CHAPTER II.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. IX.--FEBRUARY, 1851.--VOL. II.

THE TRAVELER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow--

Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po,

Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor

Against the houseless stranger shuts the door,

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies

A weary waste expanding to the skies--

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,

My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee;

Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

[Illustration: OR WHERE CAMPANIA'S PLAIN FORSAKEN LIES]

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,

And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:

Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire

To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;

Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair,

And every stranger finds a ready chair;

Bless'd be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd

Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,

And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share,

My prime of life in wandering spent and care--

Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue

Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view,

That like the circle bounding earth and skies

Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies--

My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,

And find no spot of all the world my own.

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;

And placed on high, above the storm's career,

Look downward where an hundred realms appear--

Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,

The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus Creation's charms around combine,

Amid the store should thankless pride repine?

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,

These little things are great to little man;

And wiser he whose sympathetic mind

Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor crown'd,

Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round.

Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale,

Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale--

For me your tributary stores combine;

Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!

[Illustration: AS SOME LONE MISER VISITING HIS STORE]

As some lone miser, visiting his store,

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er--

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still--

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies,

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

To see the hoard of human bliss so small;

And oft I wish, amid the scene, to find

Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd.

But where to find that happiest spot below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,

And his long nights of revelry and ease,

The naked negro, panting at the line,

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,

And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,

His first, best country ever is at home;

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,

And estimate the blessings which they share,

Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find

An equal portion dealt to all mankind--

As different good, by art or nature given

To different nations, makes their blessings even.

Nature, a mother kind alike to all,

Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call:

With food as well the peasant is supplied

On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;

And, though the rocky-crested summits frown,

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down,

From art, more various are the blessings sent--

Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content;

Yet these each other's power so strong contest

That either seems destructive of the rest:

Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,

And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.

Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,

Conforms and models life to that alone;

Each to the favorite happiness attends,

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends--

Till, carried to excess in each domain,

This favorite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,

And trace them through the prospect as it lies:

Here, for a while my proper cares resigned,

Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;

Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,

That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,

Bright as the summer, Italy extends;

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,

Woods over woods in gay theatric pride,

While oft some temple's mouldering tops between

With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,

The sons of Italy were surely bless'd.

Whatever fruits in different climes were found,

That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground--

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,

Whose bright succession decks the varied year--

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky

With vernal lives, that blossom but to die--

These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,

Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows;

In florid beauty groves and fields appear--

Man seems the only growth that dwindles here!

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign:

Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;

Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue--

And even in penance planning sins anew.

All evils here contaminate the mind,

That opulence departed leaves behind;

For wealth was theirs--nor far remov'd the date

When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state

At her command the palace learn'd to rise,

Again the long fallen column sought the skies,

The canvas glow'd beyond even nature warm,

The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;

Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,

Commerce on other shores display'd her sail,

While naught remain'd of all that riches gave,

But towns unmann'd and lords without a slave--

And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,

Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

[Illustration: THE SPORTS OF CHILDREN SATISFY THE CHILD]

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied

By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride:

From these the feeble heart and long fallen mind

An easy compensation seem to find.

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,

The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;

Processions form'd for piety and love--

A mistress or a saint in every grove:

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,

The sports of children satisfy the child.

Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control,

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;

While low delights, succeeding fast behind,

In happier meanness occupy the mind.

As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway

Defac'd by time and tottering in decay,

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;

And, wondering man could want the larger pile,

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

[Illustration: THE SWISS THEIR STORMY MANSIONS TREAD]

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey

Where rougher climes a nobler race display--

Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.

No product here the barren hills afford

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword,

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,

But winter lingering chills the lap of May;

No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,

But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.

[Illustration: BREASTS THE AIR, AND CAROLS AS HE GOES]

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,

Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.

Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small,

He sees his little lot, the lot of all;

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,

To shame the meanness of his humble shed--

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal,

To make him loathe his vegetable meal--

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,

Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil,

Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,

Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;

With patient angle trolls the finny deep,

Or drives his venturous plowshare to the steep,

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,

And drags the struggling savage into day.

At night returning, every labor sped,

He sits him down the monarch of a shed;

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys

His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze--

While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,

Displays her cleanly platter on the board:

And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,

With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

[Illustration: WHERE SNOW-TRACKS MARK THE WAY]

Thus every good his native wilds impart

Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;

And even those ills, that round his mansion rise

Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies:

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,

And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms

And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,

Clings close and closer to the mother's breast--

So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar

But bind him to his native mountains more.

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd--

Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd;

Yet let them only share the praises due,

If few their wants, their pleasures are but few:

For every want that stimulates the breast

Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd.

Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,

That first excites desire, and then supplies.

Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,

To fill the languid pause with finer joy;

Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,

Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame:

Their level life is but a smouldering fire,

Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire,

Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer

On some high festival of once a year,

In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,

Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow--

Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;

For, as refinement stops, from sire to son

Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run--

And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart

Fall blunted from each indurated heart.

Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast

May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;

But all the gentler morals, such as play

Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way--

These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly,

To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,

I turn; and France displays her bright domain.

Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,

Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please;

How often have I led thy sportive choir,

With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire,

Where shading elms along the margin grew,

And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew!

And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,

But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill--

Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,

And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.

Alike all ages: dames of ancient days

Have led their children through the mirthful maze;

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,

Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score.

[Illustration: AND DANCE, FORGETFUL OF THE NOONTIDE HOUR]

So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display;

Thus idly busy rolls their world away.

Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honor forms the social temper here:

Honor, that praise which real merit gains,

Or even imaginary worth obtains,

Here passes current--paid from hand to hand,

It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land;

From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,

And all are taught an avarice of praise--

They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem.

Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem.

But while this softer art their bliss supplies,

It gives their follies also room to rise;

For praise, too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought--

And the weak soul, within itself unbless'd,

Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.

Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,

Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;

Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,

And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;

Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,

To boast one splendid banquet once a year:

The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,

Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.

[Illustration: EMBOSOM'D IN THE DEEP WHERE HOLLAND LIES]

To men of other minds my fancy flies,

Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.

Methinks her patient sons before me stand,

Where the broad ocean leans against the land;

And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,

Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.

Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,

The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow,

Spreads its long arms amid the watery roar,

Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore--

While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,

Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;

The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,

The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,

The crowded mart, the cultivated plain--

A new creation rescued from his reign.

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil

Impels the native to repeated toil,

Industrious habits in each bosom reign,

And industry begets a love of gain.

Hence all the good from opulence that springs,

With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,

Are here display'd. Their much lov'd wealth imparts

Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear--

Even liberty itself is barter'd here.

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies;

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys:

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,

Here wretches seek dishonorable graves;

And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,

Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.

Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old--

Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold,

War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;

How much unlike the sons of Britain now!

[Illustration: BRIGHTER STREAMS THAN FAMED HYDASPES]

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing.

And flies where Britain courts the western spring;

Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,

And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide.

There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray;

There gentle music melts on every spray;

Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd:

Extremes are only in the master's mind.

Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state

With daring aims irregularly great.

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,

I see the lords of human kind pass by,

Intent on high designs--a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand,

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,

True to imagin'd right, above control;

While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan

And learns to venerate himself as man.

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here.

Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;

Too bless'd indeed were such without alloy,

But, foster'd even by freedom, ills annoy.

That independence Britons prize too high

Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie:

The self-dependent lordlings stand alone--

All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown.

Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,

Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd,

Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,

Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore--

Till, overwrought, the general system feels

Its motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels.

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,

As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,

Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,

Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.

Hence all obedience bows to these alone,

And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;

Till time may come when, stripp'd of all her charms,

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms--

Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,

Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame--

One sink of level avarice shall lie,

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die.

[Illustration: TALENT SINKS, AND MERIT WEEPS UNKNOWN]

Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state,

I mean to flatter kings or court the great.

Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,

Far from my bosom drive the low desire!

And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel

The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel--

Thou transitory flower, alike undone

By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun--

Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure!

I only would repress them to secure;

For just experience tells, in every soil,

That those who think must govern those that toil--

And all that freedom's highest aims can reach

Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.

Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,

Its double weight must ruin all below.

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires,

Who think it freedom when a part aspires!

Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,

Except when fast approaching danger warms;

But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne,

Contracting regal power to stretch their own--

When I behold a factious band agree

To call it freedom when themselves are free--

Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,

Law grinds the poor, and rich men rule the law--

The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,

Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home--

Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,

Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart:

Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,

I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.

Yes, brother! curse with me that baleful hour

When first ambition struck at regal power;

And thus, polluting honor in its source,

Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.

Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,

Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore?

Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,

Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?

Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,

Lead stern depopulation in her train--

And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,

In barren, solitary pomp repose?

Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call,

The smiling, long frequented village fall?

Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,

The modest matron, and the blushing maid,

Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,

To traverse climes beyond the western main--

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,

And Níagara stuns with thundering sound?

[Illustration: FROM THEIR HOMES, A MELANCHOLY TRAIN]

Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays

Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways,

Where beasts with man divided empire claim,

And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim--

There, while above the giddy tempest flies,

And all around distressful yells arise--

The pensive exile, bending with his woe,

To stop too fearful and too faint to go.

Casts a long look where England's glories shine

And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find

That bliss which only centres in the mind.

Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,

To seek a good each government bestows?

In every government, though terrors reign,

Though tyrant-kings or tyrant-laws restrain,

How small, of all that human hearts endure,

That part which laws or kings can cause or cure?

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,

Our own felicity we make or find.

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;

The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel,

_Zeck's_ iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel--

To men remote from power but rarely known--

Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.

[From Mayhew's Comic Almanac.]

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

(BY A GENTLEMAN WITH A SLIGHT IMPEDIMENT IN HIS SPEECH.)

TO BE READ ALOUD.

[Illustration: RIDING THE ELEPHANT]

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf--fair,

I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub--breed.

Won't you c-c-c-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub--bear,

And the lions and tit-tit--tigers at fuf-fuf-fuf--feed.

I know where c-c-c-co--cockatoo's song

Makes mum-mum-mum--melody through the sweet vale;

Where the m--monkeys gig-gig--grin all the day long,

Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tit--tail.

You shall pip-pip--play, dear, some did-did--delicate joke,

With the bub-bub--bear on the tit-tit--top of his pip-pip-pip--pole;

But observe, 'tis for-for-for--bidden to pip-pip--poke

At the bub-bub--bear with your pip-pip--pink pip-pip-pip-pip--parasol.

[Illustration: POKING FUN AT THE BEAR]

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-pip--play;

You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-tit--ately racoon,

And then, did-did--dear, together we'll stray,

To the cage of the bub-bub--blue fuf-fuf-fac'd bab-bab-bab--boon.

You wish'd (I r-r-r--remember it well,

And I l-l-l-lov'd you the m-m-more for the wish)

To witness the bub-bub-bub--beautiful pip-pip--pel-

ican swallow the l-l-live l-l-l-little fuf-fuf--fish.

[Illustration: THE PELICAN AT FEED]

Then c-c-ome, did-did-dearest, n-n-n-never say "nun-nun-nun-nun--nay;"

I'll tit-tit-treat you, my love, to a "bub-bub-bub--buss,"

'Tis but thrup-pip-pip-pip--pence a pip-pip--piece all the way,

To see the hip-pip-pip--(I beg your pardon)--

To see the hip-pip-pip-pip--(ahem!)

The hip-pip-pip-pip--pop-pop-pop-pop--(I mean)

The hip-po-po-po--(dear me, love, you know)

The hippo-pot-pot-pot--('pon my word I'm quite ashamed of myself).

The hip-pip-pop--the hip-po-pot.

To see the Hippop--potamus.

[Illustration: FELLOWS OF THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY.]

DEATH OF HOWARD THE PHILANTHROPIST.[1]

[Footnote 1: From "John Howard and the Prison World of Europe."]

On the 5th of July, 1789, Howard quitted England to return no more.

Arriving at Amsterdam on the 7th, he proceeded by slow stages through

Germany and Prussia into the empire of the Czar, which he entered at

Riga. He was destined never more to quit the soil of Russia. The

tremendous destruction of human life to which the military system of

that country gives rise, had not then, as it has since, become a

recognized fact in Western Europe; and the unconceived and inconceivable

miseries to which Howard found recruits and soldiers exposed in Moscow,

induced him to devote his attention to them and to their cause. In these

investigations horrors turned up of which he had never dreamed, and

impressed him still more profoundly with a sense of the hollowness of

the Russian pretense of civilization. In the forced marches of recruits

to the armies over horrid roads, being ill-clothed and worse fed, he

found that thousands fell sick by the way, dropped at the roadside, and

were either left there to die of starvation, or transferred to miserable

hospitals, where fever soon finished what fatigue had begun. This waste

of life was quite systematic. An hospital for the reception of the poor

wretches had recently been erected at Krementschuk, a town on the

Dnieper, which contained at that time 400 patients in its unwholesome

wards. Thither Howard repaired to prosecute his new inquiries. The rooms

he found much too full; many of the soldiers were dreadfully ill of the

scurvy, yet they were all dieted alike, on sour bread and still sourer

quas, alternated with a sort of water-gruel, which, if not eaten one

day, was served up again the next. From this place, Howard went down the

Dnieper to Cherson, where he examined all the prisons and hospitals, and

made various excursions in the neighborhood for the same purpose. The

hospitals were worthy of the evil which they were designed to alleviate.

Our countryman thus sums up his observations upon them: "The primary

objects in all hospitals seem here neglected--namely, cleanliness, air,

diet, separation, and attention. These are such essentials, that

humanity and good policy equally demand that no expense should be spared

to procure them. Care in this respect, I am persuaded, would save many

more lives than the parade of medicines in the adjoining apothecary's

shop."

While at Cherson, Howard had the profound gratification of reading in

the public prints of the capture and fall of the Bastille; and he talked

with delight of visiting its ruins and moralizing upon its site, should

he be again spared to return to the West. But, however moved by that

great event, so important for all Europe, he did not allow it to divert

him from his own more especial work; the sufferings of poor Russian

soldiers in the hospitals of Cherson, Witowka, and St. Nicholas, had

higher claim upon his notice at that moment, than even the great

Revolution making in the Faubourg St. Antoine at Paris.

The reader will recall to mind, that, at the time of Howard's residence

at Cherson, a desperate war was raging between the Sultan and the

Autocrat. The strong fortress of Bender had just fallen into the power

of Russia, but as the winter was already too far advanced to allow the

army to push forward until spring, the commander of the imperial forces

gave permission to such of his officers as chose to go and spend the

Christmas with their friends in Cherson. That city was consequently

crowded with rank and fashion. All the city was in high spirits. The

victories of the imperial troops produced a general state of jubilation.

Rejoicing was the order of the day, and dancing and revelry the business

of the night. But in the midst of these festivities, a virulent and

infectious fever broke out--brought, as Howard believed, by the military

from the camp. One of the sufferers from this disorder was a young lady

who resided about twenty-four miles from Cherson, but who had been a

constant attendant at the recent balls and routs. Her fever very soon

assumed an alarming form; and as a last resource her friends waited upon

Howard--whose reputation as a leech was still on the increase--and

implored him to ride over and see her. At first he refused, on the

ground that he was only a physician to the poor; but their importunities

increasing, and reports arriving that she was getting worse and worse,

he at length acceded to their wish--being also pressed thereto by his

intimate friend, Admiral Mordvinoff, chief admiral of the Black Sea

fleet--and went with them. He prescribed for the lady's case; and then,

leaving word that if she improved they must send to him again, but if

she did not, it would be useless, went to make some visits to the sick

of an hospital in the neighborhood. The lady gradually improved under

the change of treatment, and in a day or two a letter was written to

Howard to acquaint him with the circumstance, and requesting him to come

again without delay. Very unfortunately this letter miscarried, and was

not delivered for eight days--when it was brought to him at Mordvinoff's

house. When he noticed the date, Howard was greatly alarmed--for he had

become interested in the case of his fair patient, and thought himself

in a manner responsible for any mishap which might have befallen her.

Although, when the note came to hand, it was a cold, wintry,

tempestuous night, with the rain falling in torrents, he did not

hesitate for a moment about setting off for her residence.

Unfortunately, again, no post-horses could be had at the time; and he

was compelled to mount a dray-horse used in the admiral's family for

carrying water, whose slow pace protracted the journey until he was

saturated with wet and benumbed with cold. He arrived, too, to find his

patient dying; yet, not willing to see her expire without a struggle to

save her, he administered some medicines to excite perspiration, and

remained for some hours at her side to watch the first signs of the

effect produced. After a time, he thought the dose was beginning to

operate, and, wishing to avoid exposing her to the chance of a fresh

cold by uncovering her arms, placed his hand under the coverlet to feel

her pulse. On raising it up a little, a most offensive smell escaped

from beneath the clothes, and Howard always thought the infection was

then communicated to him. Next day she died.

For a day or two, Howard remained unconscious of his danger; feeling

only a slight indisposition, easily accounted for by his recent

exertions; which he nevertheless so far humored as to keep within doors;

until, finding himself one day rather better than usual, he went out to

dine with Admiral Mordvinoff. There was a large animated party present,

and he staid later than was usual with him. On reaching his lodgings he

felt unwell, and fancied he was about to have an attack of gout. Taking

a dose of sal volatile in a little tea, he went to bed. About four in

the morning he awoke, and feeling no better, took another dose. During

the day he grew worse, and found himself unable to take his customary

exercise; toward night a violent fever seized him, and he had recourse

to a favorite medicine of that period, called "James's Powders." On the

12th of January, he fell down suddenly in a fit--his face was flushed

and black, his breathing difficult, his eyes closed firmly, and he

remained quite insensible for half an hour. From that day he became

weaker and weaker; though few even then suspected that his end was near.

Acting as his own physician, he continued at intervals to take his

favorite powders; notwithstanding which his friends at Cherson--for he

was universally loved and respected in that city, though his residence

had been so short--soon surrounded him with the highest medical skill

which the province supplied. As soon as his illness became known, Prince

Potemkin, the princely and unprincipled favorite of Catherine, then

resident in Cherson, sent his own physician to attend him; and no effort

was spared to preserve a life so valuable to the world. Still he went

worse and worse.

On the 17th, that alarming fit recurred; and although, as on the former

occasion, the state of complete insensibility lasted only a short time,

it evidently affected his brain--and from that moment the gravity of his

peril was understood by himself, if not by those about him. On the 8th,

he went worse rapidly. A violent hiccuping came on, attended with

considerable pain, which continued until the middle of the following

day, when it was allayed by means of copious musk drafts.

Early on the morning of the 20th, came to see him his most intimate

friend, Admiral Priestman--a Russianized Englishman in the service of

the empress. During his sojourn at Cherson, Howard had been in the habit

of almost daily intercourse with his gallant ex-countryman. When taken

ill, not himself considering it at first serious, no notice of it had

been sent out; but not seeing his friend for several days, Priestman

began to feel uneasy, and went off to his lodgings to learn the cause.

He found Howard sitting at a small stove in his bedroom--the winter was

excessively severe--and very weak and low. The admiral thought him

merely laboring under a temporary depression of spirits, and by lively,

rattling conversation endeavored to rouse him from his torpidity. But

Howard was fully conscious that death was nigh. He knew now that he was

_not_ to die in Egypt; and, in spite of his friend's cheerfulness, his

mind still reverted to the solemn thought of his approaching end.

Priestman told him not to give way to such gloomy fancies, and they

would soon leave him. "Priestman," said Howard, in his mild and serious

voice, "you style this a dull conversation, and endeavor to divert my

mind from dwelling on the thought of death; but I entertain very

different sentiments. Death has no terrors for me; it is an event I

always look to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and be assured,

the subject is more grateful to me than any other." And then he went on

to say--"I am well aware that I have but a short time to live; my mode

of life has rendered it impossible that I should get rid of this fever.

If I had lived as you do, eating heartily of animal food and drinking

wine, I might, perhaps, by altering my diet, have been able to subdue

it. But how can such a man as I am lower his diet, who has been

accustomed for years to live upon vegetables and water, a little bread

and a little tea? I have no method of lowering my nourishment--and

therefore I must die;" and then turning to his friend, added,

smiling--"It is only such jolly fellows as you, Priestman, who get over

these fevers." This melancholy pleasantry was more than the gallant

sailor could bear; he turned away to conceal his emotion; his heart was

full, and he remained silent, while Howard, with no despondency in his

tone, but with a calm and settled serenity of manner, as if the

death-pangs were already past, went on to speak of his end, and of his

wishes as to his funeral. "There is a spot," said he, "near the village

of Dauphiney--this would suit me nicely; you know it well, for I have

often said that I should like to be buried there; and let me beg of you,

as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my

funeral; nor let any monument nor monumental inscription whatsoever be

made to mark where I am laid; but lay me quietly in the earth, place a

sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten."

In this strain of true Christian philosophy did Howard speak of his exit

from a world in which he felt that he had done his work. The ground in

which he had selected to fix his everlasting rest, situated about two

miles from Cherson, on the edge of the great highway to St. Nicholas,

belonged to a French gentleman who had treated him with distinguished

attention and kindness during his stay in the vicinity; and, having made

his choice, he was very anxious to know whether permission could be

obtained for the purpose, and begged his gallant friend to set off

immediately and ascertain that for him. Priestman was not very willing

to leave his friend at such a time and on such a gloomy errand; he

fancied people would think him crazy in asking permission to make a

grave for a man still alive, and whom few as yet knew to be ill; but the

earnestness of the dying martyr at length overcame his reluctance, and

he set forth.

Scarcely had he departed on his strange mission, when a letter arrived

from England, written by a gentleman who had just been down to Leicester

to see young Howard, giving a highly favorable account of the progress

of his recovery, and expressing a belief that, when the philanthropist

returned to his native land, he would find his son greatly improved.

This intelligence came to the deathbed of the pious Christian like a ray

of light from heaven. His eye brightened; a heavy load seemed lifted

from his heart; and he spoke of his child with the tenderness and

affection of a mother. He called Thomasson to his bedside, and bade him

tell his son, when he went home, how long and how fervently he had

prayed for his recovery, and especially during this last illness.

Toward evening, Admiral Priestman returned from a successful

application; with this result Howard appeared highly gratified, and soon

after his arrival retired to rest. Priestman, conscious now of the

imminency of the danger, would leave him alone no more, but resolutely

remained, and sat at the bedside. Although still sensible, Howard had

now become too weak to converse. After a long silence, during which he

seemed lost in profound meditation, he recovered for a moment his

presence of mind, and taking the letter which had just before come to

hand--evidently the subject of his thoughts--out of his bosom, he gave

it to the admiral to read; and when the latter had glanced it through,

said tenderly: "Is not this comfort for a dying father?" These were

almost the last words he uttered. Soon after, he fell into a state of

unconsciousness, the calm of sleep, of an unbroken rest--but even then

the insensibility was more apparent than real, for on Admiral

Mordvinoff, who arrived just in time to see the last of his illustrious

friend, asking permission to send for a certain doctor, in whom he had

great faith, the patient gave a sign which implied consent; but before

this person could arrive he had fallen off. Howard was dead!

This mournful event took place about eight o'clock on the morning of the

20th of January, 1790--1500 miles from his native land, with only

strangers round about his bed; strangers, not to his heart, though their

acquaintance with his virtues had been brief--but to his race, his

language, and his creed. He, however, who was the friend of all--the

citizen of the world, in its highest sense--found friends in all. Never

perhaps had mortal man such funeral honors. Never before, perhaps, had a

human being existed in whose demise so universal an interest could be

felt. His death fell on the mind of Europe like an ominous shadow; the

melancholy wail of grief which arose on the Dnieper, was echoed from the

Thames, and soon re-echoed from the Tagus, and the Neva, and the

Dardanelles. Every where Howard had friends--more than could be thought

till death cut off restraint, and threw the flood-gates of sympathy wide

open. Then the affluent tide rolled in like the dawn of a summer day.

Cherson went into deep mourning for the illustrious stranger; and there

was hardly a person in the province who was not greatly affected on

learning that he had chosen to fix his final resting-place on the

Russian soil. In defiance of his own wishes on the subject, the

enthusiasm of the people improvised a public funeral. The Prince of

Moldavia, Admirals Priestman and Mordvinoff, all the generals and staff

officers of the garrison, the whole body of the magistrates and

merchants of the province, and a large party of cavalry, accompanied by

an immense cavalcade of private persons, formed the funeral procession.

Nor was the grief by any means confined to the higher orders. In the

wake of the more stately band of mourners, followed on foot a concourse

of at least three thousand persons--slaves, prisoners, sailors,

soldiers, peasants--men whose best and most devoted friend the hero of

these martial honors had ever been; and from this after, humbler train

of followers, arose the truest, tenderest expression of respect and

sorrow for the dead. When the funeral pomp was over, the remains of

their benefactor lowered into the earth, and the proud procession of the

great had moved away, then would these simple children of the soil steal

noiselessly to the edge of the deep grave, and, with their hearts full

of grief, whisper in low voices to each other of all that they had seen

and known of the good stranger's acts of charity and kindness. Good

indeed he had been to them. Little used to acts or words of love from

their own lords, they had felt the power of his mild manner, his tender

devotion to them, only the more deeply from its novelty. To them, how

irreparable the loss! The higher ranks had lost the grace of a benignant

presence in their high circle; but they--the poor, the friendless--had

lost in him their friend--almost their father. Nature is ever true; they

_felt_ how much that grave had robbed them of. Not a dry eye was seen

among them; and looking sadly down into the hole where all that now

remained of their physician lay, they marveled much why he, a stranger

to them, had left his home, and his friends, and country, to become the

unpaid servant of the poor in a land so far away; and not knowing how,

in their simple hearts, to account for this, they silently dropped their

tears into his grave, and slowly moved away--wondering at all that they

had seen and known of him who was now dead, and thinking sadly of the

long, long time ere they might find another friend like him.

The hole was then filled up--and what had once been Howard was seen of

man no more. A small pyramid was raised above the spot, instead of the

sun-dial which he had himself suggested; and the casual traveler in

Prussian Tartary is still attracted to the place as to one of the

holiest shrines of which this earth can boast.

Words can not depict the profound sensation which the arrival of this

mournful news produced in England. The death-shaft cut the withes which

had kept his reputation down. All at once the nation awoke to a full

consciousness of his colossal fame and his transcendent virtues. Howard

was now--history. Envy and jealousy were past: rivalry had ended on the

brink of the grave. Death alone sets a man on fair terms with society.

The death of a great man is always a calamity; but it is only when a

country loses one of its illustrious children in a distant land, and

under peculiar circumstances, that the full measure of the national

calamity is felt. They who can recollect the wild and deep sensation of

pity and regret which the arrival of the news of Byron's death at

Missolonghi produced in England, can alone conceive of any thing like

the state of the public mind on the first announcement of the close of a

career still more useful and more glorious. Every possible mark of

honor--public and private--was paid to the memory of Howard. All orders

of men vied with each other in heaping honors upon his name. The court,

the press, parliament, the bar, the pulpit, and the stage--each in its

different fashion--paid the well-earned tribute of respect. The

intelligence of his demise was publicly announced in the official

Gazette--a distinction never before accorded to a private individual.

The muses sang his virtues with innumerable voices; the churches echoed

with his praise; the senate and the judgment-seat resounded with the

tribute to his merits; and even at the theatres, his character was

exhibited in imaginary scenes, and a monody on his death was delivered

from the foot lights.

Nor was a more enduring memorial wanting. The long dormant Committee of

the Howardian fund was resuscitated, and the sculptor Bacon was employed

to make a full length marble statue of the Philanthropist. At that time

it was in contemplation to make St. Paul's serve the double purpose of a

cathedral and a Walhalla; and this design was inaugurated by placing

there, as the first great worthy of England, the statue of John Howard.

It stands immediately on the right hand of the choir-screen; it is a

handsome figure, tolerably faithful, and is illustrated by emblems of

his noble deeds, and by the following inscription: "This extraordinary

man had the fortune to be honored, while living, in the manner which his

virtues deserved; he received the thanks of both houses of the British

and Irish Parliaments, for his eminent services rendered to his country

and to mankind. Our national prisons and hospitals, improved upon the

suggestion of his wisdom, bear testimony to the solidity of his

judgment, and to the estimation in which he was held. In every part of

the civilized world, which he traversed to reduce the sum of human

misery--from the throne to the dungeon--his name was mentioned with

respect, gratitude, and admiration. His modesty alone defeated various

efforts that were made during his life to erect this statue, which the

public has now consecrated to his memory. He was born at Hackney, in the

county of Middlesex, September 2, 1726. The early part of his life he

spent in retirement, residing principally upon his paternal estate at

Cardington, in Bedfordshire; for which county he served the office of

sheriff in the year 1763. He expired at Cherson, in Russian Tartary, on

the 20th of January, 1790, a victim to the perilous and benevolent

attempt to ascertain the cause of, and find an efficacious remedy for

the plague. He trod an open but unfrequented path to immortality in the

ardent but unintermitted exercise of Christian charity: may this tribute

to his fame excite an emulation of his truly glorious achievements!"

A SKETCH OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY THE "ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER."

(_Continued from page_ 165.)

Once having begun, it followed naturally that the war should deepen in

bitterness. Wounds that wrote memorials in the flesh, insults that

rankled in the heart--these were not features of the case likely to be

forgotten by our enemies, and far less by my fiery brother. I, for my

part, entered not into any of the passions that war may be supposed to

kindle, except only the chronic passion of anxiety. _Fear_ it was not;

for experience had taught me that, under the random firing of our

undisciplined enemies, the chances were not many of being wounded; but

the uncertainties that beset every conflict, as regarded my power to

maintain the requisite connection with my brother, and the absolute

darkness that brooded over that last worst contingency--the case of

being captured, and carried off to Gath as a trophy won from

Israel--these were penalties attached to the war that ran too violently

into the current of my constitutional despondency, ever to give way

under any casual elation of success. Success we really had at

times--_often_ in skirmishes; and once, at least, as the reader will

find to his mortification, if he is wicked enough to take the side of

the Philistines, a most smashing victory in a pitched battle. But even

then, and while the hurrahs were yet ascending from our jubilating lips,

the freezing memento came back to my heart of that deadly depression

which, duly at the coming round of the morning and evening watches,

traveled with me like my shadow on our approach to the memorable bridge.

A bridge of sighs[2] too surely it was for me; and even for my brother

it formed an object of fierce yet anxious jealousy, that he could not

always disguise, as we first came in sight of it: for, if it happened to

be occupied in strength, there was an end of all hope that we could

attempt the passage; and _that_ was a fortunate solution of the affair,

as it imposed no evil beyond a circuit; which, at least, enjoyed the

blessing of peace, although the sarcastic public might choose to call it

inglorious. Even this shade of ignominy, however, my brother contrived

to color favorably, by calling us--that is, me and himself--"a corps of

observation;" and he condescendingly explained to me, that although

making "a lateral movement," he had his eye upon the enemy, and "might

yet come round upon his left flank in a way that wouldn't perhaps prove

very agreeable." This, from the nature of the ground, never happened. We

crossed the river out of sight from the enemy's position; and my

brother's vengeance, being reserved until he came round into the rear of

Philistia, from which a good retreat was always open to Greenhay;

naturally discharged itself in triple deluges of stones. On this line of

policy there was, therefore, no cause for anxiety; but the common case

was, that the numbers might not be such as to justify this caution, and

yet quite enough for mischief. For my brother, however, stung and

carried headlong into hostility by the martial instincts of his nature,

the uneasiness of doubt or insecurity was swallowed up by his joy in the

anticipation of victory, or even of contest; while to myself, whose

exultation was purely official and ceremonial, as due by loyalty and

legal process from a cadet of the belligerent house, no such

compensation existed. The enemy was no enemy in _my_ eyes; his affronts

were but retaliations; and his insults were so inapplicable to my

unworthy self, being of a calibre exclusively meant for the use of my

brother, that from me they recoiled, one and all, as cannon-shot from

cotton bags.

[Footnote 2: "_Bridge of sighs_:"--Two men of memorable genius, Hood

last, and Lord Byron by many years previously, have so appropriated

this phrase, and re-issued it as English currency, that many readers

suppose it to be theirs. But the genealogies of fine expressions

should be more carefully preserved. The expression belongs

originally to Venice. This _jus postliminii_ becomes of real

importance in a case like that of Shakspeare. It is a most

remarkable fact that he is made to seem a robber of the lowest order

by mere dint of suffering robbery. Purely through their own jewelly

splendor, have many hundreds of his phrases forced themselves into

usage so general, under the vulgar infirmity of seeking to

strengthen weak prose by shreds of poetic quotation, that at length

the majority of careless readers came to look upon these phrases as

belonging to the language, and traceable to no distinct proprietor

any more than proverbs: and thus, on afterward observing them in

Shakspeare, they regard him in the light of one accepting alms (like

so many meaner persons) from the common treasury of the universal

mind, on which treasury he had himself conferred them as original

donations of his own. Many expressions in the "Paradise Lost," in

"Il Penseroso," and in "L'Allegro," are in the same predicament:

from glorifying their author, so long as they were consciously

referred to him _as_ their author, they have, at least, ended in

tarnishing his glory. As creations, they were marks of power; as

tributes levied upon a common stock, they become arguments of

weakness.]

This inordinate pugnacity of my brother, this rabid appetite for trials

of prowess, had, indeed, forced itself into display on the very first

interview I ever had with him. On the night of his return from Louth, an

artisan, employed in the decorations of Greenhay, had entered into

conversation with him upon the pre-eminence of Lancashire among the

provinces of England. According to _him_, the county of Lancaster (to

translate his meaning into Roman phrase) was the _prerogative tribe_ of

England. And really I am disposed to think that it still _is_ such,

mongrelized as it has long been by Cambrian and Hibernian immigrations.

There is not on earth such another focus of burning energy. Among other

things, the man had magnified the county as containing (which it then

_did_) by very much the largest remnant of old Roman Catholic

families--families that were _loyal_ to the back-bone (in those days a

crowning honor); that were of the ancient faith, and of the most ancient

English blood; none of your upstart, dissenting _terræ filii_, but men

that might have shaken hands with Coeur de Lion, or at least come of

ancestors that _had_. "And, in short, young gentleman," he concluded,

"the whole county, not this part, or that part, but take it as you find

it, north and south, is a very tall county."

What it was exactly that he meant by _tall_, I can not say. From the

intense predominance in Lancashire of old genuine mother English, it is

probable that he meant _stout-hearted_, for _that_ was the old

acceptation of the word _tall_, and not (as it is now understood) _high

in stature_. "A tall ship" meant a stout and sea-worthy ship; "a tall

man," meant a man that was at once able-bodied and true-hearted. My

brother, however, chose to understand it in the ordinary modern sense,

and he replied, "Yes, it's tall enough, if you take it south and north:

from Bullock Smithy in the south, to beyond Lancaster in the north, it

measures a matter of sixty miles or more; certainly it's tall, but then

it's very thin, generally speaking."

"Ay, but," said the man, "thick or thin, it's a county palatine."

"Well, I don't care much for that," rejoined my brother; "palatine or

not palatine, thick or thin, I wouldn't take any _jaw_ (which meant

insolence) from Lancashire, more than from any other shire."

The man stared a little at this unlooked-for attitude of defiance to a

county palatine; but, recovering himself, he said, that my brother

_must_ take it, if Lancashire chose to offer it.

"But I wouldn't," replied my brother. "Look here: Lincolnshire, the

county that I've been staying in for these, I don't know how many

years--and a very tall county, too, tall and fat--did I take any jaw

from _her_? Ask the sheriff. And Leicestershire, where I've generally

spent my holidays, did I take jaw from _her_? Tell me _that_. Neither,

again, did Louth ever dream of giving me any of _her_ jaw; then why

should I stand it from Lancashire?"

Certainly, why _should_ he? I, who took no part in all this but as a

respectful listener, felt that there was much reason in what my brother

said. It was true that, having imbibed from my nurses a profound

veneration for my native county, I was rather shocked at any posture

(though but in a hypothetical case) of defiance to Lancashire; and yet,

if three out of four capital L's had been repulsed in some mysterious

offense, I felt that it was mere equity to repulse the fourth. But I

prepared anxiously to say, on the authority of my last nurse, that

Lancashire (I felt sure) was not the county to offer him any "jaw,"

whatever _that_ might be. Unhappily, in seeking for words, which came

very slowly at all times, to express my benevolent meaning, the

opportunity passed over for saying any thing at all on the subject; but,

though wounded by his squaring at Lancashire, I yet felt considerable

respect for a brother who could thus resolutely set his arms a-kimbo

against three tall counties, two of them tolerably fat, and one decent

market-town.

The ordinary course of our day's warfare was this: between nine and ten

in the morning, occurred our first transit, and consequently our

earliest opportunity for doing business. But at this time the great

sublunary interest of breakfast, which swallowed up all nobler

considerations of glory and ambition, occupied the work-people of the

factory (or what in the brutal pedantry of this day are termed the

"operatives"), so that very seldom any serious business was transacted.

Without any formal armistice, the paramount convenience of such an

arrangement silently secured its own recognition. Notice there needed

none of truce, when the one side yearned for breakfast, and the other

for a respite; the groups, therefore, on or about the bridge, if any at

all, were loose in their array, and careless. We passed through them

rapidly, and, on my part, uneasily; exchanging only a few snarls, but

seldom or ever snapping at each other. The tameness was almost shocking

of those who in the afternoon would inevitably resume their natural

characters of tiger-cats, wolves, and hunting-leopards. Sometimes,

however, my brother felt it to be a duty that we should fight in the

morning, particularly when any expression of public joy for a

victory--bells ringing in the distance, or when a royal birthday, or

some traditional commemoration of ancient feuds (such as the 5th of

November), irritated his martial propensities. These being religious

festivals, seemed to require of us some _extra_ homage, for which we

knew not how to find any natural or significant expression, except

through sharp discharges of stones, that being a language older than

Hebrew or Sanscrit, and universally intelligible. But excepting these

high days of religious solemnity, when a man is called upon to show that

he is not a Pagan or a miscreant in the eldest of senses, by thumping,

or trying to thump, somebody who is accused or accusable of being

heterodox, the great ceremony of breakfast was allowed to sanctify the

hour. Some natural growls we uttered, but hushed them soon, regardless

(in Mr. Gray's language) "of the sweeping whirlpool's sway, that hushed

in grim repose, looked for his evening prey."

_That_ came but too surely. Yes, evening never forgot to come--never for

once forgot to call for its prey. Oh! reader, be you sure of _that_.

Pleasures--how often do they forget themselves, forget their duty,

forget their engagements, and fail to revolve! But this odious necessity

of fighting never missed its road back, or fell asleep, or loitered by

the way, more than a bill of exchange, or a tertian fever. Five times a

week (Saturday sometimes, and Sunday always, were days of rest) the same

scene rehearsed itself in pretty nearly the very same succession of

circumstances. Between four and five o'clock, we had crossed the bridge

to the safe, or Greenhay side; then we paused, and waited for the enemy.

Sooner or later a bell rang, and from the smoky hive issued the hornets

that night and day stung incurably my peace of mind. The order and

procession of the incidents after this was odiously monotonous. My

brother occupied the main high road, precisely at the point where a very

gentle rise of the ground attained its summit; for the bridge lay in a

slight valley; and the main military position was fifty or eighty yards

perhaps above the bridge; then--but having first examined my pockets in

order to be sure that my stock of ammunition, stones, fragments of

slate, with a reasonable proportion of brickbats, was all correct and

ready for action--he detached me about forty yards to the right, my

orders being invariable, and liable to no doubts or "quibbling."

Detestable in _my_ ears was that word "_quibbling_," by which, for a

thousand years, if the war had happened to last so long, he would have

fastened upon me the imputation of meaning, or wishing at least, to do

what he called "pettifogulizing"--that is, to plead some little

technical quillet, distinction, or verbal demur, in bar of my orders,

under some colorable pretense that, according to their literal

construction, they really did not admit of being fulfilled, or perhaps

that they admitted it too much as being capable of fulfillment in two

senses, either of them a practicable sense. Unhappily for me, which told

against all that I could ever have pleaded in self-justification, my

Christian name was Thomas--an injury for which I never ceased to upbraid

secretly my two godfathers and my one godmother; and with some reason:

they ought to have seen what mischief they were brewing; since I am

satisfied to this hour that, but for that wretched wo-begone name,

saturated with a weight of predestined skepticism that would sink a

seventy-four with the most credulous of ship's companies on board, my

brother never would have called me _Thomas à Didymus_, which he did

sometimes, or _Thomas Aquinas_, which he did continually. These

baptismal sponsors of mine were surely answerable for all the reproaches

against me, suggested by my insufferable name. All that I bore for years

by reason of these reproaches, I charge against _them_; and perhaps an

action of damages would have lain against them, as parties to a

conspiracy against me. For any thing that I knew, the names might have

been titles of honor; but my brother took care to explain the qualities,

for better and worse, which distinguished them. Thomas à Didymus, it

seemed, had exactly my infirmity of doubting and misgiving, which

naturally called up further illustrations of that temper from Bunyan--a

writer who occupied a place in our childish library, not very far from

the "Arabian Nights." Giant Despair, the Slough of Despond, Doubting

Castle, mustered strong in the array of rebukes to my weakness; and,

above all, Mr. Ready-to-sink, who was my very picture (it seems) or

prophetic type. As to Thomas Aquinas, I was informed that he, like

myself, was much given to hair-splitting, or cutting moonbeams with

razors; in which I think him very right; considering that in the town of

Aquino, and about the year 1400, there were no novels worth speaking of,

and not even the shadow of an opera; so that, not being employed upon

moonbeams, Thomas's razors must, like Burke's, have operated upon

blocks. But were these defects of doubting and desponding really mine?

In a sense, they were; and being thus embodied in nicknames, they were

forced prematurely upon my own knowledge. That was bad. Intellectually,

if you are haunted with skepticism, or tendencies that way, morally, and

for all purposes of action, if you are haunted with the kindred misery

of desponding, it is not good to see too broadly emblazoned your own

infirmities: they grow by consciousness too steadily directed upon them.

And thus far there was great injustice in my brother's reproach; true it

was that my eye was preternaturally keen for flaws of language, not from

pedantic exaction of superfluous accuracy, but, on the contrary, from

too conscientious a wish to escape the mistakes which language not

rigorous is apt to occasion. So far from seeking to "pettifogulize," or

to find evasions for any purpose in a trickster's minute tortuosities of

construction, exactly in the opposite direction, from mere excess of

sincerity, most unwillingly I found, in almost every body's words, an

unintentional opening left for double interpretations. Undesigned

equivocation prevails every where;[3] and it is not the caviling

hair-splitter, but, on the contrary, the single-eyed servant of truth,

that is most likely to insist upon the limitation of expressions too

wide or vague, and upon the decisive election between meanings

potentially double. Not in order to resist or evade my brother's

directions, but for the very opposite purpose--viz., that I might

fulfill them to the letter; thus and no otherwise it happened that I

showed so much scrupulosity about the exact value and position of his

words, as finally to draw upon myself the vexatious reproach of being

habitually a "pettifogulizer."

[Footnote 3: Since those years, it is natural that mere culture of

the subject, and long, experience in the arts of composition, should

have sharpened my vision, previously too morbidly acute, to defects

in the construction of sentences, and generally in the management of

language. The result is this: and perhaps it will shock the reader,

certainly it will startle him, when I declare solemnly my

conviction, that no two consecutive pages can be cited from any one

of the very best English authors, which is not disfigured by some

gross equivocation or imperfection of structure, such as leaves the

meaning open, perhaps, to be inferred from the context, but also so

little expressed with verbal rigor, or with conformity to the truth

of logic, or to the real purpose, that, supposing the passage to

involve a legal interest, and in consequence, to come under a

judicial review, it would be set aside for want of internal

coherency. Not in arrogance, but under a deep sense of the

incalculable injuries done to truth, small and great, by false

management of language, I declare my belief that hardly one entire

paragraph exists in our language which is impregnable to criticism,

even as regards the one capital interest of logical limitation to

the main purpose concerned.]

Meantime, our campaigning continued to rage. Overtures of pacification

were never mentioned on either side. And I, for _my_ part, with the

passions only of peace at my heart, did the works of war faithfully, and

with distinction. I presume so, at least, from the results. For, though

I was continually falling into treason, without exactly knowing how I

got into it, or how I got out of it, _and_, although my brother

sometimes assured me that he could, in strict justice, have me hanged on

the first tree we passed, to which my very prosaic answer had been, that

of trees there _were_ none in Oxford-street--[which, in imitation of Von

Troil's famous chapter on the snakes of Lapland, the reader may accept,

if he pleases, as a complete course of lectures on the natural history

of Oxford-street]--nevertheless, by steady steps, I continued to ascend

in the service; and, I am sure, it will gratify the reader to hear,

that, very soon after my eighth birthday, I was promoted to the rank of

major-general. Over this sunshine, however, soon swept a train of

clouds. Three times I was taken prisoner; and with different results.

The first time I was carried to the rear, and not molested in any way.

Finding myself thus ignominiously neglected, I watched my opportunity;

and, by making a wide circuit, without further accident, effected my

escape. In the next case, a brief council was held over me: but I was

not allowed to hear the deliberations; the result only being

communicated to me--which result consisted in a message not very

complimentary to my brother, and a small present of kicks to myself.

This present was paid down without any discount, by means of a general

subscription among the party surrounding me--that party, luckily, not

being very numerous; besides which, I must, in honesty, acknowledge

myself, generally speaking, indebted to their forbearance. They were not

disposed to be too hard upon me. But, at the same time, they clearly did

not think it right that I should escape altogether from tasting the

calamities of war. And, as the arithmetic of the case seemed to be, how

many legs, so many kicks, this translated the estimate of my guilt from

the public jurisdiction, to that of the individual, sometimes capricious

and harsh, and carrying out the public award by means of legs that

ranged through all gradations of weight and agility. One kick differed

exceedingly from another kick in dynamic value: and, in some cases, this

difference was so distressingly conspicuous, and seemed so little in

harmony with the prevailing hospitality of the evening, that one

suspected special malice, unworthy, I conceive of all generous

soldiership. Not impossibly, as it struck me on reflection, the spiteful

individual might have a theory: he might conceive that, if a catholic

chancery decree went forth, restoring to every man the things which

truly belonged to him--your things to you, Cæsar's to Cæsar, mine to

me--in that case, a particular brickbat fitting, as neatly as if it had

been bespoke, to a contusion upon the calf of his own right leg, would

be discovered making its way back into my great-coat pockets. Well, it

_might_ be so. Such things are possible under any system of physics. But

this all rests upon a blind assumption as to the fact. Is a man to be

kicked upon hypothesis? That is what Lord Bacon would have set his face

against. However, some of my new acquaintances evidently cared as little

for Lord Bacon as for me; and regulated their kicks upon principles

incomprehensible to me. These contributors excepted, whose articles were

unjustifiably heavy, the rest of the subscribers were so considerate,

that I looked upon them as friends in disguise.

On returning to our own frontiers, I had an opportunity of displaying my

exemplary greenness. That message to my brother, with all its _virus_ of

insolence, I repeated as faithfully for the spirit, and as literally for

the expressions, as my memory allowed me to do: and in that troublesome

effort, simpleton that I was, fancied myself exhibiting a soldier's

loyalty to his commanding officer. My brother thought otherwise: he was

more angry with me than with the enemy. I ought, he said, to have

refused all participation in such _sansculottes'_ insolence; to carry it

was to acknowledge it as fit to be carried. "Speak civilly to my

general," I ought to have told them; "or else get a pigeon to carry your

message--if you happen to have any pigeon that knows how to conduct

himself like a gentleman among gentlemen." What could they have done to

me, said my brother, on account of my recusancy? What monstrous

punishments was I dreaming of, from the days of giants and ogres? "At

the very worst, they could only have crucified me with the head

downward, or impaled me, or inflicted the death by _priné_,[4] or

anointed me with honey (a Jewish punishment), leaving me (still alive)

to the tender mercies of wasps and hornets." One grows wiser every day;

and on this particular day I made a resolution that, if again made

prisoner, I would bring no more "jaw" from the Philistines. For it was

very unlikely that he, whom I heard solemnly refusing to take "jaw" from

whole provinces of England, would take it from the rabble of a cotton

factory. If these people _would_ send "jaw," and insisted upon their

right to send it, I settled that, henceforward, it must go through the

post-office.

[Footnote 4: _Priné_--[Greek: prinê], the Greek word for a _saw_.

The saw was applied to the chest, and the man was sawed into two

halves, leaving a sculptor's bust (man's head and shoulders) for the

upper half.]

But, in that case, had I not reason to apprehend being sawed in two? I

saw no indispensable alternative of that see-saw nature. For there must

be two parties--a party to saw, and a party to be sawed. And neither

party has a chance of moving an inch in the business without a saw. Now,

if neither of the parties will pay for the saw, then it is as good as

any one conundrum in Euclid, that nobody can be sawed. For that man must

be a top-sawyer, indeed, that can keep the business afloat without a

saw. But, with or without the sanction of Euclid, I came to the

resolution of never more carrying what is improperly called "chaff,"

but, by people of refinement, is called "jaw"--that is to say, this was

my resolution, in the event of my being again made prisoner; an event

which heartily I hoped might never happen. It _did_ happen, however, and

very soon. Again, that is, for the third time, I was made prisoner; and

this time I managed ill indeed; I _did_ make a mess of it; for I

displeased the commander-in-chief in a way that he could not forget.

In my former captures, there had been nothing special or worthy of

commemoration in the circumstances. Neither was there in this,[5]

excepting that, by accident, in the second stage of the case, I was

delivered over to the custody of young woman and girls; whereas the

ordinary course would have thrown me upon the vigilant attentions

(relieved from monotony by the experimental kicks) of boys. So far, the

change was by very much for the better. I had a feeling myself--on first

being presented to my new young mistresses--for to be a prisoner, I in

my simplicity, believed, was to be a slave--of a distressing sort.

Having always, or at least up to the completion of my sixth year, been a

privileged pet, and almost, I might say, ranking among the sanctities of

the household, with all its female sections, whether young or old (an

advantage which I owed to a long illness, an ague, stretching over two

entire years of my infancy), naturally I had learned to appreciate the

indulgent tenderness of women; and my heart thrilled with love and

gratitude, as often as they took me up into their arms and kissed me.

Here it would have been as every where else; but, unfortunately, my

introduction to these young women was in the very worst of characters. I

had been taken in arms--in arms, against whom? and for what? Against

their own nearest relations and connections--brothers, cousins,

sweethearts; and on pretexts too frivolous to mention, if any at all.

Neither was my offense of ancient date, so as to make it possible for

desperate good nature to presume in me a change of heart, and a

penitential horror of my past life. On the contrary, I had been taken

but five minutes before, in the very act of showering brickbats on

members of their own factory; and, if no great number of stones appeared

to swell my pockets, it was not that I was engaged in any process of

weaning myself from such fascinating missiles, but that I had liberally

made over to their kinsfolk most of those which I possessed. If asked

the question, it would be found that I should not myself deny the fact

of being at war with their whole order. What was the meaning of _that_?

What was it to which war, and the assumption of warlike functions,

pledged a man? It pledged him, in case of an opportunity arising, to

_storm_ his enemies; that is, in my own case, to storm the houses of

these young factory girls; briefly, and in plain English, to murder them

all; to cut the throats of every living creature by their firesides; to

float the closets in which, possibly, three generations of their family

might have been huddled together for shelter, with the gore of those

respectable parties. Almost every book of history in the British Museum,

counting up to many myriads of volumes would tell them plainly, and in

pretty nearly the very same words, what they had to expect from every

warrior, and therefore from me, videlicet this--that neither the

guileless smiles of unoffending infancy, nor the gray hairs of the

venerable patriarch sitting in the chimney corner; neither the sanctity

of the matron, nor the loveliness of the youthful bride; no, nor the

warlike self-devotion of the noble young man, fighting as the champion

of altars and hearths; none of these searching appeals would reach _my_

heart; neither sex nor age would confer any privilege with me; that I

should put them all to the edge of the sword; that I should raze the

very foundations of their old ancestral houses; having done which, I

should probably plow up the ground with some bushels of Nantwich salt,

mixed with bonedust from the graves of infants as a top-dressing; that,

in fact, the custom of all warriors, and therefore by necessity of

myself, was notoriously to make a wilderness, and to call it a

pacification; with other bloody depositions in the same key, and often

in the very same words.

[Footnote 5: From the naked character of the whole _area_ on each

side of the Oxford-road, at that time, there was very little opening

for ambuscades. What little there was, which greatly fascinated my

brother as one of the features connecting his own strategies with

those of Cæsar, lay exclusively among the brick-kilns. Of these,

there were numbers on the clay-fields adjacent to the road: and

sometimes having been irregularly _quarried_ (so to speak), they

opened into lanes and closets, which offered facilities for

momentary concealment. But the advantages almost ceased to be such

from their obviousness, and the consequent jealousy with which they

were watched and approached. The particular mode of my three

captures was the constant mode of my danger; two or three parallel

files advanced up the rising ground from the river; one or two of

these by shouts, by more conspicuous activity, and by numerical

superiority, succeeded in winning too exclusive an attention, while

a slender thread of stragglers, noiseless, and apparently not acting

in concert, suddenly converged when approaching the summit of the

ascent, and instantly swept so rapidly round the left of my

position, as in one moment to take away all chance of restoring the

connection between myself and my brother; while, at the same time,

by exposing too decisively for doubt the preconcerted plan on which

they had really been moving, when most of all simulating the

disarray of stragglers, they mortified us by the conviction that

students of Cæsar's Commentaries might chance, notwithstanding, to

show themselves most exemplary blockheads.]

All this was passing through my brain as the sort of explanatory

introduction which, in mere honesty, I could not disown, if any body

should offer it, when suddenly one young woman snatched me up in her

arms, and kissed me; from _her_, I was passed round to others of the

party, who all in turn caressed me, with scarcely an allusion to that

warlike mission against them and theirs, which only had procured me the

honor of an introduction to themselves in the character of captive. The

too palpable fact, that I was not the person meant by nature to murder

any one individual of their party, was likely enough to withdraw from

their minds the counterfact--that too probably, in my military

character, I might have dallied with the idea of murdering them all. Not

being able to do it, as regarded any one in particular, was illogically

accepted as an excuse for the military engagement that bound me to

attempt it with regard to all in mass. Not only did these young people

kiss me, but I (seeing no military reason against it) kissed _them_.

Really, if young women will insist on kissing major-generals, they must

expect that the generals will retaliate. One only of the crowd adverted

to the character in which I came before them: to be a lawful prisoner,

it struck her too logical mind that I must have been caught in some

aggressive practices. "Think," she said, "of this little dog fighting,

and fighting our Jack." "But," said another, in a propitiatory tone,

"perhaps he'll not do so any more." I was touched by the kindness of her

suggestion, and the sweet merciful sound of that same "_Not do so any

more_," which really I fear was prompted by the charity in _her_ that

hopeth all things, and despairs of no villain, rather than by any

signals of amendment that could have appeared in myself. It was well for

me that they gave no time to comment on my own moral condition; for, in

that case, I should have told them, that, although I had delivered, in

my time, many thousands of stones for the service of their near

relatives, and must, without vanity, presume that, on the ratio of one

wound to a thousand shots, I had given them numerous reasons for

remembering me; yet that, if so, I was sincerely sorry (which I was) for

any pain I had caused--the past I regretted, and could plead only the

necessities of duty. But, on the other hand, as respected the future, I

could not honestly hold out any hopes of a change for the better, since

my duty to my brother, in two separate characters, would oblige me to

resume hostilities on the very next day. While I was preparing myself,

however, for this painful exposition, my female friends saw issuing from

the factory a crowd of boys not likely at all to improve my prospects.

Instantly setting me down on my feet, they formed a sort of _cordon

sanitaire_ behind me, by stretching out their petticoats or aprons, as

in dancing, so as to touch; and then, crying out, "Now, little dog, run

for thy life," prepared themselves (I doubt not) for rescuing me, if any

recapture should be effected.

But this was _not_ effected, although attempted with an energy that

alarmed me, and even perplexed me with a vague thought (far too

ambitious for my years, but growing out of my chivalrous studies) that

one, perhaps, if not two of the pursuing party might be possessed by

some demon of jealousy, since he might have seen me reveling among the

lips of that fair girlish and womanish bevy, kissed and kissing, loving

and being loved; in which case from all that ever I had read about

jealousy (and I had read a great deal--viz, "Othello," and Collins's

"Ode to the Passions"), I was satisfied that, if again captured, I had

very little chance for my life. That jealousy was a green-eyed monster,

nobody could know better than _I_ did. "Oh, my lord, beware of

jealousy!" Yes; and my lord couldn't possibly beware of it more than

myself; indeed, well it would have been for _him_ had his lordship run

away from all the ministers of jealousy--Iago, Cassio, Desdemona--and

embroidered handkerchiefs--at the same pace of six miles an hour which

kept me ahead of my infuriated pursuers. Ah, that maniac, white as a

leper with flakes of cotton, can I ever forget him, that ran so far in

advance of his party? What passion, but jealousy, could have sustained

him in so hot a chase? There were some lovely girls in the fair company

that had so condescendingly caressed me; but, doubtless, upon that sweet

creature his love must have settled, who suggested, in her low, soft,

relenting voice, a penitence in me that, alas! had not dawned, saying,

"_Yes; but perhaps he will do so no more_." Thinking, as I ran, of her

beauty, I felt that this jealous demoniac must fancy himself justified

in committing seven times seven murders upon me, if he should have it in

his power. But, thank heaven, if jealousy can run six miles an hour,

there are other passions, as for instance, fear, that can run, upon

occasion, six and a half; so, as I had the start of him (you know,

reader), and not a very short start--thanks be to the expanded

petticoats of my dear female friends! naturally it happened that the

green-eyed monster came in second best. Time luckily was precious with

_him_; and therefore, when he had chased me into the by-road leading

down to Greenhay, he turned back; and I, with somewhat sorrowful steps,

on the consideration that this scene might need to be all acted over

again, when Green-eyes might happen to have better luck, and being

unhappy, besides, at having to number so many kind-hearted girls among

Philistines and daughters of Gath, pensively pursued my way to the gates

of Greenhay. _Pensively_ is not the word that meets the realities of the

case. I was unhappy, in the profoundest sense, and not from any

momentary accident of distress that might pass away and be forgotten,

but from deep glimpses which now, as heretofore, had opened themselves,

as occasions arose, into the interior sadnesses, and the inevitable

conflicts of life. I knew--I anticipated to a dead certainty--that my

brother would not hear of any merit belonging to the factory population

whom every day we had to meet in battle; on the contrary, even

submission on _their_ part, and willingness to walk penitentially

through the _Furcæ Caudinæ_, would hardly have satisfied his sense of

their criminality. Continually, indeed, as we came in view of the

factory, he used to shake his fist at it, and say, in a ferocious tone

of voice, "_Delenda est Carthago!_" And certainly, I thought to myself,

it must be admitted by every body that the factory people are

inexcusable in raising a rebellion against my brother. But still rebels

were men, and sometimes were women; and rebels, that stretch out their

petticoats like fans for the sake of screening one from the hot pursuit

of enemies with fiery eyes (green or otherwise), really are not the sort

of people that one wishes to hate.

Homeward, therefore, I drew in sadness, and little doubting that

_hereafter_ I might have verbal feuds with my brother on behalf of my

fair friends, but not dreaming how much displeasure I had already

incurred by my treasonable collusion with their caresses. That part of

the affair he had seen with his own eyes from his position on the field;

and then it was that he left me indignantly to my fate, which, by my

first reception, it was easy to see would not prove very gloomy. When I

came into our own study, I found him engaged in preparing a _bulletin_

(which word was just then traveling into universal use), reporting

briefly the events of the day. Drawing, as I shall again have occasion

to mention, was among his foremost accomplishments; and round the margin

of the border ran a black border, ornamented with cypress, and other

funeral emblems. When finished, it was carried into the room of Mrs.

Evans. This Mrs. Evans was an important person in our affairs. My

mother, who never chose to have any direct communication with her

servants, always had a housekeeper for the regulation of all domestic

business; and the housekeeper for some years at this period was this

Mrs. Evans. Into her private parlor, where she sat aloof from the under

servants, my brother and I had the _entrée_ at all times, but upon very

different terms of acceptance: he, as a favorite of the first class;

_I_, by sufferance, as a sort of gloomy shadow that ran after _his_

person, and could not well be shut out if _he_ were let in. Him she

admired in the very highest degree; myself, on the contrary, she

detested, which made me unhappy. But then, in some measure, she made

amends for this, by despising me in extremity, and for _that_ I was

truly thankful--I need not say _why_, as the reader already knows. Why

she detested me, so far as I know, arose out of my reserve and

thoughtful abstraction. I had a great deal to say, but then I could say

it only to a very few people, among whom Mrs. Evans was certainly not

one; and when I _did_ say any thing, I fear that my dire ignorance and

savage sincerity prevented my laying the proper restraints upon my too

liberal candor; and _that_ could not prove acceptable to one who thought

nothing of working for any purpose, or for no purpose, by petty tricks,

or even falsehoods--all which I held in stern abhorrence, that I was at

no pains to conceal. The _bulletin_, on this occasion, garnished with

its pageantry of woe, cypress wreaths, and arms reversed, was read aloud

to Mrs. Evans, indirectly therefore to me. It communicated, with Spartan

brevity, the sad intelligence (but not sad to Mrs. E.), "that the

major-general had forever disgraced himself, by submitting to the ...

caresses of the enemy." I leave a blank for the epithet affixed to

"caresses," not because there _was_ any blank, but, on the contrary,

because my brother's wrath had boiled over in such a hubble-bubble of

epithets, some only half-erased, some doubtfully erased, that it was

impossible, out of the various readings, to pick out the true classical

text. "Infamous," "disgusting," and "odious," struggled for precedency;

and _infamous_ they might be; but on the other affixes I held my own

private opinions. For some days, my brother's displeasure continued to

roll in reverberating thunders; but at length it growled itself to rest;

and at last he descended to mild expostulations with me, showing

clearly, in a series of general orders, what frightful consequences must

ensue, if major-generals (as a general principle) should allow

themselves to be kissed by the enemy.

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

THE HISTORY AND MYSTERY OF THE GLASS-HOUSE.

Upward of two thousand years ago, perhaps three, a company of merchants,

who had a cargo of nitre on board their ship, were driven by the winds

on the shores of Galilee, close to a small stream that runs from the

foot of Mount Carmel. Being here weather-bound till the storm abated,

they made preparations for cooking their food on the strand; and not

finding stones to rest their vessels upon, they used some lumps of

nitre for that purpose, placing their kettles and stew-pans on the top,

and lighting a strong fire underneath. As the heat increased, the nitre

slowly melted away, and flowing down the beach, became mixed up with the

sand, forming, when the incorporated mass cooled down, a singularly

beautiful, transparent substance, which excited the astonishment and

wonder of the beholders.

Such is the legend of the origin of GLASS.

A great many centuries afterward--that is to say, toward the close of

the fifteenth century of the Christian era--when some of the secrets of

the glass-house, supposed to have been known to the ancients, were lost,

and the simple art of blowing glass was but scantily cultivated--an

artificer, whose name has unfortunately escaped immortality, while

employed over his crucible accidentally spilt some of the material he

was melting. Being in a fluid state it ran over the ground till it found

its way under one of the large flag-stones with which the place was

paved, and the poor man was obliged to take up the stone to recover his

glass. By this time it had grown cold, and to his infinite surprise he

saw that, from the flatness and equality of the surface beneath the

stone, it had taken the form of a slab--a form which could not be

produced by any process of blowing then in use.

Such was the accident that led to the discovery of the art of casting

PLATE-GLASS.

These are the only _accidents_ recorded in the History of Glass. For the

rest--the discovery of its endless capabilities and applications--we are

indebted to accumulated observation and persevering experiment, which,

prosecuting their ingenious art-labors up to the present hour, promise

still farther to enlarge the domain of the Beautiful and the Useful.

The importance of glass, and the infinite variety of objects to which it

is applicable, can not be exaggerated. Indeed it would be extremely

difficult to enumerate its properties, or to estimate adequately its

value. This thin, transparent substance, so light and fragile, is one of

the most essential ministers of science and philosophy, and enters so

minutely into the concerns of life, that it has become indispensable to

the daily routine of our business, our wants, and our pleasures. It

admits the sun and excludes the wind, answering the double purpose of

transmitting light and preserving warmth; it carries the eyes of the

astronomer to the remotest region of space; through the lenses of the

microscope it develops new worlds of vitality which, without its help,

must have been but imperfectly known; it renews the sight of the old,

and assists the curiosity of the young; it empowers the mariner to

descry distant ships, and to trace far-off shores, the watchman on the

cliff to detect the operations of hostile fleets and midnight

contrabandists, and the lounger in the opera to make the tour of the

circles from his stall; it preserves the light of the beacon from the

rush of the tempest, and softens the flame of the lamps upon our tables;

it supplies the revel with those charming vessels in whose bright

depths we enjoy the color as well as the flavor of our wine; it protects

the dial whose movements it reveals; it enables the student to penetrate

the wonders of nature, and the beauty to survey the marvels of her

person; it reflects, magnifies, and diminishes; as a medium of light and

observation its uses are without limit; and as an article of mere

embellishment, there is no form into which it may not be moulded, or no

object of luxury to which it may not be adapted.

Yet this agent of universal utility, so valuable and ornamental in its

applications, is composed of materials which possess in themselves

literally no intrinsic value whatever. Sand and salt form the main

elements of glass. The real cost is in the process of manufacture.

CURIOUS PROPERTIES OF GLASS.

Out of these elements, slightly varied according to circumstances, are

produced the whole miracles of the glass-house. To any one, not

previously acquainted with the component ingredients, the surprise which

this information must naturally excite will be much increased upon being

apprised of a few of the peculiarities or properties of glass.

Transparent in itself, the materials of which it is composed are opaque.

Brittle to a proverb when cold, its tenuity and flexibility when hot are

so remarkable that it may be spun into filaments as delicate as cobwebs,

drawn out like elastic threads till it becomes finer than the finest

hair, or whisked, pressed, bent, folded, twisted or moulded into any

desired shape. It is impermeable to water, suffers no diminution of its

weight or quality by being melted down, is capable of receiving and

retaining the most lustrous colors, is susceptible of the most perfect

polish, can be carved and sculptured like stone or metal, never loses a

fraction of its substance by constant use, and, notwithstanding its

origin, is so insensible to the action of acids that it is employed by

chemists for purposes to which no other known substance can be applied.

The elasticity and fragility of glass are among its most extraordinary

phenomena. Its elasticity exceeds that of almost all other bodies. If

two glass balls are made to strike each other at a given force, the

recoil, by virtue of their elasticity, will be nearly equal to the

original impetus. Connected with its brittleness are some very singular

facts. Take a hollow sphere, with a hole, and stop the hole with your

finger, so as to prevent the external and internal air from

communicating, and the sphere will fly to pieces by the mere heat of the

hand. Vessels made of glass that has been suddenly cooled possess the

curious property of being able to resist hard blows given to them from

without, but will be instantly shivered by a small particle of flint

dropped into their cavities. This property seems to depend upon the

comparative thickness of the bottom. The thicker the bottom is, the more

certainty of breakage by this experiment. Some of these vessels, it is

stated, have resisted the strokes of a mallet, given with sufficient

force to drive a nail into wood; and heavy bodies, such as musket-balls,

pieces of iron, bits of wood, jasper, bone, &c., have been cast into

them from a height of two or three feet without any effect; yet a

fragment of flint, not larger than a pea, let fall from the fingers at a

height of only three inches, has made them fly. Nor is it the least

wonderful of these phenomena that the glass does not always break at the

instant of collision, as might be supposed. A bit of flint, literally

the size of a grain, has been dropped into several glasses successively,

and none of them broke; but, being set apart and watched, it was found

that they all flew in less than three-quarters of an hour. This singular

agency is not confined to flint. The same effect will be produced by

diamond, sapphire, porcelain, highly-tempered steel, pearls, and the

marbles that boys play with.[6]

[Footnote 6: Ency. Brit.]

Several theories have been hazarded in explanation of the mystery; but

none of them are satisfactory. Euler attempted to account for it on the

principle of percussion; but if it were produced by percussion the

fracture would necessarily be instantaneous. The best solution that can

be offered, although it is by no means free from difficulties, refers

the cause of the disruption to electricity. There is no doubt that

glass, which has been suddenly cooled, is more electric than glass that

has been carefully annealed--a process which we will presently explain;

and such glass has been known to crack and shiver from a change of

temperament, or from the slightest scratch. The reason is obvious

enough. When glass is suddenly cooled from the hands of the artificer,

the particles on the outer side are rapidly contracted, while those on

the inner side, not being equally exposed to the influence of the

atmosphere, yet remain in a state of expansion. The consequence is that

the two portions are established on conflicting relations with each

other, and a strain is kept up between them which would not exist if the

whole mass had undergone a gradual and equal contraction, so that when a

force is applied which sets in motion the electric fluid glass is known

to contain, the motion goes on propagating itself till it accumulates a

power which the irregular cohesion of the particles is too weak to

resist. This action of the electric fluid will be better understood from

an experiment which was exhibited before the Royal Society upon glass

vessels with very thick bottoms, which, being slightly rubbed with the

finger, broke after an interval of half an hour.[7] The action of the

electric fluid in this instance is sufficiently clear; but why the

contact with fragments of certain bodies should produce the same result,

or why that result is not produced by contact with other bodies of even

greater size and specific gravity, is by no means obvious.

[Footnote 7: Lard. Cyclo.]

Among the strangest phenomena observed in glass are those which are

peculiar to tubes. A glass tube placed in a horizontal position before

a fire, with its extremities supported, will acquire a rotatory motion

round its axis, moving at the same time _toward_ the fire,

notwithstanding that the supports on which it rests may form an inclined

plane the contrary way. If it be placed on a glass plane--such as a

piece of window-glass--it will move _from_ the fire, although the plane

may incline in the opposite direction. If it be placed standing nearly

upright, leaning to the right hand, it will move from east to west; if

leaning to the left hand, it will move from west to east; and if it be

placed perfectly upright, it will not move at all. The causes of these

phenomena are unknown, although there has been no lack of hypotheses in

explanation of them.[8]

[Footnote 8: The most plausible reason assigned is that of the

expansion of the tube toward the fire by the influence of the heat.

The fallacy of this theory is at once shown by the fact that,

although heat does expand bodies, it does not increase their weight;

therefore, notwithstanding that one side of the tube may be

expanded, its equilibrium will remain unimpaired.]

It is not surprising that marvels and paradoxes should be related of

glass, considering the almost incredible properties it really possesses.

Seeing that it emits musical sounds when water is placed in it, and it

is gently rubbed on the edges; that these sounds can be regulated

according to the quantity of water, and that the water itself leaps,

frisks, and dances, as if it were inspired by the music; seeing its

extraordinary power of condensing vapor, which may be tested by simply

breathing upon it; and knowing that, slight and frail as it is, it

expands less under the influence of heat than metallic substances, while

its expansions are always equable and proportioned to the heat, a

quality not found in any other substance, we can not be much astonished

at any wonders which are superstitiously or ignorantly attributed to it,

or expected to be elicited from it. One of the most remarkable is the

feat ascribed to Archimedes, who is said to have set fire to the Roman

fleet at the siege of Syracuse by the help of burning-glasses. The fact

is attested by most respectable authorities,[9] but it is only right to

add, that it is treated as a pure fable by Kepler and Descartes, than

whom no men were more competent to judge of the possibility of such an

achievement. Tzetzez relates the matter very circumstantially; he says

that Archimedes set fire to Marcellus's navy by means of a burning glass

composed of small square mirrors, moving every way upon hinges; which,

when placed in the sun's rays, directed them upon the Roman fleet, so as

to reduce it to ashes at the distance of a bow-shot. Kircher made an

experiment founded upon this minute description, by which he satisfied

himself of the practicability of at least obtaining an extraordinary

condensed power of this kind. Having collected the sun's rays into a

focus, by a number of plain mirrors, he went on increasing the number of

mirrors until at last he produced an intense degree of solar heat; but

it does not appear whether he was able to employ it effectively as a

destructive agent at a long reach. Buffon gave a more satisfactory

demonstration to the world of the capability of these little mirrors to

do mischief on a small scale. By the aid of his famous burning-glass,

which consisted of one hundred and sixty-eight little plain mirrors, he

produced so great a heat as to set wood on fire at a distance of two

hundred and nine feet, and to melt lead at a distance of one hundred and

twenty, and silver at fifty; but there is a wide disparity between the

longest of these distances and the length of a bowshot, so that the

Archimedean feat still remains a matter of speculation.

[Footnote 9: Diodorus Siculus, Tzetzez, Galen, Lucian, Anthemius,

and others.]

WHY IS NOT GLASS MALLEABLE?

In the region of glass, we have a puzzle as confounding as the

philosopher's stone (which, oddly enough, is the name given to that

color in glass which is known as Venetian brown sprinkled with gold

spangles), the _elixir vitæ_, or the squaring of the circle, and which

has occasioned quite as much waste of hopeless ingenuity. Aristotle, one

of the wisest of men, is said, we know not on what authority, to have

originated this vitreous perplexity by asking the question. "Why is not

glass malleable?" The answer to the question would seem to be easy

enough, since the quality of malleability is so opposed to the quality

of vitrification, that, in the present state of our knowledge (to say

nothing about the state of knowledge in the time of Aristotle) their

co-existence would appear to be impossible. But, looking at the progress

of science in these latter days, it would be presumptuous to assume that

any thing is impossible. Until, however, some new law of nature, or some

hitherto unknown quality shall have been discovered, by which antagonist

forces can be exhibited in combination, the solution of this problem may

be regarded as at least in the last degree improbable.

Yet, in spite of its apparent irreconcilability with all known laws,

individuals have been known to devote themselves assiduously to its

attainment, and on more than one occasion to declare that they had

actually succeeded, although the world has never been made the wiser by

the disclosure of the secret. A man who is possessed with one idea, and

who works at it incessantly, generally ends by believing against the

evidence of facts. It is in the nature of a strong faith to endure

discouragement and defeat with an air of martyrdom, as if every fresh

failure was a sort of suffering for truth's sake. And the faith in the

malleability of glass has had its martyrology as well as faith in graver

things. So far back as the time of Tiberius, a certain artificer, who is

represented to have been an architect by profession, believing that he

had succeeded in making vessels of glass as strong and ductile as gold

or silver, presented himself with his discovery before the Emperor,

naturally expecting to be rewarded for his skill. He carried a handsome

vase with him, which was so much admired by Tiberius that, in a fit of

enthusiasm, he dashed it upon the ground with great force to prove its

solidity, and finding, upon taking it up again, that it had been

indented by the blow, he immediately repaired it with a hammer. The

Emperor, much struck with so curious an exhibition, inquired whether any

body else was acquainted with the discovery, and being assured that the

man had strictly preserved his secret, the tyrant instantly ordered him

to be beheaded, from an apprehension that if this new production should

go forth to the world it would lower the value of the precious

metals.[10] The secret, consequently, perished. A chance, however, arose

for its recovery during the reign of Louis XIII., a period that might be

considered more favorable to such undertakings; but unfortunately with

no better result. The inventor on this occasion submitted a bust formed

of malleable glass to Cardinal Richelieu, who, instead of rewarding him

for his ingenuity, sentenced him to perpetual imprisonment, on the plea

that the invention interfered with the vested interests of the French

glass manufacturers.[11] We should have more reliance on these anecdotes

of the martyrs of glass, if they had bequeathed to mankind some clew to

the secret that is supposed to have gone to the grave with them. To die

for a truth, and at the same time to conceal it, is not the usual course

of heroic enthusiasts.

[Footnote 10: This story is attested, with slight variations, by

several writers, Petronius, Dion Cassius, Pliny, and Isidorus. Pliny

says that the populace, imagining that their interests would be

injured by the discovery, destroyed the workhouse, tools, and

dwelling of the artificer.]

[Footnote 11: Blancourt.]

Many attempts have been made to produce a material resembling glass that

should possess the quality of malleability, and respectable evidence is

not wanting of authorities who believed in its possibility, and who are

said to have gone very near to its accomplishment. An Arabian writer[12]

tells us that malleable glass was known to the Egyptians; but we must

come closer to our own times for more explicit and satisfactory

testimony. Descartes thought it was possible to impart malleability to

glass, and Boyle is reported to have held the same opinion. But these

are only speculative notions, of no further value than to justify the

prosecution of experiments. Borrichius, a Danish physician of the

seventeenth century, details an experiment by which he obtained a

malleable salt, which led him to conclude that as glass is for the most

part only a mixture of salt and sand, he saw no reason why it should not

be rendered pliant. The defect of his logic is obvious; but, setting

that aside, the fallacy is practically demonstrated by his inability to

get beyond the salt. Borrichius also thought that the Roman who made the

vase for Tiberius, may have successfully used antimony as his principal

ingredient. Such suppositions, however, are idle in an experimental

science which furnishes you at once with the means of putting their

truth or falsehood to the test. There is a substance known to modern

chemistry, _luna cornea_, a solution of silver, which resembles horn or

glass, is transparent, easily put into fusion, and is capable of bearing

the hammer. Kunkel thought it was possible to produce a composition with

a glassy exterior that should possess the ductile quality; but neither

of these help us toward an answer to Aristotle's question. Upon a review

of the whole problem, and of every thing that has been said and done in

the way of experiment and conjecture, we are afraid we must leave it

where we found it. The malleability of glass is still a secret.

[Footnote 12: Ibn Abd Alhakim.]

DESCRIPTION OF A GLASS-HOUSE.

Dismissing history and theory, we will now step into the glass-house

itself, where the practical work of converting sand into goblets, vases,

mirrors, and window-panes is going forward with a celerity and accuracy

of hand and head that can not fail to excite wonder and admiration. As

the whole agency employed is that of heat, the interior of the

manufactory consists of furnaces specially constructed for the

progressive processes to which the material is subjected before it is

sent out perfected for use. Look round this extensive area, where you

see numbers of men in their shirt-sleeves, with aprons before them, and

various implements in their hands, which they exercise with

extraordinary rapidity, and you will soon understand how the glittering

wonders of glass are produced. Of these furnaces there are three kinds,

the first called the calcar, the second the working furnace, and the

third the annealing oven, or _lier_.

The calcar, built in the form of an oven, is used for the calcination of

the materials, preliminary to their fusion and vitrification. This

process is of the utmost importance: it expels all moisture and carbonic

acid gas, the presence of which would hazard the destruction of the

glass-pots in the subsequent stages of the manufacture, while it effects

a chemical union between the salt, sand, and metallic oxides, which is

essential to prevent the alkali from fusing and volatilizing, and to

insure the vitrification of the sand in the heat of the working furnace,

to which the whole of the materials are to be afterwards submitted.

The working furnace, which is round, and generally built in the

proportion of three yards in diameter to two in height, is divided into

three parts, each of which is vaulted. The lower part, made in the form

of a crown, contains the fire, which is never put out. Ranged round the

circumference inside are the glass-pots or crucibles, in which the

_frit_, or calcined _material_, is placed to be melted; and from several

holes in the arch of the crown below issues a constant flame which,

enveloping the crucibles, accomplishes the process of melting. Round the

exterior of the furnace, you perceive a series of holes or mouths; these

are called _boccas_, from the Italian, and it is through them the _frit_

is served into the crucibles and taken out when melted. The volume of

heat is here so intense, that the _boccas_ are provided with movable

collars or covers, generally composed of lute and brick, to screen the

eyes of the workmen who stand outside in recesses formed for the purpose

in the projections of the masonry. The severest part of the work arises

when any of the pots, or crucibles, happen to become cracked or worn

out, in which case the _bocca_ must be entirely uncovered, the defective

pot taken out with iron hooks and forks, and a new one substituted in

its place through the flames by the hands of the workman. In order to

enable him thus literally to work in the fire, he is protected by a

garment made of skins in the shape of a pantaloon, and heavily saturated

with water. This strange garment completely covers him from head to

foot, all except his eyes, which are defended by glasses.

The material being now melted is fashioned into the desired forms by the

hands of the workmen while it is yet hot, and then placed to cool

gradually in the third furnace, or annealing oven, called the _lier_.

This oven is a long, low chamber, heated at one end, and furnished with

movable iron trays or pans, called _fraiches_ (from the French), upon

which the various articles are set down, and finally removed, when they

are sufficiently cold, through an opening which communicates with the

_sarosel_, or room where the finished articles are kept.

The intensity of the fire requires that the furnaces and crucibles,

should be constructed of materials the least fusible in their nature,

and the best calculated to resist the violent and incessant action of

heat; or the manufacturer will incur the most serious losses and delays

from casualties which, even after the most careful and costly outlay,

can not be always averted. The crucibles especially demand attention in

this respect, in consequence of the solvent property of some of the

materials which are melted in them. These crucibles are deep pots,

varying in size according to the extent or objects of the manufacture;

and some notion may be formed of the importance attached to them from

the fact, that they are not unfrequently made large enough to contain

individually not less than a ton weight of glass. Great skill and care

are requisite in their structure, so as to adapt them to the temperature

in which their qualities are to be tested; and even with the utmost

attention that can be bestowed upon them, they are often found to break

soon after they are exposed to the furnace, by which heavy losses are

entailed upon the manufacturer. Nor is this the only point which must be

considered. The size of the crucible should bear a proportionate

relation to that of the furnace, or one of two consequences, equally to

be avoided, will ensue; either that there will be a waste of fuel, if

the crucibles are too small, or an inadequate heat, if they are too

large.[13]

[Footnote 13: For details see Loysel "Sur l'Art de la Verrerie;" and

Lard. Cyclo.]

We have now before us the three principal processes--the calcination, by

which the materials are prepared in the first instance--the melting

down of these materials into glass in the great working furnace, and the

annealing of the finished article after it has been fashioned by the

workmen. These processes are broad and simple; but that part of the

manufacture which is, probably, most calculated to surprise the

uninitiated, is the manner in which the red-hot mass of glass, as it is

taken out of the crucible, is instantly, so to speak, shaped into form

by the dextrous hands and practiced eyes of those men whom you see

standing about at tables and stools, twisting long iron rods called

_pontils_, blowing through pipes, and performing mysterious evolutions

with scissors, pronged sticks, compasses, and other instruments, with a

rapidity that baffles the most vigilant observer. From the infinite

diversity of objects into which glass is thus moulded, it must be

obvious that the operations of these artificers embrace a variety of

curious details which it is impossible to enter upon here; but a glance

at some of them will enable the reader to form a general notion of the

curious manipulations upon which they are so actively employed.

The initial movement of the glass-blower is to dip a hollow iron rod or

tube, about five feet long, through the _bocca_, into one of the

crucibles containing the melted glass. Having collected at the end of

the tube a sufficient quantity of material for the article he is about

to fashion--a drinking-glass, finger-glass, jug, or whatever it may be

(which requires, perhaps, two or three dips according to the quantity he

wants), he withdraws the tube, and holds it perpendicularly for a few

seconds with the heated mass downward, till the fluid drops and

lengthens by its own momentum beyond the end of the tube. He then

quickly raises it, and rolls it on a smooth horizontal plate till it

acquires a cylindrical form. When he has got it into this shape, he

applies his mouth to the opposite end of the tube, and blows into the

heated mass which swiftly becomes distended into a sphere. But as the

globe thus obtained is not rendered sufficiently thin for his purpose by

a single blowing, he reheats it by holding it within the furnace, and

then blows again, repeating the operation till he brings it to the

desiderated size and consistency. Thus prepared, he swings it in the air

like a pendulum, or twirls it round and round rapidly, according to the

elongated or circular form he requires, the molten particles obeying the

tendency of the force and motion employed.

Having advanced to this stage, and the mass being ready for fashioning,

a new instrument is brought to bear upon it. This is a small, solid,

round iron rod, called the pontil, upon one end of which a lesser

portion of material has been collected by another workman, and this

portion being applied to the extremity of the globe already formed

rapidly adheres to it. The whole is now detached from the tube, or

blowpipe, by simply damping the point of contact, which causes the

glass to crack, so that a stroke upon the tube separates it safely,

leaving a small hole in the globe where the tube had originally entered.

By this time the temperature of the mass has cooled down, and it becomes

necessary to reheat it, which is done as before. The artificer next

seats himself on a stool with elevated arms, upon which he rests the

pontil, which he grasps and twirls with his left hand, having thus a

command over the red-hot glass with his right hand, in which he holds a

small iron instrument called a procello, consisting of two blades with

an elastic bow, similar to a sugar-tongs. With this little instrument

the whole work of fashioning is performed, and as it must be completed

while the glass is yet ductile (having always, however, the power of

reheating it when necessary), the process is effected with wondrous

celerity. By the aid of the procello he enlarges or contracts the mass,

which he adapts to its motions with his left hand, and where any

shapeless excrescences appear he instantly cuts them off with a pair of

scissors as easily as if they were so much lace or cotton. And thus,

almost in less time than it has occupied us in the description, articles

of the most exquisite form and delicacy are created by the art-magic of

these Vulcans of the glass-furnace.

That which chiefly excites astonishment and admiration in the spectator

is the ease and security with which a material so fragile is cut,

joined, twirled, pressed out and contracted, by the hands of the

workmen. Long practice alone can insure the requisite certainty and

quickness of manipulation, and the eye must be highly educated to its

work before it can achieve off-hand, and, by a sort of accomplished

instinct, the beautiful shapes which are thus rapidly produced.

The moment the article is finished it is detached from the pontil and

dropped into a bed of ashes, from whence it is removed while it is yet

hot, by a pronged stick or wooden shovel, to the tray to be deposited in

the annealing oven where it is gradually cooled.

HOW CROWN, PLATE, AND WATCH GLASSES ARE MADE.

In making crown-glass, which is used for windows, a slight alteration in

the process is observed. When the globe is prepared as before at the end

of the tube, it is flattened at its extremity by pressure against a

plain surface; the new material at the end of the pontil is then

attached to the flattened side, and the whole mass detached from the

tube, leaving a circular hole at the point of separation. The mass is

now twirled round and round, at first slowly, then more quickly, till

its diameter, obeying the centrifugal force, becomes wider and wider,

the hole expanding in proportion. At last, as the motion increases in

velocity, the double portion suddenly bursts open, the whole forming a

plain disc of uniform density throughout, except at the spot in the

centre where the pontil is attached to it, and where there is

accumulated that small lump which is vulgarly called a _bull's eye_. The

most surprising incident in this process is the bursting open of the

flattened globe, a circumstance which would shiver the entire mass if it

were not kept up at a certain heat.

The mode of casting plate-glass presents a remarkable illustration of

the skillful adaptation of means to ends. When the glass is melted in

the crucible, a portion of it is transferred to a smaller crucible,

called a cuvette, which contains the exact quantity requisite for the

size of the plate about to be formed. The cuvette is then raised by

means of a crane, and lifted over the casting table. These tables have

smooth metallic surfaces which are carefully ground and polished, and

wiped perfectly clean, and heated before they are used. Formerly they

were made of copper, but the British Plate Glass Company have found that

iron slabs answer the purpose better. The table used by them is fifteen

feet long, nine feet wide, and six inches thick, and weighs fourteen

tons. For the convenience of moving it to the annealing ovens it is

placed upon castors. The cuvette being swung over the casting table, is

gradually turned over, and a flood of molten glass is poured out upon

the surface, and prevented from running off by ribs of metal. As soon as

it is entirely discharged, a large hollow copper cylinder is rolled over

the fluid, spreading it into a sheet of equal breadth and thickness.

When the glass is sufficiently cool to bear removal it is slipped into

the annealing oven, where it is placed in a horizontal position,[14]

great care having been taken to exclude the external air, it being

indispensable to the beauty of these plates that the process of cooling

should be regular and gradual.

[Footnote 14: In this respect plate-glass is treated differently

from crown and broad glass, which is always placed on its edge in

the annealing furnace.]

No less than twenty workmen are engaged in these operations, and during

the whole time the apartment is kept perfectly still, lest a motion of

any kind should set the air in motion, the slightest disturbance of the

surface of the plate being calculated to impair its value. "The

spectacle of such a vast body of melted glass," observes Mr. Parks,

"poured at once from an immense crucible, on a metallic table of great

magnitude, is truly grand; and the variety of colors which the plate

exhibits immediately after the roller has passed over it, renders this

an operation more splendid and interesting that can possibly be

described."[15]

[Footnote 15: Lard. Cyclo.]

To attempt the briefest outline of the vast number of objects that are

composed of glass, and the variety of processes to which the material is

subjected in their production, would carry us far beyond the limits

within which we are unavoidably confined. Even the most trifling

articles of daily use, apparently very simple in their formation,

involve many elaborate details. Take a watch, for example. The history

from the furnace to the workshop, of those parts of a watch which are

composed of glass, is full of curious particulars. The watch-glass maker

exercises a function distinct from any one of those we have hitherto

been considering. He receives from the blower an accurate hollow globe

of glass, measuring eight inches in diameter, and weighing exactly

twelve ounces, which is the guarantee at once of the regularity and

thinness of the material. Upon the surface of this globe the watch-glass

maker traces with a piece of heated wire, sometimes with a tobacco pipe,

as many circles of the size he requires as the globe will yield, and

wetting the lines while they are yet warm, they instantly crack, and the

circles are at once separated. He finds the edges rough, but that is got

rid of by trimming them with a pair of scissors. The circles thus

obtained are deficient, however, in the necessary convexity; he

accordingly reheats them, and, with an instrument in each hand, beats or

moulds them into the precise form desired, much in the same manner as a

dairy-maid, with her wooden spoons beats a pat of butter into shape. The

edges are now ground off, and the watch-glass is complete. The

preparation of the dial, which is composed of opaque white glass,

ordinarily known as enamel, is a much more complicated work, involving

several minute processes and a larger expenditure of time. Upon both

sides of a thin plate of slightly convex copper, bored with holes for

the key, and the hour and minute hands, is spread with a spatula a coat

of pounded glass which has gone through several stages of solution and

purification before it is ready for application. In the management of

this operation, and the absorption of any moisture that may linger in

the enamel, considerable care and delicacy of hand are necessary. As

soon as the dial-plate is perfectly dried it is put into the furnace to

be heated gradually. These processes of firing and enameling must be

repeated altogether three times before the work is finished; after which

the lines and divisions for the hours and minutes are marked upon the

surface by a totally different process. We have here merely touched the

principal points in the formation of dial-plates; the details are too

complex for enumeration.

If we find in such articles as these the employment of numerous chemical

agencies, special tools, and peculiar manipulation, we may easily give

credit to the greater wonders that remain to be developed in more costly

processes; such as the composition of artificial gems, of the pastes

that are made to resemble diamonds and pearls, amethysts, emeralds, and

precious stones of all colors and degrees of brilliancy, beads, bulbs,

striped tubes, and a hundred other fanciful toys and ornaments; the

formation of lenses and eye-glasses; the coloring of glass for various

purposes; and the arts of staining and painting, silvering, gilding,

cutting, engraving, and etching, each of which has its own mysteries,

and has been prosecuted in different ages by different means. When it

is said that some of these arts are lost, the fact must be taken in a

restricted sense, as merely implying that certain chemical combinations,

formerly in use, are unknown to us; but the same arts are still

practiced by other means. It is a peculiarity in the manufacture of

glass that almost every establishment has its own receipts, and,

consequently, its own secrets. Even in the materials employed in the

first process of calcination--not to speak of subsequent working

processes--there is an infinite diversity of choice in the ingredients,

and the proportions in which they are combined; and such is the jealousy

of the great manufacturers respecting these matters, that they never

admit visitors into their establishments except under the seal of the

strictest confidence.[16] It is not surprising, therefore, that while

the elementary principles of the art have descended to us, particular

combinations and processes should have died with their discoverers, or

be still kept shut up in the manufactories where they are successfully

practiced.

[Footnote 16: To such an extent has this jealousy been carried, that

many adroit expedients have been employed to mislead and baffle

curiosity. Hence the infinite variety of receipts for the production

of different sorts of glass that have been launched upon the public,

a vast number of which have been got up expressly for the purpose of

deceiving and misdirecting the inquirer. To this circumstance may be

referred the remarkable contradictions and inconsistencies that may

be detected in all treatises on the subject.]

AN EXCELLENT MATCH; OR, THE BLESSINGS OF BAD LUCK.

"It is quite impossible," said I, as I walked round the garden with my

old friend, the vicar; "it is quite impossible to leave home in May; the

bees will be swarming, and it is the very week of the school feast."

"We will have the school feast a week earlier," answered he; "and, as to

the bees, I will look after them myself, and you will have the pleasure

of seeing a new colony or two safely housed, and hard at work, when you

come back again."

I was silenced on these points, and began to reflect what other excuse I

could find to put off a disagreeable journey. But there was something in

my friend's manner that warned me it would be vain to offer any further

objection. He looked upon my attendance at my niece's wedding as a

matter of duty, and he would have removed every obstacle that my

ingenuity could oppose to it, with as much coolness as he displayed at

that moment, in sweeping a spider's web from the China rose-tree on my

verandah.

I yielded, but not without a sigh. "Dear Amy," I said, "I love her very

much, and would do much to serve her, but my presence at her fine

wedding will be no advantage to her, and a great annoyance to me,

therefore it would be better to put off my visit until the fuss and

ceremony is fairly over."

My reverend friend shook his head. "We are called on to rejoice with

those who do rejoice," said he; "as well as to weep with those who weep,

although we may not always be in a mood to obey the summons."

This was very like a passage from one of the good man's sermons, but I

knew the sentiment it contained came from his heart, and what was more,

I knew it would have influenced his own actions.

"Amy was indeed a charming child," continued he, "when you brought her

to be cured of the hooping-cough among our Cumberland mountains. I only

hope the little world of boarding-schools, and the great one of fashion,

may not have spoilt her by this time."

I hoped so, too, but I was by no means sanguine on the subject. My

friend was right; Amy was a charming child when we had her among us.

With far more character and greater talent than her elder sisters, she

had promised to equal them in grace and beauty; and her warm heart and

sunny temper captivated every body who knew her. It would be a pity to

spoil such a nature as hers, and yet I could not conceal from myself,

that there were points in her character which rendered her peculiarly

liable to be spoilt by the favors and flatteries of the world.

"Then you will go?" were the last words the vicar said to me, as we

shook hands at parting.

I answered in the affirmative, and a fortnight after, encumbered with

rather more in the way of trunks and bandboxes than I usually travel

with, I set off.

Mrs. R. met me this time with a load of care upon her brow. She was

often anxious-looking, for even her world, light and trifling as it was,

had its burdens, and at this time she seemed overwhelmed by them. Who

could wonder at it? Next to the great change which removes a beloved

child from the embraces of her parents to an unseen world, there is

nothing in solemnity equal to that tie which transfers the guardianship

of her happiness to a stranger. When a daughter marries, her parents are

deprived of the first place in her love and reverence, and bereaved for

ever of the daily companionship, which, in the decline of life, becomes

so precious a solace and so dear a joy. What a tremendous responsibility

there is in the choice of the person who is to be intrusted with so

costly a deposit, and in whose favor are relinquished such valued

rights? How few are the men whose characters present a combination of

qualities, which under such circumstances, could satisfy the fears and

misgivings of a parent's love!

Something of all this I could not help expressing. Mrs. R. replied that

they had perfect confidence in Mr. Lennox; it was in every respect a

most unexceptionable match; there was a splendid income to begin with,

and every prospect of an immense fortune in a few years, and an

excellent position in society; as to moral character, and that sort of

thing, of course, all was perfectly satisfactory. "What you say about

parting with one's children," continued she, and here she applied her

exquisite pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, "is very true--it _is_ very

hard to part with Amy; but," she philosophically added, "it must be so,

so it is no use grieving about it."

And she did not grieve about it any more, but became very fluent upon

other grievances, which this affair had brought upon her; and now I

began to perceive that the true causes of anxiety were something widely

different from those which I had anticipated.

"I am worried to death," said my poor sister-in-law; "every thing rests

with me. I have all the arrangements to make, and no one to consult

with, for Mr. R. takes no interest in these matters, and as to Amy, she

is a perfect child. Louisa, too, has become so dull and indifferent, she

is of no use at all. I miss Fanny beyond every thing; her wedding was

comparatively no trouble, for she helped me to think; but now I am

positively miserable lest all should not go off as it ought to do."

Here was a species of affliction, for which I had certainly no

ready-made speech of condolence, and I should have been somewhat

embarrassed how to reply, if the entrance of the girls had not rendered

reply unnecessary. It was some years since I had seen Amy, who had

always been my darling; and when I could disengage myself from her warm

embrace, I looked at her earnestly, to notice all the changes which

those years had made in her. Her beauty was something marvelous, and I

was so much taken up with her, that I did not at first pay much

attention to her sister, but when I did so, I felt both shocked and

surprised. The few summers that had passed since I saw her a blooming

girl, did not warrant the change which had taken place in her

appearance. Her complexion had lost its color; her features looked thin

and pinched; there was a querulous expression, which I had never noticed

before, about the mouth; and the skin round the eyes had that livid hue,

which gives to the countenance so peculiar an appearance of

unhealthiness.

"My dear Louisa," I exclaimed, "you are surely not well!"

She answered she was tolerably well, and, as she did not appear to like

to be questioned, I made no farther inquiries, but gave my attention to

the detail of the various arrangements that had been entered into for

the approaching ceremony. I was to see the wedding clothes, of course,

and I exposed my ignorance, or at least forgetfulness, of modern

fashion, by asking for the bonnet.

"Bonnet! aunt," cried Amy; "wreath I suppose you mean--here it is," and

she placed it on her beautiful brow. Louisa threw the costly vail over

her head, and there was a picture which a Reynolds or a Lawrence might

have been proud to copy. I had not long to admire it. Amy laughed and

blushed, and threw the things away again. What strange fashions there

are with respect to wedding clothes, thought I; my mother was married

in a riding-habit and hat, just as if she had been going fox-hunting;

nowadays, nothing but a ball dress will do for the ceremony; albeit it

be performed on the stone floor of a country church, at Christmas time.

Must a wedding dress, indeed, be one as different as possible to the

wearer's daily habits and every-day appearance--a kind of climax to all

the little duplicities, voluntary and involuntary, which, it is said,

are inseparable from courtship? Well, well, be it so! Thy outward

attractions, Amy, will not have lost much, when the blonds and satins

are put into the bandbox. God grant that it may be the same with the

other and dearer graces of the heart and mind!

The few days which intervened between my arrival and the wedding-day

were very busy ones; so busy that I could see very little of the bride

elect, and still less of the bridegroom. What I did see of the latter,

however, impressed me very favorably. He seemed worthy of all Amy might

become, all he thought she was, for he was passionately in love, as it

is not difficult to imagine a young man would be with a being so

beautiful and attractive. What her feelings toward him were, I could not

exactly decide. Everybody said she loved him, and so she thought

herself; but I could not bring myself to believe that her heart was yet

awakened to a profound and passionate sentiment of affection. She

admired her future husband, and was flattered by being the choice of one

who was universally allowed to be a superior man; she liked his company,

and felt grateful to him for his love. If this were not love, it was at

least a good foundation for it, and, perhaps, the wonder was that it had

not yet ripened into a warmer sentiment. But Amy was a child--a child

whose whole life had been surrounded by trifles; and there was a depth

and seriousness in Edward Lennox's character to which her own was yet

but imperfectly attuned. Would the future bring with it companionship

and love, or estrangement and indifference? A tremendous question this

appeared to me, but one which apparently entered into the head of no one

in all that busy house, except into that of the elderly spinster aunt.

The wedding took place. There is no occasion to describe it; most

people, at any rate the young ones, know how such things are managed

nowadays. The bride and bridegroom departed, and the bridesmaids

dispersed until the return of the wedded pair should re-assemble them

for the important business of receiving company. As this return was not

likely to be speedy, I too said farewell, for I had engaged to visit

other friends, before returning to my hermitage--as Mrs. R. persisted in

denominating my cottage--although it was situated close to a populous

village, and not far from a flourishing market-town.

I went away very anxious about Louisa. Mrs. R. was sensible of the

change in her daughter's appearance and professed herself unable to

understand it. No girls, as she observed, had more indulgences or

greater means of amusement than hers had, but nothing pleased or amused

Louisa now. I inquired if any thing had occurred to render her unhappy.

Her mother said there had been a slight love affair, but that reasons

sufficient to satisfy Louisa herself had set it on one side, and that

she did not think the attachment still existed. My future observations

inclined me to agree with Mrs. R. in this latter particular, but it

seemed to me as if this fancy, slight as it might have been, had

awakened the poor girl to the consciousness that she had a heart and a

soul; that she possessed capacities which called for nobler objects and

a wider sphere of action, than were furnished in the region of frivolity

wherein she dwelt. Not that she could have put her feelings into

words--they existed in her mind too vaguely for that; her longings were

indefinable to herself, but they were real, and I was convinced they

were sapping the very foundations of her existence. I would fain have

taken her home with me. I would have brought her into contact with the

genuine wants and woes of humanity, represented, it might be, in humble

types, but varnished over by none of the falsehood and glitter of

fashionable society. I would have done so, because I believed that here

she might find something to interest and rouse her to action. This once

accomplished, her energies would no longer be left to prey upon

themselves, and the weariness of an aimless existence would be at an

end. But had my abode been, indeed, the cell of an anchorite, and buried

in the depth of the wilderness, Mrs. R. could not have shrunk with more

horror from the idea of trusting her daughter to my guardianship, than

she did when I made the proposal. In vain I represented how happy Amy

had always been while under my care, and how infallible had been the

effect of Cumberland air upon all her juvenile ailments. In as plain

terms as were consistent with her accustomed good breeding, Mrs. R.

intimated, that though it might do very well for a child, Louisa would

be moped to death at my cottage. She needed amusement, interest, that

was certain; she must go to Brighton, to Hastings, to Baden, if

possible--any where, to give her a complete change of scene and ideas. I

gave the matter up, but I believed that in my solitude she would have

found a greater change of scene and ideas than she would be likely to

meet with in any fashionable watering-place.

Months rolled on. The bride and bridegroom returned, but not before I

was again settled at home. I had letters from Amy, cheerful, happy

letters they were. How could they be otherwise? The whole joys of the

world were before her, and with a lively fancy, and the keen sense of

enjoyment of eighteen, how could she be insensible to their attractions!

I had letters from Mrs. R. too, full of Amy's praises. They told me how

gracefully she had played her new part--how, whether she appeared abroad

or received guests at home, she was the delight of every eye, the

praise of every tongue. This was not all I would have known, but I could

learn no more, and it was two years before Amy and I met again. She was

then the mother of a fine little boy, and as blooming and beautiful as

ever. She seemed happy too, and preserved that uninterrupted flow of

gayety which had always been so charming. Not so her husband. The ease

and cheerfulness, which had once characterized his conversation, had

vanished; he was silent and reserved; it seemed to me that some hidden

sorrow, for which he had no confidant, was preying on his mind. When I

hinted to Amy the change in her husband's manner, she tossed her pretty

head, and poutingly remarked, that she supposed men were always more

agreeable in the days of courtship than after marriage. But, in spite of

her childish petulance, a tear stole to her eye, which I was not sorry

to see there. True it was that Edward Lennox was completely

disenchanted. He had found out that the thoughtless, inexperienced girl,

who had never been led to reflect on any thing more serious than the

amusement of the present hour, was not the perfect woman, the ideal of

his fancy, and the echo of his every thought and feeling. He was a man

of an almost jealously sensitive turn of mind, and when he found he was

not comprehended, he shrank into himself, and took refuge in an

impenetrable reserve. Amy, poor child, had no idea of all that was

passing in her husband's mind. She was conscious of no change in

herself, and she little thought how different had been his conception of

her character to its reality. She believed that what her mamma had told

her about the caprice of men, explained the change which she could not

but be sensible had taken place in his sentiments toward her; and though

this change sometimes made her sad, she did not love deeply enough to be

quite heart-broken. But Amy was still loved. If Mr. Lennox did not love

her as he could have loved the true wife of his bosom, he cherished her

as a lovely child, whose happiness was intrusted to his keeping, and it

seemed to me as if fears for her, as well as sorrow of his own, harassed

and perplexed him.

Mrs. R. was right. Nothing could be more faultless than the easy grace

with which Amy presided at her husband's table, or mixed in the gay

circles of fashionable amusement. With perfect truth, I could

congratulate her mother on this point, but I felt a kind of wonder, well

as I knew Mrs. R., to observe what unmingled satisfaction it afforded

her. She evidently considered that nothing was wanting to the complete

_success_ of this marriage. Poor woman! she soon changed her opinion

most woefully!

Louisa was still poorly; she had rallied for a while, but now seemed to

droop more than ever. I often went to spend the evening with her when

Mrs. R. and Amy were from home, and very dear had these hours become to

me. The prospect of eternity had opened to that young spirit, and it

had caused a rapid development of the noblest powers of the soul. With

the waking of the spiritual nature, the intellect had been aroused also,

and, animated by these powers, she was a different being. No wonder when

her mother caught her cheerful smile, or her beaming eye, that she

believed her convalescent, and I, for one, could not destroy the

illusion.

One evening when I had left Amy in the hands of her maid, preparing to

go out to dine, I went into the library to look for a book which I had

promised to read to Louisa that evening, and felt a little disconcerted

to find Mr. Lennox seated by the fire, with his arms folded, and

apparently so completely engrossed by his reflections as scarcely to

notice my entrance. As I had believed him to be preparing to accompany

Amy, I had by no means expected to find him here, and I explained my

errand somewhat apologetically. He started from his reverie, and rising,

completed my astonishment by requesting five minutes' conversation.

"Are you not going out?" I asked.

"Out? Oh, I had forgotten. No, not tonight."

There was something in his whole manner that alarmed me. "What is the

matter?" said I, and I believe I changed color, and said something about

my brother.

"Don't be alarmed," said he, "no one is in trouble or danger but my

unfortunate self, and, through me, poor Amy. To be plain with you, Miss

R., for I believe I may speak out to you, without apprehending a fit of

fainting or hysterics, I am a ruined man. Mind," he added, quickly, and

a look of manly dignity replaced the troubled expression of his brow and

eye, "I use the word in its ordinary, conventional signification. You

and I would call no man ruined, in the literal sense of the word, who

retained his honor unstained, and the vigor of his head and the strength

of his hand unimpaired."

I was so completely taken by surprise, that I had no power to reply, and

he went on; "If it were only for myself, I could bear it, I believe, as

well as most people, but the thought of that poor girl unmans me.

Amusement, society, luxury, seem to make up her very life, and to tell

her she must be deprived of these things, is dreadful. Oh!" he

continued, bitterly, "if I could be to Amy all that she once was to me,

how light would all trials be while our love remained; but that _was_ an

idle dream!"

"It may be no dream yet," answered I. "Amy has a heart, though her life,

hitherto, has offered little to prove its depth. Who knows but that,

when she is called on for sympathy and action, she may prove all we

could wish?"

"Do not flatter me with false hopes," he said; "I have given up such

ideas as those forever."

I had some hope that matters were not so bad as in the first moment I

had been given to understand they were, and I begged for further

information. I found, however, the statement Mr. Lennox had made was

substantially true; he had, indeed, lost a handsome property, and all

that remained was an opportunity of realizing a comfortable independence

by personal exertion. But the sacrifice of the luxuries, and the worldly

consideration which the possession of wealth bestows, was inevitable; a

sacrifice which frequently causes distress very disproportionate to the

worth of the objects abandoned.

When he had in a few words put me in possession of the actual state of

his affairs, he said: "Now comes the question of what is best to be done

with Amy. It is possible I may find it advisable to go out to India,

but, whether I go or stay, I think it would be better for her to

accompany her mother and Louisa to Baden. She will feel the change less

at first, I have consulted with her father, and he agrees with me in

this opinion."

"Very likely," said I, dryly; "and if it is your intention that Amy

should remain all her life a spoiled child of fortune, you could not

take better means to attain your end. If she is ever to prove what a

rational being should be, it must be by the discipline of life; do not,

then, attempt to shield her from trials which may be of more benefit to

her than all the favors of fortune. Do not suppose you can guarantee her

from sorrow; rather call upon her to share your distresses, than leave

her to be consumed by the selfish vexations which inevitably fall to the

lot of the idle and indulged. But, if you would inspire her with

devotion, you must give her your confidence. Tell her all--let her know

your actual position--what you hope from her--what you fear. You and she

may live to bless the day which brings these trials."

"Ah! if I could think," he began; "but no--you do but judge after your

own earnest nature--you do not know Amy."

"Nor you--nor any one; she does not know herself. A girl's character is

like a rosebud, folded up from every eye; but, unlike the flower, it

expands more under clouds and tempests than under the genial sun."

There was a pause, during which he sat musing, then he said, "When I

called your attention to my unhappy affairs, it was with the intention

of requesting you to break the matter to Amy for me, but you have half

persuaded me to do it myself."

"Yourself, by all means," said I; "and let there be no concealment

between you. What am I to do about telling Louisa and Mrs. R.?"

"Oh! they must know, certainly," answered he. "Mrs. R. will be gone out

when you arrive, so you will be spared that scene. Louisa--who has now

more sense and courage than all of us put together--will break it to her

best in the morning. Here is the carriage, let me put you into it, and

then for poor Amy."

He was right. Louisa did seem to have more sense and courage now than

any of us. Perhaps, she felt herself too near another world to affix an

undue value on the things of this, for none of the agitation which I had

feared resulted from the communication, and we consulted together

calmly and rationally on the best means of making present circumstances

useful to Amy, and tolerable to her mother. But, calm as she was, I

thought it better to spare her the first burst of Mrs. R.'s distress,

and therefore I remained the night over, and returned to Amy in the

morning.

I found her alone in the nursery, with her sleeping infant in her arms.

Her eyes were bent pensively on its countenance, and there was an

expression of serious thoughtfulness on her beautiful features, which

became them as well as the gayety which was their native character.

"My dear, dear aunt," she said, as I kissed her cheek, "how much I owe

you!"

"Owe me, my love! what do you mean?"

"If it had not been for you, Edward would have told me nothing. I should

never have known half his causes of distress, and I should have believed

him cold and indifferent, when, on the contrary, he was depressed by

anxiety for me, and for our boy."

Here was a spring of action at once. The fountains of sympathy, of

gratitude, of love, were opened; might not these waters prove sufficient

to fertilize a life? I believed so, and I felt that Amy was saved.

I was not mistaken. From that day, she was a new creature. If the

sacrifices she was called upon to make at first appeared great, they

were soon rendered insignificant by the regret which she felt when she

reflected how little her previous education had prepared her to make the

best of a limited income, to prove the friend, companion, and

confidante, which her husband would now need more than ever, or to

fulfill the office of guide and instructress which her little boy would

soon call upon her to perform.

"These are not subjects for regret, Amy," said I, when she poured out

her heart to me, as she had been in the habit of doing in her childish

days; "with youth and health, they are but stimulants to exertion."

Mr. Lennox went to India, but only for a year, and, sorely against her

will, Amy was left behind. As she could not accompany him, she wished to

return home with me, for a year's schooling, as she playfully expressed

it, and, in spite of Mrs. R.'s remonstrances, I carried her off.

What a busy year we had of it! We cooked; we cut out linen (the village

schoolmistress was for a time a cipher in that department); we tried

experiments in domestic economy; we made calculations; then we read

light books and heavy books, history and philosophy, poetry and romance,

I being obliged to exercise great ingenuity to avoid an immoderate

proportion of educational works, a department of literature to which

Amy, in common with many young mothers, manifested a decided preference.

Thus occupied, the days and weeks glided swiftly away, but not without

leaving traces of their passage. Amy's intellectual and moral growth in

this twelvemonth was as rapid as was her boy's increase in physical

proportions. She felt it herself, and, with her increased self-respect,

increased her love and admiration of the husband, for whose sake she had

been stimulated to self-government and self-tuition. Small had been the

joy of her wedding-day, compared to the rapture with which, at the end

of the year, she threw herself into his arms; and slight had been his

disappointment after the honeymoon, to the delightful surprise which he

felt every day on the discovery of some new improvement, or the promise

of some fresh excellence in his lovely wife.

"Yes, yes," I thought, as I watched them walking in the garden, and

talking over their future plans, with that look of perfect confidence

which tells so much; "those hearts are united now--they will soon grow

so close that nothing earthly will avail to separate them."

I wiped my spectacles--they had often been dimmed the last day or

two--and taking little Herbert's hand, we, too, sallied forth for a

confidential _tête-à-tête_ among the daisies.

I went to see Amy when she was once more settled in a house of her own,

and, though Mrs. R. sighed and shook her head, every time _poor_ Amy's

domestic arrangements were alluded to, I thought every thing about her

charming. True, she was waited upon by a tidy housemaid, instead of a

tall footman; true, if she required a special dainty to appear upon her

table, she was obliged to soil the tips of her own delicate fingers,

instead of commanding the service of a professional artiste; true, if

she wished to go abroad, she walked, instead of using a carriage. But

what then? I could not see that she was a bit the worse for any of these

changes. Then, again, she did not now go one night to the opera, another

to the theatre, and a third to a ball; but she was so busy in the

daytime, and so happy in the evening, in the company of her husband,

that she had no desire for such amusements. She no longer presided over

great entertainments, but her small, cheerful, pretty house, furnished

with good taste and thoroughly arranged for comfort, was always

hospitably open to those true friends whom adverse fortune had not

rendered shy or indifferent.

"Poor Amy does seem happy," remarked her mother, after we had spent a

delightful evening with the young folks, and a party of old friends; "it

is very strange, but she does seem happy in spite of her misfortunes."

"Misfortunes!" exclaimed my brother; "call them blessings! Yes,

Margaret, I am a convert at last, and ready to confess that women are

improvable, and that the loss of wealth _may_ prove an inestimable

blessing!"

ANECDOTES OF WORDSWORTH.

It is not our intention to criticise the writings of the great

philosophical poet of modern times, but merely to note down a few

recollections of the benign old man before they pass away forever with

the fleeting shades of memory.

Glorious old man of the mountain, methinks we see him now: his deep-set

gray eyes steeped in contemplation; his hand buried in his

waistcoat--one leg crossed over the other--reciting in a deep, but

somewhat tremulous voice, a passage, either from Milton or himself--the

only two poets he honored by his quotations. While the vision stands

before us, let us sketch the outward and visible shape, which held a

great spirit within its fold.

Tall, and broadly formed, spare of flesh, with a slight stoop,

carelessly dressed; a fine oval face; a nose aquiline, though somewhat

heavy; bald about the brow, with a few gray hairs straggling over the

forehead; fragments of gray whiskers, and a mouth, inclined to be large,

but energetically compressed; his eyebrows turned upward when listening,

and contracted when talking, with a deep voice, broken by its very

emphasis: this is as near a picture as we can give of the "Bard of

Rydal." To a certain extent, although in a different sense, what Pope

wrote for Gay, applies to Wordsworth:

"In wit, a man--in simplicity, a child."

Taking wit as poetical intellect, this is Wordsworth's character in a

single sentence.

There was a strange mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous in his

composition. He would descant on Milton, or the principles of poetry,

with a freshness and vigor of mind worthy of the author of the

"Laodamia," and the next minute utter such astounding opinions about

steamboats, reform, and human progress and politics, as would positively

make a child of ten years old smile.

The most remarkable thing about him was his entire ignorance of modern

literature: the poetry of the last thirty years was unknown to him: no

solicitation would possibly induce him to read it--the only

contemporaries he had read or acknowledged, were Scott, Rogers, Landor,

Coleridge, and Southey.

The undue attention which he bestowed upon what other men considered

trifles, was another remarkable trait in his character: he would

correspond perseveringly with the secretary of a railway concerning an

overcharge in the carriage of a parcel, and he would walk a dozen miles,

and call at a dozen houses, to recover an old cotton umbrella, not worth

a shilling. The importance of these small matters had doubtless been

forced upon him by his early poverty, and by the manly independence and

integrity of his character.

Exact himself, he exacted exactness from others, and if, when in company

with a friend, they took a cab together, he would on no account suffer

his companion to pay more than his share: when the conveyance stopped,

he would inquire of the driver the fare, take out his own half, and give

it to the Jehu, leaving his associate to do the same. We remember on one

occasion, when we had jumped out first, and paying all the charge, and

he afterward paying the sharp Jehu his half, that he, on discovering the

imposition, wanted us to run half-way down Southampton-street to get the

overcharge back, and regaled the company at dinner that day with an

energetic denunciation of the rascality of cab-men, and the idleness and

extravagance of youth.

Among his weaknesses was a reverence for rank and wealth, perfectly

puzzling in so independent a man: if he had promised to dine with a

baronet, and an invitation came from an earl he considered it a piece of

religious duty to forfeit his prior engagement, and he would never

realize the idea that the baronet could possibly feel offended.

Another curious trait in his character was his inability to understand

the slightest approach to a joke: even when explained to him, he would

feel uneasy, and put it on a logical rack: with him every thing was

either absolutely true or absolutely false:--he made no allowance for

pleasantry, badinage, persiflage, or even playfulness: he took every

thing literally.

A young lady, an intimate friend of his, related to us a ludicrous

instance of the embarrassments this occasionally led to: being on a

visit to the Lakes for the first time, the old poet took great pride in

showing her all his pet spots and finest views. They were, consequently,

out very often, for hours and hours together.

At an evening party, the niece of Lady F---- (whose grounds join the

bard's garden), in the gayety of girlhood, said to the poet: "I saw you

this morning, Mr. Wordsworth, before any body was up, flirting with my

aunt on the lawn; and then how slily you stole away by the back

entrance." This alluded to a gate made to save the _detour_ of going

into the road. The words had scarcely passed the giddy girl's lips, ere

she became painfully aware that she had committed some tremendous crime.

Wordsworth looked distressed and solemn at his wife: his wife looked

muffled thoughts at her daughter, Miss Wordsworth, and then they all

three looked at each other as though, holding a silent conclave.

Inspiration and speech came to the poet first. Turning solemnly round to

our informant, he said, emphatically, to her: "After the remark just

made, it is of course necessary that I should reply. Miss C----, you are

young and lovely; you have been alone with me repeatedly in solitary

spots, and I now put it to you, if I have ever acted toward you in a

manner unbecoming a gentleman and a Christian?" Our friend thus appealed

to, could scarcely refrain from roaring with laughter, but she thought

it best to answer in accordance with the spirit of the question; and

having considerable tact, she managed to patch this "awful matter" up! A

damper, however, had fallen on the meeting, and it ended drearily. We

might recount other evidence of the unpoetical thraldom to which

constant association with a few old ladies of the Rydal neighborhood had

bowed down the full, vigorous intellect of Wordsworth. Yet, even in

these absurdities, he retains a simplicity and earnestness of character,

which almost supply the want of that geniality and dignity we generally

associate with the great poet.

MODERN MUMMIES.--A VISIT TO THE TOMBS OF BORDEAUX.

The city of Bordeaux possesses much that is interesting. Many historical

associations are connected with it, from the time of its occupation by

the Romans, downward. It was the birthplace of the Latin poet Ausonius,

and also of the English Edward, the famous Black Prince; Montesquieu was

born in its neighborhood, and Montaigne was once its mayor; the district

of which it is the centre gave its name to the celebrated party of the

Girondins. It enjoys very considerable trade. The country round it

produces some of the best wines in France. Its quays and many of its

streets are handsome and lively. The public buildings are not a little

remarkable. In particular, we may cite the theatre, which, though

surpassed by a few others in size, is unrivaled in modern Europe for the

combination it presents of elegance, symmetry, and perfect adaptation to

its purpose. The noble bridge, too, by which the Garonne--here nearly

the third of a mile wide--is crossed, must not be forgotten either. When

we consider the difficulties attending the work, or the success which

has crowned it, the bridge is perhaps the greatest boast of Bordeaux,

and it is not without reason that the pride of the Bordelais pronounces

it _unique_.

But the most curious thing, in its way, which Bordeaux possesses, is a

vault under St. Michael's church. That edifice itself presents but

little worth notice, except its mutilated tower, which, with its spire,

was once more than three hundred feet high, and was reduced to its

present state by a gale of wind, the upper part of it being literally

blown over. Finding so little, therefore, here to interest us, we are

about to leave the church, when our guide asks if we would like to see

the charnel-house of St. Andrew. The name strikes us; we accept the

invitation and follow him, wondering what is before us. We descend a

staircase, and exchange the pure air and bright sky of Guienne for the

close and stone-smelling atmosphere of a subterraneous passage, and the

darkness made visible by the uncertain lamp of our conductor. We arrive

at a low doorway, and bend to pass beyond it. This is the place. At

first we see nothing; our eyes, however, soon become accustomed to the

obscurity, and a strange spectacle is disclosed to them. We find we are

standing in a round and vaulted chamber of rough masonry: it resembles

an inverted bowl, the spring of its arch being but a little above the

floor; this floor is of uneven earth, and may be some twenty feet in

diameter. Round the walls, and supported in a standing position, are a

great number of human bodies. There are ninety in all. We are in a large

company of the dead; and the ground on which we tread is composed of

hundreds more, for that whitish dust is the dust of bones, and the

original bottom of the pit is many feet below.

The fact is, as the guide informs us, that a cemetery near the church

having been disturbed, the vault was made the receptacle of the remains

found in it. As for the bodies piled round its sides, some peculiar

property of the spot in which they were originally deposited had

preserved them entire; and such as they now are they will probably

remain, for some of them were living six hundred years ago. Their flesh

has been transformed into a substance resembling tinder; the skin has

much shrunk, and has become brown, so that they resemble very thin

mulattoes, but, in most other respects, they are scarcely changed. Many

of them still possess all their teeth; their hair remains--one has a

long beard. The expression their countenances wore in death is still

perfectly distinct. They are of both sexes and of all ages, and,

consequently, of every size. The histories of a few are known. In the

case of most, you can read something of their past lives in their faces

and forms, as you can in those of the living, so completely does their

physiognomy retain the impress of the passions which once moved and

agitated them. One is the body of a man who was a street porter in his

time: it is fully seven feet high. He was renowned for his strength, but

broke his back one day about a hundred years back, under a burden too

heavy for him. Another presents the features of a singularly beautiful

and graceful woman who died of cancer. On a third body, you remark the

nun's dress in which the poor inmate of the cloister was interred. Her

face still wears a look of sadness and melancholy resignation. You see

in the breast of one man the sword-thrust wound which had caused his

death. The most painful to behold is the body of a young boy, the

convulsed contraction of whose features and members presents a frightful

appearance of moral as well as of physical agony. Some medical men have

given it as their opinion that this unhappy being had been buried alive,

and that it was in his frenzied efforts to burst his cerements that his

limbs stiffened into their present horrid aspect. Speaking of medical

men, there is one of their fraternity in the collection, an old doctor,

who thus shares the tomb, it may be, of some of those whom he, perhaps,

helped to send to it.

Such are the mummies of Bordeaux. As to the cause of the phenomenon, we

can offer no explanation, though more learned men than we will,

doubtless, easily find many. We trust, however, that such may be more

reasonable than that offered by an author before us, who ascribes the

preservation of the bodies to the heat of the climate. The guide, of

course, has his own theory. A baker had his oven close to the place in

which they were at first interred, and the heat of the said oven

petrified them. But, whatever may be the proper solution of the

question, St. Michael's church at Bordeaux is not the only locality

which possesses such a curiosity, though none that we are aware of can

boast a museum so complete. Similar discoveries are said to have been

made at Toulouse, under a Franciscan, and also under a Dominican

monastery, but we must say that, when in that town, we never heard of

them. We have, however, ourselves seen the bodies preserved in a crypt

of the cathedral church of Bremen. This crypt is called the Bleikeller,

or lead-cellar, for what precise reason we do not remember. It is not

entirely underground, but enjoys a certain dubious daylight. The mummies

here are contained in rough wooden coffins, and are attired in the usual

vestments of the dead, but with their faces exposed. Each has its

history, which the respectable lady who showed them to us duly

recounted, removing each coffin-lid as she did so, and replacing it as

she passed to another. As at Bordeaux, one of them had been slain by the

sword; he was a student who fell in a duel. Another was the body of an

English lady of the name of Stanhope. If we bore that name, we should

take measures to prevent her remains being thus made a show of.

Since we are speaking of Bremen, we may mention another object, of a

somewhat similar kind, which that town possesses. Gesche Gottfried was a

female prisoner, a modern Brinvilliers. She poisoned her husband (two

husbands, unless we are mistaken), some of her children, and several of

her friends and relatives. At last, in an attempt to poison a young man,

to whom she was about to be married, she was detected, condemned, and

decapitated. This was a few years back, and they have now got her head,

preserved in spirits, in the Bremen Museum.

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHANTREY, THE SCULPTOR.

Of Chantrey the recorded life and character are eminently simple and

compact. Easy of comprehension is the tenor of both. The one was marked

by steady common-sense; the other by progressive success. Chantrey was

born at Norton, in Derbyshire, in 1782. The son of one of the few

remaining small proprietors cultivating their own land, he received a

moderate education, and was apprenticed, at his own instance, to a

working wood-carver. Every onward step was marked by native sagacity.

His natural gifts led him to the more ambitious branches of art. He

began with portrait-painting. But his craft of wood-carving, securing,

as it did, a subsistence, he did not relinquish till his position as

sculptor was assured: a wise plan, since for eight years he, according

to his own account, scarce realized £5 by modeling. He began with an

imaginative effort or so, but soon found his legitimate field. With the

£10,000 brought him by his wife in 1811, he provided himself with house,

studio, offices, marble, &c., like a prudent speculator. From the epoch

of his bust of Horne Tooke--an important patron to him--dates his

success. This brought him into notice. Commissions thenceforward flowed

in. The remainder of his life was a course of regular labor, relieved by

constant hospitality and the periodic relaxation of country visits, and

his favorite amusement, angling: interspersed with such occurrences as

the visit to Italy; a few other continental trips; the erection, at a

cost of £20,000, of a new house and offices, adapted to the growing

largeness of his dealings, and his knighthood. With characteristic

shrewdness, he early avoided committing himself to any political or

party opinions. This, his prosperity, and his common-sense rendered him

a great favorite with the English aristocracy. But too often, indeed, is

the inane world of aristocratic Dilettantism felt hovering dimly near,

as we read these pages. His large income and social disposition induced

him to keep a hospitable house. And it was part of his tact to secure,

without much reading, varied average knowledge, by frequent intercourse

with men of science and letters. During the last two years of his life,

his health rapidly and wholly gave way: the ordinary fate of his class,

the hard workers and social livers. He was in the maturity of middle

age, on his sudden death in 1841.

This course is as much that of a man of business as of an artist. Yet

Chantrey's was a truly estimable, though no exalted, or rare character.

There was a native dignity, a reality, an English genuineness about the

man, legible in his whole life, and very engaging; even amid the chaotic

adumbrations of the present biography. He was a favorable sample of a

class not uncommon among us, the prosperous men who have risen through

their own efforts, and deservedly. Generous, frank, hearty he was; above

all, eminently _direct_ in his dealings and character. One of his

distinguishing features as a man, and as one of the class just

mentioned, was his honest pride in his origin and progress in life.

Without self-complacency, a manly consciousness of his true relations to

the world pervaded him. The taint of flunkeyism in his position so

facile to catch, touched him not. That respect for the intrinsic and

essential, in character and position, his early circumstances naturally

inspired, was never forsaken for worship of the privileged caste which

favored and surrounded him.

One of those receiving freely and spending freely, he showed his sense

of the value of money by its liberal devotion to the enjoyment of

himself and all around. Ever open to tales of distress, he was the

frequent dupe of his kind impulses. To his brother artists, he was

generous in more ways than that of hospitality. Few earning a large

income have manifested a better title thereto, by their use of it. In a

profession inevitably unequal in the attainment of the prizes of

fortune, compensation for the direction of so large a share into one or

two fashionable channels, is found in so genial a worldly head of it as

Chantrey. His generosity bordered on lavishness; yet even here, his

prudence did not wholly forsake him. He left a large property;

bequeathed, after Lady Chantrey, to the Royal Academy in trust, for

purposes of doubtful judiciousness, but unquestionable good intention;

in the way of fostering the "higher branches of art."

Rough and free in his manners, he was as full of _bonhommie_ as good

feeling. His letters are instinct with the heartiness and good

fellowship of the man, and have a very agreeable freshness, and freedom

from effort, if also, from any claims in the matter of thought.

In person, Chantrey did not belie his inner self. Mr. Jones, his

biographer, indeed, gives us to understand, in one place, he resembled

Shakspeare; in another, that it was Socrates he was like; and thereon,

would have us accept a deeper similarity, of mind, to the Greek

philosopher! A notion nearer the mark, is graphically supplied by his

friend Thomson, when he begins his letter with a red wafer stuck on the

paper; eyes, nose, mouth, &c., given in black. The symbol so pleased the

sculptor, he adopted it himself as an occasional jocose signature.

Chantrey's intellect was a limited but emphatically capable, if not a

very elevated one; ready at command and certain. All he said or did was,

as far as it went, to the purpose. Altogether practical was the whole

man. The sagacity of a sublimated common sense, was his prevailing

characteristic. His mind was a perceptive one, not thoughtful or

intense; making use of all that came in his way; gleaning information;

receiving results, and applying them shrewdly. He attained proficiency

in all he undertook, whether it were wood-carving, painting,

portrait-busts, fishing, shooting. Without his range, were it but one

step, he was helpless. But then, as a rule, he took care never to

advance that step. And this was easy to him; for he was averse to all

beyond the literal, and the every-day. The singular, the eccentric, in

thought, manner of art, way of wearing one's hair, or any other

department, he detested. "Let us stick to the broad, common high-way,

and do our best there," was the instinctive feeling of the man. He was

haunted by no unattainable, ever-retreating, fair ideals. No dreaming

aspirations, or indefinite yearnings, had part in his life. His somewhat

extreme, and in Mr. Jones's hands, quite over-done devotion to

"_simplicity_," was very characteristic; in unison with that really

satisfactory in him, but pointing to his wants, his restrictedness of

feeling and unimaginativeness.

The same practical tendency and restriction of effort to things within

reach, the sagacious, unerringly successful application of himself to

the certain and definite, characterize his art: in the artist, ever the

blossom and result of the whole man. Emphatic fulfillment does his

success afford of the celebrated apophthegm of Mulready, "Know what you

have to do, and do it." He did not spend himself on false aims, nor once

lose himself in a wrong track. Having early ascertained his true field,

portraiture, he consistently adhered to it, notwithstanding all "advice

of friends;" though far from lacking ambition, or high ideas of the

so-called higher branches. In this, his history is especially

instructive, worthy of heed. He was faithful to the light that was in

him. And in better times of art he might have been a still better

artist.

SAILING IN THE AIR.--HISTORY OF AERONAUTICS.

(_Continued from page_ 173.)

In the history of aeronautics, the name of Mr. Charles Green, who first

turned his attention to the art in 1821, occupies a prominent place. To

him the art is indebted for the introduction of carbureted-hydrogen, or

coal gas, as the means of inflating balloons. Great as was the

improvement effected by the substitution of hydrogen gas for rarefied

air, there are serious disadvantages connected with the use of that gas.

In the first place, it is procured at vast expense; and, in the second

place, it is difficult to obtain it in sufficient quantity, several days

of watchful anxiety having been often expended in the vain endeavor to

generate a sufficiency of the gas, which, on account of the subtilty of

its particles, and its strong affinity for those of the surrounding

atmosphere, continued to escape almost as fast as it was produced.

Perplexed at the outset with these difficulties and inconveniencies,

which had not only rendered experiments comparatively rare, but even

threatened the art with premature extinction, Mr. Green conceived that

if coal gas, which is much cheaper and can be generated with much

greater facility than hydrogen, could be employed for the purpose of

inflation, an important object would be gained. To put the truth of his

theory to the test, he prepared a balloon, which he inflated with coal

gas, and made a successful ascent from the Green Park, on the day of the

coronation of George IV. He has subsequently made some hundreds of

ascensions from the metropolis, and various other parts of the empire,

with balloons so inflated; and, from the year 1821, coal gas has been

very generally used in experiments of this nature. Besides its economy

and easy production, it has the advantage of being more easily retained

than hydrogen, which, for the reasons already given, is much more

readily dissipated.

The ingenuity of Mr. Green has been exerted with the view of discovering

other improvements in the art of aerial navigation. One great obstacle

to the successful practice in the art is, the difficulty of maintaining

the power of the balloon for any length of time undiminished in its

progress through the air. It is ascertained by the uniform experience of

aeronauts, that, between the earth and two miles above the level of the

sea, a variety of currents exist, some blowing in one direction and some

in another; and when the aeronaut has risen to the elevation where he

meets with a current that will waft him in the desired direction, it is

of importance for him to be able to preserve that elevation. But the

balloon, in consequence of the increase or diminution of weight to which

it is liable from a variety of causes, will not keep at that altitude.

The great changes which are constantly taking place in the weight of the

atmosphere, the deposition of humidity on the surface of the balloon,

and its subsequent evaporation by the rise of temperature, the alternate

heating and cooling of the gaseous contents of the balloon, according as

it may be exposed to the action of the solar rays or screened from them

by the interposition of clouds, not to advert to other agencies, less

known though not less powerful, all combine in making the machine at one

time to ascend and at another to descend. Thus it may be removed out of

a favorable into an adverse current. To overcome this difficulty, and

enable the aeronaut to keep the balloon at the same level without

expending its power, by discharging gas from the valve to lower it, or

by casting out a portion of the ballast to raise it--processes which

must in time waste the whole power of the largest balloon, and bring it

to the earth--Mr. Green suggested the contrivance of a rope of

sufficient length and material trailing on the ground beneath, and if

over the sea, the rope is to be tied to a vessel filled with liquid

ballast, which floats on the surface. This rope will act as a drag on

the balloon, when, from any of the causes we have referred to, it tends

to rise, for, in that case, it will draw up a portion of the rope, and,

by thus adding to its weight, will be impeded in its upward course; and,

on the other hand, when, from opposite causes, it tends to descend, it

will, during every foot of its descent, have its weight, and

consequently its descending tendency, diminished, by throwing on the

earth the labor of supporting an additional portion of the rope. This,

however, at best, is a clumsy contrivance, and there are various

objections to its practical utility. It could hardly be practicable on

land, on account of the damage and danger that would be occasioned by

the entanglement of the rope in trees and buildings; and at great

elevations above the earth, the weight of the rope would become so

considerable as to require for its support a large portion of the

ascending power of any balloon.

In the United States, many aerial voyages have been performed. The first

of these was made by a Frenchman, M. Blanchard, in Jan., 1793, from

Philadelphia, at which General Washington was a spectator. Gillio and

Robertson, both Europeans, were the next after Blanchard. No Americans

were engaged in the business until Mr. Durant, an ingenious citizen of

New York, took it up after Robertson. He made a number of aerial

excursions, and was shortly followed by new adventurers in the art,

among whom the most celebrated is Mr. Wise, a piano-forte maker in

Philadelphia, who in 1835 betook himself to the trade of ascending in

balloons, and who up to this date has made upward of a hundred ascents.

Mr. Wise is entitled to the merit of having carefully studied and

mastered the scientific principles of aeronautics, and he is among the

most enthusiastic of his profession. While admitting that the art has

advanced but little since its first discovery, compared with other

sciences, he anticipates from it, if perseveringly cultivated by men of

genius, the most splendid results, adopting, as the motto on the

title-page of his work, the couplet from Shakspeare:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Some of his feats have been daring enough, and others still more

perilous he is willing to undertake.

Not long after commencing the practice of his new profession, Mr. Wise

resolved to test the practicability of descending in safety with the

balloon, after it had burst, at the elevation of a mile or two. It would

then, he conceived, form a parachute, and, from the resistance it would

meet with from the atmosphere in its descent, would gently let him down

to the earth. Having prepared a balloon of cambric muslin, which he

coated with his newly-invented varnish, he ascended, as had been

advertised, from Easton, in Pennsylvania, on the 11th of August, 1838,

at a few minutes before two o'clock, afternoon, with the full

determination of making the experiment, though he had concealed his

intention both from the public and from his personal friends. He carried

up with him two parachutes, the one containing a cat, and the other a

dog. As the balloon approached a dense body of black thunder-clouds,

some vivid flashes of lightning, accompanied by violent peals of

thunder, greeted his upward course. This gave the first part of his

voyage a terrific but grand and imposing appearance. It seemed to him as

if heaven's artillery were celebrating these efforts of the new-born

science, and, acting on his imagination, this inspired him with a fresh

determination to explode the balloon. At different elevations, he

detached first one and then another of the parachutes, with their

occupants, which landed in safety. At the altitude of about 13,000 feet,

the gas became expanded to its utmost tension, and the balloon was still

rising, making it evident that, unless the safety-valve were speedily

opened to allow a portion of the gas to escape, an explosion would

speedily ensue. At this critical moment he became somewhat excited, and

looking over the side of his car, he observed the sparkling coruscations

of lightning springing from cloud to cloud, a mile beneath him, as the

thunder-storm was passing, in its last remnants, below. He took out his

watch, noted on his log-book the time--twenty minutes past two--and as

he was about returning it to his pocket, thinking at the time whether it

were not best, by opening the valve, to abandon, for the present, his

favorite idea, the balloon exploded. His confidence in the success of

the experiment never forsook him, and yet he admits that this was a

moment of awful suspense. The gas rushed with a tempestuous noise from

the rupture in the top, and in less than ten seconds, the balloon was

emptied of every particle of hydrogen. The descent at first was rapid,

and in a moment or two, on looking up, he discovered that the balloon

was canting over, but the weight of the car counteracted its tilting

tendency, giving it an oscillating motion, which it retained until it

reached the earth, which it struck with a violent concussion, and the

car striking the earth obliquely, Mr. Wise was thrown forward from it

about ten feet. The landing was made on a farm about ten miles from

Easton, and many minutes had not elapsed before he had resolved in his

mind to repeat the experiment in Philadelphia on the first opportunity.

Having arrived in Philadelphia in the month of September immediately

following, he consulted several scientific gentlemen as to his

intention. Doubtful of the safety of the experiment, though neither

questioning the philosophy of atmospheric resistance, nor the theory of

converting the balloon into a parachute, they earnestly endeavored to

dissuade him from his purpose. But confident of the perfect safety with

which, on scientific principles, he would descend, he publicly announced

that he would ascend on the first of October, and explode the balloon at

the height of upward of a mile. On the day advertised, at twenty minutes

before five o'clock, afternoon, he left the earth in the presence of

assembled thousands, and rose almost perpendicularly, in a perfectly

clear sky. When the explosion took place, the lower part of the balloon

did not immediately invert, as in the former experiment, for in this

case the balloon burst open from top to bottom, and caved sideways. At

the first discovery of this, he was somewhat alarmed, fearing that it

might come down with a continuous accelerated velocity; but from this

anxiety he was soon relieved, for it caught the wind like the mainsail

of a ship, and _slid_ down upon the atmosphere in a spiral course with a

_uniform_ velocity. The concussion, though from the apparent rapidity of

the descent it threatened to be violent, was not harder than that which

would follow the jumping from an elevation of ten feet to the ground.

From the experience of his numerous aerial excursions, Mr. Wise is of

opinion, that, at a considerable elevation, there is a constant and

regular current of wind blowing at all times, from west to east, with a

velocity of from twenty to forty, and even sixty miles per hour,

according to its height from the earth. On the strength of this

conviction, he believes it to be perfectly practicable and safe, not

only to cross the Atlantic, but even to circumnavigate the globe, in a

balloon; and he has expressed his readiness to undertake either of these

voyages. About the beginning of the year 1843, he actually proposed to

some gentlemen of the city of Philadelphia, the project of making an

aerial trip across the Atlantic, in undertaking which, he assured them,

he would have as little hesitation as about embarking in the most

approved steam-vessel that plied between the ports of New York and

Liverpool. At first, supposing him to be in jest, they expressed their

willingness to promote the design, but finding that he was in sober

earnest, they began to evince conscientious scruples as to the

responsibility they would incur, if by any chance his life should fall

a sacrifice to the bold adventure. He next determined to petition the

Congress of the United States, at their ensuing session, for the

necessary pecuniary means; and flattering himself with the hope of the

success of his application, to provide against the accidents which might

arise from opposing local currents and storms, or from omissions,

imperfections, and unforeseen necessities attendant upon all first

trials, he issued a proclamation, addressed to all publishers of

newspapers in the world, announcing it as his intention to make a trip

across the Atlantic in a balloon in the summer of 1844, and calling upon

the seafaring community of all climes not to be alarmed should they

happen to be in the vicinity of a balloon, either on the ocean or in the

atmosphere, but endeavor to give aid to the adventurers. He proposed to

have for the car a sea-worthy boat, which would be of service in case

the balloon should fail to accomplish the voyage; and the crew was to

consist of three individuals--an aeronaut, a sea-navigator, and a

scientific landsman.

By the time the Congress met, Mr. Wise had enlarged his idea of crossing

the Atlantic to a purpose of sailing round the world. In a petition he

presented to that assembly, dated Lancaster City, Dec. 20, 1843, he

certifies, that by taking advantage of the current from west to east,

which, governed by a great general law, blows at all times round the

globe, it was quite practicable, from the improved state to which

aeronautic machinery can now be perfected, to travel eastward in a

balloon with a velocity that would circumnavigate the globe in from

thirty to forty days, and that the aeronaut, by taking advantage of the

local currents, could vary from a straight course thirty or forty

degrees from the latitude of departure, so as to be able to leave

dispatches in Europe and China, and return by way of Oregon Territory to

Washington City. He therefore prays the Congress to appropriate the

money necessary for constructing an aerostadt of 100 feet in diameter of

substantial domestic cotton drilling, with a sea-boat capable of

enduring the ocean for a car, and so constructed that the masts and

rigging may be stowed, ready for erection into sea service at any time

that emergency might require. And he concludes by engaging, that, should

his proposal meet with the approbation of the Congress, he would readily

submit a plan in detail, and would cheerfully superintend the

construction of the machinery at his own expense, asking nothing more

than the command or directorship of the first experimental aerial voyage

round the globe.

This petition was received and read by the Congress, and referred to the

committee of naval affairs. But though the committee to which it was

committed might not doubt that Mr. Wise had nerve sufficient to make the

attempt, they probably had some doubts as to its practicability and

safety, and therefore they made no report. Most men will think that the

committee of Congress acted wisely, and that it is fortunate for Mr.

Wise himself, that neither the Congress nor his private friends have, by

supplying the necessary funds, put it in his power to risk his life in

either of those foolish projects. The many accidents and hairbreadth

escapes from severe bodily injury, if not from death, which he has met

with, during the course of his profession, when undertaking much smaller

excursions, scarcely warrant him to conclude, as he does, that such

voyages would be attended with fewer risks than sailing in the most

approved steam-vessels. To attempt to realize even his first idea of

crossing the Atlantic in a balloon, would, in the present imperfect

state of aeronautics, be nothing less than madness; to attempt to

realize the second, would be "cyclopicus furor," to borrow a phrase from

John Calvin--"a gigantic madness;" and we can only account for his

forming or broaching such ideas, on the principle of vanity, or of that

insensibility to physical danger which the adventurous gradually and

unconsciously contract. We do not affirm that such schemes are

absolutely impracticable, or that they will never be safely

accomplished; for the astonishing discoveries already made in science

render it impossible for us to say to what extent the elements may be

rendered obedient to the sway of the human will. To speak of crossing

the ocean, against wind and tide, in a vessel, by the simple aid of a

kettle filled with boiling water, was, not many years ago, laughed at as

the ravings of a crack-brained fool. A shaved head and a strait

waistcoat were the promised rewards of the original projector of that

most noble enterprise. And yet the foaming billows of the great deep are

at this day hourly plied by the rushing steam-ship, bounding and puffing

recklessly along, as though it were itself the victim of the madness

ascribed to its projector, but landing, nevertheless, its precious

freight unharmed upon the distant shores. Now, if such stupendous and

astonishing results _have been_ realized, what may not man, under the

irresistible dominion of the great master-spirit of the

age--_progress_--what may he not accomplish?" But it remains yet to be

demonstrated that a pathway in a balloon through the atmosphere is less

perilous than one in a ship on the ocean. The safety of traveling in

balloons must be tested by smaller trips, before men will believe that

these frail vessels of silk, or cambric muslin, may be safely trusted as

a means of locomotion across the mighty Atlantic, or, what would be a

still greater achievement, around the globe itself.

Having thus briefly traced the history of aeronautics, we shall now

inquire into the practical value of the art.

After the discovery of the hydrogen-gas balloon, the most extravagant

projects dazzled and bewildered the minds of men. To journey through the

air from one part of the globe to another, or even to circumnavigate the

globe itself, in balloons, was child's play, compared with the

magnificent results that were anticipated. It was fondly expected that

the new discovery would open up a channel of communication between the

earth and its sister planets, and that the time was not far distant when

men would be embarking from the Earth, in a balloon, for the Moon, or

for Mercury, Venus, Mars, the Asteroids, or some of the other planets,

just as they embarked in a ship for France, Italy, India, China, Africa,

or America. They forgot that the laws of gravitation, which bind man as

by chains of adamant to this world, would ever interpose an

insurmountable obstacle to the realization of such wild imaginings; that

the atmosphere has its limits as well as the ocean, extending, it is

calculated, not much beyond forty miles above the earth's surface; that,

at a certain height, it is as light, by reason of its rarity, as the

lightest gas with which a balloon can be inflated, thereby rendering all

farther ascent impossible; and that, even before the aeronaut had

reached that height, very serious consequences would ensue from the

intense cold, from the diminution of atmospheric pressure, and from the

inadequacy of a too rarified atmosphere for supporting respiration. Such

overwrought expectations, however, produced by the first excitement of a

great discovery, soon subsided, when men began soberly to reflect on the

immutable laws, or, which is the same thing, the powerful mandate of the

Creator, which confines all things within their appointed sphere.

But though the idea of emigrating by means of balloons to foreign worlds

was relinquished, there still existed a desire to render them

subservient to important terrestrial purposes, and various suggestions

were made as to the uses to which they might be applied. It was proposed

to employ their power of ascension as a mechanical force for raising

water from mines, for transporting obelisks, and placing them on greater

elevations, or for raising, without any scaffolding a cross or a vane to

the top of a high spire. It was proposed that they might be employed as

a means of making an escape from surrounding icebergs in the ocean, or

for effecting a landing to otherwise inaccessible mountains, and

observing their cloud-capped peaks--for exploring the craters of

volcanoes--for traversing vast swamps and morasses--and for the

improvement of the infant science of meteorology. It was besides

predicted that they would become a safe, easy, and expeditious mode of

traveling, and of conveying the products of every land and clime from

one part of the globe to another. It is long since Dr. Dick suggested,

in his "Christian Philosopher," that the missionaries of the cross might

yet be able to avail themselves of the aid of balloons in going forth to

distant regions to proclaim to the heathen the unsearchable riches of

Christ, and that then there would be a literal fulfillment of the

prediction of the last of the inspired seers, "And I saw another angel

fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto

them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and

tongue, and people." But to only two purposes has the ascending power

of the balloon been as yet applied--to the reconnoitring of hostile

armies, by the French, for a short time--and, in one or two instances,

to the making of scientific observations. Only a single attempt, and a

very absurd one, has been made to get up a traveling balloon. The

gold-hunters of America, impatient of the slow process by which ships

transport them to the golden regions of California, and, as if

determined to press the air into the service of giving them a speedier

conveyance, lately proposed to build a balloon, to carry them out at the

rate of 200 miles per hour. A model of the machine was exhibited in New

York and Philadelphia, and it created considerable sensation in the

minds of the credulous. It was stated, in a respectable journal of New

York, in 1849, that the machine was actually in course of construction,

and the steam-engine finished, but nothing more has since been heard of

it. "Had these projectors," says Mr. Wise, "gone on from their miniature

model, to the erection of one capable of carrying one or two persons, in

order to prove its practicability on a larger scale, there might have

been reason to believe that they harbored an idea of its general

usefulness. But when the project embraced at once so magnificent a

scheme, as that contemplated in the swooping strides toward the modern

_Dorado_, with a cargo of a hundred gold-hunters, it seemed too much for

sober-minded people; and brought upon itself philosophical criticism and

scientific condemnation, and, with that, a good share of opposition to

the hopes and expectations of aerial navigation in any shape."

Aerostation is at present applied to no practical useful purpose; it is

a mere plaything, occupying no higher a position than catchpenny

mountebank exhibitions. Ascents are made in balloons from no other

motive, or for no other object, than to draw money from the pockets of

the multitude, by ministering to their enjoyment; and when made by

persons properly acquainted with the principles and practice of the

art--for by such alone can they be effected with safety--and with those

precautions which experience has shown to be requisite, they might be

liable to no great objection, so long as the people are willing to pay

for them; but if conducted by unqualified persons, or by the most

skillful, with a daring recklessness of personal danger, or in a manner

involving suffering to any sentient being, they ought to be discouraged

in every legitimate way by every friend of humanity, as at variance

alike with the principles of morality and with the benevolent lessons of

the Christian faith. No man may lawfully peril his own life, or subject

the inferior animals to unnecessary pain, for the gratification of the

all-devouring thirst of the public for exciting exhibitions; and in the

very act of encouraging and witnessing such exhibitions, we are

quenching the merciful and fostering the cruel in our natures. Of this

objectionable character is the practice recently introduced into France

of carrying up donkeys in balloons. The adventure is indeed no new one.

It was performed by Mr. Green some twenty years ago. But the merit, or

rather the demerit, of having turned it into one of the most popular

shows in France, is due to M. Poitevin, who has lately been exciting the

gaping admiration of thousands in Paris, by this fool-hardy, barbarous,

and contemptible mode of aerostation. Early in July this year (1850), he

ascended on horseback in a balloon from Champ de Mars, in the presence

of upwards of 10,000 persons, who had paid for admission, and the

President of the Republic was one of the spectators. The horse, a

handsome dapple gray, had stout cloth placed round its body, and several

straps, passed over the shoulders and loins, were united in rings, which

were attached by cords to the network of the balloon. In this manner was

the animal cruelly suspended in the air, having no resting-place for its

feet, nor was there any thing to protect the rider, had he lost his

balance or been thrown off. The feat having been more successful than

could reasonably have been expected, Mr. Green proposed to amuse the

inhabitants of London by a similar adventure. Some of the more humane of

the English capital were shocked at the announcement; and the secretary

of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals made application

on the 30th of July to the magistrates to put a stop to the ascent. A

case of interference not having been made out to the satisfaction of the

magistrates, Mr. Green next day started on his journey to the clouds

mounted on a pony. It was put in the car--a plan more humane than that

of M. Poitevin, who suspended his pony in the air. But the whole affair

was a miserably poor one, and well fitted to bring all such experiments

into contempt. The nag was not larger than an under-sized Newfoundland

dog; and what made the thing more ridiculous still, the poor

creature--which, by the way, had its eyes bandaged, and was strongly

tied by cords to the network of the balloon--was so feeble that, on

mounting it, Mr. Green had to sustain his own weight by a pile of sand

bags placed on either side. This sham equestrian excursion through the

air appears to have generally disappointed onlookers, and pony

ascensions have not been attempted a second time in England. In France

they have met with greater favor. They have been repeated by M. Poitevin

and others in the presence of immense multitudes: and it should not be

passed over without remark, as one proof among others of what the

animals suffer, and, consequently, of the cruelty of the practice, that,

in some of these instances, blood flowed from their ears and nostrils.

That the practice is dangerous to the aeronaut as well as cruel to the

animal, has been the judgment of all reflecting men from the first; and

the late melancholy fate of Lieutenant Gale, an English, naval officer,

who ascended from the Hippodrome of Vincennes, near Bordeaux, on

Sabbath--a very unsuitable day, surely, for such exhibitions--the 8th of

September last, mounted on a horse, which was suspended beneath the car

of the balloon by girths passed under its body, reads a lesson to which

it would be wise to listen. By the aid of several peasants who were in

the fields, he effected his descent without any accident to himself or

the horse; but, having unfastened the animal, he again rose into the

air, and was afterward found dead in a field about a mile from the place

where the balloon made its second descent. That this dreadful close of

the aeronautic career of Mr. Gale, which he commenced only in 1848, will

serve as a warning to this reckless class of adventurers, we hardly

anticipate. That it will put a stop to such fool-hardy and hazardous

exhibitions, by bringing them into disrepute with the idle multitude, is

what we as little expect. So long as men are found sufficiently daring

to run the risk, there will not be wanting crowds abundantly ready to

pay down their money, and gaze upon the spectacle with a stupid

admiration.

It is a wretched result of the art of ballooning, if it can be turned to

no better account than this. Can, then, nothing more important be

brought out of it? Can it never be rendered subservient to the ordinary

purposes of human life? The opinion almost universally prevalent among

men, not excluding scientific men, is that it can not. Some aeronauts,

indeed, assure us that the time is fast approaching when aerial

transition will inevitably be placed as far before railroad and

steam-boat transition as the latter are before the old-fashioned sail

and horse-power modes. But the most of men place little faith in these

flattering anticipations; they listen to or read them with as dogged a

skepticism as they read or hear the celebrated vaticination of Bishop

Wilkins, that it would be as common for man hereafter to call for his

wings when about to make a journey, as it then was to call for his boots

and spurs. They doubt whether, with all the characteristic marks of

progress that distinguish the present age, balloons will ever become a

safe, cheap, and expeditious means of traveling. Whether the aeronauts

are most to be justified in their sanguine expectations, or the rest of

mankind in their cautious incredulity, time alone will determine. Our

judgment, we confess, strongly inclines to the side of the skeptics.

Much is still desiderated, in order to the practicability of ballooning

as a generally useful art. A new gas, at once cheap in its production,

and of sufficient buoyancy, must be discovered. The gases at present

employed for inflating balloons are either too expensive or too heavy.

Hydrogen, which is almost fourteen times lighter than common air, is the

lightest gas known, but the expense at which it is procured is an

insuperable objection to its practical utility. To produce a quantity

sufficient to raise the weight of a pound, four and a half pounds of

iron or six of zinc, with equal quantities of sulphuric acid, would be

required. Carbureted hydrogen or coal gas is much cheaper, and brings

the cost of what may be necessary for experimental purposes--though this

is by no means inconsiderable--within the compass of more ordinary

means. But, as it is only about one half lighter than atmospheric air,

it would require a machine of immense size to support any great weight;

and the whole experience of ballooning proves the difficulty of managing

a body of great magnitude. Another great desideratum in aerial

navigation is a power of guiding the balloon according to a given

direction--of propelling it through the atmosphere as steam-boats are

propelled on the ocean. It has indeed been said that, as nature is very

profuse in the variety of atmospherical currents within two miles above

the level of the sea, we are not, in sailing through the air, driven to

the necessity of attempting to go right against the wind, but have only

to ascend or descend, as the case may be, to a current, which will waft

the vessel to its desired destination. But were we even sure of always

getting a favoring current, which, from the limited amount of

observations made, is not yet established beyond a doubt, there is

another desideratum--we are in want of an agent adapted for raising and

lowering the balloon without any waste of its power, so as to get within

the propitious current. Mr. Green's contrivance of the guide rope, is,

as we have seen, not likely to answer in practice; and nothing better

has yet been discovered.

[From Colburn's London Magazine.]

RECOLLECTIONS OF SIR ROBERT PEEL

BY THE DEAN OF YORK.

The political career of the late Sir Robert Peel is so well known, and

has been so often brought before the public eye, that it would be almost

impertinent to offer any further illustration of it.

There are many anecdotes, however, of a domestic nature which more

clearly show the real character of so distinguished a person, and with

which an intimacy of nearly fifty years will enable me to gratify

general curiosity, at this moment of deep sympathy for his fate.

Soon after Peel was born, his father, the first baronet, finding himself

rising daily in wealth and consequence, and believing that money in

those peculiar days could always command a seat in parliament,

determined to bring up his son expressly for the House of Commons. When

that son was quite a child, Sir Robert would frequently set him on the

table, and say, "Now, Robin, make a speech, and I will give you this

cherry." What few words the little fellow produced were applauded, and

applause stimulating exertion, produced such effects that, before Robin

was ten years old, he could really address the company with some degree

of eloquence.

As he grew up, his father constantly took him every Sunday into his

private room, and made him repeat, as well as he could, the sermon which

had been preached. Little progress in effecting this was made, and

little was expected, _at first_; but by steady perseverance the habit of

attention grew powerful, and the sermon was repeated almost _verbatim_.

When at a very distant day the senator, remembering accurately the

speech of an opponent, answered his arguments in correct succession, it

was little known that the power of so doing was originally acquired in

Drayton church.

I first became acquainted with Mr. Peel when he was a boy at school; but

he evinced at that early age the greatest desire for distinction. He was

attentive to his studies, and anxious to realize his father's

expectations. The most remarkable feature, however, of his character was

a certain firmness of nerves which prevented him from ever being

frightened or excited by any thing.

I went with him and his father to look at an estate in Herefordshire,

called Hampton Court, which Sir Robert thought of purchasing. We slept

at the inn in Leominster. It was full of company, and only two bedrooms

could be obtained. Young Peel was obliged to sleep on a sofa-bed, in a

kind of cupboard attached to the principal room. Soon after he got to

sleep, he was awakened by a light, and saw a man standing by his couch

with a drawn sword. The man being questioned, bid him not to be alarmed,

for that he would not hurt him, but that a freemasons' meeting was being

held in the next room, and that he was placed there to prevent any

intruders from breaking in upon their ceremonies. Mr. Peel turned round

and went instantly to sleep again. I asked him if he had not been

frightened? He said, "No--that he was surprised at first, but did not

suppose the man would do him any harm."

On inquiry from the waiter in the morning, we learned that the armed man

had remained three hours in the room where the fearless youth was

soundly and calmly sleeping.

On another occasion, I went with him and a party of relations to visit

the Lakes. We crossed from Lancaster over the dangerous sands to

Ulverstone. Some accident had delayed us at starting, and when we got

about half-way over, it was evident that the tide was returning. All the

party were much and reasonably alarmed except young Peel, who sat upon

the box with me. After looking about some time with much coolness, he

remarked to the drivers, that the nearer they went to the shore the more

loose and deep was the sand, and the greater the difficulty of

proceeding to the horses; but that if they would go boldly a little way

into the sea, where the sand was hard and firm, we should proceed with

greater speed. By following this judicious advice from the youngest of

the party, we escaped a considerable danger.

This self-command, or imperturbability, which showed itself in many

other instances in the boy, became a peculiar characteristic of the man.

I never knew him to be in the least excited by any thing but once, and

that was at the death of Mr. Perceval. He (Mr. Peel) had assisted to

secure the murderer; he had supported the head of his dying friend, whom

he greatly admired and loved; and when he came out of the House of

Commons his face was certainly flushed, and some emotion shown; but less

than would probably have been shown by any other person under such

powerful excitement.

Soon after Mr. Peel was of age he came into parliament as member for an

Irish borough (I think for Tralee). Mr. Quintin Dick, who had an

all-powerful interest in that borough, had, by some irregularity, become

incapacitated from representing an Irish constituency, but was seeking

to come into parliament for some English borough. Sir Robert gave him

great assistance--possibly with his purse--and in return Mr. Dick

contrived so to influence the free and independent electors of Tralee,

that they elected Mr. Peel to be their representative.

While sitting as member for that borough, Mr. Peel made his first

much-admired speech in seconding the address, which speech his father

heard from the gallery, with tears, not certainly excited by grief.

Mr. Peel went over shortly afterward as secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant

of Ireland, and while there the parliament was dissolved, and with it

his connection with Tralee.

We looked for some other seat, and a gentleman, whose name I forget,

offered to sell Sir Robert a number of houses in Chippenham, to the

tenants of which the right of voting for members of parliament was by

burgage-tenure confined.

The bargain was, that the property should be conveyed to Sir Robert for

a large sum, but that if at the end of six months he should be

dissatisfied with his purchase, the seller should repurchase it for a

smaller sum.

All of which was luckily done, for soon afterward the Reform Bill made

the old houses valueless.

In consequence of this arrangement, Mr. Peel was under no necessity of

coming from Ireland; but I went as his deputy to Chippenham, heard him

elected without opposition, and gave a dinner to his faithful friends,

and when parliament met Mr. Peel took his seat accordingly.

Thus did he sit in parliament during two sessions for places which he

never saw in his life, and the inhabitants of which never saw him.

Such things are, I suppose, impossible in the present age of purity.

Before the connection between Mr. Peel and Chippenham was at an end, a

vacancy occurred in the representation of Oxford University. Mr. Canning

had long fixed his eye upon that seat in parliament, and had been often

flattered with the hope of being agreeable to the electors; but his

noble and self-sacrificing vote in favor of the Roman Catholics had

alienated from him many of his first supporters. At a fortunate moment,

the members of Christ Church being assembled to determine what candidate

they should espouse, Mr. Lloyd, who had been Peel's private tutor,

pressed upon them the dangers to the Protestant religion which would

ensue, if a body of clergymen should elect a favorer of Roman Catholics.

The electors of Christ Church, who are supposed almost to command the

return of one member, were moved by the reasoning of Mr. Lloyd, and Mr.

Peel was invited to offer himself as member for the university, being

assured of the support of the influential college of Christ Church.

I well remember the glee with which Mr. Peel came to my house early one

morning to show me the letter which he had received by express,

announcing the welcome news and insuring to him a prize which was then

the object of his highest hope.

We went together to his father, who was as much delighted as his son,

and promised to supply money to any amount which might be wanted in

completing the triumph. We soon found, however, that money was the last

thing needed.

After his first election for Oxford, Peel went again to Ireland, and

when there he had a political quarrel with the famous Mr. O'Connell,

which ended in a challenge. But as Mr. O'Connell was already bound to

keep the peace in Ireland, it was settled that the hostile party should

meet in France. Peel got immediately into a small vessel and sailed for

the Continent. He had a narrow escape of being lost in the Channel,

having been exposed in a small and ill-appointed ship to a severe gale

of wind. Mr. O'Connell, in the mean time, was again interrupted by the

interference of the police, and prevented following to France. He was

bound over to keep the peace for one year against all his Majesty's

subjects every where. So that, after waiting ten or twelve days in no

very pleasing suspense, Peel and his friend, Colonel Browne, came to

Drayton, and the affair was forgotten.

While Peel was also in Ireland, we received many visits at Drayton from

the somewhat notorious Mr. Owen, of Lanark. Sir Robert had brought a

bill into parliament for shortening the hours of labor in the cotton

factories. (This was the first legislative interference between masters

and their workmen, which has since led to so many long debates). Mr.

Owen, expressing great anxiety for the further progress of this measure,

came frequently to Drayton, and remained there many days.

Peel, hearing of the circumstance, wrote to his father, saying that he

had cause to believe that Mr. Owen had strange opinions concerning

religion, and was not an eligible companion for Sir Robert's children.

The baronet hereupon asked Owen to tell him truly if he were a

Christian. The answer which he received induced him to point out to Mr.

Owen that his services could be no longer useful in furthering the

parliamentary object, and that he would not detain him any longer at

Drayton. A second letter came from Peel, stating that he had been told

that Owen's great object, like Voltaire's, was to overturn the

Christian religion, to which he pretended to ascribe the unhappiness of

mankind; that he (Peel) humbly, but earnestly pressed upon his father,

that by giving so much countenance to such a man, he might be assisting

in the unhallowed scheme, and fostering infidelity.

Owen, however, was gone, and no more thought about him for some time.

But, a few days afterward, just as we were sitting down to dinner, a

carriage was seen approaching, and in it the well-known face of the

pseudo-philosopher.

Sir Robert, however, coinciding in opinion entirely with his son, from

whom he had received a third remonstrance, rose from table, desired the

servant to keep Mr. Owen's carriage at the door, met his visitor in the

drawing-room, and expressing sorrow that Drayton House was full of

company, declined the honor of receiving Mr. Owen. The renovator of

human happiness was obliged to depart _impransus_ and little pleased.

We saw no more of him.

THE MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT.

"Now, Barbara, I have done my duty by you as far as lies in my power;

your poor uncle's money is firmly settled on yourself as he wished, mind

you never act dishonestly by him either, child."

"Dishonestly! father."

"Dishonestly, Bab; it is an ugly word, but you must look it full in the

face like many other disagreeable things. Now understand me; I do not

like mercenary marriages, mixing up money concerns with the most

important event in a woman's life--but still she must know her own

position, and then she can act for herself afterward. My maxim has been,

share and share alike in matrimony; your dear mother and I did: we had

one purse, one heart, and I've been a prosperous man through life;

therefore I give you your share out and out. You and Chepstowe can make

ducks and drakes of it if you like, or it may go into your business and

help you on; he'll make a spoon or spoil a horn, will Paul."

"Oh, father."

"No chance of his making a spoon you think, or of his spoiling a horn

either;" and the old man chuckled over his first pun. "Well, any how, I

see that your money may be of great service to him, if he looks sharp,

so there it is. I see, too, that he can not just now withdraw sufficient

capital from the concern to make a settlement on you without cramping

himself, and as you are both willing to chance it, I'm agreeable. But

your uncle thought otherwise; his money was left to you and your

heirs--your heirs, remember, Bab. If you have children you only hold it

in trust for them; and, mark my words, you have no right to give up that

property under any circumstances, I don't care what they are. You can

have no right to rob your heirs."

"I see it, father, and I'm sure Paul will also."

"I'm not so sure of that, girl; men are apt to see things oddly when

they're in a pinch, or when they're going on well, and want a little

just to grease their wheels. The interest on your uncle's legacy brings

you barely two hundred a year. Now, if things go on well, Chepstowe may

fancy he could double it for you, or if he meets with misfortunes he'll

be sure to think it would just set him all right again. Lord Eldon said

every woman was kicked or kissed out of her settlement; now promise me

you'll never give up yours."

"I never will."

"That's right, my girl; I think I may trust you; you've the same quiet

way your mother had. But it will be a hard case for you to say no to

your husband, Barbara; for, dearly as you may love him now, he will be

dearer still to you by-and-by, when time has hallowed the tie between

you, and you are used to each other's ways. Then, Barbara, it will go

hard with you to refuse him any thing; but for your children's sake, if

you are blessed with any, it will be your bounden duty not to go against

your uncle's will."

Barbara renewed her promise, and a few days saw her the happy, trusting,

hoping wife of Paul Chepstowe.

Months verged into years, and her hopes had become certainties; the

timid girl who clung to her father's threshold, even when leaving it for

her new home, and with him who was more to her than all the world

beside, was now a fair matron, serene in the assured dignity of her

position, calm in her husband's love.

Paul and Barbara were very happy, and the world had gone well with them.

Their own wants and wishes were moderate, and far within their means;

their infant family throve, and the business prospered with a steady

increase which promised to be permanent. What more could they desire?

Alas! old Mr. Cox's fears had been prophetic; Paul had extended his

concern by the assistance of Barbara's dowry, and now thought he could

speculate most advantageously on her uncle's legacy were it at his

disposal.

"God knows, my love!" he said, "I only wish to make what I can for our

children; I am truly happy in our present circumstances; but with an

increasing family it is incumbent on us to look about us, and I see a

very good opening. I could lay out that property of yours."

"_Ours_, dear Paul!"

"No, Barbara; if it were mine I should not have hesitated, I can assure

you; the money is yours, and yours only; I have nothing to do with it:

but, as I was saying, you may double that money if you like."

"Of course I should, but it gives us a very good interest now--two

hundred a year."

"Pshaw! what is that? To hear you talk, it might be thousands instead of

a trumpery couple of hundreds."

"Well, but Paul, as we live, that income nearly maintains us; and--"

"I shall always be able to maintain my wife and children, if any."

"I pray you may, dear; but certainly this money has so far assisted you,

as you have expended comparatively little on us."

"I am quite aware of the assistance _your_ fortune has been to me, Mrs.

Chepstowe."

"Paul!"

"But with all due deference to your father's, your uncle's, and your own

united wisdom, I can not help feeling that it is a painful thing to be

trammeled in my endeavors to assist my children; I am in an inferior

position."

"My dear love, how can you say such cruel things?"

"Why do you bring them home to me, Barbara? Put yourself in my place. I

can at this moment double your pittance; but you, my wife, are afraid to

trust me with your property; you have no confidence in my judgment, and

our children are the sufferers: I repeat it, this is galling."

"Indeed, Paul, you wrong me, and my father also. We freely gave up to

your control my share in his property; have we ever sought to advise you

even with respect to that? But my uncle wished his legacy to be settled

on me with a reversion to the children, and I can not think that we have

a right to risk it. The best intentions can not justify us, for the

money is not entirely ours. Suppose, love, this proposed investment

should not answer."

"Nonsense, Barbara, I tell you it can not fail; the concern is as good

as the bank, and the returns will be enormous; if you doubt my word, see

Jackson, he will satisfy your scruples; but once you placed entire faith

in me."

"And do now, dear Paul; but before my marriage I promised dear father I

would preserve this property for my children, according to the deed of

settlement. Now do not look so angrily at me; I repeated this promise on

his death-bed, for he foresaw this trial, he knew what pain I should

suffer; but a promise is a sacred thing. Paul, that money can not, must

not be touched."

"Very well, Mrs. Chepstowe; you are losing a noble opportunity, but of

course you know best: I am only sorry I can not get rid of the cursed

affair altogether. What good will it ever do the children? However, I'll

never presume to advise respecting your fortune again, madam."

Paul flounced out of the room and banged the doors matrimonially, each

clap having an oath in it; while Barbara, after a hearty good cry, hid,

as all women learn to do, an aching heart under a smiling countenance.

This was their first difference; that it should be on money matters, and

her money too, made it more bitter to her; and she often felt inclined

to follow her husband, cancel the deed, and allow him to act as he

wished. His mortification was so great, yet so natural. Could he really

think she distrusted him? Was he not her husband? was she acting

rightly? Oh, no, no! But she remembered her father's words, her own

promises, and her doubts were removed: her duty was to retain her

rights; her children's claims were no less sacred than their father's.

She might not risk their property; she could not honestly frustrate her

uncle's intentions.

We will now follow Chepstowe, who was for once thoroughly angry with his

wife, himself, and all the world. He was unfeignedly vexed, as a man of

business and a bit of a speculator, at losing so fine an opportunity of

turning a penny. He grieved as a father, because he could not benefit

his family to the extent of his wishes; he was in a terrible passion as

a married man unused to contradiction, because his wife had dared not

only to think for herself but to have a will of her own. Thus, Mr. Paul

Chepstowe, though generally an amiable, clear-headed, flourishing young

man, was at this moment disposed to think himself particularly ill-used

by his wife and her family, and was more determined than ever to get

rich in order to spite them all. Barbara had dared even to doubt the

eligibility of this investment; therefore, her worthy husband decided on

placing every farthing he could raise in it. "He would not be led by the

nose--not he; he was his own master."

Oh, ye lords of creation, which of ye can master yourself? Which of ye

is not hag-ridden by some pet passion? For one wife that leads you, you

are driven by fifty hobbies--by your own weaknesses, by friends, by the

world, by fear of petticoat government.

To return to our "muttons." Paul, though any thing but a black sheep,

was now in a humor to stop at no folly in order to assert his

independence. Besides, he had declared his intention of taking up a

certain number of shares in the new speculation he had wished to

patronize, and consequently chose to fancy he could not withdraw from

that determination; he therefore allowed his broker to proceed, trusting

that Barbara would give way so as to enable him to pay up the first

call. His pride, however, was too great to allow him again to address

her openly on the subject, and he contented himself with a dignified

ill-humor and certain obscure allusions, to which his wife, having the

option of not understanding them, chose to turn a deaf ear. She shed

many bitter tears, though, over his unkindness; but painful as her

position was, his was still worse. Pay-day was coming on, and he must

either sell the shares, now rapidly rising, or meet the call. The former

would have been the wiser plan, but pride and an over sanguine

temperament led him to another course. He secretly raised money in

different quarters, and retained the shares. This hampered him, for he

had heavy interest to pay, and his concern, though flourishing, could

not sustain this drain. Money that should have been expended in his

business went to this extraneous speculation, where it lay idle. The

shares fell; he had buried his talent. This would not have been so bad,

as this unfortunate investment was one which must in the long run prove

profitable, to those who had sufficient capital to "bide their time;"

but the fact that he was so large a shareholder became known, and was

injurious to him; persons chose to fancy he had "too many irons in the

fire." There was a talk that he had required "accommodation," his credit

began to totter. Even now he might have recovered himself had he

possessed sufficient nerve to go boldly on, like a skater on breaking

ice, but no--he hesitated--he tottered--he failed.

Of all those whom this failure surprised, Barbara, as often happens, was

most unprepared for it. Her husband had struggled on from day to day,

now wildly hoping that all would yet be right; now desponding, but

determined to avert the knowledge of impending evil as long as possible

from those dear ones at home. Besides, a really conscientious woman's

eye, even though a wife's, is often to be feared in these cases. Paul

yet thought the blow might be escaped; but he knew that with this

prospect before them, Barbara would insist on instant retrenchment, and

his pride could not brook such an open confession while yet a hope

remained. So all was unchanged at home, all save its master; and, though

the wife was doomed to seem unconscious of her husband's fitful temper,

her heart bled at each harsh word to herself or the little prattlers who

now fled from "papa." She had dreaded the loss of her earthly treasure,

the riches of his love; to her the truth was a relief, even though

embittered by fresh differences or a revival of old complaints.

Things were now desperate with Chepstowe, but when will not a drowning

man cling to a straw? He persuaded himself that Barbara might, at the

sacrifice of her property, retrieve all, and bent his proud spirit to

speak to her. Even now he could not bring himself to own the extent of

his involvements, but spoke of some mere temporary embarrassment.

"You see, Barbara, my capital is just now locked up; I can not meet

these bills of Roby's, and there'll be the devil to pay; he's a crusty

chap, one of the old school, and it's no good asking him for time. Now

your uncle's legacy would set all straight."

"Could we offer it as security?"

"Security be hanged! no one would advance me more than three thousand on

it; I want five. I wish you to sell out at once, Barbara; it will save

us from beggary and disgrace."

"Disgrace, Paul! disgrace! Oh, tell me, you can not fear disgrace?"

"Is not ruin disgrace? I tell you that Hampden's failure has cramped me

confoundedly; I can not honor my acceptances; I must declare myself

insolvent unless you help me."

"But still, love, as your misfortunes are caused by another's failure,

you can not be disgraced; besides, surely with a business like yours the

banks would accommodate you."

"You know nothing about the matter; it is no good talking of business to

a woman, you can not understand it. If you don't choose to assist your

husband in his greatest need, say so at once; but don't fancy you are to

preach to me or give me your advice; I did not come to you for

dictation."

"Indeed, dear, I would not presume to advise or dictate; you mistake me

cruelly. I only wished for the children's sake to see what our situation

really is. Paul, remember this may be all the support left to them; they

are young, they must be educated, brought forward; is it right to

deprive them of their property?"

"Pish! I can double it for them to-morrow. By heaven, Barbara, I will

not live to see my name in the Gazette, to be disgraced. Choose between

your husband and your money."

"Were that indeed the choice, you know in your own heart that I should

not hesitate one moment. No, the choice is between my husband and our

children. I will not believe that even insolvency can disgrace you."

"Not when my debts are unpaid, and my wife keeps her fortune?"

"A fortune you have often laughed at as a pittance. It can afford us no

luxuries; your creditors have no claim on it; it had no interest with

your business, it never influenced your credit; had you not married me

your position would have been the same. Were I--could I be induced to

break my trust and sacrifice my children's interest, this money should

go among all your creditors; I never would part with it for the benefit

of one alone."

"So you would deprive me of character and credit, submit me to the

indignities of the insolvent court, blast my fame and future prospects,

rather than part with a paltry sum? And yet you can talk of duty. You

will remain quiet at home, while I am exposed to all the curses of

poverty."

"Do you think that these ills can fall on you alone, Paul? Am I not your

wife? If disgrace be your portion, must not I share it? Yes, and as

freely as I have shared your better days' love, for the disgrace will be

unmerited. Do I not know that my decision will be canvassed by all,

blamed by the many?"

"Then why expose yourself to this blame?"

"For our children's sakes. You did not require this money when it was

settled on me and them; they do now, and you may."

"I!--I will never degrade myself by a farthing of it; so do not make me

your excuse for your selfishness. You have chosen, you say; take care

how it may end."

A bankruptcy ensued, and Paul survived it. People who threaten not to

live, seldom keep that promise. At the worst he could only be charged

with over-speculation. His dividend was excellent, his embarrassments

clearly attributable to a year of panic, and the failure of some other

houses doing business with him. Barbara had truly said, there might be

imprudence but there was no disgrace attached to his name, and he

obtained a certificate of the first class.

What was the poor wife's suffering meanwhile? As she expected, many and

harsh comments were passed on her conduct; her summer friends looked

coldly on her; her servants were disposed to be insolent.

Paul too, who, in spite of all evidence, persisted in asserting and

believing that Barbara's property would have saved him, was almost

savage in his ill-temper. Ostentatiously economical, but requiring the

same comforts and attendance he had enjoyed with more than double their

present income, nothing but devoted affection and a reliance in his

innate good qualities could have preserved his wife's last comfort, a

reliance on him, a respect for her husband. The wife who ceases to look

up is indeed alone and miserable. In the pettish recklessness of his

grief, he had chosen to make a parade of giving up every thing; not an

indignity was spared his family; and many comforts they might have

honorably retained, were cast from them, that Barbara might more fully

feel the enormity of her fault. The children could but half understand

the change; and their innocent murmurs, their cowed looks, their gentle

pity for "poor mamma" were so many daggers to her heart.

Paul Chepstowe's credit was so good that he might have recommenced life;

he was offered a capital on the security of his wife's fortune; but he

scorned a boon emanating from that source, and preferred taking a

subordinate clerkship in a mercantile house. Some people have a pleasure

in "cutting off the nose to spite the face," and our hero was of that

class. Like Mawworm, "he liked to be despised;" for some time it

literally did his heart good to come home and say he had been treated

with supercilious pride and incivility, and thus maunder over his

troubles. He was almost sorry to find that home still neat and

comfortable, to see his children flourishing in mind and body, to feel

that some of their old connections yet considered his wife their equal.

Time and the hour, however, will wear through the longest day; and Paul

gradually accustomed himself to his happiness, and to look upon himself

once more as a respectable member of society.

The illusion, however, was dispelled, and this time it was Barbara who

meditated sacrifices and talked of "disgrace." Their eldest child, a

girl, was now fifteen years old, when, to the father's horror, he

discovered a plan for sending her as governess pupil to a school. He

disapproved, remonstrated, scolded, talked of "candle-end savings," and

"ridiculous economy with their income," but to no purpose. Once he had

given up the reins from pique, and now his wife chose to drive, and

would not relinquish them; so Annie did as her mother had decided, and

was placed in a way of earning her own livelihood. She was a clever,

ardent girl, and was soon enabled to add her mite to the general hoard,

as a younger sister was received in return for her services. Their only

boy remained longer on their hands; he was a persevering, keen lad, with

a decided turn for mechanics, and was apprenticed at his own request to

an engineer. His more ambitious father wished first to give him the

benefit of a college education, to send him to mathematical Cambridge;

but Mrs. Chepstowe strenuously opposed this plan. "We can not afford to

give Harry a suitable income," she said, "and he shall never with my

consent be exposed to the miseries and temptations of a dubious

position. No, Harry has his way to fight in the world; he can not begin

too soon; we have no right to mislead him as to his situation, or to

fetter his right arm with the trammels of gentility."

"And so you have treasured up your uncle's money just to make your son a

mechanic, and his sisters governesses! I expected that, at all events,

our children would have benefited by that miserable bequest."

"They have been educated, Paul, until they were of an age to assist

themselves; we have spared no expense on them. We have now every right

to use the interest at least of their money, and there is a purpose to

which we would willingly appropriate it; indolence or luxuries would now

disgrace us."

Paul had a glimmering of what his wife meant; he could not blame her

purpose, though he chose to fancy it overstrained and romantic. Mingled

feelings kept him silent, however, and things went on as usual.

It was a sparkling winter's day in the Christmas week; the girls were

home from their respective situations; Harry had come over from a

neighboring railway town, where he had obtained permanent and lucrative

employment; and the Chepstowes were again united. The clear windows

glistened in the sun; the holly sprays poked up their pert berries and

bright leaves from all parts of the room, suggestive of the misletoe's

delicate beads with its cherished privileges; the mahogany shone in the

firelight; the arm-chairs yawned invitingly; the very cat licked its

paws with an air; every thing had a _gala_ look, a smile of innate

happiness; not a stick in that snug parlor but would have put to flight

a legion of blue devils. Paul, notwithstanding his children's

degradation, and his own misery, was cosily concocting a glorious bowl

of punch; while Barbara, though years had left silvery traces of their

passage on her silken curls, had all the matured charms of fat, fair,

and forty. And well might both parents feel proud and happy as they

gazed on their blooming, joyous children. The girls were not "poor

governesses, interesting victims," but conscientious, well-informed

women, who had entered on high duties, and were prepared to fulfill them

to the best of their endeavors, and were in the meantime enjoying _home_

with twofold pleasure; and Harry, no yellow-kid dawdle waiting for his

friends' exertions, had already made a way for himself in the stirring

world. But this was not all; the aim of Barbara's late years was

achieved--Paul's debts were entirely paid off; by her own long-continued

and little suspected savings, she had early laid by a small sum for that

purpose; as each child was able to understand her, the story of her

trials was related, and each was devoted to the good work. Their economy

was added to hers; and gradually the whole interest of her property was

reserved also. Money makes money; it accumulates like a snow-ball;

interest and compound interest heaped on each other soon form a round

sum.

A happier family ne'er sat down to a Christmas table than the

Chepstowes. They had self-respect and contentment to bless them, what

cared they for the world? but little; and therefore, as is usual in

these cases, the world chose to think a great deal of them. The only

piece of plate on their modest sideboard was a handsome salver, a

present from their creditors to P. Chepstowe, Esq., as a mark of

respect, of which his wife and daughters were duly proud, and by this

salver lay certain visiting tickets, dearer still to Harry. His

employer's wife, a rich and high-born woman, visited his family on equal

terms; two of his friends were always hovering round Annie and her

sister Barbara; he had a shrewd suspicion that it was not for his sake

only, that John Gray and Tom Frankland came so frequently to the

cottage, no, nor even for the walk, though both declared it was the

pleasantest in England.

Paul was doomed to be a disappointed man, and to be happy withal. When

his first emotions were over he hoped his daughters would now remain at

home with him. But lo, Annie was to be married as soon as John was

comfortably settled, and wished in the meanwhile to continue her

exertions, for they now meant to lay by on Harry's account, that he

might have a little capital to begin business upon without encroaching

on their father's income. And thus they toiled on and each was provided

for; while Paul at length, to please his admirable wife, gave up his

post, and lives comfortably on the fruits of her settlement.

AN APOLOGY FOR BURNS.

Burns, to be justly judged, must be estimated by a reference to the

times in which he lived. If James I. and Sir Matthew Hale believed in

witchcraft, and were agents in the burning of helpless, ignorant, and

decrepit old women, was it not the cruel superstition and vice of their

time? If Calvin condemned Servetus to the stake--aside from any personal

motive, or from his own views of Christianity, "without the smile, the

sweetness, or the grace"--was not the destruction of heretics equally

the vice of _his_ time? If the immortal Bacon--the "wisest, greatest,

_meanest_ (?) of mankind"--disgraced the judgment-seat, and stained his

own great name--not, we believe, to pervert, but to expedite

justice--was not bribery, which stained the ermine on infinitely

_meaner_ shoulders, also the vice of _his_ time? If the great political

martyrs, Lord William Russell and Algernon Sydney, accepted bribes from

Louis XIV.--as shown by Mr. Macaulay, on the authority of Barillon,

which authority we ourselves have consulted with astonishment and

regret--was such corruption not also the vice of _their_ time, in which

nearly the whole House of Commons participated? If the pious Addison was

addicted to wine, and, as that vain and courtly sycophant, Horace

Walpole, sneeringly asserted, "died drunk," was it not a propensity and

a morbid craving, engendered by a diseased physical organization, and

was not wine-bibbing pre-eminently the vice of _his_ day? In those days,

when Pope or Swift penned maudlin notes to Arbuthnot, night's candles

being burnt out, and jocund day standing tiptoe on the misty

mountain-top, and in drunken hilarity went reeling to bed, were not such

orgies, in their day, almost without shame and without reproach? When

the excellent and venerable Lord-President Forbes, as shown in Mr.

Burton's valuable Memoir, was kept in a state of feverish crapulence for

a whole month at a time, was not dissipation emphatically the raging and

besetting sin of _his_ day? But not to multiply more modern

instances--and many such might be adduced--we would pause, to ask the

charitable reader: Is Robert Burns to be held up to the never-dying

desecration of posterity, as a man steeped in evil and impiety, because,

with fiery ardor, he rushed into the polemic war then raging in

Ayrshire, lashed with unsparing and terrible sarcasm and wit the vices

and superstitions of his age, and, unfortunately, fell a victim to the

social habits of the day, before his better judgment and nobler

principles had gained the moral ascendency over the burning passions of

his youth? Following out this view of the infirmities of men, we are

prepared to look with sad complacency on the rudeness and superstition

of Johnson--the madness and misery of poor Chatterton, who "perished in

his pride"--the gourmandizing of Pope--the sublime wailings of

disappointed ambition in Young--the baffled rage and insanity of

Swift--the misery of the exquisite Elia--the hallucinations of the

inspired Coleridge, whose whole life was a distempered dream--the bright

morning dream of Keats--the cruel disappointment and heart-breaking of

poor Haydon, when he stood in solitude among his great pictures, and saw

the whole world of London flocking to gaze on General Tom Thumb!--the

solitary pride of Wordsworth--the egotism of the Ettrick Shepherd--the

intolerance of Scott--the mirth and melancholy of Hood, who has given to

the world the most powerful and pathetic song that has sounded from the

poetic lyre in our day, illustrating the sad truth, that

"_Laughter_ to _sadness_ is so near allied,

But thin partitions do their bounds divide"--

in short, all the long and sorrowful catalogue of "mighty poets in their

misery dead"--that terrible death-roll, inscribed with "fears of the

brave and follies of the wise," and written within and without with

mourning, and lamentation, and woe.

And so of Robert Burns. From his earliest years, we learn, he was

subject to palpitation and nervous excitement. The victim of

hypochondria, with fitful glimpses or sunbursts, lighting up the waste

of life with ineffable beauty and love, to escape from its terrible

shadow, which haunted him through life, he, unfortunately, was driven to

take refuge from himself in the excitement and vivacity of the social

board, as Johnson fled from himself to the tavern dinner, to revel in

his astonishing powers of conversation, while Burke and Beauclerk

quailed under the eye of the critical dictator.

But Robert Burns was no drunkard, in the ordinary sense of drunkenness.

From his physical organization, he paid dearly for every such, even the

smallest deviation. It is the sentiment of social enjoyment, not the

sensuality of the sot or drunkard, that inspires his convivial songs,

however much they may be misunderstood; and it can not be denied that he

purified, with exquisite genius and taste, the lyrical literature of his

country, which, in Allan Ramsay's time, as shown by the "Tea-Table

Miscellany," was polluted by false and filthy wit and obscenity. We may

have written strongly, but we wish the reader to understand that we are

writing from the best authority, and in the spirit of truth and

sincerity. We wish to record our emphatic protest against the injustice

hitherto done to the memory and name of Burns. Not only was he left to

die in poverty and neglect, but he was singled out as a stricken deer

from the herd, the galling arrows of the hunters entering into his soul,

and, we fear, yet vibrating in the hearts of his near and dear friends.

A TALE OF SHIPWRECK.

It was precisely on the 5th of November, 1821, that a terrible gale from

the northwest set in. It rose very early in the morning, and blew

hurricanes all day. There was a hasty and precipitate running and

crowding of fishing-boats, colliers, and other vessels into the friendly

ports of Scarborough and Filey, for these once past, excepting

Burlington, which is far less sheltered, there is no place of refuge

nearer than the Humber to flee to. As the morning broke dark and

scowling, the inhabitants looking from their windows saw whole fleets of

vessels thronging into the port. Men were seen on the heights, where the

wind scarcely allowed them either to stand or breathe, looking out to

descry what vessels were in the offing, and whether any danger were

threatening any of them. Every one felt a sad certainty, that on that

bleak coast, where this wind, when in its strength, drives many a

luckless ship with uncontrollable force against the steep and

inaccessible cliffs, such a day could not go over without fearful

damage. Before noon the sea was running mountains high, and the waves

were dashing in snowy foam aloft against the cliffs, and with the

howling winds filling the air with an awful roar. Many a vessel came

laboring and straining toward the ports, yet by all the exertions of the

crews, kept with difficulty from driving upon the inevitable destruction

of the rocky coast.

Among the fishing-vessels which made the Bay of Filey in safety, was one

belonging to a young man of the name of George Jolliffe. By his own

active labors, added to a little property left him by his father, also a

fisherman, George Jolliffe had made himself the master of a

five-man-boat, and carried on a successful trade. But the boat was his

all, and he sometimes thought, with a deep melancholy, as he sate for

hours through long nights looking into the sea, where his nets were

cast--what would become of him if any thing happened to the "Fair

Susan?" The boat was christened after his wife; and when George Jolliffe

pictured to himself his handsome and good Susan, in their neat little

home, in one of the narrow yet clean little lanes of Scarborough, with

his two children, he was ready to go wild with an inward terror at the

idea of a mishap to his vessel. But these were but passing thoughts, and

only made him the more active and vigilant.

He had been out some days at the Doggerbank, fishing for cod, and had

taken little, when the sky, as he read it, boded a coming storm. He

immediately hauled his nets, trimmed his sails, and made for home with

all his ability. It was not long before he saw his own belief shared by

the rest of the fishermen who were out in that quarter; and from whom

all sail was bent landward. Before he caught sight of land, the wind had

risen to a violent gale; and as he drew nearer the coast, he became

quite aware that he should not be able to make his own port, and must

use all energy to get into Filey. In the afternoon of this 5th of

November, he found himself, after stupendous labor, and no little

anxiety, under shelter of the land, and came to anchor in a crowd of

other strange vessels.

Wearied, drenched with wet, and exhausted by their arduous endeavors to

make this port, as he and his four comrades ascended the steps to Filey

village, their attention was soon excited by the crowds of sailors and

fishermen who were congregated at the foot of the signal-house, and with

glasses and an eager murmur of talk were riveting their attention on

something seaward. They turned, and saw at once the object of it. A fine

merchant vessel, under bare poles, and apparently no longer obeying the

helm, was laboring in the ocean, and driving, as it appeared, hopelessly

toward that sheer stretch of sea-wall called the Spectan Cliff--against

which so many noble ships had been pitched to destruction.

"Nothing can save her!" said several voices with an apparent calmness

which would have struck a landsman as totally callous and cruel. Already

there might, however, be seen a movement in the crowd, which George

Jolliffe and his comrades knew from experience, meant that numbers were

going off to assist, if possible, in saving the human life on board the

vessel, which itself no power on earth could save. Little hope, indeed,

was there of salvation of life, for the cliff was miles in extent, and

for the whole distance presented a perpendicular wall of two hundred

feet in altitude, against which the sea was hurling its tremendous

billows to a terrific height. But wearied as George Jolliffe was, he

instantly resolved to join in the endeavor to afford what help _was_

possible, or at least to give to the terrified people on board the

doomed ship the satisfaction of perceiving that their more fortunate

fellow-creatures on land were not indifferent to their misery.

Hurrying, therefore, into the Ship public-house close at hand, he drank

a pint of beer as he stood, took a couple of stout pieces of bread and

cheese in his hand, and in the next moment was hauled up into a cart

which was going off with a quantity of fishermen on the same errand. One

only of his crew accompanied him, and that was his younger brother; the

three hired men declared themselves half-dead with fatigue, and staid

behind.

The cart drove along at an almost furious rate, and there were numbers

of others going the same road, with the same velocity; while they could

see streams of young men on foot, running along the tops of the cliffs,

taking the nearest course toward the scene of the expected catastrophe.

Long before George Jolliffe and those with whom he went reached the

point where they left their cart, and started forward bearing coils of

rope, and even warm garments with them, they heard the firing of guns of

distress from the jeopardized vessel. It would seem that up to a certain

moment the people on board trusted to be able to bring the ship under

shelter of the land, and then get an anchorage: but the dreadful reality

of their situation had now evidently burst upon them; and the crowds

hastening toward the cliff, hurried forward more anxiously as the

successive boomings of these melancholy guns reached their ears.

When Jolliffe and his companions reached the crest of the cliff, and

looked out on the sea, it was already drawing toward evening. The wind

still blew furiously. The ocean was one chaos of tossing and rolling

billows, and the thunder of their discharge on the face of the cliff,

was awful. The first sight of the unhappy vessel made the spectator

ejaculate "Oh Lord!" That was all that was uttered, and it spoke

volumes. The throng stood staring intently down on the ship, amid the

deafening thunder of the ocean, and the suffocating violence of the

winds. On came the devoted vessel like a lamed thing, one of its masts

already gone by the board, and but few people to be seen on the deck.

These, however, raised their hands in most imploring attitude toward the

people on the cliff, as if relying on them for that aid which they

despaired to afford. As the helpless vessel came nearer the cliff, it

encountered the refluent force of the waves that were sent with a

stunning recoil from their terrible shock against the precipice. It

staggered, stooped, and was turned about without power of self-guidance.

One mountainous sea after another washed over her, and the few human

beings disappeared with shrieks that pierced even through the turbulent

dissonance of the tempest. The assembled crowd on the cliff shuddered

with horror, and felt that all need of their presence was at an end. But

they stood and stared, as with a fascinated intensity, on the vessel

that now came nearer and nearer to its final catastrophe; when all at

once there was discerned an old man, with bare head and white streaming

hair, lashed to the main-mast. He stood with lifted hands and face

gazing up to them as if clinging firmly to the hope of their saving him.

A simultaneous agitation ran through the crowd. The ship was lifted high

on the back of the billows, and then pitched down again within a short

distance of the cliff. A few more seconds--another such a heave, and she

must be dashed to pieces. At once flew out several coils of ropes, but

the fury of the wind, and the depth to which they had to go defeated

them. They were hurled against the crags, and came nowhere near the

vessel. Again were thrown out others, and among these one was seized by

the old man. There was a loud shout at the sight; but the moment was too

terrible to allow of much rational hope. The vessel was close upon the

cliff--one more pitch, and she would perish. All eyes were strained to

see when the old man had secured the rope round him. He was evidently

laboring to do this before he loosed himself from the mast, lest he

should be washed away by the next sea. But he appeared feeble and

benumbed, and several voices exclaimed, "He will never do it!" A sea

washed over him. As it went by they saw the old man still stand by the

mast. He passed his arm over his face as if to clear his eyes from the

water--and looked up. He still held convulsively by the rope which they

had thrown; but it was evident he was too much exhausted to secure it

round him. At that moment the huge vessel struck with a terrific shock

against the solid wall, and staggering backward, became half buried in

the boiling waters. Again it was plunged forward with a frightful

impetus, and the next instant the mast fell with a crash--and the whole

great hull seemed to dissolve in the liquid chaos. In another moment the

black stern of the ship was seen to heave from the waves, and then

disappear, and anon spars and casks were seen churning in the snowy

surf, and tossed as playthings by the riotous sea again and again to the

annihilating wall.

The next morning the wind had greatly abated; and, with the first peep

of day, numbers of fishing-boats put out to see whether any thing of

value which had floated from the wreck could be picked up. George

Jolliffe was among the earliest of these wreckers; but in his mind the

face and form of that old man were vividly present. He had dreamed of

them all night; and while the rest of his crew were all alert on the

look-out for corks or other floating booty, he could not avoid casting a

glance far and wide, to see if he could descry any thing of a floating

mast. Though the wind was intensely still, the sea still rose high, and

it was dangerous to approach the cliff. The vessels around them were

busily engaged in securing a number of articles that were floating; but

George still kept a steady look-out for the mast: and he was now sure

that he saw it at a considerable distance. They made all sail for it;

and, sure enough it was there. They ran their vessel close alongside of

it, and soon saw, not only a sling rope encircling its lower end, but a

human arm clutching fast by it. Jolliffe had the cobble soon adrift,

and, with a couple of rowers, approached the floating timber. With much

difficulty, from the uneasy state of the sea, he managed to secure a

cord round the drowned man's wrist, and with an ax severed the rope

which tied him to the mast. Presently they actually had the old man in

the boat, whom they last evening saw imploring their aid from the wreck.

Speedily they had him hoisted into the yawl; and when they got on board,

and saw him lying at his length on deck, they were astonished at his

size and the dignity of his look. He was not, as he seemed from the

altitude of the cliff, a little man: he was upward of six feet in

height, of a large and powerful build; and though of at least seventy

years of age, there was a nobility of feature, and a mild intelligence

of expression in him, which greatly struck them.

"That," said George Jolliffe, "is a gentleman every inch. There will be

trouble about him somewhere."

While saying this he observed that he had several jeweled rings on his

fingers, which he carefully drew off; and said to his men, "You see how

many there are:" and put them into his waistcoat-pocket. He then

observed that he had a bag of stout leather, bound by a strong belt to

his waist. This he untied, and found in it a large packet wrapped in

oil-cloth, and sealed up. There was also a piece of paper closely and

tightly folded together, which being with difficulty, from its soaked

state, opened and spread out, was found to contain the address of a

great mercantile house in Hull.

"These," said George Jolliffe, "I shall myself deliver to the

merchants."

"But we claim our shares," said the men.

"They are neither mine nor yours," said George; "but whatever benefit

comes of doing a right thing, you shall partake of. Beyond that, I will

defend this property with my whole life and strength, if necessary. And

now let us see what else there is to be got."

The men, who looked sullen and dogged at first, on hearing this resumed

their cheerfulness, and were soon in full pursuit of other floating

articles. They lashed the mast to the stern of their vessel, and in the

course of a few hours were in possession of considerable booty. Jolliffe

told them that, to prevent any interference of the police or the

harbor-master with the effects of the old gentleman, he would put out

near Filey, and they must steer the yawl home. He secured the bag under

his tarpaulin coat, and was soon set ashore at a part of the bay where

he could make his way, without much observation, to the Hull road. He

met the coach most luckily, and that night was in Hull. The next morning

he went to the counting-house of the merchants indicated by the paper in

the drowned gentleman's bag, and informed the principals what had

happened. When he described the person of the deceased, and produced the

bag, with the blotted and curdled piece of paper, the partners seemed

struck with a speechless terror. One looked at the other, and at length

one said, "Gracious God! too sure it is Mr. Anckersvoerd!"

They unfolded the packet, conferred apart for some time with each other,

and then, coming to Mr. Jolliffe, said, "You have behaved in a most

honorable manner: we can assure you that you will not fail of your

reward. These papers are of the utmost importance. We tell you candidly

they involve the safety of a very large amount of property. But this is

a very sorrowful business. One of us must accompany you, to see respect

paid to the remains of our old and valued friend and partner. In the

mean time here are ten pounds for yourself, and the same sum to

distribute among your men."

George Jolliffe begged the merchants to favor him with a written

acknowledgment of the receipt of the packet and of the rings which he

now delivered to them. This he obtained; and we may shorten our recital

by here simply saying, that the remains of the drowned merchant were

buried, with all respectful observance, in the old church-yard at

Scarborough: a great number of gentlemen from Hull attending the

funeral.

That winter was a peculiarly severe and stormy one. Ere it was over

George Jolliffe himself had been wrecked--his "Fair Susan" was caught in

a thick fog on the Filey rocks, his brother drowned, and only himself

and another man picked up and saved. His wife, from the shock of her

nerves, had suffered a premature confinement, and, probably owing to the

grief and anxiety attending this great misfortune, had long failed to

rally again. George Jolliffe was now a pennyless man, serving on board

another vessel, and enduring the rigors of the weather and the sea for a

mere weekly pittance. It was in the April of the coming year that one

Sunday his wife had, for the first time, taken his arm for a stroll to

the Castle Hill. They were returning to their little house, Susan pale

and exhausted by her exertions, with the two children trudging quietly

behind, when, as they drew near their door, they saw a strange

gentleman, tall, young, and good-looking, speaking with Mrs. Bright,

their next neighbor.

"Here he is," said Mrs. Bright; "that is Mr. Jolliffe."

The stranger lifted his hat very politely, made a very low bow to Mrs.

Jolliffe, and then, looking a good deal moved, said to George, "My name

is Anckersvoerd." "Oh," said George; all that rushing into his mind

which the stranger immediately proceeded to inform him.

"I am," said he, "the son of the gentleman who, in the wreck of the

'Danemand,' experienced your kind care. I would have a little

conversation with you."

George stood for a moment as if confused, but Mrs. Jolliffe hastened to

open the door with the key, and bade Mr. Anckersvoerd walk in. "You are

an Englishman?" said George, as the stranger seated himself. "No," he

replied, "I am a Dane, but I was educated to business in Hull, and I

look on England as my second country. Such men as you, Mr. Jolliffe,

would make one proud of such a country, if we had no other interest in

it." George Jolliffe blushed, Mrs. Jolliffe's eyes sparkled with a

pleasure and pride that she took no pains to conceal. A little

conversation made the stranger aware that misfortune had fallen heavily

on this little family since George had so nobly secured the property and

remains of his father.

"Providence," said Mr. Anckersvoerd, "evidently means to give full

effect to our gratitude. I was fast bound by the winter at Archangel,

when the sad news reached me, or I should have been here sooner. But

here I am, and in the name of my mother, my sister, my wife, my brother,

and our partners, I beg, Mr. Jolliffe, to present you with the best

fishing-smack that can be found for sale in the port of Hull--and if no

first-rate one can be found, one shall be built. Also, I ask your

acceptance of one hundred pounds, as a little fund against those

disasters that so often beset your hazardous profession. Should such a

day come--let not this testimony of our regard and gratitude make you

think we have done all that we would. Send at once to us, and you shall

not send in vain."

We need not describe the happiness which Mr. Anckersvoerd left in that

little house that day, nor that which he carried away in his own heart.

How rapidly Mrs. Jolliffe recovered her health and strength, and how

proudly George Jolliffe saw a new "Fair Susan" spread her sails very

soon for the deep-sea fishing. We had the curiosity the other day to

inquire whether a "Fair Susan" was still among the fishing vessels of

the port of Scarborough. We could not discover her, but learnt that a

Captain Jolliffe, a fine, hearty fellow of fifty, is master of that

noble merchantman, the "Holger-Danske," which makes its regular voyages

between Copenhagen and Hull, and that his son, a promising young man, is

an esteemed and confidential clerk in the house of Davidsen,

Anckersvoerd, and Co., to whom the "Holger-Danske" belongs. That was

enough; we understood it all, and felt a genuine satisfaction in the

thought that the seed of a worthy action had fallen into worthy soil, to

the benefit and contentment of all parties. May the "Holger-Danske" sail

ever!

THE GIPSY IN THE THORN-BUSH.

FROM THE GERMAN.

A rich man once hired a boy, who served him honestly and industriously;

he was the first to rise in the morning, the last to go to bed at

night, and never hesitated to perform even the disagreeable duties which

fell to the share of others, but which they refused to do. His looks

were always cheerful and contented, and he never was heard to murmur.

When he had served a year, his master thought to himself, "If I pay him

his wages he may go away; it will therefore be most prudent not to do

so; I shall thereby save something, and he will stay." And so the boy

worked another year, and, though no wages came, he said nothing and

looked happy. At last the end of the third year arrived; the master felt

in his pockets, but took nothing out; then the boy spoke.

"Master," said he, "I have served you honorably for three years; give

me, I pray you, what I have justly earned. I wish to leave you, and see

more of the world."

"My dear fellow," replied the niggard, "you have indeed served me

faithfully, and you shall be generously rewarded."

So saying he searched his pockets again, and this time counted out three

crown pieces.

"A crown," he said, "for each year; it is liberal; few masters would pay

such wages."

The boy, who knew very little about money, was quite satisfied; he

received his scanty pay, and determined now that his pockets were full,

he would play. He set off therefore to see the world; up-hill and

down-hill, he ran and sang to his heart's content; but presently, as he

leaped a bush, a little man suddenly appeared before him.

"Whither away, Brother Merry?" asked the stranger, "your cares seem but

a light burden to you!"

"Why should I be sad?" answered the boy, "when I have three years' wages

in my pocket."

"And how much is that?" inquired the little man.

"Three good crowns."

"Listen to me," said the dwarf; "I am a poor, needy creature, unable to

work; give me the money; you are young, and can earn your bread."

The boy's heart was good; it felt pity for the miserable little man; so

he handed him his hard-gotten wages.

"Take them," said he, "I can work for more."

"You have a kind heart," said the mannikin, "I will reward you by

granting you three wishes--one for each crown. What will you ask?"

"Ha! ha!" laughed the boy; "you are one of those then who can whistle

blue! Well, I will wish; first, for a bird-gun, which shall hit whatever

I aim at; secondly, for a fiddle, to the sound of which every one who

hears me play on it must dance; and, thirdly, that when I ask any one

for any thing, he shall not dare to refuse me."

"You shall have all," cried the little man, as he took out of the bush,

where they seemed to have been placed in readiness, a fine fiddle, and

bird-gun--"no man in the world shall refuse what you ask!"

"My heart, what more can you desire!" said the boy to himself, as he

joyfully went on his way. He soon overtook a wicked-looking man, who

stood listening to the song of a bird, which was perched on the very

summit of a high tree.

"Wonderful!" cried the man, "such a small animal with such a great

voice! I wish I could get near enough to put some salt on its tail."

The boy aimed at the bird with his magic gun, and it fell into a

thorn-bush.

"There, rogue," said he to the other, "you may have it if you fetch it."

"Master," replied the man, "leave out the 'rogue' when you call the dog;

but I will pick up the bird."

In his effort to get it out, he had worked himself into the middle of

the prickly bush, when the boy was seized with a longing to try his

fiddle. But, scarcely had he begun to scrape, when the man began also to

dance, and the faster the music, the faster and higher he jumped, though

the thorns tore his dirty coat, combed out his dusty hair, and pricked

and scratched his whole body.

"Leave off, leave off," cried he, "I do not wish to dance!"

But he cried in vain. "You have flayed many a man, I dare say," answered

the boy, "now we will see what the thorn-bush can do for you!"

And louder and faster sounded the fiddle, and faster and higher danced

the gipsy, all the thorns were hung with the tatters of his coat.

"Mercy, mercy," he screamed at last; "you shall have whatever I can give

you, only cease to play. Here, here, take this purse of gold!"

"Since you are so ready to pay," said the boy, "I will cease my music;

but I must say that you dance well to it--it is a treat to see you."

With that he took the purse and departed.

The thievish-looking man watched him until he was quite out of sight;

then he bawled insultingly after him:

"You miserable scraper! you ale-house fiddler! wait till I find you

alone. I will chase you until you have not a sole to your shoe; you

ragamuffin! stick a farthing in your mouth, and say you are worth six

dollars!"

And thus he abused him as long as he could find words. When he had

sufficiently relieved himself, he ran to the judge of the next town:

"Honorable judge," cried he, "I beg your mercy; see how I have been

ill-treated and robbed on the open highway; a stone might pity me; my

clothes are torn, my body is pricked and scratched, and a purse of gold

has been taken from me--a purse of ducats, each one brighter than the

other. I entreat you, good judge, let the man be caught and sent to

prison!"

"Was it a soldier," asked the judge, "who has so wounded you with his

sabre?"

"No, indeed," replied the gipsy, "it was one who had no sabre, but a gun

hanging at his back, and a fiddle from his neck; the rascal can easily

be recognized."

The judge sent some people after the boy; they soon overtook him, for he

had gone on very slowly; they searched him, and found in his pocket the

purse of gold. He was brought to trial, and with a loud voice declared:

"I did not beat the fellow, nor steal his gold; he gave it to me of his

own free will, that I might cease my music, which he did not like."

"He can lie as fast as I can catch flies off the wall," cried his

accuser.

And the judge said, "Yours is a bad defense;" and he sentenced him to be

hanged as a highway robber.

As they led him away to the gallows, the gipsy bawled after him,

triumphantly, "You worthless fellow! you catgut-scraper! now you will

receive your reward!"

The boy quietly ascended the ladder with the hangman, but, on the last

step, he turned and begged the judge to grant him one favor before he

died.

"I will grant it," replied the judge, "on condition that you do not ask

for your life."

"I ask not for my life," said the boy, "but to be permitted to play once

more on my beloved fiddle!"

"Do not let him, do not let him," screamed the ragged rogue.

"Why should I not allow him to enjoy this one short pleasure?" said the

judge; "I have granted it already; he shall have his wish!"

"Tie me fast! bind me down!" cried the gipsy.

The fiddle-player began; at the first stroke every one became

unsteady--judge, clerks, and bystanders tottered--and the rope fell from

the hands of those who were tying down the tatterdemalion; at the

second, they all raised one leg, and the hangman let go his prisoner,

and made ready for the dance; at the third, all sprang into the air; the

judge and the accuser were foremost, and leaped the highest. Every one

danced, old and young, fat and lean; even the dogs got on their

hind-legs, and hopped! Faster and faster went the fiddle, and higher and

higher jumped the dancers, until at last, in their fury, they kicked and

screamed most dismally. Then the judge gasped:

"Cease playing, and I will give you your life!"

The fiddler stopped, descended the ladder, and approached the

wicked-looking gipsy, who lay panting for breath.

"Rogue," said he, "confess where you got that purse of ducats, or I will

play again!"

"I stole it, I stole it!" he cried, pitifully.

The judge, hearing this, condemned him, as a thief and false accuser, to

be hanged, instead of the boy, who journeyed on to see the world.

VISIT TO A COLLIERY.

Abercarn Colliery is about ten miles from Newport, England. A very

polite invitation had been sent from the proprietors or manager of this

colliery to Dr. Pennington and myself to visit their pits, and

instructions had been given to the agent at Newport to provide us a

conveyance, and to offer us every attention. Accordingly, on Friday

morning, a handsome carriage and pair were at our door, and a very

gentlemanly young man presented himself as our guide. It was a lovely

day, and the ride up to the mountains a most delightful one; the scenery

becoming more and more wild and picturesque as we approached the coal

district; and our guide gave us much curious information connected with

our local Welsh legends and superstitions. We were also accompanied by a

very intelligent young man, a draper at Newport, who was quite at home

with the Welsh language, and gave us many particulars connected with the

etymology of the names of places that we passed. Thus we sped along most

agreeably until we reached the region of tall chimneys, ponderous

engines, and all the apparatus for disemboweling the mountains.

Dismissing our carriage at the entrance to the works, we proceeded to

the counting-house, where we were most courteously received by the head

clerk, who first unrolled a large map, and explained to us the geography

of the diggings, the mode in which the shafts and levels were cut, and

the coal worked; we then proceeded to the robing-room, and under the

care of one or two grimy _valets de chambre_, we were soon rigged out in

toggery that would render us the observed of all observers at a

masquerade. Fancy the learned doctor in a coarse white flannel coat that

was a sort of compromise between an Oxonian and a dustman, but with

sleeves reaching only to the elbow; his trowsers turned half-way up his

boots, and a coarse black felt sou-wester stuck on his head.

My costume was ditto. With a stout stick in our hand, we were conveyed

to the pit's mouth, and handed over to the custody of "Thomas"--a great

man, in every sense of the word. He was the overseer of the under-ground

workings, and was one of the finest men I ever saw. The shaft down which

we were to descend was a perpendicular well, I won't say how many

hundred yards deep, up and down which traveled two platforms side by

side, about the size of an ordinary breakfast table; one bringing up a

full wagon of coal, while the other took down an empty wagon. The

platform comes up, the full wagon is wheeled away; but instead of the

empty one, Thomas takes his stand in the centre, and desires us four to

stand round him, and hold on by his jacket, but not to grasp any part of

the platform. We obey, with an unpleasantly vivid remembrance of the

description given of the last moments of Rush and the Mannings. Thomas

becomes a sort of momentary Calcraft; and when he roars out, "Go!" and

we feel the platform give way beneath our feet, we cling desperately to

him with a savage satisfaction that he is with us, and must share our

fate. We are rattled, rumbled, jolted down a gigantic telescope, with

just light enough from above to make us painfully aware that there is

exactly sufficient room between the edge of our platform and the sides

of the shaft for us to fall through. We are conscious of clammy drops

falling and clinging to us--they may be cold sweat, or perhaps dirty

water from the sides of the pit--it occurs to us that five lives are at

the mercy, or rather tenacity, of a rusty link, and I enter into

unpleasant calculations of the time it might take to fall, say 350 feet.

There is a sensation that may be vertigo, perhaps faintness--possibly an

inclination to suicide, when a sudden jolt brings us to the ground, and,

but for our hold on Thomas, would certainly capsize our perpendicular.

We are at the bottom of the shaft, and quit the platform, very glad that

the meeting is dissolved. We find ourselves in a small, dark vault, just

visible by the glimmer of a single candle stuck in the wall. Thomas

lights five candles, and we each take one. We then perceive that there

is an iron tramway winding from under the shaft toward a couple of low

doors. We are placed in single file in the centre of this tramway, and

Thomas suggests a game of follow the leader. The gate-keeper (a most

important person, upon whom depends very much the proper ventilation of

the mine) opens the doors, and we enter a level--the doors being

immediately closed behind us. We find it necessary at once to stoop, and

we tramp forward through the dirtiest of all Petticoat-lanes--a thick,

black mud coming half-way over our insteps, and our candles being now

and then reflected in a running gutter that might be thought to

discharge itself from a waste pipe from Day and Martin's. There is an

incessant rumbling over our heads, as though a procession of railway

trains were out for the day. Large lumps of coal, dropped from the

wagons, and cross-beams connecting the tram-rails, render the footing

very precarious, and produce a very oscillating wave-like line of march.

I am following the sable dustman; he suddenly flounders, flourishes his

stick and his candle desperately for a moment; I see the white coat dash

forward; I hear a shout and a hiss; the doctor's candle is in the

gutter, and he is groping his way up to his feet again. We are more

cautious, and find it necessary to stoop still lower; the stratification

of the rock is pointed out to us, and we are told that this is a layer

of coal, that of iron-stone, which, we believe from our boundless faith

in Thomas's word, not that we see any thing to remind us of the contents

of our scuttle at home, or of the handle of our pump. We go on so many

hundred yards, but we do not count, when we come to a side cutting, and

are conscious of a ghostly apparition at the entrance. It moves on; we

might mistake it for a block of coal set up endways. It is a miner, who

speaks, and his language seems exactly to harmonize with the place. The

deep, guttural Welsh, from its utter incomprehensibility to us, seems,

like the man, a part of the mine; and our reverence for Thomas rises

when we find that this gibberish is as intelligible to him as all the

other dark mysteries of the pit. This is a cutting where they are mining

out the coal. At a short distance huge blocks are lying scattered over

the path; the place is about four feet high and six feet broad. We are

invited to enter and see the process of mining out a block. We seat

ourselves on lumps of coal, and at the end of the hole we see a miner

crouched upon the ground, hacking out a space about eighteen inches

deep, into the coal at the bottom, forming a sort of recess wide enough

to slip in a six inch drawer the whole width of the place; the labor of

doing this is inconceivably great in the miner's cramped position; he

pants loudly at every stroke of the pick, and breathes an atmosphere of

thick coal dust. When he has scooped out the bottom place, he cuts, with

a very sharp pick, a slice down each side, leaving the mass supported

only by its hold above; a wedge is now driven in close to the ceiling,

and with about a dozen heavy blows, down tumbles the whole mass, the

miner and the little candle boy who lights him keeping a sharp look out

to dart back just as the mass falls. Thus are we supplied with coal; and

it is impossible to see these poor fellows toiling in those dark,

stifling holes, crouching in positions that threaten dislocation to

every joint, and with deep, rapid inspirations drawing in dust that must

convert their lungs into so many coal-beds, without feeling how much of

our comfort we owe to a race of men, the real character of whose labor

is so little understood and appreciated. They are paid so much per ton,

and generally remain under-ground about ten hours at a stretch; but

sometimes, when they wish to fetch up lost time after a holiday or a

drinking bout, they will work for fourteen hours without stopping. Their

wages range from twenty to thirty shillings a week. They have been much

addicted to drink, but the Temperance movement has produced a beneficial

change in this respect in some districts. We remained under-ground

nearly an hour; now and then a rumbling noise warned us of the approach

of a wagon, and, stepping aside, a spectral-looking horse flitted by,

tugging its hubbly load, visible a moment in the dim light, and

vanishing again instantly into utter darkness. Having completed our

inspection, and returned to the entrance of the shaft, we again endured

the process of suspended animation, and emerged into daylight with a

higher estimate than ever of the blessed sunlight and the green fields.

We were taken into a shed at the pit's mouth, where Thomas curried us

down with a birch broom and a wisp of straw, after which we doffed our

togs, had a good wash, and once more resumed our civilized appearance,

highly gratified and instructed by our introduction to the shades below.

THE KAFIR TRADER; OR, THE RECOIL OF AMBITION.

Years, with their summers and winters, their joys and sorrows, have

passed away, since the Cleopatra, her long and wearying voyage over,

cast anchor in one of the extensive bays of Southern Africa. How eagerly

and anxiously her many passengers looked across the belt of heaving

waters toward the land, which, low at first, gradually rose into ranges

of lofty hills, stretching far into the distance! For most of them had

crossed the ocean, and bidden adieu to their remoter kindred, in the

hope of finding, amid its secluded valleys, some "forest sanctuary,"

where the bonds of the world that had hitherto chafed them might be

unfelt, and their efforts at earning a livelihood for themselves and

little ones be better rewarded.

Foremost among them stood a man, the eagle keenness of whose eye bespoke

him one fitted to cope, and successfully, with the world, in whatever

phase it might present itself. But it was not so; and Robert Tryon,

despite years of unwearying effort, now stood gazing on the shores of

the far south, a world-worn and almost penniless man, and one whose

spirit was embittered, and his heart hardened, by seeing others, whom he

deemed less worthy, victors in the arena where he could achieve nothing.

While thus he stood pondering with contracted brow, on what might be the

result of this last decisive step of emigration, a sweet, childish voice

by his side exclaimed,

"Let me see too, father."

Immediately the stern expression passed away, and with a bright smile he

raised the little girl to stand where she might easily look over the

bulwark. Robert Tryon was devotedly attached to his wife and family; and

the more the chilling blasts of adversity had frozen his heart toward

the world, the more did it gush forth in warm affection to those

surrounding his own humble and sometimes ill-supplied fireside; and he

felt that to see them possessed of the comforts of life befitting their

station--more he asked not, wished not--would be a happiness that would,

in his estimation, render the labor of even a galley-slave light.

But dearer than all was his little fairy Kate, as fair and beautiful a

child as the eye need wish to rest upon, with soft, dark, earnest eyes,

looking forth from among her brown clustering curls as though the

misfortunes of her parents had dispelled the joyous beams of childhood,

and awakened her already to the realities of life, and a sweet smile

playing upon her rosy lips, as if, in the buoyancy of her innocent

spirit, hoping and trusting a brighter future.

And the child's trust seemed not misplaced, for brighter days soon began

to dawn upon them. Robert Tryon obtained a small farm in one of the deep

fertile hollows branching off from the great valley of the Fish River;

and though it needed both time and labor to render it productive, both

were ungrudgingly bestowed; and some five or six years after his

arrival, Willow Dell (so named from the fringe of Babylonian willows

that swept the little streamlet murmuring through it), was as fair a

scene of rural promise as the wide frontier could show.

And for a while Robert Tryon was a happy and contented man; his loved

ones were growing up beautiful and joyous around him, and the humble

competence he once had sighed for was now theirs: few, indeed, are they

whose wishes are so fully gratified! But it sufficed not long. With

prosperity loftier ideas awoke in Tryon's breast; and after a time he

began to pine for riches to bestow on the children whom every succeeding

day rendered yet dearer, and whom he felt assured wealth would grace so

well. How, as he wandered at evening beside the willows, he would dream

of the proud future that--could his wishes be realized--might be in

store for his promising sons and beautiful daughters, in some higher

sphere; and how in years to come they might revisit their fatherland,

and look scornfully down on those who in other days had despised

himself!

Occupied with such visions, discontent began to take possession of his

heart. It would be years--many years--ere by his farm he could hope to

obtain such results; and ere that his children's youth would be

passed--their lot in life decided, and riches not so precious; and again

he felt that he could toil as man never yet had toiled, to bestow wealth

on his children.

Of the many objects man pursues with avidity, gold is not the one that

most frequently eludes him, for there are many modes by which it may be

obtained, and one of these presented itself to Tryon.

He was riding with one of his nearest neighbors into Graham's Town, when

on their way they passed an extensive and beautiful farm, and on a

rising ground saw a large, well-built house peeping from among the

trees. Tryon commented upon the beauty of the scene.

"Its owner's name is Brunt," observed his companion; "some twenty years

ago he was sent out by the parish."

"How did he make his money?" demanded Tryon, almost breathlessly.

"As a Kafir trader."

A Kafir trader! It was strange that had never occurred to him, though he

was aware that large fortunes had been made, were constantly being made,

by taking into Kafirland various articles of British manufacture, and

bartering them with the natives for ivory, skins, &c. That was a mode of

acquiring wealth, that, amid all his search for a shorter road to

riches, he had quite overlooked.

The farm at Willow Dell had so far improved Tryon's circumstances, that

there was no difficulty in carrying out his new resolve; and a very

short time saw him depart into Kafirland with two wagons heavily laden,

two trusty drivers, and two boys, on the first of many journeys that

brought more gold beneath his roof than had ever been there before.

Tryon was on his return from one of these expeditions. Evening was

coming on; but he felt that, by riding fast, and using a nearer ford to

cross the Fish River than that by which the wagons must pass, he might

reach home that night, and he longed to see those for whose sake all

this exertion was made. Therefore, leaving directions with his people to

go round by the upper and shallow ford, and setting spurs to his horse,

he started for the nearer one, well known on the frontier as the Kafir

drift (or ford), and as being nearly or quite the most dangerous along

the border, consisting merely of a ledge of rock across the bed of the

deep and turbid river, considered scarcely passable save when the tide

is low, and in attempting which at undue seasons, many an unwary

traveler has met his death.

The light was so dim, that when Tryon stood on the steep hill

overlooking the valley, he could not discern the state of the river so

far beneath him, and it was not until he emerged from the trees, and

stood beside the brink, that he was aware that the tide was up, or

rather just begun to ebb. But he knew that with due caution the river

might be crossed in safety even then, by one accustomed to it, and he

accordingly prepared to take advantage of the remaining daylight by

passing without delay.

His horse's fore-feet were already in the water, when a man started up

on the opposite bank, and called aloud. Tryon paused.

"Do not attempt to cross; it is dangerous!" cried the stranger.

"I am not afraid; I am used to the drift," replied Tryon.

"But it is spring-tide!"

Tryon looked again at the river; it was certainly higher than was its

wont, but not sufficiently so to alarm him who had crossed it so often

that he thought he knew every stone of the way; and, intimating as much

to the stranger, he spurred his horse in. But his knowledge was less

accurate, or the tide was stronger than he deemed; for scarce had he

reached the middle of the stream, when the good steed lost his footing,

and both horse and rider were borne down among the eddies of the

impetuous current toward the sea, which, at a short ten miles' distance,

was breaking in giant surges on its rocky bar.

His idolized children! they were provided for, but not too well! was

Tryon's last thought, ere the waters overpowered him; and, with a wild

rushing in his ears, both sense and sensation passed away.

But the stranger on the southern bank was not one to stand idly by and

see a fellow-creature perish, without making an effort for his rescue,

even though that effort might involve him in a like danger; and when

Walter Hume threw himself into that dark, troubled water, he knew the

chances were equal that he would never tread those banks again. But

Walter's was too generous and fearless a heart to be chilled by such

selfish considerations, and he exerted himself to the uttermost in his

arduous task. His efforts were successful: and Tryon was drawn to the

shore some distance down the river, insensible, but still living; while

the steed, whose fate he had so nearly shared, was borne more and more

rapidly toward the waves that seemed roaring impatiently for their

victim.

After this, Walter Hume was a frequent guest at Willow Dell, and a most

welcome one to all save its master, for he soon divined that but for

the dark eyes and sweet tones of his beautiful and gentle Kate, Walter

had been less often seen. And Tryon destined not his Kate, the fairest

flower in his fair parterre, to share the humble fortunes of a frontier

farmer; though in bygone days he would have rejoiced to think so

comfortable a home--and shared by one so worthy--would ever be hers. But

now his hopes were higher far for her, his best beloved one; and though

he might not receive otherwise than cordially the man who had risked

life to save him from certain death, yet he looked with a displeased eye

on Walter's evident devotion to Kate, and with a secret resolution that

not even the weight of that obligation should induce him to sacrifice

his daughter's welfare: rather, far rather, would he have perished among

the dark eddies of the river.

Absorbed in his ambitious dreams, Tryon never thought of asking himself

whether the true sacrifice to Kate might not consist in giving up one to

whom, in the warmth of her gratitude and the worthiness of its object,

her young heart was becoming deeply attached. And when at length he

suspected that it was so, his regret and mortification knew no bounds;

yet he shrunk from wounding the feelings of his child by any allusion to

the subject, and contented himself by resolving that, even if redoubled

efforts were required, they should be made to hasten the hour when he

might be able to efface from his daughter's mind the impression which

Walter Hume had made, by removing her to a sphere he considered more

suited to her and her improving fortunes. Again he began to repine that

wealth was so slow of attainment, and again he felt that he would

willingly encounter any toil, any trial, ay, even any danger, to secure

to his children--especially his Kate--riches and consideration.

With these feelings acting as a fresh incentive to exertion, Tryon

started on another expedition into Kafirland. He had gained the

territories of the chief Kuru, and was bartering with him some snuff for

ivory; when, in the midst of the discussion that attends every

mercantile transaction with the avaricious Kafirs, the chief turned

pettishly away, exclaiming,

"You want too much for the brown powder; I will not give it; but I will

give you ten times as much for _black_."

He stopped abruptly, and fixed his bright dark, searching eye on Tryon,

as though eager to discover if his meaning was understood, and how the

proposition was received.

The trader turned aside as if he heard it not. Nevertheless, it was both

heard and comprehended. So the quick-witted Kafir suspected, and he

resumed:

"Yes, I would give much ivory, white as the clouds in yonder sky, many

skins, many horns, to him who will bring me the black powder and the

fire-sticks. His wagons will be so heavy his oxen will scarce be able to

draw them away, and he will never need to cross the rivers any more,

but may sit in the sun before his kraal, and make his women hoe his

corn."

Still Tryon answered not, but the Kafir's words struck a wild chord in

his heart. Could he but bring himself to do the chief's bidding, the

gold over whose tardy coming he had so lately sighed would at once be

his; his children would no longer be buried on a frontier farm, and his

daughter would go where Walter Hume would be forgotten. But he shrunk

from the means by which all these objects, which he had so much at

heart, must be obtained; for, by carrying powder and arms across the

border--save for self-defense--he would infringe the laws of the land

wherein he had prospered far more than he had ever hoped when he landed

on its shores. Tryon had been eager in his pursuit of riches; he had

bought cheap and sold dear, and he had exacted from every one to the

uttermost; but he had broken no law save that of leniency, and now he

shrank from doing so, and bade the temptation stand off from him: but it

would not. The spirit of Gain, that he had so long cherished, entered

into this new form, and haunted him day and night, filling his waking

thoughts, and shedding a golden hue over his slumbering visions.

When Tryon next entered his home at Willow Dell, the first object that

presented itself was the smiling, happy face of Kate, the next the

almost detested one of him who had drawn him from the depths of the Fish

River. It required little penetration to perceive that Walter Hume was

now the declared lover of Kate; and as soon as might be Walter confirmed

Tryon's suspicions by entreating his sanction to the already given

consent of Kate.

The father was silent for a few moments. But it was only to consider how

he might best reject the man to whom he owed so much, and what effect

that rejection would have on the happiness of Kate; but on this latter

point he soon satisfied himself that once removed to other scenes, this

ill-placed (for so he considered it) prepossession would soon pass away,

and Kate be a far happier and more prosperous woman than if he had

yielded to what he knew were her present feelings. Then, rising from his

seat he turned to the anxious suitor, and spoke kindly but firmly.

"I owe you much, Hume, very much, even a life, and believe me I do not

underrate the service, nor the risk at which it was rendered; and had

you asked me almost any other gift, it had been given with pleasure; but

I can not put my own life in comparison with my daughter's welfare."

"Whatever may be your decision, Mr. Tryon," said Walter, proudly, though

he turned deadly pale with apprehension, "and I much fear it is against

me, I do not wish an act of common humanity due from one man to another

to be remembered, far less looked on as a claim. But your daughter has

given me her heart," he added, earnestly; "and if you will trust her to

me, it shall be the study of my life that she never repents the gift."

"Her heart!" said Tryon, lightly. "Pooh!--she is scarce of an age to

know she has one. But I have other hopes for her," he continued,

seriously; "higher hopes--far higher:" and the once poverty-stricken man

drew himself up proudly, as he thought on the wealth his children would

possess.

Hume felt that those words and that manner sealed his lips to farther

entreaty, near as was the object to his heart; and, simply expressing a

hope that Kate might be happier in the future her father designed for

her, than he could have made her, he bowed, and left the house with a

crushed and embittered heart.

But however great might be Walter's sorrow, it did not exceed that of

Kate, when she learned her father's unlooked-for decision regarding one

toward whom she felt so much both of affection and gratitude. But all

her tears, and the yet more touching eloquence of her pale cheeks and

faded smiles were unavailing, and it seemed as if naught could shake

Tryon's resolution.

And yet the father's heart was only less sad than those of the lovers.

For Robert Tryon loved his daughter too fondly to look on her grief with

indifference; and it was but the hopes of a proud future, when Walter

Hume's name should have lost all interest for Kate, that enabled him to

remain steadfast to his resolves.

Meanwhile he was occupied with preparations for another journey into

Kafirland. At length the day came for his departure.

"Let me see more rosy cheeks on my return, child," he said, fondly, as

he took leave of her. "Don't you know I mean to make my Kate a lady?"

"I have no wish to be a lady, father," said Kate, with a subdued smile;

"if I can only do my duty in the state to which I am called, it will

suffice for me."

"Tush, girl, you know not of what you talk," replied Tryon, hastily;

"ere long my beautiful Kate will be rich and happy."

Kate sighed, as though she had no such gladdening dreams; but her father

heard her not--he was already watching the departure of his wagons, for

whose safety he had never before appeared so solicitous. Little did

those around him suspect they contained a secret whose discovery would

prove their owner's ruin; whose safe-keeping and success he hoped would

well-nigh complete the building-up of his fortunes. It might have been

that Tryon had withstood the temptation longer, nay, perhaps, even

overcome it altogether, had it not been for the attachment of Hume, and

his anxiety to remove Kate from Willow Dell, where of course her

recollection of him would be strongest.

Thus the voice of ambition spoke loudly within Tryon's heart,

overpowering all others, and he no longer hesitated to avail himself of

the opportunity fortune cast in his path; but at once applied himself to

making the needful preparations for complying with the wish of Kuru.

"Oh, Kate, Kate," he thought, as he rode into Kafirland after his

wagons, whose chief contents were contraband, "while you are weakly

mourning over your girlish disappointment, you little know the risk your

father is running for your advantage; but you will yet have cause to

thank him for it."

The speculation turned out even better than Tryon had ventured to hope.

The guns and powder arrived unsuspected at the kraal of Kuru, and in the

joy of his heart at obtaining such treasures, the chief was liberal

beyond what the trader had anticipated. The finest ivory and the most

valuable skins were given almost without limit, and Robert Tryon

departed from the kraal a far richer man than he had entered it.

"Oh, Robert Tryon, Robert Tryon!" he murmured, as he mounted his horse,

"you are now a happy and an enviable man, for you have lived to gain all

your ends!" and in his exultation he recked not to obtain them he had

offended against the law, and placed deadly weapons in the hands of

savages.

In the same spirit of self-gratulation he entered his home. There the

sight of Kate's dark mournful eyes, checked his gladness for a moment;

but he rallied quickly, and gayly reproached her with being so sad when

there was such cause for rejoicing, and then he told them his journey

had been most successful, without confiding more.

"The greatest blessing in life, father, is happiness, and that we may

enjoy without riches," said Kate, sadly. Poor girl! she felt that but

for this vaunted wealth, the current of her love had been allowed to

flow on unchecked.

How, then, could she rejoice in the announcement that gave such pleasure

to all the rest? Gold might gild their lot, but it had cast a chill upon

hers, and blighted it: and while they surveyed with pleasure the

transfer of the rich lading of the wagons to the house, Kate Tryon wept

bitterly in her little chamber, with the sound of light laughter from

without ringing in her ears. They laughed, and she wept--and both from

the same cause.

And now Tryon had resolved on relinquishing the trade by which he had

reaped so rich a harvest, and removing himself and family to some place

where their former humble station would be unknown; but ere that could

be done, he must dispose of the immense quantity of Kafir produce in his

house; and with that view he again left Willow Dell for Graham's Town.

He was on his return, and again he was proud-hearted and glad, as he was

wont to be of late, for again he had prospered in his dealings. How

different he was from the Robert Tryon who had landed on the South

African shores a few years ago, poor, sad, and desponding. Now he was

joyful and elated, not only with hope, but with success; and as he rode

along his thoughts wandered afar into the future, where he saw no harder

toil awaiting his children than to gather flowers in the world's bright

sunshine, and the fairest were gathered by his Kate, his beautiful and

then his joyous one. At length he started. Absorbed in those bright

visions, he had not heeded whither he went, and had strayed far from the

right road. Farther on, however, was a path that led from another

direction to Willow Dell.

The sun was sinking low in the heavens as he cantered over the flat

beyond whose farther edge lay the Dell; and in the coolness of coming

evening all the inhabitants of the wilds seemed arousing themselves to

activity and joy. The birds were darting among the trees, the insects

were floating in the sunshine, and the antelopes springing high into the

air, and playfully chasing each other over the plain. There are few

hearts that had not responded to such a scene, and Tryon's was now

attuned to all that spoke of gladness; and beneath its influence the

only dark spot in his sky--his Kate's sorrow--seemed to grow lighter;

and he was again wandering through his dreamland, and seeing Kate the

beloved and loving bride of some one he deemed well worthy, when he

approached the edge of the declivity, and the Dell lay before him. He

stopped abruptly, and gazed down as one lost in wonder, raised his hand,

and passed it quickly across his brow, as though to clear his vision,

then, uttering one loud cry of agony as the truth burst upon him, rushed

rapidly down the hill.

The cottage, around whose dear inmates he had but now been raising such

fairy structures, was no longer visible, and where it so late had stood

a column of gray smoke was slowly curling upward, telling a dark tale of

ruin, but to what extent as yet he knew not; though he was gazing on the

site of his vanished home, and standing beside the spot that was once

his hearth; for there was none by to tell him if the beloved ones by

whom it had been shared had escaped, or if he now looked on their

funeral pyre. He gazed eagerly and anxiously around. A person riding

rapidly down the hill met his eye, and he sprang toward him.

It was Walter Hume. He was ashy pale--paler yet than when he last had

passed from Tryon's presence; and even the latter could perceive that

his hand trembled as he gave it to him in silence.

"My wife--my children?" murmured Tryon, in a broken voice.

Still Hume was silent, but he drew away his hand, and covering his face

with both, sunk upon the grass in anguish he could no longer repress.

"My darlings! my precious ones! and is it come to this!" exclaimed the

bereaved man, wringing his hands in agony. "And are you all taken from

me--you for whom I toiled with so much pleasure--you for whom I even

sinned? Tell me, Hume, tell me all my sorrow, all my misery!"

And Hume did tell him, gently and tenderly, the tale that his having

lost his way alone prevented him from hearing earlier, as of the two

servants who had escaped, one had gone along the Graham's Town road in

quest of him, while the other had hurried off to Hume's farm, to tell

of how the Kafirs had burst upon them at dead of night, and how they two

had fled in the darkness, and under cover of the trees had witnessed the

fierce assailants deal death to all around, and even seen the

noble-hearted Kate shot by a tall savage, in a vain attempt to shield

her mother. And then the trader's vast stores of ivory and skins were

rifled, and his cattle swept away; and, finally, firing the house of

death, the murderers departed, carrying their plunder across the border.

"Who! who!" exclaimed Tryon, breathlessly, "who was the Kafir that has

so bereft me?"

"I know not; I never thought of asking," replied Walter. "But here is

something that perhaps may tell," and he lifted a new rifle from among

the long grass where it had lain concealed.

"It is--it is my sin that has overtaken me!" cried the wretched man,

throwing up his clasped hands. "It is one of the guns I sold to Kuru.

Oh, I am well punished!" he continued, pacing to and fro distractedly.

"I pined for wealth to aggrandize my children, and I sold arms to the

Kafirs that I might do it more quickly: those arms they have turned

against me, and have left me childless. My children, it is your father

who is your murderer!"

Hitherto, amid all his own grief, Hume had appeared to feel deeply for

the bereaved father; but now he started from his side with a look of

horror and detestation; and wild were the words of reproach and

indignation that burst from his lips as he realized the truth, that the

being he had so deeply loved--whom still he loved, though now there was

between them the barrier of a fearful death--had fallen a victim to

Tryon's ambition--that it was no evil chance that had caused Willow Dell

to be the scene of such a tragedy, but the deliberate resolve of the

Kafir to regain possession of the valuable ivory and skins Tryon had

received as his recompense--when he remembered that had not that fatal

passion filled Tryon's heart, Kate and himself might have been among

earth's happiest; and that now he stood well nigh broken-hearted beside

the smoking ruin that was her grave. And in the anguish of those

thoughts he forgot that Tryon was yet more unhappy than himself, for he

had no self-reproach; and he poured forth upon him a flood of bitter

accusations, which the miserable man's conscience echoed to the

uttermost; nay, even more, for he mourned for all his children and the

wife of his youth, for whom he had procured a violent death.

But the violence of these self-upbraidings could not last; and ere the

sun again shone on the grave-ruin, Tryon, unconscious of all things, was

writhing in the agony of a brain fever. Walter Hume attended him as

though he were his son; for he saw in him for the time but the father of

the gentle girl to whom his love had proved so terrible. But when that

was once over (for Tryon did recover, as those to whom life is a burden

often will), Walter shrunk from him again, as one whose hand had fired

the mine that overthrew his happiness.

Nor did Tryon seek his companionship, but wandered away none knew

whither, a sad and solitary man, leaving his name and his story to haunt

the once fair spot which his evil passions blighted.

THE WOODSTREAM.

A FRAGMENT FROM THE GERMAN.

The pine had finished his story, uttering his last words in a low and

melancholy tone. A deep silence lay over the whole forest; the babble of

the Woodstream was the only sound which interrupted the solemnity, as it

touched the stones and the roots with continued strokes--the eternal

time-piece of the forest; and as it prattled, the pictures which its

surface reflected sometimes clearly glittered in the sunshine, sometimes

sadly wandered through the shadows of the trees and the clouds, while

the monotonous sounds began to assume the form of rational discourse.

Though the little flowers and trees appeared to wait anxiously for the

Woodstream to tell his story, the solemn stillness continued yet awhile.

Ah, that silence of the forest! Who does not know it? To whom has it not

appeared as a holy Sabbath for the young flowers that dwell there? Even

the stag breathes more gently, and the sportsman himself, overwhelmed

with a holy, loving awe, falls on the grass in the calm recesses of the

wood. That is the time when the stream tells old stories; and thus he

began. Do you know my origin? That of the meadow-stream is well known.

He comes clearly out over some stone or little mound--a small but bright

spring; and then he grows larger and larger, so that his short, grassy

dress is no longer sufficient, however tall, for love of him it tries to

make itself. He puts on at last a short boddice of rushes with loose,

flowing feathers. The course of the mountain-stream is also known. Snow

lies on the heights--that is the everlasting cap of the forests--dyed

only by the rising and setting sun, and adorned by the clouds as they

pass and repass with vails of unrivaled beauty. Notwithstanding its

unchangeable appearance, gay life reigns within. There are little

springs bubbling through the clefts, and drops of water playing eternal

hide-and-seek. The all-powerful sun kisses these mountain-tops, and even

this ice-cold heart is melted by his eternal love.

The fountains are the children of these kisses and there they play at

hide-and-seek till their home is too narrow for them, and then they find

an outlet. But when they first catch a glimpse of the far-world lying

before them, they are frightened and overcome, and do not receive

courage to go on till they are joined by other little curious streams;

and then they proceed--first slowly and cautiously, afterward faster and

faster, till at length a bright mountain stream bursts forth springing

from rock to rock like the chamois-goat, whose origin is likewise hard

by.

Sometimes he foams on high, like the snow of the mountain; sometimes he

flows, shining clearly, an unbroken mirror, like the ice of the

glaciers; and then descending into the valley, he reposes in the midst

of nature's calm beauty.

But where do I, the Woodstream, originate? You will not find the source

which gave me birth--neither the snow nor the ice whose child I am. Here

you think he arises, and you peep behind a stone or moss-heap; but far

off, behind a knotted tree-root, he laughs at you. Now hiding himself

behind a thousand herbs and blossoms, then sinking into a whirl, among

stones, old time-worn stones, which put green caps on their gray heads

because they are jealous of the forest's verdure.

Now look farther on still, and there you will see me flowing, peeping

out here and there--but you will not find my source. That remains the

riddle of the forest. But if you listen I will unravel it.

Above, on a clear cloud which lightly passed over the plain, sat a

little sprite, the favorite servant of the fairy queen, arranging her

lady's ornaments. She took out of the casket a long string of costly

pearls, a present from the ocean queen. Titania had ordered her to take

great care of them, because they were her favorite ornaments. There are

other pearls, but these, although tears, she does not weep; and they are

only brought to light by the fisherman who wrenches them from her at the

peril of his life. The little fairy, delighted in her occupation, held

the string high in the air, thinking, perhaps, they would glitter more

in the sunbeams; but these pearls are not like precious stones, which

borrow their brilliancy from the world around them. The tear of the

ocean incloses its lustre within itself, and sends forth radiance from

within.

Behind the fairy sat Puck, the wag who provokes men and sprites; and

while the little creature rejoiced over her pearls, he cut the string

and down they rolled, gliding over the clouds, and at length alighting

on the earth. For a moment the little fairy sat paralyzed with

consternation; then putting forth all her strength she flew after the

falling treasure.

Flying an unmeasured space between the earth and the clouds, and seeing

the little balls roll glittering past her on all sides, she would have

returned hopelessly, had she not remarked under her, in a green field,

on the grass and flowers, a thousand lustrous pearls. She thought they

were some of those she had lost, and began diligently to collect them

into the casket she held in her hand. The box was nearly filled, when

Titania's lovely servant remarked that they were not pearls, the tears

of the ocean, but dew, the tears of the flowers.

Still she went on seeking the lost treasure. Seeing tears hanging from a

mother's eye, who bent over her dying child, she collected them--these

were tears of love. Going on, she found many other weeping eyes; so many

tears that I can not give names to them all. Ah, how many tears are

shed on earth! Out of men's eyes spring a wondrous stream--_its_ source

is the heart. Against this, pain, melancholy, repentance, and sometimes

also joy, must knock, and then the stream flows. It is a powerful

talisman; it has a most potent charm. That man's heart must be hard

indeed when even a stranger's tears fail to move him.

Though people contradict this, and say, I have no pity for those tears,

they are deserved; but this is very false, for they are tears still; and

perhaps come from the heart which has been most severely pierced. Well,

our little fairy collected them, and holding the casket firm under her

arm, she swept on high to the clouds. The little box became heavier and

heavier--for tears do not weigh light--and lo! when she opened it, all

the imaginary pearls liquified: and hopelessly she fled from cloud to

cloud--for these loved her--and she poured her complaint into their ear.

The clouds sent their rain down to the earth to fetch the lost. It

streamed and flowed, and trees and leaves bent themselves, and the dew

was wiped up, but the ocean's pearls were not found again.

Puck the wag, saw the poor little fairy's pain which he had caused, and

it troubled him--for he liked to laugh at her, but not to give her pain.

Down he dipped into the lap of earth, and fetched, by means of his

friends the goblins and gnomes, gay, glittering ore, and shining

spangles.

"There you have all your trash again," said he; "or, rather, better and

more shining."

The little fairy rejoiced, and the clouds left off raining. But when she

looked nearer to the gift, it was nothing better than glittering

trumpery; and angrily she took the shell wherein it lay, and threw it

afar off, making a wide, radiant circle over the whole horizon. That was

the first rainbow.

Often since that time, when the clouds weep, Puck fetches his spangles,

and the comedy is repeated.

Beautiful is the rainbow; we all rejoice to see it, and so does man. But

it is a vain, deceitful object--a gift of the gnomes--a production of

Puck, the wag. People know this quite well, because when they run after

it, it disappears before their faces. And where does it go? It has

fallen into the sea, say the children, the water-nymphs make their gay

dresses of it. Well, it happened, as I say, by accident; but Puck

repeated it intentionally, for he passed over with the remaining

spangles, and so formed a second rainbow. This is why this brilliant

appearance presents itself twice in the horizon at the same time.

The fairy continued to sit sadly on the cloud, and could not rejoice at

the first rainbow. Presently Titania came by. Fortunately at that time

the splenetic queen was in a good humor. Perhaps she could the more

easily forget her loss because an ocean sprite, whose heart she had won,

gave her the promise of another set. For the great are generous, even

with tears.

But what should she do with the heavy contents of the casket?

"Hasten down to the most secret part of the forest," said Titania, "and

pour these drops in the midst of the salubrious plants; let the tears

remain what they are, but united they shall remain one great tear of the

forest."

The little servant obeyed the queen's order, and thus the Woodstream had

its source. So you see the forest has likewise its tear--like that of

man. So likewise do I spring from the heart--the hidden heart of the

forest. When Sorrow, Desire, or Pain knock at it, then the tear streams

forth. In the summer, when so many children of the forest are destroyed

and annihilated, I flow gently, but unceasingly. In the autumn, when

every thing says farewell, I weep in silent sorrow over the blossoms and

leaves which fall in my way, that they also may be entombed with regret.

In the wild solitude of winter I am benumbed, and the tear becomes a

pearl, like the closed grief of the ocean. Thus I hang with faint lustre

on stones and roots, which look like weeping eyes.

In the spring, when desire rises in every heart, then the tear of the

forest flows in pensive joy. I overflow the borders of my course,

greeting flowers and grass as far as I can. Often pity moves me; for

when the clouds weep rain or the flowers dew, the Woodstream swells. Do

you not perceive by the breath of feeling and melancholy which is

exhaled from me, that I spring from the heart of the forest. The heaving

rush presses itself nearer and nearer to me. Where I flow the sensitive

forget-me-not more especially flourishes; it glances at me, as you have

seen blue eyes at the hour of parting. The weeping willow hangs her

branches down to my eternally murmuring waves. Every where, I excite

feeling; even the stone which stops my course--the unchangeable stone,

over which time passes unmarked--weeps over me transparent tears, and my

kisses are the only things to which it does not oppose itself.

Now Puck, the wag, is envious of the Woodstream, whom he would surpass

with his trash, but sees him, nevertheless, maintain continued

importance; and often oddly puts a knotted root or pointed branch in my

way, that my drops may spring up and be disturbed. You will then see in

the sunbeams gay colors play around me, like those of the rainbow: that

is Puck's trumpery, which he hangs about my lustre as if he would say,

"Are not my gifts beautiful?" But soon they are gone, and I flow

unchangeably: so often is the mirthful and ludicrous linked with sorrow

and melancholy, as if contrived by the spirit of contradiction. Even the

heart of man, when breaking beneath a load of sorrow, bursts forth into

ludicrous sallies--a laugh is seen on the weeping face: in the midst of

Nature's profoundest harmony a vacant distortion meets us; on the

richest carpets of lawn a knotted root or faded dry branch stretches

itself; between healthy, full-blown roses you will find a mis-shapen

sister obtruding her weird face. Puck causes all this. It is a deep

mind that can see how Nature makes all these incongruities to end in

harmony.

The Woodstream ceased. Once more deep silence prevailed; leaves and

blossoms dared only to whisper and murmur. Presently a dead branch

cracked, and then fell from an old oak-top, disturbing the leaves and

blossoms as they fell into the stream. This was Puck's work. A moment,

and all was still.

THE TALISMAN.--A FAIRY TALE.

It was a lovely afternoon in "the leafy month of June," and the

midsummer sun shone bright on the velvet slope of a smooth lawn, and

glittered on the shining leaves of a large Portugal laurel which grew

upon it, under the shadow of which sat a merry party of little people,

busy with their dolls and play-things. Never had children a more

glorious play-room than was this, with its sapphire roof, and its

emerald floor. Here were music and perfumes, exquisite as a monarch

could command, for the skylark was pouring down his flood of melody, and

every breath of the soft west wind came laden with sweets from the roses

and mignonnette which bloomed so luxuriantly around. It was one of

nature's gala days--one of those festivals which are more frequent than

great men's banquets, and to which all are right welcome without cards

of invitation.

The young folks seemed to be taking their part in the universal

gladness, for the merry talk and the light laugh went round, and all was

harmony.

"Look," cried the eldest of the party, a girl about twelve years of age,

lifting up her doll, triumphantly, "I have quite finished; does it not

fit well?"

"Oh, how pretty!" cried the other three children in a breath.

"I should like just such a frock as that," said a very little girl. "Do

make me one, Marian; you said you would."

"Yes, to be sure I did, Lucy, and so I will. Let us begin it directly."

And so they set about selecting the materials. All the stores of silk

and muslin were displayed, and now this and now that pattern proposed

and admired, and in its turn rejected for a newly-unfolded rival. At

last, Lucy's eye fell upon one which struck her as just the thing. "This

is the prettiest," cried she; "I should like this, Marian, if you

please, better than any of the others."

As ill-luck would have it, Marian at that very moment drew forth

another, in her opinion, much more suitable for the purpose than the one

selected by her little sister. "This will do much better, Lucy," she

said, decidedly; "it will look much prettier made up, and as I am going

to make it, I ought to know."

"But I don't like it so well," objected Lucy.

"You will like it when it is made," replied Marian, drawing out the

pattern she had chosen, and pushing away the remainder.

"Let her have the one she likes best," said Caroline, "it is for her

doll."

"Oh, very well, if she likes her doll to be a fright, she can have it,"

said Marian, and she snatched the objectionable piece from the pile with

a jerk which threw the rest upon the lawn to gambol with the breeze, and

a merry dance they had before they could be again collected into a

bundle.

"See what you have done, Marian," cried Caroline; "the silks will be

spoiled with rolling about the garden."

"How can I help the wind?" answered Marian, sharply, and she seated

herself to her work with a scornful toss of the head.

The silks were collected, the chairs re-arranged, and the little party

again settled to their occupations; but harmony and happiness were at an

end. The same change had come over the moral atmosphere which sometimes

takes place in that of the physical world, even in the sunny month of

June. The storm, even when it only menaces from afar, chases all

brightness from the landscape, and causes a chilly air, which makes one

sad and shivery, to take the place of the balmy summer breeze. So cold

and so cheerless were now our young friends under the laurel.

Caroline sat with averted face. Lucy looked anxious and

uncomfortable--she would almost rather have been less obliged to Marian

than she ought to feel just now. As to Marian, she seemed oppressed, as

the clouds are when charged with electric fluid. She had not room

enough. Lucy came too near her. Her scissors would not cut. The doll's

figure was bad, there was no fitting it. Poor doll! well for it, it was

no baby, or sharp would have been its cries under the hands of its

mantua-maker? As it was, it did not escape unhurt. As Marian turned it

round with a sudden movement, not the gentlest in the world, its nose,

that feature so difficult to preserve entire in the doll physiognomy,

came in contact with the sharp edge of the stool, which served as a

table, and when it again presented itself to the alarmed gaze of Lucy,

its delicate tip was gone.

"Oh, my doll!" cried the little girl, her fear of Marian's anger

entirely vanishing in grief at this dire calamity; "you have quite

spoiled her!"

"Where? I have not hurt her, child!"

"Yes, you have," said Caroline; "look at her nose, that is with putting

yourself into a passion about nothing."

"Who said I was in a passion?" cried Marian. "I never said a word; but

you are always accusing me of being in a passion."

"Because you are so angry if the least word is said," answered Caroline.

"If you had not banged the doll down so, it would not have been broken."

"Oh, very well! if that is the case, the sooner I leave you the better!"

said Marian, rising with an air of great dignity, but with a beating

heart and flashing eye, and she went away.

She walked rapidly through the garden, very hot and very angry, and

with the painful feeling in her mind that she was one of the most

persecuted, ill-used people in the world. It was very odd, very unkind;

every body accused her of ill-humor, nobody loved her, her mamma

reproved her, her sisters quarreled with her, she had not a friend in

the world; what could be the reason she was treated thus?

Yes, Marian asked herself this question; but questions are sometimes

asked without much desire for information, and perhaps Marian's was, for

she did not reflect in order to solve it. She strolled through the

garden sadly enough when the first feeling of indignation had in some

measure subsided. She went to her own garden, but she found no pleasure

there, though a rosebud which she had been watching for some days had

opened at last, and proved to be a perfect beauty both in form and

color. At any other time, Marian would have rushed into the house to

look for mamma, and no matter how busy or how much engaged mamma might

have been, she would have begged her to come out and see the last new

nosette. But now she passed it with a cursory glance, and continued her

walk through the gardens and shrubberies, till she was tired of walking,

and tired of her own company, but still without any desire to seek that

of others. She stood before the bee-hives for a while, and observed the

bees as they returned home, their wings glittering in the sunshine, and

their thighs laden with their golden spoil. At first she felt half vexed

with them for being so busy, and working so harmoniously, but by degrees

their soft hum soothed her ruffled spirits, and she sat down on a bank

of turf at a little distance to watch their motions. It was a pretty

seat that she had chosen. Close beside her blossomed some luxuriant

roses, and among them, a large white lily raised its head, its snowy

petals contrasting finely with the green leaves of the rose-bushes and

the deep crimson of their blossoms. Marian's eyes were riveted by the

magnificent flower, and she must have gazed upon it long, for, as she

gazed, its form became indistinct, its petals looked like fleecy clouds,

and its orange stamens stretched into long lines of gold. She rubbed her

eyes, but the flower did not again resume its original form. A pillar of

mist was rising from its cup, which by degrees took a solid form, and

presented to the eyes of the astonished girl a female figure, of

diminutive proportions, but of such exquisite grace and beauty, that she

did not believe it was possible for any thing earthly to be equal to it.

Fanciful as it may seem, the little sylph bore a striking resemblance to

the flower from which she sprung. Her clothing was of the purest white,

her hair like shining gold, and the small zephyr-like wings which

adorned her shoulders, were of that delicate green with which we see the

early snowdrop and the wings of the butterfly so tenderly streaked.

Although she did not in the least resemble Cinderella's godmother, or

any of the dear old ladies with spindles that we read of in the nursery

tales, Marian had no doubt that she was a fairy. Marian was an

enterprising person, and her acquaintance with literature was not

confined to that which was served up to her in the schoolroom and

nursery. She had peeped into a big book on papa's library table, and she

had read of fairies who could hide in acorn cups, and wrap themselves in

the snake's enameled skin--who waged war with the humble bee for his

honey-bag, and made them tapers from his waxen thighs. Here, perhaps,

stood before her one of that very company!

The fairy then, for such we may venture to call her, descended

gracefully, and alighting on a vase of mignonnette which stood at the

feet of Marian, she surveyed the little girl for some moments with a

look of tenderness and compassion. At last she spoke, and her voice,

though not loud, was clear and distinct as the sound of a silver bell.

"My poor child," said she, "you are lonely and unhappy; what ails you?"

Surprised as Marian was, she felt no fear of this gentle apparition, and

would have answered, but, unluckily, she scarcely knew what to say. She

had little idea how vague her grievances were before she was called upon

to put them into words. She hung her head, and was silent.

"I need not ask you," continued the fairy; "perhaps I know your troubles

better than you do yourself."

Marian sobbed. "I am very, very unhappy," said she.

"I know it, child," answered, the fairy; "what will you say if I give

you something which will cure your sorrow, something which will make you

glad yourself, and cause you to bring gladness wherever you go--which

will make all who know you love you, and which will prevent you from

ever suffering again what you suffer to-day?"

"Ah!" sighed Marian, "if that could indeed be."

"Here is a talisman," said the fairy, "which, if worn about you

constantly, will effect all I have promised."

Marian looked incredulous as she gazed on the jewel which was offered to

her. It resembled a pearl, and reflected a mild and tranquil light; but

beautiful as it was, it was not an ornament which Marian would have

chosen. She loved brilliant colors and dazzling gems, and the sparkle of

the diamond or the hue of the ruby would have possessed more attraction

for her than the soft ray of the fairy talisman.

"How can a jewel like that do all you say?" she inquired.

The fairy smiled. "You shall go with me," she said, "and judge of its

effects from your own observation." So saying, she waved her hand toward

the lily, and behold another marvel! The flower expanded, and without

losing altogether its original form, it became a chariot, drawn by

milk-white doves. Tho fairy seated herself in it, and beckoned Marian to

take her place by her side. The little girl obeyed. She had seen too

much that was marvelous, to wonder how her mortal bulk could be

supported in that aerial vehicle; but there she was, sailing through

the air, above the garden and the orchard, above the house and the

fields, higher and higher, till there was nothing to be seen but mist

and clouds.

Yes, Marian was among the clouds at last! How often when she had watched

some gorgeous sunset, had she longed to penetrate the golden valleys of

that bright cloud-land! But, alas! now that it was no longer distant,

its glory had disappeared! Instead of silver seas, golden lakes, purple

mountains, and ruby temples, here was nothing to be seen but gray vapor,

nothing to be heard but the fluttering of their winged conductors; and

before they descended, Marian had begun to be heartily tired of the

monotony of this aerial journey. She was glad when they once more heard

"the earth's soft murmuring," when they once more beheld groves, and

fields, and waters, and the habitations of men. On and on they skimmed,

now near the surface of the earth, till they hovered over a city, larger

than any town Marian had ever seen before, so large, that there seemed

no end to the mazes of its streets and alleys. Seemingly in the very

centre of this city the fairy alighted. Marian shivered as she looked

round on the wretchedness of the dwellings, the impurity of the streets,

and the squalid aspect of their inhabitants. She shrank from the

observation of the latter, as the fairy beckoned her onward. "Do not

fear," said her guide, observing her embarrassment, "we are invisible to

mortal eyes, and can go where we will without being noticed. This seems

to you a strange place to look for jewels?"

Marian assented, but re-assured by the fairy's words and countenance,

she followed her more boldly, and they entered a dwelling, which bore

evidence of a degree of wretchedness and poverty of which Marian could

not previously have formed an idea.

It was very full of people. Some men sat at a table playing with dirty

cards; in a corner, on the floor, was a group of children, and Marian

was almost surprised to observe that even here the children were at

play. They were at play, and they seemed as much interested with the

rags and potsherds which formed their play-things as ever Marian and her

sisters had been with the costly trifles with which lavish godfathers

and wealthy friends had furnished their nursery; and their play, too,

was much like the play of other children in better clothing. Marian felt

a fellow-feeling with them, as she looked on; for on those young faces

sorrow and sin had not yet left the dark traces of their presence. Their

eyes sparkled with joy, and they laughed merrily, as she often laughed

herself; and when the brow of one grew dark at some slight offense given

by another, and a sharp rebuke fell from his lips, she could not conceal

from herself that neither was that feeling or that tone utterly

incomprehensible to her. The rebuke was retorted with increased

bitterness, and by-and-by words were uttered by those childish lips

which made her shudder. The words were soon accompanied by blows, and

the blows succeeded by cries, until the uproar grew so loud as to

excite the attention of their elders. And now, oh! Marian, you listened

in vain for the mild reproof, the solemn admonition, from which you have

often turned aside with secret vexation and disgust. Blows and horrid

curses stilled this tumult, and brought the young rioters to silence,

though their lowering brows and sullen eyes showed that the storm was

still raging in their bosoms.

Marian turned away her head in disgust. The fairy pointed to the other

group, among whom some disagreement had risen about their game, and the

little girl's disgust was turned to terror, when she saw the expression

which anger gave to the strong features, and heard the fierce tones

which it imparted to the deep voices of the men. "Oh! take me from these

horrid people," said she to the fairy, in an imploring voice.

"Presently," returned the fairy; "but let us think a while before we

turn away from this terrible lesson. These men were once children like

those little ones, and their anger was no more formidable. Now their

feelings are the same, but they have greater power to work evil;

therefore do their passions appear to you so much more fearful."

As she spoke, the door opened, and a woman entered. She was a pale,

worn-looking creature, and she carried on her head a bundle so large

that Marian wondered how she had contrived to support it. She placed it

down with some difficulty, and then, looking at the card-players with a

scornful countenance, she addressed some words to one among the number.

The noise caused by the dispute was so great that Marian could not

exactly catch their import, but they seemed mixed up with taunts and

reproaches, and the woman pointed, as she uttered them, to the bundle

which she had just before deposited upon the floor. The man, before

angry, seemed irritated to madness by her words and her manner: he

started up, and struck her violently--she fell to the ground. Marian

covered her face with her hands. When she removed them, she found

herself once more in the street.

As the fairy prepared to lead the way into another dwelling, Marian hung

back. "Let me go away," said she; "I wish to see no more of such

dreadful scenes."

"Fear not," said her guide; "you have not yet seen my talisman. It is

worn in this dwelling, and where it is worn scenes such as you have just

witnessed never occur."

Marian felt compelled to follow, but she did so unwillingly.

The room they now entered bore as strongly the evidences of poverty as

had done the one they visited before, but it did not look so utterly

wretched. There was a greater air of cleanliness and decency throughout

the apartment, and also in the appearance of its inmates. A woman sat

sewing by the side of a table. Her emaciated form, pallid features, and

deeply-lined countenance, spoke of want, and toil, and woe; but there

was something that made the eye dwell with complacency on that wasted

figure, clad in rags, and surrounded by all the externals of the most

sordid poverty. Yes, that was it! There was the talisman! it shone

serenely on this poor woman's brow, and lighted up all that wretched

hovel with its heavenly radiance! It was reflected on the faces of the

pallid children; the two younger of whom were playing on the floor,

while the elder girl, seated on a stool at her mother's feet, was

nursing a baby. The baby was poorly and fretful, and, at last, the

little girl, wearied with its restlessness, looked beseechingly toward

her mother. Her mother could ill spare a moment from her work, but she

laid it down, and took up the suffering infant. Ill as it was, the

talisman seemed to have a charm even for it--its cry became less

frequent, and it soon fell into a quiet sleep. The woman laid it quietly

down, and resumed her employment. She was scarcely seated, when a

footstep approached the door. "Father!" cried one of the little ones, in

a tone of pleasure, and toddled toward the door.

The father entered, but at the first sight of him the joy of the

children was at an end. He looked as if he had been drinking--his face

was flushed, and his brow dark and lowering. Marian shrunk, terrified at

his appearance: he was one of the men who had been quarreling over the

card-table.

The children appeared more frightened and unhappy than surprised at the

mood in which he entered. They retreated hastily, seeming to anticipate

his intention of pushing them out of the way, and he seated himself

before the fire. His wife did not speak; as she glanced at him, she

turned first red, then pale, but she bent her eyes over her work, making

quiet answers to the rough words he from time to time addressed to her,

and turning the wondrous talisman full upon him as she spoke. Its light

soon worked a change. He looked less suspiciously around him, his brow

relaxed, and the children began to steal nearer and nearer, till at last

the youngest climbed to his knees, and prattled away to him in his

childish way, as he had before prattled to his mother. The mother

smiled, as she rose and prepared to take her finished work to her

employer. She hoped to procure the evening meal with the wages of her

labor. _He_ had brought in no money to-day, she knew full well, but she

did not ask; and with a kindly voice, she requested him to watch over

the young ones in her absence, and glided from the door. The talisman

must have dazzled his eyes as she went out, for they glistened with

moisture; he muttered something, but Marian did not hear what it was,

and before she had time to inquire of her conductor, she found herself

once more seated in the fairy chariot, and rising rapidly above the

smoke and gloom of these homes of misery and want. A little while ago,

she would have hailed her escape from this sad region with delight; but

now she would fain have seen more of the wearer of the talisman.

Something of this kind she remarked to the fairy: "Ah! Marian,"

answered her guide; "there are jewels which render even squalid poverty

attractive, and without which wealth, decked in all its ornaments, is

void of charms!"

On and on they floated, leaving far behind these scenes of destitution,

and soon the city rose fair and bright below. Stately palaces bounded

the spacious streets. The skill of the sculptor and of the architect had

ornamented the exterior of every building, and in the balconies and

gardens bloomed the choicest of flowers and shrubs, perfuming the air

with their fragrance, and delighting the eye with their beauty. The

fairy alighted, and, beckoning Marian to follow her, she entered one of

the mansions. The little girl had been delighted by the aspect of the

streets through which she had passed, but she was doubly charmed by the

magnificence of the interior of the dwelling in which she now found

herself. It seemed to her like one of the enchanted palaces of which she

had read in the "Arabian Nights;" and, lost in admiration, she forgot

all about the talisman as she passed through the gorgeous apartments,

adorned with pictures, statues, and magnificent draperies. Gayly dressed

people occupied some of these rooms, but the fairy and Marian did not

stop until they reached one in which there were children. Some of these

children were older than Marian, some younger. A party of the younger

ones were busy at play, and, oh, what playthings were spread out before

them! In her wildest flights of fancy, Marian had never imagined such

appliances and means of amusement as were here exhibited. Such dolls!

dressed in such exquisite style--such varieties of all kinds of toys;

and, what Marian coveted more than all the rest, such shelves of gayly

bound books, with smart pictures, and most tempting titles. What happy

children must these be! But, strange to say, their play was not half so

hearty as had been that of the poor children with the broken potsherds.

Their laugh was less merry, and their manner more listless; but they

became animated before long. They got angry, and then Marian could not

but confess, that, in spite of the difference of all external things,

there was indeed a resemblance between these children and those in the

humble roof she had so lately visited; for the scowling brow, the loud

voice, the scornful lip, were common to both parties. One of the elder

boys, who was lounging over a book, interposed, in an authoritative

tone, to end the quarrel. He laid his hand, as he spoke, on the arm of

the little girl whose voice was loudest. Perhaps his touch was not very

gentle, for she turned sharply round, and said something which brought

the youth's color to his temples, and made his eyes flame with anger. He

snatched the costly doll from the girl's arms, and threw it violently

against the ground, kicked the little spaniel, which was crouching at

her feet, till it fled howling to another asylum, and seemed about to

proceed to other acts of violence, when the entrance of a servant,

announcing that the horses were ready for his ride, effected a

diversion. A quarrel next arose between the boy and his sister, who was

prepared to accompany him, and, in angry discussion, they quitted the

apartment. Marian watched them from the window with a feeling somewhat

akin to envy, for a pony, like one of those now mounted by these favored

children, she had long thought would make her perfectly happy. But these

young people did not seem happy. There was a look of gloom and

discontent on the brow of either, as they rode off with averted faces

and in sullen silence, which spoke of hearts but ill at ease.

Silence prevailed for some time in the room they had so lately left.

Play was at an end, and the children sat, some at a solitary occupation,

some in idleness, but all with dull and fretful faces, apparently little

cheered by the many means of enjoyment so lavishly scattered around

them. By-and-by, a new-comer entered. He was a pale, sickly-looking boy,

very lame, and possessing few of the personal attractions which

distinguished the rest of the children of the family. Even his dress

seemed plainer and less becoming than that of the others; but he had not

been long in the room before the charm which his presence diffused made

Marian suspect that he was the wearer of the talisman--and so it proved.

And now the children played again, if less noisily, more cheerfully than

before, and all seemed happier. Even the little dog had a different

expression, as he lay with his nose resting on his paws, ready to start

up at the first playful word; and Marian obeyed her conductor's summons

to depart with a lighter heart. But she had no wish to linger in that

magnificent abode. The manners of these children, in spite of their gay

clothes and their fashionable airs, filled her with disgust, which was

probably expressed in her countenance; for the fairy smiled as she

looked at her, and said, in a gentle voice--"Ah! Marian, it is one thing

to be a beholder of a scene of variance, and another to be one of the

actors in it. Passion does not now blind your eyes, and you can see

strife and anger in their true and hateful colors. But is it always so?"

Marian blushed. She felt the rebuke the fairy's words conveyed, and she

hung her head in silence.

"I have not wished to pain you needlessly by these scenes," continued

the fairy; "but to make you more sensible of the value of the talisman

which it is in my power to bestow upon you, and to cause you to guard it

well. For I must warn you, Marian, that it is easily lost, and, when

lost, most difficult to be regained. Neglect, and the want of regular

use, will cause it to vanish, you know not where, and a miracle would be

required to put it once more in your power. Are you willing to accept

it, and to do your best to guard such an invaluable treasure?"

Marian's eyes shone with thankfulness, as she intimated her delight and

gratitude. The fairy attached the charm to her neck, and scarcely was

it fastened, when a tranquil happiness, such as she had never before

experienced, was diffused through her whole being. She felt so calm, so

much at ease, that she was content to sit silent until they alighted in

her father's garden, and there her guide immediately vanished. And now

Marian's life was indeed a happy one. She seemed to walk surrounded by

an atmosphere of love and joy. All loved her, and, for her part, her

heart went forth in love to every one with whom she communicated. If any

childish differences arose between herself and her brothers or sisters,

it was but to show the talisman, and voices became once more gentle,

brows once more bright. No wonder the precious talisman was the object

of sedulous attention and most constant watchfulness! Well did it

deserve all the care that could be lavished on it, and for a time that

of Marian was unwearied. But this watchfulness relaxed, and on one or

two occasions of extreme emergency, the talisman could not be found

until after some moments of anxious search. This troubled its owner, and

caused her to increase her vigilance. But again her efforts slackened,

and one unlucky morning, when her brothers had been more than usually

tormenting, she was horrified to perceive that it was entirely gone! In

the vague hope of relief from the friendly fairy, she hurried down the

garden, and sought the lily. But, alas! the lily was no longer to be

seen. Nothing remained but the brown stalk and withered leaves, which

was more melancholy than if the place of the fairy flower had been a

perfect blank. Marian stretched forth her hands in despair toward the

place where the fairy had disappeared, and burst into tears.

"Oh, Marian, where have you been all this time?" cried the voice of

little Lucy, close to her. "Nobody has seen you since you left us on the

lawn, two hours ago, and we want you. Cousin Fanny has come to tea, and

I am to have my little tea-things, and you must make tea."

Marian rubbed her eyes, and looked much amazed; then she muttered

something about the fairy.

"Fairy!" cried Lucy, with a merry laugh; "what nonsense you are talking!

As if there were any real fairies! But do come; we can do nothing

without you; and just give me one kiss first."

Marian pressed a kiss of reconciliation (for such the child meant it to

be) on the lifted face. Then she said, as she took her hand to accompany

her to the house, "Oh, Lucy, Lucy, you must have the talisman!"

And now my story is told, and you, young folks, must guess my

riddle--What was the talisman?

MICHELET, THE FRENCH HISTORIAN.

In 1847, three works, on the same important subject issued from the

Parisian press. Lamartine published his "History of the Girondins,"

Louis Blanc and Michelet the first volumes of their respective

"Histories of the French Revolution." All three were strange

productions, and all of them attracted much attention. It has even been

said that they so powerfully affected the public mind, as greatly to

have contributed to bring about the Revolution of February, 1849. This,

however, is an exaggeration and an error. It is an exaggeration,

inasmuch as, in the general case--whatever may be the ultimate influence

which a writer produces on his age--it will seldom begin sensibly to

operate in so short a space of time as a single year; it is an error,

for a little consideration will show that the works in question were not

the causes, but the signs or prognostics, of the approaching movement.

They did not help to kindle the flame that was so soon to break forth:

they were, on the contrary, a preliminary ebullition ejected by it.

Beyond this, there was no real connection between these precursors and

the events they foreshadowed; foreshadowings, however, they undoubtedly

were, and each of a different kind--Lamartine being the symptom of the

poetical, Louis Blanc of the political and social, Michelet of the

philosophical agitation that had long been smouldering in the heart of

France, and was at length to force its way into open existence.

The fate of these three authors has corresponded to their

characteristics. The enterprise of February once accomplished, and the

excitement of it past, men soon came to reckon the cost and value of the

work, and the merits and qualifications of the workmen. The poet, in

this estimate, was pronounced to be a dreamer, and his splendid visions

were condemned as wanting reality; he was thrown aside into the shade.

The socialist-politician, at the same time, was discovered to be

half-charlatan, half-Utopian; his plans and theories were found to lead

to no practical result, and, indeed, to stand no practical test; he was

sent into exile. The philosopher alone remained, not more, not less than

what he had been. And this shows the advantage which philosophy, be it

true or false, possesses--in this, that, so long as it confines itself

to the closet, and abstains from pushing forward into open action, it

does not attract popular attention, needs no popular support, and thus

escapes popular censure. The poet lives by applause, or the hope of

gaining it; the politician by success, or the struggle to succeed: the

one must have sympathy, the other, tools; but the philosopher depends on

himself and his system; he is sustained by his own convictions, relies

on his sturdy faith, and is thus as much beyond the want of external

vindication as he is beyond the reach of external justice. So it has

been with Michelet. He has remained in his obscurity; he has been a

spectator, and not an actor; his name will not be written in the annals

of these years; but, in return, he has maintained his position; and

while the brilliant star of Lamartine is eclipsed, and the portentous

but vapory blaze of Louis Blanc has exhaled, the farthing candle of the

retired sage remains unextinguished and visible.

Of course, when we speak of obscurity and farthing candles, we allude to

Michelet only in his character of a public man--a character which can

scarcely be said to belong to him at all. In other respects, he is

sufficiently distinguished. His learning is considerable; his reasoning

is generally specious; his style is almost always singular. As a

thinker, if not very profound, he is often very original; as a

rhetorician, he makes up by his earnestness what he lacks in eloquence;

so that, if he does not carry his readers along with him, he at all

events secures their attention; and, as a professor, he bears a

reputation which, though not perhaps very enviable, is very great.

Of the two families from which he springs, the one was from Picardy, the

other from the Ardennes; both were of the peasant class. Be it remarked,

however, that the English word _peasant_ does not adequately render the

French word _paysan_; _yeoman_, perhaps, would be nearer the mark, for a

French _paysan_ may be comparatively a rich man, and he is almost always

the owner of the land he tills. His paternal family, however, left the

country, and settled in Paris, where, after the Reign of Terror, his

father was employed in the office which printed the "Assignats."

Printing at that time was a thriving trade, and the elder Michelet

having found means to establish a press of his own, seemed in a

prosperous way when his son was born. The future historian first saw the

light in 1798--a dim religious light, for the hot assailant of

priestcraft and Jesuitism was born in the church of a deserted convent,

then "occupied, not profaned, by our printing-office; for what is the

press in modern times but the holy ark?"

The fortune of the family flourished but for a short time. In 1800 it

received a severe blow by a measure which suppressed a great number of

journals, and in 1810 it was totally ruined by a decree of Napoleon,

which limited the number of printers in Paris to sixty, suppressing a

great number of the smaller establishments, and, among others, that of

the Michelets. It seems, however, that they found means to print (it was

for behoof of their creditors) some trivial works of which they

possessed the copyright. They worked themselves, unaided. "My mother, in

bad health, cut, folded, and sewed the sheets; I, a mere child set the

types; my grandfather, very old and feeble, undertook the severe labor

of the presswork, and printed with his trembling hands."

Michelet was now twelve years old, and knew nothing but a word or two of

Latin, which he had learned from an old bookseller who had been a

schoolmaster, and was still an enthusiast in grammar. "He left me, when

he died, all he had in the world--a manuscript; it was a very remarkable

grammar, but incomplete, he not having been able to devote to it but

thirty or forty years." Michelet, we may take this opportunity of

remarking, has a perpetual under-current of humor. "Our place of work

was in a cellar, where I had for companions my grandfather, when he

came, and at all times a spider--an industrious spider, that worked

beside me, and harder than I did--no doubt of it."

Michelet's religious education had been entirely neglected. However,

among the few books he read, happened to be the "Imitation of Christ."

"In these pages, I perceived all of a sudden, beyond this dreary world,

another life and hope. The feeling of religion thus acquired was very

strong in me; it nourished itself from every thing, fortifying itself in

its progress by a multitude of holy and tender things in art and poetry

which are erroneously believed alien to it." In the then existing museum

of French monuments, he received "his first lively impressions of

history." He peopled the tombs in his imagination, felt the presence of

their occupants, and "never entered without a kind of terror those low

vaults in which slumbered Dagobert, Chilpéric, and Frédégonde." As for

any thing like a regular education, all he had of it at this time was a

short daily lesson from his friend, the grammarian, to whom he went in

the morning before his work began.

A friend of his father proposed to get the lad a situation in the

Imperial Printing Office. It was a great temptation: things had become

more and more gloomy with the family. "My mother grew worse, and France

also (Moscow--1813!); we were in extreme penury." Yet his parents

declined the offer; they had great faith in his future, and resolved to

give him the education necessary to develop his talents. He was sent to

the Collége de Charlemagne. Great indeed, must have been their faith,

but it has not been unrewarded. If Michelet had entered the Imperial

Printing Office, what would have become of him? He would soon have

earned a livelihood, and would probably have now been a respectable

master-printer, but nothing more. As many great men are spoiled for all

great things, by tying them down to uncongenial professions, as there

are little men spoiled for all useful things by hoisting them up to

professions for which they are unqualified.

At college, the poor youth's difficulties were of course very great. He

knew nothing of Greek, nor of classical versification, and he had no one

to help him--"my father, however, set himself to making Latin verses--he

who had never made any before." His professor, M. Andrieu d'Alba, "a man

of heart, a man of God," was kind enough to him, but his comrades were

very much the contrary; they ridiculed him and bemocked his dress and

his poverty. "I was in the middle of them like an owl at mid-day, quite

scared." He began to feel, indeed, that he was poor; he fell into a

state of misanthropy rare at such an age; he thought, "that all the rich

were bad--that all men were bad," for he saw few that were not richer

than he was. "Nevertheless," he adds, and this is singular, if true, "in

all my excessive antipathy to mankind, so much good remained in me,

that I had no envy."

But one day--a Thursday morning--in the midst of all his troubles and

privations (there was no fire, though the snow lay all round, and there

were great doubts if there would be any bread that evening), "I struck

my hand, burst open by the cold, on my oaken table (I have that table

still), and felt a manly joy of vigor and a future for me." Doubtless,

in the lives of many men, there have been such moments--moments when all

is dark, when the necessaries of life are wanting, and there is no

friend to cheer or pity--moments when the tides of life and hope are

equally at their ebb, and when, if ever it were allowable, a man might

be permitted to despair--when, nevertheless, a confidence, an

inspiration suddenly buoys up the spirit in triumph and exultation, and

a determination arises, and a freshness is infused which bears them on

thenceforth, conquering and to conquer. Thirty years afterward, Michelet

is seated at the same oaken table, and looks at his hand, still showing

the scar of 1813. But all else is changed: he is in easy circumstances;

he is the popular author, the popular professor; but he remembers, and

his heart says to him, "Thou art warm, and others are cold; this is not

just. Oh! who will bring me comfort for this hard inequality?" And he

consoles himself characteristically with the thought of working for the

people by giving to his country her history; for, to Michelet, history

and the people are much the same thing as grammar was to his old friend,

the schoolmaster with the unfinished manuscript.

Notwithstanding all his difficulties, Michelet finished his studies at

college quickly and well. He then looked out for the means of living;

would not live by his pen; began giving lessons in languages,

philosophy, and history, and seems to have been fortunate enough to find

sufficient employment. He would not live by his pen, for he thought, he

says, with Rousseau, "that literature should be the reserved treasure,

the fair luxury and inner flower of the spirit," as if, when it is all

these fine things, it could not be a ministering angel too. In 1821, he

was made professor in a college (a college in France, be it remarked,

generally corresponds to our public school). In 1827, two of his works,

which appeared at the same time, his "Choice Works of J.B. Vico," and

his "Summary of Modern History," procured him a professorship in the

Normal School. "This I quitted with regret in 1837, when the eclectic

influence was dominant in it. In 1838, the Institute and the Collége de

France having both named me as their candidate, I obtained the chair I

now occupy," that of professor of history in the Collége de France--a

position similar to that of professor in our universities. From his

teaching, Michelet says he found the happiest results. "If, as an

historian, I have a special merit which maintains me beside my

illustrious predecessors, I owe it to teaching, which to me was

friendship. These great historians have been brilliant, judicious,

profound; but I, over and above, have loved." He should have added that,

besides having loved much, he had also hated much; and that if as an

historian he has "a special merit" in the eyes of those whose partisan

he is, he owes it to the fierce animosity he shows to their opponents.

Michelet married young. He tells us no more of his mother. His father,

however, it appears, survived till 1846, and so had the satisfaction of

seeing his hopes of his son realized. The death of this parent is thus

alluded to in the preface to the "History of the Revolution:" "And as

every thing is of a mixed nature in this life, at the moment when I was

so happy in renewing the tradition of France, my own was broken up

forever. I have lost him who so often told me the story of the

Revolution--him who was to me at once the image and the venerable

witness of the great age: I mean the eighteenth century; I have lost my

father, with whom I had lived all my life, eight-and-forty years." And

then immediately follows a passage, part of which we quote, as well

exemplifying Michelet's style and mode of thought: "When this happened,

I was looking, I was elsewhere, I was realizing hastily this work so

long dreamed of, I was at the foot of the Bastile, I was taking the

fortress, I was planting on its towers the immortal flag. This blow came

upon me, unexpected, like a bullet from the Bastile."

In his place of professor, Michelet, as we have said, still remains. In

1846, he formally renounced all intention of ever entering on public

life, and so following the example of so many other distinguished men in

France, who have considered and used the professorial chair only as a

stepping-stone to the parliamentary tribune. "I have judged myself," he

says in his "Peuple." "I have neither the health, nor the talent, nor

the art of managing men necessary for such a thing." And in 1848, when

tempted and urged to come prominently forward, he kept his resolution

wisely. The particular reason he assigned for continuing in his

retirement, was curious: "Now, more than ever, is the time," he said to

his friends, "for me to teach the people of France their history, and to

that, therefore, alone I devote myself."

From the foregoing sketch of his life, and from the extracts we have

given from his writings, a good deal will have been gathered of the

character of Michelet. To those who read his works at length, it will be

exposed in full, for never did an author throw his individual

personality more prominently forward. Whatever be his subject, he never

for a moment allows you to forget that it is he who is treating of it.

We do not say that this is offensive--we do not say he is egotistical

from vanity or self-importance--we only note what must be evident to all

his readers, that, from his passionate temperament, he puts _self_ into

the midst of every thing, and that his said self being of a very odd

appearance and idiosyncrasy, Michelet, more than any thing else, is

prominent in Michelet's pages.

Michelet is a man of very great research, and of very general

information. True learning, however, is research and information well

digested. Such digestion his partial organization does not admit of.

With him, every thing takes the nature of his peculiar preconceived

ideas, and his materials, instead of affording him healthy nutriment,

promote only a most undue secretion of bile. As to his style, it is

unique. It arrests the attention, but too often it is only the

singularity of the expression, and not the merit of the thought which

does so; too often we find little but words, words, words; too often

what at first seemed striking proves, on examination, to be poor and

commonplace. His style has been compared to that of Carlyle, and, in so

far as it is abrupt and out of the way, with reason; but beyond this

there is no likeness. The French writer is far inferior in originality

and vigor to the English. As was said of an imitator of Dr. Johnson, "He

has the nodosity of the oak, without its strength; the contortions of

the sibyl, without her inspiration." Add to this, that a kind of maudlin

sentimentality pervades all his writings, and gives them a sickly look

and an air of affectation.

As a professor, Michelet does not shine. He is a bad lecturer, not

having the art of conveying his ideas orally. He wanders sadly from his

subject. His elocution is painful. Nevertheless, his lecture-room is

always crowded long before the appointed hour. The reason is, that he

holds a kind of political club. We were present on one occasion last

year. The vast hall was filled to the ceiling. Students sang

revolutionary songs. One read some verses. A hiss was heard. "Who

hissed?" "I did." "_Sortons._" They were going to fight a duel. A

gentleman of some five-and-thirty years made a conciliatory speech. They

resolved not to fight a duel. More verses, noise, and tumult--all this

in the presence of ladies, a number of whom occupied the lower benches.

The professor entered--a thin, pale man, with grayish, ill-arranged

hair, through which he passed his fingers at times. Shuffling to his

chair, he seated himself, and then stretched his arms across the table

before him, clutching it on the other side with one hand, as if he were

afraid somebody was about to take it from him. The first half of his

lecture was a reply to some newspaper attack on him; he said, however,

that it was contrary to his usual practice to notice such things in that

place, and we hope it was. The rest of the lecture was on education.

Education should not be called education, but initiation--that was all.

Not a word of history. Tremendous applause as he concluded.

FREAKS OF NATURE.

The celebrated Hunterian Museum in London contains, perhaps, the largest

collection of natural curiosities, especially in the department of

anatomy, in the world. One of the most striking specimens, described in

the catalogue, is the skeleton of a boy, born in Bengal some seventy

years ago, remarkable for the singular conformation of his head. The

description states that the child was healthy and was more than four

years old at the time of its death, which was occasioned by the bite of

a poisonous snake. When born, the body of the child was naturally

formed, but the head appeared double, there being, besides the proper

head of the child, another of the same size, and to appearance almost

equally perfect, attached to its upper part. This upper head was upside

down, the two being united together by a firm adhesion between their

crowns, but without any indentation at their union, there being a smooth

continued surface from one to the other. The face of the upper head was

not over that of the lower, but had an oblique position, the centre of

it being immediately above the right eye. When the child was six months

old, both of the heads were covered with black hair, in nearly the same

quantity. At this period the skulls seemed to have been completely

ossified, except a small space on the top. The eyelids of the superior

head were never completely shut, but remained a little open, even when

the child was asleep, and the eyeballs moved at random. When the child

was roused, the eyes of both heads moved at the same time; but those of

the superior head did not appear to be directed to the same object, but

wandered in different directions. The tears flowed from the eyes of the

superior head almost constantly, but never from the eyes of the other

except when crying. The superior head seemed to sympathize with the

child in most of its natural actions. When the child cried, the features

of this head were affected in a similar manner, and the tears flowed

plentifully. When it sucked the mother, from the mouth of the superior

head the saliva flowed more copiously than at any other time, for it

always flowed a little from it. When the child smiled, the features of

the superior head sympathized in that action. When the skin of the

superior head was pinched, the child seemed to feel little or no pain,

at least not in the same proportion as was felt from a similar violence

being committed on its own head or body. A fuller account of this

remarkable case may be found in the "Philosophical Transactions," by

those who like to seek it.

The crowning curiosities in this collection, however, are not named in

the catalogue, though they stand in two small bottles, on a mahogany

pedestal, in the centre of the smaller room. To a man with a soul for

identicals, they must offer great attraction, for they are two portions

of the small intestine of the Emperor Napoleon, showing the presence of

the cancerous disease that killed him. These post-mortem relics were

removed by a French surgeon who assisted in opening the body of the

deceased conqueror, and were given by him to Barry O'Meara, who

presented them to Sir Astley Cooper. They offer scientific and

historical evidence of the cause of the great man's death. Some time ago

a card leaned against the bottles, explaining the nature of their

contents, but more than once a French visitor to the place became

excited, and even violent, on seeing the relics of their venerated

chief. One day a perfect scene occurred: "Perfide Albion!" shrieked a

wild Gaul, whose enthusiasm seemed as though it had been fed upon

Cognac. "Perfide Albion!" again and more loudly rang through the usually

quiet hall. "Not sufficient to have your Vaterloo Bridge, your Vaterloo

Place, your Vaterloo boots, but you put violent hands on de grand

Emperor himself. Perfide! perfide! perfide!" he yelled again, and had he

not been restrained, would have run a Gallic muck among the bones and

bottles, that would have been recollected for many a day. From that time

the pathological record of Napoleon's fatal malady has been unnumbered,

and--to the million--unrecognizable.

LAND, HO!--A SKETCH OF AUSTRALIA.

"Land, ho!" cried the look-out. Blessed sound to the weary landsman!--a

sound associated with liberty and society, a walk on turf, a dinner of

fresh meat and green vegetables, clear water to drink, and something to

do. The dark line in the horizon was Terra Australis, the land of my

dreams. As we approached more near, I was not greeted, as I had hoped,

by sloping shores of yellow sands, or hills covered with green pasture,

or clad with the bright-colored forests of southern climes; but far

above us towered an iron-bound coast, dark, desolate, barren,

precipitous, against which the long, rolling swell of the Pacific broke

with a dull, disheartening sound.

No wonder that the first discoverers, who coasted along its shores in

the midst of wintry tempests, abandoned it, after little investigation,

as an uninhabitable land, the dwelling-place of demons, whose voices

they fancied they heard in the wailing of the wind among the

inaccessible cliffs.

But soon a pilot boarded from a stout whale-boat, rowed by a dozen New

Zealanders. He reached the rocks, which, divided by a narrow cleft, or

canal, and towering above the coast line are the sailors' landmark,

known as Sydney Heads--the cleft that Captain Cook overlooked,

considering it a mere boat harbor. Steering under easy sail through this

narrow channel, the scene changed, "as by stroke of an enchanter's

wand," and Port Jackson lay before us, stretching for miles like a

broad, silent river, studded with shrub-covered islands; on either hand

of the shores, the gardens and pleasure-grounds of villas and villages

descended to the water's edge; pleasure-boats of every variety of build

and size, wherries and canoes, cutters, schooners, and Indians, glided

about, gay with flags and streamers, and laden with joyous parties,

zig-zagged around like a nautical masquerade. Every moment we passed

some tall merchant-ship at anchor--for in this land-locked lake all the

navies of the world might anchor safely.

It was Sunday evening, and the church-bells clanged sweetly across the

waters, mingling in harmonious discord with the distant sounds of

profane music from the pleasure parties. On we sailed, until we reached

the narrow peninsula, where, fifty years previously, trees grew and

savages dwelt, and where now stands one of the most prosperous cities in

the world--there, in deep water, close along shore at Cambell's wharf,

we moored.

In the buildings, there was nothing to denote a foreign city, unless it

were the prevalence of green jalousés, and the extraordinary

irregularity in principal streets--a wooden or brick cottage next to a

lofty plate-glass fronted shop in true Regent-street style. There were

no beggars, and no half-starved wretches among the working-classes. In

strolling early in the morning through the streets where the

working-classes live, the smell and sound of meat frizzling for

breakfast was almost universal.

One day, while strolling in the outskirts of the town, above a cloud of

dust, I saw approaching a huge lumbering mass, like a moving hay-stack,

swaying from side to side, and I heard the creaking of wheels in the

distance, and a volley of strange oaths accompanied the sharp cracking

of a whip; presently the horns of a pair of monstrous bullocks appeared,

straining solemnly at their yokes; then another and another followed,

until I counted five pair of elephantine beasts, drawing a rude cart,

composed of two high wheels and a platform without sides, upon which

were packed and piled bales of wool full fourteen feet in height. Close

to the near wheel stalked the driver, a tall, broad-shouldered,

sun-burnt, care-worn man, with long, shaggy hair falling from beneath a

sugar-loaf shaped grass hat, and a month's beard on his dusty chin;

dressed in half-boots, coarse, short, fustian trowsers, a red silk

handkerchief round his waist, and a dark-blue cotton shirt, with the

sleeves rolled right up to the shoulders of his brown-red, brawny, hairy

arms. In his hands he carried a whip, at least twenty feet long, with

the thong of which, with perfect ease, he every now and then laid into

his leaders, accompanying each stroke with a tremendous oath.

A little mean-looking man, shabbily dressed in something of the same

costume, trotted humbly along on the off-side. Three huge, ferocious

dogs were chained under the axle of the dray. This was a load of the

golden fleece of Australia, and its guardians the bullock-driver and

bullock watchman. The dust, the creaking of the wheels, and the

ejaculation of the driver, had scarcely melted away, when up dashed a

party of horsemen splendidly mounted, and sun-burnt, but less coarse and

worn in features than the bullock-driver, with long beards and

mustaches, and flowing hair, some in old shooting-jackets, some in

colored woolen shirts, almost all in patched fustian trowsers; one, the

youngest, had a pair of white trowsers, very smart, tucked into a pair

of long boots--he was the dandy, I presume; some smoked short pipes; all

were in the highest and most uproarious spirits. Their costume would

have been dear in Holywell-street at twenty shillings, and their horses

cheap at Tattersall's at one hundred pounds. These were a party of

gentlemen squatters coming down after a year or two in the bush, to

transact business and refresh in the great city of Australia.

THE CLIMATE OF CANADA.

Thunder-storms in Canada are rather frequent, and sometimes awful

affairs. I remember one which occurred shortly after my coming to the

country, in 1843. I was then residing on the banks of the St. Clair. The

day had been beautiful, and the sun set gloriously, spreading around him

a sea of gold, and tinging with his own essence the edges of some gloomy

clouds which hung ominously over the place of his rest. I sat on the

doorstep, watching the changing hues as the darkness crept on. Ere long

it was night, but all was calm and lovely as before. Soon, flashes of

lightning began to play rapidly in the west, but I could hear no

thunder; and, after looking on till I was wearied, I retired to rest.

How long I slept I can not tell; but I awoke with the pealing of the

thunder and the roaring of the wind; nor have I been witness to such a

storm either before or since. In most thunder-storms, there is the vivid

flash followed by a period of darkness, and the deep roar, followed by

as deep a silence; but, in this instance, flash followed flash, and peal

followed peal, without a moment's intermission. The wind, too, blew a

perfect hurricane. Until that moment, scenes of a kindred nature had

been fraught with pleasure to me rather than otherwise, but now I felt

that eternity was unwontedly near, and that in another moment, I might

stand before God. All nature seemed to heave. I tried to sleep but that

was for a time impossible: I confess I lay expecting every moment to be

my last. After a little, the doors began to slam, and the house filled

with smoke. I immediately rose, but found that nothing had happened, and

that the wind coming down the chimney, had caused the alarm. After this,

I tried again to sleep, and finally succeeded, having become, after a

time, accustomed to the uproar. When morning broke, all was still, and,

on inquiring, I found that no other damage had been done than the

killing of a poor horse in a neighboring stable.

Occasionally, also, we have, what may, I suppose be called a tornado. In

the summer of 1848, I had the satisfaction of tracing the progress of

one which, a few days before, had swept across the Brock district,

Canada West. It had been exceedingly violent in the vicinity of a

village called Ingersoll, and, from the narration of a friend who saw

the whole, I now attempt to describe it.

The day had been very oppressive, and, about noon, a rushing noise,

accompanied with the sound of crashing timber and falling trees, was

heard, which at once attracted the notice of the whole village. On

looking out, they perceived, as it were, a cloudy body rolling along the

ground on its lower side, while its upper rose above the trees. It was

moving very rapidly from west to east, whirling like smoke as it passed,

and accompanied by an intense heat. The smoky appearance, was, I

suppose, attributable to the dust which it bore onward in its course.

The air was filled with branches of trees; every thing gave way before

it. The woods in the neighborhood were very heavy, but all standing in

the direct line of the hurricane were snapped like pipe stems. A line,

as even as if it had been measured, was cut through the forest;

fortunately however, its width was not more than the eighth of a mile,

otherwise the devastation would have been fearful. As it was, every

thing was leveled which stood in its way. A house was blown down, and

the logs of which it was composed scattered about like rods. A strong

new barn was wrenched in pieces, and the timbers broken. Gate posts were

snapt close to the ground. Heavy potash kettles, and wagons, were lifted

up into the air. A wet log, which had lain in a swampy hollow till it

was saturated and rotten, was carried up the acclivity some ten or

twelve feet. No man could conceive such a complete devastation possible

unless he had witnessed it. It ran on for some miles further, and twigs

of the particular trees among which it wrought its strange work, were

carried a distance of twenty miles. Providentially, there were no lives

lost--a circumstance attributable to the fact that it passed over the

forests and fields. Had it struck the village, not a home would have

escaped. It seemed to move in a circle, since the trees were not knocked

down before it, but twisted round as if with a wrench, and thrown

backward with their tops toward the west, as it were _behind_ the

tempest. All the large trees were broken across, generally about three

or four feet from the ground. Here and there a sapling escaped, but many

of these were twisted round as a boy would twist a cane, and, with their

tops hanging on the ground, they stood--most singular and decisive

monuments of the great power which had assailed them. This year,

something of a similar kind happened in the Home district.

The month of August ends our summer, for although we have warm weather

through the most of September, still it is not the very warm weather of

the preceding three months. Toward the close of the latter, the

greenness of the trees begins to pass away, and the changing tints tell

unmistakably of the "fall." Nor do I know any more beautiful sight than

that of a Canadian forest at this time, when summer is slowly departing,

and winter is yet a long way off. As the season advances, the variety

and beauty of the colors increase, passing through every shade of red,

orange, and yellow, and making up a gay and singular patchwork. Still,

it is the beauty of decay, and I scarcely know whether more of sorrow or

of joy passes through my mind as I gaze on it. A silvery-haired man is a

noble sight when his life has been one of honor; but we never see him in

his easy-chair, without remembering that death is crouching on his

footstool. And so is it with our lovely autumnal scenery: nature then

wears the robe in which she means to die. We then look back on another

precious period too swiftly gone, and forward to the long, unbroken one

which lies before us. Moralizing in such a paper as this may be out of

place, still one can scarcely help repeating some remark, as trite as

true, about this "sear and yellow leaf," and our own short day.

Indulgent reader, how quickly doth our summer pass! How soon, like the

withered leaf, shall each man of this generation drop from his

much-loved tree, and take his place, quietly and unnoticed, among the

millions of his fellows who have already fallen!

By the end of September, the weather is cool, and, after that time,

grows more so every day, till, after rain and wind, and not a few

attempts at sunshine, toward the close of November, winter sets in, and

gives a decided character to the scene. Previous to this consummation,

however, we have witnessed a phenomenon peculiar to this continent, in

the shape of the "Indian summer;" it generally comes in October. Many

descriptions have been given of this singular appearance, still I will

venture to attempt another.

It is a sort of supplementary season, though a very short one, lasting

sometimes no more than two or three days, and never longer than about a

week. Between summer and winter, it stands parenthetically: the former

is gone, the latter is not come; and between the two, this steps in to

exercise its brief and pleasant dominion. It has not the freshness of

spring, nor yet the fruitfulness of summer, neither has it the deadness

of winter. It is so unlike other seasons, as to admit of no comparison

with them.

With the "Indian summer," there comes over all things a strange quiet.

No wind disturbs the atmosphere; the sun shines, but you see little of

him. His presence is indicated rather by a mellowness overspreading and

enriching the picture, than by any brightness or glare. A hazy film

rests on earth and sky. It is not mist, nor does it resemble the sickly

dimness which sometimes accompanies the heat of summer. The air seems

full of smoke, but there is no smoke--of mistiness, but there is no

mist--of dampness, but there is no damp. A sense of repose creeps over

every thing. You are not languid, but you would like to lie down and

dream. One would not wish the season to last, yet we are glad when it

comes, and sorry when it leaves. Under its influence, we can suppose

that Irving wrote the legend of "Sleepy Hollow," or Thomson, the "Castle

of Indolence;" and, under this influence, we would do well to read both.

To its brevity I have already alluded. I may add, that some seasons we

do not perceive it at all. As to its cause, I can not even conjecture

any thing. The poor Indian thinks that at this time the Great Spirit

smokes his pipe, and the would-be philosophic white man, throwing poetry

to the winds, talks scientific nonsense about some unknown volcano,

which now gives forth a great volume of smoke. The Indian's theory is

about as rational as the other, and has this advantage over it, that it

is eminently poetical. Better is it at once to say that we know nothing

about the matter.

A WINTER VISION.

I saw a mighty Spirit, traversing the world without any rest or pause.

It was omnipresent, it was all-powerful, it had no compunction, no pity,

no relenting sense that any appeal from any of the race of men could

reach. It was invisible to every creature born upon the earth, save once

to each. It turned its shaded face on whatsoever living thing, one time;

and straight the end of that thing was come. It passed through the

forest, and the vigorous tree it looked on shrunk away; through the

garden, and the leaves perished and the flowers withered; through the

air, and the eagles flagged upon the wing and dropped; through the sea,

and the monsters of the deep floated, great wrecks, upon the waters. It

met the eyes of lions in their lairs, and they were dust; its shadow

darkened the faces of young children lying asleep, and they awoke no

more.

It had its work appointed; it inexorably did what was appointed to it to

do; and neither sped nor slackened. Called to, it went on unmoved, and

did not come. Besought, by some who felt that it was drawing near, to

change its course, it turned its shaded face upon them, even while they

cried, and they were dumb. It passed into the midst of palace chambers,

where there were lights and music, pictures, diamonds, gold, and silver;

crossed the wrinkled and the gray, regardless of them; looked into the

eyes of a bright bride; and vanished. It revealed itself to the baby on

the old crone's knee, and left the old crone wailing by the fire. But,

whether the beholder of its face were, now a king, or now a laborer, now

a queen, or now a seamstress; let the hand it palsied, be on the

sceptre, or the plow, or yet too small and nerveless to grasp any thing:

the Spirit never paused in its appointed work, and, sooner or later,

turned its impartial face on all.

I saw a minister of state, sitting in his closet; and, round about him,

rising from the country which he governed, up to the Eternal Heavens,

was a low, dull howl of Ignorance. It was a wild, inexplicable mutter,

confused, but full of threatening, and it made all hearers' hearts to

quake within them. But few heard. In the single city where this minister

of state was seated, I saw thirty thousand children, hunted, flogged,

imprisoned, but not taught--who might have been nurtured by the wolf or

bear, so little of humanity had they, within them or without--all

joining in this doleful cry. And, ever among them, as among all ranks

and grades of mortals, in all parts of the globe, the Spirit went; and

ever by thousands, in their brutish state, with all the gifts of God

perverted in their breasts or trampled out, they died.

The minister of state, whose heart was pierced by even the little he

could hear of these terrible voices, day and night rising to Heaven,

went among the priests and teachers of all denominations, and faintly

said,

"Hearken to this dreadful cry! What shall we do to stay it?"

One body of respondents answered, "Teach this!"

Another said, "Teach that!"

Another said, "Teach neither this nor that, but t'other!"

Another quarreled with all the three; twenty others quarreled with all

the four, and quarreled no less bitterly among themselves. The voices,

not stayed by this, cried out day and night; and still, among those many

thousands, as among all mankind, went the Spirit, who never rested from

its labor; and still, in brutish sort, they died.

Then, a whisper murmured to the minister of state,

"Correct this for thyself. Be bold! Silence these voices, or virtuously

lose thy power in the attempt to do it. Thou canst not sow a grain of

good seed in vain. Thou knowest it well. Be bold, and do thy duty!"

The minister shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "It is a great

wrong--BUT IT WILL LAST MY TIME." And so he put it from him.

Then, the whisper went among the priests and teachers, saying to each,

"In thy soul thou knowest it is a truth, O man, that there are good

things to be taught, on which all men may agree. Teach those, and stay

this cry."

To which, each answered in like manner, "It is a great wrong--BUT IT

WILL LAST MY TIME." And so _he_ put it from him.

I saw a poisoned air, in which life drooped. I saw disease, arrayed in

all its store of hideous aspects and appalling shapes, triumphant in

every alley, by-way, court, back-street, and poor abode, in every place

where human beings congregated--in the proudest and most boastful

places, most of all. I saw innumerable hosts, fore-doomed to darkness,

dirt, pestilence, obscenity, misery, and early death. I saw, wheresoever

I looked, cunning preparations made for defacing the Creator's Image,

from the moment of its appearance here on earth, and stamping over it

the image of the Devil. I saw, from those reeking and pernicious stews,

the avenging consequences of such sin issuing forth, and penetrating to

the highest places. I saw the rich struck down in their strength, their

darling children weakened and withered, their marriageable sons and

daughters perish in their prime. I saw that not one miserable wretch

breathed out his poisoned life in the deepest cellar of the most

neglected town, but, from the surrounding atmosphere, some particles of

his infection were borne away, charged with heavy retribution on the

general guilt.

There were many attentive and alarmed persons looking on, who saw these

things too. They were well clothed, and had purses in their pockets;

they were educated, full of kindness, and loved mercy. They said to one

another, "This is horrible, and shall not be!" and there was a stir

among them to set it right. But, opposed to these, came a small

multitude of noisy fools and greedy knaves, whose harvest was in such

horrors; and they, with impudence and turmoil, and with scurrilous jests

at misery and death, repelled the better lookers-on, who soon fell back,

and stood aloof.

Then, the whisper went among those better lookers-on, saying, "Over the

bodies of those fellows, to the remedy!"

But, each of them moodily shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "It is a

great wrong--BUT IT WILL LAST MY TIME!" And so _they_ put it from them.

I saw a great library of laws and law-proceedings, so complicated,

costly, and unintelligible, that, although numbers of lawyers united in

a public fiction that these were wonderfully just and equal, there was

scarcely an honest man among them, but who said to his friend, privately

consulting him, "Better put up with a fraud or other injury than grope

for redress through the manifold blind turnings and strange chances of

this system."

I saw a portion of this system, called (of all things) EQUITY, which was

ruin to suitors, ruin to property, a shield for wrong-doers having

money, a rack for right-doers having none: a by-word for delay, slow

agony of mind, despair, impoverishment, trickery, confusion,

insupportable injustice. A main part of it, I saw prisoners wasting in

jail; mad people babbling in hospitals; suicides chronicled in the

yearly records; orphans robbed of their inheritance; infants righted

(perhaps) when they were gray.

Certain lawyers and laymen came together, and said to one another, "In

only one of these our Courts of Equity, there are years of this dark

perspective before us at the present moment. We must change this."

Uprose, immediately, a throng of others, Secretaries, Petty Bags,

Hanapers, Chaffwaxes, and what not, singing (in answer) "Rule

Britannia," and "God save the Queen;" making flourishing speeches,

pronouncing hard names, demanding committees, commissions,

commissioners, and other scarecrows, and terrifying the little band of

innovators out of their five wits.

Then, the whisper went among the latter, as they shrunk back, saying,

"If there is any wrong within the universal knowledge, this wrong is. Go

on! Set it right!"

Whereon, each of them sorrowfully thrust his hands in his pockets, and

replied, "It is indeed a great wrong--BUT IT WILL LAST MY TIME!" and so

_they_ put it from them.

The Spirit, with its face concealed, summoned all the people who had

used this phrase about their time, into its presence. Then it said,

beginning with the minister of state,

"Of what duration is _your_ time?"

The minister of state replied, "My ancient family has always been

long-lived. My father died at eighty-four; my grandfather, at

ninety-two. We have the gout, but bear it (like our honors) many

years."

"And you," said the Spirit to the priests and teachers, "what may _your_

time be?"

Some believed they were so strong, as that they should number many more

years than three-score and ten; others, were the sons of old incumbents,

who had long outlived youthful expectants. Others, for any means they

had of calculating, might be long-lived or short-lived--generally (they

had a strong persuasion) long. So, among the well-clothed lookers on.

So, among the lawyers and laymen.

"But, every man, as I understand you, one and all," said the Spirit,

"has his time?"

"Yes!" they exclaimed together.

"Yes," said the Spirit; "and it is--ETERNITY! Whosoever is a consenting

party to a wrong, comforting himself with the base reflection that it

will last his time, shall bear his portion of that wrong throughout ALL

TIME. And, in the hour when he and I stand face to face, he shall surely

know it, as my name is Death!"

It departed, turning its shaded face hither and thither as it passed

along upon its ceaseless work, and blighting all on whom it looked.

Then went among many trembling hearers the whisper, saying, "See, each

of you, before you take your ease, O wicked, selfish men, that what will

'last your time,' be JUST enough to last forever!"

A LITTLE STIMULANT.--A TEMPERANCE TALE.

Rosa Lindsay, when first I knew her, was a beautiful and elegant girl,

the pride--and almost the support--of her mother and sisters, whom she

assisted greatly by her exertions as an artist and drawing mistress, and

the affianced bride of Walter Gardner, a young merchant, then abroad in

one of our colonies. Their marriage had been delayed on account of the

uncertainty of Walter's plans: he could not tell for some time whether

he would settle in England, or be obliged to remain with the branch

house abroad. Rosa was devotedly attached to him, and their separation

weighed heavily on her spirits. Nor was this her only trial, poor thing!

The Lindsays had first lost much property, and then their troubles were

aggravated by the long and severe illness of one of the girls, who was

seized with an incurable internal complaint which confined her entirely

to her bed; and also by a far worse blow, the death of their fond,

indulgent father, who sank beneath these varied sorrows. Man can not

bear as woman does; he will fight hard with the world, and if he can not

conquer it he perishes in the effort to submit. A fallen man can seldom

raise himself; he dies and makes no sign; a woman strives on--endures

all to the last.

This was the Lindsays' fate, left almost destitute by the father's

death. Women who, till but a short time since, had never known a

care--whose path through life seemed to have been on velvet--now came

forward prepared for the struggle for daily bread; casting aside the

silken habits of luxurious ease, relinquishing the cherished appliances

of refined opulence almost without a sigh; confronting the world almost

cheerfully, if, by so doing, they could shield that dear father's name

from reproach; nerving themselves for all the thousand undreamed-of

stings that fall to the lot of those once rich when reduced to poverty,

supported only by the hope of paying off some portion of his

liabilities. How often might we see this! how little do we suspect it!

Should such conduct be revealed to us, as it occasionally is, "I did not

think it was in them!" we exclaim. Not one in ten thousand knows the

heroism which lies hidden in the heart of a true woman.

But this is a digression: to return to my story. Rosa had one solace

left, the best of all: Walter remained true to her. He did not turn from

her now that she was poor; he did not look less kindly on her because

the elegant talents he had been so proud of were now exerted for her

maintenance; nor was he less anxious to call her his wife now that her

helpless family were in a degree dependent on her--far from that; he but

cherished her the more fondly now that she had so little left her. He

was true to her and to himself. He would have gladly taken her abroad

with him; but this could not be, for she had her duties to fulfill. Her

sisters were too young to support themselves; and as her exertions were

so necessary to the family, she decided on not marrying till she had put

them all forward. Walter could not combat so praiseworthy a resolution,

he could only sigh and acquiesce in it; and indeed Rosa did not keep it

without severe self-sacrifice. Say, is it nothing, when love, worth, and

competence are offered to our grasp, to put them by--to toil on day by

day, year after year--to feel that he we love better than life itself,

better than all the world holds (save duty) is alone, uncheered in his

task, far from us, from his home, perhaps ill and no one near to

minister to him, while we might be his all, his wife?--to doubt even his

truth, as the year drags wearily on, and friends fall off in turn, and

the world turns harsh and dreary, and we feel our own once-loved charms

decrease, and we compare ourselves with bitter regret to what we were

when he first knew us; and yet a word would unite us never more to

part--would solve each dreading doubt, would set our trembling alarms at

rest: is it nothing to feel and fear all this, and yet pursue the path

which still keeps us from the haven? No, no, this indeed is the Battle

of Life, when hopes and affections are opposed to duty. When duties

themselves jar, then comes our bitter, bitter trial.

Rosa and Walter bore their burden nobly; but her mind was torn, worn out

in the strife. The excitement of her art was wearing in itself. When the

fancy paints what the unpracticed hand can not yet realize; when the

unerring decrees of a cultivated taste condemn the sketches which

poverty forces before the world; when the exhausted soul and body would

gladly renovate themselves by complete inaction; but the demon of want

cries work, work, and the cry must be obeyed. And then the drudgery of

teaching, when the clumsy attempts of a tasteless, often unwilling

pupil, seem like desecration of the art we worship--oh, this indeed is

torture! It needed not the sickening misery of hope deferred, the blight

of early hopes in addition, to pale the poor girl's cheek and break her

spirits. Her appetite grew uncertain, her eye and step were heavy; her

art became a task; her temper even was rendered variable. Mrs. Lindsay

was alarmed, and called in a physician.

"Miss Lindsay is merely nervous, my dear madam" (merely nervous, indeed!

people never say, "her life is merely a curse to her"); "her system is

too low; we must throw in a little stimulant. She wants bracing, that is

all."

So spake Dr. ----; he was right, doubtless: but those few words sealed

his patient's doom. The glass of wine, warm, spicy wine, when she

returned from her wearying lessons, was so invigorating! The world grew

brighter as she drank; she had fresh hope, fresh strength. Again she

sipped, and again she worked--little dreaming she was laying the

foundation of a fearful habit. Do not blame her too severely, madam.

Wait till your whole frame is over-tasked either in action or endurance,

till the world seems a blank before you; or worse, a cold, dreary,

stagnant pond--you need not be poor to feel all this--then, when the cup

is sanctioned by a mother, nay, ordered by your physician; when you

quaff it and find your chilled energies renewed, your blood dancing in

your veins, happy thoughts, gleams of sunshine crowding on your

mind--then, if you can refuse a second draught, you are most happy. Be

blest, even in your admirable firmness; but oh, pity, be merciful even

to the drunkard!

She did not become that despicable thing at once; the path is slow

though sure; it was long ere she reached its inevitable termination.

"Wine gladdeneth the heart of man;" far be it from us to blame the

generous juice which our Lord himself sanctioned by his first miracle

and last command, "this do in memory of me;" it is the abuse, not the

use, we deprecate; but there are some who insensibly become its

slave--Rosa was one of these. The glass of wine gave so much strength,

that instead of taking it sparingly, she flew to it on every demand on

her tried energies. Her mother, seeing the benefit she derived from it,

feeling how much was dependent on her, had not courage to check her, and

was the first to offer it to her, never thinking of the fatal craving

she was encouraging. No one suspected the gifted, animated girl we all

so admired, of this degrading propensity; no one thought the sparkling

eloquence which charmed our tiresome lessons, the fanciful sketches, now

of fairies floating among green leaves and flowers, where reality and

imagination were gracefully blended, or of some cool glade and ivy

capped tower which led us far from towns and man; but all beautiful,

tender, and pure in their design; no one thought all these were inspired

by the poison which debases us lower than the brute creation. No, Rosa

Lindsay was a creature to be loved, admired, respected, emulated. What

is she now? What indeed?

Her exertions redoubled at first, and money poured in; then they became

fitful, she was no longer to be depended on. Pictures were ordered,

sketched, and then they remained untouched for months; her outline was

no longer as bold, her colors less skillfully arranged. The first was

gorgeous and full of beauty, but it remained confused, as if the germ

could not be developed--the tints were more glaring, the whole less well

defined. Pupils too talked of unpunctual attendance, of odd, impatient,

flighty manners; she was no longer the gentle, patient girl who had

first directed their unformed taste, and had charmed out the lingering

talent. There was nothing whispered as yet, but there was a feeling that

all was not right. She was so respected by all, we dared not admit the

suspicion of intoxication even silently to ourselves: still it _would_

come, and we could not repel it; it was not mentioned, even among

intimate friends, but there it lurked. Mrs. Lindsay became uneasy, but

it was too late--her feeble exertions, her remonstrances could not check

the habit: besides, Rosa had never openly exposed herself--been _drunk_

in fact. Her mother only feared she sometimes took a little drop too

much, and it was difficult to refuse this medicinal cheering draught to

so exemplary a daughter.

They were now in easier circumstances: the sisters were educated and

supporting themselves; one was well married; the only brother was now

adding to the family fund, and Walter was returning: there was no longer

any bar to Rosa's marriage. How anxiously we all looked forward to his

return! At last she received a letter, written from Southampton: he had

landed--he would be with her in a few hours. What joy, what delight for

the Lindsays! Now Rosa would be rewarded for her noble sacrifices--at

last she would be happy! The moments sped rapidly on in eager

anticipation; the time drew nearer--he would soon be by her side. She

grew restless, nervous, unable to bear the prolonged suspense: she who

had endured a separation of years, sank under the delay of a few

minutes. She had recourse to her accustomed solace, a little stimulant.

Walter came; and she was prostrate on the sofa, in disgusting

insensibility.

What a meeting for that ardent loving heart! Mrs. Lindsay in tears, the

whole family evidently bent on concealment; and Rosa, who should have

flown to his arms, drunk!--no, not drunk; he could not, would not

believe it--his pure, noble-minded Rosa could not have sunk so far: even

though a smell of ardent spirits pervaded the room, it was the last

vice he could suspect in her. We all had long resolutely closed our eyes

against the evidence of our senses: could he who once knew her

inestimable worth, who had her precious letters, breathing the highest,

most delicate, most womanly feelings, could he so pollute her image?

"What is this?" he cried, "Rosa ill! Oh, what is this? Good heaven, Mrs.

Lindsay!" his eye rested on the half-empty tumbler.

The mother answered that mute question. "Rosa has not been well," she

said; "she has over-exerted herself lately; the excitement of

expectation was too much for her. Dr. ---- has prescribed a little

occasional stimulant, and I am afraid I have over-dosed the poor child;

she has been in violent hysterics."

Walter believed the explanation. The very shame and confusion around

him, Mrs. Lindsay's candor, all re-assured him; besides, he was so

willing to be convinced; and when Rosa recovered, horror-struck at her

situation, and hid her tears and blushes on his shoulder, he rapturously

kissed the lips yet fresh from the contaminating draught. Tears of shame

and repentance poured down her cheek; and still she felt

rejoiced--inexpressibly relieved--by Walter's evident belief that this

was accidental. She felt that she would break this dreadful habit now he

was with her; now she would be happy: she need not make any humiliating

disclosure.

"Forgive me, save me!" she cried. "Dear, dear Walter, say you do not

despise me?"

"Despise you, my own love, my sweet Rosa?--never! Now don't look cross;

I have a hair in your neck, sweetest, and mean to pull it sometimes."

It was thus Walter laughed at what should have been a warning; but his

nature was entirely unsuspicious, and he loved so tenderly. Rosa now put

a strong restraint on herself, she was again what we had first known

her; and all our fears were dispelled.

They were married. Not a cloud lowered to cast a shadow on their bliss

but the slight disapprobation of some distant relations of Walter's,

who, not knowing the Lindsays save by hearsay, thought he might have

done better than wed not only a portionless bride, but one whose family

he must assist. However, as these fault-finders had no right to

interfere, their remonstrances remained entirely unheeded. No bride

could be happier than Rosa, no husband prouder than Walter. They were

not rich; but they had more than enough for elegant economy, and were

not debarred any of those refined enjoyments which give value to life.

Books, music--Rosa's art--a well-chosen though small circle of friends,

a pretty house, with its cultivated garden, and enough of labor for each

to sweeten their repose; luxuries were not required here, they had the

best blessings of this world within their reach, and some months were

indeed passed in supreme felicity.

Mr. Manson, an uncle of Walter's, and one of those who had objected to

his marriage, had come up to town on business, and his nephew was

naturally anxious to pay him some attention and introduce his darling

wife to him. The uncle was of the old school, fond of the pleasures of

the table, an admirer of dinner-parties, and convinced that their cold

formalities are the great bond of union in business and politics. It may

be so; there is a certain look of respectability in a ponderous

dinner-table--in the crimson flock-paper of the dining-room--in the

large sideboard and heavy curtains: but unless the entertainer be a rich

man, how the words "dinner-party" torture his poor wife! It is the

prelude to a week's anxiety, to a day's hard work, to the headache, to

the fidgets, to worried servants, to hired cooks, to missing spoons, to

broken glass and china; and, after all, to black looks and cross words

from her unreasonable husband, who votes the whole thing "a confounded

bore," and cuts short the supplies, leaving her to make bricks without

straw, to give a dinner without a double allowance. Walter, yet new in

his spousedom, was more amenable than an older hand; but Rosa had no

want of anxiety in this her first dinner-party. She felt sure that

something would go wrong; that Mr. Manson would see some fault. How

could she steer between the rock of meanness on which so many are split,

and the whirlpool of extravagance where so many are engulfed?--the

Scylla and Charybdis of housekeeping! She flitted incessantly from the

kitchen to the dining-room, and long before the appointed time was

wearied to death. A tempting bottle of port was decanted ready on the

sideboard; she ventured on a glass--it refreshed her exceedingly, she

was fitted for further exertions. Had she taken no more, she would have

been a happy woman; but after the first drop she could no longer

withstand temptation; she drank again and again: her orders were

contradictory, her servants saw her state and were impertinent; and when

Walter returned to dress for dinner, accompanied by Mr. Manson, his

beautiful wife lay prostrate on the floor, with unmistakable proofs of

her fault.

The uncle gave a contemptuous whistle, and withdrew from the disgraceful

scene; the husband carried her up-stairs and flung her on the bed, while

tears such as man seldom shed showed his bitter shame, his agonized

disgust, as he looked at the prospect life now presented. "She is my

wife! my wife!" he cried. "Oh, God! would she were in her coffin; I

could love her memory had she died; but now--oh! Rosa, Rosa!"

She roused herself at his voice, and feebly staggering toward him,

offered her cheek for his accustomed kiss. He pushed her from him. She

looked at her disordered dress, at his swollen eyes; a ray of reason

penetrated even through the imbecility of drink.

"Walter, Walter!" she screamed; "my husband, my dear, dearest husband!

tell me--am I?--am I?--"

"You are drunk, madam," he answered.

"No, no, no; I am not; I can not be, now you are here! Walter, we shall

be late; we must dress to see your uncle. I am sober, indeed I am."

Fresh guests now arrived; the miserable husband locked his no less

wretched wife in her room, and hastened to apologize for her unexpected

illness.

Again he forgave her, and again she sinned: the greatest pang, the shame

of detection, was over--the demon of drink was now ascendant. A puny

wailing child was born, that child for whom the father had once so

fondly hoped, but whose advent was now a fresh link in misery's chain.

Even the babe paid the penalty of its mother's vice by its enfeebled

frame, its neglected state; its earliest nutriment was poisoned. Rosa

was soon debarred one of the holiest pleasures of maternity--her child

was taken from her fever-laden breast. It became very ill; nature's

voice was heard, the mother sacrificed her habits to her child. A new

and celebrated physician was called in: he carefully examined the poor

infant. "Strange," he said; "now, had this child been born in a less

respectable sphere, I should say it was suffering from a drunken

parent."

A muttered curse escaped from Walter, a cry from Rosa. The doctor looked

at her more narrowly; in her watery eye and shaking hand he read the

truth of his accusation. "You have killed the child, madam," he

continued. "Be thankful it is your only one."

Could not that little pallid face, peeping from its shroud, the father's

mighty grief, her own despair, her agony, as each toll of the funeral

bell fell on her crushed brain, and seemed to repeat the physician's

words--could not this check her mad career? No, all was blighted around

her--she had not a hope left; she drank for oblivion.

And Walter?--alas! he now drank with her. He long struggled with his

dreary discomforts at home, with the dull, companionless evenings, when

his Rosa, that once highly-gifted creature, lay steeped in the coarsest

Lethe, or would in wild intoxication hurl reproaches at him. He had

taken the keys from her; she broke open the locks; she bribed the

servants for drink; she parted from her valuables, even his books and

plate, to procure the necessary stimulant; she made his disgrace and

hers public. No friend could come to their house, such fearful scenes

occasionally took place there: his home was blasted--drink became his

solace. The wild orgies of their despair were indeed terrible: but I

need not dwell on this repulsive theme; suffice it to say, Walter's

affairs were now entirely neglected--he was soon irretrievably ruined.

The Lindsays made them a weekly allowance, for both were unfitted for

any continuous exertion--they cumbered the earth. As soon as their

pittance came in it was squandered in drink; and then they quarreled,

and even fought. Rosa, the elegant, refined, graceful woman, fought

with her husband for drink, and often bore evident traces of his

violence. Her beauty had long since vanished; her features were red and

bloated, her voice cracked, her person neglected; who would have

believed that genius and high, noble, womanly feelings had once been

hers! At last, in one of their furious encounters Walter struck her

brutally; she fell bleeding at his feet. The sight sobered him and his

cries raised their humble neighbors--(they had long since left their

pleasant home, and were now in lodgings more suited to their

circumstances). A crowd of screaming women filled the room, while he sat

shivering in helpless imbecility.

"Ah, poor dear, her troubles are over now!" said the women. "See what

you've done, you wretch! you cowardly wretch!--you've killed your poor

wife; and a lady, too, as she was. But you'll hang for it, if there's

justice to be had for love or money!"

The threat recalled his scattered senses: a razor lay near, its bright

steel tempted him--one plunge, and all was over! A heavy fall disturbed

the crowd around Rosa--her husband lay dead--a suicide.

She was slowly recovering her consciousness when the exclamations of

those around told her there was still more to be dreaded; she hurriedly

looked around: "Walter!" she shrieked; "my husband dead?--dead? I am

unforgiven--he was angry with me--tell him to give me but one word, one

look. Walter, you can not die thus!" She saw the self-inflicted wound:

"Oh, God! Oh, God! I have been his bane through life: will the curse

follow him to the other world?"

She is now mad, in an asylum. Thus ends the story of Rosa Lindsay. It

may seem over-drawn: it is truth.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

(_Continued from page_ 183.)

CHAPTER XXI. OUR ALLIES.

I have spent pleasanter, but I greatly doubt if I ever knew busier days,

than those I passed at the Bishop's Palace at Killala; and now, as I

look back upon the event, I can not help wondering that we could

seriously have played out a farce so full of absurdity and nonsense!

There was a gross mockery of all the usages of war, which, had it not

been for the serious interest at stake, would have been highly laughable

and amusing.

Whether it was the important functions of civil government, the details

of police regulations, the imposition of contributions, the appointment

of officers, or the arming of the volunteers, all was done with a

pretentious affectation of order that was extremely ludicrous. The very

institutions which were laughingly agreed at over night, as the wine

went briskly round, were solemnly ratified in the morning, and, still

more strange, apparently believed in by those whose ingenuity devised

them; and thus the "Irish Directory," as we styled the imaginary

government, the National Treasury, the Pension Fund, were talked of with

all the seriousness of facts! As to the Commissariat, to which I was for

the time attached, we never ceased writing receipts and acknowledgments

for stores and munitions of war, all of which were to be honorably

acquitted by the Treasury of the Irish Republic.

No people could have better fallen in with the humor of this delusion

than the Irish. They seemed to believe every thing, and yet there was a

reckless, headlong indifference about them which appeared to say, that

they were equally prepared for any turn fortune might take, and if the

worst should happen, they would never reproach us for having misled

them. The real truth was--but we only learned it too late--all those who

joined us were utterly indifferent to the great cause of Irish

independence; their thoughts never rose above a row and a pillage. It

was to be a season of sack, plunder, and outrage, but nothing more! That

such were the general sentiments of the volunteers, I believe none will

dispute. We, however, in our ignorance of the people and their language,

interpreted all the harum-scarum wildness we saw as the buoyant

temperament of a high-spirited nation, who, after centuries of

degradation and ill-usage, saw the dawning of liberty at last.

Had we possessed any real knowledge of the country, we should at once

have seen, that of those who joined us none were men of any influence or

station. If, now and then, a man of any name strayed into the camp, he

was sure to be one whose misconduct or bad character had driven him from

associating with his equals; and, even of the peasantry, our followers

were of the very lowest order. Whether General Humbert was the first to

notice the fact I know not; but Charost, I am certain, remarked it, and

even thus early predicted the utter failure of the expedition.

I must confess the "volunteers" were the least imposing of allies! I

think I have the whole scene before my eyes this moment, as I saw it

each morning in the Palace-garden.

The inclosure, which, more orchard than garden, occupied a space of a

couple of acres, was the head-quarters of Colonel Charost; and here, in

a pavilion formerly dedicated to hoes, rakes, rolling-stones, and garden

tools, we were now established to the number of fourteen. As the space

beneath the roof was barely sufficient for the Colonel's personal use,

the officers of his staff occupied convenient spots in the vicinity. My

station was under a large damson tree, the fruit of which afforded me,

more than once, the only meal I tasted from early morning till late at

night; not, I must say, from any lack of provisions, for the Palace

abounded with every requisite of the table, but that, such was the

pressure of business, we were not able to leave off work even for

half-an-hour during the day.

A subaltern's guard of grenadiers, divided into small parties, did duty

in the garden; and it was striking to mark the contrast between these

bronzed and war-worn figures and the reckless, tatterdemalion host

around us. Never was seen such a scare-crow set! Wild-looking, ragged

wretches, their long, lank hair hanging down their necks and shoulders,

usually barefooted, and with every sign of starvation in their features;

they stood in groups and knots, gesticulating, screaming, hurraing, and

singing, in all the exuberance of a joy that caught some, at least, of

its inspiration from whisky.

It was utterly vain to attempt to keep order among them; even the effort

to make them defile singly through the gate into the garden was soon

found impracticable, without the employment of a degree of force that

our adviser, Kerrigan, pronounced would be injudicious. Not only the men

made their way in, but great numbers of women, and even children also;

and there they were, seated around fires, roasting their potatoes in

this bivouac fashion, as though they had deserted hearth and home to

follow us.

Such was the avidity to get arms--of which the distribution was

announced to take place here--that several had sealed the wall in their

impatience, and as they were more or less in drink, some disastrous

accidents were momentarily occurring, adding the cries and exclamations

of suffering to the ruder chorus of joy and revelry that went on

unceasingly.

The impression--we soon saw how absurd it was--the impression that we

should do nothing that might hurt the national sensibilities, but

concede all to the exuberant ardor of a bold people, eager to be led

against their enemies, induced us to submit to every imaginable breach

of order and discipline.

"In a day or two, they'll be like your own men; you'll not know them

from a battalion of the line. Those fellows will be like a wall under

fire."

Such and such like were the assurances we were listening to all day, and

it would have been like treason to the cause to have refused them

credence.

Perhaps, I might have been longer a believer in this theory, had I not

perceived signs of a deceptive character in these, our worthy allies;

many who, to our faces, wore nothing but looks of gratitude and delight,

no sooner mixed with their fellows than their downcast faces and dogged

expression betrayed some inward sense of disappointment.

One very general source of dissatisfaction arose from the discovery,

that we were not prepared to pay our allies! We had simply come to arm

and lead them, to shed our own blood, and pledge our fortunes in their

cause; but we certainly had brought no military chest to bribe their

patriotism, nor stimulate their nationality; and this, I soon saw, was a

grievous disappointment.

In virtue of this shameful omission on our part, they deemed the only

resource was to be made officers, and thus crowds of uneducated,

semi-civilized vagabonds were every hour assailing us with their claims

to the epaulet. Of the whole number of these, I remember but three who

had ever served at all; two were notorious drunkards, and the third a

confirmed madman, from a scalp wound he had received when fighting

against the Turks. Many, however, boasted high-sounding names, and were,

at least so Kerrigan said, men of the first families in the land.

Our general-in-chief, saw little of them while at Killala, his principal

intercourse being with the Bishop and his family; but Colonel Charost

soon learned to read their true character, and from that moment

conceived the most disastrous issue to our plans. The most trustworthy

of them was a certain O'Donnel, who, although not a soldier, was

remarked to possess a greater influence over the rabble volunteers than

any of the others. He was a young man of the half-squire class, an

ardent and sincere patriot, after his fashion; but that fashion, it must

be owned, rather partook of the character of class-hatred and religious

animosity than the features of a great struggle for national

independence. He took a very low estimate of the fighting qualities of

his countrymen, and made no secret of declaring it.

"You would be better without them altogether," said he one day to

Charost; "but if you must have allies, draw them up in line, select one

third of the best, and arm them."

"And the rest?" asked Charost.

"Shoot _them_," was the answer.

This conversation is on record, indeed I believe there is yet one

witness living to corroborate it.

I have said that we were very hard worked; but I must fain acknowledge

that the real amount of business done was very insignificant, so many

were the mistakes, misconceptions, and interruptions, not to speak of

the time lost by that system of conciliation, of which I have already

made mention. In our distribution of arms there was little selection

practiced or possible. The process was a brief one, but it might have

been briefer.

Thomas Colooney, of Banmayroo, was called, and not usually being

present, the name would be passed on, from post to post, till it swelled

into a general shout of Colooney.

"Tom Colooney, you're wanted; Tom, run for it, man, there's a price bid

for you! Here's Mickey, his brother, maybe he'll do as well."

And so on; all this accompanied by shouts of laughter, and a running

fire of jokes, which, being in the vernacular, was lost to us.

At last the real Colooney was found, maybe eating his dinner of

potatoes, maybe discussing his poteen with a friend--sometimes engaged

in the domestic duties of washing his shirt or his small-clothes,

fitting a new crown to his hat, or a sole to his brogues--whatever his

occupation, he was urged forward by his friends, and the public, with

many a push, drive, and even a kick, into our presence, where, from the

turmoil, uproar, and confusion, he appeared to have fought his way by

main force, and very often, indeed, this was literally the fact, as his

bleeding nose, torn coat, and bare head attested.

"Thomas Colooney--are you the man?" asked one of our Irish officers of

the staff.

"Yis, yer honor, I'm that same!"

"You've come here, Colooney, to offer yourself as a volunteer in the

cause of your country?"

Here a yell of "Ireland for ever!" was always raised by the bystanders,

which drowned the reply in its enthusiasm, and the examination went on:

"You'll be true and faithful to that cause till you secure for your

country the freedom of America and the happiness of France? Kiss the

cross. Are you used to fire-arms?"

"Isn't he?--maybe not! I'll be bound he knows a musket from a mealy

pratie!"

Such and such like were the comments that rang on all sides, so that the

modest "Yis, sir" of the patriot was completely lost.

"Load that gun, Tom," said the officer.

Here Colooney, deeming that so simple a request must necessarily be only

a cover for something underhand--a little clever surprise or so--takes

up the piece in a very gingerly manner, and examines it all round,

noticing that there is nothing, so far as he can discover, unusual nor

uncommon about it.

"Load that gun, I say."

Sharper and more angrily is the command given this time.

"Yis, sir, immediately."

And now Tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be

already a charge there--a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly

applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the

French officers is making itself manifest in various ways.

At length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which

piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish,

is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. He now primes and cocks the

piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldier-like

severity.

As he stands thus for scrutiny, a rather lively debate gets up as to

whether or not Tom bit off the end of the cartridge before he rammed it

down. The biters and anti-biters being equally divided, the discussion

waxes strong. The French officers, eagerly asking what may be the

disputed point, laugh very heartily on hearing it.

"I'll lay ye a pint of sperits she won't go off," cries one.

"Done! for two noggins, if he pulls strong," rejoins another.

"Devil fear the same gun," cries a third; "she shot Mr. Sloan at fifty

paces, and killed him dead."

"'Tisn't the same gun--that's a Frinch one--a bran new one!"

"She isn't."

"She is."

"No, she isn't."

"Yes, but she is."

"What is't you say?"

"Hould your prate."

"Arrah, teach your mother to feed ducks."

"Silence in the ranks. Keep silence there. Attention, Colooney!"

"Yis, sir."

"Fire!"

"What at, sir?" asks Tom, taking an amateur glance of the company, who

look not over-satisfied at his scrutiny.

"Fire in the air!"

Bang goes the piece, and a yell follows the explosion, while cries of

"Well done, Tom," "Begorra, if a Protestant got that!" and so on, greet

the performance.

"Stand by Colooney!" and the volunteer falls back to make way for

another and similar exhibition, occasionally varied by the humor or the

blunders of the new candidate.

As to the Treasury orders, as we somewhat ludicrously styled the checks

upon our imaginary bank, the scenes they led to were still more absurd

and complicated. We paid liberally, that is to say in promises, for

every thing, and our generosity saved us a good deal of time, for it was

astonishing how little the owners disputed our solvency when the price

was left to themselves. But the rations were indeed the most difficult

matter of all; it being impossible to convince our allies of the fact

that the compact was one of trust, and the ration was not his own, to

dispose of in any manner that might seem fit.

"Sure if I don't like to ate it--if I haven't an appetite for it--if I'd

rather have a pint of sperits, or a flannel waistcoat, or a pair of

stockings, than a piece of mate, what harm is that to any one?"

This process of reasoning was much harder of answer than is usually

supposed, and even when replied to, another difficulty arose in its

place. Unaccustomed to flesh diet, when they tasted they couldn't

refrain from it, and the whole week's rations of beef, amounting to

eight pounds, were frequently consumed in the first twenty-four hours.

Such instances of gormandizing were by no means unfrequent, and stranger

still, in no one case, so far as I knew, followed by any ill

consequences.

The leaders were still more difficult to manage than the people. Without

military knowledge or experience of any kind, they presumed to dictate

the plan of a campaign to old and distinguished officers, like Humbert

and Serazin, and when overruled by argument or ridicule, invariably fell

back upon their superior knowledge of Ireland and her people, a defense

for which, of course, we were quite unprepared, and unable to oppose any

thing. From these and similar causes, it may well be believed that our

labors were not light, and yet somehow, with all the vexations and

difficulties around us, there was a congenial tone of levity, an easy

recklessness, and a careless freedom in the Irish character that suited

us well. There was but one single point whereupon we were not thoroughly

together, and this was religion. They were a nation of most zealous

Catholics, and as for us, the revolution had not left the vestige of a

belief among us.

A reconnaissance in Ballina, meant rather to discover the strength of

the garrison than of the place itself, having shown that the royal

forces were inconsiderable in number, and mostly militia, General

Humbert moved forward on Sunday morning, the 26th, with nine hundred men

of our own force, and about three thousand "volunteers," leaving Colonel

Charost and his staff, with two companies of foot, at Killala, to

protect the town, and organize the new levies, as they were formed.

We saw our companions defile from the town with heavy hearts. The small

body of real soldiers seemed even smaller still from being enveloped by

that mass of peasants who accompanied them, and who marched on the

flanks or in the rear, promiscuously, without discipline or order. A

noisy, half-drunken rabble, firing off their muskets at random, and

yelling, as they went, in savage glee and exultation. Our sole comfort

was in the belief, that, when the hour of combat did arrive, they would

fight to the very last. Such were the assurances of their own officers,

and made so seriously and confidently, that we never thought of

mistrusting them.

"If they be but steady under fire," said Charost, "a month will make

them good soldiers. Ours is an easy drill, and soon learned; but I own,"

he added, "they do not give me this impression."

Such was the reflection of one who watched them as they went past, and

with sorrow we saw ourselves concurring in the sentiment.

CHAPTER XXII. THE DAY OF "CASTLEBAR."

We were all occupied with our drill at daybreak on the morning of the

27th of August, when a mounted orderly arrived at full gallop, with news

that our troops were in motion for Castlebar, and orders for us

immediately to march to their support, leaving only one subaltern and

twenty men in "the Castle."

The worthy Bishop was thunderstruck at the tidings. It is more than

probable that he never entertained any grave fears of our ultimate

success; still he saw that in the struggle, brief as it might be,

rapine, murder, and pillage would spread over the country, and that

crime of every sort would be certain to prevail during the short

interval of anarchy.

As our drums were beating the "rally," he entered the garden, and with

hurried steps came forward to where Colonel Charost was standing

delivering his orders.

"Good day, Mons. l'Evêque," said the Colonel, removing his hat, and

bowing low. "You see us in a moment of haste. The campaign has opened,

and we are about to march."

"Have you made any provision for the garrison of this town, Colonel?"

said the Bishop, in terror. "Your presence alone has restrained the

population hitherto. If you leave us--"

"We shall leave you a strong force of our faithful allies, sir," said

Charost; "Irishmen could scarcely desire better defenders than their

countrymen."

"You forget, Colonel, that some of us here are averse to this cause, but

as non-combatants, lay claim to protection."

"You shall have it, too, Mons. l'Evêque; we leave an officer and twenty

men."

"An officer and twenty men!" echoed the Bishop, in dismay.

"Quite sufficient, I assure you," said Charost, coldly; "and if a hair

of one of their heads be injured by the populace, trust me, sir, that we

shall take a terrible vengeance."

"You do not know these people, sir, as I know them," said the Bishop,

eagerly. "The same hour that you march out, will the town of Killala be

given up to pillage. As to your retributive justice, I may be pardoned

for not feeling any consolation in the pledge, for _certes_ neither I

nor mine will live to witness it."

As the Bishop was speaking, a crowd of volunteers, some in uniform and

all armed, drew nearer and nearer to the place of colloquy; and although

understanding nothing of what went forward in the foreign language,

seemed to watch the expressions of the speakers' faces with a most keen

interest. To look at the countenances of these fellows, truly one would

not have called the Bishop's fears exaggerated; their expression was

that of demoniac passion and hatred.

"Look, sir," said the Bishop, turning round, and facing the mob, "look

at the men to whose safeguard you propose to leave us."

Charost made no reply; but making a sign for the Bishop to remain where

he was, re-entered the pavilion hastily. I could see through the window

that he was reading his dispatches over again, and evidently taking

counsel with himself how to act. The determination was quickly come to.

"Monsieur l'Evêque," said he, laying his hand on the Bishop's arm, "I

find that my orders admit of a choice on my part. I will, therefore,

remain with you myself, and keep a sufficient force of my own men. It is

not impossible, however, that in taking this step I may be periling my

own safety. You will, therefore, consent, that one of your sons shall

accompany the force now about to march, as a hostage. This is not an

unreasonable request on my part."

"Very well, sir," said the Bishop, sadly. "When do they leave?"

"Within half an hour," said Charost.

The Bishop, bowing, retraced his steps through the garden back to the

house. Our preparations for the road were by this time far advanced. The

command said, "Light marching order, and no rations;" so that we foresaw

that there was sharp work before us. Our men--part of the 12th

demi-brigade, and a half company of grenadiers--were, indeed, ready on

the instant; but the Irish were not so easily equipped. Many had strayed

into the town; some, early as it was, were dead drunk; and not a few had

mislaid their arms or their ammunition, secretly preferring the chance

of a foray of their own to the prospect of a regular engagement with the

Royalist troops.

Our force was still a considerable one, numbering at least fifteen

hundred volunteers, besides about eighty of our men. By seven o'clock we

were under march, and, with drums beating, defiled from the narrow

streets of Killala into the mountain road that leads to Cloonagh; it

being our object to form a junction with the main body at the foot of

the mountain.

Two roads led from Ballina to Castlebar--one to the eastward, the other

to the west of Lough Con. The former was a level road, easily passable

by wheel carriages, and without any obstacle or difficulty whatever; the

other took a straight direction over lofty mountains, and in one

spot--the Pass of Burnageeragh--traversed a narrow defile, shut in

between steep cliffs, where a small force, assisted by artillery, could

have arrested the advance of a great army. The road itself, too, was in

disrepair, the rains of autumn had torn and fissured it, while heavy

sandslips and fallen rocks in many places rendered it almost impassable.

The Royalist generals had reconnoitred it two days before, and were so

convinced that all approach in this direction was out of the question,

that a small picket of observation, posted near the Pass of

Burnageeragh, was withdrawn as useless, and the few stockades they had

fixed were still standing as we marched through.

General Humbert had acquired all the details of these separate lines of

attack, and at once decided for the mountain road, which, besides the

advantage of a surprise, was in reality four miles shorter.

The only difficulty was the transport of our artillery, but as we merely

carried those light field-pieces called "curricle guns," and had no want

of numbers to draw them, this was not an obstacle of much moment. With

fifty, sometimes sixty peasants to a gun, they advanced, at a run, up

places where our infantry found the ascent sufficiently toilsome. Here,

indeed, our allies showed in the most favorable colors we had yet seen

them. The prospect of a fight seemed to excite their spirits almost to

madness; every height they surmounted they would break into a wild

cheer, and the vigor with which they tugged the heavy ammunition carts

through the deep and spongy soil never interfered with the joyous shouts

they gave, and the merry songs they chanted in rude chorus.

"Tra, la, la! the French is comin',

What'll now the red coats do?

Maybe they won't get a drubbin?

Sure we'll lick them black and blue!

"Ye little knew the day was near ye,

Ye little thought they'd come so far;

But here's the boys that never fear ye--

Run, yer sowls, for Castlebar!"

To this measure they stepped in time, and although the poetry was lost

upon our ignorance, the rattling joyousness of the air sounded

pleasantly, and our men, soon catching up the tune, joined heartily in

the chorus.

Another very popular melody ran somewhat thus:

"Our day is now begun,

Says the Shan van voght.

Our day is now begun,

Says the Shan van voght.

Our day is now begun,

And ours is all the fun!

Be my sowl, ye'd better run!

Says the Shan van voght!"

There was something like a hundred verses to this famous air, but it is

more than likely, from the specimen given above, that my reader will

forgive the want of memory that leaves me unable to quote others; nor is

it necessary that I should add, that the merit of these canticles lay in

the hoarse accord of a thousand rude voices, heard in the stillness of a

wild mountain region, and at a time when an eventful struggle was before

us; such were the circumstances which possibly made these savage rhymes

assume something of terrible meaning.

We had just arrived at the entrance of Burnageeragh, when one of our

mounted scouts rode up to say, that a peasant, who tended cattle on the

mountains, had evidently observed our approach, and hastened into

Castlebar with the tidings.

It was difficult to make General Humbert understand this fact.

"Is this the patriotism we have heard so much of? Are these the people

that would welcome us as deliverers? Parbleu! I've seen nothing but

lukewarmness or downright opposition since I landed! In that same town

we have just quitted--a miserable hole, too, was it--what was the first

sight that greeted us? a fellow in our uniform hanging from the

stanchion of a window, with an inscription round his neck, to the

purport that he was traitor! This is the fraternity which our Irish

friends never wearied to speak of!"

Our march was now hastened, and in less than an hour we debouched from

the narrow gorge into the open plain before the town of Castlebar. A few

shots in our front told us that the advanced picket had fallen in with

the enemy, but a French cheer also proclaimed that the Royalists had

fallen back, and our march continued unmolested. The road, which was

wide and level here, traversed a flat country, without hedge-row or

cover, so that we were able to advance in close column, without any

precaution for our flanks; but before us there was a considerable

ascent, which shut out all view of the track beyond it. Up this our

advanced guard was toiling, somewhat wearied with a seven hours' march

and the heat of a warm morning, when scarcely had the leading files

topped the ridge, than, plump went a round shot over their heads, which,

after describing a fine curve, plunged into the soft surface of a newly

plowed field. The troops were instantly retired behind the crest of the

hill, and an orderly dispatched to inform the General that we were in

face of the enemy. He had already seen the shot and marked its

direction. The main body was accordingly halted, and, defiling from the

centre, the troops extended on either side into the fields. While this

movement was being effected Humbert rode forward, and crossing the

ridge, reconnoitred the enemy.

It was, as he afterward observed, a stronger force than he had

anticipated, consisting of between three and four thousand bayonets,

with four squadrons of horse, and two batteries of eight guns, the whole

admirably posted on a range of heights, in front of the town, and

completely covering it.

The ridge was scarcely eight hundred yards' distance, and so distinctly

was every object seen, that Humbert and his two aids-de-camp were at

once marked and fired at, even in the few minutes during which the

"reconnoissance" lasted.

As the General retired the firing ceased, and now all our arrangements

were made without molestation of any kind. They were, indeed, of the

simplest and speediest. Two companies of our grenadiers were marched to

the front, and in advance of them about twenty paces were posted a body

of Irish in French uniforms. This place being assigned them, it was

said, as a mark of honor, but in reality for no other purpose than to

draw on them the Royalist artillery, and thus screen the grenadiers.

Under cover of this force came two light six-pounder guns, loaded with

grape, and intended to be discharged at point-blank distance. The

infantry brought up the rear in three compact columns, ready to deploy

into line at a moment.

In these very simple tactics no notice whatever was taken of the great

rabble of Irish who hung upon our flanks and rear in disorderly masses,

cursing, swearing, and vociferating in all the license of

insubordination; and O'Donnel, whose showy uniform contrasted strikingly

with the dark blue coat and low glazed cocked hat of Humbert, was now

appealed to by his countrymen as to the reason of this palpable slight.

"What does he want? what does the fellow say?" asked Humbert, as he

noticed his excited gestures and passionate manner.

"He is remonstrating, sir," replied I, "on the neglect of his

countrymen; he says that they do not seem treated like soldiers; no post

has been assigned nor any order given them."

"Tell him, sir," said Humbert, with a savage grin, "that the discipline

we have tried in vain to teach them hitherto, we'll not venture to

rehearse under an enemy's fire; and tell him also that he and his

ragged followers are free to leave us, or, if they like better, to turn

against us, at a moment's warning."

I was saved the unpleasant task of interpreting this civil message by

Conolly who, taking O'Donnel aside, appeared endeavoring to reason with

him, and reduce him to something like moderation.

"There, look at them, they're running like sheep!" cried Humbert,

laughing, as he pointed to an indiscriminate rabble, some hundred yards

off, in a meadow, and who had taken to their heels on seeing a round

shot plunge into the earth near them. "Come along, sir: come with me,

and when you have seen what fire is, you may go back and tell your

countrymen! Serazin, is all ready? Well then, forward. March!"

"March!" was now re-echoed along the line, and steadily, as on a parade,

our hardy infantry stepped out, while the drums kept up a continued roll

as we mounted the hill.

The first to cross the crest of the ascent were the "Legion," as the

Irish were called, who, dressed like French soldiers, were selected for

some slight superiority in discipline and bearing. They had but gained

the ridge, however, when a well-directed shot from a six-pounder smashed

in among them, killing two and wounding six or seven others. The whole

mass immediately fell back on our grenadiers. The confusion compelled

the supporting column to halt, and once more the troops were retired

behind the hill.

"Forward men, forward!" cried Humbert, riding up to the front, and in

evident impatience at these repeated checks; and now the grenadiers

passed to the front, and, mounting the height, passed over, while a

shower of balls flew over and around them. A small slated house stood

half way down the hill, and for this the leading files made a dash, and

gained it, just as the main body were, for the third time, driven back

to re-form.

It was now evident that an attack in column could not succeed against a

fire so admirably directed; and Humbert quickly deployed into line, and

prepared to storm the enemy's position.

Up to this the conduct of the Royalists had been marked by the greatest

steadiness and determination. Every shot from their batteries had told,

and all promised an easy and complete success to their arms. No sooner,

however, had our infantry extended into line, than the militia,

unaccustomed to see an enemy before them, and unable to calculate

distance, opened a useless, dropping fire, at a range where not a bullet

could reach!

The ignorance of this movement, and the irregularity of the discharge,

were not lost upon our fellows, most of whom were veterans of the army

of the Rhine; and, with a loud cheer of derision, our troops advanced to

meet them, while a cloud of skirmishers dashed forward, and secured

themselves under cover of a hedge.

Even yet, however, no important advantage had been gained by us; and if

the Royalists had kept their ground in support of their artillery, we

must have been driven back with loss; but, fortunately for us, a

movement we made to keep open order was mistaken by some of the militia

officers for the preparation to outflank them, a panic seized the whole

line, and they fell back, leaving their guns totally exposed and

unprotected.

"They're running! they're running!" was the cry along our line; and now

a race was seen, which should be first up with the artillery. The cheers

at this moment were tremendous from our "allies," who, having kept wide

aloof hitherto, were now up with us, and, more lightly equipped than we

were, soon took the lead. The temerity, however, was costly, for three

several times did the Royalist artillery load and fire; and each

discharge, scarcely at half-musket range, was terribly effective.

We were by no means prepared for either so sudden or complete a success,

and the scene was exciting in the highest degree, as the whole line

mounted the hill, cheering madly. From the crest of this rising ground

we could now see the town of Castlebar beneath us, into which the

Royalists were scampering at full speed. A preparation for defending the

bridge into the town did not escape the watchful eyes of our general,

who again gave the word "Forward!" not by the road alone, but also by

the fields at either side, so as to occupy the houses that should

command the bridge, and which, by a palpable neglect, the others had

forgotten to do.

Our small body of horse, about twenty hussars, were ordered to charge

the bridge; and had they been even moderately well mounted, must have

captured the one gun of the enemy at once; but the miserable cattle,

unable to strike a canter, only exposed them to a sharp musketry; and

when they did reach the bridge, five of their number had fallen. The

six-pounder was, however, soon taken, and the gunners sabred at their

posts, while our advanced guard coming up, completed the victory; and

nothing now remained but a headlong flight.

Had we possessed a single squadron of dragoons, few could have escaped

us, for not a vestige of discipline remained. All was wild confusion and

panic. Such of the officers as had ever seen service, were already

killed or badly wounded; and the younger ones were perfectly unequal to

the difficult task of rallying or restoring order to a routed force.

The scene in the market-square, as we rode in, is not easily to be

forgotten; about two hundred prisoners were standing in a group,

disarmed, it is true, but quite unguarded, and without any preparation

or precaution against escape!

Six or seven English officers, among whom were two majors, were gathered

around General Humbert, who was conversing with them in tones of easy

and jocular familiarity. The captured guns of the enemy (fourteen in

all) were being ranged on one side of the square, while behind them

were drawn up a strange-looking line of men, with their coats turned.

These were part of the Kilkenny militia, who had deserted to our ranks

after the retreat began.

Such was the "fight" of Castlebar; it would be absurd to call it a

"battle;" a day too inglorious for the Royalists to reflect any credit

upon us; but, such as it was, it raised the spirits of our Irish

followers to a pitch of madness; and, out of our own ranks, none now

doubted in the certainty of Irish independence.

Our occupation of the town lasted only a week; but, brief as the time

was, it was sufficient to widen the breach between ourselves and our

allies into an open and undisguised hatred. There were, unquestionably,

wrongs on both sides. As for us, we were thoroughly, bitterly

disappointed in the character of those we had come to liberate; and,

making the egregious mistake of confounding these semi-civilized

peasants with the Irish people, we deeply regretted that ever the French

army should have been sent on so worthless a mission. As for them, they

felt insulted and degraded by the offensive tone we assumed toward them.

Not alone they were never regarded as comrades, but a taunting insolence

of manner was assumed in all our dealings with them, very strikingly in

contrast to that with which we conducted ourselves toward all the other

inhabitants of the island, even those who were avowedly inimical to our

object and our cause.

These things, with native quickness, they soon remarked. They saw the

consideration and politeness with which the Bishop and his family were

treated; they saw several Protestant gentlemen suffered to return to

their homes "on parole." They saw, too--worst grievance of all--how all

attempts at pillage were restrained, or severely punished, and they

asked themselves, "To what end a revolt, if neither massacre nor robbery

were to follow? If they wanted masters and rulers, sure they had the

English that they were used to, and could at least understand."

Such were the causes, and such the reasonings, which gradually ate

deeper and deeper into their minds, rendering them at first sullen,

gloomy, and suspicious, and at last insubordinate, and openly insulting

to us.

Their leaders were the first to exhibit this state of feeling. Affecting

a haughty disdain for us, they went about with disparaging stories of

the French soldiery; and at last went even so far as to impugn their

courage!

In one of the versions of the affair of Castlebar, it was roundly

asserted, that but for the Irish threatening to fire on them, the French

would have turned and fled; while in another, the tactics of that day

were all ascribed to the military genius of Neal Kerrigan, who,

by-the-by, was never seen from early morning until late the same

afternoon, when he rode into Castlebar on a fine bay horse that belonged

to Captain Shortall of the Royal Artillery!

If the feeling between us and our allies was something less than

cordial, nothing could be more friendly than that which subsisted

between us and such of the Royalists as we came in contact with. The

officers who became our prisoners were treated with every deference and

respect. Two field-officers and a captain of carbineers dined daily with

the General, and Serazin entertained several others. We liked them

greatly; and I believe I am not flattering if I say that they were

equally satisfied with us. "Nos âmis l'ennemie," was the constant

expression used in talking of them; and every day drew closer the ties

of this comrade regard and esteem.

Such was the cordial tone of intimacy maintained between us, that I

remember well, one evening at Humbert's table, an animated discussion

being carried on between the General and an English staff-officer on the

campaign itself--the Royalist averring, that, in marching southward at

all, a gross and irreparable mistake had been made, and that if the

French had occupied Sligo, and extended their wings toward the north,

they would have secured a position of infinitely greater strength, and

also become the centre for rallying round them a population of a very

different order from the half-starved tribes of Mayo.

Humbert affected to say that the reason for his actual plan was, that

twenty thousand French were daily expected to land in Lough Swilly, and

that the western attack was merely to occupy time and attention, while

the more formidable movement went on elsewhere.

I know not if the English believed this; I rather suspect not. Certes,

they were too polite to express any semblance of distrust of what was

told them with all the air of truth.

It was amusing, too, to see the candor with which each party discussed

the other to his face; the French general criticising all the faulty

tactics and defective manoeuvres of the Royalists; while the English

never hesitated to aver, that whatever momentary success might wait upon

the French arms, they were just as certain to be obliged to capitulate

in the end.

"You know it better than I do, General," said the Major of Dragoons. "It

may be a day or two earlier or later, but the issue will and must be--a

surrender."

"I don't agree with you," said Humbert, laughing; "I think there will be

more than one 'Castlebar.' But let the worst happen, and you must own

that your haughty country has received a heavy insult--your great

England has got a _soufflét_ in the face of all Europe!"

This, which our General regarded as a great compensation--the greatest,

perhaps, he could receive for all defeat--did not seem to affect the

English with proportionate dismay, nor even to ruffle the equanimity of

their calm tempers.

Upon one subject both sides were quite agreed--that the peasantry never

could aid, but very possibly would always shipwreck, every attempt to

win national independence.

"I should have one army to fight the English, and two to keep down the

Irish!" was Humbert's expression; and very little experience served to

show that there was not much exaggeration in the sentiment.

Our week at Castlebar taught us a good lesson in this respect. The

troops, wearied with a march that had begun on the midnight of the day

before, and with an engagement that lasted from eight till two in the

afternoon, were obliged to be under arms for several hours, to repress

pillage and massacre. Our allies now filled the town, to the number of

five thousand, openly demanding that it should be given up to them,

parading the streets in riotous bands, and displaying banners with long

lists of names, doomed for immediate destruction.

The steadiness and temper of our soldiery were severely tried by these

factious and insubordinate spirits; but discipline prevailed at last,

and before the first evening closed in, the town was quiet, and, for the

time, at least, danger over.

(_To be continued._)

SKETCHES FROM LIFE.

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.

I. THE OLD GOVERNESS.

The afternoon was come when the Morells must go on board. They were

going to Canada at last, after having talked about it for several years.

There were so many children, that it was with much difficulty they had

got on for some years past; and there was no prospect for the lads at

home. They had, with extreme difficulty, paid their way: and they had,

to a certain extent, educated the children. That, however, was Miss

Smith's doing.

"We shall always feel, every one of us," said Mrs. Morell, with tears,

to the elderly homely governess, "that we are under the deepest

obligations to you. But for you, the children would have grown up

without any education at all. And, for the greatest service you or any

one could possibly render us, we have never been able to give you your

due--even as regards the mere money."

"I can only say again," replied the governess, "that you do not look at

the whole of the case. You have given me a home, when it is no easy

matter for such as I am to earn one, with my old-womanish ways and my

old-fashioned knowledge."

"I will not hear any disparagement of your ways and your knowledge,"

interrupted Mrs. Morell. "They have been every thing to my children: and

if you could have gone with us...."

This, however, they all knew to be out of the question. It was not only

that Miss Smith was between fifty and sixty, too old to go so far, with

little prospect of comfort at the end of the journey; but she was at

present disabled for much usefulness by the state of her right hand. It

had been hurt by an accident a long time before, and it did not get

well. The surgeon had always said it would be a long case; and she had

no use whatever of the hand in the mean time. Yet she would not part

with the baby till the last moment. She carried him on the left arm, and

stood on the wharf with him--the mother at her side--till all the rest

were on board, and Mr. Morell came for his wife. It was no grand steamer

they were going in, but a humble vessel belonging to the port, which

would carry them cheap.

"Now, my love," said the husband. "Now, Miss Smith," taking the child

from her. "Words can not tell...."

And if words could have told, the tongue could not have uttered them. It

was little, too, that his wife could say.

"Write to us. Be sure you write. We shall write as soon as we arrive.

Write to us."

Miss Smith glanced at the hand. She said only one word, "Farewell!" but

she said it cheerfully.

The steamer-tug was in a hurry, and down the river they went. She had

one more appointment to keep with them. She was to wave her handkerchief

from the rocks by the fort; and the children were to let her try whether

she could see their little handkerchiefs. So she walked quickly over the

common to the fort, and sat down on the beach at the top of the rocks.

It was very well that she had something to do. But the plan did not

altogether answer. By the time the vessel crossed the bar it was nearly

dark, and she was not quite sure, among three, which it was, and she did

not suppose the children could see her handkerchief. She waved it,

however, according to promise. How little they knew how wet it was!

Then there was the walk home. It was familiar, yet very strange. When

she was a child her parents used to bring her here, in the summer time,

for sea air and bathing. The haven and the old gray bathing houses, and

the fort, and the lighthouse, and the old priory ruins crowning the

rocks, were all familiar to her; but the port had so grown up that all

else was strange. And how strange now was life to her! Her parents gone,

many years back, and her two sisters since; and now, the Morells! She

had never had any money to lose, and the retired way in which the

Morells lived had prevented her knowing any body out of their house. She

had not a relation, nor a friend, nor even an acquaintance, in England.

The Morells had not been uneasy about her. They left her a little money,

and had so high an opinion of her that they did not doubt her being

abundantly employed, whenever her hand should get well. They had lived

too much to themselves to know that her French, learned during the war,

when nobody in England could pronounce French, would not do in these

days, nor that her trilling, old-fashioned style of playing on the

piano, which they thought so beautiful, would be laughed at now in any

boarding school; and that her elegant needleworks were quite out of

fashion; and that there were new ways of teaching even reading,

spelling, and writing.

She knew these things, and cautioned herself against discontent with the

progress of society, because she happened to be left alone behind. She

suspected, too, that the hand would not get well. The thing that she was

most certain of was, that she must not rack her brain with fears and

speculations as to what was to become of her. Her business was to wait

till she could find something to do, or learn what she was to suffer.

She thought she had better wait here. There was no call to any other

place. This was more familiar and more pleasant to her than any

other--the Morells' cottage being far away, and out of the question--and

here she could live with the utmost possible cheapness. So here she

staid.

The hand got well, as far as the pain was concerned, sooner than she had

expected. But it was in a different way from what she had expected. It

was left wholly useless. And, though the time was not long, it had

wrought as time does. It had worn out her clothes; it had emptied her

little purse. It had carried away every thing she had in the world but

the very few clothes she had on. She had been verging toward the

resolution she now took for three or four weeks. She took it finally

while sitting on the bench near the fort. It was in the dusk; for her

gown, though she had done her best to mend it with her left hand, was in

no condition to show by daylight. She was alone in the dusk, rather

hungry and very cold. The sea was dashing surlily upon the rocks below,

and there was too much mist to let any stars shine upon her. It was all

dreary enough; yet she was not very miserable, for her mind was made up.

She had made up her mind to go into the workhouse the next day. While

she was thinking calmly about it a fife began to play a sort of jig in

the yard of the fort behind her. Her heart heaved to her throat, and the

tears gushed from her eyes. In this same spot, fifty years before, she

had heard what seemed to her the same fife. Her father was then sitting

on the grass, and she was between his knees, helping to tassel the tail

of a little kite they were going to fly: and, when the merry fife had

struck up, her father had snatched up her gay harlequin that lay within

reach, and made him shake his legs and arms to the music. She heard her

own laugh again now, through that long course of fifty years, and in the

midst of these tears.

All that night she pondered her purpose: and the more she considered,

the more sure she was that it was right. "I might," thought she, "get

maintained by charity, no doubt: I might call on any of the clergymen of

this place, and the rich people. Or I might walk into the shops and tell

my story, and I dare say the people would give me food and clothes. And,

if it was a temporary distress, I would do so. I should think it right

to ask for help, if I had any prospect of work or independence in any

way. But I have none: and this, I am convinced, points out my duty.

Hopeless cases like mine are those which public charity--legal

charity--is intended to meet. My father little dreamed of this, to be

sure; and the Morells little dream of it at this moment. But when do our

parents and friends, when do we ourselves dream of what our lot is

really to turn out? Those old notions have nothing to do, if we could

but think so, with the event. Nor has my disgust any thing to do with my

duty. The plain fact is, that I am growing old--that I am nearly

helpless--that I am cold and hungry, and nearly naked--that I have no

friends within reach, and no prospect whatever. I am, therefore, an

object for public charity, and I will ask for what is my due. I am

afraid of what I may find in the workhouse--the vicious people, the

dirty people, the diseased people--and, I suppose, not one among them

who can give me any companionship whatever. It is dreadful; but it can't

be helped. And the worse the case is about my companions--my

fellow-paupers--(for I must learn to bear the word)--the greater are the

chances of my finding something to do for them--something which may

prevent my feeling myself utterly useless in the world. This is not

being wholly without prospect, after all. I suppose nobody ever is. If

it were not so cold now, I could sleep upon mine."

It was too cold for sleep; and when, in the morning, she offered her old

shawl in payment for her bed, assuring the poor old woman who let it

that she should not want the shawl, because she was going to have other

clothes, the woman shook her head sorrowfully--her lodger looked so wan

and chilled. She had no fear that there was any thought of suicide in

the case. No one could look in Miss Smith's sensible face, and hear her

steady, cheerful voice, and suppose that she would do any thing wild or

impatient.

"Who is that woman with a book in her hand?" inquired the visiting

commissioner, some months afterward, of the governor of the workhouse.

The governor could only say she was a single woman of the name of Smith,

who had no use of her right hand. As to who she was, he could tell no

more than this; but his wife had sometimes mentioned her as a different

sort of person from those they generally saw there. She could not only

read, but she read very well; and she read a great deal aloud to the old

people, and in the infirmary. She talked unlike the rest, too. She said

little; but her language was good, and always correct. She could not do

much on account of her infirmity: but she was always willing to do what

could be done with one hand; and she must have been very handy when she

had the use of both.

"I should have thought her eyes had been too weak for much reading,"

observed the commissioner. "Has the medical officer attended to her?"

The governor called his wife: and the wife called a pauper woman who was

told the question. This woman said that it was not exactly a case for

the doctor. Nobody that shed so many tears could have good eyes. Ah!

the governor might be surprised; because Smith seemed so brisk in the

daytime, and cheered the old people so much. But she made up for it at

night. Many and many a time she cried the night through.

"How do you know?" asked the commissioner.

"I sleep in the next bed, sir. I can't say she disturbs any body; for

she is very quiet. But if any thing keeps me awake I hear her sobbing.

And you need but feel her pillow in the morning. It is wet almost

through."

"And does that happen often?"

"Yes, sir. Many a time when she has turned her back--gone into the

infirmary, or been reading to the old people--I have got her pillow and

dried it. And I have seen her do it herself, with a smile on her face

all the time."

The commissioner walked away. Before he left the place, the woman Smith

was beckoned out by the governor. She went with a beating heart, with

some wild idea in her head that the Morells had sent, that some friends

had turned up. While still in the passage, however, she said to herself

that she might as well look to see her parents risen from the dead.

The commissioner had, indeed, nothing to tell. He wanted to ask. He did

ask, as much as his delicacy would allow. But he learned nothing;

except, indeed, what he ought to have considered the most important

thing, the state of her mind about being there. About that she was frank

enough. She said over again to him what she had said to herself, about

this being the right place for one in her circumstances. She considered

that it would be an abuse of private charity for her to be maintained in

idleness at an expense which might set forward in life some person in a

less hopeless position.

"You speak cheerfully, as if you were in earnest," said the

commissioner.

"Of course, I am in earnest," she replied.

And cheerful she remained throughout the conversation. Only once the

commissioner saw her eyes filled, and a quiver on her lips. He did not

know it; but he had unconsciously called her "Madam."

Would she prefer the children's department of the house? There was no

doubt that she could teach them much. Would she change her quarters? No.

She was too old now for that. She should not be a good companion now for

children; and they would be too much for her. Unless she was wanted--

By no means. She should be where she preferred to be.

She preferred to be where she was. The commissioner's lady soon after

dropped in, and managed to engage Smith in conversation. But there was

no result; because Smith did not choose that there should be. Perhaps

she was more in the infirmary; and had oftener a warm seat by the fire,

and was spoken to with more deference. But this might be solely owing to

the way she made with the people by her own acts and manners. The

invalids and the infirm grew so fond of her that they poured out to her

all their complaints. She was favored with the knowledge of every

painful sensation as it passed, and every uneasy thought as it arose.

"I never thought to die in such a place as this," groaned old Johnny

Jacks.

"I wonder at that," said his old wife; "for you never took any care to

provide yourself a better--to say nothing of me." And she went on to

tell how Johnny had idled and drank his life away, and brought her here

at last. Much of Johnny's idling and drinking having been connected with

electioneering in an abominably venal city, he was a great talker on

politics, and the state was made responsible for all his troubles. He

said it was a shame that any body should die in a workhouse; he appealed

to his neighbor Smith, who was warming his broth, whether it was not so?

"Which is best?" she answered; "being here, or on a common, or the

sea-sands? Because," she added, "there was a time when old people like

us were left to die wherever they fell. There are countries now where

old people die so. I should not like that."

"You don't mean to say that you or any one likes being here?"

"Oh, no; I don't mean to say that. But things are better than they were

once: and they may be better again."

"I shall not live to see that," groaned Johnny.

"No; nor I. But it is something to think of."

"D---- it," said Johnny, "I am not the better for any good that does not

happen to me, nor to any body I know."

"Are not you?" said neighbor Smith. "Well, now, I am."

And so she was to the end. She died in that infirmary, and not very long

after. When the Morells' letter came, it was plain that they had enough

to do to take care of themselves. So she did not let them know--in her

reply, written by the hands of the schoolmaster--where she was. The

letter was so cheerful that they are probably far from suspecting, at

this moment, how she died and was buried. As "from the abundance of the

heart the mouth speaketh," there was so much in her letter as rather

surprised them about her hope and expectation that the time would come,

when hearty work in the vigorous season of life should secure its easy

close; and when a greater variety of employment should be opened to

women. There was more of this kind of speculation, and less news and

detail of facts than they would have liked. But it was a household event

to have a letter from Miss Smith; and the very little children,

forgetting the wide sea they had passed, began shouting for Miss Smith

to come to them just (as it happened) when her ear was closing to every

human voice.

II. THE COLLEGIAN.

One day during the war, when the Orders in Council were producing more

mischief in our manufacturing districts than those decrees of Napoleon

upon which they were meant to retaliate, the city of ---- was thrown

into consternation by the news that Mr. Woodcock had failed. Bad news

had become so frequent of late that any ordinary mishap would have been

received with a sigh and a few shakes of the head, and then have been

forgotten in the next incident that occurred; but that Mr. Woodcock

should fail came upon the city like a great fire, or an earthquake, or

the news that Napoleon had really landed on the neighboring coast. The

ladies wept, as when the news came of Lord Nelson's death; the gentlemen

met at one another's houses to see if any thing could be done. The

poorest people in the street spoke of it as of a personal misfortune.

And so it was to them, for Mr. Woodcock had always been as kind a

neighbor as he was an upright magistrate. He had been sheriff and

alderman; and then his portrait, in his robes, had been hung up among

those of the mayors in the city hall. In that hall his mayoralty feasts

had been of the highest order ever given; and his balls in the assembly

rooms were talked of years after others were forgotten. Liberal as his

expenditure had been, well as his wife was always dressed, and large as

were his benefactions in the city, there was no sign of extravagance in

himself or his household; but, on the contrary, so much prudence and

sagacity, that he was as much consulted for his wisdom as appealed to

for his benevolence. Therefore, when the news spread from house to house

that Mr. Woodcock had failed, the first remark made by every hearer was

that there could be no fault in the case.

There was no fault. A sudden depreciation in the value of his stock--a

fall which no wisdom could have foreseen or guarded against, was the

cause of the misfortune. And the mischief done was small to any but the

Woodcocks themselves. There were no tradesmen's bills. The deficiency

was small; for Mr. Woodcock had stopped the very hour that he had reason

to fear that he was insolvent, and his few creditors were those who had

profited largely by their preceding engagements with him. Not an ill

word was known to be spoken against him or his; but many a kind and

sorrowful one when the family removed from their sunny house near the

cathedral, and went, with one servant, into a small "right up," just

outside the city; and when the phaeton was laid down, and young Master

Edward's pony was sold, and Mrs. Woodcock was seen going to market,

dressed as plainly as any Quaker.

Hitherto they had never been thought proud. Now people began to think

them so--Mrs. Woodcock certainly--and perhaps her husband, too. He grew

very grave, and more retired and dignified than formerly. Mrs. Woodcock

had always been remarkably clever. But for the high principle and sound

judgment which gave moral weight to what she said, her sayings would

have been sharp and satirical. Now there was more sharpness and satire,

and they showed the more, from her saying less, and carrying herself in

a higher manner. Her intimate friends knew that a single mortification

lay heavy at her heart, and made her more unhappy than she acknowledged

to herself. She was grieving for the blight which had come upon the

prospects of her only child--"my Edward," as she was wont to call

him--she, from whom tender words were very rare.

Her Edward was a clever boy--a very clever boy, and such a wag that

other boys did not care about his cleverness in any other direction. He

made such capital fun wherever he went that it was a secondary matter

that he could learn whatever he chose in no time, and do better than the

best whatever he set about. He had his mother's keen, observant--one

might say, experienced eye, under his curly light hair. He was not a

handsome boy, but he had a bright, healthy face; brows that he knit very

close when he was learning his lessons; and a mouth so incessantly

working with fun that the question was how he ever kept grave while

within the cathedral walls on Sundays. He had been destined, however, to

spend a good many hours of gravity in a church, in the course of his

life; for he was to have been a clergyman. It was the overthrow of this

aim which was the heavy mortification to Mrs. Woodcock. Her husband

thought they must give up the idea of a university education for Edward,

and prepare him for trade. The mother tried to remember that we do not

know what is good for us, and that it might possibly be better for her

son to be in trade; but when some such reflection was immediately

followed by a few sarcasms on human life or human beings, her husband

knew that she had been thinking how her Edward would have been sure to

distinguish himself at Oxford, if he could have been allowed to show

what he could do.

Before many years all was bright again. A good fortune was unexpectedly

left to Mr. Woodcock. First, he paid all his creditors, debts, interest,

and compound interest. Then he went into his old house again; and his

old servants came back to him joyfully. His fellow-citizens made him

mayor again; and the guild-feast was as handsome as before. There are

many now who remember Edward's curly head in the mayor's carriage, and

the wonder of his school-fellows as to how the boy would behave at the

great dinner, among all the grown-up people. He sat beside his mother;

and she would not laugh, say what he might, more than became her

position as hostess to six hundred people. He asked the young ladies to

dance very properly at the ball afterward; but he amused them so

excessively that they were almost glad at last to change partners and

rest from laughing. What a thing this would be to remember when he

became a bishop! Of course the university was again before him; and his

mother was now as gracious and right-minded in her shrewdness as ever.

Before Edward went to Oxford his father died. The honest and benign

face, under the brown wig, was no more seen in the market-place, nor

was the cheerful voice, with a reasoning tone, heard in the magistrates'

hall; nor, for a while, were pleasant parties assembled in the bright

and handsome drawing-room, before whose windows the cathedral tower and

spire uprose in the sunset, like a sculptured mountain reflecting the

western lights. In those summer evenings the mother was seen, leaning on

her son's arm, taking the last walks with him before his going to

Oxford.

There was less gossip about the Woodcocks than might have been expected

by those who hear much of the vulgarities of provincial towns. Edward

gave such fair occasion for talk, that it is surprising there was not

more of it. When he came home for the first vacation it was remarked--it

could not but be remarked--that he and his mother were rarely seen

together. When once she had his arm, he did not at all condescend to her

short stature; he twirled his cane about, fidgeted, and struck the

pebbles as he walked. But he was often seen galloping out of the city on

a spirited horse, or lounging near the news-room, or lolling out of the

window of the billiard-room there. His mother walked alone. She was

seldom visible when neighbors called; and, when found at home, she

appeared to be growing caustic again. With this there was a slight

affectation about her son; a little ostentation about deriving all her

information from Oxford, or from Edward's lips. "My son writes"--"My son

tells me"--was the preface to most things she said. One incident which

occurred during this vacation could not escape remark. She was now just

out of mourning, and had declared her intention of inviting her friends

again, as soon as Edward should come home. She had one party the week

after his arrival. He did not appear. Flushed, fidgety, and with that

knit of the brow which in her countenance told so much, she exerted

herself to the very utmost, talking and setting every body talking,

moving about and letting nobody sit too long. Some of the party had to

return home through the market-place that summer night. The windows of

the billiard-room were open, and it was well lighted; and among the

moving figures within they perfectly distinguished Edward Woodcock.

After that vacation, it was long--I think it must have been three

years--before he appeared again at home. Little was said, but much was

understood, of the weariness of those years to his mother. It was known

that there had somehow been losses. Her great charities were much

contracted. She went out so little that she had no occasion for any kind

of carriage; but the livery-servant disappeared. If any stranger called

or met her, she still said, when college or church was mentioned, "My

son is intended for the Church;" but it was as if she was stung to say

it. It was said so tartly that the conversation never lingered upon the

Church. As for old acquaintances, they found it required some resolution

now to go to the house--Mrs. Woodcock's manner had become so sharp, and

her eye so suspicious. One autumn she was going to the sea. It was only

twenty miles off; but it was long since she had gone from home at all. A

family of neighbors were there, too, and they saw what they can never

forget. Now and then she walked alone, frowning, and lost in thought,

along the cliffs. Sometimes she sat on a bench below, glancing about up

and down the sands, and turning restlessly when any footstep approached.

Oftener she sat at an open window, in a little common, ugly cap and a

cheap gown, gazing at the jetty below.

And why at the jetty? Because he was there. Hardly any one would have

known it was he, but for the direction of his mother's gaze. His bright

eyes were hidden under green goggles; his once curly hair was lank and

thin; it is impossible to fancy the cheeks of a living person more

hollow--the whole face more ghastly. He walked with two sticks; but his

time was spent chiefly in sitting at the end of the jetty or the window

of the billiard-room, quizzing, giggling, and striving after a mirth

which brought tears from some who were within hearing. His giggle was a

convulsion; his quizzing was slander; his mirth was blasphemy. He once

or twice appeared in his native place, painfully making his way to the

billiard-room; and once with his mother on his arm: but it is thought

that they met such looks in the streets--such astonishment--such

involuntary grief--that they could not bear it; at least, she could not;

and he ceased to appear.

He was heard of for two years more. Not in connection with the Church.

No one could, for shame, join the ideas of Edward Woodcock and the

Church. In connection with Oxford he was often spoken of. Mothers of

sons trembled, and even fathers doubted, when they were told that Edward

Woodcock's case was by no means a remarkable one. He had lost his

ability altogether under the exhaustion of disease and dissipation. He

had lost his health in debauchery; he had lost his money and his

mother's fortune in gaming: but so had many other young men of promise

equal to his. If any asked how such things could be common in such a

place, some answered that they did not know, and others had always been

told they could not be helped.

At last Mrs. Woodcock's door was closed against all visitors except the

physician. Edward was there; and he was dying. Great decorum and

tenderness were observed about the secrets of that dreary house; but it

was known to those who most cared to know that there was no solace to

the mother's heart--no softening of the son's. He treated her like a

servant; and in the way that good-natured people never treat servants.

He repelled her affection; he mocked.... But I can not dwell on this.

One summer morning the hearse and two mourning coaches were seen moving

from the door under the shady trees in the close. Old friends hardly

knew whether to be glad or sorry that all was over. They would have

been glad if there had been any domestic resource for the mother; any

other survivor to make the old home somewhat like itself. But was ever

any worn-out being more lonely? One old acquaintance, by no means an

intimate friend, saw that it would now be right to go. She dreaded the

visit inexpressibly; but she saw that it was right to go. She went; and

she shed a lapful of tears when she came home.

She found Mrs. Woodcock immeasurably more haughty than ever before. She

could scarcely rise at first from the rheumatism she had caught by

night-watching; and when she sat down on her faded old sofa she worked

her thumbs and twitched her fingers as if impatient of her visitor, and

cut short or contradicted every thing that was said. She still harped on

Oxford; on which, however, it was impossible to say any thing to please

her. At last--whether it was that the effort was of itself too much for

her, or that old tones of voice and a kindly expression of countenance

touched the spring of tears, I do not know--but she was overtaken by

such a passion of weeping as it was heart-rending to witness. She

well-nigh choked before she would acknowledge her own tears; but when

she laid her head against the back of the sofa, her sobs shook the very

room. She did not stop speaking for this. She said but one thing, but

she said it incessantly. "Don't pity me, Mrs. A----. I can not bear to

be pitied. I am not at all unhappy. I can not bear to be pitied. You

must not pity me," and so on.

Such a life could not last long. I forget exactly how long it was.

Probably, in the suspense of our compassion, it seemed longer than it

would now in the retrospect. It could not, I think, have been many

months before the hearse was again moving away from the door under the

trees, and we felt that the household which had been once so much to the

city was extinguished. Nothing was left but that which still

remains--the portrait of the mayor in his robes in the great hall, and

the aching remembrance in many hearts of the fate of his wife and only

child.

III. THE MAID-SERVANT.

"Where is Jemima? I want Jemima," said a feeble voice, interrupted by

coughing, from a bed in a sick room.

"My dear," said an elderly woman, who entered through an open door from

the west chamber, "Jemima is gone to lie down. What can I do for you?"

"_I_ want Jemima," was the reply: and Jemima appeared. In she came, with

her young, innocent, chubby face, looking as fresh as if she had been

accustomed of late to sleep every night, as other people do, whereas she

had been night and day for some weeks, by the bedside of her mistress,

who was dying of consumption. Her master was very ill too, and the whole

of the nursing rested upon his mother, and upon this, their little

maid-of-all-work, who was then fifteen.

When Jemima had comforted and refreshed her poor mistress, the

mother-in-law whispered to her that she must go and lie down again; but

Jemima said a little fresh air would do her more good than lying down

with the feeling that she was wanted. The medicines for the evening had

not come, and she would go for them, and to the grocer's.

Thus it went on to the end. Jemima always found that her best

refreshment was in doing something that was wanted. She was always at

her mistress's call; and, when that call was unreasonable, she was the

first to observe that dying persons did not always know the night from

the day, or judge how time went with other people, when it was all so

long to them, and they could get no rest. When the funeral was over, her

elder mistress made her go to bed for nearly a week. At first she cried

so much, as she lay thinking of the one who was gone, that she would

rather have been up and busy; but soon a deep sleep fell upon her; and

when she rose, her face was as chubby and her voice as cheerful as ever.

The same scene had to be gone over with her master. He died of

consumption two months after his wife. As there were now two nurses to

one patient, Jemima's work was not quite so trying; but she did more

than most trained nurses could have done. When the funeral was over, she

helped the bereaved mother to clear the house, and put away every thing

belonging to those that lay in the church-yard. The tears were often

running down her cheeks; but her voice was always cheerful, as she said

things were best as they were, her friends having gone together to a

better place.

One summer evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Barclay and their family returned

from a walk, they found at their door a genteel-looking little girl, who

had just knocked. She was in a black stuff gown, with a gray

handkerchief crossed over her bosom; and a black straw hat, under which

was the neatest little quaker cap. She courtesied, and said she came

after the housemaid's place. Mrs. Barclay would have dismissed her at

once, as too young, but for something in her face and manner which

seemed to show that her mind was that of an older person. She said she

was very strong, and willing to be taught and trained. Mrs. Barclay

promised to inquire her character, and the inquiry settled the business.

"Ma'am," said the bereaved mother, "I would never part with Jemima, if I

could by any means keep her. I never saw such a girl. It seems

impossible to exhaust her, body or mind, on account, I think, of her

good will." And she gave the whole story of the two illnesses. When

asked what the girl's faults were, as she must have some, she said she

really did not know: she supposed there must be some fault; but she had

never seen any. She had known Jemima only six months, and under peculiar

circumstances; she could not tell how she would get on in a regular

housemaid's place; but she had never had to find fault with her. Of

course, Jemima went to Mrs. Barclay. Her wages were to be £5 a year at

first, and to increase to £8 as she grew up, and became trained.

The training was no trouble to any body. When she had once learned where

every thing was in the house, and what were the hours and ways of the

family, her own sense and quickness did the rest. She was the first

person awake and up. She never lost, or broke, or forgot any thing.

Never, during the years of her service, was there a dusty, dark corner

in her pantry, nor a lock of "slut's wool" under any bed, nor a streaky

glass on the sideboard, nor a day when the cloth was not laid to a

minute. She never slammed a door; and if there was a heavy foot overhead

it was not hers. She and her fellow-servants had their time, after seven

in the evening, for their own work; and Jemima was a capital

needlewoman, and worked for somebody else besides herself. She would ask

the nursemaid to read aloud, and, in return, she would make or mend a

gown for her. She reduced her own gowns, when they began to wear, for

her little sister Sally. The wonder was how she could afford this, out

of her small wages; but she was always nicely dressed; and she soon

began to spare money for other objects which her friends thought should

not have been pressed upon one in her circumstances. This was after a

great change had come over her mind and life.

It was true that Jemima was not without a fault, any more than other

people. Her temper was not perfectly good. Her mistress soon perceived

this, by certain flashes from her eyes, and flushes of her cheeks, and

quick breathing, and hurry of speaking. It was not much at first; no

more than just enough to show that Jemima could be in a passion, and

probably would some day. The sufferings of her deceased master and

mistress had kept this down while she was with them. Their deaths had

made a deep impression upon her, and had disposed her naturally

religious temper to be strongly wrought upon by the first religious

influence which should come in her way. A new Methodist minister had

been very acceptable to the people who attended the Apple-lane

meeting-house; and, within a year after going to the Barclays, Jemima

requested permission to attend that place of worship, instead of

following the family to their own chapel on Sundays. Mrs. Barclay was

sorry, because she liked to see her servants at worship near her own

pew: but Jemima was always so trustworthy, and on this occasion so

earnest, that it did not seem right to deny her; and she became a member

of the Apple-yard Meeting Society. Very soon she asked leave to go an

hour sooner on Sunday mornings to attend class; and then to go there one

evening in the week, and sometimes two. As her work was never neglected,

this, too, was permitted. Very soon it appeared that she was subscribing

annually, quarterly, weekly, to missionary objects and sectarian funds.

How she managed it nobody could understand; but she did it and honestly.

Her dress reached the last point of plainness and cheapness; but it was

as neat as ever; so that it was wholly her own affair. A less pleasant

change was, that her temper was far from improving. She would have none

but religious books read in the kitchen, and could tolerate no singing

but hymns. She winced when any body laughed. A contraction came over her

open brow, and a sharpness into her once cheerful voice. Not satisfied

with pressing her views upon her fellow servants, she became critical

upon the ways of the family. One of their customs was to receive, on

Sunday evenings, two or three young men, who living alone, liked to

spend their Sunday evenings in a sociable manner. There was always

Scripture-reading and prayer, and often sacred music. In summer there

was a country walk; in winter cheerful conversation, with an occasional

laugh, which could be heard in the kitchen. This was too much for

Jemima; but a worse thing was the supper. Like most old-fashioned

Dissenters, the Barclays dined at one o'clock on Sundays, and,

naturally, they had some supper at nine. It was simple enough; but the

servant whose turn it was to stay at home had sometimes to poach eggs or

dress a cutlet; and Jemima's repugnance to this was so far from being

concealed that it amounted at last to extreme impertinence; and she went

so far as to express her contempt and abhorrence to the child, whom it

was her business to put to bed. Her mistress always hoped that the fit

of fanaticism would pass off with months or years and the sooner for not

being interfered with; but this behavior could not be passed over. When

the rebuke was given, poor Jemima emptied her heart completely; and very

curious the contents proved to be. It appeared that she despised the

family she lived with, though she was fully resolved to do her duty by

them. She feared they were lost people; but they might yet be saved, and

it was her business to serve them, and not to judge them. She hoped she

had not failed in her duty; but her feelings and her thoughts were her

own. If she must not speak them, she could hold her tongue, and bear the

cross of so doing; but nobody could take them from her. There was so

much that was respectable and really fine in her ardor and

conscientiousness, that she was gently treated, and only forbidden to

make any complaints to the younger members of the family. One most

important disclosure at this time was that she was engaged to be

married; not yet, but some time or other.

Her lover was a class-mate, apprenticed to a shoemaker, with two years

of his apprenticeship still to run. On inquiry he was found to be

thoroughly respectable as to character, diligent in his business, and

likely to be an able workman. So he was allowed to call for Jemima on

class evenings, and to come now and then to the house. The Barclays knew

when he was there by hearing a man's voice reading in the kitchen, when

the door was opened, or by the psalm-singing, which needed no open doors

to make itself heard.

Jemima was now, however, unsettled; not at all by her engagement, for

nothing could be more sober and rational than the temper and views of

the young people as regarded each other and their prospects; but the

poor girl felt that she was living in a sort of bondage, while yet she

could blame nobody for it. She sighed for freedom to lead the sort of

religious life she wished, without interruption from persons of a

different way of thinking. I believe she was nineteen or twenty when she

told Mrs. Barclay what she had been planning; and Mrs. Barclay was not

altogether sorry to hear about it, for Jemima had lost much of her

openness and cheerfulness, bounced about when doing her work, and

knocked hard with her brushes when cleaning floors overhead. There was

evidently an internal irritation, which might best be relieved by total

change.

The plan was for Jemima and a pious friend, about her own age, to take a

room and live together, maintaining themselves by working for the

upholsterers. The girls thought they could make money faster this way

than at service, as both were good workwomen, and could live as cheaply

as any body could live. If they found themselves mistaken they could go

back to service. Jemima avowed that her object was to lay by money, as

Richard and she had resolved not to marry till they could furnish their

future dwelling well and comfortably. This might have been a rash scheme

for most girls; but these two friends were so good and so sensible, and

knew their own purposes so well, that nobody opposed their experiment.

It was really a pleasure to go and see them when they were settled. They

chose their room carefully, for the sake of their work, as well as their

own health. Their room was very high upstairs; but it was all the more

airy for that, and they wanted plenty of light. And very light it

was--with its two windows on different sides of the room. The

well-boarded floor looked as clean as their table. There were plants in

the windows; and there was a view completely over the chimneys of the

city to the country beyond. Their most delicate work could get no soil

here. They were well employed, and laid by money as fast as they

expected.

Still it seemed, after a time, that Jemima was not yet happy. Her face

was anxious, and her color faded. She often went to work at the

Barclays; as often as Mrs. B. could find any upholstery, or other

needlework, for her to do. One object was to give her a good hot dinner

occasionally; for it seemed possible that she might be living too low,

though she declared that this was not the case. One day she happened to

be at work in the dining-room with Mrs. Barclay, when one of the young

ladies went in. Jemima was bending over her work; yet Miss B. saw that

her face was crimson, and heard that her voice was agitated. On a sign

from her mother, the young lady withdrew. One evening the next week

Richard called, and saw Mrs. Barclay alone. Little was said in the

family; but in many parts of the city it became presently known that the

preacher who had so revived religion among the young people was on bad

terms with some of them. Either he was a profligate, or some dozen young

women were slanderers. Jemima was growing thin and pale under the dread

of the inquiry which must, she knew, take place. Either her own

character must go, or she must help to take away that of the minister.

It was no great comfort to her that Richard told her that Mrs. Barclay

could and would carry her through. She had many wretched thoughts that

this certainty could not reach.

It was some weeks before the business was over. The Miss Barclays and

Jemima were sitting at work together, with the parlor-door open, when

there was a knock, and then the shuffling of the feet of four gentlemen

in the hall, just as Mrs. Barclay was coming down stairs. She invited

them into the drawing-room; but the spokesman (an acquaintance of the

Barclays) declined, saying that a few words would suffice; that he and

his friends understood that Mrs. Barclay was thoroughly well acquainted

with Jemima Brooks, and they merely wished to know whether Jemima was,

in that house, considered a well-conducted young woman, whose word might

be trusted. All this was heard in the parlor. Jemima's tears dropped

upon her needle; but she would not give up; she worked on, as if her

life depended on getting done. The young ladies had never seen her cry;

and the sight moved them almost as much as their mother's voice, which

they clearly heard, saying,

"I am glad you have come here, Mr. Bennett; for I _can_ speak to Jemima

Brooks's merits. She lived in my family for some years; and she is in

the house at this moment. There is no one in the world whom I more

cordially respect; and, when I say that I regard her as a friend, I need

not tell you what I think of the value of her word."

"Quite enough, Mrs. Barclay. Quite enough. We have nothing more to ask.

We are greatly obliged to you, ma'am. Good morning--good morning."

When Mrs. Barclay had seen them out, and entered the parlor, the quick

yet full gaze that Jemima raised to her face was a thing never to be

forgotten. Mrs. Barclay turned her face away; but immediately put on her

thimble, sat down among the party, and began to tell her daughters the

news from London. Jemima heard no more of this business. It is probable

that the gentlemen received similar testimony with regard to the other

young people implicated; for the preacher was dismissed the city,

without any ceremony, and with very brief notice.

From this time might clearly be dated the decline of Jemima's spiritual

pride and irritability of temper. She was deeply humbled; and from

under the ruins of her pride sprang richly the indigenous growth of her

sweet affections. She was not a whit less religious; but she had a

higher view of what religion should be. Her smile, when she met any of

the Barclays in the street, and the tenderness in her voice when she

spoke to them, indicated a very different state of mind from that in

which she had left them.

She was looking well, and her friend and she were doing well, and

Richard and she were beginning to reckon how many months, at their

present rate of earning, would enable them to furnish a dwelling, and

justify their going home to it, when they were called upon for a new

decision, and a new scene opened in Jemima's life.

The eldest of Mrs. Barclay's sons, who had been married about two years

before, was so ill as to be ordered to Madeira to save his life. There

was more rashness formerly than there is now about sending persons so

very ill far away from their own homes; and Madeira was then a less

comfortable residence for Englishmen than it has since been made. A

large country-house was taken for the invalid and his family; and all

that forethought could do was done for their comfort. The very best

piece of forethought was that of Mrs. Barclay, when she proposed that

Jemima should be asked to go as one of their servants. Jemima asked a

few days to consider; and during those few days the anxiety of the

family increased as they saw how all-important the presence of such a

helper would be. Nothing could be more reasonable than Jemima's

explanation, when she had made up her mind. She said that if she was to

engage herself for two years, and defer her marriage, it must be for the

sake of some advantage to Richard, and to their affairs afterward, that

she would make such a sacrifice. It was Richard's object and hers to

save at present; if, therefore, she went to Madeira it must be on high

wages. She would devote herself to do the best she could for the family:

but she must see that Richard did not suffer by it. Of course, this was

agreed to at once, and she went to Madeira.

It is always a severe and wearing trial to servants to travel in foreign

countries, or remain long abroad. They usually have all the discomfort

without the gratifications which their employers seek and enjoy. Their

employers can speak the languages of the people among whom they go; and

they have intellectual interests, historical, philosophical, or

artistical, which their servants know nothing about. Thus we hear of one

lady's maid who cried all through Italy, and another who scolded or

sulked all the way up the hill and down again; and another who declared

every morning for some weeks in the Arabian deserts that she would bear

it no longer, but would go straight home--that she would. Jemima and her

fellow-servants had much to bear, but she and another bore it well. The

voyage was trying, the sea-sickness was bad enough; but a worse thing

was, that the infant, five months' old, got no proper sleep, from the

noises and moving on board; and the foundation was thus laid for brain

disease, of which he died in the winter. Then, when they landed, the

great house was dreadfully dirty, and wanted airing; as it was not like

a dirty house in England, which can always be cleaned when desired. The

Portuguese at Madeira were found to have no notion of cleanliness; and

as they could speak no English, and the servants no Portuguese, the

business was an irritating one. There were great privileges about the

abode. The view over land and sea was most magnificent; and there was in

the grounds a hedge several hundred yards long of geraniums, fuchsias,

and many glorious foreign blossoms, in flower and fragrance all the

winter through; and the air was the most delicious that could be

breathed; but Jemima would have given all these things, at any moment,

for English food, and English ways, and the sound of English church

bells, or the familiar voice of her own preacher. Her master visibly

declined, on the whole, and the infant pined and died. She could not but

know that she was the mainstay of the party, as to their external

comfort. She must have had some sweet moments in the consciousness of

this. When she considered, however, the great luxury of all was watching

for the English packet from the top of the house. The house itself was

on the mountains, and when she and a fellow-servant went up to the flat

roof, and steadied the telescope on the balustrade, they could see very

far indeed over the ocean, and sometimes watched the approach of the

vessel, in which she knew there was a letter from Richard, for some

hours before it reached the harbor. These days of the arrival of letters

were the few days of animation and good cheer of that dreary and

mournful season, which was more dismal among sunshine, and flowers, and

sweet airs, than the gloomiest winter the party had ever known in

England. If it had been for an unlimited time, even Jemima's steady

spirits could hardly have borne it; but she said to herself that it was

only for two years, and she should never repent it.

It did not last two years. When the heats came on, in May, the

physicians said that the invalid must go home; and in June the family

embarked in the only vessel in which they could have a passage--a

wine-vessel going to a French port. It was dirty, and almost without

comforts. Its discomforts were too great to be dwelt upon. In the Bay of

Biscay there was a dead calm, in which they lay suffering for so many

days that it seemed as if they were never to get on. Under this the

invalid sank. He was buried at sea. The widow and her servants landed at

Bordeaux, and traveled homeward through France. Never, perhaps, had

Jemima felt so happy as when she saw again the cathedral spire of her

native city, and was presently met by Richard, and welcomed by the

grateful blessings of the Barclay family. She had well discharged her

trust, and now her own domestic life was to begin.

Not immediately, however. It was a season of fearful distress in

England--the year 1826, the time of the dreadful commercial crash,

which, having ruined thousands of capitalists--from bankers to

tradesmen--was now bringing starvation upon hundreds of thousands of

artisans and laborers. Richard's business, till now a rising one, had

become slack. During the few months longer that the young people waited,

they bought what they could get to advantage of good furniture, and

despised no small earnings. A certain clock--a thoroughly good one--was

to be had for £8, which a year before would have cost £10 at least. Mrs.

Barclay saw the longing there was to have this clock; while nothing like

£8 was left to buy it with. She offered to buy it for them, and let them

work it out; and the offer was gladly accepted. When they married she

wished to send it home, but they both said they could never look at the

clock in their own house without reproach while it was not truly their

own. They actually craved permission to have it stand in Mr. Barclay's

warehouse. Once a week they brought what money they could spare, and

then they always stepped into the warehouse and took a long look at

their clock; and at last the day came when they paid the last shilling,

and took it home, where, no doubt, they gave it a longer gaze than ever.

Poor things! they little knew what was before them. Richard had plenty

of business; and his stock of leather was used up, again and again; but,

as the winter wore on, he could obtain no payment. One of the Miss

Barclays, in speaking of the state of the times, thoughtlessly

congratulated Jemima on her husband being a shoemaker, saying that one

of the last things people could do without was shoes. A sort of spasm

passed over Jemima's face when she tried to smile, and she stopped a

moment before she said, very quietly, yes, that that was true: people

still had shoes; but they could not pay for them. In a little while

longer, she was making gowns, or doing any other sewing for any body,

for any thing they could pay. As she worked, Richard sat by and read to

her. He had no more leather; and there was no use trying his credit when

he knew he should not get paid for the shoes he might make. At

Christmas, they were sitting thus without a fire. A little later still,

the Barclays found Jemima rubbing up her furniture, which was as clean

and polished before as it could well be. No careless observer, seeing a

neat young woman, in a snow-white cap, polishing substantial furniture,

of her own, with a handsome clock ticking in the corner, could have

supposed that she was wanting food. But it was so, and there was

something in her face--a pinched look about the nose, a quivering about

the chin, which betrayed the fact to the Barclays. It was partly to warm

herself in the absence of fire, that Jemima was rubbing up her

furniture. As for pawning or selling it--it would have gone very hard

with the young couple to do that if it had been possible. But it was not

possible; and they had no conflict of mind on that point. The furniture

brokers had no money--any more than other people; and the pawnbrokers'

houses were so crowded, from cellar to garret, that every one of them in

the city had for some time refused to take any thing more whatever. The

Barclays themselves were sorely embarrassed, and eventually ruined, by

the same crash. The very little they could do was needed by multitudes

even more than by Richard and Jemima. They found the weaver hanging

fainting over his loom, and the reduced schoolmistress sitting on the

bottom stair, too dizzy with hunger to mount to her own room. They found

the elderly widow too proud to own her need to the district visitors,

lending her pitcher, without a handle, to the sinking family above

stairs, to fetch the soup from the public kitchen; while they, sinking

as they were divined her case, and left some soup at the bottom of the

pitcher as if by accident. No one was more ready than Jemima to point

out to the Barclays the sufferers who, while saying least about it, most

wanted bread. All that her friends could do for her was to get their

shoes mended by Richard, and to give her a few days' employment, now and

then, by their good fire, and with three good meals in the day.

How they managed it, the young couple could themselves hardly tell; but

they got through. The worst times of commercial crisis must come to an

end; and the end found the young people somewhat sunk in health and

spirits, but clear of debt, and with all their little property safe

about them. Of course their credit was good; and when people were again

able to pay for their shoes, Richard was as safe as any man can be who

is bound up with a system of fluctuations.

As safe, that is, about money matters. But the next autumn showed him by

how frail a tenure he held his very best earthly blessing. Jemima was

confined; and almost before he had seen his little daughter, his wife

was in the last extremity of danger. She well knew it; and the surgeon

said afterward that in all his experience, he had never seen such an

instance of calm and amiable good sense under the strongest possible

circumstances of proof. She understood the case--her affections were all

alive--her husband and child were in the room--a bright life was before

her--and she was slipping away from all; yet there was no fear, and,

amidst excessive exhaustion, no perturbation. The surgeon said she saved

her own life, for he could not have saved her. In a few weeks she

brought her little daughter to the Barclays' house; and, as she sat

there, they could not help thinking that her face was almost as

childlike as her infant's. It was at least much the same in its

innocence and brightness, as it was on that summer evening, so many

years ago, when they found it on their steps, on returning from their

walk.

The infant was extremely pretty. In connection with it happened the

severest trial that Jemima had ever known; certainly, a severer one than

she had looked for in her married life. She wished to have the child

vaccinated. Richard objected. He had committed all he had to God, and it

would be taking the child out of the hands of Providence to have it

vaccinated. Jemima, whose fanaticism had gradually melted all away, saw

the mistake he was in. She said, plainly and earnestly what she thought;

but, when she saw that her husband's religious feelings were engaged in

the matter, and that his will was roused, she let the subject drop. When

the child could run about and prattle, and was so pretty that the

Quaker-like young mother actually put the glossy hair in papers, and

made dressy pinafores for her darling, the dreaded small-pox appeared.

The child escaped death, but very narrowly; and her face was pitted and

seamed so as to leave no trace of beauty. It did not lighten the

affliction, that Richard still declared he was right. She bore it

quietly and there was little alteration in her cheerful voice when she

spoke of the ravage.

They rose steadily, on the whole, with occasional drawbacks. There were

more children; there was a larger business. At last, on Saturday nights

there was a respectable shop-front to close and a considerable stock to

arrange for Monday morning. On Sundays a group of children came out to

walk hand-in-hand to chapel, with their father in good broad cloth, and

their mother in black silk behind them. The Barclays left the city long

ago; but when one of them pays an occasional visit in the neighborhood,

the brisk little woman in black silk, is sure to be seen presently

coming up to the house; her innocent face looks in eagerly at the

window, and the chirping voice is heard in the hall. There was nothing

in her young days so impetuous as the grasp of the hand that the

Barclays have from her when they meet at intervals of years.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

(_Continued from page_ 263.)

BOOK III.--INITIAL CHAPTER:--SHOWING HOW MY NOVEL CAME TO BE CALLED "MY

NOVEL."

"I am not displeased with your novel, so far as it has gone," said my

father graciously; "though as for The Sermon--"

Here I trembled; but the ladies, Heaven bless them! had taken Parson

Dale under their special protection; and, observing that my father was

puckering up his brows critically, they rushed boldly forward in defense

of The Sermon, and Mr. Caxton was forced to beat a retreat. However,

like a skillful general, he renewed the assault upon outposts less

gallantly guarded. But as it is not my business to betray my weak

points, I leave it to the ingenuity of cavilers to discover the places

at which the Author of _Human Error_ directed his great guns.

"But," said the Captain, "you are a lad of too much spirit, Pisistratus,

to keep us always in the obscure country quarters of Hazeldean--you will

march us out into open service before you have done with us?"

PISISTRATUS, magisterially, for he has been somewhat nettled by Mr.

Caxton's remarks--and he puts on an air of dignity, in order to awe away

minor assailants.--"Yes, Captain Roland--not yet awhile, but all in good

time. I have not stinted myself in canvas, and behind my foreground of

the Hall and the Parsonage I propose, hereafter, to open some lengthened

perspective of the varieties of English life--"

MR. CAXTON.--"Hum!"

BLANCHE, putting her hand on my father's lip.--"We shall know better the

design, perhaps, when we know the title. Pray, Mr. Author, what is the

title?"

MY MOTHER, with more animation than usual.--"Ay, Sisty--the title?"

PISISTRATUS, startled.--"The title! By the soul of Cervantes! I have

never yet thought of a title!"

CAPTAIN ROLAND, solemnly.--"There is a great deal in a good title. As a

novel-reader, I know that by experience."

MR. SQUILLS.--"Certainly; there is not a catchpenny in the world but

what goes down, if the title be apt and seductive. Witness 'Old Parr's

Life Pills.' Sell by the thousand, sir, when my 'Pills for Weak

Stomachs,' which I believe to be just the same compound, never paid for

the advertising."

MR. CAXTON.--"Parr's Life Pills! a fine stroke of genius! It is not

every one who has a weak stomach, or time to attend to it, if he have.

But who would not swallow a pill to live to a hundred and fifty-two?"

PISISTRATUS, stirring the fire in great excitement.--"My title! my

title! what shall be my title!"

MR. CAXTON, thrusting his hand into his waistcoat, and in his most

didactic of tones. "From a remote period, the choice of a title has

perplexed the scribbling portion of mankind. We may guess how their

invention has been racked by the strange contortions it has produced. To

begin with the Hebrews. 'The Lips of the Sleeping,' (_Labia

Dormientium_)--what book do you suppose that title to designate?--A

Catalogue of Rabbinical writers! Again, imagine some young lady of old

captivated by the sentimental title of 'The Pomegranate with its

Flower,' and opening on a treatise on the Jewish Ceremonials! Let us

turn to the Romans. Aulus Gellius commences his pleasant gossiping

'Noctes' with a list of the titles in fashion in his day. For instance,

'_The Muses_' and '_The Veil_,' '_The Cornucopia_', '_The Beehive_', and

'_The Meadow_.' Some titles, indeed, were more truculent, and promised

food to those who love to sup upon horrors--such as '_The Torch_,'

'_The Poniard_,' '_The Stiletto_'--"

PISISTRATUS, impatiently.--"Yes, sir; but to come to My Novel."

MR. CAXTON, unheeding the interruption.--"You see, you have a fine

choice here, and of a nature pleasing, and not unfamiliar to a classical

reader; or you may borrow a hint from the early Dramatic Writers."

PISISTRATUS, more hopefully.--"Ay! there is something in the Drama akin

to the Novel. Now, perhaps, I may catch an idea."

MR. CAXTON.--"For instance, the author of the _Curiosities of

Literature_ (from whom, by the way, I am plagiarizing much of the

information I bestow upon you) tells us of a Spanish gentleman who wrote

a Comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for Moral

Philosophy."

PISISTRATUS, eagerly.--"Well, sir?"

MR. CAXTON.--"And called it 'The Pain of the Sleep of the World.'"

PISISTRATUS.--"Very comic, indeed, sir."

MR. CAXTON.--"Grave things were then called Comedies, as old things are

now called Novels. Then there are all the titles of early Romance itself

at your disposal--'Theagenes and Chariclea,' or 'The Ass' of Longus, or

'The Golden Ass' of Apuleius, or the titles of Gothic Romance, such as

'The most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and delightful History of

Perceforest, King of Great Britain.'"--And therewith my father ran over

a list of names as long as the Directory, and about as amusing.

"Well, to my taste," said my mother, "the novels I used to read when a

girl (for I have not read many since I am ashamed to say)--"

MR. CAXTON.--"No, you need not be at all ashamed of it, Kitty."

MY MOTHER, proceeding.--"Were much more inviting than any you mention,

Austin."

THE CAPTAIN.--"True."

MR. SQUILLS.--"Certainly. Nothing like them nowadays!"

MY MOTHER.--"'_Says she to her Neighbor, What?_'"

THE CAPTAIN.--"'_The Unknown, or the Northern Gallery_'--"

MR. SQUILLS.--"'_There is a Secret; Find it Out!_'"

PISISTRATUS, pushed to the verge of human endurance, and upsetting

tongs, poker, and fire-shovel.--"What nonsense you are talking, all of

you! For heaven's sake, consider what an important matter we are called

upon to decide. It is not now the titles of those very respectable works

which issued from the Minerva Press that I ask you to remember--it is to

invent a title for mine--My Novel!"

MR. CAXTON, clapping his hands gently.--"Excellent--capital! Nothing can

be better; simple, natural, pertinent, concise--"

PISISTRATUS.--"What is it, sir--what is it! Have you really thought of a

title to My Novel?"

MR. CAXTON.--"You have hit it yourself--'My Novel.' It is your

Novel--people will know it is your Novel. Turn and twist the English

language as you will--be as allegorical as Hebrew, Greek,

Roman--Fabulist or Puritan--still, after all, it is your Novel, and