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THE
INTERNATIONAL
MONTHLY
MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Science, and Art.
VOLUME III.
APRIL TO JULY, 1851.
NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
BY THE NUMBER, 25 Cts.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.
Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 3 in this text. However
this text contains only issue Vol. 3, No. 1. Minor typos have been
corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD VOLUME.
The INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE has now been published one year, with a
constantly increasing sale, and, it is believed, with a constantly
increasing good reputation. The publishers are satisfied with its
success, and will apply all the means at their disposal to increase its
value and preserve its position. They have recently made such
arrangements in London as will insure to the editor the use of advance
sheets of the most important new English publications, and besides all
the leading miscellanies of literature printed on the continent, have
engaged eminent persons as correspondents, in Paris, Berlin, and other
cities, so that _The International_ will more fully than hitherto
reflect the literary movement of the world.
In wit and humor and romance, the most legitimate and necessary
components of the popular magazine, as great a variety will be furnished
as can be gleaned from the best contemporary foreign publications, and
at the same time several conspicuous writers will contribute original
papers. In the last year _The International_ has been enriched with new
articles by Mr. G. P. R. James, Henry Austen Layard, LL.D., Bishop
Spencer, Mr. Bayard Taylor, Mr. R. H. Stoddard, Mr. Parke Godwin, Mr.
John R. Thompson, Mr. Alfred B. Street, Mr. W. C. Richards, Dr. Starbuck
Mayo, Mr. John E. Warren, Mr. George Ripley, Mr. A. O. Hall, Mr. Richard
B. Kimball, Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, Mrs. Mary E. Hewitt, Miss Alice Carey,
Miss Cooper (the author of "Rural Hours"), and many others, constituting
a list hardly less distinguished than the most celebrated magazines in
the language have boasted in their best days; this list of contributors
will be worthily enlarged hereafter, and the Historical Review, the
Record of Scientific Discovery, the monthly Biographical Notices of
eminent Persons deceased, will be continued, with a degree of care that
will render _The International_ of the highest value as a repository of
contemporary facts.
When it is considered that periodical literature now absorbs the best
compositions of the great lights of learning and literary art throughout
the world,--that Bulwer, Dickens, James, Thackeray, Macaulay, Talfourd,
Tennyson, Browning, and persons of corresponding rank in France,
Germany, and other countries, address the public through reviews,
magazines, and newspapers--the value of such an "abstract and brief
chronicle" as it is endeavored to present in _The International_, to
every one who would maintain a reputation for intelligence, or who is
capable of intellectual enjoyment, will readily be admitted. It is
trusted that while these pages will commend themselves to the best
judgments, they will gratify the general tastes, and that they will in
no instance contain a thought or suggest a feeling inconsistent with the
highest refinement and virtue.
NEW-YORK, July 1, 1851.
CONTENTS:
VOLUME III. APRIL TO JULY, 1850-51.
Alfieri, History and Genius of 229
American female Poets, Opinions of, by a Frenchman, 452
Anspach, Margravine of 303
American Missions in Ceylon and Sir E. Tennant, 308
American Saint, An, 163
Adventures and Observations in Nicaragua. (Illustrated.) 437
_Arts, The Fine_--Public Works by the King of Prussia, 136.--Herr
Hiltensperger, 135.--Picture by Leonardo Da Vinci, 136.--Art-Union
of Vienna, 136.--Another Picture by Raffaelle Discovered,
136.--Steinhauser's Group for Philadelphia, 136.--The Hillotype,
136.--Baron Hackett, 137.--Statue of Giovanni de Medici, 137.--Lectures
before the New-York Artists, 137.--Belgian Exhibition, 137.--Brady's
Gallery of Illustrious Americans, 137.--Portrait of Cervantes,
137.--Portraits by Mr. Osgood, 137.--Discoveries at Prague,
137.--Exhibition of the British Institution, 137.--Lortzing,
137.--Statue of Wallace, 137.--Engravings of the Art-Unions,
180.--Exhibition of the National Academy, 181.--Bulletin of the
Art-Union, 181.--Girodet, 181.--Kotzbue, 181.--Mr. Elliott,
181.--Schwanthaler, 181.--Museum of Berlin, 181.--Munich Art-Union,
181.--Kaulbach, 181--French Contribution to the Washington Monument,
181--Widnmann, 181.--The Exhibitions in New-York, 327.--Prizes and
Prospects of the Art-Union, 329.--Delaroche, 329.--Mr. Kellogg,
329.--L'Imitation de Jesus Christ, by Depaepes, 330.--New Members of the
National Academy, 330.--Sculptures Discovered at Athens, 470.--New Works
by Nicholas, 471.--German Criticism of Powers, 471.--Diorama of
Hindostan, 471.--Unveiling the Statue of Frederick the Great,
471.--Jenny Lind, 471.--The Opera, 471.
_Authors and Books._--The Russian Archives, 26.--Humboldt on the State,
26.--Russian Geographical Society, 26.--Recollections of Paris, by
Hertz, 26.--The latest German Novels, 27.--Schaeffner's History of French
Law, 27.--Fate of Bonpland, the Traveller, 27.--Russian Account of the
War in Hungary, 28.--Buelau's Secret History of Mysterious Individuals,
28.--Italy's Future, by Dr. Koelle, 28.--German Translation of Channing,
28.--Essays by M, Flourens, 28.--Jacques Arago, 28.--New Book on
Napoleon, by Colonel Hoepfner, 28.--Vaublanc's History of Prance in the
Time of the Crusades, 28.--Works on the Statistics of Ancient Nations,
28.--French Version of McCulloch, 28.--MM. Viardot and Circourt on the
History of the Moors in Europe, 29.--Breton Poets, 29.--Louis
Phillippe's Last Years, as Described by Himself, 30.--M. Audin,
31.--Collection of Spanish Romances, by F. Wolf, 31.--Le Bien-Etre
Universel, 31.--Notices of English Literature by the _Revue
Brittanique_, 31.--History of French Protestants by Felice, 31.--Works
in Modern Greek Literature, 32.--Dictionary of Styles in Poetry by
Planche, 33.--Continuation of Louis Blanc's History of Ten Years,
33.--Mr. Hallam, 33.--General Napier and his Wife, 33.--Plagiarism by
Charles Mackay, 33.--English Books on the Roman Catholic Question,
33.--New Work by R. H. Horne, 33.--Miss Martineau's Book against
Religion, 34.--Sir John Cam Hobhouse, 34.--Another Book on "Junius",
34.--Fourier on the Passions, 34.--Mr. Grattan coming again to America,
34.--Poems by Alaric A. Watts, 35.--The Stowe MSS., 35.--The Scott
Copyrights, 35.--Dr. Layard, 35.--Henry Alford, 35.--Letter by
Washington Irving, 35.--Speech on Art, by Alison, 36.--Pensions to
Poets, 36.--Lavengro, 36.--James T. Fields, 36.--W. G. Simms, 36.--Nile
Notes by a Howadji, 36.--Use of Documents in the Historical Society's
Collections, 36.--Fanny Wright, 37.--Prof. Channing's Resignation,
37.--Mr. Livermore on Public Libraries, 37.--Fenelon never in America,
37.--Mr. Goodrich and Mr. Walsh, 37.--Works of Major Richardson,
37.--Mr. Squier's forthcoming Works on American Antiquities, 38.--Letter
from Charles Astor Bristed, on his Contributions to _Fraser_, 39--The
Sillimans in Europe, 39.--Works of John Adams, 39.--The Caesars, by De
Quincy, 39--Jared Sparks, and his Historical Labors, 40--The Opera, by
Isaac C. Pray, 40.--Frederic Saunders, 40.--The Duty of a Biographer,
40.--Dr. Andrews's new Work on America, 663.--Bodenstedt's Thousand and
One Days in the East, 165.--German Emigrant's Manual, 165.--Hungarian
Biographies, 165.--Caccia's Europe and America, 165.--Fanny Lewald,
166.--German Reviewals of George Sand, 166.--Scherer's German Songs,
166.--New Book by Henry Muerger, 166.--Ebeling's Tame Stories of a Wild
Time, 167.--Grillpazer, the Dramatist, 167.--Rhine Musical Gazette,
167.--Eddas, by Simrock, 167.--Transactions of the Society of Northern
Antiquaries, 167.--Raumer's Historical Pocket Book, 167.--_Bilder aus
Oestreich_, 167.--Poems by Dinglestedt, 167.--Autobiography of Jahn,
167.--The _Deutsches Museum_, 168.--The Constitutional Struggle in
Electoral Hesse, 168.--Translations of the Scriptures in African
Languages, 168.--History of the Prussian Court and Nobility,
168.--Biographical Dictionary of Illustrious Women, 168.--Countess Hahn
Hahn, 168.--Italia, 168.--Humboldt, as last described, 169.--Rewards of
Authors, 169.--New Translations of Northern Literature, by George
Stephens, 169.--Old Work on Etherization, 169.--Phillip Augustus, a
Tragedy, 169.--Bianchi's Turkish Dictionary, 169.--General Daumas, on
Western Africa, 170.--De Conches, the Bibliopole, 170.--Jules Sandeau,
170.--French Play of Massalina, 170.--New French Review, 170.--Victor
Hugo's New Works, 170.--M. de St. Beuve, 170.--The Shoemakers of Paris,
170.--Recovery of a Comedy by Moliere, 171.--Memoirs of Bishop Flaget,
171.--Travels in the United States by M. Marmier, 171.--Guizot and
Thiers, 171.--M. Mignet, 171.--Lamartine, 171.--Michelet, 171.--Paris
and its Monuments, 171.--Mullie's Biographical Dictionary, 171.--The
Chancellor d'Auguesseau, 171.--Romance and Tales by Napoleon Bonaparte,
172.--Henry's Life of Calvin, 172.--Discovery of lost Books by Origen,
173.--Important Discoveries of Greek MSS. near Constantinople,
173.--Prose Translation of Homer, 173.--Gillie's Literary Veteran,
173.--Lord Holland's Reminiscences, 173.--Meeting of the British
Association, 173.--Miss Martineau and the Westminster Review,
174.--Fielding and Smollett, 174.--Mr. Bigelow's Book on Jamaica, in
England, 174.--Macready and George Sand, 174.--The Stones of Venice,
175.--Bulwer Lytton's New Play, 175.--The Last Scenes of Chivalry,
166.--Fanny Corbeaux, 176.--John G. Taylor on Cuba, 176.--Lady Wortley's
Travels in the United States, 176.--Opinions of Mr. Curtis's Nile Notes,
177.--Rev. Satan Montgomery, 177.--Documentary History of New-York,
177.--Albert J. Pickett's History of Alabama, 178.--Mrs. Farnham,
178.--Mr. Gayarre on Louisiana, 178.--Lossing's Field Book of the
Revolution, 178.--Rev. J. H. Ingraham, and his Novels, 178.--Mrs.
Judson.--The Lady's Book, 179.--Mr. J. R. Tyson, 179.--Dr. Valentine's
Manual, 179.--Episodes of Insect Life, Mr. Willis, 179.--Robinson's
Greek Grammar, 179.--Kennedy's Swallow Barn, 179.--American Members of
the Institute of France, 179.--Works of Walter Colton, 179.--Cobbin's
Domestic Bible, 179.--Works of Several American Statesmen now in Press,
180.--Professor Gillespie's Translation of Comte, 180.--Lincoln's
Horace, 180.--New Novel by the Author of Talbot and Vernon, 180.--Life
in Fejee, 180.--S. G. Goodrich in England, 180.--Recent American Novels,
180.--Publications of the Hakluyt Society, 180.--Dr. Mayo's Romance
Dust, 180.--Thackeray's Lectures, 180.--Mr. Alison, 180.--Dr. Titus
Tobler on Professor Robinson, 312.--New German Novels, 313.--Kohl, the
Traveller, 313.--Anastasius Grun and Lenau, 313.--Sir Charles Lyell's
American Travels Reviewed in Germany, 313.--More of the Countess
Hahn-Hahn, 313.--German Translations of _David Copperfield, Richard
Edney_, and Mrs. Hall's _Sorrows of woman_, 313.--Books on Affairs at
Vienna, 314.--Travels of the Prince Valdimar, 314.--De Montbeillard on
Spinosa, 314.--Joseph Russeger, 314.--Dr. Strauss, 314.--German
Universities, 314.--Frau Pfieffer, the Traveller, 314.--Parisians
sketched by Ferdinand Hiller, 314.--The Diplomats of Italy, 315.--A
Parisian Willis, 315.--De Castro on the Spanish Protestants, 316.--Books
on the Hungarian Matters, 316.--Literature in Bengal, 316.--Publications
on the late Revolutions, at Turin and Florence, 317.--Pensions to
Authors in France, 317.--MSS. by Louis XVI., 317.--Memoirs of Balzac,
317.--Quinet on a National Religion, 318.--New Life of Marie Stuart,
318.--Count Montalembert, 318.--English Biographies by Guizot,
319.--Romieu's _Spectre Rouge_ de 1852, 319.--Novel by Count Jarnac,
319.--French inscriptions in Egypt, 319.--Saint Beauve and Mirabeau,
319.--Democratic Martyrs, 319.--Prosper Merimee on Ticknor's Spanish
Literature, 320.--Innocence of M. Libri, 320.--The _Politique Nouvelle_,
320.--New Labors of Lamartine, 320.--An Assyrian Poet in Paris,
320.--The Edinburgh Review and The Leader on Cousin, 321.--Walter Savage
Landor in Old Age, 321.--Moses Margoliouth, 321.--Publications of the
Ecclesiastical History Society, 321.--The Life of Wordsworth,
322.--Blackwood on American Poets, 322.--Comte's new Calendar, 323.--Old
Tracts against Romanism, 323.--The Scott Copyrights, 323.--Mrs.
Browning's new Poems, 323.--Mrs. Hentz's last Novel Dramatized,
323.--New Book on the United States, 323.--The Guild of Literature and
Art, 324.--Rev. C. G. Finney's Works in England, 324.--Talvi, 324.--Mrs.
Southworth's new Novel, 324.--Dr. Spring's last Work, 324.--Mrs.
Sigourney, 324.--Henry Martyn, 324.--Algernon Sydney, 324.--New Volumes
of Poems, 324.--Paria, by John E. Warren, 325.--Klopstock in Zurich,
458.--Wackernagel's History of German Literature, 458.--German
Dictionary with Americanisms, 458.--Carl Heideloff's new Book in
Architecture, 458.--Siebeck on Beauty in Gardening, 459.--Schafer's Life
of Goethe, 459.--Franz Liszt, 459.--History of the Khalifs, by Weil,
459.--Von Rhaden's Reminiscences of a Military Career, 459.--Life of
Baron Stein, 459.--Adalbert Kellar, 460.--Heeren and Uckert's Histories
of the States of Europe, 460.--The Countess Spaur on Pius IX.,
460.--Illustration of German Idioms, 460.--Last Book of the Countess
Hahn-Hahn, 460.--"Intercourse with the departed by means of Magnetism,"
460.--Languages in Russia, 461.--Professor Thiersch, 461.--"The Right of
Love," a new German Drama, 461.--New German Travels in the United
States, 461.--Dr. Ernst Foster, 461.--New Work on the use of Stucco,
461.--Russian Novels and Poems, 461.--Captain Wilkes's Exploring
Expedition and Taylor's Eldorado in German, 461.--Collection of Greek
and Latin Physicians, 462.--Correspondence of Mirabeau, 462.--Louis
Blanc's _Pius de Girondins_, 462.--Anecdote of Scribe, 462.--A Siamese
Grammar, 462.--"The Death of Jesus," by Citizen Xavier Sauriac,
463.--Dufai's Satire on Socialist Women, 463.--Remains of Saint Martin,
463.--Documents respecting the Trial of Louis XVI., 463.--Another Book
on the French Revolutions, 463.--Letters on the Turkish Empire by M.
Ubicini, 463.--Collection of Sacred Moralists, 463.--M. Regnault's
History, 463.--New Novel by Mery, 464.--French Revolutionary Portraits,
464.--Swedish Version of "Vala," by Parke Godwin, 464.--An Epic by Lord
Maidstone, 464.--A Defence of Ignorance, 464.--New Story by Dickens,
464.--Thackeray's Lectures on British Humorists, 464.--Theodore S. Fay,
465.--Works Published by Mr. Hart, 465.--Carlyle's Life of Sterling,
465.--Historical Memoirs of Thomas H. Benton, 465.--New Life of
Jefferson, 466.--Life of Margaret Fuller, by Emerson and Channing,
466.--The late Rev. Dr. Ogilby's Memoirs, 466.--Dr. Gilman on Edward
Everett, 466.--W. Gilmore Simms, 466.--Works on "Women's Rights,"
466.--Illness of Rev. Dr. Smyth, 466.--New Novels, 467.--Miss Bremer,
467.--Vestiges of Civilization, 467.--Shocco Jones, 467.--Works in Press
of Mr. Scribner, 467.--John Neal, 467.--Poems of Fanny Green, 467.--Ik.
Marvel, 467.--Martin Farquhar Tupper, 467.--Dr. Holbrook, 467.--New
Edition of "Margaret," 467.--Mr. Schoolcraft's Memoirs, 467.--New Work
by Mr. Melville, 467.--Col. Pickett's History of Alabama, 468.--Dr.
Baird's Christian Retrospect, 469.--The Parthenon, 469.--Cardinal
Wiseman's Lectures, 469.--Works of Walter Colton, 469.--History of the
French Protestants, 469.--New Poems of Alice Carey, Boker, &c., 470.
Botello, Astonishing Adventures of James.--_By Dr. Mayo_,
author of "Kaloolah," 40
Biography of a Bad Shilling, 92
Borrow, Real Adventures and Achievements of George, 183
Butchers' Leap at Munich, 298
Beautiful Streamlet and the Utilitarian, the 307
Benevolent Institutions of New-York. (Illustrated.) 434
Cooper, James Fenimore. (With a Portrait.) 1
Calhoun, Powers's Statue of John C. (Illustrated.) 8
Cocked Hats, A Supply of, 97
Costume of the Future, 103
Coleridge, Hartley and his Genius, 249
Conspiracy of Pontiac, 440
Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V. 376
Crystal Palace, the. A Letter from London. (Illustrated.) 444
Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V., 520
Doddridge, and some of his Friends, 77
Donkeys at Smithfield, 97
Duelling Two Hundred and Fifty Years Ago--_By
Thomas Carlyle_, 108
Dog Alcibiades, the,--_By C. Astor Bristed_, 211
Dewey, George W., and his Writings. (Portrait.) 286
Dickens and Thackeray, 532
Egyptian Antiquities, Preservation of 299
Fashions. Ladies' (Illustrated.) 143, 287, 429
Fiddlers, Last of the,--_By Berthold Auerbach_, 87
First Ship in the Niger.--_By W. A. Russell_, 127
Faun over his Goblet.--_By R. H. Stoddard_, 184
Festival upon the Neva, 357
French Feuilletonistes upon London, 446
Gibbon, an Inedited Letter of Edward, 126
Genlis, Madame de, and Madame de Stael, 392
Glimpse of the Great Exhibition, 409
Great Men's Wives, 413
Grave of Grace Aguilar.--_By Mrs. S. C. Hall_, 513
Hindostanee Newspapers. _The Flying Sheet of Benares_, 24
Herbert Knowles: "The Three Tabernacles," 57
Hogarth, William. (Six Engravings.) 149
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. (Portrait.) 156
Has there been a great Poet in the Nineteenth Century? 182
Hat Reform: A Revolution in Head-Gear, 187
Heart Whispers.--_By Mary E. Hewitt_, 200
Herbert, Henry William. (Portrait, &c.) 289
Halleck, Fitz Greene. (A Portrait.) 433
_Historical Review of the Month_, 127, 269, 423, 585
Jews and Christians, 162
Jesuit Relations: New Discoveries of MSS. in Rome, 185
Jeffrey and Joanna Baillie, 312
Kendall, George Wilkins. (Portrait.) 145
Layard, Discoverer of Nineveh, to.--_By Walter Savage
Landor_, 98
Life in Persia in the Nineteenth Century, 105
Littleness of a Great People: Mr. Whitney, 161
Leading Editors of Paris, 239
Love.--_By John Critchly Prince_, 247
Lyra, a Lament.--_By Alice Carey_, 253
London Described by a Parisian, 306
Lion in the Toils, the,--_By C. Astor Bristed_, 366
Legend of St. Mary's,--_By Alice Carey_, 416
Marcy, Dr., and Homoeopathy. (Portrait.) 429
Mining under the Sea, 102
My Novel.--_By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton_, 110, 253, 399, 541.
Marie Antoinette.--_By Lord Holland and Mr. Jefferson_, 23
Music.--_By Alfred B. Street_, 25
Monte Leone.--_By H. De St. Georges_, 58, 201, 346, 489.
Modern Haroun Al Raschid, 245
Man of Tact, the, 372
Meeting of the Nations in Hyde Park.--_By W. M.
Thackeray_, 330
Mary Kingsford: a Police Sketch, 417
Mayo, Dr., author of "Kaloolah." (Portrait.) 442
Marie, Jeanne, and Lyrical Poetry in Germany, 457
Nell Gwynne.--_By Mrs. S. C. Hall._ (Portrait and
six other Illustrations.) 9
Natural Revelation.--_By Alfred B. Street_, 200
Nicholas Von der Flue.--_By the author of "Rural
Hours,"_ 472
Old Maids, a Family of, 289
Otsego Hall--Residence of J. F. Cooper. (Illustrated,) 285
Our Phantom Ship among the Ice, 386
Our Phantom Ship--Japan, 534
Policarpa La Salvarietta, the Heroine of Colombia, 162
Professional Devotion in a Lawyer, 188
Paganini, Anecdotes of, 237
Prospects of African Colonization, 397
Politeness in Paris and London.--_By Sir Henry Bulwer, K.C.B._, 363
Physiology of Intemperance, 98
Prophecy.--_By Alice Carey_, 244
_Recent Deaths_:--(Portrait of Joanna Baillie.)--Viscount Gardinville,
140.--Rev. Dr. Ogilby, 140.--George Thompson, 140.--The Emir Bechir,
140.--Dr. Leuret, 140.--M. Kockkoek, 140.--Joanna Baillie,
140.--Spontini, the Composer, 142.--Charles Coqurel, 142.--Col. George
Williams, 142.--Charles Matthew Sander, 142.--Lord Bexley, 143.--John
Pye Smith, 143.--Samuel Farmer Jarvis, D.D., LL.D., 279.--Judge
Burnside, 279.--Ex-Governor Isaac Hill, 280.--Judge Daggett, 231.--Major
James Rees, 281.--M. M. Noah, 282.--John S. Skinner, 282.--Major General
Brooke, 282.--F. Gottlieb Hand, 282.--M. Jacobi, 282.--Hans Christian
Oersted, 283.--Henri Delatouche, 283--Madame de Sermetz, 284.--Marshal
Dode de la Bruniere, 284.--M. Maillau, 284.--Dr. Henry de Breslau,
284.--Commissioner Lin, 284.--John Louis Yanoski, 284.--Count d'Hozier,
284.--George Brentano, 284.--Francis Xavier Fernbach, 284.--Jules
Martien, 284.--Captain Cunningham, 428.--John Henning, 428.--Padre
Rozavan, 428.--Prince Wittgenstein, 428.--Lord Langdale, 428.--E. J.
Roberts, 428,--Professor Wahlenberg, 428.--Philip Hone, Archbishop
Eccleston, Gen. Brady, 428.--Dr. Samuel George Morton, 563.--Richard
Lalor Shiel, 563.--Richard Phillips, 565.--Dowton, the Comedian,
565.--Admiral Codrington, 565.--Lord Chancellor Cottenham, 565.
_Record of Scientific Discovery_--Photography, 138.--London Society of
Arts, 138.--Barry 138.--Gold, 138.--Light and Heat, 138.--Chinese Coal,
138.--Water of the Ocean, 138.--The Asteroids, 139.--Shooting Stars,
139.--Geology of Spain, 139.--Scientific Researches in Abyssinia,
139.--New Motors, 276.--Water Gas, 276.--Improvements in the Steam
Engine, 276,--New Applications of Zinc, &c., 276.--New Adaptation of
Lithography, 276.--Annual of Scientific Discovery, 276.--Oxygen from
Atmospheric Ari, 277.--Whitened Camera for Photography, 277.--M. Laborde
on Photography, 277.--Abich on the Country near the Black Sea,
277.--D'Hericourt on African Discoveries, 277.--Enormous Fossil Eggs,
277.--Papers by Leverrier and others before the Paris Academy of
Sciences, 278.--Barth and Overweg in Africa, 278.--General Radowitz on
Philology, 278.--Latour, on Artificial Coal, 278--Scientific Congress at
Paris, 278.--Experiments at the Porcelain Factories in Sevres,
279.--Captain Purnell on Ship Cisterns, 279.--Electric Sun at Gotha,
279.--Letter from Professor Morse on the Hillotype, 566.--Professor
Blume and the French Academy, 566.
Rotation of the Earth. (Illustrated.) 296
Shelley, Memoir of the late Mrs. Percy Bysshe, 16
Shakspeare, Mr. Hudson's New Edition of, 18
"Stones of Venice," the,--_By John Ruskin_, 19
Story Without a Name.--_By G. P. R. James_, 45, 189, 333, 477.
Sweden, Sketches of Life in, 450
Sorcery and Magic, History of 247
Snowdrop in the Snow.--_By Sydney Yendys_, 201
Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe, and his Works. (Portrait.) 300
Second Wife, or the Tables Turned, 331
Smuggler Malgre Lui, the, 394
Sorel, Agnes, True History of--_By R. H. Horne_, 396
Strauss, Dr. David, in Weimar, 410
Schalken, the Painter: A Ghost Story, 449
Scenes at Malmaison, 504
Transformation: A Tale.--_By the late Mrs. Shelley_, 70
Thurlow, Lord, and his Terrible Swearing, 85
Twin Sisters.--_By Wilkie Collins_, 221
Trenton Falls.--_By N. P. Willis._ Four Engravings, 292
Tobacco, 311
Washington. (Two Engravings.) 146
Wilfulness of Woman.--_By the late Mrs. Osgood_, 188
Wreck of the Old French Aristocracy, 373
Walpole's Opinions of his Contemporaries, 488
"Work Away," 533
Yeast: A Problem.--_By the author of "Alton Locke,"_ 160
THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
_Of Literature, Art, and Science._
Vol. III NEW-YORK. APRIL 1, 1851. No. I
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
[Illustration]
The readers of the _International_ have in the above engraving, from a
Daguerreotype by Brady, the best portrait ever published of an
illustrious countryman of ours, who, as a novelist, take him all in all,
is entitled to precedence of every other now living. "With what amazing
power," exclaims Balzac, in the _Revue de Paris_, "has he painted
nature! how all his pages glow with creative fire! Who is there writing
English among our contemporaries, if not of him, of whom it can be said
that he has a genius of the first order?" And the _Edinburgh Review_
says, "The empire of the sea, has been conceded to him by acclamation;"
that, "in the lonely desert or untrodden prairie, among the savage
Indians or scarcely less savage settlers, all equally acknowledge his
dominion. 'Within this circle none dares walk but he.'" And Christopher
North, in the _Noctes_: "He writes like a hero!" And beyond the limits
of his own country, every where, the great critics assign him a place
among the foremost of the illustrious authors of the age. In each of the
departments of romantic, fiction in which he has written, he has had
troops of imitators, and in not one of them an equal. Writing not from
books, but from nature, his descriptions, incidents, and characters, are
as fresh as the fields of his triumphs. His Harvey Birch, Leather
Stocking, Long Tom Coffin, and other heroes, rise before the mind, each
in his clearly defined and peculiar lineaments, as striking original
_creations_, as actual persons. His infinitely varied descriptions of
the ocean, ships gliding like beings of the air upon its surface, vast
solitary wildernesses, and indeed all his delineations of nature, are
instinct with the breath of poetry; he is both the Horace Vernet and the
Claude Lorraine of novelists; and through all his works are sentiments
of genuine courtesy and honor, and an unobtrusive and therefore more
powerful assertion of natural rights and dignity.
WILLIAM COOPER, the emigrant ancestor of JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, arrived
in this country in 1679, and settled at Burlington, New Jersey. He
immediately took an active part in public affairs, and his name appears
in the list of members of the Colonial Legislature for 1681. In 1687, or
subsequent to the establishment of Penn at Philadelphia, he obtained a
grant of land opposite the new city, extending several miles along the
margin of the Delaware and the tributary stream which has since borne
the name of Cooper's Creek. The branch of the family to which the
novelist belongs removed more than a century since into Pennsylvania, in
which state his father was born. He married early, and while a young man
established himself at a hamlet in Burlington county, New Jersey, which
continues to be known by his name, and afterward in the city of
Burlington. Having become possessed of extensive tracts of land on the
border of Otsego Lake, in central New-York, he began the settlement of
his estate there in the autumn of 1785, and in the following spring
erected the first house in Cooperstown. From this time until 1790 Judge
Cooper resided alternately at Cooperstown and Burlington, keeping up an
establishment at both places. James Fenimore Cooper was born at
Burlington on the fifteenth of September, 1789, and in the succeeding
year was carried to the new home of his family, of which he is now
proprietor.
Judge Cooper being a member of the Congress, which then held its
sessions in Philadelphia, his family remained much of the time at
Burlington, where our author, when but six years of age, commenced under
a private tutor of some eminence his classical education. In 1800 he
became an inmate of the family of Rev. Thomas Ellison, Rector of St
Peter's, in Albany, who had fitted for the university three of his elder
brothers, and on the death of that accomplished teacher was sent to New
Haven, where he completed his preparatory studies. He entered Yale
College at the beginning of the second term of 1802. Among his
classmates were John A. Collier, Judge Cushman, and the late Justice
Sutherland of New-York, Judge Bissel of Connecticut, Colonel James
Gadsden of Florida, and several others who afterwards became eminent in
various professions. John C. Calhoun was at the time a resident
graduate, and Judge William Jay of Bedford, who had been his room-mate
at Albany, entered the class below him. The late James A. Hillhouse
originally entered the same class with Mr. Cooper; there was very little
difference in their ages, both having been born in the same month, and
both being much too young to be thrown into the arena of college life.
Hillhouse was judiciously withdrawn for this reason until the succeeding
year, leaving Cooper the youngest student in the college; he, however,
maintained a respectable position, and in the ancient languages
particularly had no superior in his class.
In 1805 he quitted the college, and obtaining a midshipman's warrant,
entered the navy. His frank, generous, and daring nature made him a
favorite, and admirably fitted him for the service, in which he would
unquestionably have obtained the highest honors had he not finally made
choice of the ease and quiet of the life of a private gentleman. After
six years afloat--six years not unprofitably passed, since they gave him
that knowledge of maritime affairs which enabled him subsequently,
almost without an effort, to place himself at the head of all the
writers who in any period have attempted the description of the sea--he
resigned his office, and on the first day of January, 1811, was married
to Miss De Lancey, a sister of the present Bishop of the Diocese of
Western New-York, and a descendant of one of the oldest and most
influential families in America.
Before removing to Cooperstown he resided a short time in Westchester,
near New-York, and here he commenced his career as an author. His first
book was _Precaution_. It was undertaken under circumstances purely
accidental, and published under great disadvantages. Its success was
moderate, though far from contemptible. It is a ludicrous evidence of
the value of critical opinion in this country, that _Precaution_ was
thought to discover so much knowledge of _English_ society, as to raise
a question whether its alleged author could have written it. More
reputation for this sort of knowledge accrued to Mr. Cooper from
_Precaution_ than from his subsequent real work on England. It was
republished in London, and passed for an English novel.
_The Spy_ followed. No one will dispute the success of _The Spy_. It was
almost immediately republished in all parts of Europe. The novelty of an
American book of this character probably contributed to give it
circulation. It is worthy of remark that all our own leading periodicals
looked coldly upon it; though the country did not. The _North American
Review_--ever unwilling to do justice to Mr. Cooper--had a very
ill-natured notice of it, professing to place the _New England Tale_ far
above it! In spite of such shallow criticism, however, the book was
universally popular. It was decidedly the best historical romance then
written by an American; not without faults, indeed, but with a fair
plot, clearly and strongly drawn characters, and exhibiting great
boldness and originality of conception. Its success was perhaps decisive
of Mr. Cooper's career, and it gave an extraordinary impulse to
literature in the country. More than any thing that had before occurred,
it roused the people from their feeling of intellectual dependence. The
popularity of _The Spy_ has been so universal, that there is scarcely a
written language into which it is not translated. In 1847 it appeared in
_Persian_ at Ispahan.
In 1823 appeared _The Pioneers_. This book has passages of masterly
description, and is as fresh as a landscape from another world; but it
seems to me that it has always had a reputation partly factitious. It is
the poorest of the Leather Stocking tales, nor was its success either
marked or spontaneous. Still, it was very well received, though it was
thought to be a proof that the author was written out. With this book
commenced the absurdity of saying Mr. Cooper introduced family traits
and family history into his novels. How little of truth there is in this
supposition Mr. Cooper has explained in his revised edition, published
the present year.
_The Pilot_ succeeded. The success of _The Pilot_ was at first a little
doubtful in this country; but England gave it a reputation which it
still maintains. It is due to Boston to say that its popularity in the
United States was first manifested there. I say _due_ to Boston, not
from considerations of merit in the book, but because, for some reason,
praise for Mr. Cooper, from New England, has been so rare. The _North
American Review_ took credit to itself for magnanimity in saying some of
his works had been rendered into French, when they were a part of every
literature of Europe. America, it is often said, has no original
literature. Where can the model of The Pilot be found? I know of nothing
which could have suggested it but the following fact, which was related
to me in a conversation with Mr. Cooper. The Pirate had been published a
short time before. Talking with the late Charles Wilkes, of New-York--a
man of taste and judgment--our author heard extolled the universal
knowledge of Scott, and the sea portions of The Pirate cited as a proof.
He laughed at the idea, as most seamen would, and the discussion ended
by his promising to write a sea story which could be read by landsmen,
while seamen should feel its truth. The Pilot was the fruit of that
conversation. It is one of the most remarkable novels of the time, and
every where obtained instant and high applause.
_Lionel Lincoln_ followed. This was a second attempt to embody history
in an American work of fiction. It failed, and perhaps justly; yet it
contains one of the nicest delineations of character in Mr. Cooper's
works. I know of no instance in which the distinction between a maniac
and an idiot is so admirably drawn; the setting was bad, however, and
the picture was not examined.
In 1826 came _The Last of the Mohicans_. This book succeeded from the
first, and all over Christendom. It has strong parts and weak parts, but
it was purely original, and originality always occupies the ground. In
this respect it is like The Pilot.
After the publication of The Last of The Mohicans, Mr. Cooper went to
Europe, where his reputation was already well established as one of the
greatest writers of romantic fiction which our age, more prolific in men
of genius than any other, had produced. The first of his works after he
left his native country was _The Prairie_. Its success every where was
decided and immediate. By the French and English critics it has been
deemed the best of his stories of Indian life. It has one leading fault,
however, that of introducing any character superior to the family of the
squatter. Of this fault Mr. Cooper was himself aware before he finished
the work; but as he wrote and printed simultaneously, it was not easy to
correct it. In this book, notwithstanding, Natty Bumpo is quite up to
his mark, and is surpassed only in The Pathfinder. The reputation of The
Prairie, like that of The Pioneers, is in a large degree owing to the
opinions of the reviews; it is always a fault in a book that appeals to
human sympathies, that it fails with the multitude. In what relates to
taste, the multitude is of no great authority; but in all that is
connected with feeling, they are the highest; and for this simple
reason, that as man becomes sophisticated he deviates from nature, the
only true source of all our sympathies. Our feelings are doubtless
improved by refinement, and vice versa; but their roots are struck in
the human heart, and what fails to touch the heart, in these
particulars, fails, while that which does touch it, succeeds. The
perfection of this sort of writing is that which pleases equally the
head and the heart.
_The Red Rover_ followed The Prairie. Its success surpassed that of any
of its predecessors. It was written and printed in Paris, and all in a
few months. Its merits and its reception prove the accuracy of those
gentlemen who allege that "Mr. Cooper never wrote a successful book
after he left the United States." It is certainly a stronger work than
The Pilot, though not without considerable faults.
_The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish_ was the next novel. The author I believe
regards this and Lionel Lincoln as the poorest of his works. It met with
no great success.
_The Water Witch_ succeeded, but is inferior to any of the other
nautical tales. It was the first attempt by Mr. Cooper--the first by any
author--to lay the scene of a tale of witchcraft on the coast of
America. It has more imagination than any other of Mr. Cooper's works,
but the blending of the real with the ideal was in some parts a little
incongruous. The Water Witch was written in Italy and first printed in
Germany.
Of all Americans who ever visited Europe, Mr. Cooper contributed most to
our country's good reputation. His high character made him every where
welcome; there was no circle, however aristocratic or distinguished, in
which, if he appeared in it, he was not observed of all observers; and
he had the somewhat singular merit of _never forgetting that he was an
American_. Halleck, in his admirable poem of Red Jacket, says well of
him:
COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her fields, her pioneer of mind,
_A wanderer now in other lands, has proven_
_His love for the young land he left behind._
After having been in Europe about two years he published his _Notions of
the Americans_, in which he "endeavored to repel some of the hostile
opinions of the other hemisphere, and to turn the tables on those who at
that time most derided and calumniated us." It contained some
unimportant errors, from having been written at a distance from
necessary documentary materials, but was altogether as just as it was
eloquent in vindication of our institutions, manners, and history. It
shows how warm was his patriotism; how fondly, while receiving from
strangers an homage withheld from him at home, he remembered the scenes
of his first trials and triumphs, and how ready he was to sacrifice
personal popularity and profit in defence of his country.
He was not only the first to defend and to praise America, but the first
to whom appeals were made for information in regard to her by statesmen
who felt an interest in our destiny. Following the revolution of the
Three Days, in Paris, a fierce controversy took place between the
absolutists, the republicans, and the constitutionalists. Among the
subjects introduced in the Chambers was the comparative cheapness of our
system of government; the absolutists asserting that the people of the
United States paid more direct and indirect taxes than the French. La
Fayette appealed to Mr. Cooper, who entered the arena, and though, from
his peculiar position, at a heavy pecuniary loss, and the danger of
incurring yet greater misfortunes, by a masterly _expose_ silenced at
once the popular falsehoods. So in all places, circumstances, and times,
he was the "_American_ in Europe," as jealous of his country's
reputation as his own.
Immediately after, he published _The Bravo_, the success of which was
very great: probably equal to that of The Red Rover. It is one of the
best, if not the very best of the works Mr. Cooper had then written.
Although he selected a foreign scene on this occasion, no one of his
works is more American in its essential character. It was designed not
only to extend the democratical principle abroad, but to confirm his
countrymen in the opinion that nations "cannot be governed by an
irresponsible minority without involving a train of nearly intolerable
abuses." It gave aristocracy some hits, which aristocracy gave back
again. The best notice which appeared of it was in the famous Paris
gazette entitled _Figaro_, before Figaro was bought out by the French
government. The change from the biting wit which characterized this
periodical, to the grave sentiment of such an article, was really
touching, and added an indescribable grace to the remarks.
_The Heidenmaur_ followed. It is impossible for one to understand this
book who has not some acquaintance with the scenes and habits described.
It was not very successful.
_The Headsman of Berne_ did much better. It is inferior to The Bravo,
though not so clashing to aristocracy. It met with very respectable
success. It was the last of Mr. Cooper's novels written in Europe, and
for some years the last of a political character.
The first work which Mr. Cooper published after his return to the United
States was _A Letter to his Countrymen_. They had yielded him but a
hesitating applause until his praise came back from Europe; and when the
tone of foreign criticism was changed, by acts and opinions of his which
should have banded the whole American press for his defence, he was
assailed here in articles which either echoed the tone, or were actual
translations of attacks upon him by foreigners. The custom peculiar to
this country of "quoting the opinions of foreign nations by way of
helping to make up its own estimate of the degree of merit which belongs
to its public men," is treated in this letter with caustic and just
severity, and shown to be "destructive of those sentiments of
self-respect and of that manliness and independence of thought, that are
necessary to render a people great or a nation respectable." The
controlling influence of foreign ideas over our literature, fashions,
and even politics, are illustrated by the manner in which he was himself
treated, and by what he considers the English doctrines which have been
broached in the speeches of many of our statesmen. It is a frank and
honest book, which was unnecessary as a vindication of Mr. Cooper, but
was called for by the existence of the abuse against which it was
chiefly directed, though it seems to have had little effect upon it. Of
the political opinions it contains I have no more to say than that I do
not believe in their correctness.
It was followed by _The Monikins_, a political satire, which was a
failure.
The next publications of Mr. Cooper were his _Gleanings in Europe_.
_Sketches in Switzerland_, first and second series, each in two volumes,
appeared in 1836, and none of his works contain more striking and vivid
descriptions of nature, or more agreeable views of character and
manners. It was followed by similar works on France, Italy, and England.
All of these were well received, notwithstanding an independence of tone
which is rarely popular, and some absurdities, as, for example, the
imputations upon the American Federalists, in the Sketches of
Switzerland. The book on England excited most attention, and was
reviewed in that country with as much asperity as if its own travellers
were not proverbially the most shameless libellers that ever abused the
hospitality of nations. Altogether the ten volumes which compose this
series may be set down as the most intelligent and philosophical books
of travels which have been written by our countrymen.
_The American Democrat, or Hints on the Social and Civil Relations of
the United States of America_, was published in 1835. The design is
stated to be, "to make a commencement toward a more just discrimination
between truth and prejudice." It is essentially a good book on the
virtues and vices of American character.
For a considerable time Mr. Cooper had entertained an intention of
writing _The History of the Navy of the United Stated_, and his early
experience, his studies, his associations, and above all the peculiar
felicity of his style when treating of nautical affairs, warranted the
expectation that his work would be a solid and brilliant contribution to
our historical literature. It appeared in two octavo volumes in 1839,
and reached a second edition in 1840, and a third in 1846.[A] The public
had no reason to be disappointed; great diligence had been used in the
collection of materials; every subject connected with the origin and
growth of our national marine had been carefully investigated, and the
result was presented in the most authentic and attractive form. Yet a
warm controversy soon arose respecting Mr. Cooper's account of the
battle of Lake Erie, and in pamphlets, reviews, and newspapers, attempts
were made to show that he had done injustice to the American commander
in that action. The multitude rarely undertake particular
investigations; and the attacks upon Mr. Cooper, conducted with a
virulence for which it would be difficult to find any cause in the
History, assuming the form of vindications of a brave and popular
deceased officer, produced an impression so deep and so general that he
was compelled to defend the obnoxious passages, which he did
triumphantly in a small volume entitled _The Battle of Lake Erie, or
Answers to Messrs. Burgess, Duer, and Mackenzie_, published in 1843, and
in the notes to the last edition of his Naval History. Those who read
the whole controversy will perceive that Mr. Cooper was guided by the
authorities most entitled to the consideration of an historian, and that
in his answers he has demonstrated the correctness of his statements and
opinions; and they will perhaps be astonished that he in the first place
gave so little cause for dissatisfaction on the part of the friends of
Commodore Perry. Besides the Naval History and the essays to which it
gave rise, Mr. Cooper has published, in two volumes, _The Lives of
American Naval Officers_, a work of the highest merit in its department,
every life being written with conciseness yet fulness, and with great
care in regard to facts; and in the Democratic Review has published an
unanswerable reply to the attacks upon the American marine by James and
other British historians.
The first novel published by Mr. Cooper after his return to the United
States was _Homeward Bound_. The two generic characters of the book,
however truly they may represent individuals, have no resemblance to
classes. There may be Captain Trucks, and there certainly are Steadfast
Dodges, but the officers of the American merchant service are in no
manner or degree inferior to Europeans of the same pursuits and grade;
and with all the abuses of the freedom of the press here, our newspapers
are not worse than those of Great Britain in the qualities for which Mr.
Cooper arraigns them. The opinions expressed of New-York society in
_Home as Found_ are identical with those in _Notions of the Americans_,
a work almost as much abused for its praise of this country as was _Home
as Found_ for its censure, and most men of refinement and large
observation seem disposed to admit their correctness. This is no doubt
the cause of the feeling it excited, for a _nation_ never gets in a
passion at misrepresentation. It is a miserable country that cannot look
down a falsehood, even from a native.
The next novel was _The Pathfinder_. It is a common opinion that this
work deserves success; more than any Mr. Cooper has written. I have
heard Mr. Cooper say that in his own judgment the claim lay between _The
Pathfinder_ and _The Deerslayer_, but for myself I confess a preference
for the sea novels. Leather Stocking appears to more advantage in _The
Pathfinder_ than in any other book, and in _Deerslayer_ next. In _The
Pathfinder_ we have him presented in the character of a lover, and
brought in contact with such characters as he associates with in no
other stages of his varied history, though they are hardly less
favorites with the author. The scene of the novel being the great fresh
water seas of the interior, sailors, Indians, and hunters, are so
grouped together, that every kind of novel-writing in which he has been
most successful is combined in one complete fiction, one striking
exhibition of his best powers. Had it been written by some unknown
author, probably the country would have hailed him as much superior to
Mr. Cooper.
_Mercedes of Castile_, a Romance of the Days of Columbus, came next. It
may be set down as a failure. The necessity of following facts that had
become familiar, and which had so lately possessed the novelty of
fiction, was too much for any writer.
_The Deerslayer_ was written after Mercedes and The Pathfinder, and was
very successful. Hetty Hunter is perhaps the best female character Mr.
Cooper has drawn, though her sister is generally preferred. The
Deerslayer was the last written of the "Leather Stocking Tales," having
come out in 1841, nineteen years after the appearance of The Pioneers in
1822. Arranged according to the order of events, The Deerslayer should
be the first of this remarkable series, followed by The Last of the
Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, and The Prairie.
_The Two Admirals_ followed The Deerslayer. This book in some respects
stands at the head of the nautical tales. Its fault is dealing with too
important events to be thrown so deep into fiction; but this is a fault
that may be pardoned in a romance. Mr. Cooper has written nothing in
description, whether of sea or land, that surpasses either of the battle
scenes of this work; especially that part of the first where the French
ship is captured. The Two Admirals appeared at an unfortunate time, but
it was nevertheless successful.
_Wing-and-Wing, or Le Feu Follet_, was published in 1842. The interest
depends chiefly upon the manoeuvres by which a French privateer
escapes capture by an English frigate. Some of its scenes are among Mr.
Cooper's best, but altogether it is inferior to several of his nautical
novels.
_Wyandotte, or the Hutted Knoll_, in its general features resembles The
Pathfinder and The Deerslayer. The female characters are admirable, and
but for the opinion, believed by some, from its frequent repetition,
that Mr. Cooper is incapable of depicting a woman, Maud Meredith would
be regarded as among the very first class of such portraitures.
Next came the _Autobiography of a Pocket Handkerchief_, in one volume.
It is a story of fashionable life in New-York, in some respects peculiar
among Mr. Cooper's works, and was decidedly successful. It appeared
originally in a monthly magazine, and was the first of his novels
printed in this manner.
_Ned Myers_, in one volume, which followed in the same year, is a
genuine biography, though it was commonly regarded as a fiction.
In the beginning of 1844 Mr. Cooper published _Ashore and Afloat_, and a
few months afterward _Miles Wallingford_, a sequel to that tale. They
have the remarkable minuteness yet boldness of description, and dramatic
skill of narration, which render the impressions he produces so deep and
lasting. They were as widely read as any of his recent productions.
The extraordinary state of things which for several years has disgraced
a part of the state of New-York, where, with unblushing effrontery, the
tenants of several large proprietors have refused to pay rents, and
claimed, without a shadow of right, to be absolute possessors of the
soil, gave just occasion of alarm to the intelligent friends of our
institutions; and this alarm increased, when it was observed that the
ruffianism of the "anti-renters," as they are styled, was looked upon by
many persons of respectable social positions with undisguised approval.
Mr. Cooper addressed himself to the exposure and correction of the evil,
in a series of novels, purporting to be edited from the manuscripts of a
family named Littlepage; and in the preface to the first of these,
entitled _Satanstoe, a Tale of the Colony_, published in 1845, announces
his intention of treating it with the utmost freedom, and declares his
opinion, that the "existence of true liberty among us, the perpetuity of
our institutions, and the safety of public morals, are all dependent on
putting down, wholly, absolutely, and unqualifiedly, the false and
dishonest theories and statements that have been advanced in connection
with this subject." Satanstoe presents a vivid picture of the early
condition of colonial New-York. The time is from 1737 to the close of
the memorable campaign in which the British were so signally defeated at
Ticonderoga. _Chainbearer_, the second of the series, tracing the family
history through the Revolution, also appeared in 1845, and the last,
_The Red Skins_, story of the present day, in 1846. "This book," says
the author, in his preface, "closes the series of the Littlepage
manuscripts, which have been given to the world as containing a fair
account of the comparative sacrifices of time, money, and labor, made
respectively by the landlord and the tenants, on a New-York estate,
together with the manner in which usages and opinions are changing among
us, and the causes of these changes." These books, in which the most
important practical truths are stated, illustrated and enforced, in a
manner equally familiar and powerful, were received by the educated and
right-minded with a degree of favor that showed the soundness of the
common mind beyond the crime-infected districts, and their influence
will add to the evidences of the value of the novel as a means of
upholding principles in art, literature, morals and politics.
_The Crater, or Vulcan's Peak_, followed in 1847. It is a story of the
Pacific, embracing some of Mr. Cooper's finest sea pictures, but
altogether is not so interesting as the average of his nautical tales.
_Oak Openings, or the Bee-Hunter_, came next. It has the merits
characteristic of his Indian novels, masterly scene-painting, and
decided individuality in the persons introduced.
_Jack Tier, or the Florida Reef_, appeared in 1848, and is one of the
best of the sea stories. The chief character is a woman, deserted by a
half smuggler, half buccaneer, whom she joins in the disguise of a
sailor, and accompanies undiscovered during a cruise. In vividness of
painting and dramatic interest it has rank with the Red Rover and The
Pilot.
_The Sea Lions, or the Lost Sealers_, was published in 1849. It deals to
some extent in metaphysics, and its characters are for the most part of
humble conditions. It has more of domestic life than any of the other
nautical pieces.
In the spring of 1850 came out _The Ways of the Hour_, the last of this
long series of more than thirty novels, and like the Littlepage MSS. it
was devoted to the illustration of social and political evils, having
for its main subject the constitution and office of juries. In other
works Mr. Cooper appears as a conservative; in this as a destructive.
The book is ingenious and able, but has not been very successful.
In 1850 Mr. Cooper came out for the first time as a dramatic writer, in
a comedy performed at Burton's theatre in New-York. A want of practice
in writing for the stage prevented a perfect adaptation of his piece for
this purpose, but it was conceded to be remarkable for wit and satirical
humor. He has now in press a work illustrative of the social history and
condition of New-York, which will be published during the summer by Mr.
Putnam, who from time to time is giving to the public the previous works
of Mr. Cooper, with his final revisions, and such notes and
introductions as are necessary for the new generation of readers. The
Leather Stocking Tales, constituting one of the great works to be ranked
hereafter with the chief masterpieces of prose fiction in the literature
of the world, are among the volumes now printed.
It cannot be denied that Mr. Cooper is personally unpopular, and the
fact is suggestive of one of the chief evils in our social condition. In
a previous number of this magazine we have asserted the ability and
eminently honorable character of a large class of American journals. The
spirit of another class, also in many instances conducted with ability,
is altogether bad and base; jealous, detracting, suspicious, "delighting
to deprave;" betraying a familiarity with low standards in mind and
morals, and a consciousness habituated to interested views and sordid
motives; degrading every thing that wears the appearance of greatness,
sometimes by plain denial and insolent contempt, and sometimes by
wretched innuendo and mingled lie and sophistry; effectually dissipating
all the romance of character, and all the enthusiasm of life; hating
dignity, having no sympathies with goodness, insensible to the very
existence of honor as a spring of human conduct; treating patriotism and
disinterestedness with an elaborate sneer, and receiving the suggestions
of duty with a horse-laugh. There is a difference not easily to be
mistaken between the lessening of men which is occasioned by the
loftiness of the platform whence the observation is made, and that which
is produced by the malignant envy of the observer; between the gloomy
judicial ferocity of a Pope or a Tacitus, and the villain levity which
revels in the contemplation of imputed faults, or that fiendishness of
feeling which gloats and howls over the ruins of reputations which
itself has stabbed.
For a few years after Mr. Cooper's return from Europe, he was repeatedly
urged by his friends to put a stop to the libels of newspapers by an
appeal to the law; but he declined. He perhaps supposed that the common
sense of the people would sooner or later discover and right the wrong
that was done to him by those who, without the slightest justification,
invaded the sacredest privacies of his life for subjects of public
observation. He finally decided, at the end of five years after his
return, to appeal to the tribunals, in every case in which any thing not
by himself submitted to public criticism, in his works, should be
offensively treated, within the limits of the state of New-York. Some
twenty suits were brought by him, and his course was amply vindicated by
unanimous verdicts in his behalf. But the very conduct to which the
press had compelled him was made a cause of ungenerous prejudices. He
has never objected to the widest latitude or extremest severity in
criticisms of his writings, but simply contended that the author should
be let alone. With him, individually, the public had nothing to do. In
the case of a public officer, slanders may be lived down, but a literary
man, in his retirement, has no such means of vindication; his only
appeal is to the laws, and if they afford no protection in such cases,
the name of law is contemptible.
I enter here upon no discussion of the character of the late Commander
Slidell Mackenzie, but observe simply that no one can read Mr. Cooper's
volume upon the battle of Lake Erie and retain a very profound respect
for that person's sagacity or sincerity. The proprietors of the
copyright of Mr. Cooper's abridged Naval History offered it, without his
knowledge, to John C. Spencer, then Secretary of the State of New-York,
for the school libraries of which that officer had the selection. Mr.
Spencer replied with peculiar brevity that he would have nothing to do
with such a partisan performance, but soon after directed the purchase
of Commander Mackenzie's Life of Commodore Perry, which was entirely and
avowedly partisan, while Mr. Cooper's book was rigidly impartial.
Commander Mackenzie returned the favor by hanging the Secretary's son. A
circumstance connected with this event illustrates what we have said of
obtaining justice from the newspapers. A month before Commander
Mackenzie's return to New-York in the Somers, Mr. Cooper sent to me, for
publication in a magazine of which I was editor, an examination of
certain statements in the Life of Perry; but after it was in type,
hearing of the terrible mistake which Mackenzie had made, he chose to
suffer a continuation of injustice rather than strike a fallen enemy,
and so directed the suppression of his criticism. Nevertheless, as the
statements in the Life of Perry very materially affected his own
reputation, in the following year, when the natural excitement against
Mackenzie had nearly subsided, he gave his answer to the press, and was
immediately accused in a "leading journal of the country" of having in
its preparation devoted himself, from the date of that person's
misfortune, to his injury. The reader supposes, of course, that the
slander was contradicted as generally as it had been circulated, and
that justice was done to the forbearance and delicacy with which Mr.
Cooper had acted in the matter; but to this day, neither the journal in
which he was assailed, nor one in a hundred of those which repeated the
falsehood, has stated these facts. Here is another instance: The late
William L. Stone agreed with Mr. Cooper to submit a certain matter of
libel for amicable arbitration, agreeing, in the event of a decision
against him, to pay Mr. Cooper two hundred dollars toward the expenses
he must incur in attending to it. The affair attracted much attention.
Before an ordinary court Mr. Cooper should have received ten thousand
dollars; but he accepted the verdict agreed upon, the referees deciding
without hesitation that he had been grossly wronged by the publication
of which he had complained. After the death of Mr. Stone one of the
principal papers of the city stated that his widow was poor, and had
appealed to Mr. Cooper's generosity for the remission of a fine, which
could be of no importance to a gentleman of his liberal fortune, but had
been answered with a rude refusal. The statement was entirely and in all
respects false, and it was indignantly contradicted upon the authority
of President Wayland, the brother of Mrs. Stone; but the editors who
gave it currency have never retracted it, and it yet swells the tide of
miserable defamation which makes up the bad reputations of so many of
the purest of men. Numerous other instances might be quoted to show not
only the injustice with which Mr. Cooper has been treated, but the
addiction of the press to libel, and its unwillingness to atone for
wrongs it has itself inflicted.
It used to be the custom of the _North American Review_ to speak of Mr.
Cooper's works as "translated into French," as if thus giving the
highest existing evidence of their popularity, while there was not a
language in Europe into which they did not all, after the publication of
The Red Rover appear almost as soon as they were printed in London. He
has been the chosen companion of the prince and the peasant, on the
borders of the Volga, the Danube, and the Guadalquivir; by the Indus and
the Ganges, the Paraguay and the Amazon; where the name even of
Washington was never spoken, and our country is known only as the home
of Cooper. The world has living no other writer whose fame is so
universal.
Mr. Cooper has the faculty of giving to his pictures an astonishing
reality. They are not mere transcripts of nature, though as such they
would possess extraordinary merit, but actual creations, embodying the
very spirit of intelligent and genial experience and observation. His
Indians, notwithstanding all that has been written to the contrary, are
no more inferior in fidelity than they are in poetical interest to those
of his most successful imitators or rivals. His hunters and trappers
have the same vividness and freshness, and in the whole realm of fiction
there is nothing more actual, harmonious, and sustained. They evince not
only the first order of inventive power, but a profoundly philosophical
study of the influences of situation upon human character. He treads the
deck with the conscious pride of home and dominion: the aspects of the
sea and sky, the terrors of the tornado, the excitement of the chase,
the tumult of battle, fire, and wreck, are presented by him with a
freedom and breadth of outline, a glow and strength of coloring and
contrast, and a distinctness and truth of general and particular
conception, that place him far in advance of all the other artists who
have attempted with pen or pencil to paint the ocean. The same vigorous
originality is stamped upon his nautical characters. The sailors of
Smollett are as different in every respect as those of Eugene Sue and
Marryat are inferior. He goes on board his ship with his own creations,
disdaining all society and assistance but that with which he is thus
surrounded. Long Tom Coffin, Tom Tiller, Trysail, Bob Yarn, the
boisterous Nightingale, the mutinous Nighthead, the fierce but honest
Boltrope, and others who crowd upon our memories, as familiar as if we
had ourselves been afloat with them, attest the triumph of this
self-reliance. And when, as if to rebuke the charge of envy that he owed
his successes to the novelty of his scenes and persons, he entered upon
fields which for centuries had been illustrated by the first geniuses of
Europe, his abounding power and inspiration were vindicated by that
series of political novels ending with The Bravo, which have the same
supremacy in their class that is held by The Pilot and The Red Rover
among stories of the sea. It has been urged that his leading characters
are essentially alike, having no difference but that which results from
situation. But this opinion will not bear investigation. It evidently
arose from the habit of clothing his heroes alike with an intense
individuality, which under all circumstances sustains the sympathy they
at first awaken, without the aid of those accessories to which artists
of less power are compelled to resort. Very few authors have added more
than one original and striking character to the world of imagination;
none has added more than Cooper; and his are all as distinct and actual
as the personages that stalk before us on the stage of history.
To be American, without falling into Americanism, is the true task that
is set before the native artist in literature, the accomplishment of
which awaits the reward of the best approval in these times, and the
promise of an enduring name. Some of our authors, fascinated very
excusably with the faultless models of another age, have declined this
condition, and have given us Spectators and Tattlers with false dates,
and developed a style of composition of which the very merits imply an
anachronism in the proportion of excellence. Others have understood the
result to be attained better than the means of arriving at it. They have
not considered the difference between those peculiarities in our
society, manners, tempers, and tastes, which are genuine and
characteristic, and those which are merely defects and errors upon the
English system; they have acquired the force and gayety of liberty, but
not the dignity of independence, and are only provincial, when they
hoped to be national. Mr. Cooper has been more happy than any other
writer in reconciling these repugnant qualities, and displaying the
features, character, and tone of a great rational style in letters,
which, original and unimitative, is yet in harmony with the ancient
models.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The first and second editions appeared in Philadelphia, and the
third in Cooperstown. It was reprinted in 1830 in London, Paris, and
Brussels: and an abridgment of it, by the author, has been largely
introduced into common schools.
STATUE OF JOHN C. CALHOUN, BY HIRAM POWERS.
[Illustration]
The above engraving of the statue of JOHN C. CALHOUN is from a
daguerreotype taken in Florence immediately after the work was
completed, and therefore presents it as it came from the hand of the
sculptor, unmutilated by the accidents to which it was subjected in
consequence of the wreck of the Elizabeth. The statue of Mr. Calhoun was
contracted for, we believe, in 1845, and completed in 1850. It is the
first draped or historical full-length by Mr. Powers, and it amply
justifies the fame he had won in other performances by the harmonious
blending of such particular excellences as he had exhibited in
separation. It indeed illustrates his capacities for the highest range
of historical portraiture and characterization, and will occasion
regrets wherever similar subjects have in recent years been confided to
other artists. We have heard that it is in contemplation to place in the
park of our own city a colossal figure of Mr. Webster, by the same great
sculptor. It is fit that while Charleston glories in the possession of
this counterfeit of her dead Aristides (for in the indefectable purity
of his public and private life Mr. Calhoun was surpassed by no character
in the temples of Grecian or Roman greatness), New-York should be able
to point to a statue of the representative of those ideas which are most
eminently national, and of which she, as the intellectual and commercial
metropolis of the whole country, is the centre. For plastic art, Mr.
Webster may be regarded as perhaps the finest subject in modern history,
and the head which Thorwaldsen thought must be the artist's ideal of the
head of Jove, when modelled to the size of life, in the fit proportions
of such a statue as is proposed, would be more imposing than any thing
that has appeared in marble since the days of Praxitiles.
This figure of Mr. Calhoun is considerably larger than that of the great
senator. The face is represented with singular fidelity as it appeared
ten years ago. The incongruous blending of the Roman toga with the
palmetto must be borne: civilization is not sufficiently advanced for
the historical to be much regarded in art; and our Washingtons,
Hamiltons, Websters and Calhouns, must all, like Mr. Booth and Mr.
Forrest, come before us in the character of Brutus. With this exception
as to the design, every critic must admit the work to be faultless; and
Charleston may well be proud of a monument to her legislator, which
illustrates her taste while it reminds her of his purity, dignity, and
watchful care of her interests.
By the wreck of the ship Elizabeth, the left arm of the statue was
broken off, and the fragment has not been recovered.
NELL GWYNNE.
[Illustration]
The above picture is from Sir Peter Lely's portrait, copied in the
Memoirs of Grammont. Nell Gwynne has been the heroine of a dozen books,
in the last ten years, and a very interesting work respecting her life
and times is now being published in _The Gentleman's Magazine_. We copy
the following article, with its illustrations, from the _Art Journal_,
in which it appears as one of Mrs. S. C. Hall's "Pilgrimages to English
Shrines."
There may be some who will object to the application of so honored a
term to the dwelling of an actress of lost repute; but surely that may
be a "shrine" where consideration can be taught--where mercy is to be
learned--and--that which is "greater" than even faith and hope--charity!
However agreeable may be the present, and we have no reason to complain
of it in any way, there is inexhaustible delight in reverting to the
past. We do not mean living over again our own days; for though, if we
could "pick and choose," there are sundry portions of our lives we might
desire to repeat, yet, beginning from the beginning, taking the bad and
the good "straight on," there can be few, men or women, who would
willingly pass again through the whole of a gone-by career. And this,
properly considered, is one of our greatest blessings; stifling much of
vain regret, and teaching us to "look forward" to the future. We have
always had, if we may so call it, a domestic rambling propensity; a
desire to see "dwellings," not so much for their pictorial as their, so
to say, personal celebrity: and sometimes, as on our visit to Barley
Wood, this longing comes upon us at the wrong season, when a cheerful
fire at "home" would be a meet companion. It is now six years ago--six
years, last month--that, pacing along Pall Mall, we paused, and turned
to the left hand corner of St. James's Square, full of painful and
un-English memories of the Asiatic court of the second Charles; the
sovereign who had endured adversity without discovering that "sweet are
its uses;" who had "suffered tribulation" without "learning mercy"--the
king who makes us doubt if, as a people, we have any claim to what is
called "national character"--for the change that came over England,
within a few brief years, from gloomy fanaticism to reckless license, is
one of the marvels that give to history the aspect of romance. We had
been walking round Whitehall,[B] recalling the change that had swept
away nearly all relics of the past in that quarter, and strolled so far
out of our home-ward path to look at the house in Pall Mall (recently
removed from its place) which tradition says was the dwelling of Nell
Gwynne, besides her apartment at Whitehall, to which she was entitled by
virtue of her office as lady of the bed-chamber to a most outraged
queen. One of our friends remembers supping in the back room on the
ground-floor of that very house, the said room being called "the Mirror
Chamber," because the walls were panelled with looking-glass[C]. There
are others who affirm that Nelly lodged at the _opposite_ side of Pall
Mall, because Evelyn gossips of her leaning from her window, "talking to
the king," who was lounging in St. James's Park, thereby wounding the
propriety of many, who think vice only vice when it becomes notorious.
Evelyn was always sadly perplexed by his faithful and high devotion to
Charles, the king, and his abhorrence of the vices of Charles, the man;
while Pepys jogged on, sometimes in the royal seraglio, sometimes at
church, sometimes with my Lady Castlemaine, sometimes with "Knip" at the
"king's house," seeing, admiring, and repeating--his morality held in
abeyance; and yet always, even to the kissing of "Mistress Nelly," "a
sweet pretty soul," companioned by his wife. If Pepys was a curiosity,
what must Madame Pepys have been![D] What must the "court set" of those
days have been, when we are absolutely refreshed by turning from them to
the uneducated but frank-hearted and generous woman,--tainted as she is
to all history by the worse than imperfections arising out of her
position, yet redeemed in a degree, by virtues, which, in that
profligate court, were entirely her own!
[Illustration: WHITEHALL.]
The scene in St. James's Park to which Evelyn refers, was an index to
the age[E].
Blessed as we are in the knowledge that nowhere in England are the
domestic virtues better cultivated or more truly flourishing than in our
own pure and high-souled court, we are almost inclined to treat as a
mythological fable, the history of Whitehall during the reign of Charles
the Second. No one trait of the father's better nature redeems that of
the son. His life was indeed
"a sad epicure's dream,"
and worse. He was not worthy even of the earnest devotion which the poor
orange-girl, of all his favorites, alone manifested to the last.
Poor Nell! the sympathy which every right-thinking woman feels it a
Christian duty to give to her and her class, far from extenuating vice,
is only a call upon the virtuous to be more virtuous, and to the pure to
be more pure. No one would plunge into crime, merely for the sake of
being redeemed therefrom; no one take the sin, who looked first at the
shame, hideous and enduring as it must be--however overshadowed by the
broad wings of mercy; the burn of the brand can never be effaced,
however skilfully healed. And when the wit, the loveliness, the
generosity, the fidelity of "Madame Ellen," when the memory of the
well-spent evening of her checkered life, and the allowance we make for
the early impressions of a young creature, called upon to sing her first
songs in a tavern, and sell oranges in the depraved and depraving saloon
of "the King's House;"--when all these aids are exerted to excite our
sympathy, we only accord the sentiment of pity to "poor Nell Gwynne!"
While looking at the house said to have been inhabited by this "_femme
d'esprit par la grace de Dieu_!" we vowed a pilgrimage to Sandford Manor
House, at Sandy End, Fulham,--to the dwelling where there is no doubt
she spent many summer months. Near as it is to our own, we were doubtful
of the way, and determined to inquire of our opposite neighbor, who
keeps the old Brompton tollbar.
"Sandford Manor House," repeated he, "I never heard tell of such a place
in these parts. Whereabouts is it?"
"Exactly what we want to know. It is a very old dilapidated house, by
the side of a little stream that runs into the Thames somewhere by Old
Chelsea. I think you must have heard of it. It was once inhabited by the
famous Nell Gwynne." I might almost as well have talked Hebrew to our
neighbor, who seemed born to lay in wait for market-carts, and pounce
upon them for toll.
[Illustration: SANDFORD MANOR HOUSE.]
"Old house! Nell Gwynne!" he again repeated, and something like an
expression of life and interest moved his features while he added--"It's
the Nell Gwynne public-house you're after, I'm thinking; that was in
Chelsea; but whether it's there now or not, is more than I can tell."
"No, no," we answered, perhaps, sharply, "it is the house she lived in
we want to see--Sandford Manor House."
"Perhaps it's the madhouse," he suggested. We walked on. "Please," said
a little rosy-faced boy, "if you want to find out any thing about old
houses, Hill, the rat-catcher, knows them all, as he hunts up the rats
and sparrows about; and you have only to go down Thistle Grove, into the
Fulham road--straight on. His is a low house, ma'am--his name in the
window--you can't pass it, for the birds and white mice."
And is there no one left, we thought, to tell where the witty,
light-hearted, true-hearted Nelly lived--she who was the friend of
Dryden and Lee, the favorite of Lord Buckhurst, the rival of the Duchess
of Cleveland, the protector of the soldiers of England--the one
unselfish friend of the selfish Charles? Is there no one in a district
that once echoed with the praise of her charities--no one to tell where
she resided, but Hill, the old rat-catcher? We proceeded through the
prettily-built, but gangrened-looking, cottages located in Thistle
Grove, once called Brompton Heath, (or Marsh, we forget which,) until
the sounds of traffic reminded us that we were in the Fulham road.
Presently the sharp voice of a starling, just above us, attracted our
attention.
"Poor Tom!" said the bird--"Tom!--poor Tom!"
The old rat-catcher invited us to enter. He is a man of powerful frame,
with a massive head, fringed round with an abundance of gray hair, with
deep well-set eyes, and a quiet smile. Two sharp, bitter-looking,
wiry-haired terriers began smelling, casting their sly eyes upwards, to
see if we feared them or were friendly to their advances, and, after a
moment or two, seemed sufficiently satisfied with the scrutiny to
warrant their wagging their short stumpy tails in rude welcome. The room
was hung round with cages of the songbirds of England--some content with
their captivity, others restless, and passing to and fro in front of the
wires, eager for escape. Strong inclosures, containing both rats and
ferrets, were ranged along the sides of the small room; the latter,
long, yellow, pink-eyed, and pink-nosed creatures, lithe as a willow
wand, courting notice; while the rats, on the contrary, moved their
whiskers in defiance, and, with bright, black, determined eyes, sat
lumped up in the distant corners of their dens, ready 'to die game,' if
die they must. Gay-colored finches, the gold and the green, graced the
window in little brown bob cages; while mice of all colors, from the
burnt sienna-colored dormouse, who was more than half asleep within the
skin of an apple which it had scooped out, to the matronly white mouse,
who was sitting composedly amid a progeny of thirteen young ones,
attracted groups of little gazers, every now and then dispersed by the
larger terrier, who ran out amongst them, snarling and threatening, but
doing them no harm. "Come in, old chap; that will do, old fellow," said
his master, adding, "I would not keep a dog that would hurt any thing
but a _varmint_."
"Oh, oh! Nell's old house," he replied to our inquiries; "Nell Gwynne's
house at Sandy End, where runs the little river they deepened into a
canal--the stream I mean that divides Chelsea from Fulham--Sandford
Manor House! Ay, that I do, and I'd match it against any house in the
county for rats!--terrible place--I lost two ferrets there, this time
two years, and one of them was found t'other side of the canal; it must
have been a pleasant place in those days, when the king was making his
private road through the Chelsea fields, and the stream was as clear as
a thrush's eye, and birds of all sorts were so tamed by Madame Ellen,
that they'd come when she'd call them. Ah, a pretty woman might catch a
king, but it's only a kind one that could tame the wild birds of the
air; I know that; I'll show you the way with pleasure." "Poor Tom," sung
out the starling. "Your bird is calling you," we observed, after he had
told his wife not to let the jay pick "the splints" off his broken leg,
and we were leaving the door. "It's not me he's calling," answered the
old man, with a heavy sigh. "Now that's a bit of nature, ma'am. A bird,
I'm thinking, remembers longer than a Christian does. Poor Tom's wife is
married again, but the starling still calls for its master. It's hard to
say, what they do or do not know; the bird often wrings my heart; but
for all that, I could not part with him." At any other time we would
have asked him the reason, but just then we were thinking more of Nell
Gwynne than of our guide. We walked on, until we came to the "World's
End." "It is nothing but a common public-house now," observed our
companion, who had not spoken again, except to his dog: "but I remember
when it was more than that; and, moreover, in Nell's time, it was a
place of great resort for noblemen and fine ladies--a royal tea-garden,
they say--filled with the best of good company; they liked the country
and the open air in those days." We continued silent, until at last our
guide called "Stop!" so suddenly, as to make us start. "Do you see that
bank just under the arch of the bridge we stand on? The hardest day's
work I ever had was digging an old rat out of that bank. This is Sandy
End; and that house opposite is Sandford Manor House[F]."
There was nothing in the sight of those green, grim walls to excite any
feeling of romance. Yet positively our heart beat more rapidly than
usual for a minute or two--"a way it has" when we are at all interested.
We turned down a lane seamed with ruts, by the side of a paling black
with gas tar. We passed two or three exceedingly old houses, and one in
particular with three windows in front. It was evident that the paling
had been run across the garden, which must have been very extensive.
After waiting a few minutes for permission from the master of the
gas-works, to whom the Manor House belonged, to enter, an elderly man of
respectable appearance opened the gate, and told us he resided there,
and that the servant would show us all over the house. The rat-catcher
commenced poking his stick into the various mounds of earth wherever
there was the appearance of a hole, and his dogs became at once busy and
animated. There was but one of the three walnut trees said to have been
planted by royal hands, remaining, and that stood gnarled, and thick,
and stunted, close to the present entrance--bent it was, like a thing
whose pleasantest days are gone, and which cares not how soon it may be
gathered into the garner. A circular plot of thick green grass was
directly opposite the hall door, and in its centre grew a young golden
holly, some of the turf being cleared away from round its root. This was
encircled by a fair gravel walk, leading to the house, which was entered
through a rustic porch, covered with ivy; very old and rampant it was,
and its deep heavy foliage, so densely green, had a pall-like look, as
it rustled and sighed in the sharp keen air. It was flanked by two
cypress trees, well-shaped and well-grown. Dank ivy and deep cypress
where the living Nell would have twined roses and passion-flowers! You
see the old door-way when under the porch; it is of no particular order,
but massive and pointed,--the hall is like the usual entrance to
old-fashioned country-houses, panelled with oak. The staircase is very
remarkable, as Mr. Fairholt's sketch will show; broad twisted iron rods,
of great thickness, springing from the oak square pillars which flank
the turnings, and assisting to support the flight above. The room on the
right is large, the ceiling low, the windows deep set in the thick
walls. A very gentle looking little maid was nursing a pretty white cat
by the fire; her young fresh face and bright smile were like sunbeams in
a tomb; what did she there? We could fancy old withered crones in such a
dwelling, rather than a fair tender child, and yet she looked so happy,
and so full of joy! The opposite room had been fitted up as a kitchen,
and was clean and cold. We paced up the stairs so often trodden by
Nell's small feet, when they descended briskly to meet the lounging
heavy footfalls of her royal master, whom she loved for himself, and
careless of her own future, as she was of her own person, cared more for
the honor of the indolent Charles, than ever he cared for his own! In
nature, in feeling, in all honors _save the one_, how superior was the
poor orange-girl to her rivals; they envied and slandered each other,
disdaining no article to fix the fancy of the king, who desired nothing
more than that they should all live peaceably together, and was not able
to comprehend why they did not agree when he endeavored to please them;
they copied each other--but Nell resembled only herself. Instead of
going like the generality of her sex from bad to worse, the more her
opportunities of evil increased, the better she became. The ladies of
the court swore, drank, and gambled; it was the fashion to be coarse and
vicious, and the more coarse they were, the better they pleased the
English Sultan; and if the poor orange-girl endeavored to keep her lover
by what bound him to others,--where's the wonder? Her manners had their
full taste of the time; but we look in vain elsewhere for the generous
bravery, the kind thoughts, the disinterested acts, which have retained
her in our memories. "Poor Nell!" we said aloud, "poor, poor Nell!"
"Please, if you will only go on, I will show you her bed-room and
dressing-room, them's little more than closets; but this was her
bed-room, and that, the madam's dressing-room," said the servant, a
little impatient of delay. Both rooms were furnished, but cold and
gloomy; the floor of what the girl called her dressing-room was chippy
and worm-eaten. "And there," persisted the servant, "in that corner just
by, if not in that little cupboard, the money was found." "What money?"
"The money the madam, or some one about her, forgot, fifteen thousand
good pounds, I am told; and a gentleman came here once, who told me he
had some of the coins that were discovered there." "That must be a
mistake," we said. "Oh, there's no knowing. Why should the gentleman
tell a story?" We saw the girl was determined we should believe her,
contrary both to our knowledge and reason, so we made no further
observation, while she muttered that she would "just go and put her own
room straight a bit." We were left alone in Nell's dressing-chamber! She
never bestowed much time upon her toilet; and Burnet, who was
particularly hard upon her at all times, says that, after her
"elevation," she continued "to _hang_ on her clothes with the same
slovenly negligence;" and, truly, Sir Peter Lely, would make it appear
that all the "ladies" of the court, however rich the materials that
composed their dresses, and well assorted the colors, "hung" them full
carelessly over their persons; nay, it would be difficult to imagine how
they could stand up without their dresses falling off; they certainly
have a most uncomfortable look[G]. However she dressed, she certainly
succeeded in winning, and even keeping, the _fancy_ (for we may doubt if
he had any _affection_ for the ministers of his vices) of Charles until
the end. And although Burnet was marvellously angry that at such a time
the thought of such a "creature" should find its way into the mind when
it was about to lay aside the draperies of royalty for the realities of
eternity--yet the only little passage in the life of the voluptuary that
ever touched us was, his entreaty to his brother James, "Not to let poor
Nelly starve!" We closed our eyes in reverie, and endeavored to picture
the "beauties" upon whom the licentious king conferred a shameful
immortality. Unfortunately the most powerful female influence in the
Cabinet has generally been exercised by worthless women; an argument, if
one were needed, to prove that a woman is little tempted to interfere
with State affairs if her mind is untainted, and directed to the source
of woman's legitimate power.
[Illustration: STAIRCASE, SANDFORD MANOR HOUSE.]
How loathsome was the King's subjection to the abandoned vixen, my Lady
Castlemaine! And yet how powerful must have been her beauty! Can we not,
in fancy, see her now,--stepping out of her carriage at Bartholomew
Fair, whither she had gone to view the rare puppet-show of "Patient
Grizzle," hissed when recognized by the honest mob; yet upon turning the
light of her radiant and beautiful face towards them, they exchange
their jibes and curses for admiration and hurras.
"Poor Nelly" was no proficient in pen-craft, for she could only sign
with the initials--E. G.
Until the publication of Mrs. Jameson's "Beauties," there existed a
popular fallacy, that every one of Sir Peter Lely's portraits,
represented a woman of tainted reputation; this was any thing but true;
however poisonous a _malaria_ may be, there are always some who escape
its influence, and the pure and high-souled Lady Ossory, and the noble
Countess de Grammont would adorn even a court such as our own; we wish
that Evelyn or Pepys had recorded how those ladies treated "Nell," for
they must have met her during their attendance on the outraged Queen,
and hardly less insulted Duchess of York; they must have encountered her
at Whitehall, and noted her dimpled cheeks, and small bright laughing
eyes; and contrasted her unaffected child-like bearing, with the
boisterous arrogance of the Duchess of Cleveland, and the cat-like
cunning of the French _courtezan_, (the Duchess of Portsmouth,) who
could not with all her arts detach the sovereign from poor Nell, whose
genuine wit, generosity of mind, as well as purer life, and careless
buoyant humor, were reliefs to the caprices and eternal French
cabals,--which troubled his unenergetic nature, in the gorgeous _salon_
of the most extravagant of his favorites. From such women as Madame de
Grammont and Lady Ossory the untitled actress could have met no offence;
for women of high virtue are merciful; women who affect it, are not.
[Illustration: Another View of the Manor House.]
We could fancy Nell's silver laugh, passing along those damp walls of
Sandford Manor House; we could imagine her leaning from that window,
conversing with, and rallying, her royal "lover," who stands beneath,
amid the flowers, once so bright and abundant, where only weeds and
stinging thistles were to be seen this winter-time. As for him, wisdom
came not with years; "consideration" never whipped the offending Adam
out of him--in his character there was no "nettle," but there was no
"strawberry." What does he reply to her merrie rallying as she dallies
with her looking-glass? He leans his white and jewelled hand upon his
hip, and, with a faded smile, listens to her mingled love and reproof.
She talks of the old soldiers, and wonders why the builders pause in the
erection of the Hospital, for lack of cash, when certain ladies sport
new diamonds, and glitter in fair coaches; and he tells her he will take
her, if she likes, from where she is, and give her the palace by the
water-side, in exchange for her sweet words and sweeter smiles. She will
none of this, but answers she would rather content her in the humblest
house in his dominions, so that the soldiers who fought his battles
should be worthily lodged in their old age. He repeats to her the last
bit of Sedley, and diverts her with news of a new play, for well he
knows those who once lived by the buskin love the buskin still:[H] and
she listens, and is pleased, but returns to her first theme; and,
provoked at last by an indifference she cannot understand, she becomes
bitter, and then Charles laughs at "little pig-eyed Nelly." "Ah, Nell,
Nell!" he says, stroking, at the same time, the fair tresses that grace
the head of a pretty boy, her son, "you are like the fruit that will
come of yonder trees, a rough and bitter outside, but a sweet and
pleasant soul within."
We composed our thoughts, or rather we aroused from those waking dreams
in which all indulge sometimes--more or less. The house contains
fourteen rooms--and must have been pleasant, long ago, as a retreat
where poor Nell could bring her titled children--whom she doubtless
loved with all the enthusiasm of her ardent nature. We crossed the
garden, but could find no trace of the pond in which tradition reports
Madam Ellen's mother to have been drowned. Not long ago, a very old
woman resided in Chelsea, whose grandmother, it was said, was Nell's
stage-dresser; this was before old Ranelagh was built over, and when the
site of Eaton Square was intersected by damp pathways and
nursery-gardens. We entered the meadows at the back, to see how the
house looked from thence, which greatly delighted the rat-catcher's
terriers.
Modern "improvement" long spared this locality. When we knew and loved
it first, we could see the Thames from our windows in one direction, and
Kensington Gardens in another. But old houses, standing within their own
park-like inclosures, and old trees and green fields, are nearly all
gone.[I] We used to have the nightingales in the elm-avenue leading to
Hereford Lodge, but the only nightingale we had last spring was one who
came from the FAR NORTH. Many hereafter will do pilgrimage to her shrine
with a far deeper feeling of respect, than, with all our charity, we can
bestow upon Sandford Manor House.
If the women of England could forget this period of our history, which,
as Mrs. Jameson truly and beautifully observes, "saw them degraded from
objects of adoration to servants of pleasure, and gave the first blow to
that chivalrous feeling with which their sex had hitherto been regarded,
by levelling the distinction between the unblemished matron and her 'who
was the ready spoil of opportunity'"--if this were possible, it might be
well, like Claire, when she threw the pall over the perishing features
of Julie, to exclaim--
"Maudite soit l'indigne main qui jamais soulevera ce voile,"
but so it is not; and it becomes our duty to look on Charles, and those
who were corrupted by his example and his influence, as plague-spots
upon the fair brow of our beloved country. We should learn to speak of
him, not as distinguished for "gallantry," but as the monarch who
reduced those he insulted by his love below the level of the poor
Georgian slave, who knows no higher destiny than to glitter for a few
short moons as the star of the harem. But if some of the women of that
court were deeply degraded--if the termagant and imperious Castlemaine;
the lovely and intriguing Denham; the coquettish, cold, and cunning
Richmond; the innately-dissipated and unrestrainable Southesk; the
equivocal Middleton; the rapacious, prodigal, and insinuating
Querouaille,--are rendered infamous in our national history--let us not
confound the innocent with the guilty. We can point out to our
daughters, for admiration and example, the patient, affectionate, and
enduring Lady Northumberland, the beloved sister of Lady Rachel Russel;
the beautiful Miss Hamilton; the peerless Lady Ossory; the matchless
Jennings;--women passing through the ordeal of the Whitehall court, at
such a time, with unstained repute, may be well believed to have
possessed innate virtue and true feminine dignity.
We have not classed Nell Gwynne among the court profligates; nor can we
so describe her. She was most unfortunate, but not innately vicious; we
may say so without danger to others. Neither the circumstances of her
life or death hold out temptations to follow her example. She endured
vexation and contumely enough, during the most brilliant period of her
life, to embitter even a less sensitive spirit than hers. The deep and
earnest love she bore the worthless king, must have been a sore scourge
to her own heart. The very piety of her nature, overcome as it was by
circumstances, and the lack of those virtues which, slow of growth, only
attained strength during the last seven years of her life, and were not
deemed unworthy the Christian forbearance and even commendation of
Doctor Tennison,[J] whose funeral sermon preached in memory of the poor
orange-girl, proves that she must have suffered much from the reproofs
of conscience, even when her sin to all appearance most revelled in its
"glory." The canker eat into the rose--soiled and marred its
perfectness--chipped and wasted its beauty--but could not destroy its
perfume!
That there must have been great good, and great fascination, in Nell
Gwynne, is proved by the kind of memory in which her name is enshrined.
While we say "Poor Nell!" we shake our heads--the sigh and the smile
mingle together--we regret and pity her. We wonder she was so good--we
sorrow at the impurity,--not so much of the beset actress, as of her
position. We know that, though fallen, she was not depraved. She was not
avaricious, nor intriguing, nor ill-tempered, nor unjust. Her regard for
literature (though she could hardly sign her own name) proved the
up-looking of her better nature; and her charity was unbounded. Shall
we--reared and instructed in all righteous ways--shall we show less
charity to the memory of one who in her latter days rose out of the
slough into which circumstance--not vice--had plunged her? Shall we be
less charitable than the bishop who honored her memory and his own
character by recording her benevolence, her penitence, her exemplary
end? The good bishop's testimony renders it needless that we "point a
moral." There was "joy in heaven" over one sinner that repented. Who but
One can judge the heart? Let charity hold up her warning finger, often,
when we "think evil:" and consideration, "like an angel" come, when
harsh judgment dooms an "erring sister." Above all, let us adopt the
sentiment of the poet (and our pilgrimage to Sandford Manor House will
not be in vain):
"If thy neighbor should sin, old Christoval said,
Never, never, unmerciful be!
For remember it is by the mercy of God,
Thou art not as wicked as he!"[K]
FOOTNOTES:
[B] The appearance of Whitehall from the Thames in the reign of Charles
II. may be seen in our woodcut. The beautiful Banqueting-house of Inigo
Jones was crowded among a heterogeneous mass of ugly buildings connected
with the exigencies of the court. Beside the houses, to the spectator's
left, was a large garden extending to the river, with fountains and
parterres. A small garden also projected into the river in front of the
buildings; and here Charles used to view the civic processions of the
Lord Mayor, who on the day of his taking the oaths at Westminster,
generally gratified the sovereign and other sight-seers with a pageant
on the Thames, in some degree adulatory of the monarch. The king resided
here so constantly, that the most striking pictures of his private
manners are recorded to have happened at Whitehall, and for which the
graphic pages of Pepys, Evelyn, and De Grammont may be consulted.
Whitehall, indeed, has obtained its chief interest from its connection
with the Stuarts. The Banqueting-house, erected by James I., in front of
which his unfortunate son was executed; the residence of Cromwell here
in a quietude, strangely contrasted with the voluptuousness of the
Restoration; the flight of James II., and his queen's escape with her
infant son by the water-gate, shown in our cut, closes the history of
the Stuart family in this country of sovereigns; and the history also of
the palace; for, on the 10th April, 1691, the greater part was burnt by
a fire, which was succeeded by another in 1698, which destroyed nearly
every building but the Banqueting-house, and Whitehall ceased to be the
residence of royalty.
[C] Nell's "town-house" was in Pall Mall. Pennant says, "it was the
first good one on the left hand of St. James's Square, as we enter from
Pall Mall. The back room on the second floor was (within memory)
entirely of looking-glass, as was said to have been the ceiling. Over
the chimney was her picture, and that of her sister was in a third
room." At this house she died in 1691, and was pompously interred in the
parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, leaving that parish a handsome sum
yearly, that every Thursday evening there should be six men employed for
the space of one hour in ringing, for which they were to have a roasted
shoulder of mutton and ten shillings for beer.
[D] Pepys was Secretary to the Admiralty, and it was he who published,
from the king's dictation, the minute and interesting account of his
escape from the Battle of Worcester, and adventures a Boscobel, and in
the "Royal Oak." He kept a very minute and amusing diary, in which he
neglected not to enter the most trivial matters, even the purchase of a
new wig, or a new riband for his wife. This very littleness of detail
has made his Memoirs the most extraordinary picture we possess of the
times. He appears to have been a coarse but shrewd man, and fully alive
to the faults of his master.
[E] Previous to the restoration of Charles II., the park of St. James's
appears to have attracted little attention, and to have been left to the
guidance of nature alone. Charles seems to have had Versailles in view
when he laid it out from Le Notre's design. A long straight canal was
formed in its centre from a square pond which existed at its foot near
the Horse Guards. Rows of elm and lime trees were planted on each side
of it, an aviary was formed in that place still called the "Bird Cage
Walk;" and in the large space between this walk and the canal, and
nearest the Abbey, an extensive decoy for wild fowl was constructed,
popularly termed "Duck Island," and of which the famous St. Evremond was
appointed a salaried governor. Charles, who was exceedingly fond of
walking, and who tired out many a courtier who tried to keep up with his
quick pace, was continually seen here amusing himself with the birds,
playing with the dogs, or feeding the ducks. On the opposite side of the
canal, three broad walks were constructed and shaded with trees, one for
coaches, the other for walking, and the central one for the game of
"Pall Mall," an athletic exercise of which the king and the gentlemen of
the day were fond. The game consisted in driving a ball through a ring
at the extremity of the walk, which had a narrow border of wood on each
side of it to keep the ball within bounds. The floor of this portion of
the park was made of mixed earth, covered with sea-sand and powdered
shells as at Versailles. The park was much secluded, except on this
side, which was that only accessible to the public in general. There,
Spring Gardens, with its bowling-greens and gaming-tables, seduced the
idle and dissipated, until the Mulberry Garden (which stood on the site
of Carlton Gardens) put forth its attractions; and which, as Evelyn
says, became "the only place of refreshment about the town for persons
of the best quality to be exceedingly cheated at." The plays of the
period abound with intrigue and adventure carried on at both places. The
Mall ceased to be the resort of royalty at the death of Charles, but it
continued to be the fashionable promenade until the close of the last
century.
[F] The house at Sandy End has been altered within the last few years.
The characteristic gables of the roof, which so well marked its age, and
display the taste of the period when it was constructed, are removed,
and the house is so much modernized as to lose the greater part of its
interest, and at first sight induce a doubt of its antiquity. The
extensive gardens still remain, and some very old houses beside it, with
a characteristic old wall bounding the King's road, inclosing some
venerable walnut trees. Three years ago, a pretty view of these old
houses, with Nell's in the back-ground, might have been obtained from
the adjacent bridge over the brook: but now a large public house, "the
Nell Gwynne," obstructs the view, a row of small "Nell Gwynne cottages"
effectually block the path, and the primitive character of the scene has
passed away for ever.
[G] In the History of Costume in England, by the author of these notes,
it has been remarked that the freedom and looseness, as well as ease and
elegance of female costume at this period is to be attributed to the
taste of Sir Peter Lely, rather than to that exhibited by the _Beauties_
of Charles's court. "It was to his taste, as it was to that of a later
artist, Sir Joshua Reynolds, that we are indebted for the freedom which
characterized their treatment of the rigid and somewhat ungraceful
costumes before them." Walpole, in his "Anecdotes of Painting," says,
"Lely supplied the want of taste with _clinquant_; his nymphs trail
fringes, and embroidery, through meadows and purling streams. Vandyke's
habits are those of the times; Lely's, a sort of fantastic night-gown
fastened with a single pin." Lely's ladies are not unfrequently _en
masque_, and are habited in the conventional dresses adopted for
goddesses in the court of Versailles.
[H] Nell appears to have first fixed the attention of the King by
appearing at the King's Theatre in an Epilogue written for her by
Dryden; who, taking a _pique_ at the rival theatre, when Nokes, the
famous comedian, had appeared in a hat of large proportions, which
mightily delighted the silly and volatile frequenters of the place,
brought forward Nell in a hat as large as a coach-wheel, which gave her
short figure so grotesque an air, that the very actors laughed outright
and the whole theatre was in convulsions of merriment. His Majesty was
nearly suffocated by the excess of his delight; and the _naive_ manner
of the actress, her wit, archness, and beauty, received additional zest
by the extravagance of "the broad-brimmed hat and waist-belt" in which
Dryden had attired her, and which fixed her permanently in the memory of
"the merry Monarch."
[I] "Improvement" has extended far beyond Old Brompton. The little
wooden house of the old rat-catcher has been swept away, and he is
obliged to locate himself and his live stock in some back lane, where
none but his friends can find him; and as he is disastrously poor, their
number is very limited.
[J] Then vicar of St. Martin's, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
In that sermon he enlarged upon her benevolent qualities, her sincere
penitence, and exemplary end. When, says Mrs. Jameson, this was
afterwards mentioned to Queen Mary, in the hope that it would injure him
in her estimation, and be a bar to his preferment, "And what then?"
answered she, hastily. "I have heard as much; it is a sign that the poor
unfortunate woman died penitent; for, if I can read a man's heart
through his looks, had she not made a pious and Christian end, the
Doctor would never have been induced to speak well of her."
[K] We have much yet to do for a class whom it is a shame to name, and
that much _must be done by women_--by women, themselves _sans tache_,
_sans reproche_. It is not enough that we repeat our Saviour's words,
"Go and sin no more:" we must give the sinner a refuge to go to. Asylums
calculated to receive such ought to be more sufficiently provided in
England. One lady, as eminent for her rare mental powers as for her
charity and great wealth, is now trying an experiment that does her
infinite honor; she has set a noble example to others who are rich and
ought to be considerate; safe in her high character, her self-respect,
and her virgin purity, she has provided shelter for many "erring
sisters,"--in mercy beguiling
"by gentle ways the wanderer back."
Of all her numerous charities, this is the truest and best; like the
fair Sabrina she has heard and answered the prayers of those who seek
protection from the most terrible of all dangers--
"Listen! for dear honor's sake Listen--and save!"
MARY WOLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY.
The daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wolstonecraft, and wife of Percy
Bysshe Shelley, died at the age of fifty-three, in Chester Square,
Pimlico, London, on the first day of February. What woman had ever
before relations so illustrious! Daughter of Godwin and wife of Shelley!
These few words unfold a remarkable history, unparalleled, and
unapproached in romantic dignity. In the dedication to her of the noble
poem of _The Revolt of Islam_, Shelley says:
"They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child.
I wonder not--for One then left this earth
Whose life was like a setting planet mild,
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled
Of its departing glory; still her fame
Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild
Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name."
In the introduction to one of her novels, she herself says of her youth:
"It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of
distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have
thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favorite pastime,
during the hours given me for recreation, was to 'write stories.' Still
I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in
the air--the indulging in waking dreams--the following up trains of
thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of
imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable
than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator--rather doing as
others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What
I wrote was intended at least for one other eye--my childhood's
companion and friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for
them to nobody; they were my refuge when annoyed--my dearest pleasure
when free. I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a
considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more
picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary
northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on
retrospection I call them: they were not so to me then. They were the
eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune
with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then--but in a most common-place
style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house,
or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true
compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and
fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared
to me too common-place an affair as regarded myself. I could not figure
to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot;
but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours
with creations far more interesting to me at that age, than my own
sensations."
Her connection with Shelley commenced in 1815, and she gives this
account of the following year, in which she wrote her famous novel,
_Frankenstein_:
"After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of
fiction. My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I
should prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page
of fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation,
which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become
infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should
write, not so much with the idea that I could produce any thing worthy
of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the
promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and
the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, the way of reading,
or improving my ideas in communication with his far more cultivated
mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my attention. In the
summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbors of Lord
Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on
its shores: and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of Childe
Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper.
These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the light
and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of heaven
and earth, whose influences we partook with him. But it proved a wet,
ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the
house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into
French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant
Lover, who when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his
vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had
deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose
miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger
sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His
gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete
armor, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by the moon's
fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was
lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate swung back,
a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the
couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow
sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys,
who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have
not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are as fresh in
my mind as if I had read them yesterday. 'We will each write a ghost
story,' said Lord Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were
four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he
printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody
ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the
music of the most melodious verse that adorns our language, than to
invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the
experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea
about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a
key-hole--what to see I forget--something very shocking and wrong of
course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned
Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to
dispatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she
was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of
prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.
"I busied myself _to think of a story_,--a story to rival those which
had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious
fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror--one to make the reader
dread to look around, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of
the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be
unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered--vainly. I felt that blank
incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship,
when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. _Have you thought
of a story?_ I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to
reply with a mortifying negative. Every thing must have a beginning, to
speak in Sanchean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something
that went before. The Hindoos give the world an elephant to support it,
but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be
humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of
chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give
form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the
substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of
those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of
the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of
seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding
and fashioning ideas suggested to it. Many and long were the
conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout
but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philosophical
doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle
of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being
discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments of Dr.
Darwin (I speak not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did,
but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been
done by him), who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till
by some extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not
thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be
re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the
component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together,
and endued with vital warmth. Night waned upon this talk; and even the
witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my
head upon my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My
imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive
images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual
bounds of reverie. I saw--with shut eyes, but acute mental vision--I saw
the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put
together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then on
the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with
an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely
frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the
stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would
terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handywork,
horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of
life which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had
received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and
he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench
for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had
looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he
opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening
his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative
eyes.
"I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill
of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my
fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the
dark _parquet_, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling
through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps
were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still
it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my
ghost story,--my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only
contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been
frightened that night! Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that
broke in upon me. 'I found it! What terrified me will terrify others;
and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight
pillow.' On the morrow I announced that I had _thought of a story_. I
began that day with the words, _It was on a dreary night of November_,
making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream."
The next year Shelley and herself were in Buckinghamshire, where the
great poet wrote _The Revolt of Islam_. In the spring of 1818, they
quitted England for Italy, and their eldest child died in Rome. Soon
after, they took a house near Leghorn--half way between the city and
Monte Nero, where they remained during the summer.
"Our villa," she says, "was situated in the midst of a podere;
the peasants sang as they worked beneath our windows, during
the heats of a very hot season, and at night the water-wheel
creaked as the process of irrigation went on, and the
fire-flies flashed from among the myrtle hedges:--nature was
bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of a
majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed."
_The Cenci_ and several other poems were written here. The summer of
1818 they passed at the Baths of Lucca, and in the autumn went to a
villa belonging to Lord Byron, near Venice, whence they proceeded to
Naples, where the winter was spent; after which they visited Florence,
and in the fall of 1820 took up their residence at Pisa. The next
year--in July--Shelley's death occurred: he was drowned in the gulf of
Lerici. The details must be familiar to all readers of literary history.
Mrs. Shelley wrote of the time:
"This morn thy gallant bark
Sailed on a sunny sea,
'Tis noon, and tempests dark
Have wrecked it on the lee,
Ah woe! Ah woe!
By spirits of the deep
Thou'rt cradled on the billow,
To thy eternal sleep.
Thou sleep'st upon the shore
Beside the knelling surge,
And sea-nymphs evermore
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
They come! they come,
The spirits of the deep,
While near thy sea-weed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.
From far across the sea
I hear a loud lament,
By echo's voice for thee,
From ocean's caverns sent.
O list! O list,
The spirits of the deep;
They raise a wail of sorrow,
While I for ever weep."
Mrs. Shelley returned to England, and for nearly twenty years supported
herself by writing. In the last ten years--more especially since 1844,
when her son succeeded to the Shelley estates--she had no need to write
for money, and it is understood that she devoted the time to the
composition of _Memoirs of Shelley_.
The _Frankenstein_, _or Modern Prometheus_, of Mrs. Shelley,--a fearful
and fantastic dream of genius--was never very much read; it was one of
those books made to be talked of; her _Lodore_ was more easily
apprehended; it is a love story, from every-day life, but written with
remarkable boldness and directness, and a real appreciation of the
nature of both woman and man. The hero of this novel is the son of a
gentleman ennobled for his services in the American war, and some of the
scenes are in New-York. The _Last Man_ has for its hero her husband,
whose character is delineated in it with singular delicacy, but the book
is in the last degree improbable and gloomy, while abounding in scenes
of beauty and intense interest. She wrote also _Perkin Warbeck_,
_Falkner_, _Walpurga_, and other novels, _Journal in Italy and Germany_,
and _Lives of eminent French Writers_, besides editing the _Poems_ and
the _Letters_ of Shelley--a labor which she performed judiciously, and
with feeling and accuracy.
Mrs. Shelley's son succeeded to his grandfather's baronetcy on the 24th
of April, 1844, and is the present Sir Percy Florence Shelley, Bart., of
Castle Goring, in Sussex.
REV. H. N. HUDSON'S EDITION OF SHAKSPEARE.
It has been known among his friends for several years that the Rev.
Henry N. Hudson was preparing for the press an edition of the works of
Shakspeare. The office of a Shakspeare restorer and commentator at this
time is one of the most ambitious in the republic of letters. More than
any collection of works except the Holy Scriptures--to which only they
are second in dignity and importance among books--the Works of
Shakspeare demand for their fit illustration not only the most varied
and profound scholarship but the most eminent qualities of mind and
feeling. Mr. Hudson had vindicated his capacities for the noble service
upon which he has entered in his Lectures upon Shakspeare, published
about three years ago. The fame he then acquired will be increased by
his present performance, of which, we understand, the initial volume
will in a few days be published by James Munroe & Co., of Boston, who
will issue at short intervals the other ten, the last of which will
embrace a Life of the Poet by the editor. Some of the main
characteristics of this edition may be inferred from these paragraphs,
which we are enabled to make from an early copy of the preface.
"The celebrated Chiswick edition, of which this is meant to be as near
an imitation as the present state of Shaksperian literature renders
desirable, was published in 1826, and has for some time been out of
print. In size of volume, in type, style of execution, and adaptedness
to the wants of both the scholar and the general reader, it presented a
combination of advantages possessed by no other edition at the time of
its appearance. The text, however, abounds in corruptions introduced by
preceding editors under the name of corrections. Of the number and
nature of these corruptions no adequate idea can be formed but by a
close comparison, line by line, and word by word, with the original
editions.
"The Chiswick edition, though perhaps the most popular that has yet been
issued, has never, strange to say, been reprinted in this country. For
putting forth an American edition retaining the advantages of that,
without its defects, no apology, it is presumed, will be thought
needful. How far those advantages are retained in the present edition,
will appear upon a very slight comparison: how far those defects have
been removed, we may be allowed to say that no little study and
examination will be required to the forming of a right judgment. In all
of the plays, the chief, and in many of them the only, basis and
standard whereby to ascertain the true text, is the folio of 1623. In
our preparing of copy we have this continually open before us, at the
same time availing ourselves of whatsoever aid is to be drawn from
earlier impressions, in case of such plays as were published during the
author's life. So that, if a thorough revisal of every line, every word,
every letter, and every point, with a continual reference to the
original copies, be a reasonable ground of confidence, then we can
confidently assure the reader that he will here find the genuine text of
Shakspeare.
"The process of purification has been rendered much more laborious, and
therefore much more necessary, by the mode in which it was for a long
time customary to edit the poet's works. This mode is well exemplified
in the case of Malone and Steevens, who, carrying on their editorial
labors simultaneously, seem to have vied with each other which should
most enrich his edition with textual emendations. Both of them had been
very good editors, but for the unwarrantable liberty which they not only
took, but gloried in taking, with the text of their author; and, even as
it was, they undoubtedly rendered much valuable service. And the same
work, though not always in so great a degree, has been carried on by
many others: sometimes the alleged corrections of several editors have
been brought together, that the various advantages of them all might be
combined and presented in one. Thus corruptions of the text have
accumulated, each successive editor adding his own to those of his
predecessors. Many of these so-called improvements were thrown out by
the editor of the Chiswick edition; but no decisive steps in the way of
a return to the original text were taken till within a very limited
period. Knight, Collier, Verplanck, and Halliwell, to all of whom this
edition is under great obligations, have pretty effectually put a stop
to the old mode of Shaksperian editing; nor is there much reason to
apprehend that any one will at present venture upon a revival of it.
"Of the editions hitherto published in America, Mr. Verplanck's is the
only one, so far as we know, that is at all free from the accumulated
emendations of preceding editors. Adopting, in the main, the text of Mr.
Collier, he brought to the work, however, his own excellent taste and
judgment, wherein he as far surpasses the English editor as he
necessarily falls short of him in such external advantages as the
libraries, public and private, of England alone can supply. And Mr.
Collier's text is indeed remarkably pure: nor, perhaps, can any other
man of modern times be named, to whom Shaksperian literature is, on the
whole, so largely indebted. How much he has done, need not be dwelt upon
here, as the results thereof will be found scattered all through this
edition. Yet it seems not a little questionable whether both he and
Knight have not fallen into a serious error; though it must be confessed
that such error, if it be one, is on the right side, inasmuch as their
fidelity to the original text extends to the adopting, sometimes of
probable, sometimes of palpable, or nearly palpable misprints. In these
Mr. Verplanck has judiciously deviated from his English model, and his
fine judgment appears to equal advantage in what he adopts and in what
he rejects. Of his critical remarks it is enough at present to express
the belief, that in this department he has no rival in this country, and
will not soon be beaten. Further acknowledgments, both to him and to the
other three editors named, will be duly and cheerfully made, as the
occasions for them shall arise....
"In the Introductions our leading purpose is to gather up all the
historical information that has yet been made accessible, concerning the
times when the several plays were written and first acted, and the
sources whence the plots and materials of them were taken. It will be
seen that in the history of the poet's plays, the indefatigable labors
of Mr. Collier and others, often resulting in important discoveries,
have wrought changes amounting almost to a total revolution, since the
Chiswick edition was published. And we dwell the more upon what
Shakspeare seems to have taken from preceding writers, because it
exhibits him, where we like most to consider him, as holding his
unrivalled inventive powers subordinate to the higher principles of art.
Besides, if Shakspeare be the most original of writers, he is also one
of the greatest of borrowers; and as few authors have appropriated so
freely from others, so none can better afford to have his obligations in
this kind made known."...
THE STONES OF VENICE--RELIGION, GLORY, AND ART.
Mr. John Ruskin, the "Oxford Student," whose _Modern Painters_ and
_Seven Lamps of Architecture_ have made for him the best fame in the
literature of art, has just completed the most remarkable of his works,
_The Stones of Venice_, and from advance sheets of it (for which we are
indebted to Mr. John Wiley, his American publisher), we present some of
his preliminary and more general observations, indicating his great
argument that THE DECLINE OF THE POLITICAL PROSPERITY OF VENICE WAS
COINCIDENT WITH THAT OF HER DOMESTIC AND INDIVIDUAL RELIGION. Popular as
the previous works of Mr. Ruskin have been, we cannot doubt that this
splendid performance will be the most read and most admired of all.
"Since the first dominion of men was asserted over the ocean, three
thrones, of mark beyond all others, have been set upon its sands: the
thrones of Tyre, Venice, and England. Of the First of these great powers
only the memory remains; of the Second, the ruin; the Third, which
inherits their greatness, if it forget their example, may be led through
prouder eminence to less pitied destruction. The exaltation, the sin,
and the punishment of Tyre have been recorded for us, in perhaps the
most touching words ever uttered by the Prophets of Israel against the
cities of the stranger. But we read them as a lovely song; and close our
ears to the sternness of their warning: for the very depth of the Fall
of Tyre has blinded us to its reality, and we forget, as we watch the
bleaching of the rocks between the sunshine and the sea, that they were
once 'as in Eden, the garden of God.' Her successor, like her in
perfection of beauty, though less in endurance of dominion, is still
left for our beholding in the final period of her decline: a ghost upon
the sands of the sea, so weak--so quiet,--so bereft of all but her
loveliness, that we might well doubt, as we watched her faint reflection
in the mirage of the lagoon, which was the City, and which the Shadow. I
would endeavor to trace the lines of this image before it be for ever
lost, and to record, as far as I may, the warning which seems to me to
be uttered by every one of the fast-gaining waves, that beat, like
passing bells, against the STONES OF VENICE.
"It would be difficult to overrate the value of the lessons which might
be derived from a faithful study of the history of this strange and
mighty city: a history which, in spite of the labor of countless
chroniclers, remains in vague and disputable outline,--barred with
brightness and shade, like the far away edge of her own ocean, where the
surf and the sandbank are mingled with the sky. The inquiries in which
we have to engage will hardly render this outline clearer, but their
results will, in some degree, alter its aspect; and, so far as they bear
upon it at all, they possess an interest of a far higher kind than that
usually belonging to architectural investigations. I may, perhaps, in
the outset, and in few words, enable the general reader to form a
clearer idea of the importance of every existing expression of Venetian
character through Venetian art and of the breadth of interest which the
true history of Venice embraces, than he is likely to have gleaned from
the current fables of her mystery or magnificence.
"Venice is usually conceived as an oligarchy: she was so during a period
less than the half of her existence, and that including the days of her
decline; and it is one of the first questions needing severe
examination, whether that decline was owing in any wise to the change in
the form of her government, or altogether, as assuredly in great part,
to changes in the character of the persons of whom it was composed. The
state of Venice existed Thirteen Hundred and Seventy-six years, from the
first establishment of a consular government on the island of the
Rialto, to the moment when the General-in-chief of the French army of
Italy pronounced the Venetian republic a thing of the past. Of this
period, Two Hundred and Seventy-six years were passed in a nominal
subjection to the cities of old Venetia, especially to Padua, and in an
agitated form of democracy, of which the executive appears to have been
intrusted to tribunes, chosen, one by the inhabitants of each of the
principal islands. For six hundred years, during which the power of
Venice was continually on the increase, her government was an elective
monarchy, her King or doge possessing, in early times at least, as much
independent authority as any other European sovereign, but an authority
gradually subjected to limitation, and shortened almost daily of its
prerogatives, while it increased in a spectral and incapable
magnificence. The final government of the nobles, under the image of a
king, lasted for five hundred years, during which Venice reaped the
fruits of her former energies, consumed them,--and expired.
"Let the reader therefore conceive the existence of the Venetian state
as broadly divided into two periods: the first of nine hundred, the
second of five hundred years, the separation being marked by what was
called the 'Serrar del Consiglio; that is to say, the final and absolute
distinction of the nobles from the commonalty, and the establishment of
the government in their hands, to the exclusion alike of the influence
of the people on the one side, and the authority of the doge on the
other. Then the first period, of nine hundred years, presents us with
the most interesting spectable of a people struggling out of anarchy
into order and power; and then governed, for the most part, by the
worthiest and noblest man whom they could find among them, called their
Doge or Leader, with an aristocracy gradually and resolutely forming
itself around him, out of which, and at last by which, he was chosen; an
aristocracy owing its origin to the accidental numbers, influence, and
wealth, of some among the families of the fugitives from the older
Venetia, and gradually organizing itself, by its unity and heroism, into
a separate body. This first period includes the Rise of Venice, her
noblest achievements, and the circumstances which determined her
character and position among European powers; and within its range, as
might have been anticipated, we find the names of all her hero
princes,--of Pietro Urseolo, Ordalafo Falier, Domenico Michieli,
Sebastiano Ziani, and Enrico Dandolo.
"The second period opens with a hundred and twenty years, the most
eventful in the career of Venice--the central struggle of her
life--stained with her darkest crime, the murder of Carrara--disturbed
by her most dangerous internal sedition, the conspiracy of
Falier--oppressed by her most fatal war, the war of Chiozza--and
distinguished by the glory of her two noblest citizens (for in this
period the heroism of her citizens replaces that of her monarchs),
Vittor Pisani and Carlo Zeno. I date the commencement of the Fall of
Venice from the death of Carlo Zeno, 8th May, 1418; the _visible_
commencement from that of another of her noblest and wisest children,
the Doge Tomaso Mocenigo, who expired five years later. The reign of
Foscari followed, gloomy with pestilence and war; a war in which large
acquisitions of territory were made by subtle or fortunate policy in
Lombardy, and disgrace, significant as irreparable, sustained in the
battles on the Po at Cremona, and in the marshes at Caravaggio. In 1454,
Venice, the first of the states of Christendom, humiliated herself to
the Turk: in the same year was established the Inquisition of State, and
from this period her government takes the perfidious and mysterious form
under which it is usually conceived. In 1477, the great Turkish invasion
spread terror to the shores of the lagoons; and in 1508, the league of
Cambrai marks the period usually assigned as the commencement of the
decline of the Venetian power; the commercial prosperity of Venice in
the close of the fifteenth century blinding her historians to the
previous evidence of the diminution of her internal strength.
"Now there is apparently a significative coincidence between the
establishment of the aristocratic and oligarchical powers, and the
diminution of the prosperity of the state. But this is the very question
at issue; and it appears to me quite undetermined by any historian, or
determined by each in accordance with his own prejudices. It is a triple
question: first, whether the oligarchy established by the efforts of
individual ambition was the cause, in its subsequent operation, of the
Fall of Venice; or (secondly) whether the establishment of the
oligarchy itself be not the sign and evidence rather than the cause, of
national enervation; or (lastly) whether, as I rather think, the history
of Venice might not be written almost without reference to the
construction of her senate or the prerogatives of her Doge. It is the
history of a people eminently at unity in itself, descendants of Roman
race, long disciplined by adversity, and compelled by its position
either to live nobly or to perish:--for a thousand years they fought for
life; for three hundred they invited death; their battle was rewarded,
and their call was heard.
"Throughout her career, the victories of Venice, and, at many periods of
it, her safety, were purchased by individual heroism; and the man who
exalted or saved her was sometimes (oftenest) her king, sometimes a
noble, sometimes a citizen. To him no matter, nor to her: the real
question is, not so much what names they bore, or with what powers they
were intrusted, as how they were trained, how they were made masters of
themselves, servants of their country, patient of distress, impatient of
dishonor; and what was the true reason of the change from the time when
she could find saviours among those whom she had cast into prison, to
that when the voices of her own children commanded her to sign covenant
with Death.
"The evidence which I shall be able to deduce from the arts of Venice
will be both frequent and irrefragable, that the decline of political
prosperity was exactly coincident with that of domestic and individual
religion. I say domestic and individual; for--and this is the second
point which I wish the reader to keep in mind--the most curious
phenomenon in all Venetian history is the vitality of religion in
private life, and its deadness in public policy. Amidst the enthusiasm,
chivalry, or fanaticism of the other states of Europe, Venice stands,
from first to last, like a masked statue; her coldness impenetrable, her
exertion only aroused by the touch of a secret spring. That spring was
her commercial interest,--this the one motive of all her important
political acts, or enduring national animosities. She could forgive
insults to her honor, but never rivalship in her commerce; she
calculated the glory of her conquests by their value, and estimated
their justice by their faculty. The fame of success remains, when the
motives of attempt are forgotten; and the casual reader of her history
may perhaps be surprised to be reminded, that the expedition which was
commanded by the noblest of her princes, and whose results added most to
her military glory, was one in which while all Europe around her was
wasted by the fire of its devotion, she first calculated the highest
price she could exact from its piety for the armament she furnished, and
then, for the advancement of her own private interests, at once broke
her faith and betrayed her religion.
"And yet, in the midst of this national criminality, we shall be struck
again and again by the evidences of the most noble individual feeling.
The tears of Dandolo were not shed in hypocrisy, though they could not
blind him to the importance of the conquest of Zara. The habit of
assigning to religion a direct influence over all _his own_ actions, and
all the affairs of _his own_ daily life, is remarkable in every great
Venetian during the times of the prosperity of the state; nor are
instances wanting in which the private feeling of the citizens reaches
the sphere of their policy, and even becomes the guide of its course
where the scales of expediency are doubtfully balanced. I sincerely
trust that the inquirer would be disappointed who should endeavor to
trace any more immediate reasons for their adoption of the cause of
Alexander III. against Barbarossa, than the piety which was excited by
the character of their suppliant, and the noble pride which was provoked
by the insolence of the emperor. But the heart of Venice is shown only
in her hastiest counsels; her worldly spirit recovers the ascendency
whenever she has time to calculate the probabilities of advantage, or
when they are sufficiently distinct to need no calculation; and the
entire subjection of private piety to national policy is not only
remarkable throughout the almost endless series of treacheries and
tyrannies by which her empire was enlarged and maintained, but
symbolized by a very singular circumstance in the building of the city
itself. I am aware of no other city of Europe in which its cathedral was
not the principal feature. But the principal church in Venice was the
chapel attached to the palace of her prince, and called the "Chiesa
Ducale." The patriarchal church, inconsiderable in size and mean
decoration, stands on the outermost islet of the Venetian group, and its
name, as well as its site, is probably unknown to the greater number of
travellers passing hastily through the city. Nor is it less worthy of
remark, that the two most important temples of Venice, next to the ducal
chapel, owe their size and magnificence, not to national effort, but to
the energy of the Franciscan and Dominican monks, supported by the vast
organization of those great societies on the mainland of Italy, and
countenanced by the most pious, and perhaps also, in his generation, the
most wise, of all the princes of Venice, who now rests beneath the roof
of one of those very temples, and whose life is not satirized by the
images of the Virtues which a Tuscan sculptor has placed around his
tomb.
"There are, therefore, two strange and solemn lights in which we have to
regard almost every scene in the fitful history of the Rivo Alto. We
find, on the one hand, a deep and constant tone of individual religion
characterizing the lives of the citizens of Venice in her greatness; we
find this spirit influencing them in all the familiar and immediate
concerns of life, giving a peculiar dignity to the conduct even of their
commercial transactions, and confessed by them with a simplicity of
faith that may well put to shame the hesitation with which a man of the
world at present admits (even if it be so in reality) that religious
feeling has any influence over the minor branches of his conduct. And we
find as the natural consequence of all this, a healthy serenity of mind
and energy of will expressed in all their actions, and a habit of
heroism which never fails them, even when the immediate motive of action
ceases to be praiseworthy. With the fulness of this spirit the
prosperity of the state is exactly correspondent, and with its failure
her decline, and that with a closeness and precision which it will be
one of the collateral objects of the following essay to demonstrate from
such accidental evidence as the field of its inquiry presents. And, thus
far, all is natural and simple. But the stopping short of this religious
faith when it appears likely to influence national action,
correspondent as it is, and that most strikingly, with several
characteristics of the temper of our present English legislature, is a
subject, morally and politically, of the most curious interest and
complicated difficulty; one, however, which the range of my present
inquiry will not permit me to approach, and for the treatment of which I
must be content to furnish materials in the light I may be able to throw
upon the private tendencies of the Venetian character.
"There is, however, another most interesting feature in the policy of
Venice, which a Romanist would gladly assign as the reason of its
irreligion; namely, the magnificent and successful struggle which she
maintained against the temporal authority of the Church of Rome. It is
true that, in a rapid survey of her career, the eye is at first arrested
by the strange drama to which I have already alluded, closed by that
ever memorable scene in the portico of St. Mark's, the central
expression in most men's thoughts of the unendurable elevation of the
pontifical power; it is true that the proudest thoughts of Venice, as
well as the insignia of her prince, and the form of her chief festival,
recorded the service thus rendered to the Roman Church. But the enduring
sentiment of years more than balanced the enthusiasm of a moment; and
the bull of Clement V., which excommunicated the Venetians and their
doge, likening them to Dathan, Abiram, Absalom, and Lucifer, is a
stronger evidence of the great tendencies of the Venetian government
than the umbrella of the doge or the ring of the Adriatic. The
humiliation of Francesco Dandolo blotted out the shame of Barbarossa,
and the total exclusion of ecclesiastics from all share in the councils
of Venice became an enduring mark of her knowledge of the spirit of the
Church of Rome, and of her defiance of it. To this exclusion of papal
influence from her councils the Romanist will attribute their
irreligion, and the Protestant their success. The first may be silenced
by a reference to the character of the policy of the Vatican itself; and
the second by his own shame, when he reflects that the English
Legislature sacrificed their principles to expose themselves to the very
danger which the Venetian senate sacrificed theirs to avoid.
"One more circumstance remains to be noted respecting the Venetian
government, the singular unity of the families composing it,--unity far
from sincere or perfect, but still admirable when contrasted with the
fiery feuds, the almost daily revolutions, the restless succession of
families and parties in power, which fill the annals of the other states
of Italy. That rivalship should sometimes be ended by the dagger, or
enmity conducted to its ends under the mask of law, could not but be
anticipated where the fierce Italian spirit was subjected to so severe a
restraint: it is much that jealousy appears usually commingled with
illegitimate ambition, and that, for every instance in which private
passion sought its gratification through public danger, there are a
thousand in which it was sacrificed to the public advantage. Venice may
well call upon us to note with reverence, that of all the towers which
are still seen rising like a branchless forest from her islands, there
is but one whose office was other than that of summoning to prayer, and
that one was a watchtower only: from first to last, while the palaces of
the other cities of Italy were lifted into sullen fortitudes of rampart,
and fringed with forked battlements for the javelin and the bow, the
sands of Venice never sank under the weight of a war tower, and her roof
terraces were wreathed with Arabian imagery, of golden globes suspended
on the leaves of lilies.
"These, then, appear to me to be the points of chief general interest in
the character and fate of the Venetian people. I would next endeavor to
give the reader some idea of the manner in which the testimony of art
bears upon these questions, and of the aspect which the arts themselves
assume when they are regarded in their true connection with the history
of the state: 1st. Receive the witness of painting. It will be
remembered that I put the commencement of the Fall of Venice as far back
as 1418. Now, John Bellini was born in 1423, and Titian in 1480. John
Bellini, and his brother Gentile, two years older than he, close the
line of the sacred painters of Venice. But the most solemn spirit of
religious faith animates their works to the last. There is no religion
in any work of Titian's: there is not even the smallest evidence of
religious temper or sympathies either in himself or in those for whom he
painted. His larger sacred subjects are merely themes for the exhibition
of pictorial rhetoric,--composition and color. His minor works are
generally made subordinate to purposes of portraiture. The Madonna in
the church of the Frari is a mere lay figure, introduced to form a link
of connection between the portraits of various members of the Pesaro
family who surround her. Now this is not merely because John Bellini was
a religious man and Titian was not. Titian and Bellini are each true
representatives of the school of painters contemporary with them; and
the difference in their artistic feeling is a consequence not so much of
difference in their own natural characters as in their early education:
Bellini was brought up in faith, Titian in formalism. Between the years
of their births the vital religion of Venice had expired.
"The _vital_ religion, observe, not the formal. Outward observance was
as strict as ever; and doge and senator still were painted, in almost
every important instance, kneeling before the Madonna or St. Mark; a
confession of faith made universal by the pure gold of the Venetian
sequin. But observe the great picture of Titian's, in the ducal palace,
of the Doge Antonio Grimani kneeling before Faith: there is a curious
lesson in it. The figure of Faith is a coarse portrait of one of
Titian's least graceful female models: Faith had become carnal. The eye
is first caught by the flash of the Doge's armor. The heart of Venice
was in her wars, not in her worship. The mind of Tintoret, incomparably
more deep and serious than that of Titian, casts the solemnity of its
own tone over the sacred subjects which it approaches, and sometimes
forgets itself into devotion; but the principle of treatment is
altogether the same as Titian's: absolute subordination of the religious
subject to purposes of decoration or portraiture. The evidence might be
accumulated a thousand-fold from the works of Veronese, and of every
succeeding painter,--that the fifteenth century had taken away the
religious heart of Venice.
"Such is the evidence of painting. To give a general idea of that of
architecture: Phillipe de Commynes, writing of his entry into Venice in
1495, observed instantly the distinction between the elder palaces and
those built 'within this last hundred years; which all have their
fronts of white marble brought from Istria, a hundred miles away, and
besides, many a large piece of porphyry and serpentine upon their
fronts.'...
"There had indeed come a change over Venetian architecture in the
fifteenth century; and a change of some importance to us moderns: we
English owe to it our St. Paul's Cathedral, and Europe in general owes
to it the utter degradation or destruction of her schools of
architecture, never since revived."...
"The Rationalist kept the arts and cast aside the religion. This
rationalistic art is the art commonly called Renaissance, marked by a
return to pagan systems, not to adopt them and hallow them for
Christianity, but to rank itself under them as an imitator and pupil. In
Painting it is headed by Giulio Romano and Nicolo Poussin; in
Architecture, by Sansovino and Palladio.
"Instant degradation followed in every direction,--a flood of folly and
hypocrisy. Mythologies ill understood at first, then perverted into
feeble sensualities, take the place of the representations of Christian
subjects, which had become blasphemous under the treatment of men like
the Caracci. Gods without power, satyrs without rusticity, nymphs
without innocence, men without humanity, gather into idiot groups upon
the polluted canvas, and scenic affectations encumber the streets with
preposterous marble. Lower and lower declines the level of abused
intellect; the base school of landscape gradually usurps the place of
the historical painting, which had sunk into prurient pedantry,--the
Alsatian sublimities of Salvator, the confectionary idealities of
Claude, the dull manufacture of Gaspar and Canaletto, south of the Alps,
and on the north the patient devotion of besotted lives to delineation
of bricks and fogs, fat cattle and ditch-water. And thus Christianity
and morality, courage, and intellect, and art all crumbling together
into one wreck, we are hurried on to the fall of Italy, the revolution
in France, and the condition of art in England (saved by her
Protestantism from severer penalty) in the time of George II.
"I have not written in vain if I have heretofore done any thing towards
diminishing the reputation of the Renaissance landscape painting. But
the harm which has been done by Claude and the Poussins is as nothing
when compared to the mischief effected by Palladio, Scamozzi, and
Sansovino. Claude and the Poussins were weak men, and have had no
serious influence on the general mind. There is little harm in their
works being purchased at high prices: their real influence is very
slight, and they may be left without grave indignation to their poor
mission of furnishing drawing-rooms and assisting stranded conversation.
Not so the Renaissance architecture. Raised at once into all the
magnificence of which it was capable by Michael Angelo, then taken up by
men of real intellect and imagination, such as Scamozzi, Sansovino,
Inigo Jones, and Wren, it is impossible to estimate the extent of its
influence on the European mind; and that the more, because few persons
are concerned with painting, and, of those few, the larger number regard
it with slight attention; but all men are concerned with architecture,
and have at some time of their lives serious business with it. It does
not much matter that an individual loses two or three hundred pounds in
buying a bad picture, but it is to be regretted that a nation should
lose two or three hundred thousand in raising a ridiculous building. Nor
is it merely wasted wealth or distempered conception which we have to
regret in this Renaissance architecture: but we shall find in it partly
the root, partly the expression of certain dominant evils of modern
times--over-sophistication and ignorant classicalism; the one destroying
the healthfulness of general society, the other rendering our schools
and universities useless to a large number of the men who pass through
them.
"Now Venice, as she was once the most religious, was in her fall the
most corrupt, of European states; and as she was in her strength the
centre of the pure currents of Christian architecture, so she is in her
decline the source of the Renaissance. It was the originality and
splendor of the palaces of Vicenza and Venice which gave this school its
eminence in the eyes of Europe; and the dying city, magnificent in her
dissipation, and graceful in her follies, obtained wider worship in her
decrepitude than in her youth, and sank from the midst of her admirers
into the grave.
"It is in Venice, therefore, and in Venice only, that effectual blows
can be struck at this pestilent art of the Renaissance. Destroy its
claims to admiration there, and it can assert them nowhere else."
CONTRASTED PORTRAITS OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.
In the last number of _The International_ we quoted the remarks of Lord
Holland upon the character of the wife of Louis XVI. The sketch
presented by the noble author has been the subject of much and various
criticism. The London _Times_ says:
"The virtue of the unfortunate consort of a most unhappy
monarch is without a flaw. Enmity, hatred, and every evil
passion, have done their worst to palliate murder and to
blacken innocence, but the ineradicable spot cannot be fixed to
the fair fame of this true woman. Faultless she was not. We are
under no obligation to vindicate her imprudent, wilful, and
fatal interference with public questions in which she had no
concern; we say nothing of her ignorance of the high matters of
state into which her uninformed zeal conducted her, to the
bitter cost of herself and of those she loved dearest on earth;
but of her purity, her uprightness, her beneficence, her
devotion, her sweet, playful, happy disposition, in the midst
of those home endearments, which were to her the true
occupation and charm of life, there cannot exist a doubt.
Misfortune fell upon her house to strengthen her love and to
confirm her piety. Persecution, imprisonment, calamity that has
never been surpassed, and a dreadful end, which, in its
bitterness, has seldom been equalled, found and left her, a
meek but perfect heroine. One historian has told us, that as
'an affectionate daughter and a faithful wife, she preserved in
the two most corrupted courts of Europe the simplicity and
affections of domestic life.' It is sufficient to add, that she
ascended the scaffold enjoining her children to a scrupulous
discharge of duty, to forgive her murderers, to forget her
wrongs; and that her last words on earth were directed to the
beloved husband who had preceded her, whose spirit she was
eager to rejoin, yet whose bed, if we are to believe my Lord
Holland, she had oftener than once defiled."
And _The Times_ intimates elsewhere that Lord Holland is alone among
reputable authors in condemning the Queen. How _The Times_ regards
THOMAS JEFFERSON, we cannot tell, but certainly it is claimed by our
democracy that he was a witness with a character. Jefferson says of
Marie Antoinette:
"The King was now become a passive machine in the hands of the
National Assembly, and had he been left to himself, he would
have willingly acquiesced in whatever they should devise as
best for the nation. A wise constitution would have been
formed, hereditary in his line, himself placed at its head,
with powers so large, as to enable him to do all the good of
his station, and so limited, as to restrain him from its abuse.
This he would have faithfully administered, and more than this,
I do not believe, he ever wished. But he had a Queen of
absolute sway over his weak mind, and timid virtue, and of a
character, the reverse of his in all points. This angel, as
gaudily painted in the rhapsodies of Burke, with some smartness
of fancy, but no sound sense, was proud, disdainful of
restraint, indignant at all obstacles to her will, eager in the
pursuit of pleasure, and firm enough to hold to her desires, or
perish in their wreck. Her inordinate gambling and
dissipations, with those of the Count d'Artois, and others of
her _clique_, had been a sensible item in the exhaustion of the
treasury, which called into action the reforming hand of the
nation; and her opposition to it, her inflexible perverseness,
and dauntless spirit, led herself to the guillotine, drew the
King on with her, and plunged the world into crimes and
calamities which will for ever stain the pages of modern
history. I have ever believed, that had there been no Queen,
there would have been no revolution. No force would have been
provoked, nor exercised. The King would have gone hand in hand
with the wisdom of his sounder counsellors, who, guided by the
increased lights of the age, wished only, with the same pace,
to advance the principles of their social constitution. The
deed which closed the mortal course of these sovereigns, I
shall neither approve nor condemn. I am not prepared to say,
that the first magistrate of a nation cannot commit treason
against his country, or is unamenable to its punishment; nor
yet, that where there is no written law, no regulated tribunal,
there is not a law in our hearts, and a power in our hands,
given for righteous employment in maintaining right, and
redressing wrong. Of those who judged the King, many thought
him wilfully criminal; many, that his existence would keep the
nation in perpetual conflict with the horde of Kings, who would
war against a regeneration which might come home to themselves,
and that it were better that one should die than all. I should
not have voted with this portion of the legislature. I should
have shut up the Queen in a convent, putting harm out of her
power, and placed the King in his station, investing him with
limited powers, which, I verily believe, he would have honestly
exercised, according to the measure of his understanding. In
this way, no void would have been created, courting the
usurpation of a military adventurer, nor occasion given for
those enormities which demoralized the nations of the world,
and destroyed, and is yet to destroy, millions and millions of
its inhabitants."
A majority of the French authors of the time agree with Mr. Jefferson.
HINDOSTANEE NEWSPAPERS: THE FLYING SHEETS OF BENARES.
One of the most successful applications of lithography is in the
reproduction of the Hindostanee or Persian writing, used in India. It is
too irregular and complicated to be represented by ordinary types.
Accordingly lithographic printing establishments have been set up in the
principal cities of India, where original works, translations of the
ancient tongues of Asia or the modern ones of Europe, as well as
newspapers are published. Calcutta, Serampore, Lakhnau, Madras, Bombay,
Pounah, were the first cities to have these printing offices, but since
then a great number have been established in the north-west provinces,
where the Hindostanee is the sole language employed. A year since that
part of the country contained twenty-eight offices, which in 1849
produced a hundred and forty-one different works, while the number of
journals was twenty-six, which, with those printed in other provinces,
makes about fifty in the native dialect, in all Hindostan. Within the
last year, new establishments and new periodicals have been commenced.
At Benares, the ancient seat of Hindoo learning, where the Brahmins used
to resort to study their language and read the vedas and shasters, a new
journal is called the _Sairin-i Hind_ (The Flying Sheets of India),
making the sixth in that city. It is edited by two Hindoo literati,
Bhairav Pracad and Harban Lal, who had before attempted a purely
scientific publication under the title of _Mirat Ulalum_ (Mirror of the
Sciences), which has been stopped. The new paper, of which only three
numbers have come to our notice, is published twice a month, each number
having eight pages of small octavo size. The pages are in double
columns. The subscription is eight _anas_, or twenty-five cents a month,
or six _roupies_, or three dollars a year. The paper is divided into two
parts, the first literary and scientific, the second devoted to
political and miscellaneous intelligence. The first number commences
with a rhapsody in verse upon eloquence, by the celebrated national poet
Hacan, of which the following is the _International's_ translation:
"Give me to taste, O Song, the sweet beverage of eloquence,
that precious art which opens the gate of diction. I dream
night and day of the benefits of that noble talent. What other
can be compared with it? The sage who knows how to appreciate
it, puts forth all his efforts for its acquisition. It is
eloquence which gives celebrity to persons of merit. The brave
ought to esteem eloquence, for it immortalizes the names of
heroes. It is through the science of speaking well that the
noble actions of antiquity have come down to us; the language
of the _calam_ has perpetuated remarkable deeds. What would
have become of the names of Rustam, Cyrus, and Afraciab, if
eloquence had not preserved their memory like the recital of a
remote dream? It is by the pearls of elocution that the sweet
relations between distant friends are preserved. The study of
this sublime art is like a market always filled with buyers.
It will remain in the world as long as the ear shall be
sensible to harmony, or the heart to persuasion."
This is followed by a sort of prospectus, elegantly written, of course
with the oriental ornaments of alliteration and antithesis, in which the
editors proclaim the usefulness of instruction to the cause of religion
and morality. These are the ends they have in view in the publication of
the new journal, and they appeal to those who approve of their purposes
to encourage rather than criticise their efforts. To prove how much
easier it is to criticise than to do well the thing criticised, they
cite the well known fable of the miller, his son, and the ass. In
publishing a new periodical, they consider that they are merely
supplying a want of the public, which desires to be informed as to
passing events, new discoveries in science, the proceedings in lawsuits,
&c. This journal will interest all classes of readers, not only people
in easy circumstances who live on their income, but merchants and
mechanics, who will find in it intelligence of which they stand in need.
Those who find in it articles not in their line, are advised not to be
vexed thereat, but to reflect that they may be agreeable and useful to
others, and that a journal ought to contain the greatest possible
variety. For the rest, the editors will thankfully receive such
information and suggestions as their friends may choose to give them.
Their prospectus concludes with a panegyric on the English government,
for favoring education among the natives, saying that not only
speculative, but practical knowledge is necessary, as says the
poet-philosopher Saadi: "Though thou hast knowledge, if thou dost not
apply the same, thou art of no more value than the ignorant; thou art
like an ass laden with books."
Next they give a table of _the chain_ of human knowledge, by way of
programme of the subjects which will be likely to be discussed in the
journal. This is followed by political and miscellaneous news from
Persia, Cabul, Bombay, Aoude, and Calcutta, and other provinces. Under
the last head is a statement of the present population of the capital of
British India, as follows:
Europeans, 6,433
Georgians, 4,615
Armenians, 892
Chinese, 847
Other Asiatics, 15,342
Hindoos, 274,335
Mussulmans, 110,918
Total 413,182
The second number opens with an article of above five columns, on the
inconvenience of not knowing what is taking place, or of knowing it
imperfectly, followed by a second article of two columns on astronomy,
and the discovery of planets, by way of introduction to an account of
the discovery of _Parthenope_, which took place at Naples the 10th of
May last.
This is followed by news and advertisements of new books, published from
the printing office of the paper. In the third number there is in the
news department an article on the _marvellous news from Europe_, in
which the editors speak of the scientific progress of the Europeans, and
the astonishing discoveries which daily occur among them. In this
connection they mention a singular experiment tried by a geologist of
Stockholm. This savant having found a frog living after having been six
or seven years in the ground, without air or food, concluded that men
might live in that way for hundreds of years. Accordingly he solicited
and obtained from the government, permission to try it for twenty-five
years on a woman aged twenty. This piece of information is given with
satisfaction, and the editors refer to the fact that some years since a
faquir appeared at the court of Runjeet Singh, asking to be buried for
several days, which was done. When the time arrived he was disinterred,
as much alive as ever. The editors add, that although many Englishmen
saw this, they had not believed it, but that this intelligence from
Stockholm ought to convince them. The same number contains some remarks
on the Ambassador of Nepaul, who was then in Europe. The following is
our translation of this article:
"Jung Bahadur, has thought best to visit Paris, the capital of
France, before returning to India. The first Indian who visited
Paris was Ram Mohan Roy, who was succeeded by Dwarkanath Thakur
and others. But these were not true Hindoos, of the good
school, for they were of the sect of Ram Mohan [who established
a sort of philosophic religion under the name of
_Brahma-Sabha_, or the "Reunion of Deists"]. General Jung
Bahadur, Kunwar, Ranaji, and his brothers are then in reality,
the first orthodox Hindoos who have honored Europe with their
presence. We do not know how these personages can have followed
the prescriptions of the _schastars_ in their passage across
the ocean, but we learn by the news from Europe, that they have
not taken a single meal with the English, and have neither
eaten nor drank with them, though this does not render it
certain that they have been free from fault in other respects.
It is said beside, that in order to repair every thing, when
the Ambassador returns to Nepaul, the King will cast water upon
him and thus will purify his _pabitra_ [Brahaminic insignia].
Should this arrangement take place and be adopted in other
parts of Hindostan, we can believe that many Hindoos of every
class will go to feast their eyes with the marvels of Europe."
_Original Poetry._
MUSIC.
By Alfred B. Street.
Music, how strange her power! her varied strains
Thrill with a magic spell the human heart.
She wakens memory--brightens hope--the pains,
The joys of being at her bidding start.
Now to her trumpet-call the spirit leaps;
Now to her brooding, tender tones it weeps.
Sweet music! is she portion of that breath
With which the worlds were born--on which they wheel?
One of lost Eden's tones, eluding death,
To make man what is best within him feel!
Keep open his else sealed up depths of heart,
And wake to active life the better part
Of his mixed nature, being thus the tie
That links us to our God, and draws us toward the sky!
_Authors and Books._
In a late number of the _Archives for Scientific Information Concerning
Russia_, a Russian publication, are some interesting facts upon the
colonization of Siberia, and its present population. It seems that that
country began to be settled in the reign of the Czar Alexis
Michaelowich, who issued a law requiring murderers, after suffering
corporeal punishment and three years' imprisonment, to be sent to the
frontier cities, among which the towns of Siberia were then included.
Indeed, under the Empress Elizabeth Petrowna (1741--1761), the whole of
Southern Siberia was called the Ukraine. The beginning of regular
transportation to Siberia was made by the Czar Theodore Alexeiwich, who
ordered in 1679 that malefactors should be sent with their families to
settle in Siberia. About this time many serfs escaped to Siberia from
service in Europe, and stringent measures were adopted to reclaim the
fugitives, and prevent such an offence from being repeated and
continued. In 1760 a ukase was issued permitting landlords and communes
to send to Siberia, and have entered as recruits, all persons guilty of
offences of any kind or degree. In 1822 another ukase allowed the crown
serfs of the provinces of Great Russia to emigrate to Siberia, where
they became free, a privilege which they still enjoy. The main part of
the present inhabitants of the country is composed of the descendants of
these colonists and exiles, of the banished Strelitzes, and of the
captured Swedes and Poles. The varied habits, customs, creeds, ideas,
costumes, and dialects of these motley races have by long contact with
each other become reduced to something like unity. The former extreme
rudeness of the people has also of late years undergone a great
improvement from the influence of new-comers. Still, however, Siberia is
socially any thing but a tolerable country, even in comparison with
Russia, and vices which in enlightened lands would be thought monstrous,
are not occasions of any astonishment or special remark to the mass of
the inhabitants.
* * * * *
A work by WILLIAM HUMBOLDT, just published at Breslau, excites a good
deal of attention in Germany. It is called _Notions toward an attempt to
define the Boundaries of the Activity of the State_. It was written many
years ago, at the time when the author was intimate with Schiller, who
took an interest in its preparation, but other engagements prevented its
being finished. It is now published exactly from the original
manuscript, under the editorial care of Dr. Edward Cauer. Its doctrinal
starting point is found in the nature and destiny of the individual. Its
philosophy is essentially that of Kant and Fichte, and is of course
liberal in its tendencies, though by no means satisfactory to the
democracy of the present day.
* * * * *
The _Journal of the Russian Ministry for the Enlightenment of the
People_, for December last, reports a statement made by Mr. Kauwelin to
the Russian Geographical Society in the previous September. The Society
had received, by way of reply to an appeal it had issued, more than five
hundred communications, from various parts of the empire, in relation to
the Sclavonic portion of the people. These documents, as he said,
contain a mass of valuable information, not only as to ethnography, but
also as to Russian archaeology and history. He showed by several examples
how ancient local myths and traditions reached back into remote
antiquity. He proposed the publication of the entire mass of documents,
because "they enrich history with vivid recollections of the most
ancient ante-historic life-experience of which the traditions of the
non-Sclavonic portion of Europe have preserved only obscure intimations
and vague traces."
* * * * *
Hertz, of Berlin, has just published a book which we think can hardly
fail of a speedy reproduction in both English and French. Its title is
_Erinnerungen aus Paris_ (Recollections of Paris) 1817-1848. It is
written by a German lady, who passed these eventful years, or most of
them, in the French capital, and here narrates, in a lively and genial
style, her observations and experiences. She was connected with the
_haute finance_, moved among the lords of the exchange and their
followers, and being endowed by nature with remarkable penetration,
taste for art, no aversion to politics, and a genial social faculty, she
knew all the more prominent personages of the time in public affairs,
society, art, science, and money-making, and brings them before her
readers with great success. Louis XVIII. and the members of his family,
Talleyrand, Decazes, Courier, Constant, Humboldt, Cuvier, Madame
Tallien, De Stael, Delphine Gay, Gerard, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, Liszt,
are among the actors whom she introduces in most real and living
proportions. Here is a charming specimen of her skill in portraiture.
She is speaking of Madame Tallien, then Princess of Chimay, whom she saw
in 1818: "She was then some forty years old. Her age could to some
extent be arrived at, for it was known that in 1794 she was scarcely
twenty, and her full person, inclining to stoutness, showed that the
first bloom of youth was gone, but it would be difficult again to find
beauty so well preserved, or to meet with a more imposing appearance.
Tall, commanding, radiant, she recalled the historic beauties of
antiquity. So one would imagine Ariadne, Dido, Cleopatra; a perfect
bust, shoulders, and arms; white as an animated statue, regular
features, flashing eyes, pearly teeth, hair of raven blackness, hers was
a mien, speech, and movement, which ravished every beholder." Had we
space we might give some longer translations from this interesting
volume, for which our readers would thank us, but we must forbear.
* * * * *
THE LATEST GERMAN NOVELS.--Theodore Muegge, who is somewhat known in this
country through Dr. Furness's translation of his novel on Toussaint
L'Ouverture, has published at Ensleben _Koenig Jacob's Letzte Tage_ (the
Last Days of King James), a historical romance, with the English James
II. for its hero. The principal characters, that of the King, of
Jeffreys, and William of Orange, are drawn successfully. The critics
complain, however, that it lacks continuous interest, and a continuous
and connected plot. To understand it, one must have a history of the
period at hand to refer to. Muegge is not a great romancer, even for
Germany. In politics he is one of those democrats who would yet have a
hereditary chief at the head of the government. Glimpses of this
tendency appear in this novel. Arnold Ruge has also spent a portion of
his enforced leisure (he is an exile at London) in writing a romance
called the _Demokrat_, which he has published in Germany, along
with some previous similar productions, under the title of
_Revolutions-Novellen_. It is full of Ruge's keen, logical talent, and
on-rushing energy, but is deficient in esthetic beauty and interest. He
never forgets the Hegelian dialectics even when he writes novels.
_Clemens Metternich_, _and Ludwig Kossuth_, by Siegmund Kolisch, is a
skilfully done but not great production. Uffo Horn has a new series of
tales, which he calls _Aus drei Iahrhunderten_ (From three Centuries.)
They are stories of 1690, 1756, and 1844, and are worth reading. Horn
seizes with success upon the features of an epoch, but is not so good in
depicting individual character. The _Freischaren Novellen_ (Free-corp
Novels) of W. Hamm, are stories of modern warlike life, and are written
with point and spirit. Stifter has published the sixth volume of his
_Studien_, which, to those who know this charming off-shoot of the
disappearing romantic school, it is high praise to say, is as good as
any of the former volumes, if not better. Stifter always keeps himself
remote from the agitations of the time, and sings his song, and weaves
his still and lovely enchantments, as if they were not. This new volume
contains a complete romance, the _Zwei Schwestern_ (Two Sisters), which
cannot be read without touching the inmost heart, while it delights the
fancy. Spindler has a humorous novel, whose hero, a travelling clerk or
bagman, meets with a variety of amusing adventures. Like many other
books of the comical order, it is tedious when taken in large doses. The
reader, at first amused, soon lays it down. Caroline von Goehren appears
with a series of _Novellen_, which receive no great commendation. The
_Ostergabe_ (Easter Gift), by Frederica Bremer, which has just appeared
in Germany, is spoken of as her best production. It contains pictures of
northern life, and of those domestic influences which Miss Bremer so
delights to glorify. The _Gesammelte Erzaehlungen_ (Collected Tales) of
W. G. von Horn, lately published at Frankfort, are worth the attention
of those whose novel reading is not confined to our own language. The
style is clear and pleasing, and the characters full of truth and
naturalness. The _Erzaehlungen aus dem Volksleben der Schwerz_ (Tales of
Popular Life in Switzerland) by Ieremias Gotthelf, also deserves a
respectful mention. Gotthelf is a religious moralist, who sets forth the
doctrines of virtue, religious trust in God, and the blessed influence
of domestic life, in a pleasing and effective manner.
* * * * *
DR. SCHAeFFNER'S _Geschichte der Rechtsverfassung Frankreichs_ ("History
of French Law"), just published, is noticed with high praise by the
_Frankfurt Oberpostamts Zeitung_. The work has just been completed by
the publication of the fourth volume, which only confirms the reputation
which the earlier portions gained for the author among the jurists of
all Europe. Dr. Schaeffner, with equal learning and perspicacity, sets
forth the relation of French law, and the changes it has undergone, to
the history of the political institutions of the country. In this
respect the work interests a much wider public than is ordinarily
addressed by a juridical treatise. It opens with an account of the
conflict between the elements of Roman and German law in France. Then it
exposes the establishment of the feudal aristocracy and its contests
with the power of the Church; next, the culmination of the royal
authority, based on a bureaucratic administration, its final fall into
the hands of the triumphant revolution, and its subjection to the
various powers that have succeeded each other within the last sixty
years. The fourth and last volume contains the history of the
Constitution, of Law, and of the administration from the revolution of
1789 to the revolution of 1848. Dr. Schaeffner exhibits in this volume no
admiration for the various attempts to re-create the State according to
abstract theories; he goes altogether for moderate progress, gradual
reform, and keeping up the relation between the present and the past.
* * * * *
The fate of BONPLAND, the eminent traveller and naturalist, is a topic
of discussion in Germany. It seems that in a speech made in the Senate
of Brazil, in August last, Count Abrantes said that Bonpland, after
being released from his eighteen years' detention in Paraguay, had so
far lost the habits and tastes of civilization that he had settled in a
remote corner of Brazil, near Alegrete, in the province of Rio Grande du
Sol, where he got his living by keeping a small shop and selling
tobacco, &c., and that he avoided all mention of his former scientific
labors and reputation. It seems, however, that Bonpland still maintains
a correspondence on scientific subjects with his old friend Humboldt,
which exhibits no falling off either in his tendencies or powers. On the
other hand, some suppose that he does not return to Europe because he
has taken an Indian wife, and finds himself happier in the wilderness in
her company.
* * * * *
An _official Russian account of operations in Hungary during_ 1849 has
been published at Berlin, in two volumes. It is by a colonel of the
general staff, and gives a detailed narrative of the entire doings of
the Russian forces in that memorable campaign. It casts a full light
upon the differences between Paskiewich and Haynau, and accuses the
latter, apparently not without reason, of the grossest mismanagement.
Even his famous march to Szegedin, which has passed for as brilliant and
well-planned as it was a successful manoeuvre, is not spared. Of
course, as regards matters of detail, this writer varies largely from
previous statements of the Austrians.
* * * * *
The second volume of Buelau's _Secret History and Mysterious Individuals_
has just been published by Brockhaus at Leipzic. The first volume was
published at the beginning of last year, and has been made known to
American readers by an interesting review of it in _Blackwood's
Magazine_, accompanied by copious extracts. It is undeniable that
Professor Buelau has had access to materials unknown to previous writers,
which he has used with laudable conscientiousness, to clear up many
obscure points in history, and to explain the motives of many persons
whose actions have been wondered at but not understood.
* * * * *
A work of some pretensions has just been published at Stuttgart, with
the title, _Italiens Zukunft_ (Italy's Future), by FR. KOeLLE, who gives
in it the fruit of seventeen years' residence in the country he treats
of. He begins with the original elements composing the Romanic Nations,
and goes on to consider the state of the country at the time of the
Revolution, the doings of the French, the Restoration, the cities,
commerce and navigation, the nobles, the peasantry, the Church,
monastical religious orders, the Jesuits, possibility of Church reform,
foreign influence, intellectual and scientific activity, Mazzini,
prospects in case of a future revolution, &c.
* * * * *
A German translation of selections from the works of Dr. CHANNING is
being published at Berlin. There are to be fifteen small volumes, of
which six or seven have already appeared. The _Grenzboten_ does not
think much of the author, but classes him with Schleiremacher and his
school. It says that Dr. Channing was a special favorite with women,
which it seems not to intend for a compliment.
* * * * *
M. FLOURENS, one of the perpetual secretaries of the French Academy of
Science, has published at Paris a collection of elegant and valuable
essays. They comprise a dissertation on George Cuvier, one on
Fontenelle, who is said to have best succeeded in casting on the
sciences the light of philosophy, and an examination of phrenology,
which M. Flourens discusses in the spirit of a disciple of Descartes and
Leibnitz.
* * * * *
JACQUES ARAGO, author of _Souvenirs d'un Aveugle_ (A Voyage Round the
World), &c., and brother of the astronomer and ex-minister, is one of
the most remarkable characters of Paris. He is stone _blind_, and has
been so for years; and yet he placed himself at the head of a band of
gold seekers, and conducted them to California. Recently he returned to
Paris, with little gold--indeed, with none at all--but in his voyage he
met some extraordinary adventures, and is about to communicate them to
the public in a volume. Jacques Arago is eminent in Paris not more for
his abilities as a man of letters than for his fastidiousness, devotion,
and success as a _roue_. If Love is sometimes blind, he is keen-sighted
for the sightless Arago, who boasts of having loved and been loved by
the most beautiful women of France.
* * * * *
The military history of the Napoleonic period has received a new
contribution in the _War of 1806 and 1807_, just published at Berlin, by
Col. Hoepfner, in two volumes. It is prepared from documents in the
Prussian archives, and illustrated with maps and plans of battles. Not
only does it add to our previous stock of information as to the military
operations in Germany during these eventful years, but it serves at the
same time as a history of the dissolution of that state which Frederic
the Great erected with such labor and perseverance. We have here, in
short, a picture of the downfall of the old Prussian military-system.
* * * * *
A new work on FRENCH HISTORY during the middle ages is _La France au
temps des Croisades_, by M. Vaublanc, which has lately made its
appearance at Paris, in four handsome octavo volumes. It is the fruit of
long and conscientious researches, and is written in a style of
seductive elegance. The author is no dry chronicler, or plodding
statician, but an artist, fully alive to the picturesqueness of his
topic. He carries his reader with him into the time and the scenes he
describes, and makes him a participant in the romantic and adventurous
life of the period. His book is thus as entertaining as it is
instructive.
* * * * *
A convenient book of reference for those who deal with the more
recondite and interesting questions of history is the _Statistique des
Peuples de l'Antiquite_, by M. Moreau de Jonnes, just published at
Paris. It is a work of great erudition and even originality. All sorts
of facts as to the social condition of the Egyptians, Hebrews, Greeks,
Romans, and Gauls, may be gathered from it. Another new work of a
similar character is entitled _Du Probleme de la Misere et de sa
solution chez tous les Peuples Anciens et Modernes_, by M. Moreau
Christophe. Two volumes only have been published; a third is to follow.
Price $1.50 a volume.
* * * * *
A translation of M'CULLOCH' _Principles of Political Economy_ has
appeared at Paris, in four vols. 8vo. The translator is M.A. Planche.
* * * * *
LOUIS VIARDOT has published in Paris a _Histoire des Arabes et des Mores
d'Espagne_. The excellent translator of _Don Quixote_ ought to produce a
striking work on this subject. The Count ALBERT DE CIRCOURT, too, has
published a new edition of his _Histoire des Mores Mudejares et des
Morisques; ou des Arabes d'Espagne sous la domination des Chretiens_.
Few topics in history have been until recently so much neglected as that
of the Moorish races in Europe, and a good deal of what has appeared on
the subject has been put together rather with a view to romantic effect
than with a proper respect for the responsibility of the historian;
though all Spanish history, Christian or Saracen, so abounds in romantic
interest that there is less excuse, as less necessity, for outstepping
the limits of truth, or giving undue prominence to the pathetic and
marvellous. From this defect of most of his predecessors, the work of
the Count de Circourt is in a great measure free. He has made a
dexterous and conscientious use of the materials within his reach, and
produced a work which unites to an unusual degree popularity of style
with matter of great novelty and interest. There are few spectacles in
modern times more attractive, or hitherto more imperfectly understood,
than the condition of the Spanish Moors, from the time when they became
a subject race, until their final expulsion from Europe in 1610. The
reason why more attention has not been given to this subject, must be
looked for in the fact that the expelled people were Mahometans, and
that they took refuge in Africa, not in Europe. They had not, as the
Protestants of France had, an England, Holland, and Germany to
sympathize with and shelter them;--though, taking it with all its
consequences, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes was not a more
important event in history, or more pregnant with injury to the power
that enforced it, than the expulsion of the Moors from Spain. In folly
and perversity the last transaction has pre-eminence. Louis XIV. revoked
the Edict of Nantes, when he and his empire were at the summit of their
power; but Philip III. chose the luckless moment for expatriating the
most energetic and industrious of the inhabitants of Spain, when the
virtual acknowledgment of the independence of the Dutch, and the
concession to them of free trade to India, now assailed the prestige of
Spanish supremacy in Europe, and the commerce of Portugal, at that time
subject to Spain. From that hour the Peninsula declined with unexampled
rapidity; and though, in course of time, the progress of decay became
less marked, it was not finally arrested until two centuries after, when
the invasion of Napoleon re-awakened Spanish energies, and freed them
from the trammels which had impeded their development. Two centuries of
degradation are a heavy penalty for a nation to pay for pride and
intolerance; though not heavier than Spanish perfidy and cruelty to the
Moors most richly deserved. In accordance with his design of treating of
the Moors as a subject race, the Count de Circourt has given only a
brief summary of their early history when they were ascendant in Spain.
With the rise of the Christian and decline of the Mahometan power, the
subject is more minutely, but still succinctly treated, the four
centuries from the capture of Toledo to that of Granada being comprised
in the first volume. The two remaining volumes are occupied exclusively
with the history of the Moors from the overthrow of Grenada to their
final expulsion from Spain. The various efforts made to convert and
control them, and their struggles to regain their independence and
preserve their faith, are copiously treated, but a subject so peculiar
and hitherto so unjustly neglected, needed early discussion. We know not
where the character of that worst species of oppression, where the
antagonism of race is aggravated by differences of creed, can be so
advantageously studied as in this portion of Spanish history. Nor is the
early history when the Moors, still a powerful people, were treated with
comparative consideration by their antagonists, deficient in traits of
the highest interest, and lessons which oppressors of the present day
would do well to lay to heart.
We observe that M. de Circourt agrees very nearly with Madame Anita
George (whose views upon the subject we recently noticed in _The
International_) respecting Queen Isabella. He says:
"The Spaniards speak only with enthusiasm of this Princess.
They place her in the rank of their best monarchs, and history,
adopting the popular judgment, has given her the title of
"Great." If we consider merely the grandeur of the fabric she
erected, the appellation will appear merited; if its solidity
had been taken into consideration, her reputation must have
suffered. Nations in general make more account of talents than
of the use that has been made of them. They reserve for princes
favored by fortune the homage which they ought to pay to good
and honest princes, who have exercised paternal rule. They
deify him who knows how to subjugate them. Thus it happens in
all countries that the king who has established absolute
monarchy is styled the great king. But it happens often that
such founders have built up the present at the expense of the
future. In Spain absolute monarchy sent forth for a time a
formidable lustre, and then came suddenly a protracted period
of progressive decay, which ended in the revolutions of which
we have been witnesses. Barren glory, shameful prostration,
interminable and possibly fruitless revolution, are all the
work of Isabella."
This is very different from the estimate of Mr. Prescott, but perhaps
more just. In his forthcoming _Memoirs of the Reign of Philip the
Second_, Mr. Prescott will have to trace the results of Spanish policy
toward the Moors. We shall compare his views with those of MM. Circourt
and Viardot.
* * * * *
M. DE VILLEMERQUE has translated the _Poeme des Bardes Bretons du VI.
Siecle_, and the book is praised by the French critics.
* * * * *
LOUIS PHILIPPE'S last apology for his policy as King of the French has
just made its appearance at Paris, and justly excites attention. It is a
pamphlet written by M. Edward Lemoine, and bears the title of
_L'abdication du roi Louis Philippe raccontee par lui meme_. It is the
report of a series of conversations which M. Lemoine had with the
deceased King during the month of October, 1849, and which he was
authorized to give to the world after his death. The writer gives every
thing in the words of Louis Philippe, as they were uttered either in
reply to questions or spontaneously in reference to the topics under
discussion. The exiled monarch defends his conduct in every particular
with ingenuity and force, dwelling especially on his abdication, on his
refusal to yield to the opposition and admit the demanded reform, which
brought on the revolution, on his abandoning Paris with so little effort
at resistance, on his peace policy, and on the Spanish marriages. He
denies emphatically that he or his family had thought of or undertaken
any conspiracy with a view to recovering the throne. His children, he
said, had been taught that when their country spoke they must obey, and
that the duty of a patriot was to be ready, whatever she might command.
This they had understood, and in all cases practised. Accordingly they
had always been, and always would be strangers to intrigues.
As for his persistence in keeping the Guizot ministry, that was
commanded by every constitutional principle. That ministry had a
majority in the Chambers as large even as that which overthrew Charles
X.; how then should the King interfere against this majority? Besides,
had not what happened since February demonstrated that he was right? The
policy of every government since June, 1848, had resembled, as nearly as
could be conceived, the very policy of the ministry so much and so
unjustly complained of.
Guizot had in fact promised reform. He had said that the instant the
Chambers should vote against him he would retire, and the first measure
of his successors would be reform. As for himself, said Louis Philippe,
he had understood that this was only a pretext. Reform would be the
entrance on power of the opposition, the entrance of the opposition
would be war, would be the beginning of the end. Accordingly he had
determined to abdicate as soon as the opposition assumed the reins of
government; for he no longer would be himself supported by public
opinion. The want of this support it was which finally caused him to
abandon the throne without resistance. He could not have kept it without
civil war. For this he had always felt an insurmountable horror, and he
had never regretted that in February Marshal Bugeaud had so soon ordered
the firing to stop. Besides, nobody advised him to defend himself, but
the contrary. He had then nothing to do but to follow the example of his
ministers who had abdicated, of his friends who had abdicated, of the
national guard who had abdicated, of the public conscience which had
abdicated. He did not take this step till after the universal
abdication. But if he had fought and lost, and died fighting, who could
tell the horrors that would have ensued? Or if he had triumphed, all
France would have exclaimed against him as sanguinary and selfish, a bad
prince, a scourge to the nation, and ere many months a new insurrection
would have made an end. Victory would have been more disastrous than
exile. He had done well to abdicate, and were the crisis to recur, he
would not act otherwise. He had abandoned power (of which he was accused
of being so greedy) as soon as he understood that he could no longer
hold it to the advantage of his country.
As for the charge of avarice, that was abundantly disproved by the
publication of the manner in which he had employed the civil list, and
by the fact that he was covered with debts. He had spent like a King
without counting, and now that he had to pay he was obliged to borrow.
And it is rather curious, said he, that the furniture employed in the
festivals of the Republican President of the Assembly is my personal
property, and that the horses and carriages of which so free use has
been made, had been paid for from my own purse. This however, was a
trifle not worth speaking of.
If he had suffered from falsehoods printed in the journals, print had
however done him justice in giving to the world his private letters.
These had set right his private character as well as his public policy.
He only wished that those papers had all been published, and published
more widely. They did more for the glorification of his policy than the
speeches of his most eloquent ministers. They proved that his had never
been a policy of peace at any price. He had besieged Antwerp without the
consent of England; he had sent an army to Ancona, though Metternich had
declared that a Frenchman in Italy would be war in Europe. His
government had always acted boldly and firmly, and had been respected.
Why, only a few weeks before February, the great powers of Europe had
asked of France to settle with her alone, and without consulting
England, some of the questions which might compromise the equilibrium of
Europe. Such was the consideration in which France was then held.
As to the Spanish marriages, that was all done in the interest of
France, and not, as had been charged, of his dynasty. If the latter were
the thing he had aimed at, would he have refused the crown of Belgium,
or of Greece, or of Portugal, for Nemours? Would he have refused the
hand of Isabella for Aumale or Montpensier? No; he merely sought to
render his country independent of England, and not her dupe. The
_entente cordiale_ in the hands of Lord Palmerston was becoming
treacherous. He recollected the saying of Metternich, that the alliance
of France and England was useful, like the alliance of man and horse.
He determined to be the man, and by those marriages accomplished it.
There was already a Cobourg in Belgium, one in England, and one in
Portugal; could France allow another to be set up in Spain? So far the
conversations of Louis Philippe relate to matters of his own history.
From this he was led to speak briefly of Charles X., and things
preceding the downfall of that prince. For this we must refer our
readers to the pamphlet itself, which will doubtless be imported by some
of our booksellers, if not soon translated into English and published
entire. It cannot be read without interest. We give its substance above,
without thinking it necessary to criticise any of the statements of the
exiled prince.
* * * * *
M. AUDIN, a French historian, whose histories of Leo X., Luther, Calvin,
and Henry VIII., are known to those who have sought an acquaintance with
the Catholic view of those personages and their times, died on the 21st
February, in his carriage, near Avignon. He was returning to Paris from
Rome, where he had been to finish a new work, and to recover his health,
which intense devotion to study had undermined. His expectations were
not realized, and he returned to his own country to expire before
reaching his home. At Marseilles, where he landed, the physicians
dissuaded him from attempting to go further, but he refused to be guided
by their advice. The works of Audin have been much read in this country.
They are singularly unscrupulous.
* * * * *
The Imperial Academy of Sciences at Vienna has just published an essay
by the eminent Spanish scholar Ferdinand Wolf, which justly excites
attention in the learned circles of Europe. It is on a collection of
Spanish romances which exists in manuscript in the library of the
University at Prague. Among these are many which are found in no other
collection, and have hitherto remained unknown. Some of them, relating
to the Cid, are very remarkable. They make a hundred romances discovered
by Wolf, whose former collection (_Rosa de Romances_), published in
1846, and whose work on the romance-poetry of the Spaniards, are known
to all students of that kind of literature.
* * * * *
A new weekly journal, under the title of _Le Bien-Etre Universel_ (The
Universal Well-Being), appeared at Paris on the 24th February. It
advocates Girardin's idea of the abolition of taxes, and the support of
the government by the assumption by the latter of the whole business of
insurance. Among the contributors are Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, Francois
Vidal, E. Quinet, Alphonse Esquiros, and Eugene Pelletan. It is
published in quarto form, of the largest size permitted by the law, at
$1.20 a year, and furnishes, in addition to its political and economical
articles, a full summary of news, political, commercial, literary, and
miscellaneous.
* * * * *
The _Revue Brittanique_ has some interesting facts as to the English
book trade. It says: "The great booksellers, like Longman & Murray, must
be encouraged by the result of the speculations ventured on by the
booksellers of Paris." Is it not wonderful that articles from reviews,
which one would suppose would lose their interest in the course of time,
and which have been circulated in the Edinburgh or Quarterly to the
extent of ten thousand or twelve thousand copies, should be sold in
reprints at a high price, and live through two, three, or even six
editions? The articles of Macaulay are going through the sixth edition,
although the book costs a pound sterling. Of Macaulay's History of
England Longman has sold between 20,000 and 30,000 copies, and
Thirlwall's and Grote's Histories of Greece, though they have not the
same immediate, exciting interest, sell well, notwithstanding they are
so long. Mure's and Talfourd's Histories of Greek literature are put
forth in new editions. The reviews, instead of injuring the sale of
solid works, increase it. Occasional books, like travels, biographies,
&c., naturally have their public interest, but most of them are sold at
half price within three months of their appearance. At London there are
circulating libraries which lend out books, not only in the city itself,
but all over England: the railroads have extended their business very
greatly. In order to satisfy as many customers as possible, they buy
some works by hundreds. For instance, such a circulating library has two
hundred copies of Macaulay's History, a hundred of Layard's Nineveh, a
hundred of Cumming's hunting adventures, and so on. When the first
excitement about a book is over, these extra copies are put into
handsome binding and disposed of for half price. The system of cheap
publishing has not yet much affected the circulating libraries in
England, while in this country it has destroyed them. Books can be
bought here now for the former cost of reading them.
* * * * *
A book worthy of all commendation is the _Histoire des Protestants de
France_, from the Reformation to the present time, by M. G. de Felice,
published at Paris. The author treats his subject with all that peculiar
talent which renders French historians always interesting and
instructive. He is clear, forcible, judicious, and profound, without
pedantry or sectarian zeal. The action of his story is dramatic, the
delineation of his characters as glowing as it is just, and his
sympathies so true and generous, and at the same time so tolerant, that
the reader follows him attentively from the beginning to the end. The
Huguenots were worthy of such a historian, for though persecuted for
their opinions, they never ceased to love their country, or to wish to
live at peace with their enemies and serve her. Rarely has a body of men
produced nobler characters. This book fills a vacuum in French history.
* * * * *
Modern Greek Literature is by no means so wild and imperfect as might be
expected from a nation in such a chaotic and uncultivated condition. The
people of Greece are hardly more civilized than the Servians, the
Dalmatians, or any other of the half-savage tribes that inhabit the
south-eastern corner of Europe, but the influence exercised by the
antique glory of the land still remains to develop among them a degree
of artistic power and beauty unknown to their neighbors. And little as
Greece has gained generally from the introduction of German royalty and
German office-holders, it has no doubt profited by the greater attention
thus excited toward the works of the mighty poets who stand alone and
unharmed after all else that their times produced has fallen into ruin.
Thus, since the incoming of the Bavarians there has been growing up a
disposition in favor of the early literature, and against the newer and
less elegant forms of the modern language. The purification of the
latter, and its restoration to something like the old classical
perfection, the abandonment of rhyme, which is the universal form of the
proper new Greek verse, and even the employment of the ancient
mythological expressions, are the characteristic aims of some of the
most gifted of living Hellene writers. In this way there are two
distinct classes of cotemporaneous literature to be found in the
Peninsula; the one consists of these somewhat reactionary and romantic
lovers of the past, the other of the fresh, native products of the
people, independent as far as possible of antiquity, and altogether
unaffected by learned studies. The latter is mainly lyric in its
character, and has often a wild beauty, which is none the less
attractive because it is purely natural. These songs deal more with
nature than those of the Sclavonic tribes, with which Mrs. Robinson has
made us so well acquainted. The brooks, the hills, the sky, the birds,
appear in them, and for human interest, some adventurous _Klepht_, some
fighting and dying robber, is brought upon the scene.
The best of the Romaic literature is no doubt the dramatic. This is
natural, for the Greeks are still a representative and dramatic people.
Until comparatively lately the poets confined themselves, if not to
modern subjects, at least to the modern genius of their language. Their
dramas were written in rhyme, and with a total disregard of the antique
principles of rhythm. Quantity was supplanted by following the accents,
and the exterior of the piece was more that of a French play than like
the drama of any other nation. The specimen of this style most
accessible to American students is the _Aspasia_ of Rizos, published in
Boston some twenty years ago, a tragedy, by the way, well worth reading.
But latterly, the antique tendency prevailing, plays are written in the
old measures, and with all the old machinery. This is in fact a
revolutionary proceeding, but we hope may not be without its use, for
Greece is not now rich enough to make useless experiments. One of these
plays has been translated into German, and thus made accessible to those
of the readers of that language whose studies have not reached into the
musical Romaic. It is called _The Wedding of Kutrulis_, an Aristophanic
Comedy, by Alexandros Rhisos Rhangawis. The form used by the great
Athenian satirist is perfectly reproduced, and an original and hearty
wit is not wanting. The Aristophanic dress is justified by the poet in
some lines which we thus render into the rudeness of English:
Though he trimeters boldly arranges together, and anapaests weaves
with each other,
'Tis not weakness in words that compels him, nor fear at the rhymes'
double ringing;
In spans he can syllables harness with skill, as a fledgling should do
of the muses,
And where thoughts and poetic ideas there are none, words can heap up in
[Greek: ia] and [Greek: azei],
But mid the verdure of laurels eternally green, and by Castaly's ever pure
fountains,
There found he all broken and voiceless the pipe that, in rage at these
poets profaning,
At these now-a-day sons of Marsyas, the noble old Muse had flung from her.
The subject and story of this comedy are drawn from the actual life of
the people. Spyros, a tavern-keeper in Athens, has promised his daughter
Anthusia to Kutrulis, a rich tailor. The young lady's notions are
however above tailors; her husband must wear epaulettes and orders. If
Kutrulis wants her hand, he must become minister. He despairs at first,
but as others have become ministers, there is a chance for him.
Accordingly, the needful intrigues and solicitations are set on foot.
The strophe of the chorus by the sovereign public is too characteristic
and too Attic for us not to try to render it, though perhaps only the
few who have dipped in the well of the antique drama can appreciate it:
O muse of the billiard room,
Thou that from mocha's odor-pouring steam,
And from the ringlets, white-curling from pipes on high
Thine inspiration drawest, of venal sort!
Here's a new minister must be appointed now.
Up and strike the praising strings!
Up, O muse of the mob's grace,
Put forth in the rosy pages of newspapers
Dithyrambic articles!
The hero praise aloud!
To succeed in his ambition, Kutrulis must choose a party with which to
identify himself. Accordingly the Russian, the British and the French
parties, the three into which Greek public men are divided, are
introduced, and each urges the reasons why he should become its
partisan. This gives the poet an admirable opportunity for the use of
satire, which he improves excellently. Kutrulis pledges himself to each
of these candidates for his support, but mean while his friends have
spread the report that he has actually been appointed minister. Now the
swarm of office-seekers and speculators of all sorts come to solicit his
favor and exhibit their own corruption. This part of the drama is
treated with keen effect. While the report of his appointment is
believed by himself and others, Kutrulis marries the scheming Anthusia,
who presently wakes from her illusion to find that she is only a
tailor's wife after all. She declares that by way of revenge she will
compel her husband to give her a new dress every week, and the piece
ends to the amusement of everybody.
* * * * *
M. PLANCHE, the oldest Professor and the most learned Grecian at Paris,
has just issued the first number of a _Dictionnaire du Style poetique
dans la Langue Grecque_. This dictionary is in fact a concordance of
Greek, Latin, and French poetry. It offers a complete and curious
illustration of the origin and growth of figurative words and phrases,
and of their transfer from one language to another. The word _anchor_,
for instance, was one of the earliest among the Greeks, a marine people,
to take on a metaphorical sense. We see this even in Pindar, who speaks
of his heroes as _casting anchor on the summit of happiness_. M. Planche
follows this typical use of the word in Virgil, in Ovid, and in Racine,
the last of whom says in the _Pleaders_:
"Natheless, gentlemen,
The anchor of your goodness us assures."
To the curious student of words and their internal senses this
Dictionary is evidently a book worth having.
* * * * *
M. ELIAS REGNAULT has undertaken to continue the _Dix Ans_ of LOUIS
BLANC, in the shape of _L'Histoire de Huit Ans_ 1840--48. Few works had
ever so powerful an influence as Blanc's "Ten Years." The events of the
eight years of which Regnault proposes a history were in no
inconsiderable degree fruits of this work.
* * * * *
MR. HALLAM, on the 13th of February, sent a letter to the Society of
Antiquaries, in London, announcing in consequence of his recent
bereavement, he wished at the next anniversary to relinquish the office
of Vice-President, which he had filled for the last thirty years; having
been a member of the Society for more than half a century, and having
during that period contributed many papers to its transactions. A
resolution was proposed by Mr. Payne Collier, seconded by Mr. Bruce,
expressive of respect for Mr. Hallam, sincere sympathy with his
afflictions, and sorrow at his retirement. In a subsequent letter, Mr.
Hallam stated that he should continue to be a member of the Society.
* * * * *
GENERAL SIR WILLIAM NAPIER has published a new edition of his History
of the War in the Peninsula--the best military history in the English
language--and in his new preface he states that he is indebted to Lady
Napier, his wife, not only for the arrangement and translation of an
enormous pile of official correspondence, written in three languages,
but for that which is far more extraordinary, the elucidation of the
secret ciphers of Jerome Bonaparte and others.
* * * * *
In a recent number of _The International_ we printed a poem by Charles
Mackay, entitled _Why this Longing?_ without observing that it was a
plagiarism from a much finer poem by Harriet Winslow List, of Portland,
which may be found in The Female Poets of America, page 354.
* * * * *
A descriptive catalogue of the books and pamphlets educed by the
reinstitution of the Roman Catholic Hierarchy in England, would be a
very entertaining work. It is astonishing how active the English become
in pamphleteering when any such engrossing subject comes before the
people or the parliament. The Duke of Sussex carefully preserved every
thing in this shape that was printed during the discussion of Catholic
Emancipation, and after his death we purchased his collection, which
amounted to about _seventy thick volumes_, and includes autograph
certificates of presentation from "Peter Plimley," and perhaps a hundred
other combatants. The present discussions will be not less voluminous,
and it promises to be vastly more entertaining. The matter of the holy
chair of St. Peter, with the Mohammedan inscription, upon which the
_verd antique_ Lady Morgan has published two or three letters as witty
and pungent as ever came from the pen of an Irishwoman, will afford
pleasant material for the last chapter of her ladyship's memoirs.
Warren, the author of _Ten Thousand a Year_, Dr. Twiss, the biographer
of Eldon, Dr. George Croly, the poet, Walter Savage Landor, and Sheridan
Knowles, the dramatist, are among the more famous of the disputants on
the Protestant side. The author of "Virginius" professes to review
Archbishop Wiseman's lectures on _Transubstantiation_, and the _Literary
Gazette_ says he thoroughly demolishes that dogma, which, however, "no
one supposes that any Romanist of education and common sense believes.
It is understood on all hands that whatever defence or explanation is
offered, is only for the sake of affording plausible apology to the
vulgar for a dogma which the infallibility of the church requires to be
unchangeably retained. The reply of the philosophical churchman,
_populus vult decipi et decipiatur_, is that which many a priest would
give if privately pressed on the subject." The _Literary Gazette_ makes
a very common but very absurd mistake, for which no Roman Catholic would
thank him. The church does maintain the doctrine, and the most
"philosophical" churchman would be dealt with in a very summary manner
if he should publicly deny it. The _Literary Gazette_ adds that Knowles
"displays complete mastery of the principles and familiarity with the
details of the controversy," which we can scarcely believe upon the
_Gazette's_ testimony until it evinces for itself a little more
knowledge of the matter.
The only one of these works that has been reprinted in this country is
Landor's, which we receive from Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston.
* * * * *
R. H. HORNE, the dramatist, and author of _Orion_,--upon which his best
reputation is likely to rest--has just published in London _The Dreamer
and the Worker_, in two volumes.
* * * * *
Mr. ROEBUCK, the radical member of Parliament, is continuing his History
of the Whigs.
* * * * *
It is not be denied that Miss MARTINEAU is one of the cleverest women of
our time; deafness and ugliness have induced her to cultivate to the
utmost degree her intellectual faculties, and several of her books are
illustrations of a mind even masculine in its power and activity; but
the constitutional feebleness, waywardness, and wilfulness of woman is
nevertheless not unfrequently evinced by her, and as she grows older the
infirmities of her nature are more and more conspicuous; vexed with
neglect, without the kindly influences of home or friendship, without
the consolations or hopes of religion, she seems now ambitious of
attention only, and willing to sacrifice every thing womanly or
respectable to attract to herself the eyes of the world--the last thing,
in her case, one would think desirable. In the book she has just
published--_Letters on Man's Nature and Development, by Harriet
Martineau and H. G. Atkinson_--she avows the most positive and shameless
atheism: Christians have had little regard for Pagan deities--she will
have as little for theirs! The sun rose yesterday; the fishes still swim
in the sea; all the world goes on as before; but she cares not a fig for
any deities, Christian or pagan--and don't believe a word of the
immortality of the soul! In this new book, of which she is the chief
author, the interlocutors place implicit credence in all the phenomena
of mesmerism, and they cannot believe there is any thing in man's being
or existence or conscience beyond what the senses reach, beyond what the
scalpel discloses in the brain. They trace acts and motions and even
inclinations to the brain, and deny that there is or can be any thing in
contact which can influence it. _Cerebrum et praeterea nihil_ is their
motto. The book is the apotheosis of that lump of marrow and fibre. And
yet this brain, which is so jealously guarded from any spiritual or
immaterial influence, is declared to be completely under the direction
of any man or woman who may pass a hand, with faith, backwards and
forwards over the skull. The extremities of the body--the fingers--send
forth and radiate certain electric, or galvanic, or invisible
influences, and thus one has full power over another's organization and
volition! But as to any influence beyond the sensible world, that Miss
Martineau stoutly denies. The following passage is not an uninteresting
specimen of this foolish production:
"I observed that under the influence of mesmerism some patients
would spontaneously place their hand, or rather the ends of
their fingers, on that part of the brain in action; and these
were persons wholly ignorant of phrenology. In some cases the
hand would pass very rapidly from part to part, as the organs
became excited. If the habit of action was encouraged, they
would follow every combination with precision: and if one hand
would not do they would use both to cover distant parts in
action at the same time. I was delighted with their effects;
but did not consider them very extraordinary, because I had
been accustomed to observe the same phenomena, in a lesser
degree, in the ordinary or normal condition. I know some, who
on any excitement of their love of approbation, will rub their
hand over the organ immediately. Others, I have observed, when
irritated, pass the hand over destructiveness. I have observed
others hold their hand over the region of the attachments, as
they gazed on the object of their affections. I have watched
the poet inspired to write with the fingers pressing on the
region of ideality, and those listening to music leaning upon
the elbow, with the fingers pressing on the organ of music; and
I catch myself performing those actions continually, as if I
were a puppet moved by strings. You will observe, besides, how
the head follows the excited organ. The proud man throws his
head back; the fine man carries his head erect; vanity draws
the head on one side, with the hat on the opposite side; the
intellect presses the head forward; the affections throw it
back on the shoulders; and so with the rest."
* * * * *
The Right Honorable Sir JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE is created a peer with the
title of Baron Broughton de Gyfford, in the county of Wilts. His fame in
literature has long been lost, in England, in his reputation as a
politician; but in this country we know him only as rather a clever man
of letters. His most noticeable works that we remember, are, _A Journey
through Albania, in 1809, Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe
Harold, The State of Literature in Italy_, and two volumes entitled
_Letters from Paris during the last Reign of Napoleon_. His lordship
must be in the vicinity of seventy-five years of age.
* * * * *
Of "JUNIUS" there is still another book--though many good libraries
contain not so many volumes as have been written upon the subject--and
the journals have almost every month some new contributions to the
mystery, increasing the accumulation by which the face of the author is
hidden. The last work is entitled "Fac-simile Autograph Letters of
Junius, Lord Chesterfield and Mrs. C. Dayrolles, showing that the wife
of Mr. Solomon Dayrolles was the amanuensis employed in copying the
letters of Junius for the printer; with a Postscript to the first Essay
on Junius and his Works: by William Cramp, author of 'The Philosophy of
Language.'"
* * * * *
The _Passions of the Human Soul_, by Charles Fourier, translated from
the French by the Rev. John Reynell Morell, with critical annotations, a
biography of Fourier, and a general introduction, by Hugh Doherty, has
been published by Baliere of London (and of Fulton-street, New-York), in
two octavos. This is one of Fourier's greatest works, and the attention
given to his principles of society in this country will secure for it
many readers here.
* * * * *
THOMAS COLLEY GRATTAN, the author of _Highways and By-ways, Jacqueline
of Holland_, &c., and a few years ago, British Consul at Boston, is
coming to this country to give lectures. He will not be very
successful.
* * * * *
THE POEMS OF ALARIC A. WATTS, lately published in London, in a very
sumptuous edition,--though some of the plates have an oldish look--are
much commended in nearly all the reviews, and civilly treated even by
Fraser, who once described Watts as a fellow "of some talent in writing
verses on children dying of colic, and a skill in putting together
fiddle-faddle fooleries, which look pretty in print; in other respects
of an unwashed appearance; no particular principles, with well-bitten
nails, and a great genius for back-biting." Watts some twenty years
since had a controversy with Robert Montgomery who wrote _Satan_, in
such a manner as very much to please his hero (a difficult task in
biography), and one of the subjects of protracted and sharp discussion
concerned the names of the disputants. Watts maintained that the author
of "Hell," "Woman," "Satan," &c., was the son of a clown at Bath, named
Gomery; and in return Montgomery, who, allowing that as Watts was the
lawfully begotten son of a respectable nightman of the name of Joseph
Watts, he had a fair title to the patronymic, denied that he had any
claim to the gothic appellation of Alaric. "The man's name," said
Montgomery, "is Andrew." This was a great while ago, and the quarrels of
the time are happily forgotten. Watts is now fifty-seven years old, and
age has sobered him, and given him increase of taste, both as to scandal
and to writing verses. There are some extremely pretty things in this
book (which may be found at Putnam's).
* * * * *
THE STOWE MSS., including the unpublished diaries and correspondence of
George Grenville, have been bought by Mr. Murray. The diary reveals, it
is said, the secret movements of Lord Bute's administration, the private
histories of Wilkes and Lord Chatham, and the features of the early
madness of George III.; while the correspondence exhibits Wilkes in a
new light, and reveals (what the Stowe papers were expected to reveal)
something of moment about _Junius_. The whole will form about four
volumes, and will appear among the next winter's novelties.
* * * * *
The copyrights, steel plates, wood-cuts, stereotype plates, &c. of
_Walter Scott's works, and of his life, by Lockhart_, were to be sold in
London, by auction, on the 26th March. This property belonged to the
late Mr. Cadell of Edinburgh. The copyright of "Waverly" has five years
more to run, and that of the works generally does not terminate for
twenty years. This is the largest copyright property ever sold.
* * * * *
MR. LAYARD's fund having been exhausted, a subscription was lately set
on foot for him in London, and its success we hope will enable him to
prosecute his investigations with renewed vigor. He has, we hear,
entirely recovered from his late indisposition, and needs but a supply
of money to recommence his operations with renewed vigor.
* * * * *
HENRY ALFORD, a very pleasing poet, a profound scholar, and most
excellent man, is at the present time vicar of Wymeswold, in
Leicestershire, England. He was born in London in 1810, and in 1832
graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, of which he was afterwards
Fellow. In 1835 he was married to his cousin, to whom are written some
of his most charming effusions. At Easter in 1844 they lost one of their
four children, and the bereavement seems to have induced the composition
of many pieces full of tenderness and of remarkable beauty, which appear
in the collection of his poems. In 1841 he was elected one of the
lecturers in the University of Cambridge, and he is now, we believe,
Examiner in Moral and Intellectual Philosophy and Logic in the
University of London. He has published, besides his poetical works,
which appeared in two volumes, some years since, several volumes of
sermons, a work entitled _Chapters on the Poets of Ancient Greece_,
written for the Nottingham mechanics; a volume of _University Lectures_;
a work intended as a regular course of exercises in classical
composition; and the _Greek Testament_, with a critically revised text,
digest of various readings, &c., in which he has displayed sound
learning and judgment. He is also editor of a very complete collection
of the "Works of Donne", published some years ago at Oxford. The great
labor of his life, however, centres in his edition of the _Greek
Testament_, the first volume of which only, containing the four Gospels,
has appeared. He is now working hard, eight or ten hours a day, in his
theological researches, which promise a liberal harvest. We understand
that he has in contemplation a poem of considerable length, the
composition of which is to be the pleasant solace of his declining
years. Mr. Alford's minor poems have within a few years been very
popular in America, and won for their author the warm friendship and
sympathy of many who will probably never know him personally. His pure
domestic feeling, and hearty appreciation of whatever is most genial and
hopeful in human nature, entitle him to the distinction he enjoys of
being one of the truest "poets of the heart."
* * * * *
In a sketch of the artist ANDREW WILSON, who died in Edinburgh two years
ago, the _Art Journal_ gives the following postscript of a letter from
Sir David Wilkie to Wilson:
MADRID, _Dec. 24th, 1827._
MY DEAR SIR,--Having been employed by our mutual friend, Mr.
Wilkie, to copy the above, I cannot let the opportunity pass
unimproved of speaking a word in my own name, and to call to
your mind the pleasant hours we occasionally passed together
many years since. Let me express, my dear sir, my great
pleasure in thus renewing, after so long an interval, our
acquaintance. You, of course, if you can recollect any thing of
me, can only remember me as a raw, inexperienced youngster,
while you were already a man, valuable for information,
acquirements, and weight of character. With great regard, my
dear sir, believe me, truly yours,
WASHINGTON IRVING.
* * * * *
MR. ALISON, the historian, at a recent meeting of the Glasgow section of
the Architectural Institute of Scotland, delivered an address in which
he reviewed the state and progress of architecture, and its general
influence on the mind and on the progress of civilization, from the
period when it first became identified with Art to the present time.
* * * * *
The diet of Denmark has just voted to three poets of that nation a
yearly pension of 1,000 thalers each. Two of them were H. Herz and
Puludan Mueller; the name of the third we do not know.
* * * * *
The book of the month in New-York has been _Lavengro_ (published by
Putnam and by the Harpers in large editions.) Its success was a
consequence of the fame won by the author in his "Bible in Spain," &c.,
and of clever trickery in advertising. Generally, we believe, it has
disappointed. We agree very nearly about it with the London _Leader_,
that--
"It is worth reading, but not worth re-reading. A certain
freshness of scene, with real vigor of style, makes you canter
pleasantly enough through the volumes; but when the journey is
over you find yourself arrived Nowhere. It is not truth, it is
not fiction; neither biography nor romance; not even romantic
biography; but three volumes of sketches without a purpose, of
narratives without an aim. Mr. Borrow has hit the English taste
by his union of the clerical and scholarly with what we may
call _manly blackguardism_. His sympathies are all with the
blackguards. Not with the ragged nondescripts of the streets,
but the poetic vagabonds of the fields--the Rommany Chals--the
Gipsies, who are as great in "horse-taming" as Hector of old,
and great in the art of "self-defence" as any Greek before the
walls of Troy--not to mention other peculiarities in respect of
property and its conveyance which they share with the
Greeks--the Gipsies in short who are vagabonds in the true
wandering sense of the term."
* * * * *
JAMES T. FIELDS has in press a new edition of his Poems, embracing the
pieces which he has written since the edition of 1849. Mr. Fields has a
just sense of poetical art; his compositions are happily conceived, and
uniformly executed with the most careful elaboration. A few days ago we
saw a letter from Miss Mitford, addressed to a friend in this country,
in which he is referred to as one of the "living classics of our
tongue." We perceive that he is to be the next anniversary poet of the
Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard.
* * * * *
W. G. SIMMS has published at Charleston a fine poem entitled _The City
of the Silent_, written for the occasion of the consecration of a
cemetery near that city. It flows in natural harmony, and in thought as
well as in manner has an appropriate dignity. We wonder that there has
appeared no complete collection of the poems of Mr. Simms, which fill at
least a dozen volumes, nearly all of which are now out of print. Some of
his pieces have remarkable merit.
* * * * *
"NILE NOTES BY A HOWADJI," is not a book of travel, but the book of a
traveller. The traveller is obviously a very charming and veracious one,
but after all, the landscape and the persons, scenes, and manners he
describes are so idealized by him as to have lost much of their natural
identity, and put on the somewhat artificial look of museum specimens.
However, the _Notes_ are not, therefore, to us the less, but all the
more, readable, because we have abundance of mere books of travel, and
scarcely any traveller worth remarking. Mr. Kinglake, the author of
_Eothen_, to be sure, was a host in himself. And Mr. Thackeray, in his
_Journey from Cheapside to Cairo_, proved himself a fit companion of
that gentleman. But a certain sneering humor, a certain mephistophelian
irony, in these persons, prevent one from feeling entirely at ease with
them, or believing, in fact, in their complete sincerity. It is not so
with the author of _Nile Notes_, than whom a June breeze is not more
bland, and moonlight not less gairish or oppressive. This conviction,
indeed, strikes us in a very peculiar manner as we read, that no more
genial nature ever penetrated that dismal and incredible East, to avouch
the eternal freshness of man against the decay of nature and the
mutability of institutions. An actually weird effect is produced by the
sight of this plump and rosy Christian pervading the graves of dead
empires, and thinking democracy amidst the listening ghosts of the
Pharaohs. Did these solemn empires, did these absolute and strutting
monarchs mistake their grandeur, and exist after all only that this
modern democrat might laugh and live a life devoid of care? Such is the
lesson of the book. It is sweeter to know the freshness and kindly
nature that penned it; it is sweeter to feel the graceful and humane
fancies that baptize every page of it, than to remember whole lineages
of buried empires, or recognize whole pyramids of absolute and dissolved
Pharaohs. The book is a mine of beautiful descriptions, and of sentences
which tickle your inmost midriff with delight. (Harpers.)
* * * * *
We have been surprised lately at several long discussions in the
New-York Historical Society of the question whether copies, extracts, or
abstracts of the MSS. and other historical documents in the Society's
collections might be published without the Society's special permission.
We do not know who introduced the prohibitory proposition, but it is in
the last degree ridiculous; there cannot be said in its support one
syllable of reason; that it has been entertained so long is
discreditable to the Society. The prime object of the Society is the
collection and preservation of the materials of history; the more
numerous the multiplication of copies, the more certain the
probabilities of their preservation. A private collector may for obvious
reasons hoard his treasures, and wish for the destruction of all copies
of them; but the considerations which govern him are the last that
should influence a historical society under similar circumstances.
* * * * *
FANNY WRIGHT, some dozen years ago, entered into a sort of limited
partnership with one of Robert Owen's old New-Harmony associates, and
has since been known as Frances Wright D'Arusmont. They lived together a
few months, but women grow old, and these infidel philosophers are very
apt to live according to their liberties; Madame resided in Paris,
Monsieur in Cincinnati: Madame wanted more money than Monsieur would
allow, and she returned, and is now before the courts of Ohio with a
plea (of _eighty thousand words_) for property held by D'Arusmont, which
she says is hers. We know little of the merits of the case, but if there
is to be domestic unhappiness, we are content that she should be a
sufferer, whose whole career has been a warfare upon the institutions
which define the true position, and guard the best interests of her sex.
It is more than thirty years since Fanny Wright wrote her _Views of
Society and Manners in America_. The brilliant woman who lectured to
crowds in the old Park Theatre, against decency, is old now, and an
atheist old woman, desolate, is rather a pitiable object.
* * * * *
EDWARD T. CHANNING, a brother of the Rev. Dr. William Ellery Channing,
and for thirty years Professor of Rhetoric in Harvard College, has
resigned his place, and his resignation is one of the weightiest
misfortunes that has befallen this school for some time. Professor
Channing's fitness for the professorship of English literature was shown
in his admirable article upon the Poetry of Moore, in the _North
American Review_ for 1817. He has written much and well in criticism,
and is perhaps equally familiar with both Latin and English literature.
His lectures, described as eminently rich, suggestive, and practical, we
hope will be given to the press. It is intimated that Mr. George Hillard
will be his successor in the college, and we know of no man so young who
could more nearly fill his place.
* * * * *
"PUBLIC LIBRARIES," is the title of a very interesting article in the
February number of _The International_, erroneously credited to
Chambers's _Papers for the People_. The Edinburgh publisher, it seems,
took two articles from the _North American Review_, cut them in pieces
and transposed the sentences, prefixed a few remarks of his own, added a
few words at the end of his Mosaic, and issued this "Paper for the
People" as an original contribution to bibliothecal literature, without
a word as to its real authorship or the sources whence it was derived.
Such things are often done, and if Messrs. Chambers always evince as
much sagacity in their appropriations, their readers will have abundant
cause to be grateful. The articles in the _North American Review_ were
written by Mr. George Livermore, a Boston merchant, who has the
accomplishments of a Roscoe, and who as a bibliographer is scarcely
surpassed in knowledge or judgment by any contemporary.
* * * * *
FENELON, the Archbishop of Cambray, it was proved to the satisfaction of
somebody, who read a paper upon the subject before the New-York
Historical Society, a year or two ago, was once a missionary in America.
But Mr. Poore, while in Paris for the collection of documents
illustrative of the history of Massachusetts, investigated the matter,
with his customary sagacity and diligence, and a communication by him to
_The International_ most satisfactorily shows that the supposition was
entirely wrong. The Fenelon who was in this country was tried at Quebec,
in a case of which the famous La Salle was one of the witnesses, and of
which the _process verbal_ is now in the _Archives de l'Amerique_, in
Paris; and the Archbishop was at the time of the trial certainly in
France.
* * * * *
MR. S. G. GOODRICH, of whose works we recently gave a reviewal, will
sail in a few days for Paris, where he will immediately enter upon the
duties of the consulship to which he has been appointed by the
President. This will be pleasant news for American travellers in Europe.
Mr. Walsh has never been very liberal of attentions to his countrymen
unless their position was such as to render their society an object of
his ambition. Mr. Goodrich himself recently passed several months in
Paris, bearing letters to the consul, who in all the time offered him
not even a recognition. He will be apt to pay more regard to the letter
which Mr. Goodrich bears from the Secretary of State.
* * * * *
MAJOR RICHARDSON's _Wacousta, or the Prophecy_, is a powerfully written
novel, originally printed twenty years ago, and lately republished by
Dewitt & Davenport. The descriptions are graphic, and the incidents
dramatic, but the plot is in some respects defective. The prophecies
which have such influence over the race of De Holdimars should have been
pronounced in his infancy, and not only a few days before the terrible
results attributed to it; the introduction of the race at Holdimar's
execution, is injudicious; and the circumstances under which Wacousta
finds Valletort and Clara his auditors not well contrived. But
altogether the book is one of the best we have illustrating Indian life.
Major Richardson is a British American; his father was an officer in
Simcoe's famous regiment; other members of his family held places of
distinction in the civil or military service; and he was himself a
witness of some of the most remarkable scenes in our frontier military
history, and was made a prisoner by the United States troops at the
battle of the Thames, where Tecumseh was killed--_not_ by Colonel
Johnson, very certainly. Major Richardson subsequently served in Spain,
and resided several years in Paris, where he wrote _Ecarte_, a very
brilliant novel, of which we are soon to have a new edition. A later
work from his hand, which we need not name, is more creditable to his
abilities than to his taste or discretion; but _Wacousta_ and _Ecarte_
are worthy of the best masters in romantic fiction.
* * * * *
The subject of _American Antiquities_ has been very much neglected by
American writers. Even the remains of an ancient and high civilization
which are scattered so profusely all through Mexico and Central America
have hitherto been illustrated almost exclusively by foreigners, and the
most complete and magnificent publication respecting them that will ever
have been made is that of Lord Kingsborough. Recently, however, our own
country has furnished an antiquary of indefatigable industry, great
perseverance and sagacity, in Mr. E. G. Squier, who was lately _Charge
d'Affaires_ of the United States to the Republic of Central America, and
is now engaged in printing several works which he has completed, in this
city. The splendid volume by Mr. Squier which was published two years
ago by the _Smithsonian Institution_, upon the Antiquities of the Valley
of the Mississippi, illustrates his abilities, and is a pledge of the
value of his new performances. The first of his forthcoming volumes
will, like that, be issued by the Smithsonian Institution, and it will
constitute a quarto of some two hundred pages, with more than ninety
engravings, under the title of _Aboriginal Monuments of New-York,
comprising the results of Original Surveys and Explorations, with an
Appendix_. This is now, we believe, on the eve of publication. A second
volume is entitled, _The Serpent Symbol, and the Worship of the
Reciprocal Principle, in America_. It contains, also, extended
incidental illustrations of the religious systems of the American
aborigines, and of the symbolical character of the ancient monuments in
the United States. It will form a large octavo of two hundred and fifty
pages, with sixty-three engravings, and will be published by Mr. Putnam.
The first of these works, constituting part of the second volume of the
"Smithsonian Contributions to Knowledge," may be regarded as a
continuation of the author's _Ancient Monuments of the Mississippi
Valley_, forming the first volume of those contributions. It gives a
succinct account of the aboriginal remains of the state of New-York,
which were thoroughly investigated by the author, under the joint
auspices of the Smithsonian Institution and the New-York Historical
Society, in 1848. It strips the subject of all the absurd hypotheses and
conjectures with which it has been involved by speculative and fanciful
minds, and gives us a new and full statement of facts, from which there
is no difficulty in getting at correct results. The appendix, which
forms quite half of the volume, is devoted to the consideration of
several of the more interesting questions stated in connection with the
subject of our antiquities generally, and has a closer relation to the
previously published volume than to the present memoir. The _rationale_
of symbolism is very elaborately deduced from an analysis of the
primitive religious structures of the Greeks, and applied, as we think,
with entire success, to the elucidation of the origin and purposes of a
large part of the monumental remains in the western United States.
Indeed this whole work is dependent on, and illustrative of, the other,
which must be imperfectly understood without it.
The same is true of the second work, on the "Serpent Symbol," etc.,
which, however, is chiefly devoted to inquiries into the philosophy and
religion of the aboriginal American nations, and the relations which
they sustained to the primitive systems of the other continent. The
principal inquiry is, how far the identities which, in these respects,
confessedly existed between the early nations of both worlds, may be
regarded as derivative, or the result of like conditions and common
mental and moral constitutions. These are radical questions, which must
be decided before we can, with safety, attempt any generalizations on
the subject of the origin of the American race, which has so long
occupied speculative minds. Mr. Squier, in this volume, has brought
together a vast number of new and interesting facts, demonstrating the
existence of some of the most abstract oriental doctrines in America,
illustrated by precisely identical or analogous symbols; but he does not
admit that they were derivative, without first subjecting them to a
rigid analysis, in order to ascertain if they may not have originated on
the spot where they were found, by a natural and almost inevitable
process. The work, therefore, is essentially critical, and may be
regarded as initiatory to the investigation of these subjects, on a new
and more philosophical system. It is the first of a series, under the
general title of "American Archaeological Researches," of which, it is
announced in the advertisement, "The Archaeology and Ethnology of Central
America," and "The Mexican Calendar," will form the second and third
volumes.
Besides these works, Mr. Squier has now in press, _Nicaragua: Its
Condition, Resources, and Prospects; being a Narrative of a Residence in
that Country, and containing also chapters illustrative of its
Geography, Topography, History, Social and Political Condition,
Antiquities, &c., illustrated by Maps and Engravings_. This cannot fail
of being a book of much interest and value. We are confident that it
will be worth more than all the hundred other volumes that have been
printed upon the subjects which it will embrace. Mr. Squier, while
_Charge d'Affaires_ to Central America, and Minister to Nicaragua,
enjoyed extraordinary opportunities, in his relations with the chief
persons of those countries and his frequent tours of observation, for
obtaining full and accurate information, and the general justness of his
apprehensions respecting affairs may be relied upon.
* * * * *
The REV. DR. SCHROEDER has in press a _History of Constantine the
Great_, in which we shall have his views of the Church in the fourth
century.
* * * * *
MR. CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED, whose clever sketches of American Society we
have copied into the _International_ as they have appeared in the
successive numbers of _Fraser's Magazine_, has addressed the following
letter to Mr. Willis, upon an intimation in the _Home Journal_ that
under the name of Carl Benson he described himself:
"MY DEAR SIR:--Several intimations to the above effect have
already reached me, but now for the first time from a source
deserving notice. Allow me to deny, _in toto_, any intention of
describing myself under the name of Henry Benson. Were I
disposed to attempt self-glorification, it would be under a
very different sort of character. Here I should, in strictness,
stop; but, as you have done me the honor to speak favorably of
certain papers in _Fraser_, perhaps you will permit me to
intrude on your time (and your readers', if you think it worth
while), so far as to explain _what_ (not _whom_) Mr. Benson is
meant for.
"The said papers (ten in all, of which four still remain in the
editor's hands), were originally headed, 'The Upper Ten
Thousand,' as representing life and manners in a particular
set, which title the editor saw fit to alter into 'Sketches of
American Society'--not with my approbation, as it was claiming
for them more than they contained, or professed to contain.
Harry Benson, the thread employed to hang them together, is a
sort of fashionable hero--a _quadratus homo_, according to the
'Upper Ten' conception of one; a young man who, starting with a
handsome person and fair natural abilities, adds to these the
advantages of inherited wealth, a liberal education, and
foreign travel. He possesses much general information, and
practical dexterity in applying it, great world-knowledge and
_aplomb_, financial shrewdness, readiness in
composition--speaks half-a-dozen languages, dabbles in
literature, in business, _in every thing but politics_--talks
metaphysics one minute, and dances a polka the next--in short,
knows a little of every thing, with a knack of reproducing it
effectively; moreover, is a man of moral purity, deference to
women and hospitality to strangers, which I take to be the
three characteristic virtues of a New-York gentleman. On the
other hand, he has the faults of his class strongly
marked--intense foppery in dress, general Sybaritism of living,
a great deal of Jack-Brag-ism and show-off, mythological and
indiscreet habits of conversation, a pernicious custom of
sneering at every body and every thing, inconsistent blending
of early Puritan and acquired Continental habits, occasional
fits of recklessness breaking through the routine of a
worldly-prudent life. The character is so evidently a
type--even if it were not designated as such in so many words,
more than once--that it is surprising it should ever have been
attributed to an individual--above all, to one who is never at
home but in two places--outside of a horse and inside of a
library. Most of the other characters are similarly types--that
is to say, they represent certain styles and varieties of men.
The fast boy of Young America (from whose diary Pensez-y gave
you a leaf last summer), whose great idea of life is dancing,
eating supper after dancing, and gambling after eating supper;
the older exquisite, without fortune enough to hurry
brilliantly on, who makes general gallantly his amusement and
occupation; the silent man, _blaze_ before thirty, and not to
be moved by any thing; (a variety of American much overlooked
by strangers, but existing in great perfection, both here and
at the south;) the beau of the 'second set,' dressy, vulgar and
good natured; these and others I have endeavored to depict.
Now, as every class is made up of individuals, every character
representing a class must resemble some of the individuals in
it, in some particulars; but if you undertook to attach to each
single character one and the same living representative, you
would soon find each of them, like Mrs. Malaprop's Cerberus,
'three gentlemen at once,' if not many more; and should one of
your 'country readers,' anxious to 'put the right names to
them,' address--not _one_, but _five_ or _six_--of his 'town
correspondents,' he would get answers about as harmonious as if
he had consulted the same number of German commentators on the
meaning of a disputed passage in a Greek tragedian. Some of the
personages are purely fanciful--for instance, Mr.
Harrison--such a man as never did exist, but I imagine might
very well exist, among us. But, as the development of these
characters is still in manuscript, it would be premature to say
more of them.
"Yet one word. The sketches were written entirely for the
English market, so to speak, without any expectation of their
being generally read or republished here. This will account for
their containing many things which must seem very flat and
common-place to an American reader--such as descriptions of
sulkies and trotting-wagons, how people dress, and what they
eat for dinner, etc.; which are nevertheless not necessarily
uninteresting to an Englishman who has not seen this country.
Excuse me for trespassing thus far on your patience, and
believe me, dear sir, yours very truly
C. A. BRISTED."
* * * * *
BENJAMIN SILLIMAN, LL.D. and his son Benjamin Silliman, junior, of Yale
College, sailed a few days ago for Europe, for the purpose chiefly of
making a geological exploration of the central and southern portion of
that continent. After visiting the volcanic regions of central France,
they will make the tour of Italy, visiting Vesuvius and Etna, and will
return to England in time to attend the meeting of the British Academy
of Sciences, at Ipswich, in July. They will next visit Switzerland and
the Alps, and return home in the autumn.
* * * * *
The second volume of _The Works of John Adams_, we understand, has been
very well received by the book-buyers. It is frequently observed of it,
that it vindicates the title of its eminent author and subject to a
higher distinction than has commonly been awarded to him in our day. It
certainly is one of the most interesting biographies of the
revolutionary period that we have read. The third and fourth volumes
will be published by Little & Brown about the beginning of May.
* * * * *
"THE CAESARS," by De Quincy, is the last of the works by that great
author issued by Ticknor, Reed, & Fields, who promise us in their
beautiful typography all that the "Opium Eater" has written. "The
Caesars" is a very remarkable book.
* * * * *
OF THE EDITION OF THE WRITINGS OF WASHINGTON by JARED SPARKS, we
published some years ago in the Philadelphia _North American_ an opinion
which was amply vindicated by citations and comparisons, and more
recently, in the _International_ for last December, we substantially
repeated our judgment in the following words, in reply to some
observations on the subject in the Paris _Journal des Debats_:
"But the omissions by Mr. Sparks--sometimes from carelessness,
sometimes from ignorance, and sometimes from an indisposition
to revive memories of old feuds, or to cover with disgrace
names which should be dishonored, and his occasional verbal
alterations of Washington's letters, prevent satisfaction with
his edition of Washington."
Since then an able and ingenious writer in the _Evening Post_ has
criticised the labors of Mr. Sparks in the same manner, and in a second
paper conclusively replied to his defenders. We profess thoroughly to
understand this matter; we have carefully compared the original letters
of Washington, as they are preserved in the Department of State, in the
Charleston Library, the New-York Historical Society's Library, and in
numerous other public and private collections, and we have come to the
conclusion that instead of having done any service to American History
by his editions of Morris, Franklin, and Washington, Mr. Sparks has done
positive and scarcely reparable injury; since by his incomplete,
inaccurate and injudicious publications, he has prevented the
preparation of such as are necessary for the illustration of the
characters of these persons and the general history of their times. We
shall not at present enter into any particulars for the vindication of
our dissent from the very common estimation of the character of Mr.
Sparks as a historian; but we may gratify some students in our history
by stating that _A Complete Collection of the Writings of Washington,
chronologically arranged, and amply illustrated with Introductions,
Notes, &c._, is in hand, and will be published with all convenient
expedition. It will embrace about twice as much matter as the edition by
Sparks, but will be much more compactly printed. It would have appeared
before the present time, but for an absurd misapprehension in regard to
certain assumed copyrights, which one of our most eminent justices, and
several lawyers of the highest distinction, have declared null and
impossible.
* * * * *
MR. ISAAC C. PRAY is the author of a beautiful volume on the eve of
publication, on the History of the Musical Drama. One hundred and sixty
pages are devoted to "Parodi and the Opera." Mr. Pray is a capital
critic in this department; he has been many years familiar with the
various schools of musical art, and at home behind the scenes in the
great opera houses of Europe: so that probably no writer in America has
more ample material for such a work as he has undertaken. He proposes a
series of some half-dozen volumes on the subject.
* * * * *
MR. FREDERIC SAUNDERS, an industrious literary antiquary, is publishing
in the _Methodist Quarterly Review_ and the _Christian Recorder_, a
series of pleasant reminiscences of the great lights of the church in
England, in the last generation. Among his papers that have appeared are
entertaining sketches of Edward Irving and Dr. Chalmers.
* * * * *
"THE DUTY OF A BIOGRAPHER," is very justly described by a writer on this
subject in the last _Democratic Review_. They certainly managed these
things better in the days of king Cheops, but biographies would still be
written truthfully and to some purpose if there were more honesty in
criticism--if the mob of people who fancy they may themselves sometimes
be heroes of such writing, did not for their prospective safety denounce
every _post-mortem_ exhibition of infirmities; or if to the creatures
most largely endowed with the means of hearing, slavering were not more
easy than dissection.
ASTONISHING ADVENTURE OF JAMES BOTELLO.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY W. S. MAYO, M.D. AUTHOR OF KALOOLAH, ETC.
To an author who has been accustomed to deal with the startling and the
marvellous in the way of incident and adventure, nothing can be more
amusing than the confident opinions of critics and readers as to the
improbability, and frequently the impossibility, of particular scenes
which often happen to be faithful descriptions of actual occurrences. In
this manner several passages from "Kaloolah" and "The Berber" have been
indicated by some of my many good natured and liberal critics in this
country and in England, as taxing a little too strongly the credulity of
readers. Among such passages, the escape, in the first pages of the
Berber, of the young Englishman, by jumping overboard in the bay of
Cadiz, and hiding himself in the darkness of the night beneath the
overhanging stern of his boat, has been particularly pointed out. Now,
if this was pure invention, it might be safely left to a jury of yankee
boatmen or Spanish _barqueros_ to decide whether the incident was not in
the highest degree probable and natural; but being literally founded in
fact, it is perhaps unnecessary to make any such appeal. There may be,
however, a few unadventurous souls who will still persist in their
doubts as to the probability of the incident. For the especial benefit
of such I will relate the true story of a boat adventure, which in every
way is a thousand times more strange and incredible than any of the
wildest inventions of the wildest romance.
The voyage of Vasco di Gama around the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian
Ocean, was the beginning of a complete revolution in the trade of Europe
and the East. This trade, which, following the expensive route of Egypt
and the Red Sea, had been for a long time in the hands of the Venetians
and Genoese, suddenly turned itself into the new and cheap channel
opened by the enterprise of the Portuguese. The merchants of Genoa and
Venice found themselves unexpectedly cut off from their accustomed
sources of wealth, while a tide of affluence rolled into the mouth of
the Tagus, and Lisbon became the commercial mart of the world.
The success of the Portuguese gave a new impulse to the spirit of
enterprise which had already been excited among the maritime nations of
Europe by the discoveries of Columbus, and efforts to divert a portion
of the golden current soon began to be made. The Spaniards, debarred
from following the direct route of the Portuguese, by their own
exclusive pretensions in the west, and the consequent decision of the
Pope, granting to them the sole right of exploration beyond a certain
line of longitude to the west, and confining the Portuguese to the east,
had, under the guidance of the adventurous Magellan, found a westerly
route to the Indies. The English were busy with several schemes for a
short cut to the north-west. The Dutch were beginning to give signs of a
determination, despite the Pope's decision, to follow the route by the
Cape of Good Hope. As may be imagined, these movements aroused the
jealousy of the court and merchants of Lisbon. They trembled lest their
commercial monopoly should be encroached upon, and every care was taken
to keep the rest of Europe in ignorance of the details of the trade, and
of the discoveries and conquests of their agents in the East.
Of course nothing could be more injurious to a Portuguese of the time
than to be suspected of a design to aid with advice or information the
schemes of foreign rivals. Unluckily for James Botello such a suspicion
lighted upon him. It was rumored that he was disposed to sell his
services to the French. He was known to be a gentleman of parts, well
acquainted with the East--having served with credit under the immediate
successors of Vasco de Gama--and as competent as any one to lead the
Frenchman into the Indian Ocean, and to initiate him into the mysteries
of the trade. The suspicion, however, could not have been very strong,
and probably had no real foundation in truth, or else more stringent
measures than appear to have been used would have been adopted by an
unscrupulous court to prevent his carrying his designs into execution.
The rumor, however, had its effect; and Botello soon found that his
influence at court was gone, and that he had become an object of jealous
observation.
Anxious to give the lie to this calumny, and to regain the favor of his
sovereign, John III, Botello embarked as a volunteer in the fleet which
was taking out to Calicut the new viceroy, De Cunna. Upon the arrival of
this fleet, the operations of the Portuguese, both military and
commercial, were carried on with renewed vigor; and in all these Botello
bore his part, but without being able wholly to remove the suspicions
with which he was sensible his actions were still watched by his
superiors. A favorite project of the Portuguese--one that had been
pursued with energy and by every means of diplomacy or war--was the
establishment of a fort in Diu, a town situated at the mouth of the Gulf
of Cambaya. Several times the capture of the place had been attempted by
force, but without success. Even the great Albuquerque had been foiled
in a furious attack. Failing in this, the Portuguese repeatedly
endeavored to get permission to erect a fort for the protection of their
trade, by persuasion or artifice. It had become an object of the most
ardent desire, as well with the king and court at home, as with the
viceroys and their officers in the East.
It happened now in the year 1534, that Badur, king of Cambaya, was
sorely pressed by his enemy the Great Mogul--so much so, that he was
compelled to call in the assistance of his other enemy, the Portuguese.
The price of this assistance was to be permission to erect and garrison
a fort at Diu. Badur hesitated; he knew that if the Portuguese were
allowed a fort, they would soon be masters of the whole town; but his
necessities were urgent, and he finally acceded to the demand. De Cunna
rushed to Diu; a treaty was speedily concluded with Badur--the fort was
planned, and its erection commenced with vigor.
No one better than Botello knew how pleased King John would be with the
news. He resolved to be the bearer of the good tidings, and thus to
restore himself to the royal favor. His plan was a bold and daring one;
in fact, considering the known dangers of the sea, and the then
imperfect state of navigation, it must have seemed almost hopeless; but
he suffered no doubts or apprehensions to prevent him from carrying it
into immediate effect. In order to conceal his design, he gave out that
he was going on a boat excursion up the Gulf of Cambaya, to visit the
court of the now friendly Badur. Two young soldiers, of inferior degree,
named Juan de Sousa and Alfonzo Belem, readily consented to accompany
him. The boat selected for the voyage was a small affair--something like
a modern jolly boat, though of rather greater beam in proportion to its
other dimensions; its length was sixteen feet, its breadth nine feet.
Four Moorish slaves from Melenda, on the coast of Africa, were selected
to work the boat, while two native servants, having Portuguese blood in
their veins, completed the crew.
Botello's preparations for the voyage were soon made; and waiting only
to secure a copy of the treaty with Badur, and plans of the fort which
had been commenced, he ordered the short mast, with its tapering lateen
yard, to be raised, and the sail trimmed close to the breeze blowing
into the roadstead of Diu. But instead of turning up along the northern
coast of the Gulf of Cambaya, he directed the bow of his little bark
boldly out to sea.
His companions knew but little of navigation; but they knew enough to
know that a south-westerly course was hardly the one on which to reach
Cambaya. To the remonstrances of Juan and Alfonzo, Botello simply
replied that he preferred sailing south with the wind, to rowing north
against it; and they would find the course he had chosen the safest and
shortest in the end.
In this way they sailed for three days. On the morning of the fourth,
Botello found that it would be impossible for him longer to turn a deaf
ear to the mutterings of discontent among his crew. It was high time for
an explanation of his plans; and trusting to his eloquence and
influence, he proceeded to unfold his design.
Imagine the astonishment and dismay depicted in the countenances of the
servants and sailors when he told them that he purposed making the long
and dangerous voyage to Lisbon in the miserable little boat in which
they had embarked. But as he went on commenting upon the feasibility of
the project, discussing the real dangers of such voyage, and ridiculing
the imaginary, and dilating upon the honors and rewards which they would
win by being the first bearers of the tidings they carried, a change
from dismay to hope and confidence took place in the minds of all his
hearers, excepting the African sailors, who did not much relish the idea
of so long a voyage to Christian lands. They, however, were slaves and
infidels, and their opposition was not much heeded.
To every objection Botello had a plausible reply. He confidently
asserted his knowledge of a safe route, and of his ability to preserve
their little craft amid all the dangers of the sea.
"But may we not be forestalled in our news, after all," demanded
Alfonzo, "by the vessels from Calicut?"
"No fear of that," replied Botello. "The news from Diu will not reach
Calicut for a month, and then it will be too late in the monsoon to
dispatch a vessel, even if one were ready. Besides, I have certain
information that the viceroy has determined that no dispatches shall be
sent home until he can announce the completion of the fort."
"I like not this new route you propose," said Juan. "Why leave the usual
course to Melenda?"
"Because we should be in danger of exciting the suspicions of our
brethren who now garrison the forts of Melenda, Zanzabar, and
Mozambique, and perhaps be detained. No, we will take a more direct
course--strike the coast of Africa below Sofalo, and then follow the
shore around the Cape of Good Hope."
"And what are we to do for provisions and water, in the mean time?"
"Of provisions we have a store that will last until we reach land, when
we can obtain supplies from the natives; as to water, we must go at once
upon the shortest possible allowance, and daily pray for rain--St.
Francis will aid us. I can show you something that will set your minds
easy upon that point."
Botello produced a box from beneath the stern sheets, and opening it,
took out with an air of reverence a leaden image of the saint.
"See this," he exclaimed, in a tone of exultation. "It was modelled from
the portrait recognized by the aged Moor. Have you not heard of the
miracle?--true, you were not at Calicut. Know, then, that a few months
since, a native of India was presented to the viceroy, whose reputed age
amounted to three hundred years. His story was, that in early youth he
encountered an aged man lingering upon the banks of a stream which he
was anxious to pass. The youth tendered the support of his strong
shoulders, and bore him across the water. As a reward for the service,
the old man bade the youth to live until they should meet again. And
thus had he lived, until a few months since he was presented to De
Cunna, when he at once recognized in a portrait of St. Francis the holy
man whom he had carried across the stream. This image was modelled from
that portrait; it was blessed by the pious convert in whose person was
performed the miracle. Our voyage must be prosperous with this on
board."
The sight of an image taken from a portrait acknowledged to be the saint
himself, removed all doubt. And what Botello's arguments and persuasions
might have failed to accomplish, was easily effected by the little image
of lead. A heretic might, perhaps, have questioned the saint's power
over the physical phenomena of the sea, but he could not have denied his
moral influence over the minds of the adventurous voyageurs who confided
in him. No hesitation remained, except in the minds of the four slaves,
who, having been forcibly converted from the errors of Mohammed, were
yet somewhat weak in the true faith.
It was this want of faith that led to one of the most lamentable events
of the voyage. They had been out more than a month without having had
sight of land, and not even a distant sail had lighted up the dismal
loneliness of the ocean. It must be recollected what a solitude was the
vast surface of the Indian and Pacific seas in those days. Beside the
Portuguese fleets that followed each other at long and regular
intervals, Christian commerce there was none, while Arabian trade was
small in amount, and confined to certain narrow channels. The Moorish
slaves had never before been so long in the open sea, and their fears
increased as day after day the little boat bore them farther to the
south. The provisions were also, by this time, nearly exhausted, and the
daily allowance of water proved barely sufficient to moisten their
parched lips. The slaves, after taking counsel among themselves,
demanded that the course of the boat should be arrested.
"And which way would you go?" asked Botello. "Back to Diu? It would take
three months to reach the port, and long ere that we should starve."
"Let us steer, then, directly for the African coast. Melenda must be our
nearest port."
"Never!" returned the resolute Botello. "I will run no risk of having
our voyage frustrated by the jealousy of my old enemy, Alfonzo
Peristrello, who has command at that station. Courage for a few days
more, and we shall see land. There are isles hereaway that you will deem
fit residences for the blessed saints--such fruits! such flowers!"
The promises of Botello had influence with all of his companions
excepting the Moors, whose muttered discontent suddenly assumed a fierce
and menacing aspect. Luckily, Botello was as wary as he was brave.
It was in the middle of the night that, stretched upon the midship
thwart of the boat, he noticed a movement among the Moors, who occupied
the bow. One of them moved stealthily towards him, and bending over him,
cautiously sought the hilt of his dagger; but before he could draw it,
the grasp of Botello was upon his throat, and he was hurled to the
bottom of the boat. With a shout, the other Moors seized the boat hooks
and stretchers, and rushed upon Botello; but Juan and Alfonzo were upon
the alert, and, drawing their long daggers, rushed to his defence. Never
was there a more desperate conflict than on that starlit night, in that
frail boat, that floated a feeble, solitary speck of humanity on the
bosom of the vast Indian sea.
The conflict was desperate, but it was soon over. The Portuguese of
those days were other men than their degenerate descendants of the
present age; and, besides, the slaves were overmatched both in arms and
numbers. Three were slain outright, and the fourth driven overboard. One
of the Portuguese servants was killed; thus diminishing the number of
the voyageurs more than one-half--a lucky circumstance, without which,
most probably, the whole would have perished.
For a week longer the little bark stood on its course, when a violent
storm threatened a melancholy termination to the voyage. The wind,
however, was accompanied by rain, and Botello kept up the spirits of his
friends by attributing the storm to St. Francis, who had sent it
expressly to save them from dying by thirst. It would have been perhaps
more easy to believe in the saint's agency in the matter had there been
less wind; for in addition to the danger of being ingulfed by the heavy
sea, their clothing, which they spread to collect the rain, was so
deluged with salt spray as to make the water exceedingly brackish. Bad
as it was, however, it served to maintain life until they reached a
little rocky, uninhabited island in the channel of Mozambique.
It was with some difficulty that a landing place was found. Upon
ascending the rocks, a few scattered palms exhibited the only appearance
of vegetation. Their chief necessity--freshwater--however, was found in
abundance, standing in the hollows of the rocky surface, where it had
been deposited by the recent storm. Several kinds of wild fowl showed
themselves in abundance, and so tame as to suffer themselves to be
caught without any trouble; while crowding the little sandy inlets were
thousands of the finest turtle.
At this spot Botello and his companions rested for a week; which was
spent in caulking and repairing their boat and sail, drying and salting
the flesh of fowl and turtle, and in filling every available vessel with
the precious fluid so liberally furnished by their patron St. Francis.
A succession of storms followed their departure, and tossed them about
here and there for so many days, that their reckoning became exceedingly
confused. Botello, however, was an accomplished navigator, and his
sailor instinct stood him in good stead. Upon returning fair weather he
conjectured that he was abreast of Cape Corientes, and the bow of the
boat was directed, due east, for the African coast.
Calms followed storms. The oars were got out, and day after day the
clumsy boat was pulled through the long rolling swell of the glassy sea.
Still no sight of land. Their provisions were getting short again--their
water was reduced to the lowest possible allowance, and the labor of the
oar was rapidly exhausting their strength. The image of St. Francis was
hourly appealed to. Sometimes his aid was implored in most humble
prayers--sometimes demanded with the wildest imprecations and threats.
One day Botello seized the little St. Francis, and whirling him on high,
threatened to throw him into the sea, unless he instantly granted a
sight of land; no land showed itself, and the saint was reverentially
replaced in his box. But he was not to rest there long in quiet. The
next day the ingenious Botello announced to his sinking companions that
he had a plan to compel the saint to terms. The image was produced from
its box, a cord was fastened around its neck, and it was then thrown
overboard. Down went his leaden saintship into the depths of the ocean.
"And there he shall remain," exclaimed Botello, "until he sends us land
or rain." An hour had not expired when a faint bluish haze in the
eastern horizon attracted all eyes. A favorable breeze springing up, the
sail was hoisted, and as the boat moved under its influence, the haze
grew in consistency and size. Land was in sight.
The reader may perhaps smile with contempt at the superstitious faith of
Botello and companions in the connection between this happy land-fall
and their ingenious compulsion of the saint's miraculous power; but it
may be questioned whether there was not good ground for their belief--at
least as good ground as there is for faith in any of the facts of animal
magnetism, clairvoyance, and spiritual rappings.
The land proved to be a point in Lagoa Bay--a familiar object to
Botello. Upon going ashore, a party of natives received him, with whom
friendly relations were soon established, and from whom provisions and
water were readily obtained. A few days served to recruit the exhausted
strength of the party, when taking again to their boat, they coasted
along the shore, landing at frequent intervals, until they reached the
dreaded Cape of Storms, as the southern point of Africa was called by
its first discoverer, Bartholomew Diaz.
The Cape did not belie its reputation. From the summit of Table
Mountain, and the surrounding high lands, it sent down a gust that drove
the unfortunate voyageurs away from the land a long distance to the
south-west; and many weary and despairing days were passed before they
were able to make the harbor of Saldahana. Here the chief necessity of
life--fresh water--was found in abundance, and a supply of provisions
obtained, consisting chiefly of the dried flesh of seals, with which the
harbor was filled. A few orange and lemon-trees, planted by the early
Portuguese discoverers, were loaded with fruit, and afforded a grateful
and effectual means of removing the symptoms of scurvy which were
beginning to appear.
Saldahana being a resting place for the outward bound Portuguese fleets,
Botello made his stay as short as possible, lest he should be
intercepted and turned back by some newly appointed and jealous viceroy.
For the same reason he avoided several points on the coast of western
Africa where his countrymen had stations--keeping well out to sea and
from the mouth of the Congo, and steering a direct course across the
Gulf of Guinea. He knew that if a Portuguese admiral had sailed at the
appointed time, he must be somewhere in that Gulf, and that his tall
barks would hug the shore, creeping from headland to headland slowly and
cautiously. The energetic Botello and his companions had encountered too
many dangers to be frightened at the perils of a run across the Gulf,
and the resolution was adopted to give the Portuguese fleet, by the aid
of St. Francis, the go-by in the open sea.
The run was successfully achieved; not, however, without many weary days
at the oar, and many an appeal to St. Francis for favoring winds, and
for aid in the sudden tornadoes which frequently threatened to ingulf
them. Cape de Verd was reached; the barren shore of the great desert was
passed, with but a single stoppage in the Rio del Ouro--a slender arm of
the sea setting up a few miles into the sands of Sahara. Here a few
dates and some barley cakes were purchased of a family of wandering
Arabs; and again putting to sea, the shores of Morocco were cautiously
coasted. Without further adventure, but not without further suffering,
and labor, and danger, the short remaining distance was passed. The head
of the Straits of Gibraltar--the headlands of Spain--the southern point
of Algarve, successively came in sight; and then the smiling mouth of
the golden Tagus greeted their longing eyes.
And thus was happily finished this wonderful voyage--a voyage which, if
performed in the present day, with all the means and appliances of
navigation, would excite the admiration of the world, but which, under
the circumstances of the age, the prejudices and ignorance of the
voyageurs, and the imperfect state of maritime science, may truly be
considered the most astonishing upon record. It must be observed, too,
that this was no involuntary boat expedition--no desperate alternative
of some foundering ship's crew--but the deliberate, carefully considered
project of an experienced sailor; and that the hardihood evinced in its
conception was surpassed by the resolution, perseverance, and skill,
with which it was conducted to its end.
The presence of Botello was soon known to his friends; and the rumor
spread through the city that an Indian fleet had arrived off the mouth
of the Tagus. It reached the court, so that upon his application for an
audience of the king, he found no detention except from the curiosity of
the courtiers and ministers; which, however, he resolutely refused to
satisfy, until he had communicated his news to the royal ear.
Botello exhibited his copy of the convention with Badur, king of
Cambaya, and the plans of the fort which was being erected at Diu, and
related the history of his adventurous voyage. King John freely
expressed his astonishment and delight, and calling around him the
members of his household, familiarly questioned Botello as to all the
little details of his voyage.
There was a pause in the conversation. Botello threw himself upon his
knees. "There is one point," he exclaimed, "upon which your majesty has
not condescended to question me."
"What is that?" demanded the king.
"My reasons," replied Botello, "for undertaking this long and hazardous
voyage. Your majesty knows, or at least many of your majesty's enemies
know, that I am one not over cautious in confronting danger, either by
sea or land; but I should never have had the courage to make myself the
bearer of tidings however important, as I have done, without some reason
other than the desire of astonishing the world by a feat which by many
will be pronounced simply fool-hardy. Your majesty will believe me--I
had another and a better reason."
"And that reason was--"
"The favor of my sovereign, and the removal of the undeserved suspicions
with which my motives and feelings had been visited."
"Rise," replied the king, extending his hand, and smiling graciously.
"Our suspicions were of the slightest. We will take some fitting
opportunity of showing that they are gone for ever."
The courtiers overwhelmed Botello and his companions with
congratulations. The king accompanied him to see the boat, and upon
dismissing him, renewed his assurances of favor and reward--assurances
which Botello found were destined never to be realized. The next day a
change had come over the royal countenance--the jealousy of trade had
been aroused. It would be a terrible blow to the commercial monopoly,
already threatened from so many quarters, to have it known that the
voyage from the East Indies had been performed in an open boat. Botello
was informed that, for reasons of state, his boat must be destroyed, but
that he himself should ever continue to enjoy the favorable opinion of
his sovereign. As an earnest of the royal favor, which was some day to
exhibit itself more openly, he was appointed to an office of no great
consequence, and which had also the disadvantage attached to it of a
residence in the interior of the country.
Once installed, he found that he was little better than a prisoner for
life. His movements were closely watched by the officials around him;
his communications with the capital cut off, and to all his
remonstrances and petitions the only reply was that the king's service
required his continual residence in his department. Botello was not a
man to quietly submit to such unjust restraint; but unluckily his health
began to fail. His body found itself unable to withstand the chafings
and struggles of his energetic and adventurous spirit under the
mortifications and disappointments of his position; the fears and
suspicions of the court of Lisbon were soon removed by his death. His
boat had been burned--his companions had been sent back to India, and it
was not long before the fact of his extraordinary voyage had passed from
the public mind.
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME[L]
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
_Continued from page 494, vol. II._
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was long ere Emily Hastings slept. There was a bright moonlight; but
she sat not up by the window, looking out at the moon in love-lorn
guise. No, she laid her down in bed, as soon as the toilet of the night
was concluded, and having left the window-shutters open, the light of
the sweet, calm brightener of the night poured in a long, tranquil ray
across the floor. She watched it, with her head resting on her hand for
a long time. Her fancy was very busy with it, as by slow degrees it
moved its place, now lying like a silver carpet by her bedside, now
crossing the floor far away, and painting the opposite wall. Her
thoughts then returned to other things, and whether she would or not,
Marlow took a share in them. She remembered things that he had said, his
looks came back to her mind, she seemed to converse with him again,
running over in thought all that had passed in the morning.
She was no castle-builder; there were no schemes, plans, designs, in her
mind; no airy structures of future happiness employed fancy as their
architect. She was happy in her own heart; and imagination, like a bee,
extracted sweetness from the flowers of the present.
Sweet Emily, how beautiful she looked, as she lay there, and made a
night-life for herself in the world of her own thoughts!
She could not sleep, she knew not why. Indeed, she did not wish or try
to sleep. She never did when sleep did not come naturally; but always
remained calmly waiting for the soother, till slumber dropped uncalled
and stilly upon her eyelids.
One hour--two hours--the moonbeam had retired far into a corner of the
room, the household was all still; there was no sound but the barking of
a distant farm-dog, such a long way off, that it reached the ear more
like an echo than a sound, and the crowing of a cock, not much more
near.
Suddenly, her door opened, and a figure entered, bearing a small
night-lamp. Emily started, and gazed. She was not much given to fear,
and she uttered not a sound; for which command over herself she was very
thankful, when, in the tall, graceful form before her, she recognized
Mrs. Hazleton. She was dressed merely as she had risen from her bed: her
rich black hair bound up under her snowy cap, her long night-gown
trailing on the ground, and her feet bare. Yet she looked perhaps more
beautiful than in jewels and ermine. Her eyes were not fixed and
motionless, though there was a certain sort of deadness in them. Neither
were her movements stiff and mechanical, as we often see in the
representations of somnambulism on the stage. On the contrary, they were
free and graceful. She looked neither like Mrs. Siddons nor any other
who ever acted what she really was. Those who have seen the state know
better. She was walking in her sleep, however: that strange act of a
life apart from waking life--that mystery of mysteries, when the soul
seems severed from all things on earth but the body which it
inhabits--when the mind sleeps, but the spirit wakes--when the animal
and the spiritual live together, yet the intellectual lies dead for the
time.
Emily comprehended her condition at once, and waited and watched, having
heard that it is dangerous to wake suddenly a person in such a state.
Mrs. Hazleton walked on past her bed towards a door at the other side of
the room, but stopped opposite the toilet-table, took up a ribbon that
was lying on it, and held it in her hand for a moment.
"I hate him!" she said aloud; "but strangle him--oh, no! That would not
do. It would leave a blue mark. I hate him, and her too! They can't help
it--they must fall into the trap."
Emily rose quietly from her bed, and advancing with a soft step, took
Mrs. Hazleton's hand gently. She made no resistance, only gazing at her
with a look not utterly devoid of meaning. "A strange world!" she said,
"where people must live with those they hate!" and suffered Emily to
lead her towards the door. She showed some reluctance to pass it,
however, and turned slowly towards the other door. Her beautiful young
guide led her thither, and opened it; then went on through the
neighboring room, which was vacant, Mrs. Hazleton saying, as they passed
the large bed canopied with velvet, "My mother died there--ah, me!" The
next door opened into the corridor; but Emily knew not where her hostess
slept, till perceiving a light streaming out upon the floor from a room
near the end, she guided Mrs. Hazleton's steps thither, rightly judging
that it must be the chamber she had just left. There she quietly induced
her to go to bed again, taking the lamp from her hand, and bending down
her sweet, innocent face, gave her a gentle kiss.
"Asp!" said Mrs. Hazleton, turning away; but Emily remained with her for
several minutes, till the eyes closed, the breathing became calm and
regular, and natural sleep succeeded to the strange state into which she
had fallen.
Then returning to her own room, Emily once more sought her bed; but
though the moonlight had now departed, she was farther from sleep than
ever.
Mrs. Hazleton's words still rang in her ears. She thought them very
strange; but yet she had heard--it was indeed a common superstition in
those days--that people talking in their sleep expressed feelings
exactly the reverse of those which they really entertained; and her
good, bright heart was glad to believe. She would not for the world have
thought that the fair form, and gentle, dignified manners of her friend
could shroud feelings so fierce and vindictive as those which had
breathed forth in the utterance of that one word, "hate." It seemed to
her impossible that Mrs. Hazleton could hate any thing, and she resolved
to believe so still. But yet the words rang in her ears, as I have said.
She had been somewhat agitated and alarmed, too, though less than many
might have been, and more than an hour passed before her sweet eyes
closed.
On the morning of the following day, Emily was somewhat late at
breakfast; and she found Mrs. Hazleton down, and looking bright and
beautiful as the morning. It was evident that she had not even the
faintest recollection of what had occurred in the night--that it was a
portion of her life apart, between which and waking existence there was
no communication open. Emily determined to take no notice of her
sleep-walking; and she was wise, for I have always found, that to be
informed of their strange peculiarity leaves an awful and painful
impression on the real somnambulists--a feeling of being unlike the rest
of human beings, of having a sort of preternatural existence, over which
their human reason can hold no control. They fear themselves--they fear
their own acts--perhaps their own words, when the power is gone from
that familiar mind, which is more or less the servant, if not the slave,
of will, and when the whole mixed being, flesh, and mind, and spirit, is
under the sole government of that darkest, least known, most mysterious
personage of the three--the soul.
Mrs. Hazleton scolded her jestingly for late rising, and asked if she
was always such a lie-abed. Emily replied that she was not, but usually
very matutinal in her habits. "But the truth is, dear Mrs. Hazleton,"
she added, "I did not sleep well last night."
"Indeed," said her fair hostess, with a gay smile; "who were you
thinking of to keep your young eyes open?"
"Of you," answered Emily, simply; and Mrs. Hazleton asked no more
questions; for, perhaps, she did not wish Emily to think of her too
much. Immediately after breakfast the carriage was ordered for a long
drive.
"I will give you so large a dose of mountain air," said Mrs. Hazleton,
"that it shall insure you a better night's rest than any narcotic could
procure, Emily. We will go and visit Ellendon Castle, far in the wilds,
some sixteen miles hence."
Emily was well pleased with the prospect, and they set out together,
both apparently equally prepared to enjoy every thing they met with. The
drive was a long one in point of time, for not only were the carriages
more cumbrous and heavy in those days, but the road continued ascending
nearly the whole way. Sometimes, indeed, a short run down into a gentle
valley released the horses from the continual tug on the collar, but it
was very brief, and the ascent commenced almost immediately. Beautiful
views over the scenery round presented themselves at every turn; and
Emily, who had all the spirit of a painter in her heart, looked forth
from the window enchanted.
Mrs. Hazleton marked her enjoyment with great satisfaction; for either
by study or intuition she had a deep knowledge of the springs and
sources of human emotions, and she knew well that one enthusiasm always
disposes to another. Nay, more, she knew that whatever is associated in
the mind with pleasant scenes is usually pleasing, and she had plotted
the meeting between Emily and him she intended to be her lover with
considerable pains to produce that effect. Nature seemed to have been a
sharer in her schemes. The day could not have been better chosen. There
was the light fresh air, the few floating clouds, the merry dancing
gleams upon hill and dale, a light, momentary shower of large,
jewel-like drops, the fragment of a broken rainbow painting the distant
verge of heaven.
At length the summit of the hills was reached; and Mrs. Hazleton told
her sweet companion to look out there, ordering the carriage at the same
time to stop. It was indeed a scene well worthy of the gaze. Far
spreading out beneath the eye lay a wide basin in the hills, walled in,
as it were, by those tall summits, here and there broken by a crag. The
ground sloped gently down from the spot at which the carriage paused, so
that the whole expanse was open to the eye, and over the short brown
herbage, through which a purple gleam from the yet unblossomed heath
shone out, the lights and shades seemed sporting in mad glee. All was
indeed solitary, uncultivated, and even barren, except where, in the
very centre of the wide hollow, appeared a number of trees, not grouped
together in a wood, but scattered over a considerable space of ground,
as if the remnants of some old deer-park, and over their tall tops rose
up the ruined keep of some ancient stronghold of races passed away, with
here and there another tower or pinnacle appearing, and long lines of
grassy mounds, greener than the rest of the landscape, glancing between
the stems of the older trees, or bearing up in picturesque confusion
their own growth of wild, fantastic, seedling ashes.
By the name of the spot, Ellendon, which means strong-hill, I believe it
is more than probable that the Anglo-Saxons had here some forts before
the conquest; but the ruin which now presented itself to the eyes of
Emily and Mrs. Hazleton was evidently of a later date and of Norman
construction.
Here, probably, some proud baron of the times of Henry, Stephen, or
Matilda, had built his nest on high, perchance to overawe the Saxon
churls around him, perhaps to set at defiance the royal power itself.
Here the merry chase had swept the hills; here revelry and pageantry had
checkered a life of fierce strife and haughty oppression. Such scenes,
at least such thoughts, presented themselves to the imaginative mind of
Emily, like the dreamy gleams that skimmed in gold and purple before her
eyes; but the effect of any strong feeling, whether of enjoyment or of
grief, was always to make her silent; and she gazed without uttering a
word.
Mrs. Hazleton, however, understood some points in her character, and by
the long fixed look from beneath the dark sweeping lashes of her eye, by
the faint sweet smile that gently curled her young, beautiful lip, and
by the sort of gasping sigh after she had gazed breathless for some
moments, she knew how intense was that gentle creature's delight in a
scene, which to many an eye would have offered no peculiar charm.
She would not suffer it to lose any of its first effect, and after a
brief pause ordered the carriage to drive on. Still Emily continued to
look onwards out of the carriage-window, and as the road turned in the
descent, the castle and the ancient trees grouped themselves differently
every minute. At length, as they came nearer, she said, turning to Mrs.
Hazleton, "There seems to be a man standing at the very highest point of
the old keep."
"He must be bold indeed," replied her companion, looking out also. "When
you come close to it, dear Emily, you will see that it requires the foot
of a goat and the heart of a lion to climb up there over the rough,
disjointed, tottering stones. Good Heaven, I hope he will not fall!"
Emily closed her eyes. "It is very foolish," she said.
"Oh, men have pleasure in such feats of daring," answered Mrs. Hazleton,
"which we women cannot understand. He is coming down again as steadily
as if he were treading a ball-room. I wish that tree were out of the
way."
In two or three minutes the carriage passed between two rows of old and
somewhat decayed oaks, and stopped between the fine gate of the castle,
covered with ivy, and rugged with the work of Time's too artistic hand,
and a building which, if it did not detract from the picturesque beauty
of the scene, certainly deprived it of all romance. There, just opposite
the entrance, stood a small house, built apparently of stones stolen
from the ruins, and bearing on a pole projecting from the front a large
blue sign-board, on which was rudely painted in yellow, the figure of
what we now call a French horn, while underneath appeared a long
inscription to the following effect:
"John Buttercross, at the sign of the Bugle Horn, sells wine and aqua
vitae, and good lodgings to man and horse. N.B. Donkeys to be found
within."
Emily laughed, and in an instant came down to common earth.
Mrs. Hazleton wished both John Buttercross and his sign in one fire or
another; though she could not help owning that such a house in so remote
a place might be a great convenience to visitors like herself. She took
the matter quietly, however, returning Emily's gay look with one
somewhat rueful, and saying, "Ah, dear girl, all very mundane and
unromantic, but depend upon it the house has proved a blessing often to
poor wanderers in bleak weather over these wild hills; and we ourselves
may find it not so unpleasant by and by when Paul has spread our
luncheon in the parlor, and we look out of its little casement at the
old ruin there."
Thus saying, she alighted from the carriage, gave some orders to her
servants, and to an hostler who was walking up and down a remarkably
beautiful horse, which seemed to have been ridden hard, and then leaning
on Emily's arm, walked up the slope towards the gate.
Barbican and outer walls were gone--fallen long ago into the ditch, and
covered with the all-receiving earth and a green coat of turf. You could
but tell were they lay, by the undulations of the ground, and the grassy
hillock here and there. The great gate still stood firm, however, with
its two tall towers, standing like giant wardens to guard the entrance.
There were the machicolated parapets, the long loopholes mantled with
ivy, the outsloping basement, against which the battering ram might have
long played in vain, the family escutcheon with the arms crumbled from
it, the portcullis itself showing its iron teeth above the traveller's
head. It was the most perfect part of the building; and when the two
ladies entered the great court the scene of ruin was more complete.
Many a tower had fallen, leaving large gaps in the inner wall; the
chapel with only one beautiful window left, and the fragments of two
others, showing where the fine line had run, lay mouldering on the
right, and at some distance in front appeared the tall majestic keep,
the lower rooms of which were in tolerable preservation, though the roof
had fallen in to the second story, and the airy summit had lost its
symmetry by the destruction of two entire sides. Short green turf
covered the whole court, except where some mass of stone, more recently
fallen than others, still stood out bare and gray; but a crop of
brambles and nettles bristled up near the chapel, and here and there a
tree had planted itself on the tottering ruins of the walls.
Mrs. Hazleton walked straight towards the entrance of the keep along a
little path sufficiently well worn to show that the castle had frequent
visitors, and was within a few steps of the door-way, when a figure
issued forth which to say sooth did not at all surprise her to behold.
She gave a little start, however, saying in a low tone to Emily, "That
must be our climbing friend whose neck we thought in such peril a short
time since."
The gentleman--for such estate was indicated by his dress, which was
dark and sober, but well made and costly--took a step or two slowly
forward, verging a little to the side as if to let two ladies pass whom
he did not know; but then suddenly he stopped, gazed for an instant with
a well assumed look of surprise and inquiry, and then hurried rapidly
towards them, raising his hat not ungracefully, while Mrs. Hazleton
exclaimed, "Ah, how fortunate! Here is a friend who doubtless can tell
us all about the ruins."
At the same moment Emily recognized the young man whom she had found
accidentally wounded in her father's park.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Let me introduce Mr. Ayliffe to you, Emily," said Mrs. Hazleton; "but
you seem to know each other already. Is it so?"
"I have seen this gentleman before," replied her young companion, "but
did not know his name. I hope you have quite recovered from your wound?"
"Quite, I thank you, Miss Hastings," replied John Ayliffe, in a quiet
and respectful tone; but then he added, "the interest you kindly showed
on the occasion, I believe did much to cure me."
"Too much, and too soon!" thought Mrs. Hazleton, as she remarked a
slight flush pass over Emily's cheek, to which her reply gave
interpretation.
"Every one, I suppose, would feel the same interest," answered the
beautiful girl, "in suffering such as you seemed to endure when I
accidentally met you in the park. Shall we go on into the Castle?"
The last words were addressed to Mrs. Hazleton, who immediately
assented, but asked Mr. Ayliffe to act as their guide, and, at the very
first opportunity, whispered to him, "not too quick."
He seemed to comprehend in a moment what she meant; and during the rest
of the ramble round the ruins behaved himself with a good deal of
discretion. His conversation could not be said to be agreeable to Emily;
for there was little in it either to amuse or interest. His stores of
information were very limited--at least upon subjects which she herself
was conversant; and although he endeavored to give it, every now and
then, a poetical turn, the attempt was not very successful. On the
whole, however, he did tolerably well till after the luncheon at the
inn, to which Mrs. Hazleton invited him, when he began to entertain his
two fair companions with an account of a rat hunt, which surprised Emily
not a little, and drew, almost instantly, from Mrs. Hazleton a monitory
gesture.
The young man looked confused, and broke off, suddenly, with an
embarrassed laugh, saying, "Oh! I forgot, such exploits are not very fit
for ladies' ears; and, to say the truth, I do not much like them myself
when there is any thing better to do."
"I should think that something better might always be found," replied
Mrs. Hazleton, gravely, taking to her own lips the reproof which she
knew was in Emily's heart; "but, I dare say, you were a boy when this
happened?"
"Oh, quite a boy," he said, "quite a boy. I have other things to think
of now."
But the impression was made, and it was not favorable. With keen
acuteness Mrs. Hazleton watched every look, and every turn of the
conversation; and seeing that the course of things had begun ill for her
purposes, she very soon proposed to order the carriage and return;
resolving to take, as it were, a fresh start on the following day. She
did not then ask young Ayliffe to dine at her house, as she had, at
first, intended; but was well pleased, notwithstanding, to see him mount
his horse in order to accompany them on the way back; for she had
remarked that his horsemanship was excellent, and well knew that skill
in manly exercises is always a strong recommendation in a woman's eyes.
Nor was this all: decidedly handsome in person, John Ayliffe had,
nevertheless, a certain common--not exactly vulgar--air, when on his
feet, which was lost as soon as he was in the saddle. There, with a
perfect seat, and upright, dashing carriage, managing a fierce, wild
horse with complete mastery, he appeared to the greatest advantage. All
his horsemanship was thrown away upon Emily. If she had been asked by
any one, she would have admitted, at once, that he was a very handsome
man, and a good and graceful rider; but she never asked herself whether
he was or not; and, indeed, did not think about it at all.
One thing, however, she did think, and that was not what Mrs. Hazleton
desired. She thought him a coarse and vulgar-minded young man; and she
wondered how a woman of such refinement as Mrs. Hazleton could be
pleased with his society. There was at the end of that day only one
impression in his favor, which was produced by an undefinable
resemblance to her father, evanescent, but ever returning. There was no
one feature like: the coloring was different: the hair, eyes, beard, all
dissimilar. He was much handsomer than Sir Philip Hastings ever had
been; but ever and anon there came a glance of the eye, or a curl of the
lip; a family expression which was familiar and pleasant to her. John
Ayliffe accompanied the carriage to the gate of Mrs. Hazleton's park;
and there the lady beckoned him up, and in a kind, half jesting tone,
bade him keep himself disengaged the next day, as she might want him.
He promised to obey, and rode away; but Mrs. Hazleton never mentioned
his name again during the evening, which passed over in quiet
conversation, with little reference to the events of the morning.
Before she went to bed, however, Mrs. Hazleton wrote a somewhat long
epistle to John Ayliffe, full of very important hints for his conduct
the next day, and ending with an injunction to burn the letter as soon
as he had read it. This done, she retired to rest; and that night, what
with free mountain air and exercise, she and Emily both slept soundly.
The next morning, however, she felt, or affected to feel, fatigue; and
put off another expedition which had been proposed.
Noon had hardly arrived, when Mr. Ayliffe presented himself, to receive
her commands he said, and there he remained, invited to stay to dinner,
not much to Emily's satisfaction; but, at length, she remembered that
she had letters to write, and, seated at a table in the window, went on
covering sheets of paper, with a rapid hand, for more than an hour;
while John Ayliffe seated himself by Emily's embroidery frame, and
labored to efface the bad impression of the day before, by a very
different strain of conversation. He spoke of many things more suited to
her tastes and habits than those which he had previously noticed, and
spoke not altogether amiss. But yet, there was something forced in it
all. It was as if he were reading sentences out of a book, and, in
truth, it is probable he was repeating a lesson.
Emily did not know what to do. She would have given the world to be
freed from his society; to have gone out and enjoyed her own thoughts
amongst woods and flowers; or even to have sat quietly in her own room
alone, feeling the summer air, and looking at the glorious sky. To seek
that refuge, however, she thought would be rude; and to go out to walk
in the park would, she doubted not, induce him to follow. She sat still,
therefore, with marvellous patience, answering briefly when an answer
was required; but never speaking in reply with any of that free pouring
forth of heart and mind which can only take place where sympathy is
strong.
She was rewarded for her endurance, for when it had lasted well nigh as
long as she could bear it, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Marlow
appeared. His eyes instantly fixed upon Emily with that young man
sitting by her side; and a feeling, strange and painful, came upon him.
But the next instant the bright, glad, natural, unchecked look of
satisfaction, with which she rose to greet him, swept every doubt-making
jealousy away.
Very different was the look of Mrs. Hazleton. For an instant--a single
instant--the same black shadow, which I have mentioned once before, came
across her brow, the same lightning flashed from her eye. But both
passed away in a moment; and the feelings which produced them were again
hidden in her heart. They were bitter enough; for she had read, with the
clear eyesight of jealousy, all that Marlow's look of surprise and
annoyance--all that Emily's look of joy and relief--betrayed.
They might not yet call themselves lovers--they might not even be
conscious that they were so; but that they were and would be, from that
moment, Mrs. Hazleton had no doubt. The conviction had come upon her,
not exactly gradually, but by fits, as it were--first a doubt, and then
a fear, and then a certainty that one, and then that both loved.
If it were so, she knew that her present plans must fail; but yet she
pursued them with an eagerness very different than before--a wild, rash,
almost frantic eagerness. There was a chance, she thought, of driving
Emily into the arms of John Ayliffe, with no love for him, and love for
another; and there was a bitter sort of satisfaction in the very idea.
Fears for her father she always hoped might operate, where no other
inducement could have power, and such means she resolved to bring into
play at once, without waiting for the dull, long process of drilling
Ayliffe into gentlemanly carriage, or winning for him some way in
Emily's regard. To force her to marry him, hating rather than loving
him, would be a mighty gratification, and for it Mrs. Hazleton resolved
at once to strike; but she knew that hypocrisy was needed more than
ever; and therefore it was that the brow was smoothed, the eye calmed in
a moment.
To Marlow, during his visit, she was courteous and civil enough, but
still so far cold as to give him no encouragement to stay long. She kept
watch too upon all that passed, not only between him and Emily, but
between him and John Ayliffe; for a quarrel between them, which she
thought likely, was not what she desired. But there was no danger of
such a result. Marlow treated the young man with a cold and distant
politeness--a proud civility, which left him no pretence for offence,
and yet silenced and abashed him completely. During the whole visit,
till towards its close, the contrast between the two men was so marked
and strong, so disadvantageous to him whom Mrs. Hazleton sought to
favor, that she would have given much to have had Ayliffe away from
such a damaging companion. At length she could endure it no longer, and
contrived to send him to seek for some flowers which she pretended to
want, and which she knew he would not readily find in her gardens.
Before he returned, Marlow was gone; and Emily, soon after, retired to
her own room, leaving the youth and Mrs. Hazleton together.
The three met again at dinner, and, for once, a subject was brought up,
by accident, or design--which, I know not--that gave John Ayliffe an
opportunity of setting himself in a somewhat better light. Every one has
some amenity--some sweeter, gentler spot in the character. He had a
great love for flowers--a passion for them; and it brought forth the
small, very small portion of the poetry of the heart which had been
assigned to him by nature. It was flowers then that Mrs. Hazleton talked
of, and he soon joined in discussing their beauties, with a thorough
knowledge of, and feeling for his subject. Emily was somewhat surprised,
and, with natural kindness, felt glad to find some topic where she could
converse with him at ease. The change of her manner encouraged him, and
he went on, for once, wisely keeping to a subject on which he was at
home, and which seemed so well to please. Mrs. Hazleton helped him
greatly with a skill and rapidity which few could have displayed, always
guiding the conversation back to the well chosen theme, whenever it was
lost for an instant.
At length, when the impression was most favorable, John Ayliffe rose to
go--I know not whether he did so at a sign from Mrs. Hazleton; but I
think he did. Few men quit a room gracefully--it is a difficult
evolution--and he, certainly, did not. But Emily's eyes were in a
different direction, and to say the truth, although he had seemed to her
more agreeable that evening than he had been before, she thought too
little of him at all to remark how he quitted the room, even if her eyes
had been upon him.
From time to time, indeed, some of the strange vague words which he had
used when she had seen him in the park, had recurred to her mind with an
unpleasant impression and she had puzzled herself with the question of
what could be their meaning; but she soon dismissed the subject,
resolving to seek some information from Mrs. Hazleton, who seemed to
know the young man so well.
On the preceding night, that lady had avoided all mention of him; but
that was not the case now. She spoke of him, almost as soon as he was
gone, in a tone of some compassion, alluding vaguely and mysteriously to
misfortunes and disadvantages under which he had labored, and saying,
that it was marvellous to see how much strength of mind, and natural
high qualities, could effect against adverse circumstances. This called
forth from Emily the inquiry which she had meditated, and although she
could not recollect exactly the words John Ayliffe had used, she
detailed, with sufficient accuracy, all that had taken place between
herself and him; and the strange allusion he had made to Sir Philip
Hastings.
Mrs. Hazleton gazed at her for a moment or two after she had done
speaking, with a look expressive of anxious concern.
"I trust, my dear Emily," she said, at length, "that you did not repel
him at all harshly. I have had much sad experience of the world, and I
know that in youth we are too apt to touch hardly and rashly, things
that for our own best interests, as well as for good feeling's sake, we
ought to deal with tenderly."
"I do not think that I spoke harshly," replied Emily, thoughtfully; "I
told him that any thing he had to say must be said to my father; but I
do not believe I spoke even that unkindly."
"I am glad to hear it--very glad;" replied Mrs. Hazleton, with much
emphasis; and then, after a short pause, she added, "Yet I do not know
that your father--excellent, noble-minded, just and generous as he
is--was the person best fitted to judge and act in the matter which John
Ayliffe might have to speak of."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Emily, becoming more and more surprised, and in some
degree alarmed, "this is very strange, dear Mrs. Hazleton. You seem to
know more of this matter; pray explain it all to me. I may well hear
from you, what would be improper for me to listen to from him."
"He has a kindly heart," said Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully, "and more
forbearance than I ever knew in one so young; but it cannot last for
ever; and when he is of age, which will be in a few days, he must act;
and I trust will act kindly and gently--I am sure he will, if nothing
occurs to irritate a bold and decided character."
"But act how?" inquired Emily, eagerly; "you forget, dear Mrs. Hazleton,
that I am quite in the dark in this matter. I dare say that he is all
that you say; but I will own that neither his manners generally, nor his
demeanor on that occasion, led me to think very well of him, or to
believe that he was of a forbearing or gentle nature."
"He has faults," said Mrs. Hazleton, dryly; "oh yes, he has faults, but
they are those of manner, more than heart or character--faults produced
by circumstances which may be changed by circumstances--which would
never have existed, had he had, earlier, one judicious, kind, and
experienced friend to counsel and direct him. They are disappearing
rapidly, and, if ever he should fall under the influences of a generous
and noble spirit, will vanish altogether."
She was preparing the way, skilfully exciting, as she saw, some interest
in Emily, and yet producing some alarm.
"But still you do not explain," said the beautiful girl, anxiously; "do
not, dear Mrs. Hazleton, keep me longer in suspense."
"I cannot--I ought not, Emily, to explain all to you," replied the lady,
"it would be a long and painful story; but this I may tell you, and
after that, ask me no more. That young man has your father's fortunes
and his fate entirely in his hands. He has forborne long. Heaven grant
that his forbearance may still endure."
She ceased, and after one glance at Emily's face, she cast down her
eyes, and seemed to fall into thought.
Emily gazed up towards the sky, as if seeking counsel there, and then,
bursting into tears, hurriedly quitted the room.
CHAPTER XX.
Emily's night was not peaceful. The very idea that her father's fate was
in the power of any other man, was, in itself, trouble enough; but in
the present case there was more. Why, or wherefore, she knew not; but
there was something told her that, in spite of all Mrs. Hazleton's
commendations, and the fair portrait she had so elaborately drawn, John
Ayliffe was not a man to use power mercifully. She tried eagerly to
discover what had created this impression: she thought of every look and
every word which she had seen upon the young man's countenance, or heard
from his lips; and she fixed at length more upon the menacing scowl
which she had marked upon his brow in the cottage, than even upon the
menacing language which he had held when her father's name was
mentioned.
Sleep visited not her eyes for many an hour, and when at length her eyes
closed through fatigue, it was restless and dreamful. She fancied she
saw John Ayliffe holding Sir Philip on the ground, trying to strangle
him. She strove to scream for help, but her lips seemed paralyzed, and
there was no sound. That strange anguish of sleep--the anguish of
impotent strong will--of powerless passion--of effort without effect,
was upon her, and soon burst the bonds of slumber. It would have been
impossible to endure it long. All must have felt that it is greater than
any mortal agony; and that if he could endure more than a moment, like a
treacherous enemy it would slay us in our sleep.
She awoke unrefreshed, and rose pale and sad. I cannot say that Mrs.
Hazleton, when she beheld Emily's changed look, felt any great
compunction. If she had no great desire to torture, which I will not
pretend to say, she did not at all object to see her victim suffer; but
Emily's pale cheek and distressed look afforded indications still more
satisfactory; which Mrs. Hazleton remarked with the satisfaction of a
philosopher watching a successful experiment. They showed that the
preparation she had made for what was coming, was even more effectual
than she had expected, and so the abstract pleasure of inflicting pain
on one she hated, was increased by the certainty of success.
Emily said little--referred not at all to the subject of her thoughts,
but dwelt upon it--pondered in silence. To one who knew her she might
have seemed sullen, sulky; but it was merely that one of those fits of
deep intense communion with the inner things of the heart--those
abstracted rambles through the mazy wilderness of thought, which
sometimes fell upon her, was upon her now. At these times it was very
difficult to draw her spirit forth into the waking world again--to rouse
her to the things about her life. It seemed as if her soul was absent
far away, and that the mere animal life of the body remained. Great
events might have passed before her eyes, without her knowing aught of
them.
On all former occasions but one, these reveries--for so I must call
them--had been of a lighter and more pleasant nature. In them it had
seemed as if her young spirit had been tempted away from the household
paths of thought, far into tangled wilds where it had lost
itself--tempted, like other children, by the mere pleasure of the
ramble--led on to catch a butterfly, or chase the rainbow.
Feeling--passion, had not mingled with the dream at all, and
consequently there had been no suffering. I am not sure that on other
occasions, when such absent fits fell upon her, Emily Hastings was not
more joyous, more full of pure delight, than when, in a gay and
sparkling mood, she moved her father's wonder at what he thought light
frivolity. But now it was all bitter: the labyrinth was dark as well as
intricate, and the thorns tore her as she groped for some path across
the wilderness.
Before it had lasted very long--before it had at all reached its
conclusion--and as she had sat at the window of the drawing-room, gazing
out upon the sky without seeing either white cloud or blue, Sir Philip
Hastings himself, on a short journey for some magisterial purpose,
entered the room, spoke a few words to Mrs. Hazleton, and then turned to
his daughter. Had he been half an hour later, Emily would have cast her
arms round his neck and told him all; but as it was, she remained
self-involved, even in his presence--answered indeed mechanically--spoke
words of affection with an absent air, and let the mind still run on
upon the path which it had chosen.
Sir Philip had no time to stay till this fit was past, and Mrs. Hazleton
was glad to get rid of him civilly before any other act of the drama
began.
But his daughter's mood did not escape Sir Philip's eyes. I have said
that for her he was full of observation, though he often read the
results wrongly; and now he marked Emily's mood with doubt, and not with
pleasure. "What can this mean?" he asked himself, "can any thing have
gone wrong? It is strange, very strange. Perhaps her mother was right
after all, and it might have been better to take her to the capital."
Thus thinking, Sir Philip himself fell into a reverie, not at all
unlike that in which he had found his daughter. Yet he understood not
hers, and pondered upon it as something strange and inextricable.
In the mean time, Emily thought on, till at length Mrs. Hazleton
reminded her that they were to go that day to the Waterfall. She rose
mechanically, sought her room, dressed, and gazed from the window.
It is wonderful, however, how small a thing will sometimes take the
mind, as it were, by the hand, and lead it back out of shadow into
sunshine. From the lawn below the window a light bird sprang up into the
air, quivered upon its twinkling wings, uttered a note or two, and then
soared higher, and each moment as it rose up, up, into the sky, the
song, like a spirit heavenward bound, grew stronger and more strong, and
flooded the air with melody.
Emily watched it as it rose, listened to it as it sang. Its upward
flight seemed to carry her spirit above the dark things on which it
brooded; its thrilling voice to waken her to cheerful life again. There
is a high holiness in a lark's song; and hard must be the heart, and
strong and corrupt, that does not raise the voice and join with it in
its praise to God.
When she went down again into the drawing-room, she was quite a
different being, and Mrs. Hazleton marvelled what could have happened so
to change her. Had she been told that it was a lark's song, she would
have laughed the speaker to scorn. She was not one to feel it.
I will not pause upon the journey of the morning, nor describe the
beautiful fall of the river that they visited, or tell how it fell
rushing over the precipice, or how the rocks dashed it into diamond
sparkles, or how rainbows bannered the conflict of the waters, and
boughs waved over the struggling stream like plumes. It was a sweet and
pleasant sight, and full of meditation; and Mrs. Hazleton, judging
perhaps of others by herself, imagined that it would produce in the mind
of Emily those softening influences which teach the heart to yield
readily to the harder things of life.
There is, perhaps, not a more beautiful, nor a more frequently
applicable allegory than that of the famous Amreeta Cup--I know not
whether devised by Southey, or borrowed by him from the rich store of
instructive fable hidden in oriental tradition. It is long, long, since
I read it; but yet every word is remembered whenever I see the different
effect which scenes, circumstances, and events produce upon different
characters. It is shown by the poet that the cup of divine wine gave
life and immortality, and excellence superhuman, and bliss beyond
belief, to the pure heart; but to the dark, earthly, and evil, brought
death, destruction, and despair. We may extend the lesson a little, and
see in the Amreeta wine, the spirit of God pervading all his works, but
producing in those who see and taste an effect, for good or evil,
according to the nature of the recipient. The strong, powerful,
self-willed, passionate character of Mrs. Hazleton, found, in the calm
meditative fall of the cataract, in the ever shifting play of the wild
waters, and in the watchful stillness of the air around, a softening,
enfeebling influence. The gentle character of Emily turned from the
scene with a heart raised rather than depressed, a spirit better
prepared to combat with evil and with sorrow, full of love and trust in
God, and a confidence strong beyond the strength of this world. There is
a voice of prophecy in waterfalls, and mountains, and lakes, and
streams, and sunny lands, and clouds, and storms, and bright sunsets,
and the face of nature every where, which tells the destiny, not of one,
but of many, and at all events, foreshows the unutterable mercy reserved
for those who trust. It is a prophecy--and an exhortation too. The words
are, "Be holy, and be happy!" The God who speaks is true and glorious.
Be true and inherit glory.
Emily had been cheerful as they went. As they returned she was calm and
firm. Readily she joined in any conversation. Seldom did she fall into
any absent fit of thought, and the effect of that day's drive was any
thing but what Mrs. Hazleton expected or wished.
When they returned to the house, a letter was delivered to Emily
Hastings, with which, the seal unbroken, she retired to her own room.
The hand was unknown to her, but with a sort of prescience something
more than natural, she divined at once from whom it came, and saw that
the difficult struggle had commenced. An hour or two before, the very
thought would have dismayed her. Now the effect was but small.
She had no suspicion of the plans against her; no idea whatever that
people might be using her as a tool--that there was any interest
contrary to her own, in the conduct or management of others. But yet she
turned the key in the door before she commenced the perusal of the
letter, which was to the following effect:
"I know not," said the writer, in a happier style than perhaps might
have been expected, "how to prevail upon your goodness to pardon all I
am going to say, knowing that nothing short of the circumstances in
which I am placed, could excuse my approaching you even in thought. I
have long known you, though you have known me only for a few short
hours. I have watched you often from childhood up to womanhood, and
there has been growing upon me from very early years a strong
attachment, a deep affection, a powerful--overpowering--ardent love,
which nothing can ever extinguish. Need I tell you that the last few
days would have increased that love had increase been possible.
"All this, however, I know is no justification of my venturing to raise
my thoughts to you--still less of my venturing to express these feelings
boldly; but it has been an excuse to myself, and in some degree to
others, for abstaining hitherto from that which my best interests, a
mother's fame, and my own rights, required. The time has now come when I
can no longer remain silent; when I must throw upon you the
responsibility of an important choice; when I am forced to tell you how
deeply, how devotedly, I love you, in order that you may say whether you
will take the only means of saving me from the most painful task I ever
undertook, by conferring on me the greatest blessing that woman ever
gave to man; or, on the other hand, will drive me to a task repugnant to
all my feelings, but just, necessary, inevitable, in case of your
refusal. Let me explain, however, that I am your cousin--the son of your
father's elder brother by a private marriage with a peasant girl of this
county. The whole case is perfectly clear, and I have proof positive of
the marriage in my hands. From fear of a lawsuit, and from the pressure
of great poverty, my mother was induced to sacrifice her rights after
her husband's early death, still to conceal her marriage, to bear even
sneers and shame, and to live upon a pittance allowed to her by her
husband's father, and secured to her by him after his own death, when
she was entitled to honor, and birth, and distinction by the law of the
land.
"One of her objects, doubtless, was to secure to herself and her son a
moderate competence, as the late Sir John Hastings, my grandfather and
yours, had the power of leaving all his estates to any one he pleased,
the entail having ended with himself. For this she sacrificed her
rights, her name, her fame, and you will find, if you look into your
grandfather's will, that he took especial care that no infraction of the
contract between him and her father should give cause for the assertion
of her rights. Two or three mysterious clauses in that will will show
you at once, if you read them, that the whole tale I tell you is
correct, and that Sir John Hastings, on the one hand, paid largely, and
on the other threatened sternly, in order to conceal the marriage of his
eldest son, and transmit the title to the second. But my mother could
not bar me of my rights: she could endure unmerited shame for pecuniary
advantages, if she pleased; but she could not entail shame upon me; and
were it in the power of any one to deprive me of that which Sir John
Hastings left me, or to shut me out from the succession to his whole
estates, to which--from the fear of disclosing his great secret--he did
not put any bar in his will that would have been at once an
acknowledgment of my legitimacy, I would still sacrifice all, and stand
alone, friendless and portionless in the world, rather than leave my
mother's fame and my own birth unvindicated. This is one of the
strongest desires, the most overpowering impulses of my heart; and
neither you nor any one could expect me to resist it. But there is yet a
stronger still--not an impulse, but a passion, and to that every thing
must yield. It is love; and whatever may be the difference which you see
between yourself and me, however inferior I may feel myself to you in
all those qualities which I myself the most admire, still, I feel myself
justified in placing the case clearly before you--in telling you how
truly, how sincerely, how ardently I love you, and in asking you whether
you will deign to favor my suit even now as I stand, to save me the pain
and grief of contending with the father of her I love, the anguish of
stripping him of the property he so well uses, and of the rank which he
adorns; or will leave me to establish my rights, to take my just name
and station, and then, when no longer appearing humble and unknown, to
plead my cause with no less humility than I do at present.
"That I shall do so then, as now, rest assured--that I would do so if
the rank and station to which I have a right were a principality, do not
doubt; but I would fain, if it were possible, avoid inflicting any pain
upon your father. I know not how he may bear the loss of station and of
fortune--I know not what effect the struggles of a court of law, and
inevitable defeat may produce. Only acquainted with him by general
repute, I cannot tell what may be the effect of mortification and the
loss of all he has hitherto enjoyed. He has the reputation of a good, a
just, and a wise man, somewhat vehement in feeling, somewhat proud of
his position. You must judge him, rather than I; but, I beseech you,
consider him in this matter.
"At any time, and at all times, my love will be the same--nothing can
change me--nothing can alter or affect the deep love I bear you. When
casting from me the cloud which had hung upon my birth, when assuming
the rank and taking possession of the property that is my own, I shall
still love you as devotedly as ever--still as earnestly seek your hand.
But oh! how I long to avoid all the pangs, the mischances, the anxieties
to every one, the ill feeling, the contention, the animosity, which must
ever follow such a struggle as that between your father and myself--oh,
how I long to owe every thing to you, even the station, even the
property, even the fair name that is my own by right! Nay, more, far
more, to owe you guidance and direction--to owe you support and
instruction--to owe you all that may improve, and purify, and elevate
me.
"Oh, Emily, dear cousin, let me be your debtor in all things. You who
first gave me the thought of rising above fate, and making myself worthy
of the high fortunes which I have long known awaited me, perfect your
work, redeem me for ever from all that is unworthy, save me from bitter
regrets, and your father from disappointment, sorrow, and poverty, and
render me all that I long to be.
"Yours, and forever,
"JOHN HASTINGS."
Very well done, Mrs. Hazleton!--but somewhat too well done. There was a
difference, a difference so striking, so unaccountable, between the
style of this letter, both in thought and composition, and the ordinary
style and manners of John Ayliffe, that it could not fail to strike the
eyes of Emily. For a moment she felt a little confused--not undecided.
There was no hesitation, no doubt, as to her own conduct. For an instant
it crossed her mind that this young man had deeper, finer feelings in
his nature than appeared upon the surface--that his manner might be more
in fault than his nature. But there were things in the letter itself
which she did not like--that, without any labored analysis or
deep-searching criticism, brought to her mind the conviction that the
words, the arguments, the inducements employed were those of art rather
than of feeling--that the mingling of threats towards her father,
however veiled, with professions of love towards herself, was in itself
ungenerous--that the objects and the means were not so high-toned as the
professions--that there was something sordid, base, ignoble in the whole
proceeding. It required no careful thought to arrive at such a
conclusion--no second reading--and her mind was made up at once.
The deep reverie into which she had fallen in the morning had done her
good--it had disentangled thought, and left the heart and judgment
clear. The fair, natural scene she had passed through since, the
intercourse with God's works, had done her still more good--refreshed,
and strengthened, and elevated the spirit; and after a very brief pause
she drew the table towards her, sat down, and wrote. As she did write,
she thought of her father, and she believed from her heart that the
words she used were those which he would wish her to employ. They were
to the following effect:
"Sir: Your letter, as you may suppose, has occasioned me great pain, and
the more so, as I am compelled to say, not only that I cannot return
your affection now, but can hold out no hope to you of ever returning
it. I am obliged to speak decidedly, as I should consider myself most
base if I could for one moment trifle with feelings such as those which
you express.
"In regard to your claims upon my father's estates, and to the rank
which he believes himself to hold by just right, I can form no judgment;
and could have wished that they had never been mentioned to me before
they had been made known to him.
"I never in my life knew my father do an unjust or ungenerous thing, and
I am quite sure that if convinced another had a just title to all that
he possesses on earth, he would strip himself of it as readily as he
would of a soiled garment. My father would disdain to hold for an hour
the rightful property of another. You have therefore only to lay your
reasons before him, and you may be sure that they will have just
consideration and yourself full justice. I trust that you will do so
soon, as to give the first intelligence of such claims would be too
painful a task for
"Your faithful servant,
"EMILY HASTINGS."
She read her letter over twice, and was satisfied with it. Sealing it
carefully, she gave it to her own maid for despatch, and then paused for
a moment, giving way to some temporary curiosity as to who could have
aided in the composition of the letter she had received, for John
Ayliffe's alone she could not and would not believe it to be. She cast
such thoughts from her very speedily, however, and, strange to say, her
heart seemed lightened now that the moment of trial had come and gone,
now that a turning-point in her fate seemed to have passed.
Mrs. Hazleton was surprised to see her re-enter the drawing-room with a
look of relief. She saw that the matter was decided, but she was too
wise to conclude that it was decided according to her wishes.
CHAPTER XXI.
Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life it
had proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give no
account of its conduct,--why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so, why
it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw John Ayliffe
sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings had risen with so
joyous a smile to greet him--it would not explain at all. And now he
argued the point with it systematically, with a determination to get to
the bottom of the matter one way or another. He asked it, as if it had
been a separate individual, if it was in love with Emily Hastings. The
question was too direct, and the heart said it "rather thought not."
Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed to
be considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in the
least."
Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountable way,
when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting beside Emily?
The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."
Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and he
argued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same when
you see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart was
puzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answer to
this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastings is
going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young or old,
what would you do then?"
"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowing how
dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback, when the
pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter, he had
waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself in his
chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breast
stately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the end of the
conversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and ride
instantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing he
looked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished. The
last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond of books,
and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his own books
down he had ordered some cases to be made by a country carpenter, which
fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gave it a raw, desolate
aspect, and made him, by a natural projection of thought, think ill of
the accommodation of the whole house, as soon as he began to entertain
the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming its mistress. Then he went on
to ask himself, "What have I to offer for the treasure of her hand? What
have I to offer but the hand of a very simple, undistinguished country
gentleman--quite, quite unworthy of her? What have I to offer Sir Philip
Hastings as an alliance worthy of even his consideration?--A good,
unstained name; but no rank, and a fortune not above mediocrity. Marry!
a fitting match for the heiress of the Hastings and Marshall families."
He gazed around him, and his heart fell.
A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of a
bow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whispered
in his ear, "Never mind all that--only try."
And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so.
Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should he
write? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first,
and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No,
that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. At
length he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but the
discussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too late
to ride over that night, and the journey was put off till the following
day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He called it as early
as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the moment one fears a
rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious. When his horse
was brought round he began to fancy that he should be too soon for Sir
Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down for half an hour.
What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching Sir
Philip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was not
expected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a good deal
disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked far less
cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, or in his
pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under the
influence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, for
which he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from the
passing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness was
lost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.
The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as if
some beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when it is
worth any thing, has always smack of the hunter in it. He cared not for
highlands or bypaths--hedges and ditches offered small impediments.
Straight across the country he went, till he approached the end of his
journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, and began to ask
himself if he was a madman. He was passing over the Marshall property at
the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, and the thought of all that
she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubt and apprehension. He would
have given one half of all that he possessed that she had been a
peasant-girl, that he might have lived with her upon the other.
Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir Philip Hastings,
and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in his mind. Then he
was angry with himself for his own sensations, and tried philosophy and
scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding had no effect; and
then cantering easily through the park, he stopped at the gate of the
house and dismounted.
Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the little room
where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that he might
have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; on the
contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge by the
contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners of his
lips, it was not a very pleasant one.
Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and the first
words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at all
harmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.
"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinking
this morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancient and
modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in the conclusion
that we, in this land, leave too little free action to individual
judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands; yet how often
do we break this rule--how often are we compelled to break it. If you,
with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixty paces about to
murder a child or a woman, without any means of stopping the blow except
by using your weapon, what would you do?"
"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if I
were quite certain of his intention."
"Of course--of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend, if
you did so without witnesses--supposing the child too young to testify,
or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed--you would be hung for
your just, wise, charitable act."
"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it, nevertheless."
"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand; "right,
and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clear consciousness of
the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidence in the justice of
our judgment, we must step over all human laws, be the result to
ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man--one Cutter--to whom you
taught a severe lesson on the very first day I had the pleasure of
knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified, morally, and
perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword through his body, when he
attacked me that day. Had I done so I should have saved a valuable human
life, spared the world the spectacle of a great crime, and preserved an
excellent husband and father to his wife and children. That very man has
murdered the game-keeper of the Earl of Selby; and being called to the
spot yesterday, I had to commit him for that crime, upon evidence which
left not a doubt of his guilt. I spared him when he assaulted me from a
weak and unworthy feeling of compassion, although I knew the man's
character, and dimly foresaw his career. I have regretted it since; but
never so much as yesterday. This, of course, is no parallel case to that
which I just now proposed; but the one led my mind to the other."
"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.
"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during the
examination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, when I
ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him for that
offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; for that he
had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all I possessed."
"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.
"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone; "crushed
vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son of the former
sexton here--an honest, good creature too, for whom I obtained his
place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose word there is no
dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held some such language
before; but it never produced a fear that my property would be lost, or
even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples on the tenure of a
rogue's good pleasure--why do you smile?"
"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for a
friend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to lose the
opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am bound to
hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but every
selfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."
Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled; but
Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "I have
not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after I discovered
what are my feelings towards your daughter, without informing you fully
of their nature, that you may at once decide upon your future demeanor
towards one to whom you have hitherto shown much kindness, and who would
on no account abuse it. I was not at all aware of how this passion had
grown upon me, till the day before yesterday, when I saw your daughter
at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidental circumstance revealed to me the
state of my own heart."
Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, he
inquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"
"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by word nor
look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towards her. I
would not, between us, do so, till I had given you an opportunity of
deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her, whether you would
permit me to pursue my suit or not."
Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow by
asking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain a
parent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of a girl
you loved?"
"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it always
necessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind to
me--trusted me--had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily which
might thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to show
myself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."
Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I had some
idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however," he
continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed your feelings
more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I found Emily in a
strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that some strong feelings
were busy at her heart."
"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myself
that she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there was a
young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton--John Ayliffe, I think, is
his name--and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoy her."
"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his brow
growing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well might
the poor child look thoughtful--and yet why should she? She knows
nothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow--how does he bear
himself?"
"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure,"
replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblance
between him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define in
his appearance, Sir Philip--in his air--in his carriage, whether still
or in motion, which fixes upon him what I am accustomed to call a
class-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that it
was annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked that
affected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is,
and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; and
before that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what say you
to my suit? May I--as some of your words lead me to hope--may I pursue
that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"
"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has long been
floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is too young to
marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the time does come;
but you have my consent to seek her affection if she can give it you.
She must herself decide."
"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neither fortune
nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means----"
Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talking of
rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education,
manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more for
herself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know, to
make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As for myself,
were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be the man.
Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do not promise her
to you. That she must do; but if she says she will give you her hand, it
shall be yours."
Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but Sir Philip's
thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs.
Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I will
send for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty of
opportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeing how
you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay no longer in a
house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazleton makes me
marvel--a woman so proud--so refined!"
"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I have
some vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that they met
that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure. But had
I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings, my dear
sir?"
"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "I
promise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will not
oppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; nor do I suffer opposition
upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings my determination
myself."
Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on the
following day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave for the
time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heard Sir
Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry a
letter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselves
of his mind--not in regard to Emily--but in reference to Mrs. Hazleton
herself.
The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling
Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be
sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip
repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had given
his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter. His
tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none; but
she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent fit of
hysterics.
FOOTNOTES:
[L] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.
James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New-York.
HERBERT KNOWLES.
We recently printed in the _International_ an interesting account of the
"marvellous boy" Chatterton, who "perished in his pride," and the
memoirs of Southey recall to us the almost as unfortunate Herbert
Knowles, who died in 1817. Knowles was a poor boy of the humblest
origin, without father or mother, yet with abilities sufficient to
excite the attention of strangers, who subscribed 20_l._ a year towards
his education, upon condition that his friends should furnish 30l. more.
The boy was sent to Richmond School, Yorkshire, preparatory to his
proceeding as a sizer to St. John's, but when he quitted school the
friends were unable to advance another sixpence on his account. To help
himself, Herbert Knowles wrote a poem, sent it to Southey with a history
of his case, and asked permission to dedicate it to the Laureate.
Southey, finding the poem "brimful of power and of promise," made
inquiries of the schoolmaster, and received the highest character of the
youth. He then answered the application of Knowles, entreated him to
avoid present publication, and promised to do something better than
receive his dedication. He subscribed at once 10_l._ per annum towards
the failing 30_l._, and procured similar subscriptions from Mr. Rogers
and the late Lord Spencer. Herbert Knowles, receiving the news of his
good fortune, wrote to his protector a letter remarkable for much more
than the gratitude which pervaded every line. He remembered that Kirke
White had gone to the university countenanced and supported by patrons,
and that to pay back the debt he owed them he wrought day and night
until his delicate frame gave way, and his life became the penalty of
his devotion. Herbert Knowles felt that he could not make the same
desperate efforts, and deemed it his first duty to say so. "I will not
deceive," he writes in his touching anxiety.
"Far be it from me to foster expectations which I feel I cannot gratify.
Two years ago I came to Richmond totally ignorant of classical and
mathematical literature. Out of that time, during three months and two
long vacations I have made but a retrograde course. If I enter into
competition for university honors I shall kill myself. Could I twine,
to gratify my friends, a laurel with the cypress I would not repine; but
to sacrifice the little inward peace which the wreck of passion has left
behind, and relinquish every hope of future excellence and future
usefulness in one wild and unavailing pursuit, were indeed a madman's
act, and worthy of a madman's fate."
The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that
he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any
extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert
Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities,
and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor
within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his
grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad
suspected.
A poem by him, _The Three Tabernacles_, though perhaps familiar to most
of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:
THE THREE TABERNACLES.
Methinks it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build,--but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no:
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For see, they would pin him below
To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets
The charms that she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:
Who hid, in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squandered again;
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no: they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve:
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah! no: for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow;
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.
There are in his works several other pieces not less remarkable for the
best qualities of poetry; and they all appear to be the echoes of
genuine feeling.
THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[M]
TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H.
DE ST. GEORGES.
_Continued from page 511, vol. II._
PART SECOND--BOOK FIRST.
THE DUCHESS.
On the very day on which the marriage had been celebrated at the town of
Sorrento, a man descended from a carriage that, from the dust on its
wheels, seemed to have travelled far, at the town of Ceprano, situated
on the frontier of the Roman States and the kingdom of Naples. People
call Ceprano a city; it is, however, in fact, only a large town of the
Abruzzi, very ugly and very dirty, to which leads one of the worst and
most romantic roads in Italy. Ceprano would scarcely merit the
traveller's notice, but for many curiosities which it contains, worthy
of particular attention. These curiosities are neither the charms of
nature, for the scenery is without interest, nor palaces, nor monuments.
They are neither archeologic nor artistic, but the greatest of earthly
rarities--curiosities of humanity. The women of Ceprano are, perhaps,
the most beautiful in Italy. Their stature, their regular and noble
features, their magnificent black hair, twined around their charming
faces, a graceful carriage, truly antique, their picturesque costume,
partaking of the characters of both modern Greece and Italy, form the
most admirable and pleasant combination. The women of Ceprano display,
also, a peculiar coquetry, by their graceful and bold air; they carry on
their heads etruscan amphorae, in which, like Rachel, they bring water
from the spring. At the fountain, therefore, strangers assemble to
admire these nymphs. The traveller of whom we speak had gone thither,
according to the well established custom, while his horses were being
changed. He had, however, been preceded by another man, whose strange
appearance soon attracted attention. The latter was about sixty years of
age, of middle height, and well made. He had been handsome, if one could
judge from the purity of the lines of his features, which time had not
entirely effaced. His _coiffure_ alone would have made him appear
whimsical and ridiculous, had not his head been noble and distinguished.
He wore powder; and locks such as once were known as _a l'aille de
pigeon_, were on each side of his face. A cloak of light silk was
buttoned over his breast, so as to conceal a blue coat on which a cross
of Saint Louis rested, being suspended to a broad blue ribbon. Sitting
between two of the prettiest girls of Ceprano, he talked to them in an
Italian, very little of which they understood; for his _patois_ called
forth from the volatile creatures bursts of laughter.
"Bah!" said he in French; "this is the consequence of not studying
foreign tongues. I cannot turn the _indigenes_ to profit. Pity, too,
when they are beautiful as these are."
"Signor, may I be your interpreter?" said the last comer, who had heard
only the latter portion of the old man's words.
"Thanks, Signor," said he; "heaven has sent you to the aid of a
barbarian who was pitilessly murdering the mother tongue of Tasso.
Formerly," continued he, "pantomime answered to talk with women as well
as language; now, however, I must explain myself in another manner. I
cannot, therefore, ask you to be the interpreter of my request of these
girls!"
"What, Signor, did you ask them?" said he.
"Nothing, but permission to write two signs on my tablets. A habit I
imported from London, a peculiar kind of statistics to introduce some
variety into the tedious stories travellers spin. I indicate the region
through which I pass by a single phrase or word which recalls to me what
they have most agreeable to the heart, mind, or senses. See," said he,
taking a rich pocket-book on which was a prince's coronet in gold, "all
Italy will occupy but two pages. Florence? _Flowers and museums._
Bologna? _Hams._ Milan? _La scala._ Leghorn? _Nothing._ Rome? _Every
thing. Et caetera._ I wished to write Ceprano? _kisses_: to prove that
here I touched the lips of the two prettiest women of Italy."
"If that is all," said the person to whom the old man spoke, "and for
the purpose of advocating so useful a cause," said she, with a laugh, "I
will procure you the pleasure you desire."
"Indeed, Signor, I do not know how I can recompense you for such a
service."
"Signor, I deserve no recompense from you, as I merely advance the art
of travelling, which through your exertions is about to become so
attractive----"
"_Signorine_," said he to the beautiful girls of Ceprano, in the pure
Roman dialect; "an old man's kiss always brings prosperity to the
youthful; and this, Signor," he pointed to the old man with powdered
hair, "wishes you to be happy."
The two young girls, with the most natural grace possible, offered their
brows to the old man, who kissed them paternally as possible.
"I thank you, sir," said he to his interpreter. "I am indebted solely
for this chapter to your politeness, and can express my pleasure only by
dedicating it to you. To do so, however, it is necessary that I should
know your name----"
"Write then, Ceprano, dedicated to Count Monte-Leone. But, Signor, shall
not I know the name of the author of a work so interesting as that to
which I have contributed?"
"The name of the writer who is indebted to you for the best chapter of
his book, is the Prince de Maulear."
The Count made a brusque movement of surprise, and saluting the Prince
coldly, left him. A quarter of an hour after, two carriages in different
directions left Ceprano. Monte-Leone's took the road to Rome, the Prince
de Maulear's that to Naples. The former, however, did not go to Rome;
for, when he had come to the foot of a wooded mountain, he left the
carriage, and accompanied by a man in a long cloak, who had hitherto sat
in the carriage, Monte-Leone went into a thick underwood, and proceeding
up a rocky path almost to the top of the mountain, went to the little
town of Frenona, which is on the very brow. The night was near at hand,
and the trees with their leaves, too early for the season, increased the
darkness of the mountain path. Suddenly, at a distance of two hundred
feet from them, a bright and sparkling light was seen approaching
Monte-Leone and his companion. The Count uttered a sharp whistle, and
the light went to the middle of the wood, and hurried like a
will-o'-the-wisp towards the travellers. The light was a torch, borne by
a man, dressed as a peasant and wrapped in a large cloak, which suffered
nothing but his two sparkling eyes to be seen, which were scarcely less
brilliant than the torch.
"_Buon Giorno, Signor Pignana_," said the Count to the new comer; "you
see I have kept the appointment at San Paolo."
"The brothers await your excellency," said Pignana, bowing to the
ground; "be pleased to follow me."
"I have come hither to do so," said the Count.
The three men continued to ascend the mountain, and after a while turned
to the right and stopped in front of an old building partially in ruins.
Following a path around the ruin, they came to the place where the wall
was highest, and stopped in front of a door. Pignana pulled a rope. A
bell sounded, and the door was opened by a man in the costume Pignana
wore. The three then crossed a long paved court, and through a vestibule
entered a corridor leading into a vast hall, which had been the
refectory of the monastery of San Paolo. A few torches lit up the room;
around a table in the centre of which were thirty men all dressed like
those we have described. They arose when Monte-Leone entered, and bowed
with respect. The Count took his seat and spoke thus:
"You desired, Signori, to see me once more among you, and to accede to
your wish I have braved every danger; for you know that Rome and Naples
make common cause against us. For a long time I have wished to see you,
and been anxious to ascertain your views, by putting, as your supreme
chief, two questions to you."
"Speak, Monsignore," said the _Carbonari_.
"Have the _Vente_ of all Italy," said the Count, "those of Rome, Venice,
Milan, Parma, Verona, Turin, and the other principal cities of Italy,
the chiefs of which I see here, ever doubted me?"
"No, Monsignore; but they have feared lest being a victim to the unhappy
fate which has befallen you, it might be your intention to leave us."
"And betray you, Signori," said the Count, with bitterness; "sell you
like a spy and informer?"
"_Never!_" said all the company; "Monte-Leone can be no spy."
"Thank you, Signori, for the good opinion you have of me," said the
Count in an ironical tone; "why then did you demand that foolish
manifestation in the theatre of San Carlo? Do you not see that I have
given you sufficient pledges by risking my life at the _Venta_ of
Pompeia, where I, who had every gratification that fortune could bestow
on me, risked every thing by declaring myself your chief? Let me tell
you, Signori, two powerful motives led me--my convictions and my
father's blood, which yet calls to me for vengeance. The following is my
second question:--Do the _Vente_ of Italy promise to obey my orders
without giving any to me?"
"Monsignore, you in this demand perfect submission!"
"Perfect, Signori; I will make my demand more explicit. I demand
obedience, to act by my orders, and never without them; to think as I
do, and to be the body of an association of which I am the soul."
The _Carbonari_ were silent.
"Decide!" said the Count, taking out his watch. "I had but two hours to
devote to you, to settle all, and only a few minutes remain."
The _Carbonari_ consulted together. Their conversation was animated as
possible. The Count looked again at his watch, and all turned towards
him.
"Your excellency," said the one who seemed to be the most important,
"may rely on our faith, conscience, and trust in you. We would, though,
think we exceeded our powers, and implicate the brothers who have
confided in us too deeply, if we were to consent to be passive, as you
wish us and the Italian _Vente_ to become.
"Then there is nothing more to be said, Signori," and Monte-Leone arose.
"Perhaps I have confided too implicitly in my audacity, resolution, and
the power over myself, which never has deserted me. I deceived myself,
perhaps, when too proudly I fancied I could inspire you with confidence
equal to my own. I thought by risking life, fortune, and all, I won the
right to hold the dice myself. But you do not think thus, and I submit.
Faithful to my oaths, and to our principles, I am always ready to keep
and to defend them. Acting, henceforth, alone, I shall do as I please,
and be accountable to myself alone. Now, Signori, adieu! I shall leave
Italy, and perhaps Europe, in search of a country, the institutions of
which recognize the true principles of national happiness. Wherever,
though, I may be, I will be _mute as to your secrets, and devoted to
your principles_. You had just now a chief in Count Monte-Leone. He is
so no more, but is still your brother."
Bowing to them with that noble dignity which he never laid aside, he
bade the man who had accompanied him to take a torch and lead the way.
Monte-Leone descended the mountain at Frepinond, and regained the
carriage that waited for him, in which he proceeded to the Eternal City.
Wounded at what, when he remembered how much he had done, seemed
ingratitude, he said to himself, "Henceforth Monte-Leone commands--he
cannot obey."
About evening, on the night after the _Venta_ at San Paola, the Count
got out of his carriage, and, as his sadness increased as he left
Naples, sought to revive himself by walking. He walked through
Ferentino, a little town of the Roman States, and as he passed by the
church he heard the sound of the organ. Monte-Leone had a heart piously
inclined, and the sentiment of religion was always aroused by the sight
of the church. He went into the church, which was brilliantly lighted. A
few of the faithful here and there prayed; the half tints of the light
on the walls giving them the appearance of statues on tombs. Before the
principal altar two persons knelt. A priest was about to unite their
fate. Monte-Leone approached the altar, but the seclusion of the
position of the couple as they bent to the ground before the priest, who
was blessing them, made it impossible for him to distinguish their
features. A strange curiosity took possession of him, for this was
evidently no ordinary village marriage. The rich dress of the young
woman, the noble air of the young man to whom she was about to be
married, all announced one of those secret unions not contracted beneath
the vaulted arches of a cathedral, but in the oratory of some palace, or
the chapel of some secluded hamlet. The ceremony was over, and the newly
married couple left the altar and walked down the nave to the door of
the church of Ferentino, where a magnificent carriage was waiting. Just
as they were about leaving the church, the bride lifted up her veil and
saw a man standing near the vase of holy water. The light of the lamp
fell directly on his face. The young woman, astonished, trembling and
confused, felt her strength give way, and could scarcely suppress an
exclamation of agony. She saw Count Monte-Leone. He also had recognized
in the bridegroom the Duke of Palma, minister of police of Naples. In
the new duchess he had also recognized the primadonna of San Carlo da
Felina. Thus the two angels, which in his ecstatic vision at his
father's tomb the Count had seen, and who appeared to contend for
him--Aminta and La Felina--the two women, one of whom he adored, while
he was himself adored by the other, were no longer free. Aminta had
married from duty, La Felina from reason.
II.--THE FATHER.
Eight days after the meeting of the Prince de Maulear and Count
Monte-Leone at Ceprano, a post-chaise, accompanied by a kind of
travelling forge, entered Naples by the Roman road, and after having
crossed the city at a rapid rate, the postillions cracking their whips
the while, stopped at the French embassy. The powdered head of the old
man appeared at the window of the chaise, and the Swiss of the embassy
replied, in execrable French, to a question put to him thus:
"Monsieur, the Marquis de Maulear does not stop in the embassy. His
apartments were too small for two."
The Swiss, enchanted by this reply, which he thought eminently witty,
bowed to the traveller, and was about to return to his chair, when the
old man again called him:
"But, my fine fellow," said he to the Helvetian, "you have not yet told
me where the Marquis does live."
"The Marquis de Maulear," said the Swiss, "is in the palace of
Cellamare, where he rented a pavilion near the gardens of the
Villa-Reale."
"To the palace Cellamare," said the traveller to the postillion; and the
latter drove off at a gallop.
After about five minutes the same powdered head appeared at the door,
and the traveller said, "Hollo! postillion, stop; do you hear, rascal;
pull up."
"What does your excellency, sir?" asked the postillion.
"Take my excellency to the best Hotel in Naples."
"The best is _la Vittoria_, between the bay and Villa Reale."
The postillion lied, for _le Crocelle_ was better; but at _la Vittoria_
they received two piastres a piece for travellers, and at _le Crocelle_
got nothing. The _Vittoria_, then, was the best hotel in Naples for
postillions, but not for travellers. The apartments of the Marquis de
Maulear, the witty Swiss had told him, were too small for two; and this
information had induced him thus suddenly to change his plan. The
traveller thought the Marquis might have yielded to some tender
influence, and contracted a _quasi morganatique_ marriage as a prelude
to more serious ties. "If that be so," said the stranger, "it would be
wrong to go to the Marquis's house. I do not wish to surprise him by a
simple visit which would not have the effect of a solemn interview."
The chaise stopped at _la Vittoria_. Two servants and an intendant came
to the carriage, and the postillion received eight piastres for his
human freight. The Marquis de Maulear had really taken his young wife to
the palace of Cellamare, a portion of which was rented to wealthy
strangers a few days after his marriage. The Marquis had acted decidedly
in writing to his father that he had married without consulting him.
Henceforth it was of no importance whether the world knew it or not;
besides, the Signora Rovero and Aminta, having thought that the Prince
had authorized his son to marry whomsoever he pleased, secrecy would not
have seemed proper or justifiable. The Marquis, who grew every day more
in love, and whose ardor continually increased as he discovered new
qualities to adore in the young heart confided to him, sought to expel
the terrors which he apprehended would result from his father's
surprise, but was unable to satisfy himself that the latter would not be
completely enraged. The Marquis possessed an honorable fortune from his
deceased mother. He therefore was not at all disturbed, in a pecuniary
point of view, in relation to Aminta's fate. The distress, the
humiliation to which his young wife would be exposed, should she be
repelled by his father and family, made him tremble whenever that idea
presented itself to his mind. Aminta had perceived these clouds
occasionally on the brow of her husband, but had attributed it to his
apprehensions that she did not love him as much as he adored her. She
had striven to restore his confidence; and with that gentle voice, never
heard by any one without emotion, said, "Henri, I was frank with you,
when before marriage my heart asked time to return all the passion you
felt. I know I love you now, and was wrong to be so timid; for," added
she, "I deprived myself of happiness by delay." Maulear clasped her in
his arms and forgot his troubles, as all do who love and are loved.
One morning, about ten o'clock, he had left her to go to the French
embassy, whither he was called by important business. The young Marquise
had gone into the garden of Cellamare, and sat beneath an arbor of
jasmin, reading her favorite poet Tasso. Love of Maulear now interpreted
these passionate mysteries, which hitherto she had not understood. Her
soul, illumined by the flame enkindled in it, did not admire, as it
formerly did, the form and gentle harmony of the poem alone. The meaning
of the verses touched her heart, and she seemed for the first time to
open this book, which is so filled with burning inspirations. The
tenderness of Maulear had begun to dissipate the sad presentiments which
had so long agitated her: she felt arising in her a gentle return of
that deep affection she had inspired; and though she had been alone but
two hours, it seemed to her that the Marquis had been absent a much
longer time. Looking in the direction she expected Henri to come, she
examined the burning horizon beyond the avenue of plane-trees beneath
which she sat, until she saw a human form coming down it. The person who
advanced walked slowly, and looked around him carefully, as if he was in
search of something. For a while he examined curiously the hedge on the
principal alley; nor, until he stood within a few paces of Aminta, did
he see that this white figure was a woman; its graceful immobility
having made him fancy it a statue. The stranger bowed to her politely as
possible, and spoke to her with an air half way between respect and
familiarity, impertinence and consideration. Aminta arose and recognized
him, and as she did so, exhibiting a constraint and embarrassment she
could not account for. The person who had spoken to Aminta was dressed
so strangely, that the young woman was struck by it. Having been
accustomed to all the fashions of the epoch, to the elegance of the
young men who visited her mother's house, to the good taste of the
Marquis de Maulear, she had never seen such a costume as that of the
stranger. A coat of Prussian blue, with a straight collar and large wide
skirts, enveloped a thin, delicate frame. A waistcoat of white silk, cut
square in front, with two immense pockets, from one of which hung a
watch, with an immense chain and multitude of seals, beating against
breeches of buff cassimer, the legs of which were inserted in vast
boots. A rich frill of English point lace, with ruffles to match, gave
an air of magnificence to this toilet; the whole being surmounted with a
powdered head-dress with open wings, like those of a sea-gull in a
desperate storm. The result of all this toilette was such, that no one
felt inclined to laugh, or even if the inclination arose, the noble air
of which we have spoken soon repressed it. Aminta felt as Count
Monte-Leone had at Ceprano, when the latter made the acquaintance of the
Prince de Maulear, whom our readers have beyond doubt recognized.
"Excuse me, beautiful lady, for thus disturbing your reveries," said the
Prince, bowing again to Aminta, "but I am come to visit the Marquis de
Maulear, who must return ere long, as one of his servants told me. I
however learned, that in addition to the pleasure of roaming through
this paradise, I would find _Madame_. I could not resist the pleasure of
presenting you my homage."
In the manner the Prince pronounced the word _Madame_, there was a
shadow of fine irony, which Aminta could not but observe. She blushed
slightly, for she thought the stranger alluded to her recent marriage;
and though shocked at his familiarity, Aminta was satisfied with
replying politely, that she would be happy if the visitor would remain
until the Marquis de Maulear should return with her.
The Prince sat on a rustic chair, which Aminta offered him, and said, as
he looked at her with admiration, "The Marquis may stay away as long as
he pleases; and while with you I will not complain."
"But, Signor," said Aminta, "something of importance has brought you
hither."
"No," said the visitor, "I come merely to see the Marquis; and to do so
have travelled the four hundred leagues between Paris and Naples.
Nothing more!"
"Ah, Signor," said Aminta, delighted, "then you love him?"
"Devotedly," continued the Prince, "though I suspect him rather of
ingratitude. Do not be afraid," added he; "I believe him to be an
ingrate in friendship, but not in love. _Madame_ (and he looked
anxiously at her) has every charm to prevent his being so."
Any person less delicately organized than Aminta, and less
impressionable, would have had no suspicion of the elegant _abandon_
which was the foundation of this compliment. By means of her instinct,
however, she had guessed that there was a kind of contempt of _bon ton_
in what was said to her, altogether unbecoming in a conversation with a
person of her rank and station. She replied, then, that she thought she
had sufficient claims on the Marquis's love for him never to forget them
... that if such a misfortune should befall her, she would find in her
heart and conscience no reason for reproaching herself, and would be
able to support indifference, and be bold enough to pardon it.
"Very well, very well," said the Prince gayly. "Pretty women are always
generous; they, however, are least worthy of commendation on that
account, when they resemble you."
"Signor," said Aminta to the Prince, "I know not to whom I have the
honor to speak. You have, however, told me you come from France, and I
will thank you to tell me if men are volatile there, as I have heard."
"Signora, I do not think I slander my countrymen, when I say their
hearts are not easily fixed for a long time. Were they more faithful,
they would not, perhaps, be so amiable. In my time, for instance,
marriage was an affair of business. One married to be married, to have
an heir, to regulate one's household. That was all. If a man loved his
wife three or six months it was superb. A year of constancy became
ridiculous and vulgar. Then the lady would fall in love, and the husband
conceived a friendship for the courtier, mousquetaire, or abbe, whom the
lady patronized. The husband did not fall in love; he only looked for
amusements. Sometimes chance afforded him what he needed, or he went to
the opera, where the nymphs of music and dancing took charge of his
superfluous funds. People talked of him for two days, and then he was
forgotten. Thus gently and pleasantly the husband and wife floated down
the stream of time; each keeping close to a bank, and shaking hands
whenever the currents brought them together. In the business of life
they were always as considerate as possible of each other, and shed some
honest tears when death separated them. Sometimes in old age, when both
were wearied by passion, and satiated with love, they recounted to each
other their wild adventures, as sailors tell their stories of shipwrecks
and the perils of their voyages. But," continued the Prince, "as there
are exceptions to all rules, the exceptions were the kindly-disposed and
well-regulated households, which were spoken of and laughed at.
Happiness, however, avenged them. Thus, beautiful lady, people lived in
other times. They do not live thus now--"
"All this I own," said Aminta, "interests me deeply."
"The devil!" said the Prince, aside, and under the impression that he
was in the presence of the irregular passion of his son, "Does not
morganaticism suffice?" Under this hypothesis, which made him smile with
pity, he resolved to cut the foolish hope short at the roots.
"In our days all is changed--women are saints and husbands are
angels--and the two are riveted together for all time. The wife is
constant, the husband faithful; or, if the contrary be the case, the
matter is hushed up and concealed. If public morality is satisfied, the
lovers are not the losers. It is also said that unhappy marriages now
are the exceptions. The chief difference is, though, that now men do
before marriage what they used to do afterwards. If one finds a pleasant
woman," said he, approaching Aminta, "like you, beautiful, intelligent,
and I venture to say also full of talent, as you are--we swear we love
her, and are really sincere. Reason, however, in the guise of matrimony,
hurries to sound the knell of love. At the first peal, it escapes, and
whither? The beauty we adore first weeps, and then finds consolation, or
rather suffers herself to be consoled. Then, opening her wings like the
butterfly, she hurries to find the pleasure she calls and expects."
The tone, rather than the language, of this conversation terrified and
amazed Aminta.
The Prince observed this. "Did she love him really?" he said; and
touched with this idea, he added--
"All that I say, madame, is a general remark, the application of which I
make to no one, least of all to yourself."
"Signor," said Aminta, rising, "I do not understand you."
"Certainly," said the Prince, "you do not understand that one who loves
you should cease to do so. That is what I had the honor to tell you just
now. The Marquis, though, is very young and inexperienced. He believes
in love, as men of twenty-five usually do. This explains to me the
apparent rigidness of his words, and unveils the mystery of his
pretended wisdom. I do not, however, wish to make a person so charming
as you are desperate; and perhaps I do you a great favor in warning you
against future dangers and mischances."
"Signor," said Aminta, trembling with emotion, "I cannot guess why you
speak to me thus; but I perceive that you do not know me."
The Prince said, with a smile, "I speak to a charming woman, to one of
earth's angels, whom some lucky mortals meet with, and who by their
tenderness reveal all the pleasures and joys promised to the faithful by
the houris of divine Providence."
"Signor," said Aminta, looking at the Prince with an expression in which
both indignation and contempt were visible, "unused as I am to such
language, though I scarcely understand it, my reason and good sense tell
me you would speak thus only to the mistress of the Marquis de Maulear."
"True," said the Prince, "and I speak now to the most charming mistress
imaginable."
"Me! do you speak thus to me, Signor?" said the young woman, with a
painful accent. "And you thought----?"
"Who then are you, madame!" asked the old man, with surprise and terror
at Aminta's tone.
"Who is she, monsieur?" said the Marquis, coming from a neighboring
alley, where, pale and terrified, he had for some time been listening to
this conversation, "she is my wife, the _Marquise de Maulear_!"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the Prince he could not have
been more surprised. The blood left his face, and he supported himself
against the back of his chair.
"Henri," said Aminta, "tell this man again that he has dared to insult
your wife! Tell him I am yours in God's eyes, and that he has doubly
outraged me in the fact that his words fell from the lips of age. Say to
him, that a gentleman, if such he is, should not utter such things until
assured they were neither an insult nor an outrage to her who heard
them."
"Aminta," said the Marquis, "the person of whom you speak thus is----"
"Be silent, monsieur,"[N] interrupted the Prince, looking sternly at his
son, "madame has not offended me, though I have her. Madame," said he,
"accept my apology for a fault caused by the Marquis alone. The name you
bear is entitled to the respect of all, especially to mine. I will be
the last to forget it. Be pleased to leave the Marquis de Maulear and
myself together for a few moments. What I have to say none must listen
to. Do not be afraid," added he, when he saw the hesitation with which
Aminta left; "I am no foe of the Marquis, and besides, the only weapon
of old men is the tongue. Our conversation will not be long, and I will
then leave the Marquis to you for ever."
Henri made a motion, the purport of which was to beseech Aminta to go.
Taking a lateral alley, she disappeared.
"Monsieur," said the Prince, "you should know that my name should not be
pronounced in the presence of that young woman, especially after the
error which your silence has led me into in relation to her." The Prince
continued, "So you are married?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Maulear, trembling like a criminal in the presence
of the judge.
"Contrary to my orders, and without my consent," continued the Prince.
"Father, if any excuse be possible, you will find it in the person I
have selected."
"I do not ask for justification, monsieur, but for excuse. How long did
you reflect on this union before you contracted it?"
"A month," said the Marquis.
"A month is a short time to reflect on a life of remorse and regret.
You know I never will forgive you."
"Never, monsieur?" asked Maulear, bowing respectfully before his father.
"God himself pardons."
"I am not God, monsieur, and have neither his goodness nor his mercy.
Hearken to me, and let none of my words be lost, as they are the last I
shall ever speak to you. I have not concealed my principles, which were
probably not firm enough in relation to morals and virtue. In these
principles the people of the century in which I was born lived. I was,
perhaps, badly educated, but so were all nobles then; and if they
preserved their loyalty and honor, were faithful to their kings, and
died for them,--if they did honor to their family, and fought well, they
were forgiven for other faults. Philosophy and the progress of the age
have rectified all this: whether they have improved the state of things
the future must decide. I am too old to retrace my steps, and have the
faults, and perhaps the virtues, of my century. There is one thing true,
certain ideas I never will abandon, among which are my opinions about
marriage. All this you think behind the spirit of the age, and perhaps
ridiculous; but I intend to express myself fully, that you may not
expect me ever to alter my opinion about your conduct. For four
centuries, monsieur, there has not been a single _mesalliance_ in my
family. The Dukes of Salluce, the Princes of Maulear, from whom we are
sprung, were never married but with the noblest families of the
world--those of France--that is the only safety for me, that was the
only marriage for you. I was willing to receive as a daughter-in-law
only a French woman, of noble blood--noble as our own. This you say is a
prejudice--so it may be, monsieur, but it is a prejudice I will not lay
aside. I was never a rigorous father to you, and I contemplated using
only one of my paternal rights, that of bringing about a marriage for
you to suit myself. You acted for yourself, monsieur, and must continue
to do so. Adieu! Henceforth the Marquis de Maulear has no father, and
the Prince no son."
The old man arose with cold and haughty dignity, preparing to leave.
"Father, do not leave me thus--for the sake of my mother, whom you
loved, pause."
The Prince walked away.
"For the sake of your father, whom you adored!"
The Prince did not pause.
"Well," said the Marquis, in despair, and just then he saw Aminta at the
end of the alley, "I prefer to abandon the nobility of the Maulears,
which produces such obduracy, for the virtues and talent of a Rovero."
The old man had scarcely heard the last word, than he turned around and
said to his son:
"Rovero! did you say Rovero? the minister of Murat?"
"There is his daughter," said Henri, pointing to Aminta.
The countenance of the Prince lost its icy coldness, and assumed an
expression of deep tenderness. Drawing near to Aminta, with tears in his
eyes, he said, "The daughter of Rovero?" and with increasing agitation,
"Are you the daughter of Rovero?"
Looking at her for a few moments in silence, his countenance assumed an
indefinable expression, and seemed to read in the countenance of the
young girl an infinitude of memories and dreams. Finally, completely
carried away by a feeling he could not control, he folded Aminta in his
arms and clasped her to his bosom.
III.--THE MAN WITH THE MASK.
Paris, that great theatre on which, for fifty years, so much sublime and
common-place republicanism, so many monarchic, imperial, constitutional,
and other dramas had been represented--Paris, about the end of 1818, two
years after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter,
presented a strange aspect, over which we will cast a retrospective
glance for the purpose of making our story intelligible.
Louis XVIII. reigned perhaps a little more absolutely than the charter
permitted. By the aggregation of power, kings and kingdoms almost always
fall; and this king, who wished to govern with the restrictions on power
which he had himself yielded to France, found himself in endless
controversy, from the errors of his friends, his family, and his
minister. Monsieur[O] was in the opposition, and with him were all the
malcontents of the realm. _Monsieur_ had his creatures, and his
ministers in casu, all ready to consecrate their services to the good of
the country. These were the only men, said the Prince, who could rescue
the restoration from the factions in arms against it. At the head of
this ministry was the Count Jules de Polignac, the favorite of the
ex-comte d'Artois. Next to Polignac came M. de Vitrolles, famous for his
intellect and his devotion to the royal family, M. de Grosbois, and
others, who had made progress in the graces and confidence of the
Prince. The King at that time exhibited a decided favoritism to a
certain statesman of merit and worth, the rapid fortune of whom,
however, had made many persons jealous and had excited much hatred. The
star of M. de Blacus, which till then had been so brilliant, began to
grow pale. From these palace intrigues, from these divisions of
families, arose in public affairs a species of perpetual controversy
which impeded the progress of the ship of state. In the mean time,
parties taking advantage of this discontent, excited every bad passion,
and silently undermined the soil preparing the explosion which
ultimately destroyed this feeble and disunited monarchy. The great
parties were divided and subdivided into many factions opposed to each
other, but, as will be seen hereafter, all striving to overturn the
existing order of things--though in the end each purposed the triumph of
his own cause when a general chase should have ensued. The French
nation, though strong, great and powerful when its parts are united, was
then composed of royalists frankly devoted to the government of the
restoration of ultra royalists, more so even than the King himself--and
who wished the country to retrace its steps to principles, which good
sense, time, healthy reason, and especially the revolutionary tempest,
had most painfully refuted. Next came the Bonapartists, who seeing
themselves disinherited by a peaceful government, and deprived of the
prospects of glory they had deemed their own, regretted sincerely the
man of victory and his triumphs. Next came the liberals, a portion of
whom were sincerely devoted to political progress, for which the country
was not yet prepared--and, finally, the Jacobins, old relics of 1793,
who sought to precipitate France into that abyss of horror, the very
trace of which the wonderful genius of Napoleon had effaced. All these
opinions, advocated by intelligent and capable men, of gifted minds, but
also of turbulent and dangerous spirits, to whom agitation is the
natural element--all these were secretly busy, watching their
opportunity to burst upon the public attention. Paris, the head of the
great French body, was all the time happy as possible, and seemed calm
and flourishing. It was like those men with a smiling face, a calm and
cold icy exterior, but who nurse violent passions and bitter
animosities. The police at that time was under the control of a minister
who was young and active, but who was often led astray; just as
greyhounds, who, when almost overrunning their quarry, catch a glimpse
of other prey. The multiplied and contradictory devices of the factions,
therefore, led the police and its agents into difficulties of which the
criminals always contrived to take advantage. For two years, plot
followed plot, almost uninterruptedly; Bonapartist, liberal,
ultra-royalist plots followed each other; that of Didier was the first.
His object was to confide the Kingly office to a Lieutenant-General, to
the Duke of Orleans. Didier sought for his confederates among the men,
whom a kind of fanaticism yet attached to the exile of Saint-Helena;
among the old soldiers of the valley of the Loire, and that crowd of
imperial agents whom the restoration had stripped of honor and
employment. He promised good titles, orders, to all, and seduced many.
The plot failed from its own impotence, for the police had little to do
with it. Another affair, the consequences of which to those concerned in
it were great, gave increased activity to the police, and diverted it
from the only circumstances which could unfold to it the true enemies of
the government of Louis XVIII. This affair was known as the _Society of
Patriots_ of 1816, and had as its chiefs _Pleigner_, _Carbonneau_, and
_Tolleron_. They intended to ask the Emperor of Russia to grant them a
constitutional King, chosen elsewhere than from the elder branch of the
Bourbons. A man named Schellstein, who had been a kind of enlisting
agent to the conspirators, informed M. Angles, chief of police, of their
plan, and intentions, and by a sentence given July 7, 1816, _Pleigner_,
_Carbonneau_, and _Tolleron_, were sentenced to have their hands cut off
and to be beheaded. Three days after the sentence was executed. Finally,
in 1818, a third conspiracy was pointed out to the notice of the police.
This conspiracy had a more exalted character than the preceding ones,
for it included the ultra-royalists, that is to say the nobles,
generals, peers, and high functionaries of France.
The Morning Chronicle, June 27, 1818, published at London the
following:--"There was a report at Paris, that a conspiracy had been
discovered at Saint Cloud, embracing many of the ultra-royalist party.
The King would abdicate, and be replaced by Monsieur."
The Times, on the 2d July, said--"The plan of the conspiracy is known.
Should the King abdicate, the conspirators have resolved to treat him
like Paul I. The following is the list of ministers:--General Canuel, of
war; M. de Chateaubriand, of foreign affairs; M. Bruges, of the navy; M.
Villele, of the interior; M. de Labourdonnaie, of the police; General
Donadieu, commandant of Paris." All this was announced with an
appearance of truth; for all the persons named belonged to the
opposition to the King and his favorite. When, however, facts were
sought for, and the proof was pointed out, all the edifice crumbled
away, and there remained only a few malcontents, but no rebels were to
be found. The sentence of the Royal Court of Paris, given November 3d
following, declared--"Generals Canuel and Donadieu, MM. de Rieux, de
Songis, de Chapdelaine, de Romilly, and Joannis, are released and
declared innocent." They had been imprisoned forty days. This affair
produced a most painful sensation in France, and the minister of police
was reproached with great imprudence, which made many new enemies to the
government, and did not add to its security. The fact was, the true
criminals had been overlooked; and, like the worms which eat away the
interior of a beautiful fruit without changing its form and color, they
more skilfully and adroitly attacked the very heart of society when it
seemed most secure and safe. The perfidious worm which was eating away
at the heart of France, as it had long done those of the other European
monarchies, was Carbonarism. As we said in our first chapters, the
existence of this power was scarcely suspected, while in secret, by its
ramifications, it ruled Europe.
A man of mind and energy, but whose mild and almost effeminate manners
concealed vigor and perseverance, M. H----, at that time under the
direction of M. Angles, supervised the political police of the kingdom.
M. H---- was always aware of the extent of the operations of the
various factions, and probably was the only man in France really alarmed
at the influence which Carbonarism exerted in France and the neighboring
states. Often he had made communications to the prefect, another
minister, who paid attention to known parties and attached but little
importance to this new foe, which was, however, the most terrible of
all, and proposed to itself the object of destroying, at any risk, and
received into its bosom all the operatives of this work, whatsoever
might be their opinions. M. H---- had no evidence in relation to this
terrible organization, nor did he know where it met. Towards the end of
February, 1819, M. H---- received a letter sealed in black, and with the
impression on the wax of an auger piercing the globe. The strange seal
did not escape his notice. The direction was, "M. H----, for himself
alone, _confidential_." The superior of the political police read the
letter, which was as follows:--
"Monsieur,--A man who can do the state great service wishes to have an
interview with you, and requests that you will grant him a moment's
conversation to-morrow evening at nine-oclock, in your cabinet. He will
be masked. He begs you to permit him to keep his mask until he shall be
satisfied that he is seen by no one else. Should the strangeness of this
request not permit you to accept it, place a lighted taper in your
window opening on the _quai des Orfevres_ and no one will come. The
writer knows that he addresses a man of courage and honor, who never is
terrified by mere forms when he looks for important results. It is also
known that this man, though protected by wise precautions, made
necessary by the grave circumstances in which he is often placed, would
be incapable of taking an advantage of those who come to him frankly and
truly."
M. H---- reflected long on this letter. He hesitated not, because he was
used to confidences made in terms and in manner as strange. But the
conditions of the mask, so contrary to French habit, almost, in spite of
himself, annoyed and troubled him. He, however, began to be inspired
with the confidence which the man evidently felt himself. He therefore
decided to receive him, and gave orders, that should the masked man
present himself he should be admitted into his cabinet. M. H----only
took a few measures of prudence, and after having examined the locks and
charges of his pistols, which he always wore, and assured himself that
the sound of a bell on his table would be heard at once by the
attendants, waited attentively for the hour of the interview. The clock
of the Palais Royal struck nine, when he was told that a masked man
wished to speak to him. A few minutes after the visitor was introduced.
He was tall and wrapped in a brown cloak, which he threw off when he had
reached the room. He wore a costume half way between a tradesman's and
prosperous workman's.
"What do you wish, Monsieur?" asked M. H----, who was sitting in his
chair.
Without replying, the stranger, who was standing, pointed to two glass
doors on each side of one through which he had entered, behind which
were full silk curtains. M. H----understood him, and after a moment's
hesitation, decided, and clapped his hands thrice. This was probably a
signal well understood, for soon after a slight noise was heard in each
of the rooms, and the silk curtains were slightly agitated. Then rising,
M. H---- opened the two doors and shut two external ones, which
doubtless communicated with two other rooms.
"Thank you, sir," said the mask, "you will not regret your confidence."
These words were pronounced with a decidedly foreign air. The man took
off his mask, and M. H---- examined his features. His physiognomy was
that of the south; his expression dark, and his long black hair hung
over his face, and rested on his shoulders. The eyes of this man were
sad and deep; and glittering beneath his dark brows, added to the
ferocity of his expression. He was silent for some time, and then said,
in a calm voice, to the chief of police: "I come, Monsieur, to propose a
contract to you, which, when you have heard it, you can either accept or
reject. An immense volcano undermines Paris; a conspiracy, or rather an
immense association is about to be formed. They are not isolated
enemies, scattered in small numbers, but a vast family of men, here and
every where, in every man's house, and perhaps in the very bureau of the
police. Among them are millions of iron-hearted and iron-nerved men,
among whom are the mechanic, the day laborer, soldiers of every arm, the
financier, the advocate, artist, the scholar, and the priest--every rank
and condition is represented. At their head are nobles, lords, and
princes; and they wish to accomplish in France what they have already
done in the rest of Europe. First, they seek to abolish royalty, and to
bestow on the people free and unlimited liberty. Their secret assemblies
are called _Vente_. The association is called _Carbonarism_, and its
members _Carbonari_."
M. H---- sprang up from his chair. Of the plot which he had been so
anxious to discover, and of which he had but a vague knowledge, he was
now at last to obtain a clue. In a tone exhibiting the most lively
curiosity, he bade the man go on. The mask took a seat; he felt that
henceforth he might treat with M. H---- as an equal.
"I am," said he, with a smile full of venom, "but an unworthy member of
this important society, and come to treat with you, therefore, not in my
own name--"
"In the name of whom, then, do you come?"
"There is," said the mask, "a man in Paris of high rank, of noble birth,
and of great fortune, who, by means of his position and connections,
which I cannot reveal, knows, and henceforth will know, all the secrets,
all the plans of the Carbonari, from the obscure acts of the humblest
of the brothers, to the orders given to the _Vente_ by the supreme
chiefs--"
"And this man is willing to surrender his infamous associates to us?"
said M. H----.
"He will; but in consideration of this immense sacrifice, he demands
certain things which I am charged to communicate to you."
"Tell me," said M. H----, "what he asks."
"We will talk of that hereafter. I, however, propose to you an honest
bargain, and you will not be called on to pay the price until the
service shall have been performed. I therefore come to ask you not for a
reward, but for one word."
"A word?"
"A word, a promise, and an oath."
"If it be compatible with my duties."
"Certainly!" said the stranger. "We conspirators are honest people
enough, but we are prudent, and used to secrecy. We never make
revelations without exacting a double security."
"That of honor!"
"And displaying the dagger as the certain reward of treachery."
"Stop, sir!" said M. H----, rising, and evidently enraged at the daring
of the stranger. "You forget where you are; no one but myself makes
threats here; assume, therefore, another tone; for sorry as I should be
not to avail myself of your offers, I must, if you persist, terminate
our interview at once. But," continued he, "what is required of me?"
"I have told you--an oath. Here it is. You will swear on this," and he
took a crucifix from his bosom, "that neither in person, nor otherwise,
will you ever attempt to discover the person in behalf of whom I treat.
You will swear that when you have been informed of the facts which I
shall point out to you, when you shall have received proof of the
culpability of certain men, you will cause them to be arrested and give
them no clue to, and make no revelation of, the means by which you
acquired your information."
"But how will the man who is to furnish this information treat with us?"
"Through me alone," said the stranger, "and I will allow you to be
ignorant of nothing. In a few words--I will be his interpreter--the soul
of his body, the action of his thought. Here," continued he, again
presenting the crucifix to M. H----," an oath for such services is not
too much to ask. You do not often get information at so cheap a rate.
The form of the oath will doubtless appear strange to you, but I am a
native of a land where oaths are taken on the cross alone."
"So be it," said M. H----, who, as he listened to the man, reflected on
the small importance of the conditions imposed on him, which did not
demand that he should act against the _Vente_ or associations, until
there was no doubt of their guilt. "So be it; I accept. I swear that I
will never seek to ascertain of whom you are the agent, whether in
person or through others." He placed his hand on the crucifix.
"_Rely then on him--rely on me_," said the stranger.
"Why do you not speak now?" said M. H----.
"_Because it is necessary to give the fruit time to ripen before we
gather it_," said the mysterious stranger; and bowing to M. H----, he
left.
"Well," said the chief of the political police, when he was alone, "the
bargain I have made is not a rare one. Informers always have scruples at
first, especially when they are men of rank;--when those of the man of
whom the agent speaks are dissipated, or when by his wants and vices he
is forced to draw directly on our chest, his shame will pass away, and
his name will be enrolled on the list of our spies like those of M. X.,
the Baron de W----, the Advocate V----, the Ex-consul R----, and the
Countess of Fu. This man is, then, taken in three words, what we call a
SPY IN SOCIETY."
IV.--THE AMBASSADRESS.
On the twentieth of June, 1818, six months before the occurrence of the
scene we have described in the preceding chapter, the greatest
excitement was exhibited in a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg
Saint-Honore. The principal entrance of this hotel, or the Faubourg, was
occupied by a crowd of workmen, who were busy in arranging a multitude
of flower vases, from the court-gate to the door of the hotel.
Upholsterers and florists crowded the vestibule, the stairway, and the
antechambers with their flowers and carpets. The interior of the rooms
on the ground floor presented a scene of a different kind of disorder. A
pell-mell--a crowd of men and women were tacking down and sowing rich
and sumptuous stuffs on the floors. The rooms of the lower floor of the
hotel opened on one of the gardens surrounding the _Champs-Elysees_
towards the Faubourg St. Honore. An immense ball-room was constructed in
the garden. This ball-room was united to the house by richly dressed
doors, cut into the windows, and, with the ground floor, formed one
immense suite. The garden at this period of the year contributed in no
small degree to the pleasures of the festival. The curtains at the doors
of this hall could at any time be lifted up so as to permit access to
this oasis of verdure. One might have thought a magic ring had
transported to this corner of Paris, all the riches of the vegetation of
southern climes, and might have, in imagination, strayed beneath the
jasmin bowers, amid the roses and orange-groves of Italy, so delicious
was the perfume which filled this garden. Its peculiar physiognomy and
design, its form, manner, and even the statues, the majority of which
were _chef-d'-oeuvres_ of Italian art, all proved some foreign taste
had presided over its construction, and that this taste had been the
passion of some elegant and distinguished man.
But now this paradise had passed into the possession of a charming woman
and admirable artiste. This hotel belonged to the beautiful _Felina_,
the Italian queen of song, who had deigned to descend from a throne to
be the Duchess of Palma. The lofty brow which had borne so proudly the
diadem of Semiramis and Junia, wore now a duchess's coronet. This was a
great self-deprecation; for Europe contained a thousand duchesses, and
but one _Felina_. Worse still, many duchesses would not recognize La
Felina as one of the number. She was a duchess by chance; a duchess not
by the grace of God, but by the grace of talent and beauty. Observe,
too, that this version was the most favorable, the most amiable and
polite. It was the one adopted by the intelligent, philosophic and
sensible duchesses of the empire. The true duchesses, those of other
days, who could not understand how any one could wear a ducal coronet
without having at least three centuries of nobility, made use of all the
grape of their artillery to annihilate the _singing woman_. It was
whispered, but loudly enough to be heard by half a dozen persons, that
La Felina, arming herself with that rigidity she kept for the Duke of
Palma alone, displaying all her charms, and envying the title and
fortune of the noble Neapolitan, had refused to surrender her heart
without her hand;--that the poor Duke, entwined in the nets of this
modern Circe, wearied of the many love-scrapes which he had undergone,
made up his mind, as he could not become a lover, to become a husband.
This delightful theme was so decorated by the rich imaginations of the
ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that it could scarcely be
recognized beneath the inlaying of the rich anecdotes to which it gave
occasion; but which lacked only three essentials of merit--good sense,
justice, and truth. As far as relates to good sense, we will say that
the Duchess of Palma was far richer than her husband. Her talent had
long procured her a brilliant income; and to renounce the stage, at the
height of her reputation and glory, when every note she uttered was
worth a doubloon, was to reject vast wealth, the source of which was her
voice and talent. Good sense would not justify the reproach of cupidity;
truth and justice would equally have rejected the charge.
_La Felina_, far from wishing to lead the Duke astray--far from wishing,
as was said, to make her fortune by marrying him, had long rejected the
hand of the Neapolitan minister of police when the most powerful reasons
would have induced her to accept it. She married the Duke only because
of the deep and irrepressible passion which animated her heart for the
Count Monte-Leone. She knew the Count loved Aminta; she knew that, when
at liberty, he would marry the sister of Taddeo. Anxious to contend with
herself by creating new weapons to oppose the passion which devoured
her, anxious to build up a new barrier between the Count and herself,
and to prepare a defence for her own heart, she accepted the hand of the
Duke of Palma as a rampart of duty, and, as it were, forcibly to leave a
profession, the triumphs of which disgusted and offended her because she
regretted having ever experienced them. These were the reasons or
reasonings which led La Felina to act as she did. We shall see, at a
later period, that she achieved her purpose.
The Duke of Palma having secretly married _La Felina_ in the town of
Ferentino, the day Monte-Leone recognized him, took his beautiful wife
to a villa he possessed on the _lago di Como_, and after sojourning
there a few days, went to Naples and forced the King to accept his
resignation as minister of police. The Duke was dissatisfied with
Naples, for no one would forgive him for marrying the Prima-Donna. The
two then came to Paris after a brief mission, during which the Duke had
been obliged to leave her alone at the _lago di Como_. There they
purchased the hotel of which we have spoken, and prepared to receive the
court, and exhibit all the aristocratic luxury with which the Duke of
Palma was so familiar. One circumstance, however, which had been
entirely unforeseen, wrecked all their hopes. The best society of Paris,
which is so lenient to some eccentricities, yet so rigid in its exaction
of obedience to certain prejudices--the society to which, from rank and
position, the Duke of Palma belonged, was rebellious. Among the nobles
of the restoration there were a few exceptions, and though the persons
who ventured to the Duke's were perfectly well received--though they
praised in the highest degree the graces and exquisite _haut-ton_ of the
Duchess, their example was not followed, and the hotel remained silent
and empty. The Duke and Duchess lived alone, buried in a magnificent
tomb. The cause of this neglect of the invitations of the ex-minister
may be easily divined. The Duke had married La Felina, the singer, about
whom there had been, and yet were, so many reports. The beautiful
artiste was much wounded by this general neglect, not because she
regretted the world and its pleasures, but on account of other
impressions which had haunted her since she had lived alone at Como. The
affront, however, recoiled on her husband, and her deep, resolute soul
bitterly resented it. La Felina was an Italian, and those of that nation
who receive affronts avenge them. She was not long at a loss. Her
vengeance, however, could not easily be attained, for she had to do with
a rich and powerful society, which had, as it were, formed a coalition
to insult a woman, by rejecting her with disdain and contempt.
The renown of _La Felina_ as a singer had long excited the curiosity of
Paris. Her admirable voice, her dramatic talent, her wonderful beauty,
made the great artiste to be envied in every theatre in Europe. By a
strange caprice, or an exaggerated distrust of her powers, the great
artiste had always refused to sing in the capital, though well aware
that there alone great artistic talent is baptized. Amazed at the
national glory, she had never asked this sacrifice of French
_cognoscenti_. Great, therefore, was the emotion of the various
drawing-rooms, when it was said that a great concert would be given by
the Duke of Palma, and that his Duchess La Felina would sing. The
concert was for the benefit of some interesting charity; and humanity
was a pretext to the high Parisian society not to visit La Felina, but
to perform a great duty. How though could invitations be had? There was
great difficulty, for the invitations were most limited in number. It is
always the case in Paris, that as obstacles increase, the desire to
overcome them also is multiplied. This was exemplified in the case of
the concert. It was, however, strange that the very hotels where the
ducal _artiste_ had been worst treated, where her advances had been
worst received, were those to which the invitations came first. Here and
there some affronts given by the noble Italians who were the intimate
friends of the Duke of Palma, but they were all submitted to, so anxious
was the world to enjoy the long-desired but unexpected pleasure of
hearing La Felina.
This took place many months before the entertainments, the preparations
for which we described at the commencement of this chapter. On the day
appointed for the concert, a long file of carriages filled up the whole
Faubourg St. Honore, and stopped at the door of the hotel of the Duke of
Palma. The Duchess sat in her most remote drawing-room, dressed with
extreme simplicity, beautiful without adornment, and waited for the
guests, whom an usher at the door of the first drawing-room announced.
As each one saluted her, she arose, and thanked them for their visit.
This reception, far from gratifying the majority of her guests, seemed
to offend them. They fancied they had met on neutral ground, in a room
appropriated to charity, and not to wait on a lady who did the honors of
her own house. The latter, however, was the case. Multiplying her cares
for and attention to her guests, appearing to notice neither the cold
politeness of the one nor the rudeness of the other, the Duchess
increased her amiability and politeness to all who approached her. The
ice was broken. The men could not resist her charms, and many women
followed their example. The dazzling luxury of the hotel, the admirable
pictures, the majestic beauty of the Duchess, produced such an effect on
this society, composed of the most illustrious persons of Paris, and of
all who were famous at the epoch, that the success of La Felina was
complete. The great feature of the entertainment was impatiently waited
for. The concert which the Duchess had announced did not begin, and it
was growing late. The artistes, it was said, had not yet come, and all
were as impatient as possible, when an excellent orchestra was heard. A
few young people, forgetting why they had come, and utterly reckless of
the opposition they would give rise to, hurried to the great ball-room,
and whiled away the time _before the concert_ in dancing.
About midnight a report was circulated among the guests that the Duchess
was fatigued at the reception of so many persons, and the _habitues_
said that her efforts to make her guests happy had been so great that
she would not sing, and the entertainment would conclude with a ball.
Nothing could equal the vexation and anger which appeared on certain
faces, and which were augmented by the fact that La Felina made no
apology, but in the kindest terms thanked them for the pleasure she had
received from them, and which she feared she could not enjoy again for a
long time, her health demanding the most complete solitude. Thus Felina
turned a concert into a ball, and forced all Paris to visit her.
The next day the journals said: "Yesterday the Duke and Duchess of Palma
gave the most magnificent entertainment of the year. The _elite_ of the
_faubourg_ Saint-Germain and the capital were assembled, and all retired
delighted with the reception extended to them by the illustrious
strangers. The Duke sent ten thousand francs to the poor of his
arrondissement, to make up a subscription which could not otherwise be
completed."
A few months after, the Duke was appointed ambassador of Naples to the
court of France, and in honor of his sovereign's birthday prepared the
magnificent entertainment which created such disorder in the _faubourg_
St. Honore. The new position of the Duke of Palma, his diplomatic
character, and the rumor of the beauty and elegance of the Duchess had
silenced all complaints, and all now were anxious to be received at the
Neapolitan Embassy.
A circumstance, however, of which the world was entirely ignorant, had
within a few months made an altogether different woman of the Duchess,
who had previously been gay and happy. An air of sadness reigned over
her features, and her eyes assumed not unfrequently a wild glare, which
could be removed only by tears. Some unknown sorrow had made great
inroads even upon her beauty. Always kind and considerate to the Duke
and those who surrounded her, she yet seemed to fulfil her requisitions
of duty alone in complying with the observances of her rank. She seemed
anxious to seclude herself from the world, and to seek to drown her
grief in the solitude she had formerly avoided. Whether sorrow had
assumed too deep an empire over her heart, or from some other cause, all
were struck at the change so suddenly worked in her moral organization
and in her beauty. Far, however, from making any opposition to this
splendid entertainment, or exhibiting any indifference to its
preparations, all were surprised to see the Duchess devote herself to it
so fully. Nothing escaped her care; her refined taste neglected nothing
which could contribute to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The Duke,
delighted at the apparent revival of the Duchess's taste for the
pleasures of the world, which she had long disdained, aided her with
all his power, and spared no expense to gratify her. The invitations
were numerous, and on this occasion there were no refusals; for the most
noble persons were anxious to be entertained by the Neapolitan minister.
The Duke hesitated only in relation to one of the many persons who were
to be invited. This person was the Count Monte-Leone. The secretary who
had been directed to prepare the list of persons to be invited had
according to custom put down his name among the noble and distinguished
Neapolitans who had called at the embassy of their country in Paris. The
Duchess saw the list, and said nothing. The Duke hesitated for a long
time--not that he had the least suspicion of the Duchess's sentiments
towards Monte-Leone: he had attributed the presence of La Felina at the
etruscan house to the consequence of an abortive masked-ball pleasantry.
Besides, at the time of the arrest there were three other men in the
house, and the ex-minister had almost forgotten the affair. The Count,
in spite of his acquittal, was known to be an enemy of the government,
and he doubted if it was proper to receive him at the embassy. One
consideration alone prevented the Duke from erasing his name from the
list--it was that the Count would not wish to appear at the embassy, and
the Duke would thus be spared the necessity of showing any rudeness to
him. The day came at last. The interior of the hotel was really
fairy-like, and the rooms on the ground floor joined with the garden
ball-room presented one of those magical pictures of which poets dream,
but which men rarely see. The arts, luxury, comfort, opulence, and
taste, all were united to produce a spectacle, which, lighted by a
thousand lamps, spoke both to the mind and senses, and recalled one of
those splendid palaces of _The Thousand and One Nights_, of which we
have read, but which none will see.
On that day the Duchess seemed to have regained all her dazzling beauty.
An observer might however have asked if the animation of this lady was
not derived from a kind of feverish agitation, evident in the brilliancy
of her eyes and deep red of her lips, rather than from expectation of
pleasure or joy at the realization of the plans she had marked out for
herself. Nine o'clock struck when the first guests were introduced. A
crowd soon followed them, and the most distinguished names were heard in
the saloons. The Duke d'Harcourt! the Vicompte and Mlle. Marie
d'Harcourt! the Prince de Maulear! the Marquis and Marquise de Maulear!
Signor Taddeo Rovero! _Il Conte_ MONTE-LEONE!
* * * * *
CORREGIO, the illustrious painter, is said to have been born and bred,
and to have lived and died in extreme poverty. It is stated that he came
to his death at the early age of forty, from the fatigue of carrying
home a load of halfpence paid for one of his immortal works.
FOOTNOTES:
[M] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer
& Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New-York.
[N] As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be
sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render
the terms of courtesy now by _signor, signora_, and _signorina_, and
again by _monsieur_, _madame_, and _mademoiselle_.
[O] The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.
TRANSFORMATION.
BY THE LATE MRS. SHELLEY.
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it set me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told
This heart within me burns.
COLERIDGE'S ANCIENT MARINER.
I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and
necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however
desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn
up, as it were, by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the
inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of
this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the
horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself
over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the
church, is dead. None knows that once--
Why should it not be thus? Why tell a tale of impious tempting of
Providence, and soul-subduing humiliation? Why? answer me, ye who are
wise in the secrets of human nature! I only know that so it is; and in
spite of strong resolves--of a pride that too much masters me--of shame,
and even of fear, so to render myself odious to my species--I must
speak.
Genoa! my birthplace--proud city! looking upon the blue waves of the
Mediterranean sea--dost thou remember me in my boyhood, when thy cliffs
and promontories, thy bright sky and gay vineyards, were my world? Happy
time! when to the young heart the narrow-bounded universe, which leaves,
by its very limitation, free scope to the imagination, enchains our
physical energies, and, sole period in our lives, innocence and
enjoyment are united. Yet, who can look back to childhood, and not
remember its sorrows and its harrowing fears? I was born with the most
imperious, haughty, tameless spirit, with which ever mortal was gifted.
I quailed before my father only; and he, generous and noble, but
capricious and tyrannical, at once fostered and checked the wild
impetuosity of my character, making obedience necessary, but inspiring
no respect for the motives which guided his commands. To be a man, free,
independent; or, in better words, insolent and domineering, was the hope
and prayer of my rebel heart.
My father had one friend, a wealthy Genoese noble, who, in a political
tumult, was suddenly sentenced to banishment, and his property
confiscated. The Marchese Torella went into exile alone. Like my father,
he was a widower: he had one child, the almost infant Juliet, who was
left under my father's guardianship. I should certainly have been an
unkind master to the lovely girl, but that I was forced by my position
to become her protector. A variety of childish incidents all tended to
one point,--to make Juliet see in me a rock of refuge; I in her, one,
who must perish through the soft sensibility of her nature too rudely
visited, but for my guardian care. We grew up together. The opening rose
in May was not more sweet than this dear girl. An irradiation of beauty
was spread over her face. Her form, her step, her voice--my heart weeps
even now, to think of all of relying, gentle, loving, and pure, that was
enshrined in that celestial tenement. When I was eleven and Juliet eight
years of age, a cousin of mine, much older than either--he seemed to us
a man--took great notice of my playmate; he called her his bride, and
asked her to marry him. She refused, and he insisted, drawing her
unwillingly towards him. With the countenance and emotions of a maniac I
threw myself on him--I strove to draw his sword--I clung to his neck
with the ferocious resolve to strangle him: he was obliged to call for
assistance to disengage himself from me. On that night I led Juliet to
the chapel of our house: I made her touch the sacred relics--I harrowed
her child's heart, and profaned her child's lips with an oath, that she
would be mine, and mine only.
Well, those days passed away. Torella returned in a few years, and
became wealthier and more prosperous than ever. When I was seventeen, my
father died; he had been magnificent to prodigality; Torella rejoiced
that my minority would afford an opportunity for repairing my fortunes.
Juliet and I had been affianced beside my father's deathbed--Torella was
to be a second parent to me.
I desired to see the world, and I was indulged. I went to Florence, to
Rome, to Naples; thence I passed to Toulon, and at length reached what
had long been the bourne of my wishes, Paris. There was wild work in
Paris then. The poor king, Charles the Sixth, now sane, now mad, now a
monarch, now an abject slave, was the very mockery of humanity. The
queen, the dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, alternately friends and
foes--now meeting in prodigal feasts, now shedding blood in
rivalry--were blind to the miserable state of their country, and the
dangers that impended over it, and gave themselves wholly up to
dissolute enjoyment or savage strife. My character still followed me. I
was arrogant and self-willed; I loved display, and above all, I threw
all control far from me. Who could control me in Paris? My young friends
were eager to foster passions which furnished them with pleasures. I was
deemed handsome--I was master of every knightly accomplishment. I was
disconnected with any political party. I grew a favorite with all: my
presumption and arrogance was pardoned in one so young; I became a
spoiled child. Who could control me? not letters and advice of
Torella--only strong necessity visiting me in the abhorred shape of an
empty purse. But there were means to refill this void. Acre after acre,
estate after estate, I sold. My dress, my jewels, my horses and their
caparisons, were almost unrivalled in gorgeous Paris, while the lands of
my inheritance passed into possession of others.
The Duke of Orleans was waylaid and murdered by the Duke of Burgundy.
Fear and terror possessed all Paris. The dauphin and the queen shut
themselves up; every pleasure was suspended. I grew weary of this state
of things, and my heart yearned for my boyhood's haunts. I was nearly a
beggar, yet still I would go there, claim my bride, and rebuild my
fortunes. A few happy ventures as a merchant would make me rich again.
Nevertheless, I would not return in humble guise. My last act was to
dispose of my remaining estate near Albaro for half its worth, for ready
money. Then I despatched all kinds of artificers, arras, furniture of
regal splendor, to fit up the last relic of my inheritance, my palace in
Genoa. I lingered a little longer yet, ashamed at the part of the
prodigal returned, which I feared I should play. I sent my horses. One
matchless Spanish jennet I despatched to my promised bride; its
caparisons flamed with jewels and cloth of gold. In every part I caused
to be entwined the initials of Juliet and her Guido. My present found
favor in hers and in her father's eyes.
Still, to return a proclaimed spendthrift, the mark of impertinent
wonder, perhaps of scorn, and to encounter singly the reproaches or
taunts of my fellow-citizens, was no alluring prospect. As a shield
between me and censure, I invited some few of the most reckless of my
comrades to accompany me; thus I went armed against the world, hiding a
rankling feeling, half fear and half penitence, by bravado and an
insolent display of satisfied vanity.
I arrived in Genoa. I trod the pavement of my ancestral palace. My proud
step was no interpreter of my heart, for I deeply felt that, though
surrounded by every luxury, I was a beggar. The first step I took in
claiming Juliet must widely declare me such. I read contempt or pity in
the looks of all. I fancied, so apt is conscience to imagine what it
deserves, that rich and poor, young and old, all regarded me with
derision. Torella came not near me. No wonder that my second father
should expect a son's deference from me in waiting first on him. But,
galled and stung by a sense of my follies and demerit, I strove to throw
the blame on others. We kept nightly orgies in Palazzo Carega. To
sleepless, riotous nights, followed listless, supine mornings. At the
Ave Maria we showed our dainty persons in the streets, scoffing at the
sober citizens, casting insolent glances on the shrinking women. Juliet
was not among them--no, no; if she had been there, shame would have
driven me away, if love had not brought me to her feet.
I grew tired of this. Suddenly I paid the Marchese a visit. He was at
his villa, one among the many which deck the suburb of San Pietro
d'Arena. It was the month of May--a month of May in that garden of the
world--the blossoms of the fruit-trees were fading among thick, green
foliage; the vines were shooting forth; the ground strewed with the
fallen olive blooms; the firefly was in the myrtle hedge; heaven and
earth wore a mantle of surpassing beauty. Torella welcomed me kindly,
though seriously; and even his shade of displeasure soon wore away. Some
resemblance to my father--some look and tone of youthful ingenuousness,
lurking still in spite of my misdeeds, softened the good old man's
heart. He sent for his daughter, he presented me to her as her
betrothed. The chamber became hallowed by a holy light as she entered.
Hers was that cherub look, those large, soft eyes, full dimpled cheeks,
and mouth of infantine sweetness, that expresses the rare union of
happiness and love. Admiration first possessed me; she is mine! was the
second proud emotion, and my lips curled with haughty triumph. I had not
been the _enfant gate_ of the beauties of France not to have learnt the
art of pleasing the soft heart of woman. If towards men I was
overbearing, the deference I paid to them was the more in contrast. I
commenced my courtship by the display of a thousand gallantries to
Juliet, who, vowed to me from infancy, had never admitted the devotion
of others; and who, though accustomed to expressions of admiration, was
uninitiated in the language of lovers.
For a few days all went well. Torella never alluded to my extravagance;
he treated me as a favorite son. But the time came, as we discussed the
preliminaries to my union with his daughter, when this fair face of
things should be overcast. A contract had been drawn up in my father's
lifetime. I had rendered this, in fact, void, by having squandered the
whole of the wealth which was to have been shared by Juliet and myself.
Torella, in consequence, chose to consider this bond as cancelled, and
proposed another, in which, though the wealth he bestowed was
immeasurably increased, there were so many restrictions as to the mode
of spending it, that I, who saw independence only in free career being
given to my own imperious will, taunted him as taking advantage of my
situation, and refused utterly to subscribe to his conditions. The old
man mildly strove to recall me to reason. Roused pride became the tyrant
of my thought: I listened with indignation--I repelled him with disdain.
"Juliet, thou art mine! Did we not interchange vows in our innocent
childhood? are we not one in the sight of God? and shall thy
cold-hearted, cold-blooded father divide us? Be generous, my love, be
just; take not away a gift, last treasure of thy Guido--retract not thy
vows--let us defy the world, and setting at naught the calculations of
age, find in our mutual affection a refuge from every ill!"
Fiend I must have been, with such sophistry to endeavor to poison that
sanctuary of holy thought and tender love. Juliet shrank from me
affrighted. Her father was the best and kindest of men, and she strove
to show me how, in obeying him, every good would follow. He would
receive my tardy submission with warm affection, and generous pardon
would follow my repentance. Profitless words for a young and gentle
daughter to use to a man accustomed to make his will law, and to feel in
his own heart a despot so terrible and stern, that he could yield
obedience to nought save his own imperious desires! My resentment grew
with resistance; my wild companions were ready to add fuel to the flame.
We laid a plan to carry off Juliet. At first it appeared to be crowned
with success. Midway, on our return, we were overtaken by the agonized
father and his attendants. A conflict ensued. Before the city guard came
to decide the victory in favor of our antagonists, two of Torella's
servitors were dangerously wounded.
This portion of my history weighs most heavily with me. Changed man as I
am, I abhor myself in the recollection. May none who hear this tale ever
have felt as I. A horse driven to fury by a rider armed with barbed
spurs, was not more a slave than I to the violent tyranny of my temper.
A fiend possessed my soul, irritating it to madness. I felt the voice of
conscience within me; but if I yielded to it for a brief interval, it
was only to be a moment after torn, as by a whirlwind, away--borne along
on the stream of desperate rage--the plaything of the storms engendered
by pride. I was imprisoned, and, at the instance of Torella, set free.
Again I returned to carry off both him and his child to France; which
hapless country, then preyed on by freebooters and gangs of lawless
soldiery, offered a grateful refuge to a criminal like me. Our plots
were discovered. I was sentenced to banishment; and as my debts were
already enormous, my remaining property was put in the hands of
commissioners for their payment. Torella again offered his mediation,
requiring only my promise not to renew my abortive attempts on himself
and his daughter. I spurned his offers, and fancied that I triumphed
when I was thrust out from Genoa, a solitary and penniless exile. My
companions were gone: they had been dismissed the city some weeks
before, and were already in France. I was alone--friendless; with nor
sword at my side, nor ducat in my purse.
I wandered along the sea-shore, a whirlwind of passion possessing and
tearing my soul. It was as if a live coal had been set burning in my
breast. At first I meditated on what _I should do_. I would join a band
of freebooters. Revenge!--the word seemed balm to me:--I hugged
it--caressed it--till, like a serpent, it stung me. Then again I would
abjure and despise Genoa, that little corner of the world. I would
return to Paris, where so many of my friends swarmed; where my services
would be eagerly accepted; where I would carve out fortune with my
sword, and might, through success, make my paltry birthplace, and the
false Torella, rue the day when they drove me, a new Coriolanus, from
her walls. I would return to Paris--thus, on foot--a beggar--and present
myself in my poverty to those I had formerly entertained sumptuously.
There was gall in the mere thought of it.
The reality of things began to dawn upon my mind, bringing despair in
its train. For several months I had been a prisoner: the evils of my
dungeon had whipped my soul to madness, but they had subdued my
corporeal frame. I was weak and wan. Torella had used a thousand
artifices to administer to my comfort; I had detected and scorned them
all--and I reaped the harvest of my obduracy. What was to be
done?--Should I crouch before my foe, and sue for forgiveness?--Die
rather ten thousand deaths!--Never should they obtain that victory!
Hate--I swore eternal hate! Hate from whom?--to whom?--From a wandering
outcast--to a mighty noble. I and my feelings were nothing to them:
already had they forgotten one so unworthy. And Juliet!--her angel-face
and sylph-like form gleamed among the clouds of my despair with vain
beauty; for I had lost her--the glory and flower of the world! Another
will call her his!--that smile of paradise will bless another!
Even now my heart fails within me when I recur to this rout of
grim-visaged ideas. Now subdued almost to tears, now raving in my agony,
still I wandered along the rocky shore, which grew at each step wilder
and more desolate. Hanging rocks and hoar precipices overlooked the
tideless ocean; black caverns yawned; and for ever, among the sea-worn
recesses, murmured and dashed the unfruitful waters. Now my way was
almost barred by an abrupt promontory, now rendered nearly impracticable
by fragments fallen from the cliff. Evening was at hand, when, seaward,
arose, as if on the waving of a wizard's wand, a murky web of clouds,
blotting the late azure sky, and darkening and disturbing the till now
placid deep. The clouds had strange fantastic shapes; and they changed,
and mingled, and seemed to be driven about by a mighty spell. The waves
raised their white crests; the thunder first muttered, then roared from
across the waste of waters, which took a deep purple dye, flecked with
foam. The spot where I stood, looked, on one side, to the wide-spread
ocean; on the other, it was barred by a rugged promontory. Round this
cape suddenly came, driven by the wind, a vessel. In vain the mariners
tried to force a path for her to the open sea--the gale drove her on the
rocks. It will perish!--all on board will perish!--would I were among
them! And to my young heart the idea of death came for the first time
blended with that of joy. It was an awful sight to behold that vessel
struggling with her fate. Hardly could I discern the sailors, but I
heard them. It was soon all over!--A rock, just covered by the tossing
waves, and so unperceived, lay in wait for its prey. A crash of thunder
broke over my head at the moment that, with a frightful shock, the skiff
dashed upon her unseen enemy. In a brief space of time she went to
pieces. There I stood in safety; and there were my fellow-creatures,
battling, now hopelessly, with annihilation. Methought I saw them
struggling--too truly did I hear their shrieks, conquering the barking
surges in their shrill agony. The dark breakers threw hither and thither
the fragments of the wreck; soon it disappeared. I had been fascinated
to gaze till the end: at last I sank on my knees--I covered my face with
my hands: I again looked up; something was floating on the billows
towards the shore. It neared and neared. Was that a human form?--it grew
more distinct; and at last a mighty wave, lifting the whole freight,
lodged it upon a rock. A human being bestriding a sea-chest!--A human
being!--Yet was it one? Surely never such had existed before--a
misshapen dwarf, with squinting eyes, distorted features, and body
deformed, till it became a horror to behold. My blood, lately warming
towards a fellow-being so snatched from a watery tomb, froze in my
heart. The dwarf got off his chest; he tossed his straight, straggling
hair from his odious visage.
"By St. Beelzebub!" he exclaimed, "I have been well bested." He looked
round, and saw me, "Oh, by the fiend! here is another ally of the mighty
one. To what saint did you offer prayers, friend--if not to mine? Yet I
remember you not on board."
I shrank from the monster and his blasphemy. Again he questioned me, and
I muttered some inaudible reply. He continued:----
"Your voice is drowned by this dissonant roar. What a noise the big
ocean makes! Schoolboys bursting from their prison are not louder than
these waves set free to play. They disturb me. I will no more of their
ill-timed brawling.--Silence, hoary One!--Winds, avaunt!--to your
homes!--Clouds, fly to the antipodes, and leave our heaven clear!"
As he spoke, he stretched out his two long lank arms, that looked like
spiders' claws, and seemed to embrace with them the expanse before him.
Was it a miracle? The clouds became broken, and fled; the azure sky
first peeped out, and then was spread a calm field of blue above us; the
stormy gale was exchanged to the softly breathing west; the sea grew
calm; the waves dwindled to riplets.
"I like obedience even in these stupid elements," said the dwarf, "How
much more in the tameless mind of man! It was a well got up storm, you
must allow--and all of my own making."
It was tempting Providence to interchange talk with this magician. But
_Power_, in all its shapes, is venerable to man. Awe, curiosity, a
clinging fascination, drew me towards him.
"Come, don't be frightened, friend," said the wretch: "I am good-humored
when pleased; and something does please me in your well-proportioned
body and handsome face, though you look a little woe-begone. You have
suffered a land--I, a sea wreck. Perhaps I can allay the tempest of your
fortunes as I did my own. Shall we be friends?"--And he held out his
hand; I could not touch it. "Well, then, companions--that will do as
well. And now, while I rest after the buffeting I underwent just now,
tell me why, young and gallant as you seem, you wander thus alone and
downcast on this wild sea-shore."
The voice of the wretch was screeching and horrid, and his contortions
as he spoke were frightful to behold. Yet he did gain a kind of
influence over me, which I could not master, and I told him my tale.
When it was ended, he laughed long and loud; the rocks echoed back the
sound; hell seemed yelling around me.
"Oh, thou cousin of Lucifer!" said he; "so thou too hast fallen through
thy pride; and, though bright as the son of Morning, thou art ready to
give up thy good looks, thy bride, and thy well-being, rather than
submit thee to the tyranny of good. I honor thy choice, by my soul! So
thou hast fled, and yield the day; and mean to starve on these rocks,
and to let the birds peck out thy dead eyes, while thy enemy and thy
betrothed rejoice in thy ruin. Thy pride is strangely akin to humility,
methinks."
As he spoke, a thousand fanged thoughts stung me to the heart.
"What would you that I should do?" I cried.
"I!--Oh, nothing, but lie down and say your prayers before you die. But,
were I you, I know the deed that should be done."
I drew near him. His supernatural powers made him an oracle in my eyes;
yet a strange unearthly thrill quivered through my frame as I
said--"Speak!--teach me--what act do you advise?"
"Revenge thyself, man!--humble thy enemies!--set thy foot on the old
man's neck, and possess thyself of his daughter!"
"To the east and west I turn," cried I, "and see no means! Had I gold,
much could I achieve; but, poor and single, I am powerless."
The dwarf had been seated on his chest as he listened to my story. Now
he got off; he touched a spring; it flew open!--What a mine of
wealth--of blazing jewels, beaming gold, and pale silver--was displayed
therein. A mad desire to possess this treasure was born within me.
"Doubtless," I said, "one so powerful as you could do all things."
"Nay," said the monster, humbly, "I am less omnipotent than I seem. Some
things I possess which you may covet; but I would give them all for a
small share, or even for a loan of what is yours."
"My possessions are at your service," I replied, bitterly--"my poverty,
my exile, my disgrace--I make a free gift of them all."
"Good! I thank you. Add one other thing to your gift, and my treasure is
yours."
"As nothing is my sole inheritance, what besides nothing would you
have?"
"Your comely face and well-made limbs."
I shivered. Would this all-powerful monster murder me? I had no dagger.
I forgot to pray--but I grew pale.
"I ask for a loan, not a gift," said the frightful thing: "lend me your
body for three days--you shall have mine to cage your soul the while,
and, in payment, my chest. What say you to the bargain?--Three short
days."
We are told that it is dangerous to hold unlawful talk; and well do I
prove the same. Tamely written down, it may seem incredible that I
should lend any ear to this proposition; but, in spite of his unnatural
ugliness, there was something fascinating in a being whose voice could
govern earth, air, and sea. I felt a keen desire to comply; for with
that chest I could command the world. My only hesitation resulted from a
fear that he would not be true to his bargain. Then, I thought, I shall
soon die here on these lonely sands, and the limbs he covets will be
mine no more:--it is worth the chance. And, besides, I knew that, by all
the rules of art-magic, there were formula and oaths which none of its
practisers dared break. I hesitated to reply; and he went on, now
displaying his wealth, now speaking of the petty price he demanded, till
it seemed madness to refuse. Thus is it; place our bark in the current
of the stream, and down, over fall and cataract it is hurried; give up
our conduct to the wild torrent of passion, and we are away, we know not
whither.
He swore many an oath, and I adjured him by many a sacred name; till I
saw this wonder of power, this ruler of the elements, shiver like an
autumn leaf before my words; and as if the spirit spake unwillingly and
per force within him, at last, he, with broken voice, revealed the spell
whereby he might be obliged, did he wish to play me false, to render up
the unlawful spoil. Our warm life-blood must mingle to make and to mar
the charm.
Enough of this unholy theme. I was persuaded--the thing was done. The
morrow dawned upon me as I lay upon the shingles, and I knew not my own
shadow as it fell from me. I felt myself changed to a shape of horror,
and cursed my easy faith and blind credulity. The chest was there--there
the gold and precious stones for which I had sold the frame of flesh
which nature had given me. The sight a little stilled my emotions; three
days would soon be gone.
They did pass. The dwarf had supplied me with a plenteous store of food.
At first I could hardly walk, so strange and out of joint were all my
limbs; and my voice--it was that of the fiend. But I kept silent, and
turned my face to the sun, that I might not see my shadow, and counted
the hours, and ruminated on my future conduct. To bring Torella to my
feet--to possess my Juliet in spite of him--all this my wealth could
easily achieve. During dark night I slept, and dreamt of the
accomplishment of my desires. Two suns had set--the third dawned. I was
agitated, fearful. Oh, expectation, what a frightful thing art thou,
when kindled more by fear than hope! How dost thou twist thyself round
the heart, torturing its pulsations! How dost thou dart unknown pangs
all through our feeble mechanism, now seeming to shiver us like broken
glass, to nothingness--now giving us a fresh strength, which can _do_
nothing, and so torments us by a sensation, such as the strong man must
feel who cannot break his fetters, though they bend in his grasp. Slowly
paced the bright, bright orb up the eastern sky; long it lingered in the
zenith, and still more slowly wandered down the west; it touched the
horizon's verge--it was lost! Its glories were on the summits of the
cliff--they grew dun and gray. The evening star shone bright. He will
soon be here.
He came not!--By the living heavens, he came not!--and night dragged out
its weary length, and, in its decaying age, "day began to grizzle its
dark hair;" and the sun rose again on the most miserable wretch that
ever upbraided its light. Three days thus I passed. The jewels and the
gold--oh, how I abhorred them!
Well, well--I will not blacken these pages with demoniac ravings. All
too terrible were the thoughts, the raging tumult of ideas that filled
my soul. At the end of that time I slept; I had not before since the
third sunset; and I dreamt that I was at Juliet's feet, and she smiled,
and then she shrieked--for she saw my transformation--and again she
smiled, for still her beautiful lover knelt before her. But it was not
I--it was he, the fiend, arrayed in my limbs, speaking with my voice,
winning her with my looks of love. I strove to warn her, but my tongue
refused its office; I strove to tear him from her, but I was rooted to
the ground--I awoke with the agony. There were the solitary hoar
precipices--there the plashing sea, the quiet strand, and the blue sky
over all. What did it mean? was my dream but a mirror of the truth? was
he wooing and winning my betrothed? I would on the instant back to
Genoa--but I was banished. I laughed--the dwarfs yell burst from my
lips--_I_ banished! Oh, no! they had not exiled the foul limbs I wore; I
might with these enter, without fear of incurring the threatened penalty
of death, my own, my native city.
I began to walk towards Genoa. I was somewhat accustomed to my distorted
limbs; none were ever so ill-adapted for a straightforward movement; it
was with infinite difficulty that I proceeded. Then, too, I desired to
avoid all the hamlets strewed here and there on the sea-beach, for I was
unwilling to make a display of my hideousness. I was not quite sure
that, if seen, the mere boys would not stone me to death as I passed,
for a monster: some ungentle salutations I did receive from the few
peasants or fishermen I chanced to meet. But it was dark night before I
approached Genoa. The weather was so balmy and sweet that it struck me
that the Marchese and his daughter would very probably have quitted the
city for their country retreat. It was from Villa Torella that I had
attempted to carry off Juliet; I had spent many an hour reconnoitring
the spot, and knew each inch of ground in its vicinity. It was
beautifully situated, embosomed in trees, on the margin of a stream. As
I drew near, it became evident that my conjecture was right; nay,
moreover, that the hours were being then devoted to feasting and
merriment. For the house was lighted up; strains of soft and gay music
were wafted towards me by the breeze. My heart sank within me. Such was
the generous kindness of Torella's heart that I felt sure that he would
not have indulged in public manifestations of rejoicing just after my
unfortunate banishment, but for a cause I dared not dwell upon.
The country people were all alive and flocking about; it became
necessary that I should study to conceal myself; and yet I longed to
address some one, or to hear others discourse, or in any way to gain
intelligence of what was really going on. At length, entering the walks
that were in immediate vicinity to the mansion, I found one dark enough
to veil my excessive frightfulness; and yet others as well as I were
loitering in its shade. I soon gathered all I wanted to know--all that
first made my very heart die with horror, and then boil with
indignation. To-morrow Juliet was to be given to the penitent, reformed,
beloved Guido--to-morrow my bride was to pledge her vows to a fiend from
hell! And I did this!--my accursed pride--my demoniac violence and
wicked self-idolatry had caused this act. For if I had acted as the
wretch who had stolen my form had acted--if, with a mien at once
yielding and dignified, I had presented myself to Torella, saying, I
have done wrong, forgive me; I am unworthy of your angel-child, but
permit me to claim her hereafter, when my altered conduct shall manifest
that I abjure my vices, and endeavor to become in some sort worthy of
her; I go to serve against the infidels; and when my zeal for religion
and my true penitence for the past shall appear to you to cancel my
crimes, permit me again to call myself your son. Thus had he spoken; and
the penitent was welcomed even as the prodigal son of scripture: the
fatted calf was killed for him; and he, still pursuing the same path,
displayed such open-hearted regret for his follies, so humble a
concession of all his rights, and so ardent a resolve to reacquire them
by a life of contrition and virtue, that he quickly conquered the kind
old man; and full pardon, and the gift of his lovely child, followed in
swift succession.
Oh! had an angel from paradise whispered to me to act thus! But now,
what would be the innocent Juliet's fate? Would God permit the foul
union--or, some prodigy destroying it, link the dishonored name of
Carega with the worst of crimes? To-morrow, at dawn, they were to be
married: there was but one way to prevent this--to meet mine enemy, and
to enforce the ratification of our agreement. I felt that this could
only be done by a mortal struggle. I had no sword--if indeed my
distorted arms could wield a soldier's weapon--but I had a dagger, and
in that lay my every hope. There was no time for pondering or balancing
nicely the question: I might die in the attempt; but besides the burning
jealousy and despair of my own heart, honor, mere humanity, demanded
that I should fall rather than not destroy the machinations of the
fiend.
The guests departed--the lights began to disappear; it was evident that
the inhabitants of the villa were seeking repose. I hid myself among the
trees--the garden grew desert--the gates were closed--I wandered round
and came under a window--ah! well did I know the same!--a soft twilight
glimmered in the room--the curtains were half withdrawn. It was the
temple of innocence and beauty. Its magnificence was tempered, as it
were, by the slight disarrangements occasioned by its being dwelt in,
and all the objects scattered around displayed the taste of her who
hallowed it by her presence. I saw her enter with a quick light step--I
saw her approach the window--she drew back the curtain yet further, and
looked out into the night. Its breezy freshness played among her
ringlets, and wafted them from the transparent marble of her brow. She
clasped her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven. I heard her voice.
Guido! she softly murmured, Mine own Guido! and then, as if overcome by
the fulness of her own heart, she sank on her knees:--her upraised
eyes--her negligent but graceful attitude--the beaming thankfulness that
lighted up her face--oh, these are tame words! Heart of mine, thou
imagest ever, though thou canst not portray, the celestial beauty of
that child of light and love.
I heard a step--a quick firm step along the shady avenue. Soon I saw a
cavalier, richly dressed, young, and, methought, graceful to look on,
advance. I hid myself yet closer. The youth approached; he paused
beneath the window. She arose, and again looking out she saw him, and
said--I cannot, no, at this distant time I cannot record her terms of
soft silver tenderness; to me they were spoken, but they were replied to
by him.
"I will not go," he cried: "here where you have been, where your memory
glides like some heaven-visiting ghost, I will pass the long hours till
we meet, never, my Juliet, again, day or night, to part. But do thou, my
love, retire; the cold morn and fitful breeze will make thy cheek pale,
and fill with languor thy love-lighted eyes. Ah, sweetest! could I press
one kiss upon them, I could, methinks, repose."
And then he approached still nearer, and methought he was about to
clamber into her chamber. I had hesitated, not to terrify her; now I was
no longer master of myself. I rushed forward--I threw myself on him--I
tore him away--I cried, "O loathsome and foul-shaped wretch!"
I need not repeat epithets, all tending, as it appeared, to rail at a
person I at present feel some partiality for. A shriek rose from
Juliet's lips. I neither heard nor saw--I _felt_ only mine enemy, whose
throat I grasped, and my dagger's hilt; he struggled, but could not
escape; at length hoarsely he breathed these words: "Do!--strike home!
destroy this body--you will still live; may your life be long and
merry!"
The descending dagger was arrested at the word, and he, feeling my hold
relax, extricated himself and drew his sword, while the uproar in the
house, and flying of torches from one room to the other, showed that
soon we should be separated--and I--oh! far better die; so that he did
not survive, I cared not. In the midst of my frenzy there was much
calculation:--fall I might, and so that he did not survive, I cared not
for the death-blow I might deal against myself. While still, therefore,
he thought I paused, and while I saw the villanous resolve to take
advantage of my hesitation, in the sudden thrust he made at me, I threw
myself on his sword, and at the same moment plunged my dagger, with a
true desperate aim, in his side. We fell together, rolling over each
other, and the tide of blood that flowed from the gaping wound of each
mingled on the grass. More I know not--I fainted.
Again I returned to life: weak almost to death, I found myself stretched
upon a bed--Juliet was kneeling beside it. Strange! my first broken
request was for a mirror. I was so wan and ghastly, that my poor girl
hesitated, as she told me afterwards; but, by the mass! I thought myself
a right proper youth when I saw the dear reflection of my own well-known
features. I confess it is a weakness, but I avow it, I do entertain a
considerable affection for the countenance and limbs I behold, whenever
I look at a glass; and have more mirrors in my house, and consult them
oftener than any beauty in Venice. Before you too much condemn me,
permit me to say that no one better knows than I the value of his own
body; no one, probably, except myself, ever having had it stolen from
him.
Incoherently I at first talked of the dwarf and his crimes, and
reproached Juliet for her too easy admission of his love. She thought me
raving, as well she might, and yet it was some time before I could
prevail on myself to admit that the Guido whose penitence had won her
back for me was myself; and while I cursed bitterly the monstrous dwarf,
and blest the well-directed blow that had deprived him of life, I
suddenly checked myself when I heard her say--Amen! knowing that him
whom she reviled was my very self. A little reflection taught me
silence--a little practice enabled me to speak of that frightful night
without any very excessive blunder. The wound I had given myself was no
mockery of one--it was long before I recovered--and as the benevolent
and generous Torella sat beside me talking such wisdom as might win
friends to repentance, and mine own dear Juliet hovered near me,
administering to my wants, and cheering me by her smiles, the work of my
bodily cure and mental reform went on together. I have never, indeed,
wholly, recovered my strength--my cheek is paler since--my person a
little bent. Juliet sometimes ventures to allude bitterly to the malice
that caused this change, but I kiss her on the moment, and tell her all
is for the best. I am a fonder and more faithful husband--and true is
this--but for that wound, never had I called her mine.
I did not revisit the sea-shore, nor seek for the fiend's treasure; yet,
while I ponder on the past, I often think, and my confessor was not
backward in favoring the idea, that it might be a good rather than an
evil spirit, sent by my guardian angel, to show me the folly and misery
of pride. So well at least did I learn this lesson, roughly taught as I
was, that I am known now by all my friends and fellow-citizens by the
name of Guido il Cortese.
From the North British Review
PHILIP DODDRIDGE, AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.
In the ornithological gallery of the British Museum is suspended the
portrait of an extinct lawyer, Sir John Doddridge, the first of the name
who procured any distinction to his old Devonian family. Persons skilful
in physiognomy have detected a resemblance betwixt King James's
solicitor-general and his only famous namesake. But although it is
difficult to identify the sphery figure of the judge with the slim
consumptive preacher, and still more difficult to light up with pensive
benevolence the convivial countenance in which official gravity and
constitutional gruffiness have only yielded to good cheer; yet, it would
appear, that for some of his mental features the divine was indebted to
his learned ancestor. Sir John was a bookworm and a scholar; and for a
great period of his life a man of mighty industry. His ruling passion
went with him to the grave; for he chose to be buried in Exeter
Cathedral, at the threshold of its library. His nephew was the rector of
Shepperton in Middlesex; but at the Restoration, as he kept a
conscience, he lost his living. In the troubles of the Civil War, the
judge's estate of two thousand a year had also been lost out of the
family, and the ejected minister was glad to rear his son as a London
apprentice, who became, on the twenty-sixth of June, 1702, the father of
Philip Doddridge.
The child's first lessons were out of a pictorial Bible, occasionally
found in the old houses of England and Holland. The chimney of the room
where he and his mother usually sat, was adorned with a series of Dutch
tiles, representing the chief events of scriptural story. In bright
blue, on a ground of glistering white, were represented the serpent in
the tree, Adam delving outside the gate of Paradise, Noah building his
great ship, Elisha'a bears devouring the naughty children, and all the
outstanding incidents of holy writ. And when the frost made the fire
burn clear, and little Philip was snug in the arm-chair beside his
mother, it was endless joy to hear the stories that lurked in the
painted porcelain. That mother could not foresee the outgoings of her
early lesson; but when the tiny boy had become a famous divine, and was
publishing his Family Expositor, he could not forget the nursery Bible
in the chimney tiles. At ten years of age he was sent to the school at
Kingston, which his grandfather Baumann had taught long ago; and here
his sweet disposition, and alacrity for learning drew much love around
him--a love which he soon inspired in the school at St. Albans, whither
his father subsequently removed him. But whilst busy there with his
Greek and Latin, his heart was sorely wrung by the successive tidings of
the death of either parent. His father was willing to indulge a wish he
had now begun to cherish, and had left money enough to enable the young
student to complete his preparations for the Christian ministry. Of this
provision a self-constituted guardian got hold, and embarked it in his
own sinking business. His failure soon followed, and ingulfed the little
fortune of his ward; and, as the hereditary plate of the thrifty
householders was sold along with the bankrupt's effects, if he had ever
felt the pride of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the poor
scholar must have felt some pathos in seeing both spoon and tankard in
the broker's inventory.
A securer heritage, however, than parental savings, is parental faith
and piety. Daniel Doddridge and his wife had sought for their child
first of all the kingdom of heaven, and God gave it now. Under the
ministry of Rev. Samuel Clarke of St. Alban's, his mind had become more
and more impressed with the beauty of holiness, and the blessedness of a
religious life; and, on the other hand, that kind-hearted pastor took a
deepening interest in his amiable and intelligent orphan hearer. Finding
that he had declined the generous offer of the Duchess of Bedford, to
maintain him at either University, provided he would enter the
established church, Dr. Clarke applied to his own and his father's
friends, and procured a sufficient sum to send him to a dissenting
academy at Kibworth, in Leicestershire, then conducted by an able tutor,
whose work on Jewish antiquities still retains considerable value--the
Rev. David Jennings.
To trace Philip Doddridge's early career would be a labor of some
amusement and much instruction. And we are not without abundant
materials. No man is responsible for his remote descendants. Sir John
Doddridge, judge of the Court of King's Bench, would have blushed to
think that his great-grandnephew was to be a Puritan preacher. With more
reason might Dr. Doddridge have blushed to think that his great-grandson
was to be a coxcomb. But so it has proved. Twenty years ago Mr. John
Doddridge Humphreys gave to the world five octavos of his ancestor's
correspondence, which, on the whole, we deem the most eminent instance,
in modern times, of editorial incompetency. But the book contains many
curiosities to reward the dust-sifting historian. And were it not our
object to hasten on and sketch the ministerial model to which our last
number alluded, we could cheerfully halt for half an hour, and entertain
our readers and ourselves with the sweepings of Dr. Doddridge's Kibworth
study.
Suffice it to say that the protege of the good Dr. Clarke rewarded his
patron's kindness. His classical attainments were far above the usual
University standard, and he read with avidity the English philosophers
from Bacon down to Shaftesbury. He early exhibited that hopeful
propensity--the noble avarice of books. In his first half-yearly account
of nine pounds are entries for "King's Inquiry," and an interleaved New
Testament; and a guinea presented by a rich fellow-student, is invested
in "Scott's Christian Life." Nor was he less diligent in perusing the
stores of the Academy Library. In six months we find him reading sixty
volumes; and some of them as solid as Patrick's Exposition and
Tillotson's Sermons. With such avidity for information, professional and
miscellaneous, and with a style which was always elastic and easy, and
with brilliant talent constantly gleaming over the surface of unruffled
temper and warm affections, it is not wonderful that his friends hoped
and desired for him high distinction; but it evinces unusual and
precocious attainments, that, when he had scarcely reached majority, he
should have been invited to succeed Mr. Jennings as pastor at Kibworth,
and that whilst still a young man he should have been urged by his
ministerial brethren to combine with his pastorate the responsible
duties of a college tutor....
From such a catastrophe the hand of God saved Philip Doddridge. In 1729
he was removed to Northampton, and from that period may be dated the
consolidation of his character, and the commencement of a new and noble
career. The anguish of spirit occasioned by parting with a much-loved
people, and the solemn consciousness of entering on a more arduous
sphere, both tended to make him thoughtful, and that thoughtfulness was
deepened by a dangerous sickness. Nor in this sobering discipline must
we leave out of view one painful but salutary element--a mortified
affection. Mr. Doddridge had been living as a boarder in the house of
his predecessor's widow, and her only child--the little girl whom he had
found amusement in teaching an occasional lesson, was now nearly grown
up, and had grown up so brilliant and engaging, that the soft heart of
the tutor was terribly smitten. The charms of Clio and Sabrina, and
every former flame, were merged in the rising glories of Clarinda--as by
a classical apotheosis Miss Kitty was now known to his entranced
imagination; and in every vision of future enjoyment Clarinda was the
beatific angel. But when he decided in favor of Northampton, Miss
Jennings showed a will of her own, and absolutely refused to go with
him. To the romantic lover the disappointment was all the more severe,
because he had made so sure of the young lady's affection; nor was it
mitigated by the mode in which Miss Jennings conveyed her declinature.
However, her scorn, if not an excellent oil, was a very good eyesalve.
It disenchanted her admirer, and made him wonder how a reverend divine
could ever fancy a spoiled child, who had scarcely matured into a
petulant girl. And as the mirage melted, and Clarinda again resolved
into Kitty, other realities began to show themselves in a sedater and
truer light to the awakened dreamer. As an excuse for an attachment at
which Doddridge himself soon learned to smile, it is fair to add that
love was in this instance prophetic. Clarinda turned out a remarkable
woman. She married an eminent dissenting minister, and became the mother
of Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Barbauld, and in her granddaughter, Lucy
Aiken, her matrimonial name still survives; so that the curious in such
matters may speculate how far the instructions of Doddridge contributed
to produce the "Universal Biography," "Evenings at Home," and "Memoirs
of the Courts of the Stuarts."
His biographers do not mark it, but his arrival at Northampton is the
real date of Doddridge's memorable ministry. He then woke up to the full
import of his high calling, and never went to sleep again. The sickness,
the wounded spirit, the altered scene, and we may add seclusion from the
society of formal religionists, had each its wholesome influence; and,
finding how much was required of him as a pastor and a tutor, he set to
work with the concentration and energy of a startled man, and the first
true rest he took was twenty years after, when he turned aside to die.
Glorying in such names as Goodwin, and Charnock, and Owen, it was the
ambition of the early Nonconformists of England to perpetuate among
themselves a learned ministry. But the stern exclusiveness of the
English Universities rendered the attainment of this object very
difficult. It may be questioned whether it is right in any established
church to inflict ignorance as a punishment on those dissenting from it.
If intended as a vindictive visitation, it is a very fearful one, and
reminds us painfully of those tyrants who used to extinguish the eyes of
rebellious subjects. And if designed as a reformatory process, we
question its efficiency. The zero of ignorance is unbelief, and its
_minus_ scale marks errors. You cannot make dissenters so ignorant
thereby to make them Christians; and, even though you made them savages,
they might still remain seceders. However, this was the policy of the
English establishment in the days of Doddridge. By withholding education
from dissenters, they sought either to reclaim them, or to be revenged
upon them; and had this policy succeeded, the dissenting pulpits would
soon have been filled with fanatics, and the pews with superstitious
sectaries. But, much to their honor, the Nonconformists taxed themselves
heavily in order to procure elsewhere the light which Oxford and
Cambridge refused. Academies were opened in various places, and, among
others selected for the office of tutor, his talents recommended Mr.
Doddridge. A large house was taken in the town of Northampton, and the
business of instruction had begun, when Dr. Reynolds, the diocesan
chancellor, instituted a prosecution, in the ecclesiastical courts, on
the ground that the Academy was not licensed by the bishop. The affair
gave Dr. Doddridge much trouble, but he had a powerful friend in the
Earl of Halifax. That nobleman represented the matter to King George the
Second, and conformably to his own declaration, "That in his reign there
should be no persecution for conscience' sake," his majesty sent a
message to Dr. Reynolds, which put an end to the process.
Freed from this peril, the institution advanced in a career of
uninterrupted prosperity. Not only was it the resort of aspirants to the
dissenting ministry, but wealthy dissenters were glad to secure its
advantages for sons whom they were training to business or to the
learned professions. And latterly, attracted by the reputation of its
head, pupils came from Scotland and from Holland; and, in one case at
least, we find a clergyman of the Church of England selecting it as the
best seminary for a son whom he designed for the established ministry.
Among our own compatriots educated there, we find the names of the Earl
of Dunmore, Ferguson of Kilkerran, Professor Gilbert Robinson, and
another Edinburgh professor, James Robertson, famous in the annals of
his Hebrew-loving family.
With an average attendance of forty young men, mostly residing under his
own roof, this Academy would have furnished abundant occupation to any
ordinary teacher; and although usually relieved of elementary drudgery
by his assistant, the main burden of instruction fell on Doddridge
himself. He taught algebra, geometry, natural philosophy, geography,
logic, and metaphysics. He prelected on the Greek and Latin classics,
and at morning worship the Bible was read in Hebrew. Such of his pupils
as desired it were initiated in French; and besides an extensive course
of Jewish Antiquities and Church History, they were carried through a
history of philosophy on the basis of Buddaeus. To all of which must be
added the main staple of the curriculum, a series of two hundred and
fifty theological lectures, arranged, like Stapfer's, on the
demonstrative principle, and each proposition following its predecessor
with a sort of mathematical precision. Enormous as was the labor of
preparing so many systems, and arranging anew materials so multifarious,
it was still a labor of love. A clear and easy apprehension enabled him
to amass knowledge with a rapidity which few have ever rivalled, and a
constitutional orderliness of mind rendered him perpetual master of all
his acquisitions; and, like most _millionaires_ in the world of
knowledge, his avidity of acquirement was accompanied by an equal
delight in imparting his treasures. When the essential ingredients of
his course were completed, he relieved his memory of its redundant
stores, by giving lectures on rhetoric and belles-lettres, on the
microscope, and on the anatomy of the human frame; and there is one
feature of his method which we would especially commemorate, as we fear
that it still remains an original without a copy. Sometimes he conducted
the students into the library, and gave a lecture on its contents. Going
over it case by case, and row by row, he pointed out the most important
authors, and indicated their characteristic excellences, and fixed the
mental association by striking or amusing anecdotes. Would not such
bibliographical lectures be a boon to all our students? To them a large
library is often a labyrinth without a clue--a mighty maze--a dusty
chaos. And might not the learned keepers of our great collections give
lectures which would at once be entertaining and edifying on those
rarities, printed and manuscript, of which they are the favored
guardians, but of which their shelves are in the fair way to become not
the dormitory alone, but the sepulchre? Nor was it to the mere
intellectual culture of his pupils that Dr. Doddridge directed his
labors. His academy was a church within a church; and not content with
the ministrations which its members shared in common with his stated
congregation, this indefatigable man took the pains to prepare and
preach many occasional sermons to the students. These, and his formal
addresses, as well as his personal interviews, had such an effect, that
out of the two hundred young men who came under his instructions,
seventy made their first public profession of Christianity during their
sojourn at Northampton....
Whilst in labors for his students and his people thus abundant,
Doddridge was secretly engaged on a task which he intended for the
Church at large. Ever since his first initiation into the Bible story,
as he studied the Dutch tiles on his mother's knee, that book had been
the nucleus round which all his vast reading and information revolved
and arranged itself; and he early formed the purpose of doing something
effectual for its illustration. Element by element the plan of the
"Family Expositor" evolved, and he set to work on a New Testament
Commentary, which should at once instruct the uninformed, edify the
devout, and facilitate the studies of the learned. Happy is the man who
has a "magnum opus" on hand! Be it an "Excursion" poem, or a Southey's
"Portugal," or a Neandrine "Church History,"--to the fond projector
there is no end of congenial occupation, and, provided he never
completes it, there will be no break in the blissful illusion. Whenever
he walks abroad, he picks up some dainty herb for his growthful Pegasus;
or, we should rather say, some new bricks for his posthumous pyramid.
And wherever he goes he is flattered by perceiving that his book is the
very desideratum for which the world is unwittingly waiting; and in his
sleeve he smiles benevolently to think how happy mankind will be as soon
as he vouchsafes his epic or his story. It is delightful to us to think
of all the joys with which, for twenty years, that Expositor filled the
dear mind of Dr. Doddridge; how one felicitous rendering was suggested
after another; how a bright solution of a textual difficulty would rouse
him an hour before his usual, and set the study fire a blazing at four
o'clock of a winter's morning; and then how beautiful the first quarto
looked as it arrived with its laid sheets and snowy margins! We see him
setting out to spend a week's holiday at St. Albans, or with the
Honorable Mrs. Scawen at Maidwell, and packing the "apparatus criticus"
into the spacious saddle-bags; and we enjoy the prelibation with which
Dr. Clarke and a few cherished friends are favored. We sympathize in his
dismay when word arrives that Dr. Guyse has forestalled his design, and
we are comforted when the doctor's chariot lumbers on, and no longer
stops the way. We are even glad at the appalling accident which set on
fire the manuscript of the concluding volume, charring its edges, and
bathing it all in molten wax: for we know how exulting would be the
thanks for its deliverance. We can even fancy the pious hope dawning in
the writer's mind, that it might prove a blessing to the princess to
whom it was inscribed; and we can excuse him if, with bashful
disallowance, he still believed the fervid praises of Fordyce and
Warburton, or tried to extract an atom of intelligent commendation from
the stately compliments of bishops. But far be it from us to insinuate
that the chief value of the Expositor was the pleasure with which it
supplied the author. If not so minutely erudite as some later works
which have profited by German research, its learning is still sufficient
to shed honor on the writer, and, on a community debarred from colleges;
and there must be original thinking in a book which is by some regarded
as the source of Paley's "Horae Paulinae." But, next to its Practical
Observations, its chief excellence is its Paraphrase. There the sense of
the sacred writers is rescued from the haze of too familiar words, and
is transfused into language not only fresh and expressive, but congenial
and devout; and whilst difficulties are fairly and earnestly dealt with,
instead of a dry grammarian or a one-sided polemic, the reader
constantly feels that he is in the company of a saint and a scholar. And
although we could name interpreters more profound, and analysts more
subtle, we know not any who has proceeded through the whole New
Testament with so much candor, or who has brought to its elucidation
truer taste and holier feeling. He lived to complete the manuscript, and
to see three volumes published. He was cheered to witness its acceptance
with all the churches; and to those who love his memory, it is a welcome
thought to think in how many myriads of closets and family circles its
author when dead has spoken. And as his death in a foreign land
forfeited the insurance by which he had somewhat provided for his
family, we confess to a certain comfort in knowing that the loss was
replaced by this literary legacy. But the great source of complacency
is, that He to whom the work was consecrated had a favor for it, and has
given it the greatest honor that a human book can have--making it
extensively the means of explaining and endearing the book of God.
Whilst this great undertaking was slowly advancing, the author was from
time to time induced to give to the world a sermon or a practical
treatise. Several of these maintain a considerable circulation down to
the present day; but of them all the most permanent and precious is "The
Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." The publication of this work
was urged upon him by Dr. Isaac Watts, with whom it had long been a
cherished project to prepare a manual which should contain within itself
a complete course of practical piety, from the first dawn of earnest
thought to the full development of Christian character, But when
exhaustion and decay admonished Dr. Watts that his work was done, he
transferred to his like-minded friend his favorite scheme; and, sorely
begrudging the interruption of his Commentary, Doddridge compiled this
volume. It is not faultless. A more predominant exhibition of the Gospel
remedy would have been more apostolic; and it would have prevented an
evil which some have experienced in reading it, who have entangled
themselves in its technical details, and who, in their anxiety to keep
the track of the Rise and Progress, have forgotten that after all the
grand object is to reach the Cross. But, with every reasonable
abatement, it is the best book of the eighteenth century; and, tried by
the test of usefulness, we doubt if its equal has since appeared.
Rendered into the leading languages of Europe, it has been read by few
without impression, and in the case of vast numbers that impression has
been enduring. What adds greatly to its importance, and to the reward of
its glorified writer--many of those whom it has impressed were master
minds, and destined in their turn to be the means of impressing others.
As in the instance of Wilberforce, this little book was to be in their
minds the germ of other influential books, or of sermons; and, like the
lamp at which many torches and tapers are lighted, none can tell how far
its rays have travelled in the persons and labors of those whose
Christianity it first enkindled.
But what was the secret of Dr. Doddridge's great success? He had not the
rhetoric of Bates, the imagination of Bunyan, nor the massive theology
of Owen; and yet his preaching and his publications were as useful as
theirs. So far as we can find it out, let us briefly indicate where his
great strength lay.
As already hinted, we attach considerable importance to his clear and
orderly mind. He was an excellent teacher. At a glance he saw every
thing which could simplify his subject, and he had self-denial
sufficient to forego those good things which would only encumber it.
Hence, like his college lectures, his sermons were continuous and
straightforward, and his hearers had the comfort of accompanying him to
a goal which they and he constantly kept in view. It was his plan not
only to divide his discourses, but to enunciate the divisions again and
again, till they were fully imprinted on the memory; and although such a
method would impart a fatal stiffness to many compositions, in his
manipulation it only added clearness to his meaning, and precision to
his proofs. Dr. Doddridge's was not the simplicity of happy
illustration. In his writings you meet few of those apt allusions which
play over every line of Bunyan, like the slant beams of evening on the
winking lids of the ocean; nor can you gather out of his writings such
anecdotes as, like garnet in some Highland mountain, sparkle in every
page of Brooks and Flavel. Nor was it the simplicity of homely language.
It was not the terse and self-commending Saxon, of which Latimer in one
age, and Swift in another, and Cobbett in our own, have been the mighty
masters, and through it the masters of their English fellows. But it was
the simplicity of clear conception and orderly arrangement. A text or
topic may be compared to a goodly apartment still empty; and which will
be very differently garnished according as you move into it piece by
piece the furniture from a similar chamber, or pour in pell-mell the
contents of a lumber attic. Most minds can appreciate order, and to the
majority of hearers it is a greater treat than ministers always imagine,
to get some obscure matter made plain, or some confused subject cleared
up. With this treat Doddridge's readers and hearers were constantly
indulged. Whether they were things new or old, from the orderly
compartments of his memory he fetched the argument or the quotation
which the moment wanted. He knew his own mind, and told it in his own
way, and was always natural, arresting, instructive. And even if, in
giving them forth, they should cancel the ticket-marks--the numerals by
which they identify and arrange their own materials, authors and orators
who wish to convince and to edify must strive in the first place to be
orderly. To this must be added a certain pathetic affectionateness, by
which all his productions are pervaded.
Leaving the tutor, the pastor, the author, it is time that we return to
the man; and might we draw a full-length portrait, our readers would
share our affection. That may not be, and therefore we shall only
indicate a few features. His industry, as has been inferred, was
enormous; in the end it became an excess, and crushed a feeble
constitution into an early grave. His letters alone were an extensive
authorship. With such friends as Bishop Warburton and Archbishop Secker,
with Isaac Watts and Nathaniel Lardner, with his spiritual father, the
venerable Clarke, and with his fervent and tender-hearted brother,
Barker, it was worth while to maintain a frequent correspondence; but
many of his epistolizers had little right to tax a man like Doddridge.
Those were the cruel days of dear posts and "private opportunities;" and
a letter needed to contain matter enough to fill a little pamphlet; and
when some cosy country clergyman, who could sleep twelve hours in the
twenty-four, or some self-contained dowager, who had no charge but her
maid and her lap-dog, insisted on long missives from the busiest and
greatest of their friends, they forgot that a sermon had to be laid
aside, or a chapter of the Exposition suspended in their favor; or that
a man, who had seldom leisure to talk to his children, must sit up an
extra hour to talk to them. And yet, amidst the pressure of overwhelming
toil, his vivacity seldom flagged, and his politeness never. Perhaps the
severest thing he ever said was an impromptu on a shallow-pated student
who was unfolding a scheme for flying to the moon:--
And will Volatio leave this world so soon,
To fly to his own native seat, the moon?
'Twill stand, however, in some little stead,
That he sets out with such an empty head.
But his wit was usually as mild as his dispositions; and it was seldom
that he answered a fool according to his folly. His very essence was his
kindness and charity; and one of the worst faults laid to his charge is
a perilous sort of catholicity. The dissenters never liked his dealings
with the Church of England; and both Episcopalians and Presbyterians
have regretted his intimacy with avowed or suspected Arians. Bishop
Warburton reproached him for editing Hervey's Meditations, and Nathaniel
Neal warned him of the contempt he was incurring amongst many by
associating with "honest crazy Whitefield;" whilst the "rational
dissenters," represented by Dr. Kippis, have regretted that his superior
intelligence was never cast into the Socinian scale. Judging from his
early letters, this latter consummation was at one time far from
unlikely; but the older and more earnest he grew, the more definite
became his creed, and the more intense his affinity for spiritual
Christianity. In ecclesiastical polity he never was a partisan, and for
piety his attraction was always more powerful than for mere theology.
But in that essential element of vital Christianity, a profound and
adoring attachment to the Saviour of men, the orthodoxy of Doddridge was
never gainsaid. Had any one intercepted a packet of his letters, and
found one addressed to Whitefield and another to Wesley; one to the
Archbishop of Canterbury and another to Dr. Webster of Edinburgh; one to
Henry Baker, F.R.S., describing a five-legged limb and similar
prodigies; and another to the Countess of Huntingdon or Joseph Williams,
the Kidderminster manufacturer, on some rare phasis of spiritual
experience; he might have been at a loss to devise a sufficient theory
for such a miscellaneous man. And yet he had a theory. As he writes to
his wife, "I do not merely talk of it, but I feel it at my heart, that
the only important end of life, and the greatest happiness to be
expected in it, consists in seeking in all things to please God,
attempting all the good we can." And from the post-office could the
querist have returned to the great house at the top of the town, and
spent a day in the study, the parlor, and the lecture-room, he would
have found that after all there was a true unity amidst these several
forthgoings. Like Northampton itself, which marches with more counties
than any other shire in England, his tastes were various and his heart
was large, and consequently his borderline was long. And yet Northampton
has a surface and a solid content, as well as a circumference; and
amidst all his complaisance and all his versatility, Doddridge had a
mind and a calling of his own.
The heart of Doddridge was just recovering from the wound which the
faithless Kitty had inflicted, when he formed the acquaintance of Mercy
Maris. Come of gentle blood, her dark eyes and raven hair and brunette
complexion were true to their Norman pedigree; and her refined and
vivacious mind was only too well betokened in the mantling cheek, and
the brilliant expression, and the light movements of a delicate and
sensitive frame. When one so fascinating was good and gifted besides,
what wonder that Doddridge fell in love? and what wonder that he deemed
the twenty-second of December (1730) the brightest of days, when it gave
him such a help-meet? Neither of them had ever cause to rue it; and it
is fine to read the correspondence which passed between them, showing
them youthful lovers to the last. When away from home the good doctor
had to write constantly to apprise Mercy that he was still "pure well;"
and in these epistles he records with Pepysian minuteness every incident
which was likely to be important at home; how Mr. Scawen had taken him
to see the House of Commons, and how Lady Abney carried him out in her
coach to Newington; how soon his wrist-bands got soiled in the smoke of
London, and how his horse had fallen into Mr. Coward's well at
Walthamstow; and how he had gone a fishing "with extraordinary success,
for he had pulled a minnow out of the water, though it made shift to get
away." They also contain sundry consultations and references on the
subject of fans and damasks, white and blue. And from one of them we are
comforted to find that the Northampton carrier was conveying a
"harlequin dog" as a present from Kitty's husband to the wife of Kitty's
old admirer--showing, as is abundantly evinced in other ways, how good
an after-crop of friendship may grow on the stubble fields where love
was long since shorn. But our pages are not worthy that we should
transfer into them the better things with which these letters abound.
Nor must we stop to sketch the domestic group which soon gathered round
the paternal table--the son and three daughters who were destined, along
with their mother, to survive for nearly half a century their bright
Northampton home, and, along with the fond father's image, to recall his
first and darling child--the little Tetsy whom "every body loved,
because Tetsy loved every body."
SIR JAMES STONEHOUSE.
The family physician was Dr. Stonehouse. He had come to Northampton an
infidel, and had written an attack on the Christian evidence, which was
sufficiently clever to run through three editions, when the perusal of
Dr. Doddridge's "Christianity Founded on Argument" revolutionized all
his opinions. He not only retracted his skeptical publication, but
became an ornament to the faith which once he destroyed. To the liberal
mind of Doddridge it was no mortification, at least he never showed it,
that his son in the faith preferred the Church of England, and waited on
another ministry. The pious and accomplished physician became more and
more the bosom friend of the magnanimous and unselfish divine, and, in
conjunction, they planned and executed many works of usefulness, of
which the greatest was the Northampton Infirmary. At last Dr. Stonehouse
exchanged his profession for the Christian ministry, and became the
rector of Great and Little Cheverell, in Wiltshire. Belonging to a good
family, and possessing superior powers, his preaching attracted many
hearers in his own domain of Bath and Bristol, and, like his once
popular publications, was productive of much good. He used to tell two
lessons of elocution which he had one day received from Garrick, at the
close of the service. "What particular business had you to do to-day
when the duty was over?" asked the actor. "None." "Why," said Garrick,
"I thought you must from the hurry in which you entered the desk.
Nothing can be more indecent than to see a clergyman set about sacred
service as if he were a tradesman, and wanted to get through it as soon
as possible. But what books might those be which you had in the desk
before you?" "Only the Bible and Prayer-Book," replied the preacher.
"_Only_ the Bible and Prayer-Book," rejoined the player. "Why, you
tossed them about, and turned the leaves as carelessly as if they were a
day-book and ledger." And by the reproof of the British Roscius the
doctor greatly profited; for, even among the pump-room exquisites, he
was admired for the perfect grace and propriety of his pulpit manner.
Perhaps he studied it too carefully, at least he studied it till he
became aware of it, and talked too much about it. His old age was rather
egotistical. He had become rich and a baronet, and, as the friend of
Hannah More, a star in the constellation "Virgo." And he loved to
transcribe the laudatory notes in which dignitaries acknowledged
presentation copies of his three-penny tracts. And he gave forth oracles
which would have been more impressive had they been less querulous. But
with all these foibles, Sir James was a man of undoubted piety, and it
may well excuse a little communicativeness when we remember that of the
generation he had served so well, few survived to speak his praise. At
all events, there was one benefactor whom he never forgot; and the
chirrup of the old Cicada softened into something very soft and tender
every time he mentioned the name of Doddridge.
COLONEL GARDINER.
Amongst the visitors at their father's house, at first to the children
more formidable than the doctor, and by and by the most revered all, was
a Scotch cavalry officer. With his Hessian boots, and their tremendous
spurs, sustaining the grandeur of his scarlet coat and powdered queue,
there was something to youthful imaginations very awful in the tall and
stately hussar; and that awe was nowise abated when they got courage to
look on his high forehead which overhung gray eyes and weather-beaten
cheeks, and when they marked his firm and dauntless air. And then it was
terrible to think how many battles he had fought, and how in one of them
a bullet had gone quite through his neck, and he had lain a whole night
among the slain. But there was a deeper mystery still. He had been a
very bad man once, it would appear, and now he was very good; and he had
seen a vision; and altogether, with his strong Scotch voice, and his
sword, and his wonderful story, the most solemn visitant was this grave
and lofty soldier. But they saw how their father loved him, and they saw
how he loved their father. As he sat so erect in the square corner-seat
of the chapel, they could notice how his stern look would soften, and
how his firm lip would quiver, and how a happy tear would roll down his
deep-lined face; and they heard him as he sang so joyfully the closing
hymn, and they came to feel that the colonel must indeed be very good.
At last, after a long absence, he came to see their father, and staid
three days, and he was looking very sick and very old. And the last
night, before he went away their father preached a sermon in the house,
and his text was, "I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and
honour him." And the colonel went away, and their father went with him,
and gave him a long convoy; and many letters went and came. But at last
there was war in Scotland. There was a rebellion, and there were
battles; and then the gloomy news arrived. There had been a battle close
to the very house of Bankton, and the king's soldiers had run away, and
the brave Colonel Gardiner would not run, but fought to the very last,
and alas for the Lady Frances!--he was stricken down and slain, scarce a
mile from his own mansion door.
JAMES HERVEY.
Near Northampton stands the little parish church of Weston Favel. Its
young minister was one of Doddridge's dearest friends. He was a tall and
spectral-looking man, dying daily; and, like so many in that district,
was a debtor to his distinguished neighbor. After he became minister of
his hereditary parish, and when he was preaching with more earnestness
than light, he was one day acting on a favorite medical prescription of
that period, and accompanying a ploughman along the furrow in order to
smell the fresh earth. The ploughman was a pious man, and attended the
Castle-Hill Meeting; and the young parish minister asked him, "What do
you think the hardest thing in religion?" The ploughman respectfully
returned the question, excusing himself, as an ignorant man; and the
minister said, "I think the hardest thing in religion is to deny sinful
self;" and, expatiating some time on its difficulties, asked if any
thing could be harder? "No, sir, except it be to deny righteous self."
At the moment the minister thought his parishioner a strange fellow, or
a fool; but he never forgot the answer, and was soon a convert to the
ploughman's creed. James Hervey had a mind of uncommon gorgeousness. His
thoughts all marched to a stately music, and were arrayed in the richest
superlatives. Nor was it affectation. It was the necessity of his ideal
nature, and was a merciful compensation for his scanty powers of outward
enjoyment. As he sat in his little parlor watching the saucepan, in
which his dinner of gruel was simmering, and filled up the moments with
his microscope, or a page of the Astro-Theology, in his tour of the
universe he soon forgot the pains and miseries of his corporeal
residence. To him "Nature was Christian;" and after his own soul had
drunk in all the joy of the Gospel, it became his favorite employment to
read in the fields and the firmament. One product of these researches
was his famous "Meditations." They were in fact a sort of Astro and
Physico-Evangelism, and, as their popularity was amazing, they must have
contributed extensively to the cause of Christianity. They were followed
by "Theron and Aspasio"--a series of Dialogues and Letters on the most
important points of personal religion, in which, after the example of
Cicero, solid instruction is conveyed amidst the charms of landscape,
and the amenities of friendly intercourse. This latter work is
memorable as one of the first attempts to popularize systematic
divinity; and it should undeceive those who deem dulness the test of
truth, when they find the theology of Vitringa and Witsius enshrined in
one of our finest prose poems. It was hailed with especial rapture by
the Seceders of Scotland, who recognized "the Marrow" in this lordly
dish, and were justly proud of their unexpected apostle. Many of them,
that is, many of the few who achieved the feat of a London journey,
arranged to take Weston on their way, and eschewing the Ram Inn and the
adjacent Academy, they turned in to Aspasio's lowly parsonage. Here they
found a "reed shaking in the wind:"--a panting invalid nursed by his
tender mother and sister; and when the Sabbath came, James Erskine, or
Dr. Pattison, or whoever the pilgrim might be, saw a great contrast to
his own teeming meeting-house in the little flock that assembled in the
little church of Weston Favel. But that flock hung with up-looking
affection on the moveless attitude and faint accents of their emaciated
pastor, and with Scotch-like alacrity turned up and marked in their
Bibles every text which he quoted; and though they could not report the
usual accessories of clerical fame--the melodious voice, and graceful
elocution, and gazing throng--the visitors carried away "a thread of the
mantle," and long cherished as a sacred remembrance, the hours spent
with this Elijah before he went over Jordan. Others paid him the
compliment of copying his style; and both among the Evangelical
preachers of the Scotch Establishment and its Secession, the
"Meditations" became a frequent model. A few imitators were very
successful; for their spirit and genius were kindred; but the tendency
of most of them was to make the world despise themselves, and weary of
their unoffending idol. Little children prefer red sugar-plums to white,
and always think it the best "content" which is drunk from a painted
cup; but when the dispensation of content and sugar-plums has yielded to
maturer age, the man takes his coffee and his cracknel without observing
the pattern of the pottery. And, unfortunately, it was to this that the
Herveyites directed their chief attention, and hungry people have long
since tired of their flowery truisms and mellifluous inanities; and,
partly from impatience of the copyists, the reading republic has nearly
ostracized the glowing and gifted original.
OTHER FRIENDS.
Gladly would we introduce the reader to a few others of Dr. Doddridge's
friends; such as Dr. Clarke, his constant adviser and considerate
friend, whose work on "The Promises" still holds its place in our
religious literature; Gilbert West, whose catholic piety and elegant
taste found in Doddridge a congenial friend; Dr. Watts, who so shortly
preceded him to that better country, of which on earth they were among
the brightest citizens; Bishop Warburton, who in a life-long
correspondence with so mild a friend, carefully cushioned his formidable
claws, and became the lion playing with the lamb; and William Coward,
Esq., with cramps in his legs, and crotchets in his head--the rich
London merchant who was constantly changing his will, but who at last,
by what Robert Baillie would have termed the "canny conveyance" of Watts
and Doddridge, did bequeath twenty thousand pounds towards founding a
dissenting college. At each of these and several others we would have
wished to glance; for we hold that biography is only like a cabinet
specimen when it merely presents the man himself, and that to know him
truly he must be seen _in situ_ and surrounded with his friends;
especially a man like Doddridge, whose affectionate and absorptive
nature imbibed so much from those around him. But perhaps enough has
been already said to aid the reader's fancy.
The sole survivor of twenty children, and with such a weakly frame, the
wonder is that, amidst incessant toil, Doddridge held out so long.
Temperance, elasticity of spirits, and the hand of God upheld him. At
last, in December, 1750, preaching the funeral sermon of Dr. Clarke, at
St. Albans, he caught a cold which he could never cure. Visits to London
and the waters of Bristol had no beneficial effect; and, in the fall of
the following year, he was advised to try a voyage to Lisbon. His kind
friend, Bishop Warburton, here interfered, and procured for his
dissenting brother a favor which deserves to be held in lasting
memorial. He applied at the London Post-office, and, through his
influence, it was arranged that the captain's room in the packet should
be put at the invalid's disposal. Accordingly, on the thirtieth of
September, accompanied by his anxious wife and a servant, he sailed from
Falmouth; and, revived by the soft breezes and the ship's stormless
progress, he sat in his easy-chair in the cabin, enjoying the brightest
thoughts of all his life. "Such transporting views of the heavenly world
is my Father now indulging me with, as no words can express," was his
frequent exclamation to the tender partner of his voyage. And when the
ship was gliding up the Tagus, and Lisbon with its groves and gardens
and sunny towers stood before them, so animating was the spectacle, that
affection hoped he might yet recover. The hope was an illusion. Bad
symptoms soon came on; and the chief advantage of the change was, that
it perhaps rendered dissolution more easy. On the twenty-sixth of
October, 1751, he ceased from his labors, and soon after was laid in the
burying-ground of the English factory. The Lisbon earthquake soon
followed; but his grave remains to this day, and, like Henry Martyn's at
Tocat, is to the Christian traveller a little spot of holy ground.
A hundred years have passed away since then; but there is much of
Doddridge still on earth. The "Life of Colonel Gardiner" is still one of
the best-known biographies; and, with Dr. Brown, we incline to think
that, as a manual for ministers, there has yet appeared no memoir
superior to his own. The Family Expositor has undergone that
disintegrating process to which all bulky books are liable, and many of
its happiest illustrations now circulate as things of course in the
current popular criticism; and though his memory does not receive the
due acknowledgment, the church derives the benefit. The singers of the
Scotch Paraphrases and of other hymn collections are often unwitting
singers of the words of Doddridge; and the thousands who quote the
lines--
Live while you live, the epicure would say, &c.,
are repeating the epigram which Philip Doddridge wrote, and which Samuel
Johnson pronounced the happiest in our language. And if the "Rise and
Progress" shall ever be superseded by a modern work, we can only wish
its successor equal usefulness; however great its merits we can scarcely
promise that it will keep as far ahead of all competitors for a hundred
years as the original work has done. Had Doddridge lived a little
longer, missionary movements would have been sooner originated by the
British churches; but he lived long enough to be the father of the Book
Society. And though Coward College is now absorbed in a more extensive
erection, the founders of St. John's Wood College should rear a statue
to Doddridge, as the man who gave the mightiest impulse to the work of
rearing an educated Nonconformist ministry in England.
From Leigh Hunt's Journal.
LORD THURLOW, AND HIS TERRIBLE SWEARING.
Lord Thurlow, once Lord High Chancellor of England, Keeper of the
Conscience of George the Third, &c., was a tall, dark, harsh-featured,
deep-voiced, beetle-browed man, of strong natural abilities, little
conscience, and no delicacy. Having discovered, in the outset of life,
that the generality of the world were more affected by manner than
matter, he indulged a natural inclination to huffing and arrogance, by
acting systematically upon it to that end; and, in a worldly point of
view, he succeeded to perfection; with this drawback--which always
accompanies false pretensions of the kind--that, knowing to what extent
they were false, his mind was kept in a proportionate state of
irritability and dissatisfaction; so that his success, after all, was
only that of a man who prospers by parading an infirmity. With good
intention as a judge in ordinary cases, he had sufficient patience
neither to study nor to listen. As a statesman, he was actuated wholly
by personal feelings of ambition and rivalry; and as keeper of the Royal
Conscience, he presented an aspect of ludicrous inconsistency,
discreditable to both parties; for he openly kept a mistress, while his
master professed to be a pattern of chastity and decorum. But he had
face for any thing. Seeing that airs of independence would turn to good
account, even in the royal closet, provided he was servile at heart, he
sometimes, with great cunning, huffed the King himself; and he did as
much with the Prince of Wales, and with the like success. What he really
could have done best, had his industry equalled his acuteness, and his
ambition been less towards the side of pomp and power, would have been
something in literary and metaphysical criticism, as may be seen in his
letters to Cowper and others. What he became most famous for doing, was
swearing.
We must here advertise our fair readers (in case any of them should be
doing us the honor of reading this article aloud), that we are going to
give some specimens of the swearing of this solemn and illustrious
person; so that, if they do not regard the words in the same childish,
meaningless, and nonsensical light that we do ourselves (for reasons
that we shall give presently), and therefore cannot comfortably frame
their lovely and innocent lips to utter them (which, indeed, custom will
hardly allow us to expect), they had better hand over the passages to
the nearest male friend that happens to be with them, and get him to
read or to _initialize_ them instead. As to ourselves (for reasons also
to be presently given), we shall write the words at full length, out of
sheer sense of their nothingness; only premising, that such was not the
opinion entertained of them by this tremendous Lord Chancellor, or by
the age in which he lived; otherwise he would not have resorted to them
as clenches for his thunderbolts, neither would his contemporaries have
given them to the reading world under those mitigated and whispering
forms of initials and hyphens, which have come down to our own times,
and which are intended to impress their audacity by intimating their
guilt.
"_Damns_ have had their day," says the man in the "Rivals." So they
have; and so we would have the reader think, and treat them accordingly;
that is to say, as things of no account, one way or the other. But such
was not the case when the dramatist wrote; and therefore Lord Thurlow
was renowned as a swearer, even in a swearing age. It was his ambition
to be considered a swearer. He took to it, as a lad does, who wishes to
show that he has arrived at man's estate. Every thing with the judge was
"damned bad" or "damned good," damned hot or cold, damned stupid, &c. It
was his epithet, his adjective, his participle, his sign of positive and
superlative, his argument, his judgment. He could not have got on
without it. To deprive Thurlow of his "damn" would have been to shave
his eyebrows, or to turn his growl to a whisper.
"Lamenting," says Lord Campbell, "the great difficulty he had in
disposing of a high legal situation, he described himself as long
hesitating between the intemperance of A. and the corruption of B., but
finally preferring the man of bad temper. Afraid lest he should have
been supposed to have admitted the existence of pure moral worth, he
added, 'Not but that there was a d----d deal of corruption in A.'s
intemperance.' Happening to be at the British Museum, viewing the
Townley Marbles, when a person came in and announced the death of Mr.
Pitt, Thurlow was heard to say, 'a d----d good hand at turning a
period!' and no more.
"The following anecdote (continues his lordship) was related by Lord
Eldon:--
"After dinner, one day, when nobody was present but Lord Kenyon and
myself, Lord Thurlow said, 'Taffy,[P] I decided a cause this morning,
and I saw from Scott's face he doubted whether I was right.' Thurlow
then stated his view of the case, and Kenyon instantly said, 'Your
decision was quite right.' 'What say you to that?' asked the Chancellor.
I said, 'I did not presume to form a judgment upon a case in which they
both agreed. But I think a fact has not been mentioned, which may be
material.' I was about to state the fact, and my reasons. Kenyon,
however, broke in upon me, and, with some warmth, stated that I was
always so obstinate, there was no dealing with me. 'Nay,' interposed
Thurlow, 'that's not fair. You, Taffy, are obstinate, and give no
reasons; you, Jack Scott, are obstinate, too; but then you give your
reasons, and d----d bad ones they are!'"
* * * * *
"In Thurlow's time, the habit of profane swearing was unhappily so
common, that Bishop Horsley, and other right reverend prelates, are said
not to have been entirely exempt from it; but Thurlow indulged in it to
a degree that admits of no excuse. I have been told by an old gentleman,
who was standing behind the woolsack at the time that Sir Ilay Campbell,
then Lord Advocate, arguing a Scotch appeal to the bar in a very tedious
manner, said, 'I will noo, my lords, proceed to my seevent pownt.' 'I'll
be d----d if you do,' cried Lord Thurlow, so as to be heard by all
present; 'this house is adjourned till Monday next,' and off he
scampered. Sir James Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas,
used to relate that, while he and several other legal characters were
dining with Lord Chancellor Thurlow, his lordship happening to swear at
his Swiss valet, when retiring from the room, the man returned, just put
his head in, and exclaimed, 'I von't be d----d for you, Milor;' which
caused the noble host and all his guests to burst out into a roar of
laughter. From another valet he received a still more cutting retort.
Having scolded this meek man for some time without receiving any answer,
he concluded by saying, 'I wish you were in hell.' The terrified valet
at last exclaimed, 'I wish I was, my lord! I wish I was!'
"Sir Thomas Davenport, a great _nisi prius_ leader, had been intimate
with Thurlow, and long flattered himself with the hopes of succeeding to
some valuable appointment in the law; but, several good things passing
by, he lost his patience and temper along with them. At last he
addressed this laconic application to his patron: 'The Chief Justiceship
of Chester is vacant; am I to have it?' and received the following
laconic answer--'No! by God! Kenyon shall have it.'
"Having once got into a dispute with a bishop respecting a living, of
which the Great Seal had the alternate presentation, the bishop's
secretary called upon him, and said, 'My lord of ---- sends his
compliments to your lordship, and believes that the next turn to present
to ---- belongs to his lordship.' _Chancellor._--'Give my compliments to
his lordship, and tell him that I will see him d----d first before he
shall present.' _Secretary._--'This, my lord, is a very unpleasant
message to deliver to a bishop.' 'You are right, it is so, therefore
tell the bishop that _I_ will be damned first before he shall
present.'"[Q]
Lord Campbell concludes his records of the Chancellor's _jusjuration_
(if we may coin a word for a precedent so extraordinary), by frankly
extracting into his pages the whole of a long damnatory ode, which was
put into the judge's mouth by the authors of the once-famous collection
of libels called _Criticisms on the Rolliad_, and _Probationary Odes for
the Laureateship_,--the precursor, and very witty precursor, though
flagrantly coarse and personal, of the _Anti-Jacobin Magazine_ and the
_Rejected Addresses_. They were on the Whig side of politics, and are
understood to have been the production of Dr. Lawrence, a civilian, and
George Ellis, the author of several elegant works connected with poetry
and romance. We shall notice the book further when we come to speak of
Mr. Ellis himself. Lord Thurlow is made to contribute one of the
Probationary Odes; and he does it in so abundant and complete a style,
that bold as our "innocence" makes us in this particular, yet not having
the legal warrant of the biographer, we really have not the courage to
bring it in as evidence. The reader, however, may guess of what sort of
stuff it is composed, when he hears that it begins with the
comprehensive line,
"Damnation seize ye all;"
and ends with the following pleasing and particular couplet:--
"Damn them beyond what mortal tongue can tell;
Confound, sink, plunge them all, to deepest, blackest hell."
After this, it will hardly be a climax to add, that Peter Pindar said of
this Keeper of the King's Conscience, with great felicity, that he
"swore his prayers."
We have been thus particular on the subject of Lord Thurlow's swearing,
partly because it is the main point of his lordship's character with
posterity, but chiefly that we might show what has already been
intimated; namely, what a nothing such talk has become, and what high
time it is to treat it as it deserves, and give it no longer in
typography those implied awful significances, those under-breaths and
intensifications of initials and hyphens, which make it pretend to have
a meaning, and are the main cause why it survives. The word _damned_ in
Lord Thurlow's mouth, for all its emphasis and effect, had as little
meaning as the word _blest_, or the word _conscience_. It has equally
little meaning in any body's. It no more signifies what it was
originally intended to signify, than the word "cursed" means
_anathematized_, or the word "pontificate" means _bridge-making_. This
is the natural death of oaths in any tremendous sense of the words, or
in any sense at all. They become things of "sound and fury, signifying
nothing." Who that utters the word "zounds," imagines that he is
speaking of such awful and inconceivable things as "God's wounds,"
though literally he is doing so? Or what honest farmer, who ejaculates
"Please the pigs" (such extraordinary things do reform and vicissitude
bring together!) supposes that his Protestant soul is propitiating the
_Pyx_, or Holy Sacrament box, of the Roman Catholic Church? Yet time
was, when the innocent word "zounds" was written with the same culpatory
dashes and hyphens as the "damns that have had their day;" and "pigs,"
we suppose, were exenterated in like manner: suggested only by their
heads and tails,--the first letter and the last. We happen to be no
swearers ourselves, so that we are speaking a good word for no custom of
our own; though, we confess, that when we come to an oath as a trait of
character, in biography or in fiction, we are no more in the habit of
balking it, than we are of ignoring any other harmless ejaculation; and
therefore, by reason of its very nonsense and nothingness, we like to
see it written plainly out as if it _were_ nothing, instead of being
mystified into a more nonsensical importance. We have known better men
than ourselves who have sworn; and we have known worse; but with none of
them had the word any meaning, nor has it any, ever, except in the
pulpit; where it is a pity (as many an excellent clergyman has thought)
that it is heard at all. Treat it lightly elsewhere, as an expletive and
a mere way of speaking, and it will come to nothing as it deserves, and
follow the obsolete "plagues" and "murrains" of our ancestors.
The only persons who profess to swear to any purpose, are the Roman
Catholics; and they, indeed, may well be said to swear "terribly"--or
rather they would do so, if any poor set of human creatures, fallible by
the necessity of their natures, could of a surety know what is
infallible, and be commissioned by a writing on the sun or moon to let
us hear it. Lord Thurlow, with all his damns, and his big voice, and his
power of imprisonment to boot, was a babe of grace compared with the
Roman Catholic Bishop of Rochester who thundered forth the famous
excommunication which the Protestant chapter-clerk of that city gave to
the author of _Tristram Shandy_ to put in his book; to the immortal
honor of said Protestant, and disgrace of the unalterable and infallible
Roman Catholic Churchmen; who, when delivered from their bonds, and
complimented on partaking of the progress and civilization common to the
rest of the world, take the first opportunity for showing us we are
mistaken, and crying damnation to their deliverers.
We shall not repeat the document alluded to, lest we should be thought
to give the light matter of which we have been treating, a tone of too
much importance. Suffice it to say, that when all the powers, and
angels, and very virgins of heaven are called upon by the
excommunication to "curse" and "damn" the object of it limb by limb
(literally so), his eyes, his brains, and his heart (how unlike fair
human readers, who doubt whether the very word "damn" should be
uttered), good Uncle Toby interposes one of those world-famous
pleasantries which have shaken the old Vatican beyond recovery.
"'Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,' cried my Uncle Toby; 'but
nothing to this. For my own part, I could not have the heart to curse my
dog so.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[P] Thurlow politely calls Kenyon _Taffy_, because the latter was a
Welshman. _Scott_ is Lord Eldon himself.
[Q] _Lives of the Chancellors._ Second Series. Vol. v. pp. 644, 664.
From Chambers' Edinbourgh Journal.
THE LAST OF THE FIDDLERS.
A VILLAGE TALE.
BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
The midnight silence of the village is broken by unusual clattering
sounds--a horse comes galloping along at the top of his speed, his rider
crying aloud, "Fire--fire! Help, ho! Fire!" Away he rides straight to
the church, and presently the alarm-bell is heard pealing from the
steeple.
It is no easy matter to arouse the harvest folks, after a hard day's
work, from their first sound sleep: there they lie, stretched as
unconsciously as the corn in the fields which they have reaped in the
sweat of their brow. But wake they must--there is no help for it. The
stable-boys are the first on the alert--every one anxious to win the
reward which, time out of mind, has been given to the person, who, on
the occasion of a fire, is the first to reach the engine-house with
harnessed horses. Here and there a light is seen at a cottage lattice--a
window is opened--the men come running out of doors with their coats
half drawn on, or in their shirt sleeves. The villagers all collect
about the market-house, and the cry is heard on all sides, "Where is it?
Where is the fire?"
"In Eibingen."
Question and answer were alike unneeded, for in the distance, behind the
dark pine-forest, the whole sky was illumined with a bright-red glow, in
the stillness of the night, like the glow of the setting sun; while
every now and then a shower of sparks rose into the air, as if shot out
from a blast-furnace.
The night was still and calm, and the stars shone peacefully on the
silent earth.
The horses are speedily put to the fire-engine, the buckets placed in a
row, a couple of torches lighted, and the torch-bearers stand ready on
either side holding on to the engine, which is instantly covered with
men.
"Quick! out with another pair of horses! two can't draw such a
load!"--"Down with the torches!"--"No, no; they're all right--'tis the
old way!"--"Drive off, for Heaven's sake--quick!"
Such-like exclamations resounded on all sides. Let us follow the crowd.
The engine, with its heavy load, now rolls out of the village, and
through the peaceful fields and meadows: the fruit-trees by the roadside
seem to dance past in the flickering light; and soon the crowd hurry,
helter-skelter, through the forest. The birds are awakened from sleep,
and fly about in affright, and can scarcely find their way back to their
warm nests. The forest is at length passed, and down below, in the
valley, lies the hamlet, brightly illumined as at noon-day, while
shrieks and the alarm-bell are heard, as if the flames had found a
voice.
See! what is yonder white, ghost-like form, in a fluttering dress, on
the skirts of the forest? The wheels creak, and rattle along the stony
road--no sounds can be distinguished in the confusion. Away! help! away!
The folks are now seen flying from the village with their goods and
chattels--children in their bare shirts and with naked feet--carrying
off beds and chairs, pots and pans. Has the fire spread so fearfully, or
is this all the effect of fright?
"Where's the fire?"
"At Hans the Fiddler's."
And the driver lashed his horses, and every man seemed to press forward
with increased ardor to fly to the succor.
As they approached the spot, it was clearly impossible to save the
burning cottage; and all efforts were therefore directed to prevent the
flames extending to the adjoining houses. Just then every body was
busied in trying to save a horse and two cows from the shed; but the
animals, terrified by the fire, would not quit the spot, until their
eyes were bandaged, and they were driven out by force.
"Where's old Hans?" was the cry on all sides.
"Burnt in his bed to a certainty," said some. Others declared that he
had escaped. Nobody knew the truth.
The old fiddler had neither child nor kinsfolk, and yet all the people
grieved for him; and those who had come from the villages round about
reproached the inhabitants for not having looked after the fate of the
poor fellow. Presently it was reported that he had been seen in Urban
the smith's barn; another said that he was sitting up in the church
crying and moaning--the first time he had been there without his fiddle.
But neither in the barn nor in the church was old Hans to be found, and
again it was declared that he had been burnt to death in his house, and
that his groans had actually been heard; but, it was added, all too late
to save him, for the flames had already burst through the roof, and the
glass of the windows was sent flying across the road.
The day was just beginning to dawn when all danger of the fire spreading
was past; and leaving the smouldering ruins, the folks from a distance
set out on their return.
A strange apparition was now seen coming down the mountain-side, as if
out of the gray mists of morning. In a cart drawn by two oxen sat a
haggard figure, dressed in his bare shirt, and his shoulders wrapped in
a horse-cloth. The morning breeze played in the long white locks of the
old man, whose wan features were framed, as it were, by a short,
bristly, snow-white beard. In his hands he clutched a fiddle and
fiddlestick. It was old Hans, the village fiddler. Some of the lads had
found him at the edge of the forest, on the spot where we had caught a
glimpse of him, looking like a ghostly apparition, as we rattled past
with the engine. There he was found standing in his shirt, and holding
his fiddle in both his hands pressed tightly to his breast.
As they drew near the village, he took his fiddle and played his
favorite waltz. Every eye was turned on the strange-looking man, and all
welcomed his return, as if he had risen from the grave.
"Give me a drink!" he exclaimed to the first person who held out a hand
to him. "I'm burnt up with thirst!"
A glass of water was brought him.
"Bah!" cried the old man; "'twere a sin to quench such a thirst as mine
with water; bring me some wine! Or has the horrid red cock drunk up all
my wine too?"
And again he fell to fiddling lustily, until they arrived at the spot of
the fire. He got down from the cart, and entered a neighbor's cottage.
All the folks pressed up to the old fiddler, tendering words of comfort,
and promising that they would all help him to rebuild his cottage.
"No, no!" replied Hans; "'tis all well. I have no home--I'm one of the
cuckoo tribe that has no resting-place of its own, and only now and then
slips into the swallow's nest. For the short time I have to live, I
shall have no trouble in finding quarters wherever I go. I can now climb
up into a tree again, and look down upon the world in which I have no
longer any thing to call my own. Ay, ay, 'twas wrong in me ever to have
had any thing of my own except my precious little fiddle here!"
No objection was raised to the reasoning of the strange old man, and the
country-folks from a distance went their ways home with the satisfaction
of knowing that the old fiddler was still alive and well. Hans properly
belonged to the whole country round about: his loss would have been a
public one: much as if the old linden-tree on the Landeck Hill close by
had been thrown down unexpectedly in the night Hans was as merry as a
grig when Caspar the smith gave him an old shirt, the carpenter Joseph a
pair of breeches--and so on. "Well, to be sure, folks may now say that I
carry the whole village on my back!" said he; and he gave to each
article of dress the name of the donor. "A coat indeed like this, which
a friend has worn nicely smooth for one, fits to a T. I was never at my
ease in a new coat; and you know I used always to go to the church, and
rub the sleeves in the wax that dropped from the holy tapers, to make
them comfortable and fit for wear. But this time I'm saved the trouble,
and I'm for all the world like a new-born babe who is fitted with
clothes without measuring. Ay, ay, you may laugh; but 'tis a fact--I'm
new-born."
And in truth it quite seemed so with the old man: the wild merriment of
former years, which had slumbered for a while, all burst out anew.
A fellow just now entered who had been active in extinguishing the fire,
and having his hand in the work, had been at the same time no less
actively engaged in quenching a certain internal fire--and in truth, as
was plain to be seen, more than was needed. On seeing him, the old
fiddler cried out, "By Jove, how I envy the fellow's jollity!" All the
folks laughed; but presently the merriment was interrupted by the
entrance of the magistrate with his notary, come to investigate the
cause of the fire, and take an inventory of the damage.
Old Hans openly confessed his fault. He had the odd peculiarity of
carrying about him, in all his pockets, a little box of lucifer matches,
in order never to be at a loss when he wanted to light his pipe.
Whenever any one called on him, and wherever he went, his fingers were
almost unconsciously playing with the matches. Often and often he was
heard to exclaim, "Provoking enough! that these matches should come into
fashion just as I am going off the stage. Look! a light in the twinkling
of an eye! Only think of all the time I've lost in the course of my life
in striking a light with the old flint and steel,--days, weeks, ay,
years!"
The fire had, to all appearances, originated with this child's play of
the old man, and the magistrate said with regret that he must inflict
the legal penalty for his carelessness. "However, at all events 'tis
well 'tis no worse," he added; "you are in truth the last of the
fiddlers; in our dull, plodding times, you are a relic of the past--of a
merry, careless age. 'Twould have been a grievous thing if you had come
to such a miserable end."
"Look ye, your worship, I ought to have been a parson," said Hans; "and
I should have preached to the folks after this fashion:--'Don't set too
much store on life, and it can't hurt you; look on every thing as
foolery, and then you'll be cleverer than all the rest. If the world was
always merry--if folks did nothing but work and dance, there would be no
need of schoolmasters--no need of learning to write and read--no
parsons--and (by your worship's pardon) no magistrates. The whole world
is a big fiddle--the strings are tuned--Fortune plays upon them; but
some one is wanted to be constantly screwing up the strings; and this is
a job for the parson and magistrate. There's nothing but turning and
screwing, and turning and scraping, and the dance never begins.'"
The fiddler's tongue went running on in this way, until his worship at
length took a friendly leave of him. We shall, however, remain, and tell
the reader something of the history of this strange character.
It is now nearly thirty years since the old man first made his
appearance in the village, just at the time when the new church was
consecrated. When he first came among the villagers, he played for three
days and three nights almost incessantly the maddest tunes.
Superstitious folks muttered one to another that it must be Old Nick
himself who could draw such spirit and life from the instrument, as
never to let any one have rest or quiet any more than he seemed to
require it himself. During the whole of this time he scarcely ate a
morsel, and only drank--but in potent draughts--during the pauses. Often
it seemed as if he did not stir a finger, but merely laid the
fiddlestick on the strings, and magic sounds instantly came out of them,
while the fiddle-bow hopped up and down of itself.
Hey-day! there was a merrymaking and piece of work in the large
dancing-room of the "Sun." Once, during a pause, the hostess, a buxom
portly widow, cried out, "Hold hard, fiddler; do stop--the cattle are
all quarrelling with you, and will starve if you don't let the lads and
girls go home and feed them. If you've no pity on us folks, do for
goodness' sake stop your fiddling for the sake of the poor dumb
creatures."
"Just so!" cried the fiddler; "here you can see how man is the noblest
animal on the face of the earth; man alone can dance--ay, dance in
couples. Hark ye, hostess, if you'll dance a turn with me, I'll stop my
fiddlestick for a whole hour."
The musician jumped off the table. All the by-standers pressed the
hostess, till at length she consented to dance. She clasped her partner
tight round the waist, whilst he kept hold of his fiddle, drawing from
it sounds never before heard; and in this comical manner, playing and
dancing, they performed their evolutions in the circle of spectators;
and at length, with a brilliant scrape of his bow, he concluded,
embraced the hostess, and gave her a bouncing kiss, receiving in return
a no less hearty box on the ear. Both were given and taken in fun and
good temper.
From that time forward the fiddler was domiciled under the shade of the
"Sun." There he nestled himself quietly, and whenever any merrymaking
was going on in the country round-about, Hans was sure to be there with
his fiddle; but he always returned home regularly; and there was not a
village nor a house far and wide around, in which there was more
dancing, than in the hostelry of the portly landlady of the "Sun."
The fiddler comported himself in the house as if he belonged to it; he
served the guests (never taking any part in out-of-doors work),
entertained the customers as they dropped in, played a hand at cards
occasionally, and was never at a loss in praising a fresh tap. "We've
just opened a new cask of wine--only taste, and say if there's not music
in wine, and something divine!" Touching every thing that concerned the
household, he invariably used the authoritative and familiar _we_:-"_We_
have a cellar fit for a king;" "_Our_ house lies in every one's way;"
and so forth.
Hans and his little fiddle, as a matter of course, were at every
village-gathering and festivity; and the people of the country
round-about could never dissociate in their thoughts the "Sun" inn and
Hans the fiddler. But possibly the hostess considered the matter in a
different light. At the conclusion of the harvest merrymaking she took
heart and said--"Hans, you must know I've a liking for you; you pay for
what you eat; but wouldn't you like for once to try living under another
roof? What say you?"
Hans protested that he was well enough off in his present quarters, and
that he felt no disposition to neglect the old proverb of "Let well
alone." The landlady was silent.
Weeks went over, and at length she began again--"Hans, you wouldn't do
any thing to injure me?"
"Not for the world!"
"Look ye--'tis only on account of the folks hereabouts. I would not
bother you, but you know there's a talk----You can come back again after
a month or two, and you'll be sure to find my door open to you."
"Nay, nay, I'll not go away, and then I shall not want to come back."
"No joking, Hans--I'm in earnest--you must go."
"Well, there's one way to force me: go up into my room, pack my things
into a bundle, and throw them into the road; otherwise I promise you
I'll not budge from the spot."
"You're a downright good-for-nothing fellow, and that's the truth; but
what am I to do with you?"
"Marry me!"
The answer to this was another box on the ear; but this time it was
administered much more gently than at the dance. As soon as the
landlady's back was turned, Hans took his fiddle and struck up a lively
tune.
From time to time the hostess of the "Sun" recurred to the subject of
Hans's removal, urging him to go; but his answer was always
ready--always the same--"_Marry me!_"
One day in conversation she told him that the police would be sure soon
to interfere and forbid his remaining longer, as he had no proper
certificate; and so forth. Hans answered not a word, but cocking his hat
knowingly on the left side, he whistled a merry tune, and set out for
the castle of the count, distant a few miles. The village at that time
belonged to the Count von S----.
That evening, as the landlady was standing by the kitchen fire, her
cheeks glowing with the reflection from the hearth, Hans entered, and
without moving a muscle of his face, handed to her a paper, and said,
"Look ye, there's our marriage-license; the count dispenses with
publishing the bans. This is Friday--Sunday is our wedding-day!'
"What do you say, you saucy fellow? I hope"----
"Hollo, Mr. Schoolmaster!" interrupted Hans, as he saw that worthy
functionary passing the window just at that instant "Do step in here,
and read this paper."
Hans held the landlady tight by the arm, while the schoolmaster read the
document, and at the conclusion tendered his congratulations and good
wishes.
"Well, well--with all my heart!" said the landlady at length. "Since
'tis to be so, to tell the truth I've long had a liking for you, Hans;
but 'twas only on account of the prate and gossip"----
"Sunday morning then?"
"Ay, ay--you rogue."
A merry scene was that, when on the following Sunday morning Hans the
Fiddler--or, to give him his proper style, Johann Grubenmueller--paraded
to church by the side of his betrothed, fiddling the wedding-march,
partly for his self-gratification, partly to give the ceremony a certain
solemn hilarity. For a short space he deposited his instrument on the
baptismal font; but the ceremony being ended, he shouldered it again,
struck up an unusually brisk tune, and played so marvellously, that the
folks were fairly dying with laughter.
Ever since that time Hans resided in the village, and that is as much as
to say that mirth and jollity abode there. For some years past, however,
Hans was often subject to fits of dejection, for the authorities had
decreed that there should be no more dancing without the special
permission of the magistrate. Trumpets and other wind-instruments
supplanted the fiddle, and our friend Hans could no longer play his
merry jigs, except to the children under the old oak-tree, until his
reverence, in the exercise of his clerical powers, forbade even this
amusement, as prejudicial to sound school discipline.
Hans lost his wife just three years ago, with whom he had lived in
uninterrupted harmony. Brightly and joyously as he had looked on life at
the outset of his career, its close seemed often clouded, sad, and
burthensome, more than he was himself aware. "A man ought not to grow so
old!" he often repeated--an expression which escaped from a long train
of thought that was passing unconsciously in the old man's mind, in
which he acknowledged to himself that young limbs and the vigor of
youth properly belonged to the careless life of a wandering musician.
"The hay does not grow as sweet as it did thirty years ago!" he stoutly
maintained.
The new village magistrate, who had a peculiarly kind feeling towards
old Hans, set about devising means of securing him from want for the
rest of his days. The sum (no inconsiderable one) for which the house
was insured in the fire-office was by law not payable in full until
another house should be built in its place. It happened that the parish
had for a long time been looking out for a spot on which to erect a new
schoolhouse in the village, and at the suggestion of the worthy
magistrate the authorities now bought from Hans the ground on which his
cottage had stood, with all that remained upon it. But the old man did
not wish to be paid any sum down, and an annuity was settled on him
instead, amply sufficient to provide for all his wants. This plan quite
took his fancy; he chuckled at the thought (as he expressed it) that he
was eating himself up, and draining the glass to the last drop.
Hans, moreover, was now permitted again to play to the children under
the village oak on a summer evening. Thus he lived quite a new life; and
his former spirit seemed in some measure to return. In the summer, when
the building of the new schoolhouse was commenced, old Hans was riveted
to the spot as if by magic; there he sat upon the timbers, or on a pile
of stones, watching the digging and hammering with fixed attention.
Early in the morning, when the builders went to their work they always
found Hans already on the spot. At breakfast and noon, when the men
stopped work to take their meals, which were brought them by their wives
and children, old Hans found himself seated in the midst of the circle,
and played to them as they ate and talked. Many of the villagers came
and joined the party; and the whole was one continued scene of
merriment. Hans often said that he never before knew his own importance,
for he seemed to be wanted everywhere--whether folks danced or rested,
his fiddle had its part to play: and music could turn the thinnest
potato-broth into a savory feast.
But an unforeseen misfortune awaited our friend Hans, of which the
worthy magistrate, notwithstanding his kindness to the old man, was
unintentionally the cause. His worship came one day, accompanied by a
young man, who had all the look of a genius: the latter stood for some
minutes, with his arms folded, gazing at Hans, who was busy fiddling to
the workpeople at their dinner.
"There stands the last of the fiddlers, of whom I told you," said the
magistrate; "I want you to paint him--he is the only relic of old times
whom we have left."
The artist complied. At first old Hans resisted the operation stoutly,
but he was at length won over by the persuasion of his worship, and
allowed the artist to take his likeness. With trembling impatience he
sat before the easel, wanting every instant to jump up and see what the
man was about. But this the artist would not allow, and promised to show
him the picture when it was finished. Day after day old Hans had to sit
to the artist, in this state of wonder and suspense, and when at noon he
played to the workmen at their meals, his tunes were slow and heavy, and
had lost all their former vivacity and spirit.
At length the picture was finished, and Hans was allowed to see himself
on canvas. At the first glance he started back in affright, crying out
like one mad, "Donner and Blitz!--the rascal has stolen me!"
From that day forward, when the artist had gone away, and taken the
picture with him, old Hans was quite changed: he went about the village,
talking to himself, and was often heard to mutter, "Nailed up to the
wall--stolen! Hans has his eyes open day and night, looking down from
the wall--never sleeps, nor eats, nor drinks. Stolen!--the thief!"
Seldom could a sensible word be drawn from him; but he played the
wildest tunes on his fiddle, and every now and then would stop and
laugh, exclaiming, as if gazing at something, "Ha, ha! you old fellow
there, nailed up to the wall, with your fiddle; you can't play--you are
the wrong one--here he sits!"
On one occasion the spirit of the old man burst out again: it was the
day when the gayly-decked fir bush was stuck upon the finished gable of
the new schoolhouse.[R] The carpenters and masons came, dressed in their
Sunday clothes, preceded by a band of music, to fetch "the master." The
old fiddler, Hans, was the whole day long in high spirits--brisk and gay
as in his best years. He sang, drank, and played till late into the
night, and in the morning he was found, with his fiddle-bow in his hand,
dead in his bed....
Many of the villagers fancy, in the stillness of the night, when the
clock strikes twelve, that they hear a sound in the schoolhouse, like
the sweetest tones of a fiddle. Some say that it is old Hans's
instrument, which he bequeathed to the schoolhouse, and which plays by
itself. Others declare that the tones which Hans played _into_ the wood
and stones, when the house was building, come _out_ of them again in the
night. Be this as it may, the children are taught all the new rational
methods of instruction, in a building which is still haunted by the
ghost of the last fiddler.
* * * * *
GEORGE III. gave Lord Eldon a seal, containing a figure of Religion
looking up to Heaven, and of Justice with no bandage over her eyes, his
Majesty remarking at the same time, that Justice should be bold enough
to look the world in the face. The motto of the seal was _His dirige te.
Quere._ Would not this be a more appropriate inscription for the spout
of a tea-pot than for the seal of a Lord Chancellor.
FOOTNOTES:
[R] This custom is prettily related in Auerbach's story of 'Ivo.'
From Dickens' Household Words.
A BIOGRAPHY OF A BAD SHILLING.
I believe I may state with confidence that my parents were respectable,
notwithstanding that one belonged to the law--being the zinc door-plate
of a solicitor. The other was a pewter flagon residing at a very
excellent hotel, and moving in distinguished society; for it assisted
almost daily at convivial parties in the Temple. It fell a victim at
last to a person belonging to the lower orders, who seized it, one fine
morning, while hanging upon some railings to dry, and conveyed it to a
Jew, who--I blush to record the insult offered to a respected member of
my family--melted it down. My first mentioned parent--the zinc
plate--was not enabled to move much in society, owing to its very close
connection with the street door. It occupied, however, a very
conspicuous position in a leading thoroughfare, and was the means of
diffusing more useful instruction, perhaps, than many a quarto, for it
informed the running as well as the reading public, that Messrs.
Snapples and Son resided within, and that their office hours were from
ten till four. In order to become my progenitor it fell a victim to
dishonest practices. A "fast" man unscrewed it one night, and bore it
off in triumph to his chambers. Here it was included by "the boy" among
his numerous "perquisites," and, by an easy transition, soon found its
way to the Hebrew gentleman above mentioned.
The first meeting between my parents took place in the melting-pot of
this ingenious person, and the result of their subsequent union was
mutually advantageous. The one gained by the alliance that strength and
solidity which is not possessed by even the purest pewter; while to the
solid qualities of the other were added a whiteness and brilliancy that
unadulterated zinc could never display.
From the Jew, my parents were transferred--mysteriously and by night--to
an obscure individual in an obscure quarter of the metropolis, when, in
secrecy and silence, I was _cast_, to use an appropriate metaphor, upon
the world.
How shall I describe my first impression of existence? how portray my
agony when I became aware _what I was_--when I understood my mission
upon earth? The reader, who has possibly never felt himself to be what
Mr. Carlyle calls a "sham," or a "solemnly constituted imposter," can
have no notion of my sufferings!
These, however, were endured only in my early and unsophisticated youth.
Since then, habitual intercourse with the best society has relieved me
from the embarrassing appendage of a conscience. My long career upon
town--in the course of which I have been bitten, and rung, and subjected
to the most humiliating tests--has blunted my sensibilities, while it
has taken off the sharpness of my edges; and, like the counterfeits of
humanity, whose lead may be seen emulating silver at every turn, my only
desire is--not to be worthy of passing, but simply--to pass.
My impression of the world, on first becoming conscious of existence,
was, that it was about fifteen feet in length, very dirty, and had a
damp, unwholesome smell; my notions of mankind were, that it shaved only
once a fortnight; that it had coarse, misshapen features; a hideous
leer; that it abjured soap, as a habit; and lived habitually in its
shirt-sleeves. Such, indeed, was the aspect of the apartment in which I
first saw the light, and such the appearance of the professional
gentleman who ushered me into existence.
I may add that the room was fortified, as if to sustain a siege. Not
only was the door itself lined with iron, but it was strengthened by
ponderous wooden beams, placed upright, and across, and in every
possible direction. This formidable exhibition of precautions against
danger was quite alarming.
I had not been long brought into this "narrow world" before a low and
peculiar tap, from the outside of the door, met my ear. My master
paused, as if alarmed, and seemed on the point of sweeping me and
several of my companions (who had been by this time mysteriously ushered
into existence) into some place of safety. Reassured, however, by a
second tapping, of more marked peculiarity, he commenced the elaborate
process of unfastening the door. This having been accomplished, and the
entrance left to the guardianship only of a massive chain, a mysterious
watchword was exchanged with some person outside who was presently
admitted.
"Hollo! there's two on you?" cried my master, as a hard, elderly animal
entered, followed somewhat timidly by a younger one of mild and modest
aspect.
"A green 'un as I have took under my arm," said Mr. Blinks (which I
presently understood to be the name of the elder one), "and werry
deserving he promises to be. He's just come out of the stone-pitcher,
without having done nothing to entitle him to have gone in. This was it:
a fellow out at Highbury Barn collared him, for lifting snow from some
railings, where it was a hanging to dry. Young Innocence had never
dreamt of any thing of the kind--bein' a walking on his way to the
work'us--but beaks being proverbially otherwise than fly, he got six
weeks on it. In the 'Ouse o' Correction, however, he met some knowing
blades, who put him up to the time of day, and he'll soon be as
wide-awake as any on 'em. This morning he brought me a pocket-book, and
in it eigh--ty pound flimsies. As he is a young hand, I encouraged him
by giving him three pun' ten for the lot--it's runnin' a risk, but I
done it. As it is, I shall have to send 'em all over to 'Amburg.
Howsomever, he's got to take one pund in home made: bein' out of it
myself, I have brought him to you."
"You're here at the nick o' time," said my master, "I've just finished a
new batch--"
And he pointed to the glittering heap in which I felt myself--with the
diffidence of youth--to be unpleasantly conspicuous.
"I've been explaining to young Youthful that it's the reg'lar thing,
when he sells his swag to gents in my way of business, to take part of
it in this here coin." Here he took _me_ up from the heap, and as he did
so I felt as if I were growing black between his fingers, and having my
prospects in life very much damaged.
"And is all this bad money?" said the youth, curiously gazing, as I
thought, at me alone, and not taking the slightest notice of the rest of
my companions.
"Hush, hush, young Youthful," said Mr. Blinks, "no offence to the home
coinage. In all human affairs, every thing is as good as it looks."
"I could not tell them from the good--from those made by government, I
should say"--hastily added the boy.
I felt myself leaping up with vanity, and chinking against my companions
at these words. It was plain I was fast losing the innocence of youth.
In justice to myself, however, I am bound to say that I have, in the
course of my subsequent experience, seen many of the lords and masters
of the creation behave much more absurdly under the influence of
flattery.
"Well, we must put you up to the means of finding out the real turtle
from the mock," said my master. "It's difficult to tell by the ring.
Silver, if it's at all cracked--as lots of money is--don't ring no
better than pewter; besides, people can't try every blessed bit o' tin
they get in that way; some folks is offended if they do, and some ain't
got no counter. As for the color, I defy any body to tell the
difference. And as for the figgers on the side, wot's your dodge? Why,
wen a piece o' money's give to you, look to the hedges, and feel 'em too
with your finger. When they ain't quite perfect, ten to one but they're
bad 'uns. You see, the way it's done is this--I suppose I may put the
young 'un up to a thing or two more?" added Mr. Blinks, pausing.
My master, who had during the above conversation lighted a short pipe,
and devoted himself with considerable assiduity to a pewter pot--which
he looked at with a technical eye, as if mentally casting it into crown
pieces,--now nodded assent. He was not of an imaginative or philosophic
turn, like Mr. Blinks. He saw none of the sentiment of his business, but
pursued it on a system of matter of fact, because he profited by it.
This difference between the producer and the middle-man may be
continually observed elsewhere.
"You see," continued Mr. Blinks, "that these here '_bobs_'"--by which he
meant shillings--"is composed of a mixter of two metals--pewter and
zinc. In coorse these is first prigged raw, and sold to gents in my line
of bis'ness, who either manufacters them themselves, or sells 'em to
gents as does. Now, if the manufacturer is only in a small way of
bis'ness, and is of a mean natur, he merely casts his money in plaster
of Paris moulds. But for nobby gents like our friend here (my master
here nodded approvingly over his pipe), this sort of thing won't
pay--too much trouble and not enough profit. All the top-sawyers in the
manufactur is scientific men. By means of what they calls a galwanic
battery a cast is made of that partiklar coin selected for himitation.
From this here cast, which you see, that there die is made, and from
that there die impressions is struck off on plates of the metal prepared
for the purpose. Now, unfortunately, we ain't got the whole of the
masheenery of the Government institootion _yet_ at our disposal, though
it's our intention for to bribe the Master of the Mint (in imitation
coin) some of these days to put us up to it all--so you see we're
obliged to stamp the two sides of this here shilling, for instance
(taking _me_ up again as he spoke), upon different plates of metal,
jining of 'em together afterwards. Then comes the _milling_ round the
hedges. This we do with a file; and it is the himperfection of that 'ere
as is continually a preying upon our minds. Any one who's up to the
bis'ness can tell whether the article's geniwine or not, by a looking at
the hedge; for it can't be expected that a file will cut as reg'lar as a
masheen. This is reely the great drawback upon our purfession."
Here Mr. Blinks, overcome by the complicated character of his subject,
subsided into a fit of abstraction, during which he took a copious pull
at my master's porter.
Whether suggested by the onslaught upon his beer, or by a general sense
of impending business, my master now began to show symptoms of
impatience. Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he asked "how many bob
his friend wanted?"
The arrangement was soon concluded. Mr. Blinks filled a bag which he
carried with the manufacture of my master, and paid over twenty of the
shillings to his _protege_. Of this twenty, _I_ was one. As I passed
into the youth's hand I could feel it tremble, as I own mine would have
done had I been possessed of that appendage.
My new master then quitted the house in company with Mr. Blinks, whom he
left at the corner of the street--an obscure thoroughfare in
Westminster. His rapid steps speedily brought him to the southern bank
of the "fair and silvery Thames," as a poet who once possessed me (only
for half an hour) described that uncleanly river, in some verses which I
met in the pocket of his pantaloons. Diving into a narrow street,
obviously, from the steepness of its descent, built upon arches, he
knocked at a house of all the unpromising rest the least promising in
aspect. A wretched hag opened the door, past whom the youth glided, in
an absent and agitated manner; and, having ascended several flights of a
narrow and precipitate staircase, opened the door of an apartment on the
top story.
The room was low, and ill-ventilated. A fire burnt in the grate, and a
small candle flickered on the table. Beside the grate, sat an old man
sleeping on a chair; beside the table, and bending over the flickering
light, sat a young girl engaged in sewing. My master was welcomed, for
he had been absent, it seemed, for two months. During that time he had,
he said, earned some money; and he had come to share it with his father
and sister.
I led a quiet life with my companions, in my master's pocket, for more
than a week. At the end of that time, the stock of good money was nearly
exhausted, although it had on more than one occasion been judiciously
mixed with a neighbor or two of mine. Want, however, did not leave us
long at rest. Under pretence of going away again to get "work," my
master--leaving several of my friends to take their chance, in
administering to the necessities of his father and sister--went away. I
remained to be "smashed" (passed) by my master.
"Where are you going so fast, that you don't recognize old friends" were
the words addressed to the youth by a passer-by, as he was crossing, at
a violent pace, the nearest bridge, in the direction of the Middlesex
bank.
The speaker was a young gentleman, aged about twenty, not ill-looking,
but with features exhibiting that peculiar expression of cunning, which
is popularly described as "knowing." He was arrayed in what the police
reports in the newspapers call "the height of fashion,"--that is to say,
he had travestied the style of the most daring dandies of last year. He
wore no gloves; but the bloated rubicundity of his hands was relieved by
a profusion of rings, which--even without the cigar in his mouth--were
quite sufficient to establish his claims to gentility.
Edward, my master, returned the civilities of the stranger, and, turning
back with him, they agreed to "go somewhere."
"Have a weed," said Mr. Bethnal, producing a well-filled cigar-case.
There was no resisting. Edward took one.
"Where shall we go?" he said.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Mr. Bethnal, who looked as if
experiencing a novel sensation--he evidently had an idea. "I tell you
what--we'll go and blow a cloud with Joe, the pigeon-fancier. He lives
only a short distance off, not far from the abbey; I want to see him on
business, so we shall kill two birds. He's one of us, you know."
I now learned that Mr. Bethnal was a new acquaintance, picked up under
circumstances (as a member of Parliament, to whom I once belonged, used
to say in the House) to which it is unnecessary further to allude.
"I was glad to hear of your luck, by-the-by," said the gentleman in
question, not noticing his companion's wish to avoid the subject. "I
heard of it from Old Blinks. Smashing's the thing, if one's a
presentable cove. You'd do deuced well in it. You've only to get nobby
togs and you'll do."
Mr. Joe, it appeared, in addition to his ornithological occupations,
kept a small shop for the sale of coals and potatoes; he was also, in a
very small way, a timber merchant; for several bundles of firewood were
piled in pyramids in his shed.
Mr. Bethnal's business with him was soon dispatched; although not until
after the latter had been assured by his friend, that Edward was "of the
right sort," with the qualification that he was "rather green at
present;" and he was taken into Mr. Joe's confidence, and also into Mr.
Joe's up-stairs sanctum.
In answer to a request from Mr. Bethnal, in a jargon to me then
unintelligible, Mr. Joe produced from some mysterious depository at the
top of the house, a heavy canvas bag, which he emptied on the table,
discovering a heap of shillings and half-crowns, which, by a sympathetic
instinct, I immediately detected to be of my own species.
"What do you think of these?" said Mr. Bethnal to his young friend.
Edward expressed some astonishment that Mr. Joe should be in the line.
"Why, bless your eyes," said that gentleman, "you don't suppose I gets
my livelihood out of the shed down stairs, nor the pigeons neither. You
see, these things are only dodges. If I lived here like a
gentleman--that is to say, without a occupation--the p'lese would soon
be down upon me. They'd be obleeged to take notice on me. As it is, I
comes the respectable tradesman, who's above suspicion--and the pigeons
helps on the business wonderful."
"How is that?"
"Why, I keeps my materials--the pewter, and all that--on the roof, in
order to be out o' the way, in case of a surprise. If I was often seed
upon the roof, a-looking after such-like matters, inquisitive eyes would
be on the look out. The pigeons is a capital blind. I'm believed to be
devoted to my pigeons, out o' which I takes care it should be thought I
makes a little fortun--and that makes a man respected. As for the pigeon
and coal and 'tatur business, them's dodges. Gives a opportoonity of
bringing in queer-looking sackfuls o' things, which otherwise would
compel the _'spots'_--as we calls the p'lese--to come down on us."
"Compel them!--but surely they come down whenever they've a suspicion?"
"You needn't a' told me he was green," said Mr. Joe to his elder
acquaintance, as he glanced at the youth with an air of pity. "In the
first place, we takes care to keep the vork-shop almost impregnable; so
that, if they attempts a surprise, we has lots o' time to get the things
out o' the way. In the next, if it comes to the scratch--which is a
matter of almost life and death to us--we stands no nonsense."
Mr. Joe pointed to an iron crowbar, which stood in the chimney-corner.
"I ses nothing to criminate friends, you know," he added significantly
to Mr. Bethnal, "but _you_ remember wot Sergeant Higsley got?"
Mr. Bethnal nodded assent, and Mr. Joe volunteered for the benefit and
instruction of Edward an account of the demise and funeral of the late
Mr. Sergeant Higsley. That official having been promoted, was ambitious
of being designated, in the newspapers, "active and intelligent," and
gave information against a gang of coiners; "Wot wos the consequence?"
continued the narrator. "Somehow or another, that p'leseman was never
more heered on. One fine night he went on his beat; he didn't show at
the next muster; and it was s'posed he'd bolted. Every inquiry was made,
and the 'mysterious disappearance of a p'leseman,' got into the
noospapers. Howsomnever, _he_ never got any wheres."
"And what became of him?"
Mr. Joe then proceeded to take a long puff at his pipe, and winking at
his initiated friend, proceeded to narrate how that the injured gang
dealt in eggs.
"What has that to do with it?"
"Why you see eggs is not always eggs." Mr. Pouter then went on to state
that one night a long deal chest left the premises of the coiners,
marked outside, 'eggs,' for exportation. "They were duly shipped, a
member of the firm being on board. The passage was rough, the box was on
deck, and somehow or other, somebody tumbled it overboard."
"But what has this to do with the missing policeman?"
"The chest was six feet long, and----,"
Here Mr. Bethnal became uneasy.
"Vell," said the host, "the firm's broke up, and is past peaching up,
only it shows you, my green 'un, what we _can_ do."
I was shaken in my master's pocket by the violence of the dread which
Mr. Joe's story had occasioned him.
Mr. Bethnal, with the philosophy which was habitual to him, puffed away
at his pipe.
"The fact o' the matter is," said Mr. Joe, who was growing garrulous on
an obviously pet subject, "that we aint afeerd o' the p'lese in this
neighborhood, not a hap'orth; _we_ know how to manage them." He then
related an anecdote of another policeman, who had been formerly in his
own line of business. This gentleman being, as he observed, "fly" to all
the secret signs of the craft, obtained an interview with a friend of
his for the purpose of purchasing a hundred shillings. A package was
produced and exchanged for their proper price in currency, but on the
policeman taking his prize to the station house to lay the information,
he discovered that he had been outwitted. The rouleau contained a
hundred good farthings, for each of which he had paid two pence
half-penny.
"Then, what is the bad money generally worth?" asked Edward,
interrupting the speaker.
"As a general rule," was the answer, "our sort is worth about one-fifth
part o' the wallie it represents. So, a sovereign--(though we aint got
much to do with gold here--that's made for the most part in
Brummagem)--a 'Brum' sovereign may be bought for about four-and-six; a
bad crown piece for a good bob; a half-crown for about fippence; a bob
for two pence half-penny, and so on. As for the sixpennys and
fourpennys, we don't make many on 'em, their wallie bein' too
insignificant." Mr. Joe then proceeded with some further remarks for the
benefit of his protege:----
"You see you need have no fear o' passing this here money if you're a
respectable-looking cove. If a gentleman is discovered at any think o'
the kind, it's always laid to a mistake; the shopman knocks under, and
the gentleman gives a good piece o' money with a grin. And that's how it
is that so much o' our mannyfactur gets smashed all over the country."
The visitors having been somewhat bored, apparently, during the latter
portion of their host's remarks, soon after took their departure. The
rum-and-water which Mr. Joe's liberality had supplied, effectually
removed Edward's scruples; and on his way back he expressed himself in
high terms in favor of "smashing," considered as a profession.
"O' course," was the reply of his experienced companion. "It aint once
in a thousand times that a fellow's nailed. You shall make your first
trial to-night. You've the needful in your pocket, hav'n't you? Come,
here's a shop--I want a cigar."
Edward appeared to hesitate; but Mr. Joe's rum-and-water asserted
itself, and into the shop they both marched.
Mr. Bethnal, with an air of most imposing nonchalance, took up a cigar
from one of the covered cases on the counter, put it in his mouth, and
helped himself to a light. Edward, not so composedly, followed his
example.
"How much."
"Sixpence."
The next instant the youth had drawn me from his pocket, received
sixpence in change, and walked out of the shop, leaving me under the
guardianship of a new master.
I did not remain long with the tobacconist: he passed me next day to a
gentleman, who was as innocent as himself as to my real character. It
happened that I slipped into a corner of this gentleman's pocket, and
remained there for several weeks--he, apparently, unaware of my
existence. At length he discovered me, and one day I found myself, in
company with a _good_ half-crown, exchanged for a pair of gloves, at a
respectable-looking shop. After the purchaser had left, the assistant
looked at me suspiciously, and was going to call back my late owner, but
it was too late. Taking me then to his master, he asked if I was not
bad.
"It don't look very good," was the answer. "Give it to me, and take care
to be more careful for the future."
I was slipped into the waistcoat pocket of the proprietor, who
immediately seemed to forget all about the occurrence.
That same night, immediately on the shop being closed, the shopkeeper
walked out, having changed his elegant costume for garments of a coarser
and less conspicuous description, and hailing a cab, requested to be
driven to the same street in Westminster in which I first saw the light.
To my astonishment, he entered the shop of my first master: how well I
remembered the place, and the coarse countenance of its proprietor!
Ascending to the top of the house, we entered the room, to which the
reader has been already introduced,--the scene of so much secret toil.
A long conversation, in a very low tone, now took place between the
pair, from which I gleaned some interesting particulars. I discovered
that the respectable gentleman who now possessed me was the coiner's
partner,--his being the "issue" department, which his trade
transactions, and unimpeachable character, enabled him to undertake very
effectively.
"Let your next batch be made as perfectly as possible,"--I heard him say
to his partner. "The last seems to have gone very well: I have heard of
only a few detections, and one of those was at my own shop to-day. One
of my fellows made the discovery, but not until after the purchaser left
the shop."
"That, you see, will 'appen now and then," was the answer; "but think o'
the number on 'em as is about, and how sharp some people is
getting--thanks to them noospapers, as is always a interfering with wot
don't concern 'em. There's now so much of our metal about, that it's
almost impossible to get change for a suff'rin nowhere without getting
some on it. Every body's a-taking of it every day; and as for them
that's detected, they're made only by the common chaps as aint got our
masheenery,"--and he glanced proudly at his well-mounted galvanic
battery. "All I wish is, that we could find some dodge for milling the
edges better--it takes as much time now as all the rest of the work put
together. Howsomever, I've sold no end on 'em in Whitechapel and other
places, since I saw you. And as for this here neighborhood, there's
scarcely a shop where they don't deal in the article more or less."
"Well," said Mr. Niggle's (which, I learned from his emblazoned
door-posts was the name of my respectable master), "be as careful about
these as you can. I am afraid it's through some of our money that that
young girl has been found out."
"Wot, the young 'ooman as has been remanded so often at the p'lese
court?"
"The same. I shall know all about it to-morrow. She is to be tried at
the Old Bailey, and I am on the jury, as it happens."
Mr. Niggles then departed to his suburban villa, and passed the
remainder of the evening as became so respectable a man.
The next morning he was early at business; and, in his capacity of
citizen, did not neglect his duties in the court, where he arrived
exactly two minutes before any of the other jurymen.
When the prisoner was placed in the dock, I saw at once that she was the
sister of my first possessor. She had attempted to pass two bad
shillings at a grocer's shop. She had denied all knowledge that the
money was bad, but was notwithstanding arrested, examined, and was
committed for trial. Here, at the Old Bailey, the case was soon
dispatched. The evidence was given in breathless haste; the judge summed
up in about six words, and the jury found the girl guilty. Her sentence
was, however, a very short imprisonment.
It was my fortune to pass subsequently into the possession of many
persons, from whom I learnt some particulars of the afterlife of this
family. The father survived his daughter's conviction only a few days.
The son was detained in custody; and as soon as his identity became
established, charges were brought against him which led to his being
transported. As for his sister--I was once, for a few hours, in a family
where there was a governess of her name. I had no opportunity of knowing
more; but--as her own nature would probably save her from the influences
to which she must have been subjected in jail--it is but just to
suppose, that some person might have been found to brave the opinion of
society, and to yield to one so gentle, what the law calls "the benefit
of a doubt."
The changes which I underwent in the course of a few months were many
and various--now rattling carelessly in a cash-box; now loose in the
pocket of some careless young fellow, who passed me at a theatre; then,
perhaps, tied up carefully in the corner of a handkerchief, having
become the sole stock-in-hand of some timid young girl. Once I was given
by a father as a "tip" or present to his little boy; when, I need
scarcely add, I found myself ignominiously spent in hard-bake ten
minutes afterwards. On another occasion, I was (in company with a
sixpence) handed to a poor woman, in payment for the making of a dozen
shirts. In this case I was so fortunate as to sustain an entire family,
who were on the verge of starvation. Soon afterwards, I formed one of
seven, the sole stock of a poor artist, who contrived to live upon my
six companions for many days. He had reserved me until the last--I
believe because I was the brightest and best-looking of the whole; and
when he was at last induced to change me, for some coarse description of
food, to his and my own horror, I was discovered!
The poor fellow was driven from the shop; but the tradesman, I am bound
to say, did not treat me with the indignity that I expected. On the
contrary, he thought my appearance so deceitful, that he did not scruple
to pass me next day, as part of change for a sovereign.
Soon after this, somebody dropped me on the pavement, where, however, I
remained but a short time. I was picked up by a child, who ran
instinctively into a shop for the purpose of making an investment in
figs. But, coins of my class had been plentiful in that neighborhood,
and the grocer was a sagacious man. The result was, that the child went
figless away, and that I--my edges curl as I record the humiliating
fact--was nailed to the counter as an example to others. Here my career
ended, and my biography closes.
A SUPPLY OF COCKED HATS.
In new work entitled _A Voyage to the Mauritius and Back_, just
published in London, we find the following capital story, from which it
is apparent that the Chatham-street auction system, even if indigenous,
is not peculiar to New-York. The subject of the joke was an Indian
officer at the Cape, on leave of absence, and an inmate of the
boarding-house where the writer was living.
"The most singular character which Cape Town presented was a Major
Holder, of the Bombay Army. In dress he was entirely unique. He wore
invariably a short red shell jacket, thrown open, with a white
waistcoat, and short but large white trousers, cotton stockings, and
shoes; on his head a cocked-hat, with an upright red and white feather,
the whole surmounted by a green silk umbrella, held painfully aloft to
clear the feather: to this may be added a shirt-collar which acted
almost as a pair of blinders on either side. In person he was ample, but
somewhat shapeless; and he had a vast oblong face, which neither laughed
nor showed any sign of animation whatever. The history of the Major's
cocked-hat was as follows. Strolling into an auction at Bombay, he was
rather taken with the reasonable price of a cocked-hat, which the
flippant auctioneer was recommending with all his ingenuity. 'Going for
six rupees--must be sold to pay the creditors. No advance upon six?
Shall we say siccas?' In an evil hour the Major bid for the hat, left
his address, and returned to his quarters, the happy possessor of a
'bargain.' Seated at breakfast the next morning, a procession is
observed approaching the house; four men carrying a large packing-case
slung to a pole, and headed by a half-caste, with a small paper in his
hand.
"'Major Holder, sar, brought you the cocked-hats, sir; all sound and
good, sar; wish live long to wear out, sar. Here leel' bill, which feel
obleege you pay, sar.' Whereupon he puts into the hands of the astounded
commander a document, headed 'Major Thomas Holder, of H.E.I.C.'s ----
Regt., Dr. to estate of ---- and Co., bankrupts, for seventy-two
cocked-hats, purchased at auction,' &c., &c., &c.
"It was in vain that the Major remonstrated after he understood the
predicament in which he was placed; in vain he appealed to the
auctioneer--to the company present; it was too good a joke, and they
would have given it against him under almost any circumstances.
"Major Holder was a rigid economist; he had almost a mind which admitted
but one idea at a time, and, indeed, not very often that. He was
possessed of six dozen of cocked-hats, and they must be worn out. Being
mostly in command of his own regiment, he had unlimited choice as to his
own head-dress; so he commenced the task at once. From thenceforth all
other hats or caps were to him matters of history. At the economical
rate of two hats a year, he might safely calculate upon being much
advanced in life before the case was exhausted. True, there were
drawbacks: he was much consulted about auctions by his friends; many
inquiries made of him on that point; bills of auction, and especially
any thing relating to cocked-hats, forwarded to him by the kind
attention of acquaintance; and a question very currently put to him by
the ensigns was 'Tom, how are you off for hats?'
"The interest taken in the Major's hats was far from dying, even after
the lapse of years: the less likely to do so, indeed, from the
circumstance of their forming epochs in history; as, 'Such a one got
leave in Tom's fourth hat;' or, 'I hope to be off before Tom changes his
hat;' or, 'I'll make you a bet that Jack's married before another hat's
gone.' When this individual arrived at the Cape he was understood to be
in his fifteenth hat: but there occurred some confusion in the Major's
chronology; for it was understood that, owing to the practical jokes
played there, no less than three hats were expended during the short
month of his stay. To correct this, he adopted the plan of sitting upon
his hat at dinner; but as he wore no tails to his jacket, and left the
feather protruding behind, it had to a stranger the appearance of being
a natural appendage to his person."
BUYING DONKEYS AT SMITHFIELD.
One of the brothers Mayhew is publishing in London, (and the Harpers are
reprinting it in New-York) a serial work under the title of _London
Labor and London Poor_, similar in design to the sketches of trades and
occupations a year or two ago printed in the _Tribune_. It is in as
lively a vein as may be, but such an anatomy is unavoidably sometimes
repulsive. The authors perhaps endanger the designed effect of their
performance by attempting to invest it with the attractions of
quaintness and humor. We quote from the second part the following
description of coster-mongers in the Smithfield market:
"The donkeys standing for sale are ranged in a long line on both sides
of the race course, their white velvety noses resting on the wooden rail
they are tied to. Many of them wear their blinkers and head-harness, and
others are ornamented with ribands fastened in their halters. The
lookers-on lean against this railing, and chat with the boys at the
donkeys' heads, or with the men who stand behind them, and keep
continually hitting and shouting at the poor still beasts, to make them
prance. Sometimes a party of two or three will be seen closely examining
one of these 'Jerusalem ponies,' passing their hands down his legs or
quietly looking on, while the proprietor's ash stick descends on the
patient brute's back, making a dull hollow sound. As you walk in front
of a long line of donkeys, the lads seize the animals by their nostrils
and show their large teeth, asking if you 'want a hass, sir,' and all
warranting the creature to be 'five years old next buff-day.' Dealers
are quarrelling among themselves, down-crying each other's goods. 'A
hearty man,' shouted one proprietor, pointing to his rival's stock,
'could eat three sich donkeys as yourn at a meal!' One fellow, standing
behind his steed, shouts as he strikes, 'Here's the real Britannia
metal;' whilst another asks, 'Who's for the pride of the market?' and
then proceeds to flip 'the pride' with the whip till she clears away the
mob with her kickings. Here, standing by its mother, will be a shaggy
little colt, with a group of ragged boys fondling it and lifting it in
their arms from the ground.
"During all this the shouts of the drivers and runners fill the air, as
they rush past each other on the race course. Now a tall fellow,
dragging a donkey after him, runs by, crying, as he charges in amongst
the mob, 'Hulloa! hulloa! Hi! hi!' his mate, with his long coat-tails
flying in the wind, hurrying after him and roaring, between his blows,
'Keem up!'"
From the Leader.
TO LAYARD, DISCOVERER OF BABYLON AND NINEVEH.
No harps, no choral voices, may enforce,
The words I utter. Thebes and Elis heard
Those harps, those voices, whence high men rose higher;
And nations crowned the singer who crowned _them_.
His days are over. Better men than his
Live among _us_: and must they live unsung
Because deaf ears flap round them? or because
Gold lies along the shallows of the world,
And vile hands gather it? My song shall rise,
Although none heed or hear it: rise it shall,
And swell along the wastes of Nineveh
And Babylon, until it reach to thee,
Layard! who raisest cities from the dust,
Who driest Lethe up amid her shades,
And pourest a fresh stream on arid sands,
And rescuest thrones and nations, fanes and gods,
From conquering Time: he sees thee, and turns back.
The weak and slow Power pushes past the wise,
And lifts them up in triumph to her ear:
They, to keep firm the seat, sit with flat palms
Upon the cushion, nor look once beyond
To cheer thee on thy road. In vain are won
The spoils; another carries them away;
The stranger seeks them in another land,
Torn piecemeal from thee. But no stealthy step
Can intercept thy glory.
Cyrus raised
His head on ruins: he of Macedon
Crumbled them, with their dreamer, into dust:
God gave thee power above them, far above;
Power to raise up those whom they overthrew,
Power to show mortals that the kings they serve
Swallow each other, like the shapeless forms,
And unsubstantial, which pursue pursued
In every drop of water, and devour
Devoured, perpetual round the crystal globe.[S]
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
FOOTNOTES:
[S] Seen through a solar microscope.
From Household Words.
PHYSIOLOGY OF INTEMPERANCE.
"One glass more," exclaimed mine host of the Garter. "A bumper at
parting! No true knight ever went away without 'the stirrup-cup.'"
"Good," cried a merry-faced guest; "but the Age of Chivalry is gone, and
that of water-drinkers and teetotallers has succeeded. Temperance
societies have been imported from America, and grog nearly thrown
overboard by the British Navy."
"Very properly so," observed a Clergyman who sat at the table. "The
accidents which occur from drunkenness on board ship may be so
disastrous on the high seas, and the punishment necessary to suppress
this vice is so revolting, that the most experienced naval officers have
recommended the allowance of grog, served both to officers and men in
our Navy, to be reduced one-half. In America, as well as in our own
Merchant Service, vessels sail out of harbor on the Temperance
principle; not a particle of spirits is allowed on board; and the men
throughout the voyage are reported to continue healthy and able-bodied.
Tea is an excellent substitute; many of our old seamen prefer it to
grog."
"That may be," exclaimed the merry-faced guest. "Horses have been
brought to eat oysters; and on the Coromandel coast, Bishop Heber says,
they get fat when fed on fish. Sheep have been trained up, during a
voyage, to eat animal food, and refused, when put ashore, to crop the
dewy greensward. When honest Jack renounces his grog, and, after reefing
topsails in a gale of wind, goes below deck to swill down a domestic
dish of tea, after the fashion of Dr. Samuel Johnson at Mrs. Thrale's, I
greatly fear the character of our British seamen will degenerate. In the
glorious days of Lord Nelson, the observation almost passed into a
proverb, that the man who loved his grog always made the best sailor.
Besides, in rough and stormy weather, when men have perhaps been
splicing the mainbrace, and exposed to the midnight cold and damp, the
stimulus of grog is surely necessary to support, if not restore, the
vital energy?"
"Not in the least," rejoined the clergyman. "Severe labor, even at sea,
is better sustained without alcoholic liquors; and the depressing
effects of exposure to cold and wet weather best counteracted by a hot
mess of cocoa or coffee served with biscuit or the usual allowance of
meat. In fact, I have lately read, with considerable satisfaction, a
prize essay by an accomplished physician, in which he proves that
alcohol acts as a poison on the nervous system, and that we can dispense
entirely with the use of stimulants."
"Not exactly so," observed a physician, who was of the party. "Life
itself exists only by stimulation; the air we breathe, the food we eat,
the desires and emotions which excite the mind to activity, are all so
many forms of physical and mental stimuli. If the atmosphere were
deprived of its oxygen, the blood would cease to acquire those
stimulating properties which excite the action of the heart, and sustain
the circulation; and if the daily food of men were deprived of certain
necessary stimulating adjuncts, the digestive organs would no longer
recruit the strength, and the wear and tear of the body. Nay, strange as
it may appear, that common article in domestic cookery, salt, is a
natural and universal stimulant to the digestive organs of all
warm-blooded animals. This is strikingly exemplified by the fact, that
animals, in their wild state, will traverse, instinctively, immense
tracts of country in pursuit of it; for example, to the salt-pans of
Africa and America; and it is a curious circumstance that one of the ill
effects produced by withholding this stimulant from the human body is
the generation of worms. The ancient laws of Holland condemned men, as a
severe punishment, to be fed on bread unmixed with salt; and the effect
was horrible; for these wretched criminals are reported to have been
devoured by worms, engendered in their own stomach. Now, I look upon
alcohol to be, under certain circumstances, as healthful and proper a
stimulant to the digestive organs as salt, when taken in moderation,
whether in the form of malt liquor, wine, or spirits and water. When
taken to excess, it may act upon the nervous system as a poison; but the
most harmless solids or fluids may, by being taken to excess, be
rendered poisonous. Indeed, it has been truly observed, that 'medicines
differ from poisons, only in their doses.' Alcoholic stimulants,
artificially and excessively imbibed, are, doubtless, deleterious."
"The subject," observed the host, filling his glass, and passing the
bottle, "is a curious one. The port before us, at all events, is not
poison, and I confess, that so ignorant am I of these matters, that I
would like to know something about this alcohol which is so much spoken
of."
"The explanation is not difficult," answered the Doctor. "Alcohol is
simply derived by fermentation, or distillation, from substances or
fluids containing sugar; in other words, the matter of sugar, when
subjected to a certain temperature, undergoes a change, and the elements
of which the sugar was previously composed enter into a new combination,
which constitutes the fluid named Alcohol, or Spirits of Wine. Raymand
Lully, the alchemist, (thirteenth century,) is said to have given it the
name of Alcohol; but the art of obtaining it was, in that age of
darkness and superstition, kept a profound mystery. When it became more
known, physicians prescribed it only as a medicine, and imagined that it
had the important property of prolonging life, upon which account they
designated it 'Aqua Vitae,' or the 'Water of life,' and the French, to
this day, call their Cognac _'Eau de Vie_.'"
"It is a remarkable circumstance," observed the Clergyman, filling his
glass, "that there is hardly any nation, however rude and destitute of
invention, that has not succeeded in discovering some composition of an
intoxicating nature; and it would appear, that nearly all the herbs, and
roots, and fruits on the face of the earth have been, in some way or
other, sacrificed on the shrine of Bacchus. All the different grains
destined for the support of man; corn of every description; esculent
roots, potatoes, carrots, turnips; grass itself, as in Kamtschatka;
apples, pears, cherries, and even the delicious juice of the peach, have
been pressed into this service; nay, so inexhaustible appear to be the
resources of art, that a vinous spirit has been obtained by distillation
from milk itself."
"Milk!" cried the merry-faced guest. "Can alcohol be obtained from
mother's milk?"
"Very probably," continued the Clergyman. "The Tartars and Calmucks
obtain a vinous spirit from the distillation of mares' and cows' milk;
and, as far as I can recollect, the process consists in allowing the
milk first to remain in untanned skins, sewed together, until it sours
and thickens. This they agitate until a thick cream appears on the
surface, which they give to their guests, and then, from the skimmed
milk that remains, they draw off the spirits."
"Exactly so," observed the Doctor, "but it is worthy of notice, that a
Russian chemist discovered that if this milk were deprived of its butter
and cheese, the whey, although it contains the whole of the sugar of
milk, will not undergo vinous fermentation."
"These facts," observed the host, "are interesting, but they are more
curious than useful. The alcohol, I presume, from whatever source it be
derived, is chemically the same thing; how, then, does it happen that
some wines, containing precisely the same quantity of alcohol,
intoxicate more speedily than others?"
"The reason," explained the Doctor, "is simply this. We must regard all
wines, even the very wine we are drinking, not as a simple mixture, but
as a compound holding the matter of sugar, mucilaginous, and extractive
principles contained in the grape juice, in intimate combination with
the alcohol. Accordingly, the more quickly the real spirit is set free
from this combination, the more rapidly are intoxicating effects
produced; and this is the reason why wines containing the same quantity
of alcohol have different intoxicating powers. Thus, champagne
intoxicates very quickly. Now this wine contains comparatively only a
small quantity of alcohol; but this escapes from the froth, or bubbles
of carbonic acid gas, as it reaches the surface, carrying along with it
all the aroma which is so agreeable to the taste. The liquor in the
glass then becomes vapid. This has been clearly proved. The froth of
champagne has been collected under a glass bell, and condensed by
surrounding the vessel with ice; the alcohol has then been found
condensed within the glass. The object, therefore, of icing
champagne--or rather, the effect produced by this operation--is to
repress its tendency to effervesce, whereby a smaller quantity of
alcohol is taken with each glass. Wines containing the same quantity of
alcohol accordingly differ in their effects; nay, it is not to the
alcohol only they contain that certain obnoxious effects are to be
attributed, for, as Dr. Paris clearly shows, when they contain an excess
of certain acids, a suppressed fermentation takes place in the stomach
itself, which will cause flatulency and a great variety of unpleasant
symptoms. In fact, a fluid load remains in the stomach, to undergo a
slow and painful form of digestion."
"But, in whatever shape you introduce it," remarked the host, "whether
disguised as wine, or in the form of brandy, whiskey, or gin-and-water,
it matters not--I wish to have a clear idea of the immediate effects of
alcohol upon the living system."
"Well!" said the Doctor, "it can very easily be described. When you
swallow a glass--let us say of brandy-and-water--the stimulating liquid,
upon entering into the stomach, excites the blood-vessels and nerves of
its internal lining coat, which causes an increased flow of blood and
nervous energy to this part. The consequence is, that the internal
membrane of the stomach becomes highly reddened and injected, just as if
inflammation had already been produced by the presence of the stimulant.
Thus far you probably follow me:--but this is not all--the vessels thus
excited have an absorbing power; they suck up (as it were) and carry
directly into the stream of the circulation a portion (at all events) of
the alcohol which thus irritates them. The result is, that alcohol is
thus mixed with the blood and brought into immediate contact with the
minute structure of all the different organs of the body."
"But how," asked the merry-faced guest, "can this be known? Who ever saw
into the stomach of a living man?"
"Strange as it may appear to you, that has been done, and all the
circumstances connected with the digestion of solids and fluids in the
stomach have been very accurately observed. It happened, in the year
1822, that a young Canadian, named Alexis St. Martin, was accidentally
wounded by the discharge of a musket, which carried away a portion of
his ribs, perforating and exposing the interior of the stomach. After
the poor fellow had undergone much suffering, all the injured parts
became sound, excepting the perforation into the stomach, which remained
some two and a half inches in circumference; and upon this unfortunate
individual his physician, Dr. Beaumont, when he was sufficiently well,
made a series of very careful observations, which have determined a
great variety of important points connected with the physiology of
digestion. Fluids introduced into the stomach rapidly disappeared, being
taken up by these vessels and carried into the system. We cannot,
therefore, be surprised to hear that so subtile and penetrating a fluid
as alcohol should very speedily find its way into all the tissues of the
body. Its presence may be smelt in the breath of persons addicted to
spirituous liquors, as well as in their secretions generally."
"But to what do you attribute the noxious effects of alcohol, allowing
it to be thus carried by direct absorption into the circulation?" asked
the host.
"To the excess of carbon," answered the Doctor, "which is thus
introduced into the system; and explains why the liver, in hard
drinkers, is generally found diseased."
"How so?" inquired the host. "I have heard of the 'gin liver.'"
"It is well known that a long residence in India," interposed the
Clergyman, "will give rise to enlargement and induration of this organ."
"And for the same reason," answered the Doctor, "the liver acts as a
substitute for the lungs--just as the skin acts vicariously for the
kidneys."
"Not a word of this do I understand," said the merry-faced guest.
"Well, then," continued the Doctor, "I will endeavor to explain it. By a
wonderful provision of nature, which appears to come under the law of
compensation, when one organ, by reason of decay, is unable to perform
its functions, another undertakes its functions, and, to a certain
extent, supplies its place. You all know that blind people acquire a
preternatural delicacy in the sense of touch, which did not escape the
philosophical observation of Wordsworth, who speaks of
"A watchful heart,
Still couchant--an inevitable ear;
And an eye practised like the blind man's touch."
"Now, it is the office of the vessels of the skin to throw off by
perspiration the watery parts of the blood; the kidneys do the same; and
under a great variety of circumstances which must be familiar to all,
these organs frequently act vicariously for one another. The office of
the liver, and the lungs also, is in like manner to throw off carbon
from the system, and when during a residence in a tropical climate the
lungs are unable, from the state of the atmosphere, to perform their
functions, the liver acting vicariously for this organ is stimulated to
undue activity, and becomes consequently diseased. Applying these
remarks to the spirit drinker, it is obvious that the excess of carbon
introduced into the system by alcohol is thrown upon the liver, and by
stimulating it to undue activity produces a state of inflammation."
"This I understand," observed the Clergyman, "but how does it act upon
the brain? Does the alcohol itself actually become absorbed, and enter
into the substance of the brain?"
"The effect of an excess of carbon, in the blood-vessels of the brain,
is to produce sleep and stupor; hence the drunkard breathes thick, and
snores spasmodically, and after this state, ends in confirmed apoplexy
and death--just as dogs become insensible when held over the Grotto del
Cane, in Italy, where they inhale this deleterious gas. But in addition
to this it has been clearly proved, that alcohol does enter into the
substance of the brain, for it has been detected by the smell, upon
examining the brain of persons who have died drunk; besides which,
alcohol, after having been introduced by way of experiment, into the
body of a living dog, has afterwards been procured absolutely as alcohol
by distillation from the substance of the brain. It is so subtile a
fluid that Liebig says it permeates every tissue of the body."
"But how do you explain the circumstance that death sometimes happens
suddenly after drinking spirits," asked the host, "before there can be
time for absorption to take place?"
"I remember, not many years ago," interrupted the merry-faced guest, "a
water-man, in attendance at the cab-stand at the top of the Haymarket,
for a bribe of five shillings, tossed off a bottle of gin, upon which he
dropped down insensible, and soon died."
"This may clearly be accounted for," observed the Doctor. "The stomach,
as I premised, is plentifully supplied with nerves, and is connected
with one of the great nervous centres in the body, so that a sudden
impression produced upon these nerves, by the introduction of a quantity
of such stimulus, gives a shock to the whole nervous system, which
completely overpowers it. From the centre to the circumference it acts
like a stroke of lightning, and the death is often instantaneous. A
draught of iced water taken when the system has been overheated by
exertion, by dancing or otherwise, has been known to be immediately
fatal. The physiological action--or rather the 'shock' upon the nervous
system, is in both cases the same--violent mental emotion will in like
manner suspend the action of the heart and produce instant death. These
are the terrors of alcohol, when drank to excess; but the health of the
habitual tippler is sure to be undermined; his hands become tremulous,
he is unsteady in his gait, his complexion becomes sallow, and all his
mental faculties gradually impaired."
"To what, may I ask," inquired the merry-faced guest, "do you attribute
the circumstance of the trembling hand recovering its steadiness, after
taking a glass of spirits in the morning after a debauch; 'hair of the
dog,' as it is called, 'that bit overnight?'"
"Action and reaction is the great law of the animal economy," replied
the Doctor; "over stimulation will always produce a corresponding degree
of depression; when, therefore, the nervous system has been over-excited
by alcoholic liquors, the usual amount of nervous energy which is
necessary to give tone to the muscular system is wanting, and then a
stimulus gives a fillip to the nervous centres, which restores the
nervous powers to the extremities. When this state of things, however,
has been permitted to go on, and the brain has been frequently brought
under alcoholic influence, its structure becomes affected, and a slow
and very insidious inflammation takes place, which terminates in a
softening of its substance. This mischief may proceed for a considerable
period without being suspected, but on a sudden _delirium tremens_ may
supervene, which will terminate, perhaps, in paralysis--perhaps death!"
"To what, Doctor," inquired the Clergyman, "do you attribute the mental
pleasures of intoxication? Can this be explained upon physiological
principles?"
"Easily, I think," answered the Doctor. "All inebriating agents have a
two-fold action--as I have already pointed out--first, on the
circulation; and secondly, on the nervous system. There can be no doubt
that the mind becomes endowed with increased energy when the circulation
through the brain is moderately quickened. This has been proved by
observation. The case has been reported of a person who having lost by
disease a part of the skull and its investments, a corresponding portion
of brain was open to inspection. In a state of dreamless sleep the brain
lay motionless within the skull; but when dreams occurred, as reported
by the patient, then the quantity of blood was observed to flow with
increased rapidity, causing the brain to move and protrude out of the
skull. When perfectly awake, and engaged in active thought, then the
blood again was sent with increased force to the brain, and the
protrusion was still greater. Under all circumstances, increased
circulation through the brain gives rise to mental excitement, and
sometimes to an unusual lucidity of ideas. It is observed in the early
stages of fever, and even in the dying--and this accounts for the
clearing up of the mind which sometimes occurs in the last moments of
life--what is called familiarly 'the lightening before death.'"
"That," observed the Clergyman, "is a very curious circumstance, which I
firmly believe; and you account for this, if I understand your meaning,
by explaining that the blood which no longer circulates in the
extremities, which may have become cold, flows with increased impetus
through the brain."
"Exactly so," replied the Doctor; "and upon this very principle, the
rapidity of ideas, and the pleasurable mental excitement attending that
temporary state of intellectual exaltation, depends on the increased
rapidity of the flow of blood through the brain; but when this becomes
carried to too great an extent, and the rapidity of the current disturbs
the healthy condition of the brain, then the manifestations of the mind
necessarily become impaired, the ideas are no longer under the control
of the reasoning faculty, and the bodily organs, usually under the
dominion of the will, no longer obey its mandates. This I believe to be
the true theory of mental intoxication."
"But there are many circumstances," observed the host, "which may
accelerate or retard this excitement."
"Certainly," continued the Doctor; "persons who join the social board
already elated with some good news, or cause of unusual happiness;
persons who talk much, and excite themselves in argument, are apt to
become affected more speedily than those who hold themselves in the
midst of the convivial scene sedate and taciturn. The mind, in fact, may
exercise a considerable power of resistance against inebriation; for
which reason, persons in the society of their superiors, under
circumstances which render it necessary they should maintain the
appearance of being always well conducted, drink with impunity more than
they otherwise could, if they did not impose upon themselves this
consciousness of self-government. We also observe the influence of the
mind, in controlling, and, indeed, putting an end to a fit of
intoxication, by making, doubtless, an impression on the heart and
causation, when a sense of danger, or a piece of good or bad news,
suddenly communicated, sobers a person on a sudden."
"I have heard," observed the merry-faced guest, "that moving
about--changing from one seat into another--will check the effects of
liquor; and I have known persons who have left a social party perfectly
sober, become suddenly tipsy in the open air. How is this to be
explained?"
"Precisely on the same principle," answered the Doctor, "upon leaving an
overheated room, on your returning homewards, you expose yourself to an
atmosphere many degrees below that you have just left. The cold checks
the circulation on the surface of the body; the blood is driven inwards;
it accumulates, consequently, in the internal organs; and sometimes its
pressure is such on the brain, as to produce on a sudden the very last
stage of intoxication. The limbs refuse to support their burthen, and
the person falls down in a state of profound insensibility."
"I have recently," said the host, "read in the Police Reports several
cases of this description; and imagined that some narcotic drug must
have been mixed with the liquor drank by such persons. Adulterations of
some sort must go on to a frightful extent in gin-palaces."
"Not by any means," answered the Doctor, "to the extent you suppose. It
is said that the spirit dealer makes his whisky or gin bead by adding a
little turpentine to it. Well! what then? Turpentine is a very healthy
diuretic. It is given to infants to kill worms in very large doses.
Then, again, vitriol is spoken of; but so strong is sulphuric acid, that
it would clearly render these spirits quite unpalatable. I do not affirm
that the art of adulteration may not occasionally be had recourse to,
even with criminal intentions, for such cases have been brought under
the notice of the authorities; but I do not believe the practice is so
general as some persons suppose. I apprehend dilution is a more general
means of fraud."
"It has often occurred to me," said the Clergyman, "that our municipal
regulations ought, on this subject, be much improved. Our Excise
officers enter the cellars of the wholesale and retail spirit-dealers,
only to gauge the strength of the spirit, and to ascertain how much it
may be overproof, which alone regulates the Government duty; but for the
sake of the public health I would go further than this. If a butcher be
found selling unhealthy meat; a fishmonger, bad fish; or a baker cheat
in the weight of bread, they severally have their goods confiscated, and
are fined; and so far the public is protected. But the authorities seem
not to care what description of poison is sold across the counter of
gin-palaces--an evil which may easily be remedied. I would put the
licensed victualler on the same level with the butcher and fishmonger:
and if he were found selling adulterated spirits, and the charge were
proved against him by the same having been fairly analyzed, he, too,
should be liable to be fined, or even lose his license. The public
health is, upon this point, at present, utterly unprotected."
"Some such measure," observed the host, "might be advantageously
adopted; but I confess that I do not advocate the prohibition principle;
instead of preaching a Crusade against the use of any particular
article, whether of necessity or comfort, let us educate the people, and
improve their social condition by inculcating sound moral principles;
they will soon learn that habits of industry and temperance can alone
insure them and their children happiness and prosperity; and in so doing
you will teach a sound, practical permanent lesson."
"But," interrupted the Clergyman, "if we continue the conversation
longer, we shall ourselves become transgressors; the 'stirrup-cup' is
drained; much remains doubtless to be said respecting the evils,
physical and moral, which arise from intemperance; but let us now
adjourn."
"With all my heart!" exclaimed the host, "and now, 'to all and each, a
fair good night.'"
From "Rambles beyond Railways;" by W. Wilkie Collins, author of
"Antonina."
MINING UNDER THE SEA.
In complete mining equipment, with candles stuck by lumps of clay to
their felt hats, the travellers have painfully descended by
perpendicular ladders and along dripping-wet rock passages, fathoms down
into pitchy darkness; the miner who guides them calls a halt.
We are now four hundred yards out under the bottom of the sea, and
twenty fathoms or a hundred and twenty feet below the sea level.
Coast-trade vessels are sailing over our heads. Two hundred and forty
feet beneath us men are at work; and there are galleries deeper yet even
below that. The extraordinary position down the face of the cliff, of
the engines and other works on the surface at Botallack, is now
explained. The mine is not excavated like other mines under the land,
but under the sea.
Having communicated these particulars, the miner next tells us to keep
strict silence and listen. We obey him, sitting speechless and
motionless. If the reader could only have beheld us now, dressed in our
copper-colored garments, huddled close together in a mere cleft of
subterranean rock, with flame burning on our heads and darkness
enveloping our limbs, he must certainly have imagined, without any
violent stretch of fancy, that he was looking down upon a conclave of
gnomes.
After listening for a few moments, a distant unearthly noise becomes
faintly audible,--a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never changes,
that is felt on the ear as well as heard by it; a sound that might
proceed from some incalculable distance, from some far invisible height;
a sound unlike any thing that is heard on the upper ground in the free
air of heaven; a sound so sublimely mournful and still, so ghostly and
impressive when listened to in the subterranean recesses of the earth,
that we continue instinctively to hold our peace, as if enchanted by it,
and think not of communicating to each other the strange awe and
astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the very first.
At last the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the
sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us,
and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is now
at the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation: so
the sound is low and distant just at this period. But when storms are at
their height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water on
the cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down here in
the mine is so inexpressibly fierce and awful that the boldest men at
work are afraid to continue their labor; all ascend to the surface to
breathe the upper air and stand on the firm earth; dreading, though no
such catastrophe has ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on
them if they remain in the caverns below.
Hearing this, we get up to look at the rock above us. We are able to
stand upright in the position we now occupy; and, flaring our candles
hither and thither in the darkness, can see the bright pure copper
streaking the dark ceiling of the gallery in every direction. Lumps of
ooze, of the most lustrous green color, traversed by a natural network
of thin red veins of iron, appear here and there in large irregular
patches, over which water is dripping slowly and incessantly in certain
places. This is the salt water percolating through invisible crannies in
the rock. On stormy days it spirts out furiously in thin continuous
streams. Just over our heads we observe a wooden plug of the thickness
of a man's leg; there is a hole here, and the plug is all that we have
to keep out the sea.
Immense wealth of metal is contained in the roof of this gallery,
throughout its whole length; but it remains, and will always remain,
untouched: the miners dare not take it, for it is part, and a great
part, of the rock which forms their only protection against the sea, and
which has been so far worked away here that its thickness is limited to
an average of three feet only between the water and the gallery in which
we now stand. No one knows what might be the consequence of another
day's labor with the pick-axe on any part of it. This information is
rather startling when communicated at the depth of four hundred and
twenty feet under ground. We should decidedly have preferred to receive
it in the counting-house. It makes us pause for an instant, to the
miner's infinite amusement, in the very act of knocking away about an
inch of ore from the rock, as a memento of Botallack. Having, however,
ventured, on reflection, to assume the responsibility of weakening our
defence against the sea by the length and breadth of an inch, we secure
our piece of copper, and next proceed to discuss the propriety of
descending two hundred and forty feet more of ladders, for the sake of
visiting that part of the mine where the men are at work.
Two or three causes concur to make us doubt the wisdom of going lower.
There is a hot, moist, sickly vapor, floating about as, which becomes
more oppressive every moment; we are already perspiring at every pore,
as we were told we should, and our hands, faces, jackets, and trousers,
are all more or less covered with a mixture of mud, tallow, and
iron-drippings, which we can feel and smell much more acutely than is
exactly desirable. We ask the miner what there is to see lower down. He
replies, nothing but men breaking ore with pickaxes: the galleries of
the mine are alike, however deep they may go; when you have seen one,
you have seen all.
The answer decides us: we determine to get back to the surface.
From Tait's Magazine.
THE COSTUME OF THE FUTURE.
Our business is with male attire, and it would be ungallant to
introduce, merely in a parenthesis, the subject of ladies' dress, or we
might pause to congratulate them and ourselves upon the very reasonable
and natural costume which they have enjoyed for some time. The portraits
of the present day are not disfigured by the towering head-gear, the
long waists and hoops against which Reynolds had to contend, nor by the
greater variety of hideous fashions, including the no-waist, the tight
clinging skirt, the enormous bows of hair, and the balloon or
leg-of-mutton sleeves, which at various periods interfered with the
highest efforts of Lawrence. The present dress differs slightly from
that of the best ages; and Vandyke or Lely, if summoned to paint the
fair ladies of the Court of Queen Victoria, would find little they could
wish to alter in the arrangement of their costume. But what would they
say to the gentlemen?
They would miss the rich materials, the variety of color and of make,
and the flowing outlines to which they were accustomed, and would find,
instead of them every body going about in a plain, uniform,
close-fitting garb, admitting of no variety of color or make, and not
presenting a single line or contour upon which they could look with
pleasure. They might not be much gratified by learning the superior
economy of modern fashions: they might say that, putting rich materials
and delicate hues aside, it is possible to contrive a picturesque dress
out of the most simple fabrics. Beauty and expense are by no means of
necessity associated in dress. When Oliver Goldsmith, after spending
more than would pay a modern gentleman's tailor's bill for a couple of
years, upon a single coat of cherry-colored velvet, had the misfortune
to stain it in a conspicuous place, he was obliged to go on wearing it,
and always to hold his hat (in this instance of some use) before the
fatal grease-spot. He could not afford to have another new coat, and yet
this expensive and unfortunate piece of finery was every bit as ugly, if
not more so, than the plain black or invisible-green cloth coat of this
age. The long shoes, pointed toes, and other grotesque fashions of the
middle ages, must all of them have been expensive; and it was by
inefficient sumptuary laws that it was attempted to put them down. The
draperies which we admire on an Etruscan vase were of the coarsest
woollen: and the possession of silken stuffs in abundance has not tended
to make the Chinese national dress better than what we know it to be.
Of coats, the frock is better than the evening or dress-coat. It fulfils
the purpose of a garment more completely, and when buttoned up is
capable of protecting the chest. The triangular opening in front of the
coat and waistcoat is, however, an absurdity. It leaves unprotected from
cold and wet the very part which most requires protection. Pictorially,
the regularly-defined patch of white seen through it is always
offensive; but its whiteness has one merit, if it really be white. The
exposure of part of the linen worn under the tailor's portion of the
man's dress makes attention to its condition necessary; and perhaps has
contributed to the greater personal cleanliness which obtains among a
coat-wearing than among a blouse-wearing population. Cleanliness is very
truly reputed to be next to godliness, and it may be worth while making
some sacrifice of convenience and taste for the sake of it: it belongs
to morals rather than to aesthetics, and should accordingly take
precedence of any thing appertaining only to the latter.
The tail or dress coat is evidently derived from the frock, or from
something like the frock, by turning back the skirts. Remains of this
process may be seen in the buttons which, without serving any useful
purpose, still continue to decorate the coat-tails in many military
uniforms, and in servants' liveries, and in those which, without being
so remarkable, still adhere to the tails of an ordinary dress-coat. This
arrangement may be noticed very distinctly in the well-known portraits
of Charles XII. of Sweden, in which the white livery is seen buttoned
back upon the blue cloth which forms the outer side of the coat skirts.
The tail-coat is certainly the worst of the two, whether for utility or
for appearance; and so thought George IV., whose opinion, however, in
matters of taste, was not in general good for much. This king, in his
latter days, carried his aversion to it so far as to banish it entirely
from his back, and from his presence for a time, during which he, and
the persons immediately about him, wore a kind of frock coat in evening
dress. But the public did not follow the royal lead, and the
swallow-tails still flutter behind the wearer of an evening coat.
Waistcoats do not call for much reprobation, except in the matter of the
already-mentioned white triangle, in which they err in company with the
coats. But a good long waistcoat, buttoned up to the throat, is a very
useful and unexceptionable piece of attire. A few years ago, people wore
them of all kinds of color, and of all kinds of stuffs, silks, and
velvet; now, however, black is your only wear, with perhaps an
occasional license to assume the white waistcoat, which was once
associated with that exceedingly frivolous and now evanescent party who
were called 'Young England.'
Trousers are so sensible and convenient a portion of attire that little
can be said against them. It is a form of covering for the legs well
fitted for the inhabitants of a cold and variable climate, and hardly
differs from what may be seen on the figures of the Gauls on Trajan's
Column, and other monuments of antiquity. In practical convenience, they
far surpass their shorter rivals, which also require continuation by
stockings to complete the purpose of clothing the leg. Buttons at the
knee are a great nuisance, and probably were what chiefly contributed to
the melancholy determination of a certain gentleman in the last century,
who found his existence insupportable, and put an end to it with his own
hand. Life, he said, was made up of nothing but buttoning and
unbuttoning; and so he shot himself one morning in his dressing-gown and
slippers, before the intolerable burden of the day commenced.
Trousers are great levellers. The legs of Achilles and of Thersites
would share the same fate in them, and both would in modern London be as
well entitled to the epithet of "well-trousered," as the former alone
was to that of 'well-greaved' before Troy. Probably the majority of
mankind are but too well content with this result, as there are few who
could emulate Mr. Cruikshanks in James Smith's song of names, who
"----stepped into ten thousand a year
By showing his leg to an heiress;"
and the trouser is therefore likely to be a permanent article in the
wardrobe, so that its continued existence must be taken as a datum or
postulate in any discussion upon vestimentary reform. This, it must be
allowed, makes any reform to a very picturesque costume out of the
question; for not only is the loose trouser itself hostile to the fit
display of the lower limbs, but it interferes with the use of any such
dress as the military habit of the Romans, or the Highland kilt, or the
short tunic with which we are familiar on the stage in costumed plays,
where no particular accuracy as to place or time is affected. The effect
of the combination may often be noticed in the dress of little boys, who
may be seen wearing trousers under such a tunic, reaching to the knee or
a little above it. The horizontal line which terminates the lower part
of the kilt is seen in immediate contrast with, and at right angles to
the almost perpendicular lines of the trousers, which produces a most
disagreeable appearance; although it is well adapted, by the contrast of
a straight line with the graceful curves of the legs, to set them off to
advantage when uncovered.
Flowing robes after the classical or eastern fashion are of course not
to be thought of. They would be mightily out of place in railroad
carriages, or in omnibuses, or in walking the streets on muddy days.
Modern habits of activity and personal independence require the dress to
be tolerably succinct and unvoluminous; but some change in the right
direction has been lately made by the introduction of what are called
paletots, and other coats of various transitional forms between them and
the shooting-jacket proper. In these a good deal of the stiffness and
angularity of the regulation frock coat is got rid of, and they admit of
adaptation to different statures and sizes. They have much comfort and
convenience to recommend them, and it would be a great point gained if
they were altogether adopted, and the frock-coat, which still asserts a
claim to be considered more correct, were quietly given up.
It may be matter only of custom and association, or it may also depend
upon some deeper considerations, but the result of much observation is,
that with the ordinary out-of-door costume of the present day, as worn
in cities, nothing goes so well as the black hat. There is an ugliness
and a stiffness about it which is congruous with the ugliness and
stiffness of every thing else. Its very height and straight sides tend
to carry the eye upwards, in conformity with the indication of the
principal lines in the lower part of the dress. It is like a steeple
upon a Gothic tower, and repeats the perpendicular tendencies of what is
below it, instead of contradicting them by the introduction of a
horizontal element. Certainly, no kind of cap goes well with it: the
traveller who has not unpacked his hat, and continues to wear in the
streets what served him on the road, or the Turk, European in all but
his red fez, cut but a sorry and mongrel figure among the shining
beavers around them, which retain their place as necessary evils under
the existing order of things.
Once, however, escape from the town, and see how every one gets rid of
his regular coat, and of his chimney-pot. The man of business in his
rural retreat, the lawyer in vacation, the lounger at the sea-side, have
all discarded them. Emancipation from the coat and hat is synonymous
with leisure, enjoyment, and freedom from the formal trammels of public
and civic life. The most staid and reverend personages may now be seen
disporting themselves in divers jackets, and in that Wide-awake which a
few years since was confined to the sportsman or his slang imitator.
Surely this universal consent of mankind must be accepted as an omen of
the future; and when the looser and more sensible garments now worn in
the country, shall be established as the usual dress of the towns also,
they will be accompanied by the soft and wide-leaved hat of felt, which
already goes along with them wherever they are tolerated.
From the Athenaeum.
LIFE IN PERSIA, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
Prince Alexis Soltykoff, a Russian, who published in Paris last year his
_Travels in India_, has just given to the world from the same city a
volume of _Novels in Persia_. In both works we find the same charm of
simplicity in the narrative, the same truth and spirit in the drawings,
and, we may add, what some people would call the same deficiencies--that
is to say, the same absence of got-up learning and bookmaking art. There
are no historical, geological, or philological treatises pressed into
their pages, no statistical calculations, not one quotation from other
people's books, not a single word about Darius, Sapor, or Khosroes!
Prince Soltykoff has not followed the too commonly adopted recipe for
writing a book of travels. He has not on his return home read every body
else's book on the same subject,--and then condensed his readings into
one volume, bristling with erudition and stuck full of learned notes
which, ten to one, are either not read at all or read in the wrong
place. As to notes--there are not two to each volume. Satisfied with
having said nothing that is not true, and with having related nothing
that he has not seen, he feels no misgivings or regret at leaving much
unsaid. Of all the information which can be acquired without leaving
one's fireside in London or St. Petersburg he gives not a word, but the
valuable testimony of the eyewitness he records in a series of drawings
in which Eastern life is 'taken in the fact' with a truth and liveliness
of touch rarely found in an amateur pencil. The letter-press is a
secondary part of the work,--merely to render the drawings intelligible;
and we are convinced that if the author could have imagined a more
unpretending title for his book than the one given, he would have
selected it. Indeed, the word _book_ is scarcely an appropriate one to
use on this occasion; and we may compare the pleasure which we have
derived in perusing Prince Soltykoff's travels both in Persia and in
India to that afforded by the inspection of the album of an intelligent
traveller who should enliven the exhibition by his agreeable and
instructive conversation.
The travels in India took place between the years 1841 and 1846, while
those in Persia were accomplished as far back as 1838. We are not told
why the publication has been so long delayed, and can account for it
only by supposing that the fashion which has lately brought before the
public in the capacity of authors so many subjects of the Czar, was not
in 1838 so prevalent at St. Petersburg. Be that as it may, a picture of
the Eastern world in its immobility can brave a lapse of time which
would prove fatal to the likeness of any portraiture of European
society. The following sketch, for instance, is likely to be as true
now, as when it was written:--
"After three months' stay at Teheran, I was heartily tired of it and of
Persia altogether. The manner of living is fearfully monotonous. A
stranger, debarred from female society, and deprived of all the
diversions of European cities, can scarcely find employment for his day.
I had hired for six _toumans_ a month (the touman is worth about ten
shillings) one of the prettiest houses of the town in the quarter named
Gazbine-Dervaze. The air, it is true, circulated as freely through it as
in the open street, but the climate is so mild and the weather was so
fine that this could scarcely be considered an objection. The house
consisted of two stories of several rooms with two terraces to each.
Those of the upper story overlooked the town, which, in spite of its
dulness, had a certain air of activity. Two rows of windows--the lower
closed with wooden shutters and the upper one formed of colored
glass,--gave light to the principal room, of which the walls were white
as snow. I took advantage of two niches to place therein two complete
Persian armors which I had procured with inconceivable trouble, for no
one can imagine the numberless and tedious difficulties which impede
every kind of transaction. For the most trifling purchase one hundred
toumans are spoken of as a hundred roubles in Russia. Besides,
punctuality is a virtue unknown in Persia, and this alone would suffice
to make the country odious to foreigners. If you charge a tradesman with
want of faith, he replies gravely that 'his nose has burned with
regret'--a strange expression of repentance certainly! Indeed, the habit
of falsehood is so inveterate among Persians of this class--and I may
even say of all classes--that when they happen by chance to keep their
word they never fail to claim a reward as though they had performed a
most rare and meritorious act. Having examined all the rare but rather
heterogeneous articles which compose the royal treasury, we went to see
the king's second son (the eldest was at Tauris), to whom Count
Simonitsch had to pay a farewell visit. We found the little prince in
the audience chamber, seated on the floor on a cachmere, and propped by
several large bolsters covered with pink muslin. He was a delicate
sickly child of four or five years old, with an unmeaning countenance, a
pale face, insignificant and rather flattened features, and red hair,
or rather, I should say, with his hair dyed of a deep red. He was
dressed in a shawl caftan lined with fur, and wore on his little
black cap a diamond aigrette. We sat down in front of him on the
carpet;--Mirza-Massoud, the minister for foreign affairs, and two or
three other dignitaries who were present at the interview, remained
standing. _Demahi schouma tschogh est?_ that is to say, 'Is your nose
very fat?' inquired Count Simonitsch. This extraordinary form of speech
universally used by well-bred persons in Persia, seems to indicate that
they ascribe considerable hygienic importance to that feature. All my
researches to discover the origin and symbolical meaning of this
courtesy have proved in vain; I have never obtained a satisfactory
explanation to my questions on this head: all I can say is, that the
hackneyed forms of salutation in use among European nations have since
seemed to me far less absurd than they formerly did."
We have no doubt that even should Prince Keikhobade-Mirza have departed
this life, another original might be found for the following picture of
a Persian prince in reduced circumstances:
"On my return home I found an Armenian merchant waiting for me who
seemed somewhat less of a rogue than his brethren. He had brought me a
_Sipehr_ (shield) in delicately wrought steel, ornamented with
inscriptions and arabesques, inlaid in gold; it belonged, he said, to
Prince Mohammed-Veli-Mirza, and he demanded a sum of thirty-six toumans
(about eighteen pounds), which I gave without hesitation. It was not
dear at that price. This Mohammed-Veli-Mirza, one of the numerous sons
of the late Fet-Ali-Schah, had been, if I mistake not, governor of
Schiraz. His reputation, as well as that of his brother
Keikhobade-Mirza, (indeed, I might say of all his brothers), was so well
established in the country, that the Armenian begged I would not
consider the bargain as concluded until he had paid the money into the
prince's hands, lest he should wish to recede from his word. You know,
he said, that these _Schahzades_ have no scruples in these
matters,--that they are all _tamamkharab_, that is to say, bad
characters--_kharab_, meaning a thing that is bad--decayed, dilapidated.
Fortunately the fears of the prudent Armenian were not realized; for a
wonder, Mohammed-Veli-Mirza was contented with the sum he had first
asked, and the _Sipehr_ was added to my collection. A few days later I
received a deputation from Prince Keikhobade-Mirza, offering me a
similar shield as a present. In the first impulse of my gratitude I
hastened to present my thanks to the generous donor. His house was the
abode of poverty; his appearance was noble and dignified, and his
countenance very handsome, although he squinted. The portrait of his
royal father, the late Fet-Ali-Schah, hung in the room, and I was
struck with the resemblance between father and son. The full-length
portrait of my gracious host was there also--in the full dress of a
prince of the blood holding a shield. Keikhobade-Mirza, whose gracious
and cordial reception touched me the more on account of the evident
poverty of his household, pointed to this latter portrait,--saying that
in his father's lifetime he was, as I could see, his _selictar_, or
royal shield-bearer, and enjoyed a brilliant station, but that now he
was fallen; adding that he had sent me the shield which he had
inherited--the same which I saw represented in the picture--knowing that
I had been looking out for curious arms at the bazaar. I was profuse in
my expressions of gratitude, although thanks in Persia denote a man of
mean station, and though my Persian servant, who had accompanied me, was
making signs to me to stop. 'It is a mere trifle,' said the Prince, 'and
I hope to find some other articles more worthy your acceptance, for my
only desire is to be agreeable to you.' The morrow brought me his
_Nazir_, or steward, to ask for three hundred _toumans_ (150_l._); and
as I seemed in no hurry to give them, he sent for his shield back again.
Some time afterwards, he came to see me, and asked why I had returned
it. 'You sent for it by your nazir,' I said. 'My nazir,' he replied,
(although the man was present and looking on with an ambiguous smile,)
'is a rogue and a storyteller; give me a hundred toumans and I will let
you have the shield, which indeed is yours. I begged you to accept it as
well as every thing else I may possess.' And so the matter ended."
The foregoing picture of Oriental munificence can scarcely be more
disenchanting than the sight of the sketch of Mohammed-Schah which
Prince Soltykoff had the honor to take. The large head, the heavy
inexpressive features, the clumsy frame, are sad dream dispellers; and
were it not for the redeeming Persian cap, the "Centre of the World"
might be mistaken for a grocer of the Rue St. Denis in a shawl
dressing-gown. On grand occasions the appearance of the Schah must be
still more incongruous, if we are to believe the description which the
author gives of the state dress preserved in the royal treasury. One can
scarcely fancy a gouty Centre of the World attired in a European uniform
of _blue cloth_, with the facings embroidered in diamonds, ruby buttons,
and epaulets formed of immense emeralds, to which are attached fringes
of large pearls. We translate a description of a last sitting, and of
the exchange of courtesies between the royal model and the amateur
artist; it may serve to reconcile some of our readers to the rather
monotonous form in which royal munificence is usually displayed in
European courts. When compared to a lame horse, a gold snuff-box
appears--if not an ingenious--at least a convenient present:
"On the 31st of January I went for the last time to the Palace to take
leave of the Schah, and make another portrait of him.... He proposed at
first to sit for his profile, but as I objected on the score of its
being less interesting:--'Well, well, he said, 'as you wish; you
understand the thing better than I do.' He then resumed his conversation
with the courtiers, who were ranged in a row at the other end of the
room,--sounding my praises in Turkish in the most exaggerated terms,
according to the rules of Persian politeness, and remarking among other
things how difficult it was to catch an exact likeness so
quickly--doubtless to set me at my ease, for he saw I was hurrying in my
task. To all these remarks the courtiers merely replied: '_Beli_,
_beli_, yes, yes,' in a monotonous and inexpressive tone. The Schah
seemed much surprised to learn that I was to leave Teheran the following
day. He inquired what motive induced me to leave Persia so soon. I
replied, that I was eager to join my family and friends, to inform them
of the favors I had received at the hands of His Majesty. For these
latter words the interpreter substituted the words 'Centre of the
World.' I added, that I intended returning to Teheran with my brother in
the course of the following year, at which the Prince of course appeared
delighted--'Return soon,' he said, 'you will always be welcome at my
court.' Then turning to Mirza-Massoud, his Minister for Foreign Affairs,
who had accompanied me:--I have known many Franks,' he remarked, 'but
none who pleased me as much as this one.' This phrase, it must be said,
loses somewhat of its effect when it is known that the good Prince never
failed to address it to every stranger who presented himself. He next
inquired of the Minister for Foreign Affairs if the presents he intended
for me were ready, and particularly recommended that they should not be
worth less than three hundred toumans. I then took leave of His Majesty,
backing out of the room as well as I could, while he continued to bestow
on me his smiles and gracious words. The next day, on my way to the
Russian Embassy, I met four of the King's servants, slowly leading in
great ceremony a tall, lame, bay horse. Before they accosted me to tell
me so, I had guessed that it was intended for me. I had not had time to
take on a fitting air for the occasion before my groom, who was walking
beside my horse, began to abuse the Schah's people in most lively terms,
refusing to admit such a sorry jade into my stables. In spite of my
opposition to so rude an action, and my exclamations in bad Turkish, the
Persians returned to the Palace stables, where they chose another horse,
which they brought me direct to the Embassy. My groom was not more
inclined to receive it than the first, nor to listen to my
remonstrances, and those of a dragoman of the Embassy, whose aid I had
invoked in order to declare that I accepted the royal gift with due
respect. All was useless; the quarrel proceeded,--my squire insisting on
performing his duty in spite of myself, and only interrupting himself to
make me understand that he was acting in my interest. The Schah's
servants at last, reduced to silence by the observations of so zealous a
follower, departed once more with their horse to submit the affair to
the Prime Minister, who was to decide in his wisdom whether the animal
was or was not worthy of being offered to me. A mixture of cleverness
and cunning, with an almost childish naivete, seemed to me a striking
feature in the Persian character. Hadji-Mirza-Agassi pronounced the
steed to be to a certain degree valuable, and requested me to excuse
it,--for the present a better could not be offered,--adding, that on my
return I should receive a magnificent one."
Prince Soltykoff's remarks generally relate more to the habits and
indications of character observable among those whom he visits than to
any material objects or physical sensations. The notions entertained of
politeness in Persia seem especially to have struck him, as our readers
may have seen by the extracts which we have given. We will give one more
illustrating the same subject. It has often been said that a knowledge
of foreign countries is apt to make us better satisfied with our own,
and we have shown how an experience of Oriental gifts may restore the
oft-derided snuff-box to honor. Who knows whether even saucy children
may not in future be more patiently endured by our readers after the
following anecdote. For our own part, we know of no "dear little pickle"
whom we would not prefer to this very well-behaved Persian boy:
"Three days afterwards I was at Gazbine, installed in the house of a
certain Scherif-Khan, and received in his absence by his four sons, who
were all dressed alike, and the eldest of whom was barely eleven. In the
midst of the ruins of the town--all Persian towns indeed are mere
abominable ruins of mud walls--I considered myself fortunate in
obtaining a room and a fire-place. One of the walls of the apartment to
which I was conducted consisted of small bits of colored glass,
checkered at regular intervals with small squares of wood, for glass is
both rare and expensive in Persia. As, however, the greater part of the
colored glass was broken, and the wind came rushing through the holes
and crevices, I was half frozen and nearly stifled with smoke, until an
end was put to my sufferings by stopping the holes and nailing some felt
on the doors. The children of the house came, under the guidance of a
sort of servant who filled the office of tutor, to pay me a visit, and
seated themselves on the floor. The second, who was about ten, and who
by right of his mother's superior rank was to inherit all the paternal
titles and wealth, inquired after my health; and on my asking him in my
turn how he felt, replied with a very stiff little air, 'that in my
presence every body must feel satisfied.' I then offered him some cakes,
requesting to know if they were to his liking.--'All you offer is very
good,' he said, 'and all you eat must be excellent.' I had a cap on my
head, and another lay on the table; I questioned him on the value which
he attached to the two articles, and asked which he preferred. 'Both are
superb,' he replied, 'but the one you prefer is undoubtedly the best.'
After this piquant specimen of the civility of the country, it may be
supposed that I was not sorry to end the conference, and to get rid of
such an excessively well bred child. I took care, however, to send a cup
of tea to his mother, who, the tutor informed me, was young and pretty,
and lived in the house with three other wives of Scherif-Khan. She found
it so much to her liking that she sent to beg for a pound of it."
One word more: Oehlenschlaeger used to complain that when he wrote in
Danish he wrote for two hundred readers; Russians are very much in the
same case, and Prince Soltykoff, like all his countrymen who desire to
have a public, has been obliged to have recourse to a foreign language.
But the misfortune is so easily and gracefully borne, that we can
scarcely find pity for it. The drawings are well lithographed by French
artists. Our neighbors are much fonder of lithographic illustrations
than we are, and, it must be admitted, excel us in that branch of art.
We have noticed especially the lithographs executed by M. Trayer, a
young artist, who is also a painter of promise.
From Leigh Hunt's Journal.
DUELLING TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO.
SIR THOMAS DUTTON AND SIR HATTON CHEEK.
BY THOMAS CARLYLE.
Peace here, if possible; skins were not made for mere slitting and
slashing! You that are for war, cannot you go abroad, and fight the
Papist Spaniards? Over in the Netherlands there is always fighting
enough. You that are of ruffling humor, gather your truculent ruffians
together; make yourselves colonels over them; go to the Netherlands, and
fight your bellyful!
Which accordingly many do, earning deathless war-laurels for the moment;
and have done, and will continue doing, in those generations. Our
gallant Veres, Earl of Oxford and the others, it has long been their
way; gallant Cecil, to be called Earl of Wimbledon; gallant Sir John
Burroughs, gallant Sir Hatton Cheek,--it is still their way. Deathless
military renowns are gathered there in this manner; deathless for the
moment. Did not Ben Jonson, in his young hard days, bear arms very
manfully as a private soldado there? Ben, who now writes learned plays
and court-masks as Poet Laureate, served manfully with pike and sword
there, for his groat a day with rations. And once when a Spanish soldier
came strutting forward between the lines, flourishing his weapon, and
defying all persons in general--Ben stept forth, as I hear; fenced that
braggart Spaniard, since no other would do it; and ended by soon
slitting him in two, and so silencing him! Ben's war-tuck, to judge by
the flourish of his pen, must have had a very dangerous stroke in it.
"Swashbuckler age," we said; but the expression was incorrect, except as
a figure. Bucklers went out fifty years ago, "about the twentieth of
Queen Elizabeth"; men do not now swash with them, or fight in that way.
Iron armor has mostly gone out, except in mere pictures of soldiers;
King James said, It was an excellent invention; you could get no harm,
and neither could you do any in it. Bucklers, either for horse or foot,
are quite gone. Yet old Mr. Stowe, good chronicler, can recollect when
every gentleman had his buckler; and at length every serving man and
city dandy. Smithfield--still a waste field, full of puddles in wet
weather,--was in those days full of buckler duels, every Sunday and
holiday in the dry season; and was called Ruffian's Rig, or some such
name.
A man, in those days, bought his buckler, of gilt leather and wood, at
the haberdasher's; "hung it over his back, by a strap fastened to the
pommel of his sword in front." Elegant men showed what taste, or sense
of poetic beauty, was in them by the fashion of their buckler. With
Spanish beaver, with starched ruff, and elegant Spanish cloak, with
elegant buckler hanging at his back, a man, if his moustachios and boots
were in good order, stepped forth with some satisfaction. Full of
strange oaths, and bearded like the pard; a decidedly truculent-looking
figure. Jostle him in the street thoroughfares, accidentally splash his
boots as you pass--by heaven the buckler gets upon his arm, the sword
flashes in his fist, with oaths enough; and you too being ready, there
is a noise! Clink, clank, death and fury; all persons gathering round,
and new quarrels springing from this one! And Dogberry comes up with the
town guard? And the shopkeepers hastily close their shops? Nay, it is
hardly necessary, says Mr. Howe; these buckler fights amount only to
noise, for most part; the jingle of iron against tin and painted
leather. Ruffling swashers strutting along with big oaths and whiskers,
delight to pick a quarrel; but the rule is you do not thrust, you do not
strike below the waist; and it was oftenest a dry duel--mere noise, as
of working tinsmiths, with profane swearing! Empty vaporing bullyrooks
and braggarts, they encumber the thoroughfares mainly. Dogberry and
Verges ought to apprehend them. I have seen, in Smithfield, on a dry
holiday, "thirty of them on a side," fighting and hammering as if for
life; and was not at the pains to look at them, the blockheads; their
noise as the mere beating of old kettles to me!
The truth is, serving-men themselves, and city apprentices had got
reckless, and the duels, no death following, ceased to be sublime. About
fifty years ago, serious men took to fighting with rapiers, and the
buckler fell away. Holles, in Sherwood, as we saw, fought with rapier,
and he soon spoiled Markham. Rapier and dagger especially; that is a
more silent duel, but a terribly serious one! Perhaps the reader will
like to take a view of one such serious duel in those days, and
therewith close this desultory chapter.
It was at the siege of Juliers, in the Netherlands wars, of the year
1609; we give the date, for wars are perpetual, or nearly so, in the
Netherlands. At one of the storm parties of the siege of Juliers, the
gallant Sir Hatton Cheek, above alluded to, a superior officer of the
English force which fights there under my Lord Cecil, that shall be
Wimbledon; the gallant Sir Hatton, I say, being of hot temper, superior
officer, and the service a storm-party on some bastion or demilune,
speaks sharp word of command to Sir Thomas Dutton, who also is probably
of hot temper in this hot moment. Sharp word of command to Dutton; and
the movement not proceeding rightly, sharp word of rebuke. To which
Dutton, with kindled voice, answers something sharp; is answered still
more sharply with voice high flaming;--whereat Dutton suddenly holds in;
says merely, "He is under military duty here, but perhaps will not
always be so;" and rushing forward, does his order silently, the best he
can. His order done, Dutton straightway lays down his commission; packs
up, that night, and returns to England.
Sir Hatton Cheek prosecutes his work at the siege of Juliers; gallantly
assists at the taking of Juliers, triumphant over all the bastions, and
half-moons there; but hears withal that Dutton is at home in England,
defaming him as a choleric tyrant and so forth. Dreadful news, which
brings some biliary attack on the gallant man, and reduces him to a bed
of sickness. Hardly recovered, he dispatches message to Dutton, That he
shall request to have the pleasure of his company, with arms and seconds
ready, on some neutral ground,--Calais sands for instance,--at an early
day, if convenient. Convenient; yes, as dinner to the hungry! answers
Dutton; and time, place, and circumstances are rapidly enough agreed
upon.
And so, on Calais sands, on a winter morning of the year 1609, this is
what we see most authentically, through the lapse of dim Time. Two
gentlemen stript to the shirt and waistband; in two hands of each a
rapier and dagger clutched; their looks sufficiently serious! The
seconds, having stript, equipt, and fairly overhauled and certified
them, are just about retiring from the measured fate-circle, not without
indignation that _they_ are forbidden to fight. Two gentlemen in this
alarming posture; of whom the Universe knows, has known, and will know
nothing, except that they were of choleric humor, and assisted in the
Netherlands wars! They are evidently English human creatures, in the
height of silent fury and measured circuit of fate; whom we here audibly
name once more, Sir Hatton Cheek, Sir Thomas Dutton, knights both,
soldadoes both. Ill-fated English human creatures, what horrible
confusion of the pit is this?
Dutton, though in suppressed rage, the seconds about to withdraw, will
explain some things if a word were granted, "No words," says the other;
"stand on your guard!" brandishing his rapier, grasping harder his
dagger. Dutton, now silent too, is on his guard. Good heavens! after
some brief flourishing and flashing,--the gleam of the swift clear steel
playing madly in one's eyes,--they, at the first pass, plunge home on
one another; home, with beak and claws; home to the very heart! Cheek's
rapier is through Dutton's throat from before, and his dagger is through
it from behind,--the windpipe miraculously missed; and, in the same
instant, Dutton's rapier is through Cheek's body from before, his dagger
through his back from behind,--lungs and life _not_ missed; and the
seconds have to advance, "pull out the four bloody weapons," disengage
that hell-embrace of theirs. This is serious enough! Cheek reels, his
life fast-flowing; but still rushes rabid on Dutton, who merely parries,
skips, till Cheek reels down, dead in his rage. "He had a bloody burial
there that morning," says my ancient friend. He will assist no more in
the Netherlands or other wars.
Such scene does history disclose, as in sunbeams, as in blazing
hell-fire, on Calais sands, in the raw winter morning; then drops the
blanket of centuries, of everlasting night, over it, and passes on
elsewhither. Gallant Sir Hatton Cheek lies buried there, and Cecil of
Wimbledon, son of Burleigh, will have to seek another superior officer.
What became of the living Dutton afterwards, I have never to this moment
had the least hint.
From Blackwood's Magazine
MY NOVEL:
OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.
_Continued from page 550, Vol. II._
BOOK IV.--INITIAL CHAPTER:
COMPRISING MR. CAXTON'S OPINIONS ON THE MATRIMONIAL STATE, SUPPORTED BY
LEARNED AUTHORITIES.
"It was no bad idea of yours, Pisistratus," said my father graciously,
"to depict the heightened affections and the serious intentions of
Signior Riccabocca by a single stroke--_He left off his spectacles!_
Good."
"Yet," quoth my uncle, "I think Shakspeare represents a lover as falling
into slovenly habits, neglecting his person, and suffering his hose to
be ungartered, rather than paying that attention to his outer man which
induces Signior Riccabocca to leave off his spectacles, and look as
handsome as nature will permit him."
"There are different degrees and many phases of the passion," replied my
father. "Shakspeare is speaking of an ill-treated, pining, wobegone
lover, much aggrieved by the cruelty of his mistress--a lover who has
found it of no avail to smarten himself up, and has fallen despondingly
into the opposite extreme. Whereas Signior Riccabocca has nothing to
complain of in the barbarity of Miss Jemima."
"Indeed he has not!" cried Blanche, tossing her head--"forward
creature!"
"Yes, my dear," said my mother, trying her best to look stately, "I am
decidedly of opinion that, in that respect, Pisistratus has lowered the
dignity of the sex. Not intentionally," added my mother mildly, and
afraid she had said something too bitter; "but it is very hard for a man
to describe us women."
The Captain nodded approvingly; Mr. Squills smiled; my father quietly
resumed the thread of his discourse.
"To continue," quoth he, "Riccabocca has no reason to despair of success
in his suit, nor any object in moving his mistress to compassion. He
may, therefore, very properly tie up his garters and leave off his
spectacles. What do you say, Mr. Squills?--for, after all, since
love-making cannot fail to be a great constitutional derangement, the
experience of a medical man must be the best to consult."
"Mr. Caxton," replied Squills, obviously flattered, "you are quite
right: when a man makes love, the organs of self-esteem and desire of
applause are greatly stimulated, and therefore, of course, he sets
himself off to the best advantage. It is only, as you observe, when,
like Shakspeare's lover, he has given up making love as a bad job, and
has received that severe hit on the ganglions which the cruelty of a
mistress inflicts, that he neglects his personal appearance: he neglects
it, not because he is in love, but because his nervous system is
depressed. That was the cause, if you remember, with poor Major Prim. He
wore his wig all awry when Susan Smart jilted him; but I set it all
right for him."
"By shaming Miss Smart into repentance, or getting him a new
sweetheart?" asked my uncle.
"Pooh!" answered Squills, "by quinine and cold bathing."
"We may therefore grant," renewed my father, "that, as a general rule,
the process of courtship tends to the spruceness, and even foppery, of
the individual engaged in the experiment, as Voltaire has very prettily
proved somewhere. Nay, the Mexicans, indeed, were of opinion that the
lady at least ought to continue those cares of her person even after
marriage. There is extant, in Sahagun's _History of New Spain_, the
advice of an Aztec or Mexican mother to her daughter, in which she
says--'That your husband may not take you in dislike, adorn yourself,
wash yourself, and let your garments be clean.' It is true that the good
lady adds,--'Do it in moderation; since, if every day you are washing
yourself and your clothes, the world will say you are over-delicate; and
particular people will call you--TAPETZON TINEMAXOCH!' What those words
precisely mean," added my father modestly, "I cannot say, since I never
had the opportunity to acquire the ancient Aztec language--but something
very opprobrious and horrible, no doubt."
"I dare say a philosopher like Signior Riccabocca," said my uncle, "was
not himself very _tapetzon tine_--what d'ye call it?--and a good healthy
English wife, like that poor affectionate Jemima, was thrown away upon
him."
"Roland," said my father, "you don't like foreigners: a respectable
prejudice, and quite natural in a man who has been trying his best to
hew them in pieces, and blow them up into splinters. But you don't like
philosophers either--and for that dislike you have no equally good
reason."
"I only implied that they were not much addicted to soap and water,"
said my uncle.
"A notable mistake. Many great philosophers have been very great beaux.
Aristotle was a notorious fop. Buffon put on his best laced ruffles when
he sat down to write, which implies that he washed his hands first.
Pythagoras insists greatly on the holiness of frequent ablutions; and
Horace--who, in his own way, was as good a philosopher as any the Romans
produced--takes care to let us know what a neat, well-dressed, dapper
little gentleman he was. But I don't think you ever read the 'Apology of
Apuleius?"
"Not I--what is it about?" asked the Captain.
"About a great many things. It is that sage's vindication from several
malignant charges--amongst others, and principally indeed, that of
being much too refined and effeminate for a philosopher. Nothing can
exceed the rhetorical skill with which he excuses himself for
using--tooth-powder. 'Ought a philosopher,' he exclaims, 'to allow any
thing unclean about him, especially in the mouth--the mouth, which is
the vestibule of the soul, the gate of discourse, the portico of
thought! Ah, but AEmillianus [the accuser of Apuleius] never opens _his_
mouth but for slander and calumny--tooth-powder would indeed be
unbecoming to _him_! Or, if he use any, it will not be my good Arabian
tooth-powder, but charcoal and cinders. Ay, his teeth should be as foul
as his language! And yet even the crocodile likes to have his teeth
cleaned; insects get into them, and, horrible reptile though he be, he
opens his jaws inoffensively to a faithful dentistical bird, who
volunteers his beak for a toothpick.'"
My father was now warm in the subject he had started, and soared
miles away from Riccabocca and "My Novel." "And observe," he
exclaimed--"observe with what gravity this eminent Platonist pleads
guilty to the charge of having a mirror. 'Why, what,' he exclaims, 'more
worthy of the regards of a human creature than his own image,' (_nihil
respectabilius homini quam formam suam!_) Is not that one of our
children the most dear to us who is called 'the picture of his father?'
But take what pains you will with a picture, it can never be so like you
as the face in your mirror! Think it discreditable to look with proper
attention on one's self in the glass! Did not Socrates recommend such
attention to his disciples--did he not make a great moral agent of the
speculum? The handsome, in admiring their beauty therein, were
admonished that handsome is who handsome does; and the more the ugly
stared at themselves, the more they became naturally anxious to hide the
disgrace of their features in the loveliness of their merits. Was not
Demosthenes always at his speculum? Did he not rehearse his causes
before it as before a master in the art? He learned his eloquence from
Plato, his dialectics from Eubulides; but as for his delivery--there, he
came to the mirror!'
"Therefore," concluded Mr. Caxton, returning unexpectedly to the
subject--"therefore it is no reason to suppose that Dr. Riccabocca is
averse to cleanliness and decent care of the person, because he is a
philosopher; and, all things considered, he never showed himself more a
philosopher than when he left off his spectacles and looked his best."
"Well," said my mother kindly, "I only hope it may turn out happily. But
I should have been better pleased if Pisistratus had had not made Dr.
Riccabocca so reluctant a wooer."
"Very true," said the Captain; "the Italian does not shine as a lover.
Throw a little more fire into him, Pisistratus--something gallant and
chivalrous."
"Fire--gallantry--chivalry!" cried my father, who had taken Riccabocca
under his special protection--"why, don't you see that the man is
described as a philosopher?--and I should like to know when a
philosopher ever plunged into matrimony without considerable misgivings
and cold shivers. Indeed, it seems that--perhaps before he was a
philosopher--Riccabocca _had_ tried the experiment, and knew what it
was. Why, even that plain-speaking, sensible, practical man, Metellus
Numidicus, who was not even a philosopher, but only a Roman censor, thus
expressed himself in an exhortation to the people to perpetrate
matrimony--'If, O Quirites, we could do without wives, we should all
dispense with that subject of care (_ea molestia careremus_); but since
nature has so managed it, that we cannot live with women comfortably,
nor without them at all, let us rather provide for the human race than
our own temporary felicity.'"
Here the ladies set up a cry of such indignation, that both Roland and
myself endeavored to appease their wrath by hasty assurances that we
utterly repudiated that damnable doctrine of Metellus Numidicus.
My father, wholly unmoved, as soon as a sullen silence was established,
re-commenced--"Do not think, ladies," said he, "that you were without
advocates at that day; there were many Romans gallant enough to blame
the censor for a mode of expressing himself which they held to be
equally impolite and injudicious. 'Surely,' said they, with some
plausibility, 'if Numidicus wished men to marry, he need not have
referred so peremptorily to the disquietudes of the connection, and thus
have made them more inclined to turn away from matrimony than given them
a relish for it.' But against these critics one honest man (whose name
of Titus Castricus should not be forgotten by posterity), maintained
that Metellus Numidicus could not have spoken more properly; 'For
remark,' said he, 'that Metellus was a censor, not a rhetorician. It
becomes rhetoricians to adorn, and disguise, and make the best of
things; but Metellus, _sanctus vir_--a holy and blameless man, grave and
sincere to whit, and addressing the Roman people in the solemn capacity
of censor--was bound to speak the plain truth, especially as he was
treating of a subject on which the observation of every day, and the
experience of every life, could not leave the least doubt upon the mind
of his audience. 'Still Riccabocca, having decided to marry, has no
doubt prepared himself to bear all the concomitant evils--as becomes a
professed sage; and I own I admire the art with which Pisistratus has
drawn the precise woman likely to suit a philosopher."
Pisistratus bows, and looks round complacently; but recoils from two
very peevish and discontented faces feminine.
_Mr. Caxton_ (completing his sentence),--"Not only as regards mildness
of temper and other household qualifications, but as regards the very
person of the object of his choice. For you evidently remembered,
Pisistratus, the reply of Bias, when asked his opinion on marriage:
[Greek: Etoi kalen exeis, e aischran kai ei kalen, exeis koinen ei de
aischran, exeis poinen.]"
Pisistratus tries to look as if he had the opinion of Bias by heart, and
nods acquiescingly.
_Mr. Caxton._--"That is, my dears, 'the woman you would marry is either
handsome or ugly: if handsome, she is koine, viz: you don't have her to
yourself; if ugly, she is poine--that is, a fury.' But, as it is
observed in Aulus Gellius, (whence I borrow this citation,) there is a
wide interval between handsome and ugly. And thus Ennius, in his tragedy
of _Menalippus_, uses an admirable expression to designate women of the
proper degree of matrimonial comeliness, such as a philosopher would
select. He calls this degree _stata forma_--a rational, mediocre sort of
beauty, which is not liable to be either koine or poine. And Favorinus,
who was a remarkably sensible man, and came from Provence--the male
inhabitants of which district have always valued themselves on their
knowledge of love and ladies--calls this said _stata forma_ the beauty
of wives--the uxorial beauty. Ennius says, that women of a _stata forma_
are almost always safe and modest. Now Jemima, you observe, is described
as possessing this _stata forma_; and it is the nicety of your
observation in this respect, which I like the most in the whole of your
description of a philosopher's matrimonial courtship, Pisistratus,
(excepting only the stroke of the spectacles,) for it shows that you had
properly considered the opinion of Bias, and mastered all the counter
logic suggested in Book v. chapter xi., of Aulus Gellius."
"For all that," said Blanche, half-archly, half-demurely, with a smile
in the eye, and a pout of the lip, "I don't remember that Pisistratus,
in the days when he wished to be most complimentary, ever assured me
that I had a _stata forma_--a rational, mediocre sort of beauty."
"And I think," observed my uncle, "that when he comes to his real
heroine, whoever that may be, he will not trouble his head much about
either Bias or Aulus Gellius."
CHAPTER II.
Matrimony is certainly a great change in life. One is astonished not to
find a notable alteration in one's friend, even if he or she have been
only wedded a week. In the instance of Dr. and Mrs. Riccabocca the
change was peculiarly visible. To speak first of the lady, as in
chivalry bound, Mrs. Riccabocca had entirely renounced that melancholy
which had characterised Miss Jemima: she became even sprightly and gay,
and looked all the better and prettier for the alteration. She did not
scruple to confess honestly to Mrs. Dale, that she was now of opinion
that the world was very far from approaching its end. But, in the
meanwhile, she did not neglect the duty which the belief she had
abandoned serves to inculcate--"She set her house in order." The cold
and penurious elegance that had characterised the Casino disappeared
like enchantment--that is, the elegance remained, but the cold and
penury fled before the smile of woman. Like Puss-in-Boots after the
nuptials of his master, Jackeymo only now caught minnows and
sticklebacks for his own amusement. Jackeymo looked much plumper, and so
did Riccabocca. In a word, the fair Jemima became an excellent wife.
Riccabocca secretly thought her extravagant, but, like a wise man,
declined to look at the house bills, and ate his joint in unreproachful
silence.
Indeed, there was so much unaffected kindness in the nature of Mrs.
Riccabocca--beneath the quiet of her manner there beat so genially the
heart of the Hazeldeans--that she fairly justified the favorable
anticipations of Mrs. Dale. And though the Doctor did not noisily boast
of his felicity, nor, as some new married folks do, thrust it
insultingly under the _nimis unctis naribus_--the turned-up noses of
your surly old married folks, nor force it gaudily and glaringly on the
envious eyes of the single, you might still see that he was a more
cheerful and light-hearted man than before. His smile was less ironical,
his politeness less distant. He did not study Machiavelli so
intensely,--and he did not return to the spectacles; which last was an
excellent sign. Moreover, the humanising influence of the tidy English
wife might be seen in the improvement of his outward or artificial man.
His clothes seemed to fit him better; indeed, the clothes were new. Mrs.
Dale no longer remarked that the buttons were off the wrist-bands, which
was a great satisfaction to her. But the sage still remained faithful to
the pipe, the cloak, and the red silk umbrella. Mrs. Riccabocca had (to
her credit be it spoken) used all becoming and wifelike arts against
these three remnants of the old bachelor Adam, but in vain. "_Anima
mia_--soul of mine," said the Doctor tenderly, "I hold the cloak, the
umbrella, and the pipe, as the sole relics that remain to me of my
native country. Respect and spare them."
Mrs. Riccabocca was touched, and had the good sense to perceive that
man, let him be ever so much married, retains certain signs of his
ancient independence--certain tokens of his old identity, which a wife,
the most despotic, will do well to concede. She conceded the cloak, she
submitted to the umbrella, she concealed her abhorrence of the pipe.
After all, considering the natural villany of our sex, she confessed to
herself that she might have been worse off. But, through all the calm
and cheerfulness of Riccabocca, a nervous perturbation was sufficiently
perceptible;--it commenced after the second week of marriage--it went on
increasing, till one bright sunny afternoon, as he was standing on his
terrace gazing down upon the road, at which Jackeymo was placed,--lo, a
stage-coach stopped! The Doctor made a bound, and put both hands to his
heart as if he had been shot; he then leapt over the balustrade, and his
wife from her window beheld him flying down the hill, with his long hair
streaming in the wind, till the trees hid him from her sight.
"Ah," thought she with a natural pang of conjugal jealousy, "henceforth
I am only second in his home. He has gone to welcome his child!" And at
that reflection Mrs. Riccabocca shed tears.
But so naturally amiable was she, that she hastened to curb her emotion,
and efface as well as she could the trace of a stepmother's grief. When
this was done, and a silent self-rebuking prayer murmured over, the good
woman descended the stairs with alacrity, and, summoning up her best
smiles, emerged on the terrace.
She was repaid; for scarcely had she come into the open air, when two
little arms were thrown round her, and the sweetest voice that ever came
from a child's lips, sighed out in broken English, "Good mamma, love me
a little."
"Love you? with my whole heart!" cried the stepmother, with all a
mother's honest passion. And she clasped the child to her breast.
"God bless you, my wife!" said Riccabocca, in a husky tone.
"Please take this too," added Jackeymo in Italian, as well as his sobs
would let him--and he broke off a great bough full of blossoms from his
favorite orange-tree, and thrust it into his mistress's hand. She had
not the slightest notion what he meant by it!