CHAPTER XI.--OUR DEAR BROTHER.

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE

NO. XXVI.--JULY, 1852.--VOL. V.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW.]

THE ARMORY AT SPRINGFIELD

BY JACOB ABBOTT

SPRINGFIELD.

The Connecticut river flows through the State of Massachusetts, from

north to south, on a line about half way between the middle of the

State and its western boundary. The valley through which the river

flows, which perhaps the stream itself has formed, is broad and

fertile, and it presents, in the summer months of the year, one widely

extended scene of inexpressible verdure and beauty. The river meanders

through a region of broad and luxuriant meadows which are overflowed

and enriched by an annual inundation. These meadows extend sometimes

for miles on either side of the stream, and are adorned here and there

with rural villages, built wherever there is a little elevation of

land--sufficient to render human habitations secure. The broad and

beautiful valley is bounded on either hand by an elevated and

undulating country, with streams, mills, farms, villages, forests, and

now and then a towering mountain, to vary and embellish the landscape.

In some cases a sort of spur or projection from the upland country

projects into the valley, forming a mountain summit there, from which

the most magnificent views are obtained of the beauty and fertility of

the surrounding scene.

There are three principal towns upon the banks of the Connecticut

within the Massachusetts lines: Greenfield on the north--where the

river enters into Massachusetts from between New Hampshire and

Vermont--Northampton at the centre, and Springfield on the south.

These towns are all built at points where the upland approaches near

to the river. Thus at Springfield the land rises by a gentle ascent

from near the bank of the stream to a spacious and beautiful plain

which overlooks the valley. The town is built upon this declivity. It

is so enveloped in trees that from a distance it appears simply like a

grove with cupolas and spires rising above the masses of forest

foliage; but to one within it, it presents every where most enchanting

pictures of rural elegance and beauty. The streets are avenues of

trees. The houses are surrounded by gardens, and so enveloped in

shrubbery that in many cases they reveal themselves to the passer-by

only by the glimpse that he obtains of a colonnade or a piazza,

through some little vista which opens for a moment and then closes

again as he passes along. At one point, in ascending from the river to

the plain above, the tourist stops involuntarily to admire the view

which opens on either side, along a winding and beautiful street which

here crosses his way. It is called Chestnut-street on the right hand,

and Maple-street on the left--the two portions receiving their several

names from the trees with which they are respectively adorned. The

branches of the trees meet in a dense and unbroken mass of foliage

over the middle of the street, and the sidewalk presents very

precisely the appearance and expression of an alley in the gardens of

Versailles.

THE ARMORY GROUNDS.

On reaching the summit of the ascent, the visitor finds himself upon

an extended plain, with streets of beautiful rural residences on every

hand, and in the centre a vast public square occupied and surrounded

by the buildings of the Armory. These buildings are spacious and

elegant in their construction, and are arranged in a very picturesque

and symmetrical manner within the square, and along the streets that

surround it. The grounds are shaded with trees; the dwellings are

adorned with gardens and shrubbery. Broad and neatly-kept walks, some

graveled, others paved, extend across the green or along the line of

the buildings, opening charming vistas in every direction. All is

quiet and still. Here and there a solitary pedestrian is seen moving

at a distance upon the sidewalk, or disappearing among the trees at

the end of an avenue; and perhaps the carriage of some party of

strangers stands waiting at a gate. The visitor who comes upon this

scene on a calm summer morning, is enchanted by the rural beauty that

surrounds him, and by the air of silence and repose which reigns over

it all. He hears the distant barking of a dog, the voices of children

at play, or the subdued thundering of the railway-train crossing the

river over its wooden viaduct, far down the valley--and other similar

rural sounds coming from a distance through the calm morning air--but

all around him and near him is still. Can it be possible, he asks,

that such a scene of tranquillity and loveliness can be the outward

form and embodiment of a vast machinery incessantly employed in the

production of engines of carnage and death?

It is, however, after all, perhaps scarcely proper to call the arms

that are manufactured by the American government, and stored in their

various arsenals, as engines of carnage and destruction. They ought,

perhaps, to be considered rather as instruments of security and peace;

for their destination is, as it would seem, not to be employed in

active service in the performance of the function for which they are

so carefully prepared; but to be consigned, when once finished, to

eternal quiescence and repose. They protect by their existence, and

not by their action; but in order that this, their simple existence,

should be efficient as protection, it is necessary that the

instruments themselves should be fitted for their work in the surest

and most perfect manner. And thus we have the very singular and

extraordinary operation going on, of manufacturing with the greatest

care, and with the highest possible degree of scientific and

mechanical skill, a vast system of machinery, which, when completed,

all parties concerned most sincerely hope and believe will, in a great

majority of cases, remain in their depositories undisturbed forever.

They fulfill their vast function by their simple existence--and thus,

though in the highest degree useful, are never to be used.

THE BUILDINGS.

The general appearance of the buildings of the Armory is represented

in the engraving placed at the head of this article. The point from

which the view is taken, is on the eastern side of the square--that

is, the side most remote from the town. The level and extended

landscape seen in the distance, over the tops of the buildings, is the

Connecticut valley--the town of Springfield lying concealed on the

slope of the hill, between the buildings and the river. The river

itself, too, is concealed from view at this point by the masses of

foliage which clothe its banks, and by the configuration of the land.

The middle building in the foreground, marked by the cupola upon the

top of it, is called the Office. It contains the various

counting-rooms necessary for transacting the general business of the

Armory, and is, as it were, the seat and centre of the power by which

the whole machinery of the establishment is regulated. North and south

of it, and in a line with it, are two shops, called the North and

South Filing Shops, where, in the several stories, long ranges of

workmen are found, each at his own bench, and before his own window,

at work upon the special operation, whatever it may be, which is

assigned to him. On the left of the picture is a building with the end

toward the observer, two stories high in one part, and one story in

the other part. The higher portion--which in the view is the portion

nearest the observer--forms the Stocking Shop, as it is called; that

is the shop where the stocks are made for the muskets, and fitted to

the locks and barrels. The lower portion is the Blacksmith's Shop. The

Blacksmith's Shop is filled with small forges, at which the parts of

the lock are forged. Beyond the Blacksmith's Shop, and in a line with

it, and forming, together with the Stocking Shop and the Blacksmith's

Shop, the northern side of the square, are several dwelling-houses,

occupied as the quarters of certain officers of the Armory. The

residence of the Commanding Officer, however, is not among them. His

house stands on the west side of the square, opposite to the end of

the avenue which is seen opening directly before the observer in the

view. It occupies a very delightful and commanding situation on the

brow of the hill, having a view of the Armory buildings and grounds

upon one side, and overlooking the town and the valley of the

Connecticut on the other.

A little to the south of the entrance to the Commanding Officer's

house, stands a large edifice, called the New Arsenal. It is the

building with the large square tower--seen in the view in the middle

distance, and near the centre of the picture. This building is used

for the storage of the muskets during the interval that elapses from

the finishing of them to the time when they are sent away to the

various permanent arsenals established by government in different

parts of the country, or issued to the troops. Besides this new

edifice there are two or three other buildings which are used for the

storage of finished muskets, called the Old Arsenals. They stand in a

line on the south side of the square, and may be seen on the left

hand, in the view. These buildings, all together, will contain about

five hundred thousand muskets. The New Arsenal, alone, is intended to

contain three hundred thousand.

THE WATER SHOPS.

[Illustration: THE MIDDLE WATER SHOPS.]

Such is the general arrangement of the Arsenal buildings, "on the

hill." But it is only the lighter work that is done here. The heavy

operations, such as rolling, welding, grinding, &c., are all performed

by water-power. The stream which the Ordnance Department of the United

States has pressed into its service to do this work, is a rivulet that

meanders through a winding and romantic valley, about half a mile

south of the town. On this stream are three falls, situated at a

distance perhaps of half a mile from each other. At each of these

falls there is a dam, a bridge, and a group of shops. They are called

respectively the Upper, Middle, and Lower Water Shops. The valley in

which these establishments are situated is extremely verdant and

beautiful. The banks of the stream are adorned sometimes with green,

grassy slopes, and sometimes with masses of shrubbery and foliage,

descending to the water. The road winds gracefully from one point of

view to another, opening at every turn some new and attractive

prospect. The shops and all the hydraulic works are very neatly and

very substantially constructed, and are kept in the most perfect

order: so that the scene, as it presents itself to the party of

visitors, as they ride slowly up or down the road in their carriage,

or saunter along upon the banks of the stream on foot, forms a very

attractive picture.

THE MUSKET BARREL.

The fundamental, and altogether the most important operation in the

manufacture of the musket, is the formation of the barrel; for it is

obvious, that on the strength and perfection of the barrel, the whole

value and efficiency of the weapon when completed depends. One would

suppose, that the fabrication of so simple a thing as a plain and

smooth hollow tube of iron, would be a very easy process; but the fact

is, that so numerous are the obstacles and difficulties that are in

the way, and so various are the faults, latent and open, into which

the workman may allow his work to run, that the forming of the barrel

is not only the most important, but by far the most difficult of the

operations at the Armory--one which requires the most constant

vigilance and attention on the part of the workman, during the process

of fabrication, and the application of multiplied tests to prove the

accuracy and correctness of the work at every step of the progress of

it, from beginning to end.

The barrels are made from plates of iron, of suitable form and size,

called _scalps_ or barrel plates. These scalps are a little more than

two feet long, and about three inches wide. The barrel when completed,

is about three feet six inches long, the additional length being

gained by the elongating of the scalp under the hammer during the

process of welding. The scalps are heated, and then rolled up over an

iron rod, and the edges being lapped are welded together, so as to

form a tube of the requisite dimensions--the solid rod serving to

preserve the cavity within of the proper form. This welding of the

barrels is performed at a building among the Middle Water Shops. A

range of tilt hammers extend up and down the room, with forges in the

centre of the room, one opposite to each hammer, for heating the iron.

The tilt hammers are driven by immense water-wheels, placed beneath

the building--there being an arrangement of machinery by which each

hammer may be connected with its moving power, or disconnected from

it, at any moment, at the pleasure of the workman. Underneath the

hammer is an anvil. This anvil contains a die, the upper surface of

which, as well as the under surface of a similar die inserted in the

hammer, is formed with a semi-cylindrical groove, so that when the two

surfaces come together a complete cylindrical cavity is formed, which

is of the proper size to receive the barrel that is to be forged. The

workman heats a small portion of his work in his forge, and then

standing directly before the hammer, he places the barrel in its bed

upon the anvil, and sets his hammer in motion, turning the barrel

round and round continually under the blows. Only a small portion of

the seam is closed at one heat, _eleven_ heats being required to

complete the work. To effect by this operation a perfect junction of

the iron, in the overlapping portions, so that the substance of iron

shall be continuous and homogeneous throughout, the same at the

junction as in every other part, without any, the least, flaw, or

seam, or crevice, open or concealed, requires not only great

experience and skill, but also most unremitting and constant attention

during the performance of the work. Should there be any such flaw,

however deeply it may be concealed, and however completely all

indications of it may be smoothed over and covered up by a superficial

finishing, it is sure to be exposed at last, to the mortification and

loss of the workman, in the form of a great gaping rent, which is

brought out from it under the inexorable severity of the test to which

the work has finally to be subjected.

[Illustration: THE WELDING ROOM.]

RESPONSIBILITY OF THE WORKMEN.

We say to the _loss_ as well as to the mortification of the workman,

for it is a principle that pervades the whole administration of this

establishment, though for special reasons the principle is somewhat

modified in its application to the welder, as will hereafter be

explained, that each workman bears the whole loss that is occasioned

by the failure of his work to stand its trial, from whatever cause the

failure may arise. As a general rule each workman stamps every piece

of work that passes through his hands with his own mark--a mark made

indelible too--so that even after the musket is finished, the history

of its construction can be precisely traced, and every operation

performed upon it, of whatever kind, can be carried home to the

identical workman who performed it. The various parts thus marked are

subject to very close inspection, and to very rigid tests, at

different periods, and whenever any failure occurs, the person who is

found to be responsible for it is charged with the loss. He loses not

only his own pay for the work which he performed upon the piece in

question, but for the whole value of the piece at the time that the

defect is discovered. That is, he has not only to lose his own labor,

but he must also pay for all the other labor expended upon the piece,

which through the fault of his work becomes useless. For example, in

the case of the barrel, there is a certain amount of labor expended

upon the iron, to form it into scalps, before it comes into the

welder's hands. Then after it is welded it must be bored and turned,

and subjected to some other minor operations before the strength of

the welding can be proved. If now, under the test that is applied to

prove this strength--a test which will be explained fully in the

sequel--the work gives way, and if, on examination of the rent, it

proves to have been caused by imperfection in the welding, and not by

any original defect in the iron, the welder, according to the general

principle which governs in this respect all the operations of the

establishment, would have to lose not only the value of his own labor,

in welding the barrel, but that of all the other operations which had

been performed upon it, and which were rendered worthless by his

agency. It is immaterial whether the misfortune in such cases is

occasioned by accident, or carelessness, or want of skill. In either

case the workman is responsible. This rule is somewhat relaxed in the

case of the welder, on whom it would, perhaps, if rigidly enforced,

bear somewhat too heavily. In fact many persons might regard it as a

somewhat severe and rigid rule in any case--and it would, perhaps,

very properly be so considered, were it not that this responsibility

is taken into the account in fixing the rate of wages; and the workmen

being abundantly able to sustain such a responsibility do not complain

of it. The system operates on the whole in the most salutary manner,

introducing, as it does, into every department of the Armory, a spirit

of attention, skill, and fidelity, which marks even the countenances

and manners of the workmen, and is often noticed and spoken of by

visitors. In fact none but workmen of a very high character for

intelligence, capacity, and skill could gain admission to the

Armory--or if admitted could long maintain a footing there.

The welders are charged one dollar for every barrel lost through the

fault of their work. They earn, by welding, twelve cents for each

barrel; so that by spoiling one, they lose the labor which they expend

upon eight. Being thus rigidly accountable for the perfection of their

work, they find that their undivided attention is required while they

are performing it; and, fortunately perhaps for them, there is nothing

that can well divert their attention while they are engaged at their

forges, for such is the incessant and intolerable clangor and din

produced by the eighteen tilt hammers, which are continually breaking

out in all parts of the room, into their sudden paroxysms of activity,

that every thing like conversation in the apartment is almost utterly

excluded. The blows of the hammers, when the white-hot iron is first

passed under them and the pull of the lever sets them in motion, are

inconceivably rapid, and the deafening noise which they make, and the

showers of sparks which they scatter in every direction around,

produce a scene which quite appalls many a lady visitor when she first

enters upon it, and makes her shrink back at the door, as if she were

coming into some imminent danger. The hammers strike more than six

hundred blows in a minute, that is more than _ten in every second_;

and the noise produced is a sort of rattling thunder, so overpowering

when any of the hammers are in operation near to the observer, that

the loudest vociferation uttered close to the ear, is wholly

inaudible. Some visitors linger long in the apartment, pleased with

the splendor and impressiveness of the scene. Others consider it

frightful, and hasten away.

FINISHING OPERATIONS.--BORING.

From the Middle Water Shops, where this welding is done, the barrels

are conveyed to the Upper Shops, where the operations of turning,

boring and grinding are performed. Of course the barrel when first

welded is left much larger in its outer circumference, and smaller in

its bore, than it is intended to be when finished, in order to allow

for the loss of metal in the various finishing operations. When it

comes from the welder the barrel weighs over seven pounds: when

completely finished it weighs but about four and a half pounds, so

that nearly one half of the metal originally used, is cut away by the

subsequent processes.

The first of these processes is the boring out of the interior. The

boring is performed in certain machines called boring banks. They

consist of square and very solid frames of iron, in which, as in a

bed, the barrel is fixed, and there is bored out by a succession of

operations performed by means of certain tools which are called

augers, though they bear very little resemblance to the carpenter's

instrument so named. These augers are short square bars of steel,

highly polished, and sharp at the edges--and placed at the ends of

long iron rods, so that they may pass entirely through the barrel to

be bored by them, from end to end. The boring parts of these

instruments, though they are in appearance only plain bars of steel

with straight and parallel sides, are really somewhat smaller at the

outer than at the inner end, so that, speaking mathematically, they

are truncated pyramids, of four sides, though differing very slightly

in the diameters of the lower and upper sections.

The barrels being fixed in the boring bank, as above described, the

end of the shank of the auger is inserted into the centre of a wheel

placed at one end of the bank, where, by means of machinery, a slow

rotary motion is given to the auger, and a still slower progressive

motion at the same time. By this means the auger gradually enters the

hollow of the barrel, boring its way, or rather enlarging its way by

its boring, as it advances. After it has passed through it is

withdrawn, and another auger, a very little larger than the first is

substituted in its place; and thus the calibre of the barrel is

gradually enlarged, _almost_ to the required dimensions.

Almost, but not quite; for in the course of the various operations

which are subsequent to the boring, the form of the interior of the

work is liable to be slightly disturbed, and this makes it necessary

to reserve a portion of the surplus metal within, for a final

operation. In fact the borings to which the barrel are subject,

alternate in more instances than one with other operations, the whole

forming a system far too nice and complicated to be described fully

within the limits to which we are necessarily confined in such an

article as this. It is a general principle however that the inside

work is kept always in advance of the outside, as it is the custom

with all machinists and turners to adopt the rule that is so

indispensable and excellent in morals, namely, to make all right first

within, and then to attend to the exterior. Thus in the case of the

musket barrel the bore is first made correct. Then the outer surface

of the work is turned and ground down to a correspondence with it. The

reverse of this process, that is first shaping the outside of it, and

then boring it out within, so as to make the inner and outer surfaces

to correspond, and the metal every where to be of equal thickness,

would be all but impossible.

TURNING.

After the boring, then, of the barrel, comes the turning of the

outside of it. The piece is supported in the lathe by means of

mandrels inserted into the two ends of it, and there it slowly

revolves, bringing all parts of its surface successively under the

action of a tool fixed firmly in the right position for cutting the

work to its proper form. Of course the barrel has a slow progressive

as well as rotary motion during this process, and the tool itself,

with the rest in which it is firmly screwed, advances or recedes very

regularly and gradually, in respect to the work, as the process goes

on, in order to form the proper taper of the barrel in proceeding from

the breech to the muzzle. The main work however in this turning

process is performed by the rotation of the barrel. The workman thus

treats his material and his tools with strict impartiality. In the

_boring_, the piece remains at rest, and the tool does its work by

revolving. In the _turning_, on the other hand, the _piece_ must take

its part in active duty, being required to revolve against the tool,

while the tool itself remains fixed in its position in the rest.

Among the readers of this article there will probably be many

thousands who have never had the opportunity to witness the process of

turning or boring iron, and to them it may seem surprising that any

tool can be made with an edge sufficiently enduring to stand in such a

service. And it is indeed true that a cutting edge destined to

maintain itself against iron must be of very excellent temper, and

moreover it must have a peculiar construction and form, such that when

set in its proper position for service, the cutting part shall be well

supported, so to speak, in entering the metal, by the mass of the

steel behind it. It is necessary, too, to keep the work cool by a

small stream of water constantly falling upon the point of action. The

piece to be turned, moreover, when of iron, must revolve very slowly;

the process will not go on successfully at a rapid rate; though in the

case of wood the higher the speed at which the machinery works, within

certain limits, the more perfect the operation. In all these points

the process of turning iron requires a very nice adjustment; but when

the conditions necessary to success are all properly fulfilled, the

work goes on in the most perfect manner, and the observer who is

unaccustomed to witness the process is surprised to see the curling

and continuous shaving of iron issuing from the point where the tool

is applied, being cut out there as smoothly and apparently as easily

as if the material were lead.

THE STRAIGHTENING.

One of the most interesting and curious parts of the process of the

manufacture of the barrel, is the straightening of it. We ought,

perhaps, rather to say the straightenings, for it is found necessary

that the operation should be several times performed. For example, the

barrel must be straightened before it is turned, and then, inasmuch as

in the process of turning it generally gets more or less _sprung_, it

must be straightened again afterward. In fact, every important

operation performed upon the barrel is likely to cause some deflection

in it, which requires to be subsequently corrected, so that the

process must be repeated several times. The actual work of

straightening, that is the mechanical act that is performed, is very

simple--consisting as it does of merely striking a blow. The whole

difficulty lies in determining when and where the correction is

required. In other words, the _making straight_ is very easily and

quickly done; the thing attended with difficulty is to find out when

and where the work is crooked; for the deflections which it is thus

required to remedy, are so extremely slight, that all ordinary modes

of examination would fail wholly to detect them; while yet they are

sufficiently great to disturb very essentially the range and direction

of the ball which should issue from the barrel, affected by them.

[Illustration: STRAIGHTENING THE BARRELS.]

The above engraving represents the workman in the act of examining the

interior of a barrel with a view to ascertaining whether it be

straight. On the floor, in the direction toward which the barrel is

pointed, is a small mirror, in which the workman sees, through the

tube, a reflection of a certain pane of glass in the window. The pane

in question is marked by a diagonal line, which may be seen upon it,

in the view, passing from one corner to the other. This diagonal line

now is reflected by the mirror into the bore of the barrel, and then

it is reflected again to the eye of the observer; for the surface of

the iron on the inside of the barrel is left in a most brilliantly

polished condition, by the boring and the operations connected

therewith. Now the workman, in some mysterious way or other, detects

the slightest deviation from straightness in the barrel, by the

appearance which this reflection presents to his eye, as he looks

through the bore in the manner represented in the drawing. He is

always ready to explain very politely to his visitor exactly how this

is done, and to allow the lady to look through the tube and see for

herself. All that she is able to see, however, in such cases is a very

resplendent congeries of concentric rings, forming a spectacle of very

dazzling brilliancy, which pleases and delights her, though the

mystery of the reflected line generally remains as profound a mystery

after the observation as before. This is, in fact, the result which

might have been expected, since it is generally found that all

demonstrations and explanations relating to the science of optics and

light, addressed to the uninitiated, end in plunging them into greater

darkness than ever.

The only object which the mirror upon the floor serves, in the

operation, is to save the workman from the fatigue of holding up the

barrel, which it would be necessary for him to do at each observation,

if he were to look at the window pane directly. By having a reflecting

surface at the floor he can point the barrel downward, when he wishes

to look through it, and this greatly facilitates the manipulation.

There is a rest, too, provided for the barrel, to support it while the

operator is looking through. He plants the end of the tube in this

rest, with a peculiar grace and dexterity, and then, turning it round

and round, in order to bring every part of the inner surface to the

test of the reflection, he accomplishes the object of his scrutiny in

a moment, and then recovering the barrel, he lays it across a sort of

anvil which stands by his side, and strikes a gentle blow upon it

wherever a correction was found to be required. Thus the operation,

though it often seems a very difficult one for the visitor to

understand, proves a very easy one for the workman to perform.

OLD MODE OF STRAIGHTENING.

In former times a mode altogether different from this was adopted to

test the interior rectitude of the barrel. A very slender line, formed

of a hair or some similar substance, was passed through the

barrel--_dropped_ through, in fact, by means of a small weight

attached to the end of it. This line was then drawn tight, and the

workman looking through, turned the barrel round so as to bring the

line into coincidence successively with every portion of the inner

surface. If now there existed any concavity in any part of this

surface, the line would show it by the distance which would there

appear between the line itself and its reflection in the metal. The

present method, however, which has now been in use about thirty years,

is found to be far superior to the old one; so much so in fact that

all the muskets manufactured before that period have since been

condemned as unfit for use, on account mainly of the crookedness of

the barrels. When we consider, however, that the calculation is that

in ordinary engagements less than one out of every hundred of the

balls that are discharged take effect; that is, that ninety-nine out

of every hundred go wide of the mark for which they are intended, from

causes that must be wholly independent of any want of accuracy in the

aiming, it would seem to those who know little of such subjects, that

to condemn muskets for deviating from perfect straightness by less

than a hair, must be quite an unnecessary nicety. The truth is,

however, that all concerned in the establishment at Springfield, seem

to be animated by a common determination, that whatever may be the use

that is ultimately to be made of their work, the instrument itself, as

it comes from their hands, shall be absolutely perfect; and whoever

looks at the result, as they now attain it, will admit that they carry

out their determination in a very successful manner.

CINDER HOLES.

Various other improvements have been made from time to time in the

mode of manufacturing and finishing the musket, which have led to the

condemnation or alteration of those made before the improvements were

introduced. A striking illustration of this is afforded by the case of

what are called _cinder holes_. A cinder hole is a small cavity left

in the iron at the time of the manufacture of it--the effect,

doubtless, of some small development of gas forming a bubble in the

substance of the iron. If the bubble is near the inner surface of the

barrel when it is welded, the process of boring and finishing brings

it into view, in the form of a small blemish seen in the side of the

bore. At a former period in the history of the Armory, defects of this

kind were not considered essential, so long as they were so small as

not to weaken the barrel. It was found, however, at length that such

cavities, by retaining the moisture and other products of combustion

resulting from the discharge of the piece, were subject to corrosion,

and gradual enlargement, so as finally to weaken the barrel in a fatal

manner. It was decided therefore that the existence of cinder holes in

a barrel should thenceforth be a sufficient cause for its rejection,

and all the muskets manufactured before that time have since been

condemned and sold; the design of the department being to retain in

the public arsenals only arms of the most perfect and unexceptionable

character.

At the present time, in the process of manufacturing the barrels, it

is not always found necessary to reject a barrel absolutely in every

case where a cinder hole appears. Sometimes the iron may be forced in,

by a blow upon the outside, sufficiently to enable the workman to bore

the cinder hole out entirely. This course is always adopted where the

thickness of the iron will allow it, and in such cases the barrel is

saved. Where this can not be done, the part affected is sometimes cut

off, and a short barrel is made, for an arm called a musketoon.

THE GRINDING.

After the barrel is turned to nearly its proper size it is next to be

ground, for the purpose of removing the marks left by the tool in

turning, and of still further perfecting its form. For this operation

immense grindstones, carried by machinery, are used, as seen in the

engraving. These stones, when in use, are made to revolve with great

rapidity--usually about _four hundred times in a minute_--and as a

constant stream of water is kept pouring upon the part where the

barrel is applied in the grinding, it is necessary to cover them

entirely with a wooden case, as seen in the engraving, to catch and

confine the water, which would otherwise be thrown with great force

about the room. The direct action therefore of the stone upon the

barrel in the process of grinding is concealed from view.

[Illustration: GRINDING.]

The workman has an iron rod with a sort of crank-like handle at the

end of it, and this rod he inserts into the bore of the barrel which

he has in hand. The rod fits into the barrel closely, and is held

firmly by the friction, so that by means of the handle to the rod, the

workman can turn the barrel round and round continually while he is

grinding it, and thus bring the action of the stone to bear equally

upon every part, and so finish the work in a true cylindrical form.

One of these rods, with its handle, may be seen lying free upon the

stand on the right of the picture. The workman is also provided with

gauges which he applies frequently to the barrel at different points

along its length, as the work goes on, in order to form it to the true

size and to the proper taper. In the act of grinding he inserts the

barrel into a small hole in the case, in front of the stone, and then

presses it hard against the surface of the stone by means of the iron

lever behind him. By leaning against this lever with greater or less

exertion he can regulate the pressure of the barrel against the stone

at pleasure. In order to increase his power over this lever he stands

upon a plate of iron which is placed upon the floor beneath him, with

projections cast upon it to hold his feet by their friction; the

moment that he ceases to lean against the lever, the inner end of it

is drawn back by the action of the weight seen hanging down by the

side of it, and the barrel is immediately released.

The workman _turns_ the barrel continually, during the process of

grinding, by means of the handle, as seen in the drawing, and as the

stone itself is revolving all the time with prodigious velocity, the

work is very rapidly, and at the same time very smoothly and correctly

performed.

DANGER.

It would seem too, at first thought, that this operation of grinding

must be a very safe as well as a simple one; but it is far otherwise.

This grinding room is the dangerous room--the only dangerous room, in

fact, in the whole establishment. In the first place, the work itself

is often very injurious to the health. The premises are always

drenched with water, and this makes the atmosphere damp and

unwholesome. Then there is a fine powder, which, notwithstanding every

precaution, will escape from the stone, and contaminate the air,

producing very serious tendencies to disease in the lungs of persons

who breathe it for any long period. In former times it was customary

to grind bayonets as well as barrels; and this required that the face

of the stone should be fluted, that is cut into grooves of a form

suitable to receive the bayonet. This fluting of the stone, which of

course it was necessary continually to renew, was found to be an

exceedingly unhealthy operation, and in the process of grinding,

moreover, in the case of bayonets, the workman was much more exposed

than in grinding barrels, as it was necessary that a portion of the

stone should be open before him and that he should apply the piece in

hand directly to the surface of it. From these causes it resulted,

under the old system, that bayonets, whatever might have been their

destination in respect to actual service against an enemy on the

field, were pretty sure to be the death of all who were concerned in

making them.

The system, however, so far as relates to the bayonet is now changed.

Bayonets are now "milled," instead of being ground; that is, they are

finished by means of cutters formed upon the circumference of a wheel,

and so arranged that by the revolution of the wheel, and by the motion

of the bayonet in passing slowly under it, secured in a very solid

manner to a solid bed, the superfluous metal is cut away and the piece

fashioned at once to its proper form, or at least brought so near to

it by the machine, as to require afterward only a very little

finishing. This operation is cheaper than the other, and also more

perfect in its result; while at the same time it is entirely free from

danger to the workman.

No mode, however, has yet been devised for dispensing with the

operation of grinding in the case of the barrel; though the injury to

the health is much less in this case than in the other.

BURSTING OF GRINDSTONES.

There is another very formidable danger connected with the process of

grinding besides the insalubrity of the work; and that is the danger

of the bursting of the stones in consequence of their enormous weight

and the immense velocity with which they are made to revolve. Some

years since a new method of clamping the stone, that is of attaching

it and securing it to its axis, was adopted, by means of which the

danger of bursting is much diminished. But by the mode formerly

practiced--the mode which in fact still prevails in many manufacturing

establishments where large grindstones are employed--the danger was

very great, and the most frightful accidents often occurred. In

securing the stone to its axis it was customary to cut a square hole

through the centre of the stone, and then after passing the iron axis

through this opening, to fix the stone upon the axis by wedging it up

firmly with wooden wedges. Now it is well known that an enormous force

may be exerted by the driving of a wedge, and probably in many cases

where this method is resorted to, the stone is strained to its utmost

tension, so as to be on the point of splitting open, before it is put

in rotation at all. The water is then let on, and the stone becomes

saturated with it--which greatly increases the danger. There are three

ways by which the water tends to promote the bursting of the stone. It

makes it very much heavier, and thus adds to the momentum of its

motion, and consequently to the centrifugal force. It also makes it

weaker, for the water penetrates the stone in every part, and operates

to soften, as it were, its texture. Then finally it swells the wedges,

and thus greatly increases the force of the outward strain which they

exert at the centre of the stone. When under these circumstances the

enormous mass is put in motion, at the rate perhaps of five or six

revolutions in a _second_, it bursts, and some enormous fragment, a

quarter or a third of the whole, flies up through the flooring above,

or out through a wall, according to the position of the part thrown

off, at the time of the fracture. An accident of this kind occurred at

the Armory some years since. One fragment of the stone struck the wall

of the building, which was two or three feet thick, and broke it

through. The other passing upward, struck and fractured a heavy beam

forming a part of the floor above, and upset a work-bench in a room

over it, where several men were working. The men were thrown down,

though fortunately they were not injured. The workman who had been

grinding at the stone left his station for a minute or two, just

before the catastrophe, and thus his life too was saved.

POLISHING.

We have said that the grinding room is the _only_ dangerous room in

such an establishment as this. There is one other process than

grinding which was formerly considered as extremely unhealthy, and

that is the process of polishing. The polishing of steel is performed

by means of what are called _emery wheels_, which are wheels bound on

their circumference by a band of leather, to which a coating of emery,

very finely pulverized, is applied, by means of a sizing of glue.

These wheels, a large number of which are placed side by side in the

same room, are made to revolve by means of machinery, with an

inconceivable velocity, while the workmen who have the polishing to

do, taking their stations, each at his own wheel, on seats placed

there for the purpose, and holding the piece of work on which the

operation is to be performed, in their hands, apply it to the

revolving circumference before them. The surface of the steel thus

applied, receives immediately a very high polish--a stream of sparks

being elicited by the friction, and flying off from the wheel opposite

to the workman.

Now although in these cases the workman was always accustomed to take

his position at the wheel in such a manner as to be exposed as little

as possible to the effects of it, yet the air of the apartment, it was

found, soon became fully impregnated with the fine emery dust, and the

influence of it upon the lungs proved very deleterious. There is,

however, now in operation a contrivance by means of which the evil is

almost entirely remedied. A large air-trunk is laid beneath the floor,

from which the air is drawn out continually by means of a sort of fan

machinery connected with the engine. Opposite to each wheel, and in

the direction to which the sparks and the emery dust are thrown, are

openings connected with this air-trunk. By means of this arrangement

all that is noxious in the air of the room is drawn out through the

openings into the air-trunk, and so conveyed away.

The sparks produced in such operations as this, as in the case of the

collision of flint and steel, consist of small globules of melted

metal, cut off from the main mass by the force of the friction, and

heated to the melting point at the same time. These metallic

scintillations were not supposed to be the cause of the injury that

was produced by the operation of polishing, as formerly practiced. It

was the dust of the emery that produced the effect, just as in the

case of the grinding it was the powder of the stone, and not the fine

particles of iron.

The emery which is used in these polishing operations, as well as for

a great many similar purposes in the arts, is obtained by pulverizing

an exceedingly hard mineral that is found in several of the islands of

the Grecian Archipelago, in the Mediterranean. In its native state it

appears in the form of shapeless masses, of a blackish or bluish gray

color, and it is prepared for use by being pulverized in iron mortars.

When pulverized it is washed and sorted into five or six different

degrees of fineness, according to the work for which it is wanted. It

is used by lapidaries for cutting and polishing stones, by cutlers for

iron and steel instruments, and by opticians for grinding lenses. It

is ordinarily used in the manner above described, by being applied to

the circumference of a leathern covered wheel, by means of oil or of

glue. Ladies use bags filled with it, for brightening their needles.

Emery is procured in Spain, and also in Great Britain, as well as in

the Islands of the Mediterranean.

PROVING.

[Illustration: THE PROVING HOUSE.]

When the barrels are brought pretty nearly to their finished

condition, they are to be _proved_, that is to be subjected to the

test of actual trial with gunpowder. For this proving they are taken

to a very strong building that is constructed for the purpose, and

which stands behind the Stocking Shop. Its place is on the

right in the general view of the Armory buildings, and near the

foreground--though that view does not extend far enough in that

direction to bring it in. The exterior appearance of this building is

represented in the above engraving. It is made very strong, being

constructed wholly of timber, in order to enable it to resist the

force of the explosions within. There are spacious openings in lattice

work, in the roof and under the eaves of the building, to allow of the

escape of the smoke with which it is filled at each discharge; for it

is customary to prove a large number of barrels at a time. The barrels

are loaded with a very heavy charge, so as to subject them to much

greater strain than they can ever be exposed to in actual service. The

building on the left, in the engraving, is used for loading the

barrels, and for cleaning and drying them after they are proved. The

shed attached to the main building, on the right hand, contains a bank

of clay, placed there to receive the bullets, with which the barrels

are charged.

The arrangement of the interior of this building, as well as the

manner in which the proving is performed, will be very clearly

understood by reference to the engraving below.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE PROVING HOUSE.]

On the right hand end of the building, and extending quite across it

from side to side, is a sort of platform, the upper surface of which

is formed of cast-iron, and contains grooves in which the muskets are

placed when loaded, side by side. A train of gunpowder is laid along

the back side of this platform, so as to form a communication with

each barrel. The train passes out through a hole in the side of the

building near the door. The bank of clay may be seen sloping down from

within its shed into the room on the left. The artist has represented

the scene as it appears when all is ready for the discharge. The

barrels are placed, the train is laid, and the proof-master is just

retiring and closing the door. A moment more and there will be a loud

and rattling explosion; then the doors will be opened, and as soon as

the smoke has cleared away the workman will enter and ascertain the

result. About one in sixty of the barrels are found to burst under the

trial.

The pieces that fail are all carefully examined with a view to

ascertain whether the giving way was owing to a defect in the welding,

or to some flaw, or other bad quality, in the iron. The appearance of

the rent made by the bursting will always determine this point. The

loss of those that failed on account of bad welding is then charged to

the respective operatives by whom the work was done, at a dollar for

each one so failing. The name of the maker of each is known by the

stamp which he put upon it at the time when it passed through his

hands.

The barrels that stand this first test are afterward subjected to a

second one in order to make it sure that they sustained no partial and

imperceptible injury at the first explosion. This done they are

stamped with the mark of approval, and so sent to the proper

departments to be mounted and finished.

[Illustration: TESTING THE BAYONETS.]

The bayonets, and all the other parts of which the musket is composed

are subjected to tests, different in character indeed, but equally

strict and rigid in respect to the qualities which they are intended

to prove, with that applied to the barrel. The bayonet is very

carefully gauged and measured in every part, in order to make sure

that it is of precisely the proper form and dimensions. A weight is

hung to the point of it to try its temper, and it is sprung by the

strength of the inspector, with the point of it set into the floor, to

prove its elasticity. If it is found to be tempered too high it

breaks; if too low it bends. In either case it is condemned, and the

workman through whose fault the failure has resulted is charged with

the loss.

THE FORGING.

The number of pieces which are used in making up a musket is

forty-nine, each of which has to be formed and finished separately. Of

these there are only two--viz., the sight and what is called the

_cone-seat_, a sort of process connected with the barrel--that are

permanently attached to any other part; so that the musket can at any

time be separated into _forty-seven_ parts, by simply turning screws,

and opening springs, and then put together again as before. Most of

these parts are such that they are formed in the first instance by

being forged or rather _swedged_, and are afterward trimmed and

finished in lathes, and milling engines, or by means of files.

_Swedging_, as it is called, is the forming of irregular shapes in

iron by means of dies of a certain kind, called swedges, one of which

is inserted in the anvil, in a cavity made for the purpose, and the

other is placed above it. Cavities are cut in the faces of the

swedges, so that when they are brought together, with the end of the

iron rod out of which the article to be formed between them, the iron

is made to assume the form of the cavities by means of blows of the

hammer upon the upper swedge. In this way shapes are easily and

rapidly fashioned, which it would be impossible to produce by blows

directed immediately upon the iron.

[Illustration: THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP.]

The shop where this swedging work is done at the Armory contains a

great number of forges, one only of which however is fully represented

in the engraving. The apparatus connected with these forges, differing

in each according to the particular operation for which each is

intended, is far too complicated to be described in this connection.

It can only be fully understood when seen in actual operation under

the hands of the workman. The visitor however who has the opportunity

to see it thus, lingers long before each separate forge, pleased with

the ingenuity of the contrivances which he witnesses, and admiring the

wonderful dexterity of the workman. There is no appearance of bellows

at any of these works. The air is supplied to the fires by pipes

ascending through the floor from a _fan blower_, as it is called,

worked by machinery arranged for the purpose below.

THE STOCKING SHOP.

The Stocking Shop, so called, is the department in which the _stocks_

to which the barrel and the lock are to be attached, are formed and

finished. The wood used for gun stocks in this country is the black

walnut, and as this wood requires to be seasoned some years

before it is used, an immense store of it is kept on hand at the

Armory--sufficient in fact for four years' consumption. The building

in which this material is stored may be seen on the right hand side in

the general view placed at the head of this article. It stands off

from the square, and behind the other buildings. The operations

conducted in the stocking shop are exceedingly attractive to all who

visit the establishment. In fact it happens here as it often does in

similar cases, that that which it is most interesting to witness is

the least interesting to be described. The reason is that the charm in

these processes consists in the high perfection and finish of the

machines, in the smoothness, grace, and rapidity of their motions, and

in the seemingly miraculous character of the performances which they

execute. Of such things no mere description can convey any adequate

idea. They must be seen to be at all appreciated.

A gun stock, with all the innumerable cavities, grooves, perforations,

and recesses necessary to be made in it, to receive the barrel, the

lock, the bands, the ramrod, and the numerous pins and screws, all of

which require a separate and peculiar modification of its form, is

perhaps as irregular a shape as the ingenuity of man could devise--and

as well calculated as any shape could possibly be to bid defiance to

every attempt at applying machinery to the work of fashioning it. The

difficulties however in the way of such an attempt, insurmountable as

they would at first sight seem, have all been overcome, and every part

of the stock is formed, and every perforation, groove, cavity, and

socket is cut in it by machines that do their work with a beauty, a

grace, and a perfection, which awaken in all who witness the process,

a feeling of astonishment and delight.

The general principle on which this machinery operates, in doing its

work, may perhaps be made intelligible to the reader by description.

The action is regulated by what are called _patterns_. These patterns

are models in iron of the various surfaces of the stock which it is

intended to form. Let us suppose, for example, that the large cavity

intended to receive the lock is to be cut. The stock on which the

operation is to be performed is placed in its bed in the machine, and

over it, pendant from a certain movable frame-work of polished steel

above, is the cutting tool, a sort of bit or borer, which is to do the

work. This borer is made to revolve with immense velocity, and is at

the same time susceptible of various other motions at the pleasure of

the workman. It may be brought down upon the work, and moved there

from side to side, so as to cut out a cavity of any required shape;

and such is the mechanism of the machine that these vertical and

lateral motions may be made very freely without at all interfering

with the swift rotation on which the cutting power of the tool

depends. This is effected by causing the tool to revolve by means of

small machinery within its frame, while the frame and all within it

moves together in the vertical and lateral motions.

Now if this were all, it is plain that the cutting of the cavity in

the stock would depend upon the action of the workman, and the form

given to it would be determined by the manner in which he should guide

the tool in its lateral motions, and by the depth to which he should

depress it. But this is not all. At a little distance from the cutter,

and parallel to it is another descending rod, which is called the

guide; and this guide is so connected with the cutting tool, by means

of a very complicated and ingenious machinery, that the latter is

governed rigidly and exactly in all its movements by the motion of the

former. Now there is placed immediately beneath the guide, what is

called the pattern, that is a cavity in a block of iron of precisely

the form and size which it is intended to give to the cavity in the

wooden stock. All that the workman has to do therefore, when the

machine is put in motion is to bring the guide down into the pattern

and move it about the circumference and through the centre of it. The

cutting tool imitating precisely the motions of the guide, enters the

wood, and cutting its way in the most perfect manner and with

incredible rapidity, forms an exact duplicate of the cavity in the

pattern. The theory of this operation is sufficiently curious and

striking--but the wonder excited by it is infinitely enhanced by

seeing the work done. It is on this principle substantially that all

the machines of the Stocking Shop are constructed; every separate

recess, perforation, or groove of the piece requiring of course its

own separate mechanism. The stocks are passed from one of these

engines to another in rapid succession, and come out at last, each one

the perfect fac-simile of its fellow.

DIVISION OF LABOR.

We have said that the number of separate parts which go to compose a

musket is forty-nine; but this by no means denotes the number of

distinct operations required in the manufacture of it--for almost

every one of these forty-nine parts is subject to many distinct

operations, each of which has its own name, is assigned to its own

separate workman, and is paid for distinctly and by itself, according

to the price put upon it in the general tariff of wages. The number of

operations thus separately named, catalogued and priced, is _three

hundred and ninety-six_.

These operations are entirely distinct from one another--each

constituting, as it were, in some sense a distinct trade, so that it

might be quite possible that no one man in the whole establishment

should know how to perform any two of them. It is quite certain, in

fact, that no man can perform any considerable number of them. They

are of very various grades in respect to character and price--from the

welding of the barrel which is in some points of view the highest and

most responsible of all, down to the cutting out of pins and screws of

the most insignificant character. They are all however regularly

rated, and the work that is performed upon them is paid for by the

piece.

ASSEMBLING THE MUSKET.

[Illustration: ASSEMBLING THE MUSKET.]

When the several parts are all finished, the operation of putting them

together so as to make up the musket from them complete, is called

"assembling the musket." The workman who performs this function has

all the various parts before him at his bench, arranged in boxes and

compartments, in regular order, and taking one component from this

place, and another from that, he proceeds to put the complicated piece

of mechanism together. His bench is fitted up expressly for the work

which he is to perform upon it, with a vice to hold without marring,

and rests to support without confining, and every other convenience

and facility which experience and ingenuity can suggest. With these

helps, and by means of the dexterity which continued practice gives

him, he performs the work in a manner so adroit and rapid, as to

excite the wonder of every beholder. In fact it is always a pleasure

to see any thing done that is done with grace and dexterity, and this

is a pleasure which the visitor to the Armory has an opportunity to

enjoy at almost every turn.

The component parts of the musket are all made according to one

precise pattern, and thus when taken up at random they are sure to

come properly together. There is no individual fitting required in

each particular case. Any barrel will fit into any stock, and a screw

designed for a particular plate or band, will enter the proper hole in

any plate or band of a hundred thousand. There are many advantages

which result from this precise conformity to an established pattern in

the components of the musket. In the first place the work of

manufacturing it is more easily performed in this way. It is always

the tendency of machinery to produce similarity in its results, and

thus although where only two things are to be made it is very

difficult to get them alike, the case is very different where there is

a call for two hundred thousand. In this last case it is far easier

and cheaper to have them alike than to have them different; for in

manufacturing on such a scale a machinery is employed, which results

in fashioning every one of its products on the precise model to which

the inventor adapted the construction of it. Then, besides, a great

convenience and economy results from this identity of form in the

component parts of the musket, when the arms are employed in service.

Spare screws, locks, bands, springs, &c., can be furnished in

quantities, and sent to any remote part of the country wherever they

are required; so that when any part of a soldier's gun becomes injured

or broken, its place can be immediately supplied by a new piece, which

is sure to fit as perfectly into the vacancy as the original occupant.

Even after a battle there is nothing to prevent the surviving soldiers

from making up themselves, out of a hundred broken and dismantled

muskets, fifty good ones as complete and sound as ever, by rejecting

what is damaged, and assembling the uninjured parts anew.

To facilitate such operations as these the mechanism by which the

various parts of the musket are attached to each other and secured in

their places, is studiously contrived with a view to facilitating in

the highest degree the taking of them apart, and putting them

together. Each soldier to whom a musket is served is provided with a

little tool, which, though very simple in its construction, consists

of several parts and is adapted to the performance of several

functions. With the assistance of this tool the soldier sitting on the

bank by the roadside, at a pause in the middle of his march, if the

regulations of the service would allow him to do so, might separate

his gun into its forty-seven components, and spread the parts out upon

the grass around him. Then if any part was doubtful he could examine

it. If any was broken he could replace it--and after having finished

his inspection he could reconstruct the mechanism, and march on as

before.

It results from this system that to make any change, however slight,

in the pattern of the musket or in the form of any of the parts of it,

is attended with great difficulty and expense. The fashion and form of

every one of the component portions of the arm, are very exactly and

rigidly determined by the machinery that is employed in making it, and

any alteration, however apparently insignificant, would require a

change in this machinery. It becomes necessary, therefore, that the

precise pattern both of the whole musket and of all of its parts, once

fixed, should remain permanently the same.

The most costly of the parts which lie before the workman in

assembling the musket is the barrel. The value of it complete is three

dollars. From the barrel we go down by a gradually descending scale to

the piece of smallest value, which is a little wire called the ramrod

spring wire--the value of which is only one mill; that is the workman

is paid only one dollar a thousand for the manufacture of it. The time

expended in assembling a musket is about ten minutes, and the price

paid for the work is four cents.

THE ARSENAL.

[Illustration: THE NEW ARSENAL.]

The New Arsenal, which has already been alluded to in the description

of the general view of the Arsenal grounds, is a very stately edifice.

It is two hundred feet long, seventy feet wide, and fifty feet high.

It is divided into three stories, each of which is calculated to

contain one hundred thousand muskets, making three hundred thousand in

all. The muskets when stored in this arsenal are arranged in racks set

up for the purpose along the immense halls, where they stand upright

in rows, with the glittering bayonets shooting up, as it were, above.

The visitors who go into the arsenal walk up and down the aisles which

separate the ranges of racks, admiring the symmetry and splendor of

the display.

The Arsenal has another charm for visitors besides the beauty of the

spectacle which the interior presents--and that is the magnificent

panorama of the surrounding country, which is seen from the summit of

the tower. This tower, which occupies the centre of the building, is

about ninety feet high--and as it is about thirty feet square, the

deck at the top furnishes space for a large party of visitors to stand

and survey the surrounding country. Nothing can be imagined more

enchanting than the view presented from this position in the month of

June. The Armory grounds upon one side, and the streets of the town

upon the other lie, as it were, at the feet of the spectator, while in

the distance the broad and luxuriant valley of the Connecticut is

spread out to view, with its villages, its fields, its groves, its

bridges, its winding railways, and its serpentine and beautiful

streams.

THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE ARMORY.

[Illustration: QUARTERS OF THE COMMANDING OFFICER.]

The manufacture of muskets being a work that pertains in some sense to

the operations of the army, should be, for that reason, under

_military_ rule. On the other hand, inasmuch as it is wholly a work of

mechanical and peaceful industry, a _civil_ administration would seem

to be most appropriate for it. There is, in fact, a standing dispute

on this subject both in relation to the Armory at Springfield and to

that at Harper's Ferry, among those interested in the establishments,

and it is a dispute which, perhaps, will never be finally settled. The

Springfield Armory is at this time under military rule--the present

commanding officer, Colonel Ripley, having been put in charge of it

about ten years ago, previous to which time it was under civil

superintendence. At the time of Col. Ripley's appointment the works,

as is universally acknowledged, were in a very imperfect condition,

compared with the present state. On entering upon the duties of his

office, the new incumbent engaged in the work of improvement with

great resolution and energy, and after contending for several years

with the usual obstacles and difficulties which men have to encounter

in efforts at progress and reform, he succeeded in bringing the

establishment up to a state of very high perfection; and now the

order, the system, the neatness, the almost military exactness and

decorum which pervade every department of the works are the theme of

universal admiration. The grounds are kept in the most perfect

condition--the shops are bright and cheerful, the walls and floors are

every where neat and clean, the machinery and tools are perfect, and

are all symmetrically and admirably arranged, while the workmen are

well dressed, and are characterized by an air of manliness,

intelligence, and thrift, that suggests to the mind of the visitor the

idea of amateur mechanics, working with beautiful tools, for pleasure.

And yet the men at first complained, sometimes, of the stringency of

rules and regulations required to produce these results. These rules

are still in force, though now they are very generally acquiesced in.

No newspapers of any kind can be taken into the shops, no tobacco or

intoxicating drinks can be used there, no unnecessary conversation is

allowed, and the regulations in respect to hours of attendance, and to

responsibility for damaged work are very definite and strict. But even

if the workmen should be disposed in any case to complain of the

stringency of these requirements, they can not but be proud of the

result; for they take a very evident pleasure in the gratification

which every visitor manifests in witnessing the system, the order, the

neatness, and the precision that every where prevail.

Nothing can be more admirably planned, or more completely and

precisely executed than the system of accounts kept at the offices, by

which not only every pecuniary transaction, but also, as would seem,

almost every mechanical operation or act that takes place throughout

the establishment is made a matter of record. Thus every thing is

checked and regulated. No piece, large or small, can be lost from

among its hundreds of fellows without being missed somewhere in some

column of figures--and the whole history of every workman's doings,

and of every piece of work done, is to be found recorded. Ask the

master-armorer any questions whatever about the workings of the

establishment, whether relating to the minutest detail, or to most

comprehensive and general results, and he takes down a book and shows

you the answer in some column or table.

After all, however, this neatness, precision, and elegance in the

appearance and in the daily workings of an establishment like this,

though very agreeable to the eye of the observer, constitute a test of

only secondary importance in respect to the actual character of the

administration that governs it. To judge properly on this point, the

thing to be looked at is the actual and substantial results that are

obtained. The manufacture of muskets is the great function of the

Armory, and not the exhibition of beautiful workshops, and curious

processes in mechanics for the entertainment of visitors. When we

inquire, however, into the present arrangement of this establishment,

in this point of view, the conclusion seems to be still more decidedly

in its favor than in the other. The cost of manufacturing each musket

immediately before the commencement of the term of the present

commander was about seventeen dollars and a half. During the past year

it has been eight dollars and three quarters, and yet the men are paid

better wages now per day, or, rather, they are paid at such rates for

their work, that they can earn more now per day, than then. The saving

has thus not been at all made from the pay of the workmen, but wholly

from the introduction of new and improved modes of manufacture, better

machines, a superior degree of order, system, and economy in every

department, and other similar causes. How far the improvements which

have thus been made are due to the intrinsic qualities of military

government, and how far to the personal efficiency of the officer in

this case intrusted with the administration of it, it might be

somewhat difficult to decide.

In fact, when judging of the advancement made during a period of ten

years, in an establishment of this kind, at the present age of the

world, some considerable portion of the improvement that is manifested

is due, doubtless, to the operation of those causes which are

producing a general progress in all the arts and functions of social

life. The tendency of every thing is onward. Every where, and for all

purposes, machinery is improving, materials are more and more easily

procured, new facilities are discovered and new inventions are made,

the results of which inure to the common benefit of all mankind. It is

only so far as an establishment like the Armory advances at a more

rapid rate than that of the general progress of the age, that any

special credit is due to those who administer its affairs. It always

seems, however, to strangers visiting the Armory and observing its

condition, that these general causes will account for but a small

portion of the results which have been attained in the management of

it, during the past ten years.

CONCLUSION.

As was stated at the commencement of the article, it is only a small

part of the hundreds of thousands of muskets manufactured, that are

destined ever to be used. Some portion of the whole number are served

out to the army, and are employed in Indian warfare, others are

destined to arm garrisons in various fortresses and military posts,

where they are never called to any other service than to figure in

peaceful drillings and parades. Far the greater portion, however, are

sent away to various parts of the country, to be stored in the

national arsenals, where they lie, and are to lie, as we hope,

forever, undisturbed, in the midst of scenes of rural beauty and

continued peace. The flowers bloom and the birds sing unmolested

around the silent and solitary depositories, where these terrible

instruments of carnage and destruction unconsciously and forever

repose.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.[A]

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

[Footnote A: Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the

year 1852, by Harper and Brothers, in the Clerk's Office of

the District Court of the Southern District of New York.]

PEACE WITH ENGLAND.

It was the first great object of Napoleon, immediately upon his

accession to power, to reconcile France with Europe, and to make peace

with all the world. France was weary of war. She needed repose, to

recover from the turmoil of revolution. Napoleon, conscious of the

necessities of France, was consecrating Herculean energies for the

promotion of peace. The Directory, by oppressive acts, had excited the

indignation of the United States. Napoleon, by a course of

conciliation, immediately removed that hostility, and, but a short

time before the treaty of Luneville, ratified a treaty of amity

between France and the United States. The signature of this treaty was

celebrated with great rejoicings at the beautiful country seat which

Joseph, who in consequence of his marriage was richer than his

brother, had purchased at Morfontaine. Napoleon, accompanied by a

brilliant party, met the American commissioners there. The most

elegant decorations within the mansion and in the gardens, represented

France and America joined in friendly union. Napoleon presented the

following toast: "The memory of the French and the Americans who died

on the field of battle for the independence of the New World." Lebrun,

the Second Consul, proposed, "The union of America with the Northern

powers, to enforce respect for the liberty of the seas." Cambaceres

gave for the third toast, "The successor of Washington." Thus did

Napoleon endeavor to secure the friendship of the United States.

About this time Pope Pius VI. died, and the Cardinals met to choose

his successor. The respect with which Napoleon had treated the Pope,

and his kindness to the emigrant priests, during the first Italian

campaign, presented so strong a contrast with the violence enjoined by

the Directory, as to produce a profound impression upon the minds of

the Pope and the Cardinals.

The Bishop of Imola was universally esteemed for his extensive

learning, his gentle virtues, and his firm probity. Upon the occasion

of the union of his diocese with the Cisalpine Republic, he preached a

very celebrated sermon, in which he spoke of the conduct of the French

in terms highly gratifying to the young conqueror. The power of

Napoleon was now in the ascendant. It was deemed important to

conciliate his favor. "It is from France," said Cardinal Gonsalvi,

"that persecutions have come upon us for the last ten years. It is

from France, perhaps, that we shall derive aid and consolation for the

future. A very extraordinary young man, one very difficult as yet to

judge, holds dominion there at the present day. His influence will

soon be paramount in Italy. Remember that he protected the priests in

1797. He has recently conferred funeral honors upon Pius VI." These

were words of deep foresight. They were appreciated by the sagacious

Cardinals. To conciliate the favor of Napoleon, the Bishop of Imola

was elected to the pontifical chair as Pope Pius VII.

Naples had been most perfidious in its hostility to France. The Queen

of Naples was a proud daughter of Maria Theresa, and sister of the

Emperor of Austria and of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. She surely

must not be too severely condemned for execrating a revolution which

had consigned her sister to the dungeon and to the guillotine. Naples,

deprived of Austrian aid, was powerless. She trembled under

apprehension of the vengeance of Napoleon. The King of Austria could

no longer render his sister any assistance. She adopted the decisive

and romantic expedient of proceeding in person, notwithstanding the

rigor of the approaching winter, to St. Petersburg, to implore the

intercession of the Emperor Paul. The eccentric monarch, flattered by

the supplication of the beautiful queen, immediately espoused her

cause, and dispatched a messenger to Napoleon, soliciting him, as a

personal favor, to deal gently with Naples. The occurrence was, of

course, a triumph and a gratification to Napoleon. Most promptly and

courteously he responded to the appeal. It was indeed his constant

study at this time, to arrest the further progress of the revolution,

to establish the interests of France upon a basis of order and of law,

and to conciliate the surrounding monarchies, by proving to them that

he had no disposition to revolutionize their realms. A word from him

would have driven the King and Queen of Naples into exile, and would

have converted their kingdom into a republic. But Napoleon refused to

utter that word, and sustained the King of Naples upon his throne.

The Duke of Parma, brother of the King of Spain, had, through the

intercession of Napoleon, obtained the exchange of his duchy, for the

beautiful province of Tuscany. The First Consul had also erected

Tuscany into the kingdom of Etruria, containing about one million of

inhabitants. The old duke, a bigoted prince, inimical to all reform,

had married his son (a feeble, frivolous young man) to the daughter of

his brother, the King of Spain. The kingdom of Etruria was intended

for this youthful pair. Napoleon, as yet but thirty years of age, thus

found himself forming kingdoms and creating kings. The young couple

were in haste to ascend the throne. They could not, however, do this

until the Duke of Parma should die or abdicate. The unaccommodating

old duke refused to do either. Napoleon, desirous of producing a moral

impression in Paris, was anxious to crown them. He therefore allowed

the duke to retain Parma until his death, that his son might be placed

upon the throne of Etruria. He wished to exhibit the spectacle, in the

regicide metropolis of France, of a king created and enthroned by

France. Thus he hoped to diminish the antipathy to kings, and to

prepare the way for that restoration of the monarchical power which

he contemplated. He would also thus conciliate monarchical Europe, by

proving that he had no design of overthrowing every kingly throne. It

was indeed adroitly done. He required, therefore, the youthful princes

to come to Paris, to accept the crown from his hands, as in ancient

Rome vassal monarchs received the sceptre from the Cæsars. The young

candidates for monarchy left Madrid, and repaired to the Tuileries, to

be placed upon the throne by the First Consul. This measure had two

aspects, each exceedingly striking. It frowned upon the hostility of

the people to royalty, and it silenced the clamor against France, as

seeking to spread democracy over the ruins of all thrones. It also

proudly said, in tones which must have been excessively annoying to

the haughty legitimists of Europe, "You kings must be childlike and

humble. You see that I can create such beings as you are." Napoleon,

conscious that his glory elevated him far above the ancient dynasty,

whose station he occupied, was happy to receive the young princes with

pomp and splendor. The versatile Parisians, ever delighted with

novelty, forgot the twelve years of bloody revolutions, which had

overturned so many thrones, and recognizing, in this strange

spectacle, the fruits of their victories, and the triumph of their

cause, shouted most enthusiastically, "Long live the king!" The

royalists, on the other hand, chagrined and sullen, answered

passionately, "Down with kings!" Strange reverse! yet how natural!

Each party must have been surprised and bewildered at its own novel

position. In settling the etiquette of this visit, it was decided that

the young princes should call first upon Napoleon, and that he should

return their call the next day. The First Consul, at the head of his

brilliant military staff, received the young monarch with parental

kindness and with the most delicate attentions, yet with the

universally recognized superiorities of power and glory. The princes

were entertained at the magnificent chateau of Talleyrand at Neuilly,

with most brilliant festivals and illuminations. For a month the

capital presented a scene of most gorgeous spectacles. Napoleon, too

entirely engrossed with the cares of empire to devote much time to

these amusements, assigned the entertainment of his guests to his

ministers. Nevertheless he endeavored to give some advice to the young

couple about to reign over Etruria. He was much struck with the

weakness of the prince, who cherished no sense of responsibility, and

was entirely devoted to trivial pleasures. He was exceedingly

interested in the mysteries of cotillions, of leap-frog, and of

hide-and-go-seek--and was ever thus trifling with the courtiers.

Napoleon saw that he was perfectly incapable of governing, and said to

one of his ministers, "You perceive that they are princes, descended

from an ancient line. How can the reins of government be intrusted to

such hands? But it was well to show to France this specimen of the

Bourbons. She can judge if these ancient dynasties are equal to the

difficulties of an age like ours." As the young king left Paris for

his dominions, Napoleon remarked to a friend, "Rome need not be

uneasy. There is no danger of _his_ crossing the Rubicon." Napoleon

sent one of his generals to Etruria with the royal pair, ostensibly as

the minister of France, but in reality as the viceroy of the First

Consul. The feeble monarch desired only the rank and splendor of a

king, and was glad to be released from the _cares_ of empire. Of all

the proud acts performed by Napoleon during his extraordinary career,

this creation of the Etruscan king, when viewed in all its aspects,

was perhaps the proudest.

Madame de Montesson had become the guilty paramour of the Duke of

Orleans, grandfather of Louis Phillipe. She was not at all ashamed of

this relation, which was sanctioned by the licentiousness of the

times. Proud even of this alliance with a prince of the blood, she

fancied that it was her privilege, as the only relative of the royal

line then in Paris, to pay to the King and Queen of Etruria such

honors as they might be gratified in receiving from the remains of the

old court society. She therefore made a brilliant party, inviting all

the returned emigrants of illustrious birth. She even had the boldness

to invite the family of the First Consul, and the distinguished

persons of his suite. The invitation was concealed from Napoleon, as

his determination to frown upon all immorality was well known. The

next morning Napoleon heard of the occurrence, and severely

reprimanded those of his suite who had attended the party, dwelling

with great warmth upon the impropriety of countenancing vice in high

places. Savary, who attended the party, and shared in the reprimand,

says, that Madame de Montesson would have been severely punished had

it not been for the intervention of Josephine, who was ever ready to

plead for mercy.

Napoleon having made peace with continental Europe, now turned his

attention earnestly to England, that he might compel that unrelenting

antagonist to lay down her arms. "France," said he, "will not reap all

the blessings of a pacification, until she shall have a peace with

England. But a sort of delirium has seized on that government, which

now holds nothing sacred. Its conduct is unjust, not only toward the

French people, but toward all the other powers of the Continent. And

when governments are not just their authority is short-lived. All the

continental powers must force England to fall back into the track of

moderation, of equity, and of reason." Notwithstanding this state of

hostilities it is pleasant to witness the interchange of the courtesy

of letters. Early in January of 1801, Napoleon sent some very valuable

works, magnificently bound, as a present to the Royal Society of

London. A complimentary letter accompanied the present,

signed--BONAPARTE, _President of the National Institute, and First

Consul of France_. As a significant intimation of his principles,

there was on the letter a finely-executed vignette, representing

Liberty sailing on the ocean in an open shell with the following

motto:

"LIBERTY OF THE SEAS."

England claimed the right of visiting and searching merchant ships, to

whatever nation belonging, whatever the cargoes, wherever the

destination. For any resistance of this right, she enforced the

penalty of the confiscation of both ship and cargo. She asserted that

nothing was necessary to constitute a blockade but to announce the

fact, and to station a vessel to cruise before a blockaded port. Thus

all the nations of the world were forbidden by England to approach a

port of France. The English government strenuously contended that

these principles were in accordance with the established regulations

of maritime law. The neutral powers, on the other hand, affirmed that

these demands were an usurpation on the part of England, founded on

power, unsanctioned by the usages of nations, or by the principles of

maritime jurisprudence. "Free ships," said they, "make free goods. The

flag covers the merchandise. A port is to be considered blockaded only

when such a force is stationed at its mouth as renders it dangerous to

enter."

Under these circumstances, it was not very difficult for Napoleon to

turn the arms of the united world against his most powerful foe.

England had allied all the powers of Europe against France. Now

Napoleon combined them all in friendly alliance with him, and directed

their energies against his unyielding and unintimidated assailant.

England was mistress of the seas. Upon that element she was more

powerful than all Europe united. It was one great object of the

British ministry to prevent any European power from becoming the

maritime rival of England. Napoleon, as he cast his eye over his

magnificent empire of forty millions of inhabitants, and surveyed his

invincible armies, was excessively annoyed that the fifteen millions

of people, crowded into the little island of England, should have

undisputed dominion over the whole wide world of waters. The English

have ever been respected, above all other nations, for wealth, power,

courage, intelligence, and all stern virtues; but they never have been

beloved. The English nation is at the present moment the most

powerful, the most respected, and the most unpopular upon the surface

of the globe. Providence deals in compensations. It is perhaps

unreasonable to expect that all the virtues should be centred in one

people. "When," exclaimed Napoleon, "will the French exchange their

vanity for a little pride?" It may be rejoined, "When will the English

lay aside their pride for a little vanity--that perhaps more ignoble,

but certainly better-natured foible?" England, abandoned by all her

allies, continued the war, apparently because her pride revolted at

the idea of being conquered into a peace. And in truth England had not

been vanquished at all. Her fleets were every where triumphant. The

blows of Napoleon, which fell with such terrible severity upon her

allies, could not reach her floating batteries. The genius of Napoleon

overshadowed the land. The genius of Pitt swept the seas. The commerce

of France was entirely annihilated. The English navy, in the utter

destitution of nobler game, even pursued poor French fishermen, and

took away their haddock and their cod. The verdict of history will

probably pronounce that this was at least a less magnificent rapacity

than to despoil regal and ducal galleries of the statues of Phidias

and the cartoons of Raphael.

England declared France to be in a state of blockade, and forbade all

the rest of the world from having any commercial intercourse with her.

Her invincible fleet swept all seas. Wherever an English frigate

encountered any merchant ship, belonging to whatever nation, a shot

was fired across her bows as a very emphatic command to stop. If the

command was unheeded a broadside followed, and the peaceful

merchantman became lawful prize. If the vessel stopped, a boat was

launched from the frigate, a young lieutenant ascended the sides of

the merchantman, demanded of the captain the papers, and searched the

ship. If he found on board any goods which _he judged_ to belong to

France, he took them away. If he could find any goods which he could

consider as munitions of war, and which in his judgment the ship was

conveying to France, the merchantman, with all its contents was

confiscated. Young lieutenants in the navy are not proverbial for

wasting many words in compliments. They were often overbearing and

insolent. England contended that these were the established principles

of maritime law. All the nations of Europe, now at peace with France,

excessively annoyed at this _right of search_, which was rigorously

enforced, declared it to be an intolerable usurpation on the part of

England. Russia, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, Holland, France, and Spain

united in a great confederacy to resist these demands of the proud

monarch of the seas. The genius of Napoleon formed this grand

coalition. Paul of Russia, now a most enthusiastic admirer of the

First Consul, entered into it with all his soul. England soon found

herself single-handed against the world in arms. With sublime energy

the British ministry collected their strength for the conflict.

Murmurs, however, and remonstrances loud and deep pervaded all

England. The opposition roused itself to new vigor. The government, in

the prosecution of this war, had already involved the nation in a debt

of millions upon millions. But the pride of the English government was

aroused. "What! make peace upon compulsion!" England was conscious of

her maritime power, and feared not the hostility of the world. And the

world presented a wide field from which to collect remuneration for

her losses. She swept the ocean triumphantly. The colonies of the

allies dropped into her hand, like fruit from the overladen bough.

Immediately upon the formation of this confederacy, England issued an

embargo upon every vessel belonging to the allied powers, and also

orders were issued for the immediate capture of any merchant vessels,

belonging to these powers, wherever they could be found. The ocean

instantly swarmed with English privateersmen. Her navy was active

every where. There had been no proclamation of war issued. The

merchants of Europe were entirely unsuspicious of any such calamity.

Their ships were all exposed. By thousands they were swept into the

ports of England. More than half of the ships, belonging to the

northern powers, then at sea, were captured.

Russia, Denmark, and Sweden, had a large armament in the Baltic. A

powerful English fleet was sent for its destruction. The terrible

energies of Nelson, so resplendent at Aboukir, were still more

resplendent at Copenhagen. A terrific conflict ensued. The capital of

Denmark was filled with weeping and woe, for thousands of her most

noble sons, the young and the joyous, were weltering in blood. "I have

been," said Nelson, "in above a hundred engagements; but that of

Copenhagen was the most terrible of them all."

In the midst of this terrific cannonade, Nelson was rapidly walking

the quarter-deck, which was slippery with blood and covered with the

dead, who could not be removed as fast as they fell. A heavy shot

struck the main-mast, scattering the splinters in every direction. He

looked upon the devastation around him, and, sternly smiling, said,

"This is warm work, and this day may be the last to any of us in a

moment. But mark me, I would not be elsewhere for thousands." This was

heroic, but it was not noble. It was the love of war, not the love of

humanity. It was the spirit of an Indian chieftain, not the spirit of

a Christian Washington. The commander-in-chief of the squadron, seeing

the appalling carnage, hung out the signal for discontinuing the

action. Nelson was for a moment deeply agitated, and then exclaimed to

a companion, "I have but one eye. I have a right to be blind

sometimes." Then, putting the glass to his blind eye, he said, "I

really don't see the signal. Keep mine for closer battle still flying.

That is the way I answer such signals. Nail mine to the mast." The

human mind is so constituted that it must admire heroism. That

sentiment is implanted in every generous breast for some good purpose.

Welmoes, a gallant young Dane, but seventeen years of age, stationed

himself on a small raft, carrying six guns with twenty-four men,

directly under the bows of Nelson's ship. The unprotected raft was

swept by an incessant storm of bullets from the English marines. Knee

deep in the dead this fearless stripling continued to keep up his fire

to the close of the conflict. The next day, Nelson met him at a repast

at the palace. Admiring the gallantry of his youthful enemy, he

embraced him with enthusiasm, exclaiming to the Crown Prince, "He

deserves to be made an admiral." "Were I to make all my brave officers

admirals," replied the Prince, "I should have no captains or

lieutenants in my service."

By this battle the power of the confederacy was broken. At the same

time, the Emperor Paul was assassinated in his palace, by his nobles,

and Alexander, his son, ascended the throne. When Napoleon heard of

the death of Paul, it is said that he gave utterance, for the first

time in his life, to that irreverent expression, "Mon Dieu" (_My

God_), which is ever upon the lips of every Frenchman. He regarded his

death as a great calamity to France and to the world. The

eccentricities of the Emperor amounted almost to madness. But his

enthusiastic admiration for Napoleon united France and Russia in a

close alliance.

The nobles of Russia were much displeased with the democratic equality

which Napoleon was sustaining in France. They plotted the destruction

of the king, and raised Alexander to the throne, pledged to a

different policy. The young monarch immediately withdrew from the

maritime confederacy, and entered into a treaty of peace with England.

These events apparently so disastrous to the interests of France, were

on the contrary highly conducive to the termination of the war. The

English people, weary of the interminable strife, and disgusted with

the oceans of blood which had been shed, more and more clamorously

demanded peace. And England could now make peace without the

mortification of her pride.

Napoleon was extremely vigilant in sending succor to the army in

Egypt. He deemed it very essential in order to promote the maritime

greatness of France, that Egypt should be retained as a colony. His

pride was also enlisted in proving to the world that he had not

transported forty-six thousand soldiers to Egypt in vain. Vessels of

every description, ships of war, merchantmen, dispatch-boats, sailed

almost daily from the various ports of Holland, France, Spain, Italy,

and even from the coast of Barbary, laden with provisions, European

goods, wines, munitions of war, and each taking a file of French

newspapers. Many of these vessels were captured. Others, however,

escaped the vigilance of the cruisers, and gave to the colony most

gratifying proof of the interest which the First Consul took in its

welfare. While Napoleon was thus daily endeavoring to send partial

relief to the army in Egypt, he was at the same time preparing a vast

expedition to convey thither a powerful reinforcement of troops and

materials of war. Napoleon assembled this squadron at Brest,

ostensibly destined for St. Domingo. He selected seven of the fastest

sailing ships, placed on board of them five thousand men and an ample

supply of all those stores most needed in Egypt. He ordered that each

vessel should contain a complete assortment of every individual

article, prepared for the colony, so that in the event of one vessel

being captured, the colony would not be destitute of the precise

article which that vessel might otherwise have contained. He also, in

several other places, formed similar expeditions, hoping thus to

distract the attention of England, and compel her to divide her forces

to guard all exposed points. Taking advantage of this confusion, he

was almost certain that some of the vessels would reach Egypt. The

plan would have been triumphantly successful, as subsequent events

proved, had the naval commanders obeyed the instructions of Napoleon.

A curious instance now occurred, of what may be called the despotism

of the First Consul. And yet it is not strange that the French people

should, under the peculiar circumstances, have respected and loved

such despotism. The following order was issued to the Minister of

Police: "Citizen Minister--Have the goodness to address a short

circular to the editors of the fourteen journals, forbidding the

insertion of any article, calculated to afford the enemy the slightest

clew to the different movements which are taking place in our

squadrons, unless the intelligence be derived from the official

journal." Napoleon had previously through the regularly constituted

tribunals, suppressed all the journals in Paris, but fourteen. The

world has often wondered why France so readily yielded to the

despotism of Napoleon. It was because the French were convinced that

dictatorial power was essential to the successful prosecution of the

war; and that each act of Napoleon was dictated by the most wise and

sincere patriotism. They were willing to sacrifice the liberty of the

press, that they might obtain victory over their enemies.

The condition of England was now truly alarming. Nearly all the

civilized world was in arms against her. Her harvests had been cut

off, and a frightful famine ravaged the land. The starving people were

rising in different parts of the kingdom, pillaging the magnificent

country seats of the English aristocracy, and sweeping in riotous mobs

through the cities. The masses in England and in Ireland, wretchedly

perishing of hunger, clamored loudly against Pitt. They alleged that

he was the cause of all their calamities--that he had burdened the

nation with an enormous debt and with insupportable taxes--that by

refusing peace with France, he had drawn all the continental powers

into hostility with England, and thus had deprived the people of that

food from the Continent which was now indispensable for the support of

life. The opposition, seeing the power of Pitt shaken, redoubled their

blows. Fox, Tiernay, Grey, Sheridan, and Holland renewed their attacks

with all the ardor of anticipated success. "Why," said they, "did you

not make peace with France, when the First Consul proposed it before

the battle of Marengo? Why did you not consent to peace, when it was

again proposed after that battle? Why did you refuse consent to

separate negotiation, when Napoleon was willing to enter into such

without demanding the cessation of hostilities by sea?" They

contrasted the distress of England with the prosperity of France.

"France," said they, "admirably governed, is at peace with Europe. In

the eyes of the world, she appears humane, wise, tranquil, evincing

the most exemplary moderation after all her victories." With bitter

irony they exclaimed, "What have you now to say of this young

Bonaparte, of this rash youth who, according to the ministerial

language, was only doomed to enjoy a brief existence, like his

predecessors, so ephemeral, that it did not entitle him to be treated

with?"

Pitt was disconcerted by the number of his enemies, and by the clamors

of a famishing people. His proud spirit revolted at the idea of

changing his course. He could only reiterate his argument, that if he

had not made war against revolutionary France, England would also have

been revolutionized. There is an aspect of moral sublimity in the

firmness with which this distinguished minister breasted a world in

arms. "As to the demand of the neutral powers," said he, "we must

envelop ourselves in our flag, and proudly find our grave in the deep,

rather than admit the validity of such principles in the maritime code

of nations." Though Pitt still retained his numerical majority in the

Parliament, the masses of the people were turning with great power

against him, and he felt that his position was materially weakened.

Under these circumstances, Pitt, idolized by the aristocracy,

execrated by the democracy, took occasion to send in his resignation.

The impression seemed to be universal, that the distinguished

minister, perceiving that peace must be made with France, temporarily

retired, that it might be brought about by others, rather than by

himself. He caused himself, however, to be succeeded by Mr. Addington,

a man of no distinguished note, but entirely under his influence. The

feeble intellect of the King of England, though he was one of the most

worthy and conscientious of men, was unequal to these political

storms. A renewed attack of insanity incapacitated him for the

functions of royalty. Mr. Pitt, who had been prime minister for

seventeen years, became by this event virtually the king of England,

and Mr. Addington was his minister.

Napoleon now announced to the world his determination to struggle hand

to hand with England, until he had compelled that government to cease

to make war against France. Conscious of the naval superiority of his

foes, he avowed his resolve to cross the channel with a powerful army,

march directly upon London, and thus compel the cabinet of St. James's

to make peace. It was a desperate enterprise; so desperate that to the

present day it is doubted whether Napoleon ever seriously contemplated

carrying it into effect. It was, however, the only measure Napoleon

could now adopt. The naval superiority of England was so undeniable,

that a maritime war was hopeless. Nelson, in command of the fleet of

the channel, would not allow even a fishing boat to creep out from a

French cove. Napoleon was very desirous of securing in his favor the

popular opinion of England, and the sympathies of the whole European

public. He prepared with his own hand many articles for the

"Moniteur," which were models of eloquent and urgent polemics, and

which elicited admiration from readers in all countries. He wrote in

the most respectful and complimentary terms of the new English

ministry, representing them as intelligent, upright, and

well-intentioned men. He endeavored to assure Europe of the

unambitious desires of France, and contrasted her readiness to

relinquish the conquests which she had made, with the eager grasp with

which the English held their enormous acquisitions in India, and in

the islands of the sea. With the utmost delicacy, to avoid offending

the pride of Britain, he affirmed that a descent upon England would be

his last resource, that he fully appreciated the bravery and the power

of the English, and the desperate risks which he should encounter in

such an undertaking. But he declared that there was no other

alternative left to him, and that if the English ministers were

resolved that the war should not be brought to a close, but by the

destruction of one of the two nations, there was not a Frenchman who

would not make the most desperate efforts to terminate this cruel

quarrel to the glory of France. "But why," exclaimed he, in words

singularly glowing and beautiful, but of melancholy import, "why place

the question on this last resort? Wherefore not put an end to the

sufferings of humanity? Wherefore risk in this manner the lot of two

great nations? Happy are nations when, having arrived at high

prosperity, they have wise governments, which care not to expose

advantages so vast, to the caprices and vicissitudes of a single

stroke of fortune." These most impressive papers, from the pen of the

First Consul, remarkable for their vigorous logic and impassioned

eloquence, produced a deep impression upon all minds. This

conciliatory language was accompanied by the most serious

demonstrations of force upon the shores of the Channel. One hundred

thousand men were upon the coasts of France, in the vicinity of

Boulogne, preparing for the threatened invasion. Boats without number

were collected to transport the troops across the narrow channel. It

was asserted that by taking advantage of a propitious moment

immediately after a storm had scattered the English fleet, France

could concentrate such a force as to obtain a temporary command of the

channel, and the strait could be crossed by the invaders. England was

aroused thoroughly, but not alarmed. The militia was disciplined, the

whole island converted into a camp. Wagons were constructed for the

transportation of troops to any threatened point. It is important that

the reader should distinguish this first threat of invasion in 1801,

from that far more powerful naval and military organization executed

for the same purpose in 1804, and known under the name of the Camp of

Boulogne.

Not a little uneasiness was felt in England respecting the temporary

success of the great conqueror. Famine raged throughout the island.

Business was at a stand. The taxes were enormous. Ireland was on the

eve of revolt. The mass of the English people admired the character of

Napoleon; and, notwithstanding all the efforts of the government,

regarded him as the foe of aristocracy and the friend of popular

rights. Nelson, with an invincible armament, was triumphantly sweeping

the Channel, and a French gun-boat could not creep round a head-land

without encountering the vigilance of the energetic hero. Napoleon, in

escaping from Egypt, had caught Nelson napping in a lady's lap. The

greatest admirers of the naval hero, could not but smile, half-pleased

that, under the guilty circumstances, he had met with the

misadventure. He was anxious, by a stroke of romantic heroism, to

obliterate this impression from the public mind. The vast flotilla of

France, most thoroughly manned and armed under the eye of Napoleon,

was anchored at Boulogne, in three divisions, in a line parallel to

the shore. Just before the break of day on the 4th of August, the

fleet of Nelson, in magnificent array, approached the French flotilla,

and for sixteen hours rained down upon it a perfect tornado of balls

and shells. The gun-boats were, however, chained to one another, and

to the shore. He did not succeed in taking a single boat, and retired

mortified at his discomfiture, and threatening to return in a few days

to take revenge. The French were exceedingly elated that in a naval

conflict they had avoided defeat. As they stood there merely upon

self-defense, victory was out of the question.

The reappearance of Nelson was consequently daily expected, and the

French, emboldened by success, prepared to give him a warm reception.

Twelve days after, on the 16th of August, Nelson again appeared with a

vastly increased force. In the darkness of the night he filled his

boats with picked men, to undertake one of the most desperate

enterprises on record. In four divisions, with muffled oars, this

forlorn hope, in the silence of midnight, approached the French

flotilla. The butchery, with swords, hatchets, bayonets, bullets, and

hand grenades, was hideous. Both parties fought with perfect fury. No

man seemed to have the slightest regard for limb or life. England was

fighting for, she knew not what. The French were contending in

self-defense. For four long hours of midnight gloom, the slaughter

continued. Thousands perished. Just as the day was dawning upon the

horrid scene the English retired, repulsed at every point, and

confessing to a defeat. The result of these conflicts diminished the

confidence of the English in Nelson's ability to destroy the

preparations of Napoleon, and increased their apprehension that the

French might be enabled by some chance, to carry the war of invasion

to their own firesides.

"I was resolved," said Napoleon, afterward, "to renew, at Cherbourg,

the wonders of Egypt. I had already raised in the sea my pyramid. I

would also have had my Lake Mareotis. My great object was to

concentrate all our maritime forces, and in time they would have been

immense, in order to be able to deal out a grand stroke at the enemy.

I was establishing my ground so as to bring the two nations, as it

were, body to body. The ultimate issue could not be doubtful; for we

had forty millions of French against fifteen millions of English. I

would have terminated the strife by a battle of Actium."

One after another of the obstacles in the way of peace now gradually

gave way. Overtures were made to Napoleon. He accepted the advances of

England with the greatest eagerness and cordiality. "Peace," said he,

"is easily brought about, if England desires it." On the evening of

the 21st of October the preliminaries were signed in London. That very

night a courier left England to convey the joyful intelligence to

France. He arrived at Malmaison, the rural retreat of Napoleon, at

four o'clock in the afternoon of the next day. At that moment the

three Consuls were holding a government council. The excitement of

joy, in opening the dispatches, was intense. The Consuls ceased from

their labors, and threw themselves into each other's arms in cordial

embraces. Napoleon, laying aside all reserve, gave full utterance to

the intense joy which filled his bosom. It was for him a proud

accomplishment. In two years, by his genius and his indefatigable

exertions he had restored internal order to France, and peace to the

world. Still, even in this moment of triumph, his entire, never

wavering devotion to the welfare of France, like a ruling passion

strong even in death, rose above his exultation. "Now that we have

made a treaty of _peace_ with England," said Cambaceres, "we must make

a treaty of _commerce_, and remove all subjects of dispute between the

two countries." Napoleon promptly replied, "Not so fast! The political

peace is made. So much the better. Let us enjoy it. As to a commercial

peace we will make one, if we can. _But at no price will I sacrifice

French industry._ I remember the misery of 1786." The news had been

kept secret in London for twenty-four hours, that the joyful

intelligence might be communicated in both capitals at the same time.

The popular enthusiasm both in England and France bordered almost upon

delirium. It was the repose of the Continent. It was general,

universal peace. It was opening the world to the commerce of all

nations. War spreads over continents the glooms of the world of woe;

while peace illumines them with the radiance of Heaven. Illuminations

blazed every where. Men, the most phlegmatic, met and embraced each

other with tears. The people of England surrendered themselves to the

most extraordinary transports of ardor. They loved the French. They

adored the hero, the sage, the great pacificator, who governed France.

The streets of London resounded with shouts, "Long live Bonaparte."

Every stage-coach which ran from London, bore triumphant banners, upon

which were inscribed, _Peace with France_. The populace of London

rushed to the house of the French negotiator. He had just entered his

carriage to visit Lord Hawkesbury, to exchange ratifications. The

tumultuous throng of happy men unharnessed his horses and dragged him

in triumph, in the delirium of their joy rending the skies with their

shouts. The crowd and the rapturous confusion at last became so great

that Lord Vincent, fearing some accident, placed himself at the head

of the amiable mob, as it triumphantly escorted and conveyed the

carriage from minister to minister.

A curious circumstance occurred at the festival in London, highly

characteristic of the honest bluntness, resolution, and good nature of

English seamen. The house of M. Otto, the French minister, was most

brilliantly illuminated. Attracted by its surpassing splendor a vast

crowd of sailors had gathered around. The word _concord_ blazed forth

most brilliantly in letters of light. The sailors, not very familiar

with the spelling-book, exclaimed, "_Conquered!_ not so, by a great

deal. That will not do." Excitement and dissatisfaction rapidly

spread. Violence was threatened. M. Otto came forward himself most

blandly, but his attempts at explanation were utterly fruitless. The

offensive word was removed, and _amity_ substituted. The sailors,

fully satisfied with the _amende honorable_, gave three cheers and

went on their way rejoicing.

In France the exultation was, if possible, still greater than in

England. The admiration of Napoleon, and the confidence in his wisdom

and his patriotism were perfectly unbounded. No power was withheld

from the First Consul which he was willing to assume. The nation

placed itself at his feet. All over the Continent Napoleon received

the honorable title of "_The Hero Pacificator of Europe_." And yet

there was a strong under-current to this joy. Napoleon was the

favorite, not of the nobles, but of the people. Even his acts of

despotic authority were most cordially sustained by the people of

France, for they believed that such acts were essential for the

promotion of their welfare. "The ancient privileged classes and the

foreign cabinets," said Napoleon, "hate me worse than they did

Robespierre." The hosannas with which the name of Bonaparte was

resounding through the cities and the villages of England fell

gloomily upon the ears of Mr. Pitt and his friends. The freedom of the

seas was opening to the energetic genius of Napoleon, an unobstructed

field for the maritime aggrandizement of France. The British minister

knew that the sleepless energies of Napoleon would, as with a

magician's wand, call fleets into existence to explore all seas.

Sorrowfully he contemplated a peace to which the popular voice had

compelled him to yield, and which in his judgment boded no good to the

naval superiority of England.

It was agreed that the plenipotentiaries, to settle the treaty

definitively, should meet at Amiens, an intermediate point midway

between London and Paris. The English appointed as their minister Lord

Cornwallis. The Americans, remembering this distinguished general at

Brandywine, Camden, and at the surrender of Yorktown, have been in the

habit of regarding him as an enemy. But he was a gallant soldier, and

one of the most humane, high-minded, and estimable of men. Frankly he

avowed his conviction that the time had arrived for terminating the

miseries of the world by peace. Napoleon has paid a noble tribute to

the integrity, urbanity, sagacity, and unblemished honor of Lord

Cornwallis. Joseph Bonaparte was appointed by the First Consul

embassador on the part of France. The suavity of his manners, the

gentleness of his disposition, his enlightened and liberal political

views, and the Christian morality which, in those times of general

corruption, embellished his conduct, peculiarly adapted him to fulfill

the duties of a peace-maker. Among the terms of the treaty it was

agreed that France should abandon her colony in Egypt, as endangering

the English possessions in India. In point of fact, the French

soldiers had already, by capitulation, agreed to leave Egypt, but

tidings of the surrender had not then reached England or France. The

most important question in these deliberations was the possession of

the Island of Malta. The power in possession of that impregnable

fortress had command of the Mediterranean. Napoleon insisted upon it,

as a point important above all others, that England should not retain

Malta. He was willing to relinquish all claim to it himself, and to

place it in the hands of a neutral power; but he declared his

unalterable determination that he could by no possibility consent that

it should remain in the hands of England. At last England yielded, and

agreed to evacuate Malta, and that it should be surrendered to the

Knights of St. John.

This pacification, so renowned in history both for its establishment

and for its sudden and disastrous rupture, has ever been known by the

name of the Peace of Amiens. Napoleon determined to celebrate the

joyful event by a magnificent festival. The 10th of November, 1801,

was the appointed day. It was the anniversary of Napoleon's attainment

of the consular power. Friendly relations having been thus restored

between the two countries, after so many years of hostility and

carnage, thousands of the English flocked across the channel and

thronged the pavements of Paris. All were impatient to see France,

thus suddenly emerging from such gloom into such unparalleled

brilliancy; and especially to see the man, who at that moment was the

admiration of England and of the world. The joy which pervaded all

classes invested this festival with sublimity. With a delicacy of

courtesy characteristic of the First Consul, no carriages but those of

Lord Cornwallis were allowed in the streets on that day. The crowd of

Parisians, with most cordial and tumultuous acclamations, opened

before the representative of the armies of England. The illustrious

Fox was one of the visitors on this occasion. He was received by

Napoleon with the utmost consideration, and with the most delicate

attentions. In passing through the gallery of sculpture, his lady

pointed his attention to his own statue filling a niche by the side of

Washington and Brutus. "Fame," said Napoleon, "had informed me of the

talents of Fox. I soon found that he possessed a noble character, a

good heart, liberal, generous, and enlightened views. I considered him

an ornament to mankind, and was much attached to him." Every one who

came into direct personal contact with the First Consul at this time,

was charmed with his character.

Nine deputies from Switzerland, the most able men the republic could

furnish, were appointed to meet Napoleon, respecting the political

arrangements of the Swiss cantons. Punctual to the hour the First

Consul entered a neat spacious room, where there was a long table

covered with green baize. Dr. Jones of Bristol, the intimate friend of

several of these deputies, and who was with them in Paris at the time,

thus describes the interview. "The First Consul entered, followed by

two of his ministers, and after the necessary salutation, sat down at

the head of the table, his ministers on each side of him. The deputies

then took their seats. He spread out before them a large map as

necessary to the subject of their deliberations. He then requested

that they would state freely any objection which might occur to them

in the plan which he should propose. They availed themselves of the

liberty, and suggested several alterations which they deemed

advantageous to France and Switzerland. But from the prompt, clear,

and unanswerable reasons which Napoleon gave in reply to all their

objections, he completely convinced them of the wisdom of his plans.

After an animated discussion of _ten hours_, they candidly admitted

that he was better acquainted with the local circumstances of the

Swiss cantons, and with what would secure their welfare than they were

themselves. During the whole discussion his ministers did not speak

one word. The deputies afterward declared that it was their decided

opinion that Napoleon was the most extraordinary man whom they had met

in modern times, or of whom they had read in ancient history." Said M.

Constant and M. Sismondi, who both knew Napoleon well, "The quickness

of his conception, the depth of his remarks, the facility and

propriety of his eloquence, and above all the candor of his replies

and his patient silence, were more remarkable and attractive than we

ever met with in any other individual."

"What your interests require," said Napoleon, at this time, "is: 1.

Equality of rights among the whole eighteen cantons. 2. A sincere and

voluntary renunciation of all exclusive privileges on the part of

patrician families. 3. A federative organization, where every canton

may find itself arranged according to its language, its religion, its

manners, and its interests. The central government remains to be

provided for, but it is of much less consequence than the central

organization. Situated on the summit of the mountains which separate

France, Italy, and Germany, you participate in the disposition of all

these countries. You have never maintained regular armies, nor had

established, accredited agents at the courts of the different

governments. Strict neutrality, a prosperous commerce, and family

administration, can alone secure your interests, or be suited to your

wishes. Every organization which could be established among you,

hostile to the interests of France, would injure you in the most

essential particulars." This was commending to them a federative

organization similar to that of the United States, and _cautioning

them against the evil of a centralization of power_. No impartial man

can deny that the most profound wisdom marked the principles which

Napoleon suggested to terminate the divisions with which the cantons

of Switzerland had long been agitated. "These lenient conditions,"

says Alison, "gave universal satisfaction in Switzerland." The

following extract from the noble speech which Napoleon pronounced on

the formation of the constitution of the confederacy, will be read by

many with surprise, by all with interest.

"The re-establishment of the ancient order of things in the democratic

cantons is the best course which can be adopted, both for you and me.

They are the states whose peculiar form of government render them so

interesting in the eyes of all Europe. But for this pure democracy you

would exhibit nothing which is not to be found elsewhere. _Beware of

extinguishing so remarkable a distinction._ I know well that this

democratic system of administration has many inconveniences. But it is

established. It has existed for centuries. It springs from the

circumstances, situation, and primitive habits of the people, from the

genius of the place, and can not with safety be abandoned. You must

never take away from a democratic society the practical exercise of

its privileges. To give such exercise a direction consistent with the

tranquillity of the state is the part of true political wisdom. In

ancient Rome the votes were counted by classes, and they threw into

the last class the whole body of indigent citizens, while the first

contained only a few hundred of the most opulent. But the populace

were content, and, amused with the solicitation of their votes, did

not perceive the immense difference in their relative value." The

moral influence which France thus obtained in Switzerland was regarded

with extreme jealousy by all the rival powers. Says Alison, who,

though imbued most strongly with monarchical and aristocratic

predilections, is the most appreciative and impartial of the

historians of Napoleon, "His conduct and language on this occasion,

were distinguished by his usual penetration and ability, and a most

unusual degree of lenity and forbearance. And if any thing could have

reconciled the Swiss to the loss of their independence, it must have

been the wisdom and equity on which his mediation was founded."

The English who visited Paris, were astonished at the indications of

prosperity which the metropolis exhibited. They found France in a very

different condition from the hideous picture which had been described

by the London journals. But there were two parties in England. Pitt

and his friends submitted with extreme reluctance to a peace which

they could not avoid. Says Alison, "But while these were the natural

feelings of the inconsiderate populace, who are ever governed by

present impressions, and who were for the most part destitute of the

information requisite to form a rational opinion on the subject,

there were many men, gifted with greater sagacity and foresight, who

deeply lamented the conditions by which peace had been purchased, and

from the very first prophesied that it could be of no long endurance.

They observed that the war had been abruptly terminated, without any

one object being gained for which it was undertaken; that it was

entered into in order to curb the ambition, and to stop the democratic

propagandism of France." These "many men gifted with greater

sagacity," with William Pitt at their head, now employed themselves

with sleepless vigilance and with fatal success to bring to a rupture

a peace which they deemed so untoward. Sir Walter Scott discloses the

feelings with which this party were actuated, in the observations, "It

seems more than probable that the extreme rejoicing of the rabble of

London, at signing the preliminaries, their dragging about the

carriage of Lauriston, and shouting 'Bonaparte forever,' had misled

the ruler of France into an opinion that peace was indispensably

necessary to England. He may easily enough have mistaken the cries of

a London mob for the voice of the British people."

In the midst of all these cares, Napoleon was making strenuous efforts

to restore religion to France. It required great moral courage to

prosecute such a movement. Nearly all the generals in his armies were

rank infidels, regarding every form of religion with utter contempt.

The religious element, by _nature_, predominated in the bosom of

Napoleon. He was constitutionally serious, thoughtful, pensive. A

profound melancholy ever overshadowed his reflective spirit. His

inquisitive mind pondered the mysteries of the past and the

uncertainties of the future. Educated in a wild country, where the

peasantry were imbued with religious feelings, and having been trained

by a pious mother, whose venerable character he never ceased to adore,

the sight of the hallowed rites of religion revived in his sensitive

and exalted imagination the deepest impressions of his childhood. He

had carefully studied, on his return from Egypt, the New Testament,

and appreciated and profoundly admired its beautiful morality. He

often conversed with Monge, Lagrange, Laplace, sages whom he honored

and loved, and he frequently embarrassed them in their incredulity, by

the logical clearness of his arguments. The witticisms of Voltaire,

and the corruptions of unbridled sin, had rendered the purity of the

gospel unpalatable to France. Talleyrand, annoyed by the remembrance

of his own apostasy, bitterly opposed what he called "the religious

peace." Nearly all the supporters and friends of the First Consul

condemned every effort to bring back that which they denominated the

reign of superstition. Napoleon honestly believed that the interests

of France demanded that God should be recognized and Christianity

respected by the French nation.

"Hear me," said Napoleon one day earnestly to Monge. "I do not

maintain these opinions through the positiveness of a devotee, but

from reason. My religion is very simple. I look at this universe, so

vast, so complex, so magnificent, and I say to myself that it can not

be the result of chance, but the work, however intended, of an

unknown, omnipotent being, as superior to man as the universe is

superior to the finest machines of human invention. Search the

philosophers, and you will not find a more decisive argument, and you

can not weaken it. But this truth is too succinct for man. He wishes

to know, respecting himself and respecting his future destiny, a crowd

of secrets which the universe does not disclose. Allow religion to

inform him of that which he feels the need of knowing, and respect her

disclosures."

One day when this matter was under earnest discussion in the council

of state, Napoleon said, "Last evening I was walking alone, in the

woods, amid the solitude of nature. The tones of a distant church bell

fell upon my ear. Involuntarily I felt deep emotion. So powerful is

the influence of early habits and associations. I said to myself, If I

feel thus, what must be the influence of such impressions upon the

popular mind? Let your philosophers answer that, if they can. It is

absolutely indispensable to have a religion for the people. It will be

said that I am a Papist. I am not. I am convinced that a part of

France would become Protestant, were I to favor that disposition. I am

also certain that the much greater portion would continue Catholic;

and that they would oppose, with the greatest zeal, the division among

their fellow-citizens. We should then have the Huguenot wars over

again, and interminable conflicts. But by reviving a religion which

has always prevailed in the country, and by giving perfect liberty of

conscience to the minority, all will be satisfied."

On another occasion he remarked, "What renders me most hostile to the

establishment of the Catholic worship, are the numerous festivals

formerly observed. A saint's-day is a day of idleness, and I do not

wish for that. People must labor in order to live. I shall consent to

four holidays during the year, but to no more. If the gentlemen from

Rome are not satisfied with that, they may take their departure." The

loss of time appeared to him such a calamity, that he almost

invariably appointed any indispensable celebration upon some day

previously devoted to festivity.

The new pontiff was attached to Napoleon by the secret chain of mutual

sympathy. They had met, as we have before remarked, during the wars of

Italy. Pius VII., then the bishop of Imola, was surprised and

delighted in finding in the young republican general, whose fame was

filling Europe, a man of refinement, of exalted genius, of reflection,

of serious character, of unblemished purity of life, and of delicate

sensibilities, restraining the irreligious propensities of his

soldiers, and respecting the temples of religion. With classic purity

and eloquence he spoke the Italian language. The dignity and decorum

of his manners, and his love of order, were strangely contrasted with

the recklessness of the ferocious soldiers with whom he was

surrounded. The impression thus produced upon the heart of the pontiff

was never effaced. Justice and generosity are always politic. But he

must indeed be influenced by an ignoble spirit who hence infers, that

every act of magnanimity is dictated by policy. A legate was sent by

the Pope to Paris. "Let the holy father," said Napoleon, "put the

utmost confidence in me. Let him cast himself into my arms, and I will

be for the church another Charlemagne."

Napoleon had collected for himself a religious library of well chosen

books, relating to the organization and the history of the church, and

to the relations of church and state. He had ordered the Latin

writings of Bossuet to be translated for him. These works he had

devoured in those short intervals which he could glean from the cares

of government. His genius enabled him, at a glance, to master the

argument of an author, to detect any existing sophistry. His memory,

almost miraculously retentive, and the philosophical cast of his mind,

gave him at all times the perfect command of these treasures of

knowledge. He astonished the world by the accuracy, extent, and

variety of his information upon all points of religion. It was his

custom, when deeply interested in any subject, to discuss it with all

persons from whom he could obtain information. With clear, decisive,

and cogent arguments he advocated his own views, and refuted the

erroneous systems successively proposed to him. It was urged upon

Napoleon, that if he must have a church, he should establish a French

church, independent of that of Rome. The poetic element was too strong

in the character of Napoleon for such a thought. "What!" he exclaimed,

"shall I, a warrior, wearing sword and spurs, and doing battle,

attempt to become the head of a church, and to regulate church

discipline and doctrine. I wish to be the pacificator of France and of

the world, and shall I become the originator of a new schism, a little

more absurd and not less dangerous than the preceding ones. I must

have a Pope, and a Pope who will approximate men's minds to each

other, instead of creating divisions; who will reunite them, and give

them to the government sprung from the revolution, as a price for the

protection that he shall have obtained from it. For this purpose I

must have the true Pope, the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Pope,

whose seat is at the Vatican. With the French armies and some

deference, I shall always be sufficiently his master. When I shall

raise up the altars again, when I shall protect the priests, when I

shall feed them, and treat them as ministers of religion deserve to be

treated in every country, he will do what I ask of him, through the

interest he will have in the general tranquillity. He will calm men's

minds, reunite them under his hand, and place them under mine. Short

of this there is only a continuation and an aggravation of the

desolating schism which is preying on us, and for me an immense and

indelible ridicule."

The Pope's legate most strenuously urged some of the most arrogant

and exclusive assumptions of the papal church. "The French people must

be allured back to religion," said Napoleon, "not shocked. To declare

the Catholic religion _the religion of the state_ is impossible. It is

contrary to the ideas prevalent in France, and will never be admitted.

In place of this declaration we can only substitute the avowal of the

fact, _that the Catholic religion is the religion of the majority of

Frenchmen_. But there must be perfect freedom of opinion. The

amalgamation of wise and honest men of all parties is the principle of

my government. I must apply that principle to the church as well as to

the state. It is the only way of putting an end to the troubles of

France, and I shall persist in it undeviatingly."

Napoleon was overjoyed at the prospect, not only of a general peace

with Europe, but of religious peace in France. In all the rural

districts, the inhabitants longed for their churches and their

pastors, and for the rites of religion. In the time of the Directory,

a famous wooden image of the Virgin had been taken from the church at

Loretto, and was deposited in one of the museums of Paris, as a

curiosity. The sincere Catholics were deeply wounded and irritated by

this act, which to them appeared so sacrilegious. Great joy was caused

both in France and Italy, when Napoleon sent a courier to the Pope,

restoring this statue, which was regarded with very peculiar

veneration. The same embassador carried the terms of agreement for

peace with the church. This religious treaty with Rome was called "The

Concordat." The Pope, in secular power, was helpless. Napoleon could,

at any moment, pour a resistless swarm of troops into his territories.

As the French embassador left the Tuileries, he asked the First Consul

for his instructions. "Treat the Pope," said Napoleon, magnanimously,

"as if he had two hundred thousand soldiers." The difficulties in the

way of an amicable arrangement were innumerable. The army of France

was thoroughly infidel. Most of the leading generals and statesmen who

surrounded Napoleon, contemplated Christianity in every aspect with

hatred and scorn. On the other hand, the Catholic Church, uninstructed

by misfortune, was not disposed to abate in the least its arrogant

demands, and was clamorous for concessions which even Napoleon had not

power to confer. It required all the wisdom, forbearance, and tact of

the First Consul to accomplish this reconciliation. Joseph Bonaparte,

the accomplished gentleman, the sincere, urbane, sagacious, upright

man, was Napoleon's _corps de reserve_ in all diplomatic acts. The

preliminaries being finally adjusted, the Pope's legation met at the

house of Joseph Bonaparte, and on the 15th of July, 1801, this great

act was signed. Napoleon announced the event to the Council of State.

He addressed them in a speech an hour and a half in length, and all

were struck with the precision, the vigor, and the loftiness of his

language. By universal consent his speech was pronounced to be

eloquent in the highest degree. But those philosophers, who regarded

it as the great glory of the revolution, that all superstition, by

which they meant all religion, was swept away, in sullen silence

yielded to a power which they could not resist. The people, the

millions of France, were with Napoleon.

The following liberal and noble sentiments were uttered in the

proclamation by which Napoleon announced the Concordat to the French

people: "An insane policy has sought, during the revolution, to

smother religious dissensions under the ruins of the altar, under the

ashes of religion itself. At its voice all those pious solemnities

ceased, in which the citizens called each other by the endearing name

of brothers, and acknowledged their common equality in the sight of

Heaven. The dying, left alone in his agonies, no longer heard that

consoling voice, which calls the Christian to a better world. God

Himself seemed exiled from the face of nature. Ministers of the

religion of peace, let a complete oblivion vail over your dissensions,

your misfortunes, your faults. Let the religion which unites you, bind

you by indissoluble cords to the interests of your country. Let the

young learn from your precepts, that the God of Peace is also the God

of Arms, and that He throws his shield over those who combat for the

liberties of France. Citizens of the Protestant Faith, the law has

equally extended its solicitude to your interests. Let the morality,

so pure, so holy, so brotherly, which you profess, unite you all in

love to your country, and in respect for its laws; and, above all,

never permit disputes on doctrinal points to weaken that universal

charity which religion at once inculcates and commands."

To foreign nations the spectacle of France, thus voluntarily returning

to the Christian faith, was gratifying in the highest degree. It

seemed to them the pledge of peace and the harbinger of tranquillity.

The Emperor of Russia, and the King of Prussia publicly expressed

their joy at the auspicious event. The Emperor of Austria styled it "a

service truly rendered to all Europe." The serious and devout, in all

lands, considered the voluntary return of the French people to

religion, from the impossibility of living without its precepts, as

one of the most signal triumphs of the Christian faith.

On the 11th of April, 1802, the event was celebrated by a magnificent

religious ceremony in the cathedral of Nôtre Dame. No expense was

spared to invest the festivity with the utmost splendor. Though many

of the generals and the high authorities of the State were extremely

reluctant to participate in the solemnities of the occasion, the power

and the popularity of the First Consul were so great, that they dared

not make any resistance. The cathedral was crowded with splendor. The

versatile populace, ever delighted with change and with shows, were

overjoyed. General Rapp, however, positively refused to attend the

ceremony. With the bluntness of a soldier, conscious that his

well-known devotion to the First Consul would procure for him

impunity, he said, "I shall not attend. But if you do not make these

priests your aids or your cooks, you may do with them as you please."

As Napoleon was making preparations to go to the cathedral, Cambaceres

entered his apartment.

"Well," said the First Consul, rubbing his hands in the glow of his

gratification, "we go to church this morning. What say they to that in

Paris?"

"Many persons," replied Cambaceres, "propose to attend the first

representation in order to hiss the piece, should they not find it

amusing."

"If any one," Napoleon firmly replied, "takes it into his head to

hiss, I shall put him out of the door by the grenadiers of the

consular guard."

"But what if the grenadiers themselves," Cambaceres rejoined, "should

take to hissing, like the rest?"

"As to that I have no fear," said Napoleon. "My old mustaches will go

here to Notre Dame, just as at Cairo, they would have gone to the

mosque. They will remark how I do, and seeing their general grave and

decent, they will be so, too, passing the watchword to each other,

_Decency_."

"What did you think of the ceremony?" inquired Napoleon of General

Delmas, who stood near him, when it was concluded. "It was a fine

piece of mummery," he replied; "nothing was wanting but the million of

men who have perished to destroy that which you have now

re-established." Some of the priests, encouraged by this triumphant

restoration of Christianity, began to assume not a little arrogance. A

celebrated opera dancer died, not in the faith. The priest of St.

Roche refused to receive the body into the church, or to celebrate

over it the rites of interment. The next day Napoleon caused the

following article to be inserted in the _Moniteur_. "The curate of St.

Roche, in a moment of hallucination, has refused the rites of burial

to Mademoiselle Cameroi. One of his colleagues, a man of sense,

received the procession into the church of St. Thomas, where the

burial service was performed with the usual solemnities. The

archbishop of Paris has suspended the curate of St. Roche for three

months, to give him time to recollect that Jesus Christ commanded us

to pray even for our enemies. Being thus recalled by meditation to a

proper sense of his duties, he may learn that all these superstitious

observances, the offspring of an age of credulity or of crazed

imaginations, tend only to the discredit of true religion, and have

been proscribed by the recent concordat of the French Church." The

most strenuous exertions were made by the clergy to induce Napoleon

publicly to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. It was

thought that his high example would be very influential upon others.

Napoleon nobly replied, "I have not sufficient faith in the ordinance

to be benefited by its reception; and I have too much faith in it to

allow me to be guilty of sacrilege. We are well as we are. Do not ask

me to go farther. You will never obtain what you wish. I will not

become a hypocrite. Be content with what you have already gained."

It is difficult to describe the undisguised delight with which the

peasants all over France again heard the ringing of the church-bells

upon the Sabbath morning, and witnessed the opening of the

church-doors, the assembling of the congregations with smiles and

congratulations, and the repose of the Sabbath. Mr. Fox, in

conversation with Napoleon, after the peace of Amiens, ventured to

blame him for not having authorized the marriage of priests in France.

"I then had," said Napoleon, in his nervous eloquence, "need to

pacify. It is with water and not with oil that you must extinguish

theological volcanoes. I should have had less difficulty in

establishing the Protestant religion in my empire."

The magistrates of Paris, grateful for the inestimable blessings which

Napoleon had conferred upon France, requested him to accept the

project of a triumphal monument to be erected in his honor at a cost

of one hundred thousand dollars. Napoleon gave the following reply. "I

view with grateful acknowledgments those sentiments which actuate the

magistrates of the city of Paris. The idea of dedicating monumental

trophies to those men who have rendered themselves useful to the

community is a praiseworthy action in all nations. I accept the offer

of the monument which you desire to dedicate to me. Let the spot be

designated. But leave the labor of constructing it to future

generations, should they think fit thus to sanction the estimate which

you place upon my services."

There was an indescribable fascination about the character of

Napoleon, which no other man ever possessed, and which all felt who

entered his presence. Some military officers of high rank, on one

occasion, in these days of his early power, agreed to go and

remonstrate with him upon some subject which had given them offense.

One of the party thus describes the interview.

"I do not know whence it arises, but there is a charm about that man,

which is indescribable and irresistible. I am no admirer of him. I

dislike the power to which he has risen. Yet I can not help confessing

that there is a something in him, which seems to speak that he is born

to command. We went into his apartment determined to declare our minds

to him very freely; to expostulate with him warmly, and not to depart

till our subjects of complaint were removed. But in his manner of

receiving us, there was a certain something, a degree of fascination,

which disarmed us in a moment; nor could we utter one word of what we

had intended to say. He talked to us for a long time, with an

eloquence peculiarly his own, explaining, with the utmost clearness

and precision, the necessity for steadily pursuing the line of conduct

he had adopted. Without contradicting us in direct terms, he

controverted our opinions so ably, that we had not a word to say in

reply. We left him, having done nothing else but listen to him,

instead of expostulating with him; and fully convinced, at least for

the moment, that he was in the right, and that we were in the wrong."

The merchants of Rouen experienced a similar fascination, when they

called to remonstrate against some commercial regulations which

Napoleon had introduced. They were so entirely disarmed by his

frankness, his sincerity, and were so deeply impressed by the extent

and the depth of his views, that they retired, saying, "The First

Consul understands our interests far better than we do ourselves."

"The man," says Lady Morgan, "who, at the head of a vast empire, could

plan great and lasting works, conquer nations, and yet talk astronomy

with La Place, tragedy with Talma, music with Cherubini, painting with

Gerrard, _vertu_ with Denon, and literature and science with any one

who would listen to him, was certainly out of the roll of common men."

Napoleon now exerted all his energies for the elevation of France. He

sought out and encouraged talent wherever it could be found. No merit

escaped his princely munificence. Authors, artists, men of science

were loaded with honors and emoluments. He devoted most earnest

attention to the education of youth. The navy, commerce, agriculture,

manufactures, and all mechanic arts, secured his assiduous care. He

labored to the utmost, and with a moral courage above all praise, to

discountenance whatever was loose in morals, or enervating or unmanly

in amusements or taste. The theatre was the most popular source of

entertainment in France. He frowned upon all frivolous and immodest

performances, and encouraged those only which were moral, grave, and

dignified. In the grandeur of tragedy alone he took pleasure. In his

private deportment he exhibited the example of a moral, simple, and

toilsome life. Among the forty millions of France, there was not to be

found a more temperate and laborious man. When nights of labor

succeeded days of toil, his only stimulus was lemonade. He loved his

own family and friends, and was loved by them with a fervor which

soared into the regions of devotion. Never before did mortal man

secure such love. Thousands were ready at any moment to lay down their

lives through their affection for him. And that mysterious charm was

so strong that it has survived his death. Thousands now live who would

brave death in any form from love for Napoleon.

PECULIAR HABITS OF DISTINGUISHED AUTHORS.

Among the curious facts which we find in perusing the biographies of

great men, are the circumstances connected with the composition of the

works which have made them immortal.

For instance, Bossuet composed his grand sermons on his knees; Bulwer

wrote his first novels in full dress, scented; Milton, before

commencing his great work, invoked the influence of the Holy Spirit,

and prayed that his lips might be touched with a live coal from off

the altar; Chrysostom meditated and studied while contemplating a

painting of Saint Paul.

Bacon knelt down before composing his great work, and prayed for light

from Heaven. Pope never could compose well without first declaiming

for some time at the top of his voice, and thus rousing his nervous

system to its fullest activity.

Bentham composed after playing a prelude on the organ, or while taking

his "ante-jentacular" and "post-prandial" walks in his garden--the

same, by the way, that Milton occupied. Saint Bernard composed his

Meditations amidst the woods; he delighted in nothing so much as the

solitude of the dense forest, finding there, he said, something more

profound and suggestive than any thing he could find in books. The

storm would sometimes fall upon him there, without for a moment

interrupting his meditations. Camoens composed his verses with the

roar of battle in his ears; for, the Portuguese poet was a soldier,

and a brave one, though a poet. He composed others of his most

beautiful verses, at the time when his Indian slave was begging a

subsistence for him in the streets. Tasso wrote his finest pieces in

the lucid intervals of madness.

Rousseau wrote his works early in the morning; Le Sage at mid-day;

Byron at midnight. Hardouin rose at four in the morning, and wrote

till late at night. Aristotle was a tremendous worker; he took little

sleep, and was constantly retrenching it. He had a contrivance by

which he awoke early, and to awake was with him to commence work.

Demosthenes passed three months in a cavern by the sea-side, in

laboring to overcome the defects of his voice. There he read, studied,

and declaimed.

Rabelais composed his Life of _Gargantua_ at Bellay, in the company of

Roman cardinals, and under the eyes of the Bishop of Paris. La

Fontaine wrote his fables chiefly under the shade of a tree, and

sometimes by the side of Racine and Boileau. Pascal wrote most of his

Thoughts on little scraps of paper, at his by-moments. Fenelon wrote

his _Telemachus_ in the palace of Versailles, at the court of the

Grand Monarque, when discharging the duties of tutor to the Dauphin.

That a book so thoroughly democratic should have issued from such a

source, and been written by a priest, may seem surprising. De Quesnay

first promulgated his notion of universal freedom of person and trade,

and of throwing all taxes on the land--the germ, perhaps, of the

French Revolution--in the _boudoir_ of Madame de Pompadour!

Luther, when studying, always had his dog lying at his feet--a dog he

had brought from Wartburg, and of which he was very fond. An ivory

crucifix stood on the table before him, and the walls of his study

were stuck round with caricatures of the Pope. He worked at his desk

for days together without going out; but when fatigued, and the ideas

began to stagnate in his brain, he would take his flute or his guitar

with him into the porch, and there execute some musical fantasy (for

he was a skillful musician), when the ideas would flow upon him again

as fresh as flowers after summer's rain. Music was his invariable

solace at such times. Indeed Luther did not hesitate to say, that

after theology, music was the first of arts. "Music," said he, "is the

art of the prophets; it is the only other art, which, like theology,

can calm the agitation of the soul, and put the devil to flight." Next

to music, if not before it, Luther loved children and flowers. That

great gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman's.

Calvin studied in his bed. Every morning at five or six o'clock, he

had books, manuscripts, and papers, carried to him there, and he

worked on for hours together. If he had occasion to go out, on his

return he undressed and went to bed again to continue his studies. In

his later years he dictated his writings to secretaries. He rarely

corrected any thing. The sentences issued complete from his mouth. If

he felt his facility of composition leaving him, he forthwith quitted

his bed, gave up writing and composing, and went about his out-door

duties for days, weeks, and months together. But so soon as he felt

the inspiration fall upon him again, he went back to his bed, and his

secretary set to work forthwith.

Cujas, another learned man, used to study when laid all his length

upon the carpet, his face toward the floor, and there he reveled

amidst piles of books which accumulated about him. The learned Amyot

never studied without the harpsichord beside him; and he only quitted

the pen to play it. Bentham, also, was extremely fond of the

piano-forte, and had one in nearly every room in his house.

Richelieu amused himself in the intervals of his labor, with a

squadron of cats, of whom he was very fond. He used to go to bed at

eleven at night, and after sleeping three hours, rise and write,

dictate or work, till from six to eight o'clock in the morning, when

his daily levee was held. This worthy student displayed an

extravagance equaling that of Wolsey. His annual expenditure was some

four millions of francs, or about £170,000 sterling!

How different the fastidious temperance of Milton! He drank water and

lived on the humblest fare. In his youth he studied during the

greatest part of the night; but in his more advanced years he went

early to bed--by nine o'clock--rising to his studies at four in summer

and five in winter. He studied till mid-day; then he took an hour's

exercise, and after dinner he sang and played the organ, or listened

to others' music. He studied again till six, and from that hour till

eight he engaged in conversation with friends who came to see him.

Then he supped, smoked a pipe of tobacco, drank a glass of water, and

went to bed. Glorious visions came to him in the night, for it was

then, while lying on his couch, that he composed in thought the

greater part of his sublime poem. Sometimes when the fit of

composition came strong upon him, he would summon his daughter to his

side, to commit to paper that which he had composed.

Milton was of opinion that the verses composed by him between the

autumnal and spring equinoxes were always the best, and he was never

satisfied with the verses he had written at any other season. Alfieri,

on the contrary, said that the equinoctial winds produced a state of

almost "complete stupidity" in him. Like the nightingales he could

only sing in summer. It was his favorite season.

Pierre Corneille, in his loftiest flights of imagination, was often

brought to a stand-still for want of words and rhyme. Thoughts were

seething in his brain, which he vainly tried to reduce to order, and

he would often run to his brother Thomas "for a word." Thomas rarely

failed him. Sometimes, in his fits of inspiration, he would bandage

his eyes, throw himself on a sofa, and dictate to his wife, who almost

worshiped his genius. Thus he would pass whole days, dictating to her

his great tragedies; his wife scarcely venturing to speak, almost

afraid to breathe. Afterward, when a tragedy was finished, he would

call in his sister Martha, and submit it to her judgment; as Moliere

used to consult his old housekeeper about the comedies he had newly

written.

Racine composed his verses while walking about, reciting them in a

loud voice. One day, when thus working at his play of _Mithridates_,

in the Tuileries Gardens, a crowd of workmen gathered around him,

attracted by his gestures; they took him to be a madman about to throw

himself into the basin. On his return home from such walks, he would

write down scene by scene, at first in prose, and when he had thus

written it out, he would exclaim, "My tragedy is done," considering

the dressing of the acts up in verse as a very small affair.

Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the Duke of Tuscany, on the

contrary, never stirred abroad, but lived amidst books, and almost

lived upon books. They were his bed, board, and washing. He passed

eight-and-forty years in their midst, only twice in the course of his

life venturing beyond the walls of Florence; once to go two leagues

off, and the other time three and a half leagues, by order of the

Grand Duke. He was an extremely frugal man, living upon eggs, bread,

and water, in great moderation.

The life of Liebnitz was one of reading, writing, and meditation. That

was the secret of his prodigious knowledge. After an attack of gout,

he confined himself to a diet of bread and milk. Often he slept in a

chair; and rarely went to bed till after midnight. Sometimes he was

months without quitting his seat, where he slept by night and wrote by

day. He had an ulcer in his right leg which prevented his walking

about, even had he wished to do so.

The chamber in which Montesquieu wrote his _Spirit of the Laws_, is

still shown at his old ancestral mansion; hung about with its old

tapestry and curtains; and the old easy chair in which the philosopher

sat is still sacredly preserved there. The chimney-jamb bears the

mark of his foot, where he used to rest upon it, his legs crossed,

when composing his books. His _Persian Letters_ were composed merely

for pastime, and were never intended for publication. The principles

of Laws occupied his life. In the study of these he spent twenty

years, losing health and eye-sight in the pursuit. As in the case of

Milton, his daughter read for him, and acted as his secretary. In his

Portrait of himself, he said--"I awake in the morning rejoiced at the

sight of day. I see the sun with a kind of ecstasy, and for the rest

of the day I am content. I pass the night without waking, and in the

evening when I go to bed, a kind of numbness prevents me indulging in

reflections. With me, study has been the sovereign remedy against

disgust of life, having never had any vexation which an hour's reading

has not dissipated. But I have the disease of making books, and of

being ashamed when I have made them."

Rousseau had the greatest difficulty in composing his works, being

extremely defective in the gift of memory. He could never learn six

verses by heart. In his _Confessions_ he says--"I studied and

meditated in bed, forming sentences with inconceivable difficulty;

then, when I thought I had got them into shape, I would rise to put

them on paper. But lo! I often entirely forgot them during the process

of dressing!" He would then walk abroad to refresh himself by the

aspect of nature, and under its influence his most successful writings

were composed. He was always leaving books which he carried about with

him at the foot of trees, or by the margin of fountains. He sometimes

wrote his books over from beginning to end, four or five times, before

giving them to the press. Some of his sentences cost him four or five

nights' study. He thought with difficulty, and wrote with still

greater. It is astonishing that, with such a kind of intellect, he

should have been able to do so much.

The summer study of the famous Buffon, at Montbar, is still shown,

just as he left it. It is a little room in a pavilion, reached by

mounting a ladder, through a green door with two folds. The place

looks simplicity itself. The apartment is vaulted like some old

chapel, and the walls are painted green. The floor is paved with

tiles. A writing-table of plain wood stands in the centre, and before

it is an easy chair. That is all! The place was the summer study of

Buffon. In winter, he had a warmer room within his house, where he

wrote his _Natural History_. There, on his desk, his pen still lies,

and by the side of it, on his easy chair, his red dressing-gown and

cap of gray silk. On the wall near to where he sat, hangs an engraved

portrait of Newton. There, and in his garden cabinet, he spent many

years of his life, studying and writing books. He studied his work

entitled _Epoques de la Nature_ for fifty years, and wrote it over

_eighteen times_ before publishing it! What would our galloping

authors say to that?

Buffon used to work on pages of five distinct columns, like a ledger.

In the first column he wrote out the first draught; in the second he

corrected, added, pruned, and improved; thus proceeding until he had

reached the fifth column, in which he finally wrote out the result of

his labor. But this was not all. He would sometimes re-write a

sentence twenty times, and was once fourteen hours in finding the

proper word for the turning of a period! Buffon knew nearly all his

works by heart.

On the contrary, Cuvier never re-copied what he had once written. He

composed with great rapidity, correctness, and precision. His mind was

always in complete order, and his memory was exact and extensive.

Some writers have been prodigiously laborious in the composition of

their works. Cæsar had, of course, an immense multiplicity of

business, as a general, to get through; but he had always a secretary

by his side, even when on horseback, to whom he dictated; and often he

occupied two or three secretaries at once. His famous _Commentaries_

are said to have been composed mostly on horseback.

Seneca was very laborious. "I have not a single idle day," said he,

describing his life, "and I give a part of every night to study. I do

not give myself up to sleep, but succumb to it. I have separated

myself from society, and renounced all the distractions of life." With

many of these old heathens, study was their religion.

Pliny the Elder read two thousand volumes in the composition of his

Natural History. How to find time for this? He managed it by devoting

his days to business and his nights to study. He had books read to him

while he was at meals; and he read no book without making extracts.

His nephew, Pliny the Younger, has given a highly interesting account

of the intimate and daily life of his uncle.

Origen employed seven writers while composing his _Commentaries_, who

committed to paper what he dictated to them by turns. He was so

indefatigable in writing that they gave him the name of _Brass

Bowels_! Like Philip de Comines, Sully used to dictate to four

secretaries at a time, without difficulty.

Bossuet left _fifty volumes_ of writings behind him, the result of

unintermitting labor. The pen rarely quitted his fingers. Writing

became habitual to him, and he even chose it as a relaxation. A

night-lamp was constantly lit beside him, and he would rise at all

hours to resume his meditations. He rose at about four o'clock in the

morning during summer and winter, wrapped himself in his loose dress

of bear's skin, and set to work. He worked on for hours, until he felt

fatigued, and then went to bed again, falling asleep at once. This

life he led for more than twenty years. As he grew older, and became

disabled for hard work, he began translating the Psalms into verse, to

pass time. In the intervals of fatigue and pain, he read and corrected

his former works.

Some writers composed with great rapidity, others slowly and with

difficulty. Byron said of himself, that though he felt driven to

write, and he was in a state of torture until he had fairly delivered

himself of what he had to say, yet that writing never gave him any

pleasure, but was felt to be a severe labor. Scott, on the contrary,

possessed the most extraordinary facility; and dashed off a great

novel of three volumes in about the same number of weeks.

"I have written _Catiline_ in eight days," said Voltaire; "and I

immediately commenced the _Henriade_." Voltaire was a most impatient

writer, and usually had the first half of a work set up in type before

the second half was written. He always had several works in the course

of composition at the same time. His manner of preparing a work was

peculiar. He had his first sketch of a tragedy set up in type, and

then rewrote it from the proofs. Balzac adopted the same plan. The

printed form enabled them to introduce effects, and correct errors

more easily.

Pascal wrote most of his thoughts on little scraps of paper, at his

by-moments of leisure. He produced them with immense rapidity. He

wrote in a kind of contracted language--like short hand--impossible to

read, except by those who had studied it. It resembled the impatient

and fiery scratches of Napoleon; yet, though half-formed, the

characters have the firmness and precision of the graver. Some one

observed to Faguere (Pascal's editor), "This work (deciphering it)

must be very fatiguing to the eyes." "No," said he, "it is not the

eyes that are fatigued, so much as the brain."

Many authors have been distinguished for the fastidiousness of their

composition--never resting satisfied, but correcting and re-correcting

to the last moment. Cicero spent his old age in correcting his

orations; Massillon in polishing his sermons; Fenelon corrected his

_Telemachus_ seven times over.

Of thirty verses which Virgil wrote in the morning, there were only

ten left at night. Milton often cut down forty verses to twenty.

Buffon would condense six pages into as many paragraphs. Montaigne,

instead of cutting down, amplified and added to his first sketch.

Boileau had great difficulty in making his verses. He said--"If I

write four words, I erase three of them;" and at another time--"I

sometimes hunt three hours for a rhyme!"

Some authors were never satisfied with their work. Virgil ordered his

_Æneid_ to be burnt. Voltaire cast his poem of _The League_ into the

fire. Racine and Scott could not bear to read their productions again.

Michael Angelo was always dissatisfied; he found faults in his

greatest and most admired works.

Many of the most admired writings were never intended by their authors

for publication. Fenelon, when he wrote _Telemachus_, had no intention

of publishing it. Voltaire's _Correspondence_ was never intended for

publication, and yet it is perused with avidity; whereas his

_Henriade_, so often corrected by him, is scarcely read. Madame de

Sevigní, in writing to her daughter those fascinating letters

descriptive of the life of the French Court, never had any idea of

their publication, or that they would be cited as models of

composition and style. What work of Johnson's is best known? Is it not

that by Boswell, which contains the great philosopher's

conversation?--that which he never intended should come to light, and

for which we have to thank Bozzy.

There is a great difference in the sensitiveness of authors to

criticism. Sir Walter Scott passed thirteen years without reading what

the critics or reviewers said of his writings; while Byron was

sensitive to an excess about what was said of him. It was the

reviewers who stung him into his first work of genius--_English Bards

and Scotch Reviewers_. Racine was very sensitive to criticism; and

poor Keats was "snuffed out by an article." Moliere was thrown into a

great rage when his plays were badly acted. One day, after _Tartuffe_

had been played, an actor found him stamping about as if mad, and

beating his head, crying--"Ah! dog! Ah! butcher!" On being asked what

was the matter, he replied--"Don't be surprised at my emotion! I have

just been seeing an actor falsely and execrably declaiming my piece;

and I can not see my children maltreated in this horrid way, without

suffering the tortures of the damned!" The first time Voltaire's

_Artemise_ was played, it was _hissed_. Voltaire, indignant, sprang to

his feet in his box, and addressed the audience! At another time, at

Lausanne, where an actress seemed fully to apprehend his meaning, he

rushed upon the stage and embraced her knees!

A great deal might be said about the first failures of authors and

orators. Demosthenes stammered, and was almost inaudible, when he

first tried to speak before Philip. He seemed like a man moribund.

Other orators have broken down, like Demosthenes, in their first

effort. Curran tried to speak, for the first time, at a meeting of the

Irish Historical Society; but the words died on his lips, and he sat

down amid titters--an individual present characterizing him as _orator

Mum_. Boileau broke down as an advocate, and so did Cowper, the poet.

Montesquieu and Bentham were also failures in the same profession, but

mainly through disgust with it. Addison, when a member of the House of

Commons, once rose to speak, but he could not overcome his diffidence,

and ever after remained silent.

OSTRICHES.

HOW THEY ARE HUNTED.

The family of birds, of which the ostrich forms the leading type, is

remarkable for the wide dispersion of its various members; the ostrich

itself spreads over nearly the whole of the burning deserts of

Africa--the Cassowary represents it amid the luxuriant vegetation of

the Indian Archipelago. The Dinornis, chief of birds, formerly towered

among the ferns of New Zealand, where the small Apteryx now holds its

place; and the huge Æpyornis strode along the forests of Madagascar.

The Emu is confined to the great Australian continent, and the Rhea to

the southern extremity of the western hemisphere; while nearer home

we find the class represented by the Bustard, which, until within a

few years, still lingered upon the least frequented downs and plains

of England.

With the Arabs of the desert, the chase of the ostrich is the most

attractive and eagerly sought of the many aristocratic diversions in

which they indulge. The first point attended to, is a special

preparation of their horses. Seven or eight days before the intended

hunt, they are entirely deprived of straw and grass, and fed on barley

only. They are only allowed to drink once a day, and that at

sunset--the time when the water begins to freshen: at that time also

they are washed. They take long daily exercises, and are occasionally

galloped, at which time care is taken that the harness is right, and

suited to the chase of the ostrich. "After seven or eight days," says

the Arab, "the stomach of the horse disappears, while the chest, the

breast, and the croup remain in flesh; the animal is then fit to

endure fatigue." They call this training _techaha_. The harness used

for the purpose in question is lighter than ordinary, especially the

stirrups and saddle, and the martingale is removed. The bridle, too,

undergoes many metamorphoses; the mountings and the ear-flaps are

taken away, as too heavy. The bit is made of a camel rope, without a

throat-band, and the frontlet is also of cord, and the reins, though

strong, are very light. The period most favorable for ostrich-hunting

is that of the great heat; the higher the temperature the less is the

ostrich able to defend himself. The Arabs describe the precise time as

that, when a man stands upright, his shadow has the length only of the

sole of his foot.

Each horseman is accompanied by a servant called _zemmal_, mounted on

a camel, carrying four goat-skins filled with water, barley for the

horse, wheat-flour for the rider, some dates, a kettle to cook the

food, and every thing which can possibly be required for the repair of

the harness. The horseman contents himself with a linen vest and

trowsers, and covers his neck and ears with a light material called

_havuli_, tied with a strip of camel's hide; his feet are protected

with sandals, and his legs with light gaiters called _trabag_. He is

armed with neither gun nor pistol, his only weapon being a wild olive

or tamarind stick, five or six feet long, with a heavy knob at one

end.

Before starting, the hunters ascertain where a large number of

ostriches are to be found. These birds are generally met with in

places where there is much grass, and where rain has recently fallen.

The Arabs say, that where the ostrich sees the light shine, and barley

getting ready, wherever it may be, thither she runs, regardless of

distance; and ten days' march is nothing to her; and it has passed

into a proverb in the desert, of a man skillful in the care of flocks,

and in finding pasturage, that he is like the ostrich, where he sees

the light there he comes.

The hunters start in the morning. After one or two days' journey, when

they have arrived near the spot pointed out, and they begin to

perceive traces of their game, they halt and camp. The next day, two

intelligent slaves, almost entirely stripped, are sent to reconnoitre;

they each carry a goat-skin at their side, and a little bread; they

walk until they meet with the ostriches, which are generally found in

elevated places. As soon as the game is in view, one lies down to

watch, the other returns to convey the information. The ostriches are

found in troops, comprising sometimes as many as sixty: but at the

pairing time they are more scattered, three or four couple only

remaining together.

The horsemen, guided by the scout, travel gently toward the birds; the

nearer they approach the spot the greater is their caution, and when

they reach the last ridge which conceals them from the view of their

game, they dismount, and two creep forward to ascertain if they are

still there. Should such be the case, a moderate quantity of water is

given to the horses, the baggage is left, and each man mounts,

carrying at his side a _chebouta_, or goat-skin. The servants and

camels follow the track of the horsemen, carrying with them only a

little corn and water.

The exact position of the ostriches being known, the plans are

arranged; the horsemen divide and form a circle round the game at such

a distance as not to be seen. The servants wait where the horsemen

have separated, and as soon as they see them at their posts, they walk

right before them; the ostriches fly, but are met by the hunters, who

do nothing at first but drive them back into the circle; thus their

strength is exhausted by being made to continually run round in the

ring. At the first signs of fatigue in the birds, the horsemen dash

in--presently the flock separates; the exhausted birds are seen to

open their wings, which is a sign of great exhaustion; the horsemen,

certain of their prey, now repress their horses; each hunter selects

his ostrich, runs it down, and finishes it by a blow on the head with

the stick above mentioned. The moment the bird falls the man jumps off

his horse, and cuts her throat, taking care to hold the neck at such a

distance from the body, as not to soil the plumage of the wings. The

male bird, while dying, utters loud moans, but the female dies in

silence.

When the ostrich is on the point of being overtaken by the hunter, she

is so fatigued, that if he does not wish to kill her, she can easily

be driven with the stick to the neighborhood of the camels.

Immediately after the birds have been bled to death, they are

carefully skinned, so that the feathers may not be injured, and the

skin is then stretched upon a tree, or on a horse, and salt rubbed

well into it. A fire is lit, and the fat of the birds is boiled for a

long time in kettles; when very liquid, it is poured into a sort of

bottle made of the skin of the thigh and leg down to the foot,

strongly fastened at the bottom; the fat of one bird is usually

sufficient to fill two of these legs; it is said that in any other

vessel the fat would spoil. When, however, the bird is breeding, she

is extremely lean, and is then hunted only for the sake of her

feathers. After these arrangements are completed, the flesh is eaten

by the hunters, who season it well with pepper and flour.

While these proceedings are in progress, the horses are carefully

tended, watered, and fed with corn, and the party remain quiet during

forty-eight hours, to give their animals rest; after that they either

return to their encampment, or embark in new enterprises.

To the Arab the chase of the ostrich has a double attraction--pleasure

and profit; the price obtained for the skins well compensates for the

expenses. Not only do the rich enjoy the pursuit, but the poor, who

know how to set about it, are permitted to participate in it also. The

usual plan is for a poor Arab to arrange with one who is opulent for

the loan of his camel, horse, harness, and two-thirds of all the

necessary provisions. The borrower furnishes himself the remaining

third, and the produce of the chase is divided in the same

proportions.

The ostrich, like many other of the feathered tribe, has a great deal

of self-conceit. On fine sunny days a tame bird may be seen strutting

backward and forward with great majesty, fanning itself with its

quivering, expanded wings, and at every turn seeming to admire its

grace, and the elegance of its shadow. Dr. Shaw says that, though

these birds appear tame and tractable to persons well-known to them,

they are often very fierce and violent toward strangers, whom they

would not only endeavor to push down by running furiously against

them, but they would peck at them with their beaks, and strike with

their feet; and so violent is the blow that can be given, that the

doctor saw a person whose abdomen had been ripped completely open by a

stroke from the claw of an ostrich.

To have the stomach of an ostrich has become proverbial, and with good

reason; for this bird stands enviably forward in respect to its

wonderful powers of digestion, which are scarcely inferior to its

voracity. Its natural food consists entirely of vegetable substances,

especially grain; and the ostrich is a most destructive enemy to the

crops of the African farmers. But its sense of taste is so obtuse,

that scraps of leather, old nails, bits of tin, buttons, keys, coins,

and pebbles, are devoured with equal relish; in fact, nothing comes

amiss. But in this it doubtless follows an instinct: for these hard

bodies assist, like the gravel in the crops of our domestic poultry,

in grinding down and preparing for digestion its ordinary food.

There was found by Cuvier in the stomach of an ostrich that died at

Paris, nearly a pound weight of stones, bits of iron and copper, and

pieces of money worn down by constant attrition against each other, as

well as by the action of the stomach itself. In the stomach of one of

these birds which belonged to the menagerie of George the Fourth,

there were contained some pieces of wood of considerable size, several

large nails, and a hen's egg entire and uninjured, perhaps taken as a

delicacy from its appetite becoming capricious. In the stomach of

another, beside several large cabbage-stalks, there were masses of

bricks of the size of a man's fist. Sparrman relates that he saw

ostriches at the Cape so tame that they went loose to and from the

farm, but they were so voracious as to swallow chickens whole, and

trample hens to death, that they might tear them in pieces afterward

and devour them; and one great barrel of a bird was obliged to be

killed on account of an awkward habit he had acquired of trampling

sheep to death. But perhaps the most striking proof of the prowess of

an ostrich in the eating way, is that afforded by Dr. Shaw, who saw

one swallow bullet after bullet as fast as they were pitched,

scorching hot, from the mould.

A DULL TOWN.

Putting up for the night in one of the chiefest towns of

Staffordshire, I find it to be by no means a lively town. In fact, it

is as dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see. It

seems as if its whole population might be imprisoned in its Railway

Station. The Refreshment-room at that station is a vortex of

dissipation compared with the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the dull

High-street.

Why High-street? Why not rather Low-street, Flat-street,

Low-spirited-street, Used-up-street? Where are the people who belong

to the High-street? Can they all be dispersed over the face of the

country, seeking the unfortunate Strolling Manager who decamped from

the mouldy little theatre last week, in the beginning of his season

(as his play-bills testify), repentantly resolved to bring him back,

and feed him, and be entertained? Or, can they all be gathered

to their fathers in the two old church-yards near to the

High-street--retirement into which church-yards appears to be a mere

ceremony, there is so very little life outside their confines, and

such small discernible difference between being buried alive in the

town, and buried dead in the town-tombs? Over the way, opposite to the

staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little ironmonger's shop,

a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the fashions in the small

window and a bandy-legged baby on the pavement staring at it)--a

watchmaker's shop, where all the clocks and watches must be stopped, I

am sure, for they could never have the courage to go, with the town in

general, and the Dodo in particular, looking at them. Shade of Miss

Linwood, erst of Leicester-square, London, thou art welcome here, and

thy retreat is fitly chosen! I myself was one of the last visitors to

that awful storehouse of thy life's work, where an anchorite old man

and woman took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and conducting me to

a gloomy sepulchre of needlework dropping to pieces with dust and age,

and shrouded in twilight at high noon, left me there, chilled,

frightened, and alone. And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead

walls of this dead town, I read thy honored name, and find, that thy

Last Supper, worked in Berlin Wool, invites inspection as a powerful

excitement!

Where are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast of

little wool? Where are they? Who are they? They are not the

bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's window. They

are not the two earthy plow-men lounging outside the saddler's

shop, in the stiff square where the Town Hall stands, like a

brick-and-mortar private on parade. They are not the landlady of the

Dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it and no welcome,

when I asked for dinner. They are not the turnkeys of the Town Jail,

looking out of the gateway in their uniforms, as if they had locked up

all the balance (as my American friends would say) of the inhabitants,

and could now rest a little. They are not the two dusty millers in the

white mill down by the river, where the great water-wheel goes heavily

round and round, like the monotonous days and nights in this forgotten

place. Then who are they? for there is no one else. No; this deponent

maketh oath and saith that there is no one else, save and except the

waiter at the Dodo, now laying the cloth. I have paced the streets,

and stared at the houses, and am come back to the blank bow-window of

the Dodo; and the town-clock strikes seven, and the reluctant echoes

seem to cry, "Don't wake us!" and the bandy-legged baby has gone home

to bed.

If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird--if it had only some confused

idea of making a comfortable nest--I could hope to get through the

hours between this and bed-time, without being consumed by devouring

melancholy. But the Dodo's habits are all wrong. It provides me with a

trackless desert of sitting-room, with a chair for every day in the

year, a table for every month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely

China vase pines in a corner for its mate long departed, and will

never make a match with the candlestick in the opposite corner if it

live till doomsday. The Dodo has nothing in the larder. Even now, I

behold the Boots returning with my sole in a piece of paper; and with

that portion of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the blank

bow-window, slaps his leg as he comes across the road, pretending it

is something else. The Dodo excludes the outer air. When I mount up to

my bed-room, a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like

sleepy snuff. The loose little bits of carpet writhe under my tread,

and take wormy shapes. I don't know the ridiculous man in the

looking-glass, beyond having met him once or twice in a

dish-cover--and I can never shave _him_ to-morrow morning! The Dodo is

narrow-minded as to towels; expects me to wash on a freemason's apron

without the trimming; when I ask for soap, gives me a stony-hearted

something white, with no more lather in it than the Elgin marbles. The

Dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable stables at the

back--silent, grass-grown, broken-windowed, horseless.

This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much. Can cook a

steak, too, which is more. I wonder where it gets its Sherry! If I

were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist to be analyzed,

what would it turn out to be made of? It tastes of pepper, sugar,

bitter almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat drink, and a little

brandy. Would it unman a Spanish exile by reminding him of his native

land at all? I think not. If there really be any townspeople out of

the church-yards, and if a caravan of them ever do dine, with a bottle

of wine per man, in this desert of the Dodo, it must make good for the

doctor next day!

Where was the waiter born? How did he come here? Has he any hope of

getting away from here? Does he ever receive a letter, or take a ride

upon the railway, or see any thing but the Dodo? Perhaps he has seen

the Berlin Wool. He appears to have a silent sorrow on him, and it may

be that. He clears the table; draws the dingy curtains of the great

bow-window, which so unwillingly consent to meet, that they must be

pinned together; leaves me by the fire with my pint decanter, and a

little thin funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a plate of pale biscuits--in

themselves engendering desperation.

No book, no newspapers! I left the Arabian Nights in the railway

carriage, and have nothing to read but Bradshaw, and "that way madness

lies." Remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked mariners have done

to exercise their minds in solitude, I repeat the multiplication

table, the pence table, and the shilling table: which are all the

tables I happen to know. What if I write something? The Dodo keeps no

pens but steel pens; and those I always stick through the paper, and

can turn to no other account.

What am I to do? Even if I could have the bandy-legged baby knocked up

and brought here, I could offer him nothing but sherry, and that would

be the death of him. He would never hold up his head again, if he

touched it. I can't go to bed, because I have conceived a mortal

hatred for my bedroom; and I can't go away because there is no train

for my place of destination until morning. To burn the biscuits will

be but a fleeting joy; still it is a temporary relief, and here they

go on the fire!

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[B]

[Footnote B: Continued from the June Number.]

CHAPTER X.--CONTINUED.

Randal walked home slowly. It was a cold moonlit night. Young idlers

of his own years and rank passed him by, on their way from the haunts

of social pleasure. They were yet in the first fair holiday of life.

Life's holiday had gone from him forever. Graver men, in the various

callings of masculine labor--professions, trade, the state--passed him

also. Their steps might be sober, and their faces careworn; but no

step had the furtive stealth of his--no face the same contracted,

sinister, suspicious gloom. Only once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and

on the opposite side of the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced an

eye, that seemed to betray a soul in sympathy with Randal Leslie's.

And Randal, who had heeded none of the other passengers by the way, as

if instinctively, took note of this one. His nerves crisped at the

noiseless slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp to lamp,

keeping pace with his own. He felt a sort of awe, as if he had beheld

the wraith of himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at the

arranger, the stranger glanced at him. He was inexpressibly relieved

when the figure turned down another street and vanished.

That man was a felon, as yet undetected. Between him and his kind

there stood but a thought--a vail air-spun, but impassable, as the

vail of the Image at Sais.

And thus moved and thus looked Randal Leslie, a thing of dark and

secret mischief--within the pale of the law, but equally removed from

man by the vague consciousness that at his heart lay that which the

eyes of man would abhor and loathe. Solitary amidst the vast city, and

on through the machinery of Civilization, went the still spirit of

Intellectual Evil.

CHAPTER XI

Early the next morning Randal received two notes--one from Frank,

written in great agitation, begging Randal to see and propitiate his

father, whom he feared he had grievously offended; and then running

off, rather incoherently, into protestations that his honor as well as

his affections were engaged irrevocably to Beatrice, and that her, at

least, he could never abandon.

And the second note was from the Squire himself--short, and far less

cordial than usual--requesting Mr. Leslie to call on him.

Randal dressed in haste, and went at once to Limmer's hotel.

He found the Parson with Mr. Hazeldean, and endeavoring in vain to

soothe him. The Squire had not slept all night, and his appearance was

almost haggard.

"Oho! Mr. young Leslie," said he, throwing himself back in his chair

as Randal entered--"I thought you were a friend--I thought you were

Frank's adviser. Explain, sir; explain."

"Gently, my dear Mr. Hazeldean," said the Parson. "You do but surprise

and alarm Mr. Leslie. Tell him more distinctly what he has to

explain."

SQUIRE.--"Did you or did you not tell me or Mrs. Hazeldean, that Frank

was in love with Violante Rickeybockey?"

RANDAL (as in amaze).--"I! Never, sir! I feared, on the contrary, that

he was somewhat enamored of a very different person. I hinted at that

possibility. I could not do more, for I did not know how far Frank's

affections were seriously engaged. And indeed, sir, Mrs. Hazeldean,

though not encouraging the idea that your son could marry a foreigner

and a Roman Catholic, did not appear to consider such objections

insuperable, if Frank's happiness were really at stake."

Here the poor Squire gave way to a burst of passion, that involved, in

one tempest, Frank, Randal, Harry herself, and the whole race of

foreigners, Roman Catholics, and women. While the Squire himself was

still incapable of hearing reason, the Parson, taking aside Randal,

convinced himself that the whole affair, so far as Randal was

concerned, had its origin in a very natural mistake; and that while

that young gentleman had been hinting at Beatrice, Mrs. Hazeldean had

been thinking of Violante. With considerable difficulty he succeeded

in conveying this explanation to the Squire, and somewhat appeasing

his wrath against Randal. And the Dissimulator, seizing his occasion,

then expressed so much grief and astonishment at learning that matters

had gone as far as the Parson informed him--that Frank had actually

proposed to Beatrice, been accepted, and engaged himself, before even

communicating with his father; he declared so earnestly, that he could

never conjure such evil--that he had had Frank's positive promise to

take no step without the sanction of his parents; he professed such

sympathy with the Squire's wounded feelings, and such regret at

Frank's involvement, that Mr. Hazeldean at last yielded up his honest

heart to his consoler--and gripping Randal's hand, said, "Well, well,

I wronged you--beg your pardon. What now is to be done?"

"Why, you can not consent to this marriage--impossible," replied

Randal; "and we must hope therefore to influence Frank, by his sense

of duty."

"That's it," said the Squire; "for I'll not give way. Pretty pass

things have come to, indeed! A widow too, I hear. Artful

jade--thought, no doubt, to catch a Hazeldean of Hazeldean. My estates

go to an outlandish Papistical set of mongrel brats! No, no, never!"

"But," said the Parson, mildly, "perhaps we may be unjustly prejudiced

against this lady. We should have consented to Violante--why not to

her? She is of good family?"

"Certainly," said Randal.

"And good character?"

Randal shook his head, and sighed. The Squire caught him roughly by

the arm--"Answer the Parson!" cried he, vehemently.

"Indeed, sir, I can not speak ill of the character of a woman, who

may, too, be Frank's wife; and the world is ill-natured, and not to be

believed. But you can judge for yourself, my dear Mr. Hazeldean. Ask

your brother whether Madame di Negra is one whom he would advise his

nephew to marry."

"My brother!" exclaimed the Squire furiously. "Consult my distant

brother on the affairs of my own son!"

"He is a man of the world," put in Randal.

"And of feeling and honor," said the Parson, "and, perhaps, through

him, we may be enabled to enlighten Frank, and save him from what

appears to be the snare of an artful woman."

"Meanwhile," said Randal, "I will seek Frank, and do my best with him.

Let me go now--I will return in an hour or so."

"I will accompany you," said the Parson.

"Nay, pardon me, but I think we two young men can talk more openly

without a third person, even so wise and kind as you."

"Let Randal go," growled the Squire. And Randal went.

He spent some time with Frank, and the reader will easily divine how

that time was employed. As he left Frank's lodgings, he found himself

suddenly seized by the Squire himself.

"I was too impatient to stay at home and listen to the Parson's

prosing," said Mr. Hazeldean, nervously. "I have shaken Dale off. Tell

me what has passed. Oh! don't fear--I'm a man, and can bear the

worst."

Randal drew the Squire's arm within his, and led him into the adjacent

park.

"My dear sir," said he, sorrowfully, "this is very confidential what I

am about to say. I must repeat it to you, because without such

confidence, I see not how to advise you on the proper course to take.

But if I betray Frank, it is for his good, and to his own

father:--only do not tell him. He would never forgive me--it would for

ever destroy my influence over him."

"Go on, go on," gasped the Squire; "speak out. I'll never tell the

ungrateful boy that I learned his secrets from another."

"Then," said Randal, "the secret of his entanglement with Madame di

Negra is simply this--he found her in debt--nay, on the point of being

arrested--"

"Debt!--arrested! Jezabel!"

"And in paying the debt himself, and saving her from arrest, he

conferred on her the obligation which no woman of honor could accept

save from her affianced husband. Poor Frank!--if sadly taken in, still

we must pity and forgive him!"

Suddenly, to Randal's great surprise, the Squire's whole face

brightened up.

"I see, I see!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "I have it--I have

it. 'Tis an affair of money! I can buy her off. If she took money from

him, the mercenary, painted baggage! why, then, she'll take it from

me. I don't care what it costs--half my fortune--all! I'd be content

never to see Hazeldean Hall again, if I could save my son, my own son,

from disgrace and misery; for miserable he will be when he knows he

has broken my heart and his mother's. And for a creature like that! My

boy, a thousand hearty thanks to you. Where does the wretch live? I'll

go to her at once." And as he spoke, the Squire actually pulled out

his pocket-book and began turning over and counting the bank-notes in

it.

Randal at first tried to combat this bold resolution on the part of

the Squire; but Mr. Hazeldean had seized on it with all the obstinacy

of his straightforward English mind. He cut Randal's persuasive

eloquence off in the midst.

"Don't waste your breath. I've settled it; and if you don't tell me

where she lives, 'tis easily found out, I suppose."

Randal mused a moment. "After all," thought he, "why not? He will be

sure so to speak as to enlist her pride against himself, and to

irritate Frank to the utmost. Let him go."

Accordingly, he gave the information required; and, insisting with

great earnestness on the Squire's promise, not to mention to Madam di

Negra his knowledge of Frank's pecuniary aid (for that would betray

Randal as the informant); and satisfying himself as he best might with

the Squire's prompt assurance, "that he knew how to settle matters,

without saying why or wherefore, as long as he opened his purse wide

enough," he accompanied Mr. Hazeldean back into the streets, and there

left him--fixing an hour in the evening for an interview at Limmer's,

and hinting that it would be best to have that interview without the

presence of the Parson. "Excellent good man," said Randal, "but not

with sufficient knowledge of the world for affairs of this kind, which

_you_ understand so well."

"I should think so," quoth the Squire, who had quite recovered his

good-humor. "And the Parson is as soft as buttermilk. We must be firm

here--firm, sir." And the Squire struck the end of his stick on the

pavement, nodded to Randal, and went on to Mayfair as sturdily and as

confidently as if to purchase a prize cow at a cattle-show.

CHAPTER XII

"Bring the light nearer," said John Burley--"nearer still."

Leonard obeyed, and placed the candle on a little table by the sick

man's bedside.

Burley's mind was partially wandering; but there was method in his

madness. Horace Walpole said that "his stomach would survive all the

rest of him." That which in Burley survived the last was his quaint

wild genius. He looked wistfully at the still flame of the candle. "It

lives ever in the air!" said he.

"What lives ever?"

Burley's voice swelled--"Light!" He turned from Leonard, and again

contemplated the little flame. "In the fixed star, in the

Will-o'-the-wisp, in the great sun that illumes half a world, or the

farthing rushlight by which the ragged student strains his eyes--still

the same flower of the elements. Light in the universe, thought in the

soul--ay--ay--Go on with the simile. My head swims. Extinguish the

light! You can not; fool, it vanishes from your eye, but it is still

in the space. Worlds must perish, suns shrivel up, matter and spirit

both fall into nothingness, before the combinations whose union makes

that little flame, which the breath of a babe can restore to darkness,

shall lose the power to unite into light once more. Lose the

power!--no, the _necessity_:--it is the one _Must_ in creation. Ay,

ay, very dark riddles grow clear now--now when I could not cast up an

addition sum in the baker's bill! What wise man denied that two and

two made four? Do they not make four? I can't answer him. But I could

answer a question that some wise men have contrived to make much

knottier." He smiled softly, and turned his face for some minutes to

the wall.

This was the second night on which Leonard had watched by his bedside,

and Burley's state had grown rapidly worse. He could not last many

days, perhaps many hours. But he had evinced an emotion beyond mere

delight at seeing Leonard again. He had since then been calmer, more

himself. "I feared I might have ruined you by my bad example," he

said, with a touch of humor that became pathos as he added, "That idea

preyed on me."

"No, no; you did me great good."

"Say that--say it often," said Burley, earnestly; "it makes my heart

feel so light."

He had listened to Leonard's story with deep interest, and was fond of

talking to him of little Helen. He detected the secret at the young

man's heart, and cheered the hopes that lay there, amidst fears and

sorrows. Burley never talked seriously of his repentance; it was not

in his nature to talk seriously of the things which he felt solemnly.

But his high animal spirits were quenched with the animal power that

fed them. Now, we go out of our sensual existence only when we are no

longer enthralled by the Present, in which the senses have their

realm. The sensual being vanishes when we are in the Past or the

Future. The Present was gone from Burley; he could no more be its

slave and its king.

It was most touching to see how the inner character of this man

unfolded itself, as the leaves of the outer character fell off and

withered--a character no one would have guessed in him--an inherent

refinement that was almost womanly; and he had all a woman's

abnegation of self. He took the cares lavished on him so meekly. As

the features of the old man return in the stillness of death to the

aspect of youth--the lines effaced, the wrinkles gone--so, in seeing

Burley now, you saw what he had been in his spring of promise. But he

himself saw only what he had failed to be--powers squandered--life

wasted. "I once beheld," he said, "a ship in a storm. It was a cloudy,

fitful day, and I could see the ship with all its masts fighting hard

for life and for death. Then came night, dark as pitch, and I could

only guess that the ship fought on. Toward the dawn the stars grew

visible, and once more I saw the ship--it was a wreck--it went down

just as the stars shone forth."

When he had made that allusion to himself, he sate very still for some

time, then he spread out his wasted hands, and gazed on them, and on

his shrunken limbs. "Good," said he, laughing low; "these hands were

too large and rude for handling the delicate webs of my own mechanism,

and these strong limbs ran away with me. If I had been a sickly, puny

fellow, perhaps my mind would have had fair play. There was too much

of brute body here! Look at this hand now! you can see the light

through it! Good, good!"

Now, that evening, until he had retired to bed, Burley had been

unusually cheerful, and had talked with much of his old eloquence, if

with little of his old humor. Among other matters, he had spoken with

considerable interest of some poems and other papers in manuscript

which had been left in the house by a former lodger, and which, the

reader may remember, that Mrs. Goodyer had urged him in vain to read,

in his last visit to her cottage. But _then_ he had her husband Jacob

to chat with, and the spirit-bottle to finish, and the wild craving

for excitement plucked his thoughts back to his London revels. Now

poor Jacob was dead, and it was not brandy that the sick man drank

from the widow's cruise. And London lay afar amidst its fogs, like a

world resolved back into nebulæ. So to please his hostess, and

distract his own solitary thoughts, he had condescended (just before

Leonard found him out) to peruse the memorials of a life obscure to

the world, and new to his own experience of coarse joys and woes. "I

have been making a romance, to amuse myself, from their contents,"

said he. "They may be of use to you, brother author. I have told Mrs.

Goodyer to place them in your room. Among those papers is a journal--a

woman's journal; it moved me greatly. A man gets into another world,

strange to him as the orb of Sirius, if he can transport himself into

the centre of a woman's heart, and see the life there, so wholly

unlike our own. Things of moment to us, to it so trivial; things

trifling to us, to it so vast. There was this journal--in its dates

reminding me of stormy events of my own existence, and grand doings in

the world's. And those dates there, chronicling but the mysterious

unrevealed record of some obscure loving heart! And in that chronicle,

O, Sir Poet, there was as much genius, vigor of thought, vitality of

being, poured and wasted, as ever kind friend will say was lavished on

the rude outer world by big John Burley! Genius, genius; are we all

alike, then, save when we leash ourselves to some matter-of-fact

material, and float over the roaring seas on a wooden plank or a

herring-tub?" And after he had uttered that cry of a secret anguish,

John Burley had begun to show symptoms of growing fever and disturbed

brain; and when they had got him into bed, he lay there muttering to

himself, until toward midnight he had asked Leonard to bring the light

nearer to him.

So now he again was quiet--with his face turned toward the wall; and

Leonard stood by the bedside sorrowfully, and Mrs. Goodyer, who did

not heed Burley's talk, and thought only of his physical state, was

dipping cloths into iced water to apply to his forehead. But as she

approached with these, and addressed him soothingly, Burley raised

himself on his arm, and waved aside the bandages. "I do not need

them," said he, in a collected voice. "I am better now. I and that

pleasant light understand one another, and I believe all it tells me.

Pooh, pooh, I do not rave." He looked so smilingly and so kindly into

her face, that the poor woman, who loved him as her own son, fairly

burst into tears. He drew her toward him and kissed her forehead.

"Peace, old fool," said he, fondly. "You shall tell anglers hereafter

how John Burley came to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never

caught: and how, when he gave it up at the last, his baits all gone,

and the line broken among the weeds, you comforted the baffled man.

There are many good fellows yet in the world who will like to know

that poor Burley did not die on a dunghill. Kiss me! Come, boy, you

too. Now, God bless you, I should like to sleep." His cheeks were wet

with the tears of both his listeners, and there was a moisture in his

own eyes, which, nevertheless, beamed bright through the moisture.

He laid himself down again, and the old woman would have withdrawn the

light. He moved uneasily. "Not that," he murmured--"light to the

last!" And putting forth his wan hand, he drew aside the curtain so

that the light might fall full on his face. In a few minutes he was

asleep, breathing calmly and regularly as an infant.

The old woman wiped her eyes, and drew Leonard softly into the

adjoining room, in which a bed had been made up for him. He had not

left the house since he had entered it with Dr. Morgan. "You are

young, sir," said she, with kindness, "and the young want sleep. Lie

down a bit: I will call you when he wakes."

"No, I could not sleep," said Leonard. "I will watch for you."

The old woman shook her head. "I must see the last of him, sir; but I

know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very

thoughtful of others."

"Ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!" murmured Leonard;

and he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow,

he dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a

dumb, moaning, sighing sound.

"What is that?" said he, starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.

"Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might

keep you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake.

And he had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the

poor young lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me

as he is; dearer perhaps until now--when--when--I am about to lose

him."

Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents:

they had no interest for him at such a moment.

The hostess went on--

"Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him: she did not look like one

long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers

besides these papers are still here; but I keep them aired and dusted,

and strew lavender over them, in case she ever comes for them again.

You never heard tell of her, did you, sir?" she added, with great

simplicity, and dropping a half courtsey.

"Of her?--of whom?"

"Did not Mr. John tell you her name--dear--dear?--Mrs. Bertram."

Leonard started;--the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley

L'Estrange.

"Bertram!" he repeated. "Are you sure?"

"O yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no

more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea,

sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to

know if it would tell us any thing about her; but it was all in a

foreign language like--we could not read a word."

"Have you the packet? Pray, show it to me. It may be of the greatest

value. To-morrow will do--I can not think of that just now. Poor

Burley!"

Leonard's manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be

alone. So Mrs. Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley's room on

tiptoe.

The young man remained in deep reverie for some moments. "Light," he

murmured. "How often "Light" is the last word of those round whom the

shades are gathering!"[C] He moved, and straight on his view through

the cottage lattice there streamed light, indeed--not the miserable

ray lit by a human hand--but the still and holy effulgence of a

moonlit heaven. It lay broad upon the humble floors--pierced across

the threshold of the death-chamber, and halted clear amidst its

shadows.

[Footnote C: Every one remembers that Goethe's last words

are said to have been, "More Light;" and perhaps what has

occurred in the text may be supposed a plagiarism from those

words. But, in fact, nothing is more common than the craving

and demand for light a little before death. Let any consult

his own sad experience in the last moments of those whose

gradual close he has watched and tended. What more frequent

than a prayer to open the shutters and let in the sun? What

complaint more repeated, and more touching, than "that it is

growing dark?" I once knew a sufferer--who did not then seem

in immediate danger--suddenly order the sick-room to be lit

up as if for a gala. When this was told to the physician, he

said gravely, "No worse sign."]

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent

splendor.

"And," he said inly--"and does this large erring nature, marred by its

genial faults--this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb

the room, with a light that linked earth to heaven--does it pass away

into the dark, and leave not a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of

light are ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to

the vital air--so thought, once kindled, lives for ever around and

about us, a part of our breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many a

poet, may yet illume the world, from the thoughts which yon genius,

that will have no name, gave forth--to wander through air, and

recombine again in some new form of light."

Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamored of

fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however

erratically, in vain--and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth,

the soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements

that make fame abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted the

endurance of light and thought.

Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry broke on his ear. He

shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining

room. The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing Burley's

hand--eagerly looking into his face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All

was over. Burley had died in sleep--calmly, and without a groan.

The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness

which death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned toward the

light; and the light burned clear. Leonard closed tenderly the heavy

lids; and, as he covered the face, the lips smiled a serene farewell.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE LITTLE GRAY GOSSIP.

Soon after Cousin Con's marriage, we were invited to stay for a few

weeks with the newly-married couple, during the festive winter season;

so away we went with merry hearts, the clear frosty air and pleasant

prospect before us invigorating our spirits, as we took our places

inside the good old mail-coach, which passed through the town of

P----, where Cousin Con resided, for there were no railways then.

Never was there a kinder or more genial soul than Cousin Con; and

David Danvers, the good-man, as she laughingly called him, was, if

possible, kinder and more genial still. They were surrounded by

substantial comforts, and delighted to see their friends in a

sociable, easy way, and to make them snug and cozy, our arrival being

the signal for a succession of such convivialities. Very mirthful and

enjoyable were these evenings, for Con's presence always shed radiant

sunshine, and David's honest broad face beamed upon her with

affectionate pride. During the days of their courtship at our house,

they had perhaps indulged in billing and cooing a little too freely

when in company with others, for sober, middle-aged lovers like

themselves; thereby lying open to animadversions from prim spinsters,

who wondered that Miss Constance and Mr. Danvers made themselves so

ridiculous.

But now all this nonsense had sobered down, and nothing could be

detected beyond a sly glance, or a squeeze of the hand now and then;

yet we often quizzed them about by-gones, and declared that engaged

pairs were insufferable--we could always find them out among a

hundred!

"I'll bet you any thing you like," cried Cousin Con, with a

good-humored laugh, "that among our guests coming this evening" (there

was to be a tea-junketing), "you'll not be able to point out the

engaged couple--for there will be only one such present--though plenty

of lads and lasses that would like to be so happily situated! But the

couple I allude too are real turtle-doves, and yet I defy you to find

them out!"

"Done, Cousin Con!" we exclaimed; "and what shall we wager?"

"Gloves! gloves to be sure!" cried David. "Ladies always wager gloves;

though I can tell you, my Con is on the safe side now;" and David

rubbed his hands, delighted with the joke; and _we_ already, in

perspective, beheld our glove-box enriched with half-a-dozen pair of

snowy French sevens!

Never had we felt more interested in watching the arrivals and

movements of strangers, than on this evening, for our honor was

concerned, to detect the lovers, and raise the vail. Papas and mammas,

and masters and misses, came trooping in; old ladies, and middle-aged;

old gentlemen, and middle-aged--until the number amounted to about

thirty, and Cousin Con's drawing-rooms were comfortably filled. We

closely scrutinized all the young folks, and so intently but covertly

watched their proceedings, that we could have revealed several

innocent flirtations, but nothing appeared that could lead us to the

turtle-doves and their engagement. At length, we really had hopes, and

ensconced ourselves in a corner, to observe the more cautiously a

tall, beautiful girl, whose eyes incessantly turned toward the door of

the apartment; while each time it opened to admit any one, she sighed

and looked disappointed, as if that one was not the one she yearned to

see. We were deep in a reverie, conjuring up a romance of which she

was the heroine, when a little lady, habited in gray, whose age might

average threescore, unceremoniously seated herself beside us, and

immediately commenced a conversation, by asking if we were admiring

pretty Annie Mortimer--following the direction of our looks. On

receiving a reply in the affirmative, she continued: "Ah, she's a

good, affectionate girl; a great favorite of mine is sweet Annie

Mortimer."

"Watching for her lover, no doubt?" we ventured to say, hoping to gain

the desired information, and thinking of our white kid-gloves. "She is

an engaged young lady?"

"Engaged! engaged!" cried the little animated lady: "no indeed. The

fates forbid! Annie Mortimer is not engaged." The expression of the

little lady's countenance at our bare supposition of so natural a

fact, amounted almost to the ludicrous; and we with some difficulty

articulated a serious rejoinder, disavowing all previous knowledge,

and therefore erring through ignorance. We had now time to examine our

new acquaintance more critically. As we have already stated, she was

habited in gray; but not only was her attire gray, but she was

literally gray all over: gray hairs, braided in a peculiar obsolete

fashion, and quite uncovered; gray gloves; gray shoes; and, above all,

gray eyes, soft, large, and peculiarly sad in expression, yet

beautiful eyes, redeeming the gray, monotonous countenance from

absolute plainness. Mary Queen of Scots, we are told, had gray eyes;

and even she, poor lady, owned not more speaking or history-telling

orbs than did this little unknown gossip in gray. But our attention

was diverted from the contemplation, by the entrance of another actor

on the stage, to whom Annie Mortimer darted forward with an

exclamation of delight and welcome. The new comer was a slender,

elderly gentleman, whose white hairs, pale face, and benignant

expression presented nothing remarkable in their aspect, beyond a

certain air of elegance and refinement, which characterized the whole

outward man.

"That is a charming-looking old gentleman," said we to the gray lady;

"is he Annie's father?"

"Her father! Oh dear, no! That gentleman is a bachelor; but he is

Annie's guardian, and has supplied the place of a father to her, for

poor Annie is an orphan."

"Oh!" we exclaimed, and there was a great deal of meaning in our oh!

for had we not read and heard of youthful wards falling in love with

their guardians? and might not the fair Annie's taste incline this

way? The little gray lady understood our thoughts, for she smiled, but

said nothing; and while we were absorbed with Annie and her supposed

antiquated lover, she glided into the circle, and presently we beheld

Annie's guardian, with Annie leaning on his arm, exchange a few words

with her in an under tone, as she passed them to an inner room.

"Who is that pleasing-looking old gentleman?" said we to our hostess;

"and what is the name of the lady in gray, who went away just as you

came up? That is Annie Mortimer we know, and we know also that she

isn't engaged!"

Cousin Con laughed heartily as she replied: "That nice old gentleman

is Mr. Worthington, our poor curate; and a poor curate he is likely

ever to continue, so far as we can see. The lady in gray we call our

'little gray gossip,' and a darling she is! As to Annie, you seem to

know all about her. I suppose little Bessie has been lauding her up to

the skies."

"Who is little Bessie?" we inquired.

"Little Bessie is your little gray gossip: we never call her any thing

but Bessie to her face; she is a harmless little old maid. But come

this way: Bessie is going to sing, for they won't let her rest till

she complies; and Bessie singing, and Bessie talking, are widely

different creatures."

Widely different indeed! Could this be the little gray lady seated at

the piano, and making it speak? while her thrilling tones, as she sang

of 'days gone by,' went straight to each listener's heart, she herself

looking ten years younger! When the song was over, I observed Mr.

Worthington, with Annie still resting on his arm, in a corner of the

apartment, shaded by a projecting piece of furniture; and I also noted

the tear on his furrowed cheek, which he hastily brushed away, and

stooped to answer some remark of Annie's, who, with fond affection,

had evidently observed it too, endeavoring to dispel the painful

illusion which remembrances of days gone by occasioned.

We at length found the company separating, and our wager still

unredeemed. The last to depart was Mr. Worthington, escorting Annie

Mortimer and little Bessie, whom he shawled most tenderly, no doubt

because she was a poor forlorn little old maid, and sang so sweetly.

The next morning at breakfast, Cousin Con attacked us, supported by

Mr. Danvers, both demanding a solution of the mystery, or the scented

sevens! After a vast deal of laughing, talking, and discussion, we

were obliged to confess ourselves beaten, for there had been an

engaged couple present on the previous evening, and we had failed to

discover them. No; it was not Annie Mortimer; she had no lover. No; it

was not the Misses Halliday, or the Masters Burton: they had flirted

and danced, and danced and flirted indiscriminately; but as to serious

engagements--pooh! pooh!

Who would have conjectured the romance of reality that was now

divulged? and how could we have been so stupid as not to have read it

at a glance? These contradictory exclamations, as is usual in such

cases, ensued when the riddle was unfolded. It is so easy to be wise

when we have learned the wisdom. Yet we cheerfully lost our wager, and

would have lost a hundred such, for the sake of hearing a tale so far

removed from matter-of-fact; proving also that enduring faith and

affection are not so fabulous as philosophers often pronounce them to

be.

Bessie Prudholm was nearly related to David Danvers, and she had been

the only child of a talented but improvident father, who, after a

short, brilliant career, as a public singer, suddenly sank into

obscurity and neglect, from the total loss of his vocal powers,

brought on by a violent rheumatic cold and lasting prostration of

strength. At this juncture, Bessie had nearly attained her twentieth

year, and was still in mourning for an excellent mother, by whom she

had been tenderly and carefully brought up. From luxury and indulgence

the descent to poverty and privation was swift. Bessie, indeed,

inherited a very small income in right of her deceased parent,

sufficient for her own wants, and even comforts, but totally

inadequate to meet the thousand demands, caprices, and fancies of her

ailing and exigent father. However, for five years she battled bravely

with adversity, eking out their scanty means by her exertions--though,

from her father's helpless condition, and the constant and unremitting

attention he required, she was in a great measure debarred from

applying her efforts advantageously. The poor, dying man, in his days

of health, had contributed to the enjoyment of the affluent, and in

turn been courted by them; but now, forgotten and despised, he

bitterly reviled the heartless world, whose hollow meed of applause it

had formerly been the sole aim of his existence to secure. Wealth

became to his disordered imagination the desideratum of existence, and

he attached inordinate value to it, in proportion as he felt the

bitter stings of comparative penury. To guard his only child--whom he

certainly loved better than any thing else in the world, save

himself--from this dreaded evil, the misguided man, during his latter

days, extracted from her an inviolable assurance, never to become the

wife of any individual who could not settle upon her, subject to no

contingencies or chances, the sum of at least one thousand pounds.

Bessie, who was fancy-free, and a lively-spirited girl, by no means

relished the slights and privations which poverty entails. She

therefore willingly became bound by this solemn promise; and when her

father breathed his last, declaring that she had made his mind

comparatively easy, little Bessie half smiled, even in the midst of

her deep and natural sorrow, to think how small and easy a concession

her poor father had exacted, when her own opinions and views so

perfectly coincided with his. The orphan girl took up her abode with

the mother of David Danvers, and continued to reside with that worthy

lady until the latter's decease. It was beneath the roof of Mrs.

Danvers that Bessie first became acquainted with Mr. Worthington--that

acquaintance speedily ripening into a mutual and sincere attachment.

He was poor and patronless then, as he had continued ever since, with

slender likelihood of ever possessing £100 of his own, much less £1000

to settle on a wife. It is true, that in the chances and changes of

this mortal life, Paul Worthington might succeed to a fine

inheritance; but there were many lives betwixt him and it, and Paul

was not the one to desire happiness at another's expense, nor was

sweet little Bessie either.

Yet was Paul Worthington rich in one inestimable possession, such as

money can not purchase--even in the love of a pure devoted heart,

which for him, and for his dear sake, bravely endured the life-long

loneliness and isolation which their peculiar circumstances induced.

Paul did not see Bessie grow old and gray: in his eyes, she never

changed; she was to him still beautiful, graceful, and enchanting; she

was his betrothed, and he came forth into the world, from his books,

and his arduous clerical and parochial duties, to gaze at intervals

into her soft eyes, to press her tiny hand, to whisper a fond word,

and then to return to his lonely home, like a second Josiah Cargill,

to try and find in severe study oblivion of sorrow.

Annie Mortimer had been sent to him as a ministering angel: she was

the orphan and penniless daughter of Mr. Worthington's dearest friend

and former college-chum, and she had come to find a shelter beneath

the humble roof of the pious guardian, to whose earthly care she had

been solemnly bequeathed. Paul's curacy was not many miles distant

from the town where Bessie had fixed her resting-place; and it was

generally surmised by the select few who were in the secret of little

Bessie's history, that she regarded Annie Mortimer with especial favor

and affection, from the fact that Annie enjoyed the privilege of

solacing and cheering Paul Worthington's declining years. Each spoke

of her as a dear adopted daughter, and Annie equally returned the

affection of both.

Poor solitaries! what long anxious years they had known, separated by

circumstance, yet knit together in the bonds of enduring love!

I pictured them at festive winter seasons, at their humble solitary

boards; and in summer prime, when song-birds and bright perfumed

flowers call lovers forth into the sunshine rejoicingly. They had not

dared to rejoice during their long engagement; yet Bessie was a

sociable creature, and did not mope or shut herself up, but led a life

of active usefulness, and was a general favorite amongst all classes.

They had never contemplated the possibility of evading Bessie's solemn

promise to her dying father; to their tender consciences, that fatal

promise was as binding and stringent, as if the gulf of marriage or

conventual vows yawned betwixt them. We had been inclined to indulge

some mirth at the expense of the little gray gossip, when she first

presented herself to our notice; but now we regarded her as an object

of interest, surrounded by a halo of romance, fully shared in by her

charming, venerable lover. And this was good Cousin Con's elucidation

of the riddle, which she narrated with many digressions, and with

animated smiles, to conceal tears of sympathy. Paul Worthington and

little Bessy did not like their history to be discussed by the rising

frivolous generation; it was so unworldly, so sacred, and they looked

forward with humble hope so soon to be united for ever in the better

land, that it pained and distressed them to be made a topic of

conversation.

Were we relating fiction, it would be easy to bring this antiquated

pair together, even at the eleventh hour; love and constancy making up

for the absence of one sweet ingredient, evanescent, yet

beautiful--the ingredient, we mean, of youth. But as this is a romance

of reality, we are fain to divulge facts as they actually occurred,

and as we heard them from authentic sources. Paul and Bessie, divided

in their lives, repose side by side in the old church-yard. He dropped

off first, and Bessie doffed her gray for sombre habiliments of darker

hue. Nor did she long remain behind, loving little soul! leaving her

property to Annie Mortimer, and warning her against long engagements.

The last time we heard of Annie, she was the happy wife of an

excellent man, who, fully coinciding in the opinion of the little gray

gossip, protested strenuously against more than six weeks' courtship,

and carried his point triumphantly.

THE MOURNER AND THE COMFORTER.

It was a lovely day in the month of August, and the sun, which had

shone with undiminished splendor from the moment of dawn, was now

slowly declining, with that rich and prolonged glow with which it

seems especially to linger around those scenes where it seldomest

finds admittance. For it was a valley in the north of Scotland into

which its light was streaming, and many a craggy top and rugged side,

rarely seen without their cap of clouds or shroud of mist, were now

throwing their mellow-tinted forms, clear and soft, into a lake of

unusual stillness. High above the lake, and commanding a full view of

that and of the surrounding hills, stood one of those countryfied

hotels not unfrequently met with on a tourist's route, formerly only

designed for the lonely traveler or weary huntsman, but which now,

with the view to accommodate the swarm of visitors which every summer

increased, had gone on stretching its cords and enlarging its

boundaries, till the original tenement looked merely like the seed

from which the rest had sprung. Nor, even under these circumstances,

did the house admit of much of the luxury of privacy; for, though the

dormitories lay thick and close along the narrow corridor, all

accommodation for the day was limited to two large and long rooms, one

above the other, which fronted the lake. Of these, the lower one was

given up to pedestrian travelers--the sturdy, sunburnt shooters of the

moors, who arrive with weary limbs and voracious appetites, and

question no accommodation which gives them food and shelter; while the

upper one was the resort of ladies and family parties, and was

furnished with a low balcony, now covered with a rough awning.

Both these rooms, on the day we mention, were filled with numerous

guests. Touring was at its height, and shooting had begun; and, while

a party of way-worn young men, coarsely clad and thickly shod, were

lying on the benches, or lolling out of the windows of the lower

apartment, a number of traveling parties were clustered in distinct

groups in the room above; some lingering round their tea-tables, while

others sat on the balcony, and seemed attentively watching the

evolutions of a small boat, the sole object on the lake before them.

It is pleasant to watch the actions, however insignificant they may

be, of a distant group; to see the hand obey without hearing the voice

that has bidden; to guess at their inward motives by their outward

movements; to make theories of their intentions, and try to follow

them out in their actions; and, as at a pantomime, to tell the drift

of the piece by dumb show alone. And it is an idle practice, too, and

one especially made for the weary or the listless traveler, giving

them amusement without thought, and occupation without trouble; for

people who have had their powers of attention fatigued by incessant

exertion, or weakened by constant novelty, are glad to settle it upon

the merest trifle at last. So the loungers on the balcony increased,

and the little boat became a centre of general interest to those who

apparently had not had one sympathy in common before. So calm and

gliding was its motion, so refreshing the gentle air which played

round it, that many an eye from the shore envied the party who were

seated in it. These consisted of three individuals, two large figures

and a little one.

"It is Captain H---- and his little boy," said one voice, breaking

silence; "they arrived here yesterday."

"They'll be going to see the great waterfall," said another.

"They have best make haste about it; for they have a mile to walk

up-hill when they land," said a third.

"Rather they than I," rejoined a languid fourth; and again there was a

pause. Meanwhile the boat party seemed to be thinking little about the

waterfall, or the need for expedition. For a few minutes the

quick-glancing play of the oars was seen, and then they ceased again;

and now an arm was stretched out toward some distant object in the

landscape, as if asking a question; and then the little fellow pointed

here and there, as if asking many questions at once, and, in short,

the conjectures on the balcony were all thrown out. But now the oars

had rested longer than usual, and a figure rose and stooped, and

seemed occupied with something at the bottom of the boat. What were

they about? They were surely not going to fish at this time of

evening? No, they were not; for slowly a mast was raised, and a sail

unfurled, which at first hung flapping, as if uncertain which side the

wind would take it, and then gently swelled out to its full

dimensions, and seemed too large a wing for so tiny a body. A slight

air had arisen; the long reflected lines of colors, which every object

on the shore dripped, as it were, into the lake, were gently stirred

with a quivering motion; every soft strip of liquid tint broke

gradually into a jagged and serrated edge; colors were mingled, forms

were confused; the mountains, which lay in undiminished brightness

above, seemed by some invisible agency to be losing their second

selves from beneath them; long, cold white lines rose apparently from

below, and spread radiating over all the liquid picture: in a few

minutes, the lake lay one vast sheet of bright silver, and half the

landscape was gone. The boat was no longer in the same element:

before, it had floated in a soft, transparent ether; now, it glided

upon a plain of ice.

"I wish they had stuck to their oars," said the full, deep voice of an

elderly gentleman; "hoisting a sail on these lakes is very much like

trusting to luck in life--it may go on all right for a while, and save

you much trouble, but you are never sure that it won't give you the

slip, and that when you are least prepared."

"No danger in the world, sir," said a young fop standing by, who knew

as little about boating on Scotch lakes as he did of most things any

where else. Meanwhile, the air had become chill, the sun had sunk

behind the hills, and the boating party, tired, apparently, of their

monotonous amusement, turned the boat's head toward shore. For some

minutes they advanced with fuller and fuller bulging sail in the

direction they sought, when suddenly the breeze seemed not so much to

change as to be met by another and stronger current of air, which came

pouring through the valley with a howling sound, and then, bursting on

the lake, drove its waters in a furrow before it. The little boat

started, and swerved like a frightened creature; and the sail,

distended to its utmost, cowered down to the water's edge.

"Good God! why don't they lower that sail? Down with it! down with

it!" shouted the same deep voice from the balcony, regardless of the

impossibility of being heard. But the admonition was needless; the

boatman, with quick, eager motions, was trying to lower it. Still it

bent, fuller and fuller, lower and lower. The man evidently strained

with desperate strength, defeating, perhaps, with the clumsiness of

anxiety, the end in view; when, too impatient, apparently, to witness

their urgent peril without lending his aid, the figure of Captain

H---- rose up; in one instant a piercing scream was borne faintly to

shore--the boat whelmed over, and all were in the water.

For a few dreadful seconds nothing was seen of the unhappy creatures;

then a cap floated, and then two struggling figures rose to the

surface. One was evidently the child, for his cap was off, and his

fair hair was seen; the other head was covered. This latter buffeted

the waters with all the violence of a helpless, drowning man; then he

threw his arms above his head, sank, and rose no more. The boy

struggled less and less, and seemed dead to all resistance before he

sank, too. The boat floated keel upward, almost within reach of the

sufferers; and now that the waters had closed over them, the third

figure was observed, for the first time, at a considerable distance,

slowly and laboriously swimming toward it, and in a few moments two

arms were flung over it, and there he hung. It was one of those scenes

which the heart quails to look on, yet which chains the spectator

to the spot. The whole had passed in less than a minute:

fear--despair--agony--and death, had been pressed into one of those

short minutes, of which so many pass without our knowing how. It is

well. Idleness, vanity, or vice--all that dismisses thought--may dally

with time, but the briefest space is too long for that excess of

consciousness where time seems to stand still.

At this moment a lovely and gentle-looking young woman entered the

room. It was evident that she knew nothing of the dreadful scene that

had just occurred, nor did she now remark the intense excitement which

still riveted the spectators to the balcony; for, seeking, apparently,

to avoid all intercourse with strangers, she had seated herself, with

a book, on the chair farthest removed from the window. Nor did she

look up at the first rush of hurried steps into the room; but, when

she did, there was something which arrested her attention, for every

eye was fixed upon her with an undefinable expression of horror, and

every foot seemed to shrink back from approaching her. There was also

a murmur as of one common and irrepressible feeling through the whole

house; quick footsteps were heard as of men impelled by some dreadful

anxiety; doors were banged; voices shouted; and, could any one have

stood by a calm and indifferent spectator, it would have been

interesting to mark the sudden change from the abstracted and composed

look with which Mrs. H---- (for she it was) first raised her head from

her book to the painful restlessness of inquiry with which she now

glanced from eye to eye, and seemed to question what manner of tale

they told.

It is something awful and dreadful to stand before a fellow-creature

laden with a sorrow which, however we may commiserate it, it is theirs

alone to bear; to be compelled to tear away that vail of

unconsciousness which alone hides their misery from their sight; and

to feel that the faintness gathering round our own heart alone enables

theirs to continue beating with tranquillity. We feel less almost of

pity for the suffering we are about to inflict than for the peace

which we are about to remove; and the smile of unconsciousness which

precedes the knowledge of evil is still more painful to look back upon

than the bitterest tear that follows it. And, if such be the feelings

of the messenger of heavy tidings, the mind that is to receive them is

correspondingly actuated. For who is there that thanks you really for

concealing the evil that was already arrived--for prolonging the

happiness that was already gone? Who cares for a reprieve when

sentence is still to follow? It is a pitiful soul that does not prefer

the sorrow of certainty to the peace of deceit; or, rather, it is a

blessed provision which enables us to acknowledge the preference when

it is no longer in our power to choose. It seems intended as a

protection to the mind from something so degrading to it as an unreal

happiness, that both those who have to inflict misery and those who

have to receive it should alike despise its solace. Those who have

trod the very brink of a precipice, unknowing that it yawned beneath,

look back to those moments of their ignorance with more of horror than

of comfort; such security is too close to danger for the mind ever to

separate them again. Nor need the bearer of sorrow embitter his errand

by hesitations and scruples how to disclose it; he need not pause for

a choice of words or form of statement. In no circumstance of life

does the soul act so utterly independent of all outward agency; it

waits for no explanation, wants no evidence; at the furthest idea of

danger it flies at once to its weakest part; an embarrassed manner

will rouse suspicions, and a faltered word confirm them. Dreadful

things never require precision of terms--they are wholly guessed

before they are half-told. Happiness the heart believes not in till it

stands at our very threshold; misery it flies at as if eager to meet.

So it was with the unfortunate Mrs. H----; no one spoke of the

accident, no one pointed to the lake; no connecting link seemed to

exist between the security of ignorance and the agony of knowledge. At

one moment she raised her head in placid indifference, at the next she

knew that her husband and child were lying beneath the waters. And did

she faint, or fall as one stricken? No: for the suspicion was too

sudden to be sustained; and the next instant came the thought, This

must be a dream; God can not have done it. And the eyes were closed,

and the convulsed hands pressed tight over them, as if she would shut

out mental vision as well; and groans and sobs burst from the crowd,

and men dashed from the room, unable to bear it; and women, too,

untrue to their calling. And there was weeping and wringing of hands,

and one weak woman fainted; but still no sound or movement came from

her on whom the burden had fallen. Then came the dreadful revulsion of

feeling; and, with contracted brow and gasping breath, and voice

pitched almost to a scream, she said, "It is not true--tell me--it is

not true--tell me--tell me!" And, advancing with desperate gestures,

she made for the balcony. All recoiled before her; when one gentle

woman, small and delicate as herself, opposed her, and, with streaming

eyes and trembling limbs, stood before her. "Oh, go not there--go not

there! cast your heavy burden on the Lord!" These words broke the

spell. Mrs. H---- uttered a cry which long rang in the ears of those

that heard it, and sank, shivering and powerless, in the arms of the

kind stranger.

Meanwhile, the dreadful scene had been witnessed from all parts of the

hotel, and every male inmate poured from it. The listless tourist of

fashion forgot his languor, the way-worn pedestrian his fatigue. The

hill down to the lake was trodden by eager, hurrying figures, all

anxious to give that which in such cases it is a relief to give, viz.,

active assistance. Nor were these all, for down came the sturdy

shepherd from the hills; and the troops of ragged, bare-legged urchins

from all sides; and distant figures of men and women were seen

pressing forward to help or to hear; and the hitherto deserted-looking

valley was active with life. Meanwhile, the survivor hung motionless

over the upturned boat, borne about at the will of the waters, which

were now lashed into great agitation. No one could tell whether it was

Captain H---- or the Highland boatman, and no one could wish for the

preservation of the one more than the other. For life is life to all;

and the poor man's wife and family may have less time to mourn, but

more cause to want. And before the boat, that was manning with eager

volunteers, had left the shore, down came also a tall, raw-boned

woman, breathless, more apparently with exertion than anxiety--her

eyes dry as stones, and her cheeks red with settled color; one child

dragging at her heels, another at her breast. It was the boatman's

wife. Different, indeed, was her suspense to that of the sufferer who

had been left above; but, perhaps, equally true to her capacity. With

her it was fury rather than distress; she scolded the bystanders, chid

the little squalling child, and abused her husband by turns.

"How dare he gang to risk his life, wi' six bairns at hame? Ae body

knew nae sail was safe on the lake for twa hours thegether; mair fule

he to try!" And then she flung the roaring child on to the grass, bade

the other mind it, strode half-leg high into the water to help to push

off the boat; and then, returning to a place where she could command a

view of its movements, she took up the child and hushed it tenderly to

sleep. Like her, every one now sought some elevated position, and the

progress of the boat seemed to suspend every other thought. It soon

neared the fatal spot, and in another minute was alongside the

upturned boat; the figure was now lifted carefully in, something put

round him, and, from the languor of his movements, and the care taken,

the first impression on shore was that Captain H---- was the one

spared. But it was a mercy to Mrs. H---- that she was not in a state

to know these surmises; for soon the survivor sat steadily upright,

worked his arms, and rubbed his head, as if to restore animation; and,

long before the boat reached the shore, the coarse figure and garments

of the Highland boatman were distantly recognized. Up started his

wife. Unaccustomed to mental emotions of any sudden kind, they were

strange and burdensome to her.

"What, Meggy! no stay to welcome your husband!" said a bystander.

"Walcome him yoursal!" she replied; "I hae no the time. I maun get his

dry claes, and het his parritch; and that's the best walcome I can gie

him." And so, perhaps, the husband thought, too.

And now, what was there more to do? The bodies of Captain H---- and

his little son had sunk in seventy fathom deep of water. If, in their

hidden currents and movements they cast their victims aloft to the

surface, all well; if not, no human hand could reach them. There was

nothing to do! Two beings had ceased to exist, who, as far as regarded

the consciousness and sympathies of the whole party, had never existed

at all before. There had been no influence upon them in their lives,

there was no blank to them in their deaths. They had witnessed a

dreadful tragedy; they knew that she who had risen that morning a

happy wife and mother was now widowed and childless, with a weight of

woe upon her, and a life of mourning before her; but there were no

forms to observe, no rites to prepare; nothing necessarily to

interfere with one habit of the day, or to change one plan for the

morrow. It was only a matter of feeling; a great only, it is true;

but, as with every thing in life, from the merest trifle to the most

momentous occurrence, the matter varied with the individual who felt.

All pitied, some sympathized, but few ventured to help. Some wished

themselves a hundred miles off, because they could not help her;

others wished the same, because she distressed them; and the solitary

back room, hidden from all view of the lake, to which the sufferer had

been home, after being visited by a few well-meaning or curious women,

was finally deserted by all save the kind lady we have mentioned, and

a good-natured maid-servant, the drudge of the hotel, who came in

occasionally to assist.

We have told the tale exactly as it occurred; the reader knows both

plot and conclusion: and now there only remains to say something of

the ways of human sorrow, and something, too, of the ways of human

goodness.

Grief falls differently on different hearts; some must vent it, others

can not. The coldest will be the most unnerved, the tenderest the most

possessed; there is no rule. As for this poor lady, hers was of that

sudden and extreme kind for which insensibility is at first mercifully

provided; and it came to her, and yet not entirely--suspending the

sufferings of the mind, but not deadening all the sensation of the

body; for she shivered and shuddered with that bloodless cold which

kept her pale, numb, and icy, like one in the last hours before death.

A large fire was lighted, warm blankets were wrapped round her, but

the cold was too deep to be reached; and the kind efforts made to

restore animation were more a relief to her attendants than to her.

And yet Miss Campbell stopped sometimes from the chafing of the hands,

and let those blue fingers lie motionless in hers, and looked up at

that wan face with an expression as if she wished that the eyes might

never open again, but that death might at once restore what it had

just taken. For some hours no change ensued, and then it was gradual;

the hands were withdrawn from those that held them, and first laid,

and then clenched together; deep sighs of returning breath and

returning knowledge broke from her; the wrappers were thrown off,

first feebly, and then restlessly. There were no dramatic startings,

no abrupt questionings; but, as blood came back to the veins, anguish

came back to the heart. All the signs of excessive mental oppression

now began, a sad train as they are, one extreme leading to the other.

Before, there had been the powerlessness of exertion, now, there was

the powerlessness of control; before she had been benumbed by

insensibility, now, she was impelled as if bereft of sense. Like one

distracted with intense bodily pain, her whole frame seemed strained

to endure. The gentlest of voices whispered comfort, she heard not;

the kindest of arms supported her, she rested not. There was the

unvarying moan, the weary pacing, the repetition of the same action,

the measurement of the same distance, the body vibrating as a mere

machine to the restless recurrence of the same thought.

We have said that every outer sign of woe was there--all but that

which great sorrows set flowing, but the greatest dry up--she shed no

tears! Tears are things for which a preparation of the heart is

needful; they are granted to anxiety for the future, or lament for the

past. They flow with reminiscences of our own, or with the example of

others; they are sent to separations we have long dreaded, and to

disappointments we can not forget; they come when our hearts are

softened, or when our hearts are wearied; but, in the first amazement

of unlooked-for woe, they find no place: the cup that is suddenly

whelmed over lets no drop of water escape.

It was evident, however, through all the unruliness of such distress,

that the sufferer was a creature of gentle and considerate nature; in

the whirlpool which convulsed every faculty of her mind, the smooth

surface of former habits was occasionally thrown up. Though the hand

which sought to support her was cast aside with a restless, excited

movement, it was sought the next instant with a momentary pressure of

contrition. Though the head was turned away one instant from the

whisper of consolation with a gesture of impatience, yet it was bowed

the next as if in entreaty of forgiveness. Poor creature! what effort

she could make to allay the storm which was rioting within her was

evidently made for the sake of those around. With so much and so

suddenly to bear, she still showed the habit of forbearance.

Meanwhile night had far advanced; many had been the inquiries and

expressions of sympathy made at Mrs. H----'s door; but now, one by

one, the parties retired each to their rooms. Few, however, rested

that night as usual; however differently the terrible picture might be

carried on the mind during the hours of light, it forced itself with

almost equal vividness upon all in those of darkness. The father

struggling to reach the child, and then throwing up his arms in agony,

and that fair little head borne about unresistingly by the waves

before they covered it over--these were the figures which haunted many

a pillow. Or, if the recollection of that scene was lulled for a

while, it was recalled again by the weary sound of those footsteps

which told of a mourner who rested not. Of course, among the number

and medley of characters lying under that roof, there was the usual

proportion of the selfish and the careless. None, however, slept that

night without confessing, in word or thought, that life and death are

in the hands of the Lord; and not all, it is to be hoped, forgot the

lesson. One young man, in particular, possessed of fine intellectual

powers, but which unfortunately had been developed among a people who,

God help them! affect to believe only what they understand, was

indebted to this day and night for a great change in his opinions. His

heart was kind, though his understanding was perverted; and the

thought of that young, lovely, and feeble woman, on whom a load of

misery had fallen which would have crushed the strongest of his own

sex, roused within him the strongest sense of the insufficiency of all

human aid or human strength for beings who are framed to love and yet

ordained to lose. He was oppressed with compassion, miserable with

sympathy, he longed with all the generosity of a manly heart to do

something, to suggest something, that should help her, or satisfy

himself. But what were fortitude, philosophy, strength of mind?

Mockeries, nay, more, imbecilities, which he dared not mention to her,

nor so much as think of in the same thought with her woe. Either he

must accuse the Power who had inflicted the wound, and so deep he had

not sunk, or he must acknowledge His means of cure. Impelled,

therefore, by a feeling equally beyond his doubting or his proving, he

did that which for years German sophistry had taught him to forbear;

he gave but little, but he felt that he gave his best--he _prayed_ for

the suffering creature, and in the name of One who suffered for all,

and from that hour God's grace forsook him not.

But the most characteristic sympathizer on the occasion was Sir Thomas

----, the fine old gentleman who had shouted so loudly from the

balcony. He was at home in this valley, owned the whole range of hills

on one side of the lake from their fertile bases to their bleak tops,

took up his abode generally every summer in this hotel, and felt for

the stricken woman as if she had been a guest of his own. Ever since

the fatal accident he had gone about in a perfect fret of

commiseration, inquiring every half-hour at her door how she was, or

what she had taken. Severe bodily illness or intense mental distress

had never fallen upon that bluff person and warm heart, and abstinence

from food was in either case the proof of an extremity for which he

had every compassion, but of which he had no knowledge. He prescribed,

therefore, for the poor lady every thing that he would have relished

himself, and nothing at that moment could have made him so happy as to

have been allowed to send her up the choicest meal that the country

could produce. Not that his benevolence was at all limited to such

manifestations; if it did not deal in sentiment, it took the widest

range of practice. His laborers were dispatched round the lake to

watch for any traces of the late catastrophe; he himself kept up an

hour later planning how he could best promote the comfort of her

onward journey and of her present stay; and though the good old

gentleman was now snoring loudly over the very apartment which

contained the object of his sympathy, he would have laid down his life

to save those that were gone, and half his fortune to solace her who

was left.

Some hours had elapsed, the footsteps had ceased, there was quiet, if

not rest, in the chamber of mourning; and, shortly after sunrise, a

side door in the hotel opened, and she who had been as a sister to the

stranger, never seen before, came slowly forth. She was worn with

watching, her heart was sick with the sight and sounds of such woe,

and she sought the refreshment of the outer air and the privacy of the

early day. It was a dawn promising a day as beautiful as the

preceding; the sun was beaming mildly through an opening toward the

east, wakening the tops of the nearest hills, while all the rest of

the beautiful range lay huge and colorless, nodding, as it were, to

their drowsy reflections beneath, and the lake itself looked as calm

and peaceful as if the winds had never swept over its waters, nor

those waters over all that a wife and mother had loved. Man is such a

speck on this creation of which he is lord, that had every human being

now sleeping on the green sides of the hills, been lying deep among

their dark feet in the lake, it would not have shown a ripple the

more. Miss Campbell, meanwhile, wandered slowly on, and though

apparently unmindful of the beauty of the scene, she was evidently

soothed by its influence. All that dreary night long had she cried

unto God in ceaseless prayer, and felt that without His help in her

heart, and His word on her lips, she had been but as a strengthless

babe before the sight of that anguish. But here beneath His own

heavens her communings were freer; her soul seemed not so much to need

Him below, as to rise to Him above; and the solemn dejection upon a

very careworn, but sweet face, became less painful, but perhaps more

touching. In her wanderings she had now left the hotel to her left

hand, the boatman's clay cottage was just above, and below a little

rough pier of stones, to an iron ring in one of which the boat was

usually attached. She had stood on that self-same spot the day before

and watched Captain H---- and his little son as they walked down to

the pier, summoned the boatman, and launched into the cool, smooth

water. She now went down herself, and stood with a feeling of awe upon

the same stones they had so lately left. The shores were loose and

shingly, many footsteps were there, but one particularly riveted her

gaze. It was tiny in shape and light in print, and a whole succession

of them went off toward the side as if following a butterfly, or

attracted by a bright stone. Alas! they we're the last prints of that

little foot on the shores of this world! Miss Campbell had seen the

first thunderbolt of misery burst upon his mother; she had borne the

sight of her as she lay stunned, and as she rose frenzied, but that

tiny footprint was worse than all, and she burst into a passionate fit

of tears. She felt as if it were desecration to sweep them away, as if

she could have shrined them round from the winds and waves, and

thoughtless tread of others; but a thought came to check her. What did

it matter how the trace of his little foot, or how the memory of his

short life were obliterated from this earth? There was One above who

had numbered every hair of his innocent head, and in His presence she

humbly hoped both father and child were now rejoicing.

She was just turning away when the sound of steps approached, and the

boatman's wife came up. Her features were coarse and her frame was

gaunt, as we have said, but she was no longer the termagant of the day

before, nor was she ever so. But the lower classes, in the most

civilized lands, are often, both in joy and grief, an enigma to those

above them; if nature, rare alike in all ranks, speak not for them,

they have no conventional imitation to put in her place. The feeling

of intense suspense was new to her, and the violence she had assumed

had been the awkwardness which, under many eyes, knew not otherwise

how to express or, conceal; but she had sound Scotch sense, and a

tender woman's heart, and spoke them both now truly, if not

gracefully.

"Ye'll be frae the hotel, yonder?" she said; "can ye tell me how the

puir leddy has rested? I was up mysel' to the house, and they tell't

me they could hear her greeting!"

Miss Campbell told her in a few words what the reader knows, and asked

for her husband.

"Oh! he's weel eneugh in body, but sair disquieted in mind. No that

he's unmindfu' of the mercy of the Lord to himsel', but he can no just

keep the thocht away that it was he wha helped those poor creatures to

their end." She then proceeded earnestly to exculpate her husband,

assuring Miss Campbell that in spite of the heavy wind and the

entangled rope, all might even yet have been well if the gentleman had

kept his seat. "But I just tell him that there's Ane above, stronger

than the wind, who sunk them in the lake, and could have raised them

from it, but it was no His pleasure. The puir leddy would ha' been

nane the happier if Andrew had been ta'en as well, and I and the

bairns muckle the waur." Then observing where Miss Campbell stood, she

continued, in a voice of much emotion, "Ah! I mind them weel as they

came awa' down here; the bairnie was playing by as Andrew loosened the

boat--the sweet bairnie! so happy and thochtless as he gaed in his

beautiful claes--I see him noo!" and the poor woman wiped her eyes.

"But there's something ye'll like to see. Jeanie! gang awa' up, and

bring the little bonnet that hangs on the peg. Andrew went out again

with the boat the night, and picked it up. But it will no be dry."

The child returned with a sad token. It was the little fellow's cap; a

smart, town-made article, with velvet band, and long silk tassel which

had been his first vanity, and his mother had coaxed it smooth as she

pulled the peak low down over his fair forehead, and then, fumbling

his little fingers into his gloves, had given him a kiss which she

little thought was to be the last!

"I was coming awa' up wi' it mysel', but the leddy will no just bear

to see it yet."

"No, not yet," said Miss Campbell, "if ever. Let me take it. I shall

remain with her till better friends come here, or she goes to them;"

and giving the woman money, which she had difficulty in making her

accept, she possessed herself of the cap, and turned away.

She soon reached the hotel, it was just five o'clock, all blinds were

down, and there was no sign of life; but one figure was pacing up and

down, and seemed to be watching for her. It was Sir Thomas. His

sympathy had broken his sleep in the morning, though it had not

disturbed it at night. He began in his abrupt way:

"Madam, I have been watching for you. I heard you leave the house.

Madam, I feel almost ashamed to lift up my eyes to you; while we have

all been wishing and talking, you alone have been acting. We are all

obliged to you, madam; there is not a creature here with a heart in

them to whom you have not given comfort!"

Miss Campbell tried to escape from the honest overflowings of the old

man's feelings.

"You have only done what you liked: very true, madam. It is choking

work having to pity without knowing how to help; but I would sooner

give ten thousand pounds than see what you have seen. I would do any

thing for the poor creature, any thing, but I could not look at her."

He then told her that his men had been sent with the earliest dawn to

different points of the lake, but as yet without finding any traces of

the late fatal accident; and then his eyes fell upon the cap in Miss

Campbell's hand, and he at once guessed the history. "Picked up last

evening, you say--sad, sad--a dreadful thing!" and his eyes filling

more than it was convenient to hold, he turned away, blew his nose,

took a short turn, and coming back again, continued, "But tell me, how

has she rested? what has she taken? You must not let her weep too

much!"

"Let her weep!" said Miss Campbell; "I wish I could bid her. She has

not shed a tear yet, and mind and body alike want it. I left her

lying back quiet in an arm-chair, but I fear this quiet is worse than

what has gone before!"

"God bless my heart!" said Sir Thomas, his eyes now running over

without control. "God bless my heart! this is sad work. Not that I

ever wished a woman to cry before in my life, if she could help it.

Poor thing! poor thing! I'll send for a medical man: the nearest is

fifteen miles off!"

"I think it will be necessary. I am now going back to her room."

"Well, ma'am, I won't detain you longer, but don't keep all the good

to yourself. Let me know if there is any thing that I, or my men, or,"

the old gentleman hesitated, "my money, madam, can do, only don't ask

me to see her;" and so they each went their way--Sir Thomas to the

stables to send off man and horse, and Miss Campbell to the chamber of

mourning.

She started as she entered; the blind was drawn up, and, leaning

against the shutter, in apparent composure, stood Mrs. H----. That

composure was dreadful; it was the calm of intense agitation, the

silence of boiling heat, the immovability of an object in the most

rapid motion. The light was full upon her, showing cheek and forehead

flushed, and veins bursting on the small hands. Miss Campbell

approached with trembling limbs.

"Where is the servant?"--"I did not want her."

"Will you not rest?"--"I _can not_!"

Miss Campbell was weary and worn out; the picture before her was so

terrible, she sunk on the nearest chair in an agony of tears.

Without changing her position, Mrs. H---- turned her head, and said,

gently, "Oh, do not cry so! it is I who ought to cry, but my heart is

as dry as my eyes, and my head is so tight, and I can not think for

its aching; I can not think, I can not understand, I can not remember,

I don't even know your name, then why should this be true? It is I who

am ill, they are well, but they never were so long from me before."

Then coming forward, her face working, and her breath held tightly, as

if a scream were pressing behind, "Tell me," she said, "tell me--my

husband and child--" she tried hard to articulate, but the words were

lost in a frightful contortion. Miss Campbell mastered herself, she

saw the rack of mental torture was strained to the utmost. Neither

could bear this much longer. She almost feared resistance, but she

felt there was one way to which the sufferer would respond.

"I am weary and tired," she said; "weary with staying up with you all

night. If you will lie down, I will soon come and lie by your side."

Poor Mrs. H---- said nothing, but let herself be laid upon the bed.

Three mortal hours passed, she was burnt with a fever which only her

own tears could quench; and those wide-open, dry eyes were fearful to

see. A knock came to the door, "How is she now?" said Sir Thomas's

voice, "The doctor is here: you look as if you wanted him yourself.

I'll bring him up."

The medical man entered. Such a case had not occurred in his small

country practice before, but he was a sensible and a kind man, and no

practice could have helped him here if he had not been. He heard the

whole sad history, felt the throbbing pulse, saw the flush on the

face, and wide-open eyes, which now seemed scarcely to notice any

thing. He took Miss Campbell into another room, and said that the

patient must be instantly roused, and then bled if necessary.

"But the first you can undertake better than I, madam." He looked

round. "Is there no little object which would recall?--nothing you

could bring before her sight? You understand me?"

Indeed, Miss Campbell did. She had not sat by that bed-side for the

last three hours without feeling and fearing that this was necessary;

but, at the same time, she would rather have cut off her own hand than

undertaken it. She hesitated--but for a moment, and then whispered

something to Sir Thomas.

"God bless my heart!" said he: "who would have thought of it? Yes. I

know it made me cry like a child."

And then he repeated her proposition to the medical man, who gave

immediate assent, and she left the room. In a few minutes she entered

that of Mrs. H---- with the little boy's cap in her hand, placed it in

a conspicuous position before the bed, and then seated herself with a

quick, nervous motion by the bed-side. It was a horrid pause, like

that which precedes a cruel operation, where you have taken upon

yourself the second degree of suffering--that of witnessing it. The

cap lay there on the small stone mantle-piece, with its long,

drabbled, weeping tassel, like a funeral emblem. It was not many

minutes before it caught those eyes for which it was intended. A

suppressed exclamation broke from her; she flew from the bed, looked

at Miss Campbell one instant in intense inquiry, and the next had the

cap in her hands. The touch of that wet object seemed to dissolve the

spell; her whole frame trembled with sudden relaxation. She sank,

half-kneeling, on the floor, and tears spouted from her eyes. No

blessed rain from heaven to famished earth was ever more welcome.

Tears, did we say? Torrents! Those eyes, late so hot and dry, were as

two arteries of the soul suddenly opened. What a misery that had been

which had sealed them up! They streamed over her face, blinding her

riveted gaze, falling on her hands, on the cap, on the floor.

Meanwhile the much-to-be-pitied sharer of her sorrow knelt by her

side, her whole frame scarcely less unnerved than that she sought to

support, uttering broken ejaculations and prayers, and joining her

tears to those which flowed so passionately. But she had a gentle and

meek spirit to deal with. Mrs. H---- crossed her hands over the cap

and bowed her head. Thus she continued a minute, and then turning,

still on her knees, she laid her head on her companion's shoulder.

"Help me up," she said, "for I am without strength." And all weak,

trembling, and sobbing, she allowed herself to be undressed and put to

bed.

Miss Campbell lay down in the same room. She listened till the

quivering, catching sobs had given place to deep-drawn sighs, and

these again to disturbed breathings, and then both slept the sleep of

utter exhaustion, and Miss Campbell, fortunately, knew not when the

mourner awoke from it.

Oh, the dreary first-fruits of excessive sorrow! The first days of a

stricken heart, passed through, writhed through, ground through, we

scarcely know or remember how, before the knowledge of the bereavement

has become habitual--while it is still struggle and not endurance--the

same ceaseless recoil from the same ever-recurring shock. It was a

blessing that she was ill, very ill; the body shared something of the

weight at first.

Let no one, untried by such extremity, here lift the word or look of

deprecation. Let there not be a thought of what she ought to have

done, or what they would have done. God's love is great, and a

Christian's faith is strong, but when have the first encounters

between old joys and new sorrows been otherwise than fierce? From time

to time a few intervals of heavenly composure, wonderful and gracious

to the sufferer, may be permitted, and even the dim light of future

peace discerned in the distance; but, in a moment, the gauntlet of

defiance is thrown again--no matter what--an old look, an old word,

which comes rushing unbidden over the soul, and dreadful feelings rise

again only to spend themselves by their own violence. It always seems

to us as if sorrow had a nature of its own, independent of that

whereon it has fallen, and sometimes strangely at variance with

it--scorching the gentle, melting the passionate, dignifying the weak,

and prostrating the strong--and showing the real nature, habits, or

principles of the mind, only in those defenses it raises up during the

intervals of relief. With Mrs. H---- these defenses were reared on the

only sure base, and though the storm would sweep down her bulwarks,

and cover all over with the furious tide of grief, yet the foundation

was left to cling to, and every renewal added somewhat to its

strength.

Three days were spent thus, but the fourth she was better, and on Miss

Campbell's approaching her bed-side, she drew her to her, and, putting

her arms round her neck, imprinted a calm and solemn kiss upon her

cheek.

"Oh! what can I ever do for you, dear friend and comforter? God, who

has sent you to me in my utmost need, He alone can reward you. I don't

even know your name; but that matters not, I know your heart. Now, you

may tell me all--all; before, I felt as if I could neither know nor

forget what had happened, before, it was as if God had withdrawn His

countenance; but now He is gracious, He has heard your prayers."

And then, with the avidity of fresh, hungry sorrow, she besought Miss

Campbell to tell her all she knew; she besought and would not be

denied, for sorrow has royal authority, its requests are commands. So,

with the hand of each locked together, and the eyes of each averted,

they sat questioning and answering in disjointed sentences till the

whole sad tale was told. Then, anxious to turn a subject which could

not be banished, Miss Campbell spoke of the many hearts that had bled,

and the many prayers that had ascended for her, and told her of that

kind old man who had thought, acted, and grieved for her like a

father.

"God bless him--God bless them all; but chiefly you, my sister. I want

no other name."

"Call me Catherine," said the faithful companion.

Passionate bursts of grief would succeed such conversations;

nevertheless, they were renewed again and again, for, like all

sufferers from severe bereavements, her heart needed to create a world

for itself, where its loved ones still were, as a defense against that

outer one where they were not, and to which she was only slowly and

painfully to be inured, if ever. In these times she would love to tell

Catherine--what Catherine most loved to hear--how that her lost

husband was both a believer and a doer of Christ's holy word, and that

her lost child had learned at her knee what she herself had chiefly

learned from his father. For she had been brought up in ignorance and

indifference to religious truths, and the greatest happiness of her

life had commenced that knowledge, which its greatest sorrow was now

to complete.

"I have been such a happy woman," she would say, "that I have pitied

others less blessed, though I trust they have not envied me." And then

would follow sigh on sigh and tear on tear, and again her soul writhed

beneath the agony of that implacable mental spasm.

Sometimes the mourner would appear to lose, instead of gaining ground,

and would own with depression, and even with shame, her fear that she

was becoming more and more the sport of ungovernable feeling. "My

sorrow is sharp enough," she would say, "but it is a still sharper

pang when I feel I am not doing my duty under it. It is not thus that

_he_ would have had me act." And her kind companion, always at hand to

give sympathy or comfort, would bid her not exact or expect any thing

from herself, but to cast all upon God, reminding her in words of

tenderness that her soul was as a sick child, and that strength would

not be required until strength was vouchsafed. "Strength," said the

mourner, "no more strength or health for me." And Miss Campbell would

whisper that, though "weariness endureth for a night, joy comes in the

morning." Or she would be silent, for she knew, as most women do,

alike how to soothe and when to humor.

It was a beautiful and a moving sight to see two beings thus riveted

together in the exercise and receipt of the tenderest and most

intimate feelings, who had never known of each other's existence

till the moment that made the one dependent and the other

indispensable. All the shades and grades of conventional and natural

acquaintanceship, all the gradual insight into mutual character, and

the gradual growth into mutual trust, which it is so sweet to look

back upon from the high ground of friendship, were lost to them; but

it mattered not, here they were together, the one admitted into the

sanctuary of sorrow, the other sharing in the fullness of love, with

no reminiscence in common but one, and that sufficient to bind them

together for life.

Meanwhile the friend without was also unremitting in his way. He

crossed not her threshold in person, nor would have done so for the

world, but his thoughts were always reaching Mrs. H---- in some kind

form. Every delicate dainty that money could procure--beautiful fruits

and flowers which had scarce entered this valley before--every thing

that could tempt the languid appetite or divert the weary eye was in

turn thought of, and each handed in with a kind, hearty inquiry, till

the mourner listened with pleasure for the step and voice. Nor was

Miss Campbell forgotten; all the brief snatches of air and exercise

she enjoyed were in his company, and often did he insist on her coming

out for a short walk or drive when the persuasions of Mrs. H---- had

failed to induce her to leave a room where she was the only joy. But

now a fresh object attracted Sir Thomas's activity, for after many

days the earthly remains of one of the sufferers were thrown up. It

was the body of the little boy. Sir Thomas directed all that was

necessary to be done, and having informed Miss Campbell, the two

friends, each strange to the other, and bound together by the interest

in one equally strange to both, went out together up the hill above

the hotel, and were gone longer than usual. The next day the

intelligence was communicated to Mrs. H----, who received it calmly,

but added, "I could have wished them both to have rested together; but

God's will be done. I ought not to think of them as on earth."

The grave of little Harry H---- was dug far from the burial-ground of

his fathers, and strangers followed him to it; but though there were

no familiar faces among those who stood round, there were no cold

ones; and when Sir Thomas, as chief mourner, threw the earth upon the

lowered coffin, warm tears fell upon it also. Miss Campbell had

watched the procession from the window, and told how the good old man

walked next behind the minister, the boatman and his wife following

him, and how a long train succeeded, all pious and reverential in

their bearing, with that air of manly decorum which the Scotch

peasantry conspicuously show on such occasions. And she who lay on a

bed of sorrow and weakness blessed them through her tears, and felt

that her child's funeral was not lonely.

From this time the mourner visibly mended. The funeral and the

intelligence that preceded it had insensibly given her that change of

the same theme, the want of which had been so much felt at first. She

had now taken up her burden, and, for the dear sakes of those for whom

she bore it, it became almost sweet to her. She was not worshiping her

sorrow as an idol, but cherishing it as a friend. Meanwhile she had

received many kind visits from the minister who had buried her child,

and had listened to his exhortations with humility and gratitude; but

his words were felt as admonitions, Catherine's as comfort. To her,

now dearer and dearer, every day she would confess aloud the secret

changes of her heart; how at one time the world looked all black and

dreary before her, how at another she seemed already to live in a

brighter one beyond; how one day life was a burden she knew not how to

bear, and another how the bitterness of death seemed already past.

Then with true Christian politeness she would lament over the

selfishness of her grief, and ask where Miss Campbell had learned to

know that feeling which she felt henceforth was to be the only solace

of her life--viz., the deep, deep sympathy for others. And Catherine

would tell her, with that care-worn look which confirmed all she said,

how she had been sorely tried, not by the death of those she loved,

but by what was worse--their sufferings and their sins. How she had

been laden with those misfortunes which wound most and teach least,

and which, although coming equally from the hand of God, torment you

with the idea that, but for the wickedness or weakness of some human

agent, they need never have been; till she had felt, wrongly no doubt,

that she could have better borne those on which the stamp of the

Divine Will was more legibly impressed. She told her how the sting of

sorrow, like that of death, is sin; how comparatively light it was to

see those you love dead, dying, crippled, maniacs, victims, in short,

of any evil, rather than victims of evil itself. She spoke of a

heart-broken sister and a hard-hearted brother; of a son--an only one,

like him just buried--who had gone on from sin to sin, hardening his

own heart, and wringing those of others, till none but a mother's love

remained to him, and that he outraged. She told, in short, so much of

the sad realities of life, in which, if there was not more woe, there

was less comfort, that Mrs. H---- acknowledged in her heart that such

griefs had indeed been unendurable, and returned with something like

comfort to the undisturbed sanctity of her own.

About this time a summons came which required Sir Thomas to quit the

valley in which these scenes had been occurring. Mrs. H---- could have

seen him, and almost longed to see him; but he shrunk from her,

fearing no longer her sorrow so much as her gratitude.

"Tell her I love her," he said, in his abrupt way, "and always shall;

but I can't see her--at least, not yet." Then, explaining to Miss

Campbell all the little arrangements for the continuation of the

mourner's comfort, which his absence might interrupt, he authorized

her to dispose of his servants, his horses, and every thing that

belonged to him, and finally put into her hands a small packet,

directed to Mrs. H----, with instructions when to give it. He had

ascertained that Mrs. H---- was wealthy, and that her great

afflictions entailed no minor privations. "But you, my dear, are poor;

at least, I hope so, for I could not be happy unless I were of service

to you. I am just as much obliged to you as Mrs. H---- is. Mind, you

have promised to write to me and to apply to me without reserve. No

kindness, no honor--nonsense. It is _I_ who honor _you_ above every

creature I know, but I would not be a woman for the world; at least,

the truth is, I _could_ not." And so he turned hastily away.

And now the time approached when she, who had entered this valley a

happy wife and mother, was to leave it widowed and childless, a

sorrowing and heavy-hearted woman, but not an unhappy one. She had

but few near relations, and those scattered in distant lands; but

there were friends who would break the first desolation of her former

home, and Catherine had promised to bear her company till she had

committed her into their hands.

It was a lovely evening, the one before their departure. Mrs. H----

was clad for the first time in all that betokened her to be a mourner;

but, as Catherine looked from the black habiliments to that pale face,

she felt that there was the deepest mourning of all. Slowly the widow

passed through that side-door we have mentioned, and stood once more

under God's heaven. Neither had mentioned to the other the errand on

which they were bound, but both felt that there was but one. Slowly

and feebly she mounted the gentle slope, and often she stopped, for it

was more than weakness or fatigue that made her breath fail. The way

was beautiful, close to the rocky bed and leafy sides of that sweetest

of all sweet things in the natural world, a Scotch burn. And now they

turned, for the rich strip of grass, winding among bush and rock,

which they had been following as a path, here spread itself out in a

level shelf of turf, where the burn ran smoother, the bushes grew

higher, and where the hill started upward again in bolder lines. Here

there was a fresh-covered grave. The widow knelt by it, while

Catherine stood back. Long was that head bowed, first in anguish, and

then in submission, and then she turned her face toward the lake, on

which she had not looked since that fatal day, and gazed steadily upon

it. The child lay in his narrow bed at her feet, but the father had a

wider one far beneath. Catherine now approached and was folded in a

silent embrace; then she gave her that small packet which Sir Thomas

had left, and begged her to open it on the spot. It was a legal deed,

making over to Mary H----, in free gift, the ground on which she

stood--a broad strip from the tip of the hill to the waters of the

lake. The widow's tears rained fast upon it.

"Both God and man are very good to me," she said; "I am lonely but not

forsaken. But, Catherine, it is you to whom I must speak. I have tried

to speak before, but never felt I could till now. Oh, Catherine! stay

with me; let us never be parted. God gave you to me when He took all

else beside; He has not done it for naught. I can bear to return to my

lonely home if you will share it--I can bear to see this valley, this

grave again, if you are with me. I am not afraid of tying your

cheerfulness to my sorrow; I feel that I am under a calamity, but I

feel also that I am under no curse--you will help to make it a

blessing. Oh! complete your sacred work, give me years to requite to

you your last few days to me. You have none who need you more--none

who love you more. Oh! follow me; here, on my child's grave, I humbly

entreat you, follow me."

Catherine trembled; she stood silent a minute, and then, with a low,

firm voice, replied, "Here, on your child's grave, I promise you. Your

people shall be my people, and your God my God." She kept her promise

and never repented it.

LIFE OF BLAKE, THE GREAT ADMIRAL.

Robert Blake was born at Bridgewater, in August, 1599. His father,

Humphrey Blake, was a merchant trading with Spain--a man whose temper

seems to have been too sanguine and adventurous for the ordinary

action of trade, finally involving him in difficulties which clouded

his latter days, and left his family in straitened circumstances: his

name, however, was held in general respect; and we find that he lived

in one of the best houses in Bridgewater, and twice filled the chair

of its chief magistrate. The perils to which mercantile enterprise was

then liable--the chance escapes and valorous deeds which the

successful adventurer had to tell his friends and children on the dark

winter nights--doubtless formed a part of the food on which the

imagination of young Blake, "silent and thoughtful from his

childhood," was fed in the "old house at home." At the Bridgewater

grammar-school, Robert received his early education, making tolerable

acquaintance with Latin and Greek, and acquiring a strong bias toward

a literary life. This _penchant_ was confirmed by his subsequent

career at Oxford, where he matriculated at sixteen, and where he

strove hard, but fruitlessly, for scholarships and fellowships at

different colleges. His failure to obtain a Merton fellowship has been

attributed to a crotchet of the warden's, Sir Henry Savile, in favor

of tall men: "The young Somersetshire student, thick-set,

fair-complexioned, and only five feet six, fell below his standard of

manly beauty;" and thus the Cavalier warden, in denying this aspirant

the means of cultivating literature on a little university oatmeal,

was turning back on the world one who was fated to become a republican

power of the age. This shining light, instead of comfortably and

obscurely merging in a petty constellation of Alma Mater, was to

become a bright particular star, and dwell apart. The avowed

liberalism of Robert may, however, have done more in reality to shock

Sir Henry, than his inability to add a cubit to his stature. It is

pleasant to know, that the "admiral and general at sea" never outgrew

a tenderness for literature--his first-love, despite the rebuff of his

advances. Even in the busiest turmoil of a life teeming with accidents

by flood and field, he made it a point of pride not to forget his

favorite classics. Nor was it till after nine years' experience of

college-life, and when his father was no longer able to manage his

_res angusta vitæ_, that Robert finally abandoned his long-cherished

plans, and retired with a sigh and last adieu from the banks of the

Isis.

When he returned to Bridgewater, in time to close his father's eyes,

and superintend the arrangements of the family, he was already

remarkable for that "iron will, that grave demeanor, that free and

dauntless spirit," which so distinguished his after-course. His tastes

were simple, his manners somewhat bluntly austere; a refined dignity

of countenance, and a picturesque vigor of conversation, invested him

with a social interest, to which his indignant invectives against

court corruptions gave distinctive character. To the Short Parliament

he was sent as member for his native town; and in 1645, was returned

by Taunton to the Long Parliament. At the dissolution of the former,

which he regarded as a signal for action, he began to prepare arms

against the king; his being one of the first troops in the field, and

engaged in almost every action of importance in the western counties.

His superiority to the men about him lay in the "marvelous fertility,

energy, and comprehensiveness of his military genius." Prince Rupert

alone, in the Royalist camp, could rival him as a "partisan soldier."

His first distinguished exploit was his defense of Prior's Hill fort,

at the siege of Bristol--which contrasts so remarkably with the

pusillanimity of his chief, Colonel Fiennes. Next comes his yet more

brilliant defense of Lyme--then a little fishing-town, with some 900

inhabitants, of which the defenses were a dry ditch, a few

hastily-formed earth-works, and three small batteries, but which the

Cavalier host of Prince Maurice, trying storm, stratagem, blockade,

day after day, and week after week, failed to reduce or dishearten.

"At Oxford, where Charles then was, the affair was an inexplicable

marvel and mystery: every hour the court expected to hear that the

'little vile fishing-town,' as Clarendon contemptuously calls it, had

fallen, and that Maurice had marched away to enterprises of greater

moment; but every post brought word to the wondering council, that

Colonel Blake still held out, and that his spirited defense was

rousing and rallying the dispersed adherents of Parliament in those

parts." After the siege was raised, the Royalists found that more men

of gentle blood had fallen under Blake's fire at Lyme, than in all

other sieges and skirmishes in the western counties since the opening

of the war.

The hero's fame had become a spell in the west: it was seen that he

rivaled Rupert in rapid and brilliant execution, and excelled him in

the caution and sagacity of his plans. He took Taunton--a place so

important at that juncture, as standing on and controlling the great

western highway--in July, 1644, within a week of Cromwell's defeat of

Rupert at Marston Moor. All the vigor of the Royalists was

brought to bear on the captured town; Blake's defense of which is

justly characterized as abounding with deeds of individual

heroism--exhibiting in its master-mind a rare combination of civil and

military genius. The spectacle of an unwalled town, in an inland

district, with no single advantage of site, surrounded by powerful

castles and garrisons, and invested by an enemy brave, watchful,

numerous, and well provided with artillery, successively resisting

storm, strait, and blockade for several months, thus paralyzing the

king's power, and affording Cromwell time to remodel the army,

naturally arrested the attention of military writers at that time; and

French authors of this class bestowed on Taunton the name of the

modern Saguntum. The rage of the Royalists at this prolonged

resistance was extreme. Reckoning from the date when Blake first

seized the town, to that of Goring's final retreat, the defense

lasted exactly a year, and under circumstances of almost overwhelming

difficulty to the besieged party, who, in addition to the fatigue of

nightly watches, and the destruction of daily conflicts, suffered from

terrible scarcity of provisions. "Not a day passed without a fire;

sometimes eight or ten houses were burning at the same moment; and in

the midst of all the fear, horror, and confusion incident to such

disasters, Blake and his little garrison had to meet the

storming-parties of an enemy brave, exasperated, and ten times their

own strength. But every inch of ground was gallantly defended. A broad

belt of ruined cottages and gardens was gradually formed between the

besiegers and the besieged; and on the heaps of broken walls and burnt

rafters, the obstinate contest was renewed from day to day." At last

relief arrived from London; and Goring, in savage dudgeon, beat a

retreat, notwithstanding the wild oath he had registered, either to

reduce that haughty town, or to lay his bones in its trenches.

Blake was now the observed of all observers; but, unlike most of his

compeers, he abstained from using his advantages for purposes of

selfish or personal aggrandizement. He kept aloof from the "centre of

intrigues," and remained at his post, "doing his duty humbly and

faithfully at a distance from Westminster; while other men, with less

than half his claims, were asking and obtaining the highest honors and

rewards from a grateful and lavish country." Nor, indeed, did he at

any time side with the ultras of his party, but loudly disapproved of

the policy of the regicides. This, coupled with his influence, so

greatly deserved and so deservedly great, made him an object of

jealousy with Cromwell and his party; and it was owing, perhaps, to

their anxiety to keep him removed from the home sphere of action, that

he was now appointed to the chief naval command.

Hitherto, and for years afterward, no state, ancient or modern, as

Macaulay points out, had made a separation between the military and

the naval service. Cimon and Lysander, Pompey and Agrippa, had fought

by sea as well as by land: at Flodden, the right wing of the English

was led by her admiral, and the French admiral led the Huguenots at

Jarnac, &c. Accordingly, Blake was summoned from his pacific

government at Taunton, to assume the post of "General and Admiral at

Sea;" a title afterward changed to "General of the Fleet." Two others

were associated with him in the command; but Blake seems at _least_ to

have been recognized as _primus inter pares_. The navy system was in

deplorable need of reform; and a reformer it found in Robert Blake,

from the very day he became an admiral. His care for the well-being of

his men made him an object of their almost adoring attachment. From

first to last, he stood alone as England's model seaman. "Envy,

hatred, and jealousy dogged the steps of every other officer in the

fleet; but of him, both then and afterward, every man spoke well." The

"tremendous powers" intrusted to him by the Council of State, he

exercised with off-handed and masterly success--startling politicians

and officials of the _ancien régime_, by his bold and open tactics,

and his contempt for tortuous by-paths in diplomacy. His wondrous

exploits were performed with extreme poverty of means. He was the

first to repudiate and disprove the supposed fundamental maxim in

marine warfare, that no ship could attack a castle, or other strong

fortification, with any hope of success. The early part of his naval

career was occupied in opposing and defeating the piratical

performances of Prince Rupert, which then constituted the support of

the exiled Stuarts. Blake's utmost vigilance and activity were

required to put down this extraordinary system of freebooting; and by

the time that he had successively overcome Rupert, and the minor but

stubborn adventurers, Grenville and Carteret, he was in request to

conduct the formidable war with Holland, and to cope with such

veterans as Tromp, De Witt, De Ruyter, &c.

On one occasion only did Blake suffer ever a defeat; and this one is

easily explained by--first, Tromp's overwhelming superiority of force;

secondly, the extreme deficiency of men in the English fleet; and,

thirdly, the cowardice or disaffection of several of Blake's captains

at a critical moment in the battle. Notwithstanding this disaster, not

a whisper was heard against the admiral either in the Council of State

or in the city; his offer to resign was flatteringly rejected; and he

soon found, that the "misfortune which might have ruined another man,

had given him strength and influence in the country." This disaster,

in fact, gave him power to effect reforms in the service, and to root

out abuses which had defied all his efforts in the day of his success.

He followed it up by the great battle of Portland, and other

triumphant engagements.

Then came his sweeping _tours de force_ in the Mediterranean; in six

months he established himself as a power in that great midland sea,

from which his countrymen had been politically excluded since the age

of the Crusades--teaching nations, to which England's very name was a

strange sound, to respect its honors and its rights; chastising the

pirates of Barbary with unprecedented severity; making Italy's petty

princes feel the power of the northern Protestants; causing the pope

himself to tremble on his seven hills; and startling the

council-chambers of Venice and Constantinople with the distant echoes

of our guns. And be it remembered, that England had then no Malta,

Corfu, and Gibraltar as the bases of naval operations in the

Mediterranean: on the contrary, Blake found that in almost every gulf

and island of that sea--in Malta, Venice, Genoa, Leghorn, Algiers,

Tunis, and Marseilles--there existed a rival and an enemy; nor were

there more than three or four harbors in which he could obtain even

bread for love or money.

After this memorable cruise, he had to conduct the Spanish war--a

business quite to his mind; for though his highest renown had been

gained in his conflicts with the Dutch, he had secretly disliked such

encounters between two Protestant states; whereas, in the

case of Popish Spain, his soul leaped at the anticipation of

battle--sympathizing as he did with the Puritan conviction, that Spain

was the devil's stronghold in Europe. At this period, Blake was

suffering from illness, and was sadly crippled in his naval

equipments, having to complain constantly of the neglect at home to

remedy the exigencies of the service. "Our ships," he writes,

"extremely foul, winter drawing on, our victuals expiring, all stores

failing, our men falling sick through the badness of drink, and eating

their victuals boiled in salt water for two months' space" (1655). His

own constitution was thoroughly undermined. For nearly a year, remarks

his biographer, "he had never quitted the 'foul and defective'

flag-ship. Want of exercise and sweet food, beer, wine, water, bread,

and vegetables, had helped to develop scurvy and dropsy; and his

sufferings from these diseases were now acute and continuous." But his

services were indispensable, and Blake was not the man to shrink from

dying in harness. His sun set gloriously at Santa Cruz--that

miraculous and unparalleled action, as Clarendon calls it, which

excited such grateful enthusiasm at home. At home! words of

fascination to the maimed and enfeebled veteran, who now turned his

thoughts so anxiously toward the green hills of his native land.

Cromwell's letter of thanks, the plaudits of parliament, and the

jeweled ring sent to him by his loving countrymen, reached him while

homeward bound. But he was not again to tread the shores he had

defended so well.

As the ships rolled through the Bay of Biscay, his sickness increased,

and affectionate adherents saw with dismay that he was drawing near to

the gates of the grave. "Some gleams of the old spirit broke forth as

they approached the latitude of England. He inquired often and

anxiously if the white cliffs were yet in sight. He longed to behold

once more the swelling downs, the free cities, the goodly churches of

his native land.... At last, the Lizard was announced. Shortly

afterward, the bold cliffs and bare hills of Cornwall loomed out

grandly in the distance. But it was too late for the dying hero. He

had sent for the captains and other great officers of his fleet, to

bid them farewell; and while they were yet in his cabin, the

undulating hills of Devonshire, glowing with the tints of early

autumn, came full in view.... But the eyes which had so yearned to

behold this scene once more were at that very instant closing in

death. Foremost of the victorious squadron, the _St. George_ rode with

its precious burden into the Sound; and just as it came into full view

of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the pier-heads, the walls

of the citadel, &c, ready to catch the first glimpse of the hero of

Santa Cruz, and salute him with a true English welcome--he, in his

silent cabin, in the midst of his lion-hearted comrades, now sobbing

like little children, yielded up his soul to God."

The corpse was embalmed, and conveyed to Greenwich, where it lay in

state for some days. On the 4th of September, 1657, the Thames bore a

solemn funeral procession, which moved slowly, amid salvos of

artillery, to Westminster, where a new vault had been prepared in the

noble abbey. The tears of a nation made it hallowed ground. A prince,

of whom the epigram declares that, if he never said a foolish thing,

he never did a wise one--saw fit to disturb the hero's grave, drag out

the embalmed body, and cast it into a pit in the abbey-yard. One of

Charles Stuart's most witless performances! For Blake is not to be

confounded--though the Merry Monarch thought otherwise--with the

Iretons and Bradshaws who were similarly exhumed. The admiral was a

moderate in the closest, a patriot in the widest sense.

In the chivalric disposition of the man, there was true affinity to

the best qualities of the Cavalier, mingled sometimes with a certain

grim humor, all his own. Many are the illustrations we might adduce of

this high-minded and generous temperament. For instance: meeting a

French frigate of forty guns in the Straits, and signaling for the

captain to come on board his flag-ship, the latter, considering the

visit one of friendship and ceremony, there being no _declared_ war

between the two nations--though the French conduct at Toulon had

determined England on measures of retaliation--readily complied with

Blake's summons; but was astounded on entering the admiral's cabin, at

being told he was a prisoner, and requested to give up his sword. No!

was the surprised but resolute Frenchman's reply. Blake felt that an

advantage had been gained by a misconception, and scorning to make a

brave officer its victim, he told his guest he might go back to his

ship, if he wished, and fight it out as long as he was able. The

captain, we are told, thanked him for his handsome offer, and retired.

After two hours' hard fighting, he struck his flag; like a true French

knight, he made a low bow, kissed his sword affectionately, and

delivered it to his conqueror. Again: when Blake captured the Dutch

herring-fleet off Bochness, consisting of 600 boats, instead of

destroying or appropriating them, he merely took a tithe of the whole

freight, in merciful consideration toward the poor families whose

entire capital and means of life it constituted. This "characteristic

act of clemency" was censured by many as Quixotic, and worse. But

"Blake took no trouble to justify his noble instincts against such

critics. His was indeed a happy fate: the only fault ever advanced by

friend or foe against his public life, was an excess of generosity

toward his vanquished enemies!" His sense of the comic is amusingly

evidenced by the story of his _ruse_ during a dearth in the same

siege. Tradition reports, that only one animal, a hog, was left alive

in the town, and that more than half starved. In the afternoon, Blake,

feeling that in their depression a laugh would do the defenders as

much good as a dinner, had the hog carried to all the posts and

whipped, so that its screams, heard in many places, might make the

enemy suppose that fresh supplies had somehow been obtained.

The moral aspects of his character appear in this memoir in an

admirable light. If he did not stand so high as some others in public

notoriety, it was mainly because, to stand higher than he did, he must

plant his feet on a _bad_ eminence. His patriotism was as pure as

Cromwell's was selfish. Mr. Dixon, his biographer, alludes to the

strong points of contrast, as well as of resemblance between the two

men. Both, he says, were sincerely religious, undauntedly brave,

fertile in expedients, irresistible in action. Born in the same year,

they began and almost closed their lives at the same time. Both were

country gentlemen of moderate fortune; both were of middle age when

the revolution came. Without previous knowledge or professional

training, both attained to the highest honors of their respective

services. But there the parallel ends. Anxious only for the glory and

interest of his country, Blake took little or no care of his personal

aggrandizement. His contempt for money, his impatience with the mere

vanities of power, were supreme. Bribery he abhorred in all its

shapes. He was frank and open to a fault; his heart was ever in his

hand, and his mind ever on his lips. His honesty, modesty, generosity,

sincerity, and magnanimity were unimpeached. Cromwell's inferior moral

qualities made him distrust the great seaman; yet, now and then, as in

the case of the street tumult at Malaga, he was fain to express his

admiration of Robert Blake. The latter was wholly unversed in the

science of nepotism, and "happy family" compacts; for, although

desirous of aiding his relatives, he was jealous of the least offense

on their part, and never overlooked it. Several instances of this

disposition are on record. When his brother Samuel, in rash zeal for

the Commonwealth, ventured to exceed his duty, and was killed in a

fray which ensued, Blake was terribly shocked, but only said: "Sam had

no business there." Afterward, however, he shut himself up in his

room, and bewailed his loss in the words of Scripture: "Died Abner as

a fool dieth!" His brother Benjamin, again, to whom he was strongly

attached, falling under suspicion of neglect of duty, was instantly

broken, and sent on shore. "This rigid measure of justice against his

own flesh and blood, silenced every complaint, and the service gained

immeasurably in spirit, discipline, and confidence." Yet more touching

was the great admiral's inexorable treatment of his favorite brother

Humphrey, who, in a moment of extreme agitation, had failed in his

duty. The captains went to Blake in a body, and argued that Humphrey's

fault was a neglect rather than a breach of orders, and suggested his

being sent away to England till it was forgotten. But Blake was

outwardly unmoved, though inwardly his bowels did yearn over his

brother, and sternly said: "If none of you will accuse him, I must be

his accuser." Humphrey was dismissed from the service. It is affecting

to know how painfully Blake missed his familiar presence during his

sick and lonely passage homeward, when the hand of death was upon that

noble heart. To Humphrey he bequeathed the greater part of the

property which he left behind him. In the rare intervals of private

life which he enjoyed on shore, Blake also compels our sincere regard.

When released for awhile from political and professional duties, he

loved to run down to Bridgewater for a few days or weeks, and, as his

biographer says, with his chosen books, and one or two devout and

abstemious friends, to indulge in all the luxuries of seclusion. "He

was by nature self-absorbed and taciturn. His morning was usually

occupied with a long walk, during which he appeared to his simple

neighbors to be lost in profound thought, as if working out in his own

mind the details of one of his great battles, or busy with some

abstruse point of Puritan theology. If accompanied by one of his

brothers, or by some other intimate friend, he was still for the most

part silent. Always good-humored, and enjoying sarcasm when of a

grave, high class, he yet never talked from the loquacious instinct,

or encouraged others so to employ their time and talents in his

presence. Even his lively and rattling brother Humphrey, his almost

constant companion when on shore, caught, from long habit, the great

man's contemplative and self-communing gait and manner; and when his

friends rallied him on the subject in after-years, he used to say,

that he had caught the trick of silence while walking by the admiral's

side in his long morning musings on Knoll Hill. A plain dinner

satisfied his wants. Religious conversation, reading, and the details

of business, generally filled up the evening until supper-time; after

family prayers--always pronounced by the general himself--he would

invariably call for his cup of sack and a dry crust of bread, and

while he drank two or three horns of Canary, would smile and chat in

his own dry manner with his friends and domestics, asking minute

questions about their neighbors and acquaintance; or when scholars or

clergymen shared his simple repast, affecting a droll anxiety--rich

and pleasant in the conqueror of Tromp--to prove, by the aptness and

abundance of his quotations, that, in becoming an admiral, he had not

forfeited his claim to be considered a good classic."

The care and interest with which he looked to the well-being of his

humblest followers, made him eminently popular in the fleet. He was

always ready to hear complaints, and to rectify grievances. When

wounded at the battle of Portland, and exhorted to go on shore for

repose and proper medical treatment, he refused to seek for himself

the relief which he had put in the way of his meanest comrade. Even at

the early period of his cruise against the Cavalier corsairs of

Kinsale, such was Blake's popularity, that numbers of men were

continually joining him from the enemy's fleet, although he offered

them less pay, and none of that license which they had enjoyed under

Prince Rupert's flag. They gloried in following a leader _sans peur et

sans reproche_--one with whose renown the whole country speedily

rang--the renown of a man who had revived the traditional glories of

the English navy, and proved that its meteor flag could "yet terrific

burn."

THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

BY FREDRIKA BREMER.

London possesses two scenes of popular enjoyment on a great scale, in

its British Museum and its Zoological Gardens. In the former, the

glance is sent over the life of antiquity; in the latter, over that of

the present time in the kingdom of nature; and in both may the

Englishman enjoy a view of England's power and greatness, because it

is the spirit of England which has compelled Egypt and Greece to

remove hither their gods, their heroic statues: it is England whose

courageous sons at this present moment force their way into the

interior of Africa, that mysterious native land of miracles and of the

Leviathan; it is an Englishman who held in his hand snow from the

clefts of the remote Mountains of the Moon; it is England which has

aroused that ancient Nineveh from her thousands of years of sleep in

the desert; England, which has caused to arise from their graves, and

to stand forth beneath the sky of England, those witnesses of the life

and art of antiquity which are known under the name of the Nineveh

Marbles, those magnificent but enigmatical figures which are called

the Nineveh Bulls, in the immense wings of which one can not but

admire the fine artistic skill of the workmanship, and from the

beautiful human countenances of which glances Oriental despotism--with

eyes such as those with which King Ahasuerus might have gazed on the

beautiful Esther, when she sank fainting before the power of that

glance. They have an extraordinary expression--these countenances of

Nineveh, so magnificent, so strong, and at the same time, so joyous--a

something about them so valiant and so joyously commanding! It was an

expression which surprised me, and which I could not rightly

comprehend. It would be necessary for me to see them yet again before

I could fully satisfy myself whether this inexpressible, proudly

joyous glance is one of wisdom or of stupidity! I could almost fancy

it might be the latter, when I contemplate the expression of gentle

majesty in the head of the Grecian Jupiter. Nevertheless, whether it

be wisdom or stupidity--these representations of ancient Nineveh have

a real grandeur and originality about them. Were they then

representatives of life there? Was life there thus proud and joyous,

thus unconscious of trouble, care, or death, thus valiant, and without

all arrogance? Had it such eyes? Ah! and yet it has lain buried in the

sand of the desert, lain forgotten there many thousand years. And now,

when they once more look up with those large, magnificent eyes, they

discover another world around them, another Nineveh which can not

understand what they would say. Thus proudly might Nineveh have looked

when the prophet uttered above her his "woe!" Such a glance does not

accord with the life of earth.

In comparison with these latest discovered but most ancient works of

art, the Egyptian statues fall infinitely short, bearing evidence of a

degraded, sensual humanity, and the same as regarded art. But neither

of these, nor of the Elgin marbles, nor of many other treasures of art

in the British Museum which testify at the same time to the greatness

of foregone ages, and to the power of the English world-conquering

intelligence, shall I say any thing, because time failed me rightly to

observe them, and the Nineveh marbles almost bewitched me by their

contemplation.

It is to me difficult to imagine a greater pleasure than that of

wandering through these halls, or than by a visit to the Zoological

Garden which lies on one side of the Regent's Park. I would willingly

reside near this park for a time, that I might again and again wander

about in this world of animals from all zones, and listen to all that

they have to relate, ice-bears and lions, turtles and eagles, the

ourang-outang and the rhinoceros! The English Zoological Garden,

although less fortunate in its locality than the _Jardin des Plantes_

in Paris, is much richer as regards animals. That which at this time

attracted hither most visitors was the new guest of the garden, a

so-called river-horse or hippopotamus, lately brought hither from

Upper Egypt, where it was taken when young. It was yet not full-grown,

and had here its own keeper--an Arab--its own house, its own court,

its own reservoir, to bathe and swim in! Thus it lived in a really

princely hippopotamus fashion. I saw his highness ascend out of his

bath in a particularly good-humor, and he looked to me like an

enormous--pig, with an enormously broad snout. He was very fat,

smooth, and gray, and awkward in his movements, like the elephant.

Long-necked giraffes walked about, feeding from wooden racks in the

court adjoining that of the hippopotamus, and glancing at us across

it. One can scarcely imagine a greater contrast than in these animals.

The eagles sate upon crags placed in a row beneath a lofty transparent

arch of iron work, an arrangement which seemed to me excellent, and

which I hope seemed so to them, in case they could forget that they

were captives. Here they might breathe, here spread out their huge

wings, see the free expanse of heaven, and the sun, and build

habitations for themselves upon the rock. On the contrary, the lions,

leopards, and such-like noble beasts of the desert, seemed to me

particularly unhappy in their iron-grated stone vaults; and their

perpetual, uneasy walking backward and forward in their cages--I could

not see that without a feeling of distress. How beautiful they must be

in the desert, or amid tropical woods, or in the wild caverns of the

mountains, those grand, terrific beasts--how fearfully beautiful! One

day I saw these animals during their feeding time. Two men went round

with wooden vessels filled with pieces of raw meat; these were taken

up with a large iron-pronged fork, and put, or rather flung, through

the iron grating into the dens. It was terrible to see the savage joy,

the fury, with which the food was received and swallowed down by the

beasts. Three pieces of meat were thrown into one great vault which

was at that time empty, a door was then drawn up at the back of the

vault, and three huge yellow lions with shaggy manes rushed roaring

in, and at one spring each possessed himself of his piece of flesh.

One of the lions held his piece between his teeth for certainly a

quarter of an hour, merely growling and gloating over it in savage

joy, while his flashing eyes glared upon the spectators, and his tail

was swung from side to side with an expression of defiance. It was a

splendid, but a fearful sight. One of my friends was accustomed

sometimes to visit these animals in company with his little girl, a

beautiful child, with a complexion like milk and cherries. The sight

of her invariably produced great excitement in the lions. They seemed

evidently to show their love to her in a ravenous manner.

The serpents were motionless in their glass house, and lay,

half-asleep, curled around the trunks of trees. In the evening by

lamp-light they become lively, and then, twisting about and flashing

forth their snaky splendors, they present a fine spectacle. The

snake-room, with its walls of glass, behind which the snakes live,

reminded me of the old northern myth of Nastrond, the roof of which

was woven of snakes' backs, the final home of the ungodly--an

unpleasant, but vigorous picture. The most disagreeable and the

ugliest of all the snakes, was that little snake which the beautiful

Queen Cleopatra, herself false as a serpent, placed at her breast; a

little gray, flat-headed snake which liked to bury itself in the sand.

The monkey-family lead a sad life; stretch out their hands for nuts or

for bread, with mournful human gestures; contentious, beaten,

oppressed, thrust aside, frightening one another, the stronger the

weaker--mournfully human also.

Sad, also, was the sight of an ourang-outang, spite of all its queer

grimaces, solitary in its house, for it evidently suffered ennui, was

restless, and would go out. It embraced its keeper and kissed him with

real human tenderness. The countenance, so human, yet without any

human intelligence, made a painful impression upon me; so did the

friendly tame creature here, longing for its fellows, and seeing

around it only human beings. Thou poor animal! Fain would I have seen

thee in the primeval woods of Africa, caressing thy wife in the clear

moonlight of the tropical night, sporting with her among the branches

of the trees, and sleeping upon them, rocked by the warm night wind.

There thy ugliness would have had a sort of picturesque beauty. After

the strange beast-man had climbed hither and thither along the iron

railing, seizing the bars with his hands, and feet which resembled

hands, and also with his teeth, he took a white woolen blanket,

wrapped it around him in a very complicated manner, and ended by

laying himself down as a human being might do, in his chilly, desolate

room.

After this, all the more charming was the spectacle presented by the

water-fowl from every zone--Ducks, Swans, and Co., all quite at home

here, swimming in the clear waters, among little green islands on

which they had their little huts. It was most charmingly pretty and

complete. And the mother-duck with her little, lively golden-yellow

flock, swimming neck and heels after her, or seeking shelter under her

wings, is at all times one of the most lovely scenes of natural

life--resembling humanity in a beautiful manner.

Even among the wild beasts I saw a beautiful human trait of maternal

affection. A female leopard had in her cage two young cubs, lively and

playful as puppies. When the man threw the flesh into her cage, she

drew herself back and let the young ones first seize upon the piece.

Crows from all parts of the world here live together in one

neighborhood, and that the chattering and laughter was loud here did

not surprise me, neither that the European crows so well maintained

their place among their fellows. That which, however, astonished and

delighted me was, the sweet flute-like melodious tones of the

Australian crow. In the presence of this crow from Paradise--for

originally it must have come therefrom--it seemed to me that all the

other crows ought to have kept silence with their senseless

chattering. But they were nothing but crows, and they liked better to

hear themselves.

Parrots from all lands lived and quarreled together in a large room,

and they there made such a loud screaming, that in order to stand it

out one must have been one of their own relations. Better be among the

silent, dejected, stealthy, hissing, shining snakes, than in company

with parrots! The former might kill the body, but the latter the soul.

Twilight came on, and drove me out of the Zoological Garden each time

I was there, and before I had seen all its treasures. Would that I

might return there yet a third time and remain still longer!

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED.

The most difficult likeness I ever had to take, not even excepting my

first attempt in the art of Portrait-painting, was a likeness of a

gentleman named Faulkner. As far as drawing and coloring went, I had

no particular fault to find with my picture; it was the _expression_

of the sitter which I had failed in rendering--a failure quite as much

his fault as mine. Mr. Faulkner, like many other persons by whom I

have been employed, took it into his head that he must assume an

expression, because he was sitting for his likeness; and, in

consequence, contrived to look as unlike himself as possible, while I

was painting him. I had tried to divert his attention from his own

face, by talking with him on all sorts of topics. We had both traveled

a great deal, and felt interested alike in many subjects connected

with our wanderings over the same countries. Occasionally, while we

were discussing our traveling experiences, the unlucky set-look left

his countenance, and I began to work to some purpose; but it was

always disastrously sure to return again, before I had made any great

progress--or, in other words, just at the very time when I was most

anxious that it should not re-appear. The obstacle thus thrown in the

way of the satisfactory completion of my portrait, was the more to be

deplored, because Mr. Faulkner's natural expression was a very

remarkable one. I am not an author, so I can not describe it. I

ultimately succeeded in painting it, however; and this was the way in

which I achieved my success:

On the morning when my sitter was coming to me for the fourth time, I

was looking at his portrait in no very agreeable mood--looking at it,

in fact, with the disheartening conviction that the picture would be a

perfect failure, unless the expression in the face represented were

thoroughly altered and improved from nature. The only method of

accomplishing this successfully, was to make Mr. Faulkner, somehow,

insensibly forget that he was sitting for his picture. What topic

could I lead him to talk on, which would entirely engross his

attention while I was at work on his likeness?--I was still puzzling

my brains to no purpose on this subject, when Mr. Faulkner entered my

studio; and, shortly afterward, an accidental circumstance gained for

me the very object which my own ingenuity had proved unequal to

compass.

While I was "setting" my pallet, my sitter amused himself by turning

over some portfolios. He happened to select one for special notice,

which contained several sketches that I had made in the streets of

Paris. He turned over the first five views rapidly enough; but when he

came to the sixth, I saw his face flush directly; and observed that he

took the drawing out of the portfolio, carried it to the window, and

remained silently absorbed in the contemplation of it for full five

minutes. After that, he turned round to me; and asked, very anxiously,

if I had any objection to part with that sketch.

It was the least interesting drawing of the series--merely a view in

one of the streets running by the backs of the houses in the Palais

Royal. Some four or five of these houses were comprised in the view,

which was of no particular use to me in any way; and which was too

valueless, as a work of Art, for me to think of _selling_ it to my

kind patron. I begged his acceptance of it, at once. He thanked me

quite warmly; and then, seeing that I looked a little surprised at the

odd selection he had made from my sketches, laughingly asked me if I

could guess why he had been so anxious to become possessed of the view

which I had given him?

"Probably"--I answered--"there is some remarkable historical

association connected with that street at the back of the Palais

Royal, of which I am ignorant."

"No"--said Mr. Faulkner--"at least, none that _I_ know of. The only

association connected with the place in _my_ mind, is a purely

personal association. Look at this house in your drawing--the house

with the water-pipe running down it from top to bottom. I once passed

a night there--a night I shall never forget to the day of my death. I

have had some awkward traveling adventures in my time; but _that_

adventure--! Well, well! suppose we begin the sitting. I make but a

bad return for your kindness in giving me the sketch, by thus wasting

your time in mere talk."

He had not long occupied the sitter's chair (looking pale and

thoughtful), when he returned--involuntarily, as it seemed--to the

subject of the house in the back street. Without, I hope, showing any

undue curiosity, I contrived to let him see that I felt a deep

interest in every thing he now said. After two or three preliminary

hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly started on the

narrative of his adventure. In the interest of his subject he soon

completely forgot that he was sitting for his portrait--the very

expression that I wanted, came over his face--my picture proceeded

toward completion, in the right direction, and to the best purpose. At

every fresh touch, I felt more and more certain that I was now getting

the better of my grand difficulty; and I enjoyed the additional

gratification of having my work lightened by the recital of a true

story, which possessed, in my estimation, all the excitement of the

most exciting romance.

This, as nearly as I can recollect, is, word for word, how Mr.

Faulkner told me the story:--

Shortly before the period when gambling-houses were suppressed by the

French Government, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English

friend. We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, a very

dissipated life, in the very dissipated city of our sojourn. One

night, we were idling about the neighborhood of the Palais Royal,

doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend

proposed a visit to Frascati's; but his suggestion was not to my

taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost

and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, "merely for the fun of the

thing," until it was "fun" no longer; and was thoroughly tired, in

fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as

a respectable gambling-house. "For Heaven's sake"--said I to my

friend--"let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine,

blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming, with no false gingerbread glitter

thrown over it at all. Let us get away from fashionable Frascati's, to

a house where they don't mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or

a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise."--"Very well," said my

friend, "we needn't go out of the Palais Royal to find the sort of

company you want. Here's the place, just before us; as blackguard a

place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see." In another

minute we arrived at the door, and entered the house, the back of

which you have drawn in your sketch.

When we got up-stairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the

doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did not

find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked

up at us on our entrance, they were all types--miserable types--of

their respective classes. We had come to see blackguards; but these

men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less

appreciable, in all blackguardism--here, there was nothing but

tragedy; mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible. The

thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely

watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby,

fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard

perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often

red--never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes,

and the darned great coat, who had lost his last _sous_, and still

looked on desperately, after he could play no longer--never spoke.

Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled

and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I had entered the place

to laugh; I felt that if I stood quietly looking on much longer, I

should be more likely to weep. So, to excite myself out of the

depression of spirits which was fast stealing over me, I unfortunately

went to the table, and began to play. Still more unfortunately, as the

event will show, I won--won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such

a rate, that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and

staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one

another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was _Rouge et Noir_. I had played at it in every city in

Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of

Chances--that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! And a gambler, in

the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from

the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement. I

never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to

want money. I never practiced it so incessantly as to lose more than I

could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket, without

being thrown off my balance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto

frequented gambling-tables--just as I frequented ball-rooms and

opera-houses--because they amused me, and because I had nothing better

to do with my leisure hours.

But, on this occasion, it was very different--now, for the first time

in my life, I felt what the passion for play really was. My success

first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word,

intoxicated me. Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true,

that I only lost, when I attempted to estimate chances, and played

according to previous calculation. If I left every thing to luck, and

staked without any care or consideration, I was sure to win--to win in

the face of every recognized probability in favor of the bank. At

first, some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on

my color; but I speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared

not risk. One after another they left off playing, and breathlessly

looked on at my game. Still, time after time, I staked higher and

higher; and still won. The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch.

The silence was interrupted, by a deep, muttered chorus of oaths and

exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shoveled

across to my side of the table--even the imperturbable croupier dashed

his rake on the floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my

success. But one man present preserved his self-possession; and that

man was my friend. He came to my side, and whispering in English,

begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I had already

gained. I must do him the justice to say, that he repeated his

warnings and entreaties several times; and only left me and went away,

after I had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and purposes

gambling-drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to

address me again that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried: "Permit me,

my dear sir!--permit me to restore to their proper place two Napoleons

which you have dropped. Wonderful luck, sir!--I pledge you my word of

honor as an old soldier, in the course of my long experience in this

sort of thing, I never saw such luck as yours!--never! Go on,

sir--_Sacré mille bombes!_ Go on boldly, and break the bank!"

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with inveterate

civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided surtout. If I

had been in my senses, I should have considered him, personally, as

being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier. He had goggling,

bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose. His voice betrayed

a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiest

pair of hands I ever saw--even in France. These little personal

peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling influence on me. In the

mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that moment, I was ready to

"fraternize" with any body who encouraged me in my game. I accepted

the old soldier's offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back, and

swore he was the honestest fellow in the world; the most glorious

relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met with. "Go on!" cried my

military friend, snapping his fingers in ecstasy--"Go on, and win!

Break the bank--_Mille tonnerres!_ my gallant English comrade, break

the bank!"

And I _did_ go on--went on at such a rate, that in another quarter of

an hour the croupier called out: "Gentlemen! the bank has discontinued

for to-night." All the notes, and all the gold in that "bank," now lay

in a heap under my hands; the whole floating capital of the

gambling-house was waiting to pour into my pockets!

"Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, my worthy sir," said

the old soldier, as I wildly plunged my hands into my heap of gold.

"Tie it up, as we used to tie up a bit of dinner in the Grand Army;

your winnings are too heavy for any breeches pockets that ever were

sewed. There! that's it!--shovel them in, notes and all! _Credié!_

what luck!--Stop! another Napoleon on the floor! _Ah! sacré petit

polisson de Napoleon!_ have I found thee at last? Now, then, sir--two

tight double knots each way with your honorable permission, and the

money's safe. Feel it! feel it, fortunate sir! hard and round as a

cannon ball--_Ah, bah!_ if they had only fired such cannon balls at us

at Austerlitz--_nom d'une pipe!_ if they only had! And now, as an

ancient grenadier, as an ex-brave of the French army, what remains for

me to do? I ask what? Simply this: to entreat my valued English friend

to drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast the goddess Fortune

in foaming goblets before we part!"

Excellent ex-brave! Convivial ancient grenadier! Champagne by all

means! An English cheer for an old soldier! Hurrah! hurrah! Another

English cheer for the goddess Fortune! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

"Bravo! the Englishman; the amiable, gracious Englishman, in whose

veins circulates the vivacious blood of France! Another glass? _Ah,

bah!_--the bottle is empty! Never mind! _Vive le vin!_ I, the old

soldier, order another bottle, and half a pound of _bon-bons_ with

it!"

No, no, ex-brave; never--ancient grenadier! _Your_ bottle last time;

_my_ bottle this. Behold it! Toast away! The French Army!--the great

Napoleon!--the present company! the croupier! the honest croupier's

wife and daughters--if he has any! the Ladies generally! Every body in

the world!

By the time the second bottle of champagne was emptied, I felt as if I

had been drinking liquid fire--my brain seemed all a flame. No excess

in wine had ever had this effect on me before in my life. Was it the

result of a stimulant acting upon my system when I was in a

highly-excited state? Was my stomach in a particularly disordered

condition? Or was the champagne particularly strong?

"Ex-brave of the French Army!" cried I, in a mad state of

exhilaration. "_I_ am on fire! how are _you_? You have set me on fire!

Do you hear; my hero of Austerlitz? Let us have a third bottle of

champagne to put the flame out!" The old soldier wagged his head,

rolled his goggle-eyes, until I expected to see them slip out of their

sockets; placed his dirty forefinger by the side of his broken nose;

solemnly ejaculated "Coffee!" and immediately ran off into an inner

room.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran, seemed to have a magical

effect on the rest of the company present. With one accord they all

rose to depart. Probably they had expected to profit by my

intoxication; but finding that my new friend was benevolently bent on

preventing me from getting dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of

thriving pleasantly on my winnings. Whatever their motive might be, at

any rate they went away in a body. When the old soldier returned, and

sat down again opposite to me at the table, we had the room to

ourselves. I could see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule which

opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude. The silence was now

deeper than ever.

A sudden change, too, had come over the "ex-brave." He assumed a

portentously solemn look; and when he spoke to me again, his speech

was ornamented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping, enlivened

by no apostrophes, or exclamations.

"Listen, my dear sir," said he, in mysteriously confidential

tones--"listen to an old soldier's advice. I have been to the mistress

of the house (a very charming woman, with a genius for cookery!) to

impress on her the necessity of making us some particularly strong and

good coffee. You must drink this coffee in order to get rid of your

little amiable exaltation of spirits, before you think of going

home--you _must_, my good and gracious friend! With all that money to

take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself to have your wits

about you. You are known to be a winner to an enormous extent, by

several gentlemen present to-night, who, in a certain point of view,

are very worthy and excellent fellows; but they are mortal men, my

dear sir, and they have their amiable weaknesses! Need I say more? Ah,

no, no! you understand me! Now, this is what you must do--send for a

cabriolet when you feel quite well again--draw up all the windows when

you get into it--and tell the driver to take you home only through the

large and well-lighted thoroughfares. Do this; and you and your money

will be safe. Do this; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier for

giving you a word of honest advice."

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very lachrymose tones, the

coffee came in, ready poured out in two cups. My attentive friend

handed me one of the cups, with a bow. I was parched with thirst, and

drank it off at a draught. Almost instantly afterward, I was seized

with a fit of giddiness, and felt more completely intoxicated than

ever. The room whirled round and round furiously; the old soldier

seemed to be regularly bobbing up and down before me, like the piston

of a steam-engine. I was half-deafened by a violent singing in my

ears; a feeling of utter bewilderment, helplessness, idiotcy, overcame

me. I rose from my chair, holding on by the table to keep my balance;

and stammered out, that I felt dreadfully unwell--so unwell, that I

did not know how I was to get home.

"My dear friend," answered the old soldier; and even his voice seemed

to be bobbing up and down, as he spoke--"My dear friend, it would be

madness to go home, in _your_ state. You would be sure to lose your

money; you might be robbed and murdered with the greatest ease. _I_ am

going to sleep here: do _you_ sleep here, too--they make up capital

beds in this house--take one; sleep off the effects of the wine, and

go home safely with your winnings, to-morrow--to-morrow, in broad

daylight."

I had no power of thinking, no feeling of any kind, but the feeling

that I must lie down somewhere, immediately, and fall off into a cool,

refreshing, comfortable sleep. So I agreed eagerly to the proposal

about the bed, and took the offered arms of the old soldier and the

croupier--the latter having been summoned to show the way. They led me

along some passages and up a short flight of stairs into the bedroom

which I was to occupy. The ex-brave shook me warmly by the hand;

proposed that we should breakfast together the next morning; and then,

followed by the croupier, left me for the night.

I ran to the wash-hand stand; drank some of the water in my jug;

poured the rest out, and plunged my face into it--then sat down in a

chair, and tried to compose myself. I soon felt better. The change for

my lungs, from the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-room to the cool

air of the apartment I now occupied; the almost equally refreshing

change for my eyes, from the glaring gas-lights of the "Salon" to the

dim, quiet flicker of one bedroom candle; aided wonderfully the

restorative effects of cold water. The giddiness left me, and I began

to feel a little like a reasonable being again. My first thought was

of the risk of sleeping all night in a gambling-house; my second, of

the still greater risk of trying to get out after the house was

closed, and of going home alone at night, through the streets of

Paris, with a large sum of money about me. I had slept in worse places

than this, in the course of my travels; so I determined to lock, bolt,

and barricade my door.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion; looked under the

bed, and into the cupboard; tried the fastening of the window; and

then, satisfied that I had taken every proper precaution, pulled off

my upper clothing, put my light, which was a dim one, on the hearth

among a feathery litter of wood ashes; and got into bed, with the

handkerchief full of money under my pillow.

I soon felt, not only that I could not go to sleep, but that I could

not even close my eyes. I was wide awake, and in a high fever. Every

nerve in my body trembled--every one of my senses seemed to be

preternaturally sharpened. I tossed, and rolled, and tried every kind

of position, and perseveringly sought out the cold corners of the bed,

and all to no purpose. Now, I thrust my arms over the clothes; now, I

poked them under the clothes; now, I violently shot my legs straight

out, down to the bottom of the bed; now, I convulsively coiled them up

as near my chin as they would go; now, I shook out my crumpled pillow,

changed it to the cool side, patted it flat, and lay down quietly on

my back; now, I fiercely doubled it in two, set it up on end, thrust

it against the board of the bed, and tried a sitting posture. Every

effort was in vain; I groaned with vexation, as I felt that I was in

for a sleepless night.

What could I do? I had no book to read. And yet, unless I found out

some method of diverting my mind, I felt certain that I was in the

condition to imagine all sorts of horrors; to rack my brains with

forebodings of every possible and impossible danger; in short, to pass

the night in suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous terror. I

raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the room--which was

brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straight through the

window--to see if it contained any pictures or ornaments, that I could

at all clearly distinguish. While my eyes wandered from wall to wall,

a remembrance of Le Maistre's delightful little book, "Voyage autour

de ma Chambre," occurred to me. I resolved to imitate the French

author, and find occupation and amusement enough to relieve the tedium

of my wakefulness by making a mental inventory of every article of

furniture I could see, and by following up to their sources the

multitude of associations which even a chair, a table, or a wash-hand

stand, may be made to call forth.

In the nervous, unsettled state of my mind at that moment, I found it

much easier to make my proposed inventory, than to make my proposed

reflections, and soon gave up all hope of thinking in Le Maistre's

fanciful track--or, indeed, thinking at all. I looked about the room

at the different articles of furniture, and did nothing more. There

was, first, the bed I was lying in--a four-post bed, of all things in

the world to meet with in Paris!--yes, a thorough clumsy British

four-poster, with the regular top lined with chintz--the regular

fringed valance all round--the regular stifling, unwholesome curtains,

which I remembered having mechanically drawn back against the posts,

without particularly noticing the bed when I first got into the room.

Then, there was the marble-topped wash-hand stand, from which the

water I had spilt, in my hurry to pour it out, was still dripping,

slowly and more slowly, on to the brick floor. Then, two small chairs,

with my coat, waistcoat, and trowsers flung on them. Then, a large

elbow chair covered with dirty-white dimity: with my cravat and

shirt-collar thrown over the back. Then, a chest of drawers, with two

of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstand placed

on it by way of ornament for the top. Then, the dressing-table,

adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very large pincushion.

Then, the window--an unusually large window. Then, a dark old picture,

which the feeble candle dimly showed me. It was the picture of a

fellow in a high Spanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering

feathers. A swarthy sinister ruffian, looking upward; shading his eyes

with his hand, and looking intently upward--it might be at some tall

gallows at which he was going to be hanged. At any rate he had the

appearance of thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward, too--at

the top of the bed. It was a gloomy and not an interesting object, and

I looked back at the picture. I counted the feathers in the man's hat;

they stood out in relief; three, white; two, green. I observed the

crown of his hat, which was of a conical shape, according to the

fashion supposed to have been favored by Guido Fawkes. I wondered what

he was looking up at. It couldn't be at the stars; such a desperado

was neither astrologer nor astronomer. It must be at the high

gallows, and he was going to be hanged presently. Would the

executioner come into possession of his conical crowned hat, and plume

of feathers? I counted the feathers again; three, white; two, green.

While I still lingered over this very improving and intellectual

employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander. The moonlight

shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in

England--the night after a pic-nic party in a Welsh valley. Every

incident of the drive homeward through lovely scenery, which the

moonlight made lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance, though

I had never given the pic-nic a thought for years; though, if I had

_tried_ to recollect it, I could certainly have recalled little or

nothing of that scene long past. Of all the wonderful faculties that

help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime truth more

eloquently than memory? Here was I, in a strange house of the most

suspicious character, in a situation of uncertainty, and even of

peril, which might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollection

almost out of the question; nevertheless remembering, quite

involuntarily, places, people, conversations, minute circumstances of

every kind, which I had thought forgotten forever, which I could not

possibly have recalled at will, even under the most favorable

auspices. And what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this

strange, complicated, mysterious effect? Nothing but some rays of

moonlight shining in at my bedroom window.

I was still thinking of the pic-nic; of our merriment on the drive

home; of the sentimental young lady, who _would_ quote Childe Harold

because it was moonlight. I was absorbed by these past scenes and past

amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which my memories hung,

snapped asunder; my attention immediately came back to present things

more vividly than ever, and I found myself, I neither knew why or

wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.

Looking for what? Good God, the man had pulled his hat down on his

brows!--No! The hat itself was gone! Where was the conical crown?

Where the feathers; three, white; two green? Not there! In place of

the hat and feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his

forehead--his eyes--his shading hand? Was the bed moving?

I turned on my back, and looked up. Was I mad? drunk? dreaming? giddy

again? or, was the top of the bed really moving down--sinking slowly,

regularly, silently, horribly, right down throughout the whole of its

length and breadth--right down upon me, as I lay underneath?

My blood seemed to stand still; a deadly paralyzing coldness stole all

over me, as I turned my head round on the pillow, and determined to

test whether the bed-top was really moving or not, by keeping my eye

on the man in the picture. The next look in that direction was

enough. The dull, black, frowsy outline of the valance above me was

within an inch of being parallel with his waist. I still looked

breathlessly. And steadily, and slowly--very slowly--I saw the figure,

and the line of frame below the figure, vanish, as the valance moved

down before it.

I am, constitutionally, any thing but timid. I have been, on more than

one occasion, in peril of my life, and have not lost my

self-possession for an instant; but, when the conviction first settled

on my mind that the bed-top was really moving, was steadily and

continuously sinking down upon me, I looked up for one awful minute,

or more, shuddering, helpless, panic-stricken, beneath the hideous

machinery for murder, which was advancing closer and closer to

suffocate me where I lay.

Then the instinct of self-preservation came, and nerved me to save my

life, while there was yet time. I got out of bed very quietly, and

quickly dressed myself again in my upper clothing. The candle, fully

spent, went out. I sat down in the arm-chair that stood near, and

watched the bed-top slowly descending. I was literally spell-bound by

it. If I had heard footsteps behind me, I could not have turned round;

if a means of escape had been miraculously provided for me, I could

not have moved to take advantage of it. The whole life in me, was, at

that moment, concentrated in my eyes.

It descended--the whole canopy, with the fringe round it, came

down--down--close down; so close that there was not room now to

squeeze my finger between the bed-top and the bed. I felt at the

sides, and discovered that what had appeared to me, from beneath, to

be the ordinary light canopy of a four-post bed was in reality a

thick, broad mattress, the substance of which was concealed by the

valance and its fringe. I looked up, and saw the four posts rising

hideously bare. In the middle of the bed-top was a huge wooden screw

that had evidently worked it down through a hole in the ceiling, just

as ordinary presses are worked down on the substance selected for

compression. The frightful apparatus moved without making the faintest

noise. There had been no creaking as it came down; there was now not

the faintest sound from the room above. Amid a dead and awful silence

I beheld before me--in the nineteenth century, and in the civilized

capital of France--such a machine for secret murder by suffocation, as

might have existed in the worst days of the Inquisition, in the lonely

Inns among the Hartz Mountains, in the mysterious tribunals of

Westphalia! Still, as I looked on it, I could not move; I could hardly

breathe; but I began to recover the power of thinking; and, in a

moment, I discovered the murderous conspiracy framed against me, in

all its horror.

My cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged too strongly. I had

been saved from being smothered, by having taken an over-dose of some

narcotic. How I had chafed and fretted at the fever fit which had

preserved my life by keeping me awake! How recklessly I had confided

myself to the two wretches who had led me into this room, determined,

for the sake of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep, by the surest and

most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplishing my destruction!

How many men, winners like me, had slept, as I had proposed to sleep,

in that bed; and never been seen or heard of more! I shuddered as I

thought of it.

But, erelong, all thought was again suspended by the sight of the

murderous canopy moving once more. After it had remained on the

bed--as nearly as I could guess--about ten minutes, it began to move

up again. The villains, who worked it from above, evidently believed

that their purpose was now accomplished. Slowly and silently, as it

had descended, that horrible bed-top rose toward its former place.

When it reached the upper extremities of the four posts, it reached

the ceiling too. Neither hole nor screw could be seen--the bed became

in appearance, an ordinary bed again, the canopy, an ordinary canopy,

even to the most suspicious eyes.

Now, for the first time, I was able to move, to rise from my chair, to

consider of how I should escape. If I betrayed by the smallest noise,

that the attempt to suffocate me had failed, I was certain to be

murdered. Had I made any noise already? I listened intently, looking

toward the door. No! no footsteps in the passage outside; no sound of

a tread, light or heavy, in the room above--absolute silence every

where. Besides locking and bolting my door, I had moved an old wooden

chest against it, which I had found under the bed. To remove this

chest (my blood ran cold, as I thought what its contents _might_ be!)

without making some disturbance, was impossible; and, moreover, to

think of escaping through the house, now barred-up for the night, was

sheer insanity. Only one chance was left me--the window. I stole to it

on tiptoe.

My bedroom was on the first floor, above an _entresol_, and looked

into the back street, which you had sketched in your view. I raised my

hand to open the window, knowing that on that action hung, by the

merest hair's-breadth, my chance of safety. They keep vigilant watch

in a House of Murder--if any part of the frame cracked, if the hinge

creaked, I was, perhaps, a lost man! It must have occupied me at least

five minutes, reckoning by time--five _hours_, reckoning by

suspense--to open that window. I succeeded in doing it silently, in

doing it with all the dexterity of a house-breaker; and then looked

down into the street. To leap the distance beneath me, would be almost

certain destruction! Next, I looked round at the sides of the house.

Down the left side, ran the thick water-pipe which you have drawn--it

passed close by the outer edge of the window. The moment I saw the

pipe, I knew I was saved; my breath came and went freely for the first

time since I had seen the canopy of the bed moving down upon me!

To some men the means of escape which I had discovered might have

seemed difficult and dangerous enough--to _me_, the prospect of

slipping down the pipe into the street did not suggest even a thought

of peril. I had always been accustomed, by the practice of gymnastics,

to keep up my schoolboy powers as a daring and expert climber; and

knew that my head, hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in any

hazards of ascent or descent. I had already got one leg over the

window-sill, when I remembered the handkerchief, filled with money,

under my pillow. I could well have afforded to leave it behind me; but

I was revengefully determined that the miscreants of the

gambling-house should miss their plunder as well as their victim. So I

went back to the bed, and tied the heavy handkerchief at my back by my

cravat. Just as I had made it tight, and fixed it in a comfortable

place, I thought I heard a sound of breathing outside the door. The

chill feeling of horror ran through me again as I listened. No! dead

silence still in the passage--I had only heard the night air blowing

softly into the room. The next moment I was on the window-sill--and

the next, I had a firm grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees.

I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I thought I should,

and immediately set off, at the top of my speed, to a branch

"Prefecture" of Police, which I knew was situated in the immediate

neighborhood. A "Sub-Prefect" and several picked men among his

subordinates, happened to be up, maturing, I believe, some scheme for

discovering the perpetrator of a mysterious murder, which all Paris

was talking of just then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurry

and in very bad French, I could see that the Sub-Prefect suspected me

of being a drunken Englishman, who had robbed somebody, but he soon

altered his opinion, as I went on; and before I had any thing like

concluded, he shoved all the papers before him into a drawer, put on

his hat, supplied me with another (for I was bare-headed), ordered a

file of soldiers, desired his expert followers to get ready all sorts

of tools for breaking open doors and ripping up brick-flooring, and

took my arm, in the most friendly and familiar manner possible, to

lead me with him out of the house. I will venture to say, that when

the Sub-Prefect was a little boy, and was taken for the first time to

the Play, he was not half as much pleased as he was now at the job in

prospect for him at the "Gambling-House!"

Away we went through the streets, the Sub-Prefect cross-examining and

congratulating me in the same breath, as we marched at the head of our

formidable _posse comitatus_. Sentinels were placed at the back and

front of the gambling-house the moment we got to it; a tremendous

battery of knocks were directed against the door; a light appeared at

a window; I waited to conceal myself behind the police--then came more

knocks, and a cry of "Open in the name of the law!" At that terrible

summons, bolts and locks gave way before an invisible hand, and the

moment after, the Sub-Prefect was in the passage, confronting a

waiter, half-dressed and ghastly pale. This was the short dialogue

which immediately took place:

"We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping in this house?"

"He went away hours ago."

"He did no such thing. His friend went away; _he_ remained. Show us to

his bedroom!"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet, he is not here! he--"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Garçon, he is. He slept here--he didn't

find your bed comfortable--he came to us to complain of it--here he

is, among my men--and here am I, ready to look for a flea or two in

his bedstead. Picard! (calling to one of the subordinates, and

pointing to the waiter) collar that man, and tie his hands behind him.

Now, then, gentlemen, let us walk up-stairs!"

Every man and woman in the house was secured--the "Old Soldier," the

first. Then I identified the bed in which I had slept; and then we

went into the room above. No object that was at all extraordinary

appeared in any part of it. The Sub-Prefect looked round the place,

commanded every body to be silent, stamped twice on the floor, called

for a candle, looked attentively at the spot he had stamped on, and

ordered the flooring there to be carefully taken up. This was done in

no time. Lights were produced, and we saw a deep raftered cavity

between the floor of this room and the ceiling of the room beneath.

Through this cavity there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron,

thickly greased; and inside the case appeared the screw, which

communicated with the bed-top below. Extra lengths of screw, freshly

oiled--levers covered with felt--all the complete upper works of a

heavy press, constructed with infernal ingenuity so as to join the

fixtures below--and, when taken to pieces again, to go into the

smallest possible compass, were next discovered, and pulled out on the

floor. After some little difficulty, the Sub-Prefect succeeded in

putting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to work it,

descended with me to the bedroom. The smothering canopy was then

lowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it lowered. When I

mentioned this to the Sub-Prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had a

terrible significance. "My men," said he, "are working down the

bed-top for the first time--the men whose money you won, were in

better practice."

We left the house in the sole possession of two police agents--every

one of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot, The

Sub-Prefect, after taking down my "_procès-verbal_" in his office,

returned with me to my hotel to get my passport. "Do you think," I

asked, as I gave it to him, "that any men have really been smothered

in that bed, as they tried to smother _me_?"

"I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue," answered

the Sub-Prefect, "in whose pocket-books were found letters, stating

that they had committed suicide in the Seine, because they had lost

every thing at the gaming-table. Do I know how many of those men

entered the same gambling-house that _you_ entered? won as _you_ won?

took that bed as _you_ took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? and

were privately thrown into the river, with a letter of explanation

written by the murderers and placed in their pocket-books? No man can

say how many, or how few, have suffered the fate from which you have

escaped. The people of the gambling-house kept their bedstead

machinery a secret from _us_--even from the police! The dead kept the

rest of the secret for them. Good-night, or rather good-morning,

Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office again at nine o'clock--in the mean

time, _au revoir_!"

The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined, and re-examined;

the gambling-house was strictly searched all through, from top to

bottom; the prisoners were separately interrogated; and two of the

less guilty among them made a confession. _I_ discovered that the Old

Soldier was the master of the gambling-house--_justice_ discovered

that he had been drummed out of the army, as a vagabond, years ago;

that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since; that he was

in possession of stolen property, which the owners identified; and

that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made

my cup of coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead. There

appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior persons attached to

the house knew any thing of the suffocating machinery; and they

received the benefit of that doubt, by being treated simply as thieves

and vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his two head-myrmidons, they

went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my coffee was

imprisoned for I forget how many years; the regular attendants at the

gambling-house were considered "suspicious," and placed under

"surveillance"; and I became, for one whole week (which is a long

time), the head "lion" in Parisian society. My adventure was

dramatized by three illustrious playmakers, but never saw theatrical

daylight; for the censorship forbade the introduction on the stage of

a correct copy of the gambling-house bedstead.

Two good results were produced by my adventure, which any censorship

must have approved. In the first place, it helped to justify the

government in forthwith carrying out their determination to put down

all gambling-houses; in the second place, it cured me of ever again

trying "Rouge et Noir" as an amusement. The sight of a green cloth,

with packs of cards and heaps of money on it, will henceforth be

forever associated in my mind with the sight of a bed-canopy

descending to suffocate me, in the silence and darkness of the night.

Just as Mr. Faulkner pronounced the last words, he started in his

chair, and assumed a stiff, dignified position, in a great hurry.

"Bless my soul!" cried he--with a comic look of astonishment and

vexation--"while I have been telling you what is the real secret of my

interest in the sketch you have so kindly given to me, I have

altogether forgotten that I came here to sit for my portrait. For the

last hour, or more, I must have been the worst model you ever had to

paint from!"

"On the contrary, you have been the best," said I. "I have been

painting from your expression; and, while telling your story, you have

unconsciously shown me the natural expression I wanted."

WHAT THE SUNBEAM DOES.

Heat, or the caloric portion of the sunbeam, is the great cause of

life and motion in this our world. As it were with a magical energy,

it causes the winds to blow and the waters to flow, vivifies and

animates all nature, and then bathes it in refreshing dew. The

intensity of the heat which we receive depends on the distance of the

earth from the sun, its great source, and still more on the relative

position of the two orbs; since in winter we are nearer the sun than

we are in summer, yet, in consequence of the position of the earth at

that season, the sun's rays fall obliquely on its northern hemisphere,

rendering it far colder than at any other period of the year.

A great portion of the heat-rays which are emitted by the sun are

absorbed in their passage through the atmosphere which surrounds our

globe. It is calculated that about one-third of the heat-rays which

fall on it never reach the earth, which fact adds another to the many

beneficent purposes fulfilled by our gaseous envelope, screening us

from the otherwise scorching heat. It is curious to trace the varied

fates of the calorific rays which strike on the surface of the earth.

Some at once on falling are reflected, and, passing back through the

atmosphere, are lost amid the immensity of space; others are absorbed

or imbibed by different bodies, and, after a time, are radiated from

them; but the greater part of the beams which reach the earth during

the summer are absorbed by it, and conveyed downward to a considerable

distance, by conduction from particle to particle. Heat also spreads

laterally from the regions of the equator toward the poles, thereby

moderating the intense cold of the arctic and antarctic circles, and

in winter, when the forest-trees are covered with snow, their

deeply-penetrating roots are warmed by the heat, which, as in a vast

store-house, has been laid up in the earth, to preserve life during

the dreary winter. The rays which fall on the tropical seas descend to

the depth of about three hundred feet. The sun's attraction for the

earth, being also stronger at that quarter of the world, the heated

waters are drawn upward, the colder waters from the poles rush in, and

thus a great heated current is produced, flowing from the equator

northward and southward, which tends to equalize the temperature of

the earth. The sailor also knows how to avail himself of this

phenomenon. When out at sea, despite his most skillful steering, he is

in constant danger of shipwreck, if he fails to estimate truly the

force and direction of those currents which are dragging him

insensibly out of the true course. His compass does not help him here,

neither does any log yet known give a perfectly authentic result. But

he knows that this great gulf-stream has a stated path and time, and,

by testing from hour to hour the temperature of the water through

which he is proceeding, he knows at what point he is meeting this

current, and reckons accordingly.

We have already said that heat was the producer of the winds, which

are so essential to the preservation of the purity of the atmosphere.

In order to understand their action, we shall consider the stupendous

phenomenon of the trade-winds, which is similar to that of the current

we have described. The rays of the sun falling vertically on the

regions between the tropics, the air there becomes much heated. It is

the property of air to expand when heated, and, when expanded, it is

necessarily lighter than the cooler air around it. Consequently it

rises. As it rises, the cooler air at once takes its place. Rushing

from the temperate and polar regions to supply the want, the warm air

which has risen flows toward the poles, and descends there, loses its

heat, and again travels to the tropics. Thus a grand circulation is

continually maintained in the atmosphere. These aerial currents, being

affected by the revolution of the earth, do not move due north and

south, as they otherwise would. Hence, while they equalize the

temperature of the atmosphere, they also preserve its purity; for the

pure oxygen evolved by the luxuriant vegetation of the equatorial

regions is wafted by the winds to support life in the teeming

population of the temperate zones, while the air from the poles bears

carbonic acid gas on its wings to furnish food for the rich and

gorgeous plants of the tropics. Thus the splendid water-lily of the

Amazon, the stately palm-tree of Africa, and the great banyan of

India, depend for nourishment on the breath of men and animals in

lands thousands of miles distant from them, and, in return, they

supply their benefactors with vivifying oxygen.

Little less important, and still more beautiful, is the phenomenon of

dew, which is produced by the power of radiating heat, possessed in

different degrees by all bodies. The powers both of absorbing and of

radiating heat, in great measure, depend on the color of bodies--the

darker the color, the greater the power; so that each lovely flower

bears within its petals a delicate thermometer, which determines the

amount of heat each shall receive, and which is always the amount

essential to their well-being. The queenly rose, the brilliant

carnation, the fair lily, and the many-colored anemone, all basking in

the same bright sunshine, enjoy different degrees of warmth, and when

night descends, and the heat absorbed by day is radiated back, and

bodies become cooler than the surrounding air, the vapor contained in

the atmosphere is deposited in the form of dew. Those bodies which

radiate most quickly receive the most copious supply of the refreshing

fluid. This radiating power depends on the condition of the surface,

as well as upon color, so that we may often see the grass garden

bathed in dew, while the gravel walks which run through it are

perfectly dry, and, again, the smooth, shining, juicy leaves of the

laurel are quite dry, while the rose-tree beneath it is saturated with

moisture.

The great effect produced on the vegetable kingdom by the heat-rays

may be judged of from the fact, that almost all the plants which

exhibit the remarkable phenomena of irritability, almost approaching

to animal life, are confined to those regions where the heat is

extreme. On the banks of the Indian rivers grows a plant in almost

constant motion. In the hottest of the conservatories at Kew is a

curious plant, whose leaflets rise by a succession of little starts.

The same house contains Venus's fly-trap. Light seems to have no

effect in quickening their movements; but the effect of increased heat

is at once seen. They exhibit their remarkable powers most during the

still hot nights of an Indian summer.

Heat is of essential importance in the production and ripening of

fruit. Many trees will not bear fruit in our cold climate, which are

most productive in the sunny south. Animal as well as vegetable life

is in great measure dependent on heat. Look at the insect tribes. The

greater number of them pass their winter in the pupa state. Hidden in

some sheltered nook, or buried in the earth, they sleep on, until the

warmth of returning spring awakens them to life and happiness; and if,

by artificial means, the cold be prolonged, they still sleep on,

whereas, if they he exposed to artificial heat, their change is

hastened, and butterflies may be seen sporting about the flowers of a

hothouse, when their less favored relatives are still wrapped in the

deepest slumber. To judge of the influence of heat on the animal and

vegetable economy, we need but contrast summer and winter--the one

radiant and vocal with life and beauty, the other dark, dreary, and

silent.

The third constituent of the sunbeam is actinism--its property being

to produce chemical effects. So long ago as 1556, it was noticed by

those strange seekers after impossibilities, the alchemists, that horn

silver, exposed to the sunbeam, was blackened by it. This phenomenon

contained the germ of those most interesting discoveries which have

distinguished the present age; but, in their ardent search for the

philosopher's stone and the elixir of life, they overlooked many an

effect of their labors which might have led them to important truths.

As yet, the effects of actinism have been more studied in the

inanimate than the organic creation. Still, in the vegetable kingdom,

its power is known to be of the utmost importance. A seed exposed to

the entire sunbeam will not germinate; but bury it in the earth, at a

depth sufficient to exclude the light, yet enough to admit actinism,

which, like heat, penetrates the earth to some distance, and soon a

chemical change will take place; the starch contained in the seed is

converted into gum and water, forming the nutriment of the young

plant; the tiny root plunges downward, the slender stem rises to the

light, the first leaves, or cotyledons, then unfold, and now fully

expand to the light, and a series of chemical changes of a totally

different nature commence, which we have before noticed, when speaking

of light. Experiments clearly prove that this change is to be

attributed to actinism, and not to heat. Glass has been interposed of

a dark blue color, which is transparent to actinism, though opaque to

light and heat, and germination has been thereby quickened. Gardeners

have long known this fact practically, and are accustomed to raise

their cuttings under blue shades. There is no doubt that actinism

exercises a powerful and beneficent influence on plants during their

whole existence, but science has yet to demonstrate its nature; and it

is curious to observe that the actinic element is most abundant in the

sunbeam in the spring, when its presence is most essential in

promoting germination--in summer the luminous rays are in excess, when

they are most needed for the formation of woody fibre--and in autumn

the heat-rays prevail, and ripen the golden grain and the delicious

fruit; in each day the proportions of the different rays vary--in the

morning the actinic principle abounds most, at noon the light, and at

eventide the heat.

The influence of actinism on the animal world is not well known; but

it is probable that many of the effects hitherto referred to light are

in reality due to actinism. It has the strange power of darkening the

human skin, causing the deep color of those tribes who inhabit the

sunniest regions of the earth; and even in our own country, in summer,

that darkening of the skin called sun-burning. Doubtless, more careful

investigation will discover this principle to be equally important to

the life and health of animals as either of its closely allied powers

of light and heat.

Our knowledge of actinic influence on inanimate nature is not so

scanty, for it is now a well established fact, that the sunbeam can

not fall on any body, whether simple or compound, without producing on

its surface a chemical and molecular change. The immovable rocks which

bound our shores, the mountain which rears its lofty head above the

clouds, the magnificent cathedral, the very triumph of art, and the

beautiful statue in bronze or marble, are all acted on destructively

by the sunbeam, and would soon perish beneath its irresistible energy,

but for the beautiful provision made for their restoration during the

darkness of night--the repose of darkness being no less essential to

inorganic, than it is to animated nature. During its silent hours, the

chemical and molecular changes are all undone, and the destruction of

the day repaired, we know not how.

The art of painting by the sunbeam has been rather unfortunately

called photography, which means light-painting, for the process is not

due to light, but is rather interfered with by it; and, contrary to

all preconceived ideas, the pictures taken in our comparatively sombre

country, are more easily and brilliantly produced than in brighter

and more sunny lands--so much so, that a gentleman, who took the

requisite materials to Mexico, in order to take views of its principal

buildings, met with failure after failure, and it was not until the

darker days of the rainy season that he met with any measure of

success.

THE RECORD OF A MADNESS WHICH WAS NOT INSANITY.

A fresh, bright dawn, the loveliest hour of an English summer, was

rousing the slumbering life in woods and fields, and painting the

heavens and the earth in the gorgeous hues of the sunrise.

Beautiful it was to see the first blush of day mantling over the

distant hills, tinging them with a faint crimson, and the first smile

shooting, in one bright beam through the sky, while it lit up the fair

face of nature with a sparkling light. Lilias Randolph stood on the

flight of steps which led from the Abbey to the park, and looked down

on the joyous scene. She seemed herself a very type of the morning,

with her sunny eyes, and her golden hair; and her gaze wandered glad

and free over the spreading landscape, while her thoughts roamed far

away in regions yet more bright--even the sunlit fields of fancy.

It was the day and the hour when she was to go and meet Richard

Sydney, in order to have, at length, a full revelation of his

mysterious connection with her cousin. She knew that it was an

interview of solemn import to both of those, in whom she felt so deep

an interest; yet, so entirely were one thought and one feeling alone

gaining empire over her spirit that, even then, in that momentous

hour, they had no share in the visions with which her heart was busy.

So soon, therefore, as Lilias came within sight of Richard Sydney, who

had arrived first at the place of rendezvous, she resolutely banished

the thoughts that were so absorbing to her own glad heart, and set

herself seriously to give her entire attention to the work now before

her, if, haply, it might be given her, in some degree, to minister

unto their grievous misery. And truly her first glance upon the face

of the man who stood there, with his eyes fixed on the path which was

to bring her and her hoped-for succor near to him, would have sufficed

to have driven all ideas from her mind, save the one conviction, that

in that look alone she had acquired a deeper knowledge of suffering

than her own past life, in all its details, had ever afforded her.

Sydney heard her step, long before she believed it possible, and,

bounding toward her, he seized her hand with a grasp which was almost

convulsive. He drew her aside to some little distance from her nurse,

who sat down on a bank to wait for them.

Lilias bent down her head that she might not seem to note the workings

of his countenance, as he laid bare before her the most hidden springs

of his soul, and he began:

"I was born heir to a curse. Centuries ago an ancestor of mine

murdered a woman he once had loved, because his neglect had driven

her mad, and that in her ravings she revealed his many crimes. With

her dying breath she invoked the curse of insanity on him and his

house forever, and the cry of her departing soul was heard. There has

not been a generation in our family since that hour which has not had

its shrieking maniac to echo in our ears the murdered woman's scream.

Some there have been among the Sydneys of peculiar constitution, as it

would seem, who have not actually been visited with the malady; but

they have never failed to transmit it to their children. Of such am I;

while my father died a suicide by his own senseless act, and his only

other child besides myself, my sister, wears her coronet of straw in

the Dublin Asylum, and calls herself a queen.

"It would appall you to hear the fearful calamities which each

succeeding family has undergone through this awful curse. At last, as

the catalogue of tragic events grew darker and darker, it became a

solemn matter of discussion to our unhappy race, whether it were not

an absolute duty that the members of a house so doomed, should cease

at last to propagate the curse, and by a resolute abandonment of all

earthly ties, cause our name and misery to perish from the earth. The

necessity for this righteous sacrifice was admitted; but the

resolution in each separate individual to become the destined

holocaust, has hitherto forever failed before the power of the mighty

human love that lured them ever to its pure resistless joys. It was so

with my father--like myself he was an only son; and, in the ardor of a

generous youth, he vowed to be the offering needful to still the cry

of that innocent blood for vengeance; but the sweet face of my mother

came between him and his holy vow. He married her, and the punishment

came down with fearful weight on both, when her fond heart broke at

sight of his ghastly corpse. Then it was she knew the retribution in

their case had been just; and on her dying bed, with the yet unclosed

coffin of her husband by her side, she made me vow upon the holy cross

that I, myself, would be the sacrifice--that never would I take a wife

unto my heart or home; and that never, from my life, should any

helpless being inherit existence with a curse. That vow I took, that

vow I kept, and that vow I will keep, though Aletheia, beloved of my

heart and soul, dearer than all beneath the skies, were to lay herself

down beneath my very feet to die. Oh! shall we not rest in heaven."

He bowed his head for a moment, and his frame shook with emotion, but

driving back the tide of anguish, he went on: "After my mother's death

and my sister's removal, who had been insane almost from childhood, I

shut myself up entirely at Sydney Court, and gave way to a species of

morbid melancholy which was thought to be fearfully dangerous for one

in my position. I had friends, however; and the best and truest was

Colonel Randolph, my Aletheia's father, the early companion of my own

poor, hapless parent. He was resolved to save me from the miserable

condition in which I then was. He came to me and told me, with all the

authority of his long friendship, that I must go with him to the

M----, where he had been appointed governor. He said it was a crime to

waste a life, which, though unblest by human ties, might be made most

useful to my fellow-creatures. I had studied much in brighter days,

and given to the world the fruits of my labors. These had not passed

unheeded; he told me they had proved that talents had been committed

to me whereby I might be a benefactor to my race, all the more that no

soft endearments of domestic joys would wean my thoughts from sterner

duties. I was to go with him; he insisted it would benefit myself, and

would injure none. His family consisted of his one daughter, his

precious, beloved Aletheia, for he doated on her with more than the

ordinary love of a father. She knew my history, and would be to me a

sister. Alas! alas! for her destruction, I consented."

Again, a momentary pause. Lilias gently raised her compassionate eyes,

but he saw her not; he seemed lost in a vision of the past, and soon

went on:

"That lovely land where I dwelt with her, it seems a type of the

beauty and happiness which was around me then! And, oh! what a dream

it is to think of now--the cloudless sky--the glorious sun--and her

eyes undimmed, her smile unfaded! Oh! Aletheia--my Aletheia--treasure

of many lives! bright and joyous--light to the eyes that looked on

her, blessing to the hearts that loved her--would that I had died or

ever I drew her very soul into mine, and left her the poor, crushed,

helpless being that she is! You can not picture to yourself the

fascination that was around her then--high-minded, noble in heart,

lofty in soul; her bright spirit stamped its glory on her face, and

she was beautiful, with all spiritual loveliness. None ever saw her

who loved her not--her rare talents--her enchanting voice; that voice

of her very soul, which spoke in such wonderful music, drew to her

feet every creature who knew her; for with all these gifts, this

wonderful intellect, and rarest powers of mind, she was playful,

winning, simple as an innocent child. I say none saw her, and loved

her not; how, think you, _I_ loved her?--the doomed man, the desolate

being, whose barren, joyless life walked hand in hand with a curse.

Let this anguish tell you how I loved her;" and he turned on Lilias a

face of ghastly paleness, convulsed with agony, and wet with the dews

of suffering; but he did not pause, he went on rapidly: "I was mad,

then, in one sense, though it was the madness of the heart, and not

the brain. Poor wretch, I thought I would wring a joy out of my

blasted life in spite of fate, and, while none other claimed her as

their own, I would revel in her presence, and in the rapture of her

tenderness. I knew it was mockery when I bid her call me brother--a

sister truly is loved with other love than that I gave her. I would

have seen every relation I had ever known laid dead at my feet, could

I have thereby purchased for her, my thrice-beloved one, one moment's

pleasure.

"Lilias, does a passion of such fearful power shock and terrify you,

who have only known the placid beating of a gentle, childlike heart?

Take a yet deeper lesson, then, in the dark elements of which this

life may be composed, and learn that deep, and true, and mighty as was

my love for her, it is as a mere name, a breath, a vapor, compared

with that most awful affection which Aletheia had already, even then,

vowed unto me, in the depth of her secret heart. Ah! it needed, in

truth, such an agony as that which is now incorporate with it in her

heart, to cope with its immensity; for, truly, no weak happiness of

earth could have had affinity with it--a love so saint-like must needs

have been a martyr. I will not attempt to tell you what her devotion

to me was, and is, and shall be, while one faintest throb of life is

stirring in her noble heart. You have seen it--you have seen that love

looking through those eyes of hers, like a mighty spirit endowed with

an existence separate from her own, which holds her soul in its

fierce, powerful grasp.

"I must hurry on now, and my words must be rapid as the events that

drove us from the serene elysian fields of that first dear

companionship, through storm and whirlwind, to this wilderness of

misery where I am sent to wander to and fro, like a murderer, as I am;

condemned to watch the daily dying of the sweet life I have destroyed.

You may think me blind and senseless, for so I surely was, but it is

certain that I never suspected the love she bore me. I saw that she

turned away from the crowds that flocked around, and was deaf to all

the offers that were made to her, of rank, and wealth, and station,

and many a true heart's love; but I thought this was because her own

was yet untouched, and when I saw that I alone was singled out to be

the object of her attention and solicitude, I fancied it was but the

effect of her deep, generous pity for my desolate condition--and pity

it was, but such as the mother feels for the suffering of the

first-born, whom she adores. And the day of revelation came!

"I told you how Colonel Randolph doated on his daughter; truly, none

ever loved Aletheia with a common love. When he was released from the

duties of his high office, it was one of his greatest pleasures to

walk, or ride with me, that he might talk to me of her. One morning he

came in with a packet of letters from England, and, taking me by the

arm, drew me out into the garden, that he might tell me some news,

which, he said, gave him exceeding joy. The letters announced the

arrival of the son of an old friend of his, who had just succeeded to

his title and estates, the young Marquis of L----, and further

communicated, in the most unreserved manner, that his object in coming

to the M---- was to make Aletheia his wife, if he could win her to

himself; he had long loved her, and had only delayed his offer till he

could install her in his lordly castle with all the honors of his

station. To see this union accomplished, Colonel Randolph said, had

been his one wish since both had played as children at his feet, and

he now believed the desired consummation was at hand. Aletheia's

consent was alone required, and there seemed no reason to doubt it

would be given, for there was not, he asserted, in all England, one

more worthy of her, by every noble gift of mind, than the high-born,

generous-hearted L----.

"Why, indeed, should she not, at once, accept the brilliant destiny

carved out for her!--I did not doubt it more than the exulting father,

and I heard my doom fixed in the same senseless state of calm with

which the criminal who knows his guilt and its penalty, hears the

sentence of his execution. I had long known this hour must come; and

what had I now to do but gather, as it were, a shroud round my

tortured soul, and, like the Cæsars, die decently to all earthly

happiness! Even in that tremendous hour, I had a consciousness of the

dignity of suffering--suffering, that is, which comes from the height

of heaven above, and not from the depths of crime below! I resolved

that the lamp of my life's joy should go out without a sigh audible to

human ears, save hers alone, who had lit that pure flame in the black

night of my existence.

"Lilias, I enter into no detail of what I felt in that momentous

crisis, for you have no woman's heart if you have not understood it,

in its uttermost extent of misery. One thought, however, stood up

pre-eminent in that chaos of suffering--the conviction that I must not

see Aletheia Randolph again, or the very powers of my mind would give

way in the struggle that must ensue. This thought, and one other--one

solitary gleam of dreary comfort, that alone relieved the great

darkness which had fallen upon me, were all that seemed distinct in my

mind: that last mournful consolation was the resolution taken along

with the vow to see her no more, that ere I passed forever from her

memory, she should know what was the love with which I loved her.

"Quietly I gave her father my hand when I quitted him, and he said,

'We shall meet in the evening;' my own determination was never to look

upon his face again. I went home, and sitting down, I wrote to

Aletheia a letter, in which all the pent-up feelings of the deep,

silent devotion I cherished for her, were poured out in words to which

the wretchedness of my position gave a fearful intensity--burning

words, indeed! She has told me since, that they seemed to eat into her

heart like fire. I left the letter for her and quitted the house; and

I believed my feet should never pass that beloved threshold again.

There was a spot where Aletheia and I had gone almost day by day to

wander, since we had dwelt in that land. She loved it, because she

could look out over the ocean in its boundlessness, whose aspect

soothed her, she said, as with a promise of eternity. It was a huge

rock that rose perpendicularly from the sea, and sloped down on the

other side, by a gentle declivity, to the plain. I have often thought

what a type of our life it was; we saw nothing of the precipice as we

ascended the soft and verdant mount, and suddenly it was at our feet,

and if the blast of heaven had driven us another step, it had been

into destruction.

"Thither, when I had parted, as I believed, forever, with that darling

of my heart, I went with what intent I know not: it was not to commit

suicide; although in that form, in the mad longing for it, the curse

of my family has ever declared itself. I was yet sane, and my soul

acknowledged and abhorred the tremendous guilt of that mysterious

crime, wherein the created dashes back the life once given, in the

very face of the Creator; not for suicide I went, yet, Lilias, as I

stood within an inch of death, and looked down on the placid waters

that had so swiftly cooled the burning anguish of my heart and brain,

I felt, in the intense desire to terminate my life, and in that desire

resisted, a more stinging pain than any which my bitter term of years

has ever offered me. Oh, how shall I tell you what followed? I feel as

though I could not: and briefly, and, indeed, incoherently, must I

speak; for on the next hour--the supreme, the crowning hour of all my

life--my spirit enters not, without an intensity of feeling which

well-nigh paralyzes every faculty.

"I stood there, and suddenly I heard a sound--a soft, breathing sound,

as of a gentle fawn wearied in some steep ascent--a sound coming

nearer and nearer, bringing with it ten thousand memories of hours and

days that were to come no more: a step, light and tremulous, falling

on the soft grass softly, and then a voice.--Oh, when mine ears are

locked in death, shall I not hear it?--a voice uttering low and sweet,

my well-known name. I turned, and when I saw that face, on whose sweet

beauty other eyes should feed, yea, other lips caress, for one instant

the curse of my forefather seemed upon me; my brain reeled, and I

would have sprung from the precipice to die. But ere I could

accomplish the sudden craving of this momentary frenzy, Aletheia, my

own Aletheia, was at my feet, her clinging arms were round me, her

lips were pressed upon my hands, and her voice--her sweet, dear

voice--went sounding through my soul like a sudden prophecy of most

unearthly joy, murmuring, 'Live, live for me, mine own forever!'

"Oh, Lilias, how can I attempt with human words to tell you of these

things, so far beyond the power of language to express! I felt that

what she said was true--that in some way, by some wonderful means, she

was in very deed and truth, 'mine own, forever,' though, in that

moment of supremest joy, no less firmly than in the hour of supremest

sorrow by my mother's dying bed, my heart and soul were faithful to

the vow then taken, that never on my desolate breast a wife should lay

her head to rest. 'Mine own forever!'--as I looked down, and met the

gaze of fathomless, unutterable love with which her tearful eyes were

fastened full upon my own, I was as one who having long dwelt in

darkest night, was blinded with the sudden glare of new returning day.

I staggered back, and leant against the rock; faint and shivering I

stretched out my hands on that beloved head, longing for the power to

bless her, and said, 'Oh, Aletheia, what is it you have said: have you

forgotten who and what I am!'

"'No!' was her answer, steady and distinct; 'and for that very reason,

because you are a stricken man, forever cut off from all the common

ties of earth, have I been given to you, to be in heart and soul

peculiarly your own, with such a measure of entire devotion as never

was offered to man on earth before.'

"I looked at her almost in bewilderment. She rose up to her full

height, perfectly calm, and with a deep solemnity in her words and

aspect.

"'Richard,' she said, 'the lives of both of us are hanging on this

hour; by it shall all future existence on this earth be shaped for us,

and its memory shall come with death itself to look us in the face,

and stamp our whole probation with its seal; it becomes us, therefore,

to cast aside all frivolous rules of man's convention, and speak the

truth as deathless soul with deathless soul. Hear me, then, while I

open up my inmost spirit to your gaze, and then decide whether you

will lay your hand upon my life, and say--'Thou art my own;' or

whether you will fling it from you to perish as some worthless thing?'

"I bowed my head in token that she should continue, for I could not

speak. I, Lilias, who had looked death and insanity in the face, under

their most frightful shapes, trembled, like a reed in the blast,

before the presence of a love that was mightier than either! Aletheia

stretched out her hand over the precipice, and spoke--

"'Hear me, then, declare first of all, solemnly as though this hour

were my last, that, not even to save you from that death which, but

now, you dared to meditate, would I ever consent to be your wife, even

if you wished it, as utterly as I doubt not you abhor the idea of such

perjury--not to save you from death--I say--the death of the mortal

body, for by conniving at your failure in that most righteous vow,

once taken on the holy cross itself, I should peril--yea, destroy, it

may be, the immortal soul, which is the true object of my love. Hear

me, in the face of that pure sky announce this truth, and then may I

freely declare to you all that is in my heart--all the sacred purpose

of my life for you, without a fear that my worst enemy could pronounce

me unmaidenly or overbold, though I have that to say which few women

ever said unasked.'

"Unmaidenly! Oh, Lilias, could you have seen the noble dignity of her

fearless innocence in that hour, you would have felt that never had

the impress of a purer heart been stamped upon a virgin brow."

"'Have you understood and well considered this my settled purpose

never to be your wife?' she continued.

"And I said--'I have.'"

"'Then speak out, my soul,' she exclaimed, lifting up her eyes as if

inspired. 'Tell him that there is a righteous Providence over the life

that immolates itself for virtue's sake! and that another existence

hath been sent to meet it in the glorious sacrifice, in order that

this one may yield up its treasures to the heart that would have

stript itself of all! Richard, Richard Sydney, you have made a

holocaust of your life, and lo! by the gift of another life, it is

repaid to you.'

"Slowly she knelt down, and took my hand in both of hers, while with

an aspect calm and firm, and a voice unfaltering, she spoke this vow:

'I, Aletheia Randolph, do most solemnly vow and promise to give

myself, in heart and soul, unto the last day of my life, wholly and

irrevocably, to Richard Sydney. I devote to him, and him alone, my

whole heart, my whole life, and my whole love. I do forever forswear,

for his sake, all earthly ties, all earthly affections, and all

earthly hopes. I will love him only, live for him only, and make it my

one happiness to minister to him in all things as faithfully and

tenderly as though I were bound to him by the closest of human

bonds--in spite of all obstacles and the world's blame--in defiance of

all allurements, which might induce me to abandon him. I will seek to

abide ever as near to him as may be, that I may bestow on him all the

care and tender watchfulness which the most faithful wife could offer;

but absent or present, living or dying, no human being on this earth

shall ever have known such an entire devotion as I will give to him

till the last breath pass from this heart in death!'

"I was speechless, Lilias--speechless with something almost of horror

at the sacrifice she was making! I strove to withdraw my hand--I could

have died to save her from thus immolating herself; but she clung to

me, and a deadly paleness spread itself over her countenance as she

felt my movement.

"'Hear me! hear me yet again, Richard Sydney!' she exclaimed; 'you can

not prevent me taking this vow; it was registered in the record of my

fate--uttered again and again deep in my soul, long before it was

spoken by these mortal lips!--it is done--I am yours forever, or

forever perjured! But hear me!--hear me!--although the offering of my

life is made, yea, and it _shall_ be yours in every moment, in every

thought, in every impulse of my being, yet I can not force you to

accept this true oblation, made once for all, and forever! I can not

constrain you to load your existence with mine. Now, now, the

consummation of all is in your own hands; you may make this offering,

which is never to be recalled, as you will--a blessing or a curse to

yourself as unto me! I am powerless--what you decree I must submit to;

but hear me, hear me!--although you now reject, and scorn, and spurn

me--me, and the life which I have given you--although you drive me

from you, and command me never to appear before your eyes again, yet,

Richard Sydney, I WILL KEEP MY VOW! Even in obeying you, and departing

to the uttermost corner of the earth that you may never look upon my

face again; yet will I keep my vow, and the life shall be yours, and

the love shall be around you; and the heart, and the soul, and the

thoughts, and the prayers of her, who is your own forever, shall be

with you night and day, till she expires in the agony of your

rejection.

"'This were the curse, and curse me if you will, I yet will bless you!

And now hear, hear what the blessing might be if you so willed it. In

spiritual union we should be forever linked, soul with soul, and heart

with heart--all in all to one another in that wedding of our immortal

spirits only, as truly and joyously as though we had been bound in an

earthly bridal at the altar; abiding forever near each other in

sweetest and most pure companionship, while my father lives under the

same roof, and afterward still meeting daily; one in love, in joy, in

hope, in sorrow; one in death (for if your soul were first called

forth, I know that mine would take that summons for its own), and one,

if it were so permitted, in eternity itself. This we may be, Richard

Sydney, this we shall be, except you will, this day, trample down

beneath your feet the life that gives itself to you. But wherefore,

oh, wherefore would you do so? Why cast away the gift which hath been

sent, in order that, by a wondrous and most just decree, the righteous

man who, in his noble rectitude, abandoned every earthly tie, should

be possessed, instead thereof, of such a deep, devoted love as never

human heart received before? Wherefore, oh! wherefore? Yet, do as you

will, now you know all; and I, who still, whatever be your decree,

happen what may, am verily your own forever, must here abide the

sentence of my life.'

"Slowly her dear head fell down upon her trembling hands, and,

kneeling at my feet, she waited my acceptance or rejection of the

noblest gift that ever one immortal spirit made unto another. Lilias,

I told you when I commenced this agonizing record, that there were

portions of it which I would breathe to no mortal ears, not even to

yours, good and gentle as you are. And now, of such is all that

followed in the solemn, blessed hours of which I speak; you know what

my answer was; it can not be that you doubt it--could it have been

otherwise, indeed? She had said truly, that the deed was done--the

sacrifice was made--the life was given. What would it have availed if

I, by my rejection, had punished her unparalleled devotion with

unexampled misery? and for myself, could I--could I--should I have

been human if I, who, till that hour, had believed myself of all men

most accursed on earth--had suddenly refused to be above all men

blest?

"When the sun went down that night, sinking into the sea, whose

boundlessness seemed narrow to my infinity of joy, Aletheia lay at my

feet like a cradled child; and as I bent down over her, and scarcely

dared to touch, with deep respect, the long, soft tresses of her

waving hair, which the light breeze lifted to my lips, I heard her

ever murmuring, as though she could never weary of that sound of

joy--'Mine own, mine own forever.'

"The period which followed that wonderful hour was one of an Eden-like

happiness, such as, I believe, this fallen world never could before

have witnessed--it was the embodiment, in every hour and instant, of

that blessing of which my Aletheia had so fervently spoken--the

spiritual union which linked us in heart and soul alone, was as

perfect as it was unearthly; and the intense bliss which flowed from

it, on both of us, could only have been equaled by the love, no less

intense, that made us what we were.

"But, Lilias, of this brief dream of deep delight I will not and I can

not speak. This is a record of misery and not of joy," he continued,

turning round upon her almost fiercely. "It becomes not me, who have

been the murderer of Aletheia's joyous life, to take so much as the

name of happiness between my lips. It passed--it departed--that joy,

as a spirit departs out of the body; unseen, unheard; you know not it

is gone, till suddenly you see that the beautiful living form has

become a stark and ghastly corpse!--and so, in like manner, our life

became a hideous thing....

"Colonel Randolph asked me to go on an embassy to a distant town; the

absence was to be but for a fortnight. We were to write daily to one

another, and we thought nothing of it. Nevertheless, in one sense, we

felt it to be momentous. Aletheia designed, if an opportunity

occurred, to inform her father of the change in her existence, and the

irrevocable fate to which she had consigned herself. She had delayed

doing so hitherto, because his mind had been fearfully disturbed by

grievous disappointments in public affairs; and as he was a man of

peculiarly sensitive temperament, she would not add to his distresses

by the announcement of the fact, which she knew he would consider the

great misfortune of his life. It was impossible, indeed, that the

doating father could fail to mourn bitterly over the sacrifice of his

one beloved daughter, to the man who dared not so much as give her

barren life the protection of his name lest haply, he wed her to a

maniac.

"It was within two days of my proposed return to their home, that an

express arrived in fiery haste to tell me Colonel Randolph had fallen

from his horse, had received a mortal injury, and was dying. I was

summoned instantly. He had said he would not die in peace till he saw

me. One hurried line from Aletheia, in addition to the aid-de-camp's

letter, told how even, in that awful hour, I was first and last in his

thoughts. It ran thus: 'He is on his death-bed, and I have told him

all. I could not let him die unknowing the consecration of his child

to one so worthy of her. But, alas! I know not why, it seems almost to

have maddened him. He says he will tell you all; come, then, with all

speed.'

"In two hours I was by the side of the dying man. Aletheia was

kneeling with her arms round him, and he was gazing at her with

sombre, mournful fondness. The instant he saw me he pushed her from

him. 'Go,' he said, 'I must see this man alone.' The epithet startled

me. I saw he was filled with a bitter wrath. His daughter obeyed; she

rose and left the room; but as she passed me she took my hand, and

bowing herself as to her master, pressed it to her lips, then turning

round she said. 'Father, remember what I have told you: he is mine own

forever; not even your death-bed curse could make me falter in my

vow.' He groaned aloud: 'No curse, no curse, my child,' he cried;

'fear not; it is not you whom I would curse. Come--kiss me; we may

perhaps not meet again; and if you find me dead at your return--' He

waited till she closed the door, and then added, 'Say that Richard

Sydney killed me, and you will speak the truth! Madman, madman,

indeed! What is it you have done? Was it for this I took you into my

home, and was to you a father? That you might slay my only

daughter--that you might make such havoc of her life as is worse than

a thousand deaths.'

"I would have spoken; he fiercely interrupted me: 'I know what you

would say--that she gave herself to you--that she offered this

oblation of a whole existence--but I tell you, if one grain of justice

or of generosity had been within your coward heart, you would have

flung yourself over that precipice, and so absolved her from her vow,

rather than let her immolate herself to a doom so horrible; for you

know not, yourself, what is that doom! Yes, poor wretch,' he added,

more gently, 'you knew not what you did; but I know, and now will I

tell. I, who have watched over the soul of Aletheia Randolph for

well-nigh twenty years, know well of what fire it is made; I tell you

I have long foreknown that there was a capacity of love in her which

is most awful, and which would most infallibly work her utter woe,

except its ardent immensity found a perpetual outlet in the many ties

which weave themselves around a happy wife and mother. And now, oh!

was there none to have mercy on her, and save her noble heart and life

from such destruction; this soul of flame, fathomless as the deep,

burning and pure as the spotless noonday sky, hath gone forth to

fasten itself upon a desolating, barren, mournful love, where,

hungering forever after happiness, and never fed, it will be driven to

insanity or death! Yes, I tell you, it will be so; my departing spirit

is almost on my lips, and my words must be few, but they are words of

fearful truth. I know her, and I know that thus it will be; one day's

separation from you, whom the world will never admit to be her

own--one cloud upon your brow, which she has not the power to

disperse, will work in her a torment that will sap her noble mind, and

will make her, haply, the lunatic, and _you_--_you_, descendant of the

maniac Sydneys, her keeper! Oh, what had she done to you that you

should hate her so? Oh, wherefore have you cursed her, my innocent

child, my only daughter?'

"I fell on my knees; I gasped for breath; Lilias, I felt that every

word he said was true, that all would come to pass as he foretold; for

he spoke with the prophetic truth of the dying; he saw my utter agony.

Suddenly he lifted himself up in the bed, and the movement broke the

bandage on his head, whence the blood streamed suddenly with a

destructive violence; he heeded it not, but grasped my arm with the

last energy of life.

"'I see you are in torments,' he said, 'and fitly so; but if you have

this much of grace left, now at least to suffer, it may be that every

spark of justice is not dead within you, and that you will save her

yet.'

"'Save her!' I almost shrieked. 'Yes, if by any means upon this earth

such a blessing be possible! Shall I die? I am ready--oh, how ready.'

"'No; to die were but to carry her into your grave,' the cruel voice

replied; 'but living, I believe that you may save her. From what I

know of that most noble child's pure soul, I do believe that you may

save her yet. Man! who have been her curse and mine, will you swear to

do so, by any means I may command?'

"'I will swear!' was my answer, and his glazing eyes were suddenly lit

up with a fierce delight. 'And how?' I cried.

"'Thus,' he answered, drawing me close to him, and putting his lips to

my ear: 'by rendering yourself hateful to her! To quit her were to bid

her lament you unto the death; but _by her very side to render

yourself abhorrent to her_, thus shall you save her! You have

sworn--remember, you have sworn! Go! When I am dead, give up that

voice and look of love; put on a stern aspect; treat her as a cruel

taskmaster treats a slave; be harsh; be merciless; tell her the love

she bears you, by its depth of passion, hath become a crime, and you

have vowed to crush it out of her; but say not I commanded it; let her

believe it is your own free will; punish her for that love; let her

think you hate her for it; trample her soul beneath your haughty feet;

let her hear naught but bitterest words--see naught but sternest

looks--feel naught but a grasp severe and torturing--to tear her

clinging arms from around you!--so shall you save her; for she will

suffer but a little while at first, and then will leave you to be

forever blest;--so shall you crush her love, and send her out from

your heart to seek a better. Sydney, you have sworn to do it--you have

sworn!'

"He repeated the words with fearful vehemence, for life was ebbing

with the blood that flowed. Gathering up his last energies, he

shrieked into my ear--'Say that you have sworn!--answer, or my spirit

curses you forever!' and I answered: 'I have sworn!'

"He burst into a laugh of awful triumph, sunk back, and expired....

"Lilias, I have kept that vow!"

At these words, uttered in a hoarse and ominous tone, which seemed to

convey a volume of fearful meaning, a cold shiver crept over the frame

of the young Lilias: a horror unspeakable took possession of her, as

the vail seemed suddenly lifted up from the mysterious agony which had

made Aletheia's life, even to the outward eye, a mere embodiment of

perpetual suffering; and her deep and womanly appreciation of what her

unhappy cousin had endured, caused her to shrink almost in fear from

the wretched man by her side, who had thus been constrained to become

the cruel tyrant of her he loved so fondly. But he spoke again in such

broken, faltering accents, that her heart once more swelled with pity

for him.

"Yes, Lilias, I kept that fearful vow: the grasp of the dead man's

hand, which, even as he stiffened into a mass of senseless clay, still

locked my own as with an iron gripe, seemed to have bound it on my

soul, and I, alas! believed in the efficacy of this means for her

restoration from the destructive madness of her love to such an one as

I. I believed I thus should save her, and turn her pure affection to a

salutary hate. Yes; with energy, with fierce determination, I did keep

that vow, because it was to bind myself unto such untold tortures,

that it seemed a righteous expiation; and what, oh, what has been the

result! Her father thought he knew her. He thought the intensity of

her tenderness would brave insanity or death; but, not _my_ hatred and

contempt! and he knew her not, in her unparalleled generosity! for

behold her glorious devotion hath trampled even my contumely under

foot, and hath risen faithful, changeless, all perfect as before.

"Oh, Lilias, I can not tell you the detail of the cruelties I have

perpetrated on her--redoubled, day by day, as I saw them all fall

powerless before her matchless love. I told her that because of its

intensity, her affection had become a crime, for one whose eternal

abiding place was not within this world, and that it inspired me with

horror and with wrath; and since she had taken me for her master, as

her master, I would drive this passion from her soul, by even the

sternest means that fancy can devise; and then, I dare not tell you

all that I have done; but she, with her imploring voice, her tender,

mournful eyes, forever answered that if she were hateful to me I had

better leave her, only with me should go her love, her life, her very

soul! Alas! alas! I could not leave her till my fearful task was done.

I have labored--oh, let the spirit of that dead father witness--I have

labored according to his will, and what has been the up-shot of it

all? Lilias," he spoke with sudden fierceness, "I have learnt to crush

the life out of her, _but not the love_! the pure, devoted, boundless

love is there, still, true and tender as before, only it abides my

torture, day and night, chained to the rack by these cruel hands."

He buried his face on his knees, and a strong convulsion shook his

frame.

A TALE OF MID-AIR.

In a cottage in the valley of Sallanches near the foot of Mont Blanc,

lived old Bernard and his three sons. One morning he lay in bed sick,

and, burning with fever, watched anxiously for the return of his son,

Jehan, who had gone to fetch a physician. At length a horse's tread

was heard, and soon afterward the Doctor entered. He examined the

patient closely, felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and then said,

patting the old man's cheek, "It will be nothing, my friend--nothing!"

but he made a sign to the three lads, who open-mouthed and anxious,

stood grouped around the bed. All four withdrew to a distant corner,

the doctor shook his head, thrust out his lower lip, and said "Tis a

serious attack--very serious--of fever. He is now in the height of the

fit, and as soon as it abates he must have sulphate of quinine."

"What is that, doctor?"

"Quinine, my friend, is a very expensive medicine, but which you may

procure at Sallanches. Between the two fits your father must take at

least three francs' worth. I will write the prescription. You can

read, Guillaume?"

"Yes, doctor."

"And you will see that he takes it?"

"Certainly."

When the physician was gone, Guillaume, Pierre, and Jehan looked at

each other in silent perplexity. Their whole stock of money consisted

of a franc and a half, and yet the medicine must be procured

immediately.

"Listen," said Pierre, "I know a method of getting from the mountain

before night three or four five-franc pieces."

"From the mountain?"

"I have discovered an eagle's nest in a cleft of a frightful

precipice. There is a gentleman at Sallanches, who would gladly

purchase the eagles; and nothing made me hesitate but the terrible

risk of taking them; but that's nothing when our father's life is

concerned. We may have them now in two hours."

"I will rob the nest," said Guillaume.

"No, no, let me," said Jehan, "I am the youngest and lightest."

"I have the best right to venture," said Pierre, "as it was I who

discovered it."

"Come," said Pierre, "let us decide by drawing lots. Write three

numbers, Guillaume, put them into my hat, and whoever draws number one

will try the venture."

Guillaume blackened the end of a wooden splinter in the fire; tore an

old card into three pieces; wrote on them one, two, three, and threw

them into the hat.

How the three hearts beat! Old Bernard lay shivering in the cold fit,

and each of his sons longed to risk his own life, to save that of his

father.

The lot fell on Pierre, who had discovered the nest; he embraced the

sick man.

"We shall not be long absent, father," he said, "and it is needful for

us to go together."

"What are you going to do?"

"We will tell you as soon as we come back."

Guillaume took down from the wall an old sabre, which had belonged to

Bernard when he served as a soldier; Jehan sought a thick cord which

the mountaineers use when cutting down trees; and Pierre went toward

an old wooden cross, reared near the cottage, and knelt before it for

some minutes in fervent prayer.

They set out together, and soon reached the brink of the precipice.

The danger consisted not only in the possibility of falling several

hundred feet, but still more in the probable aggression of the birds

of prey, inhabiting the wild abyss.

Pierre, who was to brave these perils, was a fine athletic young man of

twenty-two. Having measured with his eye the distance he would have to

descend, his brothers fastened the cord around his waist, and began to

let him down. Holding the sabre in his hand, he safely reached the

nook that contained the nest. In it were four eaglets of a light

yellowish-brown color, and his heart beat with joy at the sight of

them. He grasped the nest firmly in his left hand, and shouted

joyfully to his brothers, "I have them! Draw me up!"

Already the first upward pull was given to the cord, when Pierre felt

himself attacked by two enormous eagles, whose furious cries proved

them to be the parents of the nestlings.

"Courage, brother! defend thyself! don't fear!"

Pierre pressed the nest to his bosom, and with his right hand made the

sabre play around his head.

Then began a terrible combat. The eagles shrieked, the little ones

cried shrilly, the mountaineer shouted and brandished his sword. He

slashed the birds with its blade, which flashed like lightning, and

only rendered them still more enraged. He struck the rock and sent

forth a shower of sparks.

Suddenly he felt a jerk given to the cord that sustained him. Looking

up he perceived that, in his evolutions, he had cut it with his sabre,

and that half the strands were severed!

Pierre's eyes, dilated widely, remained for a moment immovable, and

then closed with terror. A cold shudder passed through his veins, and

he thought of letting go both the nest and the sabre.

At that moment one of the eagles pounced on his head, and tried to

tear his face. The Savoyard made a last effort, and defended himself

bravely. He thought of his old father, and took courage.

Upward, still upward, mounted the cord: friendly voices eagerly

uttered words of encouragement and triumph; but Pierre could not reply

to them. When he reached the brink of the precipice, still clasping

fast the nest, his hair, which an hour before had been as black as a

raven's wing, was become so completely white, that Guillaume and Jehan

could scarcely recognize him.

What did that signify? the eaglets were of the rarest and most

valuable species. That same afternoon they were carried to the village

and sold. Old Bernard had the medicine, and every needful comfort

beside, and the doctor in a few days pronounced him convalescent.

STORIES ABOUT BEASTS AND BIRDS.

The strength and courage of the lion is so great that, although he is

seldom four feet in height, he is more than a match for fierce animals

of three or four times his size, such as the buffalo. He will even

attack a rhinoceros or an elephant, if provoked. He possesses such

extraordinary muscular power, that he has been known to kill and carry

off a heifer of two years old in his mouth, and, after being pursued

by herdsmen on horseback for five hours, it has been found that he has

scarcely ever allowed the body of the heifer to touch the ground

during the whole distance. But here is an instance of strength in a

man--a different sort of strength--which surpasses all we ever heard

of a lion:

Three officers in the East Indies--Captain Woodhouse, Lieutenant

Delamain, and Lieutenant Laing--being informed that two lions had made

their appearance, in a jungle, at some twenty miles' distance from

their cantonment, rode off in that direction to seek an engagement.

They soon found the "lordly strangers," or natives, we should rather

say. One of the lions was killed by the first volley they fired; the

other retreated across the country. The officers pursued, until the

lion, making an abrupt curve, returned to his jungle. They then

mounted an elephant, and went in to search for him. They found him

standing under a bush, looking directly toward them. He sought no

conflict, but seeing them approach, he at once accepted the first

challenge, and sprang at the elephant's head, where he hung on. The

officers fired; in the excitement of the onset their aim was defeated,

and the lion only wounded. The elephant, meanwhile, had shaken him

off, and, not liking such an antagonist, refused to face him again.

The lion did not pursue, but stood waiting. At length the elephant was

persuaded to advance once more; seeing which, the lion became furious,

and rushed to the contest. The elephant turned about to retreat, and

the lion, springing upon him from behind, grappled his flesh with

teeth and claws, and again hung on. The officers fired, while the

elephant kicked with all his might; but, though the lion was

dislodged, he was still without any mortal wound, and retired into the

thicket, content with what he had done in return for the assault. The

officers had become too excited to desist; and in the fever of the

moment, as the elephant, for his part, now directly refused to have

any thing more to do with the business, Captain Woodhouse resolved to

dismount, and go on foot into the jungle. Lieutenant Delamain and

Lieutenant Laing dismounted with him, and they followed in the

direction the lion had taken. They presently got sight of him, and

Captain Woodhouse fired, but apparently without any serious injury, as

they saw "the mighty lord of the woods" retire deeper into the thicket

"with the utmost composure." They pursued, and Lieutenant Delamain got

a shot at the lion. This was to be endured no longer, and forth came

the lion, dashing right through the bushes that intervened, so that he

was close upon them in no time. The two lieutenants were just able to

escape out of the jungle to re-load, but Captain Woodhouse stood

quietly on one side, hoping the lion would pass him unobserved. This

was rather too much to expect after all he had done. The lion darted

at him, and in an instant, "as though by a stroke of lightning," the

rifle was broken and knocked out of his hand, and he found himself in

the grip of the irresistible enemy whom he had challenged to mortal

combat. Lieutenant Delamain fired at the lion without killing him, and

then again retreated to re-load. Meantime, Captain Woodhouse and the

lion were both lying wounded on the ground, and the lion began to

craunch his arm. In this dreadful position Captain Woodhouse had the

presence of mind, and the fortitude, amid the horrible pain he

endured, to lie perfectly still--knowing that if he made any

resistance now, he would be torn to pieces in a minute. Finding all

motion had ceased, the lion let the arm drop from his mouth, and

quietly crouched down with his paws on the thigh of his prostrate

antagonist. Presently, Captain Woodhouse, finding his head in a

painful position, unthinkingly raised one hand to support it,

whereupon the lion again seized his arm, and craunched it higher up.

Once more, notwithstanding the intense agony, and yet more intense

apprehension of momentary destruction, Captain Woodhouse had the

strength of will and self-command to lie perfectly still. He remained

thus, until his friends, discovering his situation, were hastening up,

but upon the wrong side, so that their balls might possibly pass

through the lion, and hit him. Without moving, or manifesting any

hasty excitement, he was heard to say, in a low voice, "To the other

side!--to the other side!" They hurried round. Next moment the

magnanimous lion lay dead by the side of a yet stronger nature than

his own.

Diedrik Müller, during his hunting time in South Africa, came suddenly

upon a lion. The lion did not attack him, but stood still, as though

he would have said, "Well, what do you want here in my desert?" Müller

alighted from his horse, and took deliberate aim at the lion's

forehead. Just as he drew the trigger, his horse gave a start of

terror, and the hunter missed his aim. The lion sprang forward; but,

finding that the man stood still--for he had no time either to remount

his horse, or take to his heels--the lion stopped within a few paces,

and stood still also, confronting him. The man and the lion stood

looking at each other for some minutes; the man never moved; at length

the lion slowly turned, and walked away. Müller began hastily to

re-load his gun. The lion looked back over his shoulder, gave a deep

growl, and instantly returned. Could words speak plainer? Müller, of

course, held his hand, and remained motionless. The lion again moved

off, warily. The hunter began softly to ram down his bullet. Again the

lion looked back, and gave a threatening growl. This was repeated

between them until the lion had retired to some distance, when he

bounded into a thicket.

A very curious question is started by the worthy vicar of Swaffham

Bulbec on the mortality of birds. The mortality must be enormous every

year, yet how seldom in our country rambles do we find a dead bird.

One, now and then, in the woods or hedgerows, is the utmost seen by

any body, even if he search for them. Very few, comparatively, are

destroyed by mankind. Only a few species are killed by sportsmen; all

the rest can not live long, nor can they all be eaten by other birds.

Many must die from natural causes. Immense numbers, especially of the

smaller birds, are born each year, yet they do not appear to increase

the general stock of the species. Immense numbers, therefore, must die

every year; but what becomes of the bodies? Martins, nightingales, and

other migratory birds, may be supposed to leave a great number of

their dead relations in foreign countries; this, however, can not

apply to our own indigenous stock. Mr. Jenyns partly accounts for this

by saying, that no doubt a great many young birds fall a prey to

stronger birds soon after leaving the nest, and probably a number of

the elder birds also; while the very old are killed by the cold of

winter; or, becoming too feeble to obtain food, drop to the earth, and

are spared the pain of starvation by being speedily carried off by

some hungry creature of the woods and fields. Besides these means for

the disposal of the bodies, there are scavenger insects, who devour,

and another species who act as sextons, and bury the bodies. During

the warm months of summer, some of the burying beetles will accomplish

"the humble task allotted them by Providence," in a surprisingly short

time. Mr. Jenyns has repeatedly, during a warm spring, placed dead

birds upon the ground, in different spots frequented by the

_necrophorus vespillo_, and other allied beetles, who have effected

the interment so completely in four-and-twenty hours, that there was a

difficulty in finding the bodies again.

All this goes a great way to account for our so very seldom seeing any

dead birds lying about, notwithstanding the immense mortality that

must take place every year; but it certainly is not satisfactory; for

although the birds of prey, and those which are not devoured by

others, are comparatively small in number, how is it that none of

_these_ are ever found? Once in a season, perhaps, we may find a dead

crow, or a dead owl (generally one that has been shot), but who ever

finds hawks, ravens, kites, sparrow-hawks, or any number of crows, out

of all the annual mortality that must occur in their colonies? These

birds are for the most part too large for the sexton beetle to bury;

and, quickly as the foxes, stoats, weasels, and other prowling

creatures would nose out the savoury remains, or the newly-fallen

bodies, these creatures only inhabit certain localities--and dead

birds may be supposed to fall in many places. Still, they are not

seen.

A pair of robins built their nest in the old ivy of a garden wall, and

the hen shortly afterward sat in maternal pride upon four eggs. The

gardener came to clip the ivy; and, not knowing of the nest, his

shears cut off a part of it, so that the four eggs fell to the ground.

Dropping on leaves, they were not broken. Notice being attracted by

the plaintive cries of the hen bird, the eggs were restored to the

nest, which the gardener repaired. The robins returned, the hen sat

upon the eggs, and in a few days they were hatched. Shortly afterward

the four little ones were all found lying upon the ground beneath,

cold, stiff, and lifeless. The gardener's repairs of the nest had not

been according to the laws of bird-architecture, and a gap had broken

out. The four unfledged little ones were taken into the house, and,

efforts being made to revive them by warmth, they presently showed

signs of life, recovered, and were again restored to the nest. The gap

was filled up by stuffing a small piece of drugget into it. The parent

robins, perched in a neighboring tree, watched all these operations,

without displaying any alarm for the result, and, as soon as they were

completed, returned to the nest. All went on well for a day or two:

but misfortune seemed never weary of tormenting this little family. A

violent shower of rain fell. The nest being exposed, by the close

clipping of the ivy leaves, the drugget got sopped, the rain half

filled the nest, and the gardener found the four little ones lying

motionless in the water. Once more they were taken away, dried near

the fire, and placed in the nest of another bird fixed in a tree

opposite the ivy. The parent birds in a few minutes occupied the nest,

and never ceased their attentions until the brood were able to fly,

and take care of themselves.

The story we have already related of Diedrik Müller's lion, is

surpassed by another of a similar kind, which we take to be about the

best lion-story that zoological records can furnish.

A hunter, in the wilds of Africa, had seated himself on a bank near a

pool, to rest, leaving his gun, set upright against a rock, a few feet

behind him. He was alone. Whether he fell asleep, or only into a

reverie, he did not know, but suddenly he saw an enormous lion

standing near him, attentively observing him. Their eyes met, and thus

they remained, motionless, looking at each other. At length the hunter

leaned back, and slowly extended his arm toward his gun. The lion

instantly uttered a deep growl, and advanced nearer. The hunter

paused. After a time, he very gradually repeated the attempt, and

again the lion uttered a deep growl, the meaning of which was not to

be mistaken. This occurred several times (as in the former case),

until the man was obliged to desist altogether. Night approached; the

lion never left him the whole night. Day broke; the lion still was

there, and remained there the whole day. The hunter had ceased to make

any attempt to seize his gun, and saw that his only hope was to weary

the lion out by the fortitude of a passive state, however dreadful the

situation. All the next night the lion remained. The man, worn out for

want of sleep, dared not to close his eyes, lest the lion, believing

him to be dead, should devour him. All the provision in his wallet was

exhausted. The third night arrived. Being now utterly exhausted, and

having dropped off to sleep, several times, and as often come back to

consciousness with a start of horror at finding he had been asleep, he

finally sunk backward, and lay in a dead slumber. He never awoke till

broad day, and then found that the lion was gone.

On the question of "best" stories of animals, there are so many

excellent stories of several species that the superlative degree may

be hard to determine. Setting down the above, however, as the best

lion-story, we will give what we consider to be (up to this time) the

best elephant-story. In one of the recent accounts of scenes of Indian

warfare (the title of the book has escaped us, and perhaps we met with

the narrative in a printed letter), a body of artillery was described

as proceeding up a hill, and the great strength of elephants was found

highly advantageous in drawing up the guns. On the carriage of one of

these guns, a little in front of the wheel, sat an artilleryman,

resting himself. An elephant, drawing another gun, was advancing in

regular order close behind. Whether from falling asleep, or

over-fatigue, the man fell from his seat, and the wheel of the

gun-carriage, with its heavy gun, was just rolling over him. The

elephant comprehending the danger, and seeing that he could not reach

the body of the man with his trunk, seized the wheel by the top, and,

lifting it up, passed it carefully over the fallen man, and set it

down on the other side.

The best dog-story--though there are a number of best stories of this

honest fellow--we fear is an old one; but we can not forbear telling

it, for the benefit of those who may not have met with it before. A

surgeon found a poor dog, with his leg broken. He took him home, set

it, and in due time gave him his liberty. Off he ran. Some months

afterward the surgeon was awoke in the night by a dog barking loudly

at his door. As the barking continued, and the surgeon thought he

recognized the voice, he got up, and went down stairs. When he opened

the door, there stood his former patient, wagging his tail, and by his

side another dog--a friend whom he had brought--who had also had the

misfortune to get a leg broken. There is another dog-story of a

different kind, told by Mr. Jenyns, which we think very amusing. A

poodle, belonging to a gentleman in Cheshire, was in the habit of

going to church with his master, and sitting with him in the pew

during the whole service. Sometimes his master did not come; but this

did not prevent the poodle, who always presented himself in good time,

entered the pew, and remained sitting there alone: departing with the

rest of the congregation. One Sunday, the dam at the head of a lake in

the neighborhood gave way, and the whole road was inundated. The

congregation was therefore reduced to a few individuals, who came from

cottages close at hand. Nevertheless, by the time the clergyman had

commenced reading the Psalms, he saw his friend the poodle come slowly

up the aisle, dripping with water: having been obliged to swim above a

quarter of a mile to get to church. He went into his pew, as usual,

and remained quietly there to the end of the service. This is told on

the authority of the clergyman himself.

A hungry jackdaw once took a fancy to a young chicken which had only

recently been hatched. He pounced upon it accordingly, and was

carrying it off, when the hen rushed upon him, and beat him with her

wings, and held him in her beak, until the cock came up, who

immediately attacked the jackdaw, and struck him so repeatedly that he

was scarcely able to effect his escape by flight. But the best

hen-story is one in Mr. Jenyns' "Observations." A hen was sitting on a

number of eggs to hatch them. An egg was missing every night; yet

nobody could conjecture who had stolen it. One morning, after several

had been lost in this way, the hen was discovered with ruffled

feathers, a bleeding breast, and an inflamed countenance. By the side

of the nest was seen the dead body of a large rat, whose skull had

been fractured--evidently by blows from the beak of the valiant hen,

who could endure the vile act of piracy no longer.

Mr. Jenyns relates a good owl-story. He knew a tame owl, who was so

fond of music that he would enter the drawing-room of an evening, and,

perching on the shoulder of one of the children, listen with great

attention to the tones of the piano-forte: holding his head first on

one side, then on the other, after the manner of connoisseurs. One

night, suddenly, spreading his wings, as if unable to endure his

rapture any longer, he alighted on the keys, and, driving away the

fingers of the performer with his beak, began to hop about upon the

keys himself, apparently in great delight with his own execution. This

pianist's name was _Keevie_. He was born in the woods of

Northumberland, and belonged to a friend of the Reverend Mr. Jenyns.

Good bear-stories are numerous. One of the best we take from the

"Zoological Anecdotes." At a hunt in Sweden, an old soldier was

charged by a bear. His musket missed fire, and the animal being close

upon him, he made a thrust, in the hope of driving the muzzle of his

piece down the bear's throat. But the thrust was parried by one of

huge paws with all the skill of a fencer, and the musket wrested from

the soldier's hand, who was forthwith laid prostrate. He lay quiet,

and the bear, after smelling, thought he was dead, and then left him

to examine the musket. This he seized by the stock, and began to knock

about, as though to discover wherein its virtue consisted, when the

soldier could not forbear putting forth one hand to recover his

weapon. The bear immediately seized him by the back of the head, and

tore his scalp over his crown, so that it fell over the soldier's

face. Notwithstanding his agony, the poor fellow restrained his cries,

and again pretended death. The bear laid himself upon his body, and

thus remained, until some hunters coming up relieved him from this

frightful situation. As the poor fellow rose, he threw back his scalp

with his hand, as though it had been a peruke, and ran frantically

toward them, exclaiming--"The bear! the bear!" So intense was his

apprehension of his enemy, that it made him oblivious of his bodily

anguish. He eventually recovered, and received his discharge in

consequence of his loss of hair. There is another bear-story in this

work, which savors--just a little--of romance. A powerful bull was

attacked by a bear in a forest, when the bull succeeded in striking

both horns into his assailant, and pinning him to a tree. In this

situation they were both found dead--the bear, of his wounds; the bull

(either fearing, or, from obstinate self-will, refusing, to relinquish

his position of advantage) of starvation!

The beat cat-and-mouse story (designated "Melancholy Accident--a Cat

killed by a Mouse") is to be found in "The Poor Artist," the author of

which seems to have derived the story from a somewhat questionable

source, though we must admit the possibility. "A cat had caught a

mouse on a lawn, and let it go again, in her cruel way, in order to

play with it; when the mouse, inspired by despair, and seeing only one

hole possible to escape into--namely, the round red throat of the cat,

very visible through her open mouth--took a bold spring into her jaws,

just escaping between her teeth, and into her throat he struggled and

stuffed himself; and so the cat was suffocated." It reads plausibly;

let us imagine it was true.

The best spider-and-fly story we also take from the last-named book.

"A very strong, loud, blustering fellow of a blue-bottle fly bounced

accidentally into a spider's web. Down ran the old spider, and threw

her long arms round his neck; but he fought, and struggled, and blew

his drone, and fuzzed, and sung sharp, and beat, and battered, and

tore the web in holes--and so got loose. The spider would not let go

her hold round him--and _the fly flew away with the spider_!" This is

related on the authority of Mr. Thomas Bell, the naturalist, who

witnessed the heroic act.

A MISER'S LIFE AND DEATH.

This is Harrow Weal Common; and a lovely spot it is. Time was when the

whole extent lay waste, or rather covered with soft herbage and wild

flowers, where the bee sought her pasture, and the lark loved to hide

her nest. But since then, cultivation has trenched on much of Harrow

Weal. Cottages have risen, and small homesteads tell of security and

abundance. It is pleasant to look upon them from this rising ground;

to follow the windings of the broad stream, with pastures on either

side, where sheep and cattle graze. Look narrowly toward yonder group

of trees, and that slight elevation of the ground covered with wild

chamomile; if the narrator who told concerning the miser of Harrow

Weal Common has marked the spot aright, that mound and flowers are

associated with the history of one whose profitless life affords a

striking instance of the withering effects of avarice.

On that spot stood the house of Daniel Dancer; miserable in the

fullest conception of the word: desolate and friendless, for no bright

fire gleamed in winter on the old man's hearthstone; nor yet in

spring, when all nature is redolent of bliss, did the confiding

sparrow build her nest beside his thatch. The walls of his solitary

dwelling were old and lichen-dotted; ferns sprung from out their

fissures, and creeping ivy twined through the shattered window-panes.

A sapling, no one knew how, had vegetated in the kitchen; its broken

pavement afforded a free passage, and, as time went on, the sapling

acquired strength, pushing its tall head through the damp and

mouldering ceiling; then, catching more of air and light, it went

upward to the roof, and, finding that the tiles were off and part of

the rafters broken, that same tree looked forth in its youth and

vigor, throwing its branches wide, and serving, as years passed on, to

shelter the inmates of the hut.

Other trees grew round; unpruned and thickly-tangled rank grass sprang

up wherever the warm sunbeams found an entrance; and as far as the eye

could reach, appeared a wilderness of docks and brambles, with huge

plantains and giant thistles, inclosed with a boundary hedge of such

amazing height as wholly to exclude all further prospect.

Eighty acres of good land belonged to Dancer's farm. An ample stream

once held its winding course among them, but becoming choked at the

further end with weeds and fallen leaves, and branches broken by the

wind, it spread into a marsh, tenanted alike by the slow, creeping

blind-worm, and water-newt, the black slug, and frogs of portentous

size. The soil was rich, and would have yielded abundantly; the

timber, too, was valuable, for some of the finest oaks, perhaps, in

the kingdom grew upon the farm; but the cultivation of the one, and

the culling of the other, was attended with expense, and both were

consequently left uncared for.

In the centre of this lone and wretched spot, dwelt the miserable

Dancer and his sister, alike in their habits and penuriousness. The

sister never went from home; the brother rarely, except to sell his

hay. He had some acres of fine meadow-land, upon which the brambles

had not trenched, and his attention was exclusively devoted to keeping

them clear of weeds. Having no other occupation, the time of

hay-harvest seems to have been the only period at which his mind was

engrossed with business, and this too was rendered remarkable by the

miser's laying aside his habits of penuriousness--scarcely any

gentleman in the neighborhood gave his mowers better beer, or in

greater quantity; but at no other time was the beverage of our Saxon

ancestors found within his walls.

Some people thought that the old man was crazed; but those who knew

him spoke well of his intelligence. As his father had been before him,

so was he; his mantle had descended in darkness and in fullness on all

who bore his name, and while that of Daniel Dancer was perhaps the

most familiar, his three brothers were equally penurious. One sordid

passion absorbed their every faculty; they loved money solely and

exclusively for its own sake, not for the pleasures it could procure,

nor yet because of the power it bestowed, but for the love of

hoarding.

When the father of Daniel Dancer breathed his last, there was reason

to believe that a large sum, amounting to some thousands, was

concealed on the premises. This conjecture occasioned his son no small

uneasiness, not so much from the fear of loss, as from the

apprehension lest his brothers should find the treasure and divide it

among themselves. Dancer, therefore, kept the matter as much as

possible to himself. He warily and secretly sought out every hole and

corner, thrusting his skinny hand into many a deserted mouse-hole, and

examining every part of the chimney. Vain were all his efforts, till

at length, on removing an old grate, he discovered about two hundred

pounds, in gold and bank-notes, between two pewter dishes. Much more

undoubtedly there was, but the rest remained concealed.

Strange beings were Dancer and his sister to look upon. The person of

the old man was generally girt with a hay-band, in order to keep

together his tattered garments; his stockings were so darned and

patched that nothing of the original texture remained; they were girt

about in cold and wet weather with strong bands of hay, which served

instead of boots, and his hat having been worn for at least thirteen

years, scarcely retained a vestige of its former shape. Perhaps the

most wretched vagabond and mendicant that ever crossed Harrow Weal

Common was more decently attired than this miserable representative of

an ancient and honorable house.

The sister possessed an excellent wardrobe, consisting not only of

wearing apparel, but table linen, and twenty-four pair of good sheets;

she had also clothes of various kinds, and abundance of plate

belonging to the family, but every thing was stowed away in chests.

Neither the brother nor the sister had the disposition or the heart to

enjoy the blessings that were liberally given them; and hence it

happened that Dancer was rarely seen, and that his sister scarcely

ever quitted her obscure abode.

The interior of the dwelling well befitted its occupants. Furniture,

and that of a good description, had formerly occupied a place within

the walls, but every article had long since been carefully secluded

from the light, all excepting two antique bedsteads which could not

readily be removed. These, however, neither Dancer nor his sister

could be prevailed to occupy; they preferred sleeping on sacks stuffed

with hay, and covered with horse-rugs. Nor less miserable was their

daily fare. Though possessed of at least ten thousand pounds, they

lived on cold dumplings, hard as stone, and made of the coarsest meal;

their only beverage was water; their sole fire a few sticks gathered

on the common, although they had abundance of wood, and noble trees

that required lopping.

Thus they lived, isolated from mankind, while around them the

desolation of their paternal acres, and the rank luxuriance of weeds

and brambles, presented a mournful emblem of their condition. Talents,

undoubtedly they had; kindly tempers in early life, which might have

conduced to the well-being of society. Daniel especially possessed

many admirable qualities, with good sense and native integrity; his

manners, too, though unpolished by intercourse with the world, were at

one time both frank and courteous, but all and each were absorbed by

one master passion--sordid avarice took possession of his soul, and

rendered him the most despicable of men.

At length Dancer's sister died. They had lived together for many

years, similar in their penuriousness, though little, perhaps, of

natural affection subsisted between them. The sister was possessed of

considerable wealth, which she left to her brother. The old man

greatly rejoiced at its acquisition; he resolved, in consequence, that

her funeral should not disgrace the family, and accordingly contracted

with an undertaker to receive timber in exchange for a coffin, rather

than to part with gold.

Lady Tempest, who resided in the neighborhood, compassionating the

wretched condition of an aged woman, sick, and destitute of even

pauper comforts, had the poor creature conveyed to her house. Every

possible alleviation was afforded, and medical assistance immediately

obtained; but they came too late. The disease, which proceeded

originally from want, proved mortal, and the victim of sordid avarice

was borne unlamented to her grave.

There was crowding on the funeral day beside the road that led to Lady

Tempest's. People came trooping from far and near, with a company of

boys belonging to Harrow School, thoughtless, and amused with the

strangeness of a spectacle which might rather have excited feelings of

sorrow and commiseration. First came a coffin of the humblest kind,

containing the emaciated corpse of one who had possessed ample

wealth--a woman to whom had been committed the magnificent gift of

life, fair talents, and health, with faculties for appropriating each

to the glory of Him who gave them, but who, on dying, had no soothing

retrospect of life, no thankfulness for having been the instrument of

good to others, no hope beyond the grave. Behind that coffin, as

chief-mourner, followed the brother, unbeloved, and heedless of all

duties either to God or man--a miserable being; the possessor of many

thousands, yet too sordid to purchase even decent mourning. It was

only by the importunate entreaties of his relatives that he consented

to unbind the hay-bands with which his legs were covered, and to put

on a second-hand pair of black worsted stockings. His coat was of a

whitish brown color, his waistcoat had been black about the middle of

the last century, and the covering of his head was a nondescript kind

of wig, which had descended to him as an heirloom. Thus attired, and

followed and attended by a crowd whom curiosity had drawn together,

went on old Daniel and the coffin of his sister toward the place of

its sojourn. When there, the horse's girth gave way, for they were

past all service, and the brother was suddenly precipitated into his

sister's grave; but the old man escaped unhurt. The service proceeded;

and slowly into darkness and forgetfulness went down the remains of

his miserable counterpart.

One friend, however, remained to the miser--and this was Lady Tempest.

That noble-minded woman had given a home to the sister, and sought by

every possible means to alleviate her sufferings; now also, when the

object of her solicitude was gone, she endeavored to inspire the

brother with better feelings, and to ameliorate his miserable

condition. This kindly notice by Lady Tempest, while it soothed his

pride, served also to lessen the sufferings and sorrows of his

declining age; and so far did her representations prevail, that,

having given him a comfortable bed, she actually induced him to throw

away the sack on which he slept for years. Nay, more, he took into his

service a man of the name of Griffith, and allowed him an ample supply

of food, but neither cat nor dog purred or watched beneath his roof;

he had no kindliness of heart to bestow upon them, nor occasion for

their services, for he still continued to live on crusts and

fragments; even when Lady Tempest sent him better fare, he could

hardly be prevailed to partake of it.

In his boyish days, he possessed, it might be, some natural feelings

of affection toward his kind; but as years passed on, and his sordid

avarice increased, he manifested the utmost aversion for his brother,

who rivaled himself in penury and wealth, and still continued to

pasture sheep on the same common. To his niece, however, he once

presented a guinea, on the birth of a daughter, but this he made

conditional, she was either to name the child Nancy, after his mother,

or forfeit the whole sum.

Still, with that strange contrariety which even the most penurious

occasionally present, gleams of kindness broke forth at intervals, as

sunbeams on a stony waste. He was known secretly to have assisted

persons whose modes of life and appearance were infinitely superior to

his own; and though parsimonious in the extreme, he was never guilty

of injustice, or accused of attempting to overreach his neighbors. He

was also a second Hampden in defending the rights and privileges of

those who were connected with his locality. While old Daniel lived, no

infringements were permitted on Harrow Weal Common; he heeded neither

the rank nor wealth of those who attempted to act unjustly, but,

putting himself at the head of the villagers, he resisted such

aggressions with uniform success. On one occasion, also, having been

reluctantly obliged to prosecute a horse-stealer at Aylesbury, he set

forth with one of his neighbors on an unshod steed, with a mane and

tail of no ordinary growth, a halter for a bridle, a sack instead of a

saddle. Thus equipped, he went on, till, having reached the principal

inn at Aylesbury, the miser addressed his companion, saying,

"Pray, sir, go into the house and order what you please, and live like

a gentleman, I will settle for it readily; but as regards myself, I

must go on in my old way."

His friend entreated him to take a comfortable repast, but this he

steadily refused. A penny-worth of bread sufficed for his meal, and at

night he slept under his horse's manger; but when the business that

brought him to Aylesbury was ended, he paid fifteen shillings, the

amount of his companion's bill, with the utmost cheerfulness.

Grateful too, he was, as years went on, to Lady Tempest for her

unwearied kindness, and he resolved to leave her the wealth which he

had accumulated. His sister, too, expressed the same wish; and when,

after six months of continued attention from that lady, Miss Dancer

found her end approach, she instructed her brother to give their

benefactress an acknowledgment from the one thousand six hundred

pounds which she had concealed in an old tattered petticoat.

"Not a penny of that money," said old Dancer, unceremoniously to his

sister. "Not a penny as yet. The good lady shall have the whole when I

am gone."

At length the time came when the old man must be gone; when his

desolate abode and neglected fields should bear witness no longer

against him. Few particulars are known concerning his death. The fact

alone is certain, that the evening before his departure, he dispatched

a messenger to Lady Tempest requesting to see her ladyship, and that,

being gratified by her arrival, he expressed great satisfaction.

Finding himself somewhat better, his attachment to the hoarded pelf,

which he valued even more than the only friend he had on earth,

overcame the resolution he had formed of giving her his will; and

though his hand was scarcely able to perform its functions, he took

hold of the precious document and replaced it in his bosom.

The next morning he became worse, and again did the same kind lady

attend the old man's summons; when, having confided to her keeping the

title-deeds of wealth which he valued more than life, his hand

suddenly became convulsed, his head sunk upon the pillow, and the

miser breathed his last.

The house in which he died, and where he first drew breath, exhibited

a picture of utter desolation. Those who crossed the threshold stood

silent, as if awe-struck. Yet that miserable haunt contained the

hoarded wealth of years. Gold and silver coins were dug up on the

ground-floor; plate and table-linen, with clothes of every

description, were found locked up in chests; large bowls, filled with

guineas and half-guineas came to light, with parcels of bank-notes

stuffed under the covers of old chairs. Some hundred-weights of

waste-paper, the accumulation of half a century, were also discovered;

and two or three tons of old iron, consisting of nails and

horse-shoes, which the miser had picked up.

Strange communings had passed within the walls--sordid, yet bitter

thoughts, the crushing of all kindly yearnings toward a better state

of mind. The outer conduct of the man was known, but the internal

conflict between good and evil remains untold.

Nearly sixty-four years have elapsed since the miser and his sister

passed from among the living. Perchance some lichen-dotted stone, if

carefully sought for and narrowly examined, may give the exact period

of their death, but, as yet, no record of the kind has been

discovered. Collateral testimonies, however, go far to prove that the

death of the miser took place about the year 1775, and that his sister

died a few months previous.

RESULTS OF AN ACCIDENT.--THE GUM SECRET.

In journeying from Dublin westward, by the banks of the Liffey, we

pass the village of Chapelizod, and hamlet of Palmerstown. The

water-power of the Liffey has attracted manufacturers at different

times, who with less or greater success, but, unfortunately, with a

general ill-success, have established works there. Paper-making,

starch-making, cotton-spinning and weaving, bleaching and printing of

calicoes, have been attempted. But all have been in turn abandoned,

though occasionally renewed by some new firm or private adventurer.

Into the supposed causes of failure it is not here necessary to

inquire. The manufacture of starch has survived several disasters.

The article British gum, which is now so extensively used by

calico-printers, by makers-up of stationery, by the Government in

postage-stamp making, and in various industrial arts, was first made

at Chapelizod. Its origin and history are somewhat curious.

The use of potatoes in the starch factories excited the vehement

opposition of the people, whose chief article of food was thus

consumed and enhanced in price. These factories were several times

assailed by angry multitudes, and on more than one occasion set on

fire by means never discovered. The fires were not believed to have

been always accidental.

On the fifth of September, 1821, George the Fourth, on his return to

England from visiting Ireland, embarked at Dunleary harbor, near

Dublin. On that occasion the ancient Irish name of Dunleary was

blotted out, and in honor of the royal visit that of Kingston was

substituted. In the evening the citizens of Dublin sat late in taverns

and at supper parties. Loyalty and punch abounded. In the midst of

their revelry a cry of "fire" was heard. They ran to the streets, and

some, following the glare and the cries, found the fire at a starch

manufactory near Chapelizod. The stores not being of a nature to burn

rapidly, were in great part saved from the fire, but they were so

freely deluged with water, that the starch was washed away in streams

ankle-deep over the roadways and lanes into the Liffey.

Next morning one of the journeymen block-printers--whose employment

was at the Palmerstown print-works, but who lodged at Chapelizod--woke

with a parched throat and headache. He asked himself where he had

been. He had been seeing the King away; drinking, with thousands more,

Dunleary out of, and Kingston into, the map of Ireland. Presently, his

confused memory brought him a vision of a fire: he had a thirsty sense

of having been carrying buckets of water; of hearing the hissing of

water on hot iron floors; of the clanking of engines, and shouts of

people working the pumps, and of himself tumbling about with the rest

of the mob, and rolling over one another in streams of liquefied

wreck, running from the burning starch stores.

He would rise, dress, go out, inquire about the fire, find his

shopmates, and see if it was to be a working day, or once again a

drinking day. He tried to dress; but--a--hoo!--his clothes were gummed

together. His coat had no entrance for his arms until the sleeves were

picked open, bit by bit; what money he had left was glued into his

pockets; his waistcoat was tightly buttoned up with--what? Had he been

bathing with his clothes on, in a sea of gum-arabic--that costly

article used in the print-works?

This man was not the only one whose clothes were saturated with gum.

He and four of his shopmates held a consultation, and visited the

wreck of the starch factory. In the roadway, the starch, which, in a

hot, calcined state, had been watered by the fire-engines the night

before, was now found by them lying in soft, gummy lumps. They took

some of it home; they tested it in their trade; they bought starch at

a chandler's shop, put it in a frying-pan, burned it to a lighter or

darker brown, added water, and at last discovered themselves masters

of an article, which, if not gum itself, seemed as suitable for their

trade as gum-arabic, and at a fraction of the cost.

It was their own secret; and, could they have conducted their future

proceedings as discreetly as they made their experiments, they might

have realized fortunes, and had the merit of practically introducing

an article of great utility--one which has assisted in the

fortune-making of some of the wealthiest firms in Lancaster (so long

as they held it as a secret), and which now the Government of the

British empire manufacture for themselves.

Its subsequent history is not less curious than that just related.

Unfortunately for the operative block-printers, who discovered it,

their share in its history is soon told.

It is said that six of them subscribed money to send one of their

number to Manchester with samples of the new gum for sale; the reply

which he received from drysalters and the managers of print-works, was

either that they would have nothing to do with his samples, or an

admonition to go home for the present, and return when he was sober.

His fellow-workmen, hearing of his non-success and fearing the escape

of the secret, sent another of their number to his aid with more

money. The two had no better success than the one. The remaining four,

after a time, left their work at Dublin, and joined the two in

Manchester. They now tried to sell their secret. Before this was

effected one died; two were imprisoned for a share in some drunken

riots; and all were in extreme poverty. What the price paid for the

secret was, is not likely to be revealed now. Part of it was spent in

a passage to New Orleans, where it is supposed the discoverers of

British gum did not long survive their arrival.

The secret was not at first worked with success. It passed from its

original Lancashire possessor to a gentleman who succeeded in making

the article of a sufficiently good quality; and at so low a price that

it found a ready introduction in the print-works. But he could not

produce it in large quantity without employing assistants, whom he

feared to trust with a knowledge of a manufacture so simple and so

profitable. In employing men to assist in some parts of the work, and

shutting them out from others, their curiosity, or jealousy, could not

be restrained. On one or two occasions they caused the officers of

Excise to break in upon him when he was burning his starch, under the

allegation that he was engaged in illicit practices. His manufactory

was broken into in the night by burglars, who only wanted to rob him

of his secret. Once the place was maliciously burned down. Other

difficulties, far too numerous for present detail, were encountered.

Still, he produced the British gum in sufficient quantities for it to

yield him a liberal income. At last, in a week of sickness, he was

pressed by the head of a well-known firm of calico-printers for a

supply. He got out of bed; went to his laboratory; had the fire

kindled; put on his vessel of plate-iron; calcined his starch, added

the water, observed the temperature; and all the while held

conversation with his keen-eyed customer, whom he had unsuspectingly

allowed to be present. It is enough to say that this acute

calico-printer never required any more British gum of the

convalescent's making. Gradually the secret spread, although the

original purchaser of it still retained a share of the manufacture.

When penny postage came into operation, it was at first doubtful

whether adhesive labels could be made sufficiently good and

low-priced, which would not have been the case with gum-arabic.

British gum solved the difficulty; and the manufacturer made a

contract to supply it for the labels. In the second year of his

contract, a rumor was spread, that the adhesive matter on the postage

stamps was a deleterious substance, made of the refuse of fish, and

other disgusting materials. The great British gum secret was then

spread far and wide. The public was extensively informed that the

postage-label poison was made simply of--potatoes.

MY LITTLE FRENCH FRIEND.

Mademoiselle Honorine is a teacher of her own language in a cathedral

town south of the Loire, celebrated for the finest church and the

longest street in France; at least, so say the inhabitants, who have

seen no others. The purest French is supposed to be spoken hereabouts,

and the reputation thus given has for many years attracted hosts of

foreigners anxious to attain the true accent formerly in vogue at the

court of the refined Catherine de Medici. It is true that this extreme

grace of diction and tone is not acknowledged by Parisians; who, when

they had a court, imagined the best French was spoken in the capital

where that court resided; and they have been long in the habit of

sneering at the pretensions of their rivals; who, however, among

foreigners, still keep their middle-age fame.

Mademoiselle Honorine is not a native of this remarkable town; and the

French she teaches is of a different sort, for she comes from a

far-off province, by no means so remarkable for purity of accent. She

is an Alsatian, and her natal town is no other than Vancouleurs, where

the tree under which Joan of Arc saw angels and became inspired, once

existed.

As may be imagined, Mademoiselle Honorine is proud of this accident of

birth, and tells with much exultation of having, at the age of

fifteen, some thirty-five years ago, borne the part of La Pucelle in

the grand procession to Domremy, formerly an annual festival. She

relates that she attracted universal attention on that occasion,

chiefly from the circumstance of her hair, which is now of silvery

whiteness, having been equally so then, much to the admiration of all

who beheld her.

"I was always," she remarks, with satisfied vanity, "celebrated for my

hair, and I had at all times a high color and bright eyes; so that,

though some people preferred the beauty of my sisters, I always got

more partners than they at all our _fêtes_. It is true they all

married, and no one proposed to me, except old Monsieur de Monzon, who

suffered from the gout and a very bad temper; but I had no respect for

his character and though he was rich, and I might have been a

_châtelaine_, instead of such a poor woman as I am, still I refused

him, for I preferred my liberty; and that, also, was the reason I left

my uncle's domain, because I like independence. We used, my aunt, my

uncle, and I, to spend most of our time at his country place, going

out every day lark-catching, which we did with looking-glasses: they

held the glasses and lured the birds, while I was ready with the net

to throw over them. My uncle, however, was always scolding me for

talking and frightening the birds away; so I got tired of this

amusement and of the dependence in which I lived."

The independence preferred by Mademoiselle Honorine to lark-catching

and snubbing, consists in giving lessons to the English. As, of late,

we islanders have been as hard to catch as the victims of the

looking-glasses, her occupation is not lucrative; and although she

sometimes devotes her energies to the arts, in the form of twisted

colored paper tortured into the semblance of weeping willows, and

nondescript flowers, yet these specimens of ingenuity do not bring in

a very large revenue. In fact, her income, when I knew her, could not

be considered enormous; for, to pay house-rent, board, washing, and

sundry little expenses, she possessed twelve francs a month: yet with

these resources, nevertheless, she contrived to do more benevolent and

charitable acts than any person I ever met with. She has always

halfpence for the poor's bag at church--always farthings for certain

regular pensioners, who expect her donation as she passes them, at

their begging stations, on her way to her pupils. Moreover, on

New-year's day, she has always the means of making the prettiest

presents to a friend who for years has shown her countenance, and put

little gains in her way.

She obtains six francs per month from a couple of pupils, whose merit

is as great in receiving, as hers in giving lessons. These are two

young workwomen who desire to improve their education, and daily

devote to study the only unoccupied hour they possess. From six

o'clock till seven, Mademoiselle Honorine, therefore, on her return

from the five o'clock mass--which she never misses--calls at the

garret of these devotees, and imparts her instruction in reading and

writing to the zealous aspirants for knowledge.

"I would not," she says, "miss their lessons for the world; because,

you see, I have thus always an eye upon their conduct, and have an

opportunity of throwing in a little good advice, and making them read

good books."

As these young damsels go out to their work directly after the lesson

is over--taking breakfast at a late hour in the day--Mademoiselle

Honorine provides herself, before starting to the five o'clock mass,

with a bit of dry bread, which she puts in her pocket, ready to eat

when the moment of hunger arrives. She never allows herself any other

breakfast; and, as she drinks only cold water, no expenditure of fuel

is necessary for this in her establishment. Except it occurs to any of

her pupils--few of whom are much richer than her earliest-served--to

offer her some refreshment to lighten her labors, Mademoiselle

Honorine contrives to walk, and talk, and laugh, and be amusing on an

empty stomach, till dinner-time, when she is careful to provide

herself with an apple and another slice of bread, which she enjoys in

haste, and betakes herself to other occupations, chiefly

unremunerative--such as visiting a sick neighbor, reading to a blind

friend, or taking a walk on the fashionable promenade with an infirm

invalid, who requires the support of an arm.

Fire in France is an expensive luxury which she economizes--not that

she indulges, when forced to allow herself in comfort, in much besides

turf or pine-cones, with perhaps a sprinkling of fagot-wood if a

friend calls in. She is able, however, to keep a little canary in a

cage, who is her valued companion; and she nourishes, besides, several

little productive plants in pots, such as violets and résida; chiefly,

it must be owned, with a view of having the means of making floral

offerings, on birthdays and christenings, to her very numerous

acquaintances.

She is never seen out of spirits, and is welcomed as an object of

interest whenever she flits along with her round, rosy, smiling face,

shrined in braids of white hair, and set off with a smart

fashionable-shaped bonnet; for she likes being in the fashion, and is

proud of the slightness of her waist, which her polka shows to

advantage. The strings of her bonnet, and the ribbons and buttons of

her dress, are sometimes very fresh, and her mittens are sometimes

very uncommon: this she is particular about, as she shows her hands a

good deal in accompanying herself on the guitar, which she does with

much taste, for her ear is very good and her voice has been musical.

There are few things Mademoiselle Honorine can not do to be useful.

She can play at draughts and dominos, can knit or net, knowing all the

last new patterns; her satin stitch is neatness itself. It is

suspected that she turns some of these talents to advantage; but that

is a secret, as she considers it more dignified to be known only as a

teacher.

She had a curious set of pupils when I became acquainted with her.

Those whom I knew were English; who were, rather late in their career,

endeavoring to become proficients in a tongue positively necessary for

economical, useful, or sentimental purposes, as the case might be, but

which in more early days they had not calculated on requiring.

They were of those who encourage late ambition--

"And from the dregs of life think to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give."

The first of these was a bachelor of some fifty-five, formerly a

medical practitioner, now retired, and living in a lively lodging, in

a _premier_ that overlooked the Loire; which reflected back so much

sun from its broad surface on a bright winter's day, that the

circumstance greatly diminished his expenses in the dreaded article of

fuel--a consideration with both natives and foreigners. Economy was

strictly practiced by Dr. Drowler. Nevertheless, as he was very

gallant, and loved to pay compliments to his fair young French

friends, whom he did not suspect of laughing at him, he became

desirous of acquiring greater facility in the lighter part of a

language which served him indifferently well in the ordinary concerns

of his bachelor house-keeping. He therefore resolved to take advantage

of the low terms and obliging disposition of Mademoiselle Honorine,

and placed himself on her form. There was much good-will on both

sides, and his instructress declared that she should have felt little

fear of his ultimate success, but for his defective hearing; which

considerably interfered with his appreciation of those shades of

pronunciation which might be necessary to render him capable of

charming the attentive ears of the young ladies, who were on the

tiptoe of expectation to hear what progress he had made in the

language of Jean Jacques Rousseau.

Another of Mademoiselle Honorine's charges was Mrs. Mumble, a widow of

uncertain age, whose early education had been a good deal left to

nature; and who--her income being small--had sought the banks of the

poetical Loire (in, she told her Somersetshire friends, the south of

France) to make, as she expressed it, "both ends meet." "One lesson a

week at a _franc_," she reflected, "won't ruin me, and I shall soon

get to speak their language as well as the best of 'em." Mademoiselle

Honorine herself would not have despaired of her pupil arriving at

something approaching to this result, could she have got the better of

a certain indistinctness of utterance caused by the loss of several

teeth.

Miss Dogherty was a third pupil; a young lady of fifty, with very

youthful manners, and a slight figure. She had labored long to acquire

the true "Porris twang," as she termed it; but, finding her efforts

unavailing, she had resolved during her winter in Touraine, to devote

herself to the language, drawing it pure from the source; and agreed

to sacrifice ten francs per month, in order, by daily hours of

devotion, to reach the goal. An inveterate Tipperary accent interfered

slightly with her views, but she hit on an ingenious expedient for

concealing the defect; this was, never to open her mouth to more than

half its size in speaking; and always to utter her English in a broken

manner, which might convey to the stranger the idea of her being a

foreigner. She had her cards printed as Mademoiselle Durté, which made

the illusion complete.

But these pupils were not to be entirely relied on for producing an

income--Mademoiselle Honorine could scarcely reckon on the advantages

they presented for a continuance, sanguine as she was. In fact, she

may be said to have, as a certainty, only one permanent pupil, whom

she looks upon as her chief stay, and her gratitude for this source of

emolument is such, that she is always ready to evince her sense of its

importance by adopting the character of nursemaid, classical

teacher--although her knowledge of the dead languages is not

extensive--or general governess, approaching the maternal character

the nearer from the compassion she feels for the pretty little orphan

English boy, who lives under the care of an infirm old grandmother.

With this little gentleman, whose domicile is situated about two miles

from her own, at the top of a steep hill, she walks, and talks, and

laughs, and teaches, and enjoys herself so much, that she considers it

but right to reward him for the pleasure he gives her by expending a

few sous every day in sweetmeats for his delectation; this sum making

a considerable gap in the monthly salary his grandmother is able to

afford. However, her disinterestedness is not thrown away here, and I

learn with singular satisfaction that Mademoiselle Honorine having

been detected in the act of devouring her dry crust, by way of

breakfast, and her pupil having won from her the confession that she

never had any other, a cup of hot chocolate was always afterward

prepared and offered to her by the little student as soon as she

entered his study. When I had an opportunity of judging--a fact which

more than once occurred to me--of the capabilities of Mademoiselle

Honorine's appetite, I was gratified, though surprised, to find that

nothing came amiss to her; that she could enjoy any thing in the shape

of fish, flesh, or fowl, and drank a good glass of Bordeaux, or even

Champagne, with singular glee.

It happened, not long since, that the friend who had revealed to me

the secret of her manner of life, was suddenly called upon to pay a

sum of money on some railway shares she possessed; and, being

unprepared, was lamenting in the presence of Mademoiselle Honorine,

the inconvenience she was put to.

The next day, the lively little dame appeared with a canvas bag in her

hand, containing no less a sum than five hundred francs. "Here," she

said, smiling, "is the exact sum you want. It is most lucky I should

happen to have as much. I have been collecting it for years; for, you

know, in case of sickness, one likes to avoid being a burden to one's

friends. It is at your service for as long a time as you like, and you

will relieve me from anxiety in taking it into your hands." It was

impossible to refuse the offer; and the good little woman was thus

enabled to repay the many kindnesses she had received, and to add

greatly to her own dignity; of which she is very tenacious.

"Ah!" said a Parisian lady to her one day, after hearing of her

thousand occupations and privations, "how do you contrive to live; and

what can you care about life? I should have had recourse to charcoal

long ago, if I had been in your situation. Yet you are always laughing

and gay, as if you dined on foie-gras and truffles every day of your

existence!"

"So I do," replied the little heroine--"at least on what is quite as

good--for I have all I want, all I care about, never owing a sous, and

being a charge to no one. Besides, I have a secret happiness which

nothing can take away; and, when I go into the church of a morning to

mass, I thank God with all my heart for all the blessings he gives me,

and, above all, for the extreme content which makes all the world seem

a paradise of enjoyment. I never know what it is to be dull, and as

for charcoal, I have no objection to it in a foot-warmer, but that is

all the acquaintance I am likely to make with it."

"Poor soul!" returned the Parisienne, "how I pity you!"

BLEAK HOUSE.[D]

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

[Footnote D: Continued from the June Number.]

CHAPTER XI.--OUR DEAR BROTHER.

A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he stands in the dark room,

irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?"

"It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his

ear. "Can't you wake him?"

"No."

"What have you done with your candle?"

"It's gone out. Here it is."

Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and

tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his

endeavors are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his

lodger, that he will go down stairs, and bring a lighted candle from

the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason

that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs

outside.

The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowly up,

with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the man

generally sleep like this?" inquires the lawyer, in a low voice. "Hi!

I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head, and lifting his eyebrows.

"I know next to nothing of his habits, except that he keeps himself

very close."

Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in, the

great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not so the eyes

upon the bed.

"God save us!" exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!"

Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so suddenly that the arm

swings over the bedside.

They look at one another for a moment.

"Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. Here's

poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?" says Krook, with his

lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings.

Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls, "Miss Flite! Flite!

Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!" Krook follows him with his

eyes, and, while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old

portmanteau, and steal back again.

"Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!" So Mr. Krook addresses a

crazy little woman, who is his female lodger: who appears and vanishes

in a breath: who soon returns, accompanied by a testy medical man,

brought from his dinner--with a broad snuffy upper lip, and a broad

Scotch tongue.

"Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at

them, after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has

been dead any time.

"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wull

have been dead aboot three hours."

"About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man, on the

other side of the bed.

"Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the

first.

The dark young man says yes.

"Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other; "for I'm nae

gude here!" With which remark, he finishes his brief attendance, and

returns to finish his dinner.

The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face,

and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his

pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

"I knew this person by sight, very well," says he. "He has purchased

opium of me, for the last year and a half. Was any body present

related to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.

"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from the

surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once, I was the nearest

relation he had."

"He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is

no doubt. The room is strongly flavored with it. There is enough here

now," taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozen people."

"Do you think he did it on purpose?" asks Krook.

"Took the over-dose?"

"Yes!" Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible

interest.

"I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit

of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?"

"I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich," says Krook; who might

have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around.

"But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to

name his circumstances to me."

"Did he owe you any rent?"

"Six weeks."

"He will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination.

"It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to

judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy

release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare

say good-looking." He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the

bedstead's edge, with his face toward that other face, and his hand

upon the region of the heart. "I recollect once thinking there was

something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in

life. Was that so?" he continues, looking round.

Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose

heads of hair I have got in sacks down stairs. Than that he was my

lodger for a year and a half, and lived--or didn't live--by

law-writing, I know no more of him."

During this dialogue, Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old

portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all

appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the

bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death,

noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an

individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's

awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty

clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this while.

He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor

abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the

tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as

the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from _his_ case.

He now interposes; addressing the young surgeon, in his unmoved,

professional way.

"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention

of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment

at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my stationer--Snagsby

of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows any thing about him, it might

be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!" to the little crazy woman, who

has often seen him in Court, and whom he has often seen, and who

proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law stationer.

"Suppose you do!"

While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation,

and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and

he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing; but

stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, in his gray coat and his black sleeves.

"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! Bless

my soul!"

"Can you give the person of the house any information about this

unfortunate creature, Snagsby?" inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He was in

arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know."

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind

his hand; "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except

sending for the beadle."

"I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "_I_ could

advise--"

("No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with his

deferential cough.)

"I speak of affording some clew to his connections, or to where he

came from, or to any thing concerning him."

"I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his reply with

his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know where he came

from, than I know--"

"Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to help him

out.

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook, with

his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

"As to his connections, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was to

say to me, 'Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you

in the Bank of England, if you'll only name one of 'em, I couldn't do

it, sir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief at the

time when he first came to lodge at the present Rag and Bottle Shop--"

"That was the time!" says Krook, with a nod.

"About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "he

came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding my

little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)

in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting, and gave her to

understand that he was in wants of copying work to do, and was--not to

put too fine a point upon it--" a favorite apology for plain-speaking

with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative

frankness, "hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to

strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they

want any thing. But she was rather took by something about this

person; whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of

attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge; and

she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My little

woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby, after

consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she

considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which,

she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you

haven't found Nimrod any work yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you

give that eight-and-thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce, to Nimrod?' or

such like. And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our

place; and that is the most I know of him, except that he was a quick

hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work; and that if you gave him

out, say five-and-forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have

it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--" Mr. Snagsby

concludes by politely motioning with his hat toward the bed, as much

as to add, "I have no doubt my honorable friend would confirm, if he

were in a condition to do it."

"Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether he

had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an Inquest, and

you will be asked the question. You can read?"

"No, I can't," returns the old man, with a sudden grin.

"Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. He will

get into some trouble or difficulty, otherwise. Being here, I'll wait,

if you make haste; and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should

ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the

candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is any

thing to help you."

"In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.

Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have

seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there

is very little else, Heaven knows.

The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer

conducts the search. The surgeon leans against a corner of the

chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door. The

apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied

with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved

black coat, and his wisp of limp white neck-kerchief tied in the bow

the Peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and

attitude.

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau;

there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets

on the road of Poverty, there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium,

on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many

grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as

if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off.

There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to Coroners'

Inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard, and the

drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an old

letter, or of any other writing, in either. The young surgeon examines

the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all he

finds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all,

and the beadle must be called in.

So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out

of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon: "that

won't do!" Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him; and she goes

furtively down stairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips.

"Good-night!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn; and goes home to Allegory and

meditation.

By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its

inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing; and the outposts of the

army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.

Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already

walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he

stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base

occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back.

Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms with

Mrs. Piper, in consequence of an unpleasantness originating in young

Perkins having "fetched" young Piper "a crack," renews her friendly

intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The pot-boy at the corner,

who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life,

and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges

confidential communications with the policeman, and has the appearance

of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable

in station-houses. People talk across the court out of window, and

bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's

the matter. The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr.

Krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural

disappointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the

beadle arrives.

The beadle, though generally understood in the neighborhood to be a

ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the

moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The

policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the

barbarous watchmen-times; but gives him admission, as something that

must be borne with until Government shall abolish him. The sensation

is heightened, as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the

beadle is on the ground, and has gone in.

By-and-by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation,

which has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to be in

want of witnesses, for the Inquest to-morrow, who can tell the Coroner

and Jury any thing whatever respecting the deceased. Is immediately

referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever. Is made

more imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. Green's son "was

a law-writer his-self, and knowed him better than any body"--which son

of Mrs. Green's appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard

a vessel bound for China, three months out, but considered accessible

by telegraph, on application to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle

goes into various shops and parlors, examining the inhabitants; always

shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy,

exasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public

loses interest, and undergoes re-action. Taunts the beadle, in shrill,

youthful voices, with having boiled a boy; choruses fragments of a

popular song to that effect, and importing that the boy was made into

soup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to

support the law, and seize a vocalist; who is released upon the flight

of the rest, on condition of his getting out of this then, come! and

cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies

off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium,

more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock,

inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things

fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread: beating the

palms of his white gloves one against the other, and stopping now and

then at a street-corner, to look casually about for any thing between

a lost child and a murder.

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting

about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every Juror's name is

wrongly spelt, and nothing is rightly spelt, but the beadle's own name

which nobody can read or wants to know. His summonses served, and his

witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's, to keep a small

appointment he has made with certain paupers; who, presently

arriving, are conducted up-stairs; where they leave the great eyes in

the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which

earthly lodgings take for No one--and for Every one.

And, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau;

and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through

five-and-forty years, lies there, with no more track behind him, that

any one can trace, than a deserted infant.

Next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins, more

than reconciled to Mrs Piper, says, in amicable conversation with that

excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor room at the

Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice a week, and

where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional celebrity,

faced by little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to

the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round him and

support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does a brisk stroke of

business all the morning. Even children so require sustaining, under

the general excitement, that a pieman, who has established himself for

the occasion at the corner of the court, says his brandy-balls go off

like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering between the door of Mr.

Krook's establishment and the door of the Sol's Arms, shows the

curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits, and accepts the

compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.

At the appointed hour arrives the Coroner, for whom the Jurymen are

waiting, and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good

dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The Coroner frequents

more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of sawdust, beer,

tobacco-smoke, and spirits, is inseparable in his vocation from death

in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the

landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the

piano, and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table, formed

of several short tables put together, and ornamented with glutinous

rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As many of the

Jury as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest get among

the spittoons and pipes, or lean against the piano. Over the Coroner's

head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which

rather gives the Majesty of the Court the appearance of going to be

hanged presently.

Call over and swear the Jury! While the ceremony is in progress,

sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a

large shirt-collar, with a moist eye, and an inflamed nose, who

modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public,

but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates that this

is little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up an

imitation of the Coroner, and make it the principal feature of the

Harmonic Meeting in the evening.

"Well, gentlemen--" the Coroner begins.

"Silence there, will you!" says the beadle. Not to the Coroner, though

it might appear so.

"Well, gentlemen!" resumes the Coroner. "You are impaneled here, to

inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given before

you, as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give

your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped, you

know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to any thing else. The

first thing to be done, is to view the body."

"Make way there!" cries the beadle.

So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a

straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back

second floor, from which a few of the Jurymen retire pale and

precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very

neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has

provided a special little table near the Coroner, in the Harmonic

Meeting Room), should see all that is to be seen. For they are the

public chroniclers of such inquiries, by the line; and he is not

superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print

what "Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district," said

and did; and even aspires to see the name of Mooney is familiarly and

patronizingly mentioned as the name of the Hangman is, according to

the latest examples.

Little Swills is waiting for the Coroner and Jury on their return. Mr.

Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction, and

seated near the Coroner; between that high judicial officer, a

bagatelle board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The Jury

learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about

him. "A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the

Coroner, "who, I am informed, was accidentally present, when discovery

of the death was made; but he could only repeat the evidence you have

already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the

law-stationer; and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is any body in

attendance who knows any thing more?"

Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.

Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper--what have

you got to say about this?

Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parenthesis and

without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the

court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker) and it has long been well

beknown among the neighbors (counting from the day next but one before

the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen months and

four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the

sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the Plaintive--so

Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--was reported to have sold

himself. Thinks it was the Plaintive's air in which that report

originatinin. See the Plaintive often, and considered as his air was

feariocious, and not to be allowed to go about some children being

timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard for

she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family).

Has seen the Plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for

children they will ever be and you can not expect them specially if of

playful dispositions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself).

On accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see

him take a pick-ax from his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the

child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his

heels). Never however see the plaintive take a pick-ax or any other

wepping far from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after

as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child

nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the

crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was

here would tell you that he has been seen a speaking to him frequent).

Says the Coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is

not here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him, then. In the absence of

the active and intelligent, the Coroner converses with Mr.

Tulkinghorn.

O! Here's the boy, gentlemen!

Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy!--But stop

a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary

paces.

Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that every body

has two names. Never heerd of sich a thing. Don't know that Jo is

short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for _him_. _He_ don't

find no fault with it. Spell it? No. _He_ can't spell it. No father,

no mother, no friends. Never been to school. What's home? Knows a

broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don't recollect

who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. Can't

exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie

to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to

punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth.

"This won't do, gentlemen!" says the Coroner, with a melancholy shake

of the head.

"Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an attentive

Juryman.

"Out of the question," says the Coroner. "You have heard the boy.

'Can't exactly say' won't do, you know. We can't take _that_, in a

Court of Justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy

aside."

Boy put aside; to the great edification of the audience;--especially

of Little Swills, the Comic Vocalist.

Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.

Very well, gentlemen! Here's a man unknown, proved to have been in the

habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half,

found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence to

lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come to

that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death, you

will find a Verdict accordingly.

Verdict Accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, you are

discharged. Good afternoon.

While the Coroner buttons his great coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give

private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he

recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes

hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night, when

he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man

turned to look at him, and came back, and, having questioned him and

found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I.

Not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging.

That the man had often spoken to him since; and asked him whether he

slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he

ever wished to die; and similar strange questions. That when the man

had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you to-day,

Jo;" but that when he had any he had always (as the boy most heartily

believes) been glad to give him some.

"He wos wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his

wretched sleeve. "Wen I see him a layin' so stritched out just now, I

wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he

wos!"

As he shuffles down stairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a

half-crown in his hand. "If ever you see me coming past your crossing

with my little woman--I mean a lady--" says Mr. Snagsby, with his

finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!"

For some little time the Jurymen hang about the Sol's Arms

colloquially. In the sequel, half a dozen are caught up in a cloud of

pipe-smoke that pervades the parlor of the Sol's Arms; two stroll to

Hampstead: and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and

top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands. Being

asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his

strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy start." The

landlord of the Sol's Arms, rinding Little Swills so popular, commends

him highly to the Jurymen and public; observing that, for a song in

character, he don't know his equal, and that that man's

character-wardrobe would fill a cart.

Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night, and then

flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving,

the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair; is faced

(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them, and

support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, Little Swills

says, Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a short

description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day. Is much

applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes in as

the Coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes the

Inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment to the

refrain--With his (the Coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol lo

doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!

The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rally

round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now

laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt

eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this

forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here, by the

mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised

to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon

the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would

have seemed! O, if, in brighter days, the now-extinguished fire within

him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is she,

while these ashes are above the ground!

It is any thing but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook's Court;

where Guster murders sleep, by going, as Mr. Snagsby himself

allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into

twenty. The occasion of this seizure is, that Guster has a tender

heart, and a susceptible something that possibly might have been

imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may,

now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's

account of the inquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper-time

she projected herself into the kitchen preceded by a flying

Dutch-cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration: which she only

came out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain

of fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically

availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not to

give her warning "when she quite comes to;" and also in appeals to the

whole establishment to lay her down on the stones, and go to bed.

Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in

Cursitor-street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the

subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most

patient of men, "I thought you was dead, I am sure!"

What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he

strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men

crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what can

not be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough that daylight

comes, morning comes, noon comes.

Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers

as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's and bears off

the body of our dear brother here departed, to a hemmed-in

church-yard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are

communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have

not departed; while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about

official backstairs--would to Heaven they _had_ departed!--are very

complacent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk

would reject as a savage abomination, and a Caffre would shudder at,

they bring our dear brother here departed, to receive Christian

burial.

With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little

tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy

of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death

in action close on life--here, they lower our dear brother down a foot

or two: here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption; an

avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside; a shameful testimony to future

ages, how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island

together.

Come night, come darkness, for you can not come too soon, or stay too

long, by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into the

windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at

least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, burning so

sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its

witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you should call to

every passer-by, "Look here!"

With the night, comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court, to

the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands, and

looks in between the bars; stands looking in, for a little while.

It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and

makes the archway clean. It does so, very busily and trimly; looks in

again, a little while; and so departs.

Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who "can't

exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's,

thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a

distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this:

"He wos wery good to me, he wos!"