CHAPTER VIII.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

_Of Literature, Art, and Science._

Vol. III. NEW-YORK, JULY 1, 1851. No. IV.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

[Illustration]

The author of _Fanny_, _Burns_, _Marco Bozzaris_, etc., was born at

Guilford in Connecticut, in August, 1795, and in his eighteenth year

removed to the city of New-York. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote

verses at a very early period; but the oldest of his effusions I have

seen are those under the signatures of "Croaker," and "Croaker & Co.,"

published in the _New-York Evening Post_, in 1819. In the production of

these pleasant satires he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, author of

the _Culprit Fay_, a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom

he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after

wrote for the _New-York Review_, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his

memory, beginning--

"Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days,

None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise."

Near the close of 1819, Halleck published Fanny, his longest poem, which

was written and printed in three weeks; in 1827 a small volume,

containing Alnwick Castle, Marco Bozzaris, and a few other pieces, which

had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition

of all his serious and more finished compositions. The last and most

complete edition of his works appeared two years ago in a splendid

volume from the press of the Appletons.

It was Lord Byron's opinion that a poet is always to be ranked according

to his execution, and not according to his branch of the art. "The poet

who executes best," said he, "is the highest, whatever his department,

and will ever be so rated in the world's esteem." We have no doubt of

the justness of that remark; it is the only principle from which sound

criticism can proceed, and upon this basis the reputations of the past

have been made up. Considered in this light, Mr. Halleck must be

pronounced not merely one of the chief ornaments of new literature, but

one of the great masters in a language, classical and immortal, for the

productions of genius which have illustrated and enlarged its

capacities. There is in his compositions an essential pervading grace, a

natural brilliancy of wit, a freedom yet refinement of sentiment, a

sparkling flow of fancy, and a power of personification, combined with

such high and careful finish, and such exquisite nicety of taste, that

the larger part of them must be pronounced models almost faultless in

the classes to which they belong. They appear to me to show a genuine

insight into the principles of art, and a fine use of its resources: and

after all that has been said and written about nature, strength, and

originality, the true secret of fame, the real magic of genius is not

force, not passion, not novelty, but art. Look all through Milton; look

at the best passages of Shakspeare; look at the monuments, "all Greek

and glorious," which have come down to us from ancient times, what

strikes us principally, and it might almost be said only, is the

wonderfully artificial character of the composition; it is the principle

of _their_ immortality, and without it no poem can be long-lived. It may

be easy to acquire popularity, and easy to display art in writing, but

he who obtains popularity by the means and employment of careful,

elaborate art, may be confident that his reputation is fixed upon a sure

basis. This--for his careless playing with the muse, by which one time

he kept the town alive, is scarcely remembered now--this, it seems to

me, Mr. Halleck has done; Mr. Halleck, Mr. Bryant, and Mr. Poe, have

done above all our authors.

THE BENEVOLENT INSTITUTIONS OF NEW-YORK.

No city in the world is more justly entitled to consideration for

active, judicious, and liberal benevolence, than New-York, though it

must be confessed that in some respects others may make a more splendid

display of the machinery of philanthropy, and even seem in the

subscriptions made every year to particular charities to be more

liberal. This is easily explained, by the fact that, while the people of

New-York are behind none in thrift and virtue, the great commercial

capital has nevertheless more than twice as much pauperism and crime,

from emigration and importation, as any other city in the world.

Foreigners who come here of their own will, foreigners who pay their own

passages to our country, are always welcome; but those who are banished

from their native places for crime, or deported for idleness,

imbecility, or any cause that renders them a burthen to the public,

should be shut out from our ports by some more efficient means than have

yet been devised for the purpose. This class alone demands of the

organized and individual benevolence of New-York a larger amount of

money every year than is paid for the relief of human wretchedness in

any other city.

The benevolent institutions of New-York are remarkable for their number,

so that in no department does an establishment indicate the attention

given to the particular necessities to which it is devoted; and not only

do the Quakers and the Jews, as in other places, take care of their own

poor, but almost every church, no matter of what denomination, is here a

well organized society for the relief of the unfortunate among its

members, and to a degree, within the sphere of its influence. Where

wealth has been acquired by its possessor, there is apt to be a generous

consideration for the less fortunate, and no city had ever so many of

the philanthropic merchants, of whom the late Samuel Ward was a type,

who are as judicious as they are liberal in shielding the oppressed,

strengthening the weak, and guiding the unwary, in pointing out ways and

furnishing means to the young who seem born to the inheritance of

degradation, and in saving others from sufferings caused by improvidence

or inevitable misfortune.

We propose no account of the humane societies of New-York, but only a

brief mention of some few of those whose edifices are most likely to

arrest the attention of strangers, as from several directions they

approach the city.

The Institution for the Blind is in the square bounded by Eighth and

Ninth Avenues and by Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, and is

built of marble. The society was founded by Mr. Samuel Wood, aided

largely by Dr. Samuel Ackerley, and was incorporated in 1831. In the

spring of the following year the managers reported that they had made

arrangements for instructing two or three blind children, "by way of

experiment," and from that period the increase of its action and

resources has been constant. Pupils are received for one hundred and

thirty dollars a year, and the State has made provision for the

maintenance at the institution of one hundred and twenty-eight indigent

blind persons, so that it is always nearly full. The system of

instruction includes the common English studies, with philosophy and the

higher mathematics, mechanics, vocal and instrumental music, and, when

desired, such trades as the blind can advantageously practise. The

library contains more than seven hundred volumes in raised letters,

besides a considerable collection printed in ink. The occasional

exhibitions of the pupils have excited much attention, and the

institution may be regarded as altogether one of the most successful of

its kind in the world.

[Illustration: THE INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND.]

In 1797 the celebrated Isabella Graham founded the Society for the

Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children, and in the spring of 1806,

Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, the widow of the great statesman, and Mrs.

Bethune, a daughter of Mrs. Graham and the mother of the Rev. Dr.

Bethune, with several associates, established, as a branch of that

institution, the Orphan Asylum of the City of New-York, which was

incorporated in 1807. Its first edifice was in Bank-street, but the

enlargement of its activity and resources in 1836 led to the purchase of

the ample and beautiful grounds near Eightieth-street, five miles from

the City Hall, from which the edifice described in the engraving looks

down on the Hudson, and forms one of the most picturesque views which

greet the traveller who approaches the city by the river from the north.

The eminent women whom we have mentioned continue, after nearly half a

century, to be active in its management.

[Illustration: THE ORPHAN ASYLUM.]

There is also a Protestant Half-Orphan Asylum in Sixth Avenue, a Roman

Catholic Orphan Asylum, conducted by Sisters of Charity, in Mott-street,

a Roman Catholic Half-Orphan Asylum in Eleventh-street, a very large

Colored Orphan Asylum in Twelfth-street, and several other

establishments of the same description, supported by public or private

charity, in different parts of the city. New-York is second only to

Philadelphia in the liberality of its provision for orphan children: the

college founded by Stephen Girard places the latter city in this respect

before any other in the world.

[Illustration: NEW-YORK INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB.]

The Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb was

incorporated in 1817, the first pupils were received in the following

year, and in 1827 the foundation was laid for the edifice now occupied

by the institution in Fiftieth street, near Fourth Avenue. Since 1831,

the President, Harvey P. Peet, LL.D. has had the chief direction of its

affairs, and its income, the number of its inmates, and its good

reputation, have rapidly increased.

The New-York Hospital in Broadway, the Bloomingdale Asylum for the

Insane, the Marine Hospital, the Seamen's Retreat, the Sailors' Snug

Harbor, and the numerous establishments (several of which have large and

splendid edifices) under the control of the municipal authorities, we

may describe at length hereafter. The illustrations of this article

evince the liberal style as well as the extent of the institutions which

the position of New-York has rendered it necessary for her citizens to

establish and support.

[Illustration: LUNATIC ASYLUM, BLACKWELL'S ISLAND.]

ADVENTURES AND OBSERVATIONS IN NICARAGUA.

We have already announced in these pages that Mr. SQUIER, who was lately

representative of the United States in Nicaragua, had in preparation for

the press an account of his residence in that interesting country, and

expressed an opinion that his work would surpass in interest and value

the entire library of English and French publications on the subject. An

examination of some of the sheets justifies our expectations; Mr. Squier

must hereafter be ranked among the most successful travel-writers as

well as antiquaries of the time; he knows what to observe and how to

observe, and his relations with the Nicaraguans were such that no

traveller had ever better opportunities for the acquisition of facts or

the formation of judgments. His work will soon be published in a

profusely illustrated octavo by Mr. Putnam. A pleasant specimen of the

author's style is afforded by the following sketch of an evening ride on

the banks of the lake of Granada, and of the signoras of that

metropolis.

"After a pleasant interview of half an hour we bade Don Jose "_buena

tarde_," and galloped down to the shores of the lake, just as the sun

was setting, throwing the whole beach in the shade, while the fairy

"Corales" were swimming in the evening light. The shore was ten-fold

more animated than when we landed the day previously; men on horseback,

women on foot, sailors, fishermen, idlers, children, and a swarm of

water-carriers, mingling together, gave life to the scene; while boats

and graceful canoes drawn up on the beach, barges rocking at their

anchors outside, the grim old fort frowning above, and the green border

of trees, with bars of sunlight streaming between them, all contributed

to heighten and give effect to the picture. We rode up the glacis of the

old castle, through its broken archway, into its elevated area, and

looked out beyond the broad and beautiful lake, upon the distant shores

of Chontales, with its earthquake-river, hills, and rugged volcanic

craters. Their rough features were brought out sharply and distinctly in

the slanting light which gilded the western slope of the gigantic

volcano of Momobacho, while its eastern declivity slept in purple

shadow. We were absorbed in contemplating, one by one, these varied

beauties, when the bells of the city struck the hour of the "oracion."

In an instant every voice was hushed, the horseman reined in his steed,

the rope dropped from the hands of the sailor, the sentinel on the fort

stopped short in his round; even the water-jar was left half filled,

every head was uncovered, and every lip moved in prayer. The merry waves

seemed to break more gently on the shore in harmony with the vibrations

of the distant bells, while the subdued hum of reverential voices filled

the pauses between. There was something almost magical in this sudden

hush of the multitude, and its apparent entire absorption in its

devotions, which could not fail deeply to impress the stranger

witnessing it for the first time.

"No sooner, however, had the bells ceased to toll and struck up the

concluding joyful chime, than the crowd on the shore resumed its life

and gayety, while we put spurs to our horses and darted through their

midst on our return to the city. The commandant and his companions would

only leave me at my door, where we were saluted by our host with, "Saved

your distance, gentlemen, dinner's ready!"

"An evening visit to the Senorita Teresa, finished our first entire day

in Granada. This young lady had been educated in the United States,

spoke English very well, and was withal a proficient in

music--accomplishments which we never before learned to estimate at

their true value. It was worth something to hear well executed passages

from familiar operas, amidst tangible and not painted orange trees and

palms, and in an atmosphere really loaded with tropical perfumes,

instead of the odors of oil-pots and gas lights. Eight o'clock was the

signal for general withdrawal from the streets, for then commenced the

reign of the military police, and the city became at once still and

quiet. The occasional barking of a dog, the tinkling of a distant

guitar, the soughing of the evening wind amongst the trees of the

courtyard, the measured tread and graduated "alertas!" of the sentinels,

were the only interruptions to the almost sepulchral silence. While

returning to our quarters we were startled by the "Quien vive?" of the

sentinel, uttered in a tone absolutely ferocious, and as these fellows

rarely parleyed long, we answered with all expedition, "La Patria,"

which was followed on the instant by "Que gente?" "Americanos del

Norte." This was enough--these we found were magic words which opened

every heart and every door in all Nicaragua. They never failed us. We

felt proud to know that no such charm was attached to "Ingleses,"

"Alemanes", or "Franceses."

"The day following, in accordance with the "costumbres del pais," the

customs of the country, we returned the visits of the preceding day, and

began to see more of the domestic and social life of the citizens of

Granada. We found all of the residences comfortable, and many elegant,

governed by mistresses simple, but graceful and confiding in their

manners. They were frank in their conversation and inquired with the

utmost _naivete_ whether I was married or intended to be, and if the

ladies of El Norte would probably visit Granada, when the "Vapores

grandes," the great steamers came to run to San Juan, and the

"Vaporcitas" steameretts, to ply on the lake and river. They had heard

of a Mr. Estevens (their nearest approach to Stephens), who had written

a book about their "pobre pais," their poor country, and were anxious to

know what he had said of them, and whether our people really regarded

them as "esclavos y brutes sin verguenza," slaves and brutes without

shame, as the abominable English (los malditos Ingleses) had represented

them. They were also very anxious to know whether the party of

Californians which had passed through, were "gente commun," common

people, or "caballeros," gentlemen, upon which point, however, we were

diplomatically evasive, for there was more in the inquiry than we chose

to notice. Our lady had heard that I was a great antiquarian, and,

anticipatory to my visit, had got together a most incongruous collection

of curiosities, from "vasos antiguos," fragments of pottery, and stone

hatchets, down to an extraordinary pair of horn spectacles and a

preposterously distorted hog's hoof,--all of which she insisted on

sending to my quarters, which she did, with some rare birds, and a

plate of dulces! At every house we found a table spread with wines and

sweetmeats, and bearing a silver brazier filled with burning coals, for

the greater convenience of lighting cigars. I excited much surprise by

declining to smoke, on the ground that I had never done so; but the

ladies insisted on my taking a "cigarita," which they said wouldn't

injure a new-born babe, and paid me the compliment of lighting it with

their own fair lips, after which it would have been rank treason to

etiquette, and would have ruined my reputation for gallantry, had I

refused. I at first endeavored to shirk the responsibility of smoking by

thrusting them into my vest pocket, but found that as soon as one

disappeared, another was presented, so I was obliged "to face the music"

in the end. In every sala we found a large hammock suspended from the

walls, which was invariably tendered to the visitor, even when there

were easy chairs and sofas in the room. This is the seat of honor.

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF THE UNITED STATES CHARGE D'AFFAIRES, SAN

JUAN DE NICARAGUA.]

"The women of pure Spanish stock are very fair, and have the

_embonpoint_ which characterizes the sex under the tropics. Their dress,

except in a few instances where the stiff costume of our own country had

been adopted, was exceedingly loose and flowing, leaving the neck and

arms exposed. The entire dress was often pure white, but generally the

skirt, or _nagua_, was of some flowered stuff, in which case the

_guipil_ (_anglice_ vandyke) was white, heavily trimmed with lace. Satin

slippers, a red or purple sash wound loosely round the waist, and a

rosary sustaining a little golden cross, with a narrow golden band, or a

string of pearls extending around the forehead and binding the hair,

which often fell in luxuriant waves upon their shoulders, completed a

costume as novel as it was graceful and picturesque. To all this add the

superior attractions of an oval face, regular features, large and

lustrous black eyes, small mouth, pearly white teeth, and tiny hands and

feet, and withal a low but clear voice, and the reader has a picture of

a Central American lady of pure stock. A large number of the women have,

however, an infusion of other families and races, from the Saracen to

the Indian and the Negro, in every degree of intermixture. And as tastes

differ, so may opinions as to whether the tinge of brown, through which

the blood glows with a peach-like bloom, in the complexion of the girl

who may trace her lineage to the Caziques upon one side, and the haughty

grandees of Andalusia and Seville on the other, superadded, as it

usually is, to a greater lightness of figure and animation of

face,--whether this is not a more real beauty than that of the fair and

more languid Senora, whose white and almost transparent skin bespeaks a

purer ancestry. Nor is the Indian girl, with her full, lithe figure,

long, glossy hair, quick and mischievous eyes, who walks erect as a

grenadier beneath her heavy water-jar, and salutes you in a musical,

impudent voice, as you pass--nor is the Indian girl to be overlooked in

the novel contrasts which the "bello sexo" affords in this glorious land

of the sun."

Some of the pleasantest incidents related in the book are those which

befell the author in his dealings with the Indians, in prosecuting his

archaeological investigations. These Indians are all passionate admirers

of the United States, and of the "hijos de Washington"--the sons of

Washington. Mr. Squier was waited upon officially by the authorities of

several of the Indian pueblos or towns, and among them by the

municipality of the Indian pueblo of Subtiaba, headed by a great friend

of our author, Don Simon Roque, first alcalde, who presented him with an

address in the aboriginal language, of which the following is a literal

translation:

"SIR: The municipality of the Pueblo of Subtiaba, of which

we are members, entertain the highest enthusiasm in view of

the relations which your arrival induces us to believe will

speedily be established between Nicaragua and the United

States, the greatest and most glorious republic beneath the

sun. We rejoice in the depths of our hearts that a man like

yourself has been chosen to convey to us the assurances of

future prosperity, in the name of the sons of Washington;

and we trust in the Almighty, that the flag of the United

States may soon become the shield of Nicaragua on land and

sea. Convey our sincerest thanks for their sympathy to the

great people which you represent, and give to your generous

government the assurances of that deep gratitude which we

feel but cannot express. We beg of you, sir, to accept this

humble evidence of the cordial sentiments which we entertain

both for you, your countrymen, and your Government, and

which are equally shared by the people which we represent

JOSE DE LA CRUZ GARCIAS,

(Signed) SIMON ROQUE,

FRANCISCO LUIS AUTAN."

Our author returned the visit, and gives us the following account of his

reception:

"The reader may be assured that I did not forget my promise

to the municipality of Subtiaba. A day was shortly

afterwards fixed for my visit, and I was received with great

ceremony at the cabildo or council chamber, where I found

collected all the old men who could assist me in forming a

vocabulary of the ancient language, which I had casually

expressed a desire to procure. It was with difficulty that

we could effect an entrance, for a half-holiday had been

given to the boys of all the schools, in honor of the

occasion, and they literally swarmed around the building. We

were finally ushered into an inner room, where the archives

of the municipality were preserved. Upon one side was a

large chest of heavy wood, with massive locks, which had

anciently been the strong box or treasury. A shadow fell

over Simon's animated face as he pointed it out to me, and

said that he could remember the time when it was filled with

"duros," hard dollars, and when, at a single stroke of the

alarm bell, two thousand armed men could be gathered in the

plaza of Subtiaba. But those days were passed, and the

municipality now scarcely retained a shadow of its former

greatness. Under the crown it had earned the title 'leal y

fiel' (loyal and true), and in reward of its fidelity it had

received a grant of all the lands intervening between it and

the ocean, to hold them in perpetuity for the benefit of its

citizens. And Simon showed me the royal letters, signed "Yo,

el Rey" (I, the King), which the imperial emperor had

thought it not derogatory to their dignity to address to his

predecessors in office, and notwithstanding his ardent

republicanism, I thought Simon looked at them with something

of regret. I inquired for manuscripts which might throw some

light upon the early history of the country, but found only

musty records of no interest or value.

[Illustration: INDIAN HOUSE, SUBTIABA, NICARAGUA.]

"My attempts to fill out the blank vocabulary with which I

was provided created a great deal of merriment. I enjoyed it

quite as much as any of them, for nothing could be more

amusing than the discussions between the old men in respect

to certain doubtful words and phrases. They sometimes quite

forgot my presence, and rated each other soundly as

ignoramuses, whereat Simon was greatly scandalized, and

threatened to put them all in the stocks as "hombres sin

verguenza" (men destitute of shame). 'Ah!' said he, 'these

old sinners give me more trouble than the young ones'--a

remark which created great mirth amongst the outsiders, and

especially amongst the young vagabonds who clung like

monkeys to the window bars. The group of swarthy, earnest

faces, gathered round the little table, upon which was

heaped a confused mass of ancient, time-stained papers,

would have furnished a study for a painter. It was quite

dark when I had concluded my inquiries, but I was not

permitted to leave without listening to a little poem, 'Una

Decima,' written by one of the school-masters, who read it

to me by the light of a huge wax candle, borrowed, I am

sure, from the church for the occasion. My modesty forbids

my attempting a translation, and so I compromise matters by

submitting the original:

DECIMA.

Nicaragua, ve harta cuando

Cesara vuestro desvelo,

Ya levantara el vuelo

Hermoso, alegre, y triunfante;

Al mismo tiempo mirando

De este personage el porte,

Y mas sera cuando corte

Todos los gradeciamentos:

Diremos todos contentos

Viva el Gobierno del Norte.

D. S.

"As I mounted my horse, Don Simon led off with three cheers for 'El

Ministro del Norte,' and followed it with three more for 'El Amigo de

los Indios' (the friend of the Indians), all of which was afterwards

paraded by a dingy little Anglo-servile paper published in Costa Rica,

as evidence that I was tampering with the Indians, and exciting them to

undertake the utter destruction of the white population!"

THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC.

_A History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Wars of the North

American Tribes against the English Colonies after the Conquest of

Canada_, is the title of a new work to be published during the summer by

Francis Parkman, Jr. of Boston. Mr. Parkman, in introducing himself to

the public two or three years since, by a volume of sketches of western

travel, _The Oregon Trail_, betrayed not alone his strong natural fancy

for the wild life of the Indian, but a sensitive and sagacious eye for

character and scenery, and a style of nervous simplicity which in the

present undertaking have more perfect play in a much wider and worthier

sphere. The narrative proceeds clearly, and with simple grace. Many

figures, familiar by name, but by name only, pass sharply defined before

the reader's eye. The author has not lost in the lore of the historian

the feeling of the poet, but he does not compromise the dignity of

history, nor mistake its purpose, by indulging too much in luxuriance of

picturesque description. We congratulate Mr. Parkman that his tastes

have led him to the exploration of a subject in which we are all so

interested, a subject whose historical romance has never been before

attempted. The consultation of all the authorities, personal

observation, and the want of any unfair gilding of events or character,

fix the reader's faith in the severe integrity and justice of the

author's results. This history will materially mitigate the complaint

that American literature has so little honored the singular charm of the

aboriginal American race, and we cannot hesitate to predict for it a

position of authority to the student and of honor to the author, which

the works of few men so young in the literary career have attained.

Little estimate of its value, or of the value of any history, can be

formed from extracts, but the following will indicate the freshness and

poetic simplicity of the style, the author's exact eye for

characteristic life and scenery, and just appreciation of historical

truth and character.

Here is a glance at the life of the Iroquois:

"The life of the Iroquois, though void of those multiplying

phases which vary the routine of civilized existence, was

one of sharp excitement and sudden contrast. The chase, the

war-path, the dance, the festival, the game of hazard, the

race of political ambition, all had their votaries. When the

assembled sachems had resolved on war against some foreign

tribe, and when, from their great council-house of bark, in

the Valley of Onondaga, their messengers had gone forth to

invite the warriors to arms, then from east to west, through

the farthest bounds of the confederacy, a thousand warlike

hearts caught up the summons with glad alacrity. With

fasting and praying, and consulting dreams and omens, with

invoking the war-god, and dancing the frantic war-dance, the

warriors sought to insure the triumph of their arms; and,

these strange rites concluded, they began their stealthy

progress, full of confidence, through the devious pathways

of the forest. For days and weeks, in anxious expectation,

the villagers await the result. And now, as evening closes,

a shrill wild cry, pealing from afar, over the darkening

forest, proclaims the return of the victorious warriors. The

village is alive with sudden commotion; and snatching sticks

and stones, knives and hatchets, men, women, and children,

yelling like fiends let loose, swarm out of the narrow

portal, to visit upon the miserable captives a foretaste of

the deadlier torments in store for them. And now, the black

arches of the forest glow with the fires of death; and with

brandished torch and firebrand the frenzied multitude close

around their victim. The pen shrinks to write, the heart

sickens to conceive, the fierceness of his agony; yet still,

amid the din of his tormentors, rises his clear voice of

scorn and defiance. The work is done; the blackened trunk is

flung to the dogs, and, with clamorous shouts and hootings,

the murderers seek to drive away the spirit of their victim.

"The Iroquois reckoned these barbarities among their most

exquisite enjoyments; and yet they had other sources of

pleasure, which made up in frequency and in innocence all

that they lacked in intensity. Each passing season had its

feasts and dances, often mingling religion with social

pastime. The young had their frolics and merry-makings; and

the old had their no less frequent councils, where

conversation and laughter alternated with grave

deliberations for the public weal. There were also stated

periods marked by the recurrence of momentous ceremonies, in

which the whole community took part--the mystic sacrifice of

the dogs, the wild orgies of the dream feast, and the

loathsome festival of the exhumation of the dead. Yet, in

the intervals of war and hunting, these multiform

occupations would often fail; and, while the women were

toiling in the cornfields, the lazy warriors vainly sought

relief from the scanty resources of their own minds, and

beguiled the hours with smoking or sleeping, with gambling

or gallantry."

A glimpse of Indian winter life:

"But when winter descends upon the north, sealing up the

fountains, fettering the streams, and turning the

green-robed forests to shivering nakedness, then, bearing

their frail dwellings on their backs, the Ojibwa family

wander forth into the wilderness, cheered only, on their

dreary track, by the whistling of the north wind, and the

hungry howl of wolves. By the banks of some frozen stream,

women and children, men and dogs, lie crouched together

around the fire. They spread their benumbed fingers over the

embers, while the wind shrieks through the fir-trees like

the gale through the rigging of a frigate, and the narrow

concave of the wigwam sparkles with the frostwork of their

congealed breath. In vain they beat the magic drum, and call

upon their guardian manitoes;--the wary moose keeps aloof,

the bear lies close in his hollow tree, and famine stares

them in the face. And now the hunter can fight no more

against the nipping cold and blinding sleet. Stiff and

stark, with haggard cheek and shrivelled lip, he lies among

the snow drifts; till, with tooth and claw, the famished

wildcat strives in vain to pierce the frigid marble of his

limbs. Such grim schooling is thrown away on the

incorrigible mind of the northern Algonquin. He lives in

misery, as his fathers lived before him. Still, in the brief

hour of plenty he forgets the season of want; and still the

sleet and the snow descend upon his houseless head."

Here another leaf from Penn's laurels:

"It required no great benevolence to urge the Quakers to

deal kindly with their savage neighbors. They were bound in

common sense to propitiate them; since, by incurring their

resentment, they would involve themselves in the dilemma of

submitting their necks to the tomahawk, or wielding the

carnal weapon, in glaring defiance of their pacific

principles. In paying the Indians for the lands which his

colonists occupied,--a piece of justice which has been

greeted with a general clamor of applause,--Penn, as he

himself confesses, acted on the prudent counsel of Compton,

Bishop of London. Nor is there any truth in the

representations of Raynal and other eulogists of the Quaker

legislator, who hold him up to the world as the only

European who ever acquired the Indian lands by purchase,

instead of seizing them by fraud or violence. The example of

purchase had been set fifty years before by the Puritans of

New England; and several of the other colonies had more

recently pursued the same just and prudent course."

The deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm:

"In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of

the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist;

but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed

no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side.

Still he pressed forward, waving his sword, and cheering his

soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within

his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side,

fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers,

Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a

private soldier raised him together in their arms, and,

bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They

asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and

answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with

the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained

his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their gaze

from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of

their companions rushing through fire and smoke." "See how

they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled

in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?"

demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from

sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way every

where." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton

to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off

their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will

die in peace," he murmured; and, turning on his side, he

calmly breathed his last!

"Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary,

Montcalm, as he strove, with useless bravery, to rally his

shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was

placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on

the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he

could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He

then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he

had not many hours remaining. "So much the better," he said;

"I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of

Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to his bedside to

ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more

orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business

that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined

garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short;

therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none

remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of

Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own

mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for

the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before

midnight, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of

the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell."

We conclude with a sketch of Pontiac:

"Pontiac, as already mentioned, was principal chief of the

Ottawas. The Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies, had long

been united in a loose kind of confederacy, of which he was

the virtual head. Over those around him his authority was

almost despotic, and his power extended far beyond the

limits of the three united tribes. His influence was great

among all the nations of the Illinois country; while, from

the sources of the Ohio to those of the Mississippi, and,

indeed, to the farthest boundaries of the wide-spread

Algonquin race, his name was known and respected. The fact

that Pontiac was born the son of a chief would in no degree

account for the extent of his power; for, among Indians,

many a chief's son sinks back into insignificance, while the

offspring of a common warrior may succeed to his place.

Among all the wild tribes of the continent, personal merit

is indispensable to gaining or preserving dignity. Courage,

resolution, wisdom, address and eloquence, are sure

passports to distinction. With all these Pontiac was

preeminently endowed, and it was chiefly to them, urged to

their highest activity by a vehement ambition, that he owed

his greatness. His intellect was strong and capacious. He

possessed commanding energy and force of mind, and in

subtlety and craft could match the best of his wily race.

But, though capable of acts of lofty magnanimity, he was a

thorough savage, with a wider range of intellect than those

around him, but sharing all their passions and prejudices,

their fierceness and treachery."

DR. STARBUCK MAYO, AUTHOR OF "KALOOLAH," "THE BERBER," &c.

[Illustration]

If there is any satisfaction derivable from a long and clear lineage,

the author of _Kaloolah_ ought to be a very happy man. Seven successive

generations of reputable ancestry connect him with the Rev. John Mayo, a

divine of distinguished piety and learning who in the year 1630 came to

this country, and after settling in the town of Barnstable, transferred

his residence to Boston, and became the first pastor of the South

Church. The English pedigree of this John Mayo is one of the oldest

among the gentry of Great Britain. On his mother's side Dr. Mayo also

traces his descent for several ages through the Starbucks, one of the

primitive families of that most primitive of all places, the island of

Nantucket.

The parents of Dr. Mayo removed to the village of Ogdensburg on the St.

Lawrence under the circumstances very similar to those described in

Kaloolah, and he was there born in the year 1812. His early intellectual

training was under the pedagogueism of the Rev. Josiah Perry, one of the

few men formed by nature for school-masters, who has left as marked a

memory in a smaller sphere as did ever Parr or Burke in theirs. Never

was instruction better given in all the elements of a thorough English

education than for many years in his well-known school, which has

produced several of the most distinguished men of the present time. From

this the subject of our memoir was transferred, at the age of eleven or

twelve, for the purpose of pursuing classical studies, to the academy at

Potsdam, which enjoyed for a number of years the superintendence in the

office of its principals of a succession of very eminent men, among them

the present Rt. Rev. Bishop of North Carolina. His successor, under whom

Dr. Mayo's pupilage occurred, was the Rev. Mr. Banks, a Presbyterian

divine from New England, of learning, taste, and refinement, such as

were rarely met with even in that day among men of his class.

The description of the early life of Jonathan Romer is in the main the

history of the author himself. At the age of seventeen he commenced the

study of medicine, which he pursued with ardor and success. In 1832,

having attended for three years the lectures of the College of

Physicians and Surgeons in this city, he underwent his examination for a

degree, but did not receive a diploma till the ensuing term, not having

attained the legal age of twenty-one. After spending several years in

the city hospitals and in private practice, he abandoned brilliant

professional prospects to go abroad, partly for the benefit of his

health and partly urged by the spirit of adventure, which had long led

him to form plans for the exploration of Central Africa. Perhaps it is

to be regretted that he was prevented by the infirmity of

short-sightedness from emulating the achievements of Park, Clapperton

and Ledyard, for which his moral and physical constitution eminently

fitted him. He travelled extensively in Spain and Barbary however, and

we have the results in Kaloolah and in The Berber.

Anonymously, in various magazines, Dr. Mayo had written much and well,

but he was scarcely known as an author until the appearance of the work

upon which his fame still chiefly rests, _Kaloolah, or Journeyings to

the Djebel Kumri_, in the spring of 1849. It has frequently been said

that Kaloolah was suggested by the popular works of Herman Melville, but

it was written and nearly printed before the appearance of Typee, the

first of Mr. Melville's productions; and we see no reason for another

opinion, that it was an offspring of the author's love for Defoe; if it

was not an altogether spontaneous and independent work, its parentage

was probably less famous; we know of no composition so nearly resembling

Kaloolah as the pretended _Narrative of Robert Adams, an American sailor

who was wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the year 1810,

detained three years in slavery by the Arabs, and afterward several

months a resident in the city of Timbuctoo_. This was a piece of pure

fiction, though brought out in London in a splendid quarto under the

endorsement of the Lord Chancellor, the President of the Royal Society,

and many other eminent persons in literature, science, and affairs, and

elaborately and credulously reviewed in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly,

and other Reviews. The hero of this performance, after various

adventures, was married to a dusky princess in the _terra incognita_,

and made almost as many marvellous discoveries as are recorded by

Jonathan Romer. Another and a very different writer, who selected

central Africa to be the field of somewhat similar inventions, was the

learned and ingenious Richard Adams Locke, whose astonishing history of

revelations in the moon was not more creditable to his abilities than

his singularly recovered MSS. of a lost traveller by the borders of the

Niger and in middle Africa, published in the _New Era_ journal in this

city about the year 1838. But we do not suppose Dr. Mayo was indebted to

either of these works for the idea of his story. And just as erroneous

as the charge of plagiarism, and much more absurd, is the notion that he

designed Kaloolah as a "satirical criticism on life and manners in

New-York." A writer in the _North British Review_ declares that he

"could not help laughing aloud," though seated quietly by himself, at

the "description of a musical entertainment of the court of the hero's

royal father-in-law, heaven knows where in Africa, and intended as a

burlesque on the sheer noise which is the predominant element" in all

our orchestras. We assure the shrewd critic most positively that the

author never dreamed of such a thing. Kaloolah is too well known to need

much description; its success was certain and immediate, and not many

original works have ever been published in this country which have had a

larger circulation. It evinces remarkable fertility of invention, is

exceedingly interesting, and abounds in clearly defined, spirited, and

occasionally well finished portraitures. Kaloolah, the heroine, is a

fresh and beautiful creation, worthy of any of the masters of fiction.

The hero, Romer, is designed merely as a type of the determined Yankee

adventurer, drawn with only the exaggeration demanded in works of art;

and half the seeming of extravagance in the narrative and the sketches

of nature would have disappeared if the author had not, to reduce his

volume to the size deemed by his publisher most promising of profit,

omitted all his numerous and curious notes.

Kaloolah was followed in 1850 by _The Berber, or the Mountaineer of the

Atlas_, a story of Spain and Morocco, about the close of the seventeenth

century. As a novel it is decidedly better than Kaloolah; it displays

greater skill in narration, and is written in the same pure, distinct

and nervous English. Dr. Mayo thoroughly understood from observation as

well as study all the accessories of his subject, and we are mistaken if

any recent book on northern Africa gives a more clear, spirited or just

impression of its scenery or of the character and manners of its people.

The hero is of the highest style of the half-barbarian chiefs of the

country and time; born a Christian, educated a Mohamedan, and ambitious

to free his tribe from the domination of the Moors, and to found a new

empire, with a higher civilization than was ever known to the race he

leads; and other characters have enough adventures, dimly sketched, to

fill the circles of a dozen tragedies if brought more near the eye. The

faults of the book are, an excess of incident, discursiveness preventing

proper unity and proportion, and a confessed failure of the story to

evolve all the intended moralities, which the author therefore in some

cases brings forward in his own person.

The last volume we have had from the hand of Dr. Mayo is, _Romance Dust

from the Historic Placer_, a collection of shorter stories chiefly

founded on historical incidents. In these he exhibits the fresh feeling,

occasionally the humor, and always the bold drawing and effective

coloring which distinguish his more ambitious performances. The volume

contains also a poem, but not one of such striking qualities as to

induce regret that the author has commonly chosen to write in prose. The

style of his novels, especially in the narrative parts, is uncommonly

good, but with its many excellencies it does not seem to us that it

possesses a poetical element.

Dr. Mayo has commenced a brilliant course, in which we trust we shall

have occasions to record still greater triumphs than those by which he

has won a place in the first rank of the young writers of English.

The portrait at the beginning of this article is very truthful; it is

from a recent daguerreotype by Brady.

[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL PALACE.]

_Original Correspondence._

LONDON, _May 23, 1851._

Historical Sketch--Why England was the most appropriate

location for Exhibition--First impressions--Contrast between

barbaric and civilized industry--Use and beauty--Moral and

social influences.

The Great Exhibition constitutes the one absorbing topic in which, for

the time being, all other topics are merged. Go where you will, nothing

else is thought of, talked of, or heard of, from one end of London to

the other--this magnificent display of the achievements of art and

industry forms the sole theme of conversation, calling forth the most

animated descriptions, the most energetic discussions, the warmest and

most enthusiastic praise. Nor is this interest confined to London alone;

the whole kingdom shares in the excitement, and seems to be only waiting

for warmer weather, and the approaching reduction of the entrance fee,

to march upon the metropolis, and satiate its curiosity within the walls

of the Crystal Palace. As the season advances, and the brilliant success

of the enterprise becomes known, foreign nations, who have contributed

so largely to the splendor of the show, will send over hosts of friendly

visitants; and the World's Fair, so veritably cosmopolitan in design and

execution, will become equally so in its social character and results.

As the activity of the present age developes itself mainly through

productive and commercial industry, this collection of the choicest

industrial products of all the nations of the globe, is not only in

perfect accordance with the spirit of the epoch, but seems indeed to

belong so properly to the present day, that it may be doubted whether

such an event could have taken place at any earlier period: while the

political and social conditions of Great Britain, her friendly relations

with all other powers, together with the perfect security for property,

the commercial freedom, and facilities of transport, which are here

enjoyed in a pre-eminent degree, combine to indicate this country as the

most appropriate arena for this first pacific contest of the nations;

the only one, perhaps, in the actual state of Europe, in which it could

have taken place at this time.

The traditions of the English people, also, are such as would naturally

suggest to them the idea of an enterprise of this kind; for not only

have Fairs (which may be regarded as a rude attempt at a more general

exhibition of wares than that afforded by the mere ordinary display of

shops) been common here, as elsewhere in Europe, for many centuries, but

exhibitions more nearly resembling the present Institution, in which the

palm of excellence, rather than direct commerce, is the primary object,

have taken place here frequently during the past century, through the

enterprise of individuals, or societies, independently of any assistance

from the Government. As early as the year 1756, the "Society of Arts" of

London offered prizes for the best specimens of various manufactures,

tapestry, carpets, porcelain, &c., and held public exhibitions of the

works which were offered in competition; while about the same period,

the Royal Academy, as a private society, patronized by George the Third,

rather in a personal capacity than as the head of the legislature,

organized its exhibitions of painting, sculpture, and engraving; and

during the last thirty years exhibitions of machinery and manufactures,

gotten up entirely through the efforts of private individuals, have

taken place not only in the metropolitan cities, in London, Edinburgh,

and Dublin, but in all the principal towns of the United Kingdom.

The earliest national exhibition of industrial products in France,

occurred in 1798, and was followed by others at irregular intervals

until 1819, since which period they have taken place every five years,

and have exercised a marked effect upon the industrial development of

Europe. The brilliant character of the two last of these exhibitions (in

'44 and '49), led to several ineffectual attempts on the part of the

Society of Arts, and others, to interest the British Government in the

getting up of a similar exhibition of the products of British industry,

to be held in 1851.

At length in 1849, Prince Albert, who, as President of the Society of

Arts, had known and sanctioned all these proceedings, took the project

under his own personal superintendence, enlarged upon the original

design by proposing to invite the co-operation and competition of all

foreign nations, and proceeded to settle the principles upon which the

enterprise, thus modified, should be conducted, and the mode in which

it should be carried out.

The first steps toward the realization of this new plan, were made in

the name, and under the auspices of the Society of Arts; but so

universal was the interest which this noble project called forth

throughout the country, that it was thought advisable to make it a

national concern, by taking it out of the hands of the Society, and

intrusting its execution to a body of royal commissioners, appointed for

that purpose by the Government, with Prince Albert as its President; the

Government, meantime, giving its sanction only to the undertaking, and

merely lending its aid when it was absolutely indispensable, as in

correspondence with foreign countries, providing a site for the

building, organization of police, and the cost of such assistance

whenever it entailed expense, being defrayed from the funds of the

Exhibition, thus leaving all the responsibility of the attempt,

pecuniary or other, with the commissioners themselves.

The subsequent history of the "rise and progress" of the undertaking;

the promptitude with which the requisite funds were subscribed by

private generosity; the selection of Hyde Park as the site of the

projected Industrial Palace; the various plans proposed for the

building, and the final adoption of the design of Mr. Paxton, after the

model of a conservatory by him erected for the Duke of Devonshire; the

admirable manner in which this design has been carried out by the

architects, Messrs. Fox & Henderson; the cordial response with which

England's friendly challenge has been answered by all the peoples of the

globe, from her next-door neighbors across the channel, to the far-off

denizens of Orient, and remote islands of sunny southern seas; the

imposing ceremonial which, on the appointed day, threw open the vast

Museum to the gaze of an impatient public; the crowds of titled dames

and potent seigneurs, of the "wealth, beauty and fashion" of the

aristocratic world, that fill, day after day, the immense area,

wandering from one magnificent display to another, and marvelling at the

richness, perfection, and variety of the countless objects that meet

their eyes at every turn; the probability of a somewhat formidable

thronging of less elegant, but equally interested visitors, when the

"shilling days" begin; the fabulous wealth flowing, week after week,

into the treasury of the royal commissioners at the various entrances of

the buildings; and the growing desire on the part of the public, that

the funds, thus arising from the Exhibition itself, should be

appropriated to the formation of a "Permanent Museum of the Art and

Industry of all Nations;" all this is too well known to call for further

comment.

The first impression created by the interior aspect of the Crystal

Palace, is one of admiration. Magnificent indeed is the lofty dome of

the transept, arching over glorious old trees, oriental shrubbery,

statuary, fountains, and masses of gorgeous flowers; the brilliant

perspective of the central aisle, with its double lines of galleries,

stretching away on either hand, and traversed by countless avenues,

every point of the vast expanse presenting its own special subject of

interest, and challenging the beholder's gaze. But so extensive and

various is this great collection, so striking are the contrasts of form,

color, and use, presented by the endless succession of objects that meet

the eye in every direction, that the sentiment of admiration soon gives

place to a feeling of hopeless bewilderment. A careful study of maps and

catalogues, and many visits, spent in making a general survey of the

various departments of the building, are indispensable preliminaries to

a more intimate acquaintance with the admirable objects contained in

each. But the topographic and distributive arrangements of the building

understood, the chaos of one's impressions becomes gradually into order;

and the work of examination goes on with more success.

The transept and the western wing are occupied by Great Britain and her

colonial possessions; the eastern wing is appropriated to foreign

nations, the countries lying nearest the tropics being ranged

immediately round the transept. Objects of art and artistical industry

occupy the central portions of the building; raw materials, machinery,

hardware, and carriages being placed nearest to the walls. The objects

admitted to the exhibition come under four general categories: raw

materials, machinery, manufactures, and fine arts, and are divided into

thirty classes, an arrangement which greatly facilitates the business of

investigation and comparison.

Many of the Oriental nations are very fully represented, especially

India; it would be difficult to cite any department of Indian life and

industry not illustrated in the ample collections of her natural and

manufactured products, gathered together with the utmost care. China,

Tunis, Persia, and the islands of the Indian archipelago, are also here

in great force, and make a very brilliant display. The exquisite texture

of many of their woven fabrics, the richness of color and effect, the

incredible _fineness_ and delicacy of workmanship displayed in many of

their manufactured articles, prepared with the aid only of the rudest

tools, often surpass all that the enlightened skill of European artisans

can accomplish, and may furnish western industry with many valuable

models and precious suggestions for future use. But the beauty of

eastern productions lies solely in perfection of detail; there is

nothing large, generous, or comprehensive in barbaric industry. All that

its resources can accomplish is lavished on objects of parade and

luxury, often absolutely useless, and always destined for the privileged

few; the element of ordinary existence, all that goes to make up the

daily life of the masses, is coarse and rudimentary. These shawls,

which, for fineness of texture, richness of color, and beauty of design,

leave the choicest productions of European looms at an immeasurable

distance; these muslins and gauzes, finer than gossamer, yet covered

with exquisite traceries in gold and silver thread, fabrics that seem

too etherially light to be worn by others than the ladies of Titania's

court; these silks and satins, and damasks of admirable texture, and of

richest dyes; these magnificent garments, stiff gold embroidery, with

precious stones and with tinsel whose glancing hues produce an effect

quite as brilliant as that of the jewels; how strangely they contrast,

these splendid things intended for the few, with the coarseness of the

fabrics destined for the ordinary use of the many. Compare these

magnificent housings and accoutrements, these saddles of velvet, stiff

with gold, these reins, and swords and daggers, full of pearls and

jewels, with those clumsy implements of labor, and those uncouth, heavy

utensils of domestic life. Compare the elaborate workmanship of screens,

cabinets, vases, lamps, and tables, with the primitive candles and

suspicious-looking soaps; the magnificence of carriages and palanquins,

luxuriously cushioned, and hung with velvet and gold, in which lazy,

bloated grandees are lounging, laden with jewels and finery, with the

naked, emaciated bearers, human brutes that replace beasts of burden,

and contrast, unfavorably, with average European horses!

In European industry, on the contrary, an ascentional, out-reaching

movement is every where visible. Beauty remains no longer in scornful

isolation, divorced from use, but descending into the domain of

every-day existence, incorporates her divine essence in all the forms of

common life, pervading the lowliest spheres, raising and ennobling the

humblest details, by her purifying and vivifying presence. This

tendency, visible in the industry of all European nations, is still more

clearly evident in the manufactures of France and England, whose

productions, standing at the head of all others, constitute the highest

expression of the industrial spirit of the age. Here the hardest and

heaviest materials, wood, iron, and stone, become plastic under the

workman's hand, assuming the most brilliant polish, the lightest and

most elegant forms; grates, fire-irons, and kitchen-ranges, rival, in

lustre and beauty, the attractions of diamonds, goldsmiths' work, and

flowers. The admirable construction of machinery shares in the

enthusiasm excited by the beautiful fabrics woven by their tireless

fingers; and the "Golden Marriage" of use and beauty is every where

celebrated under varying forms.

They who imagine that art has died out of the world, and sigh for the

chisel of Praxiteles, the pencil of Apelles, and the glorious

conceptions of the masters of the middles ages, would do well to visit

the Crystal Palace, and contrast the rudeness which shaped all the

elements of ordinary life in former periods, with the elegance and

beauty which the simplest objects of common use are beginning to assume.

Not, however, that the one necessarily precludes the other, or that we

are fated to produce no more fine statues and paintings, no more

monumental temples and palaces, because we now have, at lower prices

than were paid in ancient times for inferior articles, beautiful

carpets, and fabrics of silk, wool, and cotton, furniture, porcelain,

and glass, in which the thought of the artist and the craft of the

artisan are so admirably blended that they seem to be identical. Art is

not dead; it is throwing out wider and deeper roots, and will bear

richer fruits in the garden of the future, enriched by the mingled

detritus of by-gone ages, than it has ever borne in the primitive

formations of the past.

One of the most interesting features of the present exhibition, the one

which constitutes its distinguishing character, is, undoubtedly, its

universality, and the interest which it excites among all nations, and

all classes. And it was time that the results of human activity in its

various departments, should thus be gathered together from the four

corners of the globe, for the world is cut up into so many small

fractions, and each fraction lives so much within the limits of its own

narrow circle, ignoring, for the most part, all that is going on outside

of it, that it is in the highest degree desirable that people should

begin to see something of what their neighbors are doing.

It is time that nations met elsewhere than on the field of battle, and

measured their strength and dignity by some more rational standard than

the relative force of their cannon; time also that the various classes

of society, so widely separated by the artificial divisions of caste and

fortune, should look, at length, into each other's face and recognize

the band of a common nature and of common needs; that the world's, as

yet, unhonored workers, beholding the glorious fruits of their prolific

energy, should perceive the sublimity of their mission and take fresh

heart and fresh hope; that the rich should learn, from the grand results

of labor, to appreciate more justly its nobleness and worth.

That the exhibition of 1851, successful as it is evidently destined to

be, should fully realize this most desirable end, is hardly to be

expected; but that it will do much toward creating a better

understanding between classes and countries, and thus pave the way for

the bringing in of a future era of universal helpfulness and good-will,

may be very confidently predicted.

STELLA.

FRENCH FEUILLETONISTES UPON LONDON.

The leading Parisian journals have correspondents in London during the

Great Exhibition, and as the _corps_ of Parisian feuilletonistes

comprises much of the richest and rarest talent of the great French

metropolis, there is a piquancy and brilliance in these daguerreotypes

of London life and the impressions of English character, which is very

entertaining. No traveller who remembers dining at any of the recherche

cafes upon the Boulevards with a Frenchman, and chatting with him of

England and London, can forget the cold chill that curled through the

Parisian's conversation, as if he were a Pole, gossipping of Siberia, or

the glances of intense satisfaction and pride which he cast upon the

lively and lovely groups in the street, inly thanking God that he was

not born a child of _perfide Albion_.

But these gentlemen talk not alone of the Exhibition, but of the "town"

in general. Their articles wear the air of the journals of heroic

adventurers who have penetrated into barbarous lands. They are clearly

home-sick, these sybarites. We extract the following from a translation

in the London _Literary Gazette_, prefaced with a few editorial remarks.

Speaking of the variety of their topics the reviewer says: "Thus the

great Jules Janin, in the _Journal des Debats_, notwithstanding the

interest of portions of his article, some of which have been translated

into our journals, makes the infamy of French republicans, and his own

fervent love and devotedness to the royal family of Orleans, the burden

of his lucubrations. M. Blanqui, the historian of political economy, and

translator of Adam Smith, faithful as becomes an economist to his _idee

fixe_, bewails in the _Presse_ the folly of France in rejecting the

doctrines of free trade, and clamors loudly for an immediate reform of

French tariffs. M. Jules de Premary fills column after column in the

_Patrie_ with descriptions of English manners, customs, and

peculiarities; and yet he admits that he knows nothing of our language,

and has only resided amongst us for a few days. Parisian _litterateurs_

pride themselves on being men of imagination, poets, _penseurs

fantasistes_; and it is clear that it would be as reasonable to chain an

eagle to a dog-cart, as to expect _them_ to deal with a plain,

practical, matter-of-fact thing in the methodical business-like way of

the English journalist. Of these, the lines of Miss Fanny Fudge are

strikingly true:

"Vain, critics, vain

All your efforts to saddle wit's fire with a chain!!

To blot out the splendor of fancy's young stream,

Or crop in its cradle the newly-fledged beam!!!"

But though our worthy _confreres_ of the Parisian press have thus let

their wits go a wool-gathering, and left the poor Exhibition in the

lurch, it is but just to state that one and all display on the whole a

most friendly feeling towards the English; and even in quizzing us, as

most of them do, display great good nature. They feel, perhaps, a little

sore at having been outstripped by us in the establishment of the first

great Universal Exhibition; but this was only natural, and they console

themselves by stating that it was in France that the idea was first

conceived, and by solemnly promising that France will some day _prendre

sa revanche_. The most amusing of the _feuilletonistes_ is

unquestionably M. Jules de Premary, of the _Patrie_; and we have thought

it worth while to translate a portion of his last letter, as a specimen

of what an intelligent man of letters feels on visiting us for the first

time, and before he becomes well acquainted with us:

"One of the principal causes of surprise to me in walking

along the streets of London, has been to see myself all at

once become a curious animal. I did not think that I had any

of the qualities necessary for such a thing, being neither

humpbacked nor club-footed, neither a giant nor a dwarf.

Thus, then, on the day of my arrival I went along Regent

Street, and heard the exclamations and laughter of the crowd

on seeing me, I examined myself from head to foot, to

ascertain the cause of the unhoped-for success which I

obtained in England. I even felt all up my back, thinking

that perhaps some facetious boy might have transformed me

into a walking placard. There was nothing, however; but I

had moustachios and a foreign air! A foreign air! That is

one of the little miseries on which you do not count, O

simple and inexperienced travellers!

"At home you may have the dignity and nobleness of the

Cid--you may be another Talma: but pass the Channel--show

yourself to the English, and in spite of yourself you will

become as comic as Arnal. Arnal! do I say? why, he would not

make them laugh so much as you do; and they would consider

our inimitable comedians Levassor and Hoffmann as serious

personages. Do not be angry, then, or cry with Alceste,--

'Par la sambleu! Messieurs, je ne croyais pas etre

Si plaisant que je suis!'

They would only laugh the more. In this respect the English

are wanting in good taste and indulgence. Their astonishment

is silly and their mockery puerile. The sight of a pair of

moustachios makes them roar with laughter, and they are in

an ecstasy of fun at the sight of a rather broad-brimmed

hat. A people must be very much bored to seize such

occasions for amusing themselves. However, all the

_travers_, like all the qualities of the English, arise from

the national spirit carried to exaggeration. They consider

themselves the _beau ideal_ of human kind. Their stiffness

of bearing, their pale faces, their hair, their whiskers cut

into the shape of mutton chops, the excessive height of

their shirt collars, and the inelegant cut of their

coats--all that makes them as proud as Trafalgar and

Waterloo.

"In our theatres we laugh at them as they laugh at us, and

on that score we are quits. But in our great towns they are

much better and more seriously received than we Frenchmen

are in England.

"At Paris now-a-days nobody laughs at an Englishman; but at

London every body laughs at a Frenchman. We do not make this

remark from any feeling of ill-will; in fact, we think that

to cause a smile on the thin and pinched-up lips of old

England is not a small triumph for our beards and

moustachios. After all, too, the astonishment which the

Englishman manifests at the sight of a newly disembarked

Frenchman (an astonishment which appears singular when we

call to mind the frequent communications between the two

nations), is less inexplicable than may be thought.

Geographically speaking, France and England touch each

other--morally, they are at an immeasurable distance.

Nothing is done at Calais as at Dover, nothing at London as

at Paris. There is as much difference between the two races

as between white and black. In France, the Englishman

conforms willingly to our customs, and quickly adopts our

manner of acting; but in England we are like a stain on a

harmonious picture.

"Our fashion of sauntering along the streets, smiling at the

pretty girls we meet, looking at the shops, or stopping to

chat with a friend, fills the English with stupefaction.

They always walk straight before them like mad dogs. In

conversation there is the same difference. In England it is

always solemn. Left alone after dinner, the men adopt a

subject of conversation, which never varies during all the

rest of the evening. Each one is allowed to develop his

argument without interruption. Perhaps he is not understood,

but he is listened to. When he has ended, it becomes the

turn of another, who is heard with the same respect. The

thing resembles a quiet sitting of the Parliament. But in

France, conversation is a veritable _melee_--it is the

contrary excess. A subject is left and taken up twenty

times, amidst joyous and unforeseen interruptions. We throw

words at each other's heads without doing ourselves any

harm; smart sallies break forth, and _bon mots_ roll under

the table. In short, the Englishman reflects before

speaking; the Frenchman speaks first and reflects

afterwards--if he has time. The Frenchman converses, the

Englishman talks: and it is the same with respect to

pleasure. Place a Frenchman, who feels _ennui_, by the side

of an Englishman who amuses himself, and it will be the

former who will have the gayest air. From love, the

Englishman only demands its brutal joys; whereas the

Frenchman pays court to a woman. The Englishman, at table,

drinks to repletion; the Frenchman never exceeds

intoxication.

"A difference equally striking exists between the females of

the two countries. I do not now speak of the beauty of the

type of the one, or the elegance and good taste of the

others; but I will notice one or two great contrasts. In

France, a young girl is reserved, is timid, and as it were

hidden under the shade of the family: but the married woman

has every liberty, and many husbands can tell you that she

does not always use it with extreme moderation! In England,

you are surprised at the confident bearing of young girls,

and the chaste reserve of married women. The former not only

willingly listen to gallant compliments, but even excite

them; whilst the latter, by the simple propriety of their

bearing, impose on the boldest.

"The boldness of young girls in England was explained to me

by the great emigration of young men--in other words, by the

scarcity of husbands. The French girl who wants a husband is

ordinarily rather disdainful; the English girl is by no

means difficult.

"A Frenchwoman walks negligently leaning on our arm, and we

regulate our steps by the timidity and uncertainty of hers:

the Englishwoman walks with the head erect, and takes large

strides like a soldier charging. An accident made me

acquainted with the secret of the strange way of walking

which Englishwomen have. I was lately on a visit to the

family of a merchant, whose three daughters are receiving a

costly education. The French master, the drawing master, and

the music master had each given his lesson, when I saw a

sergeant of the grenadiers of the guard arrive. He went into

the garden, and was followed by the young ladies.

"'Ah! mon Dieu!" I cried to the father, 'these young ladies

are surely not going to learn the military exercise!'

"'No,' said he, with a smile.

"'What, then, has this professor in a red coat come for?'

"'He is the _master of grace_."

"'What! that grenadier, who is as long as the column in

Trafalgar-square?'

"'Yes, or rather he is the _walking master_.'

"I looked out of the window, and saw the three young ladies

drawn up and immovable as soldiers, and presently they began

to march to the step of the grenadier. They formed a

charming platoon, and trod the military step with a

precision worthy of admiration. I asked for an explanation

of such a strange thing.

"'We in England,' said my host, 'understand better the duty

of women than you Frenchmen do. We cannot regulate our

manner of walking on that of a being subjected to us. Our

dignity forbids it. It is the woman's duty to follow us.

Consequently she must walk as we do,--we can't walk as she

does.'

"'_Ma foi!_' said I, 'I must admit that in progress you are

decidedly our masters. In France the law, it is true,

commands the wife to follow her husband; but it does not, I

confess, say that she must do so at the rate of a _quick

march_!'

"The contrasts between the two countries are in truth

inexhaustible. Indeed I defy the most patient observer, to

find any point of resemblance between them. In France,

houses are gay in appearance; in London, with the exception

of some streets in the centre, such as Regent-street or

Oxford-street, they are as dark and dismal as prisons. Our

windows open from the left to the right; windows in England

open from top to bottom. At Paris, to ring or knock too loud

is vulgar and ill-bred; at London, if you don't execute a

tattoo with the knocker or a symphony with the bell, you are

considered a poor wretch, and are left an hour at the door.

Our hack cabs take their stand on one side of the street; in

England they occupy the middle. Our coachmen get up in front

of their vehicles; in England they go behind. In Paris,

Englishmen are charming; at home they are--Englishmen. One

thing astonishes me greatly--that the English don't walk on

their hands, since we walk on our feet."

But the French gentlemen do not have it all their own way. The London

_Leader_ attacks them pleasantly in a similar spirit, yet it is always

tinged, upon both sides, with a shade of caustic feeling: "Jules Janin,

who has fallen in love with our fog and kindliness, announces to all

France the joyful news that there will be no Waterloo banquet this June:

the flag of France floating over the Crystal Palace suggests to the Duke

that the banquet would be a breach of hospitality, because it would

recall such "cruel souvenirs!" Janin believes that report; or at least

prints it, which is to give journalistic credence to it. We are sorry to

think how "cruelly" France will be disappointed; and we are amused at

the excessive pre-occupation of Frenchmen with this said battle of

Waterloo. It is the ineradicable belief of every Frenchman that we in

England are in a perpetual self-swagger about Waterloo. We are prodigal

of the word upon omnibus, shop, street, and road, because we wish to

humble France at every corner. Waterloo-house is an insult!

Waterloo-bridge a defiance! Wellington boots an outrage! Every step you

take you trample on the national pride of France, for with "insular

arrogance" you walk in boots named of Wellington or of Blucher! We are

intoxicated with our success at having beaten the French--never having

drubbed them before, from the times of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,

down to the Peninsular Campaign! This one success of Waterloo--(which,

after all, was _not_ a success, as France clearly gained the battle,

only she quitted the field in disgust!)--we cannot forget; we cherish

it, we riot in it; we blazon the name everywhere to flatter our national

pride and humiliate the foreigner. And, curious enough, the foreigner

_is_ humiliated! He turns his head away as he passes Waterloo-house; he

declines crossing Waterloo-bridge, or crosses it in a passion; and even

his national dread of rain cannot induce him to ride in a Waterloo

omnibus. Of all the many profound misconceptions of English society

current in France, none, we venture to say, is more completely baseless

than the belief in the English feeling about Waterloo. Though it would

be impossible to persuade a Frenchman that omnibus proprietors, hotel

keepers, and builders were guilty of no national swagger in using the

offending word 'Waterloo.'"

SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.--A GHOST STORY.

We take the following from a volume of of ghost stories, with

illustrations by Phiz, which has lately been published in London. One

Minheer Vanderhausen, through the means of a certain persuasive

eloquence, backed by money, becomes the husband of Rose, the niece of

Gerard Douw, and with whom Schalken, the celebrated painter's pupil, was

in love. Vanderhausen and his wife set out ostensibly for Rotterdam, but

receiving no communication from either for a long time, Gerard resolves

upon a journey to the city. No such individual as Vanderhausen is known

there, and the fate of the poor wife is told as follows:--

"One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the

fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had

yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion,

when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the

street door, as if occasioned by some person rushing and

scrambling vehemently against it. A domestic had run without

delay to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and they

heard him twice or thrice interrogate the applicant for

admission, but without eliciting any other answer but a

sustained reiteration of the sounds. They heard him then

open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a light

and rapid tread upon the staircase. Schalken advanced

towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose

rushed into the room. She looked wild, fierce, and haggard

with terror and exhaustion; but her dress surprised them as

much even as her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a

kind of white woollen wrapper, made close about the neck,

and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and

travel soiled. The poor creature had hardly entered the

chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some

difficulty they succeeded in reviving her; and on recovering

her senses she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of terror

rather than mere impatience, 'Wine! wine!--quickly, or I'm

lost!"

"Astonished, and almost scared, at the strange agitation in

which the call was made, they at once administered to her

wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and eagerness

which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when she

exclaimed, with the same urgency, 'Food, for God's sake;

food at once, or I perish!'

"A large fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and

Schalken immediately began to cut some; but he was

anticipated; for no sooner did she see it than she caught

it, a more than mortal image of famine, and with her hands,

and even with her teeth, she tore off the flesh, and

swallowed it. When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little

appeased, she was on a sudden overcome with shame; or it may

have been that other more agitating thoughts overpowered and

scared her, for she began to weep bitterly, and to wring her

hands.

"'Oh! send for a minister of God!' said she; 'I am not safe

till he comes; send for him speedily.'

"Gerard Douw dispatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed

on his niece to allow him to surrender his bedchamber to her

use. He also persuaded her to retire there at once to rest:

her consent was extorted upon the condition that they would

not leave her for a moment.

"'Oh, that the holy man were here!' she said; 'he can

deliver me: the dead and the living can never be one; God

has forbidden it.'

"With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to

their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which

Gerard Douw had assigned to her use.

"'Do not, do not leave me for a moment!' she said; 'I am

lost for ever if you do.'

"Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious

apartment, which they were now about to enter. He and

Schalken each carried a candle, so that a sufficiency of

light was cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now

entering the large chamber, which, as I have said,

communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly

stopped, and, in a whisper which thrilled them both with

horror, she said, 'O God! he is here! he is here! See, see!

there he goes!'

"She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and

Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined form

gliding into that apartment. He drew his sword, and raising

the candle so as to throw its light with increased

distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the

chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was

there--nothing but the furniture which belonged to the room;

and yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that

something had moved before them into the chamber. A

sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration

broke out in heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more

composed when he heard the increased urgency and agony of

entreaty with which Rose implored them not to leave her for

a moment.

"'I saw him,' said she, 'he's here. I cannot be deceived; I

know him; he's by me; he is with me; he's in the room. Then,

for God's sake, as you would save me, do not stir from

beside me.'

"They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed,

where she continued to urge them to stay by her. She

frequently uttered incoherent sentences, repeating again and

again, 'The dead and the living cannot be one; God has

forbidden it:' and then again, 'Rest to the wakeful--sleep

to the sleep-walkers.' These and such mysterious and broken

sentences she continued to utter until the clergyman

arrived. Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that

terror or ill-treatment had unsettled the poor girl's

intellect; and he half suspected, from the suddenness of her

appearance, the unseasonableness of the hour, and, above

all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that she

had made her escape from some place of confinement for

lunatics, and was in imminent fear of pursuit. He resolved

to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his niece

had been in some measure set at rest by the offices of the

clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly desired; and

until this object had been attained, he did not venture to

put any questions to her which might possibly, by reviving

painful or horrible recollections, increase her agitation.

The clergyman soon arrived; a man of ascetic countenance and

venerable age--one whom Gerard Douw respected much,

forasmuch as he was a veteran polemic, though one perhaps

more dreaded as a combatant, than beloved as a Christian--of

pure morality, subtile brain, and frozen heart. He entered

the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose

reclined; and immediately on his arrival she requested him

to pray for her, as for one who lay in the hands of Satan,

and who could hope for deliverance only from heaven.

"That you may distinctly understand all the circumstances of

the event which I am going to describe, it is necessary to

state the relative position of the parties who were engaged

in it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom

of which I have already spoken; Rose lay in the inner

chamber, the door of which was open; and by the side of the

bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a candle

burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the

outer apartment. The old man now cleared his voice, as if

about to commence; but before he had time to begin, a sudden

gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate

the room in which the poor girl lay, and she with hurried

alarm exclaimed, 'Godfrey, bring in another candle; the

darkness is unsafe.'

"Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated

injunctions, in the immediate impulse, stepped from the

bedchamber into the other, in order to supply what she

desired.

"'O God! do not go dear uncle,' shrieked the unhappy girl;

and at the same time she sprang from the bed and darted

after him, in order by her grasp to detain him. But the

warning came too late; for scarcely had he passed the

threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the

startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two

rooms closed violently after him, as if swung to by a strong

blast of wind. Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but

their united and desperate efforts could not avail so much

as to shake it. Shriek after shriek burst from the inner

chamber, with all the piercing loudness of despairing

terror. Schalken and Douw strained every nerve to force open

the door; but all in vain. There was no sound of struggling

from within, but the screams seemed to increase in loudness,

and at the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed

window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill

as if thrown open. One _last_ shriek, so long, and piercing,

and agonized, as to be scarcely human, swelled from the

room, and suddenly there followed a death-like silence. A

light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed

to the window, and almost at the same instant the door gave

way, and yielding to the pressure of the external

applicants, they were nearly precipitated into the room. It

was empty. The window was open, and Schalken sprang to a

chair, and gazed out upon the street and canal below. There

was no one there; but he saw, or thought he saw, the waters

of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring, in

heavy circles, as if a moment before disturbed by the

submersion of some ponderous body."

SKETCHES OF LIFE IN SWEDEN.

Hans Christian Anderson, the Danish poet and story-teller, whose

_Improvisatore_ is one of the most beautiful and intrinsically truthful

of the myriad beautiful books upon Italian life, has published a new

work, _Pictures of Sweden_. It is very genial summer reading, consisting

of detached sketches of Swedish life and scenery, with interludes of

poetic reverie. The London journals complain that it is not sufficiently

well translated, but we quote the following characteristic passages in

which the same weird child-likeness of feeling which his readers will

recall, is expressed in the peculiar, subdued strain of northern

sentimentalism, which is more the complexion, than the substance of his

style. Here is the prelude to the book:

"It is a delightful spring: the birds warble, but you do not

understand their song! Well, hear it in a free translation.

"'Get on my back,' says the stork, our green island's sacred

bird, 'and I will carry thee over the Sound. Sweden also has

fresh and fragrant beech woods, green meadows and

cornfields. In Scania, with the flowering apple-trees behind

the peasant's house, you will think that you are still in

Denmark.'

"'Fly with me,' says the swallow; 'I fly over Holland's

mountain ridge, where the beech-trees cease to grow; I fly

further towards the north than the stork. You shall see the

vegetable mould pass over into rocky ground; see snug, neat

towns, old churches and mansions, where all is good and

comfortable, where the family stand in a circle around the

table and say grace at meals, where the least of the

children says a prayer, and, morning and evening, sings a

psalm. I have heard it, I have seen it, when little, from my

nest under the eaves.'

"'Come with me! come with me!' screams the restless

sea-gull, and flies in an expecting circle. 'Come with me to

the Skjaergaards, where rocky isles by thousands, with fir

and pine, lie like flower beds along the coast; where the

fishermen draw the well-filled nets!'

"'Rest thee between our extended wings,' sing the wild

swans. 'Let us bear thee up to the great lakes, the

perpetually roaring elves (rivers), that rush on with arrowy

swiftness; where the oak forest has long ceased, and the

birch-tree becomes stunted. Rest thee between our extended

wings: we fly up to Sulitelma, the island's eye, as the

mountain is called; we fly from the vernal green valley, up

over the snow-drifts, to the mountain's top, whence thou

canst see the North Sea, on yonder side of Norway.

"'We fly to Jemteland, where the rocky mountains are high

and blue; where the Foss roars and rushes; where the torches

are lighted as _budstikke,_ to announce that the ferryman is

expected. Up to the deep, cold-running waters, where the

midsummer sun does not set; where the rosy hue of eve is

that of morn."

Stockholm is thus pictured, with an allusion, at the close, to a

building dear to us all, now--as that which was first enriched by the

voice, whose recent lapse into silence has made our hearts heavy:

"It is but the work of one night; the same night when Oluf

Hakonson, with iron and with fire, burst his onward way

through the stubborn ground; before the day breaks the

waters of the Maelar roll there; the Norwegian prince, Oluf,

sailed through the royal channel he had cut in the east. The

stockades, where the iron chains hang, must bear the

defences; the citizens from the burnt-down Sigtuna erect

themselves a bulwark here, and build their new little town

on stock-holms.[A] The clouds go, and the years go! Do you

see how the gables grow? there rise towers and forts. Birger

Jarl makes the town of Stockholm a fortress; the warders

stand with bow and arrow on the walls, reconnoitring over

lake and fiord, over Brunkaberg sand-ridge. There where the

sand slopes upwards from Roerstrand's Lake they build Clara

cloister, and between it and the town a street springs up:

several more appear; they form an extensive city, which soon

becomes the place of contest for different partisans, where

Ladelaas's sons plant the banner, and where the German

Albrecht's retainers burn the Swedes alive within its walls.

Stockholm is, however, the heart of the kingdom: that the

Danes know well; that the Swedes know too, and there is

strife and bloody combating. Blood flows by the

executioner's hand, Denmark's Christian the Second, Sweden's

executioner, stands in the market-place. Roll, ye runes! see

over Brunkaberg sand-ridge, where the Swedish people

conquered the Danish host, there they raise the May-pole: it

is midsummer-eve--Gustavus Vasa makes his entry into

Stockholm. Around the May-pole there grow fruit and

kitchen-gardens, houses and streets; they vanish in flames,

they rise again; that gloomy fortress towards the tower is

transformed into a palace, and the city stands magnificently

with towers and draw-bridges. There grows a town by itself

on the sand-ridge, a third springs up on the rock towards

the south; the old walls fall at Gustavus Adolphus's

command; the three towns are one, large and extensive,

picturesquely varied with old stone houses, wooden shops,

and grass-roofed huts; the sun shines on the brass balls of

the towers, and a forest of masts stands in that secure

harbor. * * *

"It is a very little semicircular island, on which the

arches of the bridge rest: a garden full of flowers and

trees, which we overlook from the high parapet of the

bridge. Ladies and gentlemen promenade there; musicians

play, families sit there in groups, and take refreshments in

the vaulted halls under the bridge, and look out between the

green trees over the open water, to the houses and mansions,

and also to the woods and rocks: we forget that we are in

the midst of the city. It is the bridge here that unites

Stockholm with Nordmalen, where the greatest part of the

fashionable world live, in two long Berlin-like streets; yet

amongst all the great houses we will only visit one, and

that is the theatre. We will go on the stage itself--it has

an historical signification. Here by the third side-scene

from the stage-lights, to the right, as we look down towards

the audience, Gustavus the Third was assassinated at a

masquerade; and he was borne into that little chamber there,

close by the scene, whilst all the outlets were closed, and

the motley group of harlequins, polichinellos, wild men,

gods and goddesses, with unmasked faces, pale and terrified,

crept together; the dancing ballet-farce had become a real

tragedy. This theatre is Jenny Lind's childhood's home. Here

she has sung in the choruses when a little girl; here she

first made her appearance in public, and was cheeringly

encouraged when a child; here, poor and sorrowful, she has

shed tears, when her voice left her, and sent up pious

prayers to her Maker. From hence the world's nightingale

flew out over distant lands, and proclaimed the purity and

holiness of art."

We ramble a moment in the garden of Linnaeus, and contemplate his

monument. It is withered and wasted now; it appears not unlike that

grave garden of Ferney, with the close bower in which Voltaire used to

walk and meditate:

"The walls shine brightly, and with varied hues, in the

great chapel behind the high altar. The fresco paintings

present to us the most eventful circumstances of Gustavus

Vasa's life. Here his clay moulders, with that of his three

consorts. Yonder, a work in marble, by Sargel, solicits our

attention: it adorns the burial-chapel of the De Geers; and

here, in the centre aisle, under that flat stone, rests

Linnaeus. In the side chapel, is his monument, erected by

_amici_ and _discipuli_; a sufficient sum was quickly raised

for its erection, and the King, Gustavus the Third, himself

brought his royal gift. The projector of the subscription

then explained to him, that the purposed inscription was,

that the monument was erected only by friends and disciples,

and King Gustavus answered: 'And am not I also one of

Linnaeus's disciples?' The monument was raised, and a hall

built in the botanical garden, under splendid trees. There

stands his bust; but the remembrance of himself, his home,

his own little garden--where is it most vivid? Lead us

thither. On yonder side of Fyri's rivulet, where the street

forms a declivity, where red-painted wooden houses boast

their living grass roofs, as fresh as if they were planted

terraces, lies Linnaeus's garden. We stand within it. How

solitary! how overgrown! Tall nettles shoot up between the

old, untrimmed, rank hedges. No water-plants appear more in

that little dried-up basin; the hedges that were formerly

clipped, put forth fresh leaves without being checked by the

gardener's shears. It was between these hedges that Linnaeus

at times saw his own double--that optical illusion which

presents the express image of a second self--from the hat to

the boots. Where a great man has lived and worked, the place

itself becomes, as it were, a part and parcel of him: the

whole, as well as a part, has mirrored itself in his eye; it

has entered into his soul, and becomes linked with it and

the whole world. We enter the orangeries: they are now

transformed into assembly-rooms; the blooming winter-garden

has disappeared; but the walls yet show a sort of herbarium.

They are hung round with the portraits of learned Swedes--a

herbarium from the garden of science and knowledge. Unknown

faces--and, to the stranger, the greatest part are unknown

names--meet us here."

A palace of Gustavus Vasa's:

"There yet stands a stone outline of Vadstene's rich palace

which he (Gustavus Vasa) erected, with towers and spires,

close by the cloister. At a far distance on the Vettern, it

looks as if it still stood in all its splendor; near, in

moonlight nights, it appears the same unchanged edifice, for

the fathom-thick walls yet remain; the carvings over the

windows and gates stand forth in light and shade, and the

moat round about, which is only separated from the Vettern

by the narrow carriage road, takes the reflection of the

immense building as a mirrored image.

"We now stand before it in daylight. Not a pane of glass is

to be found in it; planks and old doors are nailed fast to

the window frames; the balls alone still stand on the two

towers, broad, heavy, and resembling colossal toadstools.

The iron spire of the one still towers aloft in the air; the

other spire is bent: like the hands on a sundial it shows

the time--the time that is gone. The other two balls are

half fallen down; lambs frisk about between the beams, and

the space below is used as a cow-stall.

"The arms over the gateway have neither spot nor blemish:

they seem as if carved yesterday; the walls are firm, and

the stairs look like new. In the palace yard, far above the

gateway, the great folding door was opened, whence once the

minstrels stepped out and played a welcome greeting from the

balcony, but even this is broken down: we go through the

spacious kitchen, from whose white walls, a sketch of

Vadstene palace, ships, and flowering trees, in red chalk,

still attract the eye.

"Here where they cooked and roasted, is now a large empty

space; even the chimney is gone; and from the ceiling where

thick, heavy beams of timber have been placed close to one

another, there hangs the dust-covered cobweb, as if the

whole were a mass of dark gray dropping stones.

"We walk from hall to hall, and the wooden shutters are

opened to admit daylight. All is vast, lofty, spacious, and

adorned with antique chimney-pieces, and from every window

there is a charming prospect over the clear, deep Vettern.

In one of the chambers in the ground floor sat the insane

Duke Magnus (whose stone image we lately saw conspicuous in

the church), horrified at having signed his own brother's

death-warrant; dreamingly in love with the portrait of

Scotland's Queen, Mary Stuart; paying court to her and

expecting to see the ship, with her, glide over the sea

towards Vadstene. And she came--he thought she came--in the

form of a mermaid, raising herself aloft on the water: she

nodded and called to him, and the unfortunate Duke sprang

out of the window down to her. We gazed out of this window,

and below it we saw the deep moat in which he sank."

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Stock, signifies bulks, or beams; holms, _i.e._ islets, or river

islands; hence, Stockholm."

A FRENCHMAN'S OPINIONS OF AMERICAN FEMALE POETS.

We find in the Paris _Revue des Deux Mondes_, for May 15, an article,

which we translate for _The International_, on "The Female Poets of

America,"[B] by M. E. MONTEGUT. This writer's opinions respecting the

influence of Protestantism on the cultivation of poetry may amuse those

who remember who have been the greatest poets. It is a part of the cant

of criticism to point to mediaeval art as a fruit of the Roman Catholic

ascendency--as if the Roman Catholics had done more than the Protestants

for high art since the Reformation. But M. Montegut is a man of wit, and

his criticism, though we confess that it loses some of its point in our

version, will entertain the hundred of our countrywomen who make verses.

* * * * *

It is an opinion very generally entertained that the Americans are

almost exclusively occupied with material affairs, with commerce, and

the varied forms of mechanical industry. The volume of Mr. Griswold will

contribute to dispel any such idea, for in its four hundred pages,

nearly of the size of quartos, there are quoted ninety of the most

celebrated female poets of North America: ninety female poets! and all,

with few exceptions, contemporary. Why, all Europe could not count a

greater number. If therefore, we bear in mind that this voluminous

poetic _flore_ contains only the names of women, and that Mr. Rufus

Griswold has consecrated two volumes of similar dimensions, one to the

Poets of the masculine gender, and the other to the Prose-Writers of

both genders, it is difficult to believe in the literary sterility of

the United States. But why is it, that among these three or four hundred

writers, only three or four are known beyond the Atlantic? It is, that a

literature is not altogether composed of harmonious reveries, of elegant

imitations, of agreeable fancies; that poetry does not consist in a

melodious rhythm only, nor even in a tasteful choice of words, nor in a

perfect knowledge of language. Poetry, as well as all the possible

expressions of thought and genius, arises from the very depths of the

soul. It is the exterior expression of the national life, the

recital,--from the lips of an individual animated and transported with

the popular spirit--of the mysteries of his country's existence, and the

desires, aspirations and convictions of his countrymen. The poet is the

interpreter of the moral character of his country to other nations, and

his works are the highest embodiment of the manners and habits of life

in his country and his time. The poetry which does not fulfil these

conditions is not poetry. Any man writing verse, who does not feel

himself agitated in a more lively and distinct manner with the desires

which torment his contemporaries as a vague fever, who does not know

that his whole mission is to express, in an artistic and harmonious

form, the clamors and the incorrect utterance of these desires, is not

and cannot be a poet.

If such be the moral necessities which give birth to poetry, how is it

that America has not an original literature? How is it that she has no

great artists, and that there are but three or four writers--Cooper,

Channing, Emerson--who well express her spirit and tendencies? None of

the great moral qualities necessary to a poet are wanting to Americans.

They have a national pride, approaching even to sensitiveness; they have

firm and free religious faiths; life is energetic and manifests itself

abundantly every where. How is it, we ask, that we meet no man of genius

to tell us of the miracles of triumph over nature and barbarism; of

those hardy industrial enterprises, and those wonderful displays of

human activity around them; to sing the adventurous heroes of commerce

and mechanism, and that singular marriage in domestic life of sedentary

virtues with a changing, nomadic disposition--the love of the fireside,

which remains undisturbed in the midst of perpetual displacement, as of

old the tents of the patriarchs were pitched in the evening and stricken

in the morning? Is it that there is no poetry in these subjects? Here,

indeed, is a curious phenomenon, and one of the least-studied laws of

literary history.

But ought we to regard Americans unfortunate because they have no

literature of their own? In some points of view it is a reason for

envying them. When true poetry appears among a people, it is not always

a prophetic sign of future greatness; it is oftener a reflection of

greatness passed away. It announces not new destinies, but recounts a

history of the vanished and vanishing. Whenever the voice of a great

poet is heard, we are sure that the customs, the institutions, and the

religions he sings, are near their decline. Thus, Shakspeare, the most

faithful mirror of the middle and feudal ages, came with reform and the

sixteenth century; and Calderon, with the decay of Spanish Catholicism.

That opinions and manners should partake of poesy, it is necessary that

they begin to fade away into the realm of the fabulous past; it is

necessary, in order that the ideal should appear, that these cease to

exist. It was formerly said, and not without reason, "Happy the people

who have no literature!" and in our time we are tempted to say: Happy

the people who have no great poets! it is a proof that they enjoy the

plentitude of life, that they have nothing to regret, that they are

still in all their primal innocency, and the native energy of their

being.

It is curious, also, to observe, how men animated by an heroic faith,

seldom see that that faith and the deeds which it inspires, belong to

the poetic and ideal. The first Puritans, who embarked, without

resources, in a frail vessel, to seek in America the enjoyment of a free

religion, now appear to us truly poetical. Walter Scott has drawn a

thousand original characters of cavaliers and round-heads. Do you know

what was the literature of those men full of the spirit of the Bible? Do

you know what was the character of the first poetic publications in the

United States? We open Mr. Griswold's volume, and the first name is that

of Anne Bradstreet, who proceeded thither with her father, an ardent

nonconformist. Here is the title under which her poems were printed, in

the year 1640, at Boston: "_Several Poems, compiled with great variety

of Wit and Learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a

compleat Discourse and Description of the Four Elements, Constitutions,

Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, together with an exact Epitome of

the Three First Monarchies, viz. the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian; and

the beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the end of their last King;

with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems: By a Gentlewoman of New

England._" This Mrs. Bradstreet, called by the Americans, at this epoch,

the "tenth muse"--probably a very good Protestant--made invocations to

Phoebus, and imitated ---- Dubartas! Certainly, the emigrant

Americans, who were indeed the most zealous of all Protestants, did not

suspect the mournful poetry which Protestantism contains--a poetry which

we perceive to-day. It is even a part of the American life of our times.

But this absence of real poetry is far from being a bad sign; it is, on

the contrary, a proof of strength and energy.

Great works are not what we require of Americans; we would rather

endeavor to discover in them the traces of the moral spirit of their

country, its philosophical and historic signs, rather than poetic fables

skilfully constructed and eloquently told. For example, these female

poets of North America, suggest an interesting question for Europeans to

examine. Have all those Misses and Mistresses who write poems, dramas

and sonnets, any features of resemblance with our female authors? Has

America, which is represented so coarse in manners, inherited the vices

of European society, and become so degenerate as to give birth to that

monstrous nondescript, named among us a _bas-bleu_? We have endeavored,

diligently, to discover, in this large volume, traces of resemblance

between our women of letters and the female poets of America, but we

have discovered none. These daughters and wives of American citizens, of

merchants, bankers, magistrates and doctors in theology, do not write as

our female authors, from vain ambition, or love, or scandal, or (what

among us is by no means uncommon) to repent of the scandal that they

have occasioned. They write as among us young girls draw or sing. Poesy

is for them an ornamental art, and nothing more. Besides, this great

number of female poets in America, is explained by the much more liberal

education received by the women of English blood and of the Protestant

religion. We can find better specimens of poetry, certainly, but nothing

equalling them in the discretion and reserve that reign in all their

verses. We have sought, diligently, to discover the sentiments which

American women are most pleased in translating into written poetry: one

only is expressed, freely and energetically--maternal love. The other

sentiments and virtues are carefully veiled, as subjects upon which it

would be improper to dwell. Such verses are full of scruples and

delicacies, and to us, it is their principal charm. Love, so difficult

for the female heart to acknowledge in words; passionate confidences, so

easily turned into sarcasms, and almost repulsive when uttered by the

mouth of a woman, find no place in the inspirations of the American

poetess. There are no strongly expressed individual passions. Vague and

objectless longings--the cold lights of mere fancy, are the

characteristics of those writers. Sometimes we discover a regret, or a

mournful remembrance, but so obscure as to be nearly lost in a vastly

diffused hope of some good which is not realized. We have endeavored to

discover if the sentiment of conjugal love were there, but we are

disappointed. To us, Europeans, who are overwhelmed with romances, in

which this chaste sentiment is analyzed and written of in a manner to

produce absolute nausea, it is not, perhaps, known how much discretion

there is in this passionless exterior, and how commendable it is that so

holy a sentiment should not pass the sacred inclosures of the female

heart; that it should not wound the delicacies of its own natural

reserve and silence. The talents of these writers are exercised upon

permitted subjects, and not, as too often among our own female poets,

upon subjects at once easy and unlawful.

This modesty and reserve throughout the work become necessarily

monotonous--but it is of no great consequence to us. We would not have

written if it had not been to acknowledge specimens of real literary

excellence. But we have in the work itself what is of considerable value

as reflecting in some degree the American character. We can use these

elegies, reveries and monodies as a means of discovering the nature of

the virtues thus brought out from obscurity, though in coloring too pale

and uniform. The life of these women possesses nothing adventurous,

passionate, or eccentric. It is composed of three facts: birth,

marriage, and death. As to the intervals between these three solemn

events, the biographer says little, and we suppose they are filled with

exemplary virtues and the accomplishment of duties which human and

divine law imposes upon the woman. Three of these, however, are

distinguished from the others by their position in society, or by their

talents, and constitute the only singularities of the work.

We have just remarked, that these _poesies_ are all written by the

daughters of rich merchants, lawyers, and doctors of divinity; two,

however, are of low condition--a negress, Philis Wheatley Peters; and a

domestic, Maria James. The negress belonged to the close of the

eighteenth century, and was born at a time to justify the pamphlets of

Franklin on slavery, and the demands of philanthropy. This "daughter of

the murky Senegal," as one of her critics called her, has been, thanks

to the circumstances of her color, birth, and condition, a sort of

historic character. Sold at ten years of age, in a public mart of

slaves, she was purchased by Mrs. Wheatley, a lady who educated her, and

who afterwards permitted her to be called by her own name. This negress,

so little known now, has had her day in history; she visited London,

where she was an object of general esteem. Washington corresponded with

her, and the Abbe Gregoire, our revolutionary regicide, announced her a

great poet, in his Essay upon the Intellectual and Moral Faculties of

the Negro. The opponents of slavery applauded her verses with

enthusiasm, and the upholders of slavery denounced and slandered her.

She has been, for a moment, in the eyes of the universe, the noblest

type of her race--this humble black slave has been, in the civilized

world, the representative of all her brethren. Her existence has been

one of the incidents of universal history, and this unknown person has

had her share, however small, in the revolutions of the world.

Maria James was a poor servant, the child of an emigrant from Wales. An

unlettered poet, she drew her only instruction from the Bible, the

Pilgrim's Progress, and Miss Hannah More, a kind of Madame de Genlis of

puritanism; and yet it was this poor girl who wrote the most perfect

lyric, the neatest, and in a literary view, the best composed, that we

find in the collection; the lyrical pieces, by the way, are not

generally well written. The thoughts are indefinite, the images

confounded, and in some way run in upon each other. The principal

sentiment is seldom neatly distinguished. These lyrics are as the

buzzing of bees, or rather as honey scarcely formed, of which each drop

contains the perfume of the flower whence it was extracted. Here is a

piece by Maria James, which we do not give as her best, but which

overflows with a profound religious feeling, and turns the heart of the

reader, for a moment, to the haven of eternal repose:

THE PILGRIMS: TO A LADY.

We met as pilgrims meet,

Who are bound to a distant shrine,

Who spend the hours in converse sweet

From noon to the day's decline--

Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears

And their hopes, as they passed through the valley of tears.

And still they commune with delight,

Of pleasures or toils by the way,

The winds of the desert that chill them by night,

Or heat that oppresses by day:

For one to the faithful is ever at hand,

As the shade of a rock in a weary land.

We met as soldiers meet,

Ere yet the fight is won--

Ere joyful at their captain's feet

Is laid their armor down:

Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear,

In hope of the crown which the victors wear.

Though daily the strife they renew,

And their foe his thousands o'ercome,

Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view

Of safety, protection, and home:

Where they knew that their sov'reign such favor conferred,

"As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard."

We met as seamen meet,

On ocean's watery plain,

Where billows rise and tempests beat,

Ere the destined port they gain:

But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave,

Assured that their pilot is mighty to save.

They dwell on the scenes which have past,

Of perils they still may endure--

The haven of rest, where they anchor at last,

Where bliss is complete and secure--

Till its towers and spires arise from afar,

To the eye of faith as some radiant star.

We met as brethren meet,

Who are cast on a foreign strand,

Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet

And commune of their native land--

Of their father's house in that world above,

Of his tender care and his boundless love.

The city so fair to behold,

The redeemed in their vestments of white--

In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures untold,

They finally hope to unite:

Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend

To God and the Lamb in a world without end.

But of all these poetesses, the most remarkable, certainly to us, is

Maria Brooks, who died in 1845, the author of a curious poem entitled

_Zophiel_, which Southey admired, and which Charles Lamb declared to be

too extraordinary to have been conceived in the mind of a woman.

Unfortunately, in Mr. Griswold's volume, we have only an incomplete

analysis, with some brief fragments, of this poem. Notwithstanding its

incompleteness, however, there is enough to show a powerful life and a

wonderful imagination. There is in the poem a surprising union of Thomas

Moore and Shelley. Imagine the bowers of _Lalla Rookh_, through which is

sweeping the northern tempest of Shelley, bending the trees and

scattering the roses. The odes _To Cuba_, to the _Shade of her Child_,

and all her other lyrics, have, in a word, a very remarkable movement,

and are full of mysterious inquietudes and inexplicable burnings. We

cannot have an idea of the sweetness, and at the same time the

impetuosity which mingle in her verses, without thinking of the

impossible combination of the eagle and the dove--a dove with the stroke

of an eagle's wing, and which would yet, in spite of its power, retain

the timid nature of the dove, be frightened at its own strength, and

tremble in looking upward to the sun. Her compositions are full of

daring ideas imperfectly expressed, as if she were afraid of the

boldness of her heart. Often, however, her thoughts fall into the

_alambique_, the abstract and metaphysical. Her love to her child

inspired the best lines she ever composed. The sports of the little one,

whom she should see no more, associated with the remembrance of forests,

plains, and cataracts, give to that love the grandeur and infinitude of

American Nature. Of all the female poets of the new world, Maria Brooks

seems to possess most the sibylline inspirations of the celebrated women

of contemporaneous Europe. Yet she has none of that Byronean spirit that

reigns so much among them; and if we would indicate the European poetry

school to which she should be attached, we would cite, rather than that

of Byron, the names of Southey, her admirer, of Coleridge, and of John

Wilson, the author of the _City of the Plague_.

Maria Brooks is the only brilliant exception that we have met in the

collection of Mr. Griswold. All her poetic companions draw their

inspirations, not from their individual life, but their education, and

as this education is the same for all, it is not astonishing that their

works are uniform and monotonous. Yet, we do not complain, as we have

already intimated, for we are thus enabled to see some of the features

of American character more easily than if an original genius inspired

each of the poetesses. The religious sentiment, for example, is every

where uttered in these verses, but indeed it is the same that we find in

the writings of American essayists--a sort of Christian theism which is

becoming more the character of Protestantism in America. The spirit of

Christ breathes indeed in these pages, but the person itself is seldom

seen: Christ is always the teacher and saviour of the world, but the

crucified Redeemer is well nigh forgotten. The Son of God is manifested

as he appeared to his disciples; transfigured upon Tabor, they see him

in the radiant light conversing with the prophets of the ancient law. Do

you prostrate humanity in the place of the disciples and the astonished

crowd at the foot of the mountain, then you have an idea of the life of

the religious faiths more and more adopted in America. But the torments

of the Divine agony--the cross of Golgotha, and all the tragedy in the

Saviour's history upon earth, which the nations of the middle ages and

the ancient Christians held in precious remembrance, are almost

forgotten. We mention the fact as being one which the religious and

philosophic of our times may reflect upon with profit. It is the symptom

of an imminent crisis in Protestantism, and sooner or later, will not

fail of attracting discussion. This theistic sentiment, which is the

foundation of the writings of Channing and Theodore Parker, makes itself

felt continually in the verses of this collection which by manner or

subject relate to religion.

The descriptions of nature, oddly enough, never strike, as one would

expect, by their novelty. Far away we see pleasantly the names of palms,

cotton-trees, cocoa trees, and the botanic names of flowers unknown to

us, but it is no matter whether we exchange all these trees and exotic

plants for poplars, oaks, and birches, or the modern plants of our

Europe. We feel very little, in any poetry, the particular sentiment of

an original nature. In the midst of the woods and forests of the new

world, one can readily believe himself among those of France or England;

he will remark only a more lively picture of verdure and waters. Have

you ever seen the landscapes of Theodore Rousseau? The grass is greener

and the yellow leaves are yellower than in the paintings of any other

artist. But the presence of nature is not there. Such is the effect upon

us of the descriptions given by these female poets. Here, in support of

our assertion, is a picture by Mrs. Frances Green.

Stillness of summer noontide over hill,

And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,

Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep

Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.

No wind breathed through the forest that could stir

The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound

Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird,

Or else the polished leaves were turning back

To their own natural places, whence the wind

Of the last hour had flung them. From afar

Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued

To a melodious murmur, like the chant

Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest.

A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves,

And from their shivering stems an utterance came,

So delicate and spirit like, it seemed

The soul of music breathed, without a voice.

The anemone bent low her drooping head,

Mourning the absence of her truant love,

Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye,

To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south,

Coming to wake her with renewed life.

The eglantine breathed perfume; and the rose

Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light,

Fair as the vermil on the cheek of hope.

Where'er in sheltered nook or quiet dell,

The waters, like enamored lovers, found

A thousand sweet excuses for delay,

The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast,

Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came

To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.

The wild-bee hovering on voluptuous wing,

Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence

Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,

As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.

The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate;

Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,

Till outward objects melted into dreams.

The rich vermilion of the tanager,

Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,

Like rubies set in richest emerald.

On some tall maple sat the oriole,

In black and orange, by his pendent nest,

To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;

While high amid the loftiest hickory

Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest

Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat,

Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth.

And higher yet, amid a towering pine,

Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake,

His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest,

As if he sought for plunder in his dreams.

The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad,

To revel in the sunshine; and the hare

Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect

Against the soft air-current; then she crept,

With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns.

The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs

Which late through all the forest arches rang,

Were graduated to a harmony

Of rudimental music, breathing low,

Making the soft wind richer--as the notes

Had been dissolved and mingled with the air.

Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves

Were lulled by their own chanting: breathing low,

With a just audible murmur, as the soul

Is stirred in visions with a thought of love,

He whispered back the whisper tenderly

Of the fair willows bending over him,

With a light hush upon their stirring leaves,

Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign

Of man or his abode met ear or eye,

But one great wilderness of living wood,

O'er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved,

An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock

Which bound and strengthen'd all their massive roots

Stood the great oak and giant sycamore;

Along the water-courses and the glades

Rose the fair maple and the hickory;

And on the loftier heights the towering pine--

Strong guardians of the forest--standing there,

On the old ramparts, sentinels of time,

To watch the flight of ages.[C]

These verses are pretty, perhaps very pretty. They give nature a

charming appearance,--too much like the "everlasting spring" of Ovid. Do

you not seem to lie in the shade of a European forest? Here are the same

trees, the same flowers, the same animals. But the trees are more

abundant of leaves, the grass is thicker, the sun is brighter, the

waters warmer. But there is no profoundly original painting, no broad

description by a few great outlines.

The sentiment of the beautiful and ideal is expressed in this collection

of poetry, in an uncolored, abstract, and metaphysical manner. We are

not sure that all these women love and understand the beautiful arts,

and particularly the plastic arts; the only one whose influence they

feel deeply, and which they seem to prefer, is music. And this

preference among the moderns for music is a curious fact. The

superiority given to it above painting and sculpture may be accounted

for in some degree by the fact that music accords more with woman's

instincts. Music is truly the art of the nineteenth century _par

excellence_; it is the art which expresses best incredible aspirations;

it is an art democratic in its essence. Appreciated by all living

beings, even the unintelligent tribes, to be felt, music demands neither

science nor long study--it makes every one happy, and tells to each the

story of his love.

To produce sculptors, poets, and painters, it is necessary that a

country should boast of many centuries, of a history, of a long

succession of traditions, of established customs; but modern nations,

particularly Americans, outstrip time, act with precipitation, and have

no leisure to wait the traditions of history. Hence this extraordinary

love of music, the least costly of the arts. They love music as one

loves the conversations of the evening, and refreshing sleep after a

hard day's labor. The art of music then is, if we dare say so, the art

of nations who have no time for meditation and reflection--the art of

ardent and feverish nations; for, to be understood, it requires only

that a man should have a soul, with warm desires and hopes. We find in

this collection two sonnets in honor of Beethoven and Mozart, in which

the genius of the two masters is perfectly appreciated and felt. They

are from Margaret Fuller, since Countess d'Ossoli, who was drowned by

shipwreck on her return to her native country.

BEETHOVEN.

Most intellectual master of the art,

Which best of all teaches the mind of man

The universe in all its varied plan--

What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart!

Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart,

There the rich bass the reason's balance shows;

Here breathes the softest sigh that love e'er knows;

There sudden fancies seeming without chart,

Float into wildest breezy interludes;

The past is all forgot--hopes sweetly breathe,

And our whole being glows--when lo! beneath

The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes!

Startled, we strive to free us from the chain--

Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again!

MOZART.

If to the intellect and passions strong

Beethoven speak, with such resistless power,

Making us share the full creative hour,

When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic throng,

Oh, Nature's finest lyre! to thee belong

The deepest, softest tones of tenderness,

Whose purity the listening angels bless,

With silvery clearness of seraphic song.

Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving soul!

A love, which never found its home on earth,

Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth,

And gentle laws thy slightest notes control;

Yet dear that sadness! spheral concords felt

Purify most those hearts which most they melt.

Of these two sonnets, we prefer that of Mozart, as expressing better, in

our opinion, the character of the music of the great master--as more

discriminating than that of Beethoven--a perfect description besides of

the author of _Fidelio_. The sonnets appear curious to us as sparklings

of aesthetic poetry beyond the seas.

The sentiments of American pride and of national susceptibility vibrate

here and there in all this poetry, but not very often. The remembrance

of the early emigrants, the description of America when inhabited by

savage hordes, and the comparison of this barbaric state with the

industrial wonders of the nineteenth century, are themes somewhat rare,

but which are nevertheless not forgotten. We have also noticed two or

three pieces which brought a smile upon our lips--where the shades of

old Indian sachems appear to bless modern civilization, and seem ready

to thank the Great Spirit for having exterminated their race, despoiled

and chased from their own native woods and prairies. There are besides a

few pieces borrowed from historic subjects, and a few dedicated to

individuals; some pages in honor of Washington and Napoleon, and this is

all. The rest is composed of mere musings, fancies, and elegies,

expressing no precise and distinct sentiment.

But what matters the relative weakness of this poetry? Let us rise to

higher spheres than that purely literary. The moral character and the

virtues which this collection of poetry suggests are superior to the

poetry itself. Who can tell, indeed, the good which may be done by these

musical reveries and innocent caprices? They have been composed in the

bosom of tranquility, by the fireside, among parents, children,

relatives, and friends. These were the public to which they addressed

themselves, who admired them, and drew from them their contributions to

the good and beautiful. Probably many chaste tendernesses are recognized

by the banks of these little limpid fountains of poesy; many hearts have

rejoiced in these tender harmonies; many a man, weary with the labors of

the day, has felt the sweet words of his daughter or his wife thrill his

soul; he has beheld the bright gleams of ideal realities, and laid

himself down and dreamed of images of higher beauty. In that hard,

practical country, many poetic germs have thus taken root, many coarse

natures have become more refined. What matters it, then, whether these

specimens of poetry be original or not?--they have been useful. We offer

our thanks to the female poets of America, for the seeds of piety,

virtue, and nobility sown in their country. Without noise, without

humanitary pretensions, they have fulfilled their mission of religion

and refinement.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA: BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. Philadelphia,

Henry C. Baird, 1851.

[C] From Nanuntenoo, an Indian Romance. By Frances H. Green.

Philadelphia, 1850.

JEANNE MARIE, AND LYRICAL POETRY IN GERMANY.

We are induced to translate for _The International_ the following

crisply written critique from _Die Grenzboten_, not only from its giving

for the benefit of certain of our _dilettanti_ German scholars a few

judicious remarks on the true merit of their "new celebrity," JEANNE

MARIE, but because the preceding account of the present state of lyrical

poetry in Germany, is very nearly as applicable to lyrical poetry as it

now exists among the rising bards of America and England as to that of

the father-land:

"It is now about a century since the beginning of our most brilliant

German lyrical era, and we are at the conclusion of a series of

developments, which individually display all of the peculiarities

indicative of the decline of a great epoch in art. The incredible number

of subjects which have been artistically treated, has inspired the minds

of our cotemporaries with an almost superfluity of poetically adapted

figures, forms, tones and materials, with which we are familiar from our

first breath. Vast numbers of corresponding series of similes, and

combinations of words and sentences have been naturalized in our

language, and the spirit of the rising generation cannot be other than

powerfully influenced by the incredible variety of forms and phrases,

which it acquires during education. From all which a limitation of the

creative power naturally results--since there is hardly a sentiment,

hardly a perception of the present day, which has not been rendered

applicable to poetic art; and the array of these imposing creations ring

in the soul of the young poet wonderfully through each other. It is

almost impossible to experience a new feeling which has not been sung,

and yet the impulse still exists to win for the again and again

experienced, a value, and a certain degree of originality. From which

results the most desperate efforts, by means of bold, artificial, highly

polished or tasteless images and comparisons, to form a style and

acquire a peculiar literary physiognomy: efforts which should by no

means be despised, even when the critic is compelled to blame its

results; for it is natural and unavoidable. Such a superabundance of

poetic forms of address, applications, words, and measures, are at

present current in the world, that for every poetic feeling a prosaic or

metrical reminiscence rings and echoes consciously or unconsciously, and

more or less clearly, through the poetic soul. To avoid this wearisome

beaten path, our poets are driven, on the one hand, into unheard of

refinements of metre and words--or on the other, into an affected

barbarism and roughness. And since the quantity of poetic metres,

applications, and forms of speech, has become so incredibly large that

they every where pass and are received as a sort of _spiritual small

change_, it has become infinitely easier to express an idea in tolerably

good poetic language, than it was fifty years ago. Gleim, Holty, and

Buerger, are to us great men, not because their poems are so much better

than those manufactured at the present day, but because their every poem

was a victory gained over the barbarism and want of form in the German

language as it then existed--a true conquest for the realm of beauty and

art. At present, any fool who has by heart his Schiller or his Heine,

can collect and write that which may pass for his 'poem'--though perhaps

not an atom of the whole is the result of aught save mere reproduction.

What is really wanting to all our writers is the _correct_ and

_artistic_ adaptation of terms. For this modern dilettanti reproduction

and combination of the thoughts and forms of others is but a rough and

uncomely parody of those poetic creations, which were consecrated by an

earnest striving and silent battle with the force of language. Among the

numerous modern poets in Germany, there live not a dozen who can write a

truly correct verse and make just applications of our so poetically

adapted language. The which assertion, seemingly a paradox--is

nevertheless natural enough.

"And yet the creative impulse lives in many a soul, nor has there for a

long time existed a more generally diffused or more exquisite

appreciation of lyrical poetry than during the past year. New poets of

an aristocratic or pious tendency are eagerly purchased and admired,

which is also according to rule, since they reflect the spirit of the

age, and correspond with modern wants. Such a peculiar influence on the

interest of the public at large has naturally conducted to the most

elegant style of publication of recent poems. It has become a real

pleasure to see their paper, type, and binding, and their neat garments

of fine linen, delicately trimmed and lettered with burnished gold. Such

a highly ornamented work at present adorns every table, and appears

right well in the white little hand of its fair possessor.

"The poems of Jeanne Marie, the popular romance writer, are by an

intelligent and well educated lady. She has evidently observed and

reflected much in the world, and had also her own experiences

therein--yet knows how to express with propriety and consciousness her

most passionate feelings. She is, however, in her poems, rather witty

and calculating, than inspired with heart and soul. Those productions

are, for the greater part, images and comparisons--not unfrequently very

exquisitely conceived and executed--the _point_ being occasionally a

gross antithesis, as for example in the poem, _Alles nur Du_:

"'What I most longed for, thou hast to me given,

What I possess, belongeth all to thee;

Thou art mine _I_--thine is my life and heaven,

My life is thine, and thine my all _To-Be_.'

"Or in other poems, the conclusion merely amounts to the explanation of

a comparison, as in the _New Cloak Song_, in which on a rusty nail, a

torn cloak explains itself as the cloak of Christian love. But where our

poetess simply narrates or describes, her art is truly agreeable, only

that the lively and closely detailed perceptions, which shoot forth in

her soul, often appear obscure from a want of practice in poetic

language, and not unfrequently entirely perverted on account of an utter

deficiency in logical acuteness.

"But since this poetess is endowed with far more than her

cotemporaries--_id est_, a peculiar talent to conceive and represent in

a lively manner epic details--let us, for the sake of art, gently beg of

her to do something for this her talent. She is by far too ignorant of

the art of application of terms in lyrical poetry, her delivery is too

variable and inaccurate, while botched-up expressions (_Flickwoerter_)

and startling instances of incorrectness in language are in her writings

every where to be met with. As yet she is a mere amateur and

_dilettant_, and her right, to lay before the literary world her poetic

inspirations, may very correctly be doubted; and yet she has evidently

in her the material for something far better. This she can attain in

only one way. She must lay aside all the flaunt and tawdriness of her

similes and figures, and then strive to express a lively emotion or an

interesting expression, with the simplest words, first in prose--and

_then_ in verse. What she has written should then be carefully thought

over--every line and word tested, and no inaccuracy in poetical

perceptions, no oblique expression, and no metrical defect be suffered

to remain."

_Authors and Books._

A new German work, entitled _Klopstock in Zurich from the years 1730 to

1751_, gives quite a new portrait of the poet of the Messias, who, both

by the time of his appearance and by the dignity of his theme, is held

as the patriarch of German poetry. In this sprightly little volume the

mystic halo with which an exaggerated homage has invested the head of

the genial young German rolls away, and we behold a pleasant fellow in

gay summer costume, floating about upon the blue lake of Zurich,

surrounded by a circle of fair and admiring votaries, to whom he chants

strains from his immortal poem, and reaps a harvest of kisses in return.

We behold a chivalrous equestrian dashing through the still streets of

old Zurich, draining unreasonable depths of beer with wild students,

biting glass, and swallowing coal, until the old Bodmer with whom he was

living--a reverential admirer of the great Prophet of the Messias, and

in whose imagination Klopstock sat separate in a godlike and passionless

serenity--was bitterly grieved by these earthly experiences of a Greek

rather than of a Christian divinity, complained, remonstrated, rebuked,

until the jovial poet was forced to leave the good Bodmer's house, and

betake himself to Rape's, with whom he sat in silken hose, and

speculated upon the universe. It is always pleasant to hear these human

facts of the heroes of fame and imagination. Few things remove

Washington farther from the general sympathy than the unbending

austerity of hue in which his mental portrait is always colored. Why

should our great men, whose humanity makes them dearer, go so solemnly

and sadly through all posterity? Burns could draw the tired hostlers of

village inns from their beds to listen open-mouthed and open-hearted to

his wondrous and witching stories. Shakspeare shall always have stolen

sheep, even though De Quincy proves by splendid and resonant reasoning

that he could never have done it. Raphael shall have been a warm-blooded

man, spite of our cold-blooded speculations upon his saintship, so that

we shall not wonder at De Maistre's delicate and dainty truth that the

Fornarina "loved her love more than her lover." Not that sheep-stealing,

or any other peccadillo is beautiful, or in any way to be commended or

imitated, but that these are the signs of human and actual sympathy

which these great and glorious geniuses show us--as stately sky-sailed

galleons, sweeping the sea into admiring calm at their progress, might

hang out simple lanterns to the fishing-smacks around, to show their

crews that the same red blood was the sap of all that splendid life. "Is

he not the Just?" "Yes--and because he is the Just, I have done it."

Poor old Herr Bodmer could not see with equanimity the illustrious guest

of his imagination boating about the lake with the girls at Zurich, and

selling the stanzas--of priceless worth to him--for a snatched and

blushing kiss. For our own part, we are glad that generous Mr. Morikofer

has pulled off the bleached horse hair wig of factitious gravity, and

shown us the natural moist and waving hair of a human-hearted poet.

* * * * *

A _History of German Literature_, from W. WACKERNAGEL, is coming out in

parts at Basle. Since Gervinus there has been no broad treatment of the

subject. But Gervinus gives us rather a history of the cultivation than

of the literature of Germany. Vilmar is much too partial and partisan,

and Hillebrand treats only the period from Lessing to the present time.

Wackernagel surveys the whole ground from the beginning. The first part

of his work is occupied with the elder literature of Germany, but he has

handled it so dexterously that it interests the general reader, even

while he develops the laws by which the old high German proceeded from

the Gothic, and the middle high German from that. He divides the

literary history into three parts. 1. The old high German era, Frank,

Carlovingian, of the German Latinity of the bards. 2. The middle high

German, beginning with the Crusades, and treating all the chivalric,

social, and international relations which they inspired. 3. The new

German style. The treatise is original and profound, and lacks only a

little more elaboration of the biographical notices.

* * * * *

A somewhat curious proof of the influence which America at present

exerts, even in language, may be found in the title of a dictionary

(English and German), recently published at Brunswick. The title alluded

to, is as follows: _A new and complete dictionary of the English and

German languages, compiled with especial regard to the American idiom

for general use; containing a concise grammar, &c., &c._: by WILLIAM

ODELL ELWELL.

* * * * *

CARL HEIDELOFF, whose exquisite work on the architectural ornaments of

the Middle Ages, should entitle him to the gratitude of every student of

mediaeval art, will publish, before the end of this month, by Geigar of

Nuremberz, a folio, illustrated with the finest steel engravings,

entitled _Architectonic Sketches, and complete buildings, in the

Byzantine and Old German styles_.

* * * * *

It has long been a mooted point among the philosophers of the beautiful

in Germany whether the art of gardening was a legitimate branch of

aesthetic culture. Bouterweck denied that the artificial perversions of

an old-fashioned French garden had the slightest relation to art, but

admitted that the _Landschafts-gartenkunst_, or art of landscape

gardening, might very properly be ranked with painting and sculpture.

Thiersch passes the subject by in silent contempt, while Tittman, whose

work on beauty and art is fast becoming a universal hand-book of

aesthetics, declares, on the other hand, that it is, even more than

architecture, closely allied to the study of the beautiful, since its

object is far less directly connected with human wants, and more nearly

related to the attractive and fascinating. Herr Rudolph Siebeck would

appear, however, to have put the question for a time at rest, by a work

at present publishing by Voigt, in Leipsic, entitled _Die Vildende

Gartenkunst, in ihren modernen Formen_, which, as he very correctly

asserts, "embraces in one comprehensive theory all those laws of the art

of gardening which aesthetics present, by the application of natural and

artificial methods, in order to plan and execute walks and grounds,

according to the dictates of a refined taste." In pursuance of this

great aim, Herr Siebeck, (who was, by the way, formerly the imperial

Russian court-gardener at Lazienka, and is at present council-gardener

at Leipsic,) after completing his education as a practical gardener,

scientifically studied the higher principles of his art at the

universities of Munich and Leipsic, both of which, but particularly the

former, have long been celebrated for the facilities which they afford

for this study. After which, under the kind patronage of Baron Hugel, he

journeyed to "every country" the natives of which had so far advanced in

the art of gardening as to deserve the honor of a visit. The results of

this study and labor are given in the above-titled volume, which

embraces all things, if not exactly from the cedar of Lebanon to the

hyssop on the wall, at least from the largest royal park to the smallest

garden in a city. The work is illustrated with twenty colored garden

plans, arranged according to the following categories: 1. Kitchen

Gardens. 2. Pleasure Gardens. 3. Pleasure and Kitchen Gardens. 4. Public

Gardens. 5. A Botanical Garden.

* * * * *

The first volume of a new _Life of Goethe_, by J. W. SCHAFER, has been

published, of which we find flattering accounts. Also the _Life and

Times of Joachim Jurgins_, with Goethe's fragments upon his works by G.

C. Guhsaner. He was the contemporary of Galileo, Kepler, Cartesius, &c.

* * * * *

FRANZ LISZT, the famous pianist, has written a pleasant pamphlet in

favor of the project of a Goethean Institute of Art in Weimar, where he

is chapel master.

* * * * *

WEIL--not _Alexander_ of the Corsaire, but Dr. GUSTAV WEIL, Professor of

Oriental languages and History at Heidelberg--is publishing at Mannheim,

a _History of the Khalifs_,[D] which, as regards extent, erudition, and

accuracy, may be fairly ranked with any work on this subject extant. The

title is, however, only partial; that of "An Universal History of

Islamism," would be far more appropriate. The Khalifate forms, so to

speak, a nucleus around which are grouped as integral parts all of the

numerous dynasties which were in any degree connected with the

Khalifate, while those which were more nearly within its influence, as

the Saffarides, the Tulinides, Bujides, and Saljucks, are illustrated

with extraordinary learning and research. An excellent history of Arabic

literature to the midst of the fourth century of the Hegira is

appropriately introduced. The reader will remember that SCHLOSSER, in

the introduction to his fourth volume of the _Weltgeschichte_, remarks

that in the oriental portion of that work he had been guided _solely_ by

the "Life of Mohammed," by Weil, and this "History of the Khalifate," of

which, however, only the first volume had then appeared. _Weil_, remarks

the great "modern Tacitus," "is at present universally recognized as one

of the first oriental scholars in Germany or France. He has brought from

manuscripts many new things to light, and his works may be regarded as

historical sources."

* * * * *

VON RAHDEN, a German officer of note, has published some very

interesting _Reminiscences of a Military Career_. The third part, which

is just completed, contains the history of his campaigns with the

earliest army in Spain. He is a soldier of the old type, and was devoted

body and soul to Don Carlos--and if his story occasionally expands into

romance, it is readily forgiven for the greater local truth and

impression thereby obtained. He paints battle-pieces in a most vivid

manner, pervaded by that interest in the individual which lends so

fascinating a charm to all narration. In his first Spanish battle, when

stationed as an outpost in the very tempest of bullets and balls, he

quietly takes time to draw the country and the situation of the enemy.

His hero is Lichnowsky--the young German Prince, who was so inhumanly

butchered during the session of the German Parliament in Frankfort. He

was in Spanish battle as cool, skilful, and death-despising, as he was

chivalric against the crudeness of the political philosophers, and noble

against the beastly brutality of his assassins, in central Germany.

* * * * *

The third part of the life of BARON VON STEIN, the celebrated Prussian

statesman, is published. The chief interest of this part is the history

of Stein's sympathy with the Emperor Alexander of Russia, whom he

regarded as the Saviour of Europe.

* * * * *

ADELBERT KELLER, one of the most zealous among the mediaeval romantic

antiquaries of the Tubingen school, and well known by his accurate

editions of the _Gesta Romanorum, Les Romans des Sept Sages, Romancero

del Cid_, and _Gudrun_, has recently, in company with Wilhelm Holland,

prepared for the press a new edition of the songs of _Guillem IX., Count

of Poictiers and Duke of Aquitania_. In addition to the chair of

Professor Extraordinary of Modern Languages, (which our readers need not

be informed is nothing very extraordinary at a German university,)

Keller holds the far more important office of teacher of the German

Language and Literature at the university of Tubingen. We presume that

few men, even in France or Germany, have more carefully or

enthusiastically hunted over the various MS. libraries of Italy or his

own country, in search of Minnesinger and Provencal literature than

Keller.

* * * * *

The twenty-fifth publication of the _Geschichte der Europaischen

Staaten_ (History of the States of Europe) consists of continuations of

histories of Austria and Prussia. The series is edited by the well-known

scholars HEEREN and UKERT. It has been in progress more than twenty

years, and is designed to embrace a complete body of American history,

by competent authors. Fifty volumes have already been issued, embracing

in complete works, Italy, by Leo, finished 1832; German Empire, by

Pfister, 1836; Saxony, by Bottiger, 1837; Netherlands, by Van Kampen,

1837; Austria, by Mailath, 1850; France to the Revolution, by Schmidt,

1848; France, from the Revolution, by Wachsmuth, 1844; the Histories of

Denmark, by Dahlmann (vol. III. in 1844); of Portugal, by Schafer (vol.

III. in 1850); of Russia, continued by Herrmann after Strahl's decease

(vol. IV. 1849); of Prussia, by Stenzel (vol. IV. 1850) are all far

advanced, and their completion may be looked for at no distant period.

Single volumes, also, have appeared, by Zinkeisen, on the Ottoman

Kingdom; by Ropel, on Poland; and by Bulau on the Modern History of

Germany. The _Athenaeum_ observes that when the series is completed, the

Germans and those who read German in other countries will have, in no

immoderate compass, a body of European history, uniform in its general

plan, and maintaining a standard of competent authorship such as cannot,

we believe, be found in any other language.

* * * * *

The well-known Countess SPAUR, the wife of the Bavarian Ambassador at

Rome, is engaged upon a series of memoirs of events connected with the

flight of the Pope from Rome in 1849. It will be remembered that the

Pope escaped under convoy of the Bavarian ambassador, and the consequent

completeness of information added to the graceful elegance of her style,

will produce a brilliant and interesting book.

* * * * *

A singular occurrence which took place very recently in Berlin affords a

curious illustration of a line in _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, in

which, speaking of German idioms, the writer somewhat inaccurately

remarks, that "the U, twice dotted, is pronounced like E;" inaccurately,

we say, since this pronunciation is not found in the pure north German.

Dr. WIRTH, director of the opera at Berlin, was during the past month

confounded by some not very intelligent police agents of that city with

the revolutionary WURTH (who was however deceased in 1848), arrested,

and subjected to much personal inconvenience, before he could prove to

their satisfaction that he was not the _ci-devant_ disturber of kingly

peace.

* * * * *

The COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN, has written her spiritual experience in a

work published in Mannheim, entitled, _From Babylon to Jerusalem_. It is

a history of her own soul, showing how it journeyed from confusion and

doubt to peace. In it she says of the famous holy coat of Treves: "It

was not comprehended--what did that show? How wonderful and incredible

it was that thousands and thousands journeyed up the Rhine and down, not

alone of the lower classes, but of the intelligent, of the cultivated

and elegant class. And could this be really the Saviour's garment? And

were the cures real which had been reported in all the journals as

wrought by it? Like all the rest, I shared the religious enthusiasm of

which no Protestant can conceive. Instead of ridiculing and scorning, I

wrote that I knew not if this was the identical garment, but this was

certainly the same faith that cast the woman at the feet of Christ, and

caused her to kiss the hem of his robe, and be healed. My instinct was

just, but my reasoning false. For if the old faith was so fast, so

glowing, and so immortal in the old church, how could I ever say better

_no_ church than _one_ only?"

* * * * *

A singular book is announced in Germany, a country in which we are not

aware that singular books have ever been rare, under the title of

_Intercourse with the Departed by means of Magnetism_. "A book for the

consolation of Humanity, containing the most irresistible evidence of

the personal continuance and activity of the soul after its separation

from the body, collected from contemporary notes taken from extatic

somnambulists, by LUIS ALPHONSE CAHAGNET, with a critical preface by Dr.

J. Newberth, authorized magnetizer in Berlin and Associate of the

Imperial Leopold Academy of Sciences." A prospectus, modest enough in

style but of very large pretensions, sets forth that it is not a

speculation, but a communication of truth, which is nowise contrary to

the Christian religion, but is calculated to exercise a genial influence

upon the faithful to disperse all doubts and to advance the kingdom of

Faith and Love. Who will fail warmly to wish "God-speed" to a work that

proposes to accomplish such rich results?

* * * * *

In Russia the singular prejudice has long obtained that the old

Sclavonian dialects had nothing in common with the Russian language. But

there is now a change in the opinions of the learned, and many skilful

philologists are at present engaged in scientific speculations upon the

subject. SRESNEWSKY, DAWYDOFF, and SCHEWYREFF have recently published

works upon the question. The first has "Memoirs upon the new efforts

towards a philological investigation of the old Sclavonian Language,"

and "Thoughts upon the History of the Russian Language." Dawydoff has

published "An attempt at a Grammar of Universal Comparison of the

Russian Language," and Schwyreff "A Journey to the Convent of

Kirillo-Bjeloserski," an archaeological work, represented as a model of

its kind. Schewyreff is a well known, educated, and learned man, fully

cognizant of the results of philogical study in the west. It is evident

that Russia constantly aims to put herself abreast of western science.

Wostokoff is busy upon a complete grammar of the old Sclavonic language,

and a dictionary of the same. Both works will soon go to press. Since

Dobrowsky, the area of old Sclavonian philology has much extended

itself, and there can be no doubt that Wostokoff has made use of all the

new material. The study of the Sclavonian language and literature has

more than a merely philological interest. It will throw much light upon

the confused history of Eastern Europe from the sixth to the ninth

century,--a light sadly needed, even after Schaffarik's Sclavonian

antiquities.

* * * * *

In Munich, we observe that THIERSCH, Professor of Fine Arts at the

University of the "German Athens," and whose _Aesthetik_, if not the

most philosophic, is at least the most agreeable and practical, (though

we know that _Krug_ disposes of it in conversation very briefly with the

expression "merely eclectic,") has published a new edition of his _Ziber

das Erechtheum auf der Akropolis zu Athen_, with excellent colored

illustrations by METZGER. Out of Germany the reputation of Thiersch

rests principally upon his researches into and elucidations of Athenian

antiquities.

* * * * *

A drama by an unknown poet, ROBERT PROeLSS, _The Right of Love_, attracts

much attention in Germany, from its clear and interesting style, its

fresh and lively dialogue, and the delicate drawing of its characters.

The author seems to have modelled himself upon Shakspeare, but his work

shows traces also of Italian study, and the critics, without questioning

Proelss' originality or asserting an imitation, are reminded of

Machiavelli's Mandragora. They find in the author the material of a

genuine dramatist--experience, feeling, a sharp insight into character,

and great skill in dialogue. The literary eye must be fastened upon such

promise. It is so refreshing to find a Phenix in a mare's nest.

* * * * *

_Pictures of Travel and Study, from the North of the United States of

America_, is the title of a new book of travel by Mr. CHARLES QUENTIN, a

German gentleman and official from Prussia. It is a diary of

impressions, and without aiming at any high literary or philosophical

excellence, abounds in sharp and smart observations. Some things do not

escape the shrewd eye of Mr. Quentin, that not all Americans observe. As

an illustration, we remark his notice of the American female habit in

"shopping," of tumbling over all the goods in the shop and departing

without finding "anything to suit." Hence our author infers the social

supremacy of women in America. A new way of arriving at the old fact--a

fact which the sane and sensible of the sex cannot fail to perceive and

acknowledge. The book is written in a vivacious, colloquial humor.

* * * * *

ERNST FORSTER, well known as having married the daughter of Jean Paul

Richter, but more celebrated for his translation of and notes to the

best version of Vasari ever published, and who would deserve an

honorable mention were it only for his well-known hospitality to all

Americans visiting Munich, has recently given to the world, through the

eminent bibliographist and publisher Kaiser, a brochure, entitled, _Wem

Gebuhrt der Krang?_ (Who deserves the Wreath?) a holiday-gift on the

occasion of uncovering the colossal bronze statue of Bavaria. Next to

King Ludwig himself, there are no Germans of the present day who

entertain more comprehensive or sounder views of art in its manifold

relations than Dr. Ernst Forster.

* * * * *

Since the remarkable increase of late years of the use of stucco

ornaments in our Atlantic cities, we deem it almost a duty to call the

attention of our builders to a work by Professor Eisenlohr, recently

published, at a very moderate price, by Veith, of Carlsruhre, entitled

_Architectural Ornaments, in Clay and Gypsum, for practical use, with

Lithographed Illustrations_. Folio, 1 volume.

* * * * *

The publishing house of BROCKHAUS, one of the largest in Germany, is

printing a series of Russian novels and poems, translated into German by

William Wolfsohn.

* * * * *

_The History of the United States Exploring Expedition_, under

Lieutenant WILKES, is just translated and published in Germany.

* * * * *

COUNT MORITZ STRACHWITZ has published a new volume of poems. His former

books have been well received.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR BULAU'S _Review of the Year 1850_, has reached a second

edition.

* * * * *

BAYARD TAYLOR'S _El Dorado_ has lately appeared in a German

translation.

* * * * *

In Paris the first volume of the collection of _Greek and Latin

Physicians_ has just appeared. To the profession this will be a work of

the greatest interest and importance. The idea originated with Dr.

DAREMBERG, a learned physician, enamored of his art, versed in the

ancient languages--familiar with the study of MSS., and a visitor of all

the principal libraries of Europe for the purposes of his work. The book

will comprise the text of the authors, collated with manuscripts, and

with the best editions, with a French translation and notes. To each

division there will be a copious index. Daremberg has too well

appreciated the scope and dignity of his work to suppose that it could

be accomplished by any individual, and has therefore associated with

himself several of the most distinguished savans in various departments

of the undertaking, both in France and elsewhere. He comprehended no

less the immense expense of the work, and applied in its inception under

the monarchy, to the Government for aid. It was granted, and the

Republic does not shrink from the fulfilment of that promise of its

predecessor, in so truly a democratic work--for every thing which tends

to the knowledge of the means of preserving health is essentially

democratic. The French translation is admirably precise and clear; the

notes are numerous but useful--chiefly upon natural history--the customs

of the ancients--their hygiene, and upon all points which required

elucidation. The work cannot be completed for several years, but

Daremberg is young and ardent, and for his future labors he will have

the solace of his first great and undoubted success.

* * * * *

The correspondence of MIRABEAU during the last three years of his life,

and the complete history of his relations to the Court, is announced in

Paris by Le Normant, in three octavo volumes. According to the _Journal

des Debats_, the greatest part of these papers have never been printed.

Mirabeau, a few days before his death, (2d April, 1794,) delivered them

to his friend the Count de Mark, from whose hands, when he died at

Brussels in 1833, they came into the possession of M. de Barcourt. This

gentleman, formerly Ambassador to the United States, has enriched the

volume with historical notes and commentaries.

* * * * *

LOUIS BLANC has published a political pamphlet called _Plus de

Girondins_ (No more Girondins), in which the opposition of the extreme

party to the moderate party is expressed with the greatest force. The

freedom of the press, and the liberty of public meeting, he wishes

entirely unlimited, and the clubs to be every where opened as popular

schools of politics. Exile has but knit him more closely to the

democratic ideas, for whose development he hoped so much in the

Revolution of '48. His compeer, Ledru Rollin, achieved nothing by his

last year's work upon the Decadence of England, but ridicule in England,

and no great fame at home.

* * * * *

A curious anecdote is told of SCRIBE, the French vaudevilliste. He was

one day at work in his cabinet, when a young man entered. It was

Lacenaire. He seemed very modest, and stated delicately the occasion of

his visit. He had been appointed to a situation in Belgium, but was

entirely without means, and requested of Scribe thirty or forty francs

to pay his way to Brussels. Scribe was attracted by the young man's tone

and manner. "Thirty to forty francs," said he, "are too few. I must give

you a hundred, and if you choose to repay them, you can do so to an old

woman in Brussels, who was a servant of our family. Here is her

address." So saying, Scribe went to his drawer and took out the gold for

the young man, who expressed his gratitude with all the elegance of a

cultivated and sensitive mind, and left a copy of verses with Scribe for

a remembrance. Since then Lacenaire has confessed that he knew the

arrangement of Scribe's chamber, and had chosen an hour when the

servants were absent. "I put myself between Scribe and the bell-rope,

and if he had refused me, I should have made short and noiseless work

with my knife. Scribe owed his life to his generosity." In this little

story is there not an averted tragedy as sad as Eugene Aram's?

* * * * *

A new work, of great importance to the oriental student, will soon reach

England from Siam, where it has been already published. It is a new

Siamese grammar, prepared by the Roman Catholic Vicar General, who has

resided in Siam for twenty years. In the "Journal of the English

Archipelago," Mr. Taylor Jones announces the work and its value, with

some illustrative facts in the author's life. The bishop brings to the

task not alone his own remarkable intelligence and devotion, but the

results of the inquiries of his predecessors for two centuries. The work

forms a quarto of two hundred and forty-six pages, and treats of a mass

of matter necessary to the understanding of the language, but which is

not elsewhere to be found. Among this the reckoning of time, of money,

measures, and weights, as well as chronology, literature, and religion,

are included. The eight or ten pages devoted to chronology afford a

clear and just insight into the old history of Siam. The enumeration of

Siamese books, although not complete, shows that Siamese literature is

by no means poor. The miscellaneous list contains one hundred and fifty

various books upon grammar, arithmetic, astronomy, astrology, and

history, and many poetical works, especially romances. The various

warlike romances of China are very faithfully translated and broadly

diffused in Siam. Sometimes these ponderous productions climb to a

series of ninety volumes. The historical reports of Siam make forty

volumes, and there are no less than thirty-six holy Buddhist books. A

sketch of Buddhism is given in the present work, and the good bishop is

now about commencing a Siamese dictionary.

* * * * *

The literature of democracy has received another illustration in a

social tragedy in five acts, by the citizen Xavier Sauriac, entitled The

Death of Jesus. Its object of course is to embody dramatically the

sentiment of the old Revolution that Jesus Christ was a _Sans Culottes_,

akin to the feeling which causes ardent abolitionists to assert that he

was a negro. This tragedy makes Jesus Christ a democratic philosopher,

Herod an apostle, Magdalen a kind of Fleur de Marie. The hero rehearses

a plan for the salvation of the world, which is simply crude communism.

We quote an illustration:

"Quand l'etat, heritier de la famille eteinte,

Sera du sol entier possesseur sans contrainte,

Qu'il serve alors de pere a tous les citoyens

Et de la vie a tous depense les moyens."

And again:

"Dans les bizars brillante du luxe industriel,

Il devienue lui seul, marchand universel."

This work is probably a very sincere one, and deserves a prominent place

among the curiosities of literature. Nevertheless, such familiar

presentation of the Saviour is not only blasphemous but ridiculous.

* * * * *

MR. ALEXANDER DUFAI has published in Paris a satire on socialist women,

under the title of _Lelila, ou la Femme Socialiste_, and the journals of

the sect are very angry with him that he illustrates the tendencies of

socialism by presenting as his heroine its female apostle, George Sand.

That there may be no doubt of his intention, he tells us in the preface

that he has made _Lelila_ narrate her childhood, education, and poetic

dreams, her marriage with a _sous prefet_, who did not "understand" her,

and her amours with a poet who _did_ understand her, for he carried her

off; he has also made _Lelila_ marry by turns all the socialist systems

in the persons of their chiefs; and finally, shows her in the revolution

of 1848, presiding at _Le Club des Femmes_, and playing an active part

in public life. "After this," observes the _Leader_, "he has the

shameless audacity to say he attacks the 'species,' not the

'individual!'"

* * * * *

The two last volumes of the Remains of SAINT-MARTIN have just been

issued from the National Press in Paris, under the title, _Fragments of

a History of the Arsacides, posthumous work of M. Saint-Martin_. He was

a well-known French _litterateur_, and director of the library of the

Arsenal. Strange stories are told of his unwearied diligence and

devotion to details. He was the original proposer of a plan for a

systematic and scientific investigation of oriental antiquities, and

another for a collection of oriental classics. This latter was his

darling project, for the execution of which Louis XVIII. granted a

commission; but the revolution of 1830 ruined his hopes. Yet a new

commission was named, and on the day upon which it was to hold its first

session, Saint-Martin was stricken by the cholera, and died without

knowing that the hope of his life would be fulfilled.

* * * * *

The _Univers_ at Paris announces a newly-discovered document in relation

to the trial of Louis XVI., proving that the report of the Debates in

the _Moniteur_ were falsified. This document is reported to have been

published on the third of January, 1794, but has escaped all the

historians. It occurs in the report of the commission appointed by the

Convention to examine the papers found in Robespierre's possession. A

letter turns up, written by the editor of the Debates of the Convention

in the _Moniteur_ to Robespierre, and of this import: "You know that we

always report more fully the speeches of the Mountain than of the other

side. In Convet's complaint against you, I printed only a short sketch

of his first point, but the whole of your reply. And in the report of

the King's trial I introduced on his side only enough to preserve an

appearance of impartiality," &c., &c. Lamartine received these papers to

examine when he announced his history of the Girondins, but returned

them, saying that he could make no use of them.

* * * * *

An important work is announced by Joubert in Paris, _Les Murailles

Revolutionaries_, being a complete collection of professions of faith,

proclamations, placards, decrees, bulletins, facsimiles of signatures,

inedited autographs, &c., from February, 1848, to the present day: three

volumes quarto. It is to be published in twenty-four parts, one part

every month, and will supply a very important want of the future

historian of these last remarkable years.

* * * * *

M. UBICINI has just published in Paris a very interesting work on the

Ottomans, _Lettres sur la Turquie_. These letters were first printed in

successive numbers of the _Moniteur_, from March, 1850, to the present

summer, and they treat with decided ability and with freshness the chief

subjects connected with Mohammedan civilization, and with the present

condition and prospects of the Turkish empire, as the government,

administration, army, finances, agriculture, commerce, public

instruction, organization of religion, &c.

* * * * *

The _Collection of Sacred Moralists_, which has been for some time in

course of publication in Paris, under the editorial supervision of the

famous editor of French classics, M. Lefevre, has been just completed by

the publication of the two volumes, of which one contains the _Moral

Thoughts_ of Confucius, and the other the work known as _The Sacred Book

of China_.

* * * * *

M. REGNAULT'S new book, which he would have regarded as a completion of

Louis Blanc's _Histoire de Dix Ans_, is described as a very violent and

not very clever pamphlet.

* * * * *

LAMARTINE'S sentimental and lachrymose romance of _Raphael_, has passed

into a third edition in Paris.

* * * * *

The French poet MERY has just published a romance entitled _Confessions

de Marion Delorme_. We cannot imagine any additional interest from

fictitious coloring to a life such as it is believed was really led by

the heroine.

"Marion Delorme was born in 1612 or 1615, but where is not

exactly known, though probably in Champagne or Franche

Comte. Of marvellous beauty and exquisite wit, she became,

after certain amatory adventures, the mistress, and

subsequently by secret marriage the wife, of Cinq Mars, and,

as such, was persecuted by the terrible Cardinal Richelieu.

Even before he was sent to the scaffold, she had formed

other intrigues, and then had a long list of lovers, amongst

whom were de Grammont and Saint Evremont; then she became

the 'glass of fashion and the mould of form, the observed of

all observers,' and the admired of all gallants of the good

city of Paris; then she dabbled in politics, and eventually

became one of the chiefs of the malcontent party; then she

was in danger of arrest, like the Princes de Conti and de

Conde; then to escape a jail she spread a rumor that she was

dead, and actually got up a mock funeral of herself;

afterwards, she escaped to England, married a lord, and in a

short time became a widow with a legacy of L4000; then she

returned to France, and on her way to Paris was attacked by

brigands, robbed of her money, and made to marry the chief

of the band; four years later she was again a widow, and

then she wedded a M. Laborde; after living with him

seventeen years, he died, and she went to Paris with the

remains of her fortune; robbed by her domestics, she was

reduced to beggary, and continued to lead a wretched

existence to the extraordinary age of one hundred and

thirty-four!"

* * * * *

M. CUVILLIER-FLEURY has published _Portraits Politiques et

Revolutionnaires_, containing Louis Philippe and the Duchess d'Orleans,

Causes of the Revolution, Lamartine, Louis Blanc, Eugene Sue, Victor

Hugo, Proudhon, &c., &c. M. Cuvillier-Fleury was one of the Secretaries

of Louis Philippe.

* * * * *

MR. PARKE GODWIN'S beautiful romance of Vala (published by Putnam) has

been translated into the Swedish language. One of the journals of

Stockholm announces the translation in terms of just appreciation. "Our

excellent Lind," it is observed, "is showered over with the California

gold, but no tribute given her can equal in worth the exquisite gem

which is here cast at her feet by this most imaginative author."

* * * * *

The author of "How to make Home Unhealthy" has published in London _A

Defence of Ignorance_. It is addressed to the largest of the markets,

but to one that buys few books.

* * * * *

A new novel by CHARLES DICKENS is to be commenced early in the autumn.

Neither the title nor the subject has been announced.

* * * * *

A noble author, Viscount MAIDSTONE, has just published a poem in six

cantos, under the title of Abd-el-Kader.

* * * * *

MR. THACKERAY, who promises to come and see us, and who, of course, will

talk about us with the world afterwards, is delivering a course of six

lectures in London upon the English humorists. The first was good, and

as good as was expected, which is great praise--for few things are so

difficult as for a famous man to satisfy public expectation. The London

_Leader_ thus speaks of it:

"On Thursday the great satiric painter of social life--the

Fielding of our times--commenced at Willis's rooms the first

of those 'Lectures on the English Humorists of the

Eighteenth Century,' which many months ago we announced as

in preparation. We have never heard a lecture that delighted

us more. It was thoughtful and picturesque, with some

wonderful traces of pathos and far-reaching sentences.

Dwelling upon the moral aspects of Swift's position and

career, rather than attempting a criticism on his works,

Thackeray held his audience from first to last. He gave a

vivid picture of the early life and loneliness of the great

satirist amidst the exasperating servilities and insults

endured from Temple's household, as also of the turbulent

political bravo coming up to London to carve for himself a

pathway among lords whom he despised. In this part of the

lecture it was felt that, while satirizing that condition of

political corruption which made Swift a bravo, and used him

as such, the censor still touched upon living foibles; at

the allusion to the South Sea Bubble, with its railway

parallel, we observed some fair shoulders wince! Nor were

religious cant and formalism untouched in the admirable

picture of Swift's sacrifice of his life to an hypocrisy.

The audience was of the elite--Thomas Carlyle, Macaulay,

Milman, Milnes, Sir Robert Inglis, the Duke and Duchess of

Argyle, the Duchess of Sutherland, Lady Constance Leveson

Gower, Lady Lichfield, with many others, not a few lovely

women, and several men well known in literature and art."

Of his second lecture we quote the _Times_:

"The heroes of his second lecture were Congreve and Addison.

For Congreve, while he admitted the brilliancy of his wit,

he evinced no great respect. He characterized him as the

greatest literary "swell" that ever lived. With an air of

greatness, Congreve put on his best clothes, stalked among

wits who all thronged to admire him, however eminent they

might be, and approached fine ladies with a certainty of

conquest. The "I am the great Mr. Congreve!" was the

complacent ejaculation which seemed to break through all he

said and did. His character as a man of gallantry was

illustrated by citations from his poems, in which he

adulates or insults the ladies whom he immortalizes, and

every where appears as the irresistible seducer, sure to be

victorious in the end. And who could resist that very great

Mr. Congreve, with his very fine coat, squeezing a hand,

covered with diamonds, through the ringlets of a dishevelled

periwig? Of the moral principle of his comedies Mr.

Thackeray spoke with disgust, and traced the worship of

youth and recklessness, and the disrespect of old age, which

are such leading characteristics in those brilliant works,

through a whole series of dramatic categories from the

comedy to the puppet-show. The constant tendency, he

humorously described, is a recommendation to "Eat and drink,

and go to the deuce, when your time comes, if deuce there

be; and he confessed that he regarded these witty banquets

without love as he would contemplate the ruins of Sallust's

house at Pompeii, with all its ghastly relics of festivity.

The foppish depreciation of his own literary productions

with which Congreve met the compliments of Voltaire, Mr.

Thackeray rather commended than otherwise, but not for a

reason which would have pleased the great man. He really did

think his productions worthless, if weighed against one

kindly line of Steele or Addison.

"Addison is evidently Mr. Thackeray's favorite of the

'humorists' he has brought before the public. If Swift was

the most wretched of mankind, Addison appeared to him as the

most amiable. He admired the serene, calm character, who

could walk so majestically among his fellow-creatures, and

viewing with love all below him, could raise his eyes with

adoration to the blue sky above. He admitted that Addison

was not profound, and that his writings betray no appearance

of suffering--which probably he never knew prior to his

unlucky marriage--but at the same time he expatiated on the

kindliness of his wisdom and the genuine character of his

piety. The foible of drinking he did not attempt to conceal,

but observed that we should have liked Addison less had he

been without it, as we should have liked Sir Roger de

Coverley less without his vanities. Greatly he admired the

gentle spirit of Addison's sarcasm, as distinguished from

the merciless onslaught of Swift, remarking, that in his

mild court only minor cases were tried. Nor were words of

commendation the only means by which Mr. Thackeray indicated

his predilection for Addison. Of Swift he scarcely read a

line; Congreve he illustrated, not by extracts from the

comedies in which he lives for posterity, but by those minor

poems which, though admired by his cotemporaries, are now

little regarded; but he read several extracts from the

_Spectator_, and also Addison's well known hymn, as a

specimen of his deep feeling of devotion. Addison and

Congreve were both prosperous men in a wordly point of view,

and they were therefore introduced with a survey of that

golden age, when an epithalamium on some noble marriage, or

an ode to William III., was rewarded out of the public purse

to an extent that made the poet comfortable for life.

Congreve's first literary achievements earned for him,

through the patronage of Lord Halifax, places in the

commission for licensing hackney-coaches, in the

Custom-house, and in the Pipe-office. 'Alas!' said Mr.

Thackeray, 'there are no Pipe-offices now; the public have

smoked all the pipes!"

* * * * *

THEODORE S. FAY--of whom the literary world has heard nothing for a long

time--has in the press of the Appletons, a poem, entitled _Ulric, or the

Voices_. Mr. Fay wrote good verses twenty years ago, and we shall see

whether he has lost his art.

* * * * *

MR. HART, of Philadelphia, has lately published, in a very handsome

style, several handbooks in the mechanic arts, which are much commended.

Among them are _The Manufacture of Steel_, by Frederick Overman; _The

Practical Dyer's Guide_; the _American Cotton Spinner's Guide_, and the

London _Year Book of Facts_.

* * * * *

We are soon to have a new book from THOMAS CARLYLE--a _Memoir of the

late John Sterling_, the "Archaeus" of _Blackwood_, and the author of

some of the finest compositions in recent English literature. Sterling,

it is known to his friends, from a devout believer became a skeptic, and

then a deist, pantheist, or perhaps an atheist, and finally, having done

all that he saw to do, deliberately shut himself up to die--wrote to his

friends what time he should leave the world, and on the very day, as if

by a mere volition, went to his place. All this is concealed or passed

over very lightly by Archdeacon Hare, his biographer, and Carlyle

therefore determines that the world shall have his friend's true

history. Among Sterling's most intimate correspondents was Ralph Waldo

Emerson, and even Carlyle cannot write his life, we suspect, without

having access to the extraordinary series of letters the poet sent to

his American friend--letters, we have reason to believe, that will

command a greater fame for him than all his published works have won,

letters that almost any man might die to be the author of.

* * * * *

The most noticeable event connected with literature in this country is

an arrangement entered into between a New-York publisher and THOMAS H.

BENTON, for the publication of the _Historical Memoirs of the Life and

Times_ of that eminent person. Mr. Benton is now about sixty-eight years

of age, and for half a century he has been an active participant in

affairs. He was thirty years a senator from Missouri, to which state he

removed some time before its admission to the Union. His name has been

connected with many great measures, and very few have exercised a more

powerful influence upon our institutions or policy. The increase of his

strength, as well as the increase of his fame, has been gradual but

regular. He has been from his youth a student. To every question which

has arrested his attention he has brought all the forces of his

understanding, and what he has acquired by incessant and painful labor

he has to an astonishing degree retained after the occasions which made

it necessary have passed. At a period much beyond the noon of other men,

he was still rising. He was of the age at which Cicero achieved his

highest triumphs, before he displayed the fullness and the perfection of

his powers, in several of the remarkable debates which have had relation

to our empire on the Pacific. With his extraordinary experience, his

faithful and particular memory, and wisdom which is master of his

temper, he is perhaps before every man of his time in the requisites for

such an undertaking as that which has occupied his leisure for many

years, and the chief portion of his time since he ceased to be a

senator. His work will probably make some five large octavo volumes, and

it may be believed that in fame, authority, and length of life, it will

equal the immortal production of Clarendon.

* * * * *

A new _Life of Mr. Jefferson_ is soon to be published by Mr. RANDALL,

who has been honorably distinguished in his connection with the

government of this state. The work will embrace a very interesting

sketch of the private life of Mr. Jefferson, by Mr. Thomas Jefferson

Randolph, the statesman's grandson and executor. Whatever we may think

of the abilities or the special services of Mr. Jefferson, we are of

that large number who regard his principles as altogether erroneous and

injurious, and his character with little respect. The time is coming in

which his history must be written, not by a maker of books, but by a

philosophical statesman. Every year the materials are becoming more

accessible. The writings of Adams and Hamilton, now in course of

publication, are important contributions to them. The looked-for

correspondence of Madison will serve largely for the same end; but Mr.

Jefferson's life cannot be thoroughly understood until the collection of

his papers in the possession of the government is carefully and

intelligibly studied. The four volumes of his letters printed by Mr.

Randolph, embrace but about eight hundred, but there were sold to the

government by his executor the enormous number at _forty-two thousand

letters_ and other documents, of which nearly sixteen thousand were

written or signed by Mr. Jefferson himself. A large proportion of these

papers are doubtless most important for the illustration of contemporary

French and American biography, but the whole of them should be read by

whoever attempts to write the history of the apostle of the radical

democracy in the United States.

* * * * *

A Memoir _with a selection of the unpublished writings of the late

Margaret Fuller, Countess d'Ossoli_, is announced as in preparation by

her friends RALPH WALDO EMERSON and WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. The letters

of Margaret Fuller to the _Tribune_, would fill a large volume, and we

hope they will be reprinted with the collection of her private

correspondence and inedited essays. And some of her later critical

writings for the _Tribune_, in which the fame of more than one favorite

of certain coteries was assailed--will her editors have courage to

reproduce them? Pray you, gentlemen, consider that you propose bringing

Margaret Fuller herself from the sea, to speak again to us in her own

language; if the figure you present speak not as she spoke--all that she

would speak, regardless of your regards--it will not be believed that

you have commission for what you undertake.

* * * * *

The Rev. FREDERICK OGILBY, of Philadelphia, has in preparation a _Memoir

with selections from the Writings of the late Rev. John D. Ogilby,

D.D._, whose death at Paris was recently mentioned in these pages, and

of whose life and character we have received an eloquent portraiture in

the address delivered at his funeral by Bishop Doane.

* * * * *

An interesting article in the last _Southern Quarterly Review_ on the

life and writings of Edward Everett embraces some learned and elegant

philological discussions, in which Mr. Everett (of whom Dr. GILMAN, the

writer, is a very warm admirer) is convicted of the use of several

vulgarities, _e. g._ "in our midst," "in this connection," "reliable,"

&c. It is not often that such nice criticism is adventured in an

American review. By the way, we are surprised that in none of the

reviewals of Everett that have fallen under our notice has there been

even the suggestion of a parallel between the classical orator of

Harvard and Mr. Legare. A feeble eulogist in a Philadelphia magazine

compares him with Webster, which is merely ridiculous, as the two men

have nothing in common. It would have pleased us if Dr. Gilman had

weighed the merits of the illustrious Carolinian against those of the

New Englander most deserving of critical comparison with him.

* * * * *

MR. GILMORE SIMMS has in the press of a Charleston publisher a complete

collection of his poems--or rather a collection embracing all his

poetical compositions which so nearly meet the approval of his judgment

that he is willing to preserve them under his name. Mr. Simms is a

voluminous writer in verse as well as in prose, and we agree to an

opinion in the _Southern Literary Messenger_, that as a poet he has by

no means received justice from his contemporaries. Scarce any one in

this country has produced more fair verses, and with the fair is much

that is really beautiful. How much this proportion would be increased if

he would but labor! and not turn off sonnets as editors do paragraphs.

* * * * *

MRS. OAKESSMITH has published in the _Tribune_, ten numbers of an

eloquently earnest performance under the title of _Woman and her Needs_.

She has none of the silly and maudlin extravagances of the "Women's

Rights" party, so called, and her work may safely be placed before those

of Mary Wolstoncraft and Margaret Fuller, for ability; but we regard all

these productions as uncalled for and injurious to the best interests of

the sex. A book of much more real value may be looked for in Catherine

Beecher's _True Remedy for Woman's Wrongs_, in the press of Phillips &

Sampson, of Boston. There is no woman of stronger intellect than Miss

Beecher's now writing in this country.

* * * * *

We learn with much regret that the Rev. Dr. THOMAS H. SMYTH, of South

Carolina, of whose many and various contributions to religious and

historical literature we gave some account in an earlier number of _The

International_, is dangerously ill in Italy, where his family have

recently joined him. Dr. Smyth, our advices state, had twice been

stricken with paralysis, and had been compelled entirely to forego all

his literary occupations.

* * * * *

The new novels of the last month have been numerous. The Harpers have

published _Caleb Field_, by the author of Mrs. Margaret Maitland;

_Eastbury_, by Harriet Drury; _The Heir of Wast-Wayland_, by Harriet

Drury; _Yeast, a Problem_, by the author of Alton Locke; and some half

dozen others. From T. B. Peterson, of Philadelphia, we have _Ginevra, or

the History of a Portrait_, which we understand is by a daughter of the

late S. L. Fairfield: it is much praised in some of the journals. M.

Hart has given us another clever novelette, by Caroline Lee Hentz, under

the title of _Rena_. From Lippincott, Grambo & Co., we have _Lord and

Lady Harcourt_, one of the pleasantest books of the season.

* * * * *

MISS BREMER has passed the winter and spring in the south and west,

where she has been received with much hospitality, and detained with the

affection she seems every where to inspire. Within a few weeks she has

visited Florida, with a family of her friends from Charleston, and she

has given very careful attention, under the most favorable

circumstances, to the institutions of the southern states. She is now on

her way through Tennessee and Virginia to New-York, and will soon return

to Sweden, by way of London.

* * * * *

H. BALLIERE has just published _Vestiges of Civilization, or the

AEtiology of History, Religious, AEsthetical, Political and

Philosophical_. It appears to be written with much ability, but we are

by no means inclined to believe in the truth of the author's views. He

applies to civilization the processes which the author of the _Vestiges

of Creation_ applied to Natural History; and without attaining to the

fame of that work, the Vestiges of Civilization will probably share its

condemnation.

* * * * *

All our readers who were accustomed to read the journals twenty years

ago, will remember SHOCCO JONES, the immortal defender of the fame of

North Carolina. We had thought the mortal part of him was sent to the

bourne he was so fond of describing in fine rhetoric when he wrote

duel-challenges until a few days ago, when a friend advised us that he

had lately listened to him saying mass in a Roman Catholic chapel in

Mississippi. Who would have thought it?

* * * * *

MR. CHARLES SCRIBNER, (successor of Baker & Scribner,) has in press a

large number of interesting new works, among which are _Incidents in the

Life of a Pastor_, by the Rev. Dr. Wisner of Ithica; _The Captains of

the Old World_, by Henry William Herbert; _Naval Life: the Midshipman_,

by Lieutenant Lynch, Commander of the late Dead Sea Expedition; _The

Fall of Poland_, by L. C. Saxton; _The Evening Book_, by Mrs. Kirkland;

_Rural Homes_, by G. Wheeler; _The Epoch of Creation_, in which the

scripture doctrine is contrasted with the geological theory, by Eleazer

Lord; &c.

* * * * *

We perceive by the religious journals that Mr. JOHN NEAL, who for twenty

or thirty years has been the chief literary gladiator of the country,

has recently given his attention to religion, and is now laboring with

characteristic activity for its advancement in the city and vicinity of

Portland. Of course this is very pleasing intelligence, but we cannot

help a regret that the conversion of the author of "Randolph" had not

taken place before he printed his reviewal of the _Life of Poe_.

* * * * *

MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN has in press a collection of her Poems, which will

soon be published in a stout duodecimo, by Mr. Strong, in Nassau-street.

The merits of Mrs. Green may be partially inferred from the notice of

her in the article on our Female Poets which we translate from the last

number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, in another part of this magazine.

She has remarkable powers of description, a rich fancy, and much

poetical feeling.

* * * * *

MR. MITCHELL has published (Charles Scribner) a new edition of his

_Fresh Gleanings_, one of the most delightful books of travel we ever

read; a new edition, with a preface, in which he for the first time

avows himself the author of _The Lorgnette_, (Stringer & Townsend); and

he has a new work in the press of Mr. Scribner, besides a new and

illustrated edition of _The Reveries of a Bachelor_.

* * * * *

MR. MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, F.R.S., has returned to England, and will

soon give to the world his views of society and manners in America. He

said indeed on one or two occasions that he should write no book about

us, yet we have it from excellent authority that he has matured his plan

for the purpose, and will lose no time in bringing out the results of

his summer's observation.

* * * * *

DR. HOLBROOK, of Charleston, whose splendid work on reptiles entitles

him to be ranked with the great naturalists of the time, has taken up

his residence for the summer, we understand, at Cambridge,

Massachusetts, where he will be occupied with his forthcoming book on

American fishes, which in the beauty of its illustrations at least will

equal his previous performance.

* * * * *

MR. JUDD has in the press of Phillips & Sampson, a new edition of his

first and best novel, _Margaret, a Tale of the Real and the Ideal_. We

hope it will be illustrated with the admirable sketches of Darley.

* * * * *

MR. SCHOOLCRAFT, we are pleased to learn, has in the press of

Lippincott, Grambo & Co., his personal memoirs. They will constitute a

work of much and varied interest.

* * * * *

MR. MELVILLE will soon be again before the public in a romance. The

title of his new work is not announced, but we believe it is in press.

* * * * *

We have before us the first volume--printed at Charleston, with an

elegance that would do credit to our best northern printers--of the

_History of Alabama, and Incidentally of Georgia and Mississippi, from

the Earliest period_, by ALBERT JAMES PICKETT. In _The International_

for May we gave some account of the design. The work is executed

throughout with great care, and Colonel Pickett may be congratulated

upon having done a very important service to his State, by his arduous

and intelligently prosecuted labors, of which he gives an interesting

account in the following extract from his preface:

"About four years since, feeling impressed with the fact

that it is the duty of every man to make himself, in some

way, useful to his race, I looked around in search of some

object, in the pursuit of which I could benefit my

fellow-citizens; for, although much interested in

agriculture, that did not occupy one-fourth of my time.

Having no taste for politics, and never having studied a

profession, I determined to write a History. I thought it

would serve to amuse my leisure hours; but it has been the

hardest work of my life. While exhausted by the labor of

reconciling the statements of old authors, toiling over old

French and Spanish manuscripts, travelling through Florida,

Alabama and Mississippi, for information, and corresponding

with persons in Europe and elsewhere, for facts, I have

sometimes almost resolved to abandon the attempt to prepare

a History of my State.

"In reference to that portion of the work which relates to

the Indians, I will state, that my father removed from Anson

county, North-Carolina, and carried me to the wilds of the

'Alabama Territory,' in 1818, when I was a boy but eight

years of age. He established a trading house, in connection

with his plantation, in the present county of Autauga.

During my youthful days, I was accustomed to be much with

the Creek Indians--hundreds of whom came almost daily to the

trading house. For twenty years I frequently visited the

Creek nation. Their green-corn dances, ball-plays, war

ceremonies, and manners and customs, are all fresh in my

recollection. In my intercourse with them, I was thrown into

the company of many old white men, called 'Indian

countrymen,' who had for years conducted a commerce with

them. Some of these men had come to the Creek nation before

the revolutionary war, and others, being tories, had fled to

it during the war, and after it, to escape from whig

persecution. They were unquestionably the shrewdest and most

interesting men with whom I ever conversed. Generally of

Scotch descent, many of them were men of some education. All

of them were married to Indian wives, and some of them had

intelligent and handsome children. From these Indian

countrymen I learned much concerning the manners and customs

of the Creeks, with whom they had been so long associated,

and more particularly with regard to the commerce which they

carried on with them. In addition to this, I often conversed

with the Chiefs while they were seated in the shades of the

spreading mulberry and walnut, upon the banks of the

beautiful Tallapoosa. As they leisurely smoked their pipes,

some of them related to me the traditions of their country.

I occasionally saw Choctaw and Cherokee traders, and learned

much from them. I had no particular object in view at that

time, except the gratification of a curiosity, which led me,

for my own satisfaction alone, to learn something of the

early history of Alabama.

"In relation to the invasion of Alabama by De Soto, which is

related in the first chapter of this work, I have derived

much information in regard to the route of that earliest

discoverer, from statements of General McGillivray, a Creek

of mixed blood, who ruled this country, with eminent

ability, from 1776 to 1793. I have perused the manuscript

history of the Creeks, by Stiggins, a half-breed, who also

received some particulars of the route of De Soto, during

his boyhood, from the lips of the oldest Indians. My library

contains many old Spanish and French maps, with the towns

through which De Soto passed, correctly laid down. The sites

of many of these are familiar to the present population.

Besides all these, I have procured from England and France

three journals of De Soto's expedition.

"One of these journals was written by a cavalier of the

expedition, who was a native of Elvas, in Portugal. He

finished his narrative on the 10th February, 1557, in the

city of Evora, and it was printed in the house of Andrew de

Burgos, printer and gentleman of the Lord Cardinal and the

Infanta. It was translated into English, by Richard Hakluyt,

in 1609, and is to be found in the supplementary volume of

his voyages and discoveries; London: 1812. It is also

published at length in the Historical Collections of Peter

Force, of Washington city.

"Another journal of the expedition was written by the Inca

Garcellasso de la Vega, a Peruvian by birth, and a native of

the city of Cusco. His father was a Spaniard of noble blood,

and his mother the sister of Capac, one of the Indian

sovereigns of Peru. Garcellasso was a distinguished writer

of that age. He had heard of the remarkable invasion of

Florida by De Soto, and he applied himself diligently to

obtain the facts. He found out an intelligent cavalier of

that expedition, with whom he had minute conversations of

all the particulars of it. In addition to this, journals

were placed in his hands, written in the camp of De

Soto--one by Alonzo de Carmona, a native of the town of

Priego, and the other, by Juan Coles, a native of Zafra.

Garcellasso published his work, at an early period, in

Spanish. It has been translated into French, but never into

English. The copy in our hands is entitled 'Histoire de la

Conquete de la Floride ou relation de ce qui s'est passe

dans la decouverte de ce pais, par Ferdinand De Soto,

Composee en Espagnol, par L'Inca Garcellasso de la Vega, et

traduite en Francois, par St. Pierre Richelet, en deux

tomes; a Leide: 1731.'

"I have still another journal, and the last one, of the

expedition of De Soto. It was written by Biedma, who

accompanied De Soto, as his commissary. The journal is

entitled 'Relation de ce qui arriva pendant le voyage du

Captaine Soto, et details sur la nature du pas qu'il

parcourut; par Luis Hernandez de Biedma,' contained in a

volume entitled 'Recuil de Pieces sur la Floride,' one of a

series of 'Voyages et memoires originaux pour servir a la

L'Histoire de la Recouverte de L'Amerique publies pour la

premier fois en Francois; par H. Ternaux-Compans. Paris:

1841.'

"In Biedma there is an interesting letter written by De

Soto, while he was at Tampa Bay, in Florida, which was

addressed to some town authorities in Cuba. The journal of

Biedma is much less in detail than those of the Portuguese

Gentleman and Garcellasso, but agrees with them in the

relation of the most important occurrences.

"Our own accomplished writer, and earliest pioneer in

Alabama history--Alexander B. Meck, of Mobile--has furnished

a condensed, but well written and graphic account of De

Soto's expedition, contained in a monthly magazine, entitled

'The Southern,' Tuscaloosa, 1839. He is correct as to the

direction assumed by the Spaniards, over our soil, as well

as to the character of that extraordinary conquest."

We shall recur to the work on receiving the second volume.

* * * * *

LORD CAMPBELL, (who is himself a somewhat voluminous author, in history

and general literature,) has reversed the decision of Baron Rolfe, given

last year, and has decided that foreigners _first publishing_ in England

are entitled to copyright. He declared that the act of Anne for the

encouragement of learning was furthered by allowing a copyright to

aliens who first published in England, that Parliament had always

favored the importation of foreign literature, and that the law would

still protect the property of the foreign author, recognize his rights,

and give him redress for all wrongs inflicted upon him in England.

This decision is one of very great importance, though not final, as the

pirating booksellers have determined to carry the matter before the

House of Lords, where Brougham, Lyndhurst, and several others of great

authority, are known to be against them. Meantime, Bentley and the other

purchasers of American copyrights, have issued advertisements warning

the public against the purchase of unauthorized editions.

* * * * *

The Rev. DR. BAIRD has added to the number of his works _The Christian

Retrospect and Register, a Summary of Scientific Moral and Religious

Progress in the First Half of the XIXth Century_. (_12mo. M. W. Dodd._)

It is an interesting compend of events, of which even a condensed

history might fill a dozen volumes. In all respects it is superior to a

work of the same design published by Dr. Davis, and formerly reviewed in

this magazine.

* * * * *

The _Parthenon_, is the title of a new work, remarkable for the beauty

of its typography and of its wood cuts, to be published by Loomis &

Griswold. It will be in about a dozen parts, the price of each of which

will be one dollar. The first number contains, with a new story by Mr.

Cooper, the best poem ever published by Mr. Duganne, and two really

excellent poems by William Ross Wallace.

* * * * *

LOUISA PAYSON HOPKINS has just published (Gould & Lincoln of Boston) an

excellent little volume in practical religion, entitled _Life's Guiding

Star_, and designed to illustrate the second and third questions of the

Westminster Catechism.

* * * * *

The works of the late Rev. WALTER COLTON, U. S. N., will soon be

completed in the edition of A. S. Barnes & Co. They have already

published _Ashore and Afloat_, and _Three Years in California_, which

appeared before the author's death, and since then, _Land and Lee_,

embracing the volume published many years ago under the title of

"Constantinople and Athens." The posthumous volumes are carefully and

judiciously edited by the Rev. HENRY T. CHEEVER, whose own works of a

somewhat similar character we have always to notice with praise.

* * * * *

The Appletons have in press _Io!_ a novel, by a member of the Canadian

Parliament, which gives large promise in the proof sheets; _The

Philosophy of Mechanics_, by Mr. Allen, of Providence; _Campaigns in

Mexico and by the Rio Grande_, by Brevet Major ISAAC J. STEVENS, in

which Major Ripley, author of the History of the Mexican War, published

by Harpers, is likely to receive more hot shot than he encountered on

the field; _Sunbeams and Shadows_, a novel, by Miss HULSE, of Baltimore,

and several other new works.

* * * * *

The _History of the Protestants of France, from the Commencement of the

Reformation to the Present Period_, by G. S. FELICE, Professor of

Theology at Montauban, has been published in a handsome octavo, by

Edward Walker, Fulton street. In the April number of _The

International_, we described this work, from a copy of the French

original that fell in our way, not knowing that it was in course of

translation. We renew our commendations.

* * * * *

The _Traveller's and Tourist's Guide through the United States, Canada,

&c._, by W. WILLIAMS, (published by Lippincott, Grambo & Co., of

Philadelphia), is the most convenient and comprehensive hand-book of the

kind we have seen. It appears in time for the tourists of the summer,

who will find in it all the information they need, as to routes,

distances, &c.

* * * * *

The author of "Standish the Puritan," who indulges a natural taste for

letters, after having won fortune and eminence at the bar, is now

finishing the last sheets of a new novel for the Harpers, on his estate

in Georgia.

* * * * *

CZERNY'S _Method of the Piano Forte_, which we believe to be in all

respects as good a book of instruction for that instrument, as was ever

made, has been reprinted in a good edition by Oliver Ditson, of Boston.

* * * * *

A new edition of CARDINAL WISEMAN'S _Lectures on the Principal Doctrines

of the Catholic Church_, has been published by John Murphy & Co., of

Baltimore. This is a very able work, though less interesting to the mass

of readers than its eminent author's work on the connexion between

Science and Revealed Religion.

* * * * *

Among the new poems of the month are several fine ones by a new

candidate for favor--a young woman of Connecticut--who writes in the

_Tribune_. We quote two of them:

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Darlings of the forest!

Blossoming alone

When Earth's grief is sorest

For her jewels gone--

Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,

Like the morning sky,

Or more pale and saintly,

Wrapped in leaves ye lie,

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin

Hymns your solitude,

And the rain comes sobbing,

Through the budding wood,

While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.

Were your pure lips fashioned

Out of air and dew:

Starlight unimpassioned,

Dawn's most tender hue--

And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,

From the world apart,

Made for beauty only,

Veiled from nature's heart,

With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

An immortal shade,

Then would I to-morrow

Such a flower be made,

And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.

A. W. H.

INDOLENCE.

Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent,

So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly;

So is the violet fragrant and lowly,

Drinking in quietness, peace, and content;

So is the bird on the light branches swinging,

Idly his carol of gratitude singing,

Only on living and loving intent.

Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent!

So is the cloud overhanging the mountain

So is the tremulous wave of a fountain,

Uttering softly its eloquent psalm;

Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing,

Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing,

But the full heart beating strongly and calm.

Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent!

If it be idle to gather my pleasure

Out of creation's uncoveted treasure,

Midnight, and morning; by forest and sea;

Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation;

Lonely in Autumn's forlorn lamentation;

Hopeful and happy with Spring and the bee.

Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent?

Thralls of the earth, and its usages weary;

Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary,

Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold.

Stifling the heavenward breath of devotion;

Crushing the freshness of every emotion;

Hearts like the dead, that are pulseless and cold!

Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent?

Thou who art living unloving and lonely,

Wrapped in a pall that will cover thee only,

Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost!

Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping

O'er thy forsaked and desolate sleeping;

Art thou not indolent!--Art thou not lost?

A. W. H.

ALICE CAREY continues to write pieces full of grace and feeling. Here is

one from the _National Era_:

ANNIE CLAYVILLE.

In the bright'ning wake of April

Comes the lovely, lovely May,

But the step of Annie Clayville

Falleth fainter day by day.

In despite of sunshine, shadows

Lie upon her heart and brow:

Last year she was gay and happy--

Life is nothing to her now!

When she hears the wild bird singing,

Or the sweetly humming bee,

Only says she, faintly smiling,

What have you to do with me?

Yet, sing out for pleasant weather,

Wild birds in the woodland dells--

Fly out, little bees, and gather

Honey for your waxen wells.

Softly, silver rain of April,

Come down singing from the clouds,

Till daffodils and daisies

Shall be up in golden crowds;

Till the wild pinks hedge the meadows,

Blushing out of slender stems,

And the dandelions, starry,

Cover all the hills with gems.

From your cool beds in the rivers,

Blow, fresh winds, and gladness bring

To the locks that wait to hide you--

What have I to do with spring?

May is past--along the hollows

Chime the rills in sleepy tune,

While the harvest's yellow chaplet

Swings against the face of June.

Very pale lies Annie Clayville--

Still her forehead, shadow crowned,

And the watchers hear her saying,

As they softly tread around:

Go out, reapers, for the hill tops

Twinkle with the summer's heat--

Lay from out your swinging cradles

Golden furrows of ripe wheat!

While the little laughing children,

Lightly mixing work with play,

From between the long green winrows

Glean the sweetly-scented hay.

Let your sickles shine like sunbeams

In the silver-flowing rye,

Ears grow heavy in the cornfields--

That will claim you by and by.

Go out, reapers, with your sickles,

Gather home the harvest store!

Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,

I shall go with you no more.

Round the red moon of October,

White and cold the eve-stars climb,

Birds are gone, and flowers are dying--

'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time,

Yellow leaves along the woodland

Surge to drifts--the elm bough sways,

Creaking at the homestead window

All the weary nights and days.

Dismally the rain is falling--

Very dismally and cold;

Close, within the village graveyard,

By a heap of freshest mould,

With a simple, nameless headstone,

Lies a low and narrow mound,

And the brow of Annie Clayville

Is no longer shadow-crowned.

Rest thee, lost one, rest thee calmly,

Glad to go where pain is o'er--

Where they say not, through the night-time,

"I am weary," any more.

MR. BOKER has a fine poem entitled "I have a Cottage," in the July

_Graham's Magazine_.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Weil's _History of the Khalifs_. 3 vols. octavo. Besserman,

Mannhein, 1851.

_The Fine Arts._

There have been new discoveries of sculptures in Athens. The foundations

of the old Council House were disclosed, and farther investigation led

to the discovery of very beautiful remains. They are mostly fragmentary,

but of the finest style. Especially an arm, with drapery, is very fine,

and as the investigations are not yet completed, it is hoped that other

parts of the statue may be obtained. More than sixty inscriptions have

been also revealed. They are mostly decrees in praise of and memorials

of honor to certain men. Some are of the Macedonian, others of the Roman

period. Mr. Pittakis, the long resident and famous Athenian antiquariae,

has been properly put at the head of the party of investigation. His

topographical knowledge of Athens is probably superior to that of any

other living man.

* * * * *

The German painter CORNELIUS has recently composed a picture for the

hospital of the Sisters of Charity in Berlin. The cartoon is at present

in Dresden, where it will be cut in wood by the artist's old friend,

Director von Schnorr, for the Art-Guild there. It will afterward be

engraved upon steel, and sold for the benefit of the hospital. The

subject is taken from the life of Elizabeth. The mother of the Landgrave

of Thuringen has seen that Elizabeth has laid a beggar on the nuptial

bed, for the purpose of nursing her, and he brings her son to see how

his wife forgets his dignity as well as her own. But her worldly

selfishness is shamed in the most surprising manner. An angel has drawn

aside the curtain, and the landgrave, instead of a beggar, beholds the

Saviour himself, who, with gentle aspect, stretches his hand toward the

mother and son. Under the picture is the motto, "What ye have done to

the least of these brethren, that ye have done to me." In its essential

character this picture resembles the cartoon for a painting upon glass

in the cathedral of Aix. In both pictures the artist has reverted to the

sensibility of his youth, and created forms which recall the paintings

of the old German and elder Italian masters. In the present drawing the

figures of Elizabeth and of the two angels (one of whom is in a

reverential posture behind the bed) are radiant with celestial

tenderness and loveliness. From the countenance of Christ beams the

divinely mild rebuke of the deepest feeling of mistaken virtue. The

landgrave, a fine manly figure, is full of the earnest expression of the

knowledge fast dawning upon his mind, and his mother shows

characteristic worldliness subdued by a higher power. The whole picture

is penetrated by the devotional sentiment of the middle ages. These are

not modern figures in middle age costume, but men who belong to their

time by expression and bearing. In the freedom and simplicity of

treatment we recognize the master, who may properly reproduce the life

and art of a past time, from his entire sympathy with it. Another

cartoon in the great series for the Berlin Campo Santo, upon which

Cornelius is now engaged, represents the happiness of those who hunger

and thirst after righteousness.

* * * * *

A German critic, speaking of the statues of the Greek Slave by Powers

and of the Wounded Indian by Stevenson, says of the latter that the

touch of genius is visible in the work, but it is only the copying of

nature, and has no ideal character; and of the former that the artist

must have developed his talent by long and patient study and

contemplation of the finest creations of art. The forms of nature are

not only reproduced, with the most poetic truth, but a glow of spiritual

beauty breathes all over the work. It is most interesting, concludes the

critic, to see the laying of the corner-stone of American art, an

edifice whose completion none of us will live to see.

* * * * *

The Festival of the unveiling of the statue of Frederick the Great, at

Berlin, on the last day of May, is represented as one of the most

splendid spectacles ever witnessed in that city. The memory of "Old

Fritz" is cherished with a peculiar enthusiasm by the masses, who turned

out in immense numbers. The day was the 110th anniversary of Frederick's

ascending the throne. The monument is a real historical work, and,

besides its artistic merit, may be consulted as an authentic record of

the warriors and statesmen who helped to found a great kingdom. It is an

immense advance on the insipid allegorical style, with its eternal Fames

with trumpets, and Victories descending with garlands. Except in one or

two of the small bas-reliefs, Rauch has adhered to strict reality, only

so skilfully modified that it never becomes vulgar or commonplace. His

Ziethens and Winterfeldts are warriors as stern and dignified in their

"regulation" uniforms as if they were presented on the fields of Torgau

and and Rossbach, like Achilles and Hector on the plains of Troy. A

letter in the London _Times_ says there were present about eighty aged

soldiers who had served under the great King, and one old Hussar, of

Ziethen's regiment, was pointed out as having actually fought in the

Seven Years' War; the junior of the party could not be less than

fourscore; they were all accommodated with seats specially provided for

them; they wore the uniform of the period, of the old regulation cut,

but newly made for the day, so that the veterans looked quite brilliant.

Some of them, perhaps, had not worn a uniform for half a century.

* * * * *

The author of _Wanderings of a Pilgrim, during Four-and-Twenty Years in

the East_, has employed herself, since her return to England, in

superintending the painting of a Diorama of Hindostan. Perhaps no one

else has so numerous a collection of beautiful sketches taken in the

East, and few, indeed, possess her knowledge of Indian manners and

customs.

* * * * *

At the close of last month the bronze statues of Gustavus Adolphus, and

of Tegner, the Swedish poet who wrote the _Children of the last Supper_,

were cast in Munich.

* * * * *

Since our last number, JENNY LIND has closed the series of her farewell

concerts in New-York, and a week afterward dissolved her business

relations with Mr. Barnum. Her career of nine months in this country has

been a triumph unprecedented in the history of artistic success. She has

appealed everywhere to the great general sympathy of the multitude, and

partly, undoubtedly, owing to the prestige of her European fame, and the

wonder at her remarkable vocalism, she has sung always before an

audience essentially and characteristically American.

But the great service she has rendered, the fact which history would

regard, is her introduction to us of some of the finest music,

presented in a manner entirely adequate, and yet entirely different from

all to which we were accustomed. She has illustrated the fact, that a

noble nature ennobles the position of a public artist, and that the most

appreciative artistic sympathy with the highest and most unpopular

music, has yet something popularly sympathetic. It is the old story of

great genius. It is Burns, again, at once the despair of the most

brilliant and cultivated talent, and the delight of the entirely

illiterate and vulgar sense. From this career of JENNY LIND must date a

new era for us, both in musical taste and musical criticism. Now that

she has shown us what is good music, whether popular or not, and what is

perfect performance of it, whether in any favorite school or not, it

will no longer do to smear mediocrity with superlatives, or to criticise

music upon any grounds other than those of the criticism of all other

arts. The manner in which JENNY LIND took our Penates, our _Sweet Home_,

and _Auld Robin Gray_, and _Comin' thro' the Rye_, and restored them to

us with a more graceful and significant life, was one of the most

beautiful signs of the presence and power of genius. To that, every

thing has been subservient. The large and gracious charities of the

woman, the natural simplicity of her manner, and the personal magnetism

which she every where diffused, were but the ornaments of the pure

artistic nature, the divine priesthood of genius. JENNY LIND continues

her progress through the country. It is understood that, after a month,

she will retire from the public eye, for the rest which she so much

requires, and afterwards, we learn from the best authority, she will, if

possible, resume her concerts.

* * * * *

THE OPERA.--Immediately upon the departure of JENNY LIND, Mr. Maretzek

opened the doors of the Astor Place Opera House for a short season,

preparatory to his summer campaign in Castle Garden. Under his auspices

BOSIO has reappeared, and BETTINI has made his bow. BOSIO is so

beautiful a woman, she has a voice so subtly sweet and sympathetic, a

style of singing so simple and sufficient, and an instinctive

feminineness of feeling fine enough to make her acting always agreeable,

that her impression as a Prima Donna is the most symmetrical we have

known in New-York. Her womanliness is her charm and her success. Even in

characters of so grandiose proportions in the imagination, as

_Lucrezia_, she never drops for a moment the interest of the spectator,

although it is new to him to find a tender feeling in his regard for the

Borgia. This tenderness, however, is not fatal to the artistic effect.

It is that quality of feeling which he would have for a lost but lovely

Magdalen. BOSIO'S _Zerlina_ is another quite perfect representation. Its

arch grace and sparkling beauty have never been surpassed by any Zerlina

we have seen. BOSIO, however, sketches rather than colors. Her acting is

a suggestive outline which the imagination naturally fills--and, within

the range of singers possible to us, we could select none so singularly

fascinating as Bosio for the summer moonlight at Castle Garden.

BETTINI is a young man, with a fresh, sweet, sympathetic tenor voice,

which happily harmonizes with BOSIO'S. He has rather too magniloquent a

style both of acting and singing, but is a very agreeable artist. We

could lay in the shadows of his portrait delicately, yet deeply enough,

by saying that he is _young_. He has made a decided hit upon the town,

and the first evening at Castle Garden attracted an audience of not less

than three thousand.

Donizetti's opera of _Marino Faliero_ has been produced at Castle

Garden, for the first time in America. It is only second rate music, but

was admirably sung by the company. MARINI looks the Doge and wears the

ducal robe with great dignity and success.

NICHOLAS VON DER FLUE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY THE AUTHOR OF "RURAL

HOURS."

The fifteenth century proved an eventful and important period of Swiss

history. The age which preceded it gave birth to the people, and brought

them an independent existence and a name; but it left them at its close

the mere skeleton of a political body, and it was not until a later day

that their national constitution received fulness and development--it

was not until the fifteenth century that the people acquired a clearly

distinct character and position among the countries of Europe.

Several of the most celebrated battles in Swiss history, those which

gave the confederates military fame with other nations, belong to this

period. The battle of St. Jacques is altogether one of the most

extraordinary on record. Thirty thousand French troops, chiefly from the

free company of Armagnac, commanded by the Dauphin, afterwards Louis

XI., marched to the defence of Zurich, which had revolted against the

confederacy. They arrived at Basle in August, 1444. Fifteen hundred

Swiss, from the cantons of Berne, Lucerne, Soleure and Basle, were

dispatched to meet them. They found several thousand of the enemy in

advance. These they attacked, repulsed, and pursued to the river Birs,

and then, dashing into the stream after the flying enemy, and in face of

a heavy cannonade, they actually assaulted the whole army of France in

their camp on the opposite shore. The daring corps were soon divided,

but they fought like lions. Five hundred were in an open meadow, exposed

on all sides to the enemy; the remaining nine hundred threw themselves

behind a garden wall. These last repulsed the enemy there several times,

and made two attacks in their turn. Hundreds and thousands of the

Armagnacs fell--man by man the brave Swiss were struck down. The battle

lasted ten hours before the whole corps of Swiss had fallen, for then

only could the enemy pause. Fourteen hundred and ninety of the

confederates were numbered with the dead, ten men only escaping by

flight. Thousands upon thousands of the French army lay piled about the

dead Swiss. This defeat, if such a name be fitted to the battle of St.

Jacques, produced all the results of a victory: the siege of Basle was

abandoned, a peace was speedily concluded, and it was in consequence of

this brilliant action that Louis XI., when he ascended his father's

throne, concluded with the Swiss that close alliance which has lasted

nearly to the present times.

It was in the fifteenth century also that Charles of Burgundy attacked

the confederates with all the forces of one of the richest and most

powerful princes of the age. On the third of March, 1476, twenty

thousand Swiss marched from Neufchatel to meet the army of Burgundy near

Granson, a force which, with its followers, numbered one hundred

thousand strong. The battle began in the morning, and at night Charles

the Bold was flying through the passes of the Jura, with five

companions, his brilliant army dispersed to the four winds of heaven,

his choicest treasures in the hands of the frugal Swiss. In the month of

June of the same year Charles again appeared in Switzerland, at the head

of an army still larger than that he had commanded at Granson. On the

twenty-second of June he lay before the little town of Morat, which he

had assaulted in vain. The Swiss, with thirty-four thousand men,

advanced to meet him, and with their usual ardor rushed upon the whole

Burgundian force. In a few hours they had again routed an invading army

nearly four times their own numbers. Charles fled from the field, with a

small escort, leaving fifteen thousand of his army dead on the battle

ground, while thousands more were drowned in the adjoining lake.

Having been thus successful when opposed to northern troops, the Swiss

shortly after tried their strength against a southern foe, the Duke of

Milan. On this occasion the confederates were the aggressors, although

under the plea of retaliation. A party of Italians had cut timber in one

of their forests. Immediately a descent upon the Italian valleys was

planned, and a considerable force crossed the southern Alps. A Milanese

army of fifteen thousand men marched up the Ticino to meet the

mountaineers. At the village of Giornico lay the Swiss vanguard of six

hundred men, from Uri, Schweyz, Lucerne, and Zurich, the main body of

their troops not having yet advanced so far. It was mid-winter of the

year 1478. The Swiss caused the Ticino to overflow the meadows before

the village, which soon became a field of ice; and as the Milanese army

advanced upon Giornico, the confederates sallied out upon _skates_, and

with this advantage over their enemies, six hundred Swiss put to flight

a Milanese army of fifteen thousand men.

At that period the principal weapons were crossbows, arquebuses, lances,

and halberds. Battle-axes and swords were also common, as well as knives

and daggers. The body was still protected by armor, generally among the

Swiss of plain workmanship; the head was covered by a helmet, or among

the common soldiery with a thick felt hat, ornamented with feathers of

the ostrich or the cock, according to the means of the owner. A white

cross was stitched on the clothing in conspicuous places, and served as

a common uniform badge with the confederates.

Victories so brilliant as those of Granson, Morat, and Giornico, with a

defeat so advantageous as that of St. Jacques, spread the fame of the

mountaineers through Europe--princes eagerly sought their aid as

mercenaries; they were frequently opposed to each other in rival armies,

and as their fidelity became as well known as their courage, they were

solicited to form the body-guards of royalty.

The Swiss guards of the kings of France have a place in history. Their

honorable fidelity to Louis XVI. is known the world over. Even within

the present century the Swiss have watched at the gates of the

Tuileries, Louis XVIII. having revived the custom on his return to

France. After the Hundred Days, however, the body was finally disbanded.

To the present hour it is understood that the King of Naples and the

Pope are still (or were very shortly since) surrounded by body-guards

from the confederacy.

But much as these different wars added to Swiss glory, they were

followed by serious evils to the nation. A warlike, rapacious spirit,

and with it the love of a roving, restless life, spread with wonderful

rapidity among the people. Their mountain homes were deserted, their

lands lay fallow, their flocks were sold to procure the means of arming

themselves, employment among foreign powers was eagerly sought, and when

it could not be obtained, parties of disbanded soldiers and idle

camp-followers spread disorder through the country to such an extent

that the severest measures were resorted to, and in the space of a few

months as many as fifteen hundred vagabonds of this description were

publicly executed.

The rich spoils of the Burgundian army produced a very unhappy effect.

The gold, and silver, and jewels found in the deserted camp gave the

conquerors a taste for riches to which they had hitherto been strangers.

Formerly they had been a frugal and contented people, but a few short

years produced a very striking change in this respect; a thirst for gold

became general, bribes were openly offered and received, and foreign

coin had an all-powerful influence in directing the course of their

politics. Not only were the military openly in the pay of their

neighbors, but the public men of the different cantons were only too

well acquainted with German florins, Italian ducats, and French crowns.

It is true, this fact was not considered so disgraceful in those times

as it would be to-day. For, two hundred years since, half the court of

England, with the king at their head, were in the pay of Louis XIV. But

it would appear that bribery became more frequent and more impudent in

Swiss politics than in those of other countries at the same period. On

one occasion the French minister had his money-bags publicly opened at

Berne, and the royal pensions or bribes distributed in the town with the

sound of the trumpet. At Friburg heaps of crowns were openly displayed,

piled up with shovels, and the bystanders were asked if the silver did

not sound better than the empty promises of the Emperor Maximilian,

nicknamed _Pochidanari_, or the Pennyless. At another time the French

ambassador went to the baths of Baden, in Arau, where people from all

parts of the country were assembled, kept open house, paid the score for

large troops of the company, and actually threw gold into the bathing

rooms, for the women to scramble for. The result of a course like this

was very injurious to Swiss character. Highly honorable for courage and

fidelity, it has yet been considered as too generally colored by the

love of money, verifying the proverb, "_point d'argent, point de

Suisse_."

But this mercenary spirit was not the only evil brought upon the

confederacy by the victories of the fifteenth century. Internal

differences of the gravest nature soon followed. The division of the

spoil was very unsatisfactory to the rural cantons. They made loud

complaints of injustice, and became extremely jealous of the greater

intelligence, power, and influence of the towns; while the burghers, in

their turn, became suspicious of the pastoral cantons, accusing them of

wishing to promote disturbances between themselves and their

subjects--subjects, we say, for the towns having acquired by conquest or

purchase parcels of territory here and there, governed them as the

feudal lords governed their vassals. In short, from the whole history of

that period it is evident that a spirit of suspicion and jealousy was

rife throughout the confederacy, threatening disunion and revolution. In

the hope of restoring confidence and unity, a council or Diet was

convened at Stantz, one of the principal towns of the canton of

Unterwalden.

One by one, the deputations from the different cantons made their

appearance at the little town of Stantz. They came by the lake of

Lucerne, or lake of the forest cantons, as it is more frequently called

by the people themselves, a beautiful sheet of limpid water, lying in

the bosom of noble Alpine mountains, with sweet pastoral valleys opening

here and there among the solemn cliffs. There were soldiers, merchants,

lawyers, and peasants in the assembly; there were burghers from Berne,

Zurich, and Lucerne, with shepherds from Schwyz and Uri; in addition to

the regular deputies, there were also agents from St. Gall, Appenzell,

Soleure, and Friburg, applying for admission to the confederacy, to

which they had been hitherto only allies. It was in the winter season

that the Diet assembled. The session was scarcely opened when it became

evident that they had met in an evil temper; every subject introduced

was received with bitterness, mistrust, and suspicion. The angry

passions of the rural cantons were thoroughly aroused; they were

extremely jealous of the towns, and no reasoning could induce them to

accede to the application for admission from Friburg and Soleure. These

districts were headed by important cities, and every city was accused of

tyranny. The burghers knew too much, they were too rich, they were too

prosperous. The deputies of the larger cantons, on the other hand, were

indignant at this petty jealousy, and at the refusal to receive Soleure

and Friburg, whose citizens had fought side by side with them in so many

of their struggles. The subject of the division of the spoils from the

war with Burgundy was again advanced by the rural cantons with renewed

bitterness. In short, every matter broached seemed to offer only another

field for mistrust and fierce contention.

While the Diet was thus holding its stormy session at Stantz, a

conspiracy against Lucerne was discovered. The peasants of a rural

district subject to the town were implicated in it; they had resolved to

seize the occasion of an approaching festival for attacking the

burghers, murdering the governor and council, and razing the city to the

ground, so that in future nothing but a village, like their own, should

exist on the spot. Tidings of the discovery of this conspiracy only

aggravated the evil temper of the Diet. From invective and accusation

both parties proceeded to the gravest threats. The deputies of Friburg

and Soleure, in the hopes of restoring a better understanding,

voluntarily withdrew their application, but in vain. Both parties were

too highly exasperated. Reconciliation was held to be impossible.

Disunion and civil war, that most wretched, most shameful warfare, were

declared inevitable.

The canton of Unterwalden was divided into two districts, each including

one of the two great gorges of that region. Each of these valleys had

its own towering mountains, with rocky summits, wooded heights, and

green alpine pastures. Through each flowed a stream, or rather wild

torrent, and the more level lands on their banks were thickly sprinkled

with rustic dwellings, in near neighborhood. Stantz, the seat of the

Diet, and a mere village, was the principal town of Lower Unterwalden.

The sister valley of Upper Unterwalden was the most fertile and

beautiful. Its chief village was Sarnen. A stream called the Melch ran

through a branch of the valley, to which it gave its name of Melchthal.

This dale was already noted ground in Swiss history, as the native spot

of two of their heroes. Arnold von Melchthal, the companion of Tell,

was a peasant of this valley, as his name denotes; and Arnold von

Winkelried, to whose heroic self-sacrifice they owed the victory of

Sempach, was also born and lived on the banks of the Melch. During the

time of the critical Diet of Stantz, there lived in this valley a family

by the name of Loewenbrugger. They were among the most important

peasants of the dale. Ten children, five sons and five daughters, had

been born in the paternal cottage. Some were living there at the time,

with their mother, others had married and gone to different homes. The

father was absent. Nicholas Loewenbrugger had for many years held a

conspicuous position in his native district. He had served his country

faithfully on many occasions by his wisdom and his courage. During their

wars he had distinguished himself highly, not only for bravery, but also

for humanity. When still in middle life, however, he had retired from

the little world about him, leaving his paternal estate to the care of

his wife, and choosing a cliff on one of the neighboring mountains, he

there built himself a hermitage, in which he gave up his whole time to

devotion and religious services. So great was the simplicity of his

ascetic life, that it is said his only bed was the floor of his cell,

and his pillow a stone. It was even believed that for years he had taken

no other nourishment than the blessed elements of the holy sacrament.

Whatever exaggerations may have been credited in that superstitious age,

it is at least certain that his unfeigned piety and saintly life had

acquired for him a high place in the respect of his countrymen, while

the name of Nicholas von der Flue, or Nicholas of the Rock, from the

spot where he dwelt, was honored far and wide through the cantons.

News of the fierce dissensions of the Diet of Stantz spread rapidly

through the different valleys about the lake of the forest cantons;

every hour it was expected that the assembly would break up in violence,

and the deputies hurry home to prepare the different cantons for a

terrible internal struggle. Every appearance warranted this opinion. The

priest of Stantz, Heinrich Imgrund, was one of those who most sincerely

mourned this state of things. One day, when matters were at the worst,

and the danger appeared most imminent, the worthy man took his

walking-staff, and proceeded to the Melchthal. It was in winter, the

last week of December, and the old priest made his way over the snow and

ice to the hermitage of the pious Nicholas of the Flue. There he

hastened to lay before the good man the state of things in Stantz, and

the dangers that threatened their common country. The hermit, unlike

many of his recluse brethren, had not lost all interest in the higher

events of the world to which he belonged, and he determined that every

means in his power should be employed to avert the impending evil. Early

on the morning of December 22d, 1481, the venerable man, now far

advanced in life, left his little cell on the rock, and bent his way

towards Stantz, and we may well believe that, as he went on his

patriotic errand, earnest prayers were offered by him in behalf of his

misguided countrymen.

Arrived at Stantz, he proceeded immediately to the hall where the Diet

was in session. While yet without the walls, the stormy uproar and

fierce discord of the assembly reached his ears. Hurrying his steps, the

old man entered the hall. He had scarcely crossed the threshold, when

his venerable figure, aged face, and hoary locks, attracted general

attention; in another instant he was known to be Nicholas of the Rock.

As if by instinctive impulse, the whole assembly rose to their feet.

Seizing the moment of their respectful attention, the venerable man

addressed them in earnest, fervent tones. There were those in the Diet

to whom his voice was not strange; men, who in former years had known

him as the soldier and the patriot, while to all within the walls his

character for wisdom and sanctity was well known. Every eye was fixed

upon his venerable countenance, every ear listened eagerly to the words

which fell from his honored lips. It was a remarkable scene; a spectator

could never have credited that this was an authoritative assembly into

which the hermit had presented himself unbidden; it seemed rather as if

that hall were the presence chamber of the wise and saintly man, and

deputies from far and near--knight, merchant, and peasant--had gathered

about him, and pressed forward to receive his judgment. With all the

eloquence of wisdom, and a heartfelt interest, the venerable man

addressed the assembly. He implored, he warned, he admonished; he

reminded them the interests of a whole nation were committed to their

hands, and that for the powers with which they were intrusted they were

not responsible to man alone, but also to their Almighty Maker. Had they

met together like traitors, like madmen, to tear asunder the body

politic over which they were the appointed guardians? Where was the

calmness of deliberation with which a dignified assembly should meet to

utter, and to listen? Was it to revile each other, to menace, that they,

grave and mature men, had come from the farthest limits of their common

country? Such language as he had heard, such disorder as he had

witnessed when he first crossed that threshold, was it manly, was it

honorable, was it rational? He bade them pause, and tell him to what,

under Providence, they owed their present position as a free and

independent nation, respected by their neighbours. Every man there

present knew beyond all contradiction, that it was to their union they

owed this great debt of glory and prosperity. Without union they never

could have attained to independence; without union they never could have

preserved their freedom against one of the most powerful princes of

Europe. And now, the very bond to which they and their fathers owed

every national blessing and individual safety, they stood ready, in a

moment of passion, to sever violently. He asked them if a national bond

were absolutely nothing, that they held it now so cheap? There were men,

he knew, in every land who held cheap each tie which bound them to their

fellows--men who had no feeling for father, or brother, or son; but,

thanks be to God, such was not the case with all. Most human hearts

could value every social bond, whether of family, kindred, or country.

And what course would they take, should the evil work be accomplished?

Did they expect to thrive better singly--each canton to face the world

and all its manifold interests alone, or did they mean to cling

together, a few here, a few there, one nation broken up into half a

dozen nations? Did they expect that any future union could be closer and

dearer than that which had already held together for generations men of

the same blood and language; men who had suffered and triumphed

together? He warned them that if the evil spirit of disunion and strife

were now let loose and encouraged by themselves, they must not expect it

to end its work to-day, to stop short at the very hour they required it

to sleep again; like all other evil influences, it must either be

checked and controlled, or the fatal poison must spread farther and

farther, until it ended in utter anarchy and confusion. It is not for

man, made of the dust of the earth, to rouse evil and accursed passions,

and bid them go thus far and no farther. He implored them to let no

narrow, selfish, momentary interest blind them to interests immeasurably

higher, and more lasting. It remained for the men of that generation to

say whether the crisis should be a fatal one or not; it lay within their

power to steer the ark of their country's hopes safely over a stormy

sea, or purposely, deliberately, wilfully, to rush on the breakers,

until that noble, honored fabric foundered for ever. Evil passions,

suspicion, envy, jealousy, wrath, had too often, in the history of the

world, worked out general, public misery: but he trusted there was yet

within the bosom of their own people wisdom, patience, and moderation

sufficient to carry them safely through the storm. He called upon every

good man, every honest man, who could rise superior to the selfishness

of the race, to move and act in the blessed cause of peace and concord.

He advised them to look each at his own post and duty, and to meddle

less with those of his neighbors; he implored them, for conscience'

sake, not to be so ready with mutual suspicion and recrimination. He

warned them that whatever evils were to be remedied, the task must be

undertaken calmly and dispassionately to be well done.

Then proceeding to the subjects immediately under discussion, he

continued: "Let not the towns insist on claims which are injurious to

the old confederates. Let the rural cantons bear in mind how Soleure and

Friburg fought by their side, and received them freely into the

confederacy. Beware of intrigues, confederates! Beware of discord! Far

be it for any to sacrifice his father-land for selfish interests of his

own."

The old man paused. The better intentioned of the deputies, who had been

silenced by the violence of their companions, pressed about him. He

repeated his counsels; he entered more particularly into the subjects of

dispute; more and more gathered to the ranks of peace; and, in short, it

is a matter of history that the earnest address of the good man worked

an entire change in the temper of the Diet. In one hour's time the

country was saved. It may be doubted whether there is on record, in the

whole course of history, so striking an instance of the influence of

disinterested wisdom upon a public assembly at a moment so critical.

Probably, such an incident could only occur in a simple state of

society, where legislative pride and legislative weakness had not made

such rapid strides as in later times. Happily for Switzerland, the

question was decided on the spot; during that same day's session every

subject under debate was peaceably settled. The confederacy was saved.

Friburg and Soleure were received into the union. The venerable Nicholas

had proposed that territorial conquests should be shared according to

cantons, and the other spoil according to the population; both questions

were immediately decided in accordance with this plan. Other points were

amicably settled; and, instead of a fatal rupture, a covenant was

entered into, since called the "Covenant of Stantz," by which the bonds

of union were drawn closer. The deputies separated in a friendly temper,

and the happy news of reconciliation spread rapidly through the quiet

valleys and busy towns, while from the Alps to the Jura, the bells of

town-house, church, and convent, poured forth over hill and dale their

grateful peal of national joy.

To the present day the Swiss thankfully recur to the 22d of December,

1481, and the appeal of Nicholas von der Flue to the Diet of Stantz, as

a memorable epoch in their history. Certainly the incident is very

remarkable, and almost without a parallel in history. To us of the

present day, when revolution and violence are rife, when invective and

accusation form the common speech of public writers and public speakers,

to us of these days of controversy the fact that the personal character

and wisdom of one man should have pacified and influenced to such a

degree a stormy assembly, appears all but incredible.

The traveller who visits the canton of Unterwalden to-day finds its

mountains sublime, its valleys beautiful, its waters limpid and living,

as of old. It is a wholly pastoral region, and the smooth green meadows

are thickly sprinkled with peasant homes, neat, cheerful, and peculiar,

like those of all Switzerland. The valley of the Melch is particularly

populous, its green pasture grounds protected by noble mountains, rising

on either side six or eight thousand feet towards the heavens, are

closely dotted with pretty cottages. Among these rustic dwellings, that

once inhabited by Nicholas Loewenbrugger is still shown. It is in good

preservation, and much like those which surround it. Probably the

architecture, like the dress of the Swiss peasantry, has varied but

little for generations. Several personal relics of the venerable man are

also preserved, and shown to the pilgrim traveller--these are two

swords, a silver goblet, and a couple of wooden spoons. It is very

probable that they were in fact what they claim to have been, the

property of the good man, for we, in this country of change, have little

idea of the great care taken with family relics of this description in

the households of the old world. A chapel has been built near the cell

occupied by the hermit; his tomb is at Sachslen, about a league from the

village of Sarnen, in the principal church of the canton. Descendants of

the patriot are still living in Unterwalden, where his family long held

a very honorable position, and is well represented at the present day.

But those who boast of his own blood and name can scarcely claim a

deeper and more heartfelt veneration for his memory than that which is

felt throughout the whole confederacy. There is no name in Switzerland,

not even that of Tell, revered more highly than the name of Nicolas von

der Flue. "Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the

children of God."

Probably, if earnest efforts in behalf of concord, like those of the old

hermit, were more frequently made, history would, on many occasions,

show less gloomy pictures than those which she now unfolds to the world.

But it is a singular fact that, generally, good men are more easily

disheartened, and, consequently, far less active in times of internal

disturbance than the selfish and intriguing. Surely this ought not to

be.

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[E]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from page 346._

CHAPTER XXX.

Mrs. Hazleton was very consoling. She was with Mrs. Hastings two or

three times in the week, and poor Mrs. Hastings required a considerable

degree of consolation; for the arrest of her husband, coming so close

upon the bitter mortification of loss, and abatement of dignity, and at

the end of a long period of weak health, had made her seriously ill. She

now kept her bed the whole day long, and lay, making herself worse by

that sort of fretful anxiety which was constitutional with her as well

as with many other people. Mrs. Hazleton's visits were a great comfort

to her, and yet, strange to say, Emily almost always found her more

irritable after that lady had left her.

Poor Emily seemed to shine under the cloud of misfortune. Her character

came out and acted nobly in the midst of disasters. She was her mother's

nurse and constant attendant; she kept her father informed of every

thing that passed--not an opportunity was missed of sending him a

letter; and although she would have made any sacrifice to be with him in

prison, to comfort and support him in the peril and sorrow of his

situation, she was well satisfied that he had not taken her, when she

found the state into which her mother had fallen.

Often, after Mrs. Hazleton had sat for an hour or two with her sick

friend, she would come down and walk upon the terrace for a while with

Emily, and comfort her much in the same way that she did Mrs. Hastings.

She would tell her not to despond about her mother: that though she was

certainly very ill, and in a dangerous state, yet people had recovered

who had been quite as ill as she was. Then she would talk about lungs,

and nerves, and humors, and all kinds of painful and mortal diseases, as

if she had studied medicine all her life; and she did it, too, with a

quiet, dignified gravity which made it more impressive and alarming.

Then again, she would turn to the situation of Mr. Hastings, and wonder

what they would do with him. She would also bring every bit of news that

she could collect, regarding the case of Sir John Fenwick, especially

when the intelligence was painful and disastrous; but she hinted that,

perhaps, after all, they might not be able to prove any thing against

Mr. Hastings, and that even if they did--although the Government were

inclined to be severe--they might, perhaps, commute his sentence to

transportation for the colonies, or imprisonment in the Tower for five

or six years.

It is thus our friends often console us; some of them, from a dark and

gloomy turn of mind, and some of them from the satisfaction many people

feel in meddling with the miseries of others. But it was neither natural

despondency of character, nor any general love of sorrowful scenes or

thoughts, that moved Mrs. Hazleton in the present instance. She had a

peculiar and especial pleasure in the wretchedness of the Hastings

family, and particularly in that of Emily. The charming lady fancied

that if Marlow were free from his engagement with Emily the next day,

and a suitor for her own hand, she would never think of marrying him. I

am not quite sure of that fact, but that is no business of ours, dear

reader, and one thing is certain, that she would have very willingly

sacrificed one half of her whole fortune, nay more, to have placed an

everlasting barrier between Emily and Marlow.

She was thus walking with her dear Emily, as she called her, one day on

that terrace at the back of the house where the memorable conversation

had taken place between Mr. Hastings and Sir John Fenwick, and was

treating Emily to a minute and particular account of the death of the

latter, when Marlow suddenly arrived from London, and entered the house

by the large glass door in front. He found a servant in the hall who

informed him that Mrs. Hastings was still in bed, and that Emily was

walking on the terrace with Mrs. Hazleton. Marlow paused, and considered

for a moment. "Any thing not dishonorable," he said to himself, "is

justifiable to clear up such a mystery;" and passing quietly through the

house into the dining-room, which had one window opening as a door upon

the terrace, he saw his fair Emily and her companion pass along towards

the other end of the walk without being himself perceived. He then

approached the window, and calculating the distances nicely, so as to be

sure that Mrs. Hazleton was fully as far distant from himself as she

could have been from Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Hastings on the evening

when they walked there together, he pronounced her name in an ordinary

tone, somewhat lower than that which Mr. Hastings usually employed.

Mrs. Hazleton instantly started, and looked round towards the spot where

Marlow was now emerging from the room.

The lady could not miss an occasion, and the moment she saw him she

exclaimed, "Dear me! there is Mr. Marlow; I am afraid he brings bad

tidings, Emily."

Emily paused not to consider, but with her own wild grace ran forward

and cast herself into his arms.

Fortunately Mrs. Hazleton had no dagger with her. Her face was

benevolent and smiling when she joined them; for the joy there was upon

Emily's countenance forbade any affectation of apprehension. It said as

plainly as possible, "All is well;" but she added the words too,

stretching forth her hand to her supposed friend, and saying, "Dear Mrs.

Hazleton, Charles brings me word that my father is safe--that the

Government have declared they will not prosecute."

"I congratulate you with my whole heart, Emily," replied the lady; "and

I do sincerely hope that ministers may keep their word better in this

instance than they have done in some others."

"There is not the slightest doubt of it, my dear madam," said Marlow;

"for I have the official announcement under the hand of the Secretary of

State."

"I must fly and tell my mother," said Emily, and without waiting for a

reply she darted away.

Mrs. Hazleton took a turn or two up and down the terrace with Marlow,

considering whether it was at all possible for her to be of any further

comfort to her friends at the Court. As she could not stay all night,

however, so as to prevent Emily and Marlow from having any happy private

conversation together and as she judged that, in their present joy, they

would a good deal forget conventional restraints, and give way to their

lover-like feelings even in her presence, which would be exceedingly

disagreeable to her, she soon re-entered the house, and ordered her

carriage.

It must be acknowledged that both Emily and Marlow were well satisfied

to see her depart, and it is not to be wondered at if they gave

themselves up for half an hour to the pleasure of meeting again.

At the end of that time, however, Marlow drew forth a letter from his

pocket, carefully folded, so that a line or two only was apparent, and

placing it before Emily, inquired if she knew the hand.

"It is mine," said Emily, at first; but the moment after she exclaimed

"No!--it is not; it is Mrs. Hazleton's. I know it by the peculiar way

she forms the _g_ and the _y_.--Stay, let me see, Marlow. She has not

done so always; but that _g_, and that _y_, I am quite certain of. Why

do you ask, Marlow?"

"For reasons of the utmost importance, dear Emily," he answered, "have

you any letters or notes of Mrs. Hazleton's?"

"Yes, there is one which came yesterday," replied Emily; "it is lying on

my table up-stairs."

"Bring it--bring it, dearest girl," he said; "I wish very much to see

it."

When he had got, he examined it with a well-pleased smile, and then

said, with a laugh, "I must impound this, my love. I am now on the right

track, and will not leave it till I have arrived at perfect certainty."

"You are very strange and mysterious to-day, Marlow," said the beautiful

girl, "what does all this mean?"

"It means, my love," replied Marlow, "that I have very dark doubts and

suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton,--and all I have seen and heard to-day

confirms me. Now sit down here by me, dear Emily, and tell me if, to

your knowledge, you have ever given to Mrs. Hazleton cause of offence."

"Never!" answered Emily, firmly and at once. "Never in my life."

Marlow mused, and then, with his arms round her waist, he continued,

"Bethink yourself, my love. Within the course of the last two or three

years, have you ever seen reason to believe that Mrs. Hazleton's

affection for you is not so great as it appears?--Has it ever

wavered?--Has it ever become doubtful to you from any stray word or

accidental circumstance?"

Emily was silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully, "Perhaps

I did think so, once or twice, when I was staying at her house, last

year."

"Well, then, now, dear Emily," said Marlow, "tell me every thing down to

the most minute circumstance that occurred there."

Emily hesitated. "Perhaps I ought not," she said; "Mrs. Hazleton showed

me, very strongly, that I ought not, except under an absolute

necessity."

"That necessity is now, my love," replied Marlow; "love cannot exist

without confidence, Emily; and I tell you, upon my honor and my faith,

that your happiness, my happiness, and even your father's safety,

depends in a great degree upon your telling me all. Do you believe me,

Emily?"

"Fully," she answered; "and I will tell you all."

Thus seated together, she poured forth the whole tale to her lover's

ears, even to the circumstances which had occurred in her own room, when

Mrs. Hazleton had entered it, walking in her sleep. The whole conduct of

John Ayliffe, now calling himself Sir John Hastings, was also displayed;

and the dark and treacherous schemes which had been going on, began

gradually to evolve themselves to Marlow's mind. Obscure and indistinct

they still were; but the gloomy shadow was apparent, and he could trace

the outline though he could not fill up the details.

"Base, treacherous woman!" he murmured to himself, and then, pressing

Emily more closely to his heart, he thanked her again and again for her

frankness. "I will never misuse it, my Emily," he said; "and no one

shall ever know what you have told me except your father: to him it must

be absolutely revealed."

"I would have told him myself," said Emily, "if he had ever asked me any

questions on the subject; but as he did not, and seemed very gloomy just

then, I thought it better to follow Mrs. Hazleton's advice."

"The worst and the basest she could have given you," said Marlow; "I

have had doubts of her for a long time, Emily, but I have no doubts now;

and, moreover, I firmly believe that the whole case of this John

Ayliffe--his claim upon your father's estate and title--is all false and

factitious together, supported by fraud, forgery, and crime. Have you

preserved this young man's letter, or have you destroyed it, Emily?"

"I kept it," she replied, "thinking that, some time or another, I might

have to show it to my father."

"Then one more mark of confidence, my love," said Marlow; "let me have

that letter. I do not wish to read it; therefore you had better fold it

up and seal it; but it may be necessary as a link in the chain of

evidence which I wish to bring forward for your father's satisfaction."

"Read it, if you will, Marlow," she answered; "I have told you the

contents, but it may be as well that you should see the words: I will

bring it to you in a moment."

They read the letter over together, and when Marlow had concluded, he

laid his hand upon it, saying, "This is Mrs. Hazleton's composition."

"I'm almost inclined to fancy so, myself," answered Emily.

"He is incapable of writing this," replied her lover; "I have seen his

letters on matters of business, and he cannot write a plain sentence in

English to an end without making some gross mistake. This is Mrs.

Hazleton's doing, and there is some dark design underneath it. Would to

God that visit had never taken place!"

"There has been little happiness in the house since," said Emily,

"except what you and I have known together, Marlow; and that has been

sadly checkered by many a painful circumstance."

"The clouds are breaking, dear one," replied Marlow, rising; "but I will

not pause one moment in my course till all this is made clear--no, not

even for the delight of sitting here by you, my love. I will go home at

once, Emily; mount my horse, and ride over to Hartwell before it be

dark."

"What is your object there?" asked Emily.

"To unravel one part of this mystery," replied her lover. "I will

ascertain, by some means, from whom, or in what way, this young man

obtained sufficient money to commence and carry on a very expensive suit

at law. That he had it not himself, I am certain. That his chances were

not sufficiently good, when first he commenced, to induce any lawyer to

take the risk, I am equally certain. He must have had it from some one,

and my suspicions point to Mrs. Hazleton. Her bankers are mine, and I

will find means to know. So, now, farewell, my love; I will see you

again early to-morrow."

He lingered yet for a moment or two, and then left her.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Marlow was soon on horseback, and riding on to the country town. But he

had lingered longer with Emily than he imagined, and the day declined

visibly as he rode along.

"The business hours are over," he thought; "bankers and lawyers will

have abandoned the money-getting and mischief-making toils of the day;

and I must stay at the inn till to-morrow."

He had been riding fast; but he now drew in his rein, and suffered his

horse to walk. The sun was setting gloriously, and the rich, rosy light,

diffused through the air, gave every thing an aspect of warmth, and

richness, and cheerfulness. But Marlow's heart was any thing but gay.

Whether it was that the scenes which he had passed through in London,

his visits to a prison, his dealings with hard official men, the

toiling, moiling crowds that had surrounded him; the wearisome, eternal,

yet ever-changing struggle of life displayed in the streets and houses

of a capital, the infinite varieties of selfishness, and folly, and

vice, and crime, had depressed his spirits, or that his health had

somewhat suffered in consequence of anxious waiting for events in the

foul air of the metropolis, I cannot tell. But certain, he was sadder

than was usual with him. His was a spirit strong and active, naturally

disposed to bright views and happy hopes, too firm to be easily

depressed, too elastic to be long kept down. But yet, as he rode along,

there was a sort of feeling of apprehension upon his mind that oppressed

him mightily. He revolved all that had lately passed. He compared the

state of Mr. Hastings' family, as it actually was, with what it had been

when he first knew it, and there seemed to be a strange mystery in the

change. It had then been all happiness and prosperity with that

household; a calm, grave, thoughtful, but happy father and husband; a

bright, amiable, affectionate mother and wife; a daughter, to his mind

the image of every thing that was sweet, and gentle, and tender--of

every thing that was gay, and sparkling, and cheerful; full of light and

life, and fancy, and hope. Now, there was a father in prison, deprived

of his greatest share of worldly prosperity, cast down from his station

in society, gloomy, desponding, suspicious, and, as it seemed to him,

hardly sane: a mother, irritable, capricious, peevish, yielding to

calamity, and lying on a bed of sickness, while the bright angel of his

love remained to nurse, and tend, and soothe the one parent, with a

heart torn and bleeding for the distresses of the other. "What have they

done to merit all this?" he asked himself. "What fault, what crime have

they committed to draw down such sorrows on their heads? None--none

whatever. Their lives had been spent in kindly acts and good deeds; they

had followed the precepts of the religion they professed; their lives

had been spent in doing service to their fellow-creatures, and making

all happy around them."

Then again, on the other hand, he saw the coarse, and the low, and the

base, and the licentious prosperous and successful, rising on the ruins

of the pure and the true. Wily schemes and villanous intrigues obtaining

every advantage, and honesty of purpose and rectitude of action

frustrated and cast down.

Marlow was no unbeliever--he was not even inclined to skepticism--but

his mind labored, not without humility and reverence, to see how it

could reconcile such facts with the goodness and providence of God.

"He makes the sun shine upon the just and the unjust, we are told," said

Marlow to himself; "but here the sun seems to shine upon the unjust

alone, and clouds and tempests hang about the just. It is very strange,

and even discouraging; and yet, all that we see of these strange,

unaccountable dispensations may teach us lessons for hereafter--may give

us the grandest confirmation of the grandest truth. There must be

another world, in which these things will be made equal--a world where

the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. We only see

in part, and the part we do not see must be the part which will

reconcile all the seeming contradictions between the justice and

goodness of God and the course of this mortal life."

This train pursued him till he reached the town, and put up his horse at

the inn. By that time it was quite dark, and he had tasted nothing since

early in the morning. He therefore ordered supper, and the landlord, by

whom he was now well known--a good, old, honest, country landlord of the

olden time--brought in the meal himself, and waited on his guest at

table. It was so much the custom of gentlemen, in those days, to order

wine whenever they stopped at an inn--it was looked upon so much as a

matter of course that this should be done for the good of the

house--that the landlord, without any direct commands to that effect,

brought in a bottle of his very best old sherry, always a favorite wine

with the English people, though now hardly to be got, and placed it by

the side of his guest. Marlow was by habit no drinker of much wine. He

avoided, as much as in him lay, the deep potations then almost universal

in England; but, not without an object, he that night gave in to a

custom which was very common in England then, and for many years

afterwards, and requested the landlord, after the meal was over, to sit

down, and help him with his bottle.

"You'll need another bottle, if I once begin, Master Marlow," said the

jolly landlord, who was a wag in his way.

Marlow nodded his head significantly, as if he were prepared for the

infliction, replying quietly, "Under the influence of your good chat,

Mr. Cherrydew, I can bear it, I think."

"Well, that's hearty," said the landlord, drawing a chair sideways to

the table; for his vast rotundity prevented him from approaching it full

front. "Here's to your very good health, sir, and may you never drink

worse wine, sit in a colder room, or have a sadder companion."

Now I have said that Marlow did not invite the landlord to join him,

without an object. That object was to obtain information, and it had

struck him even while the trout, which formed the first dish at his

supper, was being placed on the table, that he might be able, if

willing, to afford it.

Landlords in England at that time--I mean, of course, in country

towns--were very different in many respects, and of a different class

from what they are at present. In the first place, they were not fine

gentlemen: in the next place, they were not discharged valets de

chambre, or butlers, who, having cheated their masters handsomely, and

perhaps laid them under contribution in many ways, retire to enjoy the

fat things at their ease in their native town. Then, again, they were on

terms of familiar intercourse with two or three classes, completely

separate and distinct from each other--a sort of connecting link between

them. At their door the justice of the peace, the knight of the shire,

the great man of the neighborhood, dismounted from his horse, and had

his chat with mine host. There came the village lawyer when he had

gained a cause, or won a large fee, or had been paid a long bill, to

indulge in his pint of sherry, and gossipped, as he drank it, of all the

affairs of his clients. There sneaked in the Doctor to get his glass of

eau de vie, or plague water, or aqua mirabilis, or strong spirits, in

short of any other denomination, and tell little dirty anecdotes of his

cases, and his patients. There the alderman, the wealthy shop-keeper,

and the small proprietor, or the large farmer, came to take his cheerful

cup on Saturdays or on market-day. But, besides these, the inn was the

resort, though approached by another door, of a lower and a poorer

class, with whom the landlord was still upon as good terms as with the

others. The wagoner, the carter, the lawyer's and the banker's clerk,

the shopman, the porter even, all came there; and it mattered not to Mr.

Cherrydew or his confraternity, whether it was a bowl of punch, a

draught of ale, a glass of spirits, or a bottle of old wine that his

guests demanded; he was civil, and familiar, and chatty with them all.

Thus under the rosy and radiant face of Mr. Cherrydew, and in that good,

round, fat head, was probably accumulated a greater mass of information,

regarding the neighborhood in which he lived, and all that went on

therein, than in any other head in the whole town, and the only

difficulty was to extract that part of the store which was wanted.

Marlow knew that it would not do to approach the principal subject of

inquiry rashly; for Mr. Cherrydew, like most of his craft, was somewhat

cautious, and would have shut himself up in silent reserve, or enveloped

himself in intangible ambiguities, if he had known that his guest had

any distinct and important object in his questions--having a notion that

a landlord should be perfectly cosmopolitan in all his feelings and his

actions, and should never commit himself in such a manner as to offend

any one who was, had been, or might be his guest. He was fond of

gossipping, it is true, loved a jest, and was not at all blind to the

ridiculous in the actions of his neighbors; but habitual caution was in

continual struggle with his merry, tattling disposition, and he was

generally considered a very safe man.

Marlow, therefore, began at a great distance, saying, "I have just come

down from London, Mr. Cherrydew, and rode over, thinking that I should

arrive in time to catch my lawyer in his office."

"That is all over now, sir, for the night," replied the landlord. "In

this, two-legged foxes differ from others: they go to their holes at

sunset, just when other foxes go out to walk. They divide the world

between them, Master Marlow; the one preys by day, the other by

night.--Well, I should like to see Lunnun. It must be a grand place,

sir, though somewhat of a bad one. Why, what a number of executions I

have read of there lately, and then, this Sir John Fenwick's business.

Why, he changed horses here, going to dine with Sir Philip, as I shall

call him to the end of my days. Ah, poor gentleman, he has been in great

trouble! But I suppose, from what I hear, he'll get clear now?"

"Beyond all doubt," said Marlow; "the Government have no case against

him. But you say very true, Mr. Cherrydew, there has been a sad number

of executions in London--seven and twenty people hanged, at different

times, while I was there."

"And the town no better," said Mr. Cherrydew.

"By the way," said Marlow, "were you not one of the jury at the trial of

that fellow, Tom Cutter?--Fill your glass, Mr. Cherrydew."

"Thank you, sir.--Yes I was, to be sure," answered the landlord; "and

I'll tell you the funniest thing in the world that happened the second

day. Lord bless you, sir, I was foreman,--and on the first day the judge

suffered the case to go on till his dinner was quite cold, and we were

all half starved; but he saw that he could not hang him that night, at

all events--here's to your health, sir!--so he adjourned the Court, and

called for a constable, and ordered all of us, poor devils, to be locked

up tight in Jones's public-house till the next day; for the jury-room is

so small, that there is not standing-room for more than three such as

me. Well, the other men did not much like it, though I did not

care,--for I had my boots full of ham, and a brandy-bottle in my

breeches-pocket. One of them asked the judge, for all his great black

eyebrows, if he could'nt go on that night; but his lordship answered,

with a snort like a cart horse, and told us to hold our tongues, and

mind our own business, and only to take care and keep ourselves

together. Well, sir, we had to walk up the hill, you know, and there was

the constable following us with his staff in his hand; so I had

compassion on my poor fellow-sufferers, and I whispered, first to one,

then to another, that this sort of jog would never do, but I would

manage to tell them how to have a good night's rest. You see, says I,

here's but one constable to thirteen people, so when you get to the

cross-roads, let every man take up his legs and run, each his own way.

He can but catch one, and the slowest runner will have the chance. Now,

I was the fattest of them all, you see, so that every one of them

thought that I should be the man. Well, sir, they followed my advice;

but it's a different thing to give advice, and take it. No sooner did we

get to the cross-roads, than they scattered like a heap of dust in the

wind, some down the roads and lanes, some over the styles and gates,

some through the hedges. Little Sninkum, the tailor, stuck in the hedge

by the way, and was the man caught, for he was afraid of his broadcloth;

but I stood stock still, with a look of marvellous astonishment, crying

out, "For God's sake catch them, constable, or what will my lord say to

you and me?" Off the poor devil set in a moment, one man to catch

twelve, all over the face of the country. He thought he was sure enough

of me; but what did I do? why, as soon as he was gone, I waddled home to

my own house, and got my wife to put me to bed up-stairs, and pass me

for my grandfather. Well, sir, that's not the best of it yet. We were

all in Court next day at the right hour, and snug in the jury-box before

the judge came in; but I have a notion he had heard something of the

matter. He looked mighty hard at Sninkum, whose face was all scratched

to pieces, and opening his mouth with a pop, like the drawing of a cork,

he said, "Why, man, you look as if you and your brethren had been

fighting!" and then he looked as hard at me, and roared, "I hope

gentlemen, you have kept yourselves together?" Thereupon, I laid my two

hands upon my stomach, sir,--it weighs a hundred and a half, if it were

cut off to-morrow, as I know to my cost, who carry it--and I answered

quite respectful, "I can't answer for the other gentlemen, my lord, but

I'll swear I've kept myself together." You should have heard how the

Court rang with the people laughing, while I remained as grave as a

judge, and much graver than the one who was there; for I thought he

would have burst before he was done, and a fine mess that would have

made."

Serious as his thoughts were, Marlow could not refrain from smiling; but

he did not forget his object, and remarked, "There were efforts made to

save that scoundrel, and the present Sir John Hastings certainly did his

best for his friend."

"Call him John Ayliffe, sir, call him John Ayliffe," said the host.

"Here's to you, sir,--he's never called any thing else here."

"I wonder," said Marlow, musingly, "if there was any relationship

between this Tom Cutter and John Ayliffe's mother?"

"Not a pin's point of it, sir," replied the landlord. "They were just

two bad fellows together; that was the connection between them, and

nothing else."

"Well, John stood by his friend, at all events," said Marlow; "though

where he got the money to pay the lawyers in that case, or in his suit

against Sir Philip, is a marvel to me."

Mine host winked his eye knowingly, and gave a short laugh.

That did not entirely suit Marlow's purpose, and he added in a musing

tone, "I know that he wanted to borrow ten pounds two or three months

before, but was refused, because he had not repaid what he had borrowed

of the same party, previously."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord; "there are secrets in all things. He

got money, and money enough, somehow, just about that time. He has not

repaid it yet, either, but he has given a mortgage, I hear, for the

amount; and if he don't mortgage his own carcase for it too, I am very

much mistaken, before he has done."

"Mortgage his own carcase! I do not understand what you mean," replied

Marlow. "I am sure I would not give a shilling for that piece of earth."

"A pretty widow lady, not a hundred miles off, may think differently,"

replied the landlord, grinning again, and filling his glass once more.

"Ah, ha," said Marlow, trying to laugh likewise; "so you think she

advanced the money, do you?"

"I am quite sure of it, sir," said Mr. Cherrydew, nodding his head

profoundly. "I did not witness the mortgage, but I know one who did."

"What! Shanks' clerk, I suppose," said Marlow.

"No, sir, no," replied the landlord; "Shanks did not draw the mortgage,

either; for he was lawyer to both parties, and Mrs. Hazleton didn't like

that;--O, she's cute enough!"

"I think you must be mistaken," said Marlow, in a decided tone; "for

Mrs. Hazleton assured me, when there was a question between herself and

me, that she was not nearly as rich as she was supposed, and that if the

law should award me back rents, it would ruin her."

"Gammon, sir!" replied the landlord, who had now imbibed a sufficient

quantity of wine, in addition to sundry potations during the day. "I

should not have thought you a man to be so easily hooked, Mr. Marlow;

but if you will ask the clerk of Doubledoo and Kay, who was down here,

staying three or four days about business, you'll find that she advanced

every penny, and got a mortgage for upwards of five thousand

pounds;--but I think we had better have that other bottle, sir?"

"By all means," said Marlow, and Mr. Cherrydew rolled away to fetch it.

"By the way, what was that clerk's name you mentioned?"

"Sims, sir, Sims," said the landlord, drawing the cork; and then setting

down the bottle on the table, he added, with a look of great contempt,

"he's the leetlest little man you ever saw, sir, not so tall as my girl

Dolly, and with no more stomach than a currycomb, a sort of cross breed

between a monkey and a penknife. He's as full of fun as the one, too,

and as sharp as the other. He will hold a prodigious quantity of punch,

though, small as he is. I could not fancy where he put it all, it must

have gone into his shoes."

"Come, come, Mr. Cherrydew," said Marlow, laughing, "do not speak

disrespectfully of thin people--I am not very fat myself."

"Lord bless you, sir, you are quite a fine, personable man; and in time,

with a few butts, you would be as fine a man as I am."

Marlow devoutly hoped not, but he begged Mr. Cherrydew to sit down

again, and do his best to help him through the wine he had brought; and

out of that bottle came a great many things which Marlow wanted much

more than the good sherry which it contained.

CHAPTER XXXII.

It was about ten o'clock in the day when Marlow returned to the Court,

as it was called. The butler informed him that Miss Emily was not

down--a very unusual thing with her, as she was exceedingly matutinal in

her habits; but he found, on inquiry, that she had sat up with her

mother during the greater part of the night. Marlow looked at his watch,

then at the gravelled space before the house, where his own horse was

being led up and down by his groom, and a stranger who had come with him

was sitting quietly on horseback, as if waiting for him. "I fear," said

Marlow, after a moment's musing, "I must disturb your young lady. Will

you tell her maid to go up and inform her that I am here, and wish to

speak with her immediately, as I have business which calls me to London

without delay." The man retired, and Marlow entered what was then called

the withdrawing room, walking up and down in thought. He had not

remained many minutes, however, when Emily herself appeared, with her

looks full of surprise and anxiety. "What is the matter, Marlow?" she

said. "Has any new evil happened?"

"Nay, nay, my love," said Marlow, embracing her tenderly. "You must not

let the few ills that have already befallen you, my Emily, produce that

apprehensiveness which long years of evil and mischance but too often

engender. Brighter days are coming, I trust, my love; so far from new

evils having arisen, I have been very fortunate in my inquiries, and

have got information which must lead to great results. I must pursue the

clue that has been afforded me without a moment's delay or hesitation;

for once the thread be broken I may have difficulty in uniting it again.

But if I judge rightly, my Emily, it will lead me to the following

results. To the complete exposure of a base conspiracy; to the

punishment of the offenders; to the restoration of your father's

property, and of his rank."

He held her hand in his while he spoke, and gazed into her beautiful

eyes; but Emily did not seem very much overjoyed. "For my own part," she

said, "I care little as to the loss of property or station, Marlow, and

still less do I care to punish offenders; but I think my father and

mother will be very glad of the tidings you give me. May I tell them

what you say?"

Marlow mused for a moment or two. He was anxious to give any comfort to

Mrs. Hastings, but yet he doubted her discretion, and he replied, "Not

the whole, dear Emily, except in case of urgent need. You may tell your

mother that I think I have obtained information which will lead to the

restoration of your father's property, and you may assure her that no

effort shall be wanting on my part to attain that object. Say that I am,

even now, setting out for London for the purpose, and that I am full of

good hopes. I believe I can prove," he added, after a moment's

consideration, and in reality more to lead Mrs. Hastings away from the

right track than from any other consideration, although the point he was

about to state was a fact, "I believe I can prove that the missing leaf

of the marriage register, which was supposed to have been torn out by

your grandfather's orders, was there not two years ago, and that I can

show by whose hands it was torn out at a much later date. Assure her,

however, that I will do every thing in my power, and bid her be of good

hope."

"I do not understand the matter," answered Emily, "and never heard of

this register, but I dare say my mother has, and will comprehend your

meaning better than I do. I know the very hope will give her great

pleasure."

"Remember one thing, however, dear Emily," replied Marlow, "on no

account mention to her my suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton, nor show any

suspicions of that good lady yourself. It is absolutely necessary that

she should be kept in ignorance of our doubts, till those doubts become

certainties. However, in case of any painful and unpleasant

circumstances occurring while I am absent, I must leave these papers

with you. They consist of the note sent you by Mrs. Hazleton which you

showed me, a paper which I feel confident is in her handwriting, but

which imitates your hand very exactly, and which has led to wrong

impressions, and the letter of young John Ayliffe--or at least that

which he wrote under Mrs. Hazleton's direction. I have added a few words

of my own, on a separate sheet of paper, stating the impression which I

have in regard to all these matters, and which I will justify whenever

it may be needful."

"But what am I to do with them?" asked Emily, simply.

"Keep them safely, and ever at hand, dear girl," replied Marlow, in a

grave tone. "You will find your father on his return a good deal

altered--moody and dissatisfied. It will be as well for you to take no

notice of such demeanor, unless he expresses plainly some cause of

discontent. If he do so--if he should venture upon any occasion to

reproach you, my Emily--"

"For what?" exclaimed Emily, in utter surprise.

"It would be too long and too painful to explain all just now, dear

one," answered her lover. "But such a thing may happen, my Emily.

Deceived, and in error, he may perhaps reproach you for things you never

dreamt of. He may also judge wrongly of your conduct in not having told

him of this young scoundrel's proposal to you. In either case put that

packet of papers in his hands, and tell him frankly and candidly every

thing."

"He is sometimes so reserved and grave," said Emily, "that I never like

to speak to him on any subject to which he does not lead the way. I

sometimes think he does not understand me, Marlow, and dread to open my

whole heart to him, as I would fain do, lest he should mistake me still

more."

"Let no dread stop you in this instance, my own dear girl," Marlow

answered. "That there have been dark plots against you, Emily, I am

certain. The only way to meet and frustrate them is to place full and

entire confidence in your father. I do not ask you to speak to him on

the subject unless he speaks to you, till I have obtained the proofs

which will make all as clear as daylight. Then, every thing must be

told, and Sir Philip will find that had he been more frank himself he

would have met with no want of candor in his daughter. Now, one more

kiss, dear love, and then to my horse's back."

I will not pursue Marlow's journey across the fair face of merry

England, nor tell the few adventures that befell him on the way, nor the

eager considerations that pressed, troop after troop, upon his mind,

neither will I dwell long upon his proceedings in London, which occupied

but one brief day. He went to the house of his banker, sought out the

little clerk of Messrs. Doubledoo and Kay, and contrived from both to

obtain proof positive that Mrs. Hazleton had supplied a large sum of

money to young John Ayliffe to carry on his suit against Sir Philip

Hastings. He also obtained a passport for France, and one or two letters

for influential persons in Paris, and returning to the inn where he had

left the man who had accompanied him from the country, set out for

Calais, without pausing even to take rest himself. Another man, a clerk

from his own lawyer's house, accompanied him, and though the passage was

somewhat long and stormy, he reached Calais in safety.

Journeys to Paris were not then such easy things as now. Three days

passed ere Marlow reached the French capital, and then both his

companions were inclined to grumble not a little at the rapidity with

which he travelled, and the small portion of rest he allowed them or

himself. In the capital, however, they paused for two days, and,

furnished with an interpreter and guide, amused themselves mightily,

while Marlow passed his time in government offices, and principally with

the lieutenant of police, or one of his commissaries.

At length the young gentleman notified his two companions that they must

prepare to accompany him at nine o'clock in the morning to St. Germain

en Laye, where he intended to reside for some days. A carriage was at

the door to the moment, and they found in it a very decent and

respectable gentleman in black, with a jet-hilted sword by his side, and

a certain portion of not very uncorrupt English. The whole party jogged

on pleasantly up the steep ascent, and round the fine old palace, to a

small inn which was indicated to the driver by the gentleman in black,

for whom that driver seemed to entertain a profound reverence. When

comfortably fixed in the inn, Marlow left his two English companions,

and proceeded, as it was the hour of promenade, to take a walk upon the

terrace with his friend in black. They passed a great number of groups,

and a great number of single figures, and Marlow might have remarked, if

he had been so disposed, that several of the persons whom they met

seemed to eye his companion with a suspicious and somewhat anxious

glance. All Marlow's powers of observation, however, were directed in a

different way. He examined every face that he saw, every group that he

came near; but at length, as they passed a somewhat gayly dressed woman

of the middle age, who was walking alone, the young Englishman touched

the arm of the man in black, saying, "According to the description I

have had of her, that must be very like the person."

"We will follow her, and see," said the man in black.

Without appearing to notice her particularly, they kept near the lady

who had attracted their attention, as long as she continued to walk upon

the terrace, and then followed her when she left it, through several

streets which led away in the direction of the forest. At length she

stopped at a small house, opened the door, and went in.

The man in black took out a little book from his pocket, closely written

with long lists of names.

"Monsieur et Madame Jervis," he said, after having turned over several

pages. "Here since three years ago."

"That cannot be she, then," answered Marlow.

"Stay, stay," said his companion, "that is _au premier_. On the second

floor lodges Monsieur Drummond. Old man of sixty-eight. He has been here

two years; and above Madame Dupont, an old French lady whom I know quite

well. You must be mistaken, Monsieur, but we will go into this

_charcutier's_ just opposite, and inquire whether that is Madame Jervis

who went in."

It proved to be so. The pork butcher had seen her as she passed the

window, and Marlow's search had to begin again. When he and his

companion returned to their inn, however, the man whom he had brought up

from the country met him eagerly, saying, "I have seen her, sir! I have

seen her! She passed by here not ten minutes ago, dressed in weeds like

a widow, and walking very fast. I would swear to her."

"Oh, ho," said the man in black, "we will soon find her now," and

calling to the landlord, who was as profoundly deferential towards him

as the coachman had been, he said in the sweetest possible tone, "Will

you have the goodness to let Monsieur Martin know that the _bon homme

grivois_ wishes to speak with him for a moment?"

It was wonderful with what rapidity Monsieur St. Martin, a tall, dashing

looking personage, with an infinite wig, obeyed the summons of the _bon

homme grivois_.

"Ah, _bon jour_, St. Martin," said the man in black.

"_Bon jour, Monsieur_," replied the other, with a profound obeisance.

"A lady of forty--has been handsome, fresh color, dark eyes, middle

height, hair brown, hardly gray," said the man in black. "Dressed like

an English widow, somewhat common air and manner, has come here within a

year. Where is she to be found, St. Martin?"

The other, who had remained standing, took out his little book, and

after consulting its pages diligently, gave a street and a number.

"What's her name?" asked the man in black.

"Mistress Brown," replied Monsieur St. Martin.

"Good," said the man in black, "but we must wait till to-morrow morning,

as it is now growing dark, and there must be no mistake; first, lest we

scare the real bird in endeavoring to catch one we don't want, and next,

lest we give annoyance to any of his Majesty's guests, which would

reduce the king to despair."

The next morning, at an early hour, the party of four proceeded to the

street which had been indicated, discovered the number, and then entered

a handsome hotel, inhabited by an old French nobleman. The man in black

seemed unknown to either the servants or their master, but a very few

words spoken in the ear of the latter, rendered him most civil and

accommodating. A room in the front of the house, just over that of the

porter, was put at the disposal of the visitors, and the man who had

accompanied Marlow from the country was placed at the window to watch

the opposite dwelling. It was a balmy morning, and the house was near

the outskirts of the town, so that the fresh air of the country came

pleasantly up the street. The windows of the opposite house were,

however, still closed, and it was not till Marlow and his companions had

been there near three quarters of an hour, that a window on the first

floor was opened, and a lady looked out for a moment, and then drew in

her head again.

"There she is!" cried the man who was watching, "there she is, sir."

"Are you quite certain?" asked the man in black.

"Beyond all possible doubt, sir," replied the other. "Lord bless you, I

know her as well as I know my own mother. I saw her almost every day for

ten years."

"Very well, then," said the man in black, "I will go over first alone,

and as soon as I have got in, you, Monsieur Marlow, with these two

gentlemen, follow me thither. She won't escape me when once I'm in, but

the house may have a back way, and therefore we will not scare her by

too many visitors at this early hour."

He accordingly took his departure, and Marlow and his companions saw him

ring the bell at the opposite house. But the suspicion of those within

fully justified the precautions he had taken. Before he obtained

admission, he was examined very narrowly by a maid-servant from the

window above. It is probable that he was quite conscious of this

scrutiny, but he continued quietly humming an opera air for a minute or

two, and then rang the bell again. The door was then opened. He entered,

and Marlow and his companions ran across, and got in before the door was

shut. The maid gave a little scream at the sudden ingress of so many

men, but the gentleman in black told her to be silent, to which she

replied, "Oh, Monsieur, you have cheated me. You said you wanted

lodgings."

"Very good, my child," replied the man, "but the lodgings which I want

are those of Madame Brown, and you will be good enough to recollect that

I command all persons, in the king's name, now in this house, to remain

in it, and not to go out on any pretence whatever till they have my

permission. Lock that door at the back, and then bring me the key."

The maid, pale and trembling, did as she was commanded, and the French

gentleman then directed the man who had accompanied Marlow to precede

the rest up the stairs, and enter the front room of the first floor. The

others followed close, and as soon as the door of the room was open, it

was evident that the lady of the house had been alarmed by the noise

below; for she stood looking eagerly towards the top of the stairs, with

cheeks very pale indeed. At the same moment that this sight was

presented to them, they heard the man who had gone on exclaim in

English, "Ah, Mistress Ayliffe, how do you do? I am very glad to see

you. Do you know they said you were dead--ay, and swore to it."

John Ayliffe's mother sank down in a seat, and hid her face with her

hands.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Marlow could not be hard-hearted with a woman, and he felt for the

terrible state of agitation and alarm, to which John Ayliffe's mother

was reduced.

"We must be gentle with her," he said in French to the Commissary of

Police, who was with him, and whom we have hitherto called the man in

black.

"_Oui, monsieur_," replied the other, taking a pinch of snuff, and

perfectly indifferent whether he was gentle or not,--for the Commissary

had the honor, as he termed it, of assisting at the breaking of several

gentlemen on the wheel, to say nothing of sundry decapitations,

hangings, and the question, ordinary and extraordinary, all of which

have a certain tendency, when witnessed often, slightly to harden the

human heart, so that he was not tender.

Marlow was approaching to speak to the unfortunate woman, when removing

her hands from her eyes, she looked wildly round, exclaiming, "Oh! have

you come to take me, have you come to take me?"

"That must depend upon circumstances, madam," replied Marlow, in a quiet

tone. "I have obtained sufficient proofs of the conspiracy in which your

son has been engaged with yourself and Mr. Shanks, the attorney, to

justify me in applying to the Government of his most Christian Majesty

for your apprehension and removal to England. But I am unwilling to deal

at all harshly with you, if it can be avoided."

"Oh! pray don't, pray don't!" she exclaimed vehemently; "my son will

kill me, I do believe, if he knew that you had found me out; for he has

told me, and written to me so often to hide myself carefully, that he

would think it was my fault."

"It is his own fault in ordering your letters to him to be sent to the

Silver Cross at Hartwell," replied Marlow. "Every body in the house knew

the handwriting, and became aware that you were not dead, as had been

pretended. But your son will soon be in a situation to kill nobody; for

the very fact of your being found here, with the other circumstances we

know, is sufficient to convict him of perjury."

"Then he'll lose the property and the title, and not be Sir John any

more," said the unhappy woman.

"Beyond all doubt," replied Marlow. "But to return to the matter before

us; my conduct with regard to yourself must be regulated entirely by

what you yourself do. If you furnish me with full and complete

information in regard to this nefarious business, in which I am afraid

you have been a participator, as well as a victim, I will consent to

your remaining where you are, under the superintendence of the police,

of which this gentleman is a Commissary."

"O, I have been a victim, indeed," answered Mrs. Ayliffe, weeping. "I

declare I have not had a moment's peace, or a morsel fit to eat since I

have been in this outlandish country, and I can hardly get any body, not

even a servant girl, who understands a word of English, to speak to."

Marlow thought that he saw an inclination to evade the point of his

questions, in order to gain time for consideration, and the Commissary

thought so too: though both of them were, I believe, mistaken; for

collaterality, if I may use such a word, was a habit of the poor woman's

mind.

The Commissary interrupted her somewhat sharply in her catalogue of the

miseries of France, by saying, "I will beg you to give me your keys,

madame, for we must have a visitation of your papers."

"My keys, my keys!" she said, putting her hands in the large pockets

then worn. "I am sure I do not know what I have done with them, or where

they are."

"O, we will soon find keys that will open any thing," replied the

Commissary. "There are plenty of hammers in St. Germain."

"Stay, stay a moment," said Marlow; "I think Mrs. Ayliffe will save us

the trouble of taking any harsh steps."

"O yes, don't; I will do any thing you please," she said, earnestly.

"Well then, madame," said Marlow, "will you have the goodness to state

to this gentleman, who will take down your words, and afterwards

authenticate the statement, what is your real name, and your ordinary

place of residence in England?"

She hesitated, and he added more sternly, "You may answer or not, as you

like, madame; we have proof by the evidence of Mr. Atkinson here, who

has known you so many years, that you are living now in France, when

your son made affidavit that you were dead. That is the principal point;

but at the same time I warn you, that if you do not frankly state the

truth in every particular, I must demand that you be removed to

England."

"I will indeed," she said, "I will indeed;" and raising her eyes to the

face of the Commissary, of whom she seemed to stand in great dread, she

stated truly her name and place of abode, adding, "I would not, indeed I

would not have taken a false name, or come here at all, if my son had

not told me that it was the only way for him to get the estate, and

promised that I should come back directly he had got it. But now, he

says I must remain here forever, and hide myself;" and she wept

bitterly.

In the mean while, the Commissary continued to write actively, putting

down all she said. She seemed to perceive that she was committing

herself, but, as is very common in such cases, she only rendered the

difficulties worse, adding, in a low tone, "After all, the estate ought

to have been his by right."

"If you think so, madame," replied Marlow, "you had better return to

England, and prove it; but I can hardly imagine that your son and his

sharp lawyer would have had recourse to fraud and perjury in order to

keep you concealed, if they judged that he had any right at all."

"Ay, he might have a right in the eyes of God," replied the unhappy

woman, "not in the eyes of the law. We were as much married before

heaven as any two people could be, though we might not be married before

men."

"That is to say, you and your husband," said the Commissary in an

insinuating tone.

"I and Mr. John Hastings, old Sir John's son," she answered; and the

Commissary drawing Marlow for a moment aside, conversed with him in a

whisper.

What they said she could not hear, and could not have understood had she

heard, for they spoke in French; but she grew alarmed as they went on,

evidently speaking about her, and turning their eyes towards her from

time to time. She thought they meditated at least sending her in custody

to England, and perhaps much worse. Tales of bastiles, and dungeons, and

wringing confessions from unwilling prisoners by all sorts of tortures,

presented themselves to her imagination, and before they had concluded,

she exclaimed in a tone of entreaty, "I will tell all, indeed I will

tell all, if you will not send me any where."

"The Commissary thinks, madame," said Marlow, "that the first thing we

ought to do is to examine your papers, and then to question you from the

evidence they afford. The keys must, therefore, be found, or the locks

must be broken open."

"Perhaps they may be in that drawer," said Mrs. Ayliffe, pointing across

to an escrutoire; and there they were accordingly found. No great search

for papers was necessary; for the house was but scantily furnished, and

the escrutoire itself contained a packet of six or seven letters from

John Ayliffe to his mother, with two from Mr. Shanks, each of them

ending with the words "_read and burn_;" an injunction which she had

religiously failed to comply with. These letters formed a complete

series from the time of her quitting England up to that day. They gave

her information of the progress of the suit against Sir Philip Hastings,

and of its successful termination by his withdrawing from the defence.

The first letters held out to her, every day, the hope of a speedy

return to England. The later ones mentioned long fictitious

consultations with lawyers in regard to her return, and stated that it

was found absolutely necessary that she should remain abroad under an

assumed name. The last letter, however, evidently in answer to one of

remonstrance and entreaty from her, was the most important in Marlow's

eyes. It was very peremptory in its tone, asked if she wanted to ruin

and destroy her son, and threatened all manner of terrible things if she

suffered her retreat to be discovered. As some compensation, however,

for her disappointment, John Ayliffe promised to come and see her

speedily, and secure her a splendid income, which would enable her to

keep carriages and horses, and "live like a princess." He excused his

not having done so earlier, on the ground that his friend Mrs. Hazleton

had advanced him a very large sum of money to carry on the suit, which

he was obliged to pay immediately. The letter ended with these words,

"She is as bitter against all the Hastings' as ever; and nothing will

satisfy her till she has seen the last of them all, especially that

saucy girl; but she is cute after her money, and will be paid. As for my

part, I don't care what she does to Mistress Emily; for I now hate her

as much as I once liked her,--but you will see something there, I think,

before long."

"In the name of Heaven," exclaimed Marlow, as he read that letter, "what

can have possessed the woman with so much malice towards poor Emily

Hastings?"

"Why, John used always to think," said Mistress Ayliffe, with a weak

smile coming upon her face in the midst of her distress, "that it was

because Madame Hazleton wanted to marry a man about there, called

Marlow, and Mistress Emily carried him off from her."

The Commissary laughed, and held out his snuff-box to Marlow, who did

not take the snuff, but fell into a deep fit of thought, while the

Commissary continued his perquisitions.

Only two more papers of importance were found, and they were of a date

far back. The one fresh, and evidently a copy of some other letter, the

other yellow, and with the folds worn through in several places. The

former was a copy of a letter of young John Hastings to the unfortunate

girl whom he had seduced, soothing her under her distress of mind, and

calling her his "dear little wife." It was with the greatest difficulty

she could be induced to part with the original, it would seem, and had

obtained a copy before she consented to do so. The latter was the

antidote to the former. It was a letter from old Sir John Hastings to

her father, and was to the following effect:

"Sir:

"As you have thought fit distinctly to withdraw all vain and

fraudulent pretences of any thing but an illicit connection

between your daughter and my late son, and to express

penitence for the insolent threats you used, I will not

withhold due support from my child's offspring, nor from the

unfortunate girl to whom he behaved ill. I therefore write

this to inform you that I will allow her the sum of two

hundred pounds per annum, as long as she demeans herself

with propriety and decorum. I will also leave directions in

my will for securing to her and her son, on their joint

lives, a sum of an equal amount, which may be rendered

greater if her behavior for the next few years is such as I

can approve.

"I am, sir, your obedient servant,

"JOHN HASTINGS."

Marlow folded up the letter with a smile, and the Commissary proceeded,

with all due formalities, to mark and register the whole correspondence

as found in the possession of Mrs. Ayliffe.

When this was done, what may be called the examination of that good lady

was continued, but the sight of those letters in the hands of Marlow,

and the well-satisfied smile with which he read them, had convinced her

that all farther attempt at concealment would be vain. Terror had with

her a great effect in unloosing the tongue, and, as is very common in

such cases, she flew into the extreme of loquacity, told every thing she

knew, or thought, or imagined, and being, as is common with very weak

people, of a prying and inquisitive turn, she could furnish ample

information in regard to all the schemes and contrivances by which her

son had succeeded in convincing even Sir Philip Hastings himself of his

legitimacy.

Her statements involved Mr. Shanks the lawyer in the scheme of fraud as

a principal, but they compromised deeply Mrs. Hazleton herself as

cognizant of all that was going on, and aiding and abetting with her

personal advice. She detailed the whole particulars of the plan which

had been formed for bringing Emily Hastings to Mrs. Hazleton's house,

and frightening her into a marriage with John Ayliffe; and she dwelt

particularly on the tutoring he had received from that lady, and his

frantic rage when the scheme was frustrated. The transactions between

him and the unhappy man Tom Cutter she knew only in part; but she

admitted that her son had laughed triumphantly at the thought of how Sir

Philip would be galled when he was made to believe that his beloved

Emily had been to visit her young reprobate son at the cottage near the

park, and that, too, at a time when he had been actually engaged in

poaching.

All, in fact, came forth with the greatest readiness, and indeed much

more was told than any questions tended to elicit. She seemed indeed to

have now lost all desire for concealment, and to found her hopes and

expectations on the freest discovery. Her only dread, apparently, being

that she might be taken to England, and confronted with her son. On this

point she dwelt much, and Marlow consented that she should remain in

France, under the supervision of the police, for a time at least, though

he would not promise her, notwithstanding all her entreaties, that she

should never be sent for. He endeavored, however, to obviate the

necessity of so doing, by taking every formal step that could be devised

to render the evidence he had obtained available in a court of law, as

documentary testimony. A magistrate was sent for, her statements were

read over to her in his presence by the commissary of police, and though

it cannot be asserted that either the style or the orthography of the

worthy commissary were peculiarly English, yet Mrs. Ayliffe signed them,

and swore to them in good set form, and in the presence of four

witnesses.

To Marlow, the scene was a very painful one; for he had a natural

repugnance to seeing the weakness and degradation of human nature so

painfully exhibited by any fellow-creature, and he left her with

feelings of pity, but still stronger feelings of contempt.

All such sensations, however, vanished when he reached the inn again,

and he found himself in possession of evidence which would clear his

beloved Emily of the suspicions which had been instilled into her

father's mind, and which he doubted not in the least would effect the

restoration of Sir Philip Hastings to his former opulence and to his

station in society.

The mind of man has a sun in its own sky, which pours forth its

sunshine, or is hidden by clouds, irrespective of the atmosphere around.

In fact we always see external objects through stained glass, and the

hues imparted are in our windows, not in the objects themselves. It is

wonderful how different the aspect of every thing was to the eyes of

Marlow as he returned towards Paris, from that which the scene had

presented as he went. All seemed sunshine and brightness, from the

happiness of his own heart. The gloomy images, which, as I have shown,

had haunted him on his way from his own house to Hartwell--the doubts,

if they can be so called--the questionings of the unsatisfied heart in

regard to the ways of Providence--the cloudy dreads which almost all men

must have felt as to the real, constant, minute superintendence of a

Supreme Power being but a sweet vision, the child of hope and

veneration, were all dispelled. I do not mean to say that they were

dissipated by reason or by thought, for his was a strong mind, and

reason and thought with him were always on the side of faith; but those

clouds and mists were suddenly scattered by the success which he had

obtained, and the cheering expectation which might be now well founded

upon that success. It was not enough for him that he knew, and

understood, and appreciated to the full the beauty and excellence of his

Emily's character. He could not be contented unless every one connected

with her understood and appreciated it also. He cared little what the

world thought of himself, but he would have every one think well of her,

and the deepest pang he had perhaps ever felt in life had been

experienced when he first found that Sir Philip Hastings doubted and

suspected his own child. Now, all must be clear--all must be bright. The

base and the fraudulent will be punished and exposed, the noble and the

good honored and justified. It was his doing; and as he alighted from

the carriage, and mounted the stairs of the hotel in Paris, his step was

as triumphant as if he had won a great victory.

Fate will water our wine, however--I suppose lest we should become

intoxicated with the delicious draught of joy. Marlow longed and hoped

to fly back to England with the tidings without delay, but certain

formalities had to be gone through, official seals and signatures

affixed to the papers he had obtained, in order to leave no doubt of

their authenticity. Cold men of office could not be brought to

comprehend or sympathize with his impetuous eagerness, and five whole

days elapsed before he was able to quit the French capital.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.

James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States

for the Southern District of New-York.

HORACE WALPOLE'S OPINIONS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES.

The correspondence of the Earl of Orford and the Rev. William Mason, the

friend and biographer of Gray, has just been published, and the critics

seem to regard it as more entertaining than any previous collection of

the letters of the noble and celebrated author. The _Examiner_ says they

bring out with marked prominence his abhorrence of the Scotch, his

bitter dislike of Johnson, and the men of genius connected with him, his

uneasy contempt for Chesterfield and Lyttleton, his impatience of

Garrick's popularity, and his better founded scorn of Cumberland and his

clique. We do not mention his studied injustice to Chatterton, because

in this there was not a little natural resentment of as great an

injustice to himself on the part of poor Chatterton's upholders; but

perhaps nothing is more painfully impressed on all the letters than his

monstrous persistence in the refusal of all merit to the most

distinguished writers of his time who did not happen to belong to his

set. Let the reader remember that within a few years before these

letters, and during their continuance, all the writings of Sterne had

been produced, and all the writings of Goldsmith; that Johnson had

published _Rasselas_ and the _Idler_, the edition of _Shakspeare_, the

_Dictionary_, and the _Lives of the Poets_; that Smollett had given _Sir

Lancelot Greaves_ and _Humphrey Clinker_ to the world; that the first

publication of Lady Mary Wortley Montague's letters had taken place;

that Percy had published his _Reliques_, Reid his _Inquiry_, and Hume

his immortal _History_; that the most important portion of the _Decline

and Fall_ had appeared, and that the theatres could boast of the farces

of Foote and the comedies of Goldsmith, Colman, and Sheridan. Yet here

is all that Walpole can say of it!

"What a figure will this our Augustan age make! Garrick's

prologues, epilogues, and verses, Sir W. Chambers's

Gardening, Dr. Nowel's Sermon, Whittington and his Cat, Sir

John Dalrymple's History and Life of Henry II. What a

library of poetry, taste, good sense, veracity, and

vivacity! Ungrateful Shebbear! indolent Smollett! trifling

Johnson! piddling Goldsmith! how little have they

contributed to the glory of a period in which all arts, all

sciences are encouraged and rewarded! Guthrie buried his

mighty genius in a review, and Mallet died of the first

effusions of his loyalty. The retrospect makes one

melancholy, but Ossian has appeared, and were Paradise once

more lost, we should not want an epic poem!"

We take other passages from the letters exhibiting the same spirit--now

simply entertaining:

"Dr. Goldsmith has written a comedy--no, it is the lowest of

all farces, it is not the subject I condemn, though very

vulgar, but the execution. The drift tends to no moral, no

edification of any kind--the situations, however, are well

imagined, and make one laugh in spite of the grossness of

the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and total improbability

of the whole plan and conduct. But what disgusts me most is,

that though the characters are very low, and aim at low

humor, not one of them says a sentence that is natural or

marks any character at all. It is set up in opposition to

sentimental comedy, and is as bad as the worst of them.

Garrick would not act it, but bought himself off by a poor

prologue.

"You will be diverted to hear that Mr. Gibbon has quarrelled

with me. He lent me his second volume in the middle of

November. I returned it with a most civil panegyric. He came

for more incense, I gave it, but alas! with too much

sincerity, I added, 'Mr. Gibbon, I am sorry you should have

pitched on so disgusting a subject as the Constantinopolitan

history. There is so much of the Arians and Eunomians, and

semi-Pelagians; and there is such a strange contrast between

Roman and Gothic manners, and so little harmony between a

Consul Sabinus and a Ricimer, Duke of the Palace, that

though you have written the story as well as it could be

written, I fear few will have patience to read it.' He

colored; all his round features squeezed themselves into

sharp angles; he screwed up his button-mouth, and rapping

his snuff-box, said, "It had never been put together

before'--'so well,' he meant to add, but gulped it. He meant

'so well,' certainly, for Tillemont, whom he quotes in every

page, has done the very thing. Well, from that hour to this,

I have never seen him, though he used to call once or twice

a week: nor has sent me the third volume, as he promised. I

well knew his vanity, even about his ridiculous face and

person, but thought he had too much sense to avow it so

palpably.

"I have read Sheridan's Critic, but not having seen it, for

they say it is admirably acted, it appeared wondrously flat

and old, and a poor imitation; it makes me fear I shall not

be so much charmed with the School for Scandal, on reading,

as I was when I saw it."

There is of course no denying that these attempts to make "small beer"

of the Gibbons, Humes, Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Smolletts, and other

spirits already secure and serene among the immortals, however amusing

in themselves, become mighty ridiculous by the side of as perpetual

praise of the writer's own clique.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.

DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 357._

XI.--ON PAROLE.

Three days after the night upon which the father and son had knocked at

the door of No. 7 Rue de Menors, another scene occurred. It was ten

o'clock. The Prince had not appeared at dinner. Confined by a slight

indisposition to his room, he sent an excuse to his daughter-in-law. The

Prince was respectful as far as possible to Aminta, looking on her as

head of the family and mistress of the household. The Countess of

Grandmesnil had embroidered away a portion of the day, contradicted her

niece, admired her nephew, commented on the last sermon of the Abbe de

Rozan on worldly pleasures, contriving therein to insert various

bitter-sweet allusions to Aminta. Finally the Countess left the room.

The Marquis and Marquise were then alone together. After her discovery

of the nocturnal absence of Henri, and especially after the reading of

the fatal note in which an appointment was made with the Marquis, Aminta

felt a sadness which she could not overcome. Too proud to reproach him,

or suffer him to discover her sorrow, divided between unextinguished

love and deep mortification, Aminta lived in perpetual constraint,

biding her grief and humiliation under a false tranquillity, the

recompense for which she found in solitary tears. The Marquis seemed ill

at ease. He had for some days been as moody as possible. His absence

became every day more frequent, and the sudden departure of the Countess

made his situation very annoying to both of them. Not a word was said

for some moments. Henri sat with his eyes fixed on a paper, though he

did not read, and Aminta convulsively twisted between her fingers a kind

of work which just then was fashionable. Her eyes however occasionally

strayed to her husband's face, on which they rested with anxiety. As she

thus examined him, the features of Henri finally assumed such an

expression of despair that Aminta could not repress her sorrow, and

said, "What _is_ the matter? are you in pain?"

"I? not at all! I am well--very well," said the Marquis. "I have

something of importance to attend to," and he added, as he looked at

the clock, "I am already rather late."

Aminta, in a supplicating tone, said, "Henri, once the most important

business of your life was to be with me."

"The business which calls me out is by no means as pleasant as that

would be."

"I wish I thought so," said Aminta--"for the needle of jealousy had

entered her heart.

"Aminta," said Maulear, looking at her, "what is the matter? what do you

mean?"

"That I am afraid I have lost the greatest blessing of life in a

marriage like ours, and that, when my confidence in you is lost,

happiness is gone for ever."

"And why have you lost it?" said Maulear.

"You have yourself destroyed it. You, whom I thought so frank--you, in

the oaths of whom I had confidence--for whom I abandoned my mother and

my country," said she, with tears. "You, against whose love I contended,

for I was afraid I would not be happy, or rather that you would not be.

Alas! I am now sure of this. Your coldness, your indifference, your

abandonment, tell me so more distinctly than your tongue could. Yet I

had rather you should say so, for there would at least be boldness in

the confession, while meanness is the element of dissimulation."

The head of the poor young woman fell on her shoulder, and she shed

bitter tears.

"Aminta," said Henri, as he drew near and sought to take her hand, "I

swear that I have not deceived you."

Aminta looked towards him with a countenance lighted up with joy, but a

frightful thought, the recollection of the letter, pierced her heart

like an arrow.

"He deceives me," said she, and she felt herself blush for the man who

did not blush himself, though he was committing perjury. The door of the

room was then opened, and the Prince de Maulear entered. He was pale and

agitated, though he had a smile on his lips. The smile, however, was

cold and evidently studied. "You are about to go out, Marquis," said he,

pointing to the hat which the latter had in his hand, without appearing

to remark either the trouble of Henri or the tears of Aminta.

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but I have an important appointment."

"I am sorry for your appointment," said the Prince, "but you must break

it."

"I cannot," muttered Henri.

"I hope you will," said the Prince, but his manner implied, "you must."

"Very well, sir," said the Marquis, putting down his hat and gloves,

with marked ill humor, "I obey you."

The Prince paid no further attention to him, but placed a chair near

Aminta, sat beside her, and pointing out a chair to the Marquis, bade

him do so also.

"We thought you unwell," said the Marquise to her father-in-law, making

an effort to restrain herself. "We are glad to see it is not the case."

"For three days," said the Prince, "I have not felt well. Too long a

walk for a person of my age, and some important affairs have fatigued

both my body and mind. I therefore determined to pass this evening

calmly and quietly with you--with my family. I do not," said he,

speaking to Henri, "expect it will be gay, but we cannot make a holiday

all the time. We must sometimes be calm, and reflect. You, my daughter,"

said he to Aminta, "may be sure I will do all I can to aid you. I know

you like to hear my old stories, but if you did not, and it were

unpleasant to you, you would bear with me. I am about to tell you a long

one." The Marquis and the Marquise listened to the Prince with surprise.

The tone of this preamble seemed to them so foreign to the ordinary

language and habits of the Prince, that they began to see something

stranger even than the piquant anecdotes and traditions he delighted in

narrating. "This story is a revelation of a story I long doubted whether

or not I should confide to you. Its avowal cannot but be painful to me,

and a man does not like to blush before his children."

"Why do so, then, my father?" said Henri.

"Because I wish to, monsieur," said the Prince sternly. "Because in the

course of his life man must suffer, when its suffering is good in its

effects, because thereby he may punish evil, and do his duty." The young

couple looked at the Prince with terror, for his brow was moody, and on

his lips--across which irony, gayety, and sarcasm so often played--there

were now the marks of anger, menace, and indignation.

The old man spoke thus: "After leaving Mettan, whither I had followed

the Princess, I went to Naples in 1792. Like almost all the _emigres_ of

that day, I had no money. One of the first Frenchmen I met with in that

city was Count Max de Nangis, with whom I had previously become

acquainted in the strangest manner. We had been educated by the

Benedictines, but our scholastic success was most unequal; for the Count

saw me regularly surpass him, and carry away every college prize. He

naturally disliked me. When we had entered society, our whimsical hate

continued,--so that I seemed born to be the evil genius of the Count. If

our horses were entered for the same stake, mine won the purse;

sometimes by a length or a head only--but they won. If the Count fell in

love, he did so with a woman that loved me, and the Count was soon sent

adrift. My marriage soon capped the climax. Count Max had a charming

cousin, Mlle. de Devonne, whom he loved passionately. Their marriage had

been quietly agreed on between the families, and was to be solemnized on

the majority of M. de Nangis. I was introduced to the Duke de Devonne,

and saw his daughter, the most beautiful woman of the Court. After a

short time I became passionately in love with her. I soon saw that my

love was returned, and as the marriage to which I have referred had only

been a matter of family-talk, known to a few friends, but not to the

public, my father induced the Dauphin to ask the Duke de Nangis for his

daughter's hand for me. Unwilling to offend the Prince, led astray by

the manifest interest of his daughter, and anxious to gratify her, the

Duke consented. The Count de Nangis was enraged, and challenged me;--I

wounded him in the arm. We fought again;--I wounded him in the thigh. He

challenged me again; and I run him through the body; he was forced to be

satisfied. All these duels took place in the county of _Saluces_, in

Savoy,--then belonging to my family, and whither I had gone to attend to

business-matters. I married Mlle. de Devonne, who was your noble and

excellent mother,"--this was said to Henri, "I have told you this to

explain the hatred which had existed so long a time in the heart of M.

de Nangis, when we met at Naples, in 1792. The first months of my

sojourn were sad and solitary. Too proud to inform any one of the nature

of my sufferings, I lived retired; and, except a few countrymen as poor

as I was, saw no one. This was easy enough; for I had brought no letter

of recommendation to the eminent people of that capital, in which I made

such a bad figure, and amid which I was isolated. This life made one of

my habits and tastes suffer cruelly. A painful circumstance, however,

mortified my self-love, and increased my humiliation,--the Count de

Nangis then was 'the observed of all observers,' in Naples. More prudent

or more fortunate than I, he saved large sums of money from the tempest

which overwhelmed all the large fortunes of France. He had a number of

servants, and in luxury and magnificence equalled the wealthiest persons

of the city. Notwithstanding my anxiety to avoid him, I met him

frequently, and I saw in his expression a kind of disdain and contempt

which wounded me to the soul. One day, when I was more desperate than

ever, I received a letter from France, and in it a check for fifty

thousand livres, which the Countess of Grandmesnil had sent me.

Intoxicated with joy, I hastened to get possession of this money, and

careless of the future, forgot this would be the only sum I should

receive for a long time, or perhaps would ever receive. I indulged in

mad extravagance, took a carriage, and three days afterwards presented

myself at various noble houses, where my rank and title procured me a

ready reception. I saw M. de Nangis; we met in the same rooms, amid

people of high rank, and there was no trace of our old differences. I

fancied, though, that the Count exhibited a secret spite at my recovery

of fortune, which he thought more stable than it really was. At this

time people in Naples played high. The palace of Prince Leta was every

night filled with rich strangers, and with the principal nobles of

Naples. Over his tables, loaded with gold, they played all night long. I

was taken to Prince Leta's, where a strange idea took possession of me.

I fancied that I might, without danger or risk, increase my revenue, and

probably triple the poor sum I had been fortunate to receive. I played,

and my good fortune did not desert me; at first I won with the strangest

good fortune. My daring increased, and I made some bold bets, which were

successful; so that in the course of a few evenings I won three hundred

thousand francs."

The eyes of the Marquis glittered with strange light, as he heard his

father speak thus. The Prince did not seem to observe it, and

continued--

"Chance led me into a room where the Count de Nangis also was--he too

played. Remembering how my fortune had always seemed to surpass his, and

all the victories I had won at his expense, I could not refrain from

secretly pitying him for the fate which had again brought him into

contact with me, and which led him again to contend with one who had

uniformly triumphed over and beaten him in fortune, love, and war. We

began to play--the Count betting high, and I following his example. The

game was something between faro and lansquenet, now completely

forgotten, having been replaced by _ecarte_." The Prince saw his son

tremble at the mention of the last game; for a few moments he paused,

and then continued--

"The first games were unfortunate for me; I lost--I doubled the stakes,

and lost again. At the conclusion of the evening my hundred thousand

crowns were reduced to a hundred thousand francs. I returned home

completely overpowered, but less stupefied at my own losses than at the

success of my rival, who heretofore had been so unfortunate. On the next

day I sent to M. de Nangis, before noon, the fifty thousand francs I

owed him--on the previous evening I had on my person only fifty thousand

francs with me. That night we met again at Prince Leta's. The game

began--there were many spectators. I won ten thousand francs, and smiled

confidently at the change of fortune. It soon, however, changed once

more.--When the clock struck twelve I was ruined! 'On my honor!' said

the Count, 'I have sought for ten years to contend with you, Prince. If

gold could indemnify me for all the losses you have caused me, confess

that, to-day, we are even.' My heart was ready to burst with rage, and I

was ready to insult him. 'We will not stop here, I hope,' said M. de

Nangis; 'and I wish to have more of your money; provided I have fifty

thousand francs of yours, I ask nothing more of the god Plutus.'

"A terrible contest then took place in my mind. To confess that I had no

more money--that I was ruined, seemed impossible; a miserable false

pride prevented me. Should I, however, go on, and contract a debt which

I could not discharge? 'Prince,' said the Count, pushing ten notes of a

thousand francs towards me, 'ten thousand francs more I wish to lose,

and something tells me that luck is about to turn.' The devil spoke to

me through the mouth of man. '_On parole_,' said I, 'for I have no money

with me.' '_Pardieu_, said the Count, 'people like ourselves never have

more than fifty thousand francs in our pocket-books. _Parole_ is our

cash, and none but citizens and bankers, who are loaded with gold like

mules in Guatemala, have any thing else. Your word is good for five

hundred thousand francs, and I will take it for cash.' I felt an icy

coldness run through my veins and stop at my very heart. I played again,

and again I lost and won again. An hour afterwards I owed sixty thousand

francs to the Count de Nangis. 'What is the matter?' said he ironically,

'are you ill.' 'The heat,' said I, rising, 'is excessive; and if you

please we will stop here.' 'As you please,' said the Count; 'and

to-morrow you shall have your revenge.' 'To-morrow, then, be it,' said

I. My head was hot, yet a cold perspiration stood on my brow; my sight

became troubled, my legs quailed, and I saw before me the terrible

spectacle of dishonor. He at last had his enemy in his power, and was

about to doom him to infamy. Two words seemed written before my eyes,

and by their aspect terrified me. Those two words contained all I had to

fear and apprehend--they were worse to me than death. These words were a

contract of honor, a sacred article in even the gambler's code. These

words had been pronounced by the Count as he pushed his money towards

me: they were '_on parole_.' I went to my hotel--for I had not yet left

the modest room I had inhabited while a more comfortable suite was being

prepared--and gave way to despair. 'My name disgraced!' cried I, 'the

name of the Prince de Maulear, which has been pure and honored for so

many centuries, made vile and disgraced by a miserable debt of sixty

thousand francs, a sum once scarcely to be considered as a fraction of

the revenues of my family!' There was no one by to aid me--no one to

whom I could own my fault, my remorse, and my despair. Day came, and the

horror of my situation increased as the fatal hour drew near. Unable to

resist this frightful torment I said, 'No! I will not live dishonored; I

will not bear a disgraced, shameful, and dishonored life.' I went to the

table and wrote: 'I owe to the Count de Nangis the sum of 60,000 francs,

for which I bequeath him all the profits ever likely to accrue to me

from my property in France. Here, when I am about to die, I enjoin my

son to discharge this debt of honor by every means in his power.' I then

took my pistols, loaded and cocked them--now be bold for one moment, and

spare yourself years of shame and disgrace!--I placed one of the pistols

with the muzzle at my heart, and the other in my mouth. I was about to

pull the trigger when I heard a noise. The partition which divided me

from the next room was shattered, and through the opening thus made, I

saw a man, pale and agitated. This person advanced towards we with a

pocket-book in his hands. 'Stop,' said he, 'here is what you owe--this

pocket-book contains sixty thousand livres.'"

XII.--THE GAMBLER.

The Prince de Maulear continued his story. Aminta timidly looked at her

father-in-law with painful emotion, for she knew how he must suffer in

making such a confession. The Marquis seemed to suffer under increasing

discomfort and terror.

"At the sudden and almost supernatural apparition of this stranger, who

thus rose before me, the weapons fell from my hands, and as I was unable

to speak, I made use of my eyes to question him.

"'I was there,' said the man, pointing to the chamber whence he had

burst so suddenly; 'I have not lost one of the words you have uttered

since your return--I have watched every moment, the long and cruel agony

of your soul. You have revealed yourself to me, your name, your family,

your isolated hopes, and your isolation in this city. I have seen your

despair hourly increase, until, but for me, you would have reached the

climax. Monsieur,' continued he, with a tone full of religion and

sensibility, 'make this day the happiest of my life by enabling me to

save one of my fellows.'

"'One of your fellows, Monsieur? alas I am not such, for if I estimate

you according to your actions, you are a man of honor and heart, while

I....'

"'You,' said he, interrupting me, 'you are like what you think me, a man

of honor and heart. The proof that such is the case is, that, unable to

bear the consequences of a moment of weakness, you were about to die to

avoid the consequences of that error. Monsieur de Maulear,' continued

the stranger, and he took my hand with touching kindness, 'permit me to

restore you to life and happiness, for you have a family perhaps, and

children, and cannot abandon all thus. Listen to me,' said he, as he saw

me refuse the pocket-book he offered me; 'I had a father who was one of

the noblest and best of men. He died many months ago, and my tears tell

you how I regret him. I know that he is in heaven and blesses me for

what I do now, for thus he would have done. The money I offer you is a

part of his fortune, and I am sure I appropriate it as he would wish me.

To refuse this, Monsieur, would be to exhibit ingratitude to Providence,

which has evidently watched over you, in permitting me to hear and

induce you to pause.'

"'But,' said I, with deep emotion, 'you do not know me, and such a

service....'

"'Have I not told you,' said he, 'that in your sorrow you told me all.

Do not, however, think I wish to be useful without a condition. I exact

one, and you will excuse me for making it the consideration of what I

propose to do.'

"'What is it?' said I. 'You can exact any thing from man as the price of

his honor.'

"'Well, swear to me that you will never play again.'

"'I do, I do!' said I. 'I pledge my faith not to.'

"'Take this pocket-book then,' said the stranger. It is now ten o'clock,

and debts of honor should always be paid before noon.'

"'But your name, at least, I should know, Monsieur, before I take your

gold.'

"'An insignificant one, which derives its only merit from the virtues of

him who transmitted it to me. My name is Luigi Rovero.'"

"My father," said the Marquise, "my father, was it he who...."

She paused from a sentiment of respect and delicacy to the Prince.

"This, however, is not the only benefit he conferred on me. From the

effects of the emotion I had undergone, a horrible illness seized me,

and during this malady of long days and endless nights of suffering, my

new friend never left me. A crisis ensued; for three days my life was in

danger, and depended on the precision with which a certain remedy was

administered to me. For three days and nights he watched me without one

minute of repose, and he not only restored my honor but preserved my

life. Rovero was a very brother to me, and I passed a whole year at

Naples, living with him and never leaving him. A few months after I was

able to discharge my pecuniary obligation to him--my debt of honor was

beyond my capacity. Here is the portrait of the person who was so dear

to me," said the Prince, and he took from his pocket a magnificent gold

box on which was a miniature set with diamonds. "Look at it, my

daughter," said he, "and observe the noble face yours so often recalls

to me."

Aminta kissed the portrait, and Henri, then remembering the picture

which Signora Rovero had shown him on his second visit to Sorrento,

explained his surprise when he saw it, for he had often seen the box and

the magnificent portrait.

"Plans, prejudices, pride, and family pride," said the Prince, "my

child, disappeared, as you know, when I heard the words 'The daughter of

Rovero.' Rovero was my savior and brother. From that moment I understood

that in the far-away skies, he besought me to discharge my debt towards

him, and to prove the extent of my gratitude. I understood that he would

have bequeathed his daughter to me, to become my own; therefore, when I

opened my arms you became my child, and since then my love for you has

continually increased. When I took charge of your life, my daughter, I

took charge of your happiness, which I thought secured for ever. For

some time, though, you have shed tears in secret--do not tell me no,"

said the Prince, as he saw Aminta make a motion of negation. "I have

studied you closely, and one cannot deceive a father's heart--I am your

father. Monsieur," said the Prince, turning towards his son, "now you

know why I love your wife. You see that her sorrows are mine, and that

her tears melt my heart. For two months you have distressed and made her

weep over your neglect and indifference, the fatal secret of which I

know and intend to tell her."

Henri quivered with fear.

"Father, for pity's sake, do not...."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "had you blushed earlier you would not do

so now."

"My daughter," said he, pointing to the Marquise who bent before him;

"your husband is not false to you, but he is a gamester."

"Then he has not deceived me," said the young woman. With an emotion she

could not restrain, she rushed into the arms of the Marquis. For some

moments the Prince looked at her with deep emotion, for Aminta forgave

and pardoned all in one who had not betrayed her. Then the Prince

continued sadly--

"Do not rejoice so soon, my child; gaming is the instigator of all

vices, and has led him so far as to _risk his honor without the means of

redeeming his parole_."

"Monsieur," said the Prince to his son, "I have told you a terrible

story, to prove to what abasement the passion for gaming can reduce a

man. That abasement you are in danger of."

"Father, if you knew the temptation."

"I do--for three days ago your mysterious life was revealed to me. In

the circle to which you belong, in one of those societies formed to

divide and interfere with domestic life--where persons go in search of a

liberty and after a license they do not find at home--in that place, led

astray by morbid self-esteem, you played for the first time. What, in a

man of your rank, should have been a mere amusement, a fugitive

pleasure, became a serious business. You played to win, or rather to

repair your losses. In the saloons of Paris you were constantly at the

ecarte tables, that cursed game, the chances of which have ruined so

many persons. Thanks to it, you won immense sums from young Lord Elmore,

at the last ball of M. L----, which you lost again in the more doubtful

house of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval, where you had an appointment."

"Ah, father! then he went to that woman's house to play?" said Aminta,

almost involuntarily.

"What else should he go for to the house of a dowager of fifty, who

receives all sorts of people, and where every thing is suspicious, from

her guests to the very cards they use? This very night, in consequence

of information received from me, that elegant abode will be examined by

the police most scrupulously. That," said the Prince, "is one of the

reasons why I have prevented my son from going thither. Now, Monsieur,"

said the Prince, "make an explanation of the state of your funds. You

had six hundred thousand francs from your mother, you have expended two

hundred thousand in furniture, horses, carriages, articles of luxury,

and presents to your wife. With the expenditure of this money I have no

fault to find, for you cannot estimate too highly the angel Heaven has

sent you. Then you had four hundred thousand francs. You have realized

this money, and during the last two months have lost the sum of three

hundred and ninety thousand francs. This evening, Monsieur, you were

about to tempt fortune with the ten thousand francs now in your

possession. Is not this the exact state of your affairs?"

"Ah, Monsieur, it is cruel to say all this before the Marquise."

"It is a hundred times less cruel than the suspicion to which you

abandon her. Did you not see just now that instead of reproaching the

gamester who had ruined her, she experienced only a tender emotion for

the husband she loved? Henri," continued the Prince, taking his son's

hand in his own, "when I told you how once in my life I had erred, when

I confessed to you a fault which yet makes my cheek blush, I sought to

make you pause on the abyss into which you were near plunging. In

telling you this secret I deprived myself of the right of severity to

you. When, in a letter I wrote to you at Naples, I spoke lightly of a

loss at cards I had undergone, I did not doubt that some day I would be

obliged to tell you all that had taken place. I was wrong, however, in

forbidding you to beware of what I had spoken of; for I should have

known that there are passions, like other diseases, which a father

transmits to his children. The body, like the soul, inherits them. I

however pardon and forget all I have mentioned."

Henri clasped the old man's hand, and Aminta kissed the Prince.

"I will," said the latter, "only pardon you on the terms imposed on me

by my generous friend Rovero. You will swear to me, on your honor, that

you will never play again, and I will confide in you as he did in me."

"I do swear," said the Marquis, "and will die if I ever break my oath."

"Now listen to me, my children," said the Prince, kindly; "I have a

hundred thousand francs a year--I will allow you fifty. A similar sum

satisfies me. To protect you, however, from all temptations to

extravagance, I give you the income and not the capital, and as a reward

of my indulgence, as a recompense of my courage in making the confession

of a great error of my life, make your wife happy, reward her by

tenderness for the care you have subjected her to, for the uneasiness

she has known, and my heart will be gratified for the bliss she will owe

you, as something to discharge my debt to her father."

The Prince clasped his children to his heart and left. While this was

occurring at the Hotel de Maulear, a storm overhung the hospitable roof

of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval. This house had been correctly estimated by

the Prince de Maulear, angry as he naturally was at the sums lost by his

son in those saloons. Madame de Bruneval assumed the military title of

widow of an ex-colonel of the Imperial Guard. There had really been such

a colonel on the _roles_ of the _grande armee_. Such a soldier had not

only had flesh and blood, but crosses and decorations. He had beaten,

and well beaten, the Austrians, but had lost his horse at Leipsic, and

been cut down by one of the black hussars of Brunswick. All this was

real, positive, and printed in black and white. There was no doubt about

it. It was doubtful, though, if the Colonel ever had a wife. The

_Moniteur_ mentioned the battles and the death--it said nothing of

Madame. Colonel de Bruneval, once, during a time of peace--such times

were rare with the Emperor--came to Paris with a lady about forty,

blonde like a German, rosy and fresh as a German, and speaking French

with a German accent. The Colonel introduced the lady to his brethren in

arms as _Madame la Colonelle_, and no one asked any other questions. No

one was ever bold enough to ask if the contract was perfectly regular;

for the Colonel was six feet high, tall as a drum-major, and was not

only a giant, but susceptible as possible, having a habit of translating

logic and syllogisms into sword-cuts and sabre slashes. The widow of the

Colonel, naturally enough, opened her house to her husband's

brothers-in-arms after the fatal blow of the black Brunswicker. The

house of Mme. Bruneval, in 1818, had become a Bonapartist club, at which

the police squinted with unusual forbearance for a long time. We must,

however, say, that the widow soon saw that the illustrious soldiers who

frequented her house did not indemnify her by their conversation for her

expenses. She therefore sought to make the presence of these heroes

available, and mingled with them a few honest people who were fond of

play, from whom the lights, like the altars of the god Plutus, received

the tithe of the stakes. At the widow's the play was high, and all kinds

of games were recognized. All, however, was fair and above board, and

this kind of reputation attracted thither many persons who would not

have met on a field of battle less orthodox. People in good society were

met with there. People who, like the Marquis de Maulear, were unwilling

to play in public, looked for excitement without regard to chance and

society. There the famous match between the Marquis and Lord Elmore took

place. Count Monte-Leone also went occasionally to Mme. Bruneval's,

since he used to meet there many _Carbonari_ and Bonapartists; for, as

we have said, people of the most diverse opinions all united for one

purpose, to destroy what was, and make their ideas triumph from the

wreck of the general chaos.

On the evening of the lesson given by the Prince to the Marquis de

Maulear, the Count presented Taddeo to Mme. de Bruneval, and while the

play seemed animated in various parts of the room, the _Carbonari_

talked in a neighboring room of a plan conceived by several wealthy

Americans who were affiliated with the society, of a plan to bear off

the Emperor Napoleon from his prison at St. Helena, and carry him to

France. Important, however, as the subject was, the Count paid but

little attention to it. He was then at one of the most painful crises of

his life. In about an hour he would need all his courage and persuasion

to combat and conquer one of the greatest obstacles man can meet with in

his career--the will of an energetic and passionate woman. Not long

before, Monte-Leone had received the following note:

"For fifteen days I have not seen you. I do not know why you avoid me. I

had rather die than continue to live thus. I wish to hear my fate from

your own lips. For eight days _he_ will be away. Come--if you refuse

me--if you are not with me when midnight comes, it will be the proof of

an eternal adieu, and I will cease to live."

The Count waited with impatience for the period of this terrible

interview. He knew the feeling which had inspired this note, how full of

irrepressible indignation her mind was, and that it would shrink from no

danger and no excess. He sought in vain to shake off Taddeo, but since

the scene in Verneuil street, when the wretch set to watch Monte-Leone

had been overheard by Rovero, the young man had been almost

heart-broken. On this evening, though, he did not lose sight of Taddeo

for an instant. The Count saw with terror that the time was drawing

near, yet he could not leave the room. Taking advantage of a moment when

Taddeo was not by, the Count was about to leave, when a noise was heard

in the anteroom. The door was thrown open, and a man with a white scarf

advanced amid the company. There was no possibility of mistake, for

justice, herself, as the Prince de Maulear had told his son, had come

into the gaming-house, disguised as a Commissary of Police. All who were

present felt the greatest uneasiness--they were about to be arrested on

the double charge of _Carbonarism_ and forbidden play. Was it to the

gamesters or to the _Carbonari_ that the Commissary paid his visit? All

were excited, though from different motives.

"Madame," said the Commissary, exhibiting his warrant to Madame

Bruneval, who, like the commander of a besieged place, sought to parley

with the enemy; "you are the widow of Colonel de Bruneval."

"I am, sir," said the German lady, whose color became greater than ever,

"and cannot conceive why I should be thus insulted. I am not, I suppose,

under the surveillance of the police."

"Excuse me, madame," said the Commissary, "your house has long been

pointed out to us, as the rendezvous of many Buonapartists"--the

Buonapartists became alarmed--"and," continued the Commissary, "as a

place where forbidden games are played. For these reasons, we are about

to make an examination in the premises and in relation to the persons

here--until that is completed, none can leave this room."

The clock struck twelve. The sound made the Count grow pale, for it was

the hour of the rendezvous. His situation was annoying, and a moment's

delay might bring about a catastrophe. The note had said: "If you are

not at my house by midnight, I shall be dead before one." The Count made

up his mind, and with his habitual decision in all critical,

embarrassing, or dangerous conjunctures, said that he must at all risks

get out of the house and go whither he was expected, to save life--which

every moment endangered. In such a state of affairs, _ruse_ was the best

course he could adopt--especially as that promised his immediate

extrication. He was about to adopt a difficult course; he purposed to

put out the lights, rush on the magistrate and his attendants, and then

break through the doors. Before adopting this extreme course, the Count

wished to know if he had many Carbonari around him. Glancing around the

guests of Madame Bruneval, he placed his hand on his brow and made

slowly the secret sign by means of which the Carbonari recognized each

other. The Commissary had not removed his eyes from the Count, who he

was well aware, though he did not know his name, was one of the

principal persons of the assemblage. No sooner had Monte-Leone made the

sign than, much to his surprise, he saw the Commissary acknowledge it.

The Count then discovered that the magistrate was a Carbonari, and that

there was one more brother than could have been expected in the room.

This strange circumstance had its explanation in the statement of

D'Harcourt at Doctor Matheus's: "We meet our brethren every where; in

the city, in the courts, among the lawyers, and among the judges." The

inquiry was brief and a mere matter of form. The Commissary did nothing.

Monte-Leone was one of the first who received permission to leave.

Followed by Taddeo, he rushed out. Rovero called on him to stop, but the

Count paid no attention to his cries. The clock was about to strike one,

and hurrying across the streets and squares of Louis XV., with the

rapidity of an arrow, he did not pause until he had reached the _Champs

Elysees_, where a little green door veiled by a hedge was opened to

admit him.

XIII.--DESPAIR.

When the door opened, a woman appeared and said, "Follow me, Count,

Madame is waiting for your excellency."

"What o'clock is it?" asked he, with great anxiety.

She answered, "A quarter after one."

"When did you leave your mistress?"

"At twelve. Madame bade me wait here for you."

"Lost!--dead! perhaps dead!" exclaimed the Count. He hurried down the

alley directly to the hotel.

"Signore! Signore!" said the woman; "all the servants have not perhaps

gone to bed, and if you be seen now in the garden of the Embassy, what

will people say and think of Madame?"

"Take me directly to her," said the Count, "for her life is in danger."

"Her life!" said the woman, with terror. Then, as if struck with an

idea, she added, "Wait, though, Madame bade me not come into her room

until to-morrow, unless I brought your excellency with me."

"Come, come," said the Count, dragging the woman after him. Thus they

went to the right wing of the building. A small door opened on a private

stairway communicating with the rooms of the Duchess of Palma. The

servant pointed out the door to the Count, and then preceded him. The

stairway ended at a little hall on the first floor. There the Count

stopped and the woman put a key in another door in the wall, through

which the Count entered a waiting-room and passed into a boudoir, where

the _femme de chambre_ asked him to sit for a few moments while she

informed the Duchess of his arrival. The Count was for some minutes

alone in the boudoir, and at last heard a half stifled cry behind him.

He looked around and saw the servant motionless and with terror

impressed on every feature. She pointed to the Duchess's room with one

hand, and lifted up the curtain of the door with the other. The Count

entered the room where a terrible spectacle awaited him. The Duchess,

pale as death, was extended on a sofa; by her side was a lamp almost

burnt out, and the flickering light cast from time to time a pale lustre

over this scene of sadness and death. The pulse and heart of La Felina

were motionless. By her side was a flacon of red liquor, which was

spilled on the rosewood stand. The Count held the flacon to his nose and

lip, and recognized its contents to be laudanum, that bringer of calm or

ruin, of sleep or death.

A feeling of deep sorrow took possession of him. The love and devotion

of that woman appeared to him in their proper light--limitless and vast.

Remorse lacerated his heart; for he charged himself with being the cause

of the terrible crime she had committed. Again the Count approached the

Duchess, and somewhat calmer than he had first been, perceived a faint

palpitation. He placed a mirror near Felina's lips, and a thin mist

overcast it. "She lives!" said Monte-Leone; "a lethargic sleep has

plunged her in this apparent death. Thank heaven, from having taken too

small a dose, the opium has acted as a narcotic--not as a poison. She

must be roused from this dangerous state. Listen," said he to the

servant, "I have a friend who will save your mistress without noise or

scandal. He is a physician, as skilful as he is prudent. Send him this,

at once," said he, writing hastily a few lines on a fragment of paper he

took from the Duchess's desk. "Order the carriage at once, say that your

mistress is ill and a physician indispensable. Suffer no one to enter

this room but the person for whom I have written, and I will answer for

the consequences. Here, this note is for Doctor Matheus, No. 7 _rue de

Babylonne_--hurry."

When Monte-Leone was alone with the Duchess, he sought to arouse her

from the sleep which oppressed her, by making her inhale the perfumes of

several flacons which he found near. This was, however, in vain, and he

soon abandoned it. "Poor woman," said he, sitting by and looking at her

with compassion; "this is then the end of her life and love: to what

misery has she been led by passion, while mine was not more lasting than

the perfume of a rose." As he abandoned himself to these cruel thoughts,

the eyes of the Count fell on a letter, which she had with her expiring

strength attempted to throw into the fire. It had, however, fallen on

the hearth and was but partially burned. The Count took hold of it with

the intention of destroying it, lest it might contain some secret

compromising the Duchess. Just, however, as he was about to destroy it,

he fancied that he saw his own name, and unable to resist his curiosity,

he glanced rapidly over it. The following detached phrases had been

spared by the fire:

"You gave me bread when I was famishing,

and apparel when I had none....

"The consequence of....

"body and soul....

"But I feel your....

"is mine....

"belongs to you....

"This Monte-Leone deserves to be....

"offends you....

"live for you....

"or if I....

"It will be for me...."

"What is the meaning of this, said the Count, and what does she

meditate? Has the Duchess a confidant? Can this man be my enemy? How

have I injured him?"

The servant entered, and the Count placed the letter in his bosom. A

half hour passed in anxious expectation of Matheus. The wheels of a

carriage were heard in the courtyard and aroused the Count from his

thoughts. The servant went to meet the Doctor and soon after introduced

Frederick von Apsberg into the room.

"Look there," said the Count, pointing to La Felina.

The doctor drew near and examined her.

"Suicide and laudanum," said he. He felt the pulse. "Just in

time--luckily you told me what was the matter, and I have brought some

active and powerful antidotes. In a quarter of an hour cerebral

congestion would have ensued, and death." He poured out a few drops of a

liquid he had brought in a glass spoon, and forced it between the

convulsive teeth of the Duchess. Three minutes afterwards she heaved a

deep sigh. "Now I will answer for her recovery," said Von Apsberg. The

Duchess opened her eyes soon after and glanced around her. She was,

though, unable to distinguish any thing, so haggard and fixed had they

become. The Count stood aside. For a few moments through the vast room

nothing was heard but the feeble panting and anxious breathing of the

invalid, which, however, gradually grew more regular and natural.

"Madame," said the doctor, giving the Duchess a glass of water, into

which he had poured a few drops of the liquid he had brought with him,

"do you wish to live?"

"No," said the Duchess.

"Then do not take this antidote, for the poison is yet in your system

and this alone can neutralize it."

Just then Monte-Leone advanced towards La Felina.

"He here!" murmured she.

"Live," said the Count, "live, I beg you."

Without replying, the Duchess looked towards the doctor as if she were

about to ask him for the elixir. She drained the glass.

"Now," said Von Apsberg, "madame must be calm and silent; least of all

must she indulge in any emotion," added he, looking at Monte-Leone, "or

the medicine will be powerless."

"Who are _you_?" said the Duchess.

"A friend, a brother of mine, to whose heart I confide all the secrets

of my life."

_La Felina_ glanced a few moments at the doctor, and said, "I remember."

"Certainly, the Duchess has not forgot the Pulcinella at the Eutruscan

house. She has not forgotten the dreamy German lad whom she once

lectured so sternly, but who never was offended with her. The lecture

did him a great service, for the joyous Pulcinella, changing his humor

and dress, has now become a grave doctor who never jests, and insists

that his prescriptions be literally followed. To add example to precept,

I will remain in this room and watch over the prophetess of San Carlo,

and if I do not leave her cured and reasonable," said he, whispering in

the Duchess's ear, "for I am a physician of the mind as well as body, I

will at least do her some good. All my brothers of the medical

profession cannot say as much."

He then handed the Count his hat and pointed to the door.

"To-morrow evening, at nine," said the Count, "I will call on you." An

expression of joy hung on La Felina's lips, and she nodded in

acknowledgment.

Monte-Leone placed his lips on the yet icy hand of the ambassadress, and

then approached Von Apsberg, to whom he said in a low tone, "You swear

that you will save her."

"I do," said Matheus.

The Count went to the door, not the one the doctor had pointed out, but

to the secret one through which he had come, and a few minutes after was

alone in the _Champs Elysees_, doubtful whether all that had passed was

not a dream. The letter which he had found, and which rattled in his

bosom, with its mysterious broken phrases, its shreds of threats and

vengeance, sufficed to recall to his mind the reality of the scene which

he had been both an actor and participator in. According to his promise,

on the day after this series of alarms and torments, Monte-Leone went to

the hotel of the Neapolitan minister just as the bell of Saint Philippe

de Roule rang for nine. The Count on this occasion came us an ordinary

visitor to the principal door.

"The Duchess," said the usher, "made an exception of Count Monte-Leone

alone, in orders she gave that no one should be admitted. Madame had

last night a nervous attack from which she yet suffers. She, however,

expects your excellency."

The Count went into the reception room, and soon after was introduced

into the Duchess's boudoir. He found Madame de Palma lying on a divan,

and her countenance yet showed traces of her sufferings. Monte-Leone was

touched.

The Duchess gave him her hand and bade him be seated. She said, "You see

almost a spectre or ghost escaped from the grave. Do not, however, be

afraid, the ghost will not rise before you animated by wrath and anger.

Did it wish to do so, it is now too feeble." The Duchess used her salts,

as if she would regain that strength which seemed rapidly leaving her.

"Felina," said the Count, gently and sadly, "did you wish to die?"

"What now is life to me?" said she, "I meet with only contempt and

desertion from him for whom I forgot my gratitude and duty. Be frank

with me, do not fear my despair; but this doubt is too cruel. _Tell_ me

that you do not love me, let me learn it from your mouth, not from your

indifference."

The Count wished to speak.

"Ah! you do not know," continued she, and with her hand she bade him

listen, "what those long hours of expectation are, when every noise

seems to announce the coming of the person you love--when the hope

having been twenty times deceived, the ear rather than the heart listens

with the anxiety of death to the sound of every carriage which passes

by, but does not stop at your door--to the bell which announces another

visitor than the one who is expected. You do not know the torment of

those wretched evenings when alone, with no companion but sorrow--you

see ever before you your devotion to the one man all the time staring

you in the face, him attracted elsewhere by other charms. The soul that

suffers thus, by some instinctive powers, sees him approach every rival,

become intoxicated by her glance, listen to her voice, take her hand

stealthily, live in her life, while she dies a thousand times an hour--a

thousand deaths as often as despair passes a picture before her. Do you

see, Count, how horrible all this is? This is murderous, though time

must elapse before the deadly poison takes effect on the heart. In such

cases one who does not die rapidly is mad. Yesterday I had in my power

the means of avoiding such tortures."

Completely exhausted, the Duchess fell back on the cushion. The eyes of

the Count glistened with tears, and he knelt before the poor woman who

had suffered so much for him.

"Felina," said he, "until to-day I thought courage consisted in braving

danger, and even death: I now know that I have only to unveil my heart

to you to prove that my daring did not need that I should contend with

the ocean, be immured in a dungeon, and bare my neck to the axe. I will

have that courage, for to me it is a duty, and I will not shrink from

it. When I met you on the Lago di Como--when sad at the fact that I had

been deserted by men who did not know me, by the woman I adored, I saw

your immense tenderness unfolded to me, when you uttered those

passionate words which my heart had no power then of understanding, I

fancied that I had forgotten the past in the charms of a present full of

love and intoxicating passion. I told you all I felt, and was sincere

and happy. I remembered what you had done for me, and I fancied I had

found the angel of my existence in you. Alas! a few months after, the

bandage was torn from my brow, and, excuse me, but all I thought dead in

my soul became more animated than ever. I saw my tenderness was the

offspring of friendship, that my love changed into deep affection,

which, however, was not of the kind you expected from me. With terror

and despair I discovered that I was ungrateful to you. Twenty times I

was on the point of making this painful confession, yet as many times I

felt my strength fail. Now, though, when you have wished to die for the

unworthy man for whom you would have made such a sacrifice, when you

have appealed to my honor, I must speak to you, and avow to you my true

sentiments, which it would be improper for me any longer to conceal from

you."

While the Count was speaking, the Duchess lay half asleep on the divan,

with her eyes closed, and her hand on her heart, the pulsations of which

she tried to restrain. One might have thought she slept, but for her

short respiration, and the heaving of her breast, which indicated great

feverish agitation. She remained in this motionless state a few seconds

after Monte-Leone had ceased. She then slowly opened her eyelids, and

resting her head on her hand, as if her marble shoulders would not

suffice to sustain it, looked at the Count with those eyes whence

emanated the burning glance of delirium. A single look--a single glance

was cast on the Count; this glance, however, was instinct with a

terrible thought, and she became at once chill and cold.

"I thank you for your frankness," said she to the Count, giving him her

hand. "Perhaps I would have thanked you had you suffered me to die

without telling me what you have heard. You, however, wished me to live,

and I can understand why, for my death would have poisoned all your

existence. I will live, then, but for you alone." The same glance she

had thrown on the Count appeared again, but immediately died away.

"Yet," continued she, "listen to me. I cannot consent to lose you--I can

consent to be your friend, but will not think you another's."

"Felina," said the Count, "I understand you. On my life and soul, I

swear I will never speak of love to her of whom you think. Her ties and

virtues I will respect, her honor will relieve your apprehensions, and I

know what this honor imposes on me."

"I have faith in you," said Felina; "understand me, though, and do not

require what I cannot give. Do not add to my grief, the vengeance and

excess of which you cannot calculate."

"Threats!" said the Count, bitterly. He was about to speak to the

Duchess of the fragments of the letter, but was prevented by a secret

presentiment.

"No," said Felina, "not threats. Such are not intended for friends, and

to me you are a friend."

The Count took her hand. It was cold as death.

"Come to see me often," said she; "invalids need a physician; and

skilful as the one you brought last night may be, your visits will exert

a better effect--you will enable me to contend with myself. Then, too,"

said she, growing pale, "I will see you.... Now leave me, for I am

feeble. Since you wish me to live, I must not exhaust the rest of my

life ... I will try to sleep; but I will not sleep as long as I expected

to last night." Then, as if she was completely exhausted by such a

variety of shocks, she bade the Count adieu.

Monte-Leone left her. Just as he was about to cross the peristyle, he

saw the shadow of a man gliding into the hotel through the half open

door. The face of this man was suddenly lighted up by one of the

reflectors of the palace, and Monte-Leone remembered features yet

present to his memory. They were the features of STENIO SALVATORI of

_Torre del Greco_.

XIV.--THE MAGNETIZER.

The lecture the Prince had given to his son seemed to have done him

good. For two months the family of the Prince de Maulear had been calm

and happy. Aminta, in the care, attention, and watchfulness of her

husband, enjoyed again all the emotions of her early marriage days. Her

letters to her mother were filled with hope far different than that

expressed in the one we have read. Henri constantly avoided every thing

which could possibly awaken the sad passion which chance, temptation,

and the weakness of his character had led him into. He never approached

the card-table, and paid no attention to the challenges of his old

adversaries. He began to learn whist and other games of combination,

calculation, and science, which leave the head cold and the reason

sound, and at which no one ever pretended to bet a thousand francs a

trick, as was subsequently done in 1846, at the house of Count A. ----

and that of M. de R----, Minister of D. People then played whist for

whist's sake, not to become rich or bankrupt.

An unexpected event disturbed the quiet life of the inmates of the

Hotel-Maulear. Aminta received a letter from her mother, in which

Signora Rovero announced to her daughter a piece of intelligence, which

for her children's sake delighted, while for her own sake it distressed

her. The Roman Cardinal, Filippo Justiniani, her brother, of whom we

spoke in one of the first chapters of this book, had died, leaving his

fortune to his nephew and niece. This fortune was more than a million.

Signora Rovero, therefore, wished her son-in-law, the Marquis de

Maulear, and Taddeo, to come at once to Rome, to receive this

inheritance; the one in the name of his wife, and the other for himself.

This letter produced very different effects in the family of the Prince

de Maulear. Instead of rejoicing at a fortune which was to be purchased

by the absence of her husband, the young _marquise_ was rather grieved

than pleased at it. The revenue the Prince had appropriated to his

children was sufficient to make their career quite brilliant. This

increase of fortune, therefore, had little value in Aminta's eyes; but a

separation, though but temporary, from Henri might endanger, in one so

volatile as the Marquis was, the influence she had acquired over him.

She apprehended this, and fear, in a heart impassionable as his was,

could not but be the source of uneasiness and torment. The idea of

accompanying the Marquis often suggested itself to her, but it was then

the depth of winter, and her health, naturally delicate, had been so

recently shaken by the troubles she had experienced, that she could not,

at such a time, venture on such an excursion. The Prince de Maulear did

not see his son leave him without dissatisfaction. He did not think him

completely cured of the moral malady he had undertaken to cure, but

watched over him paternally and kindly. The Marquis, though he sincerely

regretted that he must be separated from his charming wife, whom he now

loved better than ever, did not conceal the pleasure which such a trip

caused him. He did not deny that the kind of atony to which his

monotonous life subjected him, made it necessary that he should be

somewhat galvanised by the excitement of travel.

Taddeo, too, had been more kindly received by the Duchess since the

scene which had taken place between Monte-Leone and her. He was

distressed at the absence which removed him from that woman whose

influence over his heart nothing could overcome.

All these feelings, however, resulted in the same circumstance--the

prompt departure of the two heirs from the eternal city. When they left,

Aminta felt a deep distress, and the Prince de Maulear a sombre

presentiment.

Fifteen days afterwards, a letter, dated at Rome, informed the young

Marquise of the arrival of her husband and brother at the capital of the

Christian world. This letter informed them also that there were

difficulties in the way of obtaining possession of the estate of

Cardinal Justiniani, from the fact that his eminence had made various

bequests to convents, churches, and religious foundations, in relation

to which it was necessary for the Holy Father himself to make a

decision, which would much retard the final arrangement of their

business.

Aminta felt that her sadness was doubled at this news, and the feeling

grew more poignant from the fact that her husband's letters became every

day more rare and more cold. Aware of the devotion of the Prince de

Maulear to her, and knowing how uneasy the old man was about his son,

the young woman did all she could to conceal her anxiety from her

father-in-law, and by means of a thousand pretexts kept from his sight

the often icy letters written by her husband. When the Prince questioned

her about what he wrote from Rome, he received an evasive reply. "Well,

well," he would say, "one should not inquire into them. Fathers have

nothing to say about them; and provided, my child, that you are happy, I

will ask nothing more." Thus two months rolled by. The young Marquise

waited anxiously every day for the coming of the post, and the hours

rolled by only to deceive her. Deep mortification soon replaced regret.

Surrounded by the homage of a society which adored her, Aminta saw

herself deserted by the man to whom she was bound for life, and the

humiliation of this indifference almost overpowered the agony she felt.

The fact was, that having already been sacrificed to the miserable

passion for play, she now fancied she was postponed to the pleasure of

travel, and her firm character, softened by the happiness in which the

early days of her marriage had been passed, began now to assume the

firmness of womanhood, with all the characteristics of the Italian

nature. Such was the condition of Aminta's mind when she received the

visit of the Count Monte-Leone. When he came she was alone. They were

both annoyed by this novel position, and for a time their conversation

was commonplace. But soon the memory of the past began to assert its

influence over them. The Count spoke of Naples as Neapolitans only can.

He infused into his conversation the passionate energy which ever exists

in their souls in relation to that climate, so highly favored by heaven.

Aminta, to whom the cold climate of France had not been that of her

love, surrendered her whole soul to the happiness awakened by those

smiling ideas. The Count recalled to her Sorrento and its perfumed

hills, its azure sea and brilliant sky. He then recalled to her the

villa where he had been so nobly welcomed, where days flitted by like

hours, where the silence of a calm and beautiful nature were only

interrupted by the breeze and the waves, which died away among myrtle

and orange-groves, or by the songs of birds in the luxuriant thickets.

Aminta listened to him with increasing trouble, for his voice had never

seemed so penetrating and mild. Astonishment took possession of her when

she thought that the mind of this man, so sensible to the charms of

nature, so aware of the simple beauties of Italian scenery, was the

energetic and powerful soul which braved death without weakness, and

defied the executioner without fear. The Count thus led, contrary to his

own wishes, into the dangerous retrospect of the past, felt his reason

give way, as he found himself in the presence of one whose very

appearance agitated his reason, because she recalled that country where

the gayest and happiest hours of his life had passed.

Aminta, anxious to triumph over the involuntary emotion which took

possession of her, diverted the Count from all the seductions of his

memory and love by asking if Taddeo was a better friend than brother,

and if letters were as great rarities to him as to herself. The Count

replied that Taddeo wrote often. He then, with an effort, shook off his

delicious dream, and sadly returned to real life. "The Marquis and he,"

said Monte-Leone, "are yet at Rome, as M. de Maulear must have told you.

Rome has never been gayer than it now is. Festivals and entertainments

are numerous, and the richest strangers of Europe are now there; while

balls and cards are all the rage."

At the last phrase Aminta grew pale. The Count observed this, and

attributing its cause to some illness, rose to go away. The Marquise,

though, said with a vivacity which surprised him, "And does the Holy

father authorize play in his states?"

"He does not authorize but tolerates it. This is sufficient for a bank

kept by a rich society of capitalists, to realize millions by this

passion, and to produce many disasters and calamities."

The Marquise felt her heart grow chill, and as she began to grow sick

she dismissed the Count.

"Will the _Marquise_ permit me to call on her again?"

"Yes, Count; and if you receive any news from Rome--from the Marquis and

my brother, tell me of it, I beg you." The Count left, more in love than

ever; and Aminta remained alone, unhappy, agitated, and a prey to

instinctive and wretched thoughts.

It now becomes our duty to conduct the reader to a magnificent hotel in

the Faubourg St. Germain, and make him a spectator of a scene which

occurred a few days after the conversation we have spoken of. We wish to

introduce him to the beautiful girl of whom Dr. Matheus caught a glimpse

from the windows of the laboratory. This girl was no longer the most

brilliant rose of the parterre. Seated in a large arm-chair, near a

window of the saloon, which looked out upon the garden, her pale

complexion, and the hectic flush of her cheek, her red lips, and the

dark ring about the eyes, indicated general indisposition. An old man

sat near her, with one of her hands in his; while, with his eyes fixed

on her, he seemed with despair to read the expression of intense

suffering. The old man was the Duke d'Harcourt, and the invalid, his

daughter _Marie_.

"Ah, papa! this is nothing but a horrid _migraine_ to which I have long

been subject. The pain in the chest which accompanies it, you know,

never lasts long, and is almost always cured by the very presence of the

kind doctor, whom we might almost fancy to be a sorcerer."

"The means he employs, my child, and which he has communicated to me, is

not sorcery, but a science, scarcely known as yet, and the source of

much dispute. I confess I had no great faith in it until experience had

revealed to me its power and reality."

"And have you faith, papa, in the power of the doctor?" asked the young

girl, with a singular accent.

"I believe, my child, in what I see. He benefits you, and therefore

dissipates all my hesitation. Magnetism is not new; Mesmer, the able

Foria, and afterwards many serious and learned men have inquired into

it, and discovered undeniable virtues. Unfortunately, imposture and

charlatanism soon took possession of it, and, therefore, it has been

overburdened with ridicule and contempt. If it be a truth, as all I have

seen induces me to think; if in the employment of this fluid there be

means to assist nature, a studious man, who has any charity towards his

fellows, should study before he decides on it, and reject nothing novel,

as it may be, until he has proven it to be false or impotent."

"Here is the doctor!" said the Vicomte d'Harcourt, quickly opening the

door, and introducing Von Apsberg.--"I have taken him from a grave

consultation to see my sister." Hurrying to his sister, the Vicomte

kissed her. Marie blushed; was not this blush caused, perhaps, by the

coming of the doctor?--Was it caused by Rene's kiss? The heart alone can

tell; and young women's hearts do not answer such questions very

readily.

"Marie yet suffers," said the Duke to the false Matheus. "With you

though, doctor, hope and health always return. For that reason we are

unwilling you should ever leave us." It was now the doctor's turn to

blush.

"You certainly," said he, "estimate my influence over the disease to be

in proportion to my wish to soothe it. If such were really the case, you

might be of good cheer, for my wishes are limitless."

"There is a doctor for you, modest, talented, and one who uses no drugs

and none of the remedies of the old medicine," said the Vicomte;

"pantomime with him is every thing, as with the ballet-doctors of the

opera. A few signs and gestures and away goes the disease, like the

devil when holy water is brought him."

Von Apsberg said with a smile, "such an eulogium as the Vicomte's would,

a few centuries ago, have sent me to the stake. Fortunately there is now

no danger of that, for there is no longer any faith in magicians.

Rightly enough, too, for if not so, there would be no glory and

advantage in wisdom. _Savans_ are fond of their privileges. For my own

part, though no philosopher, I do not deal in magic, though from study I

have learned that there are secret agents in nature too much neglected

even now, though much good has resulted and the most marvellous effects

have been produced from them. Of these agents, the magnetic fluid is the

surest, the most active and powerful. Like all other imponderable

fluids, it is invisible, passing through space perhaps with the rapidity

of light, though unlike the latter, its passage is not interrupted by

the opposition of opaque bodies, which it penetrates as caloric does.[F]

I do not pretend, Duke," continued Von Apsberg, "to teach you the theory

of magnetism, but at all risks to justify your confidence in me, which

now induces you to confide so precious a trust to me. As an honest man I

think I am not deceived in the hope I expressed at my first visit, that

your daughter, from my system of action, will acquire that vital force

which will enable her to overcome her natural weakness, and thus reach

the period of life when, age coming to aid nature, she will acquire a

degree of health which will bid defiance to all the accidents of youth

and assure her a healthy life in future. I call God to witness that I

act with a heartfelt conviction and religious sincerity. I will, though,

swear, that if in a short time I see no evidence of the efficacy of my

remedy, I will inform you of the fact without delay."

"I am sure, sir, you will. I confide in your honor as I do in your

skill."

"Father," said the Vicomte, "you are right to do so. The doctor is a

brother to me, and looks on Marie almost as a sister."

Both the doctor and Marie now blushed. No one though remarked it, for

just then the Prince and _Marquise_ de Maulear were announced. The Duke

said:

"They are friends and need not disturb you."

Aminta loved Marie d'Harcourt. These two beautiful women had conceived a

deep affection for each other. Aminta, though, who was a few years older

than Marie, and had a right to more gravity, as a married woman,

matronized the young girl, and it was rather an amusing picture to see a

mother twenty years old, _chaperoning_ a daughter of seventeen and

explaining the peculiarities of a life they were equally ignorant of.

"Prince," said the Duke, "Doctor Matheus is a famous magnetist, who has

been serviceable to Marie already, and when you came in was about to

subject her again to the influence of the fluid."

"_Parbleu!_" said the Prince, "I would be glad to witness the

experiment. I am myself something of an adept, having known the Abbe

Foria in my youth. People used to laugh at him, but the court and the

people were present at his curious exhibitions. I, too, was magnetized,

drank magnetic water, and passed whole hours on the magnetic chair

surrounded by iron rings; all this was to cure me of a sciatica, which,

nevertheless, he did not do at all. He asserted that I had no faith, and

that I arrayed myself against the power of the fluid. I, however, only

ask to believe, and if the doctor can convert me, I am willing."

Without answering the Prince, Von Apsberg approached Marie d'Harcourt.

Aminta sat by the patient. The doctor looked at the young girl. Seated a

few feet from her, he placed his hands in front of Marie's brow, and

then lowering them slowly, made some magnetic passes, seeming to direct

his action to the gastric regions where she suffered most. Marie did not

seem at all affected by the operation.

While Matheus was doing thus the Marquise, who sat in front of the

doctor, felt her brow grow heavy, her eyes close, and a deep

stupefaction take possession of her. She soon felt that sleep was

overpowering her, and after a few attempts to resist it, her head sunk

on her bosom, and leaning back in her chair, she was completely

overpowered.

"My daughter is sick," said the Prince, hurrying to Aminta.

"No, sir," said the physician coldly, "she only sleeps."

"She sleeps," said all who witnessed the scene, and who were evidently

surprised.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

"She sleeps!" said Matheus, pointing to Aminta, "and to fall so suddenly

into that state when I did not intend it, shows her to be very

impressionable and nervous."

"The Prince," said the Marquis, "has often told me she is a

somnambulist."

"I am no longer amazed," said Von Apsberg, "at the spontaneity of her

sleep."

"Is it true," said the Prince, "that somnambulists have the power of

being able to see what is taking place in remote spots--that they can

transport themselves to remote places and accompany the persons who are

pointed out to them?"

"All these phenomena are real," replied the doctor, "but they demand the

most perfect lucidity in the person magnetized."

"And can," asked the Duke, "such experiments be made without

inconvenience or danger to the subjects?"

"Certainly."

"Pardieu," said the Prince, "I would like the doctor to question my

daughter."

"About what?" said Matheus.

"Something interesting to us all. For a month we have had no news from

my son, and are becoming uneasy about him."

"And do you wish," said the doctor, "to know what the Marquis de

Maulear is engaged in now?"

"Exactly," said the Prince.

"Stop," said Rene, "I object. There is no reason why a wife should know

what her husband is about when he is three hundred leagues away. The

devil! That is dangerous, and the Marquise might some day regret it."

"Now you see," said Marie, with her soft voice, "it would be dangerous

for her--she would not like it."

"I do not fear that," said the Vicomte, "but I vow there would be no

marriages possible, if women had the faculty of knowing at any hour, and

in any place, what their husbands are about."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "I have a better opinion of my son than the

Vicomte has of his friend, and I hope the doctor will send my

daughter-in-law on a visit to Rome."

During the whole of this time Aminta continued asleep, but so soundly,

that her bosom scarcely heaved, and her breath escaped almost insensibly

from her lips.

"But," said the doctor, "it is, in the first place, necessary that I

should establish a communication between the _Marquise_ and myself. I

must be able to place in her hands, to enable her to touch, something

which belonged to the Marquis de Maulear. The best thing is a lock of

the Marquis's hair."

"Nothing in the world is easier; my daughter-in-law always wears a

bracelet of the Marquis's hair."

"On which arm?" asked the doctor.

"On the left," said M. de Maulear. "If Mademoiselle Marie be pleased to

take it off we will place it as the doctor wishes in the hands of the

somnambulist."

"But are you sure," said Marie to Von Apsberg, "are you sure she will

not suffer?"

"I am, Mademoiselle, I would not have her suffer either for your sake or

for her own."

Marie arose from her chair and walked painfully towards the Marquise,

who, having bared Aminta's arm a little above the wrist, found there a

bracelet of the Marquis's hair. When she was about to touch it she said

to the doctor, "I shall awake her."

"Do not be afraid of that, you will not."

Slight, however, as the motion was, to which the sleeper's arm had been

subjected, the _Marquise_ half arose from her chair and made an effort

to open her eyes. Von Apsberg extended his arm towards the Marquise's

brow, and she again sank into as deep a sleep as before. The bracelet

was given by Marie to the doctor, who placed it in Aminta's hand.

"Now," said he, "we will begin." Silence was at once established, and

all was solemn and almost terrible; for it seemed that something was in

preparation of the most terrible character, and that the room was

becoming filled with all those invisible phantoms we know as TERROR,

FATE, and MISFORTUNE, and which on their leaden wings seem to soar above

mortality. The strongest and best organized minds of our kind have, in

the silent places of their hearts, something of superstition, which

develop themselves in certain conditions of the corporeal and mental

organization. Without pretending to considerations of a very serious

kind, the guests of the Duke d'Harcourt experienced a kind of mute

terror, which in this world always precedes misfortune.

The strange power which the doctor used was also well calculated to

impress those who contemplated this scene. The doctor took Aminta's hand

in his and said most respectfully:[G]

"Does the Marquise understand me?"

"Yes!" said she.

"Will you answer my questions?"

"Yes!"

"Do you read in my heart any malevolence or hostility to you?"

"No!"

"You then have confidence in me?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure that in questioning you, as I am about to, I have no other

object but to relieve you of uneasiness in relation to the Marquis?"

"I am sure that is the case."

"Well," said the Doctor, placing his thumbs on Aminta's forehead, "I

wish you to go at once to Rome, to Italy."

"It is far away," said the Marquise, feebly.

"I wish you to," said Matheus, imperiously.

"Well, well," said the sleeper, with a smile, "there is no reason why

you should be angry."

She was silent. All the spectators, with their eyes fixed and their

necks extended, seemed to watch with anxiety every scene of this

whimsical drama. Their souls seemed hung on their lips.

"Ah! my God!" said the Marquise, with agitation, "what a journey--how

cold it is amid these mountains."

"She crosses the Alps," said the doctor.

The Marquise coughed.

"You see," said Marie, "she will take cold." The young girl wrapped the

shawl around her friend.

"This cold will not be dangerous," said the Vicomte, gayly.

"Silence!" said Matheus.

"Ah!" said the somnambulist, "what a magnificent country! What a sun!

This then is Rome," said she, with enthusiasm, "the city of the

Caesars--the eternal city--the city of God!"

She bowed herself respectfully.

"True," said Matheus, "and now you must find him you love; you must look

for your husband amid this vast city."

"No, no!" said the Marquise.

"Why not?"

"I shall lose myself amid these long streets; besides I am afraid of

these men in masks."

"Do not fear. I _wish_ you to see the Marquis at once."

The Marquise clasped the bracelet of her husband's hair convulsively,

and then uttering a cry of joy, said:

"It is he--Henri, Henri, I see him."

She extended her arms as if to embrace him. The flush which had covered

her face was soon succeeded by a mortal pallor.

"What is the matter?" asked the doctor.

"Oh God!" said she, "he does not see me. He passes by without looking at

me. Whither does he go? Why is he so sad? Why is his hair so disordered?

Why? why?"

The tone in which these words were uttered were so deeply sorrowful,

that the doctor reached forward his hand and said to the Prince: "_Must

I awaken the Marquise?_" Before the Prince could reply, Aminta stood

erect and said, "No! I will go with him. Henri, Henri! for pity's sake

do not. I never will forgive you! Henri, you would not commit perjury?

My God!" said she, clasping her hands, "he will go thither! Fatal,

terrible passion!"

She then shed tears, and fell back into the arms of Marie, who sustained

her.

"Enough, doctor, enough!" said Marie, "I beseech you. She suffers, you

see. She shall not do so. I will not consent to."

The doctor took the young woman's hand, and prepared to arouse her from

this condition and to restore her to real life. Just then the Prince de

Maulear, with intense agony on his face, rushed towards his

daughter-in-law, repelling Matheus.

"Will the health and happiness of the Marquise be endangered," said he,

"if she continue longer in this condition?"

"Her heart alone will suffer, Monsieur," said the doctor, "neither her

health nor her life is in danger."

"Go on, then, Monsieur," said the Prince, coldly, "for we speak of my

son. On what the Marquise has said depends the repose of my life, her

happiness, and the honor of my family."

"But," said Matheus, "my honor forbids me to follow up the excitement

any longer. Know that the true apostles of the science I now practise

before you, make it a rigid law never to make use of such phenomena as

you have seen, to penetrate hidden secrets, or to read by force the

consciences of those whom they submit to the exercise of their will."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "we have around us here only honest hearts,

which are also friendly. I, therefore, do not at all fear to initiate

them into my family secrets. Besides this, vain curiosity exerts no

influence over me, but a nobler thought, the possibility, perhaps, of

preventing cruel misfortunes which I now apprehend, and which I would

anticipate."

"_See!_" said the doctor to the Marquise. "_I wish you to_----"

"No, no!" said the somnambulist. "I have seen enough. Do not force me to

follow out his wanderings--he has forgotten me--his father--his

honor--his oath--himself!"

"_See!_" said the doctor, replacing his hand over the Marquise's eyes,

"_I wish it._"

"Henri! Henri!" exclaimed she, "will nothing then restrain you?"

"What is he about, then?" said the doctor.

"See, see! he sits in front of a table covered with money. The wheel

turns. The people who look after it do so with haggard eyes. How pale

and withered they are! See how he throws the money on the table. Poor

Henri--how he suffers! His brow is frozen. How horribly pale he is! He

beats his breast. See that pale and pitiless man sweeping away all the

money! Ah!" said she, "he quivers--he seems about to faint--no, he takes

out his pocket-book, and throws other notes on the table. The wheel

turns again. My God, have pity on him! Lost, lost again! He endures

torments worse than death. Henri! for mercy's sake, stop--remember your

wife--your Aminta--"

Her sobs increased, and inarticulate sounds burst from her chest. The

Prince listened with increasing agitation to the heart-rending words of

Aminta. His eyes wandered, troubled and uncertain, between the Marquise

and the doctor. His eyes became cold, his cheeks livid, and from time to

time the noble and venerable old man seemed to bend beneath another half

century. All the others, sad and terrified, seemed fascinated by this

terrible drama.

"He has in his hand his last notes," said Aminta--"he places them before

him. Silence! hark, there is a confused noise. The wheel again makes its

odious circle. It stops--Henri advances to take them. No, no, they are

not his. The man seizes them, and takes possession of this. What does he

say?" continued she, with attention--"ruined! ruined! he says. Well,

what matter? it is only gold--only gold that he has lost. Dear Henri,"

said she, in a beseeching air, as if she knelt before him--"husband,

what is the value of your money, if you love me? Listen to me. Do not

weep, for your tears will kill me. Come to me--I forgive you. I will not

reproach you, and you will not leave me again--never, never, never. He

repels and avoids me. Whither does he go? What a desert! what an

isolated street! How dark it is!--let us follow him, and not desert him.

What do I see at the end of this street?" She looked through her hands,

as if to enable her to see further. "What long black cloth is that? What

pall is that? Henri does not walk--but I cannot follow him," said she,

in a heart-rending voice. "Listen to me, Henri, I am suffering--I have

walked so far and am so overcome. I do not see him--he is gone! he draws

near the pall. My God! is there not a mourning-cloth painted on the

horizon? It is water--a river--he rushes toward it--let us reach him--I

cannot! Ah! here he is. I am with him now. What does he want. He calls

me--he pronounces my name. Here I am--close--next to you. Your father

also calls you. Come, come, let us turn to him. He does not hear me--he

lifts his eye to heaven--he prays. Henri, Henri, why do you approach

this dark water? Take care of the water--death is before you--under your

very feet."...

Just then the Marquise uttered a terrible cry, and was seized with a

violent nervous attack.

"You would insist, Monsieur," said the doctor to the Prince, in a

reproachful tone. Then, taking the young woman's hands, he clasped them

in his own, and made a few rapid passes over her face and eyes. He then

made her smell a flacon of salts, and opened a window of the room, close

to which he placed the Marquise's chair. This occupied a few minutes,

all who were present standing around Mme. de Maulear, and paying

attention only to her. The first excitement having passed away, they

discovered that the Prince de Maulear had fainted. The doctor drew near

the old man, and soon restored him to consciousness. When he had

recovered his senses, the Prince called the doctor to him, and

whispered, "Do you believe all this?"

The doctor clasped the hand of the Prince, and went away.

The Marquise de Maulear, smiling and calm, said, "Have I not been

asleep?"

Her memory, however, recalled nothing of the scenes which had passed

before her in her somnambulism. She forgot, as people frequently do,

both pleasant and mournful dreams....

Fifteen days after this scene Mme. de Maulear saw her mother stop at the

hotel of the Prince. Behind Signora Rovero, humble and trembling, was

the deformed and courageous boy, whom the children of Sorrento had

called Scorpione. The Marquise, both happy and surprised, rushed into

her mother's arms. With great anxiety, she suddenly cried, "Henri--the

Marquis--where is he?"

In reply, the Signora Rovero clasped her daughter to her breast, and

wept.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] The translator has here elided about two pages on the theory of

magnetism which he has thought rather detracted than otherwise from the

interest of this book.

[G] Madame la Marquise, se trouve-t-elle ainsi suffisament en rapport

avec moi?

From Fraser's Magazine.

SCENES AT MALMAISON.

The Palace of Malmaison, though not built on a large scale, became, with

the additions afterwards made, a most princely residence. The hall, the

billiard-room, the reception-rooms, the saloon, dining-room, and

Napoleon's private apartment, occupied the ground floor, and are

described as having been very delightful. The gallery was appropriated

to the noblest specimens of the fine arts; it was adorned with

magnificent statuary by Canova and other celebrated artists, and the

walls were hung with the finest paintings. The pleasure-grounds, which

were Josephine's especial care, were laid out with admirable taste;

shrubs and flowers of the rarest and finest growth and the most

delicious odors, were there in the richest profusion. But there is an

interest far deeper than the finest landscape, or the most exquisite

embellishments of art, could ever impart--an interest touchingly

associated with the precincts where the gifted and renowned have moved,

and with the passions and affections, the joys and sorrows by which they

were there agitated. It is, indeed, an interest which excites a mournful

sympathy, and may awaken salutary reflection. Who, indeed, could visit

Malmaison without experiencing such?

The vicissitudes experienced by some individuals have been so strange,

that had they been described in a romance, it would have lost all

interest from their improbability; but occurring in real life, they

excite a feeling of personal concern which forever attaches to the name

with which they are associated. Of this, the eventful life of Napoleon

furnishes a striking example. There cannot be found in the range of

history one who appears to have identified himself so much with the

feelings of every class and every time; nay, his manners and appearance

are so thoroughly impressed on every imagination, that there are few who

do not rather feel as if he were one whom they had seen and with whom

they had conversed, than of whom they had only heard and read. Scarcely

less checkered than his, was the life of Josephine: from her early days

she was destined to experience the most unlooked-for reverses of

fortune: her very introduction to the Beauharnais family and connection

with them, were brought about in a most unlikely and singular manner,

without the least intention on her part, and it ultimately led to her

being placed on the throne of France. The noble and wealthy family of

Beauharnais had great possessions in the West Indies, which fell to two

brothers, the representatives of that distinguished family; many of its

members had been eminent for their services in the navy, and in various

departments. The heirs to the estates had retired from the royal marine

service with the title of _chefs d'escadre_. The elder brother, the

Marquis de Beauharnais, was a widower, with two sons; the younger,

Vicomte de Beauharnais, had married Mademoiselle Mouchard, by whom he

had one son and two daughters. The brothers, warmly attached to each

other from infancy, wished to draw still closer the bonds which united

them, by the marriage of the Marquis's sons with the daughters of the

Vicomte; and with this view, a rich plantation in St. Domingo had never

been divided. The two sisters were looked on as the affianced brides of

their cousins; and when grown up, the elder was married to the elder son

of the Marquis, who, according to the prevalent custom of his country,

assumed the title of Marquis, as his brother did that of Vicomte. M.

Renaudin, a particular friend of the Beauharnais, undertook the

management of their West Indian property. The Marquis, wishing to show

some attention in return for this kindness, invited Madame Renaudin over

to Paris, to spend some time. The invitation was gladly accepted; and

Madame Renaudin made herself useful to her host by superintending his

domestic concerns. But she soon formed plans for the advancement of her

own family. With the Marquis's permission, she wrote to Martinique, to

her brother, M. Tacher de la Pagerie, to beg that he would send over one

of his daughters. The young lady landed at Rochefort, was taken ill, and

died almost immediately. Notwithstanding this unhappy event, Madame did

not relinquish the project which she had formed, of bringing about a

union between the young Vicomte and a niece of her own. She sent for

another;--and _Josephine_ was sent. When the young creole arrived, she

had just attained her fifteenth year, and was eminently attractive; her

elegant form and personal charms were enhanced by the most winning

grace, modesty, and sweetness of disposition. Such fascinations could

not have failed in making an impression on the young man with whom she

was domesticated. His opportunities of becoming acquainted with his

cousin were only such as were afforded by an occasional interview at the

grating of the convent, where she was being educated; so no attachment

had been formed; and he fell passionately in love with the innocent and

lovely Josephine. She was not long insensible to the devotion of a lover

so handsome and agreeable as the young Vicomte. Madame Renaudin sought

the good offices of an intimate friend, to whose influence with the

young man's father she trusted for the success of her project. In a

confidential interview the lady introduced the subject--spoke of the

ardent attachment of the young people, of the charms of the simple girl

who had won his son's heart, and urged the consideration of the young

man's happiness on his father, assuring him it rested on his consent to

his marriage with Josephine. The Marquis was painfully excited; he loved

his son tenderly, and would have made any sacrifice to insure his

happiness; but his affection for his brother, and the repugnance which

he felt, to fail in his engagement to him, kept him in a state of the

most perplexing uneasiness. At length, stating to his brother how

matters stood, he found that he had mortally offended him; so deeply,

indeed, did he resent the affront, that he declared he could never

forget or forgive it--a promise too faithfully kept.

The affection and confidence of a whole life were thus snapped asunder

in a moment. The Vicomte insisted on a division of the West Indian

property; and, with feelings so bitterly excited, no amicable

arrangement could take place, and the brothers had recourse to law, in

which they were involved for the rest of their days.

The marriage of the young people took place, and the youthful

Mademoiselle Tacher de Pagerie became Vicomtesse de Beauharnais.

It is said that her husband's uncle took a cruel revenge for the

disappointment, of which she had been the cause, by awakening suspicion

of the fidelity of Josephine in the mind of her husband. The distracting

doubts he raised made his nephew wretched; to such a degree was his

jealousy excited, that he endeavored, by legal proceedings, to procure a

divorce; but the evidence he adduced utterly failed, and after some

time, a reconciliation took place.

The uncle died, and his daughter had in the mean time married the

Marquis de Barral. So all went well with the young couple. They met with

the most flattering reception at court. The Vicomte, who was allowed to

be the most elegant dancer of his day, was frequently honored by being

the partner of the Queen. And as to Josephine, she was the admired of

all admirers; she was not only considered one of the most beautiful

women at court, but all who conversed with her were captivated by her

grace and sweetness. She entered into the gayeties of Versailles with

the animation natural to her time of life and disposition.

But the sunshine of the royal circle was, ere long, clouded, and the

gathering storm could be too well discerned; amusement was scarcely

thought of. The States General assembled, and every thing denoted a

revolutionary movement.

Josephine was an especial favorite with the Queen; and in those days,

dark with coming events, she had the most confidential conversations

with her; all the fears and melancholy forebodings which caused the

Queen such deep anxiety, were freely imparted to her friend. Little did

Josephine think, while sympathizing with her royal mistress, that she

would herself rule in that court, and that she, too, would be a sufferer

from the elevation of her situation. Her husband, the Vicomte de

Beauharnais, was then called to join the army, as war had been

unexpectedly declared. He distinguished himself so much, that he

attained the rank of general. But in the midst of his successful career,

he saw the danger which was impending, and he could perceive that not

only were the days of Louis's power numbered, but he even feared that

his life was not safe. His fears were unhappily fulfilled; and he

himself, merely on account of belonging to the aristocracy, was

denounced by his own troops, and deprived of his commission by

authority, arrested, brought to Paris, and thrown into prison. It was

during his imprisonment that the Vicomte had the most affecting proofs

of the attachment of Josephine: all the energies of her mind and of her

strong affection were bent on obtaining his liberty; no means she could

devise were left untried; she joined her own supplications to the

solicitations of friends, to whom she had appealed in her emergency; she

endeavored, in the most touching manner, to console and cheer him. But

the gratification of soothing him by her presence and endearments was

soon denied, for she was seized, and taken as a prisoner to the convent

of the Carmelites. A few weeks passed, and the unfortunate Vicomte was

brought to trial, and condemned to death by the revolutionary tribunal.

Though natural tears fell at thoughts of parting from his wife and

children, and leaving them unprotected in the world, his courage never

forsook him to the last.

When the account of his execution reached Josephine she fainted away,

and was for a long time alarmingly ill. It was while in prison, and

every moment expecting to be summoned before the revolutionary tribunal,

that Josephine cut off her beautiful tresses, as the only gift which she

had to leave her children, for all the family estates in Europe had been

seized, and the destruction of property at St. Domingo had cut off all

supplies from that quarter. Yet amidst her anxieties, her afflictions,

and her dangers, her fortitude never forsook her, and her example and

her efforts to calm them, to a degree supported the spirits of her

fellow-prisoners. Josephine herself ascribed her firmness to her

implicit trust in the prediction of an old negress which she had

treasured in her memory from childhood. Her trust, indeed, in the

inexplicable mysteries of divination was sufficiently proved by the

interest with which she is said to have frequently applied herself

during her sad hours of imprisonment to learn her fortune from a pack of

cards. Mr. Alison mentions, that he had heard of the prophecy of the

negress in 1801, long before Napoleon's elevation to the throne.

Josephine herself, Mr. Alison goes on to say, narrated this

extraordinary passage in her life in the following terms:--

"One morning the jailer entered the chamber where I slept

with the Duchesse d'Aiguillon and two other ladies, and told

me he was going to take my mattress, and give it to another

prisoner.

"'Why,' said Madame Aiguillon, eagerly, 'will not Madame de

Beauharnais obtain a better one?'

"'No, no,' replied he, with a fiendish smile, 'she will have

no need of one, for she is about to be led to the

Conciergerie, and then to the guillotine."

"At these words, my companions in misfortune uttered

piercing shrieks. I consoled them as well as I could; and at

length, worn out with their eternal lamentations, I told

them that their grief was utterly unreasonable; that I not

only should not die, but live to be queen of France.

"'Why, then, do you not name your maids of honor?' said

Madame Aiguillon, irritated at such expressions at such a

moment.

"'Very true,' said I, 'I did not think of that. Well, my

dear, I make you one of them.'[H]

"Upon this the tears of the ladies fell apace, for they

never doubted I was mad; but the truth was, I was not gifted

with any extraordinary courage, but internally persuaded of

the truth of the oracle.

"Madame d'Aiguillon soon after became unwell, and I drew her

towards the window, which I opened, to admit through the

bars a little fresh air. I then perceived a poor woman who

knew us, and who was making a number of signs, which I could

not at first understand. She constantly held up her gown

(_robe_); and seeing that she had some object in view, I

called out _robe_; to which she answered _yes_. She then

lifted up a stone, and put it into her lap, which she lifted

a second time. I called out _pierre_. Upon this, she evinced

the greatest joy at perceiving that her signs were

understood. Joining then the stone to her robe, she eagerly

imitated the motion of cutting off the head, and immediately

began to dance and evince the most extravagant joy.

"This singular pantomime awakened in our minds a vague hope

that possibly Robespierre might be no more.

"At this moment, while we were vacillating between hope and

fear, we heard a great noise in the corridor, and the

terrible voice of our jailer, who said to his dog, giving

him at the same time a kick, 'Get in, you cursed

Robespierre.'"

This speech told them they were saved.

Through the influence of Barras, a portion of her husband's property, in

which Malmaison was included, was restored to Josephine. In this

favorite abode she amused herself in exercising her taste in the

embellishment of the grounds, and in the pursuit of botany; but her

chief enjoyment was in the society and instruction of her children, to

whom she was passionately attached. Their amiable dispositions and their

talents were a source of the most exquisite pleasure to her, not,

however, unmingled with regret at finding herself without the means of

conferring on them the advantages of which they were so deserving.

However, a better time was to come. Madame Tallien and several of

Josephine's friends, after a time, prevailed on her to enter into

society, and the fair associates became the principal ornaments of the

dictatorial circle. Through their influence revolutionary manners were

reformed, and all the power which their charms and their talents gave

them was exerted in the cause of humanity.

Napoleon's acquaintance with Josephine arose from the impression made on

him by her son, Eugene Beauharnais, then a little boy. He came to

request that his father's sword, which had been delivered up, might be

restored to him. The boy's appearance,--the earnestness with which he

urged his request, and the tears which could not be stayed when he

beheld the sword, interested Napoleon so much in his favor, that not

only was the sword given to him, but he determined to become acquainted

with the mother of the boy. He visited her, and soon his visits became

frequent. He delighted to hear the details which she gave of the court

of Louis.

"Come," he would say, as he sat by her side of an evening, "now let us

talk of the old court--let us make a tour to Versailles." It was in

these frequent and familiar interviews that the fascinations of

Josephine won the heart of Napoleon. "She is," said he, "grace

personified--every thing she does is with a grace and delicacy peculiar

to herself."

The admiration and love of such a man could not fail to make an

impression on a woman like Josephine. It has been said, that it was

impossible to be in Napoleon's company without being struck by his

personal appearance; not so much by the exquisite symmetry of his

features, and the noble head and forehead, which have furnished the

painter and the sculptor with one of their finest models; nor even by

the meditative look, so indicative of intellectual power; but the magic

charm was the varying expression of countenance, which changed with

every passing thought, and glowed with every feeling. His smile, it is

said, always inspired confidence. "It is difficult, if not impossible,"

so the Duchess of Abrantes writes, "to describe the charm of his

countenance when he smiled;--his soul was upon his lips and in his

eyes." The magic power of that expression at a later period is well

known. The Emperor of Russia experienced it when he said, "I never loved

any one more than that man." He possessed, too, that greatest of all

charms, a harmonious voice, whose tones, like his countenance, changing

from emphatic impressiveness to caressing softness, found their way to

every heart. It may not have been those personal and mental gifts alone

which won Josephine's heart; the ready sympathy with which Napoleon

entered into her feelings may have been the greatest charm to an

affectionate nature like hers.

It was in the course of one of those confidential evenings that, as they

sat together, she read to him the last letter which she had received

from her husband: it was a most touching farewell. Napoleon was deeply

affected; and it has been said that that letter, and Josephine's emotion

as she read it, had a powerful effect upon his feelings, already so much

excited by admiration.

Josephine soon consented to give her hand to the young soldier of

fortune who had no dower but his sword. On his part, he gave a pledge

that he would consider her children as his own, and that their interest

should be his first concern. The world can testify how he redeemed his

pledge! To his union with Josephine he was indebted for his chief

happiness. Her affection, and the interchange of thought with her, were

prized beyond all the greatness to which he had attained. Many of the

little incidents of their every-day life cannot be read without deep

interest--evincing, as they do, a depth of affection and tenderness of

feeling which it is difficult to conceive should ever have been

sacrificed to ambition. They visited together the prison where Josephine

had passed so many dreary and sad hours. He saw the loved name traced on

the dank wall, by the hand which was now his own. She had told him of a

ring, which she had fondly prized; it had been the gift of her mother.

She pointed out to him the flag under which she had contrived to hide

it. When it was taken from its hiding-place and put into her hand, her

delight enchanted Napoleon. Seldom have two persons met whose feelings

and whose tastes appeared more perfectly in unison than theirs, during

the _happy_ days of their wedded life. The delight which they took in

the fine arts was a source of constant pleasure; and in their days of

power and elevation, it was their care to encourage artists of talent.

Many interesting anecdotes are related of their kind and generous acts

towards them. In Josephine's manner of conferring favors, there was

always something still more gratifying than the advantage

bestowed--something that implied that she entered into the feelings of

those whom she wished to serve. She had observed that M. Turpin, an

artist who went frequently to Malmaison, had no coveyance but an almost

worn-out cabriolet, drawn by a sorry horse. One day, when about to take

his leave, he was surprised to see a nice new vehicle and handsome horse

drawn up. His own arms painted on the pannels, and stamped on the

harness, at once told him they were intended for him; but this was not

the only occasion on which Josephine ministered to the straitened means

of the painter. She employed him in making a sketch of a Swiss view,

while sitting with her, and directed him to take it home, and bring the

picture to her when finished. She was delighted with the beautiful

landscape which he produced, and showed it with pleasure to every

visitor who came in. The artist no doubt felt a natural gratification at

finding his fine work appreciated. Josephine then called him aside, and

put the stipulated price in bank-notes into his hand.

"This," said she, "is for your excellent mother; but it may not be to

her taste; so tell her that I shall not be offended at her changing this

trifling token of my friendship, and of the gratification which her

son's painting has given me, for whatever might be more acceptable."

As she spoke, she put into his hand a diamond of the value of six

thousand francs.

Josephine attended Napoleon in many of his campaigns. When she was not

with him, he corresponded regularly with her, and no lover ever wrote

letters more expressive of passionate attachment.

"By what art is it," he says, in one of them, "that you have been able

to captivate all my faculties? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will

finish only with my life. To live for Josephine is the history of my

life. I am trying to reach you. I am dying to be with you. What lands,

what countries separate us! What a time before you read these lines!"

Josephine returned her husband's fondness with her whole heart. Utterly

regardless of privation and fatigue, she was ever earnest in urging him

to allow her to accompany him on all his long journeys; and often, at

midnight, when just setting out on some expedition, he has found her in

readiness.

"No, love," he would say, "No, no, love, do not ask me; the fatigue

would be too much for you."

"Oh no," she would answer; "No, no."

"But I have not a moment to spare."

"See, I am quite ready;" and she would drive off, seated by Napoleon's

side.

From having mingled in scenes of gayety from her earliest days, and from

the pleasure which her presence was sure to diffuse, and perhaps, it may

be added, from a nature singularly guileless, that could see no evil in

what appeared to her but as innocent indulgencies, she was led into

expenses and frivolous gratifications which were by no means essential

for a mind like hers. Dishonest tradesmen took advantage of her

inexperience and extreme easiness, and swelled their bills to an

enormous amount; but her greatest and far most congenial outlay, was in

the relief of the distressed. She could not endure to deny the petition

of any whom she believed to be suffering from want; and this tenderness

of heart was often imposed on by the artful and rapacious. Those who,

from interested motives, desired to separate her from Napoleon, felt a

secret satisfaction in the uneasiness which her large expenditure

occasionally gave him. To their misrepresentations may be ascribed the

violent bursts of jealousy by which he was at times agitated; but he was

ever ready to perceive that there was no foundation to justify them. It

was during one of their separations, that the insinuations of those

about Napoleon excited his jealousy to such a degree, that he wrote a

hasty letter to Josephine, accusing her of _coquetry_, and of evidently

preferring the society of men to those of her own sex.

"The ladies," she says, in her reply, "are filled with fear and

lamentations for those who serve under you; the gentlemen eagerly

compliment me on your success, and speak of you in a manner that

delights me. My aunt and those about me can tell you, ungrateful as you

are, whether _I have been coquetting with any body_. These are your

words, and they would be hateful to me, were I not certain you see

already that they are unjust, and are sorry for having written them."

Napoleon's brothers strove to alienate his affections from Josephine;

but the intense agony which he suffered when suspicion was awakened,

must have proved to them how deep these affections were. Perhaps no

trait in Josephine's character exalts it more than her conduct to the

family who had endeavored to injure her in the most tender point. She

often was the means of making peace between Napoleon and different

members of his family with whom he was displeased. Even after the

separation which they had been instrumental in effecting, she still

exerted that influence which she never lost, to reconcile differences

which arose between them. Napoleon could never long mistrust her

generous and tender feelings, and the intimate knowledge of such a

disposition every day increased his love; she was not only the object of

his fondest affection, but he believed her to be in some mysterious

manner connected with his destiny; a belief which chimed in with the

popular superstition by which she was regarded as his good genius,--a

superstition which took still deeper hold of the public mind when days

of disaster came, whose date commenced in no long time after the

separation. The apparently accidental circumstance by which Josephine

had escaped the explosion of the infernal machine was construed by many

as a direct interposition of Providence in favor of _Napoleon's Guardian

Angel_.

It was just as she was stepping into her carriage, which was to follow

closely that of the First Consul to the theatre, that General Rapp, who

had always before appeared utterly unobservant of ladies' dress,

remarked to Josephine that the pattern of the shawl did not match her

dress. She returned to the house, and ran up to her apartment to change

it for another. The delay did not occupy more than three minutes, but

they sufficed to save her life. Napoleon's carriage just cleared the

explosion. Had Josephine been close behind, nothing could have saved

her. In the happy days of love and confidence, Malmaison was the scene

of great enjoyment: the hand of taste could be discerned in all its

embellishments. Napoleon preferred it to any other residence. When he

arrived there from the Luxembourg or the Tuileries, he was wild with

delight, like a school-boy let loose from school. Every thing enchanted

him, but most of all, perhaps, the chimes of the village church-bells.

It may have been partly owing to the associations which they awakened.

He would stop in his rambles if he heard them, lest his footfall should

drown the sound--he would remain as if entranced, in a kind of ecstasy,

till they ceased. "Ah! how they remind me of the first years I spent at

Brienne!"

Napoleon added considerably to the domain of Malmaison by purchasing the

noble woods of Butard, which joined it. He was in a perfect ecstasy with

the improvement; and, in a few days after the purchase was completed,

proposed that they should all make a party to see it. Josephine put on

her shawl, and, accompanied by her friends, set out. Napoleon, in a

state of enchantment, rode on before; but he would then gallop back, and

take Josephine's hand. He was compared to a child, who, in the eagerness

of delight, flies back to his mother to impart his joy.

Nothing could be more agreeable than the society of Malmaison. Napoleon

disliked ceremony, and wished all his guests to be perfectly at their

ease. All his evenings were spent in Josephine's society, in which he

delighted. Both possessed the rare gift of conversational powers.

General information and exquisite taste were rendered doubly attractive

by the winning manners and sweet voice of Josephine. As for Napoleon, he

appeared to have an intuitive knowledge on all subjects. He was like an

inspired person when seen amidst men of every age, and all professions.

All thronged round the pale, studious-looking young man--feeling that

"he was more fitted to give than to receive lessons." Argument with him

almost invariably ended by his opponent going over to his side. His tact

was such that he knew how to select the subject for discussion on which

the person with whom he conversed was best informed; and thus, from his

earliest days, he increased his store of information, and gave infinite

pleasure by the interest which he took in the pursuits of those whom

chance threw in his way. The delightful flow of his spirits showed how

much he enjoyed the social evenings. He amused his guests in a thousand

ways. If he sat down to cards, he diverted them by pretending to cheat,

which he might have done with impunity, as he never took his winnings.

He sometimes entertained them with tales composed on the moment. When

they were of ghosts and apparitions, he took care to tell them by a dim

light, and to preface them by some solemn and striking observation.

Private theatricals sometimes made the entertainment of the evening.

Different members of Napoleon's family and several of the guests

performed. The plays are described as having been acted to an audience

of two or three hundred, and going off with great effect--every one,

indeed, endeavored to acquit themselves to the best, of their ability,

for they knew they had a severe critic in Napoleon.

The amiable and engaging manners of Napoleon and Josephine gave to

Malmaison its greatest charm. The ready sympathy of Josephine with all

who were in sorrow, or any kind of distress, endeared her to every one.

If any among her domestics were ill, she was sure to visit the sick bed,

and soothe the sufferer by her tenderness. Indeed, her sympathy was

often known to bring relief when other means had failed. She was deeply

affected by the calamity of M. Decrest. He had lost his only son

suddenly by a fatal accident. The young man had been on the eve of

marriage, and all his family were busy in making preparations for the

joyful occasion, when news of his death was brought. The poor father

remained in a state of nearly complete stupor from the moment of the

melancholy intelligence. All attempts to rouse him were unavailing. When

Josephine was made acquainted with his alarming state, she lost not a

moment in hurrying to him: and leading his little daughter by the hand,

and taking his infant in her arms, she threw herself, with his two

remaining children, at his feet. The afflicted man burst into tears, and

nature found a salutary relief, which saved his life. In such acts

Josephine was continually engaged. Nothing could withdraw her mind from

the claims of the unfortunate. Her tender respect for the feelings of

others was never laid aside; and with those who strove to please her she

was always pleased. On one occasion, when the ladies about her could not

restrain their laughter at the discordant music made by an itinerant

musician, who had requested permission to play before her, she preserved

a becoming gravity, and encouraged, and thanked, and rewarded the poor

man. "He did his best to gratify us," she said, when he was gone; "I

think it was my duty not only to avoid hurting his feelings, but to

thank and reward him for the trouble which he took to give pleasure."

Such were the lessons which she impressed upon her children. She often

talked with them of the privations of other days, and charged them never

to forget those days amidst the smiles of fortune which they now

enjoyed.

Josephine saw with great uneasiness the probable elevation of the First

Consul to the throne. She felt that it would bring danger to him, and

ruin to herself; for she had discernment enough to anticipate that she

would be sacrificed to the ambition of those who wished to establish an

hereditary right to the throne of the empire. Every step of his

advancing power caused her deep anxiety. "The real enemies of

Bonaparte," she said to Raderer, as Alison tells, "the real enemies of

Bonaparte are those who put into his head ideas of hereditary

succession, dynasty, divorce, and marriage. I do not approve the

projects of Napoleon," she added. "I have often told him so. He hears me

with attention, but I can plainly see that I make no impression. The

flatterers who surround him soon obliterate all I have said." She strove

to restrain his desire of conquest, by urging on him continually a far

greater object--that of rendering France happy by encouraging her

industry and protecting her agriculture. In a long letter, in which she

earnestly expostulates with him on the subject, she turns to herself in

affecting terms: "Will not the throne," she says, "inspire you with the

wish to contract new alliances? Will you not seek to support your power

by new family connections? Alas! whatever these connections may be, will

they compensate for those which were first knit by corresponding

fitness, and which affection promised to perpetuate?" So far, indeed,

from feeling elated by her own elevation to a throne, she regretted it

with deep melancholy. "The assumption of the throne," she looked on as

"an act that must ever be an ineffaceable blot upon Napoleon's name." It

has been asserted by her friends that she never recovered her spirits

after. The pomps and ceremonies, too, attendant on the imperial state,

must have been distasteful to one who loved the retirement of home, and

hated every kind of restraint and ostentation.

From the time that Napoleon became Emperor he lavished the greatest

honors on the children of Josephine. Her daughter Hortense received the

hand of Louis Bonaparte, and the crown of Holland. Eugene, his first

acquaintance of the family and especial favorite, obtained the rank of

colonel, and was adopted as one of the imperial family; and the son of

Hortense and Louis was adopted as heir to the throne of France. The

coronation took place at Notre Dame, with all the show and pomp of which

the French are so fond. When the papal benediction was pronounced,

Napoleon placed the crown on his head with his own hands. He then turned

to Josephine who knelt before him, and there was an affectionate

playfulness in the manner in which he took pains to arrange it, as he

placed the crown upon her head. It seemed at that moment as if he forgot

the presence of all but her. After putting on the crown, he raised it,

and placing it more lightly on, regarded her the while with looks of

fond admiration. On the morning of the coronation, Napoleon had sent for

Raguideau the notary, who little thought that he had been summoned into

the august presence to be reminded of what had passed on the occasion of

their last meeting, and of which he had no idea the Emperor was in

possession. While Napoleon had been paying his addresses to Josephine,

they walked arm in arm to the notary's, for neither of them could boast

of a carriage. "You are a great fool," replied the notary to Josephine,

who had just communicated her intention of marrying the young

officer--"you are a great fool, and you will live to repent it. You are

about to marry a man who has nothing but his cloak and his sword."

Napoleon, who was waiting in the antechamber, overheard these words, but

never spoke of them to any one. "Now," said Napoleon, with a smile,

addressing the old man, who had been ushered into his presence--"now,

what say you, Raguideau, have I nothing but my cloak and sword?" The

Empress and the notary both stood amazed at this first intimation that

the warning had been overheard.

The following year, the magnificent coronation at Milan took place,

surpassing, if possible, in grandeur that at Paris. Amidst the

gorgeousness of that spectacle, however, there were few by whom it was

not forgotten in the far deeper interest which the principal actors in

the scene inspired. Amidst the blaze of beauty and of jewels, and the

strains of music, by which he was surrounded, what were the feelings of

Napoleon, as he held within his grasp the iron crown of Charlemagne,

which had reposed in the treasury of Monza for a thousand years, and for

which he had so ardently longed. Even at that moment when he placed it

on his own head, were the aspirings of the ambitious spirit

satisfied?--or were not his thoughts taking a wider range of conquest

than he had yet achieved? And for her, who knelt at his feet, about to

receive the highest honor that mortal hands can confer--did the pomp and

circumstance of that scene, and the glory of the crown, satisfy her

loving heart? Ah, surely no! It was away in the sweet retirement of

Malmaison--amidst the scenes hallowed by Napoleon's early affection. And

how few years were to elapse ere the crown just placed on the head of

Josephine was to be transferred to another?--when the place which

she--the loving and beloved--occupied by her husband's side was to be

filled by another? Though doubts had arisen in her mind--though she knew

the influence of those who feared the sceptre might pass into the hands

of another dynasty--still, the hope never forsook her, that affection

would triumph over ambition, till Napoleon himself communicated the

cruel determination. With what abandonment of self she was wont to cast

her whole dependence on Napoleon, may be seen in a letter addressed to

Pope Pius VII. In it she says: "My first sentiment--one to which all

others are subservient--is a conviction of my own weakness and

incapacity. Of myself I am but little; or, to speak more correctly, my

only value is derived from the extraordinary man to whom I am united.

This inward conviction, which occasionally humbles my pride, eventually

affords me some encouragement, when I calmly reflect. I whisper to

myself, that the arm under which the whole earth is made to tremble, may

well support my weakness."

Hortense's promising child was dead; Napoleon and Josephine had shed

bitter tears together over the early grave of their little favorite; and

there was now not even a nominal heir to the throne. The machinations of

the designing were in active motion. Lucien introduced the subject, and

said to Josephine that it was absolutely necessary for the satisfaction

of the nation that Napoleon should have a son, and asked whether she

would pass off an illegitimate one as her own. This proposal she refused

with the utmost indignation, preferring any alternative to one so

disgraceful.

On Napoleon's return from the battle of Wagram, Josephine hastened to

welcome him. After the first warm greetings and tender embraces, she

perceived that something weighed upon his mind. The restraint and

embarrassment of his manner filled her with dread. For fifteen days she

was a prey to the most cruel suspense, yet she dreaded its termination

by a disclosure fatal to her happiness. Napoleon, who loved her so much,

and who had hitherto looked to her alone for all his domestic felicity,

himself felt all the severity of the blow, which he was about to

inflict. The day at length came, and it is thus affectingly described by

Mr. Alison:

"They dined together as usual, but neither spoke a word

during the repast; their eyes were averted as soon as they

met, but the countenance of both revealed the mortal anguish

of their minds. When it was over, he dismissed the

attendants, and approaching the Empress with a trembling

step, took her hand, and laid it upon his heart.

'Josephine,' said he, 'my good Josephine, you know how I

have loved you; it is to you alone that I owe the few

moments of happiness I have known in the world. Josephine,

my destiny is more powerful than my will; my dearest

affections must yield to the interests of France.'

"'Say no more,' cried the Empress, 'I expected this; I

understand and feel for you, but the stroke is not the less

mortal.' With these words, she uttered piercing shrieks, and

fell down in a swoon.

"Doctor Corvisart was at hand to render assistance, and she

was restored to a sense of her wretchedness in her own

apartment. The Emperor came to see her in the evening, but

she could hardly bear the emotion occasioned by his

appearance."

Little did Napoleon think, when he was making a sacrifice of all the

'happiness which he had known in the world,' that the ambitious views

for which it was relinquished would fade away ere five years ran their

course. What strange destinies do men carve out for themselves! what

sacrifices are they ever making of felicity and of real good, in the

pursuit of some phantom which is sure to elude their grasp! How many

Edens have been forfeited by madness and by folly, since the first pair

were expelled from Paradise!

It was not without an effort on her part to turn Napoleon from a purpose

so agonizing to them both, that Josephine gave up all hope. In about a

month after the disclosure, a painful task devolved on the imperial

family. The motives for the divorce were to be stated in public, and the

heart-stricken Josephine was to subscribe to its necessity in presence

of the nation. In conformity with the magnanimous resolve of making so

great a sacrifice for the advantage of the empire, it was expedient that

an equanimity of deportment should be assumed. The scene which took

place could never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. Napoleon stood

pale and immovable as a statue, showing in the very stillness of his air

and countenance a deep emotion. Josephine and Hortense alone appeared

divested of every ornament, while those about them sparkled in all the

splendor of court costume. Every eye was directed to Josephine, as with

slow steps she reached the seat which had been prepared for her. She

took it with her accustomed grace, and preserved throughout a dignified

composure. Hortense stood weeping behind her chair, and poor Eugene was

nearly overcome by agitation, as the act of separation was read;

Napoleon declared that it was in consideration of the interests of the

monarchy and the wishes of his people that there should be an heir to

the throne, that he was induced "to sacrifice the sweetest affections of

his heart." "God knows," said he, "what such a determination has cost my

heart." Of Josephine he spoke with the tenderest affection and respect.

"She has embellished fifteen years of my life; the remembrance of them

will be for ever engraven on my heart."

When it was Josephine's turn to speak, though tears were in her eyes,

and though her voice faltered, the dignity of all she uttered impressed

every one who was present. "I respond to all the sentiments of the

Emperor," she said, "in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage

which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France, by depriving

it of the blessing of being one day governed by the descendants of that

great man, evidently raised up by Providence to efface the evils of a

terrible revolution, and restore the altar, the throne, and social

order. I know," she went on to say, "what this act, commanded by policy

and exalted interests, has cost his heart; but we both glory in the

sacrifice which we make to the good of our country. I feel elevated by

giving the greatest proof of attachment and devotion _that ever was

given upon earth_."

It was not till Josephine heard the fatal words which were to part her

from the object of her affection for ever, that her courage seemed for a

moment to forsake her; but hastily brushing away her tears that forced

their way, she took the pen which was handed to her, and signed the act;

then taking the arm of Hortense, and followed by Eugene, she left the

saloon, and hurried to her own apartment, where she shut herself up

alone for the remainder of the day.

It is well known that, notwithstanding the courage with which the

imperial family came forward before the public on this occasion, they

gave way to the most passionable grief in private. Napoleon had retired

for the night, and had gone to his bed in silence and sadness, when the

private door opened, and Josephine appeared. Her hair fell in wild

disorder, and her countenance bore the impress of an incurable grief.

She advanced with a faltering step; then paused; and bursting into an

agony of tears, threw herself on Napoleon's neck, and sobbed as if her

heart were breaking. He tried to console her, but his own tears fell

fast with hers. A few broken words--a last embrace--and they parted. The

next morning, the whole household assembled to pay the last tribute of

respect to a mistress whom they loved and revered. With streaming eyes,

they saw her pass the gates of the Tuileries, never to return.

The feelings with which Josephine took up her residence at Malmaison,

amidst the scenes so dear to her, may be conceived; but true to the

wishes of the Emperor, and to the dictates of her own elevated mind, she

bore up under her trying situation with exemplary dignity; but grief had

done its part; and no one could look into her face, or meet the sweet

melancholy smile with which she welcomed them, without being moved.

Happy days, which she had enjoyed amidst these scenes with many of those

who waited on her, were sadly contrasted with her forlorn feelings; and

though she strove to speak cheerfully, and never complained, the tears

which she tried to check or to conceal would sometimes force their way.

The chief indulgence which she allowed her feelings was during those

hours of the day when she shut herself up in Napoleon's cabinet; that

chamber where so many moments of confidential intercourse had passed,

and which she continued to hold so sacred, that scarcely any one but

herself ever entered it. She would not suffer any thing to be moved

since Napoleon had occupied it. She would herself wipe away the dust,

fearing that other hands might disturb what he had touched. The volume

which he had been reading when last there lay on the table, open at the

page at which he had last looked. The map was there, with all his

tracings of some meditated route; the pen which had given permanence to

some passing thought lay beside it; articles of dress were on some of

the chairs; every thing looked as if he were about to enter.

Even under the changed circumstances which brought Josephine back to

Malmaison, her influence over Napoleon, which had been always powerful,

was not diminished. No estrangement took place between them. His visits

to her were frequent, though her increased sadness was always observed

on those days when he made them. They corresponded to the last moment of

her life. The letters which she received from him were her greatest

solace. It is thus she alludes to them in writing to him:--"Continue to

retain a kind recollection of your friend; give her the consolation of

occasionally hearing from you, that you still preserve that attachment

for her which alone constitutes the happiness of her existence."

The nuptials of Napoleon and Marie Louise took place a very short time

after the divorce was ratified. Whatever the bitter feelings of

Josephine might have been, they were not mingled with one ungenerous or

unjust sentiment. No ill-feeling towards the new Empress was excited in

her bosom by the rapturous greetings with which she was welcomed on her

arrival. "Every one ought," said she, "to endeavor to render France dear

to an Empress who has left her native country to take up her abode among

strangers."

But however elevated above all the meaner passions, the affections of

Josephine had received a wound from which they could never recover, and

she found it essential for any thing like peace of mind, to remove from

scenes of former happiness. She retired to a noble mansion in Navarre,

the gift of Napoleon; and as he had made a most munificent settlement on

her, she was able to follow the bent of her benevolent mind, and to pass

her time in doing good. So far from feeling any mortification on the

birth of his son, she unfeignedly participated in the gratification

which the Emperor felt, and she ever took the most lively interest in

the child. She was deeply affected when his birth was announced to her,

and retired to her chamber to weep unseen; but no murmur mingled with

those natural tears.

It is rare to meet an example of one like Josephine, who has escaped the

faults which experience tells us beset the extremes of destiny. In all

the power and luxury of the highest elevation, no cold selfishness ever

chilled the current of her generous feelings; for in the midst of

prosperity her highest gratification was to serve her fellow-creatures,

and in adverse circumstances, unspited at the world, such was still her

sweetest solace. She was, indeed, so wonderfully sustained throughout

all the changes and chances of her eventful life, that it needs no

assurance to convince us that she must have sought for support beyond

this transitory scene.

She employed the peasantry about Navarre in making roads and other

useful works. Ever prompt in giving help to those in want, she chanced

to meet one of the sisters of charity one day, seeking assistance for

the wounded who lay in a neighboring hospital. Josephine gave large

relief, promised to put all in train to have her supplied with linen for

the sick, and that she would help to prepare lint for their wounds. The

petitioner pronounced a blessing on her, and went on her way, but turned

back to ask the name of her benefactress; the answer was affecting--"_I

am poor Josephine._"

There can be no doubt but that Napoleon's thoughts often turned with

tenderness to the days that he had passed with Josephine. Proof was

given of an unchanging attachment to her, in the favors which he

lavished on those connected with her by relationship or affection. Among

her friends was Mrs. Damer, so celebrated for her success in sculpture.

She had become acquainted with her while she was passing some time in

Paris. Charmed by Josephine's varied attractions, she delighted in her

society, and they became fast friends; when parting, they promised never

to forget each other. The first intimation which Mrs. Damer had of

Josephine's second marriage was one day when a French gentleman waited

on her; he was the bearer of a most magnificent piece of porcelain and a

letter, with which he had been charged for her by the wife of the First

Consul. Great was her astonishment, when she opened the letter, to find

that it was indeed from the wife of the First Consul; no longer

Vicomtesse de Beauharnais, but her dear friend Josephine, who urged her,

with all the warmth of friendship, to pay her an immediate visit at

Paris. "I do long," she added, "to present my husband to you." Such a

tempting invitation was gladly accepted, and she was received with joy

by Napoleon and Josephine. In after years, she constantly recalled to

mind the pleasures of that visit, with mingled feelings of melancholy

and delight. The domestic scene left a lasting impression. Napoleon,

always so fascinating in conversation, made himself delightfully

agreeable to her; he loved to talk with her of her art; and his

originality, enthusiasm, and taste gave an interest to every thing he

said. He had a great admiration for Fox, and expressed a wish to have

his bust. When Mrs. Damer next visited Paris, she brought Fox's bust,

but Josephine's place was occupied by another. The Emperor saw her, and

met her with all the cordiality and kindness which the recollection of

former happy days, and her attachment to Josephine, were sure to

inspire. At parting, he gave her a splendid snuff-box, with his

likeness set in diamonds. The box is now in the British Museum.

It was in her retirement at Navarre that Josephine wept bitterly over

the fallen fortunes of Napoleon. The Russian expedition caused her such

deep inquietude that her health and spirits visibly declined; she saw in

it a disastrous fate for Napoleon, and trembled, too, for the safety of

Eugene, a son so dearly and so deservedly beloved, and who was, if

possible, rendered still more precious, as the especial favorite of

Napoleon, and as having been the means of introducing him to her.

Josephine now scarcely joined her ladies, but would remain for the

length of the day alone in her chamber, by the large travelling-desk

which contained Napoleon's letters. Among these there was one that she

was observed to read over and over again, and then to place in her

bosom; it was the last that she had received; it was written from

Brienne. A passage in it runs thus: "On revisiting this spot, where I

passed my youthful days, and contrasting the peaceful condition I then

enjoyed with the state of terror and agitation to which my mind is now a

prey, often have I addressed myself in these words: I have sought death

in numberless engagements, I can no longer dread its approach; I should

now hail it as a boon. Nevertheless, I could still wish to see Josephine

once more--" He again adds: "Adieu, my dear Josephine; never dismiss

from your recollection one who has never forgotten, and never will

forget, you."

It would be needless to dwell on the rapid events which led to

Napoleon's abdication, but it would be impossible, even in this

imperfect sketch, not to be struck by the strange coincidences of

Josephine's life,--twice married--twice escaped from a violent

death--twice crowned--both husbands sought for a divorce--one husband

was executed--the other banished! One of Napoleon's first cares, in

making his conditions when he abdicated, was an ample provision for

Josephine; 40,000_l._ per annum was settled on her.

It was after Napoleon's departure from the shores of France, that the

Emperor Alexander, touched with admiration of Josephine's character, and

with pity for her misfortunes, prevailed on her to return to Malmaison

to see him there. The associations so linked with the spot that she had

loved to beautify must, indeed, have been overpowering. It was there

that Napoleon's passionate attachment to her was formed. How many

recollections must have been awakened by the pleasure-grounds adorned

with the costly shrubs and plants which they had so often admired

_together_; how many tears had afterwards fallen among them when the

hours of separation came. The Emperor Alexander used every effort to

console her, and promised his protection to her children, but sorrow had

done its part, and the memories of other times had their effect.

Josephine fell sick; malignant sore throat was the form which disease

took, during the fatal illness of but a few days. Alexander was

unremitting in his attentions; he again soothed the dying mother by the

renewal of his promise of care for her children, a promise most

faithfully kept. It was in the year 1814 that Napoleon left France for

Elba, and also that Josephine died. The bells to which they had loved to

listen together tolled her funeral knell. Her remains rest in the parish

church of Ruel, near Malmaison. They were followed to the place of

interment by a great number of illustrious persons who were desirous of

paying this parting token of respect to one so much loved and honored.

Upwards of eight thousand of the neighboring peasantry joined the

funeral procession to pay their tribute of affection and veneration to

her, who was justly called, '_the mother of the poor and distressed_.'

The tomb erected by her children marks the spot where she takes her

'long last sleep.' It bears the simple inscription--

EUGENE ET HORTENSE A JOSEPHINE.

Napoleon, too, paid a parting visit to the residence which he had

preferred to every other. After his unsuccessful attempt to resume the

sovereignty of France, he spent six days at Malmaison to muse over

departed power and happiness, and then left the shores of France for

ever!

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Josephine might afterwards have fulfilled this promise, had not

Madame d'Aiguillon been a divorced wife, which excluded her from holding

any situation about the Empress.

From the London Art Journal.

THE GRAVE OF GRACE AGUILAR.

"Pilgrimages, pilgrimages!" exclaimed a German friend whose family had

been shorn of its "olive branches" by so many hurricanes, that, although

still in the prime of life, his head was bowed and his hair

gray:--"pilgrimages! what is life but a pilgrimage over graves?" The

older we grow, the better we comprehend the force of this sad truth;

life is, indeed, a pilgrimage over graves; but how different are the

ideas and emotions they suggest or excite!

In pent-up cities the graves cluster round ancient churches:

congregations after congregations are pressed into festering earth until

the inclosure becomes a charnel-house; yet they prove how devoutly later

occupants have longed to rest in death with the loved in life. The

nameless mounds are hardly shrouded by broken turf; records, on the

cankering, crumbling head-stones, are almost obliterated; some are

closely bordered and capped by heavy stones, as if rich inheritors

dreaded a resurrection; others there are, where the dock and the nettle

are matted around rusty railings, as though no hand remained that ever

pressed, in friendship or affection, the hand which moulders beneath;

others, again, are marked by broad head-stones, new and well-lettered,

the black on the pure white setting forth a proud array of virtues, of

which the co-mates of the departed never heard; a few dingy and heavy

monuments stand apart, and look down with civic haughtiness on humbler

graves. Repulsive specimens of bad taste are these elaborate monuments

often; in their ornaments so unmeaning, their clumsy dignity so

intrusive, so coarsely ostentatious--the epitaphs so earnest in saying

_by whom_ the carved stones were erected!

Our village churchyards, lying away amid glorious trees, or tranquil

valleys, or sleeping on the sloping hills, where "birds sing, lambs

bleat, and ploughboys whistle,"--however picturesque they may appear in

the distance, have frequently the same uncared for aspect as those

within the city. We love the living, but we _seem_ to care little for

the dead. However much we may muse on crossing "the churchyard," or

indulge in poesy, where

"The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,"

our places of burial, with the exception of cemeteries, which are as yet

too new to show what they may become, bear but slight testimony to the

"love which lives forever." The contrast is humiliating when we visit

other lands, and mark the attention paid to graves of relatives and

friends. A certain sum is annually set apart by the peasants in many

districts of France, for visiting and decking the resting-places of

those whom Death has taken; the fresh garland is hung on the simple

cross, and the prayer earnestly repeated for the soul's peace; and these

tributes continue for years and years, long after the bitterness of

sorrow has passed away.

We have seen an aged woman, with white hair, strewing flowers on her

mother's grave, though forty years had passed since the separation of

the living from the dead; and once, attracted by the beauty of a girl

who had been decking, and then praying, beside a nameless grave, we

asked for whom she mourned--although the word "mourned" had little

association with her bright face and sunny smile.

She answered, none of her people slept there; she had nothing of herself

to do with graves; it was Marie's mother's grave, and Marie had gone far

away--to England. Marie was her friend, and she had promised her that

she would deck that grave, and pray beside it; and all for the love she

bore her friend. We asked if she was certain Marie would return:

"No, there was no certainty; but she would watch the grave, and deck it,

and say the prayers Marie would have said, all the same; she loved

Marie, and had promised her." There was something very tender in this

friendly fidelity, this tending the dead for the sake of the living--the

living, dead to her.

For ourselves, the place of tombs has rarely been one of sorrow; we have

loved to visit the last dwellings of those who have gone home before us.

We have thought of the enjoyment of re-union; and dwelt upon the delight

of an eternity of harmony and love--that "perfect love which casteth out

fear." We have speculated on seeing Milton in the company of angels; on

recognizing Bunyan with the faithful; on beholding Fenelon at the "right

hand," and Mendelssohn among the chosen! Knowing that God is a more

merciful judge than man, we believe that there we shall see many faiths

prostrate in adoration of the one great LORD, who is for all, and "above

all, and in us all." We have looked to the higher nature, the divine

essence of those we have honored; and when noble deeds have been done,

or lofty genius has triumphed, we have listened with more than doubt to

the insinuations of those who, in former, as in present times, aim to

detract from the excellence it is not given them to understand. We do

not cater for the prejudices of sects or parties, but simply desire to

lay our tribute of homage on the graves of those who seem to us most

worthy, and have been most useful. We have enjoyed the high privilege of

knowing many remarkable people who have passed from among us during the

last twenty years,--having won for themselves a glorious immortality by

the exercise of talents which, in any other country, would have led to

national distinctions. Yet they are well remembered! and to them be

_all_ the glory of success. The memory of these great lights,--great

authors, great statesmen, great philosophers, great warriors,--is still

"Green in our souls."

But there were some stars of lesser magnitude, who, if longer spared

among us, would have become luminaries of power; some who were summoned,

when, according to our finite views, they had arrived at the period for

their faculties to expand, and they were about to reap the harvest of

long years of labor and of care; such was Mrs. Fletcher, better known as

Miss Jewsbury, one of the chosen friends of Mrs. Hemans, who passed away

in a foreign land, far from all who loved her.

And such was GRACE AGUILAR--a Jewess, of mind so elevated, heart so

pure, and principles so just and true, as to deserve a lofty seat among

those "Women of Israel," whose lives were so beautifully rendered by her

delicate and powerful pen. It seems Quixotic in this day of sunshine, of

civil and religious liberty, to attempt to combat the prejudices which,

we are gravely told, do not now exist against the Jewish community; yet

it is impossible to observe society, and not perceive that whatever

political disabilities may be removed from them, individual prejudice

against those from whom our blessed Saviour sprang, and who gave birth

to the apostles of the Christian faith, is as deeply seated, as in the

days when faggot and fire were the ministers employed for their

conversion.

How can it be that we, in our age, look down with cold or scornful eyes

upon this once "chosen people"--chosen when the material world was in

its youth--those children of Israel, whose history is the foundation of

our faith? We read _our_ Bible, which is _their_ Bible; our code of

conduct is based upon _their_ commandments, which are _our_

commandments; _our_ salvation is gained by the Jewish sacrifice of the

lamb without spot or blemish; _our_ apostles, the promulgators of the

fulfilment of the Old Testament prophecies, and the founders of the New,

were Jews. We are especially blessed in triumphing in a hope

fulfilled--while to them the promise is yet to come; they linger and

wait century after century for what they lost, and we won: this is their

sorrow, and hard to bear is their punishment--but it should not detract

from the honor and glory which was, and is, theirs from ages past. The

condemnation we give them is unworthy of us, and undeserved by

them--_They brought no wrath upon us by their blindness_; and we should

remember the time will come when we shall be gathered--Jews and

Gentiles--together from the four quarters of the globe, from the east

and from the west, from the north and from the south, "And there shall

be one fold and one Shepherd." But of what do we, in these days, chiefly

accuse the Jews?--of being a Mammon-making, and a Mammon-loving

people?--Ought we not to look to ourselves in that matter, and remember

the old saying about houses of glass, and throwing of stones? There are

but too many evidences of late before the world, of the Mammon-worship

of _our own_ people, to render any bowing down to the molten image

remarkable in the children of Israel; yet it is marvellous how those who

think and reason on all new things, give in to old prejudices without

question or examination--clinging with childlike tenacity to foul

traditions, as if they were established truths.

We no longer politically outrage a people who have been, at all times,

LOYAL, peaceable, and industrious; we do not confine them to any

particular quarter of our great city; nor drive them out of it like

rabid dogs; we suffer them to make money and keep it, and we borrow it

for our own wants; we allow them to worship as they please--but denying

them a cordial fellowship with us, we restrict their improvement in all

Arts, but the one of money-making;--and they, unable to obtain

distinction except through their gold, naturally cling to that which

gives them what all men covet--Power.

At our first introduction to Grace Aguilar we were struck, as much by

the earnestness and eloquence of her conversation, as by her delicate

and lovely countenance. Her person and address were exceedingly

prepossessing; her eyes, of the deep blue that look almost black in

particular lights; and her hair dark and abundant. There was no attempt

at display; no affectation of learning; no desire to obtrude "me and my

books" upon any one, or in any way: in all things she was graceful and

well-bred. You felt at once that she was a carefully educated

gentlewoman, and if there was more warmth and cordiality of manner than

a stranger generally evinces on a first introduction, we remembered her

descent,[I] and that the tone of her studies, as well as her passionate

love of music and high musical attainments had increased her

sensibility. When we came to know her better, we were charmed and

astonished at her extensive reading; at her knowledge of foreign

literature, and actual learning--relieved by a refreshing pleasure in

juvenile amusements. Each interview increased our friendship, and the

quantity and quality of her acquirements commanded our admiration. She

had made acquaintance with the beauties of English nature during a long

residence in Devonshire; loved the country with her whole heart, and

enriched her mind by the leisure it afforded. She had collected and

arranged conchological and mineralogical specimens to a considerable

extent; loved flowers as only sensitive women can love them; and with

all this was deeply read in theology and history. Whatever she knew she

knew thoroughly; rising at six in the morning, and giving to each hour

its employment; cultivating and exercising her home affections, and

keeping open heart for many friends. All these qualities were warmed by

a fervid enthusiasm for whatever was high and holy. She spurned all envy

and uncharitableness, and rendered loving homage to whatever was great

and good. It was difficult to induce her to speak of herself or of her

own doings. After her death, it was deeply interesting to hear from the

one of all others who loved and knew her best (her mother), of the

progress of her mind from infancy to womanhood; it proved so

convincingly how richly she deserved the affection she inspired.

Grace Aguilar, the only daughter of Emanuel and Sarah Aguilar, was born

at the Paragon, in Hackney, in June 1816;[J] for eight years she was an

only child, and after that period had elapsed, two boys were added to

the family. Grace was of so fragile and delicate a constitution, that

her parents took her to Hastings when she was four years old; and at

that early age she commenced collecting and arranging shells, learning

to read, almost by intuition, and when asked to choose a gift, always

preferring "a book." These gift-books were not read and thrown aside,

but preserved with the greatest care, and frequently perused.

From the age of seven years this extraordinary child kept a daily

journal, jotting down what she saw, heard, and thought, with the most

rigid regard to the truth; indeed, after visiting a new scene, her chief

delight was to read and ponder over whatever she could find relating to

what she had observed. Her parents were both passionately fond of the

beauties of nature, and she enjoyed scenery with them, at an age when

children are supposed to be incapable of much observation. Her mother, a

highly educated and accomplished woman, loved to direct her child's mind

to the study of whatever was beautiful and true: before she completed

her twelfth year she wrote a little drama called "Gustavus Vasa;" it was

an indication of what, in after life, became her ruling passion.

The first history placed in her hand was that of Josephus; increasing,

as it was certain to do, her interest in her own people. In 1828, after

various English wanderings, the family, in consequence of Mr. Aguilar's

impaired health, went to reside in Devonshire. The beauty of the scenery

which surrounds Tavistock inspired her first poetic effusions, and she

became passionately fond of her new power; yet her well-regulated mind

prevented her indulging in the exercise of this fascinating talent,

until her daily duties and studies were performed.

A life spent as was that of Grace Aguilar, affords little incident or

variety; it is simply a record of talents highly cultivated, of duties

affectionately fulfilled, and, as years advanced, of the formation of a

great purpose persevered in with stoic resolution, until, supported by

pillows, and shaken by intense suffering, the trembling fingers could no

longer hold the pen. It cannot fail to interest those at all acquainted

with her writings, to learn how she mingled the most intense faith and

devotion to her own people, with respect for the teachers of

Christianity. Well as we knew her, we were quite unacquainted with her

religious habits; though the odor of sanctity exhaled from all she did

and said, she never assumed to be holier than others; never sought

discussion; never, in her intercourse with Christians, though sometimes

sorely pressed, gave utterance to a hard word or an uncharitable

feeling; even when roused to plead with eloquent lips and tearful eyes

the cause of her beloved Israel.

It is a beautiful picture to look upon--this young and highly endowed

Jewish maiden, nurtured in the bosom of her own family, the beloved of

her parents,--themselves high-class Hebrews,--gifted with tastes for the

beautiful in Art and Nature, and a sublime love for the true; leaving

the traffic of the busy city, content with a moderate competence,

soothed by the accomplishments, the graces and the devotion of that one

cherished daughter, whose high pursuits and purposes never prevented the

daily and hourly exercise of those domestic duties and services, which

the increasing indisposition of her father demanded more and more.

Stimulated by the counsel of a judicious friend, who, while she admired

the varied talents of the young girl, saw, that for any _great purpose_,

they must be concentrated, Grace Aguilar prayed fervently to God that

she might be enabled to do something to elevate the character of her

people in the eyes of the Christian world, and--what was, and is, even

more important--in their own esteem. They had, she thought, been too

long satisfied to go on as they had gone during the days of their

tribulation and persecution; content to amass wealth, without any

purpose beyond its possession; she panted to set before them "The

Records of Israel," to hold up to their admiration "The Women of

Israel," those heroic women of whom any nation might be justly proud.

Here was a grand purpose,--a purpose which made her heart beat high

within her bosom. She knew she had to write _against_ popular feeling;

she had the still more bitter knowledge that the greater number of those

for whom she contended, cared little, and thought less, of the CAUSE to

which she was devoted, heart and soul. But what large mind was ever

deterred from a great purpose by difficulties? The young Jewish girl,

with few, if any, literary connections; with limited knowledge as to how

she could set those things before the world; treasured up her intention

for a while, and then imparted it to that mother who she felt assured

would support her in whatever design was high and holy. Her mother

exulted in her daughter's plan, and had faith in that daughter's power

to work it out: she believed in her noble child, and thanked the God of

Israel, who had put the thought into her mind. Mrs. Aguilar knew that

Grace had not made religion her study only for her own personal

observance and profit. She knew that she embraced its _principles_ in a

widely-extended and truly liberal sense; the good of her people was her

first, but not her sole, object. The Hebrew mother had frequently wept

tears of joy and gratitude when she observed how her beloved child

carried her practice of the holy and benevolent precepts of her faith

into every act of her daily life--doing all the good her limited means

permitted--finding time, in the midst of her cherished studies, and

still more cherished domestic duties, and most varied occupations, to

work for and instruct her poor neighbors; and, while steadily venerating

and adhering to her own faith, neither inquiring nor heeding the

religious opinions of the needy, whom she succored or consoled. Her

young life had flowed on in bestowing and receiving blessings, and now,

when her aspiring soul sought still higher objects, how could her

mother, knowing her so well, doubt that she would falter or fail in her

undertaking! Proofs have been for some time before the world that she

did neither.

She first translated a little work from the French, called "Israel

Defended;" she tried her pinions in "The Magic Wreath," and, feeling her

mental strength, soared upwards in the cause of her people; she wrote

"Home Influence," and "The Spirit of Judaism." But the triumphant spirit

was, ere long, clogged by the body's weakness. In the spring of 1838,

she was attacked by measles, and from that illness she never perfectly

recovered. Soon, she commenced the work that of itself is sufficient to

create and crown a reputation--"The Women of Israel." But while her

mental powers increased in strength and activity, she became subject to

repeated attacks of bodily prostration; and her once round and graceful

form was but a shadow. The physician recommended change of air and

scene: and sometimes she rallied, but there was no permanent

improvement. Music was still, as it had ever been, her solace and

delight; but she was obliged to relinquish her practice of the harp, and

to exercise her voice but seldom; still her spirit cried "On, on," and

every hour she could command was devoted to her pen.

"The Records of Israel," "The Women of Israel," and "The Jewish Faith,"

separately and together, show how, heart and soul, she labored in the

cause she had so emphatically made her own. The first publication

relating so particularly to her own people, met with but a cool

reception from the English Jews; but in America (where the Hebrews enjoy

perfect equality with their Christian brethren) they hailed this rising

star with joy, and looked anxiously for its meridian. Letters and

congratulations came to her across the Atlantic; and those who had read

only her fugitive pieces, were astonished at the concentrated zeal and

pious energy which animated her when writing of the Hebrews.

A little "History of the English Jews," published by the Messrs.

Chambers, is perhaps superior to her other writings in style and

finish--the sentences are more condensed--the information more full of

interest. It was, we believe, her last labor of love, and she greatly

rejoiced in its publication. When it was finished, she had resolved to

visit the German baths, and enjoy, as much as her increased debility

permitted, the society of her eldest brother, who at the time was

studying music (the art in which he now so much excels) at Frankfort.

Her youngest brother was at sea. There were times, even before her

departure for Germany, that she felt as if her days were numbered; but

this feeling she studiously concealed from her mother, and bore her

sufferings with the sweet and placid patience which rendered it a

privilege to see her and to hear her speak. At times she thought she

might be spared a little longer to comfort her mother, to witness the

distinction certain to reward her brother, and enjoy the reputation

which now rushed upon her, especially from her own people, both here and

in America.

Devotedly attached to her friends, she bitterly regretted that she could

not take leave of them all; but her weakness increased daily; propped up

by pillows she still continued to write, until her medical advisers

expressly commanded that she should abstain from this--her "greatest and

last luxury." She obeyed, though expressing her conviction that writing

did her good, not harm; she frequently said that when oppressed by care,

anxiety, and pain, her favorite pursuit drew her from herself, and she

firmly believed that writing relieved her headaches,--and this at a

period when she had grown too ill even to listen to music. But, all--all

her sufferings were borne with angelic patience, as the will of her

Heavenly Father, and she would console her mother with words of

cheerfulness and hope.

We have said her life had in it nothing to render it remarkable; surely,

we are in error, her patient, industrious, self-sacrificing life, was

remarkable not only for its sanctity, its talent, and its high purpose,

but for its earnest and beautiful simplicity, and perfect _womanliness_.

When the period of her departure for Germany had arrived, her friends

found it difficult to bid her farewell; for they thought it would be the

last time they should ever press her thin attenuated hand; but the

brightness of her eyes, the hopefulness of her smile, made them hope

against hope. She left England on the 16th of June, 1847, lingered in

the brilliant city of Frankfort for a few weeks, and then went to the

baths at Langen Schwalback. She persevered in her use of the baths and

mineral waters, but they afforded no relief; she was seized one night

with violent spasms, and the next day was removed to Frankfort.

Convinced that recovery was now impossible, she calmly and collectedly

awaited the coming of death: and though all power of speech was gone,

she was able to make her wants and wishes known by conversing on her

fingers. Her great anxiety was to soothe her mother; though her tongue

refused to perform its office, those wasted fingers would entreat her to

be patient, and trust in God. She would name some cherished verse in the

Bible, or some dearly-loved psalm, that she desired might be read aloud.

The last time her fingers moved it was to spell upon them feebly,

"_Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him_;" when they could no

longer perform her will, her loving eyes would seek her mother and then

look upwards, intimating that they should meet hereafter. Amen!

Her death occasioned deep regret among the Hebrews both in Europe and

America: foreign tabernacles poured forth their lamentations, private

friends gave voice to their grief in prose and poetry, and the various

journals of both hemispheres spoke of her with the respect and

admiration she deserved. But to those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all

eulogium falls short of her deserts; and she has left a blank in her

particular walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled up!

Her loss to her own people is immense; she was a golden light between

the Christian and the Jew; respected and admired alike by both, she drew

each in charity closer to the other; she was a proof, living and

illustrious, of Jewish excellence and Jewish liberality, and loyalty,

and intelligence. The sling of the son of Jesse was not wielded with

more power and effect against the scorner of his people, than was her

pen against the giant Prejudice.

We have dwelt more than may be thought necessary on Grace Aguilar's

championship of her own people, because _that_ distinguishes her from

all other female authors of our time; and when writing of the "fold of

Judah," there is a tone of feeling in all she has published which

elevates and sustains her in a remarkable manner. In conversation, the

mention of her people produced the same effect. Sometimes she seemed as

one inspired; and the intense brightness of her eyes, the deep tones of

her voice, the natural and unaffected eloquence of her words, when

referring to the past history of the Jews,--and the positive radiance of

her countenance when she spoke of the gathering of the tribes at

Jerusalem, could never be forgotten by those who knew this young Jewish

lady. In time, as we have said, her own people estimated her as she

deserved. She received a very beautiful address from some of the "women

of Israel" before she left this country for Germany. Among her works of

a more general nature, "Home Influence" is perhaps the most popular; and

its sequel, "The Mother's Recompense," though only lately published, was

written as far back as the year 1836. "The Vale of Cedars" is a tale of

Jewish faith and Jewish suffering, founded on singular facts that came

to her knowledge through some of her own people: the arrangement of the

story was difficult, as it is always difficult to embellish what is

simple and dignified, without destroying its effect and beauty--but, as

we have said, whenever Grace touched upon her own people, she wrote and

spoke as one inspired; she condensed and spiritualized, and all her

thoughts and feelings were steeped in the essence of celestial love and

truth. We are persuaded that had this young woman lived in the perilous

times of persecution, she would have gone to the stake for her faith's

sake, and died praying for her murderers. And this heroism was not only

for the great trials of life; she was also a heroine in her endurance of

small sufferings, and petty annoyances, deeming it sinful to manifest

impatience, and thinking it right to be afflicted.

Grace Aguilar had earnestly desired that we should have met her at

Frankfort; and the only letter we received from her after her arrival

there, was full of the pleasant hope that we should meet again--in that

cheerful city; this was however impossible; but when we knew that we

should see her no more in this world, we promised ourselves a pilgrimage

to her grave: and over all the plans which mingled with our dreams of

the splendid churches and vast cathedrals we were to see in Germany,

would come a vision of Grace Aguilar's quiet grave in the Jewish

burying-ground of Frankfort-on-the-Main; and all the reality of the

animated handsome city, its merchant palaces in the _Zeil_, and _Neue

Mainzer Strasse_, its old _Dom_, so full of interest, with its fine

monument of Rudolph of Sachsenhausen, beside which you cannot but recall

the time when St. Bernard preached the crusade within its walls,--not

even when we stood alone beneath the roof of St. Leonhard's Church, and

knew that there once stood the Palace of Charlemagne,--not there--nor

anywhere--could we forget that we had vowed a pilgrimage to the grave of

"the lost star of the house of Judah."

How wild and inharmonious is the mingling of sights, as you whirl

through continental cities! Heroic monuments--dark and deep

dungeons--magnificent palaces--pictures--flowers--instruments of

torture--delicious operas--all crowded together into a few short days!

We had not failed to remember that the brilliant city of Frankfort was

the cradle of the Rothschilds; and it had been suggested that before we

visited the Jews' burying-ground, we should see "The Jews' Quarter," to

look upon the house where the "very rich man was born," and where his

mother chose to live to the end of her many days, preferring, wise woman

that she was, to dwell to the last amongst her own people; yet living,

we believe, long enough to know that her grandson represented in

Parliament the first city of the modern world: and so became a practical

illustration of the altered position of the Jews in the middle of the

nineteenth century--sheltered under the vine and fig-tree that

flourishes in England.

In few of the German cities did the Jews endure more persecution than in

the _free_ city of Frankfort. During the past century the gates of the

quarter to which they were confined, were closed upon them at an early

hour, and egress and ingress were alike denied. In 1796 Marshal Jourdan,

in bombarding the town, knocked down the gate of the Jews' quarter, and

laid several houses in ruin; they have not since been replaced. Another

tyrannical law, not repealed until 1834, restricted the number of Hebrew

marriages in the city to thirteen yearly. It would seem, however, that,

like the mother of the Rothschilds, the people continue to dwell in

their own quarter from choice, not necessity; and well it is for the

lover of the picturesque and for the antiquary that they do so. A ramble

in the Jews' quarter at Frankfort might well repay a journey from

London; it is like going back to the fourteenth century, and meeting the

people you read of in history far gone. Imagine the narrowest possible

streets through which a carriage can drive, flanked at either side by

houses so high that the blue sky above becomes an idea rather than a

reality; story after story, with windows of ancient construction, small

and narrow, inclosed by iron gratings, from which frequently depended

portions of many-colored draperies; garments for sale, which might have

been of the spoil of the Egyptian; strong swords and all kinds of

weapons, rust-worn; bunches of keys, whose handles would drive an

antiquary distracted by their elaborate workmanship; dresses of all

countries and all fashions, fez caps, and old but costly turbans. The

rich balconies of the most exquisite design, however time-worn; the

_jalousies_, sometimes within, sometimes without the windows; the

Atlantes, supporting entablatures; lost none of their effect from being

half draped by a scarlet mantle or variegated scarf of Barbary. Numbers

of the houses were profusely ornamented at intervals by ball-flowers in

the hollow mouldings, and balustrades, supporting carved copings. Then

above the doors, some of which evidently led to an inner court or a

mysterious-looking passage, was inserted the most exquisitely wrought

iron-work, sufficiently beautiful to form a model for a Berlin bracelet;

while from a stealthy passage peered forth the half shrouded face and

illuminated eyes of dazzling brightness, of some ancient Jewess, whose

long, lean, yellow fingers grasped the strong, but exquisitely moulded

handle of the entrance. The doors (except the very modern ones) were all

of great strength, frequently studded with nails, and the bolts, now

worn and rusty, had withstood many a rude assault. We passed beneath

small oriel windows, supported by richly carved stone brackets, gray and

mouldering; and beside bay windows, of pure Gothic times; and when we

gazed up--up--up--story after story, we saw what appeared to us more

than one Belvedere, doubtless erected by some wealthy Jew as a place

from whence he could overlook the city it was forbidden him to tread, or

to enjoy pure air, which certainly he could not do in the densely close

street beneath. Many of the brackets supporting a solitary balcony were

of beautiful design, though the greater number were defaced and

crumbling. We also passed several of the fan-shaped windows, so

characteristic of the early German style, and here and there a quaint

and fantastic _gurgoyle_; from the mouth of one depended a bunch of

soiled but many colored ribbons. What a vision it seems to us now--that

wonderful Jews' quarter of the bright and busy city of Frankfort!--a

vision of some far-off Oriental Pompeii, repeopled in a dream! Never did

we look upon faces so keen and withered, beards so black, or eyes so

bright; once we saw a curly-headed child, half naked in its swarthy

beauty, throned, like a baby-king, upon a pile of yellow cushions; and

once again, as we drove slowly on, a tall young girl turned up a face of

scornful beauty, as if she thought we pale-faced Christians had no

business there,--and those two young creatures were all we clearly

observed of youthful beauty within the "Quarter."

The avenues in the outskirts of German towns contribute greatly to their

interest,--they protect from both sun and wind. We drove leisurely along

that which leads to the Cemetery of Frankfort, and turned up a narrower

road, that we might enter the walled-off portion of ground appropriated

as the Jews' burying-ground. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the view

from the gate of entrance. The city is spread out in the valley like a

panorama; the brightest sunshine illumined the scene; a girl was seated

beneath the branches of a spreading tree in the distance; she was a

garland-weaver, and there she spent her days weaving garlands, which the

living bought from her to place on the graves of their departed friends.

The gates were open. Mrs. Aguilar had told us that HER grave was near

the wall of the Protestant burying-ground--and there we found it.

The head stone which marks the spot, bears upon it a butterfly and five

stars, and beneath is the inscription:

"Give her of the fruits of her hands, and let her own works

praise her in the gates."--PROV. Chap. xxxi., 31.

Our pilgrimage was accomplished. It was, though in a foreign city, a

pilgrimage to an English Shrine--for it was to the grave of an English

woman--pure and good. On the 16th of September, 1847, at the early age

of thirty-one, Grace Aguilar was laid in that cemetery, far from the

England she loved so well--the bowl was broken, the silver cord was

loosed!

We cannot conclude this tribute to the memory of one we loved,

respected, and admired, without extracting a portion of an address

presented to her by several young Jewish ladies, before her departure

for Germany. Had the gift which accompanied it been of the richest and

rarest jewels, and offered by the princes of this earthly world, it

could not have been as acceptable as it was, coming from the hearts and

hands of the maidens of her own faith.

We would simply add that the address is a proof, if proof were needed,

that Jewish ladies not only feel and appreciate what is refined, and

high, and holy, but know how to express their feelings beautifully and

well. Its orientalism does not detract from its pure and sweet

simplicity:

"DEAR SISTER:--Our admiration of your talents, our

veneration for your character, our gratitude for the eminent

services your writings render our sex, our people, our

faith,--in which the sacred cause of true religion is

embodied, all these motives combine to induce us to intrude

on your presence, in order to give utterance to sentiments

which we are happy to feel, and delighted to express. Until

you arose, it has, in modern times, never been the case,

that a woman in Israel should stand forth, the public

advocate of the faith of Israel, that with the depth and

purity which is the treasure of woman, and the strength of

mind and extensive knowledge that form the pride of man, she

should call on her own to cherish, on others to respect, the

truth as it is in Israel. You, sister, have done this, and

more. You have taught us to know and appreciate our own

dignity; to feel and to prove that no female character can

be more pure than that of the Jewish maiden, none more pious

than that of the women in Israel. You have vindicated our

social and spiritual equality in the faith; you have, by

your excellent example, triumphantly refuted the aspersion

that the Jewish religion leaves unmoved the heart of the

Jewish woman,--while your writings place within our reach

those higher motives, those holier consolations, which flow

from the spirituality of our religion, which urge the soul

to commune with its Maker, and direct it to His grace and

His mercy, as the best guide and protector here and

hereafter."

We can say nothing of Grace Aguilar more eloquently or beautifully true;

it is the just acknowledgment of a large debt from the Women of Israel

to a holy and good sister, who, having done much to destroy prejudice,

and to inculcate charity, merits the thanks of the true Christian as

much as of the conscientious Jew.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] Grace Aguilar's family fled to England to escape Spanish and

Portuguese persecutions, and some of them found homes and fortunes in

the West Indies. Her mother's name was Diaz Fernandes.

[J] Her family were of the tribe of Judah. Of the original twelve tribes

two only are at present are known: the tribe of Judah, the fourth son of

Jacob and Leah, and the tribe of Benjamin, the youngest son of Jacob and

Rachel. The other tribes revolted from Rehoboam, A.M. 2964, when there

were two separate kingdoms, A.M. 3205, when the ten tribes were made

captives by Shalmaneser, king of Assyria. The ten tribes have never

since been heard of; but the Israelites believe they are in existence,

and will be gathered "from all the nations whither the Lord our God hath

scattered them." The Spanish and Portuguese Jews are of the tribe of

Judah. The German Jews are of the tribe of Benjamin.

From Frazer's Magazine.

THE CLOISTER-LIFE OF THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.--PART. II.

To be lodged in the monastic palace of Yuste was a distinction which

queen Mary of Hungary shared with one, and only one, of the visitors of

her brother. The personage whom the imperial eremite delighted thus to

honor was Francisco Borja, who a few years before had exchanged his

dukedom of Gandia for the robe of the order of Jesus. In his brilliant

youth, this remarkable man had been the star and pride of the nobility

of Spain. Heir of a great and wealthy house, which was a branch of the

royal line of Aragon, and which had given two pontiffs to Rome, he was

distinguished no less by the favor of the emperor than by the splendor

of his birth, the graces of his person, and the endowments of his mind.

Born to be a soldier and a courtier, he was also an accomplished

scholar, and no inconsiderable statesman. He broke horses and trained

hawks as well as the most expert master of the menage and the mews; he

composed masses, which long kept their place in the cathedral-choirs of

Spain; he was well versed in polite learning, and deeply read in the

mathematics; he served in Africa and Italy with distinction; and as

viceroy of Catalonia he displayed abilities for business and

administration which in a few years would have enabled him to rival the

fame of Mendoza and De Lannoy. The pleasures and the honors of the

world, however, seemed, even from the first, to have but slender

attraction for the man so rarely fitted to obtain them. In the midst of

life and its triumphs, his thoughts perpetually turned upon death and

its mysteries. Ever punctilious in the performance of his religious

duties, he early began to take delight in spiritual contemplation, and

to discipline his mind by self-imposed penance. Even in his favorite

sport of falconry, he sought occasion for self-punishment by resolutely

fixing his eyes on the ground at the moment when he knew that his best

hawk was about to stoop upon the heron. These tendencies were fixed by

an incident which followed the death of the empress Isabella. As her

master of the horse, it was Borja's duty to attend the body from Toledo

to the chapel-royal of the cathedral of Granada, and to make oath of its

identity ere it was laid in the grave. But when the coffin was opened,

and the cerements drawn aside, the progress of decay was found to have

been so rapid, that the mild and lovely face of Isabella could no longer

be recognized by the most trusted and most faithful of her servants. His

conscience would not allow him to swear, that the mass of corruption

thus disclosed was the remains of his royal mistress, but only that

having watched day and night beside it, he felt convinced that it was

the same form which he had seen wrapped in its shroud at Toledo. From

that moment, in the twenty-ninth year of his prosperous life, he

resolved to spend what remained to him of time in earnest preparation

for eternity. A few years later, the death of his beautiful and

excellent wife strengthened his purpose, and snapped the dearest tie

which bound him to the world. Having completed the Jesuits' college at

Gandia, their first establishment of that kind in Europe, and having

married his son and his two daughters, he put his affairs in order and

retired into the young and still struggling society of Ignatius Loyola.

In the year 1548, the thirty-eighth of his age, he ceased to be duke of

Gandia, and became father Francis of the Company of Jesus.

Borja did not appear at Yuste as a chance or uninvited guest. Charles

seems to have regarded him with an affection as strong as his cold

nature was capable of entertaining. It was with no ordinary interest

that he watched the career of the man whom alone he had chosen to make

the confidant of his intended abdication, and who had unexpectedly

forestalled him in the execution of the scheme. They were now in

circumstances in some respects similar, in others widely different. Both

had voluntarily descended from the eminence of their hereditary

fortunes. Broken in health and spirits, the emperor had come to Yuste to

rest and to die. The duke, on the other hand, in the full vigor of his

age, had entered the humblest of the religious orders, to work out his

salvation in a course of self-denial and toil, ending only in the grave.

His career in the Company began with severe theological study, from

which he passed to the pulpit and the professor's chair. As provincial

of Aragon and Andalusia, he had been for some time laboring as a

preacher, and teacher in various cities of Spain; he had founded

colleges at Plasencia and Seville; and he was now delivering lectures at

Alcala, in the college which Jesuit energy soon raised to be the stately

pile which still forms one of the most prominent ruins of that Palmyra

of universities.

It seems to have been in the early spring of the year 1557, that the

emperor determined to send for his old companion and counsellor. The

message was conveyed to Alcala by a servant of the count of Oropesa.

Borja at first excused himself, pleading ill-health and the duties of

his calling; and it was not until he had received a second summons, from

the mouth of the duke of Medina-Celi, that he consented to go to Yuste.

On the way he was met by a messenger, bearing a letter from the regent

Juana, which advised him that her father's object in seeking an

interview was to persuade him to pass from the Company into the order of

St. Jerome. He arrived at the monastery early in December, attended by

two brothers of the order, father Marcos, and father Bartolome

Bustamente, the latter known to fame as a scholar, and as architect of

the noble hospital of St. John Baptist at Toledo. The emperor not only

paid his guest the unusual compliment of lodging him in his own

quarters, but even busied himself in making preparations for his

reception. To make his chamber as comfortable as conventual austerity

would permit, Luis Quixada had hung it with some tapestry which remained

in the meagre imperial wardrobe. But this his master, judging that it

would rather offend than please the visitor, caused him to take down,

supplying its place with some black cloth, of which he despoiled the

walls of his own cell.

The royal recluse received the noble missionary with a cordiality which

was more foreign to his nature than to his habits, but which on this

occasion was probably sincere. Both had withdrawn themselves from the

pomps and vanities of life; but, custom being stronger than reason or

faith, their greeting was as ceremonious as if it had been exchanged

beneath the canopy of state at Augsburg or Valladolid. Not only did the

Jesuit, lapsing into the grandee, kneel to kiss the hand of Charles, but

he even insisted on remaining upon his knees during the interview.

Charles, who addressed him as duke, of course frequently entreated him

to rise and be seated, but in vain. "I humbly beg your majesty," said

he, "to suffer me to continue kneeling; for I feel," he added, in a

spirit of extravagant loyalty, "as if, in the presence of your majesty,