CHAPTER IV.

Wilt thou take measure of such minds as those,

Or sound, with plummet-line, the Artist-Heart?

MRS. NORTON.

Its holy flame forever burneth,

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest,

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest!

It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest time of Love is there.

SOUTHEY.

“Paul Talbot is in the city of wonders. Ivy-girdled ruins of the

time-embalming Past are lying in the distance. Lofty cathedrals, rich in

votive offerings of surpassing magnificence, surround him on every side.

Stately palaces, their long galleries filled with the noblest works of

the mighty minds of old, are baring their treasures to his gaze. The

‘dew-dropping coolness’ of the marble fountain, breathes new vigor into

his frame. He is excited—bewildered—‘dazzled and drunk with beauty,’

and for weeks Paul wandered about Rome and its environs, half forgetful

that his lot was still to struggle and to toil.

“When roused to action, he threw himself heart and soul into his art,

and the consequence was a long and severe illness, brought on by that

absorbing devotion which often kept him at his pursuits until the

morning dawn peering into his room reminded him that he was weary and

overtasked. For months he lay wasted by sickness, helpless at times as a

feeble child, but nature triumphed over disease, and he wandered once

more beneath the blue sky, and felt the kiss of the balmy air upon his

pallid cheek.

“With a return to health, Paul returned with renewed ardor to his task,

until the picture on which he had long and earnestly labored was at

length completed. He had chosen for his subject a scene representing the

Hermit Peter exhorting the people to join the crusaders. Standing in the

midst, with one arm outstretched, and the other raised to heaven, was

seen the enthusiast. On either side, were grouped mailed knights and

stalwart forms, the tillers of the soil. One gentle lady, like the

weeping Andromeda, was clinging to her lord, and a villager’s wife held

up her child for his father’s last fond kiss. So animated and life-like

was the figure of the preacher—so eager and intense the emotion

betrayed by the assembled multitude—that you listened to hear the

eloquence that roused all Europe, and sent prince, peer, and peasant to

rescue the holy sepulchre from the hand of the Infidel, to cast down the

crescent of Mohammed, and to raise the cross of Christ.

“And now came that fame for which the young painter had toiled, and to

which he had looked forward as his highest guerdon. Crowds were daily

drawn to his _atelier_, and artists who had themselves won a world-wide

renown, bestowed their warmest praises upon the ‘Hermit’ of Paul Talbot.

“The following winter Paul passed in Florence, and there his picture was

purchased by a Florentine merchant, at a price which relieved the artist

from fear of pecuniary embarrassment. Paul was requested to visit the

house of the merchant, and select the most fitting place to display the

work of which the fortunate possessor was so justly proud. He went, and

in the picture-gallery of the wealthy Florentine was opened a new page

in the artist’s book of life.

“Poets and painters have ever an eye for beauty in women; and when

Carlotta D. entered the apartment, leaning on the arm of her father,

Paul started as if one of the bright visions of his ideal world stood

suddenly embodied before him. The lady, too, was for a moment

half-embarrassed—for the fame of the young painter had reached her

ears, and, womanlike, she had been wondering if report spoke truly when

it ascribed to him the dark clustering locks, and the lustrous eyes of

her own sunny south.

‘Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth;

Springs by the calendar; must wait for sun—

For rain; matures by parts—must take its time

To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns

A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed!

You look for it and see it not: and lo!

E’en while you look the peerless flower is up,

Consummate in the birth!’

“Was it strange that Paul and Carlotta, both worshipers of the

beautiful, with souls alive to the most holy sympathies of our nature,

was it strange that they should love?

“Paul had hitherto lived for his art alone. Painting was the mistress he

had ever wooed with intense passion, but now another claimed his homage,

and he bowed with a fervor little less than idolatrous at woman’s

shrine. Such a love could not long remain concealed. The father of

Carlotta, a vain and purse-proud man, hoping by his wealth to obtain a

husband for his daughter among some of the haughty but decayed nobility,

frowned on the artist, and forbade him his house. In secret the lovers

plighted their troth, and parted, not knowing when they should meet

again.

“Paul left Florence with the resolve to win not fame alone, but wealth.

“At Rome he was enrolled a member of the Academy of St. Luke, under

Overbeck—the spiritually-minded Overbeck—who himself the son of a

poet, has enriched his art with the divinely poetical conceptions of his

own pencil. At Munich, one of his pictures was shown by Cornelius to the

king of Bavaria, and purchased by that munificent patron of art at a

price far exceeding the painter’s expectations. At Vienna a similar

success attended him, and he returned to Florence after an absence of

six years, with fame, and wealth enough for the foundation of a fortune.

“From Carlotta he had rarely heard, but he knew her heart was his, and

he had that faith in her character as a true woman, which made him

believe that no entreaties or commands of her father would induce her to

wed another. And Paul was right—Carlotta D. still remained unmarried.

In her the budding loveliness of the girl had expanded into the fuller

beauty of the woman, but Talbot was sadly altered. The feverish

excitement—the continued toil—the broken rest—the anxiety of thought

to which he had been subjected, undermined his health, and planted the

seeds of that insidious disease, which, while it wastes the bodily

strength, leaves the mind unimpaired, and the hope of the sufferer

buoyed to the last. The father of Carlotta finding that neither

persuasion nor coercion could make his high-souled daughter barter her

love for a title, consented at last that she should become the bride of

the artist; but many said the wily Florentine had given his consent the

more readily, because he saw that Paul would not long be a barrier in

the way of his ambition.

“Paul Talbot had buffeted the adverse waves of fortune; he had gained

renown in a land filled with the most exquisite creations of the gifted;

he had won a promised bride. Whence, in that bright hour loomed the one

dark cloud that blotted the stars from the sky? Could it be the shadow

of the tomb? Was death interweaving his gloomy cypress with the laurel

on the painter’s brow? Oh, no, no—he was but weary—he only wanted

rest, and his powers would again be in full vigor. Then, with Carlotta

at his side—with her smile to cheer him on—he would aim higher, and

yet higher in his art.

“And the young wife was deceived. Although a nameless dread, a dark

prescience lay heavy at her heart, she yet thought the bright flush on

the cheek of Paul a sign of returning health. How tenderly and anxiously

she watched lest he should fatigue himself at his easel, and how gently

she chid, and lured him from his task into the open air of their

beautiful garden.

“One of the days thus passed had been deliciously mild, and, although

mid-winter, in that heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming in

the open air, each breeze was laden with the heavy odor of the orange

blossom, and the fainter perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly

from the balcony where Paul and she had been seated watching the

piled-up masses of crimson, of purple, and of gold that hung like regal

drapery round the couch of the western sun, Carlotta pushed aside the

opening blossoms of the night-jasmine which intercepted her reach, and

gathering a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul. He took the

flowers from his wife, and looking mournfully upon them, said, ‘When we

cross the waters to visit my native land, we will take with us some of

your precious roses, beloved, and beautify my mother’s silent home; and

now,’ he continued, twining his arm round her waist, and leading her to

the harp, ‘sing me that little song I wrote while yet a student in old

Rome.’ Pressing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, and

sung the song, which she had set to music. The air was soft and

melancholy, and the sweet tones of the singer were tremulous with

emotion.

Fill high the festive bowl to-night,

In memory of former years,

And let the wine-cup foam as bright

As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears.

Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smile

Around our happy circle shone,

Whose genial mirth would hours beguile,

Which, but for them, were sad and lone.

Those hours, those friends, those social ties,

They linger round me yet,

Like twilight clouds of golden dyes,

When summer suns have set.

Then fill the bowl—but while you drink,

In silence pledge all once so dear,

Nor let the gay ones round us think

We sigh for those who are not here.

“‘My dear Paul,’ said his wife, smiling through the tears with which, in

spite of her efforts to repress them, her eyes were suffused, ‘this sad

song should be sung on the last night of the year, the night for which

it was composed. It should be sung while the student-band of artists

stood around, each holding the flower-wreathed goblet from which he

might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories were wandering back to

fatherland. Let me sing,’—she paused on seeing the deep melancholy

depicted on her husband’s countenance—‘nay, forgive me for jesting,

love, I know with whom are your thoughts to-night, and will not ask you

to listen to a lighter strain.’

“A month went by winged with love and hope. Paul found himself growing

weaker, but he looked forward to a sea-voyage as a sure means of

restoring him to health. Carlotta was hastening her preparatory

arrangements, willing to leave her home, willing to brave the perils of

the deep, in the belief that old Ocean’s life-inspiring wave would prove

the fabled fountain of youth to her beloved. She had never seen

consumption in any of its varied and sometimes beautiful forms. She knew

not that the eye could retain its lustre, that the cheek could glow with

more than its usual brightness, that the heart could be lured by a false

hope, until, like a red leaf of the forest, dropping suddenly from the

topmost bough, the doomed one fell, stricken down in an unthought of

moment by the stern destroyer.

“One morning, when Paul had remained much longer than usual in his

apartment, Carlotta sought him for the purpose of whiling him abroad.

“He was lying asleep on a couch, where he must have thrown himself from

very weariness, as one of the brushes with which he had been painting

had fallen from his hand upon the floor. His wife softly approached. She

stooped and kissed his lips. He opened his eyes, smiled lovingly upon

her, and pointed to the picture.

“‘You have made me too beautiful, dearest; this must be a copy of the

image in your heart.’

“‘Ah, I have not done you justice, you are far more lovely, my own wife,

yes, far more lovely—my mother—my mother—’ repeated Paul, dreamily.

It was evident his thoughts were wandering.

“‘You are exhausted, dear love; but sleep now, and I will watch beside

you.’

Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. Afraid of disturbing him,

some minutes elapsed ere she again raised her head and turned to look

upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung listlessly by his side. It

was cold, and she thought to warm it by pressing it to her lips—to her

cheek—to her heart. She bent her ear close to the sleeper—there was no

sound; she laid her lips on his—oh, God! where was the warm breath? A

horrible dread came over her, and unable from the intensity of her agony

to utter any cry, she sunk down and gazed fixedly in her husband’s face,

realizing the heart-touching thoughts of the poet.

‘And still upon that face I look,

And think ’twill smile again,

And still the thought I cannot brook

That I must look in vain.’

“And thus were they found by her father, who was the first to enter the

apartment. Paul quite dead—Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at

his side—and before them the unfinished picture.

“When the fond wife was restored to consciousness, and felt the full

weight of that misery that was crushing out her young life, her reason

became unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering from room to room

as if in search of some lost object, often stopping to unfold, and then

folding again, the garments prepared for their journey. She would

frequently rise with a sudden start, walk hurriedly to the window, and

stand for a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then mournfully

shaking her head to and fro, would slowly resume her accustomed seat,

and in a low voice repeat ‘not yet—not yet—Paul still lingers in

Rome.’ Carlotta remained in this melancholy state during the time I was

in Florence, but a letter received since my return home informs me that

after a short interval, in which reason resumed her sway, the sufferer

calmly departed, coupling the name of her beloved with the rest and the

bliss of Paradise.

“The wretched father was filled with self-upbraidings. But for him, he

said, Paul Talbot might have been living, and his daughter living, happy

in each other’s love. He spoke truly. To gratify his ambition, Paul had

overtasked the powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by the

flame which for years had been scorching and burning into the heart and

soul of the artist. Too late had he obtained his reward. Too late had

Carlotta’s father consented to her union with Paul. Too late had the old

man found that by his daughter’s alliance with a man of genius, a

greater lustre would have shone upon his house than could ever be

reflected from his glittering hoard.”

Here ended my friend’s narration, and while with him I lamented the fate

of genius, I could not forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy

Florentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often the golden ears

betray the ass, while wisdom, virtue, talent, constitute the only real

greatness.

* * * * *

THE HEART’S CONFESSION.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

Little that moves the pulse of youth and joy

My wayward heart bends downward to confess;

Little of virtue, without some alloy

To make my good deeds vain and valueless;

Though the world pass me, trusting and deceived,

Though sunny smiles glitter where frowns have been,

There is a spirit in my bosom grieved,

Before whose eyes I may not draw the screen;

And here, when I am sad, she folds her wings

To warble of lost hopes and past desires,

My heart-strings loosen as the spirit sings,

And cooling tears drop on my wasting fires.

And then I know that I have turned away

From the proud picture that my fancy drew,

That I am passing further every day

From my own standard of the good and true;

We go not to the grave as we arise

From childhood’s slumbers, in the outward face,

And the soul, looking out from human eyes,

Becomes corrupt and bitter in the race.

I deemed that I should pass into my age

As I began, warm, generous and kind,

And pausing here upon life’s second stage,

I turn and look upon a cankered mind!

I have o’erstepped my bound—I have passed by

The goal that none may pass and yet be pure,

The pole star has grown glimmering to my eye,

And meteors have become my spirit’s lure—

So from one failing step we come to tread

Paths that in early youth we swore to shun,

So, from the blue sky shining overhead,

The whispering angels leave us, one by one.

I have past by the goal; ’tis hard to pause,

And, but for pride, I should shake hands with Vice.

Trample on Virtue’s desecrated laws,

And with my own dishonor pay the price.

Wo to us, when our pride becomes our truth

And hollow-hearted selfishness our trust,

With age’s avarice creeping over youth,

And clothing all things in corroding rust!

Pride is frail hold on virtue, yet ’tis all

That binds me to one deed of human hope;

Let me forget my pride and I shall fall

So low contempt will lose me in its scope!

How long shall this frail pride support my name?

How long ere malice o’er my head shall creep.

And touch me with the fangs of his dark shame,

And lure me, with his serpent eyes, to sleep?

I know not that I shall forget my kind,

Nor shame the form I owe to human birth;

I know not but the foaming of my mind

May leave a legacy of good to earth;

But I am saddened when I think that all

Of the world’s plaudit flows from my deceit,

And that the eyes that love me would recall

Their pleasant looks, could they but trace my feet!

The heart’s confession bears the curse of years,

To be without a pure thought at my side,

And if I fall lament me not with tears,

But think that time has shorn away my pride!

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by C. L. Eastlake R. A. Engraved by W.

E. Tucker

CHRIST WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.]

* * * * *

CHRIST WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.

BY JOSEPH E. CHANDLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

“How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of those that bring glad

tidings,” is the language of elder Scripture, and how often has the

heart of man responded to the truth of the declaration, as the eye has

caught the earnest smile and noted the lightness of feet that

distinguish the bearer of pleasing intelligence.

The great poet of nature hath, in the spirit of the above comment,

remarked that the bearer of unwelcome news has “but a losing office.”

And thousands of those who have been messengers of good to the great,

the wealth-possessing and honor-conferring among men, have found

themselves ennobled and sometimes enriched, for the simple narrative of

an event in which they had no share, and of which they knew little more

than the report which they had received from others and delivered where

it was greatly desired.

We know that the text of Scripture which we have placed at the beginning

of these remarks has allusion to tidings of greater joy, of more

gladness, than all the bulletins of battles and statements of victories

which the hastened dispatch bearer has ever conveyed to the awaiting

monarch—more lovely and more desired than messages of love and tokens

of reciprocation which the herald of man’s affection and woman’s deep,

late-told love ever conveyed. The triumph of the conqueror of armies

must be short and partial—the love of the most devoted perishes, at

least with the object, if it is not quenched by its own fitful sallies.

But the glad tidings which hasten and beautify the feet of those who

come over the mountain of our offences is of life-long endurance, and

enters into the eternity for which it prepares.

There is a picture in this number of the Magazine to which we are

alluding, and to which we mean to refer when we talk of messengers of

glad tidings. We know that the common reader will look at the title,

and, if he recollects the narrative, he will be startled at the idea of

“glad tidings,” when sorrow and tears were on the face of the messenger,

bodings of terrible afflictions were in his mind, and their nearness was

being foretold.

Are these glad tidings? Do such messages make beautiful the bearer? Can

we rejoice at the overwhelming evil that is to befall the “City of

Peace,” and sweep away the temple of the Most High, and give to famine,

to violence, to dishonor and to death the sons and the daughters of the

people of God?

But if these evils were the consequences of crimes, if the destroyer

were but an instrument in the hand of omnipotent love to waste the

destroyed, and to be himself the object of a similar wrath, that the

“peace” which the great messenger was to bring on earth might have an

abiding place, in consequence of the terrible things which he only

foretold—surely the feet of such an one are beautiful. He _brings_

salvation, while he only _foretells_ destruction; he makes the wrath of

man, which he prophecies, the instrument to produce that love and peace

of which he is the real author.

* * * * *

There had been much confusion in the city in consequence of reports

brought to the principal ecclesiastical and civic officers, of the

unusual proceedings of citizens at a short distance beyond the place,

where palm branches had been strewn in the highway, and garments spread

out, upon which the hoofs of the rider’s animal were to tread—tokens of

remarkable respect, which seemed to look treasonable to the foreign

power, that directed the political affairs, and to the native priests

who directed the spiritual concerns—the forum and the temple were

agitated; the viceroy and the high-priest each started at such evidences

of neglect of fealty. Rome and Jerusalem both felt that there was an

antagonistic power operating, if not directly against, at least

incidentally hostile to them; and Rome and Jerusalem—the conqueror and

the conquered—joined in efforts to suppress the evil. Each would have

crushed the power of the other, but both would unite to repel a power

that was hostile to both. Each would have bruised the mailed arm of the

other, but both trembled at what would have healed the breast of each.

There had been a scene of triumph—but He who had been the object of the

huzzas of the multitude that thronged his way with tokens of

obedience—_head_ obedience, with little of _heart_ in the offering—he

had sat unmoved by outward demonstration of feeling for the acclamations

of those who thronged his path. Another mission was his—another triumph

was desired—another evidence of popular feeling was to be experienced,

and in a little time he separated from the multitude, and ascending the

mount, at whose base he had stood, he sat down with the four or five

that were with him, and gazed abroad upon the outstretched scene below

them.

It was a beautiful evening. Behind them the dust which had not yet

subsided since the people had thronged the roads with songs of triumph,

was reflecting the light of the declining sun. Beneath them was the

Valley of Jehoshaphat, the terrible seat of _judgment_ and dread; and

beyond was the beloved city, stretched out in the repose of the evening

sun, which was reflected by numerous gorgeous domes; and the busy hum of

business came up to the quiet summit of Olivet, as if to bear to those

who rested here the story of man’s heedlessness of his life’s great end.

They were Jews that thus looked out, the leader and the followers,

Hebrews of Hebrews, and they loved the land of their birth and the city

of their nation’s boast. Every affection of the human heart was enlisted

for the beautiful towns and sacred edifices, and all the outspread

loveliness of the country’s hills and valleys; and as the sun seemed to

pour surpassing splendor upon the place, and as youth and beauty went

forth to seek their pleasures, and age toiled upward toward the temple

for the evening sacrifice, and all that was seen, and all that the heart

suggested, appealed to the patriotic affection of the four—they looked

to see whether the loveliness of the scene would not light up an

unwonted smile upon the face of their Master, who was looking intently

upon the city.

But there was no smile. The deep thought that rested on his brow, and

the tear that glistened in his eye, showed that the past and the future

were with him. That all the blessings which had been pronounced upon

Jerusalem, and all the promises made in her behalf, all the sins which

she had committed, and which God had pardoned, and all the negligence

against which she had been warned, and for which pardon had been

presented; all her thoughtlessness now, and all the uncomprehended

miseries which were in her path, were in one group in his mind—and the

sound of the destroyer and the desolation of the conquered stood before

him—the famine that wasted the people and the fire that destroyed the

temple were there, and as he remembered how He would have sheltered them

from the consequences of their own follies, and how they despised his

love; how he would have shielded and comforted the sons and daughters of

that city of his love, but they refused, _He wept_—wept human

tears—wept tears of earthly fondness, that came bursting up from his

heart—deep agony marked his face when gathering the recollection of all

the promises which had accompanied their probation, the glories by which

they had been invited to goodness—he exclaimed, “But now they are

forever hidden from thine eyes.”

What a mission was that the Master assumed—what an experience was that

of his intimate followers. The many listened to his heavenly doctrine

and love—many were astonished at the miracles that marked his public

ministry, that made the temple and the wayside _clinics_ where his

divine skill was exhibited, and drew the people from their synagogues

and altars, to offer at the street corners the sacrifice of enlightened

hearts and the homage of soul admiration. But these, the favored few,

the elders and chosen ones of his little flock stood with him in the

terrible moments, when the office of his mission was not exercised on

others, but came to be ministered on himself—three of them witnessed

the tears at the grave of a friend—they saw with trembling awe the

glory of his transfiguration with Moses and Elias—and now these stood

there solemn, trembling witnesses of an agony of affliction that wrung

tears for others from Him who could look down upon the garden that was

to be the scene of a trial which human eyes could not witness and

live—who could look forward to the hall of infamy that was to witness

his mockery, to the winding way of sorrow in which he was to bear his

cross, and upward to the eminence where the work was to be consummated.

The tears were not for himself. He wept for the misery of those who

should procure the agonizing passion.

The artist has chosen this moment for his picture. It was a bold

thought—but it was a good one—what the pen records may not the pencil

illustrate, and is not the lesson of that most instructive hour brought

closer home to the heart by the representation of the scene which the

sacred historian describes? How well the artist has executed his task is

not for us to say. Indeed such a picture is in its conception so full of

suggestion, that we may safely leave to the painter’s professional pride

the finishing of his work according to the canons of his art. The moment

that we recognize the subject, the moment we catch the time, the place

and the office, we lose sight of all that the pen has written or the

pencil attempted to delineate, and acknowledge that our hearts, our

fancy have taken hold of all and borne us back to the awful hour—we do

not pause to look at features or position on the canvas, but at once we

kneel in imagination at a distance from the consecrated group, and as

Olivet and Sinai and Calvary meet the eye, and the temple gleams in the

light of the setting sun, we inquire what is the thought, the high,

mighty thought that swells upward in the heart of the Master there?

Alas! who shall know? Who could conceive? Eternities are in his mind,

and all the vast concerns of angels and of men are before him; and yet

for one city, one erring city, one little spot upon the great map of the

universe, he fixes his eyes, and over its fate he weeps tears of earthly

sorrow—weeps not that one stone of the temple shall not be left upon

the other—weeps not that all the monuments of his nation’s glory shall

be wasted, and that the ploughshare of the infidel shall upturn the

sacred soil. Not for these did he weep—but that those children of the

Father, whom he “would have gathered as a hen gathereth her chickens

under her wings,” should be destroyed by the sword, and the virtue of

the daughters of his people should be the derision and spoil of the

conqueror. They were human tears—but divine sympathies!

And in that scene of wounded love, when the foreseeing, or the

foredwelling of his higher nature made the _present_ of his human

exposure terrible—in that hour of sympathy and sorrow, the favored and

the _intimate_ were his companions. Theirs was not yet the gift of

foreknowledge—they lived only in the present, and knew only of the

past. Little indeed could they comprehend the agony of the Master, as

they could not foresee the cause. Their highest gift was _faith_—they

could believe—they could confide—they could listen with silent

assurance—and however contradictory might appear the words of the

Teacher and the circumstances of the times, they had learned from

rebukes and experience to trust to the former. And as they follow with

their eyes the mournful bend of the Master’s gaze, as they melted before

the weeping of the sinless and loving, they bowed in meek assent to the

terrible _anathema_ foretold, and, not being authorized to give, or to

proclaim it, they meekly sighed the _maranatha_, and left the work to

God.

You see some of the multitude pressing up _toward_ the Master, but not

_upon_ him. You see, too, in the distance, woman with her face set

toward Him to whom her heart is given. Woman following but not

approaching. The first evidence of personal suffering would have brought

her to his side—the first chance of offering homage would have taken

her to his feet. It is woman, too, in her beautiful office—her heart is

with the Master—it is good for her to stand where she may be called. He

may not indeed speak to her, but virtue might go forth from him and

bless her—and so she had brought with her a little child. It seemed not

meet to her that she should seek Jesus and her child not be led to him.

She had indeed heard the Master say, in regard to some others, “suffer

little children to come unto me,” and how did she know, standing afar

off though she might be—standing in awe and reverence—how did she know

but when his moment of bitter sorrow had passed away, the Master might

turn and smile on her—and take her little child in his arms and bless

him—so had he done to others—and so she was willing to await, willing

to stand and see what the Lord would do.

But in the immediate scene of tears and solemn wailing woman is not

found. Where are those that followed his steps? Where are those who

ministered to his wants? Alas! the scene was not for such hearts. It was

the last sacrifice of national feeling; humanity acknowledges the

claim—for mental mortal agony at events to come there was no

consolation.

It was for woman to make beautiful her mission by her implicit faith; it

was for woman to minister to his _physical_ wants; her humility would

find a delightful office when she bathed his feet with her tears, and

her faith had comforting expression when she wiped them with the hairs

of her head. Woman’s care provided the household comforts which humanity

needed, and woman’s piety sat self-abased, yet gathered strength at the

Master’s feet as he opened the oracles of truth. Woman wept for him as

he bore his cross upward to Calvary; and woman lingered at the foot of

that cross when others had fled; and it was woman that came earliest to

kneel at the sepulchre. Where service was to be performed, where faith

was to be tried, where physical wants were to be supplied, and physical

suffering assuaged, there woman was to be found. But where the agony of

mental passion was to be endured; where the unspeakable and the

incomprehensible were to be exhibited, woman was not. Her mission of

faith and love required no such exercise, her feelings demanded no such

purification.

We have done. The picture which we give is suggestive, and we hope that

it will suggest more to others than we have been able to express;

because to such a scene as the artist represents, when the heart or

fancy enters it is lost in amazement. A thousand thoughts crowd, less

for utterance than for existence, and we feel that when there is more

than earthly love, more than earthly interest, the idea must be more

than human, and expression will be infinitely short of the conception.

* * * * *

HUMAN INFLUENCE.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

Oh! deem not thou canst lightly err,

And none may bear its weight but thee:

There’s none on earth who stands alone,

None so devoid of sympathy,

But that each fault will wing a dart

To pierce some gentle, feeling heart.

Oh! say not that no sin of thine

Will cause another, weaker one,

To fall, or stumble by the way—

By following _thee_ his soul undone—

Drawn to the very depths of shame:

Then on whose head shall rest the blame?

Oh! say not thou art far too weak

To help some brother poor and frail,

Whose footsteps falter by the way—

Whose burthened strength begins to fail—

Thy words of hope may sooth his grief,

Thy hand, though weak, may bring relief.

Perchance some weary spirit mourns,

In bitterness of grief e’en now,

That thus in bonds, by error wrought,

So strong a soul as thine should bow—

That _thou_, of all the world shouldst stray

From wisdom’s straight and pleasant way.

Perchance e’en now thy many faults

Stand in some wand’ring brother’s road,

That but for _thee_ his feet would tread

The path of wisdom and of God—

Who, but for _thee_, or for thy sin,

A victor’s glorious crown might win.

Oh! none there are whose deeds and words

May not exert an influence wide,

There is no hand that hath not strength

Some wand’rer from the way to guide:

No voice with tones too weak to bless

Some hapless brother in distress.

* * * * *

HONOR TO WHOM HONOR IS DUE.

A TALE OF OLDEN TIMES.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

Grenada had fallen. The miserable remnant of a once powerful nation,

driven from the cities of their glorious empire, hunted by an untiring

zeal to destroy, crowded at length into their chief stronghold, the city

of their regal power—the birth-place and the sepulchre of a long race

of puissant monarchs—had endured all the miseries of siege, of famine,

and of slaughter; had endured with an invincible determination to die

rather than yield; and they had died by the sword, by hunger and thirst,

by despair, by pestilence; and their rich and magnificent city had been

sacked, plundered, ravaged, made the prey of soldiers, greedy for spoil,

thirsting for the blood of an infidel foe, exasperated by resistance,

and maddened by fanatical zeal. Grenada had fallen; the Moors were no

longer a nation of the earth. Ferdinand and Isabella, weary of war, and

satiated with conquest, were reposing in state at Santa Fe, or San

Felipe, with every demonstration of triumph, every show of thanksgiving

to the God of battles. The days were divided between the most gloriously

marshaled tournaments and the most magnificent religious processions;

the nights were devoted to the masquerade and the mass; the whole world

seemed vocal, now with strains of triumphant martial music, now with the

no less lofty Te Deum, or Gloria in Excelsis. All was joy and gladness,

triumph and gratitude. The temporary palace was shining like the fabled

palace of Aladdin, builded of the gold and gems of the genii world. In

all the apartments the magic of regal magnificence was displayed in the

taste of the most approved style of art. Tapestries of regal blue and

Tyrian purple, broidered and fringed with scarlet, green and gold, in

the inimitable style of the artists of Babylon, swept from the lofty

ceilings to the velvety carpels of the marble pavements which were rich

with tufted work of flowers of every hue, while in the recesses of the

windows, where the tapestries were looped aside with cords of the

richest dyed and braided silks, entwined with strings of glittering

gems, and heavy with tassels of feathery silk and drops of gold and

diamonds, were placed beautifully enameled vases of the porcelain of

Italia, supporting branches of artificial flowers and fruits of immense

value. From the daisy, with its petals of pearl and eye of platted gold,

to the rose of Damascus, formed of flashing rubies, and dewed with

purest diamonds; from the rich clusters of grapes of amethyst, to the

golden pear and nectarine, beryl and sardonix. Doors opened upon

seemingly interminable vistas of trees and flowering shrubs,

intermingled with candelabras of gold, wrought into the semblance of

tall plants, bearing flowers of crystal and purest porcelain of every

delicate tint, each of which was a lamp, burning perfumed oil, and

giving out rich fragrance with its mellowed light; while birds of every

clime, from the stately pea-fowl to the minutest lady-bird, admirably

imitated in enameled gold and precious stones, were fixed upon elastic

sprays, swaying to every breath, and chirping forth melody from little

organs, played upon by their own tremulous motions, and so perfect was

the workmanship that their forms and notes were hardly to be

distinguished from those of the real birds that walked or flew amongst

them in the gay parterres.

Amid all this enchantment moved groups of richly habited men and women;

dons and cavaliers, in their blazing military costumes, and dark-eyed

donnas, in soft silks, rich velvets, and transparent muslins of India,

ornamented with brilliants, plumes, or flowers, each as her fancy

dictated. Some were dancing to lively music, some listening to soft

melodies and songs of love; some were grouped around the beautifully

imitated trees, on which ripe fruits of every clime seemed to hang in

nature’s wild profusion; some clustered around statues, which presented

baskets and trays of the choicest viands; others again rested beside

fountains which threw up jets of perfumed wine, which, as it descended

in drops, displayed rainbows of inimitable splendor, painted by colored

lights arranged for the purpose, while here and there a youthful couple,

walking apart, and apparently unconscious of all the surrounding

splendor, betrayed the tender topic of their sweet communings.

Could discontent and heaviness of heart exist amid all this wealth and

splendor and apparent happiness? or do all these fail to satisfy the

yearnings of the immortal mind? In a retired part of the gardens, where

a few dark evergreens clustered over a natural spring of living water,

stood a man apparently forty years of age, plainly habited in rich black

velvet, which displayed to the best advantage a form of manly mould and

exquisite symmetry. His beaver lay beside him on the turf, and his noble

head thus exposed, displayed the perfection of nature’s statuary. His

high and expansive forehead, strongly marked and delicately moulded

features, dark, piercing and restless eyes, bespoke genius to conceive,

energy to prosecute, perseverance to complete achievement of lofty

daring. But there was an expression of melancholy around his perfect

mouth, and his dark brows had acquired a contraction which proved that

he was familiar with disappointment, and the contumely of inferior

souls. Wrapped in deep thought he seemed, except that from time to time,

as he lifted his eyes and glanced up the vista, there flashed from their

dark depths the impatience of a mighty spirit, baffled of its aim,

chained in its flight, and misunderstood in the darkness of surrounding

ignorance. A figure, elastic with the buoyancy of joy, advanced toward

him, a warm hand clasped his, and a glad voice exclaimed, “Courage, my

friend, she has consented to see you, to listen to your plea, to weigh

your arguments, and decide upon your claims to patronage. Courage, I

say, for if she listen to you, she will espouse your cause.” A light,

intense, but momentary, flashed over the face of the dark-browed man, as

he pressed the hand of his messenger, exclaiming, “Thank you—to me you

are, indeed, San Angel!”

Gradually the gay groups disappeared from the scene of magnificent

enchantment; the lights went out one by one, like stars at the approach

of day; the voices of melody ceased amongst the pavilions, and in the

echoing halls, and silence seemed resuming her natural empire over the

night.

In a retired apartment of the royal palace sat Isabella of Castile, with

her two young daughters. The beauty of the queen was of a style to

command respect rather than admiration, obedience rather than love.

Majesty was in her form and mien, pride sat on her brow, and in her

tones and gestures lived an authority which none dared question or

disobey. Well was it for herself and those around her that she was

governed by the nicest principles of honor; that her whole life was

swayed by the most fervent and conscientious devotional feelings; so

that as a queen, as a wife, and as a mother, she was above reproach.

Her eldest daughter, the Lady Isabella, inherited with her mother’s

name, a large portion of her personal and mental qualities; but while

one was a woman and a queen, the other was a young princess, proud,

impatient of control or contradiction, and delighting in magnificence

and admiration. Her younger sister, the Lady Joanna, though she had a

fine form and regular features, with the dark, languid eyes of her

country, was destitute of that grace and vivacity which is the great

charm in woman’s character. The warm blood never gave a living glow to

the dark olive of her complexion, and it was seldom that the deep

fringes of her eyelids were lifted sufficiently to allow those with whom

she conversed to mark the beautiful and flitting shadows of the deep and

sweet emotions of her loving spirit.

“Oh, mother!” cried the young Isabella, her whole person radiant with

the spirit’s light, “oh, mother, what a glorious thing it is to be a

queen’s daughter; to live in such magnificence, to be an object of

admiration and worship, to listen while gay and noble cavaliers extol

one’s beauty and accomplishments; but, mother, it is my highest glory

that I am _your_ child, your namesake, and like you in mind and person.

Oh, how my heart swelled last night as I heard men speak of the truly

royal Isabella of Castile. But, mother, I am not quite as noble-souled

as you, for I heard them tell that in your girlhood, when the

discontented nobles and people would have placed you on your brother’s

throne, you utterly refused to consent to his being deposed, and only

allowed yourself to be declared his successor. I could not have been so

moderate; oh, I long to be a queen like you.”

“A queen!” murmured Joanna, who occupied a cushion at her mother’s feet,

“a queen,” and her voice was low and sweet as the murmur of a guitar,

when its strings are moved by the orange-scented breeze alone. “I would

be queen of one loving heart alone. I ask no kingdom beyond a quiet

home, with one to love me, dearly, truly, unchangingly, as I could love

again. Oh, mother, I am weary of all this noise and show; my heart grows

sick, as I mark these glorious things, and feel that they are spoils of

war, relics of a fallen power, trophies of a victory achieved by

bloodshed, fire, famine, and pestilence. Do not frown, dear mother, my

queen; but I cannot help thinking of the loving hearts, and beautiful

women, and tender babes that perished in Grenada. They were infidels,

but they had human hearts; they loved, and were beloved, and, oh, what

bitter sundering of holy ties was in that devoted city. I cannot rejoice

in such dreadful victory; I dare not thank our merciful Father in Heaven

that he has permitted our armies to inflict such a vast amount of

misery, not only on our armed foes, but on their helpless and innocent

families.”

The queen’s countenance was troubled; she regarded her daughters

alternately. “Alas! my children,” she said at length, “I foresee

unhappiness for you both. Isabella’s spirit will never be satisfied with

power and grandeur; and your heart, Joanna, will never be filled with

the love for which alone it asks. It is possible to be beautiful,

honored, and a mighty queen, and yet be very miserable—oh, very

miserable! Leave me now, my children, for the hour of audience is at

hand; and I am to listen to a strange suitor and weigh a mighty

project.”

Queen Isabella sat in her private audience-chamber, surrounded by her

nobles. There was a shadow on her brow deeper than the shade of business

cares; and it was remarked by her counsellors that every article of the

spoils of the fallen Moors had been removed from her apartments.

Presently San Angel and his friend, Columbus, were ushered to the royal

presence. The great adventurer wore the same plain habit of black

velvet, but appeared infinitely more noble in that dress than did any of

the embroidery-decked cavaliers in the royal presence. Columbus was no

stranger to courts and princes, yet as he bent his knee before Isabella

of Castile, he felt to pay her the homage of the soul, and she thought

that she had never until then looked upon true greatness.

“Rise,” she said, “and speak what you have to say.”

He stood before her calm, collected, and with the air of a man having

full confidence in himself; and his speech, which at first was

hesitating and low, soon flowed in a torrent of strong eloquence,

betraying the tide of the deep spirit which thus poured out its

speculative treasures.

“Madam,” he said, “you behold me, a native of Genoa, a suitor to your

majesty for aid, not to prosecute an idle enterprise to attain for

myself gay baubles, or the yellow gold that lies like a heavy chain upon

the souls of its votaries, but to prosecute a great and glorious

enterprise, of the success of which I am morally certain, and which will

be an inestimable benefit to the whole world, and add, if it be

possible, new honors to the name of Isabella of Castile. Madam, the

teachings of science, as well as my apprehension of the goodness and

wisdom of our bountiful Creator, have led me to a firm conviction that

all the unexplored surface of this vast globe is not, cannot be, a

barren waste of waters. I know that there are vast islands, probably a

great continent, sufficient to balance the lands that now compose the

world, lying away in the western ocean. These unknown lands I would

discover and explore. Or even if such do not exist, as we know that the

earth is globular in form, I shall at least discover a passage to India

through the western ocean, and so add a glory to the crown of Castile

which shall eclipse the lustre which recent navigators have given to

Portugal. This is the age of naval enterprise and great discoveries; let

the most important exploit of this age live with the name of Queen

Isabella on the historic page forever and forever.

“Madam, I know that I am no idle dreamer, no speculative theorist; I

seek to confirm by actual discovery the truths which reason and religion

proclaim to my mind as indisputable. And yet I have found no soul

capable of understanding mine; no rich prince or noble willing to risk a

few thousands for an incalculable benefit to the whole world through all

the years to come, and a fame which shall live until the sun burns out

in the great temple of the blue ether. You will ask why I, a citizen of

Genoa, a rich and powerful state, find it necessary to solicit the aid

of foreign powers. I have said I find no souls capable of understanding

mine. The great ones of my dear native city have pronounced me a framer

of illusive theories. I would have won for her an imperishable honor;

she would not receive it at my hand. Filled with sorrow and indignation,

I then turned toward Portugal, encouraged by her recently acquired

reputation as a patron of adventurous navigators. Her great ones

listened to my suit, amused with hopes, and delayed to give me a

definite answer; and while I waited and strove to convince them of the

rationality of my speculations, they treacherously drew from me all my

grounds of belief in the existence of another continent, my intended

method of discovery, with the direction I meant to steer, and all the

information I could give concerning my projected voyage; and, indeed,

madam, you will find it hard to believe such infamy, they fitted out a

fleet secretly, which sailed, failed of its object, encountered storms,

and returned, asserting that they had done all that navigators could do,

and that my theory is false and futile. Thus I have been cheated out of

three years of my existence, while my ardent soul is burning out its

habitation. Then I thought of England. I sent my brother to lay my

project before her royal Henry. Years have passed, and yet he has not

returned. Madam, I know that the lands of which I have spoken do exist.

I know that I am able to search them out in the world of dark waters

which has wrapped them from our knowledge since the world began. I know

that I can reach them, for God has raised me up and endowed me as his

instrument to affect these great discoveries, and he will preserve my

life, and guide me by his almighty power. I have petitioned your august

consort, but he is occupied by other matters, or swayed by those who

would prevent me from achieving that which they dare not undertake

themselves, who would withhold from me the honors which they have not

courage and ability to achieve for themselves. On you, therefore,

illustrious madam, now rest my ardent hopes. Surely amid all this

magnificence, the small sum necessary for my outfit would not be felt.

And in the event of my success, which I deem certain, would not the vast

and rich territory thus added to the dominions of Castile and Aragon,

bring millions of revenue for every hundred expended on my expedition. I

beseech your highness, listen to my plea; I am like a strong eagle,

longing to scale the pinnacle of a lofty mountain, but bound by a heavy

chain in a dark and miry valley, I am wearing out my life in a vain

effort to spread my shackled pinions to the glorious sunlight. Let your

royal bounty remove these shackles, give me the means, and say to me go,

explore the ocean, discover new worlds, and take possession in the name

of Isabella, the illustrious queen of Castile. Let me go, in pity to my

restless spirit. Let me go and win everlasting honors for myself and the

age, and for my royal patroness.”

Queen Isabella had listened with evident interest, her dark eyes

flashed, and her cheeks burned with excitement. She extended her

beautiful hand to the suppliant. “I grant your prayer,” she said; “I

will furnish funds for your voyage. This display of magnificence is not

at my command. It belongs to our nobles, our churches, our officers and

soldiers. You behold here the spoils of the vanquished, which must

reward the vanquishers. It is possible to be poor in the midst of regal

splendor. But I have jewels which are at my own disposal, which add

nothing to my power or my happiness. I will dispose of them, and give

you the means to prosecute your project to discover new worlds amid the

wilderness of waves, and win that undying fame which you deem within

your reach.”

Low on his knees fell the joyful adventurer, and poured out his

gratitude in few but forceful words.

Looks of scorn, contempt, and bitter enmity were fixed upon the

adventurous Genoese by the courtiers who surrounded her majesty, and it

was evident that her presence alone restrained them from openly

expressing their hatred of him, and disapproval of her decision. One

cavalier in particular ground his teeth with rage, and muttered his vow

of eternal enmity to him whose soul so overreached all human intellect

had heretofore achieved.

But Isabella’s royal word was pledged, and her powerful eloquence had

won her regal Ferdinand of Aragon to espouse the cause of Columbus, and

associate his name with hers in patronage of his great adventure. But

the man of mighty soul had departed on his limitless voyage, and his

scoffers continued to clamor against him, and predict the utter failure

of his project, and destruction of his fleet and crews.

Ferdinand and Isabella were holding their court in Barcelona, when a

courier arrived with intelligence that Columbus with his fleet had made

the harbor of Palos, from which he sailed about ten months previous.

Various rumors followed the announcement, rumors of glory, and gold, and

territories, rich and blooming as the garden of Eden. Then gushed in

clamorous torrents the bitter waters of envy, hatred, and detraction;

but Isabella heeded not their clamors, but awaited with hope and

exultation the arrival of her protégé.

At length a triumphant train approached the city. Loud shouts swelled up

to heaven from the excited multitudes; the city poured out her torrents

of living creatures to meet the mighty man who had wrested a world from

the untraversed ocean floods.

The monarchs, in their most glorious apparel, sat upon their throne in

the magnificently furnished reception hall of their palace home.

The procession approached; a herald announced the great discoverer. He

entered the presence, and the monarchs arose and stood to greet him.

With him came natives of his new world, with their strange features and

unheard of complexions—habited in the grotesque costume of their native

clime. In beautiful caskets and vases were borne gold, unwrought, and

fashioned into curious ornaments, fruits and flowering plants, and

strangely beautiful specimens of verdure and foliage, with articles of

the manufacture of those far-off lands—all things strange to the

admiring beholders, and different from aught that the eastern continent

produced. All was wonder, admiration and delight, except in the black

habitations of envy and murderous hate. But Columbus had achieved his

triumph—he had discovered a new world; he had triumphed over the malice

of his enemies, he had won for himself an imperishable fame; but he laid

all his glories at the feet of his royal patroness, ISABELLA OF CASTILE,

without whose aid the mighty soul of enterprise would have worn itself

out in vain endeavors to spread its glorious pinions. Oh, that every

mighty mind could find an Isabella.

Ought not the name of Isabella to be forever associated with that of

Columbus, as without her aid he could never have crossed the Atlantic?

Should not the honor of the discovery of the western world rest alike

upon him who conceived, and her who enabled him to execute the mighty

project? And yet the fame of Columbus is wide as the world, and eternal

as the lands to which he opened the way across the billows; while she

who gave wings to his genius and power to his arm is almost forgotten.

But I would wed her name to his forever by christening this great and

hitherto nameless republic, by the appropriate and euphonious title of

Columbella. Thus would I give honor to whom honor is due.

* * * * *

EGERIA.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

In a soft, still summer twilight,

When the sunset’s golden beam

Gleamed behind the cold gray mountain,

With a misty haze between,

When the stars were faintly breaking,

One by one, upon the sky,

And the winds that whispered near me

Were as gentle as a sigh,

’Neath a mossed and gnarled oak,

With its branches ivy-bound,

Where the mingled sweets of flowers

Threw a breathing perfume round,

There a lovely dream stole o’er me,

’Twas life’s sweetest, last, and best;

Bright Egeria, lost Egeria,

Thou hast left my lonely breast.

I have sought the spot full often

In the morning, in the noon,

In the chill and bleak December,

In the rosy light of June;

And when floods of silvery moonlight

O’er the valley slept serene,

While its pale and silent splendor

Mocked my spirit’s restless dream.

Yet I linger as of old—

Still I seek the shadowed lake,

And the mountains stern and drear,

Where the Alpine glaciers break;

There I watch the storm-god rise,

But I wander on in vain;

Bright Egeria, lost Egeria,

Will we never meet again.

’Mid my deep and yearning sadness,

With enrapturing thought I dwell

On the scenes whose hues are melting

Into memory’s mystic spell;

But my gladness hath departed,

For I tremblingly pursue

The beloved yet changing phantom

That still fades before my view;

Aerial music floats around,

Aerial voices meet mine ear,

And my sighs are oft repeated

By soft echoes hovering near;

And from visions half ethereal—

Mad with hope—I wildly start—

But thy footsteps, lost Egeria,

Are the beatings of my heart.

* * * * *

HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,

DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

(_Continued from page 141._)

We had almost forgotten to speak of another class, important though

youthful, of the saucy, petted and spoiled _pages_. They, too, are gone,

and not one of them survived the eighteenth century. The Almanac of the

Empire, it is true, bears the names of thirty-two pages, and that of the

restoration of seventy-two; but all this means nothing, for the last

page, who really was what he professed to be, and who was the most

celebrated of his class, was named Cherubim, and was born April 27,

1784.

The following is his portrait.

[Illustration]

The old Duke of Lauraguais said that the first English frock worn in

France had been the death-blow of the French nobility, one of the most

numerous of the grades of which had been the first to adopt it. The

Marquises, with their proverbial love of change, began from that time to

transform their _modes_, and effected it so rapidly that their brocade

garments were soon only found on the stage, or in the _bals-costumés_.

This frock, (fr. froc,) which had so disadvantageous an influence, was a

kind of loose gown, with pockets on the inside, and without any

tightness at the waist. It was cut lengthwise with the cloth, and though

first without a collar, ultimately acquired one. The dress of the age in

other respects remained long unaltered, though its accessories, such as

buttons, plaits, _etc._, were constantly changing. The coats first were

made to button all the way up, and then only from the pockets up:

finally buttons were not used at all. After some lapse of time loops

were used, which clasped the narrow coat over the often portly

_tournure_ in the most ridiculous manner. Waistcoats then were

waistcoats, not _gilets_, but substantial coats without sleeves. The

wardrobe of a gentleman also contained another garment called a

_veston_, covered with lace and _broderie_, a _volant_, which was always

single-breasted, various kinds of redingotes, such as the _roquelaure_,

the _houppelande_, etc., all of which were made of every conceivable

material and color. The above are the general characteristics of

costume, all the variations of which we cannot be expected to describe

any more than the botanist is to count every leaf on a tree.

Black, now the _ne plus ultra_ of dress, was then worn only by

_procureurs_, authors, small landholders, and, in a word, all persons

who were negligent in their toilette. It was the index of restricted

means, and of mourning, when the most obscure bourgeois dressed himself

like a count or marquis.

The greatest variety of colors were worn, and contrasts which now would

seem most repulsive were every day met with. A scarlet velvet coat, with

a black collar and steel buttons, sulphur-colored breeches and

blue-striped hose were considered in very good taste about 1785. _Boue

de Paris_ (brick-dust color) and London smoke were worn in both London

and Paris in 1786, and in 1788, a color known by the repulsive name of

beef' s-blood was the extremity of fashion. Waistcoats had all kinds of

names, taken from operas, such as Figaro, Cœur-de-Lion, etc.

Handkerchiefs _aux adieux de Fontainebleu_ were worn; neither of these,

however, seem to have differed materially from other waistcoats and

handkerchiefs.

This was the age of _cravats_, made of fine lawn or baptiste richly

laced, with hanging ends; peruques _à la Grecque_, with three buckles;

the sword and plumed hat. Some persons also wore the stockinet breeches,

by the side of which Adam’s fig-leaf was decent.

The following is a group altogether characteristic of that age in which

the redingote, the _coiffure à la Grecque_, and plumed hat all appear:

[Illustration]

None now can take an interest in all the mysteries of powder and

_coiffure_, with their high-sounding names _à la Brigadière_, _à la

Sartine_, _à trois marteaux_, etc., they are gone forever, and when the

great Leonard fled to Russia after the execution of the king were

forgotten in Paris. It will be remembered that other capitals always

copied the costumes of the French capital, and that in speaking of Paris

we describe the costume of Europe.

Grave reflections do not belong to the history of so frivolous a thing

as costume, but any one may see that it is impossible to avoid making a

comparison, not only between the costumes, but the ideas of the past and

present. The decay of the luxury of the old monarchy was but the

forerunner of the fall of the monarchy itself, so that rightly enough

Dumourier echoed the prophecy of its ruin, made by an old

gentleman-usher who saw the great Roland appear before the king with

shoes with strings instead of buckles. We have brought down the history

of costume to the verge of a revolution, all the terrors of which luxury

survived, and there may be those who think the crisis in the midst of

which France is, may pass away, and things yet a second time resume

their old state. This cannot be the centre of fashion is destroyed, and

cannot be again created. France has more serious things to attend to,

and though all the world submitted to French dictation, it is scarcely

probable that it will bow itself to another sceptre. France cannot

resume her sway. In 1792 the dispersed court bore away with it all the

splendor and magnificence of the past, and left a void which the

republic could not fill. In 1830 _noblesse_, as a cast, had disappeared,

but an opulent class yet remained, who had grown accustomed to dictate

in fashion. In the year 1848 the revolution was more complete, and all

have other things to do besides thinking of periwigs and shoe-buckles.

Among the causes which tended in the eighteenth century to modify French

costume, by assimilating all classes, we must in the first place mention

the influence of what is now called Anglo-mania. Even as far back as

Louis XV., the young nobles had become accustomed to visit England,

where they acquired new habits if not new ideas. England for a time was

the sovereign of fashion, and hats were worn _à la Tamise_ instead of _à

la Seine_. The nobles, in imitation of the English, ruined themselves by

extravagance in horses and equipages. Quarrels arose about the good

looks of jockeys, and princes of the blood and dukes transformed

themselves into coach-drivers. Marie Antoinette even took pride in the

dexterity with which she handled the whip and reins of a pony-phaeton.

The revolution has naturalized in France many political phrases, but

long before that French ears and the French palate had grown used to

punch, or _ponche_ as they called it, and both sexes had become

accustomed to cover up their costume with the _redingote_, or English

riding-coat. Tea canes and hats were ultimately adopted, also from

England.

The revolution in England, and the round-head ideas it evolved, had much

simplified English costume, and by the Anglo-mania this simplicity was

now reflected back on France, and continued to as late a day as the

revolution. In 1786 the English costume was frequently seen in the

streets of Paris, and contributed in a great degree to dissipate the air

of pretension which yet animated French society. The English boot was

adopted almost universally, and gaiters became as common as in London.

The loose locks of the English sailors were also imitated, and this was

a severe blow on the old costume, an important portion of which was the

_coiffure_. The three-cornered cocked was replaced by the jockey’s round

hat, a ridiculous and ungainly thing which no taste can make becoming,

and no art make comfortable. The probability, however, is that it will

become universal, and that some day all the world will wear this

head-piece.

This mutual imitation continued until the adoption of Napoleon’s

Continental system, which, as is well known, separated England from all

intercourse with Europe. When peace had put an end to the long wars this

system had occasioned, and Englishmen again came on the Continent, their

appearance struck each other as supremely ludicrous, as the apparition

of one of our own grandfathers in the gigantic waistcoat and the bag wig

they wore would seem to us in a modern drawing-room.

Before, however, an universal costume had been adopted the revolution

came. Fortunes were swept away, palaces lost, and the people who

inhabited them dispersed. We here lose sight of powdered hair forever,

for both sexes cut their hair short, and shoes with strings were

universally adopted. The reign of terror came, _sans-culottism_ was the

rage. The red cap of liberty, the _houppelande_ of red worsted, or the

_carmagnole_ usurped the place of the plumed hat and the graceful

_roquelaure_. Open shirt collars and a knotted stick, like the Irish

shilelah, were indispensible accompaniments to this dress, an admirable

representation of which is to be seen in the making up of James Wallack,

senior, for one of his many admirable impersonations, called David

Duvigne, in that pretty two act drama of the “Hazard of the Die.” This

costume is scarcely worthy of remark, except on account of the red

Italian cap, a garment far more graceful than our hat, but proscribed on

account of the horrors enacted by those who wore it. It, however, never

was worn except in France, and we may well enough drop it here forever.

Yet people must not think there was no richness of costume during the

republic. There was as much extravagance as ever, only every one dressed

according to his own whim. There were fops, too, called _Muscadins

incroyables_ and _mervilleux_, who aped the manners of the old marquis.

One great _trait_ of these was they were all near-sighted, and could not

pronounce the letter R. They were the prototypes of our own dandies, as

may be seen by the following specimen:

[Illustration]

This costume was imitated over all the world, and, except in the hat,

breeches and ribbons at the knee, does not differ greatly from the dress

of our own day.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE ADVENTURES OF A MAN

“WHO COULD NEVER DRESS WELL.”

BY M. TOPHAM EVANS.

“Hang it!” I exclaimed, as I thrust the poker violently into the grate,

and slammed myself into an arm-chair before the fire, “I am the most

unfortunate rascal in the world!”

I had just returned from the Hon. Mrs. Scatter’s squeeze. I can’t

imagine why it should be the case, but it seems to be my unlucky destiny

either to be thrust or to thrust myself eternally into the most

inappropriate places possible. What the deuce should have taken me

there? I know that I have no business at such assemblies—yet, oh,

Julia!

She waltzed with that fool, Fitzcrocky. The fellow hasn’t a particle of

brain, but such a _moustache_! And then the style of his dress. With

what elegant ease he sports his habiliments! Such perfect taste in their

arrangement, and so harmonious the _tout ensemble_! Then look at me.

They were whispering. He cast a sneering glance at my exterior. I know

she laughed at me. Zounds, I could tear my hair to tatters!

I never could dress well. If I have a handsome and well-made coat, the

vest and pants are sure to be of the most unsuitable colors. That

infernal tailor, I verily believe, takes every advantage to make me

appear disadvantageously; and I could swear that he palms all his

unsaleable remnants upon me. Let me see how he has figged me out for

what I intended to be the victorious campaign of this evening. Scipio,

wheel up that cheval glass. Gods and fishes! A purple coat with silver

filagree buttons—a white satin vest—scarlet under ditto—light drab

pantaloons, and a check cravat! Black silk stockings and pumps with

rosettes. Jupiter and Moses! Why I look like one of Bunbury’s

caricatures! Tregear’s shop-window never exhibited such a monster. No

wonder _they_ laughed at me. Ha! ha! By Jove, I can’t help laughing at

myself, and it’s no joking matter, after I had laid myself out to make a

deep impression.

There, Scipio, draw the curtains and go. Stay; hand me the brandy-bottle

and some cigars before you make your final exit. I might as well get

drunk, and by that means bury my woes in a temporary oblivion, despite

of all temperance societies.

Give me my dressing-gown, and pitch this infernal coat out at the

window. Ha! here’s another specimen of my undeniable taste. What man,

save myself, would ever encase himself in a brocade of a pattern like a

bed-curtain. No matter; your Persian says it is all _takdeer_—destiny.

All this, I presume, was fore-ordained—it must have been predestined,

this atrocious, villainous piece of business, and I suppose I can’t help

it. Scipio, go to bed.

Scipio retired, and I was left alone. The night was dark and

confoundedly cold. I picked up a volume. It was Peter Schlemihl. I

lighted a cigar, and mixing some strong brandy-and-water, I applied

myself to the business which the reader has been previously informed I

had in contemplation.

But all would not do. I could not succeed in my intention. I smoked one

Dos Amigos after another, and quaffed glass after glass of Seignette.

The more I drank, in the more odious light did I appear to myself. I

ruminated upon Julia’s flirtation with Fitzcrocky. I attempted to

analyze the causes of my abominable want of taste in the components of

costume.

“Deuce take me!” at last I cried, exhausted, and half mad with vexation,

“I wish to Heaven that I could exchange this unlucky carcass with some

more fortunate individual, whose kinder stars may have granted him a

comelier body and a more _recherché_ taste in its decoration than my

miserable self!”

Scarcely had I spoken these words when a gentle cough attracted my

attention. I looked up. Opposite to me there sat a gentleman of the most

prepossessing exterior. He had drawn up a lounge to the side of the

grate, and was seated, with patient politeness, as if in expectation of

drawing my attention to himself. He was attired in a neat and elegant

suit of black, which fitted him _à merveille_. A dark maroon velvet

vest, buttoned tightly to his chest, and falling over into a rolling

collar, displayed his linen of superb make and texture, fastened by a

small diamond pin. His cravat was tied with a prim precision; his boots

and gloves would have driven Staub and Walker to despair. His hat was of

the most appropriate block, and a cambric handkerchief, delicate as the

web of Arachne, and scented with _bouquet du roi_, was occasionally

applied to his nose, in the most graceful manner. The contour of his

face was perfect Grecian, and a mass of wavy chestnut-hair was

negligently disposed over his forehead. He wore neither whisker nor

_moustache_.

For some time I sat in silent amazement, wondering how my guest had

procured his _entreé_, inasmuch as I knew that all the doors were locked

and bolted, and that my janitor had gone to bed some hour and a half

previous to the stranger’s appearance. He sat in equal silence.

Presently he arose, and pouring out a glass of brandy, he swallowed it

in a twinkling, bowing to me with infinite gravity. He next produced a

long and slender meerschaum from his pocket, lighted it with a _pastille

ambreé_ and resuming his seat, his eyes traveled over my attire from

head to foot, with an air of well-bred curiosity. My bile began to work.

“May I ask, sir,” said I, “what is the meaning of this unusual visit?”

The stranger, carelessly desisting from his investigation, expelled a

mouthful of smoke, and with a kind of concealed chuckle, which I did not

half like, replied,

“Pray, sir, may I, without infringing upon propriety, inquire of you,

who _is_ your tailor?”

My hand inadvertently sought the decanter, and I had a vague idea of

hurling it at my visiter’s head. One moment’s reflection, together with

a glance at the well-made and sinewy form before me, determined me to

waive hostilities.

“I cannot imagine, sir,” I replied, with severe dignity, “your motives

in making any such inquiry.”

“Oh, a mere trifle. I was anxious to become acquainted with the name of

your fashioner, who, to judge from the appearance of your habiliments,

must possess a most exquisite taste.”

For a moment, I had suspicions that my _amis inconnu_ was quizzing me. I

eyed him narrowly, but the expression of his face was that of respectful

earnestness, mingled with some curiosity. Not the slightest trace of a

quiz could be detected upon his immovable aspect.

“If you are really anxious to know,” said I, and I confess I fell

naturally gratified, for it was the first compliment I had ever heard

addressed to my taste, “I can refer you to Cabbage & Stickem, Oxford

street.”

“I could almost wish to exchange my vile taste in costume for your more

original and certainly more refined style,” said the stranger, without

moving a single muscle of his face.

“And I,” I cried, seizing him by the hand, “highly as I feel flattered

by such a declaration, would willingly make such an exchange, if it were

possible to do so.”

“We shall find it very possible,” replied the stranger. “Come, let us

take a glass to our better acquaintance. I am charmed to have it in my

power to confer an obligation upon a gentleman like yourself, especially

when it meets so exactly with my own inclinations.”

“Egad,” said I, as we hob-nobbed very cordially together, “I am agreed

to make the exchange directly.”

I had no sooner said the word than I felt a most violent blow at the

back of my head. On my recovery, for it almost stunned me, I was

stupefied with astonishment, upon looking up, to behold _myself_ sitting

at my ease, and smoking with great _insouciance_, upon the very seat

which I had previously occupied _in propria persona_.

“Be so good, worthy sir,” said I, or the figure I saw seated in my-arm

chair, “to look in yonder glass, and you will discover that your wishes

have been complied with.”

I stepped to the cheval, and to my unspeakable amazement and joy, viewed

in the reflection the person of the elegant gentleman with whom I had

exchanged exteriors.

“I hope,” said the personage who rejoiced in my original ugliness and

odious garments, “that this exchange is entirely to your satisfaction?”

I could have hugged him, for I was almost beside myself with delight.

“How can I thank you for your kindness,” I exclaimed, for my old attire

looked doubly ridiculous to my new optics. “I do assure you, sir, that I

am forever at your service.”

“That’s it,” said the gentleman with a peculiar smile, which in the

plenitude of my joy I did not notice at the time, although I recollected

it afterward perfectly well. “And now, as it grows late, I will bid you

good evening.”

As he spoke, I saw my ancient figure walk quietly out at the door. I

don’t know, but I thought I heard him laugh a little after closing it.

For my own part I was so elated, that I could not think of going to bed,

so I sat drinking and singing, building castles in the air, and

ruminating upon the magnificent figure which I should oppose against the

fascinations of Fitzcrocky, in the eyes of Julia. I determined, with the

afternoon of that day, to commence my triumphal progress in her

affections. In fact, I never noticed how time slipped by, and when the

entrance of some one at the door aroused me, and I collected my

scattered senses, it was at least four hours after sunrise.

“Gollamighty!” exclaimed the voice of Scipio. “What de debbil we got

heah? Trange man in massa’s bed-room, and he not up yit. What you want,

eh? He some tief—some robber.”

“Why you old fool,” said I, “don’t you see it’s me—myself?”

“Who me?—what dat, eh? Debbil tak me if I no b’lieve dat he has

murdered massa and teal all de spoons! Help! murder!”

“What do you mean, you old villain!” cried I. “Do you want to bring in

the whole neighborhood?” and seizing a candlestick, I leveled it at his

woolly pate.

“What do _you_ mean, you scoundrel, by abusing _my_ servant?” roared a

voice from the bed. I looked in that direction. There was my head

protruded from the curtains, surmounted by a red night-cap, and a

clenched fist was violently shaken at me from the same purlieu.

“Turn him out, Scipio!” I shouted.

“Turn him out!” repeated my _Eidolon_, if I may so term him.

“Turn _who_ out!” queried Scipio, in a state of profound bewilderment.

Perfectly frantic with rage, I flew toward the bed, eager for a

pugilistic encounter, when the door was thrown open, and my old

housekeeper, with pallid visage, peeped into the apartment. I determined

to make an appeal to her.

“Am I, or am I not your master, Nancy?” said I, in a very melancholy

tone.

“_You_ my master! Come up, mister himperence,” replied Nancy. “My master

is in yonder bed, young man. Run, Sip, and call a policeman. He’ll make

you know _your_ master, jail-bird.”

“Ah!” thought I, “it’s all up, I see. That fellow’s me, and I’m somebody

else, but hang me if I know who. Well, as I don’t choose to take a

morning airing at Hatton Garden, I might as well abdicate at once. But,”

cried I, “you scoundrel, you shall pay for this.”

“Turn him out, Sip!” grunted my former voice from the bed. How hateful

it sounded! “Turn him out, and don’t let me be disturbed till twelve. My

head aches confoundedly.”

I sneaked out of my own room like a detected pickpocket, Nancy and

Scipio attending me down stairs, and delivering a brace of running

lectures upon the evil courses which I was pursuing, admonishing me

likewise of the certain and ignominious end which awaits such depraved

and dissolute characters as I was presumed to be. At the foot of the

stairs, Scipio insisted upon searching me, an operation to which,

crest-fallen as I was, I did not pretend to make the slightest

opposition. I was then dismissed in the same manner with Master Candide

from the _château_ of Thonderdentronck, namely with _grands coups de

pied dans le derrière_, pretty well administered by a brace of sturdy

valets, whom Scipio had summoned to his assistance from a neighboring

area.

This ejection from my own mansion took place about half past nine

o’clock. In the first impulses of my rage and despair, I resolved to

apply to my friends, in order to establish my identity by their

testimonies. It was early; too early in fact to find any of them up, and

I was fain to stroll the streets until the lingering hands of the clock

should signify the proper and canonical hour of rising. So I patrolled

Hyde Park for an hour or so, until my insides began to give me very

unequivocal tokens of their desire for breakfast. Rage, as well as love

and all other sublunary matters, must yield to the calls of hunger. I

entered a coffee-house in Upper Brook street, and ordered my morning

meal. I drank a couple of cups of tea, ate a French roll and a modicum

of raw beefsteak, and walked to the bar to pay my bill. I put my hand

into my pocket in search of my purse. It was not there. I tried another,

and another, and yet another pocket. Horrid to relate, I could not meet

with the smallest coin of the realm! The waiter began to look very

black, and I could overhear the monosyllable “_bilk_” ground out between

his teeth in a tone which indicated profound aversion and contempt. My

hair fairly stood on end. Nevertheless I thought it best to brazen it

out.

“Do you see, my good fellow,” said I, and I assure you, I spoke in a

very bland and courteous tone, “I have most unaccountably forgotten my

purse—”

“Gammon!” was the very significant response of the Ganymede. “How d’ye

know you ever had one?”

“Confound your impudence, fellow!” said I, nettled by the coolness of

the query. “What d’ ye mean by insulting a gentleman?”

“More like a swell out o’ luck,” growled the servitor. “Come, young ’un,

this here kind of a job’s no go. Post the cole, my boy, or it’ll be the

worse for somebody.”

As luck would have it, I thought of my diamond breastpin, and taking

that article of jewelry from my shirt front, I offered it to the waiter.

“Blast your Brummagem traps!” quoth that gentleman. “D’ ye think I don’t

know a diamond from a Bristol stone, or gold from pinchbeck?”

It was pinchbeck, by Jupiter!

The waiter must have been touched by the despair depicted upon my

countenance. With a grim smile,

“Come, my fine chap,” said he, “if you are a bilk, it’s plain that

you’re a new hand at the trade, and I don’t care about being too hard

upon you. Give me your wipe, and I’ll let you off for this time, but you

take care you doesn’t come the swell mob again over this ’ere house,

that’s all.”

My heart was too full for speech. I gave him my handkerchief with a

profound sigh, and throwing the pinchbeck breastpin into the

coal-scuttle, I vanished with all convenient speed.

Leaving the coffee-house, I espied my crony, Dick Buffers, across the

street. To join him was but the work of a moment.

“Hollo, Dick!” said I, slapping him heartily upon the shoulder. This was

the irrepressible outpouring of a bosom, into which a ray of light,

imparted by hope, had penetrated, cheering the darksome abode with its

enlivening presence. Quickly was my joy turned into sorrow.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Dick, drawing himself up with magnificent

reserve. “Do you mean to insult me?”

“Come, Dick,” said I, in a sort of whimper, for I was really becoming

very much alarmed, “don’t put a strange face on the matter. It isn’t

possible that you don’t know your old friend, Flashington Highflyer? Why

we only parted at midnight, and dined together no later than yesterday.”

“Highflyer!” said Buffers. “To be sure I know him, and very well, too.

We undoubtedly did dine together yesterday, although I cannot account

for your knowledge of the fact. But it will take even more than your

impudence to convince me that you are the man. You must be either drunk

or a fool. Flashington Highflyer! ha! ha! Your very dress convicts you

of a lie.”

Buffers might have spared this sarcasm.

“Upon my honor, Richard Buffers,” said I, solemnly, while the tears

actually stood in my eyes, “I am that most unfortunate man.”

“You are? Why, the man’s mad! View that looking glass in yonder

shop-window, and if you haven’t been looking into the glass too often

this morning already, you will discover that your countenance bears not

the slightest resemblance to that of Mr. Highflyer, that is, if you are

at all acquainted with the physiognomy of the gentleman to whose name

you have laid claim.”

I stepped to the window. One glance was sufficient. Oh! how I cursed my

super-lunatic folly, and how I longed for my former shape.

“Egad, it’s true,” I soliloquized. “It’s all correct, as my Yankee

friends have it. That rascal has got into possession of my goods and

chattels, as well as of my person, and has left me nothing in return but

a most confoundedly disagreeable sense of my own individuality. What a

horrid piece of business to be sure!”

I turned. Dick was gone.

“Who am I, then?” was my next very natural self interrogatory.

It was needless to disturb my remaining acquaintance for proofs of my

identity, as, indeed, if any body had demanded of me my address, I

should have been amazingly puzzled to give it. I turned about, entirely

reckless of whither I went. Twelve, one o’clock went by. I met many of

my acquaintance, but there was no recognition. I was in despair, and

could have sat down upon the curb-stone and wept. My walk procured me

one thing, it is true, namely, a very good appetite; but I could have

readily dispensed with that, inasmuch as I was painfully conscious that,

without pawning my coat, I was utterly unable to satisfy the cravings of

hunger.

The hours rolled on. The force of habit, I presume, led me to Hyde Park

once more. All the world was abroad. Beauty, rank and fashion were

collected in one splendid, aristocratic mass. Carriages and four, with

servants in gorgeous liveries; every variety of vehicle, from the

dashing tandem to the humbler carriage and pair, tilburies,

buggy-wagons, and cabs thronged and thundered around the ring. Horsemen

dashed along the carriage-ways, and pedestrians crowded the footpaths. I

sat down upon a bench and mechanically surveyed the scene. Every

well-known face, which was wont to greet me with smiles, but which now

bestowed upon me, _en passant_, but a vacant stare, struck a pang to my

heart. My despair would have been uncontrollable, and I should have

groveled and bit the ground with fury, but an innate self-respect, and a

desire to appear to every possible advantage, qualities which I presume

I gained together with my once admired, but now odiously detested

figure, prevented me from making such an exhibition, although I verily

believe that I was haunted with demoniac incitements to perform all

manner of curious antics.

The crowd was now at its thickest. A chariot, with servants in splendid

liveries, which I immediately recognized as my own, whirled onward.

Julia was seated in it by _myself_, or the devil in my shape. There I

was, perfectly plain to behold. The face, the form were the same, but

the dress superlatively exquisite, and beautifully adapted to the

figure. The turn-out of Fitzcrocky dashed by at the same time. He glared

furiously upon my happy representative. With matchless insinuation this

latter ogled and flirted with Julia. She returned his smiles with

eyliads of incipient affection. As they passed me by, the fellow who had

thus impudently usurped my figure and property winked—yes, he

absolutely winked at me. My veins boiled with rage. Shrieking out a

fearful oath, I seized a fragment of paving-stone and hurled it

frantically at him. A scream, a rush, and I turned and fled, without

stopping to ascertain the amount of damage inflicted by my missile, and

ran as if the furies had been after me. But I ran not alone. A dense

crowd of policemen, servants and gentleman on horseback dashed in

pursuit. Never did fugitive from the galleys exert his legs with a

better will, or with more effect, than I did. _Timor additit alas._ On I

rushed, amidst the clamor, and dust, and clatter of the yelling

multitude, as if the avenger of blood had been behind me. I had been a

sportsman, and never did a Leicestershire fox lead a squad of Meltonians

such a circumbendibus as I did my pursuers. One by one they gave in—the

noise died away gradually, and I was safe.

When partially recovered, I found myself within a queer, dark-looking

old court, in the neighborhood of Hertford street and Brick Lane. I was

surrounded by a multitude of crazy, loitering, reeking houses,

apparently the abodes of no living beings, save Jew clothesmen, oyster

venders, pawnbrokers, and gin dealers. A squalid, miserable, broken-down

dog-kennel it was too! Tattered children ran about, dabbling in the

filthy gutters, indulging in the mockery of play. Rough looking men,

wrapped in heavy pea-coats and coarse jackets, with red and bloated

faces, lounged about the doors of the various dealers, and haggard,

wretched-looking women might have been descried entering the dens of the

pawnbrokers, in hopes to raise some pittance of money for the purchase

of food or liquor, by pledging paltry articles of dress or furniture. I

sat down on the pavement side and stared around me. The scene was

altogether dissimilar to any thing I had been in the habit of

witnessing, and it was an interesting though a painful novelty. Good

God! the misery, and wretchedness, and grinding poverty, deadening to

the heart, which exist in large cities, within ken of opulence, of

luxury and of splendor! O! could the voice of these wretched throngs be

heard, in its collected wailing, what a cry of despairful agony would go

up to the throne of the Everlasting! Dead souls in living sepulchres,

stalking their gloomy round of poverty, neglect and wo—uneducated,

ungodly, famine-stricken—what hope is there for them in this world,

and, word of horror, what in the next!

As I sat in revery, some one tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up. A

stout, heavily built man, with a pimpled and swollen face, attired in a

rough drab over-coat, with leather gaiters and hob-nailed bootees, stood

beside me.

“Hollo, gen’l’mn Bill,” quoth this interesting parsonage. “Vy, vot

brings you in these parts?”

I knew the fellow at first glance, but, by Jupiter, I had never seen him

before.

“Well, old fellow,” said I, with a hilarity that disgusted me, although

Heaven knows I couldn’t help it, “what news from your ken?”