

they encounter him in the street salute him as their countryman. We

translate for _The International_ the following sketch of his life and

labors:

Charles Gutzlaff was born in 1803, at Pyritz, a village of Pomerania. His

zeal as an apostle was first manifested some fifteen years ago. He

married an English woman, who was animated with the same aspiration as

himself and who accompanied him on his voyages as a missionary. His

extensive acquaintance with the Chinese and kindred languages even then

made deep impression on Robert Morrison, the founder of the Evangelical

Mission in China, whom he joined in 1831 at Macao, and caused his

Acquaintance to be much sought by the merchants. In 1832 and 1833 he was

employed as an interpreter on board ships engaged in smuggling opium, but

turned this occupation, which in itself was not of a very saintly

character, to his religious ends, by the dissemination of tracts and

Bibles. A missionary journey to Japan which he undertook in 1837 was

without any result. After Morrison's death Gutzlaff was appointed

Chinese Secretary to the British Consulate at Canton, and in 1840 founded

a Christian Union of Chinese for the propagation of the Gospel among

their countrymen. His present journey through Europe has a similar

purpose, the foundation of Missionary Societies for the spread of

Christianity in China.

His literary labors have had an almost incredible extent and variety. He

Himself gives the following enumeration of his writings: "In Dutch I have

written: a History of our Mission and of distinguished Missionaries, and

an appeal for support of the Missionary Work; in German: Sketches of the

Minor Prophets; in Latin: The Life of our Savior; in English: Sketches of

Chinese History; China Opened; Life of Kanghe, together with a great

number of articles on the Religion, History, Philosophy, Literature and

Laws of the Chinese; in Siamese: a Translation of the New Testament, with

the Psalms, and an English-Siamese Dictionary, English-Cambodian

Dictionary and English-Laos Dictionary. These works I left to my

successors to finish, but with the exception of the Siamese Dictionary

they have added nothing to them. In Cochin-Chinese: a Complete Dictionary

Cochin-Chinese-English and English-Cochin-Chinese; this work is not yet

printed. In Chinese: Forty Tracts, along with three editions of the Life

of our Savior; a Translation of the New Testament, the third edition of

which I have carried through the press. Of the Translations of the Old

Testament the Prophets and the two first books of Moses are completed. In

this language I have also written The Chinese Scientific Monthly Review,

a History of England, a History of the Jews, a Universal History and

Geography, on Commerce, a short Account of the British Empire and its

Inhabitants, as well as a number of smaller articles. In Japanese: a

Translation of the New Testament, and of the first book of Moses, two

tracts, and several scientific pamphlets. The only paper to which I now

send communications is the Hong Kong Gazette, the whole Chinese

department of which I have undertaken. Till the year 1842 I wrote for

the Chinese Archives."

The writer in the _Grenzboten_ goes on to say that "so vast a surface as

these writings cover, requires a surprising facility of mind and an

indefatigable perseverance. When you see the man engaged in his

missionary toils you understand the whole at once. He arrives in a city

and hastens to the church which is prepared for his reception. After

preaching for an hour with the greatest energy he takes up his

collection and is gone. He speaks with such rapidity that it is hardly

possible to follow him. Such rapidity is not favorable to excellence

in the work. Of all his writings, only one work is known to me, that

published in Munich, in 1847, under the title of 'Gutzlaffs History of

the Chinese Empire from the earnest times to the Peace of Nankin'. In our

imperfect acquaintance with Chinese history this compendium is not

without value, but it displays no critical power, and is a mere external

compilation and poorly written. From it we learn as good as nothing of

the peculiar customs and state of mental culture of the country. The

whole resembles a Christian History of the World written in the

eighteenth century, Beginning with Adam and Eve, and leaving the Greeks

and Romans out altogether because they were without a divine revelation."

Mr. Gutzlaff's family were recently for several months in the United

States, and the proceedings of the great missionary--second in eminence

only to our own Judson--have always been regarded with much interest by

the American churches.

AUTHORS AND BOOKS

The Asiatic Society at Paris has just held its twenty-eighth yearly

session. According to the report of its Secretary and Financial

Committee, this society has suffered little from the disastrous times

which have fallen on literature generally. In 1848, being uncertain as to

the future, it stopped receiving subscriptions to works with a view to

their publication, and arrested the printing of those which were already

commenced, with the single exception of the Asiatic Journal, which the

members determined not to alter in any case. The series of this journal

is of great value, containing already fifty-five volumes, to which two

new ones are added every year. For many years it has contained only

original articles, though formerly it admitted translations from other

European languages. Of course, in so voluminous a periodical work, the

contents vary in character, but the whole is of the greatest importance

to History, Belles Lettres, and Philology, and should not be wanting in

any public library. The society has now resumed the suspended

publications, beginning with the "Chronicles of Cashmir", by the Austrian

Orientalist Captain Troyer, two volumes of which were issued some time

since. Troyer is a remarkable man. As an Austrian artillery and staff

officer he served in all the wars, from the breaking out of the French

Revolution to the Peace of Paris. While in Italy, he passed some time at

the head-quarters of Lord William Bentinck, as an Austrian Commissioner,

and so gained his esteem and confidence that he was invited to go with

Lord William to Madras as his military secretary. When Lord William

resigned the government of Madras, Troyer remained for some time as

Director of the East India Company's School for Artillery and Engineers,

till finally he resigned and came to Paris. In 1829, Lord William went

again to India as Governor-General, and persuaded Troyer to go with him.

While in India at this time, among other offices Troyer filled that of

Secretary of the Hindoo College. In 1834, when Bentinck again left India,

Troyer once more resigned his functions, and has since been in Paris,

devoting an active and honorable old age to constant labors upon Persian

and Indian literature.

* * * * *

The FRENCH ACADEMY held its annual public session on the 8th of August,

in the presence of a large audience, including almost all the literary

celebrities of the metropolis, both masculine and feminine. The prizes of

victory were given to Napoleon Hurney, who had saved the lives of

fourteen persons, and to Marguerite Briand, for having supported and

taken care for forty-five years of her mistress, who had fallen from

wealth into the extremest poverty. M. de Salvandy, who bestowed these

prizes, delivered the usual eulogy on virtue in general, winding up with

praise of Louis Philippe and his reign, a thing more creditable perhaps

to the fidelity and consistency of the speaker, who has never renounced

his allegiance to the Orleans family, than proper to the occasion.

The literary prizes were distributed by M. Villemain. The grand prize of

ten thousand francs for the best work on the history of France, was given

to Augustin Thierry. Emile Angier received a prize of seven thousand

francs for his comedy of "Gabrielle," and M. Antran one of three thousand

for his "Daughter of Æsehylus." Three ladies got prizes worth two

thousand francs each for works of a popular nature on moral subjects; M.

A. Garnier got one of one thousand for his _Morale Sociale_; M. Martin

the same for his _Philosophie Spiritualiste de la Nature_, and M. Kastus

the same for his _Psycologie d'Aristote_. The crown for the best

specimen of eloquence was awarded to M. Baudrillast for his Eulogy on

Madame de Stael, in which the literary history and character of the

subject were served up in the most florid style. The same writer once

before won the same prize by a eulogy on Turgot. His productions are more

elaborate and showy than substantial and permanent in their character.

It must be said that this Academy is rather a respectable and slow-moving

institutution. The most illustrious names of France are not always

included in the list of its members. Neither Beranger nor Lamenais belong

to it. A writer in the Paris _National_ says that after three hours at

its meeting everybody he met in the street seemed to belong to the time

of Louis XI.

* * * * *

EDWARD EVERETT has been many years engaged in the collection and

arrangement of materials for a systematic Treatise on the Modern Law of

Nations; more especially in reference to those questions which nave been

discussed between the governments of the United States and Europe since

the Peace of 1783. This will be Mr. Everett's "life poem." Hitherto he

has written nothing very long except the "Defense of the Christian

Religion," published when he was about twenty-one years of age. We have

just received from Little & Brown their edition of the "Orations and

Speeches" of Mr. Everett, in two very large and richly-printed volumes,

which we shall hereafter notice more largely. These are to be followed,

at the author's leisure, by his Political Reports and Speeches and

Official Papers, in two large volumes, and his contributions to the

_North American Review_, which, if all included, we think will make four

others: so that his works, beside the new treatise above mentioned, will

be completed in not less than eight volumes. We are gratified at the

prospect of such a collection of these masterpieces of rhetoric, so full

of learning and wisdom, and infused by so genial a spirit. We wish some

publisher would give us in the same style all the writings of Alexander

Everett.

CHARLES MACKAY has lately published in London, a work upon which he had

long been engaged, under the title of "Progress of the Intellect." We

suspect, from the reviewals of it which appear in the journals, that it

is of the German free thinking class of philosophical histories. It

embraces dissertations on Intellectual Religion, Ancient Cosmogony, the

Metaphysical Idea of God, the Moral Notion of God, the Theory of

Mediation, Hebrew Theory of Retribution and Immortality, the Messianic

Theory prevailing in the days of Jesus, Christian Forms and Reforms, and

Speculative Christianity. And these dissertations are written with an

eloquence and power unexampled in a work of so much learning.

* * * * *

M. AND MAD. DE LAMARTINE having returned from the East, are at present

Staying at the Villa du Prado, a branch of the Hotel des Empereurs, a

pleasant house on the banks of the Huveaune, in the midst of the most

beautiful landscape. It was in a country box, upon the Avenue du Prado,

that Lamartine wrote, in 1847, his "Histoire des Girondins." Lamartine is

pleased with his Smyrna estate; he was received there by his vassals _en

grand seigneur_, but he found that he would be obliged to expend a good

deal of money before the estate would be profitable.

* * * * *

THEODORE PARKER'S "Massachusetts Quarterly Review," is dead, and--God be

Praised that New England refused to support it any longer. Mr. Parker

says in the farewell to his readers, that the work "has never become what

its projector designed that it should be;" and expresses a hope that

"some new journal will presently be started, in a more popular form,

which will promote the great ideas of our times, by giving them an

expression in literature, and so help them to a permanent organization in

the life of mankind."

* * * * *

CAPT. SIR EDWARD BELCHER, R.N., known in the literary and scientific

world by his extensive voyages of survey and discovery, is now on a visit

to New York, whence he will shortly proceed to Texas. Sir Edward Belcher

is a gentleman of remarkable energy of character, and of eminent

abilities.

* * * * *

A LETTER from M. Guizot, assigning the motives of his refusal to appear

as a candidate of the Institute for a seat in the Superior Council of

Public Instruction, is published by the _Espérance_ of Nancy. The

Principles avowed by M. Guizot lead directly to a separation of Church

and State.

* * * * *

JOHN G. SAXE will soon publish a new poem which he delivered recently at

the commencement of Middlebury College, with the applause which crowns

all his efforts in this way.

* * * * *

A RE-ISSUE of the Complete Works of Eliza Cook will be shortly commenced

in her Journal, and continued weekly until completed.

* * * * *

THE INSTITUTE OF GOETHE has just been founded by the government of Saxe

Weimar. It consists simply of a prize of twenty thousand francs offered

to the competition of the literary and artistic world. The first year it

will be given to the best among the poems, romances, and dramatic works

submitted; the second year to the best picture; the third year to the

best piece of statuary; the fourth year to the best piece of music,

whether sacred or profane, opera or oratorio. This circle having been

completed, the prize will next be given as at the first year; and so on

in regular succession. The successful competitor is to remain proprietor

of his work, as are all the others. The prize will he allotted by two

committees, one at Weimar the other at Berlin. The establishment of the

fund was celebrated at Weimar on the 23d of August.

* * * * *

GIFFORD, some five-and-twenty years ago, declared that all the fools of

the country had taken to write plays; and it would appear that all the

dull Englishmen of our day have taken to write pamphlets on the

slave-trade. The London _Times_ is very severe upon a book just issued by

Mr. W. Gore Ouseley, who was several years British Charge d'Affaires at

Rio, as such conducted a voluminous correspondence on the subject with

the government of Brazil, and might have been expected to have there

learned something on the slave-trade worth telling. According to his

reviewer he appears, however, to be one of that class of persons

described by Sterne, who, traveling from Dan to Beersheba, found all to

be barren; and no amount of observation can in any human being supply

defective reasoning faculties. So, says the _Times_, he has little or

nothing to say about the Brazilian slave-trade that has not been better

said a thousand times before; and when he does venture on a special

statement of his own, it topples down the whole superstructure of his

argument.

A work of rather more interest is "Seven Years' Service on the Slave

Coast of Africa", by Sir Henry Huntley, who, when a lieutenant in the navy

in 1831, was ordered to the scene of his observations. Shortly after his

arrival, he was appointed to the independent command of a small vessel,

in which he visited stations, looked out for slavers, chased them when he

saw them, and captured them when he could. A few years subsequently he

was nominated Governor of the settlements on the Gambia. His two volumes

contain his adventures during the whole or nearly the whole of his seven

years' service upon the station; the last closing abruptly in the middle

of preparations for a congress of black kings. The public is already

familiar with many of the topics, from the occasional narratives of

voyages and adventures along the coast. Visits to the commandants of the

so-called castles; a description of the European and native mode of life

at the settlements; accounts of the slave-stations, the slave-dealers,

the slaves, and the slave-trade, together with sketches of more

legitimate commerce, and occasional trips to the islands lying off the

coast, for change of air and fresh supplies, are frequent features. Sir

Henry Huntley's duties sometimes brought him in contact with native

chiefs, and continually with slavers, in the search, the capture, and the

pursuit. During the latter part of his career, the office of Governor

gave great variety and largeness to his subjects; consisting of public

business, palavers with native potentates, and matters connected with

home policy. In point of literary character this work very nearly

resembles the author's "Peregrine Scramble." Indeed, the "Seven Years'

Service" is a sort of continuation of that book, without the form of

fiction.

* * * * *

M. JULES LECHEVALIER, known in this country chiefly as one of the foreign

Correspondents of _The Tribune_, but in Europe as an able writer on the

Social Sciences, has recently delivered in Paris and Berlin, and in

London, (where he is residing as a political exile,) a series of

lectures, which will soon be given to the world in a volume, upon the

subject of his favorite studies. M. Lechevalier's system, which he

denominates "New Political Economy," is based upon the principle of

association, in opposition to that of competition and _laissez-faire_,

which constitute the groundwork of the school of the present political

economists. In the course of his series he pointed out the gradual

tendency of the competitive principle to produce extremes of riches and

poverty, and ultimately revolutions, and maintained, that by the adoption

of the associative principle alone, society can be preserved from

confusion and destruction. He contends that the new political economy,

or _Socialism_, is essentially Conservative, while the present system of

unlimited competition, or buying cheap and selling dear, is destructive,

M. Lechevalier pretends to base his system on the moral principles of

Christ, and maintains that Christianity cannot be practically carried out

in any other way. His lectures abound in examples of the working of the

two opposing systems.

* * * * *

The Doctrinal Tract and Book Society, Boston, are going forward in the

work of re-publishing the old standard works of the New-England theology.

They have issued a fine edition of Bellamy and have procured an edition

of Edwards the younger. They are now about commencing the stereotyping of

Catlin's Compendium, and the whole works of Dr. Hopkins. We wish they

would go back a century further, and give us the best works of Mather and

his contemporaries.

* * * * *

There is a political novel by OTTO MULLER, of Manheim, announced, under

the title _Georg Volker: ein Vreiheits Roman_, which is said to give a

faithful picture of the Baden revolution, and to open with the rise of

the peasantry in the _Ottenwald_.

* * * * *

THE DUC DE LA ROUCHEFOUCAULD's celebrated "Moral Reflections, Sentences,

and Maxims," have just appeared in a new and very much improved

translation, and with notes, pointing out similarities of sentiments in

ancient and modern authors, and sometimes proving that Rochefoucauld's

good things have been made use of without sufficient acknowledgment, by

moderns. There is also an introduction, which dissertates well on the

purpose and quality of the reflections. Such books were once very

popular; but in this country they have not been much read. We have indeed

had numerous editions of "Lacon," and Dr. Bettner's "Acton" has found a

thousand purchasers; but the Rev. Dr. Hooker's "Maxims," which, in our

opinion, are as good as anything of their kind in the English language,

we believe have not attracted attention, and Mr. Simms's "Egeria" has

been printed only in the columns of a newspaper.

* * * * *

A new theory has just been propounded at Paris in a book called

"Armanase," (a Sanscrit word, meaning the "Reign of Capacity"). The author

asserts the present forms of administrative government are injurious

instead of useful to society, and ought to be replaced by institutions of

a new and different order. His principle is, that the sovereignty of the

individual ought to be instituted for that of governments, and that great

associations of mutual assurance may be advantageously substituted for

the existing system of management by office-holders. The author shows

also that the progress of the natural and mechanical sciences will

deliver man from the pressure of the more painful sorts of labor; and

that wealth, freed from the barriers which now hinder its circulation,

would be distributed freely throughout society. Intellectual property

would be seriously guaranteed, and would enrich the men of genius, whose

inventions and discoveries are now profitable, not to the authors, but to

the capitalists who take advantage of them. By this means an important

element of revolutions will be removed. The author proposes, that in

order to prevent all suffering, a civil list shall be set apart for the

people, who will be the king. This civil list is to be composed of a tax

of one per cent., levied on all who have property in favor of those who

have nothing. But, says he, let no one imagine that all would be

dissolution and ruin in this system, without law or government. Crimes

and offenses will be tried by juries, that is to say, by a living code.

Property will no longer be seizable for debt, and the courts will become

useless. Everybody shall have the absolute right to buy land by paying

its possessor ten per cent, on its value: this is to give a chance for

carrying on all sorts of grand public enterprises without trouble from

the proprietors of little pieces of land. It may perhaps be doubted,

whether the "Reign of Capacity" has exhibited any astonishing endowments

in that respect.

* * * * *

THACKERAY, in _Pendennis_, has given offense, it appears, to some of the

gensd'armes of the Press, by his satirical sketches of the literary

profession. Those whose withers are unwrung will admit the truth of many

pages and laugh at the caricature in the rest. In the last number of the

_North British Review_ is a clever article upon the subject, written with

good temper and good sense. Hitherto publishers have been ridiculed and

declaimed against as "tyrants" and "tradesmen,"--made to bear the onus of

"poetical" improvidence, and to sustain the weight of a crime which no

author can pardon--the rejection of manuscripts. The _authors_ have

painted the portraits of publishers; but an ancient fable suggests that

if the _lion_ had painted a certain picture, it would not have been a

lion we should see biting the dust.

* * * * *

M. DE LUYNES is now engaged at Paris in publishing a work on the

antiquities of Cyprus. He has discovered a number of inscriptions

in ancient Cyprian writing, and is having them engraved on copper. The

writing is that which preceded the introduction of the Phoenician

character upon the island, and seems to have no affinity either with that

or with the Assyrian, which is discovered to have been once used there.

The work of M. de Luynes will open a new problem for the philologists. It

will be difficult to decipher the inscriptions and language, unless there

can be found somewhere an ancient Cyprian inscription, with a translation

in some known tongue; but in a time which has read the riddles of the

pyramids, nothing of this sort is to be despaired of. M. de Luynes is the

last of the great French nobles who makes a worthy use of his riches.

* * * * *

SIR ROBERT PEEL left full and specific directions in his will for the

early publication of his political memoirs; and ordered that the profits

arising from the publication shall be given to some public institution

for the education of the working-classes. He believed his manuscripts and

correspondence to be of great value, as showing the characters of the

great men of his age; and directed that his correspondence with the Queen

and Prince Albert shall not be published during their lives without their

express consent. He confided the task of preparing these memoirs to Lord

Mahon and Mr. Cardwell. Their duty will, however, be comparatively light,

though delicate, from the admirable and orderly state in which he left

his papers.

* * * * *

MR. JOHN P. BROWN, author of "The Turkish Nights Entertainments,"

recently published by Putnam, is now on a visit to this country as the

Secretary of the Commissioner of the Sublime Porte, Captain Ammin Bey.

* * * * *

EUGENE SUE'S new romance "The Mysteries of the People," has been

prohibited in Prussia.

* * * * *

M. BURNET DE PESLE has just published the first part of his _Examen

Critique de la Succession des Dynasties Egyptiennes_, a work to which

competent critics assign a high value. He follows the method of

Champollion, rejecting hypotheses and admitting only the testimony of the

historians and monuments. At the same time he treats his subject with

independence and originality, though he advances nothing for the sake of

novelty. The second part of the work will be devoted to the discussion of

the ancient inscriptions, dynasty by dynasty, and reign by reign.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON IRVING is claimed by the English as by both _birth_ and spirit

a British author. In the question of copyright lately before the Vice

Chancellor, the case rested in part upon a plea that Mr. Irving's father

was from the Orkneys and his mother from Falmouth, so that, though he was

born in New York, he was not an _alien_. Still, our "Diedrich

Knickerbocker" was _Colonel_ Irving once, and served in this capacity

against the king, and it will not he safe for him to establish the

position assumed by his publisher.

* * * * *

M. ARAGO, having completed his love-labor in honor of Condorcet, is again

abstracting from scientific pursuits a portion of his time, to prepare a

memoir upon the acts and doings of the Provisional Government of 1848 of

which he was a member. It is said to be a curious work which will

enlighten much that is yet dark in the history of that period, throwing

additional obloquy upon some members, and relieving others of a portion

of that which they have hitherto borne. M. Chemiega is also engaged upon

his own account in similar historical labors.

* * * * *

DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, on the 9th of September, delivered a poem,

described by a correspondent of the _Commercial Advertiser_ as one of his

finest compositions, before a large audience, assembled to dedicate a

rural cemetery at Pittsfield, Mass.

* * * * *

M. DUGANNE, some of whose songs and dramatic pieces have the ring of true

metal, has just completed a satire entitled "Parnassus in Pillory," and

with the motto, "Lend me your ears." We have seen some advance sheets of

it, which are full of wit and spirit.

* * * * *

SOUTH CAROLINA has always been prolific of epics. Those of Mr. Simmons,

Dr. Marks of Barhamville, and some others, have been tried, and-the

court of criticism has now before it from the same quarter "America

Discovered, in Twelve Books."

* * * * *

JOHN NEAL has given notice of his intention to write a history of

American Literature "in two large octavo volumes," and he invites authors

who are not afraid to show their books, to send them to him at Portland

without delay.

* * * * *

"GERMANIA, ITS COURTS, CAMPS AND PEOPLE," is the title of a brace of

volumes by "the _Baroness Blaize de Bury_." And who, pray, is the

Baroness Blaize de Bury? A writer in _The Leader_ answers after this

wise:

"Why, sir, she is somewhat of a myth, making her avatars in literature

with all the caprice and variety of Vishnou or Brougham; her maiden name

of Rose Stewart has not, that we can discover, been stained with

printer's ink, but we trace her as 'Arthur Dudley' in the _Revue des

Deux Mondes_ writing upon Bulwer and Dickens, we next find her as

'Maurice Flassan' in _Les Français Aeints par eux-mémes_. Rumor further

whispereth that she had a finger in 'Albert Lunel,' one of the

eccentricities of an eccentric law-lord, which was hurriedly suppressed,

one knows not why; in the _Edinburgh Review_ she wrote a paper on

Molière, and for Charles Knight's _Weekly Volume_ a pleasant little book

about Racine, on the title-page of which she is styled 'Madame Blaize

Bury;' since that time you observe she has blossomed into a Baroness _de_

Bury! Let us add that she is the wife of Henri Blaze, known as agreeable

critic and the translator of Faust, that she is said to be a great

favorite with the author of 'Albert Lunel,' and that she has the two

novels 'Mildred Vernon' and 'Leonie Vermont' placed to her account: how

many other shapes she may have assumed we know not; are these not enough?

Whether, after all, a flesh-and-blood Madame de Bury exists is more than

We can decide. _Une supposition!_ what if, after all, she should turn out

to be Lord Brougham himself? The restless energy of that Scottish

Phenomenon renders everything possible. _He_ does not agree with Pliny's

witty friend, that it is better to be idle than to do nothing--_satius

est otiosum esse quam nihil agere_."

* * * * *

REV. CHARLES ELLIOT, D.D. of Cincinnati, has published, through the

Methodist printing house of that city, an important work on Slavery, in

two duodecimo volumes. Dr. Ellliot has declined the acceptance of the

Biblical Professorship in McKendree College, on the ground that he is

busily engaged in preparing works for the press, including a thorough

investigation of the Biblical argument in defense of slavery.

* * * * *

A NEW edition of a Lexicon of the Dakota language (of an Indian tribe

near Lake Superior,) has just been completed by the missionaries. It

contains upward of fifteen thousand words. Near thirteen years or more of

labor have been expended upon it.

* * * * *

JUDGE SYDNEY BREESE, late U.S. Senator, at the commencement of Knox

College, delivered a discourse before the Literary Societies on the

Early History of Illinois. It is said to be part of a volume he is

preparing, and had reference to the first ninety years of Illinois

history.

* * * * *

MR. LAYARD, in excavating beneath the great pyramid at Nimroud, had

penetrated a mass of masonry, within which he had discovered the tomb and

statue of Sardanapalus, with full annals of that monarch's reign engraved

on the walls.

* * * * *

MR. H. H. WILSON, F.R.S., has published in London, a collection of

Ancient Hindu Hymns, constituting the First Ashtaka, or Book, of the

Rig-Veda, the oldest Authority for the religious and social institutions

of the Hindus. The translation of the _Rig-Veda-Sonhita_ is valuable for

the scholar who wishes to study the most ancient belief, opinions, and

modes of the Hindus, so far as they can be gathered from hymns addressed

to the deities. At the same time, their mystery or obscurity, increased

by remoteness of years, is perhaps so considerable, that it will require

peculiar learning to profit by the materials this most ancient and

important of the Vedas contains.

* * * * *

DR. SHELTON MACKENZIE, author of "Mornings at Matlock," has been

appointed, through the influence of Lord Brougham, to the office of

official assignee to the Court of Bankruptcy, in Manchester.

* * * * *

The Fine Arts.

THE FINE ARTS IN AMERICA are not in a state of remarkable perfection, if

we may credit a writer in the Augsburg _Allgemeine Zeitung_. This critic

is evidently honest and impartial, but not perfectly well informed. He

supposes that the majority of the artists as well as of the scholars in

the country are emigrants from Europe; and affirms that artists of great

talent, who have been esteemed and encouraged in Europe, have been

reduced to misery in America, and compelled to resort to common labor for

their living. Latterly, however, fashion has brought pictures into

market; and we may now hear, in more refined circles, here and there a

misapplied artistic term, which shows that art is somewhat thought

of. It is characteristic that an American will often bargain for pictures

by the square foot. The New York Art Union has done a good deal of good

in the culture of taste for art, and from the Philadelphia Art Union much

may also be expected. The daguerreotypes taken here may be compared with

the best of Voightländer of Vienna and Williams of Liverpool. The

talbotypes of this country are better than all others. Lithographing is

done mostly by French and Germans; wood-cutting and steel-engraving by

Englishmen and Americans. The products of the latter two resemble

perfectly those of the same arts in England. Dramatic and musical art

are in a feeble condition. The theaters in the great cities have been

visited by the writer, and nothing admirable found in them. They are all

private enterprises, and no great things are to be expected in that line

without the aid of a government. The theaters are built and furnished in

the most elegant and even luxurious style. The Italian Opera in New York

is supplied by European artists whose best days are over. The actors

never rise to any commendable excellence, and the pieces they perform are

well adapted to their talents. Hardly ever is anything classical produced

upon the stage.

The German drama in the United States is spoken of as being in a

condition of even more desperate degradation. The writer's remarks on

that subject will not specially interest our readers; but we trust that

what we have given above from his strictures will be edifying to all whom

it may concern.

* * * * *

FROM ROME we hear of an extensive undertaking about to be commenced in

the way of Catholic Art. The plan is this: Overbeck, whose designs from

Scripture history are familiar to all lovers of Art who have not

overlooked one of the most remarkable geniuses of the times, is now

employed upon fourteen compositions representing the fourteen Stations or

pauses of the Lord on his way to the cross. Part of them are already

done, and to judge from them the series will surpass all previous works

of this great master. These designs are to be multiplied to the greatest

extent and put within the means of churches, convents and even the

poorest classes of the people. They will appear of the size of the

original in colored lithography, which will probably be executed in

Germany. Engravings of half size on copper are to be executed by the

eminent engraver Bartoccini, who is familiar with Overbeck's manner, and

who has worked under him in Germany. Indeed Bartoccini is already best

known from the engravings of Overbeck's designs to the New Testament, the

best of which were from his burin. In addition there are to be editions

of these compositions in middling and small sizes as well as in wood

engravings. The object is to provide something which has real artistic

merit in place of the wretched pictures which are offered for the

devotion of the faithful in so many churches and in Catholic

prayer-books. The Pope himself, to whom the first colored drawings have

been shown, takes a lively interest in the enterprise, and will probably

recommend it in a special circular to all the bishops.

* * * * *

CHARLES MULLER, a German sculptor, whose group, "The Singer's Curse,"

Received the second prize at the Exposition of 1849, at Paris, has

arrived in this country, where he proposes to take up his residence. The

_Tribune_ states that "The Singer's Curse" will soon be exhibited to the

public in this city. It was suggested by one of the finest of Uhland's

works.

* * * * *

The city of Paris is about to erect along the grand avenue of the Champs

Elysées three hundred statues, in marble, of Parisians distinguished in

the administration of the city, in letters, in science, the fine arts or

commerce. The statues will alternate with beautiful little fountains, and

will form rows on each side of the avenue.

* * * * *

POWER'S STATUE OF EVE is now-having been rescued from the waters off the

coast of Spain--on the way to New York, and it will soon be here. The

Prince Demidoff has purchased the figure of the Greek Slave, originally

commenced for Mr. Robb of New Orleans, for £700, being £100 more than Mr.

Robb was to have given for it. The Prince has placed it in a room by

itself, in his palace at St. Donato, near Florence. He is one of the

finest critics of art now living, and his collection of masterpieces

constitutes to the man of taste one of the chief attractions of Italy.

From a letter of Powers now before us, we learn that the model of his

"America" was finished, and on the first of August the marble was about

to be commenced, in the same size. This the sculptor and his friends

think will be his greatest work. We are happy in being able to mention a

fact eminently honorable to a distinguished American gentleman, in this

connection. When the statue of Eve was lost, Powers wrote to the

underwriters to pay the insurance ($6000) to Mr. J.S. Preston of South

Carolina, upon whom the loss was to fall; but Mr. Preston instantly upon

hearing the circumstance directed that every cent of the money should

be sent to the artist, expressing only a regret that the country suffered

the loss of a performance so admirable. Mr. Powers had not at this time

heard of the loss of the statue of Mr. Calhoun. This great work has not

yet been recovered, but Mr. Kellogg has still hopes of its being rescued

in perfect safety.

* * * * *

The Venice _Statuto_ of the 13th August announces that Venice and Italy

have experienced an irreparable loss. The celebrated Barbarigo Gallery,

known for ages, comprised amongst other masterpieces seventeen paintings

of Titian, the Magdalen, Venus, St. Sebastian; the famous portraits of

the Doge Barbarigo, of Philip XIV., &c. After the extinction of the

Barbarigo family, Count Nicholas Giustiniani, the brothers Barbaco, and

the merchants Benetti, who became proprietors of the collection,

presented it to the Government. The Viceroy Raniere offered it for sale

in 1847 to the Austrian Government, which refused to buy it. It has been

lately purchased by the Court of Russia for five hundred and sixty

thousand francs.

* * * * *

PAINTING AND SCULPTURES of the early northern artists from the eighth to

the sixteenth century have just been discovered in great numbers in

Gothland, by Dr. Marilignis, of the Stockholm Royal Academy of Fine Arts.

He was sent to search for them by the Academy, and has spent eighteen

months in his mission. A large proportion of the pictures were found in

chapels built during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and were covered

with thick coats of plaster, which had to be removed with great care. The

results of Dr. Marilignis' investigations will be published by the

Swedish Government.

* * * * *

THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF LARREY, the famous surgeon of the

Imperial army, at the Val-de-Grace, took place in Paris lately. Among the

assistants at this solemnity not the least interesting portion was a

corps of one hundred invalids upon whom Larrey had operated. The hero of

the day was Dupin, who walked in to the flourish of drums and trumpets at

the head of the commission of the monument. The statue of bronze, by

David, of Angers, was unvailed amid the clang of "sonorous metal blowing

martial sounds." Old Dupin, in a fit of happy inspiration, jumped up on

the chair from which he presided, and delivered perhaps the best speech

he ever made. He drew, in lively touches, the mission of the man whose

hospital is the battle-field, of his intrepid coolness and humane

devotion. Larrey was wounded, while binding the wounds of others, in

Egypt and at Waterloo, in the days of glory and of disaster. The

President of the Assembly spoke with much feeling, and when he came down

from his chair a general rush was made by his friends to embrace him.

* * * * *

THE STANDISH GALLERY OF PICTURES in the Louvre was decreed by the French

courts, a few days before his death, to be the private property of the

late Louis Philippe. It was left to the king by Mr. Frank Hall Standish,

in 1838. The library of this collection is very valuable. It contains

among other rare books the Bible of Cardinal Ximenes, valued alone at

$5000. One of the last acts of Louis Philippe was to present it to the

French people. He was desirous only of vindicating his rights in the

courts. The gallery therefore will not be removed.

* * * * *

THE ANNUAL EXHIBITION OF PICTURES by Düsseldorf artists was opened in

that city about the middle of July. Landscapes are rather predominant. In

their line the works of Alexander Michelis, August Kossler, Weba and

Fischer are the best. Ten pictures of peasant life in Norway by Adolf

Tidemond, a Norwegian artist, are said to display very remarkable merit.

They were retained in the exhibition only a few days, being destined for

the royal chateau of Oskarshall. Of historical pictures there is nothing

worth mentioning.

* * * * *

The _Brussells Herald_ states that the artistic value of the works of art

contained in the churches of Antwerp, eleven in number, is by the late

financial report of the province estimated at 49,763,000 francs-nearly

ten millions of dollars.

* * * * *

LEUTZE'S PICTURE of Washington Crossing the Delaware is nearly finished

at Düsseldorf, and is much praised by several letter-writers who have

seen it.

* * * * *

MR. POWELL, at Paris, expects to finish his picture for the Capitol about

the first of February.

* * * * *

EDGAR ALLEN POE.

By R.W. GRISWOLD.

The family of EDGAR A. POE was one of the oldest and most

reputable in Baltimore. David Poe, his paternal grandfather, was a

Quartermaster-General in the Maryland line during the Revolution, and the

intimate friend of Lafayette, who, during his last visit to the United

States, called personally upon the General's widow, and tendered her

acknowledgments for the services rendered to him by her husband. His

great-grandfather, John Poe, married in England, Jane, a daughter of

Admiral James McBride, noted in British naval history, and claiming

Kindred with some of the most illustrious English families. His father,

David Poe, jr., the fourth son of the Quartermaster-General, was several

years a law student in Baltimore, but becoming enamored of an English

actress, named Elizabeth Arnold, whose prettiness and vivacity more than

her genius for the stage made her a favorite, he eloped with her, and

after a short period, having married her, became himself an actor. They

continued six or seven years in the theaters of the principal cities, and

finally died, within a few weeks of each other, in Richmond, leaving

three children, Henry, Edgar, and Rosalie, in utter destitution.

Edgar Poe, who was born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was at this

period of remarkable beauty, and precocious wit. Mr. John Allan, a

merchant of large fortune and liberal disposition, who had been intimate

with his parents, having no children of his own, adopted him, and it was

generally understood among his acquaintances that he intended to make him

the heir of his estate. The proud, nervous irritability of the boy's

nature was fostered by his guardian's well-meant but ill-judged

indulgence. Nothing was permitted which could "break his spirit." He must

be the master of his masters, or not have any. An eminent and most

estimable gentleman of Richmond has written to me, that when Poe was only

six or seven years of age, he went to a school kept by a widow of

excellent character, to whom was committed the instruction of the

children of some of the principal families in the city. A portion of

the grounds was used for the cultivation of vegetables, and its invasion

by her pupils strictly forbidden. A trespasser, if discovered, was

commonly made to wear, during school hours, a turnip or carrot, or

something, of this sort, attached to his neck as a sign of disgrace. On

one occasion Poe, having violated the rules, was decorated with the

promised badge, which he wore in sullenness until the dismissal of the

boys, when, that the full extent of his wrong might be understood by his

patron, of whose sympathy he was confident, he eluded the notice of the

schoolmistress, who would have relieved him of his esculent, and made the

best of his way home, with it dangling at his neck. Mr. Allan's anger was

aroused, and he proceeded instantly to the school-room, and after

lecturing the astonished dame upon the enormity of such an insult to his

son and to himself, demanded his account, determined that the child

should not again be subject to such tyranny. Who can estimate the effect

of this puerile triumph upon the growth of that morbid self-esteem which

characterized the author in after life?

In 1816, he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Allan to Great Britain, visited the

most interesting portions of the country, and afterward passed four or

five years in a school kept at Stoke Newington, near London, by the Rev.

Dr. Bransby. In his tale, entitled "William Wilson," he has introduced a

striking description of this school and of his life here. He says:

"My earliest recollections of a school life are connected with a

large, rambling Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of

England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and

where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a

dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this

moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its

deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand

shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep

hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each, hour, with sullen and

sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the

fretted Gothic steeple lay embedded and asleep. It gives me, perhaps,

as much of pleasure, as I can now in any manner experience to dwell

upon minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in

misery as I am--misery, alas! only too real--I shall be pardoned for

seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few

rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even

ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious

importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I

recognize the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterward

so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember. The house. I have

said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high

and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass,

encompassed the whole. The prison-like rampart formed the limit of our

domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week--once every Saturday

afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take

brief walks in a body through some of the neighboring fields--and

twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to

the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of

this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a

spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our

remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended

the pulpit! This reverend man with countenance so demurely benign,

with robes so glossy, and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely

powdered, so rigid and so vast,--could this be he who, of late, with

sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand,

the Draconian Laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly

monstrous for solution! At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a

more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and

surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did

it inspire! It was never opened save for the three periodical

egressions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak of

its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery--a world of matter

for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation. The extensive

inclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of

these, three or four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It

was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well remember it had

no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of course it

was in the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted

with box and other shrubs; but through this sacred division we passed

only upon rare occasions indeed--such as a first advent to school or

final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having

called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or

Midsummer holidays. But the house!--how quaint an old building was

this!--to me how veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really

no end to its windings--to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was

difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its

two stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there

were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent.

Then the lateral branches were innumerable--inconceivable--and so

returning in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to

the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we

pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I

was never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality

lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen

or twenty other scholars. The school-room was the largest in the

house--I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very long,

narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of

oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square inclosure of

eight or ten feet, comprising the _sanctum_, 'during hours,' of our

principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with

massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the 'Dominie,' we

would all have willingly perished by the _peine forte et dure_. In

other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced,

indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit

of the 'classical' usher, one of the 'English and mathematical.'

Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless

irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient and

time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so

beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque

figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have

entirely lost what little of original form might have been their

portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one

extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions at the

other.

"Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed,

yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my

life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of

incident to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of

a school was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth

has derived from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must

believe that my first mental development had in it much of the

uncommon--even much of the _outre_. Upon mankind at large the events

of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite

impression. All is gray shadow--a weak and irregular remembrance--an

indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains.

With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy

of a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as

deep; and as durable as the _exergues_ of the Carthaginian medals. Yet

the fact--in the fact of the world's view-how little was there to

remember. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to bed; the

connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays and

perambulations; the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its

intrigues; these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to

involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an

universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and

spirit-stirring. '_Oh, le bon temps, que se siecle de fer!_'"

In 1822, he returned to the United States, and after passing a few

months at an academy in Richmond, he entered the University at

Charlottesville, where he led a very dissipated life; the manners which

then prevailed there were extremely dissolute, and he was known as the

wildest and most reckless student of his class; but his unusual

opportunities, and the remarkable ease with which he mastered the most

difficult studies, kept him all the while in the first rank for

scholarship, and he would have graduated with the highest honors, had

not his gambling, intemperance, and other vices, induced his expulsion

from the university.

At this period he was noted for feats of hardihood, strength, and

activity; and on one occasion, in a hot day of June, he swam from

Richmond to Warwick, seven miles and a half, against a tide running

probably from two to three miles an hour.[A] He was expert at fence, had

some skill in drawing, and was a ready and eloquent conversationist and

declaimer.

[Footnote A: This statement was first printed during Mr. Poe's lifetime,

and its truth being questioned in some of the journals, the following

certificate was published by a distinguished gentleman of Virginia:

"I was one of several who witnessed this swimming feat. We accompanied

Mr. Poe in boats. Messrs. Robert Stannard, John Lyle, (since dead) Robert

Saunders, John Munford, I think, and one or two others, were also of the

party. Mr. P. did not seem at all fatigued, and _walked_ back to Richmond

immediately after the feat--which was undertaken for a wager.

"ROBERT G. CABELL."]

His allowance of money while at Charlottesville had been liberal, but he

quitted the place very much in debt; and when Mr. Allan refused to accept

some of the drafts with which he had paid losses in gaming, he wrote to

him an abusive letter, quitted his house, and soon after left the country

with the quixotic intention of joining the Greeks, then in the midst of

their struggle with the Turks. He never reached his destination, and we

know but little of his adventures in Europe for nearly a year. By the end

of this time he had made his way to St. Petersburg, and our Minister in

that capital, the late Mr. Henry Middleton, of South Carolina, was

ummoned one morning to save him from penalties incurred in a drunken

debauch. Through Mr. Middleton's kindness he was set at liberty and

enabled to return to this country.

His meeting with Mr. Allan was not very cordial, but that gentleman

declared himself willing to serve him in any way that should seem

judicious; and when Poe expressed some anxiety to enter the Military

Academy, he induced Chief Justice Marshall, Andrew Stevenson, General

Scott, and other eminent persons, to sign an application which secured

his appointment to a scholarship in that institution.

Mrs. Allan, whom Poe appears to have regarded with much affection, and

who had more influence over him than any one else at this period, died on

the 27th of February, 1829, which I believe was just before Poe left

Richmond for West Point. It has been erroneously stated by all Poe's

biographers, that Mr. Allan was now sixty-five years of age, and that

Miss Paterson, to whom he was married afterward, was young enough to be

his granddaughter. Mr. Allan was in his forty-eighth year, and the

difference between his age and that of his second wife was not so great

as justly to attract any observation.

For a few weeks the cadet applied himself with much assiduity to his

studies, and he became at once a favorite with his mess and with the

officers and professors of the Academy; but his habits of dissipation

were renewed; he neglected his duties and disobeyed orders; and in ten

months from his matriculation he was cashiered.

He went again to Richmond, and was received into the family of Mr. Allan,

who was disposed still to be his friend, and in the event of his good

behavior to treat him like a son; but it soon became necessary to close

his doors against him forever. According to Poe's own statement he

ridiculed the marriage of his patron with Miss Paterson, and had a

quarrel with her; but a different story,[B] scarcely suitable for

repetition here, was told by the friends of the other party. Whatever the

circumstances, they parted in anger, and Mr. Allan from that time

declined to see or in any way to assist him. Mr. Allan died in the spring

of 1834, in the fifty-fourth year of his age, leaving three children to

share his property, of which not a mill was bequeathed to Poe.

[Footnote B: The writer of an eulogium upon the life and genius of Mr.

Poe, in the _Southern Literary Messenger_, for March, 1850, thus refers

to this point in his history:

"The story of the other side is different: and if true, throws a dark

shade upon the quarrel, and a very ugly light upon Poe's character. We

shall not insert it, because it is one of those relations, which we

think, with Sir Thomas Browne, should never be recorded,--being

'verities whose truth we fear and heartily wish there were no truth

therein ... whose relations honest minds do deprecate. For of sins

heteroclital, and such as want name or precedent, there is ofttimes a sin

even in their history. We do desire no record of enormities: sins should

he accounted new. They omit of their monstrosity as they fall from their

rarity; for men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and

foolishly conceive they divide a sin in its society.... In things of this

nature, silence commendeth history: 'tis the veniable part of things

lost; wherein there must never arise a Pancirollus, nor remain any

register but that of hell.'"]

Soon after he left West Point Poe had printed at Baltimore a small volume

of verses, ("Al Aaraaf," of about four hundred lines, "Tamerlane," of

about three hundred lines, with smaller pieces,) and the favorable manner

in which it was commonly referred to confirmed his belief that he might

succeed in the profession of literature. The contents of the book appear

to have been written when he was between sixteen and nineteen years of

age; but though they illustrated the character of his abilities and

justified his anticipations of success, they do not seem to me to evince,

all things considered, a very remarkable precocity. The late Madame

d'Ossoli refers to some of them as the productions of a boy of eight or

ten years, but I believe there is no evidence that anything of his which

has been published was written before he left the university. Certainly,

it was his habit so constantly to labor upon what he had produced--he was

at all times so anxious and industrious in revision--that his works,

whenever first composed, displayed the perfection of his powers at the

time when they were given to the press.

His contributions to the journals attracted little attention, and his

hopes of gaining a living in this way being disappointed, he enlisted

in the army as a private soldier. How long he remained in the service I

have not been able to ascertain. He was recognized by officers who had

known him at West Point and efforts were made, privately, but with

prospects of success, to obtain for him a commission, when it was

discovered by his friends that he had deserted.

He had probably found relief from the monotony of a soldier's life in

literary composition. His mind was never in repose, and without some such

resort the dull routine of camp or barracks would have been

insupportable. When he next appears, he has a volume of MS. stories,

which he desires to print under the title of "Tales of the Folio Club."

An offer by the proprietor of the Baltimore _Saturday Visitor_, of two

prizes, one for the best tale and one for the best poem, induced him to

submit the pieces entitled "MS. Found in a Bottle," "Lionizing," "The

Visionary," and three others, with "The Coliseum," a poem, to the

committee, which consisted of Mr. John P. Kennedy, the author of

"Horse-Shoe Robinson;" Mr. J.H.B. Latrobe, and Dr. James H. Miller. Such

matters are usually disposed of in a very off-hand way: Committees to

award literary prizes drink to the payer's health in good wines, over

unexamined MSS., which they submit to the discretion of publishers, with

permission to use their names in such a way as to promote the publishers'

advantage. So perhaps it would have been in this case, but that one of

the committee, taking up a little book remarkably beautiful and distinct

in caligraphy, was tempted to read several pages; and becoming

interested, he summoned the attention of the company to the half-dozen

compositions it contained. It was unanimously decided that the prizes

should be paid to "the first of geniuses who had written legibly." Not

another MS. was unfolded. Immediately the "confidential envelope" was

opened, and the successful competitor was found to bear the

scarcely-known name of Poe. The committee indeed awarded to him the

premiums for both the tale and the poem, but subsequently altered their

decision, so as to exclude him from the second premium, in consideration

of his having obtained the higher one. The prize tale was the "MS. found

in a Bottle." This award was published on the twelfth of October, 1833.

The next day the publisher called to see Mr. Kennedy, and gave him an

account of the author, which excited his curiosity and sympathy, and

caused him to request that he should be brought to his office.

Accordingly he was introduced. The prize-money had not yet been paid, and

he was in the costume in which he had answered the advertisement of his

good fortune. Thin, and pale even to ghastliness, his whole appearance

indicated sickness and the utmost destitution. A well-worn frock-coat

concealed the absence of a shirt, and imperfect boots disclosed the want

of hose. But the eyes of the young man were luminous with intelligence

and feeling, and his voice and conversation and manner, all won upon the

lawyer's regard. Poe told his history, and his ambition, and it was

determined that he should not want means for a suitable appearance in

society, nor opportunities for just display of his abilities in

literature. Mr. Kennedy accompanied him to a clothing-store, and

purchased for him a respectable suit, with changes of linen, and sent him

to a bath, from which he returned with the suddenly regained style of a

gentleman.

His new friends were very kind to him, and availed themselves of every

Opportunity to serve him. Near the close of the year 1834 the late Mr.

T.W. White established in Richmond the _Southern Literary Messenger_. He

was a man of much simplicity, purity, and energy of character, but not a

writer, and he frequently solicited his acquaintances' literary

assistance. On receiving from him an application for an article, early in

1835, Mr. Kennedy, who was busy with the duties of his profession,

advised Poe to send one, and in a few weeks he had occasion to inclose

the following answer to a letter from Mr. White:

"BALTIMORE, April 13, 1835.

"_Dear Sir_: Poe did right in referring to me. He is very clever with his

pen--classical and scholarlike. He wants experience and direction, but I

have no doubt he can be made very useful to you. And, poor fellow! he is

_very_ poor. I told him to write something for every number of your

magazine, and that you might find it to your advantage to give him some

permanent employ. He has a volume of very bizarre tales in the hands of

----, in Philadelphia, who for a year past has been promising to publish

them. This young fellow is highly imaginative, and a little given to the

_terrific_. He is at work upon a tragedy, but I have turned him to

drudging upon whatever may make money, and I have no doubt you and he

will find your account in each other."

In the next number of the "Messenger" Mr. White announced that Poe was

its editor, or in other words, that he had made arrangements with a

gentleman of approved literary taste and attainments to whose especial

management the editorial department would be confided, and it was

declared that this gentleman would "devote his exclusive attention to

the work." Poe continued, however, to reside in Baltimore, and it is

probable that he was engaged only as a general contributor and a writer

of critical notices of books. In a letter to Mr. White, under the date of

the thirtieth of May, he says:

"In regard to my critique of Mr. Kennedy's novel, I seriously feel

ashamed of what I have written. I fully intended to give the work a

thorough review, and examine it in detail. Ill health alone prevented me

from so doing. At the time I made the hasty sketch I sent you, I was so

ill as to be hardly able to see the paper on which I wrote, and I

finished it in a state of complete exhaustion. I have not, therefore,

done anything like justice to the book, and I am vexed about the matter,

for Mr. Kennedy has proved himself a kind friend to me in every respect,

and I am sincerely grateful to him for many acts of generosity and

attention. You ask me if I am perfectly, satisfied with your course. I

reply that I am--entirely. My poor services are not worth what you give

me for them."

About a month afterward he wrote:

"You ask me if I would be willing to come on to Richmond if you should

have occasion, for my services during the coming winter. I reply that

nothing would give me greater pleasure. I have been desirous for some

time past of paying a visit to Richmond, and would be glad of an

reasonable excuse for so doing. Indeed I am anxious to settle myself in

that city, and if, by any chance, you hear of a situation likely to suit

me, I would gladly accept it, were the salary even the merest trifle. I

should, indeed, feel myself greatly indebted to you if through your means

I could accomplish this object. What you say in the conclusion of your

letter, in relation to the supervision of proof-sheets, gives me reason

to hope that possibly you might find something for me to do in your

office. If so I should be very glad--for at present only a very small

portion of my time is employed."

He continued in Baltimore till September. In this period he wrote several

long reviews, which for the most part were rather abstracts of works than

critical discussions, and published, with others, "Hans Phall," a story

in some respects very similar to Mr. Locke's celebrated account of

Herschel's Discoveries in the Moon. At first he appears to have been ill

satisfied with Richmond, or with his duties, for in two or three weeks

after his removal to that city we find Mr. Kennedy writing to him:

"I am sorry to see you in such plight as your letter shows you in. It is

strange that just at this time, when everybody is praising you, and when

fortune is beginning to smile upon your hitherto wretched circumstances,

you should be invaded by those blue devils. It belongs, however, to your

age and temper to be thus buffeted--but be assured, it only wants a

little resolution to master the adversary forever. You will doubtless do

well henceforth in literature, and add to your _comforts_ as well as to

your reputation, which it gives me great pleasure to assure you is

everywhere rising in popular esteem."

But he could not bear his good fortune. On receiving a month's salary he

gave himself up to habits which only necessity had restrained at

Baltimore. For a week he was in a condition of brutish drunkenness, and

Mr. White dismissed him. When he became sober, however, he had no

recourse but in reconciliation, and he wrote letters and induced

acquaintances to call upon Mr. White with professions of repentance and

promises of reformation. With his usual considerate and judicious

kindness that gentleman answered him:

"_My dear Edgar_: I cannot address you in such language as this occasion

and my feelings demand: I must be content to speak to you in my plain

way. That you are sincere in all your promises I firmly believe. But when

you once again tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolutions

will fail, and that you will again drink till your senses are lost. If

you rely on your strength you are gone. Unless you look to your Maker for

help you will not be safe. How much I regretted parting from you is known

to Him only and myself. I had become attached to you; I am still; and I

would willingly say return, did not a knowledge of your past life make me

dread a speedy renewal of our separation. If you would make yourself

contented with quarters in my house, or with any other private family,

where liquor is not used, I should think there was some hope for you.

But, if you go to a tavern, or to any place where it is used at table,

you are not safe. You have fine talents, Edgar, and you ought to have

them respected, as well as yourself. Learn to respect yourself, and you

will soon find that you are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle,

and from bottle companions, forever. Tell me if you can and will do so.

If you again become an assistant in my office, it must be understood that

all engagements on my part cease the moment you get drunk. I am your true

friend, T. W. W."

A new contract was arranged, but Poe's irregularities frequently

interrupted the kindness and finally exhausted the patience of his

generous though methodical employer, and in the number of the "Messenger"

for January, 1837 he thus took leave of its readers:

"Mr. Poe's attention being called in another direction, he will decline,

with the present number, the editorial duties of the Messenger. His

Critical Notices for this month end with Professor Anthon's Cicero-what

follows is from another hand. With the best wishes to the magazine, and

to its few foes as well as many friends, he is now desirous of bidding

all parties a peaceful farewell."

While in Richmond, with an income of but five hundred dollars a year, he

had married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a very amiable and lovely girl,

who was as poor as himself, and little fitted, except by her gentle

temper, to be tho wife of such a person. He went from Richmond to

Baltimore; and after a short time, to Philadelphia, and to New York. A

slight acquaintance with Dr. Hawks had led that acute and powerful writer

to invite his contributions to the "New York Review," and he had

furnished for the second number of it (for October, 1837) an elaborate

but not very remarkable article upon Stephens's then recently published

"Incidents of Travel in Egypt, Arabia Petrea, and the Holy Land." His

abilities were not of the kind demanded for such work, and he never wrote

another paper for this or for any other Review of the same class. He had

commenced in the "Literary Messenger," a story of the sea under the title

of "Arthur Gordon Pym"[A], and upon the recommendation of Mr. Paulding

and others, it was printed by the Harpers. It is his longest work, and is

not without some sort of merit, but it received little attention. The

publishers sent one hundred copies to England, and being mistaken at

first for a narrative of real experiences it was advertised to be

reprinted, but a discovery of its character, I believe, prevented such a

result. An attempt is made in it, by simplicity of style, minuteness of

nautical descriptions, and circumstantiality of narration, to give it

that air of truth which constitutes the principal attraction of Sir

Edward Seaward's narrative, and Robinson Cursoe; but it has none of the

pleasing interest of these tales; it is as full of wonders as Munchausen,

has as many atrocities as the Book of Pirates, and as liberal an array of

paining and revolting horrors as ever was invented by Anne Radcliffe or

George Walker. Thus far a tendency to extravagance had been the most

striking infirmity of his genius. He had been more anxious to be intense

than to be natural; and some of his _bizarréries_ had been mistaken for

satire, and admired for that quality. Afterward he was more judicious,

and if his outlines were incredible it was commonly forgotten in the

simplicity of his details and their cohesive cumulation.

[Footnote A: THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM, OF NANTUCKET; comprising

the Details of a Mutiny and Atrocious Butchery on board the American Brig

Grampus, on her way to the South Seas--with an account of the Re-capture

of the Vessel by the Survivors; their Shipwreck, and subsequent Horrible

Sufferings from Famine; their Deliverance by means of the British

schooner Jane Gray; the brief Cruise of this latter Vessel in the

Antarctic ocean; her Capture, and the Massacre of the Crew among a Group

of Islands in the 84th parallel of southern latitude; together with the

incredible Adventures and Discoveries still further South, to which that

distressing calamity gave rise.--I vol. 12mo. pp. 198 New-York, Harper &

Brothers, 1838.]

Near the end of the year 1838 he settled in Philadelphia. He had no very

Definite purposes, but trusted for support to the chances of success as a

magazinist and newspaper correspondent. Mr. Burton, the comedian, had

recently established the "Gentleman's Magazine," and of this he became a

contributor, and in May, 1839, the chief editor, devoting to it, for ten

dollars a week, two hours every day, which left him abundant time for

more important labors. In the same month he agreed to furnish such

reviewals as he had written for the "Literary Messenger," for the

"Literary Examiner," a new magazine at Pittsburgh. But his more congenial

pursuit was tale-writing, and he produced about this period some of his

most remarkable and characteristic works in a department of imaginative

composition in which he was henceforth alone and unapproachable. "The Fall

of the House of Usher" and "Legeia", are the most interesting

illustrations of his mental organization--his masterpieces in a peculiar

vein of romantic creation. They have theunquestionable stamp of genius.

The analyses of the growth of madness in one, and the thrilling

revelations of the existence of a first wife in the person of a second,

in the other, are made with consummate skill; and the strange and solemn

and fascinating beauty which informs the style and invests the

circumstances of both, drugs the mind, and makes us forget the

improbabilities of their general design.

An awakened ambition and the healthful influence of a conviction that his

works were appreciated, and that his fame was increasing, led him for a

while to cheerful views of life, and to regular habits of conduct. He

wrote to a friend, the author of "Edge Hill," in Richmond, that he had

quite overcome "the seductive and dangerous besetment" by which he had so

often been prostrated, and to another friend that, incredible as it might

seem, he had become a "model of temperance," and of "other virtues,"

which it had sometimes been difficult for him to practice. Before the

close of the summer, however, he relapsed into his former courses, and

for weeks was regardless of everything but a morbid and insatiable

appetite for the means of intoxication.

In the autumn he published all the prose stories he had then written, in

two volumes, under the title of "Tales of the Grotesque and the

Arabesque." The work was not salable, perhaps because its contents were

too familiar from recent separate publication in magazines; and it was

not so warmly praised, generally, as I think it should have been, though

in point of style the pieces which it embraced are much less perfect than

they were made subsequently.

He was with Mr. Burton until June, 1840--more than a year. Mr. Burton

Appreciated his abilities and would have gladly continued the connection;

but Poe was so unsteady of purpose and so unreliable that the actor was

never sure when he left the city that his business would be cared for. On

one occasion, returning after the regular day of publication, he found

the number unfinished, and Poe incapable of duty. He prepared the

necessary copy himself, published the magazine, and was proceeding with

arrangements with for another month, when he received a letter from his

assistant, of which the tone may be inferred from this answer:

"I am sorry you have thought it necessary to send me such a letter. Your

troubles have given a morbid tone to your feelings which it is your duty

to discourage. I myself have been as severely handled by the world as you

can possibly have been, but my sufferings have not tinged my mind with

melancholy, nor jaundiced my views of society. You must rouse your

energies, and if care assail you, conquer it. I will gladly overlook the

past. I hope you will as easily fulfill your pledges for the future. We

shall agree very well, thought I cannot permit the magazine to be made a

vehicle for that sort of severity which you think is so 'successful with

the mob.' I am truly much less anxious about making a monthly 'sensation'

than I am upon the point of fairness. You must, my dear sir, get rid of

your avowed ill-feelings toward your brother authors. You see I speak

plainly; I cannot do otherwise upon such a subject. You say the people

love havoc. I think they love justice. I think you yourself would not

have written the article on Dawes, in a more healthy state of mind. I am

not trammeled by any vulgar consideration of expediency; I would rather

lose money than by such undue severity wound the feelings of a

kind-hearted and honorable man. And I am satisfied that Dawes has

something the true fire in him. I regretted your word-catching spirit.

But I wander from my design. I accept your proposition to recommence your

interrupted avocations upon the _Maga_. Let us meet as if we had not

exchanged letters. Use more exercise, write when feelings prompt, and be

assured of my friendship. You will soon regain a healthy activity of

mind, and laugh at your past vagaries."

This letter was kind and judicious. It gives us a glimpse of Poe's theory

of criticism, and displays the temper and principles of the literary

comedian in an honorable light. Two or three months afterward Burton went

out of town to fulfill a professional engagement, leaving material and

directions for completing the next number of the magazine in four days.

He was absent nearly a fortnight, and on returning he found that his

printers in the meanwhile had not received a line of copy; but that Poe

had prepared the prospectus of a new monthly, and obtained transcripts of

his subscription and account books, to be used in a scheme for

supplanting him. He encountered his associate late in the evening at one

of his accustomed haunts, and said, "Mr. Poe, I am astonished: Give me my

manuscripts so that I can attend to the duties you have so shamefully

neglected, and when you are sober we will settle." Poe interrupted him

with "Who are you that presume to address me in this manner? Burton, I

am--_the editor--of the Penn.--Magazine_--and you are--hiccup--_a fool_."

Of course this ended his relations with the "Gentleman's."

In November, 1840, Burton's miscellany was merged in "The Casket," owned

by Mr. George R. Graham, and the new series received the name of its

proprietor, who encouraged Poe in its editorship. His connection with

"Graham's Magazine" lasted about a year and a half, and this was one of

the most active and brilliant periods of his literary life. He wrote in

it several of his finest tales and most trenchant criticisms, and

challenged attention by his papers entitled "Autography," and those on

cryptology and ciphers. In the first, adopting a suggestion of Lavater,

he attempted the illustration of character from handwriting; and in the

second, he assumed that human ingenuity could construct no secret writing

which human ingenuity could not resolve; a not very dangerous

proposition, since it implied no capacity in himself to discover every

riddle of this kind that should be invented. He however succeeded with

several difficult cryptographs that were sent to him, and the direction

of his mind to the subject led to the composition of some of the tales of

ratiocination which so largely increased his reputation. The infirmities

which induced his separation from Mr. White and Mr. Burton at length

compelled Mr. Graham to seek for another editor; but Poe still remained

in Philadelphia, engaged from time to time in various literary

occupations, and in the vain effort to establish a journal of his own to

be called "The Stylus." Although it requires considerable capital to

carry on a monthly of the description he proposed, I think it would not

have been difficult, with his well-earned fame as a magazinist, for him

to have found a competent and suitable publisher, but for the unfortunate

notoriety of his habits, and the failure in succession of three persons

who had admired him for his genius and pitied him for his misfortunes, by

every means that tact or friendship could suggest, to induce the

consistency and steadiness of application indispensable to success in

such pursuits. It was in the spring of 1848--more than a year after his

dissociation from Graham--that he wrote the story of "The Gold Bug," for

which he was paid a prize of one hundred dollars. It has relation to

Captain Kyd's treasure, and is one of the most remarkable illustrations

of his ingenuity of construction and apparent subtlety of reasoning. The

interest depends upon the solution of an intricate cypher. In the autumn

of 1844 Poe removed to New York.

It was while he resided in Philadelphia that I became acquainted with

him. His manner, except during his fits of intoxication, was very quiet

and gentlemanly; he was usually dressed with simplicity and elegance; and

when once he sent for me to visit him, during a period of illness caused

by protracted and anxious watching at the side of his sick wife, I was

impressed by the singular neatness and the air of refinement in his home.

It was in a small house, in one of the pleasant and silent neighborhoods

far from the center of the town, and though slightly and cheaply

furnished, everything in it was so tasteful and so fitly disposed that it

seemed altogether suitable for a man of genius. For this and for most of

the comforts he enjoyed in his brightest as in his darkest years, he was

chiefly indebted to his mother-in-law, who loved him with more than

maternal devotion and constancy.

He had now written his most acute criticisms and his most admirable

tales. Of tales, beside those to which I have referred, he had produced

"The Descent into the Maelström," "The Premature Burial," "The Purloined

Letter," "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," and its sequel, "The Mystery of

Marie Roget." The scenes of the last three are in Paris, where the

author's friend, the Chevalier Auguste Dupin, is supposed to reveal to

him the curiosities of his experience and observation in matters of

police. "The Mystery of Marie Roget" was first published in the autumn of

1842, before an extraordinary excitement, occasioned by the murder of a

young girl named Mary Rogers, in the vicinity of New York, had quite

subsided, though several months after the tragedy. Under the pretense of

relating the fate of a Parisian _grisette_, Mr. Poe followed in minute

detail the essential while merely paralleling the inessential facts of

the real murder. His object appears to have been to reinvestigate the

case and to settle his own conclusions as to the probable culprit. There

is a great deal of hair-splitting in the incidental discussions by Dupin,

throughout all these stories, but it is made effective. Much of their

popularity, as well as that of other tales of ratiocination by Poe, arose

from their being in a new key. I do not mean to say that they are not

ingenious; but they have been thought more ingenious than they are, on

account of their method and air of method. In "The Murders of the Rue

Morgue," for instance, what ingenuity is displayed in unraveling a web

which has been woven for the express purpose of unraveling? The reader is

made to confound the ingenuity of the supposititious Dupin with that of

the writer of the story. These works brought the name of Poe himself

somewhat conspicuously before the law courts of Paris. The journal, _La

Commerce_, gave a _feuilleton_ in which "The Murders of the Rue Morgue"

appeared in translation. Afterward a writer for _La Quotidienne_ served

it for that paper under the title of "_L'Orang-Otang_." A third party

accused _La Quotidienne_ of plagiary from _La Commerce_, and in the

course of the legal investigation which ensued, the _feuilletoniste_ of

_La Commerce_ proved to the satisfaction of the tribunal that he had

stolen the tale entirely from Mr. Poe,[A] whose merits were soon after

canvassed in the "_Revue des Deux Mondes_," and whose best tales were

upon this impulse translated by Mme. Isabelle Meunier for the _Democratic

Pacifique_ and other French gazettes.

[Footnote A: The controversy is wittily described in the following

extract from a Parisian journal, _L'Entr*ficte_, of the 20th of October,

1846:

"Un grand journal accusait l'autre jour M. Old-Nick d'avoir volé un

orang-outang. Cet intéressant animal flânait dans le feuilleton de _la

Quotidienne_, lorsque M. Old-Nick le vit, le trouvâ à son goût et s'en

empara. Notre confrère avait sans doute besoin d'un groom. On sait que

les Anglais ont depuis long-temps colonisé les orangs-outangs, et les ont

instruits dans Part de porter bottes. Il paraitrait, toujours suivant le

meme grand journal, que M. Old-Nick, après avoir derobé cet orang-outang

à _la Quotidienne_, l'aurait ensuite cédé au _Commerce_, comme propriété

à lui appartenant. Je sais que M. Old-Nick est un garçon plein d'esprit

et plein d'honneur, assez riche de son propre fond pour ne pas

s'approprier les orangs-outangs des autres; cette accusation me surprit.

Aprés tout, me dis-je, il y a éu des monomanies plus extraodinaires que

celle-là; le grand Bacon ne pouvait voir un bâton de cire à cacheter sans

se l'approprier: dans une conférence avec M. de Metternich aux Tuileries,

l'Empereur s'aperçut que le diplomate autrichien glissait des pains a

cacheter dans sa poche. M. Old-Nick a une autre manic, il fait les

orangs-outangs. Je m'attendais toujours á ce que la _Quotidienne_ jeât

feu et flammes et demandat a grads cris son homme des bois. Il faut vous

dire ques j'avaís la son histoire dans _le Commerce_, elle était

charmante d'esprit et de style, pleine de rapidité et de desinvolture;

_la Quotidienne_ l'avait également publiée, mais en trois feuilletons.

L'orang-outang du _Commerce_ n'avait que neuf colonnes. Il s'agissait

done d'un autre quadrumane litteraire. Ma foi non! c'etait le même;

seulement il n'appartenait ni à _la Quotidienne_, ni au _Commerce_. M.

Old-Nick l'avait emprunté a un romancier Américan qu'il est en train

d'inventer dans la _Revue des Deux-Mondes_. Ce romancier s'appelle Poë;

je ne dis pas contraire. Voilà done un écrivain qui use du droit légitime

d'arranger les nouvelles d'un romancier Américan qu'il a inventé, et on

l'accuse de plagiat, de vol au feuilleton; on alarme ses amis en leu

faisant croire que set ecrivain est possédé de la monomaine des

orangs-outangs. Par la Courchamps! voilà qui me parait léger. M. Old Nick

a écrit au journal en question une réponse pour rétablir sa moralité,

attaquée à l'endroit des orangs-outangs. Cet orang-outang a mis, ces

jours derniers, toute la littérature en émoi; personne n'a cru un seul

instant à l'accusation qu'on a essayé, de faire peser sur M. Old Nick,

d'autant plus qu'il avait pris soin d'indiquer luiméme la cage ou il

avait pris son orang-outang. Ceci va fournir de nouvelles armes à la

secte qui ereit aux romanciers Américans. Le préjugé de l'existence de

Cooper en prendra des nouvelles forces. En attendant que la vérité se

decouvre, nous sommes forcés de convenir que ce Poë est un gaillard bien

fin, bien spirituel, quand il est arré par M. Old-Nick."]

In New York Poe entered upon a new sort of life. Heretofore, from the

Commencement of his literary career, he had resided in provincial

towns. Now he was in a metropolis, and with a reputation which might have

served as a passport to any society he might desire. For the first time

he was received into circles capable of both the appreciation and the

production of literature. He added to his fame soon after he came to the

city by the publication of that remarkable composition "The Raven," of

which Mr. Willis has observed that in his opinion "it is the most

effective single example of fugitive poetry ever published in this

country, and is unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception,

masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of

imaginative lift;" and by that of one of the most extraordinary

instances of the naturalness of detail---the verisimilitude of minute

narrative--for which lie was preeminently distinguished, his "Mesmeric

Revelation," purporting to be the last conversation of a somnambule, held

with his magnetizer just before his death, which was followed by the yet

more striking exhibition of abilities in the same way, entitled "The

Facts in the case of M. Vaklemar," in which the subject is represented as

having been mesmerized in _articulo mortis_. These pieces were reprinted

throughout the literary and philosophical world, in nearly all languages,

everywhere causing sharp and curious speculation, and where readers could

be persuaded that they were fables, challenging a reluctant but genuine

admiration.

He had not been long in New York before he was engaged by Mr. Willis and

General Morris as a critic and assistant editor of _The Mirror_. He

remained in this situation about six months, when he became associated

with Mr. Briggs in the conduct of _The Broadway Journal_, which, in

October 1845, passed entirely into his possession. He had now the long

sought but never before enjoyed absolute control of a literary gazette,

and, with much friendly assistance, he maintained it long enough to show,

that whatever his genius, he had not the kind or degree of talent

necessary to such a position. His chief critical writing in _The Broadway

Journal_, were a paper on Miss Barrett's Poems, and a long discussion of

the subject of plagiarism, with especial reference to Mr. Longfellow. In

March, 1845, he had given a lecture at the Society Library upon the

American poets, composed, for the most part, of fragments of his

previously published reviewals; and in the autumn he accepted an

invitation to read a poem before the Boston Lyceum. A week after the

event, he printed in _The Broadway Journal_ the following account of it,

in reply to a paragraph in one of the city papers, founded upon a

statement in the _Boston Transcript_.

"Our excellent friend, Major Noah, has suffered himself to be cajoled by

that most beguiling of all beguiling little divinities, Miss Walter, of

_The Transcript_. We have been looking all over her article with the aid

of a taper, to see if we could discover a single syllable of truth in

it--and really blush to acknowledge that we cannot. The adorable creature

has been telling a parcel of fibs about us, by way of revenge for

something that we did to Mr. Longfellow (who admires her very much) and

for calling her 'a pretty little witch' into the bargain. The facts of

the case seem to be these: We _were_ invited 'deliver'(stand and deliver)

a poem before the Boston Lyceum. As a matter of course, we accepted the

invitation. The audience was 'large and distinguished.' Mr Cushing[B]

preceded us with a very capital discourse. He was much applauded. On

arising we were most cordially received. We occupied some fifteen minutes

with an apology for not 'delivering,' as is usual in such cases, a

didactic poem: a didactic poem, in our opinion, being precisely no poem

at all. After some farther words--still of apology--for the

'indefiniteness' and 'general imbecility' of what we had to offer--all

so unworthy a _Bostonian_ audience--we commenced, and with many

interruptions of applause, concluded. Upon the whole, the approbation was

considerably more (the more the pity too) than that bestowed upon Mr.

Cushing. When we had made an end the audience of course arose to depart;

and about one-tenth of them, probably, had really departed, when Mr.

Coffin, one of the managing committee, arrested those who remained, by

the announcement that we had been requested to deliver 'The Raven.' We

delivered 'The Raven' forthwith--(without taking a receipt)--were very

cordially applauded again--and this was the end of it--with the exception

of the sad tale invented to suit her own purposes, by that amiable little

enemy of ours, Miss Walter. We shall never call a woman 'a pretty little

witch' again as long as we live.

[Footnote B: Hon. Caleb Cushing, then recently returned from his mission

to China.]

"We like Boston. We were born there--and perhaps it is just as well not

to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are

very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are

delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their common is no common

thing--and the duck-pond might answer-if its answer could be heard for

the frogs. But with all these good qualities, the Bostonians have no

soul. They have always evinced toward us, individually, the basest

ingratitude for the services we rendered them in enlightening them about

the originality of Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore, an

invitation to 'deliver' a poem in Boston, we accepted it simply and

solely, because we had a curiosity to know how it felt to be publicly

hissed--and because we wished to see what effect we could produce by a

neat little _impromptu_ speech in reply. Perhaps, however, we overrated

our own importance, or the Bostonian want of common civility--which is

not quite so manifest as one or two of their editors would wish the

public to believe. We assure Major Noah that he is wrong. The Bostonians

are well-bred--as _very_ dull persons very generally are. Still, with

their vile ingratitude staring us in the eyes, it could scarcely be

supposed that we would put ourselves to the trouble of composing for the

Bostonians anything in the shape of an _original_ poem. We did not. We

had a poem, of about 500 lines, lying by us--one quite as good as

new--one, at all events, that we considered would answer sufficiently

well for an audience of Transcendentalists. _That_ we gave them--it was

the best that we had--for the price--and it _did_ answer remarkably

well. Its name was _not_ 'The Messenger-Star'--who but Miss Walter would

ever think of so delicious a little bit of invention as that? We had no

name for it at all. The poem is what is occasionally called a 'juvenile

poem,' but the fact is it is anything but juvenile now, for we wrote it,

printed it, and published it, in book form, before we had completed our

tenth year. We read it _verbatim_, from a copy now in our possession, and

which we shall be happy to show at any moment to any of our inquisitive

friends. We do not, ourselves, think the poem a remarkably good one: it

is not sufficiently transcendental. Still it did well enough for the

Boston audience--who evinced characteristic discrimination in

understanding, and especially applauding all those knotty passages which

we ourselves have not yet been able to understand.

"As regards the auger of _The Boston Times_, and one or two other

absurdities--as regards, we say the wrath of Achilles--we incurred it-or

rather its manifestation--by letting some of our cat out of the bag a few

hours sooner than we had intended. Over a bottle of champagne, that

night, we confessed to Messrs. Cushing, Whipple, Hudson, Fields, and a

few other natives who swear not altogether by the frog-pond-we

confessed, we say, the soft impeachment of the hoax. _Et hine ille iræ_.

We should have waited a couple of days."

It is scarcely necessary to suggest that this must have been written

before he had quite recovered from the long intoxication which maddened

him at the time to which it refers--that he was not born in Boston-that

the poem was not published in his tenth year, and that the "hoax" was all

an after-thought. Two weeks later he renewed the discussion of the

subject in _The Broadway Journal_, commenting as follows upon allusions

to it by other parties:

"Were the question demanded of us--'What is the most exquisite of

sublunary pleasures?' we should reply, without hesitation, the making a

fuss, or in the classical words of a western friend, the 'kicking up a

bobbery.' Never was a 'bobbery' more delightful than that which we have

just succeeded in 'kicking up' all around about Boston Common. We never

saw the Frogpondians so lively in our lives. They seem absolutely to be

upon the point of waking up. In about nine days the puppies may get open

their eyes. That is to say, they may get open their eyes to certain facts

which have long been obvious to all the world except themselves-the

facts that there exist other cities than Boston--other men of letters

than Professor Longfellow--other vehicles of literary information than

the _Down-East Review_.'

"We had _tact_ enough not to be 'taken in and done for' by the

Bostonians. _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_--(for _timeo_ substitute

_contemno_ or _turn-up-your-nose-o_.) We knew very well that among a

certain _clique_ of the Frogpondians, there existed a predetermination to

abuse us under _any_ circumstances. We knew, that write what we would,

they would swear it to be worthless. We knew, that were we to compose for

them a 'Paradise Lost,' they would pronounce it an indifferent poem. It

would have been very weak in us, then, to put ourselves to the trouble of

attempting to please these people. We preferred pleasing ourselves. We

read before them a 'juvenile'--a _very_ 'juvenile' poem--and thus the

Frogpondians were _had_--were delivered up to the enemy bound hand and

foot. Never were a set of people more completely demolished. They have

blustered and flustered--but what have they done or said that has not

made them more thoroughly ridiculous? What, in the name of Momus, is it

_possible_ for them to do or say? We 'delivered' them the 'juvenile

poem,' and they received it with applause. This is accounted for by the

fact, that the _clique_ (contemptible in numbers as in everything else)

were overruled by the rest of the assembly. These malignants did not

_dare_ to interrupt by their preconcerted hisses, the respectful and

profound attention of the majority. We have been told, indeed, that as

many as three or four of the personal friends of the little old lady

entitled Miss Walter, did actually leave the hall during the

recitation--but, upon the whole, this was the very best thing they could

do. We have been told this, we say--we did not _see_ them take their

departure:--the fact is, they belong to a class of people that we make it

a point _never to see_. The poem being thus well received, in spite of

this ridiculous little cabal--the next thing to be done was to abuse it

in the papers. Here, they imagined, they were sure of their game. But

what have they accomplished? The poem, they say, is bad. We admit it. We

insisted upon this fact in our prefatory remarks, and we insist upon it

now, over and over again. It _is_ bad--it is wretched--and what then? We

wrote it at ten years of age--had it been worth even a pumpkin-pie,

undoubtedly we should not have 'delivered' it to _them_. To demonstrate

its utter worthlessness, _The Boston Star_ has copied the poem in full,

with two or three columns of criticism (we suppose), by way of explaining

that we should have been hanged for its perpetration. There is no doubt

of it whatever--we should. The _Star_, however, (a dull luminary,) has

done us more honor than it intended; it has copied our _third_ edition of

the poem, revised and improved. We considered this too good for the

occasion by one-half, and so 'delivered' our _first_ edition with all its

imperfections on its head. It is the first--the original edition--the

_delivered_ edition--which we now republish in our collection of Poems."

When he accepted the invitation of the Lyceum he intended to write an

original poem, upon a subject which he said had haunted his imagination

for years; but cares, anxieties, and feebleness of will, prevented; and a

week before the appointed night he wrote to a friend imploring

assistance. "You compose with such astonishing facility," he urged in his

letter, "that you can easily furnish me, quite soon enough, a poem that

shall be equal to my reputation. For the love of God I beseech you to

help me in this extremity." The lady wrote him kindly, advising him

judiciously, but promising to attempt the fulfillment of his wishes

She was, however, an invalid, and so failed.[C] At last, instead of

pleading illness himself, as he had previously done on a similar

occasion, he determined to read his poem of "Al Aaraaf," the original

publication of which, in 1829, has already been stated.

The last number of the _Broadway Journal_ was published on the third of

January,1846, and Poe soon after commenced the series of papers entitled

"The Literati of New-York City," which was published in _The Lady's Book_

in six numbers, from May to October. Their spirit, boldness, and

occasional causticity caused them to be much talked about, and three

editions were necessary to supply the demand for some numbers of the

magazine containing them. They however led to a disgraceful quarrel, and

this to a premature conclusion. Dr. Thomas Dunn English, who had at one

time sustained the most intimate relations with Poe, chose to evince his

resentment of the critic's unfairness by the publication of a card in

which he painted strongly the infirmities of Poe's life and character,

and alleged that he had on several occasions inflicted upon him personal

chastisement. This was not a wise confession, for a gentleman never

appeals to his physical abilities except for defense. But the entire

publication, even if every word of it were true, was unworthy of Dr.

English, unnecessary, and not called for by Poe's article, though that,

as every one acquainted with the parties might have seen, was entirely

false in what purported to be its facts. The statement of Dr. English

appeared in the New York _Mirror_ of the twenty-third of June, and on the

twenty-seventh Mr. Poe sent to Mr. Godey for publication in the _Lady's

Book_ his rejoinder, which would have made about five of the large pages

of that miscellany. Mr. Godey very properly declined to print it, and

observed, in the communication of his decision, that the tone of the

article was regarded as unsuitable for his work and as altogether wrong.

In compliance with the author's wishes, however, he had caused its

appearance in a daily paper. Poe then wrote to him:

"The man or men who told you that there was anything wrong in _the tone_

of my reply, were either my enemies, or your enemies, or asses. When you

see them, tell them so, from me. I have never written an article upon

which I more confidently depend for _literary_ reputation than that

Reply. Its merit lay in its being precisely adapted to its purpose. In

this city I have had upon it the favorable judgments of the best men. All

the error about it was yours. You should have done as I

requested--published it in the _Book_. It is of no use to conceive a plan

if you have to depend upon another for its execution."

Nevertheless, I agree with Mr. Godey. Poe's article was as bad as that of

English. Yet a part of one of its paragraphs is interesting, and it is

here transcribed:

--"Let me not permit any profundity of disgust to induce, even for an

instant, a violation of the dignity of truth. What is _not false_, amid

the scurrility of this man's statements, it is not in my nature to brand

as false, although oozing from the filthy lips of which a lie is the

only natural language. The errors and frailties which I deplore, it

cannot at least be asserted that I have been the coward to deny. Never,

even, have I made attempt at _extenuating_ a weakness which is (or, by

the blessing of God, was) a calamity, although those who did not know me

intimately had little reason to regard it otherwise than a crime. For,

indeed, had my pride, or that of my family permitted, there was

much--very much--there was everything to be offered in extenuation.

Perhaps, even, there was an epoch at which it might not have been wrong

in me to hint--what by the testimony of Dr. Francis and other medical

men I might have demonstrated, had the public, indeed, cared for the

demonstration--that the irregularities so profoundly lamented were the

_effect_ of a terrible evil rather than its cause.--And now let me thank

God that in redemption from the physical ill I have forever got rid of

the moral."

Dr. Francis never gave any such testimony. On one occasion Poe borrowed

fifty dollars from a distinguished literary woman of South Carolina,

promising to return it in a few days, and when he failed to do so, and

was asked for a written acknowledgment of the debt that might be

exhibited to the husband of the friend who had thus served him, he denied

all knowledge of it, and threatened to exhibit a correspondence which he

said would make the woman infamous, if she said any more on the subject.

Of course there had never been any such correspondence, but when Poe

heard that a brother of the slandered party was in quest of him for the

purpose of taking the satisfaction supposed to be due in such cases, he

sent for Dr. Francis and induced him to carry to the gentleman his

retraction and apology, with a statement which seemed true enough for the

moment, that Poe was "out of his head." It is an ungracious duty to

describe such conduct in a person of Poe's unquestionable genius and

capacities of greatness, but those who are familiar with the career of

this extraordinary creature can recall but too many similar anecdotes;

and as to his intemperance, they perfectly well understand that its

pathology was like that of ninety-nine of every hundred cases of the

disease.

[Footnote C: This lady was the late Mrs. Osgood, and a fragment of what

she wrote under these circumstances may be found in the last edition of

her works under the title of "Lullin, or the Diamond Fay."]

As the autumn of 1846 wore on, Poe's habits of frequent intoxication and

his inattention to the means of support reduced him to much more than

common destitution. He was now living at Fordham, several miles from the

city, so that his necessities were not generally known even among his

acquaintances; but when the dangerous illness of his wife was added to

his misfortunes, and his dissipation and accumulated causes of anxiety

had prostrated all his own energies, the subject was introduced into the

journals. The _Express_ said:

"We regret to learn that Edgar A. Poe and his wife are both dangerously

ill with the consumption, and that the hand of misfortune lies heavy

upon their temporal affairs. We are sorry to mention the fact that they

are so far reduced as to be barely able to obtain the necessaries of

life. This is indeed a hard lot, and we hope that the friends and

admirers of Mr. Poe will come promptly to his assistance in his bitterest

hour of need."

Mr. Willis, in an article in the _Home Journal_ suggesting a hospital for

disabled laborers with the brain, said--

"The feeling we have long entertained on this subject, has been freshened

by a recent paragraph in the _Express_, announcing that Mr. Edgar A. Poe

and his wife were both dangerously ill, and suffering for want of the

common necessaries of life. Here is one of the finest scholars, one of

the most original men of genius, and one of the most industrious of the

literary profession of our country, whose temporary suspension of labor,

from bodily illness, drops him immediately to a level with the common

objects of public charity. There was no intermediate stopping-place-no

respectful shelter where, with the delicacy due to genius and culture, he

might secure aid, unadvertised, till, with returning health, he could

resume his labors and his unmortified sense of independence. He must

either apply to individual friends--(a resource to which death is

sometimes almost preferable)--or _suffer down_ to the level where Charity

receives claimants, but where Rags and Humiliation are the only

recognized Ushers to her presence. Is this right? Should there not be, in

all highly civilized communities, an Institution designed expressly for

educated and refined objects of charity--a hospital, a retreat, a home of

seclusion and comfort, the sufficient claims to which would be such

susceptibilities as are violated by the above mentioned appeal in a daily

newspaper."

The entire article from which this paragraph is taken, was an ingenious

apology for Mr. Poe's infirmities; but it was conceived and executed in a

generous spirit, and it had a quick effect in various contributions,

which relieved the poet from pecuniary embarrassments. The next week he

published the following letter:

"_My Dear Willis_:--The paragraph which has been put in circulation

respecting my wife's illness, my own, my poverty, etc., is now lying

before me; together with the beautiful lines by Mrs. Locke and those by

Mrs. ----, to which the paragraph has given rise, as well as your kind

and manly comments in _The Home Journal_. The motive of the paragraph I

leave to the conscience of him or her who wrote it or suggested it. Since

the thing is done, however, and since the concerns of my family are thus

pitilessly thrust before the public, I perceive no mode of escape from a

public statement of what is true and what erroneous in the report alluded

to. That my wife is ill, then, is true; and you may imagine with what

feelings I add that this illness, hopeless from the first, has been

heightened and precipitated by her reception at two different periods, of

anonymous letters,--one inclosing the paragraph now in question; the

other, those published calumnies of Messrs. ----, for which I yet hope to

find redress in a court of justice.

"Of the facts, that I myself have been long and dangerously ill, and that

my illness has been a well-understood thing among my brethren of the

press, the best evidence is afforded by the innumerable paragraphs of

personal and literary abuse with which I have been latterly assailed.

This matter, however, will remedy itself. At the very first blush of my

new prosperity, the gentlemen who toadied me in the old, will recollect

themselves and toady me again. You, who know me, will comprehend that I

speak of these things only as having served, in a measure, to lighten the

gloom of unhappiness, by a gentle and not unpleasant sentiment of mingled

pity, merriment and contempt. That, as the inevitable consequence of so

long an illness, I have been in want of money, it would be folly in me to

deny--but that I have ever materially suffered from privation, beyond the

extent of my capacity for suffering, is not altogether true. That I am

'without friends' is a gross calumny, which I am sure _you_ never could

have believed, and which a thousand noble-hearted men would have good

right never to forgive me for permitting to pass unnoticed and undenied.

Even in the city of New York I could have no difficulty in naming a

hundred persons, to each of whom--when the hour for speaking had

arrived--I could and would have applied for aid with unbounded

confidence, and with absolutely _no_ sense of humiliation. I do not

think, my dear Willis, that there is any need of my saying more. I am

getting better, and may add--if it be any comfort to my enemies--that I

have little fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great deal to

do; and I have made up my mind not to die till it is done. Sincerely

yours,

"December 30th, 1846. EDGAR A. POE."

This was written for effect. He had not been ill a great while, nor

dangerously at all; there was no literary or personal abuse of him in the

journals; and his friends in town had been applied to for money until

their patience was nearly exhausted. His wife, however, was very sick,

and in a few weeks she died. In a letter to a lady in Massachusetts, who,

upon the appearance of the newspaper articles above quoted, had sent him

money and expressions of sympathy, he wrote, under date of March 10,

1847:

"In answering your kind letter permit me in the first place to absolve

myself from a suspicion which, under the circumstances, you could

scarcely have failed to entertain--a suspicion of discourtesy toward

yourself, in not having more promptly replied to you.... I could not help

feeling that should you see my letter to Mr. Willis--in which a natural

pride, which I feel you could not blame, impelled me to shrink from

public charity, even _at the cost of truth, in denying those necessities

which were but too real_--I could not help fearing that, should you see

this letter, you would yourself feel pained at having caused me pain-at

having been the means of giving further publicity to an unfounded

report--at all events to the report of a wretchedness which I had thought

it prudent (since the world regards wretchedness as a crime) so publicly

to disavow. In a word, venturing to judge your noble nature by my own, I

felt grieved lest my published denial might cause you to regret what you

had done; and my first impulse was to write you, and assure you, even at

the risk of doing so too warmly, of the sweet emotion, made up of respect

and gratitude alone, with which my heart was filled to overflowing. While

I was hesitating, however, in regard to the propriety of this step, I was

overwhelmed by a sorrow so poignant as to deprive me for several weeks of

all power of thought or action. Your letter, now lying before me, tells

me that I had not been mistaken in your nature, and that I should not

have hesitated to address you; but believe me, my dear Mrs. L----, that I

am already ceasing to regard those difficulties or misfortunes which have

led me to even this partial correspondence with yourself."

For nearly a year Mr. Poe was not often before the public, but he was as

industrious, perhaps, as he had been at any time, and early in 1848

advertisement was made of his intention to deliver several lectures, with

a view to obtain an amount of money sufficient to establish his

so-long-contemplated monthly magazine. His first lecture--and only one at

this period--was given at the Society Library, in New York, on the ninth

of February, and was upon the cosmogony of the Universe: it was attended

by an eminently intellectual auditory, and the reading of it occupied

about two hours and a half; it was what he afterward published under the

title of "Eureka, a Prose Poem."

To the composition of this work he brought his subtlest and highest

capacities, in their most perfect development. Denying that the arcana of

the universe can be explored by induction, but informing his imagination

with the various results of science, he entered with unhesitating

boldness, though with no guide but the divinest instinct,--that sense of

beauty, in which our great Edwards recognizes the flowering of all

truth--into the sea of speculation, and there built up of according laws

and their phenomena, as under the influence of a scientific inspiration,

his theory of Nature. I will not attempt the difficult task of condensing

his propositions; to be apprehended they must be studied in his own terse

and simple language; but in this we have a summary of that which he

regards as fundamental: "The law which we call _Gravity_," he says,

"exists on account of matter having been radiated, at its origin,

atomically, into a _limited_ sphere of space, from one, individual,

unconditional irrelative, and absolute Particle Proper,

by the sole process in which it was possible to satisfy, at the same

time, the two conditions, radiation and equable distribution throughout

the sphere--that is to say, by a force varying in _direct_ proportion

with the squares of the distances between the radiated atoms,

respectively, and the particular center of radiation."

Poe was thoroughly persuaded that he had discovered the great secret:

that the propositions of "Eureka" were true; and he was wont to talk of

the subject with a sublime and electrical enthusiasm which they cannot

have forgotten who were familiar with him at the period of its

publication. He felt that an author known solely by his adventures in the

lighter literature, throwing down the gauntlet to professors of science,

could not expect absolute fairness, and he had no hope but in discussions

led by wisdom and candor. Meeting me, he said, "Have you read 'Eureka?'"

I answered, "Not yet: I have just glanced at the notice of it by Willis,

who thinks it contains no more fact than fantasy, and I am sorry to

see--sorry if it be true--suggests that it corresponds in tone with that

gathering of sham and obsolete hypotheses addressed to fanciful tyros,

the 'Vestiges of Creation;' and our good and really wise friend Bush,

whom you will admit to be of all the professors, in temper one of the

most habitually just, thinks that while you may have guessed very

shrewdly, it would not be difficult to suggest many difficulties in the

way of your doctrine." "It is by no means ingenuous," he replied, "to

hint that there are such difficulties, and yet to leave them unsuggested.

I challenge the investigation of every point in the book. I deny that

there are any difficulties which I have not met and overthrown. Injustice

is done me by the application of this word 'guess:' I have assumed

_nothing_ and proved _all_." In his preface he wrote: "To the few who

love me and whom I love; to those who feel rather than to those who

think; to the dreamers and those who put faith in dreams as in the only

realities--I offer this book of truths, not in the character of

Truth-Teller, but for the beauty that abounds in its truth: constituting

it true. To these I present the composition as an Art-Product

alone:---let us say as a Romance; or, if it be not urging too lofty a

claim, as a Poem. What I here propound is true: therefore it cannot die:

or it by any means it be now trodden down so that it die, it will rise

again to the life everlasting."

When I read "Eureka" I could not help but think it immeasurably superior

as an illustration of genius to the "Vestiges of Creation;" and as I

admired the poem, (except the miserable attempt at humor in what purports

to be a letter found in a bottle floating on the _Mare tenebrarum_,) so I

regretted its pantheism, which is not necessary to its main design. To

some of the objections to his work be made this answer in a letter to Mr.

C.F. Hoffman, then editor of the _Literary World_:

"_Dear Sir_:--In your paper of July 29, I find some comments on 'Eureka,'

a late book of my own; and I know you too well to suppose for a moment,

that you will refuse me the privilege of a few words in reply. I feel,

even, that I might safely claim, from Mr. Hoffman, the right, which every

author has, of replying to his critic _tone for tone_--that is to say, of

answering your correspondent, flippancy by flippancy and sneer by

sneer--but in the first place, I do not wish to disgrace the _World_;

and, in the second, I feel that I never should be done sneering, in the

present instance, were I once to begin. Lamartine blames Voltaire for the

use which he made of (_ruse_) misrepresentation, in his attacks on the

priesthood; but our young students of Theology do not seem to be aware

that in defense or what they fancy to be defense, of Christianity, there

is anything wrong in such gentlemanly peccadillos as the deliberate

perversion of an author's text--to say nothing of the minor _indecora_ of

reviewing a book without reading it and without having the faintest

suspicion of what it is about.

"You will understand that it is merely the _misrepresentations_ of the

_critique_ in question to which I claim the privilege of reply:--the mere

_opinions_ of the writer can be of no consequence to me--and I should

imagine of very little to himself--that is to say if he knows himself,

personally, as well as _I_ have the honor of knowing him. The first

misrepresentation is contained in this sentence:--'This letter is a keen

burlesque on the Aristotelian or Baconian methods of ascertaining Truth,

both of which the writer ridicules and despises, and pours forth his

rhapsodical ecstasies in a glorification of the third mode--the noble art

of _guessing_.' What I _really_ say is this:--That there is no absolute

_certainty_ either in the Aristotelian or Baconian process--that, for

this reason, neither Philosophy is so profound as it fancies itself--and

that neither has a right to sneer at that _seemingly_ imaginative process

called Intuition (by which the great Kepler attained his laws); since

'Intuition,' after all, 'is but the conviction arising from those

_in_ductions or _de_ductions of which the processes are so shadowy as to

escape our consciousness, elude our reason or defy our capacity of

expression.' The second misrepresentation runs thus:--'The developments

of electricity and the formation of stars and suns, luminous and

nonluminous, moons and planets, with their rings, &c., is deduced, very

much according to the nebular theory of Laplace, from the principle

propounded above.' Now the impression intended to be made here upon the

reader's mind, by the 'Student of Theology,' is evidently, that my theory

may all be very well in its way, but that it is nothing but Laplace over

again, with some modifications that he (the Student of Theology) cannot

regard as at all important. I have only to say that no gentleman can

accuse me of the disengenuousness here implied; inasmuch as, having

proceeded with my theory up to that point at which Laplace's theory

_meets_ it, I then _give Laplace's theory in full_, with the expression

of my firm conviction of its absolute truth _at all points_. The _ground_

covered by the great French astronomer compares with that covered by my

theory, as a bubble compares with the ocean on which it floats; nor has

he the slightest allusion to the 'principle propounded above,' the

principle of Unity being the source of all things--the principle of

Gravity being merely the Reaction of the Divine Act which irradiated all

things from Unity. In fact _no_ point of _my_ theory has been even

so much as alluded to by Laplace. I have not considered it necessary,

here to speak of the astronomical knowledge displayed in the 'stars _and_

suns' of the Student of Theology, nor to hint that it would be better to

say that 'development and formation _are_, than that development and

formation _is_. The third misrepresentation lies in a foot-note, where

the critic says:--'Further than this, Mr. Poe's claim that he can account

for the existence of all organized beings--man included--merely from

those principles on which the origin and present appearance of suns and

worlds are explained, must be set down as mere bald assertion, without a

particle of evidence. In other words we should term it _arrant fudge_.'

The perversion at this point is involved in a willful misapplication of

the word 'principles.' I say 'wilful' because, at page 63, I am

_particularly_ careful to distinguish between the principles proper,

Attraction and Repulsion, and those merely resultant _sub_-principles

which control the universe in detail. To these sub-principles, swayed by

the immediate spiritual influence of Deity. I leave, without examination,

_all that_ which the Student of Theology so roundly asserts I account for

on the _principles_ which account for the constitution of suns, &c.

"In the third column of his 'review' the critic says:--'He asserts that

each soul is its own God--its own Creator.' What I _do_ assert is, that

'each soul is, _in part_, its own God--its own Creator.' Just below, the

critic says:--'After all these contradictory propoundings concerning God

we would remind him of what he lays down on page 23--'of this Godhead in

itself he alone is not imbecile--he alone is not impious who propounds

_nothing_. A man who thus conclusively convicts himself of imbecility and

impiety needs no further refutation.' Now the sentence, _as I wrote it_,

and as _I find it_ printed on that very page which the critic refers to

and which _must have been lying before him_ while he quoted my words,

runs thus:--'Of this Godhead, _in itself_, he alone is not imbecile, &c.,

who propounds nothing.' By the italics, as the critic well knew, I design

to distinguish between the two possibilities--that of a knowledge of God

through his works and that of a knowledge of Him in his _essential

nature_. The Godhead, _in itself_, is distinguished from the Godhead

observed _in its effects_. But our critic is zealous. Moreover, being a

divine, he is honest--ingenuous. It is his _duty_ to pervert my meaning

by omitting my italics--just as, in the sentence previously quoted, it

was his Christian duty to falsify my argument by leaving out the two

words, 'in part,' upon which turns the whole force--indeed the whole

intelligibility of my proposition.

"Were these 'misrepresentations' (_is_ that the name for them?) made for

any less serious a purpose than that of branding my book as 'impious'

and myself as a 'pantheist,' a 'polytheist,' a Pagan, or a God knows what

(and indeed I care very little so it be not a 'Student of Theology'),

I would have permitted their dishonesty to pass unnoticed, through pure

contempt of the boyishness--for the _turn-down-shirt-collar-ness_ of

their tone:--but, as it is, you will pardon me, Mr. Editor, that I have

been compelled to expose a 'critic' who courageously preserving his own

_anonymosity_, takes advantage of my absence from the city to

misrepresent, and thus vilify me, _by name_. EDGAR A. POE.

"Fordham, September 20, 1848."

From this time Poe did not write much; he had quarreled with the

conductors of the chief magazines for which he had previously written,

and they no longer sought his assistance. In a letter to a friend, he

laments the improbabilities of an income from literary labor, saying:

"I have represented ---- to you as merely an ambitious simpleton, anxious

to get into society with the reputation of conducting a magazine which

somebody behind the curtain always prevents him from quite damning with

his stupidity; he is a knave and a beast. I cannot write any more for the

Milliner's Book, where T----n prints his feeble and _very_ quietly made

Dilutions of other people's reviews; and you know that ---- can afford to

pay but little, though I am glad to do anything for a good fellow like

----. In this emergency I sell articles to the vulgar and trashy ----,

for $5 a piece. I inclose my last, cut out, lest you should see by my

sending the paper in what company I am forced to appear."

His name was now frequently associated with that of one of the most

brilliant women of New England, and it was publicly announced that they

were to be married. He had first seen her on his way from Boston, when he

visited that city to deliver a poem before the Lyceum there. Restless,

near the midnight, he wandered from, his hotel near where she lived,

until he saw her walking in a garden. He related the incident afterward

in one of his most exquisite poems, worthy of himself, of her, and of the

most exalted passion.

"I saw thee--once only--years ago;

I must not say _how_ many--but not many.

It was a July midnight; and from out

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,

Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,

There fell a silvery-silken vail of light,

With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,

Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--

Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an estatic death--

Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

"Clad all in white, upon a violet bank

I saw thee half reclining; while the moon

Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses,

And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!

"Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--

Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)

That bade me pause before the garden-gate,

To breathe the incense of those Slumbering roses?

No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,

Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!--oh, God!

How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)

Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--

And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly luster of the moon went out:

The mossy banks and the meandering paths,

The happy flowers and the repining trees,

Were seen no more: the very roses' odors

Died in the arms of the adoring airs,

All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:

Save only the divine light in thine eyes--

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them--they were the world to me.

I saw but them--saw only them for hours--

Saw only them until the moon went down.

What wild heart histories seemed to lie enwritten

Upon those crystalline celestial spheres!

How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!

How silently serene a sea of pride!

How daring an ambition! Yet how deep--

How fathomless a capacity for love!

"But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight

Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;

And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees

Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained_.

They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.

Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,

_They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me--they lead me through the years

They are my ministers--yet I their slave.

Their office is to illumine and enkindle--

My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,

And purified in their electric fire,

And sanctified in their elysian fire.

They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)

And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to

In the sad, silent watches of my night;

While even in the meridian glare of day

I see them still--two sweetly scintillant

Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!"

They were not married, and the breaking of the engagement affords a

striking illustration of his character. He said to an acquaintance

in New York, who congratulated with him upon the prospect of his union

with a person of so much genius and so many virtues--"It is a mistake: I

am not going to be married." "Why, Mr. Poe, I understand that the bans

have been published." "I cannot help what you have heard, my dear Madam:

but mark me, I shall not marry her." He left town the same evening, and

the next day was reeling through the streets of the city which was the

lady's home, and in the evening--that should have been the evening before

the bridal--in his drunkenness he committed at her house such outrages as

made necessary a summons of the police. Here was no insanity leading to

indulgence: he went from New York with a determination thus to induce an

ending of the engagement; and he succeeded.

Sometime in August, 1849, Mr. Poe left New York for Virginia. In

Philadelphia he encountered persons who had been his associates in

dissipations while he lived there, and for several days he abandoned

himself entirely to the control of his worst appetites. When his money

was all spent, and the disorder of his dress evinced the extremity of his

recent intoxication, he asked in charity means for the prosecution of his

journey to Richmond. There, after a few days, he joined a temperance

society, and his conduct showed the earnestness of his determination to

reform his life. He delivered in some of the principal towns of Virginia

two lectures, which were well attended, and renewing his acquaintance

with a lady whom he had known in his youth, he was engaged to marry her,

and wrote to his friends that he should pass the remainder of his days

among the scenes endeared by all his pleasantest recollections of youth.

On Thursday, the 4th of October, he set out for New York, to fulfill a

literary engagement, and to prepare for his marriage. Arriving in

Baltimore he gave his trunk to a porter, with directions to convey it to

the cars which were to leave in an hour or two for Philadelphia, and went

into a tavern to obtain some refreshment. Here he met acquaintances who

invited him to drink; all his resolutions and duties were soon forgotten;

in a few hours he was in such a state as is commonly induced only by

long-continued intoxication; after a night of insanity and exposure, he

was carried to a hospital; and there, on the evening of Sunday, the 7th

of October, 1849, he died, at the age of thirty-eight years.

It is a melancholy history. No author of as much genius had ever in this

country as much unhappiness; but Poe's unhappiness was in an unusual

degree the result of infirmities of nature, or of voluntary faults in

conduct. A writer who evidently knew him well, and who comes before us in

the "Southern Literary Messenger" as his defender, is "compelled to admit

that the blemishes in his life were effects of character rather than of

circumstances."[A] How this character might have been modified by a

judicious education of all his faculties I leave for the decision of

others, but it will be evident to those who read this biography that the

unchecked freedom of his earlier years was as unwise as its results were

unfortunate.

[Footnote A: _Southern Literary Messenger_, March, 1850, p. 179.]

It is contended that the higher intelligences, in the scrutiny to which

they appeal, are not to be judged by the common laws; but I apprehend

that this doctrine, as it is likely to be understood, is entirely wrong.

All men are amenable to the same principles, to the extent of the

parallelism of these principles with their experience; and the line of

duty becomes only more severe as it extends into the clearer atmosphere

of truth and beauty which is the life of genius. _De mortuis nil nisi

bonum_ is a common and an honorable sentiment, but its proper application

would lead to the suppression of the histories of half of the most

conspicuous of mankind; in this case it is impossible on account of the

notoriety of Mr. Poe's faults; and it would be unjust to the living

against whom his hands were always raided and who had no resort but in

his outlawry from their sympathies. Moreover, his career is full of

instruction and warning, and it has always been made a portion of the

penalty of wrong that its anatomy should be displayed for the common

study and advantage.

The character of Mr. Poe's genius has been so recently and so admirably

discussed by Mr. Lowell, with whose opinions on the subject I for the most

part agree, that I shall say but little of it here, having already

extended this notice beyond the limits at first designed. There is a

singular harmony between his personal and his literary qualities. St.

Pierre, who seemed to be without any nobility in his own nature, in his

writings appeared to be moved only by the finest and highest impulses.

Poe exhibits scarcely any virtue in either his life or his writings.

Probably there is not another instance in the literature of our language

in which so much has been accomplished without a recognition or a

manifestation of conscience. Seated behind the intelligence, and

directing it, according to its capacities, Conscience is the parent of

whatever is absolutely and unquestionably beautiful in art as well as in

conduct. It touches the creations of the mind and they have life; without

it they have never, in the range of its just action, the truth and

naturalness which are approved by universal taste or in enduring

reputation. In Poe's works there is constantly displayed the most

touching melancholy, the most extreme and terrible despair, but never

reverence or remorse.

His genius was peculiar, and not, as he himself thought, various. He

remarks in one of his letters:

"There is one particular in which I have had wrong done me, and it may

not be indecorous in me to call your attention to it. The last selection

of my tales was made from about seventy by one of our great little

cliquists and claquers, Wiley Putnam's reader, Duyckinck. He has what he

thinks a taste for ratiocination, and has accordingly made up the book

mostly of analytic stories. But this is not _representing_ my mind in its

various phases--it is not giving me fair play. In writing these tales one

by one, at long intervals. I have kept the book unity always in

mind--that is, each has been composed with reference to its effect as

part of a _whole_. In this view, one of my chief aims has been the widest

diversity of subject, thought, and especially _tone_ and manner of

handling. Were _all_ my tales now before me in a large volume, and as the

composition of another, the merit which would principally arrest my

attention would be their wide _diversity and variety_. You will be

surprised to hear me say that, (omitting one or two of my first efforts,)

I do not consider any one of my stories _better_ than another. There is a

vast variety of kinds, and, in degree of value, these kinds vary-but

each tale is equally good of _its kind_. The loftiest kind is that of the

highest imagination--and for this reason only 'Ligeia' may be called my

best tale."

But it seems to me that this selection of his tales was altogether

judicious. Had it been submitted to me I might indeed have changed

it in one or two instances, but I should not have replaced any tale by

one of a different tone. One of the qualities upon which Poe prides

himself was his humor, and he has left us a large number of compositions

in this department, but except a few paragraphs in his "Marginalia,"

scarcely anything which it would not have been injurious to his

reputation to republish. His realm was on the shadowy confines of human

experience, among the abodes of crime, gloom, and horror, and there he

delighted to surround himself with images of beauty and of terror, to

raise his solemn palaces and towers and spires in a night upon which

should rise no sun. His minuteness of detail, refinement of reasoning,

and propriety and power of language--the perfect keeping (to borrow a

phrase from another domain of art) and apparent good faith with which he

managed the evocation and exhibition of his strange and spectral and

revolting creations--gave him an astonishing mastery over his readers, so

that his books were closed as one would lay aside the nightmare or the

spells of opium. The analytical subtlety evinced in his works has

frequently been overestimated, as I have before observed, because it has

not been sufficiently considered that his mysteries were composed with

the express design of being dissolved. When Poe attempted the

illustration of the profounder operations of the mind, as displayed in

written reason or in real action, he frequently failed entirely.

In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical

treatment of the passions. Hia poems are constructed with wonderful

ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. They display a somber and

weird imagination, and a taste almost faultless in the apprehension of

that sort of beauty which was most agreeable to his temper. But they

evince little genuine feeling, and less of that spontaneous ecstasy which

gives its freedom, smoothness and naturalness to immortal verse. His own

account of the composition of "The Raven," discloses his methods--the

absence of all impulse, and the absolute control of calculation and

mechanism. That curious analysis of the processes by which he wrought

would be incredible if from another hand.

He was not remarkably original in invention. Indeed some of his

plagiarisms are scarcely paralleled for their audacity in all literary

history: For instance, in his tale of "The Pit and the Pendulum," the

complicate machinery upon which the interest depends is borrowed from a

story entitled "Vivenzio, or Italian Vengeance," by the author of "The

First and Last Dinner," in "Blackwood's Magazine." And I remember having

been shown by Mr. Longfellow, several years ago, a series of papers which

constitute a demonstration that Mr. Poe was indebted to him for the idea

of "The Haunted Palace," one of the most admirable of his poems, which he

so pertinaciously asserted had been used by Mr. Longfellow in the

production of his "Beleaguered City." Mr. Longfellow's poem was written

two or three years before the first publication of that by Poe, and it

was during a portion of this time in Poe's possession; but it was not

printed, I believe, until a few weeks after the appearance of "The

Haunted Palace." "It would be absurd," as Poe himself said many times,

"to believe the similarity of these pieces entirely accidental." This was

the first cause of all that malignant criticism which for so many years

he carried on against Mr. Longfellow. In his "Marginalia" he borrowed

largely, especially from Coleridge, and I have omitted in the

republication of these papers, numerous paragraphs which were rather

compiled than borrowed from one of the profoundest and wisest of our own

scholars.[D]

[Footnote D: I have neither space, time, nor inclination for a

continuation of this subject, and I add but one other instance, in the

words of the Philadelphia "Saturday Evening Post," published while Mr.

Poe was living:

"One of the most remarkable plagiarisms was perpetrated by Mr. Poe, late

of the Broadway Journal, whose harshness as a critic and assumption of

peculiar originality make the fault in his case more glaring. This

gentleman, a few years ago, in Philadelphia, published a work on

Conchology as original, when in reality it was a copy, near verbatim, of

'The Text-book of Conchology, by Captain Thomas Brown,' printed in

Glasgow in 1833, a duplicate of which we have in our library, Mr. Poe

actually took out a copyright for the American edition of Captain Brown's

work, and, omitting all mention of the English original pretended, in the

preface, to have been under great obligations to several scientific

gentlemen of this city. It is but justice to add, that in the second

edition of this book, published lately in Philadelphia, the name of Mr.

Poe is withdrawn from the titlepage, and his initials only affixed to the

preface. But the affair is one of the most curious on record."]

In criticism, as Mr. Lowell justly remarks, Mr. Poe had "a scientific

precision and coherence of logic;" he had remarkable dexterity in the

dissection of sentences; but he rarely ascended from the particular to

the general, from subjects to principles; he was familiar with the

microscope but never looked through the telescope. His criticisms are of

value to the degree in which they are demonstrative, but his unsupported

assertions and opinions were so apt to be influenced by friendship or

enmity, by the desire to please or the fear to offend, or by his constant

ambition to surprise, or produce a sensation, that they should be

received in all cases with distrust of their fairness. A volume might be

filled with literary judgments by him as antagonistical and inconsistent

as the sharpest antitheses. For example, when Mr. Laughton Osborn's

romance, "The Confessions of a Poet," came out, he reviewed it in "The

Southern Literary Messenger," saying:

"There is nothing of the _vates_ about the author. He is no poet-and

most positively he is no prophet. He avers upon his word of honor that

in commencing this work he loads a pistol and places it upon the table.

He further states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention

to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent.

But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there

would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days

or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so

long 'in the load.' We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution

to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the

pan--and in such a case--were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would

be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series

of the 'Confessions.'"--_Southern Literary Messenger_, i. 459.

This review was attacked, particularly in the Richmond "Compiler," and

Mr. Poe felt himself called upon to vindicate it to the proprietor of the

magazine, to whom he wrote:

"There is no necessity of giving the 'Compiler' a reply. The book is

_silly enough of itself_, without the aid of any controversy concerning

it. I have read it, from beginning to end, and was very much amused at

it. My opinion of it is pretty nearly the opinion of the press at large.

I have heard no person offer one serious word in its defense."--_Letter

to T.W. White_.

Afterward Mr. Poe became personally acquainted with the author, and he

then wrote, in his account of "The Literati of New-York City," as

follows:

"The Confessions of a Poet made much noise in the literary world, and no

little curiosity was excited in regard to its author, who was generally

supposed to be John Neal.... The 'Confessions,' however, far surpassed

any production of Mr. Neal's.... _He_ has done nothing which, as a whole,

is _even respectable_, and 'The Confessions' are quite remarkable for

their artistic unity and perfection. But on higher regards they are to be

commended. _I do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has

been written in America_....Its scenes of passion are intensely wrought,

its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and

suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. In a word, it is that

rare thing, a fiction of _power_ without rudeness."

I will adduce another example of the same kind. In a notice of the

"Democratic Review," for September, 1845, Mr. Poe remarks of Mr. William

A. Jones's paper on American Humor:

"There is only one really bad article in the number, and that is

insufferable: nor do we think it the less a nuisance because it inflicts

upon ourselves individually a passage of maudlin compliment about our

bring a most 'ingenious critic' 'and prose poet,' with some other things

of a similar kind. We thank for his good word no man who gives palpable

evidence, in other cases than our own, of his _incapacity_ to distinguish

the false from the true--the right from the wrong. If we _are_ an

ingenious critic, or a prose poet, it is not because Mr. William Jones

says so. The truth is that this essay on 'American Humor' is

Contemptible both in a moral and literary sense--is the composition of an

_imitator and a quack_--and disgraces the magazine in which it makes its

appearance."--_Broadway Journal_, Vol. ii. No. 11.

In the following week he reconsidered this matter, opening his paper for

a defense of Mr. Jones; but at the close of it said--

"If we have done Mr. Jones injustice, we beg his pardon: but we do not

think we have."

Yet in a subsequent article in "Graham's Magazine," on "Critics and

Criticism," he says of Mr. Jones, referring only to writings of his that

had been for years before the public when he printed the above

paragraphs:

"Our most analytic, _if not altogether our best critic_, (Mr. Whipple,

perhaps, excepted,) is Mr. _William A. Jones_, author of 'The Analyst.'

How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary

judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In

fact, his papers on _Emerson_ and on _Macaulay_, published in 'Arcturus.'

are better than merely 'profound,' if we take the word in its now

desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just:--as

summaries leaving nothing to be desired."

I will not continue the display of these inconsistencies. As I have

Already intimated, a volume might be filled with passages to show that

his criticisms were guided by no sense of duty, and that his opinions

were so variable and so liable to be influenced by unworthy

considerations as to be really of no value whatever.

It was among his remarkable habits that he preserved with scrupulous care

everything that was published respecting himself or his works, and

everything that was written to him in letters that could be used in any

way for the establishment or extension of his reputation. In

Philadelphia, in 1843, he prepared with his own hands a sketch of his

life for a paper called "The Museum." Many parts of it are untrue, but I

refer to it for the purpose of quoting a characteristic instance of

perversion in the reproduction of compliments:

"Of 'William Wilson,' Mr. Washington Irving says: 'It is managed in a

highly picturesque style, and its singular and mysterious interest is

ably sustained throughout. In point of mere style, it is, perhaps, even

superior to 'The House of Usher.' It is simpler. In the latter

composition, he seems to have been distrustful of his effects, or,

rather, too solicitous of bringing them forth fully to the eye, and thus,

perhaps, has laid on too much coloring. He has erred, however, on the

safe side, that of exuberance, and the evil might easily be remedied, by

relieving the style of some of its epithets;' [since done.] 'There would

be no fear of injuring the graphic effect, _which is powerful_.' The

italics are Mr. Irving's own."

Now Mr. Irving had said in a private letter that he thought the "House of

Usher" Was clever, and that "a volume of similar stories would be well

received by the public." Poe sent him a magazine containing "William

Wilson," asking his opinion of it, and Mr. Irving, expressly declining to

_publish_ a word upon the subject, remarked in the same manner, that "the

singular and mysterious interest is well sustained," and that in point of

style the tale was "much better" than the "House of Usher," which, he

says, "might be improved by relieving the style from some of the

epithets: there is no danger of destroying the graphic effect, which

is powerful." There is not a word in _italics_ in Mr. Irving's letter,

the meaning of which is quite changed by Mr. Poe's alterations. And this

letter was not only published in the face of an implied prohibition, but

made to seem like a deliberately-expressed judgment in a public reviewal.

In the same way Mr. Poe published the following sentence as an extract

from a letter by Miss Barrett:

"Our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of 'Paracelsus,' etc., _is

enthusiastic in his admiration_ of the rhythm."

But on turning to Miss Barrett's letter, I find that she wrote:

"Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of 'Paracelsus,' and 'Bells and

Pomegranates,' was struck much by the rhythm of that poem."

The piece alluded to is "The Raven."

It is not true, as has been frequently alleged since Mr. Poe's death,

that his writings were above the popular taste, and therefore without a

suitable market in this country. His poems were worth as much to

magazines as those of Bryant or Longfellow, (though none of the

publishers paid him half as large a price for them,) and his tales were

as popular as those of Willis, who has been commonly regarded as the best

magazinist of his time. He ceased to write for _The Lady's Book_ in

consequence of a quarrel induced by Mr. Godey's justifiable refusal to

print in that miscellany his "Reply to Dr. English," and though in the

poor fustian published under the signature of "George R. Graham," in

answer to some remarks upon Poe's character in _The Tribune_, that

individual is made to assume a passionate friendship for the deceased

author that would have become a Pythias, it is known that the personal

ill-will on both sides was such that for some four or five years _not a

line by Poe was purchased for Graham's Magazine_. To quote again the

"Defense of Mr. Poe" in the _Southern Literary Messenger_:

"His changeable humors, his irregularities, his caprices, his total

disregard of everything and body, save the fancy in his head, prevented

him from doing well in the world. The evils and sufferings that poverty

brought upon him, soured his nature, and deprived him of faith in human

beings. This was evident to the eye--he believed in nobody, and cared for

nobody. Such a mental condition of course drove away all those who would

otherwise have stood by him in his hours of trial. He became, and was, an

Ishmaelite."

After having, in no ungenerous spirit, presented the chief facts in Mr.

Poe's history, not designedly exaggerating his genius, which none held in

higher admiration, not bringing into bolder relief than was just and

necessary his infirmities. I am glad to offer a portraiture of some of

his social qualities, equally beautiful, and--so changeable and

inconsistent was the man--as far as it goes, truthful. Speaking of him

one day soon after his death, with the late Mrs. Osgood, the beauty of

whose character had made upon Poe's mind that impression which it never

failed to produce upon minds capable of the apprehension of the finest

traits in human nature, she said she did not doubt that my view of Mr.

Poe, which she knew indeed to be the common view, was perfectly just, as

it regarded him in his relations with men; but to women he was different,

and she would write for me some recollections of him, to be placed beside

my harsher judgments in any notice of his life that the acceptance of the

appointment to be his literary executor might render it necessary for me

to give to the world. She was an invalid--dying of that consumption by

which in a few weeks she was removed to heaven, and calling for pillows

to support her while she wrote, she drew this sketch:

"You ask me, my friend, to write for you my reminiscences of Edgar Poe.

For you, who knew and understood my affectionate interest in him, and my

frank acknowledgment of that interest to all who had a claim upon my

confidence, for you, I will willingly do so. I think no one could know

him--no one _has_ known him personally--certainly no woman-without

feeling the same interest. I can sincerely say, that although I have

frequently _heard_ of aberrations on his part from the 'straight and

narrow path,' I have never _seen_ him otherwise than gentle, generous,

well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and

delicately-nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in

the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he

invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which

first commanded and always retained my regard for him.

"I have been told, that when his sorrows and pecuniary embarrassments had

driven him to the use of stimulants, which a less delicate organization

might have borne without injury, he was in the habit of speaking

disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It is difficult for me

to believe this; for to _me_, to whom he came during the year of our

acquaintance for counsel and kindness in all his many anxieties and

griefs, he never spoke irreverently of any woman save one, and then only

in _my_ defense; and though I rebuked him for his momentary

forgetfulness of the respect due to himself and to me, I could not but

forgive the offense for the sake of the generous impulse which prompted

it. Yet even were these sad rumors true of him, the wise and

well-informed knew how to regard, as they would the impetuous anger of a

spoiled infant, balked of its capricious will, the equally harmless and

unmeaning phrensy of that stray child of Poetry and Passion. For the few

unwomanly and slander-loving gossips who have injured _him_ and

_themselves_ only by _repeating_ his ravings, when in such moods they

have accepted his society. I have only to vouchsafe my wonder and my

pity. They cannot surely harm the true and pure, who, reverencing his

genius, and pitying his misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by their

timely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad career.

"It was in his own simple yet poetical home, that to me the character of

Edgar Poe appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate,

witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child-for his young,

gentle, and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had, even in the

midst of his most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant

smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the

romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore, he would sit, hour after

hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing, in an exquisitely

clear chirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning

thoughts--the 'rare and radiant' fancies as they flashed through his

wonderful and ever-wakeful brain. I recollect, one morning, toward the

close of his residence in this city, when he seemed unusually gay and

light-hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me a pressing

invitation to come to them; and I, who never could resist her

affectionate summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his own

home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity-street. I found him just

completing his series of papers entitled 'The Literati of New York.'

'See,' said he, displaying, in laughing triumph, several little rolls of

narrow paper, (he always wrote thus for the press,) 'I am going to show

you, by the difference of length in these, the different degrees of

estimation in which I hold all you literary people. In each of these, one

of you is rolled up and fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me!' And

one by one they unfolded them. At last they came to one which seemed

interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one

end, and her husband to the opposite with the other. 'And whose

lengthened sweetness long drawn out is that?' said I. 'Hear her!' he

cried, 'just as if her little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself!'

"My first meeting with the poet was at the Astor House. A few days

previous. Mr. Willis had handed me, at the _table d'hote_, that strange

and thrilling poem entitled 'The Raven,' saying that the author wanted my

opinion of it. Its effect upon me was so singular, so like that of 'weird

unearthly music,' that it was with a feeling almost of dread, I heard he

desired an introduction. Yet I could not refuse without seeming

ungrateful, because I had just heard of his enthusiastic and partial

eulogy of my writings, in his lecture on American Literature. I shall

never forget the morning when I was summoned to the drawing-room by Mr.

Willis to receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, his dark

eyes flashing with the elective light of feeling and of thought, a

peculiar, an inimitable blending of sweetness and hauteur in his

expression and manner, he greeted me, calmly, gravely, almost coldly; yet

with so marked an earnestness that I could not help being deeply

impressed by it. From that moment until his death we were friends;

although we met only during the first year of our acquaintance. And in

his last words, ere reason had forever left her imperial throne in that

overtasked brain, I have a touching memento of his undying faith and

friendship.

"During that year, while traveling for my health, I maintained a

correspondence with Mr. Poe, in accordance with the earnest entreaties of

his wife, who imagined that my influence over him had a restraining and

beneficial effect. It _had_, as far as this--that having solemnly

promised me to give up the use of stimulants, he so firmly respected his

promise and me, as never once, during our whole acquaintance, to appear

in my presence when in the slightest degree affected by them. Of the

charming love and confidence that existed between his wife and himself,

always delightfully apparent to me, in spite of the many little poetical

episodes, in which the impassioned romance of his temperament impelled

him to indulge; of this I cannot speak too earnestly--too warmly. I

believe she was the only woman whom he ever truly loved; and this is

evinced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem lately written, called

Annabel Lee, of which she was the subject, and which is by far the most

natural, simple, tender and touchingly beautiful of all his songs. I have

heard it said that it was intended to illustrate a late love affair of

the author; but they who believe this, have in their dullness evidently

misunderstood or missed the beautiful meaning latent in the most lovely

of all its verses--where he says,

"'A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee,

So that her _high-born kinsmen_ came,

And bore her away from me.'

"There seems a strange and almost profane disregard of the sacred purity

and spiritual tenderness of this delicious ballad, in thus overlooking

the allusion to the _kindred angels_ and the heavenly _Father_ of the

lost and loved and unforgotten wife.

"But it was in his conversations and his letters, far more than in his

published poetry and prose writings, that the genius of Poe was most

gloriously revealed. His letters were divinely beautiful, and for hours I

have listened to him, entranced by strains of such pure and almost

celestial eloquence as I have never read or heard elsewhere. Alas! in the

thrilling words of Stoddard,

"'He might have soared in the morning light,

But he built his nest with the birds of night;

But he lie in dust, and the stone is rolled

Over the sepulcher dim and cold;

He has canceled the ill he has done or said,

And gone to the dear and holy dead.

Let us forget the path he trod,

And leave him now to his Maker, God.'"

The influence of Mr. Poe's aims and vicissitudes upon his literature, was

more conspicuous in his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all

that he wrote in the last two or three years--including much of his best

poetry,--was in some sense biographical: in draperies of his imagination,

those who take the trouble to trace his steps, will perceive, but

slightly concealed, the figure of himself. The lineaments here disclosed,

I think, are not different from those displayed in his biography, which

is but a filling up of the picture. Thus far the few criticisms of his

life or works that I have ventured have been suggested by the immediate

examination of the points to which they referred. I add but a few words

of more general description.

In person he was below the middle height, slenderly but compactly formed,

and in his better moments he had in an eminent degree that air of

gentlemanliness which men of a lower order seldom succeed in acquiring.

His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His

voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably

expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who

listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his

imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His

imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision

of genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply

defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected the

forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion,

built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest

grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty--so minutely

and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yielded to

him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations--till he

himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and

base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest

passion.

He was at all times a dreamer--dwelling in ideal realms--in heaven or

hell--peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. He

walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in

indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer, (never for

himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned,

but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his

idolatry;--or, with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with

anguish, and with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest

storms; and all night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds

and rains, would speak as if to spirits that at such times only could be

evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul

sought to forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him--close

by the Aidenn which were those he loved--the Aidenn which he might never

see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less

fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the

doom of death. He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his

will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some

controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of "The Raven" was probably much

more nearly than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate

with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. _He_ was that

bird's

"----unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden

bore--

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never--never more.'"

Every genuine author, in a greater or less degree, leaves in his works,

whatever their design, traces of his personal character; elements of his

immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we

read the pages of the "Fall of the House of Usher," or of "Mesmeric

Revelations," we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one,

and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the

idiosyncracies--of what was most remarkable and peculiar--in the author's

intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his

nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience

had deprived him of all faith, in man or woman. He had made up his mind

upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole

system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his

shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded

society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his

intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany,

while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of

honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian, in Bulwer's novel

of "The Caxtons." Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst

emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict

him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his

cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this

poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed

around him like a fiery atmosphere--had raised his constitutional

self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to

admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious--bad enough,

but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with

a cold repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers.

There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what was more

remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of

honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is

vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love of his

species; only the hard wish to succeed--not shine, not serve--succeed,

that he might have the right to despise a world which galled his

self-conceit.

* * * * *

"LAUGH AND GET FAT!"

BY JOHN KENYON

Lack we motives to laugh? Are not all things, anything, everything, to be

laughed at? And if nothing were to be seen, felt, heard, or understood,

we would laugh at it too! _Merry Beggars._

I.

There's nothing here on earth deserves

Half of the thought we waste about it,

And thinking but destroys the nerves,

When we could do so well without it:

If folks would let the world go round,

And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners,

Such doleful looks would not be found,

To frighten us poor laughing sinners.

Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

II.

One plagues himself about the sun,

And puzzles on, through every weather,

What time he'll rise,--how long he'll run,--

And when he'll leave us altogether;

Now matters it a pebble-stone,

Whether he shines at six or seven?

If they don't leave the sun alone,

At last they'll plague him out of heaven!

Never sigh when you can sing

But laugh, like me, at everything!

III.

Another spins from out his brains

Fine cobweb, to amuse his neighbors,

And gets, for all his toils and pains,

Reviewed, and laughed at for his labors:

Fame is _his_ star! and fame is sweet;

And praise is pleasanter than honey,--

I write at just so much a sheet,

And Messrs Longman pay the money!

Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

IV.

My brother gave his heart away

To Mercandests[*illegible], when he met her,

She married Mr. Ball one day--

He's gone to Sweden to forget her

I had a charmer, too--and sighed,

And raved all day and night about her;

She caught a cold, poor thing! and died,

And I--am just as fat without her

Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

V.

For tears are vastly pretty things,

But make one very thin and taper;

And sighs are music's sweetest strings,

But sound most beautiful--on paper!

"Thought" is the Sage's brightest star,

Her gems alone are worth his finding;

But as I'm not particular,

Please God! I'll keep on "never minding."

Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

VI.

Oh! in this troubled world of ours,

A laughter-mine's a glorious treasure;

And separating thorns from flowers,

Is half a pain and half a pleasure:

And why be grave instead of gay?

Why feel a-thirst while folks are quaffing?--

Oh! trust me, whatsoe'er they say,

There's nothing half so good as laughing!

Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

* * * * *

FROM THE GERMAN OF LENAU.

Over that ancient story grass has grown;

Myself, I scarce recall my own transgression;

Yet, when at twilight hour, I stray alone,

At times I feel as I could make confession.

But turning from the Past as all unknown.

I harbor in the Present! Such opression

Of futile sad remorse by me be flown!

Why summon bootless woes to Memory's session?

When Death, that scythesman stern, thy frame destroyeth,

He'll lop the grass, too, which thing actions covers.

And that forgotten deed shall cling about thee!

Back to the Past! Not vainly Care employeth

Labor and pain to pierce where Darkness hovers;

Till sin is slain within, it cannot die without thee!

THE LEADER.

* * * * *

EBBA:

OR THE EMIGRANTS IN SWEDEN.

TRANSLATION FOR THE INTERNATIONAL, FROM THE FRENCH OF X. MARMIER.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

Toward the end of November, in the year 1831, one of those rude sleighs,

met with in winter on all the roads of Sweden, passed rapidly along the

shores of the Gulf of Bothnia. For several hours the pale winter sun had

been like a lamp extinguished beneath the horizon. The skies, however,

had that transparent clearness which is one of the charms of the nights

of the north. Myriads of stars covered its surface with a network of

gold, and glittered again on the snow which covered the surface of the

earth. The wind was calm: space was silent. Nothing was heard but the

sounds of the hoofs of two horses attached to a light vehicle, and

occasionally the voice of the Swedish postillion, who from time to time

urged them on by a word of affectionate reproach, or a joyous eulogium. A

traveler sat in the sleigh, wrapped up in heavy furs, and from time to

time cast aside the folds of the cloak which covered him, to take a

thoughtful glance around him. A stranger in Sweden, he was traveling

through it, and during the last month had experienced a multitude of

emotions, altogether unexpected, and which seemed to increase as he drew

near the north. After having crossed the southern provinces of that

kingdom bounded by the Baltic, and those on the vast silver basin of Lake

Milar, seen Stockholm in all its pride, Upsal, the city of the ancient

gods, and Gébel, the active and industrious, he found himself amid a

region entirely silent, inanimate, and wrapped in a snowy pall. Soon he

penetrated the bosom of a long pine forest, the shafts of which seemed,

as it were, giants wrapped in cloaks of white. Now he ascended steep

hills, then rapidly hurried to the Gulf, the shores of which the waves

had made to look like point-lace, and looked up at the immense rocks on

which the waters broke.

Everywhere the same silence existed. Far in the distance a light was seen

to shine, either the glitter of a woodman's fire, or the midnight torch

kindled by some invalid. This light, fixed like a point in space, was but

another evidence of the isolation of man in these regions.

In this inanimateness of nature, in this sad uniformity of plains of

snow, in this desert of fields and woods, such sadness, such distress was

evident, that the heart of the traveler, who however was young and brave,

was filled with a kind of mysterious fear. Before him, among all the

other stars, shone that of the pole, that faithful light which is nightly

kindled like a pharos, and in the seasons of storm, smiles on the pilgrim

who has gone astray, and guides the navigator's steps. The stranger, for

a few instants, kept his eyes fixed on this benevolent light, as if to

find some relief to the impressions he had received from the melancholy

appearance of the earth. He then tapped the postillion on the shoulder,

and said to him, with the laconism compulsory on him from his knowledge

of the Swedish tongue, "_Aland?_" This was the name of the halting-place.

"_Intet tu,_" (not yet,) replied the postillion, as he took his arm from

the sheepskin which surrounded his shoulders. At the same time he cracked

his whip, as if to show how impatient he was to reach his halting-place.

The animals, thus excited, set forth at a long gallop across that portion

of the Gulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen had to a degree

leveled the snow, and ascended with much difficulty a hill covered by

trees at least a hundred years old. At the extremity of this forest, the

postillion turned toward the traveler, and with his finger pointed out to

him a spot so distant that it could be distinguished with difficulty.

"_Aland!_" said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouraged his

horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehended that this was

the last effort which would be required of them before they reached their

destination.

The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast wooden house. When the

driver cracked his whip, when the sound of the bells was heard, the door

opened, and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected. A servant

advanced to meet him, with a lantern in his hand, and led him through a

long corridor, introducing him into a room where a man with gray hair sat

in an arm-chair.

"My uncle!" said the traveler, rushing toward him.

"Ireneus, my dear child!" said the old man. They stood in silence,

clasped in each other's arms, until the old man, taking the young one by

the hand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning, looked at

him with complaisance, and said, "It is indeed yourself--it is the

likeness of my poor brother: the same eyes, the same proud and resolute

air. You look as he did thirty years ago, when he was about to cast

himself amid the dangers of war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for

the last time."

"My dear uncle," said Ireneus, "instead of the brother you have lost, a

son comes to you. In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you.

That duty I shall be glad to discharge."

"The very sound of his voice!" continued the old man, who still looked at

him; "the very sparkle of his eye! No painter could have made a more

exact portrait. May you, however, have a far different destiny. Fatality

weighs on the family of Vermondans. May you, the only vigorous offshoot

of that old race of soldiers, already stricken by misfortune, already an

exile from your country, never learn, as your father and I did, how

bitter is the bread of the stranger--how difficult it is to go up and

down the stranger's staircase. But what do I say? You are in another

father's house. You come to it like a long-expected child, and you meet

with two sisters." Then going toward the door of another room, he said,

"Ebba, Alete, come to welcome your cousin."

Two young girls entered immediately. One of them was lively and active,

with black eyes and a ruddy complexion; the other pale, fair, and

delicate. The first gave her hand gaily to Ireneus, and kissed him on

both cheeks; the other advanced timidly, and with downcast eyes, leaning

her brow forward to be kissed.

"My dear cousins," said Ireneus, "my mother would have been delighted, as

I am, to have seen you; but being unable to make this long journey in

Sweden, has sent you at least a token of her affection." As he spoke, he

took from his pocket a little morocco box, which the agile Alete took and

opened with eagerness.

"What pretty ear-rings!" said she; "what a charming ring! See that little

blue cross, and the bracelet set with emeralds. Such jewels are made only

in Paris. Come look at them, Ebba!"

During all this time, Ebba stood aside motionless and silent. She then

approached the table on which her sister had displayed the jewels, and

looked at them without speaking.

"Is not this pretty?" said Alete. "We must divide them; and as I have a

lover who will make it a point of honor to give me as many ornaments as

my whim dictates and his fortune will permit, I wish you to take the

larger part."

"No," said Ebba, with a voice soft as that of a child, "as you are about

to be married you should have all as a wedding present. If you will

however let me keep this little cross, I shall be very grateful."

Alete, who under the mask of frivolity concealed a tender and delicate

heart, sought in vain to overcome the modesty of her sister; and finally,

with much reluctance, received three-quarters of the jewel-case.

"Now, young ladies," said their father, who had been an observer of this

contest of generosity, "remember that your cousin has made a long

journey. See if his room is in order and if supper is ready; for when one

has passed the whole day in crossing our snow-plains, some comfort is

required."

"They are good and affectionate children," continued the father, when

they had gone out. "The eldest is a gipsy who delights me with her

gayety; the youngest often moves me even to tears. Her mother died in

giving birth to her. The poor girl seems constantly under the influence

of the misfortune which presided over her birth.

"None of the things in which girls of her age delight, please or excite

her. Her silent and retiring life, seems one long act of resignation.

She finds interest in story and books alone. She has learned three or

four languages, and read all the books either here or at the parsonage.

When, however, she is in society, one would fancy her a very ignorant

person, so little does she say and so anxious does she appear to conceal

her information. Her modesty is disturbed by no vanity, and the placidity

of her meditations is interrupted by no vulgar commotion. One might

almost fancy her a stranger to this world, indifferent to its

calculations, lost to its joys, and submitting without effort to its

sorrows. I have never seen her smile, but I have never heard her

complain. Delicate and weak, the paleness of her face, the languor of her

appearance, betray a physical suffering she herself denies.

"As soon as she perceives that I remark any indisposition in her, her

countenance becomes illuminated by a gentle light, her lips are gilded

with a sweet smile, as if she begged me to excuse the uneasiness she had

inspired me with.

"Forgive me, dear Ireneus, for this unscrupulous thrusting on you of my

paternal egotism. I should first have inquired after you and your hopes

which were crushed so soon. Ebba, however, is ever a cause of anxiety to

me."

Ireneus replied to this confidence by cordially clasping his hand. Just

at that moment it was announced that the table was served.

"Come," said the old man, "you will not find here the gastronomical

niceties of Paris. Like plain country people, we live on the produce of

the soil. A good bottle of old beer, however, has some merit, and

varieties of game are found in our forests, for which the _gourmets_ of

Paris would willingly exchange their hares and partridges."

Ireneus sat between his two cousins, and his youthful appetite, sharpened

by the journey he had made, delighted the old man. As he ate large slices

of the haunch of a reindeer, and drank cup after cup of a savory beer,

prepared with particular care by Alete, he contrived to look at the young

girls on each side of him.

The eldest, always in motion, waited on her cousin and her father, went

to the kitchen, sat again at the table, and when she laughed disclosed

two rows of pearl between her rose-colored lips. She was indeed a

charming girl, round and dimpled as a child, fresh and gay as a bird,

with every gesture graceful, though she was a little espiegle and

coquettish. Her coquetry, however, was naive and chaste, of a kind which

in many women is but the amiable manifestation of a sentiment of

benevolence, and an innocent desire to be agreeable.

Ireneus took pleasure in looking at her, and as she immediately acquired

self-possession, she conferred the same privilege on others. She already

jested with him as if he had been an old friend, and he felt himself

as unconstrained as if he had passed his whole life with her. When,

however, he looked at Ebba, it was with strange emotion. Nothing in his

whole life had ever touched him so. The countenance of the young girl

had a cold marble whiteness, making it assume the appearance of a statue,

wrought in the most artistic manner.

Two long tresses of yellow hair fell over her cheeks, and disclosed a

brow of ideal serenity. Her pale face was lit up with eyes clear as

crystal, and blue and deep as lakes reflecting the skies. Any one who had

once looked into her eyes could not forget them. Often they drooped

beneath the lids, like a heart overcome with grief sheltering itself

beneath a cloud. When they were lifted up no earthly desire animated

them, and in their vague radiation they seemed to look into the infinite.

There are plants which the dew and sun do not completely develop. There

are beings like weak plants, attached to earth by but feeble roots, and

who from their very birth seem predestined to misfortune, and who, by

a kind of second-sight, made aware of the fate which awaits them, attach

themselves with fear and trembling to a world in which they anticipate

only an ephemeral existence and cruel deception. Their sadness is

reflected on those who approach them. There is as it were a fatal circle

around them, in which all feel themselves seized with indescribable fear,

and with the evidences of sympathy entertained for them is mingled a kind

of commiseration.

Ireneus experienced at the appearance of Ebba this sentiment of

uneasiness and melancholy sympathy. When after supper he bade adieu to

his uncle and cousins, when he was alone in his room, he smiled when he

remembered the amiable gayety of Alete, but became sad and pensive when

he recalled the dreamy look of her young sister, the sad melancholy

glance which shone over her face like the twilight of an autumn day.

Ireneus was not however one of those sentimental beings belonging to the

Byronic or German school. His mind was rather energetic than tender; it

was rather ardent than despairing. The son of a brave country gentleman

who had devoted fortune and life to the cause of legitimacy, and after

having followed the princes in their various emigrations, had died for

them in the wilderness of la Vendée. Ireneus had been the inheritor of

that obstinate will which never deviates from the end it proposes to

itself, and of a chivalric worship of the Royal family, which to him

seemed by a law divine to be invested with the imprescriptible right to

govern France. Of the large fortune which formerly belonged to his

family, the revolution had left him but a dilapidated castle, a few

fields and forests, the revenue of which scarcely sufficed to support his

mother in comfort.

The condition of his fortune did not permit him to lead an idle life. His

birth made his profession certain. He entered Saint-Cyr, and left it with

the best possible recommendations. He could also appeal to the traditions

of his fathers services. Through the union of these two claims he was so

rapidly advanced that at twenty-eight he was already Captain of the

Lancers of the Guard, with an honorable name, a handsome person, some

intelligence and that elegance of manners inherent in the class to which

he belonged, and which to us is known as the aristocracy, the young

nobleman might without presumption anticipate a brilliant future. His

mother amid the silence of her provincial castle followed him step by

step, with pride, and her solitary dreams saw him the husband of a rich

heiress, Colonel and aide-de-camp of a prince, deputy and peer of France.

Who can tell how vague were the hopes entertained in relation to that

child in whom all her hopes were centered!

His mother was lost in this study and observation of castles in the air,

when the revolutions of July burst forth like a thunderbolt, and at one

blow overturned all her aerial edifices.

Ireneus was at Paris when this terrible contest, the result of which was

the overturning of a monarchy, began with the crushing of a throne. He

fought with the ardor inspired at once by his love of legitimacy and his

innate horror of the revolutionary flag. On the first day he had the

honor of resisting with his company a numerous body of insurgents, and

succeeded in protecting the post which had been confided to him. On the

second day, after a desperate contest, the danger of which served only to

magnify his courage, he fell from his horse with a ball through his

chest. His soldiers who were devoted to him bore him to a house where he

was kindly treated. A few hours after, a General who had seen him in the

battle, sent him the brevet of Major. It was an empty honor, for the hand

which signed this promotion soon renounced all human grandeur and all

command.

The wound of Ireneus was severe. The kind attentions however which

surrounded, protected him from danger of death. As soon as he was

beginning to grow well, he went to his mother's house, where his cure

was completed. There he heard of the new exile of those for whom his

father had shed his blood and of the establishment of the new monarchy.

Many of his friends were soon induced to connect themselves with the new

monarchy which retained them in service, and even conferred special

compliments on them, and they wrote to induce him to follow their

example. Such a thought never entered his mind. Without partaking of the

exaggerated hatred of many of the Legitimists against the new monarchy,

he had stated that he would never serve it. He was not a man to violate a

promise. But he was subject to the danger of inactivity, the greatest

torment of active and strong minds. As an ambitious man examines with

great uneasiness the path which leads him to power, as the speculator

contemplates the capricious whims of fortune, as the young officer

waiting orders looks in every direction for action, did Ireneus. More

than once he resolved to join his fortunes with those of the exiled

princes in the arena of public opinion. They however had submitted to

their fate, and no longer appealed to their faithful servants. The time

of Royal crusades had gone by. Sovereigns made uneasy by the

effervescence of revolutions, which like a contagion spread over Europe,

had enough to do to secure their own thrones, and had no disposition to

ruin themselves in lifting up that of a neighbor.

Madame de Vermondans, after striving in vain to amuse her son, induced

him to visit his uncle in Sweden, hoping that travel would restore quiet

to his mind. It was one of those healthful remedies which often escape

the observation of science, and are suggested only by the ingenuity of

tenderness. Nothing in certain moral diseases is more efficacious than

travel. He who after having enjoyed all the emotions of active life,

finds himself at once condemned to the sterility of idleness, suffers

under a perpetual fever. Within him there is as it were an ever-acting

spring he strives with a constant effort to repress.

His intellectual and physical faculties, his imagination, his senses seek

to resume their old power. If the forces with which he is endowed, if the

abundant grasp of his mind are paralyzed in their motion, these forces

weigh on him like a useless burden. Soon in consequence of the internal

contest he has undergone, the constant desires he has given vent to, from

the very exuberance of life, which finding no outlet, recoils on itself,

he becomes a victim of the demon of satiety. To escape from its rude

grasp, air and space are required. The victim must be borne from the

narrow circle within which he is riveted as by a chain, which clasps his

frame. He must shake from himself every chimera, and to enable him to

forget himself, the aspect of strange lands, of scenes and pictures

which one after the other exhibit themselves before him, all that

forcibly attracts the attention, all that occupies the mind in a new

land, material cares, unexpected incidents, the surprises of travel, and

yet more the magical influence of nature, are required to restore tone to

the sick soul.

Ireneus had really experienced the effect of this moral remedy. In his

journey across Germany and the North, he had not recovered his early

impetus, his natural ardor, but he at least felt himself master of

himself. He reached his uncle's house in the happiest possible

disposition of mind.

When he arose on the next day, he took occasion to remark the delicate

Precaution taken to render his sojourn pleasant as possible. The

furniture of maple or birch was plain, but wonderfully neat; the bed

linen was of snowy whiteness and purity; and perfumed by aromatic plants

with which in the drawers it had been strewed. Here and there were a few

choice engravings, and on the floor was a carpet woven by his two

cousins.

At the very dawn of day a servant came to open the earthen stove, which

stood on the hearth like a vast column, and placed in it an armfull of

the pitch pine, which sent out jets of flame and a perfume which filled

the whole room. Double windows protected this room also against the

severity of the weather. Between them was a bed of flocks of wool on

which the young girls had placed artificial flowers, as if to preserve in

the nudity of winter the smiling image of spring. Here windows looked out

on a landscape which in the summer time must have presented a charming

aspect. The house of M. Vermondans stood on a hill, on the brow of which

was a breast of pines. In front of the principal façade was a garden with

a proclivity toward the lake, which was surrounded and sheltered by a

belt of trees. In the distance the peasants' houses were seen, the tall

clock spire of Aland, and far in the distance the chimneys of the furnace

belonging to M. de Vermondans. At this moment, the plain, the

snow-covered woods, the frozen lake presented one uniform color. Any one,

however, might see they would present beautiful landscapes, when the sun

called forth the field-flowers, made the forests lifeful, and gilded the

water.

Ireneus went to his uncle's room. He found the old man rested in an arm

chair, with his legs crossed and a long pipe in his mouth.

M. de Vermondans was not one of those persons who willingly distress

themselves about what the poets call the miseries of human life. He took

things as they came, and enjoyed prosperity without imagining future

troubles.

While young, he had fought with his brothers the battles of legitimacy.

Like his brother, he entertained a mortal hatred for revolutionary

rabble: gradually, like many others, he had begun to reason on the

matter, and become so tolerant that his doctrines reached the point

almost of carelessness. Just as her [sic] nephew came in, he was

reflecting and _quasi_ confirmed in the wisdom of his principles. "Yes,"

said he, as if he continued a conversation already begun, "yes, my

friend, I am as much opposed as you are to a stormy revolution. I left my

father's house, I abandoned my patrimony to accompany our princes into

exile. I have fought for them, in their holy cause I received a sabre cut

on the arm, which every now and then, by a very disagreeable sensation,

recalls my youthful patriotism to me. Soon, however, the idle pretensions

of my comrades, the disputes of our chiefs, repressed my ardor. I left

one of the cohorts in which reason was treated as treachery, and where

boasting alone was listened to with complacency. There firmness and

complaisance were paralyzed now by erroneous movements and next by

contradictory orders. A faithful servant contrived to save a portion of

my estate, and at the peril of his own life brought me twenty thousand

francs in gold. With this sum I came to Sweden, knowing that here

everything was cheap, and determined to buy a small estate on which I

might live, until I could find an opportunity of serving to some purpose

that cause to which my heart was devoted, and which I had never yet

entirely abandoned.

"At Stockholm one of those strange rencontres which we attribute to

chance, but which the pious with more propriety think originate in

Providence, made me acquainted with a land-holder in Angermania, named

Guldberg, as good a man as ever lived. I am indebted to him for all my

prosperity, and I bless his memory. M. Guldberg had discovered a rich

mineral deposit on his estate, was anxious to establish a furnace, and

sought for some one to aid him in his enterprise. In the course of my

studies I had acquired some ideas of hydraulics and mechanics, trifling

enough it is true, but one day conversation having been directed to these

matters, Guldberg, who knew even less than I did, appeared delighted with

my explanations, and asked me to aid him in his projected enterprise.

Without reflecting more than he did when he made the offer, I consented.

I came hither with him: I superintended the construction and the first

labor of the furnace you see glowing there. I was not unlike the ignorant

teacher who studies in the morning the lesson he teaches in the

afternoon. I made more than one unfortunate experiment. I committed more

than one error, but at last I got our establishment under way. Guldberg

had suffered patiently, and never complained of the mistakes I had made,

and now appeared most grateful for my success. He very generously offered

me a share of the profits of an enterprise which from the very

commencement promised the most favorable results. From this time

commences a series of derogations I now look on as so many wise

resolutions, but which many would look on as acts of apostasy. Here I am,

a French noble, with I know not how many illustrious quarters,

compromising my escatcheon in an industrial occupation. This was the

first derogation. Guldberg had an only daughter, very interesting, and

who pleased me. She had the kindness to show that I was not disagreeable;

she however had not a drop of noble blood, not even a single quartering.

I married her, much to your father's discontent. That was my second

derogation. This woman during her life was the very impersonation of

virtue, but was a protestant, and asked me as a favor that if our

children were female, they might be educated in her faith. My two

daughters believe as their mother did. That is the third derogation.

"An honest young fellow has courted the eldest of these girls. He is the

son of a priest, and will go into orders himself if he does not become

professor of a college. I saw my dear Alete had confidence in him. I

consented that she should marry a plebeian and a heretic. In this was

comprised the fourth and fifth derogation. I suffered the revolutionary

crisis of France to pass without exciting me: I have learned through the

papers that our dear country, the most intelligent in the world, has

successively adulated and cursed the bloody tyranny of Robespiere, the

gallantry of Barras, the Consulate, Empire and the Revolution.

"When the lilies replaced the tricolor, and the amiable people of Paris

cast themselves before the troops of the white-horse of Monsieur, with

the same enthusiasm they had a few years before manifested at the

appearance of the proud charger of the conqueror of Wagram and Jena, I

remained here and never changed my colors: I never cried 'down with the

Corsican Ogre.' Smoking my pipe in peace, I watched my furnace, smiled on

my children and my harvests, in the sunlight of Sweden, which would be so

delightful if it were a little less rare. This was another and a terrible

derogation.

"Gradually, however, dear Ireneus, I built up a faith to suit myself,

found, I think, in the works of no philosopher (I read but little), but

which yet seems to me a very good rule of conduct, inasmuch as it leaves

the conscience at ease and makes me as happy as any one can be in this

valley of tears. I therefore think, dear Ireneus, that in our benevolence

we make monsters of certain ideas which we imbibe when we are children,

and to which, without examination, we always submit ourselves. I think

that without violating any true principle of morality, without ceasing to

be, in any respect, a moral man, we may break some links of that network

of traditions spun for us by our teachers at so much an hour, and which

throws a hood over us as it is thrown over a falcon, to keep it from

flying in the infinitude of space. I respect every sincere belief, even

hat which I look on as a prejudice, and I insist that my own be

respected. As a conclusion of my profession of faith, I am willing to

admit that even a republican convinced of the justness of his opinions

appears as reasonable to me as a monarchist, and that a quaker or

Calvinist is as near heaven as the devout Catholic.

"When my mind lifts itself up toward God, I imagine him the

representative and originater of all good, and I am convinced that the

surest way to approach him, to merit his favor and win his blessing, is,

in the circle in which we are, whether large or small, to do as much good

as possible. I say, that the workingman, who toils for a short time to

assist his invalid neighbor, acquires more merit than the rich man, who

with an icy hand casts his coin into the lap of the indigent. I have the

audacity to think that a king, who in the splendor of his court is

forgetful of the suffering of his people; that a noble, who abandons

himself to all the enjoyments of his fortune, forgetful of misery

languishing at his castle gate, are great criminals; and that God will

punish their misdeeds, either on them, or, as the Bible says, 'on their

children even until the fourth and fifth generation.'"

Ireneus, who had listened in silence to this long profession of faith,

asked himself if it was worth while to contradict it. The words of his

uncle were contradictory of one of those doctrines, which are the more

difficult to shake, as they have their hold in the philosophy of the

heart, and are fenced around with many noble sentiments. His loyalty,

however, seemed to require some reply, and he spoke as follows:

"I understand well enough, my dear uncle, the chain of circumstances

which has led you almost to lay aside the principles which now seem

prejudices to you. I myself willingly immolate on the altar of new ideas

that pride of nobility which delights in the study of old parchments, and

makes a kind of fetish of scutcheons carved on the walls of an ancient

castle. I condemn as a foolish error, the airs of superiority affected by

old nobles in respect to merit sprung from the people; and if, in the

opinion of my father, your marriage with the daughter of your friend,

seemed a degradation, forgive him. Remember that he died at an epoch of

strife and convulsion in which every noble defended, with the greatest

possible ardor, the prerogatives of his rank, which he saw were attacked

by the maddest passion, and were in danger of being lost. Since then we

have made much progress. The barriers which formerly divided society into

two classes have been destroyed, space has been opened for every one to

carve his own way, and the people participate in governments, and in the

royal councils.

"The majority of the ministers of the Restoration were chosen from among

the people. In relation to this, I admit all the reasonings of the

philosophers of the eighteenth century, and of the liberals of our own

times. In them I find expansion of heart, intelligence, and I care not

for genealogy. The qualities of mind, grace and beauty seem to me signs

of distinction marked by the finger of God, who is wiser far than

D'Hozier.[A] I cannot, however, forget that this race of nobles, so

cruelly persecuted thirty years ago, so often trampled on in our own

times, was the glory and the power of France. I was forced with pain to

see with what incessant malignity this race, though stripped of its

ancient power, was attacked. I have often said that in sapping the

foundations of the aristocratic edifice, that in crushing the legitimacy

of the nobles, an attack was made on the legitimacy of monarchy. The

revolution just over has but too well justified my apprehensions. This

revolution which by a species of criminal conversion, selects one of the

old royal blood to occupy the throne of the exile, which selects the one

nearest the throne, is perhaps but the first of a series of convulsions,

in which will be engulfed, by ambition and pride, the wisdom and

experience of the past."

[Footnote A: A genealogist of great repute in France, twenty years

since.]

This conversation between the uncle and nephew was interrupted by the

sound of a horse's hoofs, dragging a sleigh rapidly toward the door of

the house.

"That is beyond doubt my future son-in-law," said M. de Vermondans,

"another philosopher, who, like yourself, does not in every respect agree

with you. He is, however, a good fellow, who under a by no means

aristocratic exterior conceals the noblest qualities."

When she heard the sleigh, Alete ran to the door sill; and Ebba followed

him. At the appearance of the two sisters, like a rose and a lily, the

young man hastened to divest himself of the thick fur which enwrapped

him, sprang from the sleigh, and hastened to his betrothed. He had not,

however, remembered the caprice of Alete, who, instead of giving him her

hand as usual, looked sternly at him, and said:

"Sir, you are incorrigible. How comes that waistcoat to be buttoned

wrong? And why has that cravat wings, like those of a crow? Why does your

shirt-collar come up to your ears? Is this the fruit of the lessons on

the toilette, which I have so often given you? Did I not also order you

to attend to your hair, and not let it fall on your shoulder, like two

bundles of flax, in disorder? You do not know that we have here a cousin

from Paris, who will take you for a Goth, or the Lord knows what."

The poor young man, stupefied at this reception, looked down

mechanically, with his hand on his waistcoat and his cravat, and did not

dare to approach his rigorous mistress.

"Alete, Alete," said Ebba, with a voice of supplication, "how can you be

so cruel!"

Alete, satisfied beyond doubt by the respectful submission with which her

Reproaches had been received, sprang to the neck of her betrothed, and

said,

"But I love my dear Eric truly. If I sometimes play the magnificent with

him, it is to make him think that he has himself, in a noble epistle,

called me his sovereign. Is not this so, Eric?" added she, leaning toward

him like a petted child. "Do you not weary of my little wickednesses? At

present, you see, I use the remnant of my liberty: when we are married,

however, I shall be a model of obedience."

The face of Eric had already become lighted up, and he kissed with

pleasure the little hand placed in his.

Alete seemed to fear nothing so much as these sentimental manifestations,

and took him into the room where the uncle and nephew had their political

contest, and pausing before Ireneus, said,

"Cousin, permit me to introduce to you M. Eric Goldberg, Doctor of the

University of Upsal, and a learned Grecian, who never in his life read a

single line of the _Journal des Modes_, and cannot conceive of the

difference between a good and bad tailor; who would not know how to hold

a fan; or to perform a contradance, but who, in spite of all that, is one

of the best fellows in the world, and is devoted to your cousin."

After this singular introduction, a faint blush spread over the face of

the young doctor. A clasp of the hand, and an affectionate word, however,

from Ireneus, put an end to all embarrassment.

"A strange girl," said M. de Vermondans, following Alete with his eye as

she hurried to the kitchen to take charge of the preparations for dinner.

"Is not that an odd introduction of her husband and lover? She never does

things, however, like other people. Be seated, dear Eric, though, and

tell me why we have not seen you for three days. We had began to be

uneasy about you, and Alete often looked toward the window. Had you not

come to-day, I should have sent to ask the reason."

"My father has been a little unwell," replied Eric; as he placed his

hands, made red by the cold, near the stove. "I had to remain to assist

him in some of his duties, and to amuse him by reading to him. This

morning, as I learned that Monsieur--Monsieur--"

"Say at once your cousin," said Ireneus, frankly.

"That my cousin" resumed the timid Eric, with more confidence, "had

arrived, I was unwilling to remain longer away, and my father was kind

enough not to wish to retain me."

As the Upsal student pronounced these few simple words, Ireneus observed

him, and discovered in his face such an expression of kindness, and in

his clear blue eyes such intelligence that he felt a real sympathy for

him.

"I thank you," said he, "for thinking of me before you knew me. I hope

that when we shall be acquainted you will grant me a portion of the love

you have conferred on my family. I am already disposed to love you as a

cousin."

"Ah!" cried Eric, springing up, and glancing at Ireneus with an

expression of radiant joy, "how happy I am at what you say! I was afraid.

I will confess, that I might find in you one of those careless men of the

world, as we hear most of the Parisians are. I see, however, you are a

worthy nephew of him I shall soon call uncle."

"Gentlemen," said Alete, who from the door had, with a pleasant smile on

her face, heard this amicable exchange of sentiments, "will you be

pleased to come to dinner?"

"Have they any caviar?" asked M. de Vermondans.

"Certainly, and as good as possible."

"Then we can give this Parisian a complete specimen of the gastronomical

refinements of our out-kitchen."

"You must know, Ireneus," said he, as he led his nephew to a little table

placed in the corner of the dining-room, "that we do not commerce our

meal as the rest of the world does. Our good ancestors certainly

discovered, that the walls of the stomach being contracted by cold,

needed to be refreshed by something spirituous, and from time to time

this estimable precaution has been perpetuated in the country. We will

therefore first take a glass of this brandy, and then a cake of this

caviar, a few anchovies, and a slice or two of ham, after which we will

really sit at the festal board, where the soup, to which you assign the

first rank, appears only as a secondary entree, after many culinary

preparations."

This was done to the great amusement of Ireneus, who really would have

taken for the dinner itself the prelude to it.

When they had sat down, Alete undertook to put him through a course of

national gastronomy.

"What do you think," asked she, "of the fish to which my father has just

helped you?"

"They are very good," replied Ireneus, "and resemble smelts."

"What do you mean by smelts? They are doubtless some tasteless product of

your warm rivers. Know, Monsieur, that these are stroemlings, the finest

and most delicate fish in the icy waters of the north. This other fish,

which glows like a piece of gold in its porcelain plate, you would find

it difficult to call by the correct name. It is a salmon, caught by a

skillful hand, and smoked with particular care. Near you is the tongue of

a reindeer, prepared by a Laplander, unrivaled in this useful art. This

bird, which yet looks fixedly at you with open eyes, though it died two

days ago, you might fancy a barn-door fowl, fattened up by the cook. Not

so: it is the briar-cock, the honor of our forests. The two fowls in that

dish are not a pair of vulgar pullets, but succulent grouse. I will not

mention that haunch of sanglier, which, however, is worthy of a royal

table; nor of those vegetables, which strangers say are nowhere as finely

flavored as they are in our loved Sweden; nor of those berries, gathered

last fall on the sides of our hills. Pay some attention, however, to that

bread which you break so carelesely with your fingers. It is not coarse

and heavy, like that of other countries. It is our _kneach-brad_,

delicate and light as a sheet of paper, and white as the purest flour."

"Have you done?" said M. de Vermondans; "and can you not, as an

accompaniment to so many exquisite things, bring us a bottle of claret?"

"Wrong again." said Alete; "as if this beer, prepared from the best

barley, the most perfumed hops, yellow as the Baltic, amber and pure as

spring-water, was not more valuable than the coarse red fluid you send to

such a distance for."

"I agree with you," said Ireneus, who in his turn wished to laugh at the

young girl. "It seems to me, that when seated in front of the riches of

the north, it would be a profanation to pour out a libation in a foreign

beverage. This beer has besides so excellent a flavor, that were there

anything like it in France, it is probable that the owners of the Clos de

Vaugeot and Medoc would root out their vines to make room for hops and

barley."

"You are laughing at me, dear cousin," said Alete; "take care, however."

"Peste!" said M. de Vermondans, "any one who knows you would be rash

indeed to excite your ceaseless babble. I do not think that Ireneus, who

has more than once proved his courage, is bold enough for that."

"Two royal officers contending against a poor country-girl," said Alete.

"We are not fairly matched, and I will go for the claret."

It was wrong for Alete to leave just then, for the conversation, which

hitherto had been gaily sustained, immediately began to languish, and

assumed a direction which compelled her to silence.

Ireneus complained of the inroad of democratic ideas, of the trembling

and fall of aristocratic institutions, of the authority of right divine,

which in his chivalric enthusiasm he looked on as the basis of society.

"Ah," replied Eric, with a tone of voice which seemed aroused by a

feeling of affection, "this holy authority will lift itself up from the

level of the popular waves which threaten to overwhelm it. It will appear

clear and brilliant as our polar star, above the clouds which now

surround it. It would subsist in all its power, if it were exercised by

men who comprehended the holy duties it imposed on them. Everything

connected with this primitive law, with this noble image of patriarchal

government, would yet exist, if each member of the great social family

would contemplate from a just point of view his own condition, and carry

out the consequences in a Christian-like manner.

"Charity, that is to say love and compassion, the two expressions in

which are summed up all the joys and miseries of human life, are two

virtues, ennobling and consoling man. Let the rich man be charitable to

the servant he has subjected to his will, toward the poor man who begs of

him. Let him say every day, as he awakes, every night as he prepares

himself for repose, that the more powerful he has been made by

Providence, the greater is the obligation he is under to aid and protect

those around him. In his turn, let the poor man be charitable to the

rich; let him know that no rock of marble, no gilded platform can rescue

the prince from mortal anxiety, and that human grief is found beneath the

imperial purple as well as wrapped in rags, and that often the noble,

surrounded by riches and at the festal board, is forced to envy the

humble hut and obscure repose of the coal-burner.

"If ever," pursued Eric, with an accent of enthusiasm, "I shall be called

to expound the word of God, this especially shall be the text of my

sermons: Charity! Charity! By charity I do not mean the habit of

extending the hand, which by a kind of instinctive motion, lets alms fall

in the blind man's basket, nor the graceful action of a lady who at

certain hours leaves the saloon to visit the garret. True charity

consists not so much in material aid as in the gifts of the heart; and

every individual, humble as he may be, may perform a precious act of

charity. To pay correct esteem to a poor man who has been calumniated;

to revive hope in a mind overpowered by misfortune and tortured by doubt;

to console by kind words a soul mistaken and suffering from errors; each

of these is a charity. To be mild and kind to all who approach you, to be

indulgent to those blinded by the glitter of prosperity, to be kind and

affectionate even when an effort is required to be so, to open a

sympathizing heart to all complainings, to all diseases, to all human

errors, is the way to gain daily the choicest opportunities of charity.

To be charitable is to be good. One of your illustrious writers,

Bernardin de Saint Pierre, said, 'Were every one to regulate his own

house, order would be the law of nature.' We may also say, were each one

to do good, universal happiness would be certain."

"Dear, dear Eric," said Alete, clasping his hand. Then as if she

reproached herself for this emotion, she suddenly withdrew it and said,

"You need not get into the pulpit to preach a very edifying sermon. You

treat us already as your future parishioners, and honor my cousin in the

same manner. Since you have begun, will you not complete his education?

That beautiful France, the wit and learning of which is so much extolled,

exhibits a haughty disdain of the science of other lands. I am sure my

cousin knows very little of the history of Sweden,--that magnificent

chronicle which in its royal genealogies dates from the deluge. You can

teach him. My learned sister Ebba will also teach him Swedish, the most

beautiful and harmonious tongue in the world, and certainly the oldest,

since savans have proven that Adam and Eve spoke it in Paradise. I also

wish to do my duty, and will guide my cousin in the study of natural

history of grouse and briar-cock, and the aromatic plants which grow on

our hillsides."

"You jest," said Ireneus, "but I seriously adopt your proposition."

"Bah! bah!" cried M. de Vermondans. "He would be a pretty Captain of

Lancers if he were to subject himself to pedagogues, like a school-boy,

and study themes and versions like a college lad."

"Excuse me, my dear uncle, the most unpleasant thing in the world to me

is to be idle. Since circumstances condemn me to inactivity, I would, if

possible, employ my time usefully. I shall be very grateful to Eric and

my cousins, if they will give me the instruction I need so much. I shall

be delighted to study the history of Sweden, a language spoken by persons

I love better than any in the world, and the products of the soil of

Which Alete is the amiable Buffon."

"So be it," said M. de Vermondans, who, in spite of his eclecticism in

politics, had, with a strange mental contradiction, preserved in relation

to certain things very deeply rooted ideas, "So be it. In my time people

took up no such fancies--more than one _emigre_ passed ten years of his

life in a foreign country, and never learned to speak its language. The

young men of our times are not like those of to-day. The world, which

when I knew it was so gay and careless, which from its very recklessness

and its choleric daring was so interesting, now looks to me like a vast

school. Its atmosphere, formerly impregnated with perfumes, is now

saturated with the atmosphere of dusty tomes and damp newspapers. We meet

with no one but persons anxious either to teach or learn. What will

become of us if we give way to this pedantic pride? If we surrender to

this anxiety to analyze everything? If we go on so, to suit us, God will

be compelled to make a new world, to give occupation to the lofty fancies

of naturalists and physical philosophers, who seem to me to have weighed

and examined this thoroughly.

"Bah! bah! Mademoiselle the philosopher," said M. de Vermondans, as he

saw Ebba smile, "I am not ignorant that just now I talk very much like a

heretic. You have delighted in reading a multitude of books. I excuse

you, however, because you never boast of your acquisitions.

"You do not belong to those blue-stockings, and I have met many such,

who, as soon as you approach them, throw at your head the name of a poet

like a bomb-shell, and exhibit the wealth of their arsenal by firing a

philosophical cannon, or algebraic chain shot.

"May God almighty keep me from those women who forget in this manner the

natural graces of their sex. Let him protect me from those Laureates who

can see no natural phenomenon without crying out with stupid

satisfaction, 'I know the reason.'

"Imagine how delighted I should be, if when enjoying the delicious luxury

of sunset, some bachelor of arts should say--

"'Monsieur, will you suffer me to explain how various clouds assume the

colors which so vividly impress you, and with what rapidity light comes

to the eye?'

"For heaven's sake let me enjoy in peace all the gifts of Providence,

admire its works in the innocence of my heart, and discover by what

geometrical process God has regulated the form of the globe, and to what

pallet, to use the painter's phrase, he has ground his colors."

"There you express a pious and respectable sentiment, which, however,

permit me to say, cannot be admitted without some qualification. We must

not forget that the greatest gift with which God has endowed man is

intelligence, and that one of our first duties is to attempt to develop

that intelligence by means of every faculty and all the means of

application with which he has endowed us."

"Good. If you were sure that you would not lose yourself amid temptation,

or, if like Tobias, you had an angel to guide you in the stormy voyage

you undertake. Into what derangement of pride has not man fallen, from

the fabulous Prometheus, who sought to snatch fire from heaven, to the

Philosophers of the eighteenth century, who extinguished fire in the

lights of their reason. Prove to me that what you call human reason has

in any manner purified or ennobled the moral sentiment, and I will bow

myself before your logicians and rhetoricians. To what direction soever I

turn I see only vain puerilities, useless labor, doubtful hypotheses,

presumption and falsehood. I admit that you may count amid the multitude

of books lumbering the shelves of your libraries many innocent and

instructive works. Those books, however, prove your impotence.

"Act as you please, and you will never be able to develop equally the

various mental powers. To expand one it is necessary to repress the

others. By giving your reason the rude aliment of scholastic argument,

you neglect your imagination. By illuminating your mind you overshadow

your heart. You congratulate yourself at the discovery of a problem, the

solution of which you have long sought for. Scientific journals become

filled with numerous dissertations about it, academies decree crowns and

medals to the author of the precious discovery. No one remembers, that

each of these solutions breaks one of the wonderful chains of charming

symbols, of naive ideas which once animated and vivified the people. That

it strips it of poetry, of the emotions of the heart, and the delightful

and fairy-like creations of the imagination.

"The ancients were not so learned as we, yet they were wiser. They did

not explain the phenomena of nature, but described with a graceful and

imposing imagery. The rainbow, reduced in our colleges to a mere

conformation of matter, was the scarf of Iris; the light-footed hours

preceded the car of night, and the rosy-fingered Aurora opened the

horizon to permit the car of Jove to pass. When the thunder rolled,

Jupiter spoke to attentive mortals. When volcanic mountains trembled, the

old Titans sought to throw off the mass of rocks which weighed on them as

an eternal punishment of crime. The middle age, yet more naïve and

poetical, peopled the air, fields, woods, and waters with a crowd of

mysterious beings who spoke to the senses and thought, and awakened in

the human mind a mild sentiment of faith or healthful fear.

"Now, thanks to your haughty reason, we have banished, like idle fancies,

all these creations of our forefathers. Now we know that the air has no

other voice than that of the wind and tempest; that the wood has no

animals other than those the structure of whom has been minutely

described; that there are no fairies in the green fields, and no

invisible spirits watching over the hearth and fireside. Man, relying on

his reason, would be ashamed to suffer himself to be excited by tales of

ghosts. He has cast aside all supernatural apprehensions; and I see the

coming of the time when even Saint Nicholas will not impose on children.

What have we gained by thus shaking off the network of smiling and

serious fancies, which both enlivened and restrained our fancy? Are we

happier, stronger, or better? Alas! for my own part, even were I to pass

for a mind behind the times, I would confess that I regret those days of

candid credulity in which each dark forest had its legend, every chapel

its history. One of the reasons why I love the Swedes, amid whom I found

a peaceful home, is, that they have not yet sacrificed to the teachings

of modern times their old poetry; and that in the majority of their

woodland homes are a multitude of popular songs, of traditional faiths,

of domestic customs, which recall the poetic days of the middle age. Is

not this true, Ebba? You know something of this matter, for you

participate in my predilections in relation to them; and more than once

I have seen you listen anxiously to the stories of the old women of

Aland."

"Yes, father," said Ebba; who had listened with eager sympathy to the

long dissertation of the old man, while Eric and Ireneus listened

modestly to all he had said.

"When you give me a lesson in Swedish," said Ireneus, "will you be kind

enough to add to it some of those histories, which, I assure you,

interest me in no small degree?"

"If you wish it," said Ebba, "I will." Whenever she spoke she seemed with

difficulty to surmount her timidity.

"Well, my dear nephew," said M. de Vermondans, with Eric on one side,

Ebba on the other, and the practical knowledge of Alete, "it seems to me

you can employ your time very profitably; for my own part I can only

induct you into the mysteries of bear-hunting, and the chase of the stag

and reindeer. It is so rude that I shall not be able to keep up with you.

Among my people, however, I shall be able to find a guide, who finds game

like a blood-hound, and follows it like a lion."

"That will do wonderfully well, uncle; with so attractive an offer, I

fear only that amid my amusements I shall forget my country and my

regiment, and become faithless to my king."

PART II.

Even if Ireneus had not willingly accepted the plan worked out for the

Employment of his leisure in study, the rigorous climate of Sweden would,

in some manner, have made it compulsory for him to do so. To the cold and

dry days, which, during the winter, enlightened and animated the people

of the north, succeeded storms and hurricanes. Tempests of snow floated

in the air, covered the paths, and blocked up the doors of the houses. A

cloudy horizon and black sky seemed to close around every house, like a

girdle of iron. At a little distance not even a hill could be

distinguished from a forest; all was, as it were, drowned and overwhelmed

in a misty ocean, in movable columns of snow, which were impetuous, and

irresistible as the sand-whirlpools of the desert. About midday a light

purple tint, like a dying twilight, glittered in somber space: a ray

thrown by the sun across the clouds, gave an uncertain light. All,

however, soon became dark again. One might have fancied that the god of

day had retired over-wearied from regions he had in vain attempted to

subdue. Nowhere does the symbolical dogma of the contests of darkness

and light manifest itself in more characteristic traits than in the

Scandinavian mythology; and nowhere does it appear physically under a

more positive image than in the regions which have been for centuries

devoted to this mythology. During the summer at the north, the sun reigns

like an absolute sovereign over nature, and ceaselessly lights it with

his crown of fire; he ever watches it, like a jealous lover. If he

inclines toward the horizon, if his burning disk disappears behind the

purple mountain brows, he leaves for only a moment those polar regions,

and leaves even then a clearness behind like the dawn. He soon reappears

in his spotless splendor.

In the winter, however, he yields to night, which, with her dark cortege,

occupies the northern world. She envelops space with her black wings, and

casts the ice and snow from her bosom. Sometimes, for weeks, the storms

are so violent, that one cannot, without danger, venture into the fields;

and cruel necessity alone induces the peasant to take the road, either to

offer something for sale in the nearest market, or to gain a few

shillings as a guide to some adventurous traveler. Sometimes, even the

peasants of this country are afraid to cast their nets in the river, and

gulf, which in the greatest degree contribute to their subsistence.

During the greater portion of the time, the poor people of the north,

secluded in their homes by masses of snow, isolated from their neighbors,

pass whole winters by the fireside. The men occupy themselves in

repairing the harness of their horses, in mending the iron work of their

carriages--for in that country the homes of people are so far from each

other, that each family is forced to provide for its daily wants, and

every peasant is at once saddler, wagon-maker, and carpenter. Women are

busy in weaving and spinning. In many provinces, especially in that in

which the uncle of Ireneus had established himself, there was in

existence an _industry_, which, during the last twenty years, has been

much developed. Every peasant's house is a perfect workshop, for the

manufacture of linen. Woofs, white and fine as those of Holland, and

quite as good, are there produced. This variety of work commences after

harvest. In the autumn evenings, women, young girls, &c., assemble at

different houses, with their distaff or bundle of flax, which they place

before the hearth. It is pleasant, indeed, to see this collection of

industrious women, busied in the performance of the task prescribed to

them, laughing, talking, without sometimes taking time even to listen to

the young lovers who hover around them.

Often a respectable grandmother, the fingers of whom were wrinkled by

age, and which neither weave nor spin, would bid the wild troop be

silent, as she told one of the mad histories of old times. Then, one of

the work-women would merrily ring out the peasant songs, the chorus of

which her companions would re-echo. After a few hours of toil, a young

man would arise, and give a pleasant signal. All chairs and benches would

at once be removed; the work-shop would be changed into a ball-room. To

supply the deficiency of an orchestra, one of the spectators defined the

modulations of a dance by some old traditionary song. Young men and women

took each other by the hand, and formed together one of those country

groups which are the elements of the chorographic art. They then parted,

making a rendezvous for the next day, for another hearth-side, but for

similar amusements. All the work-women, returned to their own houses,

where they gaily retailed all the episodes of the evening's events, some

recording merely a silent glance, which met their own, or a furtive clasp

of the hand which had aroused a blush. More than one happy acquaintance

originates in one of those northern evenings--and more than one girl,

who, in the autumn, has a heart free as air, in the spring wears on her

finger the ring of a promised bride.

When the weather was good, Ebba went out sometimes alone, to be present

at these re-unions. All rose to welcome her with a sentiment of respect

and attention, for she was kind to the poor.

The young people silently withdrew, and the matron of the house gave her

the most pleasant seat by the hearth-side. The children, however, to whom

she brought every day fruits and presents, leaped and danced around her.

The old village story-tellers were also glad when she came, for no one

Questioned them with more kindness, or listened with more attention to

their popular tales. Her delicate tournure, her graceful form, her pale

and melancholy look, were in striking contrast with those around her. To

see her motionless and mute amid the merry girls and the robust young

persons, would have induced a belief that she was one of those

supernatural beings, one of those fairy inhabitants of woods and

waters--strange legends about whom she so much delighted in. She entered

and retired silently, and her light feet seemed scarcely to touch the

ground. She flitted away like an aerial being, leaving with all those

whom she visited an indefinable impression, and arousing in some the

vague remembrance of a superstitious being.

One evening, when she was about to leave, a woman, who had looked

Attentively at her, said, "Dear young lady; how feeble and ill she

seems!"

"Yes," said a timid voice, "one might almost think she had joined in the

elfin dance."

"What is the elfin dance?" asked a young man; "I have seen many, but

never that."

"God grant you never may," said the one to whom he spoke; "the elves are

wonderful beings, who come we know not whence; and live, we know not how,

in the mountain gorges and woods. Probably they are the descendants of

some race accursed of God, and sentenced to live on earth, deprived of

every joy and hope. They never enter towns; do not associate with us; but

when they see a solitary wanderer, they seek to win him to them, and

exercise a most unhappy influence over him.

"You sometimes have seen large circles of grass in the meadows trampled

down. They are traced by the elves, as they dance in the summer night

when the moon is shining. Wo to the wanderer, wo to the young girl, who

at that time passes near them. The elves invite them to join in the

dance, and sometimes drag them by force away. Into the veins of any one

who comes within their circle, a secret poison is infused, which makes

him languish and die. I tell you, I fear that Ebba, good and charitable

as she is, has been surprised by those accursed beings; for she has the

pale face and languid air of those who suffer from philtre of the elves."

Sitting one morning in the room of her father, Ebba was discharging the

task she had proposed to herself in jest. She was teaching Ireneus the

elements of the beautiful Swedish language, of the Islandic from which it

is derived, and which has its ulterior origin in the old tongues of

India, the cradle of the great Gothic races. "It is pleasant," says

Byron, "to learn a foreign tongue from the eyes and lips of a woman."

Ireneus enjoyed all the luxury of such a system of instruction.

Without having what is called a poetical nature, he was not a little

under the influence of the poetry of his situation, of the beautiful girl

who taught him, of her sweet smile, and the affectionate voice which

stimulated his zeal or reproved his mistakes. Any accidental question,

any quotation, a single word often would hurry the young girl's mind to

her favorite theme, the mythology of the north.

In her early youth, she had studied the curious dogmas of the old

Scandinavians, a singular assemblage of terrible symbols and smiling

images borrowed from the flowery regions of the east, and of dark

conceptions produced in the cloudy north.

Not only did she know all the tales, but in some sort she lived in the

memory of the heroic and religious traditions sung in the solemn

dithyrambics of the Edda, and met with in every page of the Islandic

sagas. Though her heart was always Christian, she was amazed, from time

to time, at hearing herself speak, like a pagan, of the beneficent

Baldus, of Loki, the spirit of evil, and of Freya, the golden tears of

whom formed the Baltic amber. To her, the world was yet peopled by the

mythological beings, created by the naïve faith of the north, and to them

she had learned to adapt the phenomena of nature. When she heard the

thunder, she thought of Thor, and his mighty hammer, driving across the

heavens in his iron car. If the sky was clear, she thought the luminous

Alfis lighted up the horizon.

In the pantheism of Scandinavian mythology, which, though less seductive,

is less comprehensive than that of the Greeks, all that she heard assumed

a mysterious existence. Plants were watered by the foam the horse of

night shakes on the earth, as he tosses his mane and champs his bit.

Crows had a prophetic power. The eagle sailing through the air, recalled

to her that deathless bird which sits on the boughs of Ygdrasil, the

tree of the world. A secret spring, hidden amid the woods, seemed to her

the emblem of that deep spring in which the Nornas spin and cut the

thread of life. To these traditions, far older than Christianity, she

united the popular legends of the middle age. If night, the whistling of

the wind, the rattling of the rain, the murmur of the trees, made a

confused murmur in her ears, she fancied that she heard the barking of

dogs, the sound of horns, and the cry of the wild huntsman sentenced to

wander forever from vale to vale, from mountain to mountain, because he

had violated a Sabbath or saints' day. If, on some calm day, she looked

at the golden and purple surface of the lake, she fancied that she saw,

in the depth of the water, the spires and roofs of the houses of some

city which God had punished for impiety, by burying it beneath the waves.

If she stood on the banks of a rapid stream, at the foot of a cascade,

she said that the sounds she heard came from Stromkarl. The Stromkarl has

a silver harp, on which he plays wild melodies. If his favor be gained,

by any present, he teaches the listener his songs. Wo, however, to the

man who hears him for the ninth time. He cannot shake off the

supernatural charm, and becomes a victim to his imprudent temerity.

One evening all the family was collected around the earthen stove. Eric

was there. Suddenly the sky, which in the morning had been dark and

cloudy, was lit up as if by the blaze of a immense conflagration. The

aurora-borealis, that wonderful phenomenon of the north, glittered in the

horizon, and gradually extended its evolutions from the east to the west.

Sometimes all the colors of the rainbow were visible, and again it

glittered like a mass of fusees, or transformed itself into a vast white

cloud, sparkling like the milky-way. Again it would assume the most

splendid blaze, and appear like a mantle of purple and gold. For one

moment the rays would be alligned, and gradually disappear in the

distance; then they would cross each other like network. Again they would

arrange themselves in bows, dart out with arrowing points, shoot into

towers and form crowns. It might have been fancied the creation of a

kaleidescope, into which the hand of a magician had cast jets of life,

oscillating and floating under every form. At the same time, there was

heard in the air a sound like that accompanying the discharge of

fireworks.

Eric, who had been asked to give an explanation of this phenomenon,

analyzed the various theories of philosophers on the subject. He

especially referred to those of the Society of Copenhagen. He said this

was one of the phenomena which no philosopher had as yet explained; that

of all the hypotheses on the matter, the most specious was that which

ascribes the aurora-borealis to the reflection of the northern ices.

"My wise daughter, what do you think of it?" said M. Vermondans, speaking

to Ebba, who, with her hands crossed over her chest with religious

silence, sat looking at a phenomenon she had witnessed every winter,

and which on every occasion awakened a new emotion.

Ebba said, "I do not know the dissertations of academies, like Eric.

Since, however, they do not explain the cause and motion of the aurora

borealis, I had rather rely on the simple and religious traditions of an

ignorant people, to that of the Greenlanders, who say that the rays of

the aurora come from the glare of souls which wander over the skies."

"On my soul," said M. Vermondans, "that idea pleases me. Like the

problems of the natural philosophers, it does not explain the problem of

the aurora-borealis, but it is much more poetical. This tradition

contributes to the assistance of an idea I advanced the other day, on the

vanity of scientific speculations, especially when we compare them with

the delicious conceptions of the ignorant."

"True," replied Eric, "in the infancy of nations, as in the childhood of

the individual, there is a graceful poetry, an ideal and intellectual

understanding of nature, which does not resist grave impressions or the

reason of mature age. Thus, amid the wild nations of North America, the

poor mother who has lost a child, fancies that she scents the perfume of

its breath in the flowers, and hears its sigh in the voices of the birds.

Thus is it that our Lapland neighbors attach a touching faith to many

physical incidents.

"When one of them becomes ill, they say that his soul has been called to

a better world by the loving beings he has lost; and that his soul is

about to depart to yield to their prayers, and seek its final home with

them. Then they send for a sorcerer, who casts himself on his face on the

ground, and in mysterious words beseeches the wandering soul to return.

If it yields to the supplications, if it returns to the tabernacle it has

inhabited, the invalid recovers breath and strength; if not, he dies.

Such, and a variety of other examples, we find in every direction, in the

wonderful tales of the east, in the popular traditions of the north, and

they prove clearly enough that there are flowers of poetry and

spring-like perfumes full of inimitable grace in all primitive societies,

even where gross ignorance and coarse usages distress us.

"Think you though that science also is without poetry? If you understand

by poetry, what I think you do, every ennobling of thought, every

exaltation of mind, do you think there is no lofty and grand poetry in

that geology which searches into the bowels of the earth, and exhibits to

you the different layers of which it is composed, and the revolutions it

has undergone; in the researches of the naturalist, who exhibits the

creations of an antediluvian world; in the observations of the

astronomer, who explains the configuration and harmonious movements of

those luminous orbs removed millions of miles from that on which we

dwell? Do you think there is no poetry in the material development of

civilized societies, in the industrious activity which digs canals,

pierces mountains, subdues the elements, and moves all to man's will?"

"Ah, certainly I experience a very agreeable emotion, when in an old

custom I find the traces of the religious spirit of our fathers, and

listen to their legends and songs. This emotion, however, does not

prevent me from thinking of that which should be created by the imposing

spectacle of the progress of civilization, more than the pleasure I would

enjoy if I reposed by the side of a fresh spring, mysteriously concealed

amid a forest, would prevent me from loving to look on a majestic river,

down which floated the canvas of some ship, or the boilers of a steamer.

The perfection of matters would be to kindle our soul with the lights of

science, and at the same time preserve the innocent candor of our hearts.

Thus will we obey the Bible-text which says, 'You shall not enter the

Kingdom of heaven, unless you be as little children.' To be a child in

simple-heartedness, a man in toil and labor, is the end we should propose

to ourselves."

"Yes," said M. de Vermondans, "that is a truly noble object. We cannot

however expect to attain it. Pride unnoticed, is created by the very

labor of our minds, and when that poison has inoculated our hearts,

farewell to innocence. I will agree with you as to the indisputable

benefits of science. Confess, however, that all the learning of your

philosophers and mathematicians can I never confer on any people the

precious customs of the days of old. When we look back on what has been

done by the would-be wise men of antiquity to ennoble the moral state

of man, I will not speak of the mad ceremonial of the burlesque festivals

invented by the revolutionists of 1793. They were but scenes of disorder

and frenzy. Imagine, however, the purest and most solemn of the

discoveries of science, and compare it with the Christmas festival which

the Swedish peasant will celebrate in a few days, and tell me which

contributes to true emotion, to the moral good. Alete, give me my pipe."

The last words were the usual signal given by the good old man when he

felt the length of the conversation fatiguing, or felt his favorite ideas

paradoxical, though they sometimes were pressed on by arguments the tenor

of which he found it difficult to resist.

Alete went to get the long pipe, with its stem of maple-root, and filled

it with tobacco with her own pretty fingers. A sweet smile and a

deferential look from Eric recompensed her. When he saw M. de Vermondans

seated in his chair, and inhaling the aroma of tobacco through the amber

mouthpiece, he said,

"Since you remember our Christmas festival, you will not forget that we

expect you, Ebba, Alete, and Ireneus to keep it at our house."

"Yes, Eric," said M. de Vermondans, "I like your father, and shall be

happy to pass a day with him."

"Yes, dear Eric," said Alete, "I love your father. Pay however some

attention to old Marguerite's preparations. I wish to be received like a

princess, and if all the plate is not produced to do me honor, if the

table be not covered with the finest linen and loaded with delicacies, if

the furniture does not glitter like glass, and the passage-hall and

corridor are not bright as if for a wedding, I will turn all the house

upside down."

"Well well," said Eric, "there you are a queen. My father will turn over

all power to you, and you may make as many reforms as you please."

Part III.

A few days after the visit of Eric, the groom of M. de Vermondans took

from the carriage-house two sleighs, trimmed with wolf and bear-skins,

and harnessed to each of them a spirited horse, the activity of which

seemed enhanced by the cold morning air. In the first sleigh sat M. de

Vermondans and Alete; and Ireneus and Ebba entered the second.

"Are we ready?" said the old man, as he took the reins in one hand, and

the whip in the other.

"Yes," said Ireneus, after he had wrapped up the delicate frame confided

to him in a large Astracan-skin.

"Well, let us start." The horses, as soon as the reins were loosed, left

the house at a gallop.

"I am glad," said Ebba to Ireneus, "that you are in Sweden at this

season, which to us is so solemn."

"Do you then celebrate Christmas with so much pomp?"

"I do not think it is celebrated in any country of the world with so much

joy and unanimity, from the northern extremity of the realm to the

southern boundary, in town and country, in palace and peasant's hut."

"I am sure that in this festival there are touching usages, with which

you are thoroughly acquainted. I shall be delighted if you will explain

them to me. All you have told me of your popular legends and

superstitions, opens to me, as it were, a new world, in which, I assure

you, I am glad to wander."

"Were I not afraid that I would appear pedantic to you." said Ebba, "I

would tell you what Eric has told me about our Christmas festival. It

appears to date back to a remote day before the Christian era. At this

season our pagan ancestors celebrated the winter solstice, just as on the

25th of June they did that of summer. The early name of this festival,

which we yet preserve, indicates an astronomical idea. It was called

_Julfest_. (the feast of the wheel,) certainly because the sun, the

evolutions of which are on the 25th December marked by the shortest day,

and June 25th by the longest. Whatever may have been, the primitive

nature of this festival, Christianity gave it an august character. To us

it is not a material symbol, but tho commemoration of the day on which

the Savior of earth was born in a stable. That day seems to announce glad

tidings to the Swedish peasant, as it did to the shepherds of Bethlehem,

for each seem to rejoice. The courts and schools have recess, parents and

friends visit each other, not to discharge the common duty of politeness,

to leave a card with the porter, but to pass whole hours in gayety and

frank intercourse."

On all the high and cross-roads, you see sleighs filled with travelers.

One will contain a daughter married at a distance from home, who at this

time of universal enjoyment wishes to visit the old hearth-side, The

other contains a son, who comes from the University, or from the city

where he is employed, to kiss his mother. The soldier who all the year

has borne in patience the severity of garrison duty, is satisfied with

his profession, if he can at that season obtain a leave of absence for a

few weeks. The sailor returned from a distant voyage, looks anxiously at

the sea and sky, and increases his zeal and activity, to be enabled to

reach Sweden by Christmas. The houses everywhere are open, and the table

is always spread. All is made scrupulously clean, for at this season,

every housewife loves to display her order and carefulness. The rich

display damask and rich hangings. The poor strew pine branches on the

floor, and white curtains newly bleached, deck the windows. You reach the

family-hearth. One of the servants takes your horse to the stable,

another hangs your valise before the fire to dry it. The mistress of the

house, while dinner is being prepared, offers you a glass of brandy, or

of beer prepared expressly for Christmas, and called JULÆL. The young

women bring you cakes prepared by themselves. Your hands are shaken

cordially, presents are made, it matters not whether trifling or rich,

they are Christmas remembrances and a pledge of love.

In many of the peasants' houses, all the shoes of the family are, as a

sign of this union, placed side by side of each other. In many also

before and after meals, a hymn is sung. Then when dinner is over, old

men, women and children dance together. Servants and masters mingle

together, and even the mendicant is kindly received. On that day the

God of mercy descended to save indiscriminately the rich and the poor,

and to teach the proud and the humble the brotherhood of the Gospel. At

this season of universal sympathy, even the animals are not forgotten,

a larger ration of grain and hay is carried to the stable, and barley is

strewn on the snow for the birds, who are then unable to glean in the

fields, and who, delighted by this unexpected provender, in their cries

seem to warble forth a Christmas hymn. In some villages the little

tomtegubbar or invisible genii, protecting the household, are yet

remembered, and vases of milk are placed on the floor for them. Other

superstitions are also joined to this religious festival. Thus in many

peasant houses, a straw-bed is made on the floor, and on it the children

and servants sleep during the night. On the next day, this bed is taken

to the court-yard, or barn, and it is thought to preserve the fowls from

birds of prey, and the cattle from disease. This straw is also strewn on

the fields around fruit trees, which it is thought to make healthy. At

evening, two torches are lit to burn all night; if one of them becomes

extinguished or is burned out before day, it is a sign of trouble, that

during the course of the year there will be a death in the house. All

fancy that in Christmas a revelation of the future is found. To read this

prophecy however, it is necessary to rise before dawn, to go fasting and

in silence into the wood, without speaking or looking around. If too at

sunrise, the church is reached before the crowing of the cock, the

coffins of those who will die during the year will be seen, and by

turning the head around, it may be learned if the harvest will be good or

bad, or whether there will be a conflagration in the village.

While Ebba was describing these usages and superstitions of Sweden, the

sleighs passed rapidly along the snow plains, which had been previously

leveled by other vehicles. The spire of the church in which the father

of Eric for thirty years had officiated as PROST with honor and dignity

was seen. About fifty houses were arranged in a circle around the ascent

of a hill. There was one among them of comparatively large dimensions, of

two stories, and built of stone, a rare thing in Sweden, whose country

houses usually have but one story and an attic, and are built of wood.

One side of this house adjoined a large and beautiful church, and the

other on an inclosure. Two rows of windows in the principal façade looked

out on the gulf, and before the principal door was a terrace commanding a

most extensive view. At this moment the sun lit up the polished windows,

and the plain, covered with an immense sheet of snow, shone brilliantly.

The sea with a fringe of ice close to the shore, rolled in the distance

its free and azure waves, and the forests which appeared here and there

in their somber verdure and mute majesty, the vast and silent space, the

little village, the motion of the population of which was already

visible, presented to Ireneus a picture which differed so much from all

he had seen, that it filled him with wonder and surprise.

"The house," said Ebba, "which I see has attracted your attention, is

that of Eric's father, a good and venerable old man, the whole of the

life of whom has been an example of prudence and usefulness. He does

much good around him, by means of his religious exhortations and

agricultural industry. In Sweden, many of the clergy act in this double

capacity. The greater portion of the revenue of many livings consists

entirely of the revenue of the lands with which they are endowed. If the

priest does not take pleasure in rural occupations, he farms out the

lands, and quietly receives the rent. They render important services to

the districts amid which they live. They are teachers of labor, and often

introduce systems of agricultural improvement revealed to them by science

or a new machine.

"The father of Eric is one of those farmer priests; for more than twenty

years without neglecting any of his sacerdotal duties, he has cultivated

a large farm attached to the presbytery. He has given lessons in

agriculture to the peasants, and enforced them by success, for no fields

are more productive than his own, and no yard has seen fine cattle. How

great is his activity!

"How often have his people seen him brave, with a vigor they could not

but admire, the summer's heat and winter's ice. At present the

infirmities of age render this rude toil impossible. He, however, does

not cease to correspond with many agricultural societies, and encourage

those who have recourse to his counsels. He is one of those rare men

gifted with meditative faculties, and with great practical capacity."

"How pleasant is it." said Ireneus, "to suffer my mind to repose in the

asylum you have opened for it. Since my coming hither I have met with

none but pure hearts, and have beheld only the mild pictures of a pure

and peaceable existence. How different is it from the agitation of all

parties in my own land! Yet, however, even amid the calm and repose I

here enjoy, how I regret it. I saw it so great and prosperous, and

thought its destiny so certain!"

"Console yourself, cousin," said Ebba, "you will see that country again,

which it is both a necessity and a duty for you to love. You will see it

in that normal condition from which it has by a great crisis been thrown.

Moral diseases, like physical ones, sometimes attack men, and God, to

punish the errors of a people, to abase its pride, strikes it with one of

these mental contagions, yields it up to the effervescence of its bad

thoughts, until the people humiliates and corrects itself, bending before

the arm of the Avenger in penitence, and returns to the path from which

it has wandered."

Ireneus was amazed to hear her speak thus. The timid young girl seemed

like a prophetess animated with a mighty inspiration. A flush was on her

pale face, and in her glance was the light of enthusiasm.

"You are a noble creature," said Ireneus, taking her by the hand. The

hand of Ebba lay motionless and pale in his, her blush passed away, and

the dark shadows of her habitual melancholy returned.

Just then the sleigh of M. de Vermondans arrived at its destination. Eric

was waiting for them at the threshold, clasped the hand of his

father-in-law, and helped Alete out, as Ireneus did as much for Ebba. The

servants took care of the foaming horses.

The little party, as soon as they entered the house, could see that the

faithful Eric had sought to avoid the reproaches of his betrothed. The

entrance of the corridor was so completely washed and dried that one

might fancy the joiner had just finished the floor. Through the open

kitchen door a large brazier was seen in a glow, and the ringing of

plates and dishes was heard. The antechamber was covered with a woolen

carpet, and the Christmas pine brought on the day before from the

neighboring forest, decked with garland and moss, rose proudly from a

large box, as if it knew how proud a part it played in the festival.

As she passed from the antechamber to the drawing-room, Alete paused to

look at the arrangement of the table. Seeing a false plait in one of the

napkins, she was probably about to give vent to her epigrams. The door of

the other room however was opened, and a handsome old man dressed in a

long frock appeared. His head was covered with a cap of black velvet,

from beneath which his white hair escaped. This was Eric's father, and

Alete paid much respect to him.

"Come, my daughter," said the pastor, as with much kind dignity he kissed

her forehead. "You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speaking to M. de

Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome. You too, Monsieur," said

he, turning to Ireneus, "though I have not before had the honor to see

you, I welcome as a friend. You are all welcome to the hearthside of the

poor priest, and may the festival of to-day be to us a commemoration of

the past, and a happier tie for the future."

The old man took his guests into his own room, in which there was an

Inconsiderable library, a few models of utensils for agricultural

purposes, testifying to both his taste and his occupation. He sat on a

sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessary to him, and placed his

guests beside him. Alete, who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and

took Eric to the window. While, as was the custom with her, she tested

the patient character of her husband that was to be, the old man

conversed with Ireneus, who from the very first had been attracted by his

venerable and pleasing face.

"From these instruments of labor collected around you, I see," said

Ireneus, "that you have contrived a sure method of making your solitude

active. Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ your time."

"Usefully," replied M. Guldberg, with sincere modesty. "Alas! let us act

usefully as we may, how much weakness is there in our will, and

forgetfulness in our best resolutions. If by the grace of God we

accomplish any good, what is that in comparison with what we should do. I

love toil, but I can make no merit of it. In my youth it was a necessity.

The son of a laborer, who earned with his own hands the money which

supported me at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repay him for

his paternal tenderness by my success. Gradually labor became a habit,

and then a _quasi_ dogma of religion. I thought it my duty, as soon as

possible, to release him from the necessity of sacrifice. I feel myself

attracted by a brotherly sympathy to all who toil. I look with respect on

the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand. God himself prescribed labor to us

as a law, and his infinite goodness unites with obedience to it the

enjoyment of much happiness. Certainly no person with a heart can repress

sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to

night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and

harvest his crop. This laborer, however, is often happier than the

majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity. He has

done his duty. When his task is done he sits contented at his humble

hearth. The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned

himself. He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his

bed, may say he has done his duty. He is ignorant of the troubles which

fill the hearts of the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass

warding off stormy passions. The door of his soul is shut to dark

chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on

his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his

village often asks for in vain. When I thus praise the efficaciousness of

toil, I do not speak only of manual labor. The labor of thought is often

most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable."

"Take care," said Ireneus, "you touch a sensitive string of my uncle's

breast."

"Yes," said the old man, "Eric has told me of your discussions on this

subject. I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain

of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not

know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life. In attacking in

your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had

borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them."

"What books?" asked M. de Vermondans; "a few incomplete histories, and

some odd volumes of philosophy. One must examine closely the reveries of

human pride to be able to judge of them."

"Traitor!" said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his

friend, "you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character

of my library. A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I then

recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and

studied all that I had collected? Some incomplete histories! a few odd

volumes! Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have

studied my collection? Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attack

my books is to make war against myself. I passed forty years of my life

in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant

remembrance. From some I date my student life, and my entry into the

priesthood. From some I fix the epoch of my marriage, and the various

phases of my existence; some I found in a country cabin, where they were

forgotten; some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been to see my

bishop and an old friend. All therefore recall to me kind teachers,

skillful guides, and are the memorials of different events, which are the

great items of my life. Gradually I have collected around me those books

which interest me the most. When I am here in my woodland home they are

company to me, and the most instructive friends man can meet with. Here

I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examination of the mysteries

of the soul; the historians, who record the revolutions of nations; the

geologists and natural philosophers, who expound to me the organic laws

of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous or sad emotions of the heart.

Whatever may be my moral disposition, I need only to reach my hand toward

one of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, to enlighten,

strengthen, and console me."

"How that delights me!" said Ebba, in a low tone.

"Listen," said M. de Vermondans, with emphasis, and with an intonation of

grief entirely contradicted by his face, "see, this woman has been

bewitched: the poison of your pernicious doctrines has reached the very

interior of my house. I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter in

the love of good principles, but I have warmed a very serpent at my

heart. Luckily, I see my faithful Alete attending only to the positive

and who now says that dinner is ready or Christmas-day. Christmas comes

but once a year."

The dinner was in truth solemn and splendid, the whole table being loaded

with enormous dishes.

"What a luxuriance of richness!" said M. de Vermondans. "Thank God, a

love of books does not make us forget material things."

Ireneus said, "This is in truth a banquet, with which, in France, a

candidate for the Chamber might win over many electors."

"Luckily," said the old priest, "we have no electors here to lead astray.

When, though, we leave the table, my farmer-boys will make merry over

what we have not eaten, and with them many poor people who on Christmas

are in the habit of coming to the parsonage. You do not to-day dine with

me, but with my people. On Christmas, in Sweden, we make presents to each

other as in France is done on New-Year's day. This game, these fish, have

been brought to me by the huntsmen and fishermen of my people. A peasant

gave me a quarter of veal, another gave me cream, a third the butter.

Even one woman has brought me an egg or two, saying that they should be

boiled only for myself. Before long the house will be filled with a

crowd, and many strange stories will be told around the firesides. Whole

pitchers of beer will be emptied to the health of the old pastor and his

friends."

"They will dance?" asked Alete.

"No, mademoiselle, you will not have that profane amusement. But Nils the

schoolmaster has a very fine voice. Olaf the fisherman, and his brother

Christian, will be there also, and your cousin will be able to hear some

of the popular songs. He never heard anything like them in Paris."

"So be it," said Alete; "one or two rounds with those merry figures would

however have been amusing enough. Hark! it seems to me I hear hurras at

Nils's arrival. If the two others are come, may I bring him?"

"Do so, my child," said the pastor.

"Yes, go, Alete," said Ebba, gaily.

Alete went out, and came in shortly with three young men, who modestly

looked down, and twirled their hats between their fingers.

"Good morning, friends," said the pastor. "Alete has told you I had a

favor to ask. I have a friend here who does not know our old Swedish

songs, and I rely on you to give him a good idea."

The three young men looked toward Ireneus and then toward each other.

Then, being encouraged by signs from Ebba, and having drunken a glass of

wine which was offered them, they sang a song which was designated.

They sang, one after the other, the romance of Agnete, who was surprised

on the shore and borne beneath the water by the amorous _Neck_. That of

fair Carine, the victim of her virtue, the soul of whom flew to heaven in

the shape of a white dove, where it was again transformed into a joyous

harp, the sweet sounds of which won the crown of queen. Much to his

regret, Ireneus could not understand the sense of these songs, which are,

so to say, idyls and charming dramas. He however listened with

undefinable emotion to those simple and artless melodies, which, in their

expression of grief and joy, were so pure that they seemed to spring from

the very heart of the people. He begged Ebba to say to the singers how

delighted he was, and they then went to the kitchen to tell how pleased

the Parisian had been.

After dinner Alete and Ebba went into the drawing-room, and having

carefully shut the door, might have been heard going and coming, and

giving orders, while the pastor entertained his guests. Alete seemed very

busy. She called the servants--had the position of the furniture

changed--sometimes talked loudly, and then whispered. Some mysterious

scene occupying the thoughts of Ireneus was taking place there.

Toward evening the mystery was explained. Alete came to take the arm of

the pastor in triumph, and he, M. de Vermondans, and Ireneus, went toward

the room. Drapery of many colors covered the wall, and bouquets of moss

and artificial flowers, candelabras reflected from the mirrors, boughs of

trees, all made the light soft as that which penetrates the forest. On a

large table was the Christmas tree, full of lights, and adorned with bows

of ribbon. The pastor had asked Alete to arrange everything as she chose,

and to place in the best possible light the presents intended for his

friends. With them Alete and Ebba had placed those they intended to make,

and all had been arranged most tastefully. Of the pine branch she had

made a tree, miraculously bearing silk dresses, portfolios, slippers,

embroidered collars, gold ear-rings, &c. The branches bent beneath the

weight.

M. de Vermondans gathered a meerschaum mounted with silver: Ireneus

several pieces of silk worked by his cousins, and a wooden cup, very

beautifully carved by an Angermanian peasant. Exclamations were made as

the different objects were detached from the mystic tree, for Alete had

taken care to wrap each article with a double and triple envelope, in

order to prolong the expectation of the spectators, and to enjoy their

surprise. Afterward the servants came in, and also the farmer's boys,

none of whom were forgotten, and who kissed the hands of the old priest.

The Christmas tree was stripped of its treasures, and all deserted it, as

barren and useless. Alas, for human ingratitude!

The pastor, taking advantage of a moment when none were looking, went to

the solitary tree, and took from it a letter with a red seal. Then

calling his future daughter-in-law, he said, "Since when, dear Alete,

have you become so careless of the good things of this world, or so

negligent, as to abandon the Christmas tree, without ascertaining all

that hangs from it?"

"I do not know that I can get anything from it, except a few pieces of

ribbon and half-burnt lights."

"You think so, do you? Well, look here."

"What?" said Alete; "a letter, with Eric's name on it. This is a surprise

for him. What is it? That puzzles me. Look, Eric--one day I shall have a

right to open your letters, but now be quick and open this yourself."

Eric unsealed the letter; and scarcely had he read it, then casting

himself at the feet of the old priest, he said--"Ah, father, how I thank

you! Then turning to Alete, he said--

"It is an appointment by the Bishop of Hernos and of myself as vicar of

this parish. We waited only for that to be able to marry. Now there is no

obstacle to our happiness. We will live here with my father, near your

own family. May God grant that our hearts may not be disunited. May God

grant us new pleasures without robbing us of those of the past. Now, when

shall we be married--tell me?"

"How you go on!" said Alete. "Must I, because it has seemed fit to our

venerable prelate to make you a vicar--(after all it is a sensible

appointment)--put on my wedding dress and go to the altar? Do you know I

expect a letter from Hernosand or Stockholm! Do you know------"

The artless girl, however, sought in vain to conceal, beneath pretended

laughter, her deep emotion. She was unable to finish her sentence. She

threw herself in her father's arms, then into the old priest's, and gave

her hand with dignity to Eric. She said:

"Whenever you please, dear Eric, though I am much amazed. I trust you

will never have occasion to repent having given me your love and honor."

This episcopal letter the pastor had received on the previous evening,

and he had been courageous enough to keep the secret until Christmas

night, in order to give it more solemnity. It was now the sole subject of

conversation, and they talked only of preparations for the marriage, and

of the day on which it was to be celebrated. At the instance of Alete he

consented to prolong the delay, and the wedding was postponed for a

fortnight.

"Confess," said Alete to Ireneus, "that you were fortunate in arriving

here in the middle of winter, when you could witness our dark tempests,

our Christmas festivals, and be present at a Swedish wedding. You will

then have only to behold our delicious summer nights; and then, when you

return to France, you will be able to speak more learnedly of Sweden than

other travelers, who wrote long volumes about it."

"I owe to this country some of the pleasantest hours of my life. I owe to

it a calmness which I cannot any longer find in France. I am indebted to

it for good and healthful emotions. I owe to it, exile as I am, a tender

asylum, a family; and I shall feel your wedding-day one of the happiest

of my life."

On the very next day all the house of M. de Vermondans was occupied with

preparations for the approaching marriage. Dressmakers were busy, and

cabinet-makers were preparing furniture, platforms, &c., for the

wedding-day.

Alete had enough to do to watch over the different works. Smiling and

merry as she used to be, a change had come over her, and she seemed

already dignified and matronly.

Ebba assisted her with great devotion, and ceased to give Ireneus lessons

in Swedish.

M. de Vermondans smoked his pipe with an air of thought, and sometimes of

sorrow, for the idea of separation from his daughter weighed heavily on

him, much as he desired that she should marry so near him.

For the first time since he had reached his uncle's house, Ireneus was

alone. A few days before the merry chat of Alete, the philosophical

conversation of the old gentleman, the dreamy poetry of Ebba, and the

activity and motion of all the household had diverted the young officer's

attention from himself. Now his thoughts involuntarily returned, in

consequence of news he had received from his country. His mother, who

shared all his secrets, sought to encourage him, and to unfold a new

horizon. In spite of this, however, every letter increased his

unhappiness. Some of his friends also wrote to him; and this

correspondence surprised him painfully. He heard, in this manner, of

political defections which he, in his chivalric exaggeration looked on as

felony, and at which he was most indignant.

"Villains!" said he, one day, as he read to his uncle a letter which he

had just received. "Now, this man owed everything to the kindness of

Charles X., yet for the sake of office he has cast himself at the foot of

a new master. Here is one who, on the 28th of July, applauded the

ordinances, and swore that the hydra of liberalism should he destroyed:

and said that he would pour out the last drop of his blood in defense of

legitimacy. He is now a partisan of the revolution. We live in a

scandalous age. All principles of honor and religion are forgotten.

Office has great value, indeed, when honor and conscience are sacrificed

to it."

As he spoke thus, Ireneus strode up and down the room, and crushed the

letter in his hands.

"My boy," said M. de Vermondans, with his kind philosophy, "your feeling

springs from a sentiment which does you honor. Unfortunately, however, it

can but injure you without benefiting those for whom you have so much

sympathy. To-day is not the first time that man has violated his oath,

and made a traffic of obligation; one need only open a history, and read

on every page amid some noble actions, countless base intrigues and

unworthy cowardice. The Roman senate erected statues to monsters it had

dignified with the imperial purple. The middle age, which we are pleased

to look on as an epoch of faith and chivalric devotion, is everywhere

sullied by acts of felony and the consequences of mad ambition.

Civilization, while it corrected the gross errors of rude nations, also

restrained their virtues. Love of prosperity, the sensations of luxury,

bear to the wall the energetic principles of self-denial. Some

individuals, who, by their elevated position, attract attention to

themselves; here and there break a link of the moral chain; others

imitate them, and by fracture after fracture the whole series of austere

ideas is interrupted and dislocated. A few of the faithful may attempt to

preserve the remnants, but others look on them with pity, and treat this

religious faith as an anachronism. The worship of the great is destroyed,

and replaced by that of sensual enjoyments. We do not ask God to give us

the heavenly manna. We have made another God from which no prophet

can win us. We prostrate ourselves before the calf of gold. This, dear

Ireneus, must be a sad prospect for a heart like yours. That all the

respect for the past, for religion and misfortune, which exists in your

heart, should rise at the prospect of what you have read to me, I can

well enough understand. Can you however, repress the wrong which offends

you? Can the evils of which you complain be prevented? No, do what you

will, there must ever be men, over whom the passion for power will

exercise vast influence, and this feeling will always induce them to turn

from the sinking to the rising star. Even if you go to the depth of a

desert, to the jungles of an Indian archipelago, to the woods at

Caffraria, to the desert plains of North America, or to the Cordilleras,

you will not escape from the miserable spectacles of human hypocrisy. The

Turks have a proverb which says, 'Cure the hand you cannot spare.' Now we

can add to this maxim, 'Cure the hand which can serve you, satisfy your

pride, avarice and egotism.' Young and happy when you first entered on

life, dear Ireneus, you have seen much. A sudden revolution has covered

your eyes with a cloud, and unexpected treachery has pierced your heart.

Time will show you many others, and if you do not give yourself up to

useless misanthropy, the most foolish and idle of all maladies, you will

learn to resign yourself to chagrins you cannot avoid. In your time of

distress you will draw near to those who do not deceive your esteem. You

will, without hatred and anger, be able to look at those whom base

calculation or cowardice has led astray, and if you congratulate yourself

that you have not followed their example, you will be glad that heaven

has endowed you with more firmness and a loftier ambition."

The wisdom of these reasonings touched the heart of Ireneus, but could

not subdue it. The ardent young man continued to curse those whom he had

seen in the ranks of legitimacy, and who now had linked themselves with

the revolution. Often, to avoid the remonstrances of his uncle, or not to

annoy him by recrimination, he wandered alone across the desert plains,

calling all the deserters of the cause he loved by name, and sometimes he

even resolved, like a true knight-errant, to set out and demand an

account of their crime. When he returned from these solitary walks, his

uncle, thinking that all argument would at such times be useless, said

nothing. Ebba however looked at him with eager sympathy.

PART IV.

The marriage of Alete, for a while, however, diverted him from his moody

thoughts. The pastor and M. de Vermondans wished the marriage to be

contracted according to the custom of the country. Invitations had

already been given to many in the neighborhood, to the friends of the

pastor and of the two families. At the appointed time, a great number of

carriages had collected at the house of M. de Vermondans. Beds had been

made in every room. The house was full of guests, the stable of horses,

not to remain a few hours, for a wedding in Sweden lasts a whole week. M.

de Vermondans, assisted by Eric and Ireneus, did the honors of the house.

Ebba dressed her sister, and this alone was not a trifling task, for in

Sweden brides are richly decked, and the daughter of the humblest peasant

borrows or hires jewels to dress her like a lady.

The toilet, according to the old usage of the country, was at last

finished, under the inspection of the matrons of the village. Alete

entered the drawing-room in a dress of rose-colored silk, covered with

flounces, rosettes, a mass of ribbons, etc., and with a girdle, suspended

to which were many ornaments of different devices, all of silver, and

which, as she walked, rang like bells. Nothing can be more ungraceful

than such a dress, which, however, Alete wore with grace. When she

appeared, a cry of admiration escaped from every mouth, and the

spectators' eyes turned involuntarily to Eric to congratulate him.

Alete took her father's arm to walk to the church, and the guests

followed her. At the head of the procession were musicians, playing the

flute and violin; next came about thirty young girls, two by two, in

their richest dresses; then the guests and the women and children of the

village.

After the ceremony, the young girls stood on each side of the altar; the

bridegroom advanced to the altar; then the bride was led thither by her

father, who handed her to Eric, and withdrew a few paces, as if he thus

transferred to another all his own rights. The old pastor then, with an

earnest voice and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial

benediction, and gave his children a touching exhortation. A religious

chant terminated the ceremonies, and the couple left the church amid the

sound of horns and the firing of guns. On their return home, M. de

Vermondans, after an old custom, handed each a glass of beer, which they

drank at the same time, as if to show that thenceforth all was common

between them.

Dinner was soon served. The newly-married people sat side by side under a

canopy, prepared as if to shelter their happiness. At the end of the

repast a carpet was spread representing the nuptial bed. The two knelt

together, and the company sang a hymn. Then the priest, speaking to the

company, invoked every blessing on the couple about to enter a new walk

of life, and bespoke the kind wishes of all their friends. He asked every

guest to give them some token of sympathy, and no one sought to avoid

this invitation. Each one paid tribute: relations gave the married couple

a sum of money; their friends gave them furniture, stuffs, and jewels. In

similar cases, at peasants houses, corn, wool, etc., utensils of

household use, are presented, so that often the house of the

newly-married couple is provided for a long time with provisions in this

manner. It is however true, that they are dearly purchased by the

hospitality they have to extend for a long time to many guests.

From the house of M. de Vermondans the guests went to that of the Pastor,

where similar festivals were gone through with. Alete remained there, and

M. de Vermondans returned with Ebba and Ireneus. As he placed his foot on

the threshold of the door where he had hitherto always been welcomed by

his smiling daughter, he was attacked by a sadness which he could not

overcome, and went to his room to weep.

Ebba also was sad, for though her character was very different from

Alete's, she loved her sister dearly, and was most unhappy at the idea of

a separation.

Ireneus sought to console her.

"I thank you," said the young girl, "for your kind expressions. I am not

unhappy only on my own account at this separation. My father will never

be able to use himself to it. Alete was always happy. Joy left our

household with her. I wish I could replace her. Do however what I may, I

never shall succeed. You and all who know me, are aware that my nature is

of altogether a different character. I am melancholy."

"Gentle, Ebba, gentle," said Ireneus.

"Gentle perhaps, and surely inoffensive, but I repeat melancholy. Why

does this sadness continue? Alas, it is the law of God. Do not look at

me, I beg you, as on one of those women whom I have seen and of whom I

have read, who create imaginary misfortunes for themselves, and deck

themselves with ideal suffering and melancholy. I have neither sorrow nor

passionate regrets and I do not know the meaning of deception.

"My life has passed without storms, but without noise, like the spring

which bubbles from the hill. Father and mother have sought to make me

happy, and no untimely event has interrupted the course of my life.

Melancholy, however, I was born, and will die. That is all.

"Listen to me," added she, fixing on Ireneus a look impressed with

strange grief and affection. "Heaven which denied me a brother seemed to

supply its neglect in yourself. The attachment you evince toward me

appeals to my heart, and I will make you a confession.

"When I say nothing has troubled my thoughts, I do not say all. There is

one impression which to me has been an event, a circumstance, the

influence of which I cannot speak of. I wish, however, to ask you, if you

believe in presentiments?"

"What a question!" replied Ireneus, "no one ever addressed me thus

before, and I do not know what to say."

"You do not"--said Ebba, with as much evidence of surprise, as if she had

said you do not believe in the sun or moon. "I do, and I think this

matter plain and evident as the existence of God, to whom we are indebted

for all our faculties. God endows us with that intuition of secret

events, that species of devotion, sometimes as an act of mercy to prepare

us for a misfortune which will overtake us, sometimes in mercy to point

out to us the consequences of the concealed peril in which we are

engaged.

"Even you, who seem not to believe in presentiments, have more than once

been seized with an involuntary apprehension. This dread, this sadness,

is the antecedent of the tempest. It announces regret, accident, and

unforeseen distress. Nay, I think we thus are informed of dangers which

menace one we love. I think there is a real link between souls which love

each other, a mysterious tie, an invisible union, so powerful however,

that how great soever the distance may be, one cannot suffer without the

other being unhappy; I will even say, that I think these bonds exist

between the living and the dead, that the chilly grave does not crush all

love, that the dead are touched by the tears we shed for them, and by the

fidelity of our affections to them. I will not in this connection repeat

to you stories of apparitions, ghost stories, etc. If you do not believe

what I say, you will also doubt all popular anecdotes. There are

sentiments which cannot be demonstrated, inductions and revelations which

austere reason rejects, and casts amid the empire of dreams, which exert

a great influence over the heart. I saw one night my mother standing at

the foot of my bed. She died when I was born. She leaned over me and

kissed my forehead. Her lips seemed cold as ice, yet her kiss burned me.

She looked at me for a moment in silence, and her large blue eyes were

filled with tears. She then slowly withdrew, and as she did so, opened

her arms to call me to her. Once again, as I opened a door I saw myself,

pale as my father used to describe my mother to me, and clad in a

long, white robe, which fell about me like a shroud. Old people will tell

you there is no more certain sign of death, and I am sure I shall not

live long. For that reason I do not attach myself to this world, nor

indulge as others do in reveries about the future."

This conviction of Ebba was evidently deeply rooted that Ireneus knew not

how reply to it. He, however, sought to represent to Ebba that these

impressions should not be taken too seriously to heart, and that at her

age, and with her qualities, she should not anticipate a sacrifice of

existence, nor give up the joys and hopes of life.

Ebba said nothing. She, however, looked long and moodily at him, clasped

his hand and left him.

Ireneus was yet more desolate than he had been during the days preceding

Alete's marriage. A letter from one of his friends greatly excited him.

This friend informed him that the legitimist party was about to attempt

the reconquest of the realm. The Duchess de Berry had left Scotland, for

Massa, thence she had opened a correspondence with many provinces. La

Vendée and the south opened their arms to her, and crowds of devoted

servants had pledged themselves to her.

All announced an approaching conflict, and all seemed to promise success.

Will you not, said his enthusiastic correspondent, join in our

enterprise, and share in our glory? I have always known you faithful to

your principles, and determined to defend them. You will not suffer

yourself to be led astray by a repose which is unworthy of you, and

slumber in peasant life. Shall I write to you some day as the valliant

Beornere did, "go hang yourself, Crellon, for there was a battle at

Arques, and you were away?"--No, the color under which you first fought

is about to be flung to the wind, and your friends will not expect you in

vain.

When he heard this news, when he heard the trumpet call, Ireneus felt all

his military ardor revived. Often in the peaceable days he passed in his

uncle's house, he reproached himself with a happiness to which he did not

think himself entitled. Now he could not absent himself from the arena,

in which his friends were about to enter; he could not desert them. In

the ardor of his monarchical sentiments he forgot that this enterprise

was civil war, in which brothers would be arrayed against each other, and

the soil of France steeped in the blood of its own children. He only

thought of his oath of allegiance and his banner. His first idea was to

go. When, however, he reflected more calmly, he thought it his duty to

inform his uncle of his plans, and, under the pretext of hunting,

wandered over the fields with his gun on his shoulder, forming his

schemes and dreaming of the glory that awaited him.

An accident delayed the execution of his plans, and at the same time gave

him an additional excuse for leaving Sweden. M. de Vermondans, who saw

him come home every night with an empty game bag, said to him:

"I must, dear Ireneus, recompense you for your useless wanderings; and I

will procure you the pleasure of a bear-hunt. There are two young men in

the village, who will take you to a good place; and, in case of accident,

will assist you with a sure aim. Shall I send for them?"

Ireneus, who was anxious to be actively engaged during the few days he

expected to pass in Sweden, accepted the proposition with eagerness. The

two huntsmen, having been sent for, said that they knew the lair of an

old bear they had hunted during the last winter. It was arranged, that on

the next morning, they should come for Ireneus.

Ebba had heard this conversation with evident uneasiness; but had said

nothing. When the huntsmen left, she said, with an emotion which was

evident in every glance, tone and gesture.

"Cousin, bear-hunting here is a very serious affair, and none but the

boldest of the villagers undertake it. When one of these ferocious

animals is killed, it is borne home in triumph, and the victory is

celebrated with shouts of joy and traditional ceremonies. He who kills

one of these old northern forest-kings, drives a brass nail in the stock

of his gun. Our peasants have various superstitions about the bear. They

will not pronounce his name aloud for fear of offending him, but style

him the 'old man' and the 'grandfather.' When they have killed one, they

ask forgiveness, and speak kindly to him, and beg him to come with them,

where he will he gladly welcomed. All these customs, and many others,

which it would be too long to relate, evince the idea of danger attached

to the pursuit of the bear. I do not wish to divert you from a plan, the

very danger of which, perhaps, pleases you. Be prudent, however, my dear

Ireneus, and take care of yourself. I beg you."

These words were uttered with an accent, the tenderness of which the

young officer had not previously remarked. He looked at Ebba and saw that

she was troubled. A loud laugh, an exclamation of M. de Vermondans,

dissipated the vague impression which Ireneus had received.

"Pardon," said the old man, "women are strange things. If one yielded to

their terrors, the front-door would never be passed, and a gun would be

useless. Because our peasants will not call a bear, should a brave young

fellow hang up his gun, and never venture to pursue the animal? I trust,

Ireneus, that you will refute the dreams of this girl by success, and

bring me home tomorrow a fine skin, to make a new hearth-rug of."

Ireneus said, "I have listened to my cousin, but having a sure foot and a

quick eye, I shall be rash enough to wait until the bear reaches the

muzzle of my gun, or I shall seek him out in his lair."

Before dawn, on the next day, the young officer, being well armed and

equipped, took the field with his two companions. A servant had arisen to

give him breakfast. Every one else in the house slept. As, however, he

was about to leave the house, Ireneus heard a faint noise on the first

story. He looked up and saw a window. A white figure advanced to the

glass, and then withdrew, as if afraid of being seen. Doubtless this was

Ebba. Under other circumstances, Ireneus would have called to bid her

adieu. Since the conversation of the evening before, however, Ireneus

felt annoyed, when he thought of her, and left without seeming to have

seen her.

His guides led him across hills and ravines to a forest some leagues from

the village. When they had reached it, there was an eager discussion

between them.

Thenceforth they differed about the course to be followed. One wished to

go directly forward, and the other insisted that a detour should be made.

After a long discussion, they resolved to place Ireneus between them, and

advance in three lines, keeping, however, near enough together to be able

to unite against the enemy. They made Ireneus understand them by signs,

and he assented to their plan. One of them took a bottle of brandy from

his pouch, and offered it to the young officer, who, _par complaisance_,

placed it to his lips, and handed it to his companion; he gave it an

embrace, and passed it on to the third, from whom it received equal

attention. Ireneus, who also had brought some provisions, drank a glass

of generous wine to their health.

The three huntsmen then entered the forest. The boughs of the pines were

sufficiently far apart not to impede their passage. The ground, however,

was covered with underwood, and trunks of trees covered with snow on

which his foot slipped every minute. After a short time the peasants

slackened their pace, and sought for the tracks of the bear. Ireneus went

on, without observing that he was in advance. He soon found that he was

far ahead, and halted for them. As he looked round for them, he saw

something at the foot of a tree.

It was the bear, and an immense one. His paws were bent under his body,

his head was concealed in the snow, and he seemed asleep.

Ireneus rejoiced at this discovery, and recalling what Ebba had said,

smiled at the idea of acquiring, in the first attempt, the honor so much

desired in the country, of having a brass nail in the stock of his gun.

To make his shot surer, he ascended a little eminence still nearer the

animal. He cocked his gun, and advanced carefully. The eminence, however,

was formed only of a mass of leaves and twigs, the interstices being

concealed by the snow. As he put his foot on it, it gave way, he fell,

and his gun was discharged.

Before he could rise the animal was awake, and rushed on him. It placed

its two paws on the shoulder, and having him thus in its power, with its

eye sparkling with rage, joked at its victim. Unable to move, Ireneus

closed his eyes, and commended his soul to the mercy of God.

The claws of the animal had already pierced his flesh, when he heard the

report of a gun both on his right and left. Each had reached the animal's

head, which fell dead on the meditated victim, covering him with blood,

and lacerating Ireneus's breast and chest in its convulsive agony.

At the same moment, with a cry of triumph, the two peasants ran to him.

They found him paralyzed by the weight of the animal, and bathed in

blood. They lifted him up, rubbed his temples with brandy, and holding

him by the belt, made him take a step or two, to see if he could walk. He

could do so.

It was necessary to take him out of the forest, where no assistance could

be had. With great care, and frequent pauses, they at last reached the

open country. There the strength of Ireneus completely gave way, his

wounds bleeding, and his limbs failing him. One of his companions took

off his vest, laid it on the ground, and assisted Ireneus to stretch

himself on it, with touching kindness of heart and solicitude. The other

ran toward the high-road, and seeing a car loaded with hay, induced the

driver by tears, threats and promises to come to Ireneus's aid. They

placed him in it, and thus went to the village.

When there, one of the hunters sent for his wife, and said:

"Go, fast as you can, to M. de Vermondans, and say that his nephew is

ll, but in no danger, and hurry back to prepare the table. We have made a

famous hunt. To-morrow we will have the bear-feast."

The old gentleman, when he heard the news, hurried to his nephew. Then

Looking into the huntsman's face, he passed his hand over Ireneus's body.

"Nothing serious, that is good."

Soon after came Ebba, pale and trembling, who, when she saw her cousin's

blood, fell half dead in her father's arms.

The physician said that the wounds of the young officer were trifling.

He, however, enjoined a few days of rest and repose.

Immediately, on hearing of the accident, Eric and Alete hurried to see

Ireneus, evincing the tenderest sympathy for him. M. de Vermondans, by

his assiduous care, proved how he loved his nephew. He also gave the two

preservers a munificent reward.

Ebba seemed completely crushed. Her sister found her seated in a chair,

with her eye fixed, her lips motionless, and her face pale. Completely

wrapped in thought, the young girl did not rouse, except at the sound of

Ireneus's name, and when she heard the various reports of the physician.

Often, during the day, she went to the invalid's chamber, passing timidly

up the steps, and placing her ear to the door. She would then to her

father, and sink again into her morbid sadness.

One night, when the nurse who sat with him had seen him sink to sleep and

retired, the young officer awoke under the impression that a delicate

hand was passed lightly over his forehead. He opened his eyes, and saw

the shadow of a woman flit behind the curtains. It was Ebba, who, unable

even to sleep at night, had furtively come, when she thought no one would

be aware of it, to be certain that his medicine was prepared, and to look

into his position.

Through the care of the physician and the affectionate friends who

surrounded him, Ireneus regained his strength.

The day he returned to the table was a very festival. M. de Vermondans

had invited his daughter, son-in-law, the doctor, and the two huntsmen

to dine with him. The latter brought the skin of the bear they had

killed, and which they wished to present to their less fortunate

companion.

They then told gaily all the incidents of that memorable day; and when,

during the course of conversation, they heard how lightly Ireneus had

considered the bear-hunt, one of them said:

"Ah, I am not surprised at what has happened. One should not trifle with

a bear. He is cunning and proud, and understands everything said of him.

If he is not treated with respect, he takes a cruel revenge. I would not

be surprised if, having heard what Monsieur said, he laid at the foot of

the tree expressly to teach him a lesson."

Ireneus, to whom Ebba translated this, laughed at the superstition. The

huntsmen, seeing him laugh, shook their heads, as if to say, "There is an

imprudent fellow, who will not profit by experience."

As he regained strength, Ireneus again felt the necessity of action. The

last letters he received informed him that the legitimist movement had

become more serious, the Duchess de Berry preparing to leave Massa. He

also heard that she had gone successively to the south, and had unfurled

the white flag in La Vendée. Ireneus resolved to go. When he saw the

conduct of Ebba, her deep distress when he was sick and the joy which

had burst forth when he recovered, he could not conceal from himself that

she entertained sentiments toward him which he did not reciprocate. He

loved the young girl, and experienced much pleasure from the

contemplation of her delicate grace and melancholy beauty. He loved the

sound of her melodious voice. More than once since the discovery he had

made, he asked himself if he should not look on what had happened as a

signal interposition of Heaven in his favor. A quiet life, a comfortable

home, the love of friends and of a pretty woman, certainly deserved some

thanks. He however was soon hurried from this idyllic existence by the

ardor of his youth, and the prospect of an adventurous career. To some

men a peaceable life does not seem existence. They are like certain

birds, which show themselves only in the tempest.

Ireneus was of this character. When he carefully scrutinized his heart,

he saw that but a portion of it could belong to Ebba: that with her he

would constantly be persecuted by repinings at fate, and would long for

the excitement of battle and camp. Should he then accept a pure heart

from the young girl? Should he deceive her? Honor required him to leave

her.

M. de Vermondans was painfully surprised when he heard of this

determination. He had grown to look on Ireneus as a son, and perhaps, in

the fondness of his heart, had made a happy dream for the future career

of Ebba and himself. He attempted to persuade him to lay aside the plan,

but in vain.

"Take care, dear Ireneus, that you do not become dazzled by the prestige

of a sentiment, generous and noble it is true, but which may result in

misfortune to yourself, without benefiting others. How many men thus

neglect their advantages, and attribute the blame to Providence, which

places happiness within their grasp, but which they do not see, so

dazzled are they by some imaginary attraction. If this attraction fades

away, they tell how they looked behind; they regret what they have lost

when it is too late. Fortune has granted what they wished but neglected

to others."

"But duty, uncle! duty!"

"God forbid that I cease to respect that word. Suffer me only to observe,

that in the ardor of youth one easily mistakes that obligation. There are

circumstances in which duty appears so clearly and distinctly, and speaks

so loudly, that it must be obeyed at all risks. Our force must be devoted

to it--our soul, our life. Ordinarily, however, we are forced to decide

between conflicting duties, and the one which seems the best is

ordinarily the least praiseworthy. The man who devotes himself to daily

toil has family affections, and diffuses good around him. Does not he

discharge his duty? Does not he occupy an honorable place in the social

system? Does virtue exist only in extraordinary actions? Is there no

crown to be gathered except in adventurous enterprises or in the battle

field? And is not he a good citizen, who toils usefully, and properly

educates his children?"

Ireneus did justice to his uncle's arguments, and was moved by the

touching kindness he evinced. His mind was however made up, and nothing

could divert him.

Alete, her husband, and the old pastor, sought to retain him. When Ebba

heard he was about to leave, she said nothing: her head sunk on her

bosom, and tears stole into her eyelids.

Ireneus left not without effort and distress. At sunset the rays of the

sun have singular beauty, and life is never so attractive as to the dying

man. Just at the moment of separation a strange reaction also takes

place. In an instant we see a kind of dazzling light, unfolding to us

what we love and what we abandon. We regret in anticipation what we are

about to leave. The door is not yet passed, the farewell is not spoken.

We pause and hesitate. We may return, and joyfully cast ourselves into

arms still open to us. This is the last contest of the heart, perhaps the

last remonstrance of a good genius. Passion however conquers, and the

bark is launched upon a sea without a port, beneath a sky without a star.

May God guide it!

Thus Ireneus departed, deserting domestic peace, leaving a family in

distress, and crushing a young heart. He was himself unhappy, but was

sustained by the idea that he hearkened to the voice of honor, and that

the sacrifice was noble in proportion as it was painful.

It was the beginning of summer. The earth had become green, and the woods

Were filled with the sound of birds. A pure sky, silvery lakes, all the

varied beauty of the north, seemed revived as if by magic at the first

breath of spring. Had anything been able to retain him, nature would.

Thanks to the clearness of the nights which permitted him to travel, he

soon reached Stockholm, where he embarked on the Lubeck steamer, went to

see his mother, and hurried to La Vendée, where he joined the flag he had

come so far to stand beneath.

During his voyage, he wrote more than once to his uncle. Three weeks,

however, rolled by and they received no news. M. de Vermondans complained

of his silence--Alete sought to excuse him. Ebba suffered in silence.

After the departure of her cousin, the delicate young girl had sunken

into a state of sadness which daily assumed a more dangerous character.

She loved to sit alone, looking toward the south, as if there lay her

last hope. She sometimes tried to read, but from her very look it was

plain that her mind was unoccupied. If she saw her father, she sought to

smile and appear gay to soothe him; as soon, however, as he left, she

became prostrate again. Her cheeks grew thin and flushed, she was ill,

and the physicians were sent for--one said she had a slow fever, another

that she was consumptive. Ebba carefully followed their advice, and did

all that her father and sister recommended. When alone, she shook her

head as if she thought all remedies in vain.

Two weeks passed without a word from Ireneus. What was he about? It was

Known that he had passed through Paris, and should be in La Vendée. Could

he not correspond with his friends? Could his letters have been

intercepted? Might he not already have fallen a victim to his chivalric

ardor, and be wounded, a prisoner, perhaps dead!

The post was looked for with anxiety. The newspapers were read anxiously.

Vain hope! those of Sweden gave very meager details of the legitimist

movement.

At last M. de Vermondans became angry and humiliated at suffering his

impatience to become manifest, and forbade Ireneus or La Vendée to be

mentioned. He could not, however, stifle thought in his own mind or in

Ebba's.

One morning the young girl arose in great distress, and with a feverish

agitation which made her look better. She dressed hastily, and went to

her father's room. She said she wanted to see her sister.

"Really," said the old man, deceived by this deceitful animation, and

quivering with joy at the idea of her recovery. "Do you wish to go? I

will go with you."

He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed, and in a few minutes,

seated in his cabriolet, was crossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with

peculiar tenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhood and

youth, the home of old servants, spots where she had been with Alete, and

made memorable by various little incidents.

Suddenly she ceased to speak--looked at the scenery with deep interest

glancing at the sea and the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy

reminiscence.

Her father had listened to her with pleasure, and turned to ask why she

was silent. He was filled with delight. Had he been able, however, to

look into her mind, he would have seen a deep sentiment of sadness and

resignation, united with resignation and hopelessness.

In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last

adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so

often had occupied her reverie. The warm summer breeze, which played in

her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to

leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy. By her half open lips, by

her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived,

to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang

their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old

pastor. Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

"Dear sister," said she, "I wished to see you again."

"Again, Ebba--I hope you will, and for many a year."

"Yes--yes--but not here, in another world." She grew pale as she spoke.

"What an idea!" said Alete. "I was so agreeably surprised by your visit.

Have you come to distress me?"

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her

hands.

"Excuse me, Alete. I was wrong to give way so. Let us talk of something

else."

"Yes, yes," said Alete, smiling amid her tears. "Has anything been heard

of Ireneus?"

"Ireneus is--dead!" said Ebba sadly.

"Dead!" exclaimed Alete; "how so?"

"I know he is. I saw him last night."

"Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person's death, whom on the next

morning I met perfectly well."

"I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running

from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of

death."

"Madness! my dear Ebba," said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural

laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her

sister. "Come, Eric and his father expect us. Let us pass our evening

happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to

God may never be realized."

"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will

see."

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them

that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a

wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept

at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we

believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late,

And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.

The night came down, by slow degrees,

On the river stream, and the forest-trees;

And by the heat of the heavy air,

And by the lightning's distant glare,

And by the rustling of the woods,

And by the roaring of the floods,

In half an hour, a man might say,

The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.

But little he cared, that stripling pale,

For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;

For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,

Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow,

Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,

Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,

Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes.

And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches,

So the earth below, and the heaven above,

He saw them not;--those dreams of love,

As some have found, and some will find,

Make men extremely deaf and blind.

At last he opened his great blue eyes,

And looking about in vast surprise,

Found that his hunter had turned his back,

An hour ago on the beaten track,

And now was threading a forest hoar,

Where steed had never stepped before.

"By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said,

"It were a sorry joke.

If I to-night should make my bed

On the turf, beneath an oak!

Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;--

Now, for thy sake, good roan,

I would we were beneath a roof,

Were it the foul fiend's own!"

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close

The sound of a listener's laughter rose.

It was not the scream of a merry boy

When harlequin waves his wand of joy;

Nor the shout from a serious curate, won

By a bending bishop's annual pun;

Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;--oh, no!

It was a gentle laugh, and low;

Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half,

A good old-gentlemanly laugh;

Such as my uncle Peter's are,

When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.

The rider looked to the left and the right,

With something of marvel, and more of fright:

But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,

When a light shone out from a hill hard by.

Thither be spurred, as gay and glad

As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad,

When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown,

Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,

And flies, at last, from all the mysteries

Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories,

To make himself sublimely neat,

For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street.

At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted;

Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted:

And he blew a blast with might and main,

On the bugle that hung by an iron chain.

The sound called up a score of sounds;--

The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds,

The hollow toll of the turret bell,

The call of the watchful sentinel.

And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder,

As the huge old portals rolled asunder,

And gravely from the castle hall

Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.

He stayed not to ask of what degree

So fair and famished a knight might be;

But knowing that all untimely question

Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,

He laid his hand upon the crupper.

And said,--"You're just in time for supper."

They led him to the smoking board.

And placed him next to the castle's lord.

He looked around with a hurried glance:

You may ride from the border to fair Penzance,

And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,

Find such a group of ruffian faces,

As thronged that chamber; some were talking

Of feats of hunting and of hawking,

And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,

And some found pleasure in blaspheming.

He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew,

That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue.

They brought him a pasty of mighty size,

To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;

They brought the wine, so rich and old,

And filled to the brim the cup of gold;

The knight looked down, and the knight looked up,

But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.

"Ho ho," said his host with angry brow,

"I wot our guest is fine;

Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,

For such nice taste as thine:

Yet trust me I have cooked the food,

And I have filled the can,

Since I have lived in this old wood,

For many nobler man."--

"The savory buck and the ancient cask

To a weary man are sweet;

But ere he taste, it is fit he ask

For a blessing on bowl and meat.

Let me but pray for a minute's space,

And bid me pledge ye then;

I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace,

I shall eat and drink like ten!"

The lord of the castle in wrath arose,

He frowned like a fiery dragon;

Indignantly he blew his nose,

And overturned the flagon.

And, "Away," quoth he, "with the canting priest.

Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast,

And breathes through a helmet his holy benison,

To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!"

That moment all the lights went out;

And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout,

With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility,

And every sort of incivility.

They barred the gates: and the peal of laughter,

Sudden and shrill that followed after,

Died off into a dismal tone,

Like a parting spirit's painful moan.

"I wish," said Rudolph, as he stood

On foot in the deep and silent wood;

"I wish, good Roland, rack and stable

May be kinder to-night than their master's table!"

By this the storm had fleeted by;

And the moon with a quiet smile looked out

From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky,

Flinging her silvery beams about

On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all

With just as miscellaneous bounty,

As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall

In half an hour on half the county.

Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed,

As he fumed from that discourteous tower;

Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed

On either side; and many a flower,

Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease,

Grew by the way, a fragrant border;

And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees

Were twined in picturesque disorder:

And there came from the grove, and there came from

the hill,

The loveliest sounds he had ever heard,

The cheerful voice of the dancing rill,

And the sad, sad song of the lonely bird.

And at last he stared with wondering eyes,

As well he might, on a huge pavilion:

'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes,

Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion;

And there were quaint devices traced

All round in the Saracenic manner;

And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced

With the drooping folds of a silken banner;

And on the poles, in silent pride,

There sat small doves of white enamel;

And the vail from the entrance was drawn aside,

And flung on the humps of a silver camel.

In short it was the sweetest thing

For a weary youth in a wood to light on:

And finer far than what a king

Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton.

The gilded gate was all unbarred;

And, close beside it, for a guard,

There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses,

Both fast asleep upon some roses.

Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright

Was all that met his ravished sight;

Soft tapestries from far countries brought,

Rare cabinets with gems inwrought,

White vases of the finest mould,

And mirrors set in burnished gold.

Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered;

And a small table was encumber'd

With paintings, and an ivory lute,

And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit.

Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising;

For he, I should have said was gazing,

In attitude extremely tragic,

Upon a sight of stranger magic;

A sight, which, seen at such a season,

Might well astonish Mistress Reason,

And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences

Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses.

Beneath a crimson canopy

A lady, passing fair, was lying;

Deep sleep was on her gentle eye,

And in her slumber she was sighing

Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say

Beneath the moonlight, to a lover,

Things which the coward tongue by day

Would not, for all the world, discover:

She lay like a shape of sculptured stone,

So pale, so tranquil:--she had thrown,

For the warm evening's sultriness,

The broidered coverlet aside

And nothing was there to deck or hide

The glory of her loveliness,

But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin

You might see beneath the dazzling skin,

And watch the purple streamlets go

Through the valleys of white and stainless snow,

Or here and there a wayward tress

Which wandered out with vast assurance

From the pearls that kept the rest in durance,

And fluttered about, as if 'twould try

To lure a zephyr from the sky.

"Bertha!"--large drops of anguish came

On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,--

"Oh fair and false one, wake, and fear;

I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here."

The eye moved not from its dull eclipse,

The voice came not from the fast-shut lips;

No matter! well that gazer knew

The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue.

Sir Rudolph hid his burning face

With both his hands for a minute's space,

And all his frame in awful fashion

Was shaken by some sudden passion.

What guilty fancies o'er him ran?--

Oh, pity will be slow to guess them;

And never, save the holy man,

Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them

But soon his spirit you might deem

Came forth from the shade, of the fearful dream;

His cheek, though pale, was calm again.

And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain

"Not mine! not mine! now, Mary mother.

Aid me the sinful hope to smother!

Not mine, not mine!--I have loved thee long

Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong.

But pure the heart of a knight should be,--

Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe for me.

Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign,

Whose lips have been so near to thine,

Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep,

And turned away, and longed to weep,

Whole heart,--mourn,--madden as it will,--

Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!"

His purple mantle, rich and wide,

From his neck the trembling youth untied,

And flung it o'er those dangerous charms,

The swelling neck, and the rounded arms.

Once more he looked, once more he sighed;

And away, away, from the perilous tent,

Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing,

Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string,

Into the wood Sir Rudolph went:

Not with more joy the school-boys run

To the gay green fields, when their task is done;

Not with more haste the members fly,

When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye.

At last the daylight came; and then

A score or two of serving men,

Supposing that some sad disaster

Had happened to their lord and master,

Went out into the wood, and found him,

Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.

Ere he could tell his tale romantic,

The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,

So ordered him at once to bed,

And clapped a blister on his head.

Within the sound of the castle-clock

There stands a huge and rugged rock,

And I have heard the peasants say,

That the grieving groom at noon that day

Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,

At the base of the black and beetling cliff.

Beside the rock there is an oak,

Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,

And I have heard the peasants say,

That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay,

And coiled in many a deadly wreath

A venomous serpent slept beneath.

* * * * *

STANZAS,

WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

Most beautiful!--I gaze and gaze

In silence on the glorious pile;

And the glad thoughts of other days

Come thronging back the while.

To me dim Memory makes more dear

The perfect grandeur of the shrine;

But if i stood a stranger here,

The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,

As reverently their feet have trod

On any spot where man hath knelt,

To commune with his God;

By haunted spring, or fairy well,

Beneath the ruined convent's gloom,

Beside the feeble hermit's cell,

Or the false prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced

With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,

Than thus the limner's art hath traced

From the time-honored stone?

The spirit here of worship seems

To hold the heart in wondrous thrall,

And heavenward hopes and holy dreams,

Came at her voiceless call;--

At midnight, when the lonely moon

Looks from a vapor's silvery fold;

Or morning, when the sun of June

Crests the high towers with gold;

For every change of hour and form

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair;

And dusk and day-break, calm and storm,

Are all religion there.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD:

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

Non voglio cento scudi.--Song.

Oh say not that the minstrel's art,

The pleasant gift of verse,

Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,

Can ever be a curse;--

Though sorrow reign within his heart,

And Penury hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;--

Though he charm no rich relation,

The Fairies all his labors bless

With such remuneration,

As Mr. Hume would soon confess

Beyond his calculation.

Annuities, and three per cents,

Little cares he about them;

And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,

He rambles on without them:

But love, and noble sentiments,--

Oh, never bid him doubt them!

* * * * *

Young Florice rose from his humble bed,

And prayed as a good youth should;

And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,

Into the neighboring wood;

He knew where the berries were ripe and red,

And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay, at the noon of day,

Beneath the ancient tree,

A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;

A holy man was he,

And he was wending forth to pray

At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering,

And a song or two might cheer him.

The pious youth began to sing,

As the ancient man drew near him;

The lark was mute as he touched the string,

And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"

He sand high tales of the martyred brave;

Of the good, and pure, and just;

Who have gone into the silent grave,

In such deep faith and trust,

That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save

Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,

Meek maids, and grandsires hoary;

Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,

As they passed to their doom of glory;--

Their radiant fame is never dim,

Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead

With angels watching round them;

The mourner's grief is comforted,

As he looks on the chains that bound them;

And peace is shed on the murderer's head,

And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard

In a trance of voiceless pleasure;

For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred,

By the sad and solemn measure:

"I give thee my blessing,"--was his word;

"It is all I have of treasure!"

* * * * *

A little child came bounding by;

And he, in a fragrant bower,

Had found a gorgeous butterfly,

Rare spoil for a nursery dower,

Which, with fierce step, and eager eye,

He chased from flower to flower.

"Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call;

And the urchin left his fun;

So from the hall of poor Sir Paul

Retreats the baffled dun;

So Ellen parts from the village ball,

Where she leaves a heart half won

Then Florice did the child caress,

And sang his sweetest songs:

Their theme was of the gentleness,

Which to the soul belongs,

Ere yet it knows the name or dress

Of human rights and wrongs.

And of the wants which make agree

All parts of this vast plan;

How life is in whate'er we see,

And only life in man:--

What matter where the less may be,

And where the longer span?

An d how the heart grows hard without

Soft Pity's freshing dews;

And how when any life goes out

Some little pang ensues;--

Facts which great soldiers often doubt,

And wits who write reviews.

Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs

Though deep the Nymph has laid them!

The child gazed, gazed, on the gilded wings,

As the next light breeze displayed them;

But he felt the while that the meanest things

Are dear to him that made them!

* * * * *

The sun went down behind the hill,

The breeze was growing colder

But there the minstrel lingered still;

And amazed the chance beholder,

Musing beside a rippling rill,

With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,

A sleek Arabian mare,

The Lady Juliana came,

Riding to take the air,

With Lords of fame, at whose proud name

A radical would swear.

The minstrel touched his lute again.--

It was more than a Sultan's crown,

When the lady checked her bridle rein,

And lit from her palfrey down:--

What would you give for such a strain,

Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,

Of Beauty's melting tone;

And how her praise is a richer prize

Then the gems of Persia's throne:

And her love a bliss which the coldly wise

Have never, never, known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fear,

When the sob of her grief is heard;

How they couch the spear for a smile or tear

How they die for a single word;--

Things which, I own, to me appear

Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough:

She turned to hear Sir Denys

Discourse, in language vastly gruff,

About his skill at Tennis--

While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff

His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,

And the Lady rode away.--

There is not a lady in all our Isle,

I have heard a Poet say,

Who can listen more than a little while

To a poet's sweetest lay.

* * * * *

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill,

As she set the milk and fruit:

"Out on thine unrewarded skill,

And on thy vagrant lute;

Let the strings be broken an they will,

And the beggar lips be mute!"

Peace, peace!--the Pilgrim as he went

Forgot the minstrel's song;

But the blessing that his wan lips sent

Will guard the minstrel long;

And keep his spirit innocent,

And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought

Of the moral the minstrel drew;

But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought--

Brings it not peace to you?

And doth not a lesson of virture taught

Teach him that reaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh

For the minstrel or his hymn;--

But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,

Or lip the goblet's brim,

What a star in the mist of memory

Her smile will be to him!

* * * * *

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail!

Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn:

Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne

Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where

The good and true, the terrible and fleet?

They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,

With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie,

Upon the bloody pillow of their rest:

Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest

Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;--

We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts.

Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts

We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;

For we are wandering o'er our native land,

As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand

Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow.

Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;

And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up

To heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge--oh, not our years

Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed;

The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;

The maiden's silent tears;

The babe's bread torn away'

The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof;

The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof;

Judge not for those to-day!

Is not thine own dread rod

Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,

Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned?

Avenge thyself, O God!

Break Pharoah's iron crown;

Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;

Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things;

And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in thine own good time!

We will abide: we have not turned from thee;

Though in a world of grief our portion be,

Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!

Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go.

That we may worship where the torrents flow,

And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves

We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.--

On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there

Safe temples, quiet graves!

* * * * *

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day, through fancy's telescope,

Which is my richest treasure,

I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope

Set out in search of Pleasure:

All mirth and smiles I saw them go;

Each was the other's banker;

For Hope took up her brother's bow,

And Love, his sister's anchor.

They rambled on o'er vale and hill,

They passed by cot and tower;

Through summer's glow and winter's chill,

Through sunshine and through shower,

But what did those fond playmates care

For climate, or for weather?

All scenes to them were bright and fair,

On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless

Some Muse and her wild numbers,

Or breathe a dream of holiness

On Beauty's quiet slumbers;

"Fly on," said Wisdom, with cold sneers:

"I teach my friends to doubt you;"

"Come back," said Age, with bitter tears,

"My heart is cold without you."

When Poverty beset their path,

And threatened to divide them,

They coaxed away the beldame's wrath,

Ere she had breath to chide them,

By vowing all her rags were silk,

And all her bitters, honey,

And showing taste for bread and milk,

And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way,

Upon a ruin seated;

Before him kings had quaked that day,

And armies had retreated:

But he was robed in such a cloud,

As Love and Hope came near him,

That though he thundered long and loud,

They did not see or hear him.

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name;

And Love was nearly crazy,

To find that he was very lame,

And also very lazy:

Hope, as he listened to her tale,

Tied wings upon his jacket;

And then they far outran the mail,

And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed

O'er many a land and billow,

Before a grave they stopped at last,

Beneath a weeping willow:

The moon upon the humble mound

Her softest light was flinging;

Sad nightingales were singing.

"I leave you here," quoth Father Time,

As hoarse as any raven;

And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme

Upon the rude stone graven:

But Hope looked onward, calmly brave;

And whispered, "Dearest brother,

We're parted on this side the grave,--

We'll meet upon the other."

* * * * *

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN.

--Sweet, when Actors first appear

The loud collision of applauding gloves!

MOULTRIE.

Your labors, my talented brother,

Are happily over at last;

They tell me that, some how or other,

The bill is rejected,--or past:

And now you'll be coming, I'm certain,

As fast as four posters can crawl,

To help us draw up our curtain,

As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements, are nearly completed;

But still we've a lover or two,

Whom Lady Albina entreated,

We'd keep, at all hazards, for you:

Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,--

Lord John is a trifle too tall,--

And yours are the safest embraces

To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--it's really enchanting

To listen and look at the rout;

We're all of us puffing, and panting,

And raving, and running about;

Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;

There Andrew and Anthony bawl;

Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle,

In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By the bye, there are two or three matters

We want you to bring us from town;

The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's,

A nose and a hump for the Clown:

We want a few harps for our banquet,

We want a few masks for our ball;

And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet

His white wig, for Fustian Hall.

Huncamunca must have a huge saber,

Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;

And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber,

For want of a lizard and owl:

And then, for our funeral procession,

Pray get us a love of a pall;

Or how shall we make an impression

On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us,

If you'll do your endeavor to bring

From the Club a young person to write us

Our prologue, and that sort of thing;

Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,

Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal;

I fear we shall miss him extremely,

This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--your idol Albina

Will make a sensation, I feel;

We all think there never was seen a

Performer, so like the O'Neill.

At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy

Has deeply affected us all;

For one tear that trickles at Drury,

There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall.

Dread objects are scattered before her,

On purpose to harrow her soul;

She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,

At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.

The sword never seems to alarm her,

That hangs on a peg to the wall,

And she doats on thy rusty old armor

Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,--

Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,--

And trampled, in anger and scorning,

A bonnet and feathers to death.

But hark,--I've a part in the Stranger,--

There's the Prompter's detestable call:

Come, Clarence,--our Romeo and Ranger,

We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opus caset, "nunc quidem

paullulum," inquit, "a sole."--_Cicero Tusc. Disp._

Slowly the monarch turned aside;

But when his glance of youthful pride

Rested upon the warriors gray

Who bore his lance and shield that day,

And the long line of spears that came

Through the far grove like waves of flame,

His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,

More darkly flashed his shifting eye,

And visions of the battle-plain

Came bursting on his soul again.

The old man drew his gaze away

Right gladly from that long array,

As if their presence were a blight

Of pain and sickness to his sight;

And slowly folding o'er his breast

The fragments of his tattered vest,

As was his wont, unasked, unsought

Gave to the winds his muttered thought,

Naming no name of friend or foe,

And reckless if they heard or no.

"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,

Puppet, which mortals call a king,

Adorning thee with idle gems,

With drapery and diadems,

And scarcely guessing, that beneath

The purple robe and laurel wreath,

There's nothing but the common slime

Of human clay and human crime:--

My rags are not so rich,--but they

Will serve as well to cloak decay.

"And ever round thy jeweled brow

False slaves and falser friends will bow;

And Flattery,--as varnish flings

A baseness on the brightest things,--

Will make the monarch's deeds appear

All worthless to the monarch's ear,

Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,

So vilely drest, is worse than shame!--

The gods be thanked for all their mercies,

Diogenes hears naught but curses!

"And thou wilt banquet!--air and sea

Will render up their hoards for thee;

And golden cups for thee will hold

Rich nectar, richer than the gold.

The cunning caterer still must share

The dainties which his toils prepare;

The page's lip must taste the wine

Before he fills the cup for thine!--

Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer?

I dread no royal hemlock here!

"And night will come; and thou wilt lie

Beneath a purple canopy,

With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed

Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,

A princess to unclasp thy crest,

A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.--

Dream, happy one!--thy dreams will be

Of danger and of perfidy;--

The Persian lance,--the Carian club!--

I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

"And thou wilt pass away, and have

A marble mountain o'er thy grave,

With pillars tall, and chambers vast,

Fit palace for the worm's repast!--

I too shall perish!--let them call

The vulture to my funeral;

The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,

Are all he leaves his fellow men,--

Heedless how this corruption fares,--

Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!"

* * * *

[From Household Words.]

THE LAST OF A LONG LINE.

CHAPTER I.

Sir Roger Rockville of Rockville was the last of a very long line. It

Extended from the Norman Conquest to the present century. His first known

ancestor came over with William, and must have been a man of some mark,

either of bone and sinew, or of brain, for he obtained what the Americans

would call a prime location. As his name does not occur in the Roll of

Battle Abbey, he was, of course, not of a very high Norman extraction;

but he had done enough, it seems, in the way of knocking down Saxons, to

place himself on a considerable eminence in this kingdom. The center of

his domains was conspicuous far over the country, through a high range of

rock overhanging one of the sweetest rivers in England. On one hand lay a

vast tract of rich marsh land, capable, as society advanced, of being

converted into meadows; and on the other, as extensive moorlands, finely

undulating, and abounding with woods and deer.

Here the original Sir Roger built his castle on the summit of the range

of rock, with huts for his followers; and became known directly all over

the country as Sir Roger de Rockville, or Sir Roger of the hamlet on the

Rock. Sir Roger, no doubt, was a mighty hunter before the lord of the

feudal district: it is certain that his descendants were. For generations

they led a jolly life at Rockville, and were always ready to exchange the

excitement of the chase for a bit of civil war. Without that the country

would have grown dull, and ale and venison lost their flavor. There was

no gay London in those days, and a good brisk skirmish with their

neighbors in helm and hauberk was the way of spending their season. It

was their parliamentary debate, and was necessary to thin their woods.

Protection and Free Trade were as much the great topics of interest as

they are now, only they did not trouble themselves so much about Corn

bills. Their bills were of good steel, and their protective measures were

arrows a cloth-yard long. Protection meant a good suit of mail; and a

castle with its duly prescribed moats, bastions, portcullises, and donjon

keep. Free Trade was a lively inroad into the neighboring baron's lands,

and the iportation thence of goodly herds and flocks. Foreign cattle for

home consumption was as _sticking an article_ in their markets as in

ours, only the blows were expended on one another's heads, instead of the

heads of foreign bullocks--that is, bullocks from over the Welch or

Scotch marches, as from beyond the next brook.

Thus lived the Rockvilles for ages. In all the iron combats of those iron

times they took care to have their quota. Whether it were Stephen against

Matilda, or Richard against his father, or John against the barons;

whether it were York or Lancaster, or Tudor or Stuart, the Rockvilles

were to be found in the _mêlée_, and winning power and lands. So long as

it required only stalwart frames and stout blows, no family cut a more

conspicuous figure. The Rockvilles were at Bosworth Field. The Rockvilles

fought in Ireland under Elizabeth. The Rockvilles were staunch defenders

of the cause in the war of Charles I. with his Parliament. The Rockvilles

even fought for James II. at the Boyne, when three-fourths of the most

loyal of the English nobility and gentry had deserted him in disgust and

indignation. But from that hour they had been less conspicuous.

The opposition to the successful party, that of William of Orange, of

course brought them into disgrace: and though they were never molested on

that account, they retired to their estate, and found it convenient to be

as unobtrusive as possible. Thenceforward you heard no more of the

Rockvilles in the national annals. They became only of consequence in

their own district. They acted as magistrates. They served as high

sheriffs. They were a substantial county family, and nothing more.

Education and civilization advanced; a wider and very different field of

action and ambition opened upon the aristocracy of England. Our fleets

and armies abroad, our legislature at home, law and the church, presented

brilliant paths to the ambition of those thirsting for distinction, and

the good things that follow it. But somehow the Rockvilles did not expand

with this expansion. So long as it required only a figure of six feet

high, broad shoulders, and a strong arm, they were a great and

conspicuous race. But when the head became the member most in request,

they ceased to go a-head. Younger sons, it is true, served in army and in

navy, and filled the family pulpit, but they produced no generals, no

admirals, no archbishops. The Rockvilles of Rockville were very

conservative, very exclusive, and very stereotype. Other families grew

poor, and enriched themselves again by marrying plebeian heiresses. New

families grew up out of plebeian blood into greatness, and intermingled

the vigor of their fresh earth with the attenuated aristocratic soil. Men

of family became great lawyers, great statesmen, great prelates and even

great poets and philosophers. The Rockvilles remained high, proud,

bigoted, and _borné_.

The Rockvilles married Rockvilles, or their first cousins, the

Cesgvilles, simply to prevent property going out of the family. They kept

the property together. They did not lose an acre, and they were a fine,

tall, solemn race--and nothing more. What ailed them?

If you saw Sir Roger Rockville,--for there was an eternal Sir Roger

filling his office of high sheriff,--he had a very fine carriage, and a

very fine retinue in the most approved and splendid antique costumes; if

you saw him sitting on the bench at quarter sessions, he was a tall,

stately, and solemn man. If you saw Lady Rockville shopping, in her

handsome carriage, with very handsomely attired servants; saw her at the

county ball, or on the race-stand, she was a tall, aristocratic, and

stately lady. That was in the last generation--the present could boast of

no Lady Rockville.

Great outward respect was shown to the Rockvilles on account of the

length of their descent, and the breadth of their acres. They were

always, when any stranger asked about them, declared, with a serious and

important air, to be a very ancient, honorable, and substantial family.

"Oh! a great family are the Rockvilles, a very great family."

But if you came to close quarters with the members of this great and

highly distinguished family, you soon found yourself fundamentally

astonished: you had a sensation come over you, as if you were trying,

like Moses, to draw water from a rock, without his delegated power. There

was a goodly outside of things before you, but nothing came of it. You

talked, hoping to get talking in return, but you got little more than

"noes" and "yeses," and "oh! indeeds!" and "reallys," and sometimes not

even that, but a certain look of aristocratic dignity or dignification,

that was meant to serve for all answers. There was a sort of resting on

aristocratic oars or "sculls," that were not to be too vulgarly handled.

There was a feeling impressed on you, that eight-hundred years of descent

and ten thousand a-year in landed income did not trouble themselves with

the trifling things that gave distinction to lesser people--such as

literature, fine arts, politics, and general knowledge. These were very

well for those who had nothing else to pride themselves on, but for the

Rockvilles--oh! certainly they were by no means requisite.

In fact, you found yourself, with a little variation, in the predicament

of Cowper's people,

--who spent their lives

In dropping buckets into empty wells,

And _growing tired_ of drawing nothing up.

Who hasn't often come across these "dry wells" of society; solemn gulfs

out of which you can pump nothing up? You know them; they are at your

elbow every day in large and brilliant companies, and defy the best

sucking-buckets ever invented to extract anything from them. But the

Rockvilles were each and all of this adust description. It was a family

feature, and they seemed, if either, rather proud of it. They must be so;

for proud they were, amazingly proud; and they had nothing besides to be

proud of, except their acres, and their ancestors.

But the fact was, they could not help it. It was become organic. They had

acted the justice of peace, maintained the constitution against upstarts

and manufacturers, signed warrants, supported the church and the house of

correction, committed poachers, and then rested on the dignity of their

ancestors for so many generations, that their skulls, brains,

constitutions, and nervous systems, were all so completely moulded into

that shape and baked into that mould, that a Rockville would be a

Rockville to the end of time, if God and Nature would have allowed it.

But such things wear out. The American Indians and the Australian nations

wear out; they are not progressive, and as Nature abhors a vacuum, she

does not forget the vacuum wherever it may be, whether in a hot desert,

or in a cold and stately Rockville;--a very ancient, honorable, and

substantial family that lies fallow till the thinking faculty literally

dies out.

For several generations there had been symptoms of decay about the

Rockville family. Not in its property, that was as large as ever; not in

their personal stature and physical aspect. The Rockvilles continued, as

they always had been, a tall and not bad-looking family. But they grew

gradually less prolific. For a hundred and fifty years past there had

seldom been more than two, or at most three, children. There had

generally been an heir to the estate, and another to the family pulpit,

and sometimes a daughter married to some neighboring squire. But Sir

Roger's father had been an only child, and Sir Roger himself was an only

child. The danger of extinction to the family, apparent as it was, had

never induced Sir Roger to marry. At the time that we are turning our

attention upon him, he had reached the mature age of sixty. Nobody

believed that Sir Roger now would marry; he was the last, and likely to

be, of his line.

It is worth while here to take a glance at Sir Roger and his estate. They

wore a strange contrast. The one bore all the signs of progress, the

other of a stereotyped feudality. The estate, which in the days of the

first Sir Roger de Rockville had been half morass and half wilderness,

was now cultivated to the pitch of British agricultural science. The

marshlands beyond the river were one splendid expanse of richest meadows,

yielding a rental of four solid pounds per acre. Over hill and dale on

this side for miles, where formerly ran wild deer, and grew wild

woodlands of furze-bushes, now lay excellent farms and hamlets, and along

the ridge of the ancient cliffs rose the most magnificent woods. Woods,

too, clothed the steep hillsides, and swept down to the noble river,

their very boughs hanging far out over its clear and rapid waters. In the

midst of these fine woods stood Rockville Hall, the family seat of the

Rockvilles. It reared its old brick walls above the towering mass of

elms, and travelers at a distance recognized it for what it was, the

mansion of an ancient and wealthy family.

The progress of England in arts, science, commerce, and manufacture, had

carried Sir Roger's estate along with it. It was full of active and

moneyed farmers, and flourished under modern influences. How lucky it

would have been for the Rockville family had it done the same!

But amid this estate there was Sir Roger solitary, and the last of the

line. He had grown well enough--there was nothing stunted about him, so

far as you could see on the surface. In stature, he exceeded six feet.

His colossal elms could not boast of a properer relative growth. He was

as large a landlord, and as tall a justice of the peace, as you could

desire: but, unfortunately, he was, after all, only the shell of a man.

Like many of his veteran elms, there was a very fine stem, only it was

hollow. There was a man, just with the rather awkward deficiency of a

soul.

And it were no difficult task to explain, either, how this had come

about. The Rockvilles saw plainly enough the necessity of manuring their

lands, but they scorned the very idea of manuring their family. What!

that most ancient, honorable, and substantial family, suffer any of the

common earth of humanity to gather about its roots! The Rockvilles were

so careful of their good blood, that they never allied it to any but

blood as pure and inane as their own. Their elms flourished in the rotten

earth of plebeian accumulations, and their acres produced large crops of

corn from the sewage of towns and fat sinks, but the Rockvilles

themselves took especial care that no vulgar vigor from the real heap

of ordinary human nature should infuse a new force of intellect into

their race. The Rockvilles needed nothing; they had all that an ancient,

honorable, and substantial family could need. The Rockvilles had no need

to study at school--why should they? They did not want to get on. The

Rockvilles did not aspire to distinction for talent in the world--why

should they? They had a large estate. So the Rockville soul, unused from

generation to generation, grew--

Fine by degrees, and _spiritually_ less,

till it tapered off into nothing.

Look at the last of a long fine in the midst of his fine estate. Tall he

was, with a stoop in his shoulders, and a bowing of his head on one side,

as if he had been accustomed to stand under the low boughs of his woods,

and peer after intruders. And that was precisely the fact. His features

were thin and sharp; his nose prominent and keen in its character; his

eyes small, black, and peering like a mole's, or a hungry swine's. Sir

Roger was still oracular on the bench, and after consulting his clerk, a

good lawyer,--and looked up to by the neighboring squires in election

matters, for he was an unswerving tory. You never heard of a rational

thing that he had said in the whole course of his life; but that mattered

little, he was a gentleman of solemn aspect, of stately gait, and of a

very ancient family.

With ten thousand a-year, and his rental rising, he was still, however, a

man of overwhelming cares. What mattered a fine estate if all the world

was against him? And Sir Roger firmly believed that he stood in that

predicament. He had grown up to regard the world as full of little

besides upstarts, radicals, manufacturers, and poachers. All were banded,

in his belief, against the landed interest. It demanded all the energy of

his very small faculties to defend himself and the world against them.

Unfortunately for his peace, a large manufacturing town had sprung up

within a couple of miles of him. He could see its red-brick walls, and

its red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys, growing and

extending over the slopes beyond the river. It was to him the most

irritating sight in the world; for what were all those swarming weavers

and spinners but arrant radicals, upstarts, sworn foes of ancient

institutions and the landed interests of England? Sir Roger had passed

through many a desperate conflict with them for the return of members to

parliament. They brought forward men that were utter wormwood to all his

feelings, and they paid no more respect to him and his friends on such

occasions than they did to the meanest creature living. Reverence for

ancient blood did not exist in that plebeian and rapidly multiplying

tribe. There were master manufacturers there actually that looked and

talked as big as himself, and _entre nous_, a vast deal more cleverly.

The people talked of rights and franchises, and freedom of speech and of

conscience, in a way that was really frightful. Then they were given most

inveterately to running out in whole and everlasting crowds on Sundays

and holidays into the fields and woods; and as there was no part of the

neighborhood half so pleasant as the groves and river banks of Rockville,

they came swarming up there in crowds that were enough to drive any man

of acres frantic.

Unluckily, there were roads all about Rockville; foot roads, and high

roads and bridle roads. There was a road up the river side, all the way

to Rockville woods, and when it reached them, it divided like a fork, and

one pony or foot-path led straight up a magnificent grove of a mile long,

ending close to the hall; and another ran all along the river side, under

the hills and branches of the wood.

Oh, delicious were these woods! In the river there were islands, which

were covered in summer with the greenest grass, and the freshest of

willows, and the clear waters rushed around them in the most inviting

manner imaginable. And there were numbers of people extremely ready to

accept this delectable invitation of these waters. There they came in

fine weather, and as these islands were only separated from the main-land

by a little and very shallow stream, it was delightful for lovers to get

across--with laughter, and treading on stepping-stones, and slipping off

the stepping-stones up to the ankles into the cool brook, and pretty

screams, and fresh laughter, and then landing on those sunny, and to them

really enchanted islands. And then came fishermen; solitary fishermen,

and fishermen in rows; fishermen lying in the flowery grass, with

fragrant meadow-sweet and honey-breathing clover all about their ears;

and fishermen standing in file, as if they were determined to clear all

the river of fish in one day. And there were other lovers, and troops of

loiterers, and shouting roysterers, going along under the boughs of the

wood, and following the turns of that most companionable of rivers. And

there were boats going up and down; boats full of young people, all

holiday finery and mirth, and boats with duck-hunters, and other, to Sir

Roger, detestable marauders, with guns and dogs, and great bottles of

beer. In the fine grove, on summer days, there might be found hundreds

of people. There were picnic parties, fathers and mothers with whole

families of children, and a great promenade of the delighted artisans and

their wives or sweethearts.

In the times prior to the sudden growth of the neighboring town, Great

Stockington, and to the simultaneous development of the love-of-nature

principle in the Stockingtonians, nothing had been thought of all these

roads. The roads were well enough till they led to these inroads. Then

Sir Roger aroused himself. This must be changed. The roads must be

stopped. Nothing was easier to his fancy. His fellow-justices, Sir

Benjamin Bullockshed and Squire Sheepshank, had asked his aid to stop the

like nuisances, and it had been done at once. So Sir Roger put up notices

all about, that the roads were to be stopped by an Order of Sessions, and

these notices were signed, as required by law, by their worships of

Bullockshed and Sheepshank. But Sir Roger soon found that it was one

thing to stop a road leading from Oneman-Town to Lonely-Lodge, and

another to attempt to stop those from Great-Stockington to Rockville.

On the very first Sunday after the exhibition of those notice-boards,

there was a ferment in the grove of Rockville, as if all the bees in the

county were swarming there, with all the wasps and hornets to boot. Great

crowds were collected before each of these obnoxious placards, and the

amount of curses vomited against them was really shocking for any day,

but more especially for a Sunday. Presently there was a rush at them;

they were torn down, and simultaneously pitched into the river. There

were great crowds swarming all about Rockville all that day, and with

looks so defiant that Sir Roger more than once contemplated sending off

for the Yeoman Cavalry to defend his house, which he seriously thought in

danger.

But so far from being intimidated from proceeding, this demonstration

only made Sir Roger the more determined. To have so desperate and

irreverent a population coming about his house and woods now presented

itself in a much more formidable aspect than ever. So, next day, not only

were the placards once more hoisted, but rewards offered for the

discovery of the offenders, attended with all the maledictions of the

insulted majesty of the law. No notice was taken of this, but the whole

of Great Stockington was in a buzz and an agitation. There were posters

plastered all over the walls of the town, four times as large as Sir

Roger's notices, in this style:--

"Englishmen! your dearest rights are menaced! The Woods of Rockville,

your ancient, rightful, and enchanting resorts, are to be closed to you.

Stockingtonians! The eyes of the world are upon you. 'Awake! arise! or be

forever fallen!' England expects every man to do his duty! And your duty

is to resist and defy the grasping soil-lords, to seize on your ancient

Patrimony!"

"Patrimony! Ancient and rightful resort of Rockville!" Sir Roger was

astounded at the audacity of this upstart, plebeian race. What! They

actually claimed Rockville, the heritage of a hundred successive

Rockvilles, as their own. Sir Roger determined to carry it to the

Sessions; and at the Sessions was a magnificent muster of all his

friends. There was Sir Roger himself in the chair; and on either hand, a

prodigious row of county squirearchy. There was Sir Benjamin Bullockshed,

and Sir Thomas Tenterhook, and all the squires,--Sheepshank, Ramsbottom,

Turnbull, Otterbrook, and Swagsides. The Clerk of Sessions read the

notice for the closing of all the footpaths through the woods of

Rockville, and declared that this notice had been duly, and for the

required period publicly, posted. The Stockingtonians protested by their

able lawyer Daredeville, against any order for the closing of these

ancient woods--the inestimable property of the public.

"Property of the public!" exclaimed Sir Roger. "Property of the public!"

echoed the multitudinous voices of indignant Bullocksheds, Tenterhooks,

and Ramsbottoms. "Why, sir, do you dispute the right of Sir Roger

Rockville to his own estate?"

"By no means;" replied the undaunted Daredeville; "the estate of

Rockville is unquestionably the property of the honorable baronet, Sir

Roger Rockville; but the roads through it are the as unquestionable

Property of the public."

The whole bench looked at itself; that is, at each other, in wrathful

astonishment. The swelling in the diaphragms of the squires Otterbrook,

Turnbull, and Swagsides, and all the rest of the worshipful row, was too

big to admit of utterance. Only Sir Roger himself burst forth with an

abrupt--

"Impudent fellows! But I'll see them ---- first!"

"Grant the order!" said Sir Benjamin Bullockshed; and the whole bench

nodded assent. The able lawyer Daredeville retired with a pleasant smile.

He saw an agreeable prospect of plenty of grist to his mill. Sir Roger

was rich, and so was Great Stockington. He rubbed his hands, not in the

least like a man defeated, and thought to himself, "Let them go at

it--all right."

The next day the placards on the Rockville estate were changed for others

Bearing "STOPPED BY ORDER OF SESSIONS!" and alongside of them were huge

carefully painted boards, denouncing on all trespassers prosecutions

according to law. The same evening came a prodigious invasion of

Stockingtonians--tore all the boards and placards down, and carried them

on their shoulders to Great Stockington, singing as they went, "See, the

Conquering Heroes come!" They set them up in the center of Stockington

market-place, and burnt them, along with an effigy of Sir Roger

Rockville.

That was grist at once to the mill of the able lawyer Daredeville. He

looked on, and rubbed his hands. Warrants were speedily issued by the

baronets of Bullockshed and Tenterhook, for the apprehension of the

individuals who had been seen carrying off the notice-boards, for

larceny, and against a number of others for trespass. There was plenty

of work for Daredeville and his brethren of the robe; but it all ended,

after the flying about of sundry mandamuses and assize trials, in Sir

Roger finding that though Rockville was his, the roads through it were

the public's.

As Sir Roger drove homeward from the assize, which finally settled the

question of these footpaths, he heard the bells in all the steeples of

Great Stockington burst forth with a grand peal of triumph. He closed

first the windows of his fine old carriage, and sunk into a corner; but

he could not drown the intolerable sound. "But," said he, "I'll stop

their picnic-ing. I'll stop their fishing. I'll have hold of them for

trespassing and poaching!" There was war henceforth between Rockville and

Great Stockington.

On the very next Sunday there came literally thousands of the jubilant

Stockingtonians to Rockville. They had brought baskets, and were for

dining, and drinking success to all footpaths. But in the great grove

there were keepers, and watchers, who warned them to keep the path, that

narrow well-worn line up the middle of the grove. "What! were they not to

sit on the grass?"--"No!"--"What! were they not to picnic?"--"No! not

there!"

The Stockingtonians felt a sudden damp on their spirits. But the river

bank! The cry was "To the river bank! There they _would_ picnic." The

crowd rushed away down the wood, but on the river bank they found a whole

regiment of watchers, who pointed again to the narrow line of footpath,

and told them not to trespass beyond it. But the islands! they went over

to the islands. But there too were Sir Roger's forces, who warned them

back! There was no road there--all found there would be trespassers, and

be duly punished.

The Stockingtonians discovered that their triumph was not quite so

complete as they had flattered themselves. The footpaths were theirs, but

that was all. Their ancient license was at an end. If they came there,

there was no more fishing; if they came in crowds, there was no more

picnic-ing; if they walked through the woods in numbers, they must keep

to Indian file, or they were summoned before the county magistrates for

trespass, and were soundly fined; and not even the able Daredeville would

undertake to defend them.

The Stockingtonians were chopfallen, but they were angry and dogged; and

They thronged up to the village and the front of the hall. They filled

the little inn in the hamlet-they went by scores, and roving all over the

churchyard, read epitaphs

That teach the rustic moralists to die,

but don't teach them to give up their old indulgences very

good-humoredly. They went and sat in rows on the old churchyard wall,

opposite to the very windows of the irate Sir Roger. They felt themselves

beaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten. True, he could coerce them to

the keeping of the footpaths--but, then, they had the footpaths! True,

thought the Stockingtonians, we have the footpaths, but then the

picnic-ing, and the fishing, and the islands! The Stockingtonians were

full of sullen wrath, and Sir Roger was--oh, most expressive old Saxon

phrase--HAIRSORE! Yes, he was one universal round of vexation and

jealousy of his rights. Every hair in his body was like a pin sticking

into him. Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, at the most, blow on

him, and he was excruciated--you rubbed his sensitive hairs at a

furlong's distance.

The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during

service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and

disturb the congregation, closing the gates, and showing them out like

a flock of sheep the moment the service was over. This was fuel to the

already boiling blood of Stockington. The week following, what was their

astonishment to find a much frequented ruin gone! it was actually gone!

not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed,

planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail! The

exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations

against the churl Sir Roger, and a certain number of them resolved to

come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but

a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon

routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in

the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as

much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them.

Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over with the old delightful days at

Rockville. There was an end of picnic-ing, of fishing, and of roving in

the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling

a line from the banks of Rockville grove, but Sir Roger came upon him and

endeavored to seize him. The man coolly walked into the middle of the

river, and, without a word, continued his fishing.

"Get out there!" exclaimed Sir Roger, "that is still on my property." The

man walked through the river to the other bank, where he knew that the

land was rented by a farmer. "Give over," shouted Sir Roger, "I tell you

the water is mine."

"Then," said the fellow, "bottle it up, and be hanged to you! Don't you

see it is running away to Stockington?"

There was bad blood between Rockville and Stockington-green. Stockington

was incensed, and Sir Roger was hairsore.

A new nuisance sprung up. The people of Stockington looked on the

cottagers of Rockville as sunk in deepest darkeness under such a man as

Sir Roger and his cousin the vicar. They could not picnic, but they

thought they could hold a camp-meeting; they could not fish for roach,

but they thought they might for souls. Accordingly there assembled crowds

of Stockingtonians on the green of Rockville, with a chair and a table,

and a preacher with his head bound in a red handkerchief; and soon there

was a sound of hymns, and a zealous call to come out of the darkness of

the spiritual Babylon. But this was more than Sir Roger could bear; he

rushed forth with all his servants, keepers, and cottagers, overthrew

the table, and routing the assembly, chased them to the boundary of his

estate.

The discomfited Stockingtonians now fulminated awful judgments on the

unhappy Sir Roger, as a persecutor and a malignant. They dared not enter

again on his park, but they came to the very verge of it, and held weekly

meetings on the highway, in which they sang and declaimed as loudly as

possible, that the winds might bear their voices to Sir Roger's ears.

To such a position was now reduced the last of the long line of

Rockville. The spirit of a policeman had taken possession of him. He had

keepers and watchers out on all sides, but they did not satisfy him. He

was perpetually haunted with the idea that poachers were after his game,

that trespassers were in his woods. His whole life was now spent in

stealing to and fro in his fields and plantations, and prowling along his

river side. He looked under hedges, and watched for long hours under the

forest trees. If any one had a curiosity to see Sir Roger, they had only

to enter his fields by the wood side, and wander a few yards from the

path, and he was almost sure to spring out over the hedge, and in angry

tones demand their name and address. The descendant of the chivalrous and

steelclad De Rockvilles was sunk into a restless spy on his own ample

property. There was but one idea in his mind--encroachment. It was

destitute of all other furniture but the musty technicalities of warrants

and commitments. There was a stealthy and skulking manner in everything

that he did. He went to church on Sundays, but it was no longer by the

grand iron gate opposite to his house, that stood generally with a large

spider's web woven over the lock, and several others in different corners

of the fine iron tracery, bearing evidence of the long period since it

had been opened. How different to the time when the Sir Roger and the

Lady of Rockville had had these gates thrown wide on a Sunday morning,

and with all their train of household servants after their back, with

true antique dignity, marched with much proud humility into the house of

God. Now, Sir Roger--the solitary, suspicious, undignified Sir Roger, the

keeper and policeman of his own property--stole in at a little side gate

from his paddock, and back the same way, wondering all the time whether

there was not somebody in his pheasant preserves, or Sunday trespassers

in his grove.

If you entered his house it gave you as cheerless a feeling as its owner.

There was the conservatory, so splendid with rich plants and flowers in

his mothers time--now a dusty receptacle of hampers, broken hand-glasses,

and garden tools. These tools could never be used, for the gardens were

grown wild. Tall grass grew in the walks, and the huge unpruned shrubs

disputed the passage with you. In the wood above the gardens, reached by

several flights of fine, but now moss-grown, steps, there stood a

pavilion, once clearly very beautiful. It was now damp and ruinous-its

walls covered with greenness and crawling insects. It was a great

lurking-place of Sir Roger when on the watch for poachers.

The line of the Rockvilles was evidently running fast out. It had reached

the extremity of imbecility and contempt--it must soon reach its close.

Sir Roger used to make his regular annual visit to town; but of late,

when there, he had wandered restlessly about the streets, peeping into

the shop-windows; and if it rained, standing under entries for hours

after, till it was gone over. The habit of lurking and peering about was

upon him; and his feet bore him instinctively into those narrow and

crowded alleys where swarm the poachers of the city--the trespassers and

anglers in the game preserves and streams of humanity. He had lost all

pleasure in his club; the most exciting themes of political life retained

no piquancy for him. His old friends ceased to find any pleasure in him.

He was become the driest of all dry wells. Poachers, and anglers, and

Methodists, haunted the wretched purlieus of his fast fading-out mind,

and he resolved to go to town no more. His whole nature was centered in

his woods. He was forever on the watch; and when at Rockville again, if

he heard a door clap when in bed, he thought it a gun in his woods, and

started up, and was out with his keepers.

Of what value was that magnificent estate to him?--those superb woods;

those finely-hanging cliffs; that clear and _riant_ river coming

traveling on, and taking a noble sweep below his windows--that glorious

expanse of neat verdant meadows, stretching almost to Stockington, and

enlivened by numerous herds of the most beautiful cattle--those old farms

and shady lanes overhung with hazel and wild rose; the glittering brook,

and the songs of woodland birds--what were they to that worn-out old man,

that victim of the delusive doctrine of blood, of the man-trap of an

hereditary name?

There the poet could come, and feel the presence of divinity in that

noble scene, and hear sublime whispers in the trees, and create new

heavens and earths from the glorious chaos of nature around him, and in

one short hour live an empyrean of celestial life and love. There could

come the very humblest children of the plebeian town, and feel a throb of

exquisite delight pervade their bosoms at the sight of the very flowers

on the sod, and see heaven in the infinite blue above them. And poor Sir

Roger, the holder, but not the possessor of all, walked only in a region

of sterility, with no sublimer ideas than poachers and trespassers-no

more rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence of hunting like a

ferret, and seizing his fellow-men like a bulldog. He was a specimen of

human nature degenerated, retrograded from the divine to the bestial,

through the long operating influences of false notions and institutions,

continued beyond their time. He had only the soul of a keeper. Had he

been only a keeper, he had been a much happier man.

His time was at hand. The severity which he had long dealt out toward all

sorts of offenders made him the object of the deepest vengeance. In a

lonely hollow of his woods, watching at midnight with two of his men,

there came a sturdy knot of poachers. An affray ensued. The men perceived

that their old enemy, Sir Roger, was there: and the blow of a hedge-stake

stretched him on the earth. His keepers fled--and thus ignominiously

terminated the long line of the Rockvilles. Sir Roger was the last of his

line, but not of his class. There is a feudal art of sinking, which

requires no study; and the Rockvilles are but one family among thousands

who have perished in its practice.

CHAPTER II.

In Great Stockington there lived a race of paupers. From the year of the

42d of Elizabeth, or 1601, down to the present generation, this race

maintained an uninterrupted descent. They were a steady and unbroken line

of paupers, as the parish books testify. From generation to generation

their demands on the parish funds stand recorded. There were no _lacunæ_

in their career; there never failed an heir to these families; fed on the

bread of idleness and legal provision, these people flourished, increased

and multiplied. Sometimes compelled to work for the weekly dole which

they received, they never acquired a taste for labor, or lost the taste

for the bread for which they did not labor. These paupers regarded this

maintenance by no means as a disgrace. They claimed it as a right,--as

their patrimony. They contended that one-third of the property of the

Church had been given by benevolent individuals for the support of the

poor, and that what the Reformation wrongfully deprived them of, the

great enactment of Elizabeth rightfully--and only rightfully--restored.

Those who imagine that all paupers merely claimed parish relief because

the law ordained it, commit a great error. There were numbers who were

hereditary paupers, and that on a tradition carefully handed down, that

they were only manfully claiming their own. They traced their claims from

the most ancient feudal times, when the lord was as much bound to

maintain his villein in gross, as the villein was to work for the lord.

These paupers were, in fact, or claimed to be, the original _adscripti

glebæ_, and to have as much a claim to parish support as the landed

proprietor had to his land. For this reason, in the old Catholic times,

after they had escaped from villenage by running away and remaining

absent from their hundred for a year and a day, dwelling for that period

in a walled town, these people were amongst the most diligent attendants

at the Abbey doors, and when the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt,

amongst the most daring of these thieves, vagabonds, and sturdy rogues,

who, after the Robin Hood fashion, beset the highways and solitary farms

of England, and claimed their black mail in a very unceremonious style.

It was out of this class that Henry VIII. hanged his seventy-two thousand

during his reign, and, as it is said, without appearing materially to

diminish their number.

That they continued to "increase, multiply, and replenish the earth,"

overflowing all bounds, overpowering by mere populousness all the severe

laws against them of whipping, burning in the hand, in the forehead or in

the breast, and hanging, and filling the whole country with alarm, is

evident by the very act itself of Elizabeth.

Amongst these hereditary paupers who, as we have said, were found in

Stockington, there was a family of the name of Deg. This family had never

failed to demand and enjoy what it held to be its share of its ancient

inheritance. It appeared from the parish records, that they had practiced

in different periods the crafts of shoemaking, tailoring, and

chimney-sweeping; but since the invention of the stocking-frame, they

had, one and all of them, followed the profession of stocking weavers, or

as they were there called, stockingers. This was a trade which required

no extreme exertion of the physical or intellectual powers. To sit in a

frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thing that might either be

carried to a degree of extreme diligence, or be let down into a mere

apology for idleness. An "idle stockinger" was there no very uncommon

phrase, and the Degs were always classed under that head. Nothing could

be more admirably adapted than this trade for building a plan of parish

relief upon. The Degs did not pretend to be absolutely without work, or

the parish authorities would soon have set them to some real labor,--a

thing that they particularly recoiled from, having a very old adage in

the family, that "hard work was enough to kill a man." The Degs were

seldom, therefore out of work, but they did not get enough to meet and

tie. They had but little work if the times were bad, and if they were

good, they had large families, and sickly wives or children. Be times

what they would, therefore, the Degs were due and successful attendants

at the parish pay-table. Nay, so much was this a matter of course, that

they came at length not even trouble themselves to receive their pay, but

sent their young children for it; and it was duly paid. Did any parish

officer, indeed, turn restive, and decline to pay a Deg, he soon found

himself summoned before a magistrate, and such pleas of sickness, want

of work, and poor earnings brought up, that he most likely got a sharp

rebuke from the benevolent but uninquiring magistrate, and acquired a

character for hard-heartedness that stuck to him.

So parish overseers learnt to let the Degs alone; and their children

regularly brought up to receive the parish money for their parents, were

impatient as they grew up to receive it for themselves. Marriages in the

Deg family were consequently very early, and there were plenty of

instances of married Degs claiming parish relief under the age of twenty,

on the plea of being the parent of two children. One such precocious

individual being asked by a rather verdant officer why he had married

before he was able to maintain a family, replied, in much astonishment,

that he had married in order to maintain himself by parish assistance.

That he never had been able to maintain himself by his labor, nor ever

expected to do it; his only hope, therefore, lay in marrying, and

becoming the father of two children, to which patriarchal rank he had now

attained, and demanded his "pay."

Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their ancient patrimony, the

parish, for upward of two hundred years. Nay, we have no doubt whatever

that, if it could have been traced, they had enjoyed an ancestry of

paupers as long as the pedigree of Sir Roger Rockville himself. In the

days of the most perfect villenage, they had, doubtless, eaten the bread

of idleness, and claimed it as a right. They were numerous, improvident,

ragged in dress, and fond of an alehouse and of gossip. Like the blood of

Sir Roger, their blood had become peculiar through a long persistence of

the same circumstances. It was become pure pauper blood. The Degs

married, if not entirely among Degs, yet amongst the same class. None but

a pauper would dream of marrying a Deg. The Degs, therefore, were in

constitution, in mind, in habit, and in inclination, paupers. But a pure

and unmixed class of this kind does not die out like an aristocratic

stereotype. It increases and multiplies. The lower the grade, the more

prolific, as is sometimes seen on a large and even national scale. The

Degs threatened, therefore, to become a most formidable clan in the lower

purlieus of Stockington, but luckily there is so much virtue even in

evils, that one, not rarely, cures another. War, the great evil, cleared

the town of Degs.

Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily got, and as easily

spent, the Degs were rapidly drained off by recruiting parties during the

last war. The young men enlisted, and were marched away; the young women

married soldiers that were quartered in the town from time to time, and

marched away with them. There were, eventually, none of the once numerous

Degs left except a few old people, whom death was sure to draft off at

no distant period with his regiment of the line which has no end. Parish

overseers, magistrates, and master manufacturers, felicitated themselves

at this unhoped-for deliverance from the ancient family of the Degs.

But one cold, clear, winter evening, the east wind piping its sharp

sibilant ditty in the bare shorn hedges, and poking its sharp fingers

into the sides of well broad-clothed men by the way of passing jest, Mr.

Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, driving in his gig some

seven miles from the town, passed a poor woman with a stout child on

her back. The large ruddy-looking man in the prime of life, and in the

great coat and thick worsted gloves of a wealthy traveler, cast a glance

at the wretched creature trudging heavily on, expecting a pitiful appeal

to his sensibilities, and thinking it a bore to have to pull off a glove

and dive into his pocket for a copper; but to his surprise there was no

demand, only a low courtesy, and the glimpse of a face of singular

honesty of expression, and of excessive weariness.

Spires was a man of warm feelings; he looked earnestly at the woman, and

Thought he had never seen such a picture of fatigue in his life. He

pulled up and said,

"You seem very tired, my good woman."

"Awfully tired, sir."

"And are you going far to-night?"

"To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me strength."

"To Stockington!" exclaimed Mr. Spires. "Why, you seem ready to drop.

You'll never reach it. You'd better stop at the next village."

"Ay, sir, it's easy stopping, for those that have money."

"And you've none, eh?"

"As God lives, sir, I've a sixpence, and that's all."

Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held out to her, the next

instant, half-a-crown.

"There stop, poor thing--make yourself comfortable--it's quite out of the

question to reach Stockington. But stay--are your friends living in

Stockington--what are you?"

"A poor soldier's widow, sir. And may God Almighty bless you!" said the

poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes

as she courtesied very low.

"A soldier's widow!" said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place

in the manufacturer's heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement

champion of his country's honor in the war. "So young," said he, "how did

you lose your husband?"

"He fell, sir," said the poor woman; but she could get no further; she

suddenly caught up the corner of her gray cloak, covered her face with

it, and burst into an excess of grief.

The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless

question; he sat watching her for a moment in silence, and then said,

"Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to

Stockington."

The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig,

expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires

buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a

cheerful tone to comfort her, "Bless me, but that is a fine thumping

fellow, though. I don't wonder that you are tired, carrying such a load."

The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her

breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load: the gig drove

rapidly on.

Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.

"So you are from Stockington?"

"No, sir, my husband was."

"So: what was his name?"

"John Deg, sir."

"Deg?" said Mr. Spires. "Deg, did you say?"

"Yes, sir."

The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off toward his own side of the

gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was

somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.

After awhile Mr. Spires said again, "And do you hope to find friends in

Stockington? Had you none where you came from?"

"None, sir, none in the world!" said the poor woman, and again her

feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, "I was in

service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only

was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When-when

the news came from abroad--that when I was a widow, sir, I went back to

my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband's

parish lest I and my child should become troublesome."

"You asked relief of them?"

"Never; Oh, God knows, no, never! My family have never asked a penny of a

parish. They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might

do it, and I had better go to my husband's parish at once--and they

offered me money to go."

"And you took it, of course?"

"No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and

laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and

came off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the

parish, and I thought I should be better amongst my friends--and my child

would, if anything happened to me; I had no friends of my own."

Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. "Did your husband tell you

anything of his friends? What sort of a man was he?"

"Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me. He always

said his friends were well off in Stockington."

"He did!" said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting

the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.

The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look. The manufacturer

Whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip,

drove on faster than ever. The night was fast settling down; it was

numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the

old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed

through the dusk before them. They were at Stockington.

As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr.

Spires again opened his mouth.

"I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg," he said, "but I have

my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations. I

fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his

family here."

"Oh, sir! what--what is it?" exclaimed the poor woman; "in God's name,

tell me!"

"Why, nothing more than this," said the manufacturer, "that there are

very few of the Degs left here. They are old, and on the parish, and can

do nothing for you."

The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was silent.

"But don't be cast down," said Mr. Spires. He would not tell her what a

pauper family really was, for he saw that she was a very feeling woman,

and he thought she would learn that soon enough. He felt that her husband

had from vanity given her a false account of his connections; and he was

really sorry for her.

"Don't be cast down," he went on; "you can wash and iron, you say; you

are young and strong: those are your friends. Depend on them, and they'll

be better friends to you than any other."

The poor woman was silent, leaning her head down on her slumbering child,

and crying to herself; and thus they drove on, through many long and

narrow streets, with gas flaring from the shops, but with few people in

the streets, and these hurrying shivering along the pavement, so intense

was the cold. Anon they stopped at a large pair of gates; the

manufacturer rung a bell, which he could reach from his gig, and the

gates presently were flung open, and they drove into a spacious yard,

with a large handsome house, having a bright lamp burning before it, on

one side of the yard, and tall warehouses on the other.

"Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs. Craddock's, James," said Mr.

Spires, "and tell Mrs. Craddock to make them very comfortable; and if you

will come to my warehouse to-morrow," added he, addressing the poor

woman, "perhaps I can be of some use to you."

The poor woman poured out her heartfelt thanks, and following the old

man-servant, soon disappeared, hobbling over the pebbly pavement with her

living load, stiffened almost to stone by her fatigue and her cold ride.

We must not pursue too minutely our narrative Mrs. Deg was engaged to do

the washing and getting up of Mr. Spires' linen, and the manner in which

she executed her task insured her recommendations to all their friends.

Mrs. Deg was at once in full employ. She occupied a neat house in a yard

near the meadows below the town, and in those meadows she might be seen

spreading out her clothes to whiten on the grass, attended by her stout

little boy. In the same yard lived a shoemaker, who had two or three

children of about the same age as Mrs. Deg's child. The children, as time

went on, became playfellows. Little Simon might be said to have the free

run of the shoemaker's house, and he was the more attracted thither by

the shoemaker's birds, and by his flute, on which he often played after

his work was done.

Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoemaker; and he and his wife,

a quiet, kind-hearted woman, were almost all the acquaintances that she

cultivated. She had found out her husband's parents, but they were not of

a description that at all pleased her. They were old and infirm, but they

were of the true pauper breed, a sort of person whom Mrs. Deg had been

taught to avoid and to despise. They looked on her as a sort of second

parish, and insisted that she should come and live with them, and help to

maintain them out of her earnings. But Mrs. Deg would rather her little

boy had died than have been familiarized with the spirit and habits of

those old people. Despise them she struggled hard not to do, and she

agreed to allow them sufficient to maintain them on condition that they

desisted from any further application to the parish. It would be a long

and disgusting story to recount all the troubles, annoyance, and

querulous complaints, and even bitter accusations that she received from

these connections, whom she could never satisfy; but she considered it

one of the crosses in her life, and patiently bore it, seeing that they

suffered no real want, so long as they lived, which was for years; but

she would never allow her little Simon to be with them alone.

The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection to her against the greedy

demands of these old people, and of others of the old Degs, and also

against another class of inconvenient visitors, namely, suitors, who saw

in Mrs. Deg a neat and comely young woman, with a flourishing business

and a neat and soon well-furnished house, a very desirable acquisition.

But Mrs. Deg had resolved never again to marry, but to live for her boy,

and she kept her resolve in firmness and gentleness.

The shoemaker often took walks in the extensive town meadows, to gather

groundsell and plantain for his canaries and gorse-linnets, and little

Simon Deg delighted to accompany him with his own children. There William

Watson, the shoemaker, used to point out to the children the beauty of

the flowers, the insects, and other objects of nature; and while he sat

on a style and read in a little old book of poetry, as he often used to

do, the children sat on the summer grass, and enjoyed themselves in a

variety of plays.

The effect of these walks and the shoemaker's conversation on little

Simon Deg was such as never wore out of him through his whole life, and

soon led him to astonish the shoemaker by his extraordinary conduct. He

manifested the utmost uneasiness at their treading on the flowers in the

grass; he would burst with tears if they persisted in it; and when asked

why, he said they were so beautiful, that they must enjoy the sunshine,

and be very unhappy to die. The shoemaker was amazed, but indulged the

lad's fancy. One day he thought to give him a great treat, and when they

were out in the meadows, he drew from under his coat a bow and arrow, and

shot the arrow high up in the air. He expected to see him in an ecstasy

of delight: his own children clapped their hands in transport, but Simon

stood silent, and as if awe-struck.

"Shall I send up another?" asked the shoemaker.

"No, no," exclaimed the child, imploringly. "You say God lives up there,

and he mayn't like it."

The shoemaker laughed, but presently he said, as if to himself, "There is

too much imagination there. There will be a poet, if we don't take care."

The shoemaker offered to teach Simon to read, and to solidify his mind,

as he termed it, by arithmetic, and then to teach him to work at his

trade. His mother was very glad, and thought shoemaking would be a good

trade for the boy; and that with Mr. Watson she should have him always

near her. He was growing now a great lad, and was especially strong, and

of a frank and daring habit. He was especially indignant at any act of

oppression of the weak by the strong, and not seldom got into trouble by

his championship of the injured in such cases among the boys of the

neighborhood.

He was now about twelve years of age; when, going one day with a basket

of clothes on his head to Mr. Spires's for his mother, he was noticed by

Mr. Spires himself from his counting-house window. The great war was

raging; there was much distress among the manufacturers; and the people

were suffering and exasperated against their masters. Mr. Spires, as a

staunch tory, and supporter of the war, was particularly obnoxious to the

workpeople, who uttered violent threats against him. For this reason his

premises were strictly guarded, and at the entrance of his yard, just

within the gates, was chained a huge and fierce mastiff, his chain

allowing him to approach near enough to intimidate any stranger, though

not to reach him. The dog knew the people who came regularly about, and

seemed not to notice them, but on the entrance of a stranger, he rose up,

barked fiercely, and came to the length of his chain. This always drew

the attention of the porter, if he were away from his box, and few

persons dared to pass till he came.

Simon Deg was advancing with the basket of clean linen on his head, when

the dog rushed out, and barking loudly, came exactly opposite to him,

within a few feet. The boy, a good deal startled at first, reared himself

with his back against the wall, but at a glance perceiving that the dog

was at the length of his tether, he seemed to enjoy his situation, and

stood smiling at the furious animal, and lifting his basket with both

hands above his head, nodded to him, as if to say, "Well, old boy, you'd

like to eat me, wouldn't you?"

Mr. Spires, who sat near his counting-house window at his books, was

struck with the bold and handsome bearing of the boy, and said to a

clerk:

"What boy is that?"

"It is Jenny Deg's," was the answer.

"Ha! that boy! Zounds! how boys do grow! Why that's the child that Jenny

Deg was carrying when she came to Stockington: and what a strong,

handsome, bright-looking fellow he is now!"

As the boy was returning, Mr. Spires called him to the counting-house

door, and put some questions to him as to what he was doing and learning,

and so on.

Simon, taking off his cap with much respect, answered in such a clear and

Modest way, and with a voice that had so much feeling and natural music

in it, that the worthy manufacturer was greatly taken with him.

"That's no Deg," said he, when he again entered the counting-house, "not

a bit of it. He's all Goodrick, or whatever his mother's name was, every

inch of him."

The consequence of that interview was, that Simon Deg was very soon after

Perched on a stool in Mr. Spires's counting-house, where he continued

till he was twenty-two. Mr. Spires had no son, only a single daughter;

and such were Simon Deg's talents, attention to business, and genial

disposition, that at that age Mr. Spires gave him a share in the concern.

He was himself now getting less fond of exertion than he had been, and

placed the most implicit reliance on Simon's judgment and general

management. Yet no two men could be more unlike in their opinions beyond

the circle of trade. Mr. Spires was a staunch tory of the staunch old

school. He was for Church and King, and for things remaining forever as

they had been. Simon, on the other hand, had liberal and reforming

notions. He was for the improvement of the people, and their admission to

many privileges. Mr. Spires was therefore liked by the leading men of the

place, and disliked by the people. Simon's estimation was precisely in

the opposite direction. But this did not disturb their friendship; it

required another disturbing cause--and that came.

Simon Deg and the daughter of Mr. Spires grew attached to each other; and

as the father had thought Simon worthy of becoming a partner in the

business, neither of the young people deemed that he would object to a

partnership of a more domestic description. But here they made a

tremendous mistake. No sooner was such a proposal hinted at, than Mr.

Spires burst forth with the fury of all the winds from the bag of

Ulysses.

"What! a Deg aspire to the hand of the sole heiress of the enormously

opulent Spires?"

The very thought almost cut the proud manufacturer off with an apoplexy.

The hosts of a thousand paupers rose up before him, and he was black in

the face. It was only by a prompt and bold application of leeches and

lancet that the life of the great man was saved. But there was an end of

all further friendship between himself and the expectant Simon. He

insisted that he should withdraw from the concern, and it was done.

Simon, who felt his own dignity deeply wounded too, for dignity he had,

though the last of a long line of paupers--his own dignity, not his

ancestors'--took silently, yet not unrespectfully, his share--a good,

round sum, and entered another house of business.

For several years there appeared to be a feud and a bitterness between

the former friends; yet it showed itself in no other manner than by a

careful avoidance of each other. The continental war came to an end; the

manufacturing distress increased exceedingly. There came troublous times,

and a fierce warfare of politics. Great Stockington was torn asunder by

rival parties. On one side stood preeminent, Mr. Spires; on the other

towered conspicuously, Simon Deg. Simon was grown rich, and extremely

popular. He was on all occasions the advocate of the people. He said that

he had sprung from, and was one of them. He had bought a large tract of

land on one side of the town; and intensely fond of the country and

flowers himself, he had divided this into gardens, built little

summer-houses in them, and let them to the artisans. In his factory he

had introduced order, cleanliness, and ventilation. He had set up a

school for the children in the evenings, with a reading-room and

conversation-room for the work-people, and encouraged them to bring their

families there, and enjoy music, books, and lectures. Accordingly, he was

the idol of the people, and the horror of the old school of

manufacturers.

"A pretty upstart and demagogue I've nurtured," said Mr. Spires often, to

his wife and daughter, who only sighed, and were silent.

Then came a furious election. The town, for a fortnight, more resembled

the worst corner of Tartarus than a Christian borough. Drunkenness,

riot, pumping on one another, spencering one another, all sorts of

violence and abuse ruled and raged till the blood of all Stockington was

at boiling heat. In the midst of the tempest were everywhere seen, ranged

on the opposite sides, Mr. Spires, now old and immensely corpulent, and

Simon Deg, active, buoyant, zealous, and popular beyond measure. But

popular though he was, the other and old tory side still triumphed. The

people were exasperated to madness; and when the chairing of the

successful candidate commenced, there was a terrific attack made on the

procession by the defeated party. Down went the chair, and the new

member, glad to escape into an inn, saw his friends mercilessly assailed

by the populace. There was a tremendous tempest of sticks, brickbats,

paving-stones, and rotten eggs. In the midst of all this, Simon Deg and a

number of his friends, standing at the upper window of an hotel, saw Mr.

Spires knocked down and trampled on by the crowd. In an instant, and

before his friends had missed him from amongst them, Simon Deg was seen

darting through the raging mass, cleaving his way with a surprising

vigor, and gesticulating, and no doubt shouting vehemently to the

rioters, though his voice was lost in the din. In the next moment his hat

was knocked off, and himself appeared in imminent danger: but, another

moment, and there was a pause, and a group of people were bearing

somebody from the frantic mob into a neighboring shop. It was Simon Deg,

assisting in the rescue of his old friend and benefactor, Mr. Spires.

Mr. Spires was a good deal bruised, and wonderfully confounded and

bewildered by his fall. His clothes were one mass of mud, and his face

was bleeding copiously; but when he had had a good draught of water,

and his face washed, and had time to recover himself, it was found that

he had received no serious injury.

"They had like to have done for me, though," said he.

"Yes, and who saved you?" asked a gentleman.

"Ay, who was it? who was it?" asked the really warm-hearted manufacturer;

"let me know? I owe him my life."

"There he is!" said several gentlemen, at the same instant, pushing

forward Simon Deg.

"What, Simon!" said Mr. Spires, starting to his feet. "Was it thee, my

boy?" He did more, he stretched out his hand; the young man clasped it

eagerly, and the two stood silent, and with a heart-felt emotion, which

blended all the past into forgetfulness, and the future into a union more

sacred than esteem.

A week hence, and Simon Deg was the son-in-law of Mr. Spires. Though Mr.

Spires had misunderstood Simon, and Simon had borne the aspect of

opposition to his old friend, in defense of conscientious principle,

the wife and daughter of the manufacturer had always understood him, and

secretly looked forward to some day of recognition and reunion.

Simon Deg was now the richest man in Stockington. His mother was still

living to enjoy his elevation. She had been his excellent and wise

housekeeper, and she continued to occupy that post still.

Twenty-five years afterward, when the worthy old Spires was dead, and

Simon Deg had himself two sons attained to manhood; when he had five

times been mayor of Stockington, and had been knighted on the

presentation of a loyal address; still his mother was living to see it;

and William Watson, the shoemaker, was acting as a sort of orderly at Sir

Simon's chief manufactory. He occupied the lodge, and walked about, and

saw that all was safe, and moving on as it should do.

It was amazing how the most plebeian name of Simon Deg had slid, under

the hands of the heralds, into the really aristocratical one of Sir Simon

Degge. They had traced him up a collateral kinship, spite of his own

consciousness, to a baronet of the same name of the county of Stafford,

and had given him a coat of arms that was really astonishing.

It was some years before this, that Sir Roger Rockville had breathed his

last. His title and estate had fallen into litigation. Owing to two

generations having passed without any issue of the Rockville family

except the one son and heir, the claims, though numerous, were so mingled

with obscuring circumstance, and so equally balanced, that the lawyers

raised quibbles and difficulties enough to keep the property in Chancery,

till they had not only consumed all the ready money and rental, but had

made frightful inroads into the estate itself. To save the remnant, the

contending parties came to a compromise. A neighboring squire, whose

grandfather had married a Rockville, was allowed to secure the title, on

condition that the rest carried off the residuum of the estate. The woods

and lands of Rockville were announced for sale!

It was at this juncture that old William Watson reminded Sir Simon Degge

of a conversation in the great grove of Rockville, which they had held at

the time that Sir Roger was endeavoring to drive the people thence.

"What a divine pleasure might this man enjoy," said Simon Deg to his

humble friend, "if he had a heart capable of letting others enjoy

themselves."

"But we talk without the estate," said William Watson; "what might we do

if we were tried with it?"

Sir Simon was silent for a moment; then observed that there was sound

philosophy in William Watson's remark. He said no more, but went away;

and the next day announced to the astonished old man that he had

purchased the groves and the whole ancient estate of Rockville!

Sir Simon Degge, the last of a long line of paupers, was become the

possessor of the noble estate of Sir Roger Rockville, of Rockville,

the last of a long line of aristocrats!

The following summer, when the hay was lying in fragrant cocks in the

great meadows of Rockville, and on the little islands in the river, Sir

Simon Degge, Baronet, of Rockville--for such was now his title-through

the suggestion of a great lawyer, formerly Recorder of the Borough of

Stockington, to the crown--held a grand fête on the occasion of his

coming to reside at Rockville Hall, henceforth the family seat of the

Degges. His house and gardens had all been restored to the most

consummate order. For years Sir Simon had been a great purchaser of works

of art and literature, paintings, statuary, books, and articles of

antiquity, including rich armor and precious works in ivory and gold.

First and foremost he gave a great banquet to his wealthy friends, and no

man with a million and a half is without them--and in abundance. In the

second place, he gave a substantial dinner to all his tenantry, from the

wealthy farmer of five hundred acres to the tenant of a cottage. On this

occasion he said, "Game is a subject of great heart-burning and of great

injustice to the country. It was the bane of my predecessors: let us take

care it is not ours. Let every man kill the game on the land that he

rents--then he will not destroy it utterly, nor allow it to grow into a

nuisance. I am fond of a gun myself, but I trust to find enough for my

propensity to the chase in my own fields and woods--if I occasionally

extend my pursuit across the lands of my tenants, it shall not be to

carry off the first fruits of their feeding, and I shall still hold the

enjoyment as a favor."

We need not say that this speech was applauded most vociferously.

Thirdly, and lastly, he gave a grand entertainment to all his work

people, both of the town and the country. His house and gardens were

thrown open to the inspection of the whole assembled company. The

delighted crowd admired immensely the pictures and the pleasant gardens.

On the lawn, lying between the great grove and the hall, an enormous tent

was pitched, or rather a vast canvas canopy erected, open on all sides,

in which was laid a charming banquet; a military band from Stockington

barracks playing during the time. Here Sir Simon made a speech as

rapturously received as that to the farmers. It was to the effect, that

all the old privileges of wandering in the grove, and angling, and

boating on the river were restored. The inn was already rebuilt in a

handsome Elizabethan style, larger than before, and to prevent it ever

becoming a fane of intemperance, he had there posted as landlord, he

hoped for many years to come, his old friend and benefactor, William

Watson. William Watson should protect the inn from riot, and they

themselves the groves and river banks from injury.

Long and loud were the applauses which this announcement occasioned. The

young people turned out upon the green for a dance, and in the evening,

after an excellent tea, the whole company descended the river to

Stockington in boats and barges decorated with boughs and flowers, and

singing a song made by William Watson for the occasion, called "The

Health of Sir Simon, last and first of his Line!"

Years have rolled on. The groves and river banks and islands of Rockville

are still greatly frequented, but are never known to be injured: poachers

are never known there, for four reasons. First, nobody would like to

annoy the good Sir Simon; secondly, game is not very numerous there;

thirdly, there is no fun in killing it, where there is no resistance; and

fourthly, it is vastly more abundant in other proprietors' demesnes, and

it is fun to kill it there, where it is jealously watched, and there is a

chance of a good spree with the keepers.

And with what different feelings does the good Sir Simon look down from

his lofty eyrie, over the princely expanse of meadows, and over the

glittering river, and over the stately woods to where Great Stockington

still stretches farther and farther its red brick walls, its red-tiled

roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys. There he sees no haunts of

crowded enemies to himself or any man. No upstarts, nor envious

opponents, but a past family of human beings, all toiling for the good of

their families and their country. All advancing, some faster, some

slower, to a better education, a better social condition, a better

conception of the principles of art and commerce, and a clearer

recognition of their rights and duties, and a more cheering faith

in the upward tendency of humanity.

Looking on this interesting scene from his distant and quiet home, Sir

Simon sees what blessings flow--and how deeply he feels them in his own

case--from a free circulation, not only of trade, but of human relations.

How this corrects the mischiefs, moral and physical, of false systems and

rusty prejudices;--and he ponders on schemes of no ordinary beauty and

beneficence yet to reach his beloved town through them. He sees lecture

halls and academies, means of sanitary purification, and delicious

recreation, in which baths, wash-houses, and airy homes figure largely;

while public walks extend all round the great industrial hive, including

wood, hills, meadow and river in their circuit of many miles. There he

lived and labored; there live and labor his sons; and there he trusts his

family will continue to live and labor to all future generations: never

retiring to the fatal indolence of wealth, but aiding onward its active

and ever-expanding beneficence.

Long may the good Sir Simon live and labor to realize these views. But

already in a green corner of the pleasant churchyard of Rockville may be

read this inscription on a marble headstone:--"Sacred to the memory of

Jane Deg, the mother of Sir Simon Degge, Bart., of Rockville. This stone

is erected in honor of the best of Mothers by the most grateful of sons."

* * * * *

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

THE SPOTTED BOWER-BIRD.

FROM LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST.

Elegant and ingenious as are the structures and collections of the satin

bower-bird, the species of the allied genus _Chlamydera_ display still

greater architectural abilities, and more extensive, collective, and

decorative powers.

The spotted bower-bird[A] is an inhabitant of the interior. Its probable

range, in Mr. Gould's opinion, is widely extended over the central

portions of the Australian continent; but the only parts in which he

observed it, or from which he procured specimens, were the districts

immediately to the north of the colony of New South Wales. During his

journey into the interior he saw it in tolerable abundance at Brezi, on

the river Mokai, to the northward of the Liverpool plains; and it was

also equally numerous in all the low scrubby ranges in the neighborhood

of the Namoi, as well as in the open brushes that intersect the plains on

its borders. Mr. Gould is gifted with the eye of an observer; but from

the extreme shyness of its disposition, it generally escapes the

attention of ordinary travelers, and it seldom allows itself to be

approached near enough for the spectator to discern its colors. Its

'harsh, grating, scolding note,' betrays its haunts to the intruder; but,

when disturbed, it seeks the tops of the highest trees, and, generally,

flies off to another locality.

[Footnote A: _Chlamydera maculala_.--GOULD.]

Mr. Gould obtained his specimens most readily by watching at the

water-holes where they come to drink; and on one occasion, near the

termination of a long drought, he was guided by a native to a deep basin

in a rock where water, the produce of many antecedent months, still

remained. Numbers of the spotted bower-birds, honeysuckers, and parrots,

sought this welcome reservoir, which had seldom, if ever before,

reflected a white face. Mr. Gould's presence was regarded with suspicion

by the winged frequenters of this attractive spot; but while he remained

lying on the ground perfectly motionless, though close to the water,

their wants overpowered their misgivings, and they would dash down past

him and eagerly take their fill, although an enormous black snake was

lying coiled upon a piece of wood near the edge of the pool. At this

interesting post Mr. Gould remained for three days. The spotted

bower-birds were the most numerous of the thirsty assemblage there

congregated, and the most shy, and yet he had the satisfaction of

frequently seeing six or eight of them displaying their beautiful necks

as they were perched within a few feet of him. He states that the scanty

supply of water remaining in the cavity must soon have been exhausted by

the thousands of birds that daily resorted to it, if the rains which had

so long been suspended had not descended in torrents.

Mr. Gould discovered several of the bowers of this species during his

journey to the interior, the tiniest of which, now in the National

Museum, he brought to England. He found the situations of these runs or

bowers to be much varied. Sometimes he discovered them on the plains

studded with Myalls (_Acacia pendula,_) and sometimes in the brushes with

which the lower hills were clothed. He describes them as considerably

longer, and more avenue-like, than those of the satin bower-bird,

extending in many instances to three feet in length. Outwardly they were

built with twigs, and beautifully lined with tall grasses, so disposed

that their upper ends nearly met. The decorations were very profuse,

consisting of bivalve shells, skulls of small animals, and other bones.

Evident and beautiful indications of design (continues Mr. Gould) are

manifest throughout the whole of the bower and decorations formed by this

species, particularly in the manner in which the stones are placed within

the bower, apparently to keep the grasses with which it is lined fixed

firmly in their places, these stones diverge from the mouth of the run on

each side so as to form little paths, while the immense collection of

decorative materials, bones, shells, &c., are placed in a heap before the

entrance of the avenue, this arrangement being the same at both ends. In

some of the larger bowers, which had evidently been resorted to for many

years, I have seen nearly half a bushel of bones, shells, &c., at each of

the entrances. In some instances, small bowers, composed almost entirely

of grasses, apparently the commencement of a new place of rendezvous,

were observable. I frequently found these structures at a considerable

distance from the rivers, from the borders of which they could alone have

procured the shells, and small, round pebbly stones; their collection and

transportation must, therefore, be a task of great labor and difficulty.

As these birds feed almost entirely upon seeds and fruits, the shells and

bones cannot have been collected for any other purpose than ornament;

besides, it is only those which have been bleached perfectly white in the

sun, or such as have been roasted by the natives, and by this means

whitened, that attract their attention. I fully ascertained that these

runs, like those of the satin bower-bird, formed the rendezvous of many

individuals; for, after secreting myself for a short space of time near

one of them, I killed two males which I had previously seen running

through the avenue.

The plumage of this species is remarkable. A rich brown pervades the

crown of the head, the ear-coverts and the throat, each feather being

bordered by a narrow black line; and, on the crown, the feathers are

small and tipped with silver gray. The back of the neck is crossed by a

beautiful, broad, light, rosy pink band of elongated feathers, so as to

form a sort of occipital crest. The wings, tail, and upper surface, are

deep brown, every feather of the back, rump, scapularies, and

secondaries, having a large round spot of full buff at the tip. Primaries

slightly tipped with white. All the tail-feathers with buffy white

terminations. Under parts grayish white. Flank-feathers zigzagged with

faint transverse light brown lines. Bill and feet dusky brown. At the

corner of the mouth the bare, thick, fleshy, prominent skin, is of a

pinky flesh colour, and the irides are dark brown.

The rosy frill adorns the adults of both sexes: but the young male and

female of the years have it not.

Another species, the great bower-bird,[B] was probably the architect of

the bowers found by Captain Grey during his Australian rambles, and which

interested him greatly in consequence of the doubts entertained by him

whether they were the works of a bird or of a quadruped,--the inclination

of his mind being that their construction was due to the four-footed

animal. They were formed of dead grass and parts of bushes, sunk a slight

depth into two parallel furrows, in sandy soil, and were nicely arched

above; they were always full of broken sea-shells, large heaps of which

also protruded from the extremity of the bower. In one of these bowers,

the most remote from the sea of those discovered by Captain Grey, was a

heap of the stones of some fruit that evidently had been rolled therein.

He never saw any animal in or near these bowers; but the abundant

droppings of a small species of kangaroo close to them, induced him to

suppose them to be the work of some quadruped.

[Footnote B: _Chlamydora nuchalis_.]

Here, then, we have a race of birds whose ingenuity is not merely

directed to the usual; ends of existence, self-preservation, and the

continuation of the species, but to the elegancies and amusements of

life. Their bowers are their ball and assembly rooms; and we are very

much mistaken if they are not, like places of meeting,

For whispering lovers made.

The male satin bower-bird, in the garden at the Regent's Park, is

indefatigable in his assiduity toward the female; and his winning

ways to coax her into the bower conjure up the notion that the soul of

some Damon in the course of his transmigration, has found its way into

his elegant form. He picks up a brilliant feather, flits about with it

before her, and when he has caught her eye adds it to the decorations.

Haste, my Nanette, my lovely maid,

Haste to the bower thy swain has made.

No enchanted prince could act the deferential lover with more delicate or

graceful attention. Poor fellow, the pert, intruding sparrows plague him

abominably; and really it becomes almost an affair of police that some

measures should be adopted for their exclusion. He is subject to fits,

too, and suddenly, without the least apparent warning, falls senseless,

like an epileptic patient; but presently recovers, and busies himself

about the bower. When he has induced the female to enter it, he seems

greatly pleased; alters the disposition of a feather or a shell, as if

hoping that the change may meet her approbation; and looks at her as she

sits coyly under the overarching twigs, and then at the little

arrangement which he has made, and then at her again, till one could

almost fancy that one hears him breathe a sigh. He is still in his

transition dress, and has not yet donned his full Venetian suit of black.

In their natural state, the satin bower-birds associate in autumn in

small parties; and Mr. Gould states that they may then often be seen on

the ground near the sides of rivers, particularly where the brush

feathers the descending bank down to the water's edge. The male has a

loud liquid call; and both sexes frequently utter a harsh, gutteral note,

expressive of surprise and displeasure.

Geffrey Chaucer, in his argument to _The Assemblie of Foules_, relates

that, "All foules are gathered before Nature on St. Valentine's day, to

chose their makes. A formell egle beyng beloved of three tercels,

requireth a yeeres respite to make her choise: upon this triall, _Qui

bien aime tard oublie_-'He that loveth well is slow to forget.'" The

female satin-bower bird in the Regent's Park seems to have taken a leaf

out of the 'formell egle's' book: for I cannot discover that her humble

and most obsequious swain has been rewarded for his attentions though

they have been continued through so many weary months; but we shall never

be able entirely to solve these mysteries till we become possessed of the

rare ring sent to the King of Sarra by the King of Arable, 'by the vertue

whereof' his daughter understood 'the language of all foules,' unless we

can

Call up him that left untold

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball and of Algersife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,

And of the wondrous horse of brass,

On which the Tartar king did ride.

Edmund Spenser, with due reverence for

Dan Chauser (well of English undefiled),

has indeed done his best to supply the defect,[C] and has told us that

Cambello's sister was fair Canacee,

That was the learnedst lady in her days,

Well seem in every science that mote be,

And every secret work of nature's ways,

In witty riddles, and in wise soothsays,

In power of herbs and tunes of beasts and birds:

but we learn from him no more of the ring than 'Dan Chaucer' tells us:--

The vertue of this ring, if ye woll here,

Is this, that if she list it for to were

Upon her thombe, or in her purse it bere,

There is no foule that fleeth under heven

That she no shall understand his steven,[D]

And know his meaning openly and plaine,

And answer him in his language againe:

as Canace does in her conversation with the falcon in _The Squires Tale_.

Nor is the 'vertue' of the ring confined to bird-intelligence, for the

knight who came on the 'steed of brasse,' adds,--

And every grasse that groweth upon root

She shall well know to whom it will do boot,

And be his wounds never so deep and wide.

But we must return from these realms of fancy to a country hardly less

wonderful; for Australia presents, in the realities of its quadrupedal

forms, a scene that might well pass for one of enchantment.

[Footnote C: _Fairy Queen_, book iv. cant. 2, _et seq_.]

[Footnote D: Sound.]

* * * * *

The French Society of Geography have just given their grand gold medal to

two brothers, Antoine and Arnaud d'Abadie, for the progress which

geography has received from their travels in Abyssinia, which were begun

in 1837 and finished in 1848. This period they spent in exploring

together, not only Abyssinia, but the whole eastern part of Africa. Their

enterprise was wholly at their own expense, and was undertaken from the

love of science and adventure.

* * * * *

The French Government are now publishing at Algiers the History of the

Berbers, by Ibn Chaldun, the greatest of Arabian historians. It is

printed in quarto form, with the types of the National Printing

Establishment, sent from Paris for the purpose. The French translation

will appear as soon as the second volume of the original, which is now

in press, is completed.

* * * * *

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

MADAME DE POMPADOUR.

In the gallery of the Louvre at Paris there is, or was some few years

ago, a crayon drawing by La Tour, which represents Madame de Pompadour in

all the pride and luster of her early beauty. The marchioness is seated

near a table covered with books and papers, among which may be

distinguished Montesquieu's _Spirit of Laws_ and the _Encyclopædia_, two

of the remarkable works which appeared during her reign of favor. An open

album shows an engraving of Gay, chiseling some portrait of Louis XV., or

his mistress. The marchioness is represented with her hair slightly

powdered; she is clad in an open, flowered brocade robe, and wears

red-heeled shoes, of a delicacy, as regards size, worthy of an Oriental

foot. In this portrait there is much to admire: the neck, which is

slender and well-shaped, springs most gracefully from the shoulders; the

head, which is also admirably proportioned, is a model of feminine

beauty; the brow is lofty and severe; the lips, slightly compressed,

express at the same time decision and irony; the eyes are of a most vivid

brilliancy, and the nose is perfection itself: in short, there reigns

throughout every lineament of this most striking countenance an air of

nobility, and even of dignity, which qualifies in some measure the

accounts left us by history of the share she bore in the _petits soupers_

of Versailles, the masked balls of the Hôtel de Ville, and the thousand

other orgies got up for the entertainment of the most dissolute monarch

of (at that period) one of the most dissolute courts of Europe.

The history of Madame de Pompadour is not generally known in all its

particulars, though much has been written of her by persons of every

shade of opinion. Some have exalted her virtues, while others have

multiplied her crimes. Both parties are right, and both wrong. A

courtier, and a man seeking to be revenged, are not historians when they

write. With a little patience, and by a careful study of the writers of

the eighteenth century, we are enabled to seize here and there a faithful

trait of this extraordinary, yet most fascinating woman, and by

diligently sifting conflicting opinions arrive at something approaching

the truth. That Madame de Pompadour was a woman endowed with great

talents, many virtues, and as many vices, is not to be denied; that she

employed those talents in general for her country's good we think is

equally true, though many writers have unjustly contended that all the

defeats and reverses of France are to be traced to the influence

exercised by her over the mind of Louis XV. Beyond a doubt the ruling

passion of her heart was ambition, and yet even this passion, which

according to many writers of her day was boundless, she kept so

skillfully concealed from all her intimates, that not one of the many

courtiers, philosophers, and men of letters, who thronged her

antechambers--with the exception, perhaps, of the Abbé de Bernis, of whom

more anon--was ever enabled to discover the secrets of that heart, which,

in the words of a writer of the time, "she ever kept closely hidden

beneath an eternal smile."

Madame de Pompadour was born in Paris in the year 1720. She herself

always said, in 1722. We are told that Poisson, her father, at least her

mother's husband, was employed in the commissariat department of the

French army: some historians affirm that her father was a butcher of the

Invalides, who was condemned to be hung; according to Voltaire she was

the daughter of a farmer of the Ferté-sous-Jouarre. But this is of slight

consequence, as her true father was the Fermier-général, Lenorman de

Tourneheim. This individual having taken a fancy to Poisson's daughter

when she was quite an infant, took her to his house, and brought her up

as his own child. Having from her earliest years displayed quite passion

for music and drawing, the first masters of the day were engaged by

Lenorman de Tourneheim for his adopted child. Under a diligent course of

study the little Jeanne Antoinette made rapid strides toward perfection

in the arts she loved, and her intellectual acquirements were vaunted by

all who knew her. Fontenelle, Voltaire, Duclos, and Crebillon, who, in

their character of _beaux esprits_, had the _entrée_ of the house, spread

everywhere abroad throughout the fashionable world the praises of her

beauty, her grace, and her talents.

Madame de Pompadour offered in her person the model of a woman, at the

same time beautiful in the strict acceptation of the word, and simply

pretty. The lines of her features possessed all the purity of one of

Raphael's creations, but there it must be said the resemblance ceased;

the spirit which animated these features was of the world, worldly: in

short, it was the true spirit of a Parisian woman. All that gives

brilliancy, charm, and play to the physiognomy she possessed in the

happiest degree. Not a single court lady could at that period boast an

air at the same time so noble and yet so coquettish, features so imposing

and yet so delicate and playful, or a figure at once so elegant and yet

so supple and undulating: her mother used always to say that a king alone

was worthy of her daughter. Jeanne, it is said, had at in early age what

might be called the presentiment of the throne, at first on account of

this frequently-expressed opinion of her mother's, and afterward because

she fancied she loved the king. "She owned to me," says Voltaire, in his

_Memoirs_, "that she had a s[*illegible] presentiment that she would be

loved by [*illegible] king, and that she had herself a violent

inclination for him." There are certain [*illegible] in life in which

destiny permits itself for a moment, as it were, to be divined.

[* illegible] those who have succeeded in climbing [*illegible] rugged

mountain of human vanities [*illegible ] that from their earliest youth

certain visions and presentiments have ever warned them of their future

glory.

But how was she to attain to this throne of France, the object of her

ambition? This was a difficult question to solve. In the meanwhile she

familiarized herself with what might be considered the life of a queen, a

part which, it must be allowed, she could play to admiration. Beautiful,

witty, intellectual, ever admired and ever listened to, she soon beheld

at her feet all the courtiers of her father's fortune; she gathered

around her, consequently, a brilliant crowd of poets, artists, and

philosophers, over whom she reigned with all the dignity of majesty.

The Fermier-général had a nephew named Lenorman d'Etioles, a young man of

Amiable character, and with the feelings and habits of a gentleman. This

was the reputed heir of the immense wealth of the old Fermier-général,

according to the established laws, though Jeanne had on her side also

some claims to a share of the property. A very simple means was however

devised to prevent all after litigation, namely, by arranging a marriage

between the two young people. Jeanne, as we have already seen, loved the

king, and she married d'Etioles without her feelings in this respect

undergoing any change. Versailles was her horizon, the goal to which she

aspired. D'Etioles, it is said, became deeply enamored of his young

bride; but this passion, which amounted almost to fanaticism, never

touched her heart. To use her own words, she "accepted him with

resignation, as a misfortune which was not to last long."

The hôtel of the new-married couple was organized upon a lordly footing;

the best society in Paris was there to be found, for all those whose

company was worth having deserted the _salons_ of the fashionable world

for those of Madame d'Etioles. Never until then had such a lavish display

of luxury been seen. The young bride hoped by these means to make a noise

at court, and thus pique the curiosity of the king. The days passed in

fêtes and entertainments of every kind. The celebrated comedians of the

day, the popular poets, artists, foreigners of distinction, all had ready

access to the splendid mansion of Lenorman d'Etioles, of which the

mistress was the life and ornament; every one visited there, in short,

except the king.

Ever since the celebrated _réunions_ of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, there

have always been in France a succession of circles of _beaux esprits_,

presided over by some queen of fashion. Louis XIV. hated these

_réunions_, saying that the court was spread abroad into all [*illegible]

hôtels of Paris. In fact, for many, the [*illegible ] of the Duchesse de

Main or of the [*illegible ]ise de Lambert, of Madame de Tencin

[*illegible] Madame Géoffrin, possessed far greater [*illegible ]ons than

the already superannuated [*illegible ] of Versailles. The French

Revolution [*illegible ] its rise in these very circles, for in them they

laughed a little at the great powers of the earth, and there philosophy

and liberty were allowed elbow-room. Thus, at Madame d'Etioles' might be

seen old Fontenelle, who believed in nothing, not even in his own heart;

Voltaire, still young, and armed with the keen weapons of his ready wit,

prepared to make war upon those whose reign was of this world, above all

upon the Jesuits; Montesquieu and Maupertuis, born skeptics and mockers;

along with many others of a kindred spirit who had beheld the decline of

royalty and religion, when Louis XIV., in the latter years of his reign,

had permitted Scarron's widow to make religion fashionable, by cloaking

France with the mask of hypocritical piety--a mask soon, however, to be

torn aside by Philippe of Orleans in the wild saturnalia of the Regency.

The Abbé de Bernis was also a constant visitor at the house of Madame

d'Etioles; he was, in the parlance of the time, the _Abbé de la

Maison_--it is true he had no other benefice--but little thought then,

either the abbé of the house or the mistress of the house, that within

ten years from that time they would reign over France as absolute

ministers. There was one other individual of this brilliant circle worthy

of a passing notice, and this was an amiable and simple-minded poet, of

good appearance and the best temper in the world, named Gentil

Bernard.[A] Madame d'Etioles used to pet him like a spoiled child. Some

said he was her lover. However that may be, Madame de Pompadour, who,

whether she had or had not a secret penchant for the poet, never forgot

her old friends, procured for him, as soon as she came into power, the

appointment of librarian to the king at the château de Choisy, where she

built him, at her own expense, a little cottage _ornée_, named by the

poets of the time, the Parnassus of the French Anacreon. This appointment

was a complete sinecure, for we know that the king never opened a book,

and we are equally assured that Bernard never put his foot inside the

library.

[Footnote A: Pierre Bernard, nicknamed Gentil Bernard by Voltaire[1] was

born at Grenoble about the same time as Louis XV. "It is strange," said

Madame de Pompadour later, "that two lovers should be born for me during

the same season--a king and a poet." Bernard ever refused all favors, and

was singularly devoid of ambition. "What can I do for you, my dear poet?"

Madame de Pompadour is reported to have said on her coming into Power.

Bernard contented himself with kissing the hand of the marchioness. "Go

to," returned she, "you will never get on in the world."

[Footnote 1: This nickname was given in a poetical invitation to

a supper-party at Madame Duchatelet's, sent by Voltaire to the poet:

"Au nom du Pinde et de Cythère

Gentil Bernard est averti,

Que l'Art d'Aimer doit Samedi

Venir souper chez l'Art de Plaire."]]

We have already named the Abbé, afterward Cardinal, de Bernis; and as he

was the only individual who ever succeeded in being admitted into the

entire confidence of the royal favorite, a brief notice of his birth, and

rise and fall at court, may not be altogether out of place, so closely

linked for many years were his fortunes with those of Madame de

Pompadour.

Joachim de Pierres, abbé de Bernis, was born at Saint-Marcel, near

Narbonne, in the month of May, 1715. His family, which was of the most

ancient _noblesse_, was allied to the king through the house of Rohan; a

circumstance, however, which did not prevent it being one of the poorest

in the kingdom. As his relatives had nothing to give Joachim, they made

him an abbé. Like Bernard, he came when very young to Paris, confiding in

his lucky planet, smiling on every one, and reaping a plentiful harvest

of smiles in return. He was then a handsome young man, with a bright eye

and an animated mouth. In figure he was herculean, and here we find, in

contradiction of Buffon's saying, that the style was _not_ the man, no

more than it was with Bernard, who was also of large stature.

Joachim passed the winter at Saint-Sulpice, but, like Boufflers a little

later, far from singing the Canticles, he employed his time in the more

mundane occupation of scribbling love-songs. At the end of the winter he

was appointed vicar in a little town of his native department. "Vicar!"

said Joachim; "I'll not disturb myself for such a trifle." Shortly

afterward he was nominated Abbé de Bernis; but not a step would he budge

from the capital. In Paris then he remained, penniless it is true, but

without a care or thought for the future, and full of confidence in his

lucky planet--a confidence which, it must be said, was not misplaced. His

acquaintance with Madame d'Etioles began through an intrigue which he had

with a certain _marchande des modes_, who worked for the future favorite.

Having perceived the young girl one night at the theater in company with

her lover, Madame d'Etioles summoned her the following morning to her

house, and in the course of conversation inquired if that handsome young

man she had with her at the theater was her cousin.

"No, madame," replied the milliner; "he is my lover."

"Ah, indeed! he is your lover is he? And what does he do?"

"No great things, madame; he makes verses."

"A maker of verses!" said Madame d'Etioles; "that is amusing. Do not

forget my cap, and tell your young poet to come and see me."

In consequence of this invitation Bernis called on Madame d'Etioles, who

Received him with all the graces in the world, and from that hour

commenced a friendship which lasted for many years, and was the origin of

De Bernis' future advancement in the world.

Despite his great acquaintances, our abbé was none the richer; but he

laughed gaily at his poverty, and waited for better times. According to

all accounts the garret which he inhabited was in a wretchedly

dilapidated condition; his furniture consisted of a "bad bed covered with

some mules' saddle-cloths, which M. de Ferriol had brought from

Constantinople, a rickety table covered with books and papers and faded

bouquets, and an old worm-eaten arm-chair." Our abbé's purse was no

better garnished than his lodgings; and so well-known was this fact in

the world, that Senac de Meilhan tells us, that "when the Abbé de Bernis

supped out some one of the party always gave him a crown to pay his

coach-hire. At first this gift had been invented as a pleasantry, on the

abbé invariably refusing to stay to supper, alleging as an excuse that he

had no carriage; but it was a pleasantry which continued for some time."

In society, however, De Bernis was a general favorite, and was everywhere

Welcomed with open arms. They doated on Bernard, and they doated also on

on Bernis. Voltaire wrote in verse to both, Duclos spoke of their wit,

Helvetius gave them suppers, and the women did their best to spoil them.

From Cardinal de Fleury, however, our abbé received a rebuff. Having, in

order to humor his relative the Princess de Rohan, who had lately taken

him by the hand, applied to the minster for a convent, the latter sternly

replied,--

"Monsieur l'Abbé, your debaucheries render you unworthy of the favors of

the church. As long as I remain in power you shall obtain nothing."

"Well, Monseigneur," replied De Bernis, "I'll wait."

This repartee was an event; it was repeated and applauded everywhere

until it reached the ears of royalty itself.

On Madame de Pompadour coming to power, the Princess de Rohan deigned to

write to her in behalf of her dear abbé. "Madame la Marquis," she wrote,

"you have not forgotten M. l'Abbé de Bernis; you will deign, I trust, to

do something for him, he is worthy of your favors." Apropos of this

letter, Madame de Pompadour wrote the following to some minister of the

day: "I forgot, my dear Nigaud, to ask you what you have done for the

Abbé de Bernis; write me word, I beg of you, as I shall see him on

Sunday." Like Voltaire, Madame de Pompadour had the mania of nicknaming

her friends and acquaintances; even the king himself figured more than

once in her grotesque vocabulary.[B]

[Footnote B: She always called De Bernis her _pigeon pattu_

(splay-footedpigeon--on account of his large feet and his love-songs).

Voltaire had previously nicknamed him _Babet le bouquetiére_, at first

because the abbé always introduced flowers into his poetry; afterward, on

account of the resemblance he bore to a flower girl who used to sell

bouquets at the doors of the Opera.]

Madame de Pompadour presented her dear poet to the king, with a smile

which so charmed Louis XV. that he offered De Bernis, in the first

instance, an apartment in the Tuileries, and a pension of 1500 livres a

year; and so cleverly did the future cardinal play his cards, by

insinuating himself into the good graces of both the king and his

mistress, that, after a sojourn of two years at the château, he was

appointed ambassador from the court of France at Venice.

But it would appear that the Queen of the Adriatic did not suit the

inclinations of our abbé; he sighed for Versailles, and the _petits

soupers_ of Louis XV. After a very short sojourn in Venice he demanded

his recall from Madame de Pompadour, and on his return composed an

epistle to his fair protectress, the opening lines of which we give as a

fair specimen of his powers of versification:--

On avait dit que l'enfant do Cythère

Prés du Lignon avait perdu le jour;

Mais je l'ai vu dans le bois solitaire

Où va rever la jeune Pompadour.

Il etait seul; le flambeau qui l'éclair

Ne brillait plus; mais les près d'alentour

L'onde, les bois, tout annonçait l'amour.

For the space of ten years the Abbé de Bernis was the shadow of Madame de

Pompadour; he followed her everywhere, sometimes even too far. Louis XV.

would meet him in all parts of the palace, in the private as well as the

state apartments, which would make him say sometimes,--"Where are you

going, Monsieur l'Abbé?" Our abbé would bow and smile, but say nothing.

True to his character of abbé, he would listen at all the doors, saying

that the chateau of the Tuileries was for him but one huge confessional.

He ended, however, by knowing all things, and by sitting in council with

the king and his mistress; and a precious trio it must be owned they

made.

But evil times were coming on our abbé. In the ministry he was assailed

by showers of _chansons_ and epigrams. The Count de Tressan, above all,

overwhelmed him with a violent satire. He could no longer hold his

ground. Every one began to grow tired of him, even the fair president of

the council; this was the _coup de grace_. The Duc de Choiseul, after

replacing him in the good graces of Madame de Pompadour, succeeded also

to his portfolio as minister. As some compensation, however, they gave

him the cardinal's hat; a circumstance which elicited from some wit of

the day the following couplet:--

On dirait que Son Eminence

N'eut le chapeau de cardinal

Que pour tirer sa révérence.

Shortly afterward he was appointed Archbishop of Alby; but, according to

custom, he never appeared in his diocese. In 1769 he departed for Rome,

being nominated ambassador at the conclave for the nomination of Clement

XIV., that priest so gay, so gentle, and so witty, who has written that

sad people are like shrubs which never flower. Pope and cardinal

understood each other admirably well. Our cardinal never returned to