Thus reasoning, I climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. As

my footsteps echoed through the silent building, I felt that sense of

awe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship, and

which is ever more impressive still, as we stand in it alone. The

present, however, was less before me than the past, of which every thing

reminded me. There was the seat the marquise used to sit in; there the

footstool I had so often placed at her feet. How different was the last

service I had rendered her! There the pillar, beside which I have stood

spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty arrested the

thoughts that should have wended heavenward, and made my muttered

prayers like offerings to herself. The very bouquet of flowers--some

peri's hand had placed beneath the shrine--withered and faded, was there

still. But where were they whose beating hearts had throbbed with deep

devotion? How many had died upon the scaffold!--how many were still

lingering in imprisonment, some in exile, some in concealment, dragging

out lives of misery and anxiety. What was the sustaining spirit of such

martyrdom? I asked myself again and again. Was it the zeal of true

religion, or was it the energy of loyalty, that bore them up against

every danger, and enabled them to brave death itself with firmness?--and

if this faith of theirs was thus ennobling, why could not France be of

one mind and heart? There came no answer to these doubts of mine, and I

slowly advanced toward the altar, still deeply buried in thought. What

was my surprise to see that two candles stood there, which bore signs of

having been recently lighted. At once the whole truth flashed across

me--the Pere had been there; he had come to celebrate a mass--the last,

perhaps, he was ever to offer up at that altar. I knew with what warm

affection he loved every object and every spot endeared to him by long

time, and I fancied to myself the overflowing of his heart, as he

entered once more, and for the last time, the little temple, associated

with all the joys and sorrows of his existence. Doubtless, too, he had

waited anxiously for my coming; mayhap, in the prayers he offered, I was

not forgotten. I thought of him kneeling there, in the silence of the

night, alone, as he was, his gentle voice the only sound in the

stillness of the hour; his pure heart throbbing with gratitude for his

deliverance, and prayerful hopes for those who had been his persecutors.

I thought over all this, and, in a torrent of emotions, I knelt down

before the altar to pray. I know not what words I uttered, but his name

must some how have escaped my lips; for suddenly a door opened beside

the altar, and the Pere Michel, dressed in his full vestments, stood

before me. His features, wan and wasted as they were, had regained their

wonted expression of calm dignity; and by his look I saw that he would

not suffer the sacred spot to be profaned by any outburst of feeling on

either side.

"Those dreadful shouts tell of another massacre," said he, solemnly, as

the wind bore toward us the deafening cries of the angry multitude. "Let

us pray for the souls' rest of the departed."

"Then will your prayers be offered for Robespierre, for Couthon, and St.

Just," said I, boldly.

"And who are they who need more the saints' intercession--who have ever

been called to judgment with such crimes to expiate--who have ever so

widowed France, and so desecrated her altars? Happily a few yet remain

where piety may kneel to implore pardon for their iniquity. Let us

recite the Litany for the Dead," said he, solemnly, and at once began

the impressive service.

As I knelt beside the rails of the altar, and heard the prayers which,

with deep devotion, he uttered. I could not help feeling the contrast

between that touching evidence of Christian charity, and the tumultuous

joy of the populace, whose frantic bursts of triumph were borne on the

air.

"And now come with me, Maurice," said he, as the mass was concluded.

"Here, in this little sacristy, we are safe from all molestation; none

will think of us on such a day as this."

And as he spoke, he drew his arm around me, and led me into the little

chamber where once the precious vessels and the decorations of the

church were kept.

"Here we are safe," said he, as he drew me to his side on the oaken

bench, which formed all the furniture of the room. "To-morrow, Maurice,

we must leave this, and seek an asylum in another land; but we are not

friendless, my child--the brothers of the 'Sacred Heart' will receive

us. Their convent is in the wilds of the Ardennes, beyond the frontiers

of France, and there, beloved by the faithful peasantry, they live in

security and peace. We need not take the vows of their order, which is

one of the strictest of all religious houses; but we may claim their

hospitality and protection, and neither will be denied us. Think what a

blessed existence will that be, Maurice, my son, to dwell under the same

roof with these holy men, and to imbibe from them the peace of mind that

holiness alone bestows; to awake at the solemn notes of the pealing

organ, and to sink to rest with the solemn liturgies still chanting

around you; to feel an atmosphere of devotion on every side, and to see

the sacred relics whose miracles have attested the true faith in ages

long past. Does it not stir thy heart, my child, to know that such

blessed privileges may be thine?"

I hung my head in silence, for in truth, I felt nothing of the

enthusiasm with which he sought to inspire me. The Pere quickly saw

what passed in my mind, and endeavored to depict the life of the

monastery as a delicious existence, embellished by all the graces of

literature, and adorned by the pleasures of intellectual converse.

Poetry, romance, scenery, all were pressed into the service of his

persuasions; but how weak were such arguments to one like me, the boy

whose only education had been what the streets of Paris afforded--whose

notions of eloquence were formed on the insane ravings of "The

Mountain," and whose idea of greatness were centred in mere notoriety.

My dreamy look of inattention showed him again that he had failed; and I

could see in the increased pallor of his face, the quivering motion of

his lip, the agitation the defeat was costing him.

"Alas! alas!" cried he, passionately, "the work of ruin is perfect; the

mind of youth is corrupted, and the fountain of virtue defiled at the

very source. Oh! Maurice, I had never thought this possible of thee, the

child of my heart!"

A burst of grief here overcame him; for some minutes he could not speak.

At last he arose from his seat, and wiping off the tears that covered

his cheeks, with his robe, spoke, but in a voice whose full round tones

contrasted strongly with his former weak accents.

"The life I have pictured seems to thee ignoble and unworthy, boy. So

did it not appear to Chrysostom, to Origen, and to Augustin, to the

blessed saints of our church, the eldest born of Christianity. Be it so.

Thine, mayhap is not the age, nor this the era in which to hope for

better things. Thy heart yearns for heroic actions--thy spirit is set

upon high ambitions--be it so. I say, never was the time more fitting

for thee. The enemy is up; his armies are in the field; thousands and

tens of thousands swell the ranks, already flushed with victory. Be a

soldier, then. Ay, Maurice, buckle on the sword--the battle-field is

before thee. Thou hast made choice to seek the enemy in the far-away

countries of heathen darkness, or here in our own native France, where

his camp is already spread. If danger be the lure that tempts thee--if

to confront peril be thy wish--there is enough of it. Be a soldier,

then, and gird thee for the great battle that is at hand. Ay! boy, if

thou feelest within thee the proud darings that foreshadow success,

speak the word, and thou shalt be a standard-bearer in the very van."

I waited not for more; but springing up, I clasped my arms around his

neck, and cried, in ecstasy, "Yes! Pere Michel, you have guessed aright;

my heart's ambition is to be a soldier and I want but your blessing to

be a brave one."

"And thou shalt have it. A thousand blessings follow those who go forth

to the good fight. But thou art yet young, Maurice--too young for this.

Thou needest time and much teaching, too. He who would brave the enemy

before us, must be skillful as well as courageous. Thou art as yet but a

child."

"The general said he liked boy-soldiers," said I, promptly; "he told me

so himself."

"What general--who told thee?" cried the Pere in trembling eagerness.

"General Lacoste, the Chef-d'-Etat, major of the army of the Rhine; the

same who gave me a rendezvous for to-morrow at his quarters."

It was not till I had repeated my explanation again and again, nor,

indeed, until I had recounted all the circumstances of my last night's

adventure, that the poor Pere could be brought to see his way through a

mystery that had almost become equally embarrassing to myself. When he

did, however, detect the clew, and when he had perceived the different

tracks on which our minds were traveling, his grief burst all bounds. He

inveighed against the armies of the Republic as hordes of pillagers and

bandits, the sworn enemies of the church, the desecrators of her altars.

Their patriotism he called a mere pretense to shroud their infidelity.

Their heroism was the bloodthirstiness of democratic cruelty. Seeing me

still unmoved by all this passionate declamation, he adopted another

tactic, and suddenly asked me if it were for such a cause as this my

father had been a soldier?

"No!" replied I, firmly; "for when my father was alive, the soil of

France had not been desecrated by the foot of the invader. The Austrian,

the Prussian, the Englishman had not yet dared to dictate the laws under

which we were to live."

He appeared thunderstruck at my reply, repealing, as it seemed to him,

the extent of those teachings, whose corruptions he trembled at.

"I knew it, I knew it," cried he, bitterly, as he wrung his hands. "The

seed of the iniquity is sown--the harvest-time will not be long in

coming! And so, boy, thou hast spoken with one of these men--these

generals, as they call themselves, of that republican horde?"

"The officer who commands the artillery of the army of the Rhine may

write himself general with little presumption," said I, almost angrily.

"They who once led our armies to battle were the nobles of France--men

whose proud station was the pledge for their chivalrous devotion. But

why do I discuss the question with thee? He who deserts his faith may

well forget that his birth was noble. Go, boy, join those with whom your

heart is already linked. Your lesson will be an easy one--you have

nothing to unlearn. The songs of the Girondins are already more grateful

to your ear than our sacred canticles. Go, I say, since between us,

henceforth, there can be no companionship.

"Will you not bless me, Pere," said I, approaching him in deep humility;

"will you not let me carry with me thy benediction?"

"How shall I bless the arm that is lifted to wound the Holy Church? how

shall I pray for one whose place is in the ranks of the infidel? Hadst

thou faith in my blessing, boy, thou hadst never implored it in such a

cause. Renounce thy treason--and not alone my blessing, but thou shalt

have a 'Novena' to celebrate thy fidelity. Be of us, Maurice, and thy

name shall be honored, where honor is immortality."

The look of beaming affection with which he uttered this, more than the

words themselves, now shook my courage, and, in a conflict of doubt and

indecision, I held down my head without speaking. What might have been

my ultimate resolve, if left completely to myself, I know not; but at

that very moment a detachment of soldiers marched past in the street

without. They were setting off to join the army of the Rhine, and were

singing in joyous chorus the celebrated song of the day, "Le chant du

depart." The tramp of their feet--the clank of their weapons--their

mellow voices--but, more than all, the associations that thronged to my

mind, routed every other thought, and I darted from the spot, and never

stopped till I reached the street.

A great crowd followed the detachment, composed partly of friends of the

soldiers, partly of the idle loungers of the capital. Mixing with these,

I moved onward, and speedily passed the outer boulevard, and gained the

open country.

(_To be continued._)

[From Household Words.]

THE PLANET-WATCHERS OF GREENWICH.

There is a morsel of Greenwich Park, which has, for now nearly two

centuries, been held sacred from intrusion. It is the portion inclosed

by the walls of the Observatory. Certainly a hundred thousand visitors

must ramble over the surrounding lawns, and look with curious eye upon

the towers and outer boundaries of that little citadel of science, for

one who finds admission to the interior of the building. Its brick

towers, with flanking turrets and picturesque roofs, perched on the side

of the gravelly hill, and sheltered round about by groups of fine old

trees, are as well known as Greenwich Hospital itself. But what work

goes on inside its carefully preserved boundary, and under those

movable, black-domed roofs, is a popular mystery. Many a holiday-maker's

wonder has been excited by the fall, at one o'clock, of the huge, black

ball, high up there, by the weather vane on the topmost point of the

eastern turret. He knows, or is told if he asks a loitering pensioner,

that the descent of the ball tells the time as truly as the sun; and

that all the ships in the river watch it to set their chronometers by,

before they sail; and, that, all the railway clocks, and all the railway

trains over the kingdom are arranged punctually by its indications. But

how the heavens are watched to secure this punctual definition of the

flight of time, and what other curious labors are going on inside the

Observatory, is a sealed book. The public have always been, of

necessity, excluded from the Observatory walls, for the place is devoted

to the prosecution of a science whose operations are inconsistent with

the bustle, the interruptions, the talk, and the anxieties of popular

curiosity and examination.

But when public information and instruction are the objects, the doors

are widely opened, and the press and its _attaches_ find a way into

this, as into many other sacred and forbidden spots. Only last week one

of "our own contributors" was seen in a carriage on the Greenwich

railway, poring over the paper in the last Edinburgh Review that

describes our national astronomical establishment, and was known

afterward to have climbed the Observatory hill, and to have rung and

gained admission at the little, black, mysterious gate in the

Observatory wall. Let us see what is told in his report of what he saw

within that sacred portal.

In the park on a fine day all seems life and gayety--once within the

Observatory boundary, the first feeling is that of isolation. There is a

curious stillness about the place, and the foot-step of the old

pensioner, who closes the gate upon a visitor, echoes again on the

pavement as he goes away to wake up from his astronomical or

meteorological trance one of the officers of this sanctum. Soon, under

the guidance of the good genius so invoked, the secrets of the place

begin to reveal themselves.

The part of the Observatory so conspicuous from without is the portion

least used within. When it was designed by Christopher Wren, the general

belief was that such buildings should be lofty, that the observer might

be raised toward the heavenly bodies whose motions he was to watch. More

modern science has taught its disciples better; and in Greenwich--which

is an eminently practical Observatory--the working part of the building

is found crouching behind the loftier towers. These are now occupied as

subsidiary to the modern practical building. The ground floor is used as

a residence by the chief astronomer; above is the large hall originally

built to contain huge moveable telescopes and quadrants--such as are not

now employed. Nowadays, this hall occasionally becomes a sort of

scientific counting-house--irreverent but descriptive term--in which,

from time to time, a band of scientific clerks are congregated to post

up the books, in which the daily business of the planets has been jotted

down by the astronomers who watch those marvelous bodies. Another

portion is a kind of museum of astronomical curiosities. Flamstead and

Halley, and their immediate successors, worked in these towers, and here

still rest some of the old, rude tools with which their discoveries were

completed, and their reputation, and the reputation of Greenwich, were

established. As time has gone on, astronomers and opticians have

invented new, and more perfect, and more luxurious instruments. Greater

accuracy is thus obtainable, at a less expenditure of human patience and

labor; and so the old tools are cast aside. One of them belonged to

Halley, and was put up by him a hundred and thirty years ago; another

is an old brazen quadrant, with which many valuable observations were

made in by-gone times; and another, an old iron quadrant, still fixed in

the stone pier to which it was first attached. Some of the huge

telescopes that once found place in this old Observatory, have been sent

away. One went to the Cape of Good Hope, and has been useful there.

Another of the unsatisfactory, and now unused instruments, had a tube

twenty-five feet long, whose cool and dark interior was so pleasant to

the spiders that, do what they would, the astronomers could not

altogether banish the persevering insects from it. Spin they would; and,

spite of dusting and cleaning, and spider-killing, spin they did; and,

at length, the savans got more instruments and less patience, and the

spiders were left in quiet possession. This has been pleasantly spoken

of as an instance of poetical justice. It is but fair that spiders

should, at times, have the best of astronomers, for astronomers rob

spiders for the completion of their choicest instruments. No fabric of

human construction is fine enough to strain across the eyepiece of an

important telescope, and opticians preserve a particular race of

spiders, that their webs may be taken for that purpose. The spider lines

are strained across the best instruments at Greenwich and elsewhere; and

when the spinners of these beautifully fine threads disturbed the

accuracy of the tube in the western wing of the old Observatory, it was

said to be but fair retaliation for the robberies the industrious

insects had endured.

A narrow stair leads from the unused rooms of the old Observatory to its

leaded roof, whence a magnificent view is obtained; the park, the

hospital, the town of Greenwich, and the windings of the Thames, and,

gazing further, London itself comes grandly into the prospect. The most

inveterate astronomer could scarcely fail to turn for a moment from the

wonders of the heavens to admire these glories of the earth. From the

leads, two turrets are reached, where the first constantly active

operations in this portion of the building, are in progress.

At the present time, indeed, these turrets are the most useful portions

of the old building. In one is placed the well-known contrivance for

registering, hour after hour, and day after day, the force and direction

of the wind. To keep such a watch by human vigilance, and to make such a

register by human labor, would be a tedious, expensive, and irksome

task; and human ingenuity taxed itself to make a machine for perfecting

such work. The wind turns a weather-cock, and, by aid of cog-wheels the

motion is transferred to a lead pencil fixed over a sheet of paper, and

thus the wind is made to write down the direction which itself is

blowing. Not far distant is a piece of metal, the flat side of which is

ever turned by the weather-cock to meet the full force of the wind,

which, blowing upon it, drives it back against a spring. To this spring

is affixed a chain passing over, pullies toward another pencil, fixed

above a sheet of paper, and moving faithfully, more or less, as the

wind blows harder or softer. And thus the "gentle zephyr" and the fresh

breeze, and the heavy gale, and, when it comes, the furious hurricane,

are made to note down their character and force. The sheet of paper on

which the uncertain element, the wind, is bearing witness against

itself, is fixed upon a frame moved by clock-work. Steady as the

progress of time, this ingenious mechanism draws the paper under the

suspended pencils. Thus each minute and each hour has its written

record, without human help or inspection. Once a day only, an assistant

comes to put a new blank sheet in the place of that which has been

covered by the moving pencils, and the latter is taken away to be bound

up in a volume. The book might with truth be lettered, "The History of

the Wind; written by Itself"--an AEolian autobiography.

Close by is another contrivance for registering in decimals of an inch

the quantity of rain that falls. The drops are caught, and passing down

a tube, a permanent mark is made by which the quantity is determined.

The eastern turret is devoted to the Time Ball and its mechanism. Far

out at sea--away from all sources of information but those to be asked

of the planets, his compass, his quadrant, his chronometer, and his

almanack, the mariner feels the value of _time_ in a way which the

landsman can scarcely conceive. If his chronometer is right, he may feel

safe; let him have reason to doubt its accuracy, and he knows how the

perils surrounding him are increased. An error of a few seconds in his

time may place him in danger--an error of a few minutes may lead him to

steer blindly to his certain wreck. Hence his desire when he is leaving

port to have his time-pieces right to a second; and hence the

expenditure of thought, and labor, and money, at the Greenwich

Observatory, to afford the shipping of the great port of London, and the

English navy, the exact time--true to the tenth of a second, or six

hundredth of a minute--and to afford them also a book, the Nautical

Almanack, containing a mass of astronomical facts, on which they may

base their calculations, with full reliance as to their accuracy. Every

day for the last seventeen years, at five minutes before one o'clock,

the black ball five feet across and stuffed with cork, is raised halfway

up its shaft above the eastern turret of the observatory--at

two-and-a-half minutes before that hour, it rises to the top. Telescopes

from many a point, both up and down the river, are now pointed to this

dark spot above the Greenwich trees, and many an anxious mariner has his

time-pieces beside him, that their indications may be made true. Watch

the ball as you stand in the Park. It is now just raised. You must wait

two minutes and a half, and as you do so, you feel what a minute may be.

It seems a long, palpable, appreciable time, indeed. In the turret

below, stands a clock telling the true time, gained by a laborious

watching of the _clock-stars_; and beside the clock, is a man with a

practiced hand upon a trigger, and a practiced eye upon the face of the

dial. One minute--two minutes pass. Thirty seconds more, and the trigger

has released the Ball. As it leaves the top of the shaft, it is one

o'clock to the tenth of a second By the time it has reached the bottom

it is some five seconds later.

Leaving the Ball Turret, and the old building which it surmounts, the

new Observatory, where the chief work of the establishment is done,

claims our notice. This attention would scarcely be given to its outward

appearance for it is a long, low building, scarcely seen beyond its own

boundaries. The Greenwich Observatory is not a _show_ place, but an

eminently practical establishment. St. Petersburg and other cities have

much more gorgeous buildings devoted to astronomical purposes, and

Russia and other countries spend much more money on astronomy than

England does, yet the Greenwich Tables have a world-wide reputation, and

some of them are used as the groundwork for calculations in all

Observatories at home and abroad. The astronomer does not want marble

halls or grand saloons for his work. Galileo used a bell-tower at

Venice, and Kepler stood on the bridge at Prague to watch the stars. The

men, not the buildings, do the work. No disappointment, need be felt,

then, to find the modern Observatory a range of unadorned buildings

running east and west, with slits in the roof and in some of the walls.

Within these simple buildings are the instruments now used, displaying

almost the perfection of mechanical skill in their construction and

finish--beautifully adapted to the object they have to fulfill, and in

perfect order. They are fixed on solid piers of masonry, deeply imbedded

in the earth, to secure freedom from vibration--a quality better

obtained when the foundations are on sand or gravel than when on rock.

To describe the instruments by their technical names, and to go into any

particulars of the instruments they have superseded, would take space,

only to do the work of a scientific treatise. Enough, therefore, to say,

that there are the telescopes best adapted to the chief duty of the

place, which is, watching the moon whenever she is visible; watching the

_clock-stars_, by which the true time is calculated more exactly than it

could be from observations of the sun alone; and watching other

planetary bodies as they pass the meridian. Eclipses, occultations, and

other phenomena, of course, have their share of attention, and add to

the burden of the observer's duties.

The staff of the Observatory includes a chief astronomer, Mr. Airy, with

a salary of L800 a year; and six assistants who are paid, L470, L290,

L240, L150, L130, and L130, respectively. This does not include the

officers of the Meteorological branch of the establishment, to be spoken

of hereafter; and which consists of Mr. Glaisher, with L240 a year, one

assistant at L120, and two additional computers. At times, when these

scientific laborers have collected more observations than they are able

to work out; additional help is summoned, in shape of the body of

scientific clerks before spoken of; who, seated at desks, cast up the

accounts the planetary bodies, including such regular old friends as the

moon and fixed stars, but not forgetting those wandering celestial

existences that rush, from time to time, over the meridian, and may be

fairly called the chance customers of the astronomer.

Though the interior of the Observatory seems so still, the life of those

employed there has its excitements. Looking through telescopes forms a

small part only of their duty--and that duty can not be done when the

weather is unfavorable. On cloudy days the observer is idle; in bright

weather he is busy; and a long continuance of clear days and nights

gives him more employment than he can well complete. Summer, therefore,

is his time of labor; winter his time of rest. It appears that in our

climate the nights, on the whole, are clearer than the days, and

evenings less cloudy than mornings. Every assistant takes his turn as an

observer, and a chain of duty is kept up night and day; at other

periods, the busiest portion of the twenty-four hours at the

Observatory, is between nine in the morning and two in the afternoon.

During this time they work in silence, the task being to complete the

records of the observations made, by filling in the requisite columns of

figures upon printed forms, and then adding and subtracting them as the

case requires. While thus engaged, the assistant who has charge of an

instrument looks, from time to time, at his star regulated clock, and

when it warns him that his expected planet is nearly due, he leaves his

companions, and quietly repairs to the room where the telescope is

ready. The adjustment of this has previously been arranged with the

greatest nicety. The shutter is moved from the slit in the roof, the

astronomer sits upon an easy chair with a movable back. If the object he

seeks is high in the heavens, this chair-back is lowered till its

occupant almost lies down; if the star is lower, the chair-back is

raised in proportion. He has his note-book and metallic pencil in hand.

Across the eye-piece of the telescope are stretched seven lines of

spider-web, dividing the field of view. If his seat requires change, the

least motion arranges it to his satisfaction, for it rests upon a

railway of its own. Beside him is one of the star-clocks, and as the

moment approaches for the appearance of the planet, the excitement of

the moment increases. "The tremble of impatience for the entrance of the

star on the field of view," says an Edinburgh Reviewer, "is like that of

a sportsman whose dog has just made a full point, and who awaits the

rising of the game. When a star appears, the observer, in technical

language, _takes a second from the clock face_; that is, he reads the

second with his eye, and counts on by the ear the succeeding beats of

the clock, naming the seconds mentally. As the star passes each wire of

the transit, he marks down in his jotting-book with a metallic pencil

the second, _and the second only_, of his observation, with such a

fraction of a second as corresponds, in his judgment, to the interval of

time between the passage of the star, and the beat of the clock which

preceded such passage."

An experienced observer will never commit an error in this mental

calculation, exceeding the tenth of a second, or six hundredth of a

minute. When the star has been thus watched over the seven cobweb lines

(or wires), the observer jots down the hour and minute, in addition to

the second, and the task is done. Stars, not very near the sun, may be

seen in broad daylight, but, at night, it is requisite to direct a ray

of light from a lamp, so far to enlighten the field of the telescope, as

to permit the spider lines to be seen running across the brighter ground

on which the expected star is to be visible.

The adjustment of the instruments is a task of great nicety. If they are

out of trim only a shadow of a shade of a hair's-breadth, the desired

accuracy is interfered with, and they have to be re-adjusted.

Temperature is of course an important element in their condition, and a

slight sensibility may do mischief. The warmth of the observer's body,

when approaching the instruments, has been known to affect their

accuracy; and to avoid such sources of error, instruments have at times

been cased in flannel, that the non-conducting powers of that homely

fabric might screen the too-sensitive metal.

Sunday is a comparative holiday at the Observatory, for then, except

when any extraordinary phenomena are expected, the only duty done is to

drop the Time Ball, and observe the moon's place. The moon is never

neglected, and her motions have been here watched, during the last

hundred and seventy years, with the most pertinacious care--to the great

service of astronomy, and the great benefit of navigation.

The library should not pass unnoticed. It is small; but being devoted to

works upon astronomy, and the kindred sciences, there is ample room for

all that has hitherto been written on the subject, or that can, for many

generations, be produced. The observations of a lifetime spent in

watching the stars may be printed in marvelously few pages. A glance

through the Greenwich Astronomical Library gives a rough general idea of

what the world has done and is doing for the promotion of this science.

Russia contributes large, imperial-looking tomes, that tell of extended

observations made under the munificent patronage of a despot; Germany

sends from different points a variety of smaller, cheaper-looking, yet

valuable contributions; France gives proofs of her genius and her

discoveries; but _her_ forte is not in observation. The French are bad

observers. They have no such proofs of unremitting, patient toil in

search of facts, as those afforded in the records of the Greenwich

Tables of the Moon. Indeed, Greenwich, as we have already said, is a

working Observatory; and those who go into its library, and its

fire-proof manuscript-room, and see how its volumes of observations have

been growing from the small beginnings of the days of Flamstead and

Halley, to those of our later and more, liberal times, will have good

reason to acknowledge that the money devoted to this establishment has

been well employed.

One other spot must be noticed as among the notable things in this

astronomical sanctum. It is the Chronometer-room, to which, during the

first three Mondays in the year, the chief watch-makers of London send

in their choicest instruments for examination and trial. The watches

remain for a good portion of a year; their rates being noted, day by

day, by two persons; and then the makers of the best receive prizes, and

their instruments are purchased for the navy. Other competitors obtain

certificates of excellence, which bring customers from the merchant

service; while others pass unrewarded. To enter the room where these

admirable instruments are kept, suggests the idea of going into a

Brobdingnag watch-factory. Round the place are ranged shelves, on which

the large watches are placed, all ticking in the most distinct and

formidable way one against another. When they first arrive, in January,

they are left to the ordinary atmospheric temperature for some months.

Their rates being taken under these circumstances, a large stove in the

center of the apartment is lighted, and heat got up to a sort of

artificial East India or Gold Coast point. Tried under these influences,

they are placed in an iron tray over the stove, like so many watch-pies

in a baker's dish, and the fire being encouraged, they are literally

kept baking, to see how their metal will stand that style of treatment.

While thus hot, their rates are once more taken; and then, after this

fiery ordeal, such of them as their owners like to trust to an opposite

test, are put into freezing mixtures! Yet, so beautifully made are these

triumphs of human ingenuity--so well is their mechanism 'corrected' for

compensating the expansion caused by the heat, and the contraction

induced by the cold--that an even rate of going is established, so

nearly, that its variation under opposite circumstances becomes a matter

of close and certain estimate.

The rates of chronometers on trial for purchase by the Board of

Admirality, at the Observatory, are posted up and printed in an official

form. Upon looking to the document for last year, we find a statement of

their performances during six months of 1849, with memoranda of the

exact weeks during which the chronometers were exposed to the open air

at a north window; the weeks the Chronometer-room was heated by a stove,

the chronometers being dispersed on the surrounding shelves; and the

weeks during which they were placed in the tray above the stove. The

rate given during the first week of trial is in every case omitted; like

newly entered schoolboys their early vagaries are not taken into

account; but after that, every merit and every fault is watched with

jealous care, and, when the day of judgment comes, the order of the

arrangement of the chronometers in the list is determined solely by

consideration of their irregularities of rate as expressed in the

columns, "Difference between greatest and least," and, "Greatest

difference between one week and the next."

The Royal Observatory, according to a superstition not wholly extinct,

is the head-quarters, not only of Astronomy, but of Astrology. The

structure is awfully regarded, by a small section of the community which

ignorance has still left among us, as a manufactory of horoscopes, and a

repository for magic mirrors and divining-rods. Not long ago a

well-dressed woman called at the Observatory gate to request a hint as

to the means of recovering a lost sum of money; and recently, somebody

at Brighton dispatched the liberal sum of five shillings in a

post-office order to the same place, with a request to have his nativity

cast in return! Another, only last year, wrote as follows: "I have been

informed that there are persons at the Observatory who will, by my

inclosing a remittance and the hour of my birth, give me to understand

_who is to be my wife_? An early answer, stating all particulars, will

oblige," &c.

This sketch descriptive of its real duties and uses are not necessary to

relieve the Greenwich Observatory from the charge of being an abode of

sorcerers and astrologers. A few only of the most ignorant can yet

entertain such notions of its character; but they are not wholly

unfounded. Magicians, whose symbols are the Arabic numerals, and whose

_arcana_ are mathematical computations, daily foretell events in that

building with unerring certainty. They pre-discover the future of the

stars down to their minutest evolution and eccentricity. From data

furnished from the Royal Observatory, is compiled an extraordinary

prophetic Almanack from which all other almanacks are copied. It

foretells to a second when and where each of the planets may be seen in

the heavens at any minute for the next three years. The current number

of the Nautical Almanack is for the Year of Grace 1853.

In this quiet sanctuary, then, the winds are made to register their own

course and force, and the rain to gauge its own quantity as it falls;

the planets are watched to help the mariner to steer more safely over

the seas; and the heavens themselves are investigated for materials from

which their future as well as their past history may be written.

RAPID GROWTH OF AMERICA.

Every one who visits America has something to say of the rapidity with

which towns spring up in the West. Sir Charles Lyell, however, mentions

some facts which remind us very forcibly how close to our own times was

the settlement of the first English colony upon the continent. At

Plymouth he sees the tombs of the first pilgrims, who came out in the

Mayflower. Some of the houses which they built of brick brought from

Holland, are still remaining, with their low rooms and paneled walls. In

some private houses he saw many venerated heir-looms, kept as relics of

the first settlers; among others, an antique chair of carved wood, which

came over in the Mayflower, and which still retains the marks of the

staples which fixed it to the floor of the cabin. He also saw a chest,

or cabinet, which had belonged to Peregrine White, the first child born

in the colony. Part of the rock upon which the pilgrim fathers landed

has been removed to the centre of the town, and, with the names of

forty-two of their number inscribed upon it, inclosed within an iron

railing. This is the American _Roll of Battle Abbey_. But to return to

Peregrine White, the first child born in the colony: Colonel Perkins,

the munificent founder of the asylum for the blind, where we found our

friend Laura Bridgman, informed Sir Charles Lyell, in 1846, "that there

was but one link wanting in the chain of personal communication between

himself and Peregrine White." White was known to a man of the name of

Cobb, whom Colonel Perkins visited, in 1807, with some friends, who

still survive. This Cobb remembered when there were many Indians near

Plymouth; the inhabitants of the town frequently firing a cannon to

frighten them, to which cannon the Indians gave the name of "Old

Speakum." So that, in this case, one link is sufficient to connect men

now alive with the first whites born in New England, and with the time

when Indians were in the neighborhood of the first town that was

settled.

As a pendant to this, we may mention something connected with the

originals of that other continent which our race is peopling at the

antipodes. A few weeks ago, we were dining at the table of a naval

officer, well known in the scientific and literary world, upon which

occasion he mentioned, that being off the infant town of Sydney, in New

South Wales, in the year 1806, he ate some of the first home-bred

bullock which was killed in the colony. The son of the first governor

having just returned from the colony, which he had now made his home,

happening to be of our party, added, that "since that time their

progress had been so rapid, that this year they were to melt down two

million sheep for their tallow."

There are three events in the history of the world which will bear

comparison with this rapid extension of the English race. The first--and

this has always appeared to us to be the most striking occurrence in

history--is the marvelous manner in which a handful of Greeks, under

Alexander and his successors, overran and held for a long period the

whole of the East. The wonder is increased when we consider the

difficulty of maintaining communications in that part of the world.

They, in a great measure, changed the language and ideas of the East.

The Gospel was written in Greek; and the law of Moses, the writings of

the Hebrew prophets, were translated into Greek on the banks of the

Nile. A Greek kingdom was ever able to maintain itself for a long period

of time on the very confines of Tartary; and specimens of the

Graeco-Bactrian coinage are even to this day abundant in that part of the

world. All this, however, passed away, and has not left any very obvious

traces on the present state of things. The second event was the

establishment of the Roman empire. Strongly as we are disposed to

maintain that, on a general view of human affairs, every thing happens

for the best, yet we may say of the Roman empire that it was in many

respects a giant evil. No man of great original genius ever spoke the

Roman language; in the sense in which many Greeks, and among ourselves

Bacon, Shakspeare, and Newton, were men of original genius. There was a

time when there were men of spirit and ability in every Greek city:

there was a time when the Roman empire governed the world and there was

not one great man from Britain to the Euphrates. Having fulfilled its

destiny--which seems to have been the introduction into the Western

World of the ideas of unity, law, and order, though unintentionally on

its part, for it was nothing but a military despotism--it perished as it

deserved, and its language is now nowhere spoken.

The third event was the irruption of the Barbarians. That a higher

civilization followed this every body knows; but how many centuries did

it take to civilize the Barbarians?

Now these, the three great events of past history, are all dwarfed very

much when compared with what we are now, doing. We are sending out every

year, literally, hundreds of thousands of civilized men to people two

continents in opposite hemispheres, and on opposite sides of the globe.

In North America there are already twenty millions of our race. This

population doubles every twenty-two years. Australia will inevitably

become "the Queen of the South." Now that literature has given

permanency to language, no other tongue than ours will ever be spoken

upon these continents. We can see no limit to the spread of our laws,

literature, and language. Greek and Roman greatness are really, in

comparison, nothing to this. And, compared with the millions of

civilized men which we have sent and are sending to occupy so large a

portion of the earth's surface, how insignificant becomes the irruption

of some savage, or half-savage hordes, into Italy, France, Spain, and

England!

At a time when civilization is at a standstill, if not retrograding,

upon the continent of Europe, it is very delightful, particularly to an

Englishman, to have such a picture to contemplate.--_Frazer's

Magazine._

[From the London Times.]

LORD COKE AND LORD BACON.

Lord Campbell has devoted a considerable portion of his first volume of

the Lives of the Chief Justices of England to the biography of Sir

Edward Coke. The theme is worthy of the space afforded it. Independently

of the professional renown of this great man, there are circumstances

connected with his career that render it, perhaps, more deeply

interesting than that of any other legal functionary. He began the world

with the immortal Bacon; the two were rivals during life; they fought

together for distinction, and were even competitors in love. Both were

devoured by a raging desire for wealth and honors, both gained the

objects of their fiery ambition, and neither found happiness when they

were acquired. If Bacon was more unscrupulous than Coke in the ignoble

race, his fall also was more fatal and ignominious. Both represent to

our minds distinct forms of undoubted greatness. _The Body of the Common

Law of England_ is the type that speaks for Coke. The glory of human

wisdom shines forever around the drooping head of Bacon. Both teach

posterity how much intellectual grandeur may co-exist with the most

glaring moral turpitude; both pay homage to virtue by seeking refuge in

disgrace in the tranquil pursuits that have since immortalized them.

Bacon, with a genius only less than angelic, condescends to paltry

crime, and dies branded. Coke, with a profound contempt for the arts

that Bacon loved, enraged by disappointment, takes revenge for neglect,

and dies a patriot. In the days of Coke there would seem to have been a

general understanding on the part of royal sycophants to mislead the

monarch, and all became his sycophants who received his favors. Coke is

no exception to the rule. It is true enough that to him we are mainly

indebted for the movement which, beginning on the 30th of January, 1621,

ended that very day eight-and-twenty years with the decapitation of the

king; but it is likewise undeniable that the nation's difficulties would

have waited some time longer for solution had not the defender of the

people's rights been inoculated with a love of liberty by the sudden

application of the royal lancet, whose sharp edge his judicious

self-love would never have provoked. Coke was born in what a Royalist of

the days of Charles the First might well have called "the good old

times," when Queens were gentle despots and Parliaments the most devoted

of self-constituted slaves; when Mr. Speaker "upon his allegiance was

commanded, if a certain bill be exhibited, not to read it," and when

"Mr. Vice-Chamberlain, to the great comfort of the Speaker and the

House, brought answer of Her Majesty's acceptance of the submission" of

legislators who had presumed to speak of matters "not proper and

pertinent for the house to deal in." Elizabeth was on her splendid

throne when Coke, having quitted the University of Cambridge without a

degree, was working like a horse at Clifford's-inn. Stony-hearted and

stony-minded, he loved neither poetry nor pleasure. From the moment he

began the appointed task of his life, he dreamed of nothing but fame,

and of that only for the sake of the sterling recompense it brings.

Friendships not convertible to cash, Coke resolutely foreswore at the

commencement of his career, and he was blessed with none at the close of

it. Spenser yielded him no delight, Shakespeare no seduction. The study

of law began at three in the morning, and, with short intervals of rest,

ceased at nine in the evening, at which hour the indefatigable student

at last took repose. Fortified by such discipline, and brim full of law,

Coke was called to the bar in the year 1578, being then twenty-seven

years of age, and he rose in his profession as rapidly as he had all

along resolved to rise.

In pursuance of his design Coke married well in 1582; the lady was

young, beautiful, and accomplished; virtues thrown, as it were, into the

bargain, since the lawyer had been well satisfied with the ample fortune

by which they were accompanied. Before he was thirty years old the

desperate money-seeker had made himself master of manor upon manor, and

laid the foundation of the enormous possessions which at length alarmed

the Crown, lest they should prove too magnificent for a subject. In 1585

he was elected Recorder of Coventry, in 1586 of Norwich, and in 1592 of

London itself. In the last-named year he was also appointed Reader in

the Inner Temple by the Benchers, and in 1592, being in his forty-first

year, by the influence of Burleigh, he was made Solicitor-General to the

Queen. The solicitorship secured the Speakership of the House of

Commons, according to custom. Coke in his address to the Queen upon his

appointment compared himself to a star in the heavens, "which is but

_opacum corpus_ until it receiveth light from the sun." Her Majesty in

answer graciously condescended to accept the metaphor, for she informed

her humble Speaker that liberty of speech was granted him, "but you must

know what privilege you have; not to speak every one what he listeth, or

what cometh in his brain to utter, but your privilege is ay or no;

wherefore, Mr. Speaker, Her Majesty's pleasure is, that if you perceive

any idle heads which will meddle with reforming the church and

transforming the commonwealth, and do exhibit bills to such purpose, you

receive them not until they be viewed and considered by those who it is

fitter should consider of such things, and can better judge of them."

The times were sweetly Arcadian. Elizabeth should be painted a

shepherdess, and her faithful Parliament a meek and timid flock about

her.

The obsequiousness of Coke to his Royal mistress was in perfect keeping

with his character. Nothing exceeds his abject servility while in the

sunshine, save his fixed malignity when dismissed to the shade. In 1594

the office of Attorney-General became vacant; Coke regarded the prize as

his own until he found one ready to dispute it with him. Bacon, eager

to outstrip his rival, had made interest at Court, and, had his age been

as ripe as his genius, Coke might have been thrust aside in the

encounter. Intrigues failed, because "one precedent of so raw a youth

being promoted to so great a place" it was impossible to find. Coke was

left master of the field, but neither combatant forgot the result of the

contest. The new Attorney-General declined his marvelous opponent for

Solicitor-General, and Bacon resolved to take unmeasured revenge both

for the disappointment and the insult.

A fitter tool for its melancholy work prerogative never found than in

Attorney-General Coke, who, for his punishment, lived to destroy the

foul abuses he had been paid to nourish. The liberty of the subject is

identified with the name of the individual who, as much as any of his

time, sought to crush it. The perversions of criminal law to which this

man condescended, as prosecutor for the Crown, are familiar to the

readers of history. His cruel arrogance and atrocious bearing toward the

unfortunate (we do not speak of the guilty) can never be forgotten. Lord

Campbell tells us that Coke, in his age, "made noble amends" for the

licentious and unscrupulous dealings of his earlier life. We can not

admit the term; for repentance to be noble, the motive must be pure. The

gain to society by the stand made by Coke, in the name of the people,

against the encroachments of the Crown is not to be overestimated; but

respect does not attach to the soiled instrument by which our blessings

were secured. A singular instance of the brutality of the

Attorney-General, and of his overstrained duty to the Crown, occurred at

the trial of the unfortunate and gallant Essex. Well may the present

biographer exclaim, "This was a humiliating day for our _order_!" Essex

had striven hard to obtain for Bacon the office then held by his

accuser. The insurrection in the city might sooner be pardoned than that

offense, which, indeed, received no mercy. For once, Bacon and Coke

ceased to be rivals, but only that they might be co-partners in

inexpiable guilt. Divines may preach even to the infidel of the inherent

rottenness of our fallen nature, when they can point to Bacon, the pride

of humanity, the wonder of the civilized world, imploring to be counsel

_against_ his best friend and benefactor, and leaving no base means

untried to bring that high and chivalrous spirit to the scaffold.

Prerogative never boasted so rare a sacrifice; the might of kings never

extorted so signal an acknowledgment.

On the 27th of June, 1598, Coke lost his wife, who had borne him ten

children. His memorandum-book feelingly describes the virtues of the

departed; but within four months of her burial the disconsolate widower

had taken unto himself a second mate, whose beauty, though

extraordinary, was still surpassed, as before, by the brilliancy of the

marriage portion. Lady Hatton, daughter of Thomas Cecil, was the widow

of the nephew of Lord Chancellor Hatton, and but 20 years of age when

she agreed to become the wife of a man whom she disliked on her

wedding-day and hated ever afterward. Bacon, her cousin, had preferred

his suit to be rejected, although Lord Essex, then powerful enough, had

declared to the lady that "if he had a daughter of his own he would

rather match her with the accomplished lawyer than with a man of far

greater titles." To spite Bacon, and to add to his heaps, Coke consented

to a private marriage, to break the law, and to listen complacently to

the openly declared aversion of his bride. He enjoyed all the happiness

he had earned. The lady refused to adopt her husband's name, spurned his

company and dry pursuits, took her pleasure abroad, and, giving birth to

a daughter, flatly refused to live with him any longer; and greater

punishment came hereafter.

Upon the death of Elizabeth, James I. conferred upon Coke the dignity of

knighthood, and continued him in his office. The first appearance of the

Attorney-General as public prosecutor in the new reign was at the trial

of the adventurous Raleigh, the judge upon the occasion being the

reformed highway-robber, Popham, who made amends for the delinquencies

of his youth by hanging every criminal within his reach. Raleigh laid

down the law as Coke himself years afterward knew how to define it; but

the legal tools of the Court were neither to be shamed nor argued from

their purpose. Coke disgracefully bullied the high-souled prisoner.

Popham shrunk from his calm and unanswerable defense; but both contrived

to prove him guilty. The instance is one of a hundred. So long as Coke

could find payment for unclean work, he betrayed no uneasy desire to

wash his fingers. It was not until all hope of turning sycophancy to

further account was gone that he took up with patriotism.

Coke's last prosecution as Attorney-General was a famous one; for the

objects of his malevolence were no other than Guy Faux and his

accomplices. It would have been sufficient to dismiss in silence to the

scaffold men upon whom the brand of guilt was so deeply fixed. Justice

required no more than their death; much more readily satisfied the

officious love of the king's devoted servant. While the Attorney-General

was hurling insult at the heads of the culprits, one of them, Sir

Everard Digby, interrupted him, confessing "that he deserved the vilest

death, and the most severe punishment that might be," but humbly

petitioned "for mercy and some moderation of justice." Coke, overflowing

with mercy, promised him such moderation as he might discover in the

Psalms, where it is written, "Let his wife be a widow and his children

vagabonds--let his posterity be destroyed, and in the next generation

let his name be quite put out." Digby's pathetic appeal upon the rising

of the Court may well stand side by side with this brutality. "If I may

but hear any of your lordships," exclaimed the doomed man, "say you

forgive me, I shall go more cheerfully to the gallows." The lords

answered in Coke's presence, "The Lord forgive you, and we do."

The gunpowder plot disposed of, Coke, in the year 1606, became Chief

Justice of the Court of Common Pleas, "fatigued," as Lord Campbell has

it, "if not satiated, with amassing money at the bar." The new judge was

as fully alive to the rights of his office as he had been before to the

prerogatives of the king. The pedantic presumption of James was safe

till it rubbed against the more stubborn pride of Coke. The monarch was

of opinion that the constitution and the law allowed him personally to

try causes between his loyal subjects. "By my soul," he said pettishly

to Coke, who begged leave to differ, "I have often heard the boast that

your English law was founded upon reason. If that be so, why have not I

and others reason as well as you, the judges?" Coke explained why and by

the manner of his explanation compelled the king to think no more of his

folly. Unfortunately for all parties His Majesty at the same time

remembered the affront.

Had he been disposed to forget it there was one at his side eager enough

to jog his memory. Bacon's advancement depended upon the downfall of

Coke, and the sublimest yet meanest of men gave his whole heart to the

accomplishment of either work. By the elevation of the Attorney-General,

Bacon had become Solicitor-General, and a more servile spirit never

filled the office. The first triumph of Coke over the king encouraged

him to more open war against despotism and abuse. The monarchs before

the Revolution loved to repair laws by royal proclamation, and none were

busier at that trade than the silly James. Coke asserted his authority

again, and again defeated him. To console His Majesty and to help

himself, Bacon recommended the _promotion_ of the incorrigable

assailant. Coke was made, accordingly, Chief Justice of the King's

Bench. The profits of the office were much less than those of the

Justice of the Common Pleas, although the rank was higher. Hence Coke's

disgust at the bettering of his condition, which also helped Bacon on a

step, by furnishing Attorney-General Hobart with the chiefship of the

Common Pleas.

Coke continued to display his independence during the three years that

he presided in the Court of King's Bench, but he had stopped short of

committing an act that might deprive him of the reversion of the

Chancellorship, to which his great acquirements and reputation well

entitled him. Bacon, always alive to his master's interests, urged upon

the king the danger of elevating the Chief Justice to the woolsack, long

before the vacancy occurred. "If you take my Lord Coke," said he, "this

will follow: first, your Majesty shall put an overruling nature into an

overruling place, which may breed an extreme; next, you shall blunt his

industries in the matter of your finances, which seemeth to aim at

another place (the office of Lord Treasurer); and, lastly, popular men

are no sure mounters for your Majesty's saddle." His Majesty, easily

frightened, cherished the warning, while Coke took no pains to disarm

suspicion. His triumphs gave him courage, and he went from bad to worse.

A question arose as to the power of the king to grant ecclesiastical

preferments to be held along with a bishopric. A learned counsel at the

bar denied the power. Bacon, the Attorney-General, not caring to defend

it, mentioned another power of the king's--viz., his right to prohibit

the hearing of any cause in which his prerogative is concerned until he

should intimate his pleasure on the matter to his judges; and advised

such a prohibition to be issued in the case in question. Coke treated

the advice with disdain, proceeded as with an ordinary cause, heard it,

and judicially determined it. Bacon could have wished for nothing more

suicidal.

Coke was summoned before the Privy Council. It was suddenly discovered

that he had been guilty of a breach of duty while Attorney-General, in

concealing a bond given to the Crown by Sir Christopher Hatton. He had

also misconducted himself in a dispute with the Lord Chancellor

respecting injunctions; moreover, he had insulted the king when called

before him in the case of _commendams_. In addition, many extravagant

and exorbitant opinions had been set down and published in his reports

for positive and good law. So heinous an offender could not go

unpunished. By royal mandate the delinquent was suspended from his

office of Chief Justice. Simple suspension, however, brought no

consolation to Bacon, who goaded the king to downright persecution. On

the 16th of November, 1616, the Chief Justice received his dismissal.

Lord Campbell pleads for the fallen man, who heard his sentence with

"dejection and tears." We must, nevertheless, not forget the weakness

when we reflect upon his abject submission to royalty during his days of

dependence, and as we approach the more stormy times when the spirit of

vengeance incited him to grapple with royalty in the temper of a rebel.

Magnanimity is wanting throughout.

As Coke tumbled down Bacon rose to his zenith. While the former was

shedding tears for his dismissal, the latter was intoxicated with joy by

his elevation to the Chancellorship. The defeated judge, however, was

not the man to submit without a struggle to his fate. By his second wife

he had a daughter: she had reached a marriageable age and was heiress to

a princely fortune. Coke resolved that she should marry Sir John

Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham's eldest brother. Sir John was very

poor, and the Duke of Buckingham all powerful. The union effected, what

should hinder his return to favor? Bacon, terrified at the plot,

encouraged mother and daughter to resist the will of the father; but Sir

John and the duke were more than a match for the counter-conspirators.

After a gallant opposition the ladies yielded, and the marriage was

celebrated at Hampton Court, "in the presence of the king and queen and

all the chief nobility of England." Sir John was old enough to be his

wife's father, but that was a trifle. The results of the match were such

as might be expected. Coke was restored to the Privy Council, but

received no judicial promotion. Sir John Villiers and his wife never

passed a happy day together, and before long the lady eloped with Sir

John Howard. "After traveling abroad in man's attire she died young,

leaving a son, who, on the ground of illegitimacy, was not allowed to

inherit the estate and honors of her husband."

The last blow decided the ex-Chief Justice. Rejected as a friend, he

gave himself up to the warfare of relentless enmity. The fame and glory

acquired at this juncture by his rival in consequence of the publication

of the _Novum Organum_ gave venom to his hate. A Parliament was called

in 1620. Coke then in his 70th year, was elected for the borough of

Liskeard. Just after his election the office of Lord Treasurer fell

vacant. Coke had looked for it, but it was given elsewhere. All things

served to fan the fire of his indignation. The Puritans were returned to

the House in great numbers. Coke, hitherto a high churchman, placed

himself at their head, and prepared for deadly opposition. Opportunities

came to him as thick as summer leaves upon a tree. The nation had rare

cause for discontent, and no man knew better than he how to turn popular

grievances to personal account.

He set to work at once. A motion was made by Mr. Secretary Calvert for a

supply. Sir Edward Coke moved as an amendment, "That supply and

_grievances_ should be referred together to a committee of the whole

House." The amendment was carried, and business forthwith commenced with

an attack upon the monopolists. A report was drawn up directed against

the king's prerogative, in virtue of which monopolies flourished, and

Coke himself carried it to the bar of the Upper House, where Bacon, as

Chancellor received him. The second effort must have been a labor of

love indeed. The Lord Chancellor himself had been accused of a king

bribes. A committee of the House was appointed to investigate the

charges, and Coke, with a willing heart, guided its proceedings. The

king sent a message to the Commons with the view of saving Bacon from

the odium of an inquiry thus vindictively pursued, but Coke had fastened

on his prey and was not to be cajoled or frightened off. He besought the

Commons not to stand between justice and a huge delinquent, and he

procured Bacon's impeachment. The impeachment being voted, Coke, to his

intense delight, was ordered to conduct it. Bacon, conscious of the

spirit with which his rival would settle to his task, disappointed his

vengence by pleading guilty to the charge; but it was the deep

humiliation of the chancellor, in the presence of his foe, to hear in

one breath both judgement and destruction pronounced. The battle was

over. Bacon made restitution to society by withdrawing from public life

and devoting himself to the dignified occupations which have since

induced his countrymen to forget the failings that compelled the

fortunate seclusion. Coke having brought his victim to the dust left him

there to linger. He never visited his fallen enemy. The two never met

again.

Revenge called for further sacrifice. Coke's fierceness against the

Court increased rather than abated with Bacon's removal. The

Chancellorship which might have made him a royalist and high churchman

again was bestowed upon another. The shortsightedness of monarchs is

even more unpardonable than their crimes. After a struggle against

adjournment, led on by Coke, Parliament was adjourned in May to meet

again in November. In a letter to the Speaker the king desired it to be

made known in his name unto the House, "that none therein shall presume

henceforth to meddle with any thing concerning our Government or deep

matters of state." Coke, leading the opposition, moved "a protestation,"

which was carried and entered on the journals. The king, with his own

hand, tore the protestation out of the Journal Book, and declaring it

"an usurpation which the majesty of a king can by no means endure" at

once dissolved the Parliament.

Coke for his pains was committed to the Tower, but after a few months'

imprisonment was released at the intercession of the Prince of Wales.

Before the popular leader was fairly in harness again, that Prince was

on the throne. Charles's first Parliament was called in 1625, and Coke

was returned for Coventry. A motion for supply being submitted, Coke

moved as an amendment for a committee to inquire into the expenditure of

the Crown. The amendment was carried, and His Majesty, according to

custom in such cases, dissolved the Parliament. Supply being, however,

indispensable to monarchs as to meaner men, a new Parliament was

summoned, and Coke, now 75 years old, was returned without solicitation

for Norfolk. This Parliament fared no better than its predecessor, and

upon another attempt being made the king suffered the extreme

mortification of seeing his unappeasable pursuer returned for two

counties. His Majesty opened the session with a stern rebuke. He did not

call it a threatening, "for he scorned to threaten any but his equals,

but an admonition from him who by nature and duty has most care of his

people's preservation and prosperity." Whatever it might be, whether

menace or reproof, it had no effect upon the sturdy veteran. "What a

word," exclaimed Coke in his speech upon the usual motion for supply "is

that _franchise_! The lord may tax his villein, high or low; but it is

against the franchise of the land for freemen to be taxed but by their

consent in Parliament;" and the speaker implored his listeners to

withhold that consent while there remained one legitimate grievance for

the king to remedy. Having made his speech he brought forward and

carried resolutions that are memorable in the annals of our

constitutional history, and which, indeed, were made the foundation of

the Habeas Corpus Act fifty years afterward. His next step was his

greatest. He formed the famous _Petition of Right_, the second _Magna

Charta_, as it has been aptly called, of the nation's liberties. The

petition enumerated all the abuses of prerogative under which the

country groaned, and after declaring them all to be contrary to law

"assumed the form of an act of the Legislature, and in the most express

and stringent terms protected the people in all time to come from

similar oppressions." The king attempted to evade the obligation about

to be forced upon him, but his adversary was as inflexible as iron, "not

that he distrusted the king, but that he could not take his trust save

in a Parliamentary way." The lords passed the bill, but loyally

introduced a proviso that completely nullified its operation. "This,"

exclaimed Coke, "turns all about again," and at his instigation the

accommodating proviso was at once rejected. The Lords agreed "not to

insist upon it," and nothing was left for His Majesty but to resort,

under the direction of Buckingham, to fraudulent dealing. The trick did

not answer. Buckingham was denounced, the Petition of Right, in spite of

the king, received the royal assent in due form, and bonfires throughout

London testified to the happiness of the people at the restoration of

their liberty. King Charles would never have died on the scaffold had he

not violated in later years the solemn pledge he gave on this occasion

to his trusting subjects.

With this achievement ended Coke's political career. The _Petition of

Right_ was carried in 1628. He was absent from Parliament during the

short and violent session of 1629, and before another Parliament was

called he had quitted life. He died in 1634, in the eighty-third year of

his age and in the full possession of his faculties. What he performed

for public liberty is seen; his claims to esteem as a lawyer were

recognized in his own time, and are still acknowledged. His publications

are the hand-books of our legal men. His general character may be

gathered from our short record. It is further to be noted that he had a

sublime contempt for science and literature of every kind. Upon the

title-page of his copy of the _Novum Organum_, presented to him by the

author, he wrote,

"It deserves not to be read in schooles,

But to be freighted in the _Ship of Fools_."

Shakspeare and Ben Jonson were _vagrants_, deserving of the stocks;

poetry was foolishness; law, politics, and money-making the sole

occupations worthy of a masculine and vigorous mind. "For a profound

knowledge of the common law of England," says the biographer, "he stands

unrivaled. As a judge he was above all suspicion of corruption; yet most

men," adds Lord Campbell, "I am afraid, would rather have been Bacon

than Coke." We participate in his Lordship's fear. Aware of the lax

period in which both flourished, we are willing to attribute many of

the faults of both to the age in which their lot was cast. Their virtues

and intellectual prowess were all then own; and let us once enter upon a

comparison of these, and the lofty, universal genius of Bacon will shine

as the noonday sun in the firmament where the duller orb of Coke shall

cease to be visible.

[From Household Words.]

FATHER AND SON.

One evening in the month of March, 1798--that dark time in Ireland's

annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _emeutes_) is

still preserved among us, as "the year of the rebellion"--a lady and

gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned

dining-room of a large, lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and

fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife

sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming

gradually more vivid as the short spring twilight faded into darkness.

At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then

broke silence, by saying,

"Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken

up to-day for burning Cotter's house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says

that every magistrate in the country is a marked man."

Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance toward the windows, which opened

nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide, tree-besprinkled lawn,

through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There

was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through

close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route.

"Listen, James!" she said, after a pause, "what noise is that?"

"Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you

must not give way to imaginary fears."

"But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the

gable-end--I wish--"

A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson's confidential steward and

right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired, delicate-looking boy

of six years' old, dressed in deep mourning.

"Well, Gahan, what do you want?"

"I ask your honor's pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I

thought it right to come and tell you the bad news I heard."

"Something about the rebels, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; I got a whisper just now that there's going to be a great

rising entirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at

Kilcrean bog, where I'm told they've a power of pikes hiding; and then

they're to march on and sack every house in the country. I'll engage,

when I heard it, I didn't let grass grow under my feet, but came off

straight to your honor, thinking maybe you'd like to walk over this fine

evening to Mr. Warren's, and settle with him what's best to be done."

"Oh, James! I beseech you, don't think of going."

"Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don't intend it: not that I suppose

there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I'm just

as comfortable at home."

The steward's brow darkened, as he glanced nervously toward the end

window, which jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer

wall.

"Of course, 'tis just as your honor plases, but I'll warrant you there

would be no harm in going. Come, Billy," he added, addressing the child,

who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, "make your bow, and

bid good-night to master and mistress."

The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson taking his little hand in hers,

said,

"You need not go home for half-an-hour, Gahan; stay and have a chat with

the servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me--and with

the apples and nuts," she added, smiling as she filled the child's hands

with fruit.

"Thank you, ma'am," said the steward, hastily. "I can't stop--I'm in a

hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_

follow me. Come, Billy; come this minute, you young rogue."

Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson said, peremptorily,

"Don't go yet, Gahan: I want to speak to you by-and-by; and you know the

mistress always likes to pet little Billy."

Without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his

hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to

the offices.

"There's something strange about Gahan, since his wife died," remarked

Mrs. Hewson. "I suppose 'tis grief for her that makes him look so

darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor

little Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you."

The child's blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the

lady's side, he said,

"Old Peggy doesn't wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used."

"But your father is good to you?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, but he's out all day busy, and I've no one to talk to

me as mammy used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she's always busy

with the pigs and chickens."

"I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of and to teach, for your poor

mother's sake."

"And so you may, Charlotte," said her husband. "I'm sure Gahan, with all

his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be

for his child's benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy

would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. I'll speak to him

about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here," he

continued, "jump up on my knee, and tell me if you'd like to live here

always and learn to read and write."

"I would, sir, if I could be with father, too."

"So you shall; and what about old Peggy?"

The child paused.

"I like to give her a pen'north of snuff and a piece of tobacco every

week, for she said the other day that _that_ would make her quite

happy."

Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still seated on his knee;

when a noise of footsteps on the ground, mingled with low suppressed

talking, was heard outside.

"James, listen! there's the noise again."

It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still holding the boy in his

arms, walked toward the window and looked out.

"I can see nothing," he said; "stay, there are figures moving off among

the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house--very like

Gahan he is, too."

Seizing the bell-rope, he rang it loudly, and said to the servant who

answered his summons,

"Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, Connell; and then tell Gahan I

want to see him."

The man obeyed; candles were brought, and Gahan entered the room.

Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were

very white, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground.

"What took you round the house just now, Tim?" asked his master, in a

careless manner.

"What took me round the house, is it? Why, then, nothing in life, sir,

but that just as I went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw

the pigs, that Shaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for

the mistress's flower-garden; so I just put my _dudheen_, lighted as it

was, into my pocket, and ran after them. I caught them on the grand walk

under the end window, and, indeed, ma'am, I had my own share of work

turning them back to their proper spear."

Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but without raising his eyes from

the ground.

"Who were the people," asked his master, "whom I saw moving through the

western grove?"

"People! your honor--not a sign of any people moving there, I'll be

bound, barring the pigs."

"Then," said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his wife, "the miracle of Circe

must have been reversed, and swine turned into men; for, undoubtedly,

the dark figures I saw were human beings."

"Come, Billy," said Gahan, anxious to turn the conversation, "will you

come home with me now? I am sure 'twas very good of the mistress to give

you all them fine apples."

Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy's remaining, but her husband

whispered, "Wait till to-morrow." So Gahan and his child were allowed to

depart.

Next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and

several suspicious-looking men found lurking about, were taken up. A hat

which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr. Hewson's grove; the gravel

under the end window bore many signs of trampling feet; and there were

marks on the wall as if guns had rested against it. Gahan's information

touching the intended meeting at Kilerean bog proved to be totally

without foundation; and after a careful search, not a single pike or

weapon of any description could be found there. All these circumstances

combined certainly looked suspicious; but, after a prolonged

investigation, as no guilt could be actually brought home to Gahan, he

was dismissed. One of his examiners, however, said privately, "I advise

you take care of that fellow, Hewson. If I were in your place, I'd just

trust him as far as I could throw him, and not an inch beyond."

An indolent, hospitable Irish country gentleman, such as Mr. Hewson, is

never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who

saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and

manages every thing that is to be done in both the home and foreign

departments--from putting a new door on the pig-stye, to letting a farm

of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or rather these capacities,

Gahan had long served Mr. Hewson; and some seven years previous to the

evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and

increased his influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson's favorite

and faithful maid. One child was the result of this union; and Mrs.

Hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little

Billy--more especially after the death of his mother, who, poor thing!

the neighbors said, was not very happy, and would gladly, if she dared,

have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy service of her former

mistress.

Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson regarded Gahan with some

doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the steward regained his

former influence.

After the lapse of a few stormy months, the rebellion was quelled: all

the prisoners taken up were severally disposed of by hanging,

transportation, or acquittal, according to the nature and amount of the

evidence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it

is in the volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be.

The Hewsons' kindness toward Gahan's child was steady and unchanged.

They took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid

education; so that William, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some

use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his confidence.

* * * * *

Another evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this

narrative commenced, came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale and

active, dwelling in their hospitable home. About eight o'clock at night,

Tim Gahan, now a stooping, gray-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson's

kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle next the fire.

The cook, directing a silent, significant glance of compassion toward

her fellow-servants, said,

"Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup

of tay with myself and Kitty?"

The old man's eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was

planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling.

"I'll not drink any thing this night, thank you kindly, Nelly," he said,

in a slow, musing manner, dwelling long on each word.

"Where's Billy?" he asked, after a pause, in a quick, hurried tone,

looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes which,

as she afterward said, took away her breath.

"Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he's busy with the master."

"Where's the use, Nelly," said the coachman, "in hiding it from him?

Sure, sooner or later, he must know it. Tim," he continued, "God knows

'tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore--but the

truth is, that William has done what he oughtn't to do to the man that

was all one as a father to him."

"What has he done? what will you _dar_ say again my boy?"

"Taken money, then," replied the coachman, "that the master had marked

and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold

was missing. This morning 'twas gone; a search was made, and the marked

guineas were found with your son William."

The old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and

fro.

"Where is he now?" at length he asked, in a hoarse voice.

"Locked up safe in the inner store-room; the master intends sending him

to jail early to-morrow morning."

"He will not," said Gahan, slowly. "Kill the boy that saved his

life!--no, no."

"Poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind astray--and sure no wonder!"

said the cook, compassionately.

"I'm not astray!" cried the old man, fiercely. "Where's the

master?--take me to him."

"Come with me," said the butler, "and I'll ask him will he see you."

With faltering steps the father complied: and when they reached the

parlor, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for support,

while the butler opened the door, and said,

"Gahan is here, sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for

a minute."

"Tell him to come in," said Mr. Hewson, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very

different from his ordinary cheerful voice.

"Sir," said the steward, advancing, "they tell me you are going to send

my boy to prison--is it true?"

"Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my

wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness--whom we loved

almost as if he were our own, has _robbed_ us, and that not once or

twice, but many times. He is silent and sullen, too, and refuses to tell

why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he wanted

it. I can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to justice in

the morning."

"No, sir, no. The boy saved your life; you can't take his."

"You're raving, Gahan."

"Listen to me, sir, and you won't say so. You remember this, night

twenty years? I came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the

mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Well for us all you

did so! That night--little you thought it!--I was banded with them that

were sworn to take your life. They were watching you outside the window,

and I was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint

heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good

master to me; but I was under an oath to them that I darn't break,

supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God

was over you, and you wouldn't come with me. I ran out to them, and I

said, 'Boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the

window,' thinking they'd be afeard of that; but they weren't--they were

daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window,

took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee,

and I saw his fair head in a line with the musket. I don't know exactly

then what I said or did, but I remember I caught the man's band, threw

it up, and pointed to the child. Knowing I was a determined man. I

believe they didn't wish to provoke me; so they watched you for a while,

and when you didn't put him down, they got daunted, hearing the sound of

soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. Most

of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this

morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him

money--sums of money to buy his silence--and it was for that I made my

boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life. Often he went down on his

knees to me, and said, 'Father, I'd die myself sooner than rob my

master, but I can't see _you_ disgraced. Oh, let us fly the country!'

Now, sir, I have told you all--do what you like with me--send me to

jail, I deserve it, but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy!"

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson's feelings, but his wife's

first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few

incoherent words of explanation, she led him into the presence of his

master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said,

"William, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as I supposed. Your

father has told me every thing. I forgive him freely, and you also."

The young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more

bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he

followed his mother to the grave. He could say little, but he knelt on

the ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him

that mother's place, he murmured,

"Will _you_ tell him I would rather die than sin again?"

Old Gahan died two years afterward, truly penitent, invoking blessings

on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man's conduct, now no

longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his

adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in

William Gahan, they had indeed a son.

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

DIPLOMACY--LORD CHESTERFIELD.

The qualifications required for the diplomatic career, we need hardly

say, are many and various. To a perfect knowledge of history and the law

of nations should be united a knowledge of the privileges and duties of

diplomatic agents, an acquaintance with the conduct and management of

negotiations, the physical and moral statistics, the political,

military, and social history of the powers with which the embasssador's

nation comes into most frequent intercommunication. To this varied

knowledge, it is needless to state, the negotiator should join

moderation, dexterity, temper, and tact. An embassador should be a man

of learning and a man of the world; a man of books and a man of men, a

man of the drawing-room and a man of the counting-house; a _preux

chevalieur_, and a man of labor and of business. He should possess quick

faculties, active powers of observation, and that which military men

call the _coup d'oeil_. He should be of urbane, pleasant, and affable

manners; of cheerful temper, of good humor, and of good sense. He should

know when and where to yield, to retreat, or to advance; when to press

his suit strongly, or when merely gently to insinuate it indirectly,

and, as it were, by inuendo. He should know how to unbend and how to

uphold his dignity, or rather the dignity of his sovereign; for it his

business, in whatever quarter of the world he may be placed, to maintain

the rights and dignities of his sovereign with vigor and effect. It is

the union of these diverse, and yet not repugnant qualities, that gives

to an embassador _prestige_, ascendency, and power over the minds of

others, that acquires for him that reputation of wisdom,

straightforwardness, and sagacity, which is the rarest and most valuable

gift of a statesman. One part of the science of diplomacy may be, by

even a dull man, mastered without any wonderful difficulties. It is that

positive, fundamental, and juridical portion of the study which may be

found in books, in treatises; in the history of treaties and of wars; in

treatises on international law; in memoirs, letters, and negotiations of

embassadors; in historical and statistical works concerning the states

of Europe, the balance of power, and the science of politics generally.

But the abstract, hypothetical, and variable portions of the craft--or,

if you will, of the science--depending on ten thousand varying and

variable circumstances--depending on persons, passions, fancies, whims;

caprices royal, national, parliamentary, and personal, is above theory,

and beyond the reach of books; and can only be learned by experience, by

practice, and by the most perfect and intuitive tact. The traditional

political maxims, the character of the loading sovereigns, statesmen,

and public men in any given court, as well as the conduct of

negotiations, may be acquired by study, by observation, by a residence

as secretary, as _attache_; but who, unless a man of real genius for his

art--who, unless a man of real ability and talent, shall seize on, fix,

and turn to his purpose, the ever-mobile, the ever-varying phases of

courts, of camps, of councils, of senators, of parliaments, and of

public bodies? No doubt there are certain great cardinal and leading

principles with which the mind of every aspirant should be stored. But

the mere knowledge of principles, and of the history of the science can

never alone make a great embassador, any more than the reading of

treatises on the art of war can make a great commander.

An embassador at a first-rate court should, indeed, be the minister of

foreign affairs for his country on a small scale; and we know well

enough that the duties devolving on a minister for foreign affairs are

grave, are delicate, are all important.

The functions appertaining to the ministry for foreign affairs have been

in England during the last two years, and certainly also were from 1793

to 1815, the most important and the most difficult connected with the

public administration. A man to fill such a post properly, requires not

merely elevation and uprightness of character, but experience, tried

discretion, the highest capacity, the most extensive and varied

knowledge and accomplishments. Yet how few embassadors (we can scarcely

name one) have been in our day, or, indeed, for the last century,

elevated into Principal Secretaries of State for Foreign Affairs! Such

promotions in France have been matters of every-day occurrence since and

previous to 1792. Dumouriez, Talleyrand, Reinhard, Champagny, Maret,

Bignon, Montmorency, Chauteaubriand, Polignac, Sebastiani, De Broglie,

Guizot, Soult, had all been embassadors before they were elevated into

the higher, the more responsible, and the more onerous office. In

England, since the accession of George I., we can scarcely cite,

speaking off-hand, above four instances.

In 1716 there was Paul Methuen, who had been embassador to Portugal in

the reign of Queen Anne, named Secretary of State, for a short time, in

the absence of Earl Stanhope; there was Philip Dormer, earl of

Chesterfield, in 1746; there was John, duke of Bedford, who succeeded

Lord Chesterfield in 1748, and who had previously been embassador to

Paris; and there was Sir Thomas Robinson in 1754, who had been an

embassador to Vienna. In our own day there is scarcely an instance. For

though George Canning was embassador for a short time to Lisbon, and the

Marquis of Wellesley to Spain; though the Duke of Wellington was

embassador to Paris, was charged with a special mission to Russia, was

plenipotentiary at Verona, yet none of these noblemen and gentlemen ever

regularly belonged to the diplomatic corps. The most illustrious and

striking instance of an embassador raised into a Secretary of State is

the case of Philip Dormer Stanhope, earl of Chesterfield The character

of no man within a century and a half has been so misrepresented and

misunderstood. Lord John Russell, in the _Bedford Correspondence_, which

he edited, charges this nobleman with conducting the French nobility to

the guillotine and to emigration. But Lord Chesterfield died on the 24th

March, 1773, sixteen years before 1789, and nineteen years before 1792.

To any man of reading and research--to any man of a decent acquaintance

with literature, it is unnecessary now to vindicate the character of the

Earl of Chesterfield. He was unequaled in his time for the solidity and

variety of his attainments; for the brilliancy of his wit; for the

graces of his conversation, and the polish of his style. His embassy to

Holland marks his skill, his dexterity, and his address, as an able

negotiator; and his administration of Ireland indicates his integrity,

his vigilance, and his sound policy as a statesman and as a politician.

He was at once the most accomplished, the most learned, and the most

far-seeing of the men of his day; and in our own, these is not one

public man to compare with him. He foresaw and foretold, in 1756, that

French Revolution whose outbreak he did not live to witness. In 1744 he

was admitted into the cabinet, on his own terms, and was soon after

intrusted with a second embassy to Holland, in which his skill and

dexterity were universally admitted. He was not more remarkable for a

quick insight into the temper of others, than for a command of his own.

In history, in literature, in foreign languages, he was equally a

proficient. With classical literature he had been from his boyhood

familiar. He wrote Latin prose with correctness, ease, and purity; and

spoke that tongue with a fluency and facility of the rarest among

Englishmen, and not very common even among foreigners. In the House of

Lords his speeches were more admired and extolled than any others of the

day. Horace Walpole had heard his own father, had heard Pitt, had heard

Pulteney, had heard Wyndham, had heard Carteret; yet he in 1743

declared, as is recorded by Lord Mahon, that the finest speech he had

ever listened to was one from Chesterfield.

For the diplomatic career, Chesterfield prepared himself in a manner not

often practiced in his own, and never practiced by Englishmen in our

day. Not content, as an undergraduate of Cambridge, with assiduously

attending a course of lectures on civil law at Trinity Hall, he

applied--as the laws and customs of other countries, and the general

law of Europe, were not comprehended in that course--to Vitriarius, a

celebrated professor of the University of Leyden and, at the

recommendation of the professor, took into his house a gentleman

qualified to instruct him. Instead of pirouetting it in the _coulisses_

of the opera, or in the Redouten Saal of Vienna, instead of graduating

at the Jardin Mabille, or the Salle Ventadour, instead of breakfasting

at the Cafe Anglais, instead of dining at the Cafe de Paris, or

swallowing his ices, after the Italiens or Academie Royale, at

Tortoni's, instead of attending a _funcion_ or bull-fight at Madrid, or

spending his mornings and evenings at Jaegers's Unter den Linden at

Berlin, instead of swallowing Beaune for a bet against Russian Boyars at

Petersburgh or Moscow, at Andrieux's French Restaurant, or spending his

nights at the San Carlos at Naples, or the Scala at Milan, Chesterfield,

eschewing _prima donnas_, and the delights of French cookery, and the

charms of French vaudevilles, set himself down in the town, and in the

university in which Joseph Scaliger was a professor, and from whence

those famous Elzevir editions of classical works issued, to learn the

public law of Europe. These are the arts by which to attain the eminence

of a Walsingham and a Burghley, of a D'Ossat and a Jeannin, of a Temple

and a De Witt.

Qui cupit optatam cursu contingere metam,

Multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THOMAS MOORE.

How many associations rise to the mind at the name of MOORE! The

brilliant wit, the elegant scholar, the most charming poet of

_sentiment_ our literature possesses! His vivacity and versatility were

quite as remarkable as his fancy and command of melody. He has been

admitted, by rare judges of personal merit, to have been, with the

single exception of the late Chief Justice Bushe, the most attractive of

companions. An attempt has, in some quarters, we have heard, been made

to represent Moore as sacrificing to society talents meant for graver

pursuits than convivial enjoyments; and it has been insinuated that he

wanted that manly sternness of character, without which there can be no

personal dignity or political consistency. The facts of Moore's life

overthrow, of themselves, such insinuations. It would be difficult,

indeed, to point to any literary character who has, during the

vicissitudes of an eventful age, more honorably and steadfastly adhered

to the same standard of opinion--_qualis ab incepto_. His honorable

conduct, when compelled to pay several thousand pounds, incurred by the

error of his deputy at Bermuda (for whose acts he was _legally_

responsible), exhibits the manliness of his nature. He determined, by

honest labor, to pay off the vast demand upon him, even though it made

him a beggar! Several of the Whig party came forward and offered in a

manner most creditable to them, to effect a subscription for the

purpose of paying off the poet's debt. Foremost among them was a

delicate young nobleman, with sunken cheek and intellectual aspect, who,

while traveling for his health on the Continent, had met Moore, with

whom he journeyed for a considerable time, and from whom he parted with

an intense admiration of the poet's genius and manly character. The

young nobleman--then far from being a rich man--headed the list with

eleven hundred pounds. The fact deserves to be recorded to the honor of

that young nobleman, who, by slow and sure degrees, has risen to be

prime minister of England--Lord John Russell.

Of the fact of Moore's steadfastly refusing to accept the subscription

offered to be raised for him by his aristocratic Whig friends, there can

be no doubt whatever; and the matter is more creditable to him when the

fact is remembered that it was not he himself who committed the error by

which he was rendered liable to the judgment given against him. He might

also have sheltered himself under the example of Charles James Fox, who

consented to accept a provision made for him by the leaders of his

party. But Moore detested all eleemosynary aid. He speaks in one of his

most vigorous poems with contempt of that class of "_patriots_" (to what

vile uses can language be profaned!),

"Who hawk their country's wrongs as beggars do their sores."

While sojourning at Paris upon that occasion Moore received a very

remarkable offer. Barnes, the editor of the _Times_, became severely

ill, and was obliged to recruit his health by a year's rest, and the

editorship of the _Times_ was actually offered to Moore, who, in telling

the story to a brilliant living Irishman, said, "I had great difficulty

in refusing. The offer was so tempting--_to be the Times for a

twelvemonth!_" The offering him the editorship of "the daily miracle"

(as Mr. Justice Talfourd called it) might, however, have been only a

_ruse de guerre_ of his aristocratic and political friends to bring him

back to London, where, for a variety of reasons social and political,

his company was then very desirable.

There is a very interesting circumstance connected with the birth of

Moore, which deserves record. The fact of the birth, as every one knows,

took place at Aungier-street, and its occasion was at a moment

singularly appropriate for the lyric poet being ushered into the world.

Jerry Keller, the wit and humorist, rented apartments in the house of

Moore's brother, in Aungier-street, and had a dinner-party on the very

day of the poet's birth. Just as the guests were assembled, and the

dinner on the table, it was announced to them that Mrs. Moore's

_accouchement_ had taken place, and that she was in a precarious state,

the physicians particularly enjoining that no noise should be made in

the house: a difficult matter, when Keller, Lysaght, and other convivial

spirits were assembled. What was to be done? One of the company, who

lodged near him, solved the difficulty by proposing that the feast

should be adjourned to his house close by, and that the viands and wine

should be transferred thither. "Ay!" cried Jerry Keller, "be it so; let

us adjourn _pro re nata."_ Thus, in the hour of feasting, just as Keller

dropped one of his best witticisms, was Moore's birth registered by a

classic pun.

Moore had few friends whom he loved more than Mr. Corry, and he has left

upon record an exquisite proof of his friendship in the following lines,

which are very affecting to read at the present time.

On one occasion, Moore and Corry were ordered, by medical advice, to

drink port wine, while they were sojourning for their health at

Brighton. The _idem velle atque idem nolle_ was perfectly applicable to

their friendship, and they detested port wine with perfect antipathy.

However, they were under advice which required obedience. Moore got the

port-wine from his wine-merchant, Ewart; but in traveling from London it

had been shaken about so much, and was so muddy, that it required a

strainer. Mr. Corry bought a very handsome wine-strainer, prettily

ornamented with Bacchanalian emblems, and presented it, with a friendly

inscription, to Moore, who wrote in reply, the following lines, never,

we believe, before printed:

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.,

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE-STRAINER.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt,

Resembles much friend Ewart's wine--

When first the rosy drops come out,

How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus, a while they keep their tint

So free from even a shade with some,

That they would smile, did you but hint,

That darker drops would ever come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,

Each moment makes the sad truth plainer--

Till life, like old and crusty port,

When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friendship can alone confer,

Alone can teach the drops to pass--

If not as bright as once they were,

At least unclouded through the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine,

Of which my heart were fonder, vainer,

Than thus, if life grew like old wine,

To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer!

THOMAS MOORE.

Brighton, June, 1825.

[From Household Words.]

THE APPETITE FOR NEWS.

The last great work of that great philosopher and friend of the modern

housewife, Monsieur Alexis Soyer, is remarkable for a curious omission.

Although the author--a foreigner--has abundantly proved his extensive

knowledge of the weakness of his adopted nation; yet there is one of our

peculiarities which he has not probed. Had he left out all mention of

cold punch in connection with turtle; had his receipt for curry

contained no cayenne; had he forgotten to send up tongues with

asparagus, or to order a service of artichokes without napkins, he would

have been thought forgetful; but when--with the unction of a gastronome,

and the thoughtful skill of an artist--he marshals forth all the

luxuries of the British breakfast-table, and forgets to mention its

first necessity, he shows a sort of ignorance. We put it to his already

extensive knowledge of English character, whether he thinks it possible

for any English subject whose means bring him under the screw of the

income-tax, to break his fast without--a newspaper.

The city clerk emerging through folding doors from bed to sitting-room,

though thirsting for tea, and hungering for toast, darts upon that

morning's journal with an eagerness, and unfolds it with a satisfaction,

which show that all his wants are gratified at once. Exactly at the same

hour, his master, the M.P., crosses the hall of his mansion. As he

enters the breakfast parlor, he fixes his eye on the fender, where he

knows his favorite damp sheet will be hung up to dry. When the noble

lord first rings his bell, does not his valet know that, however tardy

the still-room-maid may be with the early coffee, he dares not appear

before his lordship without the "Morning Post?" Would the minister of

state presume to commence the day in town till he has opened the

"Times," or in the country till he has perused the "Globe?" Could the

oppressed farmer handle the massive spoon for his first sip out of his

Sevres cup till he has read of ruin in the "Herald" or "Standard?" Might

the juvenile Conservative open his lips to imbibe old English fare or to

utter Young England opinions, till he has glanced over the "Chronicle?"

Can the financial reformer know breakfast-table happiness till he has

digested the "Daily News," or skimmed the "Express?" And how would it be

possible for mine host to commence the day without keeping his customers

waiting till he has perused the "Advertiser" or the "Sun?"

In like manner the provinces can not--once a week at least--satisfy

their digestive organs till their local organ has satisfied their minds.

Else, what became of the 67,476,768 newspaper stamps which were issued

in 1848 (the latest year of which a return has been made) to the 150

London and the 238 provincial English journals: of the 7,497,064 stamps

impressed on the corners of the 97 Scottish, and of the 7,028,956 which

adorned the 117 Irish newspapers? A professor of the new science of

literary mensuration has applied his foot-rule to this mass of print,

and publishes the result in "Bentley's Miscellany." According to him,

the press sent forth, in daily papers alone, a printed surface amounting

in twelve months to 349,308,000 superficial feet. If to these are added

all the papers printed weekly and fortnightly in London and the

provinces the whole amounts to 1,446,150,000 square feet of printed

surface, which was, in 1849, placed before the comprehensive vision of

John Bull. The area of a single morning paper--the Times say--is more

than nineteen and a half square feet, or nearly five feet by four,

compared with an ordinary octavo volume, the quantity of matter daily

issued is equal to three hundred pages. There are four morning papers

whose superficies are nearly as great, without supplements, which they

seldom publish. A fifth is only half the size. We may reckon, therefore,

that the constant craving of Londoners for news is supplied every

morning with as much as would fill about twelve hundred pages of an

ordinary novel; or not less than five volumes.