"So here you are, Harry; and you'll stay with us the whole fortnight,

won't you? Come in to the dining-room--I have some supper ready for

you. Papa's gone to bed, and he desired me to give you his excuses,

and he hopes you'll make yourself quite at home, as you always do,

Harry."

He did make himself quite at home, for, having kissed his cousin and

flung his topcoat down in the hall, he went into the dining-room and

took possession of an easy-chair.

"Sha'n't have any supper, Jue, thank you. You won't mind my lighting

a cigar--somebody's been smoking here already. And what's the least

poisonous claret you've got?"

"Well, I declare!" she said, but she got him the wine all the

same, and watched him light his cigar: then she took the easy-chair

opposite.

"Tell us about your young man, Jue," he said. "Girls always like to

talk about that."

"Do they?" she said. "Not to boys."

"I shall be twenty-one in a fortnight. I am thinking of getting

married."

"So I hear," she remarked quietly.

Now he had been talking nonsense at random, mostly intent on getting

his cigar well lit, but this little observation rather startled him.

"What have you heard?" he said abruptly.

"Oh, nothing--the ordinary stupid gossip," she said, though she was

watching him rather closely. "Are you going to stay with us for the

next fortnight?"

"No, I have got rooms at the Queen's."

"I thought so. One might have expected you, however, to stay with your

relations when you came to Penzance."

"Oh, that's all gammon, Jue," he said: "you know very well your father

doesn't care to have any one stay with you--it's too much bother.

You'll have quite enough of me while I am in Penzance."

"Shall we have anything of you?" she said with apparent indifference.

"I understood that Miss Rosewarne and her mamma had already come

here."

"And what if they have?" he said with unnecessary fierceness.

"Well, Harry," she said, "you needn't get unto a temper about it, but

people will talk, you know; and they say that your attentions to that

young lady are rather marked, considering that she is engaged to be

married; and you have induced your mother to make a pet of her. Shall

I go on?"

"No, you needn't," he said with a strong effort to overcome his anger.

"You're quite right--people do talk, but they wouldn't talk so much

if other people didn't carry tales. Why, it isn't like you, Jue! I

thought you were another sort. And about this girl, of all girls in

the world!"

He got up and began walking about the room, and talking with

considerable vehemence, but no more in anger. He would tell her what

cause there was for this silly gossip. He would tell her who this

girl was who had been lightly mentioned. And in his blunt, frank,

matter-of-fact way, which did not quite conceal his emotion, he

revealed to his cousin all that he thought of Wenna Rosewarne, and

what he hoped for her in the future, and what their present relations

were, and then plainly asked her if she could condemn him.

Miss Juliott was touched: "Sit down, Harry: I have wanted to talk

to you, and I don't mean to heed any gossip. Sit down, please--you

frighten me by walking up and down like that. Now, I'm going to talk

common sense to you, for I should like to be your friend; and your

mother is so easily led away by any sort of sentiment that she isn't

likely to have seen with my eyes. Suppose that this Miss Rosewarne--"

"No, hold hard a bit, Jue," he said imperatively. "You may talk till

the millennium, but just keep off her, I warn you."

"Will you hear me out, you silly boy? Suppose that Miss Rosewarne

is everything that you believe her to be. I'm going to grant that,

because I'm going to ask you a question. You can't have such an

opinion of any girl, and be constantly in her society, and go

following her about like this, without falling in love with her. Now,

in that case would you propose to marry her?"

"I marry her!" he said, his face becoming suddenly pale for a moment.

"Jue, you are mad! I am not fit to marry a girl like that. You don't

know her. Why--"

"Let all that alone, Harry: when a man is in love with a woman he

always thinks he's good enough for her; and whether he does or not

he tries to get her for a wife. Don't let us discuss your comparative

merits: one might even put in a word for you. But suppose you drifted

into being in love with her--and I consider that quite probable--and

suppose you forgot, as I know you would forget, the difference in your

social position, how would you like to go and ask her to break her

promise to the gentleman to whom she is engaged?"

Master Harry laughed aloud in a somewhat nervous fashion: "Him? Look

here, Jue: leave me out of it--I haven't the cheek to talk of myself

in that connection--but if there was a decent sort of fellow whom that

girl really took a liking to, do you think he would let that elderly

and elegant swell out in Jamaica stand in his way? He would be no

such fool, I can tell you. He would consider the girl first of all.

He would say to himself, 'I mean to make this girl happy; if any one

interferes, let him look out!' Why, Jue, you don't suppose any man

would be frightened by that sort of thing?"

Miss Juliott did not seem quite convinced by this burst of scornful

oratory. She continued quietly, "You forget something, Harry. Your

heroic young man might find it easy to do something wild--to fight

with that gentleman in the West Indies, or murder him, or anything

like that, just as you see in a story--but perhaps Miss Rosewarne

might have something to say."

"I meant if she cared for him," Trelyon said, looking down.

"Granting that also, do you think it likely your hot-headed gentleman

would be able to get a young lady to disgrace herself by breaking her

plighted word and deceiving a man who went away trusting in her?

You say she has a very tender conscience--that she is so anxious to

consult every one's happiness before her own, and all that. Probably

it is true. I say nothing against her. But to bring the matter back to

yourself--for I believe you're hot-headed enough to do anything--what

would you think of her if you or anybody else persuaded her to do such

a treacherous thing?"

"She is not capable of treachery," he said somewhat stiffly. "If

you've got no more cheerful things to talk about, you'd better go to

bed, Jue. I shall finish my cigar by myself."

"Very well, then, Harry. You know your room. Will you put out the lamp

when you have lit your candle?"

So she went, and the young man was left alone in no very enviable

frame of mind. He sat and smoked while the clock on the mantelpiece

swung its gilded boy and struck the hours and half hours with unheeded

regularity. He lit a second cigar, and a third; he forgot the wine.

It seemed to him that he was looking on all the roads of life that lay

before him, and they were lit up by as strange and new a light as

that which was beginning to shine over the world outside. New fancies

seemed to awake with the new dawn. For himself to ask Wenna Rosewarne

to be his wife! Could he but win the tender and shy regard of her eyes

he would fall at her feet and bathe them with his tears. And if this

wonderful thing were possible--if she could put her hand in his

and trust to him for safety in all the coming years they might live

together--what man of woman born would dare to interfere? There was a

blue light coming in through the shutters. He went to the window:

the topmost leaves of the trees were quivering in the cold air far up

there in the clearing skies, where the stars were fading out one by

one, and he could hear the sound of the sea on the distant beach, and

he knew that across the gray plain of waters the dawn was breaking,

and that over the sleeping world another day was rising that seemed to

him the first day of a new and tremulous life, full of joy and courage

and hope.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

ON THE VIA SAN BASILIO.

In Rome, 1851; a cold, dreary day in December--one of those days in

which a man's ambition seems to desert him entirely, leaving only its

grinning skeleton to mock him. Depressing as was the weather to a man

who had cheerfulness as a companion by which to repel its blustering

attacks, and raise his mind above the despondency it was calculated

to produce, how much more so to one whose hope had gone out as a

flickering lamp in a sudden gust of wind, and the sharp steel of whose

ambition had turned to pierce his own heart!

Such a man, on the day mentioned, was walking along the Via San

Basilio. He was small in stature, poorly clad, and so thin, and

even cadaverous, that the casual observer might have been under

apprehension lest a gust of wind a little stronger than the average

might blow him entirely away; yet his air and manner were proud and

haughty, and what little evidences of feeling peered through the signs

of dissipation too apparent on his naturally attractive face were

those of genuine refinement. He was accompanied by a cicerone, or

servant, as villainous-looking a fellow as one often meets, even in

Italy, where an evil expression is so often seen stamped on handsome

features.

Along the Via San Basilio the two men walked until they stood opposite

the door of No. 51. Sacred ground this, and historical as well. Art

had her votaries here, as the tourist of to-day will find she still

has, at whose shrines pilgrims from afar and from near worshiped, and

grew better and stronger for their ministrations. Crawford, then

at the acme of his fame, had his constantly-thronged studio in the

immediate vicinity, while those at No. 51 embraced, among others, that

of Tenerani, the famous Italian sculptor, whose work is always in such

fine dramatic taste, although he never sacrifices his love and

deep feeling of reverence for Nature, combining that with the most

delightful charms of Greek art. Among this artist's most noted works

will be remembered his "Descent from the Cross," which tourists

visiting the Torlonia chapel in the Lateran never gaze upon without

a thrill. The house was owned and also occupied by Bienaimé, a French

sculptor who afterward became famous.

In the immediate vicinity stands the famous Palazzo Barberini, begun

by Urban VIII. (Maffeo Barberini), who sat in the pontifical chair

from 1623 to 1644, and finished by Bernini in 1640. This palace

contains many paintings of historical interest by Raphael, Titian,

Guido, Claude and others. The one by the first-mentioned artist is a

Fornarina, and bears the autograph of the painter on the armlet. But

the picture that attracts the most attention here is one of world-wide

reputation, copies, engravings and photographs of which are everywhere

to be met with--Guido's Beatrice Cenci. A great divergence of opinion,

as is well known, exists in regard to the portrait. It bears the

pillar and crown of the Colonnas, to which family it probably

belonged. According to the family tradition, it was taken on the night

before her execution. Other accounts state that it was painted by

Guido from memory after he had seen her on the scaffold. Judging from

the position in which the poor girl's head is represented, one would

more readily give credence to the latter story, and think the artist's

memory had preserved her look and position as she turned her head for

a last look at the brutal, bellowing crowd behind.

In the piazza of the palace is a very beautiful fountain, utilized

by one of the oldest Roman statues, representing a faun blowing water

from a conch-shell.

But we must return to the Via San Basilio, and the two wayfarers we

left standing in front of No. 51. After gazing a moment at the number

to assure themselves that they were right, they entered, and knocked

at the first door, which was opened by the occupant of the apartment.

He was an artist and a man of very marked characteristics. Seven

years later Hawthorne wrote as follows of him: "He is a plain, homely

Yankee, quite unpolished by his many years' residence in Italy. He

talks ungrammatically; walks with a strange, awkward gait and stooping

shoulders; is altogether unpicturesque, but wins one's confidence

by his very lack of grace. It is not often that we see an artist

so entirely free from affectation in his aspect and deportment.

His pictures were views of Swiss and Italian scenery, and were most

beautiful and true. One of them, a moonlight picture, was really

magical--the moon shining so brightly that it seemed to throw a

light even beyond the limits of the picture; and yet his sunrises and

sunsets, and noontides too, were nowise inferior to this, although

their excellence required somewhat longer study to be fully

appreciated."

After this introduction by our sweet and quaint romancer, the reader

will hardly need be told that the two strangers stood in the presence

of America's now illustrious artist, George L. Brown. But one seeing

him then, as he stood almost scowling at the two strangers, would

hardly have idealized him into the artist whose pencil has done so

much of late years to give American art a distinctive name through his

poetical delineations of the rare, sun-tinted atmosphere that hovers

over Italian landscapes. However, our apology for him must be that the

day was raw and blustering, and that he had no sooner caught sight

of the men through his window, as they hesitatingly entered the door,

than his suspicions were aroused.

The Italian acted as spokesman, and inquired if there were any rooms

to let in the building. Brown, thinking this the easiest way of

ridding himself of the visitors, went in search of the landlord, who

came, and after a moment's conversation the whole party entered the

studio, much to its owner's displeasure.

The cicerone did most of the talking, though now and then the other

made a remark or two in broken Italian. But this was only for the

first few moments. He soon became oblivious of all save art, of which

one could see at a glance he was passionately fond. One of Mr. Brown's

pictures--a large one he was then engaged on--particularly attracted

his attention. He drew closer and closer to the canvas, examining it

with a minuteness that showed the connoisseur, and finally remarked:

"It is very fine in color, sir, and the atmosphere is delicious. Why

have I not heard of you before?" examining the corner of the canvas

for the artist's name, but speaking in a tone and with an air that

gave Brown the impression he was indulging in the random flattery so

current in studios. So, ignoring the question, he asked with a slight

shrug of the shoulders, "Are you an artist?"

"I paint a little," was the reply, with an air of modesty which Brown

mistook for the bashful half-assertion of some daubing amateur.

Just then the cicerone came forward and announced that the bargain was

completed and the room ready for occupancy.

"I shall be happy--no, _happy_ is not a good word for me--I shall be

glad to see you in my studio when I have moved in, and perhaps you may

see some things to please you."

So saying, the stranger departed, leaving Brown not a whit better

impressed with him than at first.

The next morning the two called again, when the gentleman made an

examination of the room selected the day before, having met Mr. Brown

in the hall-way and invited him in. On entering, the new occupant took

from his pocket a piece of chalk and a compass and made a number of

circles and figures on the floor to determine when the sun would shine

in the room. Brown watched him with a certain degree of curiosity and

amusement, and finally, concluding he was half crazy, returned to his

own studio.

The next day the cicerone called alone to see about some repairs, when

Brown hailed him: "_Buono giorno. Che è questo_?" ("Good-day. Who is

that?")

"_Non sapete_?" ("Don't you know?"), was the Italian's response. "Why,

that is the celebrated Brullof."

Brown started as though shot. First there flashed through his brain

the remembrance of how cavalierly he had treated the distinguished

artist, and then a quick panorama of his recent history, which had

been the gossip of studios and art-circles for some time back. "I must

go to him," he said, "and apologize for not treating him with more

deference."

"_Non, signore_," was the cicerone's response. "Never mind: let it

rest. He is a man of the world, and pays little heed to such things.

Besides, he is so overwhelmed with his private griefs that he has

probably noticed no slight."

However, when the great Russian artist took possession of his studio

his American brother of the pencil made his apology, and received this

response; "Don't waste words on so trivial a matter. Do I not court

the contempt of a world that I despise to my heart's core? Say no more

about it. Run in and see me when agreeable; and if you have no better

callers than such a plaything of fate as I, maybe you will not refuse

me occasional admittance."

The Russian artist now shunned notoriety as he had formerly courted

it. Little is known of his history beyond mere rumor, and that only in

artistic circles. He was born at St. Petersburg in 1799 or 1800, and

gave himself to the study of art at an early age, becoming an especial

proficient in color and composition. One of his most widely-known

works is "The Last Days of Pompeii," which created great enthusiasm a

quarter of a century ago. This, however, was painted during his career

of dissipation, and its vivid coloring seemed to have been drawn from

a soul morbid with secret woes and craving a nepenthe which never

came.

The young artist was petted and idolized by the wealth and nobility

of St. Petersburg, where he married a beautiful woman, and became

court-painter to the czar Nicholas about the year 1830. For some years

no couple lived more happily, and no artist swayed a greater multitude

of fashion and wealth than he; but scandal began to whisper that

the czar was as fond of the handsome, brilliant wife of the young

court-painter as the cultivated people of St. Petersburg were of the

husband's marvelously colored works; and when at last the fact became

known to Brullof that the monarch who had honored him through an

intelligent appreciation of art had dishonored him through a guilty

passion for his wife, he left St. Petersburg, swore never again to

set foot on Russian soil or be recognized as a Russian subject, and,

plunging headlong into a wild career of dissipation, was thenceforth a

wanderer up and down the continent of Europe.

It was when this career had borne its inevitable fruit, and he was but

a mere wreck of the polished gentleman of a few years previous, that

Brullof came to the Via San Basilio, where, as soon as the fact

became known, visitors began to call. Among the first were the Russian

ambassador and suite, who were driven up in a splendid carriage, with

liveried attendants; but after the burly Italian had announced to his

master who was in waiting, the door was closed, and with no message in

return the representatives of the mightiest empire on the globe

were left to withdraw with the best grace they could muster for the

occasion. Similar scenes were repeated often during the entire Roman

season. He saw but few of his callers--Russians, never.

The Russian and the American artists became quite intimate during the

few months they were thrown together, and Mr. Brown has acknowledged

that he owes much of the success of his later efforts to hints

received from the self-exiled, dying Russian.

"Mr. Brown," he said on one occasion, while examining the picture on

the artist's easel, "no one since Claude has painted atmosphere as you

do. But you must follow Calamé's example, and make drawing more of

a study. Draw from Nature, and do it faithfully, and with your

atmosphere I will back you against the world. That is bad," pointing

to the huge limb of a tree in the foreground: "it bulges both ways,

you see. Now, Nature is never so. Look at my arm," speaking with

increased animation, and suddenly throwing off his coat and rolling

up his shirt-sleeve. "When you see a convexity, you will see concavity

opposite. Just so in Nature, especially in the trunks and limbs of

trees."

This criticism made such an impression on Brown that it decided him

to go into more laborious work, and was the foundation of his habit

of getting up at daybreak and going out to sketch rocks, trees and

cattle, until he stands where he now does as a draughtsman.

The painting which Brullof had first admired, and which had induced

him to compare Brown to Claude in atmospheric effects, was a view of

the Pontine Marshes, painted for Crawford the sculptor, and now in

possession, of his widow, Mrs. Terry, at Rome.

During this entire season the penuriousness exhibited by Brullof is

one of the hardest phases of his character to explain. Though he was

worth at least half a million of dollars, his meals were generally of

the scantiest kind, purchased by the Italian cicerone, and cooked and

eaten in his room. Yet a kindness would touch the hidden springs of

his generosity as the staff of Moses did the rock of Horeb.

Toward the close of the Roman season, Brullof, growing more and more

moody, and becoming still more of a recluse, painted his last picture,

which showed how diseased and morbid his mind had become. He called it

"The End of All Things," and made it sensational to the verge of that

flexible characteristic. It represented popes and emperors tumbling

headlong into a terrible abyss, while the world's benefactors

were ascending in a sort of theatrical transformation-scene. A

representation of Christ holding a cross aloft was given, and winged

angels were hovering here and there, much in the same manner as

_coryphées_ and lesser auxiliaries of the ballet. A capital portrait

of George Washington was painted in the mass of rubbish, perhaps as

a compliment to Brown. In contradistinction to the portrait of

Washington were seen prominently those of the czar Nicholas and the

emperor Napoleon; the former put in on account of the artist's own

private wrong, and the latter because at that time, just after the

_coup d'ètat_, he was the execration of the liberty-loving world.

In the spring the Russian artist gave up his studio, and went down

to some baths possessing a local reputation situated on the road to

Florence, where he died very suddenly. Much mystery overhangs his last

days, and absolutely no knowledge exists as to what became of his

vast property. His cicerone robbed him of his gold watch and all

his personal effects and disappeared. His remains lie buried in the

Protestant burying-ground outside the walls of Rome, near the Porto

di Sebastiano. His tomb is near that of Shelley and Keats, and

the monument erected to his memory is very simple, his head being

sculptured upon it in _alto relievo_, and on the opposite side an

artist's palette and brushes.

EARL MARBLE.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

The air was still o'er Bethlehem's plain,

As if the great Night held its breath,

When Life Eternal came to reign

Over a world of Death.

The pagan at his midnight board

Let fall his brimming cup of gold:

He felt the presence of his Lord

Before His birth was told.

The temples trembled to their base,

The idols shuddered as in pain:

A priesthood in its power of place

Knelt to its gods in vain.

All Nature felt a thrill divine

When burst that meteor on the night,

Which, pointing to the Saviour's shrine,

Proclaimed the new-born light--

Light to the shepherds! and the star

Gilded their silent midnight fold--

Light to the Wise Men from afar,

Bearing their gifts of gold--

Light to a realm of Sin and Grief--

Light to a world in all its needs--

The Light of life--a new belief

Rising o'er fallen creeds--

Light on a tangled path of thorns,

Though leading to a martyr's throne--

Light to guide till Christ returns

In glory to His own.

There still it shines, while far abroad

The Christmas choir sings now, as then,

"Glory, glory unto God!

Peace and good-will to men!"

ROME, Christmas, 1871.

T. BUCHANAN READ.

THE PARSEES.

Hanging in my study is a noteworthy portrait, generally the first

object observed by those who enter. It is an exquisite painting on

glass, the work of Làng Quà, the best artist China has produced in our

day, and it delineates the form and features of a singularly handsome

young man. But it is the quaint Parsee garb that first attracts

attention; and the weird romance that attaches to the history of the

Fire-worshipers gives this work of art its real value, rather than

its lines of beauty or the celebrity of the painter's name. This

delicately-featured portrait _may_ depict the countenance of Musaljee

Jamsetjee Jejeebhoy, the first-born son and heir of the late Sir

Jamsetjee Jejeebhoy, baronet, of Bombay, India. That he really sat for

this portrait I cannot, however, positively assert, since I obtained

the painting from an English officer, who bought it of the artist, but

had "forgotten the strange, outlandish name of the Indian nabob," as

he said. It is certainly the portrait of a _Parsee_--true to the life

in features and garb, and it bears a striking resemblance to the young

Musaljee when about eighteen years of age. He was not then a personage

of any great celebrity, though the worthy son of a most remarkable

sire, the latter long known and honored in Europe for his liberal and

enlightened charities, and especially for his munificent donations,

that saved the lives of thousands of British subjects, during the

terrible famines that occurred in India between the years 1840 and

1846. It was in grateful recognition of this noble philanthropy that

Queen Victoria conferred upon him the honor of a baronetcy, sending

out a nobleman to act as her proxy in the presentation of a sword

which had been handled by more than one British monarch. Sir Jamsetjee

was the first East Indian who ever received a title from a European

sovereign. During the terrible famines alluded to he not only

distributed daily from his own palace a plentiful supply of food to

all who came, but he made also large donations of provisions to the

English governor of Bombay for the supply of his starving troops.

When, subsequently, pestilence followed in the footsteps of famine,

this true-hearted philanthropist, overstepping all prejudices of creed

and clan, built and endowed at his own expense a free hospital for the

sick of all nations and religions. Temporary bamboo cottages at first

received the sick till there was time for the erection of the present

elegant structure, which is built in the Gothic style, and is capable

of accommodating some six or eight hundred patients, besides nurses

and attendants. The physicians have been from the beginning of the

enterprise all English, as are many of the nurses, and the supplies in

every department are the very best the country can furnish. Since the

death of the noble founder, the son, who inherits his name and title,

has continued to foster with loving devotion the institution

which stands as a lasting monument of the fame and virtues of his

illustrious sire. The conception of such a charity tells not only of a

generous heart, but of far-reaching intelligence, while the energy and

perseverance of both father and son in carrying on, year after year,

so vast a system of benefactions, challenge our warmest admiration.

The name of the late Sir Jamsetjee stood for more than a score of

years at the very head of the list of merchant-princes and ship-owners

in Bombay, where he was born, and where his ancestors for many

generations resided. He came of an old and wealthy family, who trace

their genealogy back to the Parsee exodus of the eighth century; and

it is said that the "sacred fire" has never once during all that time

burned out upon their altar. Sir Jamsetjee himself, though probably

faithful in the observance of the actual requirements of his creed,

was assuredly less strict than the majority, and being a man of large

intellect, cultivated mind and great independence of character, he did

not hesitate to borrow from other nations any customs, institutions or

inventions that might tend to the improvement of his own people.

His stately mansion was built and furnished in European style; his

children, even his daughters, were carefully educated in foreign as

well as native lore; and his own associations were with refined and

cultivated people, without any regard to their nation or creed. It was

while visiting at his house, in familiar intercourse with his family,

and with other Parsees of similar position, that I gleaned many

items of interest concerning the history and practices of the

Fire-worshipers. Other facts were added from time to time during

several years of frequent association with these singular people, in

whose glorious though unsuccessful struggles for home and liberty it

is impossible not to feel an interest.

As a race, the Parsees are intelligent, active and energetic. With

business capacities far above the average, they are usually successful

in amassing wealth, while they are extremely benevolent in dispensing

their gains for both public and private charities. For private

benefactions they have, however, little call among themselves, since a

Parsee pauper would be an unheard-of anomaly. Their style of living is

princely but peculiar. In the reception-rooms of the wealthy--and most

of the Parsees in the city of Bombay are wealthy--one finds a

rather quaint mingling of Oriental luxury and European

elegance--brightly-tinted Persian carpets placed in Eastern fashion

over divans strewn with embroidered cushions and jewel-studded

pillows, among which recline, with genuine Oriental indolence, some of

the members of the family; while in another part of the same room

half a dozen more may be grouped about a table of marble and rosewood,

occupying velvet chairs that have traveled unmistakably from London

or Paris. French mirrors and Italian statuettes may have for their

_vis-à-vis_ the exquisite mosaics, the massive gold vases and the

costly bijouterie of the Orient, strewn so profusely around as to

startle unaccustomed eyes; and a genuine Meissonier will be just as

likely to be placed side by side with a Persian houri as anywhere

else. The Parsees drive the finest Arab steeds, but on their equipages

there is a more lavish display of ornament than we should deem quite

in accordance with good taste. The same is true in regard to personal

decoration. They wear immense quantities of costly jewelry, and nearly

all their garments are of silk, generally richly embroidered in gold,

and often with the addition of precious stones. Even little children

wear only silk, infants from the very first being wrapped in long,

loose robes of plain white silk that are gradually displaced by others

more elaborate and costly; while the toilette of a Parsee lady in full

evening-dress is often of the value of a hundred thousand rupees (or

forty-five thousand dollars). The female costume consists of silk or

cotton skirts gathered full round the waist, and long, loose robes

of silk, lace or muslin, all more or less decorated according to the

wealth of the wearer. The dress of the men is composed of trousers and

shirts of white or colored silk and long caftans of muslin, with the

addition of a fanciful little scarf fringed at the ends, and worn

jauntily across one shoulder and under the other arm. Their caps are

made of pasteboard covered with gay-colored silk, embroidered and

studded with precious stones or pearls. The form of a Parsee's shirt

is a matter of vital importance, both in regard to respectability and

religion. It must have five seams, neither more nor less, and be made

to lap on the breast exactly in a certain way. Both sexes wear around

the body a double string, which they loosen when at prayer, and which

a Parsee is never, under any circumstances, permitted to dispense

with. No engagement or business transaction is legally binding if by

any chance this talismanic cord was left off by either party when the

contract was made. The cord is first placed on children when they have

completed their ninth year, and this serves to mark the most important

epoch of their lives. Before the investiture the eating of food with

Christians or heathen does not defile the juvenile Parsee, and girls

may even go about in public with their fathers; but after the bestowal

of the sacred cord the girls must be kept in seclusion and the boys

eat only with their own people.

Only the most liberal Parsees will permit those of other creeds to eat

under the same roof with themselves, and even these never eat at the

table with their guests. The table is first covered for the visitors,

and they are waited on with the utmost assiduity, often by the members

of the family in addition to the servants. When the guests leave the

board not only is the cloth changed, but the table itself is washed

before being recovered: salts, castors and other similar articles are

all emptied and washed, and the table newly laid in every particular.

Small flat cakes are distributed round the board to do service as

plates, and the various dishes arranged in the centre within reach of

all. The family then wash hands and faces and the father says a short

prayer, after which all take their seats and the meal begins. Neither

knives nor forks are used, but the meat is torn from the bones with

the fingers only, and with the left hand each one dips, from time to

time, bread, meat or vegetables into the broth or gravy as he wishes,

and then tosses it into his mouth, without allowing his fingers to

touch his lips. This requires some dexterity, and children are not

permitted at the family board till they have learned thus to acquit

themselves. If, however, the fingers of any one, child or adult,

should chance to come in contact with the lips, though ever so

slightly, he is required to leave the table instantly and perform

his ablutions over again, or else to take the dish from which he was

eating to himself, and touch no other during the meal. In drinking

they exercise the same caution, adroitly throwing the liquid into the

mouth or throat without touching the lips with the cup or glass. The

left hand is the one with which food is always taken; and the reason

assigned is, that the right, having of necessity to perform most

labor, is more frequently brought in contact with things unclean.

I once made a voyage with an American lady and gentleman in a Bombay

ship that was owned and commanded by a wealthy Parsee merchant, though

the real sailing-master and mate were Englishmen. Our party ate at one

table, and the Parsee nabob had his own in solitary state. I was then

quite a youthful wife, and, as my husband was not of the party, the

Parsee supposed me unmarried, and overwhelmed me with the most gallant

attentions, among which were frequent invitations to our party to dine

in his cabin. But, though he would stand at my side all the time I

was eating, fill my cup or glass with his own hands, and urge me to

partake of certain dishes that were favorites of his own, nothing

could induce him to eat or drink in our presence, even after we had

left the table. And I learned afterward that the costly service of

rare china, silver and glass from which we had eaten and drunk at his

table, though carefully laid aside, was never again used by the owner.

One evening, as we sat on the upper deck inhaling the balmy air, he

invited me to smoke. Of course I declined, and when he insisted I told

him that it was contrary to the customs of good society in our country

for ladies to use tobacco in any form. He laughed heartily, and said,

"Did you suppose I would ask a lady to pollute her fragrant breath

and dewy lips with so foul a thing as vile tobacco? Taste and see." He

brought his splendid hookah, which I found filled with the "fragrant

spices of Araby" perfumed with attar of roses, while a long slender

tube rested in a vessel of rose-water at my feet; and the fumes were

certainly as agreeable as harmless. But this, my first experiment in

smoking, cost my Parsee friend three hundred dollars, the estimated

value of his gold-mounted hookah, with its complicated array of tubes

and vessels of the same precious metal, none of which he durst ever

use again.

As we sat chatting together in the bright moonlight our ears were

suddenly greeted by the sound of sweet music--wild, unearthly melody

that seemed to rise from the very depths of the ocean just below our

feet. At first it was only a soft trill or a subdued hum, as of a

single voice: then followed what seemed a full chorus of voices of

enchanting sweetness. Presently the melody died away in the distance,

only, however, to burst forth anew after a brief interval. All the

time we were being regaled with the music we could see nothing to

enlighten us as to its source, and were inclined to pronounce it a

trick played by our fun-loving sailing-master. He, however, denied all

agency in the matter, but counseled us to "keep a close look-out on

the lee bow" if we wanted to see a mermaid. We had noticed a sort of

thrilling motion on the lower deck, not unlike the sensation produced

by the charge of an electro-galvanic battery; and this, the Parsee

captain gravely assured us, was the mermaids' dance, and their efforts

to drag down our ship. "But I'll catch one of them yet--see if I

don't," he said energetically as he caught up something from the deck

and ran forward, and was presently, with two of the Lascars, leaning

over the bow. Half an hour afterward he returned, and with a merry

laugh laid in my lap two little brown fish, informing me that they

were singing-fish, and that the music we had heard had been produced

by shoals of these tiny vocalists then clinging to the bottom of our

ship. Our Parsee friend told me that the Arabs and Persians always

speak of the singing-fish as "tiny women of the sea;" but he had

never heard our version of their long hair, and their twining it about

hapless sailors to drag them down to their coral caverns beneath the

ocean's wave. He showed me how to preserve the fish by drying in the

sun after repeated anointings with an aromatic oil, which he gave me

for the purpose; and I have still in my cabinet these two specimens as

a reminder of the incident.

The manner in which the Parsees dispose of their dead seems to us too

shocking to be tolerated by a people so gentle and refined. But they

have grown familiar with a custom that, generation after generation,

has been observed by their race till it has ceased to be repugnant.

They call it "consigning the dead to the element of air." For

this purpose they have roofless enclosures, the walls of which are

twenty-five or thirty feet high, and within are three biers--one each

for men, women and children. Upon these the bodies of the dead are

laid, and fastened down with chains or iron bands. Presently birds

of prey, so numerous within the tropics and always waiting to devour,

pounce upon the corpse and quickly tear the flesh from the bones,

while the skeleton remains intact. This is afterward deposited in

a pit dug within the same enclosure, and which remains open till

completely filled up with bones; after which another is dug, and

when the enclosure can conveniently contain no more pits a new one is

selected and prepared. None but priests and bearers of the dead may

enter, or even look into, these walled cemeteries. The priests, by

virtue of their holy office, are preserved from defilement, but the

bearers are men set apart for this express purpose, and they are

considered so unclean that they may not enter under the roof of any

other Parsee or salute him on the street. If in passing a bearer do

but touch one's clothes accidentally, he is subject to a heavy fine,

while he who has been thus contaminated must bathe his entire

person and burn every article of raiment he wore at the time of his

defilement.

I was anxious to visit one of their temples, but this, Sir Jamsetjee

assured me, was impossible, as none but the initiated are allowed

even to approach the entrance, still less to get a glimpse of what is

passing within. He, however, volunteered the information that, so far

as the sanctuary itself was concerned, there was little to be seen,

only naked walls, bare floors, and an altar upon which burns the

sacred fire brought with the Parsees from Persia, and which, he said,

had never been extinguished since it was kindled by Zoroaster from the

sun four thousand years ago. Of the form of service I could not induce

the baronet to speak, but I learned afterward from my ship-friend that

the altar is enclosed by gratings, within which none but the priest

may enter. He goes in every day to tend "the eternal fire," when he

must remain for the space of an hour, repeating certain invocations,

with a bundle of rods in his hand to repel any unclean spirits that

should venture to approach the sacred fire. Meanwhile, the assembled

multitudes prostrate themselves without and offer up their silent

adoration. "Yet, after all," musingly said the Parsee, "the universe

is the throne of the invisible God, of whom fire is but the emblem,

and we worship Him most acceptably with our eyes fixed on the east

when the sun rides forth at morning in his celestial chariot of fire."

This form of worship those curious in such matters may see on any

bright morning at Bombay, where whole crowds of Parsee men, women and

children rush out at sunrise to greet the king of day and offer up

their morning oblations. I was not surprised at the avowed preference

of my Parsee friends for out-door worship, since it is well known that

the ancient Persians not only permitted few temples to be erected to

their gods, and held in abhorrence all painted and graven images, but

they laid it to the charge of the Greeks, as a daring impiety, that

"they shut up their gods in shrines and temples, like puppets in a

cabinet, when all created things were open to them and the wide world

was their dwelling-place." It was probably religious zeal, even more

than revenge against the Greeks, that induced the burning of the

temple at Athens by Xerxes, led on, as he may have been, by the

fanatical zeal of the Magi who accompanied him.

Plutarch speaks of the Persians, in common with the Chaldeans and

Egyptians, as worshipers of the sun under the name of Mithra, whom

they regarded as standing between Ormuzd, "the author of good," and

Ahriman, "the author of evil," occupied alternately in aiding the

former and subduing the latter. So do the Parsees of our own day

regard him; and their only hope for the ultimate triumph of Ormuzd is

in constant sacrifices and prayers and propitiatory offerings to the

sun as the fire that is to burn out and utterly consume all evil

from our earth. Fire is to the Parsees now, as it has ever been, the

holiest of all holy things, carried about by princes and great men for

safety; by warriors, as that which is to give them the victory over

their foes; and by all, as their sole and ever-present deity. Sir

Jamsetjee assured me that the _intelligent_ Parsees regard the sun

and fire as only the symbols that are to remind them of the God

they worship. But there can be no doubt that the mass of the Parsees

literally worship the sun and the "sacred fire;" and hence arise the

utter repugnance many of them have to celebrating their religious

rites within closed walls, and the decided preference ever shown for

out-door worship. I have often heard them say that the Fire-god

shows his aversion to confinement by drooping when he is shut up, and

growing vigorous just in proportion as free scope is given him.

The sun appears everywhere on the shields and armor of the ancient

Persians, as on some of the old-time monuments that have come down

to us; while occasionally Mithra is depicted as a youthful hero, with

high Persian cap, his knee on a prostrate bull, into whose heart he

seems plunging a dagger--symbolically, "the power of evil" in

complete subjection to the victorious sun, and about to be for ever

annihilated.

Zoroaster (called by the Persians _Zerduscht_) was not, the Parsees

say, the _founder_ of their sect, but only the reviser and perfecter

of the system as it now exists among them. Living in the reign of

Darius Hystaspes, he was the contemporary, probably an associate,

of the prophet Daniel. Before the advent of this reformer the Magi

acknowledged two great First Causes--i.e., the light and the darkness,

the former the author of all good, the latter of every evil, moral

and physical--and these they believed were at perpetual war with each

other. Zoroaster taught, as he may have learned from Daniel, that

there was One greater still, who created both the light and the

darkness, making both to subserve His own will. He also inculcated the

duty of building temples for the preservation of the sacred fire from

storm and tempest, when "by sudden extinction of the light the powers

of darkness do gain often a signal victory." The Parsees hold in

supreme veneration the name of Zoroaster as the most noted of all

their Magi for wisdom and virtue. They believe that the sacred fire

was lighted by him miraculously from the sun--that it has burned

steadily ever since, and can never go out till it has consumed all

evil from the earth and the good has become universally triumphant.

They claim also that from the reforms wrought by Zoroaster there was

never the slightest change in any of their observances until about

twelve centuries ago, when Persia was overrun and conquered by the

Mohammedan Arabs. But not the fiercest persecution could induce

the Fire-worshipers to change their religion for that of the

Koran. Preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the

alternative of apostasy or persecution at home, the aboriginal Persian

inhabitants fled to other lands, settling immense colonies in Surat

and Bombay, where their descendants form in our day a large and

valuable element of the population. Their integrity, industry and

enterprise are proverbial all over the East; and while they live

strictly apart from all other races, the Parsees are never wanting in

sympathy and help for those who need them. Dwelling amid nations

who are almost universally destitute of veracity, the Parsees are

eminently truthful; surrounded by polygamists and sensualists, they

maintain habits of purity and virtue; and accustomed to every-day

association with those who make a boast of cheating, my memory fails

to recall the case of a single Fire-worshiper who was not strictly

upright and honorable in his dealings.

Commencing with the worship of the sun, and of fire as his emblem, the

Parsee grew into a sort of reverence for the elements of air, earth

and water. The air must not be contaminated by foul odors, and of

necessity no filth could be tolerated anywhere in house, street or

suburb; and to this reverence for the purity of the atmosphere may

be traced the absolute cleanliness for which Fire-worshipers are

everywhere noted. As the earth must receive no defilement, the Parsees

would deem it sacrilege to deposit therein their dead for corruption

and decay; and hence have doubtless originated their strange rites

of sepulture, as they believe that the body is thus more readily and

rapidly reduced to its original elements. Streams of water, even the

tiniest rivulets, are deemed too holy to be desecrated by washing

or spitting in them, and still less would they make the water the

receptacle of offal of any sort. To each of these elements, as well as

to the fire, the Parsees still make oblations on their high-days.

It is true that their ceremonies now are less imposing than those

described by Xenophon, when a thousand head of cattle were immolated

at a single festival, four beautiful bulls presented to Jupiter, or

the sky, and a magnificent chariot, drawn by white horses crowned with

flowers and wearing a golden yoke, was offered to the sun; while the

king in his chariot was escorted by princes and great nobles,

two thousand spearmen marching on either side, and three

hundred sceptre-bearers, armed with javelins and mounted on

splendidly-caparisoned horses, bringing up the rear. But those

jubilant days have passed: the Fire-worshipers are in exile, and

have no king to lead them, either in battle against their foes or in

triumphal processions in honor of their gods. Yet is Parseeism not

dead, nor even on the decrease. Sacrifices, numerous and costly, are

still piled upon their altars, the finest cattle are dedicated to

their gods, the flesh being cut up and roasted for the people, while

the Magi cast the caul and a portion of the fat into the fire as

emblematic of the souls of the victims being imbibed by the gods,

while the grosser portions are rejected.

The sacrifices and those who offer them are always crowned with

flowers, but the pontifical robes of the Magi, though of pure white

silk, are severely plain in style and utterly devoid of ornament. In

their lives the Magi claim to practice a rigid asceticism, making the

earth their bed and subsisting wholly on fruit, vegetables and

bread, besides submitting to frequent painful penances from fasting,

scourging and the endurance of fatiguing exercises. "Wine, women and

flesh" they are commanded to eschew as "special abominations to those

who aspire to minister before the gods." The most remarkable feast of

the ancient Parsees was one called by them the "sack-feast." On the

appointed day a condemned malefactor was clothed in royal robes,

seated on a kingly throne and the sceptre of regal power placed in

his hand. Princes and people bowed the knee in mock homage before

this king of a day, and he was suffered to glut his appetite with all

manner of sensual delights till the sun went down, and then he was

cruelly beaten with rods, and forthwith executed. (Were the crown and

sceptre, the purple robe and mock reverence, that were the antecedents

of the Redeemer's crucifixion, a reproduction of this barbarous

custom?) The modern Parsees, though recognizing this feast as a

legitimate part of their worship, say that they have not observed it

since their flight from Persia in the eighth century, because since

then, being under a foreign yoke, they have had no jurisdiction over

human life, and durst not sacrifice even those who chanced to be

in their power. This may be one reason for the renunciation of this

barbarous practice of the olden time, but there has been wonderful

progress in civilization during the last twelve hundred years; and

certain it is that scenes of cruelty that suited the ferocious

tastes of the eighth century could not possibly be repeated in the

nineteenth.

FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

A SWEDISH PROVINCIAL THEATRE.

It is not so magnificent as the Scala and San Carlo, and still, after

seeing both those famous theatres, I must confess I preferred that

of Carlstad to either. It is small and different in form from the

generality: it reminded me, in fact, of a hall in a certain New

England town where I used to go to the panorama as a child. There

was a gallery like that in which the men and boys sat who tramped the

loudest and kissed their hands, to the confusion of their neighbors,

when the lights were turned down to enhance the effect of the burning

of Moscow; only, at my panorama the gallery was unfashionable on

account of the noisy male element, whereas at Carlstad it was the

dress-circle. We--a party of Americans, the only foreigners in the

house that night--occupied orchestra-stalls, as I presume the two or

three front benches in the parquet may be called. There was a white

cape in our vicinity, as well as one in the balcony; so our seats were

probably as fashionable as those in the first and only circle; but

behind us, stretching out to the doors and in under the gallery, was a

dense mass unrelieved by opera-cloaks of any description; and that was

the region of the unpretending---of those who came simply to enjoy, to

see and not to be seen.

As we spent a good part of a day at Carlstad, I should, perhaps,

relate something more of the place than merely how we went to

the theatre there; but that delightful evening effaced all other

impressions, and after the interval that has since elapsed _Fleur

de Thé_ and our commissioner are the only things that have retained

somewhat of their original savor.

The railway from Stockholm to Christiania ceased at Carlstad on Lake

Wener, which gave us a day's drive to Arvika to strike the track

again; and while we stood consulting where we were to get carriages,

and whether we should go directly on, there came up a flourishing

specimen of the genus _valet de place_, who took possession of us and

laid out a plan that he had apparently prepared over night for our

especial benefit. It is a way those persons have, and one that gives

them a tremendous advantage over travelers weakened by a long journey,

that they act as if they were there by appointment to meet you, or as

if you had telegraphed precisely what you wished to do, and they were

merely carrying out your intentions. "You want to go to the Black

Eagle Hotel: I take you there. You would like to dine: you can have

dinner at the hotel, or I shall show you a nice restaurant." We had

not expected to find a member of the great European brotherhood just

there in a little town in the heart of Sweden, and, taken unawares,

fell an easy prey. However, they do not invariably succeed in that

way: sometimes, if their officiousness is excessive, their English

very exasperating and the traveler a little fractious as well as

tired, they get the tables turned on them. A lady just arrived

at Genoa, when halfway to the hotel with one of these persuasive

personages snatched her bag out of his hand and walked into the rival

albergo because he said with an aggravating accent, "I sall get you

a ticket for de steam-er." "No you sha'n't, either: I have got

it myself," she said; and so they parted company, to his infinite

amazement. My friend--it was a friend of mine--turned back, on

second thoughts, to offer the man something for having carried her

belongings, but he put on offended dignity and declared that he didn't

want her money. She was rather sorry afterward that he didn't do

violence to his feelings and take it; and so, no doubt, was he.

Our Carlstad commissioner beguiled the length of the way to the

inn, at which we were a little inclined to grumble, by pointing out

everything of note in our walk through the town. We had been reading

up in the train, and knew that Carlstad was the capital of a district,

had five thousand inhabitants, and was nearly destroyed by fire in

1865; but he, a son of the place, and seeing in his mind's eye its

rising glory when the railroad should be completed, did not let us

off with that. We had to look and admire just where he told us. "Wide

streets," he would say in his finely-chopped English. "Houses all very

high--new since the fire. See here! there's the telegraph-office."

At which, to answer in the style he understood best, we must have

responded, "Oh, I say! Well. Very good! All right!"

"You shall go to the theatre if you want to," he remarked at last,

in that sweet, protecting way peculiar to his class from the habitual

confounding of _can, shall_ and _will_, and that put us into good

humor directly. To go to the theatre would be just the thing.

"Oh yes, everybody goes," he said. It was a Danish company--very good

actors--very pretty piece; but we rather expected to care more for the

_everybody_ than either the piece or the actors; and so it proved.

We went early, and established ourselves in the orchestra-stalls, as

already stated, while our guardian accepted an unpretending seat

for himself, where he remained in readiness to tow us home after the

performance. And then the spectators began to come in, and positively

some of the very people who used to be at the panorama. I know there

was a lady in front of me, in Mechanic Hall, who wore her hair in

just such a little knot--_pug_ is, I think, the classic name for that

coiffure--and her dress cut as low in the throat and adorned with

precisely such a self-embroidered collar as the lady rejoiced in who

occupied the seat before me at the theatre. That she was one of the

fashionables of Carlstad could be seen in the lofty pose of that pug,

and in the curious structure of ribbon and lace that sat astride of

it and hung down at each side. Her husband, a small, rather dried-up

gentleman, had the look of a town oracle who was oppressed at home,

and her daughter was one of the prettiest girls in the house. The

overgrown boy, the son and heir, was not pretty: he sat beside his

sister and kept nudging her. I could not exactly understand what he

said in Swedish, but I know it must have been of this nature: "There's

Jim Davis over there. Look, sister, look!"

Sister only glanced at him with a reproving air of "Don't push me so,"

and then gazed steadfastly in the other direction; but she was not

left long in peace. Tom's elbow began again in a minute: "He's looking

right at you, all the time. You'd better turn round and bow to him."

And the color would creep up in her cheeks, do all she could to

prevent it, so that she had to lean across mamma and say something to

her father, just so as not to bow to Mr. Davis, which would have been

such a simple thing to do, after all.

Everybody who came in nodded and spoke to everybody else, and then

shook hands across the seats; and we felt quite out of our element

under the inquiring but superior glances that fell to our lot. It was

all very well for us to make our little observations and smile at

each other on the sly: we had the consciousness all the while of not

belonging to the first society in Carlstad, and of being viewed as

intruders in that select circle.

We had been studying one family party after another as the seats

filled around us, for the audience collected by families, when, with a

little rustle and stir attending her progress, and a whispering behind

her as she advanced, the Bride appeared, for she had arrived from

Stockholm by our train. It was the first time any one had seen her

since she started on the wedding-tour, and the bows and smiles she

dealt out on every side were not to be numbered. Our pretty girl got

one--they were school-friends--and the horrid boy another, which he

barely answered with a solemn nod of his head, being as shy of her,

apparently, in her blue silk and white cape, as his sister was of Mr.

Davis. It was really a very pretty dress of the Bride's, and one that

made our traveling costumes look uncommonly shabby: it was taken up

behind in the approved style, and only needed a bustle to have been

truly effective. Doubtless she had seen plenty of those articles in

Stockholm, only her husband said, "I hope, dear, you will never put on

one of those horrid things;" and she told him certainly not if he did

not like them; but I think she found afterward she needed one for

that blue dress, and sent for it at the first opportunity. The young

husband was not got up for show, knowing very well that no one would

mind him, but he looked beamingly happy; and if he was not in a

dress-coat with a flower in his buttonhole, like the _habitués_ of

the Comédie Française or the Italiens, he understood how they use an

opera-glass there. The glass was a new acquisition that he had brought

home with him, and after practicing with it at the Royal Theatre in

the capital, he was fully prepared to stand up between the acts, with

his arm behind him in a negligently graceful attitude, and study

the balcony. His acquaintances there must have found it rather

embarrassing, for it was not a usual thing in Carlstad to look at

one's friends through an opera-glass: he was the only person who did

it, and they probably all talked about it when they went home.

We were so occupied with our surroundings that we hardly thought of

the piece, though it was given with considerable spirit, if I remember

rightly. The sailors were fine, jolly tars, and the Chinese ladies

and gentlemen toddled about in flowered dressing-gowns and talked

with their thumbs, as it would appear the inhabitants of the Celestial

Empire usually do; but the house did not allow itself to be betrayed

into unseemly enthusiasm. There was an involuntary laugh now and then,

and once somebody said _bravo_, but as a general thing a discreet

reticence prevailed, and the actors might have gone through the piece

on their heads in an extravagant desire to elicit signs of approval:

they would only have received a cool little round of applause when the

curtain fell.

We, at all events, had no hesitation in telling the commissioner that

we had enjoyed ourselves immensely; and so, it appeared, had he. He

was even bold enough to call it a very fine company, and as we walked

back to the hotel at half-past nine in broad daylight, he told us what

they were going to play the next evening, possibly in the hope that we

should stay for it and he should get another seat. That was out of the

question, however, sorry as we were to disappoint him. He had to tuck

us into the carriage the following day, and let us drive away and

leave him bereft of his charges. "You shall have a good ride," were

his parting words, kind and fatherly as he was to the last; and so we

had. But we found no one again to care for us so tenderly as our

old friend, nor did any one take us to the theatre throughout the

remainder of the journey. G.H.

VENETIAN CAFFÈS.

It is years since so lovely an autumn as that of 1874 has been seen

in Europe: people say not since the last great comet year, and they

credit the erratic visitor of last summer with the exceptional beauty

of the weather. As in the case of other marked comet years, the

vintages of which still bring extraordinary prices, Italy has had

exceptionally fine harvests of all kinds this year. The grain has been

abundant, the vintage has been superb, the olives have escaped the

danger of unseasonable frosts, and the still more important crop of

foreigners seems to be pretty well assured. The charming weather in

October and November made the interesting blossoms sprout plentifully;

and boat-loads and train-loads came in with an abundance promising an

unusually fine winter for _la bella Italia_. Venice, indeed, may be

said to have pretty well housed her crop in this kind already. It has

been a magnificent one, and the Queen of the Adriatic admits that due

homage has been done to her. The _forestieri_ season sets in earlier

in her case than in her sister cities. The real "Carnival de Venice"

is in August, September and October now-a-days, let the calendar say

what it may. Some flaunting of gaudy-colored calico, some dancing on

the Piazza of St. Mark, there may be on the eve of Lent in obedience

to old usages, but the dancing that really glads the Italian heart is

the dancing for which the _forestiere_ pays the piper, and the true

Lenten time is that when his beneficent presence is wanting.

Venice, then, has already brought her Carnival to a conclusion; and

it has been a splendid one. English, Americans, Germans, all came in

shoals--all thronged the galleries, the churches and the palaces in

the morning, sauntered or bathed on the outer shore of the Lido in the

afternoon, and met at Florian's in the evening. "What is Florian's?"

will be asked by those who have never been at Venice--by some such,

at least. For probably the fame of the celebrated _caffè_ may have

traveled across the Atlantic, just as many who have never crossed

it westward are no strangers to the name of Delmonico. Florian's,

however, in any case, deserves a word of recognition. It is the

principal, largest and most fashionable caffè on the Piazza di San

Marco. But the singular and curious specialty of the place is that it

has never been closed--no, not for five minutes--day or night, for

a period of more than a hundred and thirty years! Probably it is the

only human habitation of any sort on the face of the globe of which

that could be said.

But the caffè in itself is in many respects a specialty of Venetian

life, and has been so since the days of Goldoni. The readers of his

comedies, so abundantly rich in local coloring, will not have failed

to observe that the caffè plays a larger part in the life of Venice

than is the case in any other city. Probably no Venetian passes

a single day without visiting once at least, if not oftener, his

accustomed caffè. Men of business write their letters and arrange

their meetings there. Men of pleasure know that they shall find their

peers there. Mere loafers take their seats there, and gaze at the

stream of life, as it flows past them, for hours together. And, most

marked specialty of all, Venice is the only city in Italy where the

native female aristocracy frequents the caffè. Indeed, I know no place

in all the Peninsula where so large an amount of Italian beauty may

be seen as among the fashionable crowd at Florian's on a brilliant

midsummer moonlight night.

Venice is of all the cities in the world the one which those who have

never seen it know best. The peculiarities of it are so marked and so

unlike anything else in the world, and the graphic representations of

every part of the city are so numerous and so admirably accurate, that

every traveler finds it to be exactly what he was prepared to see, and

can hardly fancy that he sees the Queen of the Adriatic for the first

time. I may therefore assume, perhaps, that my readers are acquainted

with the appearance of that most matchless of city spaces, the Piazza

di San Marco. They will readily call to mind the long series of

arcades that form the two long sides of the parallellogram which has

the gorgeous front of St. Mark's church occupying the entirety of one

of the shorter sides. Well, about halfway up the length of the piazza

six of the arches on the right hand of one facing St. Mark's church

are occupied by the celebrated caffè. The six never-closed rooms,

corresponding each with one of the arches of the arcade, are very

small, and would not suffice to accommodate a twentieth part of the

throng which finds itself at Florian's quite as a matter of course

every fine summer's night. But nobody thinks of entering these

smartly-furnished little cabinets save for breakfast or during the

hours of the day. Some take their evening ice or coffee on the seats

under the arcade, either immediately in front of the cabinets

or around the pillars which support the arches, and thus have an

opportunity of observing the never-ceasing and ever-varying stream of

life that flows by them under the arcade. But the vast majority of the

crowd place themselves on chairs arranged around little tables set out

on the flags of the piazza. A hundred or so of these little tables

are placed in long rows extending far out into the piazza, and far on

either side beyond the extent of the six arches which are occupied by

the caffè itself. A London or New York policeman would have his very

soul revolted, and conclude that there must be something very rotten

indeed in the state of a city in which the public way could be thus

encumbered and no cry of "move on" ever heard. Assuredly, it is

public ground which Florian, in the person of his nineteenth-century

representative, thus occupies with his tables and chairs. Probably,

if a Venetian were asked by what right he does so, the question would

seem to him much as if one asked by what right the tide covers the

shallows of the lagoon. It always has been so. It is in the natural

order of things. And how could Venice live without Florian's?

But it is not Florian's alone which is thus a trespasser on the domain

of the public. The other less celebrated caffès do the same thing.

One immediately opposite to Florian's, on the other side of the

piazza--Quadri's--has almost as large a spread of chairs and tables

as Florian himself. But it is a curious instance of the permanence of

habits at Venice, that though at Quadri's the articles supplied are

quite as good, and the prices exactly the same, the fashionable

world never deserts Florian's. The only difference between the

two establishments, except this one of their customers, that is

perceptible to the naked eye, is that at Quadri's beer is served,

while Florian ignores the existence of that plebeian beverage, which

assuredly was never heard of in Venice in the days when he began his

career and formed his habitudes.

I am tempted to endeavor to give the reader some picture of the scene

on the piazza on a night when (as is the case almost every other

evening) a military band is playing in the middle of the open space,

and the cosmopolitan crowd is assembled in force--to describe the

wonderful surroundings of the scene, the charm of the quietude broken

by no sound of hoof or of wheel, the soft and tempered light, the gay

clatter, athwart which comes every fifteen minutes the solemn mellow

tone of the great clock of St. Mark with importunate warning that

another pleasant quarter of an hour has drifted away down the stream

of time. It is a scene that tempts the pen. But the well-dressed

portion of mankind is very similar in all countries and under all

circumstances, and perhaps my readers may be more interested in a few

traits of the popular life of Venice, which the magnificent Piazza

of St. Mark is not the best place for studying, for some of the

most characteristic phases of it are absolutely banished thence. The

strolling musician or singer, who may be heard every night in other

parts of the city, never plies his trade on the piazza. Mendicancy,

which is more rife at Venice, I am sorry to say, than in any other

Italian city, except perhaps Naples, is not tolerated on the piazza.

But if we wish for a good specimen of the truly popular life of

Venice, it will not be necessary to wander far from the great centre

of the piazza. Coming down the Piazzetta, or Little Piazza, which

opens out of the great square at one end, and abuts on the open lagoon

opposite the island of St. George at the other, and turning round the

corner of the ducal palace, we cross the bridge over the canal, which

above our heads is bridged by the "Bridge of Sighs," with its "palace

and a prison on each hand," as Byron sings, and find ourselves on the

"Riva dei Schiavoni"--the quay at which the Slavonic vessels arrived,

and arrive still. The quay is a very broad one, by far the broadest in

Venice, paved with flagstones, and teeming with every characteristic

form of Venetian life from early morning till late into the night.

There are two or three hotels frequented by foreigners on the Riva,

for the situation facing the open lagoon is an exceptionally good one;

and there are three or four caffès at which the cosmopolitan and not

too aristocratic visitor may get an excellent cup of coffee (for the

Venetians, thanks to their long connection with the East, know

what coffee is, and will not take chiccory or other such detestable

substitutes in lieu of it) for the modest charge of thirteen

centimes--just over two cents--and study as he drinks it the moving

and ever-amusing scenes enacted before his eyes. His neighbor perhaps

will be an old gentleman, the very type of the old "pantaloon" whose

mask was in the old comedy supposed to be the impersonation of

Venice. There are the long, slender and rather delicately-cut features

terminating in a long, narrow and somewhat protruding chin; the high

cheek-bones, the lank and sombre cheeks, the high nose, the dark

bright eye under its bushy brow. He is very thin, very seedy, and

evidently _very_ poor. But he salutes you, as you take your seat

beside him, with the air of an ex-member of "The Ten;" his ancient

hat and napless coat are carefully brushed; his outrageously high

shirt-collar and voluminous unstarched neckcloth, after the fashion of

a former generation, though as yellow as saffron, are clean; and his

poor old boots as irreproachable as blacking--which can do much, but,

alas! not all things--can make them. His expenditure of a penny will

entitle him not only to a cup of coffee, as aforesaid, but also to a

glass of fresh water, which has been turned to an opaline color by

the shaking into it of a few drops of something which the waiter drops

from a bottle with some contrivance at its mouth, the effect of which

is to cause only a drop or two of the liquor, whatever it may be, to

come out at each shake. Our old friend is also entitled, in virtue of

his expenditure, to occupy the chair he sits on for as many hours as

he shall see fit to remain in it. And after the coffee, which must

be drunk while hot, has been despatched, the sippings of the opaline

mixture aforesaid may be protracted indefinitely while he enjoys the

cool evening-breezes from the lagoon, the perfection of _dolce far

niente_, and the amusement the life of the Riva never fails to afford

him. An itinerant vender of little models of gondolas and bracelets

and toys made out of shells comes by, seeking a customer among the

folk assembled at the caffè. He does not address Pantaloon, for of

course he knows that there is nothing to be done in that line with

him. But spying with a hawk's glance a _forestiere_ among the crowd,

he strolls up to him, holding up one of his gimcrack bracelets

daintily--and he thinks temptingly, poor fellow!--between his finger

and thumb. "Un franco! Un sol franco! è una beleza per una contesa!"

("One franc! only one franc! It would be beautiful on the arm of a

countess!") he murmurs in his soft lisping Venetian, which abolishes

all double consonants, and supplies their place by prolonging the soft

liquid sound of the preceding vowel. One franc! It is wonderful how

the thing, worthless as it is, can be made even by the most starving

fingers for such a price. Yet after dangling his toy for a minute, and

gazing, oh, so wistfully! the while out of his big haggard eyes, he

says, "Seventy-five centimes! half a franc!" and still lingers ere he

turns away with a sigh, a weary movement of his emaciated figure and a

longing look on his poor hollow face that make one feel that the

drama we are witnessing is not all comedy. But it is all supremely

interesting to our neighbor, Si'or Pantaleone. He has been keenly

watching the attempted deal, and no doubt wished that his countryman

might succeed. But there was no element of tragedy in the matter for

him, a condition of semi-starvation is too much an ordinary, every-day

and normal spectacle. He looked on more as a retired merchant might

look on at the progress of a bargain for the delivery of a shipload

of grain. Presently, a middle-aged woman and a girl of some fourteen

years station themselves in front of the audience seated outside the

caffè. The elder woman has a guitar, and the girl a violin and some

sheets of music in her hand. The woman has her wonderful wealth of

black hair grandly dressed and as shining as oil can make it. She

has large gilt earrings in her ears, a heavy coral necklace, and a

gaudy-colored shawl in good condition. Whatever might be beneath

and below this is in dark shadow--"et sic melius situm." She is not

starved, however, for, as she prepares to finger her guitar, she shows

a well-nourished and not ill-formed arm. The young girl has one of

those pale, delicate, oval faces so common in Venice: she also has a

good shawl--an amber-colored one--which so sets off the olive-colored

complexion of her face as to make her a perfect picture. This

couple do not in any degree assume an attitude of appealing _ad

misericordiam_. They pose themselves _en artistes_. The girl sets

about arranging her music in a business-like way, and then they play

the well-known air of "La Stella Confidente," the little violinist

really playing remarkably well. Then the elder woman comes round with

a little tin saucer for our contributions. No slightest word or look

of disappointment or displeasure follows the refusal of those who give

nothing. The saucer is presented to each in turn. I supposed that

the application to Si'or Pantaleone was an empty form. But no. That

retired gentleman could still find wherewithal to patronize the fine

arts, and dropped a centime--the fifth part of a cent--into the dish

with the air of a prince bestowing the grand cross of the Golden

Fleece. Then comes a dealer in ready-made trousers, which Pantaloon

examines curiously and cheapens. Then a body of men singing

part-songs, not badly, but to some disadvantage, as they utterly

ignore the braying of half a dozen trumpets which are coming along the

Riva in advance of a body of soldiers returning to some neighboring

barracks. Then there are fruit-sellers and fish-sellers and

hot-chestnut dealers, and, most vociferous of all, the cryers of

"Acqua! acqua! acqua fresca!" There, making its way among the numerous

small vessels from Dalmatia, Greece, etc. moored to the quay of the

Schiavoni, comes a boat from the Peninsular and Oriental steamer,

which arrived this morning from Alexandria, with four or five

Orientals on board. They come on shore, and proceed to saunter

along the Riva toward the Grand Piazza, while their dark faces and

brightly-colored garments add an element to the motley scene which is

perfectly in keeping with old Venetian reminiscences.

T.A.T.

A NEW MEXICAN CHRISTMAS EVE.

It is Christmas Eve in Albuquerque. Blazing fagots of mesquite-roots

placed on the surrounding adobe walls illuminate the old church on

the plaza. There is a grand _baile_ at the fonda, to which we and our

"family are most respectfully invited." The sounds of music already

invite us to the ball-room. We enter. The floor is full; a hundred

couples are gliding through the graceful "Spanish dance," or "slow

waltz," as it is termed here. Not a few blue-and-gold United States

uniforms are to be seen in the throng. A full-uniformed major-general

of volunteers adds the éclat of his epaulettes to the occasion. The

ranchos have poured in their señoras and señoritas, and three rows of

the dark-eyed creatures sit ranged around the room.

The Mexican women look their best in a ball-room. Their black eyes,

black hair and white teeth glisten in the light; they are dressed

in the gayest of gay colors; ponderous ornaments of gold, strongly

relieved by their dusk complexions, shed around them a rich barbaric

lustre. Not that they eschew adventitious means to blanch their

sun-shadowed tints. For days some of the señoras and señoritas have

worn a mask of a white clayey mixture to give them an ephemeral

whiteness for this occasion. Those who could procure nothing else have

worn a pasty vizard kneaded of common clay, to effect in some degree

a like result by protecting their faces from the sun and wind. Should

you visit New Mexico, and as you ride along slowly in the heat of

midday meet a señorita who gazes at you with a pair of jet black eyes

through a hideous, ghastly mask of mud or mortar, do not be frightened

from your accustomed propriety. The señorita is preparing her

_toilette de bal_.

The New Mexican women cannot be considered pretty, generally speaking.

In artistic symmetry of feature, in purity of complexion, they are

not to be compared with our countrywomen. These can bear the searching

light of day, when delicacy of detail can be distinguished and

appreciated. Those look their best in the artificial light of the

ball-room. There the blue-black hair, the brilliant black eyes, the

well-traced eyebrows, the magnificently white and regular teeth, the

richly-developed forms, produce a general effect before which our

blond and delicate beauties seem pale and _fades_. But the Mexican's

coarser skin--her _teint basané_--is too plainly visible in the light

of the sun: you should see her only by the lamps. It is doubtless

rather from an instinct of coquetry than from any other feeling that

in the day-time the Mexican women shroud their dusky traits in the

folds of their _rebosas_, leaving only one pilot eye to look upon the

outer world.

No introductions are necessary at the public bailes. Saunter around

the room, inspect the show of expectant partners, and when you see one

who suits your fancy ask her to dance, without more ado. If she be not

engaged she will at once accept your proffered arm. She will not

say anything. Ten to one she will not breathe a syllable during your

evolutions. Conversation is not the forte of the señoritas. But she

will smile and smile, and you will have no reason to complain of her

waltzing. The Mexican _caballero_, when he seeks a partner, will

not put himself out so far as to have any words about it. He merely

beckons the chosen one, as the sultan might throw the handkerchief,

and she comes to him at once.

Each dance concluded, you lead your partner to a sort of bar where

refreshments are furnished, and ask her whether she will take _vino_

or _dulces_--wine or candies? She will take _dulces_--"Gracias,

señor!" This is _de rigueur_. You pay for them of course, and

conduct her to her seat. She pours the _dulces_ into the awaiting

pocket-handkerchiefs of the old people, her _comadres_, and of her

younger brothers and sisters.

In a little room adjoining the ball-room, with door invitingly open,

is the shrine of _monte_. The revelry of the ball-room is unheeded by

the preoccupied votaries of the changeful deity as they sit around the

green table watching the dealer as he turns the cards, and nervously

fingering their little piles of red or white "chips." We have no

business and no pleasure here. Let us merely look in and pass on.

Waltzes, "round" and "slow," are the _pièces de résistance_ of a

Mexican baile: quadrilles are not relished by the dusky danseuses.

There are some New Mexican dances which do not lack prettiness. Of

these, the Cuna is the most popular. It commences with a see-saw

movement suggestive of its name--cuna- or cradle-dance. For the rest,

the waltz enters much into its composition.

The orchestra generally consists of one or more violins and a guitar

or two. The New Mexican guitar is strung conversely: the base-string

is where we put the treble, and _vice versâ_. The strings are

generally struck with the thumb-nail or with a piece of horn or wood

like the ancient _plectrum_. This produces a harsh metallic sound,

without any rotundity. Few New Mexican fiddlers or guitar-players are

capable of playing in any time except dancing time, and the character

of the baile, funeral and sacred music is the same. The only

distinction is the addition of a continuous _tremolo_ to the latter

two, which produces the same unpleasant effect on the nerves as a

comic song chanted by the shaky, cracked, piping and quavering voice

of senility. As the fiddles invariably play their parts in funerals as

well as on festive processions, it requires some familiarity with the

customs of the country to distinguish one from the other. The music

to-night is much better than the ordinary baile music. A native

harpist adds the music of his many strings; and not bad music either,

though he does not know a quaver from a semibreve, and his harp is of

his own manufacture. The sameness, however, caused by playing always

and everything in the same key is perceptible. But dancing critics are

not disposed to be very severe.

The enjoyment of the evening is at high pressure. The dancers are

swinging, surging, spinning through the Spanish dance. Everybody who

can find a partner and a place on the floor--there are many who cannot

find the latter--is dancing. It is a gay, a brilliant scene. All is

going as merrily as a whole chime of marriage-bells when a deep and

solemn peal from the church close by breaks in over the music, the

laughter and the dancing. It is midnight! It is the _Noche Buena_,

and the bell summons the faithful to the midnight mass. The effect is

electric. The last twirl of the waltz is suspended, half executed. The

dancers stop as suddenly as if they were puppets moved and stilled by

the cunning of some wire-pulling hand. A general rush is made for the

church: in a moment the ball-room is empty. The church is filled as

instantaneously, and the wildly gay dancers of a moment ago are now

kneeling, hushed and down-bent, in devotional attitudes.

The scene is impressive: the bright ball-toilettes contrasted in a

"dim religious light," the sudden change of place and mood, from gay

to grave, from ball-room to sanctuary, strikes a stranger's eye with

thrilling effect. At the conclusion of the service the dancers return

to the ball-room, to change from grave to gay, and dance _ad libitum_

till daylight.

J.T.

ENGLISH BIBLE TRANSLATIONS.

The first complete translation of the Bible into our language was

made about the year 1380 by John de Wycliffe, or Wickliffe. There are

several manuscript copies of it in the Bodleian and other European

libraries. This great work unlocked the Scriptures to the multitude,

or, as one of his antagonists, bewailing such an enterprise, worded

it, "the gospel pearl was cast abroad and trodden under foot." Long

before the appearance of this translation various versions of portions

of the Bible had appeared, specimens of which, of every century from

the reign of Alfred to Chaucer's time, are preserved in the British

Museum and elsewhere. Sir Thomas More says: "The Holy Byble was longe

before Wycliffis daies by virtuose and well-learned men translated

into the English tongue, and by good and godly people with devotion

and soberness well and reverently read." This statement is further

corroborated by Foxe, the martyrologist, who remarks: "If histories

be well examined, we shall find both before and after the Conquest, as

well before John Wickliffe was borne as since, the whole body of the

Scriptures by sundry men translated into this our country tongue."

Wycliffe's Bible was first printed at Oxford in 1850, previous to

which the New Testament appeared in 1721 and was reprinted in 1810.

In 1526, William Tyndale completed and published in English his

translation of the New Testament. He also translated and printed

the Pentateuch and the book of Jonah, and was preparing them for

publication when he was put to death in Flanders, being strangled and

burnt for heresy. Tyndale's translation, with his latest revisions

(1534), was republished in the English Hexapla in 1841. A copy of his

translation of the Pentateuch which had belonged to Bishop Heber was

sold in 1854 for $795. Four years later another copy sold for within

twenty dollars of that amount.

The first English translation of the entire Bible was made by Miles

Coverdale, who afterward became bishop of Exeter, and was printed in

folio in the year 1535. In 1538 a second edition of Coverdale's Bible

was printed at Paris, but the Inquisition interfered and committed the

whole edition of twenty-five hundred copies to the flames. No perfect

copy of Coverdale's version is known to exist, but one lacking

the original title-page and first leaf was sold in 1854 for $1725.

Another, at the Perkins' sale, in June, 1873, brought $2000.

Two years after the appearance of the first edition of Coverdale's

Bible, John Rogers, the first martyr in Queen Mary's reign, published

his version of the Scriptures. He made some emendations, but the text

is chiefly that of Tyndale and Coverdale. It was printed by Grafton

and Whitchurch in 1537, and the title runs: "The Byble, which is all

the holy Scripture: in which are contayned the Olde and Newe Testament

truely and purely translated into Englysh by Thomas Matthew." For

safety, Rogers assumed the name of Matthew, whence it is known as

Matthew's Bible. Seven hundred and fifty dollars have been paid for a

copy.

The third version of the Bible, known as Taverner's, was published

in 1539. Richard Taverner was a learned man who published many

translations during the sixteenth century. Horne says of his

translation, "This is neither a bare revisal of Cranmer's Bible nor

a new version, but a kind of intermediate work, being a correction of

what is called 'Matthew's Bible.'"

The first edition of Cranmer's Bible, the printing of which was begun

in Paris in 1538 and completed in London in 1540--the Inquisition

having interposed by imprisoning the printers and burning the greater

part of the impression--is excessively rare. Cranmer's Bible--or the

Great Bible, as it was called--is Tyndale's, Coverdale's and Rogers's

translations most carefully revised throughout. This was the first

sound and authorized English version; and as soon as it was perfected

a proclamation was issued ordering it to be provided for every parish

church, under a penalty of forty shillings a month. A second edition

of Cranmer's Bible appeared in 1560, a copy of which brought, at a

recent sale in England, the sum of $610.

The Genevan version of the Bible was made by several English exiles

at Geneva in Queen Mary's reign--viz., Cole, Coverdale, Gilby, Knox,

Sampson, Whittingham and Woodman--and was first printed in 1560.

It went through fifty editions in the course of thirty years. This

translation was very popular with the Puritan party. In this version

the first division into verses was made. It is commonly known as the

"Breeches Bible," from the peculiar rendering of Genesis iii. 7--"

breeches of fig-leaves." To the Geneva Bible we owe the beautiful

phraseology of the admired passage in Jeremiah viii. 22. Coverdale,

Matthew and Taverner render it, "For there is no more treacle at

Gilead?" Cranmer, "Is there no treason at Gilead?" The Genevan first

gave the poetic rendering, "Is there no balm in Gilead?"

In the year 1568 another translation appeared, which is

indiscriminately known as "Matthew Parker's Bible," the "Bishops'

Bible" and the "Great English Bible." This version was undertaken and

carried on under the inspection of Matthew Parker, second Protestant

archbishop of Canterbury. Of the fifteen translators, six were

bishops, hence this edition is often called the Bishops' Bible, though

it is sometimes designated the Great English Bible, from its being a

huge folio volume. In 1569 it was published in octavo form. There is a

well-preserved copy of the first edition of Matthew Parker's Bible in

the possession of a gentleman residing in New York City. This was

the authorized version of the Scriptures for forty years, when it was

superseded by our present English Bible.

The English Roman Catholic College at Rheims issued in the year 1582

a translation of the New Testament, known as the "Rhemish New

Testament." It was condemned by the queen of England, and copies

imported into that country were seized and destroyed. In 1609 the

first volume of the Old Testament, and in the following year the

second volume, were published at Douay, hence ever since known as the

Douay Bible. Some years since Cardinal Wiseman remarked that the names

Rhemish and Douay, as applied to the current editions, are absolute

misnomers. The publishers of the edition chiefly used in this country

state that it is translated from the Latin Vulgate, "being the edition

published by the English College at Rheims A.D. 1582, and at Douay in

1609, as revised and corrected in 1750, according to the Clementine

edition of the Scriptures, by the Rt. Rev. Richard Challoner,

bishop of Debra, with his annotations for clearing up the principal

difficulties of Holy Writ."

Theodore Beza translated the New Testament out of the Greek into the

Latin. This was first published in England in 1574, and afterward

frequently. In 1576 it was "Engelished" by Leonard Tomson,

under-secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham, and was afterward

frequently annexed to the Genevan Old Testament. The following is a

copy of the title-page of the New Testament, _verbatim et literatim_:

"The New Testament of our Lord Jesus Christ, translated out of Greeke

by Theod Beza: with brief summaries and expositions upon the hard

places by the said authour, _Ioach Amer and P Loseler Vallerius_.

Engelished by L Tomson. Together with the Annotations of _Fr Junius_

upon the Revelation of S. John. Imprinted at London by the Deputies

of Christopher Barker, Printer to the Queene's Most Excellent

Majestie--1599." The volume opens with a primitive version of the

Psalms in verse, then follow the Old Testament, the Apocrypha and the

New Testament, as in Bibles of the present day.

The version of the Scriptures now in use among Protestants was

translated by the authority of King James I., and published in 1611.

Fifty-four learned men were appointed to accomplish the work of

revision, but from death or other causes seven of the number failed

to enter upon it. The remaining forty-seven were ranged under six

divisions, different portions of the Bible being assigned to each

division. They entered upon their task in 1607, and after three years

of diligent labor the work was completed. This version was generally

adopted, and the former translations soon fell into disuse. The

authors of King James's version of the Bible included the most learned

divines of the day; one of whom was master of Latin, Greek, Hebrew,

Chaldee, Syriac and fifteen modern languages.

Among other rare and highly-coveted editions of the Bible is one

printed in England in the seventeenth century, in which the important

word _not_ was omitted in the seventh commandment, from which

circumstance it has ever since been known as "The Adulterer's Bible."

Another edition, known as the Pearl Bible, appeared about the same

time, filled with errata, a single specimen of which will suffice:

"Know ye not the ungodly _shall inherit_ the kingdom of God?" Bibles

were once printed which affirmed that "all Scripture was profitable

for _de_struction;" while still another edition of the sacred volume

is known as the "Vinegar Bible," from the erratum in the title to the

twentieth chapter of St. Luke, in which "Parable of the Vineyard" is

printed "Parable of the Vinegar."

J.G.W.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Life and Labours of Mr. Brassey, 1805-1870. By Sir Arthur Helps,

K.C.B. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

The "captains of industry," who constitute in our day so distinct and

notable a class of worthies, are doubtless as well entitled to have

their achievements recorded and their fame sounded throughout the

lands as were the doughty men of war who of old were deemed the only

fitting heroes of chronicle and epic. Few of them, however, can

hope to have their deeds commemorated by a "veray parfit, gentle

knight"--of the quill, not of the sword, albeit the letters which

he writes after his name would once have indicated the possession of

military rank and distinction. Sir Arthur Helps is not a man of few

words or of a very stern or passionate temperament. It is the graces

of chivalry, not its fiery ardor, that he cultivates and reflects,

and though "arms and the man" have often been his theme, the soft and

delicate strain was ever more suggestive of the pastoral pipe than

of the bardic lyre. Essayist, historian, biographer, novelist, he is

always intent to smooth away the asperities of his subject, and, like

some stately grandame enthroned in high-backed chair, he remembers

that his simple auditors are to be not merely entertained by the

matter of his discourse, but impressed by the suave tones and

high-bred prolixity of the speaker. With a dignified courtesy unknown

in these latter times--when biographers and historians do not scruple

to take liberties with their heroes to the extent even of designating

them by nicknames--the subject of the present memoir is introduced to

us as _Mr_. Brassey, a form not only adopted on the title-page, but

preserved in the body of the work, where we read that "Mr. Brassey

was born November 7, 1805," that "Mr. Brassey, at twelve years of age,

went to a school at Chester," and that, being afterward articled to

a surveyor, "Mr. Brassey was permitted by his master" to assist in

making certain surveys. It is only from a side whisper to the American

public, which is honored with a preface all to itself, that we are

permitted to learn that the great contractor owned to the Christian

name of Thomas. Besides the two prefaces there is a dedication to

the queen, an introduction telling how Sir Arthur Helps made the

acquaintance of Mr. Brassey and what impressions he received from the

interview, and a preliminary chapter containing a brief outline of

Mr. Brassey's character as "a man of business;" so that we get at the

substance of the book by a process like that which in a well-conducted

household precedes the carving and distribution of a Christmas cake,

any eagerness we might feel to "put in a thumb and pull out a plum"

being kept in check by a proper amount of ceremony and tissue-paper.

Plums, however, there are, though not perhaps in full proportion to

the frosted coating, or of just the kind that are best agglutinated by

the biographical dough. Of anecdote or gossip, glimpses of "life and

manners" or personal details, there is nothing. Nor can we justly take

exception to this. On the contrary, it gives a unity to the subject by

excluding whatever had no relation to the enterprises with which Mr.

Brassey's name is connected, and which absorbed his time and thoughts

to a degree that can have left him but little opportunity for

intercourse with mankind except in a business capacity. It is these

enterprises--not in their entirety or with reference to the objects

with which they were designed, but as evidences and illustrations

of the working force, mental and physical, demanded for their

execution--that form the real subject of the book, the matter of which

has been chiefly furnished by the various agents entrusted with the

immediate supervision of the labor and outlay of the capital employed.

The details thus brought together afford perhaps a more vivid idea of

the industrial energy and activity of the nineteenth century, and

of the resources they have called into play, than could have been

obtained from a survey of any other field in which the like qualities

have been displayed. It was chiefly with railway enterprises, and this

almost from their inception, and to an extent far beyond the rivalry

of any other constructor, that Mr. Brassey was engaged; and the

railway system, not only by its own immense demands on capital, labor

and inventive skill, but still more by the stimulus and aid it has

given to industrial enterprises of every kind, must be regarded as the

main lever of a material progress that has outstripped the conceptions

and possibilities of all previous ages. With the development of a

system so different in its nature from the great undertakings of any

former period came the need of the contractor, entrusted with the

direction and laden with the full responsibility of works which no

government "boards" or similar machinery would have been competent to

carry through under the conditions imposed by the novel circumstances

of the movement and the exacting spirit by which it was impelled. To

attain the foremost place in the new career thus created demanded,

obviously, no ordinary powers--special knowledge of various kinds,

equal facility in mastering details and grasping a general plan, tact

in the choice and management of subordinates, courage and promptness

in encountering unforeseen obstacles and disasters, and skill and

clearheadedness in the general control of enormous and intricate

financial interests. To these qualities must be added in the present

case what is not so invariably associated with the names of succesful

contractors--a faithfulness and integrity which merited and received

the fullest confidence. Whether working at a gain or at a loss, Mr.

Brassey was ever resolute to execute his engagements to the letter,

and he declined to make demands for extra compensation when his

contracts proved unprofitable, though it was customary with him to

make good the losses of his sub-contractors. He amassed a colossal

fortune, not through excessive gains, but by a small profit--"as

nearly as possible three per cent."--which accrued to him from all his

enterprises taken as a whole, and the accumulations consequent on an

inexpensive mode of life.

The railways constructed by Mr. Brassey, generally in partnership

with some other contractor, between the years 1834 and 1870, comprised

between six and seven thousand miles in all parts of the globe,

including Australia and in almost every civilized country except

Russia and the United States. "There were periods in his career during

which he and his partners were giving employment to 80,000 persons,

upon works requiring £ 17,000,000 of capital for their completion."

Yet a large part of his time and of the time of his agents was

spent in the investigation of schemes which he either decided not to

undertake or for which he tendered unsuccessfully. It was necessary at

times to transport materials, a large staff of employés and an army

of laborers from one country to another. In some cases works were

prosecuted in regions occupied or threatened by hostile armies, in

others under all the embarrassments and gloom of a great financial

revulsion. In countries where commercial transactions were usually

very limited the great difficulty was to obtain coin for the payment

of wages, while in others there was the danger of the supply of labor

failing through the enticements of superabundant capital or the more

dazzling temptations of gold-digging. It is needless to mention the

usual accidents and impediments to which all such undertakings are

liable, and which the skill and ingenuity of the modern engineer never

fail to overcome; but it is certainly not a little remarkable, when

the multiplicity of Mr. Brassey's contracts is remembered, as well

as the early period from which they date, to find that they were

invariably completed within the specified time.

Personal Reminiscences of Barham, Harness and Hodder. (Bric-à-Brac

Series, edited by Richard Henry Stoddard.) New York: Scribner,

Armstrong & Co.

Why we should love so dearly a fresh anecdote of a literary celebrity,

a new quip by Talleyrand, a new stutter of Lamb's, a new impertinence

of Sheridan's, may be not hard to understand, but it is rather hard to

defend, any regard being paid to our dignity. The best stories about

that particular line of authors who have possessed _bonhomie_ and

become classic for it are long since told. What remains is the dregs.

Yet the other day we found ourselves smiling with real delight over

a new "bit" of Cowper. It was merely that his barber, being late with

the poet's wig, said, "Twill soon be here, it is upon the road;" and

that Cowper had smiled, with a "Very well, William," or a "Very fair,

Thomas." The _mot_, like most of the stories that crop up now, was not

good; it did not exhibit the author of "John Gilpin" in a brilliant

light; it was not even uttered by the poet--he had merely smiled at

it; yet it had the effect of rekindling the vapid embers about the

dear old hearthstone of Olney, and the shy, gentle creatures that used

to disport there among the hares when nobody was looking became for a

moment more real from the citation. Now, the question is, What is

the superiority of a new piece of gossip like this, which involves

no witticism and confers no wisdom, over the next bit of history that

will be exchanged between the heroines of the alley-gate? When Mrs.

Jones tells Mrs. Baker that Mrs. Briggs has delivered a daughter, and

that Mr. Briggs said he had rather she had given him a wooden leg, the

epigram is quite as good as a _Bric-à-Brac_ anecdote, the people are

quite as worthy as Cowper's barber, and the effect upon the history

of letters quite as close and important. With this demurrer, we will

apply ourselves for a moment to Mr. Stoddard's last collection, which

of course we relish as much as anybody. We could wish that, after

discharging his very well-executed duty of writing the preface, he

could find some further time for elucidating the text. The present

book being about three people, whose memoirs are taken from three

volumes, it is confusing to the reader to find on a page headed

"Rogers" or "Scott" a foot-note about what "my father" said or

what "my friend" remembered, without anything to point out that

the authority is other than Mr. Stoddard's father or friend. Other

peculiarities, too, suggest that the pretty little volume is clipped

instead of edited: on page 134 we find that "William, who had lived

many years with Hook, grew rich and saucy. The latter used to assert

of him that for the first three years he was as good a servant as ever

came into a house; for the next two a kind and considerate friend;

and afterward an abominably bad master." And on page 240, that when

_Rogers_ was condoled with about the death of an old servant, he

exclaimed, "Well, I don't know that I feel his loss so much, after

all. For the first _seven_ years he was an obliging servant; for the

second _seven_ years an agreeable companion; but for the last seven

years he was a tyrannical master." This duality of epigrams seems to

show a discrepancy somewhere; or are we to believe that the wits of

the Regency used to drive their jokes as hired hacks, like the livery

carriages employed by faded dowagers in Hampton Court? The rest of the

little book is perhaps free from duplicates. It is a good one to turn

over for an hour in the cars, which is perhaps all it claims to be.

The anecdotes are good old familiar anecdotes, but it is pleasant to

have them strung on a thread. We are reminded that the original

Bride of Lammermoor was a Miss Dalrymple; that the "laughing Tom"

of Thackeray's "Ballad of Bouillabaise" was Thomas Frazer, Paris

correspondent of the _Morning Chronicle_; that the dramatist of

_Nicholas Nickleby_, so savagely assaulted by Dickens in the course of

the work, was a Mr. Moncrief, who would never have prepared the story

for the stage if Dickens had intimated his objection.

_Books Received._

The American Educational Annual: A Reference Book for all matters

pertaining to Education. Vol. I., 1875. New York: J.W. Schermerhorn &

Co.

The Song-Fountain: A Vocal Music-book. By Wm. Tillinghast & D.P.

Horton. New York: J.W. Schermerhorn & Co.

My. Sister Jennie: A Novel. By George Sand. Translated by T.S.

Crocker. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

Democracy and Monarchy in France. By Charles Kendall Adams. New York:

Henry Holt & Co.

Egypt and Iceland in the year 1874. By Bayard Taylor. New York: G.P.

Putnam's Sons.

Elements of Geometry. By W.H.H. Phillips, Ph. D. New York: J.W.

Schermerhorn & Co.

The Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe. By Amanda M. Duglas. Boston:

William F. Gill & Co.

The Lily and the Cross: A Tale of Acadia. By Prof. James De Mille.

Boston: Lee & Shepard.

Alleged Discrepancies of the Bible. By John W. Haley, M.A. Andover:

Warren F. Draper.

History of the United States. By George Bancroft. Vol. X. Boston:

Little, Brown & Co.

Roddy's Romance. By Helen Kendrick Johnson. New York: G.P. Putnam's

Sons.

My Life on the Plains. By Gen. G.A. Custer, U.S.A. New York: Sheldon &

Co.

American Wild-Fowl Shooting. By Joseph W. Long. New York: J.B. Ford &

Co.

Hazel-Blossoms. By John Greenleaf Whittier. Boston: James R. Osgood &

Co.

Losing to Win: A Novel. By Theodore Davies. New York: Sheldon & Co.

Linley Rochford: A Novel. By Justin McCarthy. New York: Sheldon & Co.

A First Book in German. By Dr. Emil Otto. New York: Henry Holt & Co.

What of the Churches and Clergy? Springfield, Mass: D.E. Fisk & Co.