CHAPTER IX._Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, No. 4, September, 1850

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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. IV.--SEPTEMBER, 1850.--Vol. I.

[Illustration: MISS JANE PORTER]

[From the London Art Journal.]

MEMORIES OF MISS JANE PORTER.

BY MRS S. C. HALL.

The frequent observation of foreigners is, that in England we have few

"celebrated women." Perhaps they mean that we have few who are

"notorious;" but let us admit that in either case they are right; and

may we not express our belief in its being better for women and for the

community that such is the case: "celebrity" rarely adds to the

happiness of a woman, and almost as rarely increases her usefulness. The

time and attention required to attain "celebrity," must, except under

very peculiar circumstances, interfere with the faithful discharge of

those feminine duties upon which the well-doing of society depends, and

which shed so pure a halo around our English homes. Within these "homes"

our heroes--statesmen--philosophers--men of letters--men of

genius--receive their first impressions, and the _impetus_ to a faithful

discharge of their after callings as Christian subjects of the State.

There are few of such men who do not trace back their resolution, their

patriotism, their wisdom, their learning--the nourishment of all their

higher aspirations--to a wise, hopeful, loving-hearted and

faith-inspired mother; one who _believed_ in a son's destiny to be

great; it may be, impelled by such belief rather by instinct than by

reason; who cherished (we can find no better word), the "Hero-feeling"

of devotion to what was right, though it might have been unworldly; and

whose deep heart welled up perpetual love and patience, toward the

over-boiling faults and frequent stumblings of a hot youth, which she

felt would mellow into a fruitful manhood.

The strength and glory of England are in the keeping of the wives and

mothers of its men; and when we are questioned touching our "celebrated

women," we may in general terms refer to those who have watched over,

moulded, and inspired our "celebrated" men.

Happy is the country where the laws of God and nature are held in

reverence--where each sex fulfills its peculiar duties, and renders its

sphere a sanctuary! and surely such harmony is blessed by the

Almighty--for while other nations writhe in anarchy and poverty, our own

spreads wide her arms to receive all who seek protection or need repose.

But if we have few "celebrated" women, few, who impelled either by

circumstances or the irrepressible restlessness of genius, go forth amid

the pitfalls of publicity, and battle with the world, either as

poets--or dramatists--or moralists--or mere tale-tellers in simple

prose--or, more dangerous still, "hold the mirror up to nature" on the

stage that mimics life--if we have but few, we have, and have had

_some_, of whom we are justly proud; women of such well-balanced minds,

that toil they ever so laboriously in their public and perilous paths,

their domestic and social duties have been fulfilled with as diligent

and faithful love as though the world had never been purified and

enriched by the treasures of their feminine wisdom; yet this does not

shake our belief, that, despite the spotless and well-earned reputations

they enjoyed, the homage they received (and it has its charm), and even

the blessed consciousness of having contributed to the healthful

recreation, the improved morality, the diffusion of the best sort of

knowledge--the _woman_ would have been happier had she continued

enshrined in the privacy of domestic love and domestic duty. She may not

think this at the commencement of her career; and at its termination, if

she has lived sufficiently long to have descended, even gracefully from

her pedestal, she may often recall the homage of the _past_ to make up

for its lack in the _present_. But so perfectly is woman constituted for

the cares, the affections, the duties--the blessed duties of

_un_-public life--that if she give nature way it will whisper to her a

text that "celebrity never added to the happiness of a true woman." She

must look for her happiness to HOME. We would have young women ponder

over this, and watch carefully, ere the vail is lifted, and the hard

cruel eye of public criticism fixed upon them. No profession is pastime;

still less so now than ever, when so many people are "clever," though so

few are great. We would pray those especially who direct their thoughts

to literature, to think of what they have to say, and why they wish to

say it; and above all, to weigh what they may expect from a capricious

public, against the blessed shelter and pure harmonies of private

life.[A]

But we have had some--and still have some--"celebrated" women of whom we

have said "we may be justly proud." We have done pilgrimage to the

shrine of Lady Rachel Russell, who was so thoroughly "domestic" that the

Corinthian beauty of her character would never have been matter of

history, but for the wickedness of a bad king. We have recorded the

hours spent with Hannah More; the happy days passed with, and the years

invigorated by Maria Edgeworth. We might recall the stern and faithful

puritanism of Maria Jane Jewsbury; and the Old World devotion of the

true and high-souled daughter of Israel--Grace Aguilar. The mellow tones

of Felicia Heman's poetry linger still among all who appreciate the holy

sympathies of religion and virtue. We could dwell long and profitably on

the enduring patience and life-long labor of Barbara Hofland, and steep

a diamond in tears to record the memories of L.E.L. We could--alas,

alas! barely five-and-twenty years' acquaintance with literature and its

ornaments, and the brilliant catalogue is but a _Momento Mori_! Perhaps

of all this list, Maria Edgworth's life was the happiest; simply because

she was the most retired, the least exposed to the gaze and observation

of the world, the most occupied by loving duties toward the most united

circle of old and young we ever saw assembled in one happy home.

The very young have never, perhaps read one of the tales of a lady whose

reputation, as a novelist, was in its zenith when Walter Scott published

his first novel. We desire to place a chaplet upon the grave of a woman

once "celebrated" all over the known world; yet who drew all her

happiness from the lovingness of home and friends, while her life was as

pure as her renown was extensive.

In our own childhood romance reading was prohibited, but earnest

entreaty procured an exception in favor of the "Scottish Chiefs." It was

the bright summer, and we read it by moonlight, only disturbed by the

murmur of the distant ocean. We read it, crouched in the deep recess of

the nursery window; we read it until moonlight and morning met, and the

breakfast bell ringing out into the soft air from the old gable, found

us at the end of the fourth volume. Dear old times! when it would have

been deemed little less than sacrilege to crush a respectable romance

into a shilling volume, and our mammas considered _only_ a five volume

story curtailed of its just proportions.

Sir William Wallace has never lost his heroic ascendency over us, and we

have steadily resisted every temptation to open the "popular edition" of

the long-loved romance, lest what people will call "the improved state

of the human mind," might displace the sweet memory of the mingled

admiration and indignation that chased each other, while we read and

wept, without ever questioning the truth of the absorbing narrative.

Yet, the "Scottish Chiefs" scarcely achieved the popularity of "Thaddeus

of Warsaw," the first romance originated by the active brain and

singularly constructive power of Jane Porter, produced at an almost

girlish age.

The hero of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was really Kosciuszko, the beloved

pupil of George Washington, the grandest and purest patriot the Modern

World has known. The enthusiastic girl was moved to its composition by

the stirring times in which she lived; and a personal observation of,

and acquaintance with some of those brave men whose struggles for

liberty only ceased with their exile, or their existence.

Miss Porter placed her standard of excellence on high ground, and--all

gentle-spirited as was her nature--it was firm and unflinching toward

what she believed the right and true. We must not, therefore, judge her

by the depressed state of "feeling" in these times, when its

demonstration is looked upon as artificial or affected. Toward the

termination of the last and the commencement of the present century, the

world was roused into an interest and enthusiasm, which now we can

scarcely appreciate or account for; the sympathies of England were

awakened by the terrible revolutions of France, and the desolation of

Poland; as a principle, we hated Napoleon, though he had neither act nor

part in the doings of the democrats; and the sea-songs of Dibdin, which

our youth _now_ would call uncouth and ungraceful rhymes, were key-notes

to public feeling; the English of that time were thoroughly "awake,"

the British Lion had not slumbered through a thirty years' peace. We

were a nation of soldiers and sailors, and patriots; not of mingled

cotton-spinners and railway speculators and angry protectionists; we do

not say which state of things is best or worst, we desire merely to

account for what may be called the taste for _heroic_ literature at that

time, and the taste for--we really hardly know what to call

it--literature of the present, made up, as it too generally is, of

shreds and patches--bits of gold and bits of tinsel--things written in a

hurry to be read in a hurry, and never thought of afterward--suggestive

rather than reflective, at the best; and we must plead guilty to a too

great proneness to underrate what our fathers probably overrated.

At all events we must bear in mind, while reading or thinking over Miss

Porter's novels, that, in her day, even the exaggeration of enthusiasm

was considered good tone and good taste. How this enthusiasm was

_fostered_, not subdued, can be gathered by the author's ingenious

preface to the, we believe, tenth edition of "Thaddeus of Warsaw."

This story brought her abundant honors, and rendered her society, as

well as the society of her sister and brother, sought for by all who

aimed at a reputation for taste and talent. Mrs. Porter, on her

husband's death (he was the younger son of a well-connected Irish

family, born in Ireland, in or near Coleraine, we believe, and a major

in the Enniskillen dragoons), sought a residence for her family in

Edinburgh, where education and good society are attainable to persons of

moderate fortunes, if they are "well born;" but the extraordinary

artistic skill of her son Robert required a wider field, and she brought

her children to London sooner than she had intended, that his promising

talents might be cultivated. We believe the greater part of "Thaddeus of

Warsaw" was written in London, either in St. Martin's-lane,

Newport-street, or Gerard-street, Soho (for in these three streets the

family lived after their arrival in the metropolis); though as soon as

Robert Ker Porter's abilities floated him on the stream, his mother and

sisters retired, in the brightness of their fame and beauty, to the

village of Thames Ditton, a residence they loved to speak of as their

"home." The actual labor of "Thaddeus"--her first novel--must have been

considerable; for testimony was frequently borne to the fidelity of its

localities, and Poles refused to believe that the author had not visited

Poland; indeed, she had a happy power in describing localities.

It was on the publication of Miss Porter's two first works in the German

language that their author was honored by being made a Lady of the

Chapter of St. Joachim, and received the gold cross of the order from

Wurtemberg; but "The Scottish Chiefs" was never so popular on the

continent as "Thaddeus of Warsaw," although Napoleon honored it with an

interdict, to prevent its circulation in France. If Jane Porter owed

her Polish inspirations so peculiarly to the tone of the times in which

she lived, she traces back, in her introduction to the latest edition of

"The Scottish Chiefs," her enthusiasm in the cause of Sir William

Wallace to the influence of an old "Scotch wife's" tales and ballads

produced upon her mind while in early childhood. She wandered amid what

she describes as "beautiful green banks," which rose in natural terraces

behind her mother's house, and where a cow and a few sheep occasionally

fed. This house stood alone, at the head of a little square, near the

high school; the distinguished Lord Elchies formerly lived in the house,

which was very ancient, and from those green banks it commanded a fine

view of the Firth of Forth. While gathering "_gowans_" or other wild

flowers for her infant sister (whom she loved more dearly than her life,

during the years they lived in most tender and affectionate

companionship), she frequently encountered this aged woman with her

knitting in her hand; and she would speak to the eager and intelligent

child of the blessed quiet of the land, where the cattle were browsing

without fear of an enemy; and then she would talk of the awful times of

the brave Sir William Wallace, when he fought for Scotland "against a

cruel tyrant; like unto them whom Abraham overcame when he recovered

Lot, with all his herds and flocks, from the proud foray of the robber

kings of the South," who, she never failed to add, "were all rightly

punished for oppressing the stranger in a foreign land! for the Lord

careth for the stranger." Miss Porter says that this woman never omitted

mingling pious allusions with her narrative, "Yet she was a person of

low degree, dressed in a coarse woolen gown, and a plain _Mutch_ cap

clasped under the chin with a silver brooch, which her father had worn

at the battle of Culloden." Of course she filled with tales of Sir

William Wallace and the Bruce, the listening ears of the lovely Saxon

child who treasured them in her heart and brain, until they fructified

in after years into the "Scottish Chiefs." To these two were added "The

Pastor's Fireside," and a number of other tales and romances; she

contributed to several annuals and magazines, and always took pains to

keep up the reputation she had won, achieving a large share of the

popularity, to which, as an author, she never looked for happiness. No

one could be more alive to praise or more grateful for attention, but

the heart of a genuine, pure, loving woman, beat within Jane Porter's

bosom, and she was never drawn _out_ of her domestic circle by the

flattery that has spoiled so many, men as well as women. Her mind was

admirably balanced by her home affections, which remained unsullied and

unshaken to the end of her days. She had, in common with her three

brothers and her charming sister, the advantage of a wise and loving

mother--a woman pious without cant, and worldly-wise without being

worldly. Mrs. Porter was born at Durham, and when very young bestowed

her hand and heart on Major Porter; an old friend of the family assures

us that two or three of their children were born in Ireland, and that

certainly Jane was among the number;[B] although she left Ireland when

in early youth, perhaps almost an infant, she certainly must be

considered "Irish," as her father was so both by birth and descent, and

esteemed during his brief life as a brave and generous gentleman; he

died young, leaving his lovely widow in straightened circumstances,

having only her widow's pension to depend on. The eldest son--afterward

Colonel Porter--was sent to school by his grandfather.

We have glanced briefly at Sir Robert Ker Porter's wonderful talents,

and Anna Maria, when in her twelfth year, rushed, as Jane acknowledged,

"prematurely into print." Of Anna Maria we knew personally but very

little; enough, however, to recall with a pleasant memory her readiness

in conversation, and her bland and cheerful manners. No two sisters

could have been more different in bearing and appearance: Maria was a

delicate blonde, with a _riant_ face, and an animated manner--we had

said almost _peculiarly Irish_--rushing at conclusions, where her more

thoughtful and careful sister paused to consider and calculate. The

beauty of Jane was statuesque, her deportment serious yet cheerful, a

seriousness quite as natural as her younger sister's gayety; they both

labored diligently, but Anna Maria's labor was sport when compared to

her elder sister's careful toil; Jane's mind was of a more lofty order,

she was intense, and felt more than she said, while Anna Maria often

said more than she felt; they were a delightful contrast, and yet the

harmony between them was complete; and one of the happiest days we ever

spent, while trembling on the threshold of literature, was with them at

their pretty road-side cottage, in the village of Esher, before the

death of their venerable and dearly-beloved mother, whose rectitude and

prudence had both guided and sheltered their youth, and who lived to

reap with them the harvest of their industry and exertion. We remember

the drive there, and the anxiety as to how those very "clever ladies"

would look, and what they would say; we talked over the various letters

we had received from Jane, and thought of the cordial invitation to

their cottage--their "mother's cottage"--as they always called it. We

remember the old white friendly spaniel who looked at us with blinking

eyes, and preceded us up-stairs; we remember the formal, old-fashioned

courtesy of the venerable old lady, who was then nearly eighty--the blue

ribbons and good-natured frankness of Anna Maria, and the noble courtesy

of Jane, who received visitors as if she granted an audience; this

manner was natural to her; it was only the manner of one whose thoughts

have dwelt more on heroic deeds, and lived more with heroes than with

actual living men and women; the effect of this, however, soon passed

away, but not so the fascination which was in all she said and did. Her

voice was soft and musical, and her conversation addressed to one person

rather than to the company at large, while Maria talked rapidly to every

one, or _for_ every one who chose to listen. How happily the hours

passed! we were shown some of those extraordinary drawings of Sir

Robert, who gained an artist's reputation before he was twenty, and

attracted the attention of West and Shee[C] in his mere boyhood. We

heard all the interesting particulars of his panoramic picture of the

Storming of Seringapatam, which, the first of its class, was known half

over the world. We must not, however, be misunderstood--there was

neither personal nor family egotism in the Porters; they invariably

spoke of each other with the tenderest affection--but unless the

conversation was _forced_ by their friends, they never mentioned their

own, or each other's works, while they were most ready to praise what

was excellent in the works of others; they spoke with pleasure of their

sojourns in London; while their mother said, it was much wiser and

better for young ladies who were not rich, to live quietly in the

country, and escape the temptations of luxury and display. At that time

the "young ladies" seemed to us certainly _not_ young; that was about

two-and-twenty years ago, and Jane Porter was seventy-five when she

died. They talked much of their previous dwelling at Thames Ditton, of

the pleasant neighborhood they enjoyed there, though their mother's

health and their own had much improved since their residence on

Esher-hill; their little garden was bounded at the back by the beautiful

park of Claremont, and the front of the house overlooked the leading

roads, broken as they are by the village green, and some noble elms. The

view is crowned by the high trees of Esher-place, opening from the

village on that side of the brow of the hill. Jane pointed out the

_locale_ of the proud Cardinal Wolsey's domain, inhabited during the

days of his power over Henry VIII., and in their cloudy evening, when

that capricious monarch's favor changed to bitterest hate. It was the

very spot to foster her high romance, while she could at the same time

enjoy the sweets of that domestic converse she loved best of all. We

were prevented by the occupations and heart-beatings of our own literary

labors from repeating this visit; and in 1831, four years after these

well-remembered hours, the venerable mother of a family so distinguished

in literature and art, rendering their names known and honored wherever

art and letters flourish, was called HOME. The sisters, who had resided

ten years at Esher, left it, intending to sojourn for a time with their

second brother, Doctor Porter, (who commenced his career as a surgeon in

the navy) in Bristol; but within a year the youngest, the

light-spirited, bright-hearted Anna Maria died: her sister was

dreadfully shaken by her loss, and the letters we received from her

after this bereavement, though containing the outpourings of a sorrowing

spirit, were full of the certainty of that reunion hereafter which

became the hope of her life. She soon resigned her cottage home at

Esher, and found the affectionate welcome she so well deserved in many

homes, where friends vied with each other to fill the void in her

sensitive heart. She was of too wise a nature, and too sympathizing a

habit, to shut out new interests and affections, but her _old ones_

never withered, nor were they ever replaced; were the love of such a

sister-friend--the watchful tenderness and uncompromising love of a

mother--ever "replaced," to a lonely sister or a bereaved daughter! Miss

Porter's pen had been laid aside for some time, when suddenly she came

before the world as the editor of "Sir Edward Seward's Narrative," and

set people hunting over old atlases to find out the island where he

resided. The whole was a clever fiction; yet Miss Porter never confided

its authorship, we believe, beyond her family circle; perhaps the

correspondence and documents, which are in the hands of one of her

kindest friends (her executor), Mr. Shepherd, may throw some light upon

a subject which the "Quarterly" honored by an article. We think the

editor certainly used her pen, as well as her judgment, in the work, and

we have imagined that it might have been written by the family circle,

more in sport than in earnest, and then produced to serve a double

purpose.

After her sister's death Miss Jane Porter was afflicted with so severe

an illness, that we, in common with her other friends, thought it

impossible she could carry out her plan of journeying to St. Petersburgh

to visit her brother, Sir Robert Ker Porter, who had been long united to

a Russian princess, and was then a widower; her strength was fearfully

reduced; her once round figure become almost spectral, and little beyond

the placid and dignified expression of her noble countenance remained to

tell of her former beauty; but her resolve was taken; she wished, she

said, to see once more her youngest and most beloved brother, so

distinguished in several careers, almost deemed incompatible--as a

painter, an author, a soldier, and a diplomatist, and nothing could turn

her from her purpose: she reached St. Petersburgh in safety, and with

apparently improved health, found her brother as much courted and

beloved there as in his own land, and his daughter married to a Russian

of high distinction. Sir Robert longed to return to England. He did not

complain of any illness, and every thing was arranged for their

departure; his final visits were paid, all but one to the Emperor, who

had ever treated him as a friend; the day before his intended journey he

went to the palace, was graciously received, and then drove home, but

when the servant opened the carriage-door at his own residence he was

dead! One sorrow after another pressed heavily upon her, yet she was

still the same sweet, gentle, holy-minded woman she had ever been,

bending with Christian faith to the will of the Almighty--"biding her

time."

[Illustration: JANE PORTER'S COTTAGE AT ESHER.]

How differently would she have "watched and waited" had she been tainted

by vanity, or fixed her soul on the mere triumphs of "literary

reputation." While firm to her own creed, she fully enjoyed the success

of those who scramble up--where she bore the standard to the heights--of

Parnassus; she was never more happy than when introducing some literary

"Tyro" to those who could aid or advise a future career. We can speak

from experience of the warm interest she took in the Hospital for the

cure of Consumption, and the Governesses' Benevolent Institution; during

the progress of the latter, her health was painfully feeble, yet she

used personal influence for its success, and worked with her own hands

for its bazaars. She was ever aiding those who could not aid themselves;

and all her thoughts, words, and deeds, were evidence of her clear,

powerful mind, and kindly loving heart; her appearance in the London

_coteries_ was always hailed with interest and pleasure; to the young

she was especially affectionate; but it was in the quiet mornings, or in

the long twilight evenings of summer, when visiting her cherished

friends at Shirley Park, in Kensington-square, or wherever she might be

located for the time--it was then that her former spirit revived and she

poured forth anecdote and illustration, and the store of many years'

observation, filtered by experience and purified by that delightful

faith to which she held--that "all things work together for good to them

that love the Lord." She held this in practice, even more than in

theory: you saw her chastened yet hopeful spirit beaming forth from her

gentle eyes, and her sweet smile can never be forgotten. The last time

we saw her, was about two years ago--in Bristol--at her brother, Dr.

Porter's house in Portland-square: then she could hardly stand without

assistance, yet she never complained of her own suffering or

feebleness--all her anxiety was about the brother--then dangerously ill,

and now the last of "his race." Major Porter, it will be remembered,

left five children, and these have left only one descendant--the

daughter of Sir Robert Ker Porter and the Russian Princess whom he

married, a young Russian lady, whose present name we do not even know.

We did not think at our last leave-taking that Miss Porter's fragile

frame could have so long withstood the Power that takes away all we hold

most dear; but her spirit was at length summoned, after a few days'

total insensibility, on the 24th of May.

We were haunted by the idea that the pretty cottage at Esher, where we

spent those happy hours, had been treated even as "Mrs. Porter's

Arcadia" at Thames Ditton--now altogether removed; and it was with a

melancholy pleasure we found it the other morning in nothing changed; it

was almost impossible to believe that so many years had passed since our

last visit. While Mr. Fairholt was sketching the cottage, we knocked at

the door, and were kindly permitted by two gentle sisters, who now

inhabit it, to enter the little drawing-room and walk round the garden;

except that the drawing-room has been re-papered and painted, and that

there were no drawings and no flowers, the room was not in the least

altered; yet to us it seemed like a sepulchre, and we rejoiced to

breathe the sweet air of the little garden, and listen to a nightingale,

whose melancholy cadence harmonized with our feelings.

"Whenever you are at Esher," said the devoted daughter, the last time we

conversed with her, "do visit my mother's tomb." We did so. A cypress

flourishes at the head of the grave; and the following touching

inscription is carved on the stone:

HERE SLEEPS IN JESUS A CHRISTIAN WIDOW

JANE PORTER

OBIIT JUNE 18TH, 1831, ÆTAT. 86;

THE BELOVED MOTHER OF

W. PORTER, M.D., OF SIR ROBERT KER PORTER,

AND OF JANE AND ANNA MARIA PORTER,

WHO MOURN IN HOPE, HUMBLY TRUSTING TO BE BORN

AGAIN WITH HER UNTO THE BLESSED KINGDOM

OF THEIR LORD AND SAVIOUR.

RESPECT HER GRAVE, FOR SHE MINISTERED TO THE POOR

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In support of this opinion, which we know is opposed to the popular

feeling of many in the present day, we venture to quote what Miss Porter

herself repeats, as said to her by Madame de Stael: "She frequently

praised my revered mother for the retired manner in which she maintained

her little domestic establishment, _yielding her daughters to society,

but not to the world_." We pray those we love, to mark the delicate and

most true distinction, between "society" and the "world." "I was set on

a stage," continued De Stael, "I was set on a stage, at a child's age,

to be listened to as a wit and worshiped for my premature judgment. I

drank adulation as my soul's nourishment, _and I cannot now live without

its poison; it has been my bane_, never an aliment. My heart ever sighed

for happiness, and I ever lost it, when I thought it approaching my

grasp. I was admired, made an idol, _but never beloved_. I do not accuse

my parents for having made this mistake, but I have not repeated it in

my Albertine" (her daughter.) "She shall not

'Seek for love, and fill her arms with bays.'

I bring her up in the best society, yet in the shade."

[B] Miss Porter never told me she was an Irishwoman, but once she

questioned me concerning my own parentage and place of birth; and upon

my explaining that my mother was an English woman, my father Irish, and

that I was born in Ireland, which I quitted early in life, she observed

_her own circumstances were very similar to mine_. For my own part, I

have no doubt that she was Irish by birth and by descent on the father's

side, but it will be no difficult matter to obtain direct evidence of

the facts; and we hope that some Irish patriotic friend will make due

inquiries on the subject. During her life, I had no idea of her

connection with Ireland, or I should certainly have ascertained if my

own country had a claim of which it may be justly proud.

[C] In his early days the President of the Royal Academy painted a very

striking portrait of Jane Porter, as "Miranda," and Harlowe painted her

in the canoness dress of the order of St. Joachim.

[From the Gallery of Nature.]

SHOOTING STARS AND METEORIC SHOWERS.

[Illustration]

From every region of the globe and in all ages of time within the range

of history, exhibitions of apparent instability in the heavens have been

observed, when the curtains of the evening have been drawn. Suddenly, a

line of light arrests the eye, darting like an arrow through a varying

extent of space, and in a moment the firmament is as sombre as before.

The appearance is exactly that of a star falling from its sphere, and

hence the popular title of shooting star applied to it. The apparent

magnitudes of these meteorites are widely different, and also their

brilliancy. Occasionally, they are far more resplendent than the

brightest of the planets, and throw a very perceptible illumination upon

the path of the observer. A second or two commonly suffices for the

individual display, but in some instances it has lasted several minutes.

In every climate it is witnessed, and at all times of the year, but most

frequently in the autumnal months. As far back as records go, we meet

with allusions to these swift and evanescent luminous travelers.

Minerva's hasty flight from the peaks of Olympus to break the truce

between the Greeks and Trojans, is compared by Homer to the emission of

a brilliant star. Virgil, in the first book of the Georgics, mentions

the shooting stars as prognosticating weather changes:

"And on, before tempestuous winds arise,

The seeming stars fall headlong from the skies,

And, shooting through the darkness, gild the night

With sweeping glories and long trains of light."

Various hypotheses have been framed to explain the nature and origin of

these remarkable appearances. When electricity began to be understood,

this was thought to afford a satisfactory explanation, and the shooting

stars were regarded by Beccaria and Vassali as merely electrical sparks.

When the inflammable nature of the gases became known, Lavosier and

Volta supposed an accumulation of hydrogen in the higher regions of the

atmosphere, because of its inferior density, giving rise by ignition to

the meteoric exhibitions. While these theories of the older philosophers

have been shown to be untenable, there is still great obscurity resting

upon the question, though we have reason to refer the phenomena to a

cause exterior to the bounds of our atmosphere. Upon this ground, the

subject assumes a strictly astronomical aspect, and claims a place in a

treatise on the economy of the solar system.

The first attempt accurately to investigate these elegant meteors was

made by two university students, afterward Professors Brandes of

Leipsic, and Benzenberg of Dusseldorf, in the year 1798. They selected a

base line of 46,200 feet, somewhat less than nine English miles, and

placed themselves at its extremities on appointed nights, for the

purpose of ascertaining their average altitude and velocity. Out of

twenty-two appearances identified as the same, they found,

7 under 45 miles

9 between 45 and 90 miles

5 above 90 miles

1 above 140 miles.

The greatest observed velocity gave twenty-five miles in a second. A

more extensive plan was organized by Brandes in the year 1823, and

carried into effect in the neighborhood of Breslaw. Out of ninety-eight

appearances, the computed heights were,

4 under 15 miles

15 from 15 to 30 miles

22 from 30 to 45 miles

33 from 45 to 70 miles

13 from 70 to 90 miles

6 above 90 miles

5 from 140 to 460 miles.

The velocities were between eighteen and thirty-six miles in a second,

an average velocity far greater than that of the earth in its orbit.

The rush of luminous bodies through the sky of a more extraordinary

kind, though a rare occurrence, has repeatedly been observed. They are

usually discriminated from shooting stars, and known by the vulgar as

fire-balls; but probably both proceed from the same cause, and are

identical phenomena. They have sometimes been seen of large volume,

giving an intense light, a hissing noise accompanying their progress,

and a loud explosion attending their termination. In the year 1676, a

meteor passed over Italy about two hours after sunset, upon which

Montanari wrote a treatise. It came over the Adriatic Sea as if from

Dalmatia, crossed the country in the direction of Rimini and Leghorn, a

loud report being heard at the latter place, and disappeared upon the

sea toward Corsica. A similar visitor was witnessed all over England, in

1718, and forms the subject of one of Halley's papers to the Royal

Society. Sir Hans Sloane was one of its spectators. Being abroad at the

time of its appearance, at a quarter past eight at night, in the streets

of London, his path was suddenly and intensely illuminated. This, he

apprehended at first, might arise from a discharge of rockets; but found

a fiery object in the heavens, moving after the manner of a falling

star, in a direct line from the Pleiades to below the girdle of Orion.

Its brightness was so vivid, that several times he was obliged to turn

away his eyes from it. The stars disappeared, and the moon, then nine

days old, and high near the meridian, the sky being very clear, was so

effaced by the lustre of the meteor as to be scarcely seen. It was

computed to have passed over three hundred geographical miles in a

minute, at the distance of sixty miles above the surface, and was

observed at different extremities of the kingdom. The sound of an

explosion was heard through Devon and Cornwall, and along the opposite

coast of Bretagne. Halley conjectured this and similar displays to

proceed from combustible vapors aggregated on the outskirts of the

atmosphere, and suddenly set on fire by some unknown cause. But since

his time, the fact has been established, of the actual fall of heavy

bodies to the earth from surrounding space, which requires another

hypothesis. To these bodies the term aërolites is applied, signifying

atmospheric stones, from [Greek: aêr], the atmosphere, and [Greek: lithos], a stone. While

many meteoric appearances may simply arise from electricity, or from the

inflammable gases, it is now certain, from the proved descent of

aërolites, that such bodies are of extra-terrestrial origin.

Antiquity refers us to several objects as having descended from the

skies, the gifts of the immortal gods. Such was the Palladium of Troy,

the image of the goddess of Ephesus, and the sacred shield of Numa. The

folly of the ancients in believing such narrations has often been the

subject of remark; but, however fabulous the particular cases referred

to, the moderns have been compelled to renounce their skepticism

respecting the fact itself, of the actual transition of substances from

celestial space to terrestrial regions; and no doubt the ancient faith

upon this subject was founded on observed events. The following table,

taken from the work of M. Izarn, _Des Pierres tombées du Ciel_, exhibits

a collection of instances of the fall of aërolites, together with the

eras of their descent, and the persons on whose evidence the facts rest;

but the list might be largely extended.

+--------------------+------------------+-------------------+-----------------+

+--------------------+------------------+-------------------+-----------------+

| | | 452 | Marcellin. |

|About 1200 stones } | | | |

| --one of 120lbs.} |Near Padua in |In 1510 |Carden, Varcit. |

|Another of 60lbs. } | Italy | | |

| 7-1/2lbs. | Maine | | |

| 56lbs. | Yorkshire | | |

| 70 cubic feet | | | Mag. |

| 14 quintals | | | &c. |

| 260lbs. | Rhine | | |

+--------------------+------------------+-------------------+-----------------+

Some of the instances in the table are of sufficient interest to deserve

a notice.

A singular relation respecting the stone of Ensisheim on the Rhine, at

which philosophy once smiled incredulously, regarding it as one of the

romances of the middle ages, may now be admitted to sober attention as a

piece of authentic history. A homely narrative of its fall was drawn up

at the time by order of the Emperor Maximilian, and deposited with the

stone in the church. It may thus be rendered: "In the year of the Lord

1492, on Wednesday, which was Martinmas eve, the 7th of November, a

singular miracle occurred; for, between eleven o'clock and noon, there

was a loud clap of thunder, and a prolonged confused noise, which was

heard at a great distance; and a stone fell from the air, in the

jurisdiction of Ensisheim, which weighed two hundred and sixty pounds,

and the confused noise was, besides, much louder than here. Then a child

saw it strike on a field in the upper jurisdiction, toward the Rhine and

Inn, near the district of Giscano, which was sown with wheat, and it did

it no harm, except that it made a hole there: and then they conveyed it

from that spot; and many pieces were broken from it; which the landvogt

forbade. They, therefore, caused it to be placed in the church, with the

intention of suspending it as a miracle: and there came here many people

to see this stone. So there were remarkable conversations about this

stone: but the learned said that they knew not what it was; for it was

beyond the ordinary course of nature that such a large stone should

smite the earth from the height of the air; but that it was really a

miracle of God; for, before that time, never any thing was heard like

it, nor seen, nor described. When they found that stone, it had entered

into the earth to the depth of a man's stature, which every body

explained to be the will of God that it should be found; and the noise

of it was heard at Lucerne, at Vitting, and in many other places, so

loud that it was believed that houses had been overturned: and as the

King Maximilian was here the Monday after St. Catharine's day of the

same year, his royal excellency ordered the stone which had fallen to be

brought to the castle, and, after having conversed a long time about it

with the noblemen, he said that the people of Ensisheim should take it,

and order it to be hung up in the church, and not to allow any body to

take any thing from it. His excellency, however, took two pieces of it;

of which he kept one, and sent the other to the Duke Sigismund of

Austria: and they spoke a great deal about this stone, which they

suspended in the choir, where it still is; and a great many people came

to see it." Contemporary writers confirm the substance of this

narration, and the evidence of the fact exists; the aërolite is

precisely identical in its chemical composition with that of other

meteoric stones. It remained for three centuries suspended in the

church, was carried off to Colmar during the French revolution; but has

since been restored to its former site, and Ensisheim rejoices in the

possession of the relic. A piece broken from it is in the Museum of the

_Jardin des Plantes_ at Paris.

The celebrated Gassendi was an eye-witness of a similar event. In the

year 1627, on the 27th of November, the sky being quite clear, he saw a

burning stone fall in the neighborhood of Nice, and examined the mass.

While in the air it appeared to be about four feet in diameter, was

surrounded by a luminous circle of colors like a rainbow, and its fall

was accompanied by a noise like the discharge of artillery. Upon

inspecting the substance, he found it weighed 59 lbs., was extremely

hard, of a dull, metallic color, and of a specific gravity considerably

greater than that of common marble. Having only this solitary instance

of such an occurrence, Gassendi concluded that the mass came from some

of the mountains of Provence, which had been in a transient state of

volcanic activity. Instances of the same phenomenon occurred in the

years 1672, 1756, and 1768; but the facts were generally doubted by

naturalists, and considered as electrical appearances, magnified by

popular ignorance and timidity. A remarkable example took place in

France in the year 1790. Between nine and ten o'clock at night, on the

24th of July, a luminous ball was seen traversing the atmosphere with

great rapidity, and leaving behind it a train of light; a loud explosion

was then heard, accompanied with sparks which flew off in all

directions; this was followed by a shower of stones over a considerable

extent of ground, at various distances from each other, and of different

sizes. A _procès verbal_ was drawn up, attesting the circumstance,

signed by the magistrates of the municipality, and by several hundreds

of persons inhabiting the district. This curious document is literally

as follows: "In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety, and the

thirtieth day of the month of August, we, the Lieut. Jean Duby, mayor,

and Louis Massillon, procurator of the commune of the municipality of La

Grange-de-Juillac, and Jean Darmite, resident in the parish of La

Grange-de-Juillac, certify in truth and verity, that on Saturday, the

24th of July last, between nine and ten o'clock, there passed a great

fire, and after it we heard in the air a very loud and extraordinary

noise; and about two minutes after there fell stones from heaven; but

fortunately there fell only a very few, and they fell about ten paces

from one another in some places, and in others nearer, and, finally, in

some other places farther; and falling, most of them, of the weight of

about half a quarter of a pound each, some others of about half a pound,

like that found in our parish of La Grange; and on the borders of the

parish of Creon, they were found of a pound weight; and in falling, they

seemed not to be inflamed, but very hard and black without, and within

of the color of steel: and, thank God, they occasioned no harm to the

people, nor to the trees, but only to some tiles which were broken on

the houses; and most of them fell gently, and others fell quickly, with

a hissing noise; and some were found which had entered into the earth,

but very few. In witness thereof, we have written and signed these

presents. Duby, mayor. Darmite." Though such a document as this, coming

from the unlearned of the district where the phenomenon occurred, was

not calculated to win acceptance with the _savans_ of the French

capital, yet it was corroborated by a host of intelligent witnesses at

Bayonne, Thoulouse, and Bordeaux, and by transmitted specimens

containing the substances usually found in atmospheric stones, and in

nearly the same proportions. A few years afterward, an undoubted

instance of the fall of an aërolite occurred in England, which largely

excited public curiosity. This was in the neighborhood of Wold Cottage,

the house of Captain Topham, in Yorkshire. Several persons heard the

report of an explosion in the air, followed by a hissing sound; and

afterward felt a shock, as if a heavy body had fallen to the ground at a

little distance from them. One of these, a plowman, saw a huge stone

falling toward the earth, eight or nine yards from the place where he

stood. It threw up the mould on every side, and after penetrating

through the soil, lodged some inches deep in solid chalk rock. Upon

being raised, the stone was found to weigh fifty-six pounds. It fell in

the afternoon of a mild but hazy day, during which there was no thunder

or lightning; and the noise of the explosion was heard through a

considerable district. It deserves remark, that in most recorded cases

of the descent of projectiles, the weather has been settled, and the sky

clear; a fact which plainly places them apart from the causes which

operate to produce the tempest, and shows the popular term thunder-bolt

to be an entire misnomer.

While this train of circumstances was preparing the philosophic mind of

Europe to admit as a truth what had hitherto been deemed a vulgar error,

and acknowledge the appearance of masses of ignited matter in the

atmosphere occasionally descending to the earth, an account of a

phenomenon of this kind was received from India, vouched by an authority

calculated to secure it general respect. It came from Mr. Williams,

F.R.S., a resident in Bengal. It stated that on December 19th, 1798, at

eight o'clock in the evening, a large, luminous meteor was seen at

Benares and other parts of the country. It was attended with a loud,

rumbling noise, like an ill-discharged platoon of musketry; and about

the same time, the inhabitants of Krakhut, fourteen miles from Benares,

saw the light, heard an explosion, and immediately after the noise of

heavy bodies falling in the neighborhood. The sky had previously been

serene, and not the smallest vestige of a cloud had appeared for many

days. Next morning, the mould in the fields was found to have been

turned up in many spots; and unusual stones, of various sizes, but of

the same substance, were picked out from the moist soil, generally from

a depth of six inches. As the occurrence took place in the night, after

the people had retired to rest, the explosion and the actual fall of the

stones were not observed; but the watchman of an English gentleman, near

Krakhut, brought him a stone the next morning, which had fallen through

the top of his hut, and buried itself in the earthen floor. This event

in India was followed, in the year 1803, by a convincing demonstration

in France, which compelled the eminent men of the capital to believe,

though much against their will. On Tuesday, April 26th, about one in the

afternoon, the weather being serene, there was observed in a part of

Normandy, including Caen, Falaise, Alençon, and a large number of

villages, a fiery globe of great brilliancy moving in the atmosphere

with great rapidity. Some moments after, there was heard in L'Aigle and

in the environs, to the extent of more than thirty leagues in every

direction, a violent explosion, which lasted five or six minutes. At

first there were three or four reports, like those of a cannon, followed

by a kind of discharge which resembled the firing of musketry; after

which there was heard a rumbling like the beating of a drum. The air was

calm, and the sky serene, except a few clouds, such as are frequently

observed. The noise proceeded from a small cloud which had a rectangular

form, and appeared motionless all the time that the phenomenon lasted.

The vapor of which it was composed was projected in all directions at

the successive explosions. The cloud seemed about half a league to the

northeast of the town of L'Aigle, and must have been at a great

elevation in the atmosphere, for the inhabitants of two hamlets, a

league distant from each other, saw it at the same time above their

heads. In the whole canton over which it hovered, a hissing noise like

that of a stone discharged from a sling was heard, and a multitude of

mineral masses were seen to fall to the ground. The largest that fell

weighed 17-1/2 pounds; and the gross number amounted to nearly three

thousand. By the direction of the Academy of Sciences, all the

circumstances of this event were minutely examined by a commission of

inquiry, with the celebrated M. Biot at its head. They were found in

harmony with the preceding relation, and reported to the French minister

of the interior. Upon analyzing the stones, they were found identical

with those of Benares.

The following are the principal facts with reference to the aërolites,

upon which general dependence may be placed. Immediately after their

descent they are always intensely hot. They are covered with a fused

black incrustation, consisting chiefly of oxide of iron; and, what is

most remarkable, their chemical analysis develops the same substances in

nearly the same proportions, though one may have reached the earth in

India and another in England. Their specific gravities are about the

same; considering 1000 as the proportionate number for the specific

gravity of water, that of some of the aërolites has been found to be,

Ensisheim stone 3233

Benares 3352

Sienna 3418

Gassendi's 3456

Yorkshire 3508

Bachelay's 3535

Bohemia 4281.

The greater specific gravity of the Bohemian stone arose from its

containing a greater proportion of iron. An analysis of one of the

stones that fell at L'Aigle gives:

Silica 46 per cent

Magnesia 10 "

Iron 45 "

Nickel 2 "

Sulphur 5 "

Zinc 1 "

Iron is found in all these bodies, and in a considerable quantity, with

the rare metal nickel. It is a singular fact, that though a chemical

examination of their composition has not discovered any substance with

which we were not previously acquainted, yet no other bodies have yet

been found, native to the earth, which contain the same ingredients

combined. Neither products of the volcanoes, whether extinct or in

action, nor the stratified or unstratified rocks, have exhibited a

sample of that combination of metallic and earthy substances which the

meteoric stones present. During the era that science has admitted their

path to the earth as a physical truth, scarcely amounting to half a

century, few years have elapsed without a known instance of descent

occurring in some region of the globe. To Izarn's list, previously

given, upward of seventy cases might be added, which have transpired

during the last forty years. A report relating to one of the most

recent, which fell in a valley near the Cape of Good Hope, with the

affidavits of the witnesses, was communicated to the Royal Society, by

Sir John Herschel, in March, 1840. Previously to the descent of the

aërolites, the usual sound of explosion was heard, and some of the

fragments falling upon grass, caused it instantly to smoke, and were too

hot to admit of being touched. When, however, we consider the wide range

of the ocean, and the vast unoccupied regions of the globe, its

mountains, deserts, and forests, we can hardly fail to admit that the

observed cases of descent must form but a small proportion of the actual

number; and obviously in countries upon which the human race are thickly

planted many may escape notice through descending in the night, and will

lie imbedded in the soil till some accidental circumstance exposes their

existence. Some, too, are no doubt completely fused and dissipated in

the atmosphere, while others move by us horizontally, as brilliant

lights, and pass into the depths of space. The volume of some of these

passing bodies is very great. One which traveled within twenty-five

miles of the surface, and cast down a fragment, was suppose to weigh

upward of half a million of tons. But for its great velocity, the whole

mass would have been precipitated to the earth. Two aërolites fell at

Braunau, in Bohemia, July 14, 1847.

In addition to aërolites, properly so called, or bodies known to have

come to us from outlying space, large metallic masses exist in various

parts of the world, lying in insulated situations, far remote from the

abodes of civilization, whose chemical composition is closely analogous

to that of the substances the descent of which has been witnessed. These

circumstances leave no doubt as to their common origin. Pallas

discovered an immense mass of malleable iron, mixed with nickel, at a

considerable elevation on a mountain of slate in Siberia, a site plainly

irreconcilable with the supposition of art having been there with its

forges, even had it possessed the character of the common iron. In one

of the rooms of the British Museum there is a specimen of a large mass

which was found, and still remains, on the plain of Otumba, in the

district of Buenos Ayres. The specimen alone weighs 1400 lbs., and the

weight of the whole mass, which lies half buried in the ground, is

computed to be thirteen tons. In the province of Bahia, in Brazil,

another block has been discovered weighing upward of six tons.

Considering the situation of these masses, with the details of their

chemical analysis, the presumption is clearly warranted that they owe

their origin to the same causes that have formed and projected the

aërolites to the surface. With reference to the Siberian iron a general

tradition prevails among the Tartars that it formerly descended from the

heavens. A curious extract, translated from the Emperor Tchangire's

memoirs of his own reign is given in a paper communicated to the Royal

Society, which speaks of the fall of a metallic mass in India. The

prince relates, that in the year 1620 (of our era) a violent explosion

was heard at a village in the Punjaub, and at the same time a luminous

body fell through the air on the earth. The officer of the district

immediately repaired to the spot where it was said the body fell, and

having found the place to be still hot, he caused it to be dug. He found

that the heat kept increasing till they reached a lump of iron violently

hot. This was afterward sent to court, where the emperor had it weighed

in his presence, and ordered it to be forged into a sabre, a knife, and

a dagger. After a trial the workmen reported that it was not malleable,

but shivered under the hammer; and it required to be mixed with one

third part of common iron, after which the mass was found to make

excellent blades. The royal historian adds, that on the incident of this

_iron of lightning_ being manufactured, a poet presented him with a

distich that, "during his reign the earth attained order and regularity;

that raw iron fell from lightning, which was, by his world-subduing

authority, converted into a dagger, a knife, and two sabres."

A multitude of theories have been devised to account for the origin of

these remarkable bodies. The idea is completely inadmissible that they

are concretions formed within the limits of the atmosphere. The

ingredients that enter into their composition have never been discovered

in it, and the air has been analyzed at the sea level and on the tops of

high mountains. Even supposing that to have been the case, the enormous

volume of atmospheric air so charged required to furnish the particles

of a mass of several tons, not to say many masses, is, alone, sufficient

to refute the notion. They can not, either, be projectiles from

terrestrial volcanoes, because coincident volcanic activity has not been

observed, and aërolites descend thousands of miles apart from the

nearest volcano, and their substances are discordant with any known

volcanic product. Laplace suggested their projection from lunar

volcanoes. It has been calculated that a projectile leaving the lunar

surface, where there is no atmospheric resistance, with a velocity of

7771 feet in the first second, would be carried beyond the point where

the forces of the earth and the moon are equal, would be detached,

therefore, from the satellite, and come so far within the sphere of the

earth's attraction as necessarily to fall to it. But the enormous number

of ignited bodies that have been visible, the shooting stars of all

ages, and the periodical meteoric showers that have astonished the

moderns, render this hypothesis untenable, for the moon, ere this, would

have undergone such a waste as must have sensibly diminished her orb,

and almost blotted her from the heavens. Olbers, was the first to prove

the possibility of a projectile reaching us from the moon, but at the

same he deemed the event highly improbable, regarding the satellite as a

very peaceable neighbor, not capable now of strong explosions from the

want of water and an atmosphere. The theory of Chladni will account

generally for all the phenomena, be attended with the fewest

difficulties, and, with some modifications to meet circumstances not

known in his day, it is now widely embraced. He conceived the system to

include an immense number of small bodies, either the scattered

fragments of a larger mass, or original accumulations of matter, which,

circulating round the sun, encounter the earth in its orbit, and are

drawn toward it by attraction, become ignited upon entering the

atmosphere, in consequence of their velocity, and constitute the

shooting stars, aërolites, and meteoric appearances that are observed.

Sir Humphry Davy, in a paper which contains his researches on flame,

strongly expresses an opinion that the meteorites are solid bodies

moving in space, and that the heat produced by the compression of the

most rarefied air from the velocity of their motion must be sufficient

to ignite their mass so that they are fused on entering the atmosphere.

It is estimated that a body moving through our atmosphere with the

velocity of one mile in a second, would extricate heat equal to 30,000°

of Fahrenheit--a heat more intense than that of the fiercest artificial

furnace that ever glowed. The chief modification given to the Chladnian

theory has arisen from the observed periodical occurrence of meteoric

showers--a brilliant and astonishing exhibition--to some notices of

which we proceed.

The writers of the middle ages report the occurrence of the stars

falling from heaven in resplendent showers among the physical

appearances of their time. The experience of modern days establishes the

substantial truth of such relations, however once rejected as the

inventions of men delighting in the marvelous. Conde, in his history of

the dominion of the Arabs, states, referring to the month of October in

the year 902 of our era, that on the night of the death of King Ibrahim

ben Ahmed, an infinite number of falling stars were seen to spread

themselves like rain over the heavens from right to left, and this year

was afterward called the year of stars. In some Eastern annals of Cairo,

it is related that "In this year (1029 of our era) in the month Redjeb

(August) many stars passed, with a great noise, and brilliant light;"

and in another place the same document states: "In the year 599, on

Saturday night, in the last Moharrem (1202 of our era, and on the 19th

of October), the stars appeared like waves upon the sky, toward the east

and west; they flew about like grasshoppers, and were dispersed from

left to right; this lasted till day-break; the people were alarmed." The

researches of the Orientalist, M. Von Hammer, have brought these

singular accounts to light. Theophanes, one of the Byzantine historians,

records, that in November of the year 472 the sky appeared to be on fire

over the city of Constantinople with the coruscations of flying meteors.

The chronicles of the West agree with those of the East in reporting

such phenomena. A remarkable display was observed on the 4th of April,

1095, both in France and England. The stars seemed, says one, "falling

like a shower of rain from heaven upon the earth;" and in another case,

a bystander, having noted the spot where an aërolite fell, "cast water

upon it, which was raised in steam, with a great noise of boiling." The

chronicle of Rheims describes the appearance, as if all the stars in

heaven were driven like dust before the wind. "By the reporte of the

common people, in this kynge's time (William Rufus)," says Rastel,

"divers great wonders were sene--and therefore the king was told by

divers of his familiars, that God was not content with his lyvyng, but

he was so wilful and proude of minde, that he regarded little their

saying." There can be no hesitation now in giving credence to such

narrations as these, since similar facts have passed under the notice of

the present generation.

The first grand phenomena of a meteoric shower which attracted attention

in modern times was witnessed by the Moravian Missionaries at their

settlements in Greenland. For several hours the hemisphere presented a

magnificent and astonishing spectacle, that of fiery particles, thick as

hail, crowding the concave of the sky, as though some magazine of

combustion in celestial space was discharging its contents toward the

earth. This was observed over a wide extent of territory. Humboldt, then

traveling in South America, accompanied by M. Bonpland, thus speaks of

it: "Toward the morning of the 13th November, 1799, we witnessed a most

extraordinary scene of shooting meteors. Thousands of bodies and falling

stars succeeded each other during four hours. Their direction was very

regular from north to south. From the beginning of the phenomenon there

was not a space in the firmament equal in extent to three diameters of

the moon which was not filled every instant with bodies of falling

stars. All the meteors left luminous traces or phosphorescent bands

behind them, which lasted seven or eight seconds." An agent of the

United States, Mr. Ellicott, at that time at sea between Cape Florida

and the West India Islands, was another spectator, and thus describes

the scene: "I was called up about three o'clock in the morning, to see

the shooting stars, as they are called. The phenomenon was grand and

awful The whole heavens appeared as if illuminated with sky-rockets,

which disappeared only by the light of the sun after daybreak. The

meteors, which at any one instant of time appeared as numerous as the

stars, flew in all possible directions, except from the earth, toward

which they all inclined more or less; and some of them descended

perpendicularly over the vessel we were in, so that I was in constant

expectation of their falling on us." The same individual states that his

thermometer, which had been at 80° Fahr. for four days preceding, fell

to 56°, and, at the same time, the wind changed from the south to the

northwest, from whence it blew with great violence for three days

without intermission. The Capuchin missionary at San Fernando, a village

amid the savannahs of the province of Varinas, and the Franciscan monks

stationed near the entrance of the Oronoco, also observed this shower of

asteroids, which appears to have been visible, more or less, over an

area of several thousand miles, from Greenland to the equator, and from

the lonely deserts of South America to Weimar in Germany. About thirty

years previous, at the city of Quito, a similar event occurred. So great

a number of falling stars were seen in a part of the sky above the

volcano of Cayambaro, that the mountain itself was thought at first to

be on fire. The sight lasted more than an hour. The people assembled in

the plain of Exida, where a magnificent view presented itself of the

highest summits of the Cordilleras. A procession was already on the

point of setting out from the convent of Saint Francis, when it was

perceived that the blaze on the horizon was caused by fiery meteors,

which ran along the sky in all directions, at the altitude of twelve or

thirteen degrees. In Canada, in the years 1814 and 1819, the stellar

showers were noticed, and in the autumn of 1818 on the North Sea, when,

in the language of one of the observers, the surrounding atmosphere

seemed enveloped in one expansive ocean of fire, exhibiting the

appearance of another Moscow in flames. In the former cases, a residiuum

of dust was deposited upon the surface of the waters, on the roofs of

buildings, and on other objects. The deposition of particles of matter

of a ruddy color has frequently followed the descent of aërolites--the

origin of the popular stories of the sky having rained blood. The next

exhibition upon a great scale of the falling stars occurred on the 13th

of November, 1831, and was seen off the coasts of Spain and in the Ohio

country. This was followed by another in the ensuing year at exactly the

same time. Captain Hammond, then in the Red Sea, off Mocha, in the ship

Restitution, gives the following account of it; "From one o'clock A.M.

till after daylight, there was a very unusual phenomenon in the heavens.

It appeared like meteors bursting in every direction. The sky at the

time was clear, and the stars and moon bright, with streaks of light and

thin white clouds interspersed in the sky. On landing in the morning, I

inquired of the Arabs if they had noticed the above. They said they had

been observing it most of the night. I asked them if ever the like had

appeared before? The oldest of them replied it had not." The shower was

witnessed from the Red Sea westward to the Atlantic, and from

Switzerland to the Mauritius.

We now come to by far the most splendid display on record; which, as it

was the third in successive years, and on the same day of the month as

the two preceding, seemed to invest the meteoric showers with a

periodical character; and hence originated the title of the November

meteors. The chief scene of the exhibition was included within the

limits of the longitude of 61° in the Atlantic Ocean, and that of 100°

in Central Mexico, and from the North American lakes to the West Indies.

Over this wide area, an appearance presented itself, far surpassing in

grandeur the most imposing artificial fire-works. An incessant play of

dazzlingly brilliant luminosities was kept up in the heavens for several

hours. Some of these were of considerable magnitude and peculiar form.

One of large size remained for some time almost stationary in the

zenith, over the Falls of Niagara, emitting streams of light. The wild

dash of the waters, as contrasted with the fiery uproar above them,

formed a scene of unequaled sublimity. In many districts, the mass of

the population were terror-struck, and the more enlightened were awed at

contemplating so vivid a picture of the Apocalyptic image--that of the

stars of heaven falling to the earth, even as a fig-tree casting her

untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. A planter of South

Carolina, thus describes the effect of the scene upon the ignorant

blacks: "I was suddenly awakened by the most distressing cries that ever

fell on my ears. Shrieks of horror and cries for mercy I could hear from

most of the negroes of three plantations, amounting in all to about six

or eight hundred. While earnestly listening for the cause, I heard a

faint voice near the door calling my name. I arose, and taking my sword,

stood at the door. At this moment, I heard the same voice still

beseeching me to rise, and saying, 'O my God, the world is on fire!' I

then opened the door, and it is difficult to say which excited me most

--the awfulness of the scene, or the distressed cries of the negroes.

Upward of one hundred lay prostrate on the ground--some speechless, and

some with the bitterest cries, but with their hands raised, imploring

God to save the world and them. The scene was truly awful; for never did

rain fall much thicker than the meteors fell toward the earth; east,

west, north, and south, it was the same."

[Illustration]

This extraordinary spectacle commenced a little before midnight, and

reached its height between four and six o'clock in the morning. The

night was remarkably fine. Not a cloud obscured the firmament. Upon

attentive observation, the materials of the shower were found to exhibit

three distinct varieties:--1. Phosphoric lines formed one class

apparently described by a point. These were the most abundant. They

passed along the sky with immense velocity, as numerous as the flakes of

a sharp snow-storm. 2. Large fire-balls formed another constituency of

the scene. These darted forth at intervals along the arch of the sky,

describing an arc of 30° or 40° in a few seconds. Luminous trains marked

their path, which remained in view for a number of minutes, and in some

cases for half an hour or more. The trains were commonly white, but the

various prismatic colors occasionally appeared, vividly and beautifully

displayed. Some of these fire-balls, or shooting-stars, were of enormous

size. Dr. Smith of North Carolina observed one which appeared larger

than the full moon at the horizon. "I was startled," he remarks, "by the

splendid light in which the surrounding scene was exhibited, rendering

even small objects quite visible." The same, or a similar luminous body,

seen at New Haven, passed off in a northwest direction, and exploded

near the star Capella. 3. Another class consisted of luminosities of

irregular form, which remained nearly stationary for a considerable

time, like the one that gleamed aloft over the Niagara Falls. The

remarkable circumstance is testified by every witness, that all the

luminous bodies, without a single exception, moved in lines, which

converged in one and the same point of the heavens; a little to the

southeast of the zenith. They none of them started from this point, but

their direction, to whatever part of the horizon it might be, when

traced backward, led to a common focus. Conceive the centre of the

diagram to be nearly overhead, and a proximate idea may be formed of the

character of the scene, and the uniform radiation of the meteors from

the same source. The position of this radiant point among the stars was

near [Greek: g] Leonis. It remained stationary with respect to the stars

during the whole of the exhibition. Instead of accompanying the earth in

its diurnal motion eastward, it attended the stars in their apparent

movement westward. The source of the meteoric shower was thus

independent of the earth's rotation, and this shows its position to have

been in the regions of space exterior to our atmosphere. According to

the American Professor, Dr. Olmsted, it could not have been less than

2238 miles above the earth's surface.

[Illustration]

The attention of astronomers in Europe, and all over the world, was, as

may be imagined, strongly roused by intelligence of this celestial

display on the western continent; and as the occurrence of a meteoric

shower had now been observed for three years successively, at a

coincident era, it was inferred that a return of this fiery hail-storm

might be expected in succeeding Novembers. Arrangements were therefore

made to watch the heavens on the nights of the 12th and 13th in the

following years at the principal observatories; and though no such

imposing spectacle as that of 1833 has been witnessed, yet extraordinary

flights of shooting stars have been observed in various places at the

periodic time, tending also from a fixed point in the constellation Leo.

They were seen in Europe and America on November 13th, 1834. The

following results of simultaneous observation were obtained by Arago

from different parts of France on the nights of November 12th and 13th,

1830:

Place. Meteors.

Paris, at the Observatory 170

Dieppe 36

Arras 27

Strasburg 85

Von Altimarl 75

Angou 49

Rochefort 23

Havre 300

On November 12th, 1837, at eight o'clock in the evening, the attention

of observers in various parts of Great Britain was directed to a bright,

luminous body, apparently proceeding from the north, which, after making

a rapid descent, in the manner of a rocket, suddenly burst, and

scattering its particles into various beautiful forms, vanished in the

atmosphere. This was succeeded by others all similar to the first, both

in shape and the manner of its ultimate disappearance. The whole display

terminated at ten o'clock, when dark clouds which continued up to a late

hour, overspread the earth, preventing any further observation. In the

November of 1838, at the same date, the falling stars were abundant at

Vienna: and one of remarkable brilliancy and size, as large as the full

moon in the zenith, was seen on the 13th by M. Verusmor, off Cherburg,

passing in the direction of Cape La Hogue, a long, luminous train

marking its course through the sky. The same year, the non-commissioned

officers in the island of Ceylon were instructed to look out for the

falling stars. Only a few appeared at the usual time; but on the 5th of

December, from nine o'clock till midnight, the shower was incessant,

and the number defied all attempts at counting them.

[Illustration]

Professor Olmsted, an eminent man of science, himself an eye-witness of

the great meteoric shower on the American continent, after carefully

collecting and comparing facts, proposed the following theory: The

meteors of November 13th, 1833, emanated from a nebulous body which was

then pursuing its way along with the earth around the sun; that this

body continues to revolve around the sun in an elliptical orbit, but

little inclined to the plane of the ecliptic, and having its aphelion

near the orbit of the earth; and finally, that the body has a period of

nearly six months, and that its perihelion is a little within the orbit

of Mercury. The diagram represents the ellipse supposed to be described,

E being the orbit of the earth, M that of Mercury, and N that of the

assumed nebula, its aphelion distance being about 95 millions of miles,

and the perihelion 24 millions. Thus, when in aphelion, the body is

close to the orbit of the earth, and this occurring periodically, when

the earth is at the same time in that part of its orbit, nebulous

particles are attracted toward it by its gravity, and then, entering the

atmosphere, are consumed in it by their concurrent velocities, causing

the appearance of a meteoric shower. The parent body is inferred to be

nebular, because, though the meteors fall toward the earth with

prodigious velocity, few, if any, appear to have reached the surface.

They were stopped by the resistance of the air and dissipated in it,

whereas, if they had possessed any considerable quantity of matter, the

momentum would have been sufficient to have brought them down in some

instances to the earth. Arago has suggested a similar theory, that of a

stream or group of innumerable bodies, comparatively small, but of

various dimensions, sweeping round the solar focus in an orbit which

periodically cuts that of the earth. These two theories are in substance

the Chladnian hypothesis, first started to explain the observed actual

descent of aërolites. Though great obscurity rests upon the subject, the

fact may be deemed certain that independently of the great planets and

satellites of the system, there are vast numbers of bodies circling

round the sun, both singly and in groups, and probably an extensive

nebula, contact with which causes the phenomena of shooting stars,

aërolites, and meteoric showers. But admitting the existence of such

bodies to be placed beyond all doubt, the question of their origin,

whether original accumulations of matter, old as the planetary orbs, or

the dispersed trains of comets, or the remains of a ruined world, is a

point beyond the power of the human understanding to reach.

A FIVE DAYS' TOUR IN THE ODENWALD.

A SKETCH OF GERMAN LIFE.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

The Odenwald, or Forest of Odin, is one of the most primitive districts

of Germany. It consists of a hilly, rather than a mountainous district,

of some forty miles in one direction, and thirty in another. The

beautiful Neckar bounds it on the south; on the west it is terminated by

the sudden descent of its hills into the great Rhine plain. This

boundary is well known by the name of the Bergstrasse, or mountain road;

which road, however, was at the foot of the mountains, and not over

them, as the name would seem to imply. To English travelers, the beauty

of this Bergstrasse is familiar. The hills, continually broken into by

openings into romantic valleys, slope rapidly down to the plain, covered

with picturesque vineyards; and at their feet lie antique villages, and

the richly-cultivated plains of the Rhine, here thirty or forty miles

wide. On almost every steep and projecting hill, or precipitous cliff,

stands a ruined castle, each, as throughout Germany, with its wild

history, its wilder traditions, and local associations of a hundred

kinds. The railroad from Frankfort to Heidelberg now runs along the

Bergstrasse, and will ever present to the eyes of travelers the charming

aspect of these old legendary hills; till the enchanting valley of the

Neckar, with Heidelberg reposing amid its lovely scenery at its mouth,

terminates the Bergstrasse, and the hills which stretch onward, on the

way toward Carlsruhe, assume another name.

Every one ascending the Rhine from Mayence to Mannheim has been struck

with the beauty of these Odenwald hills, and has stood watching that

tall white tower on the summit of one of them, which, with windings of

the river, seem now brought near, and then again thrown very far off;

seemed to watch and haunt you, and, for many hours, to take short cuts

to meet you, till, at length, like a giant disappointed of his prey, it

glided away into the gray distance, and was lost in the clouds. This is

the tower of Melibocus, above the village of Auerbach, to which we shall

presently ascend, in order to take our first survey of this old and

secluded haunt of Odin.

This quiet region of hidden valleys and deep forests extends from the

borders of the Black Forest, which commences on the other side of the

Neckar, to the Spessart, another old German forest; and in the other

direction, from Heidelberg and Darmstadt, toward Heilbronn. It is full

of ancient castles, and a world of legends. In it stands, besides the

Melibocus, another tower, on a still loftier point, called the

Katzenbuckel, which overlooks a vast extent of these forest hills. Near

this lies Eberbach, a castle of the descendants of Charlemagne, which we

shall visit; the scenes of the legend of the Wild Huntsman; the castles

of Götz von Berlichingen, and many another spot familiar by its fame to

our minds from childhood. But besides this, the inhabitants are a people

living in a world of their own; retaining all the simplicity of their

abodes and habits; and it is only in such a region that you now

recognize the pictures of German life such as you find them in the _Haus

Märchen_ of the brothers Grimm.

In order to make ourselves somewhat acquainted with this interesting

district, Mrs. Howitt and myself, with knapsack on back, set out at the

end of August, 1841, to make a few days' ramble on foot through it. The

weather, however, proved so intensely hot, and the electrical sultriness

of the woods so oppressive, that we only footed it one day, when we were

compelled to make use of a carriage, much to our regret.

On the last day in August we drove with a party of friends, and our

children, to Weinheim; rambled through its vineyards, ascended to its

ancient castle, and then went on to Birkenau Thal, a charming valley,

celebrated, as its name denotes, for its lovely hanging birches, under

which, with much happy mirth, we dined.

Scrambling among the hills, and winding up the dry footpaths, among the

vineyards of this neighborhood, we were yet more delighted with the

general beauty of the scenery, and with the wild-flowers which every

where adorned the hanging cliffs and warm waysides. The marjorum stood

in ruddy and fragrant masses; harebells and campanulas of several kinds,

that are cultivated in our gardens, with bells large and clear; crimson

pinks; the Michaelmas daisy; a plant with a thin, radiated yellow

flower, of the character of an aster; a centaurea of a light purple,

handsomer than any English one; a thistle in the dryest places,

resembling an eryngo, with a thick, bushy top; mulleins, yellow and

white; the wild mignonnette, and the white convolvulus; and clematis

festooning the bushes, recalled the flowery fields and lanes of England,

and yet told us that we were not there. The meadows had also their moist

emerald sward scattered with the grass of Parnassus, and an autumnal

crocus of a particularly delicate lilac.

At the inn, at the mouth of Birkenau Thal, we proposed to take the

eilwagen as far as Auerbach, but that not arriving, we availed ourselves

of a peasant's light wicker wagon. The owner was a merry fellow, and had

a particularly spirited black horse; and taking leave of our friends,

after a delightful day, we had a most charming drive to Auerbach, and

one equally amusing, from the conversation of our driver.

After tea we ascended to Auerbach Castle, which occupies a hill above

the town, still far overtopped, however, by the height of Melibocus. The

view was glorious. The sunset across the great Rhine plain was

magnificent. It diffused over the whole western sky an atmosphere of

intense crimson light, with scattered golden clouds, and surrounded by a

deep violet splendor. The extremities of the plain, from the eye being

dazzled with this central effulgence, lay in a solemn and nearly

impenetrable gloom. The castle in ruins, seen by this light, looked

peculiarly beautiful and impressive. In the court on the wall was an

inscription, purporting that a society in honor of the military career

of the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt, in whose territory and in that of

Baden the Odenwald chiefly lies, had here celebrated his birthday in the

preceding July. Round the inscription hung oaken garlands, within each

of which was written the name and date of the battles in which he had

been engaged against the French. An altar of moss and stones stood at a

few yards' distance in front of these memorials, at which a peasant

living in the tower told us, the field-preacher had delivered an oration

on the occasion.

In the morning, at five o'clock, we began to ascend the neighboring

heights of Melibocus. It took us an hour and a quarter. The guide

carried my knapsack; and as we went, men came up through different

footpaths in the woods, with hoes on their shoulders. When we arrived

on the top, we found others, and among them some women, accompanied by a

policeman. They were peasants who had been convicted of cutting wood for

fuel in the hills, and were adjudged to pay a penalty, or in default, to

work it out in hoeing and clearing the young plantations for a

proportionate time--a much wiser way than shutting them up in a prison,

where they are of no use either to themselves or the state.

The view from the tower, eighty feet in height, over the great Rhine

plain, is immense and splendid, including two hundred villages, towns,

and cities. The windings of the magnificent Rhine lie mapped out below

you, and on its banks are seen, as objects of peculiar interest, the

cathedral of Speier, the lofty dome of the Jesuits' church at Mannheim,

and the four towers of the noble cathedral of Worms. In the remote

distance, as a fitting termination to this noble landscape, are seen the

heights of the Donnersberg, the Vosges, and the Schwarzwald.

The policeman, who followed us up into the tower, mentioned the time

when the inhabitants of that district had hastened thither to watch the

approach of the French armies, and pointed out the spot where they were

first seen, and described their approach, and the terrors and anxieties

of the people, in the most lively and touching manner.

The wind was strong on this lofty height, and the rattling of the

shutters in the look-out windows in the tower, and of their fastenings,

would have been dismal enough on a stormy night, and gave quite a

wildness to it even then. The view over the Odenwald was beautiful. Half

covered with wood, as far as you could see, with green, winding straths

between them, distant castles, and glimpses of the white walls of

low-lying dorfs or villages, it gave you an idea of a region at once

solitary and attractive. The whole was filled with the cheerful light of

morning, and the wooded hills looked of the most brilliant green. We

descended, and pursued our way through the forest glades with that

feeling of enjoyment which the entrance into an unknown region, pleasant

companionship, and fine weather, inspire. When we issued from the woods

which clothe the sides of Melibocus, we sate down on the heathy turf,

and gazed with a feeling of ever-youthful delight on the scene around

us. Above us, and over its woods, rose the square white tower of

Melibocus; below, lay green valleys, from among whose orchards issued

the smoke of peaceful cottages; and beyond, rose hills covered with

other woods, with shrouded spots, the legends of which had reached us in

England, and had excited the wonder of our early days--the castle of the

Wild Huntsman--the traditions of the followers of Odin--and the

strongholds of many an iron-clad knight, as free to seize the goods of

his neighbors as he was strong to take and keep them. Now all was

peaceful and Arcadian. We met, as we descended into the valley, young

women coming up with their cows, and a shepherd with a mixed flock of

sheep and swine. He had a belt around him, to which hung a chain,

probably to fasten a cow to, as we afterward saw cows so secured.

We found the cottages, in the depths of the valleys, among their

orchards, just those heavy, old-fashioned sort of things that we see in

German engravings; buildings of wood-framing, the plaster panels of

which were painted in various ways, and the windows of those circular

and octagon panes which, from old association, always seem to belong to

German cottages, just such as that in which the old witch lived in

_Grimm's Kinder und Haus Märchen_; and in the _Folk Sagor_ of Sweden and

Norway. There were, too, the large ovens built out of doors and roofed

over, such as the old giantess, _Käringen som vardt stekt i ugnen_, was

put into, according to German and Scandinavian legends. The people were

of the simplest character and appearance. We seemed at once to have

stepped out of modern times into the far-past ages. We saw several

children sitting on a bench in the open air, near a school-house,

learning their lessons, and writing on their slates; and we wept into

the school.

The schoolmaster was a man befitting the place; simple, rustic, and

devout. He told us that the boys and girls, of which his school was

full, came, some of them, from a considerable distance. They came in at

six o'clock in the morning and staid till eight, had an hour's rest, and

then came in till eleven, when they went home, and did not return again

till the next morning, being employed the rest of the day in helping

their parents; in going into the woods for fuel; into the fields to

glean, tend cattle, cut grass, or do what was wanted. All the barefooted

children of every village, how ever remote, thus acquire a tolerable

education, learning singing as a regular part of it. They have what they

call their _Sing-Stunde_, singing lesson, every day. On a black board

the _Lied_, song, or hymn for the day, was written in German character

in chalk; and the master, who was naturally anxious to exhibit the

proficiency of his scholars, gave them their singing lesson while we

were there. The scene was very interesting in itself; but there was

something humiliating to our English minds, to think that in the

Odenwald, a portion of the great Hyrcanian forest, a region associating

itself with all that is wild and obscure, every child of every hamlet

and cottage, however secluded, was provided with that instruction which

the villages of England are in a great measure yet destitute of. But

here the peasants are not, as with us, totally cut off from property in

the soil which they cultivate; totally dependent on the labor afforded

by others; on the contrary, they are themselves the possessors. This

country is, in fact, in the hands of the people. It is all parceled out

among the multitude; and, wherever you go, instead of the great halls,

vast parks, and broad lands of the few, you see perpetual evidences of

an agrarian system. Except the woods, the whole land is thrown into

small allotments, and upon them the people are laboring busily for

themselves.

Here, in the Odenwald, the harvest, which in the great Rhine plain was

over in July, was now, in great measure, cut. Men, women, and children,

were all engaged in cutting it, getting it in, or in tending the cattle.

Everywhere stood the simple wagons of the country with their pair of

yoked cows. Women were doing all sorts of work; reaping, and mowing, and

threshing with the men. They were without shoes and stockings, clad in a

simple, dark-blue petticoat; a body of the same, leaving the white

chemise sleeves as a pleasing contrast; and their hair, in some

instances, turned up under their little black or white caps; in others

hanging wild and sunburnt on their shoulders. The women, old and young,

work as hard as the men, at all kinds of work, and yet with right

good-will, for they work for themselves. They often take their dinners

with them to the fields, frequently giving the lesser children a piece

of bread each, and locking them up in their cottages till they return.

This would be thought a hard life in England; but hard as it is, it is

better than the degradation of agricultural laborers, in a dear country

like England, with six or eight shillings a week, and no cow, no pig,

no fruit for the market, no house, garden, or field of their own; but,

on the contrary, constant anxiety, the fear of a master on whom they are

constantly dependent, and the desolate prospect of ending their days in

a union work-house.

Each German has his house, his orchard, his road-side trees, so laden

with fruit, that if he did not carefully prop up, and tie together, and

in many places hold the boughs together with wooden clamps, they would

be torn asunder by their own weight. He has his corn-plot, his plot for

mangel-wurzel or hay, for potatoes, for hemp, etc. He is his own master,

and he therefore, and every branch of his family, have the strongest

motives for constant exertion. You see the effect of this in his

industry and his economy.

In Germany, nothing is lost. The produce of the trees and the cows is

carried to market. Much fruit is dried for winter use. You see wooden

trays of plums, cherries, and sliced apples, lying in the sun to dry.

You see strings of them hanging from their chamber windows in the sun.

The cows are kept up for the greater part of the year, and every green

thing is collected for them. Every little nook where the grass prows by

roadside, and river, and brook, is carefully cut with the sickle, and

carried home, on the heads of women and children, in baskets, or tied in

large cloths. Nothing of any kind that can possibly be made of any use

is lost. Weeds, nettles, nay, the very goose-grass which covers waste

places, is cut up and taken for the cows. You see the little children

standing in the streets of the villages, in the streams which generally

run down them, busy washing these weeds before they are given to the

cattle. They carefully collect the leaves of the marsh-grass, carefully

cut their potato tops for them, and even, if other things fail, gather

green leaves from the woodlands. One can not help thinking continually

of the enormous waste of such things in England--of the vast quantities

of grass on banks, by roadsides, in the openings of plantations, in

lanes, in church-yards, where grass from year to year springs and dies,

but which, if carefully cut, would maintain many thousand cows for the

poor.

To pursue still further this subject of German economy. The very

cuttings of the vines are dried and preserved for winter fodder. The

tops and refuse of the hemp serve as bedding for the cows; nay, even the

rough stalks of the poppies, after the heads have been gathered for oil,

are saved, and all these are converted into manure for the land. When

these are not sufficient, the children are sent into the woods to gather

moss; and all our readers familiar with Germany will remember to have

seen them coming homeward with large bundles of this on their heads. In

autumn, the falling leaves are gathered and stocked for the same

purpose. The fir-cones, which with us lie and rot in the woods, are

carefully collected, and sold for lighting fires.

In short, the economy and care of the German peasant are an example to

all Europe. He has for years--nay, ages--been doing that, as it regards

agricultural management, to which the British public is but just now

beginning to open its eyes. Time, also, is as carefully economized as

every thing else. They are early risers, as may well be conceived, when

the children, many of whom come from considerable distances, are in

school at six in the morning. As they tend their cattle, or their swine,

the knitting never ceases, and hence the quantities of stockings, and

other household things, which they accumulate, are astonishing.

We could not help, as often before, being struck in the Odenwald with

the resemblance of the present country and life of the Germans to those

of the ancient Hebrews. Germany, like Judea, is literally a land flowing

with milk and honey: a land of corn, and vine, and oil. The plains are

full of corn; the hill-sides, however stony, are green with vineyards;

and though they have not the olive, they procure vast quantities of oil

from the walnut, the poppy, and the rape. The whole country is parceled

out among its people. There are no hedges, but the landmarks, against

the removal of which the Jewish law so repeatedly and so emphatically

denounces its terrors, alone indicate the boundaries of each man's

possession. Every where you see the ox and the heifer toiling beneath

the primitive yoke, as in the days of David. The threshing-floor of

Araunah often comes to your mind when you see the different members of a

family--father, mother, brother, and sister, all threshing out their

corn together on the mud floor of their barn; but much more so when you

see them, in the corn-field itself, collect the sheaves into one place,

and treading down the earth into a solid floor, there, in the face of

heaven and fanned by its winds, thresh out on the spot the corn which

has been cut. This we saw continually going forward on the steep slopes

of the Odenwald, ten or a dozen men and women all threshing together. A

whole field is thus soon threshed, the corn being beaten out much more

easily while the ear is crisp with the hot sun.

Having taken leave of the schoolmaster, his scholars, and his bees, with

whose hives nearly all his house-side was covered, we pursued our way to

the Jägerhaus on the top of the Felsberg, one of the highest hills in

the Odenwald. The day was splendid, with a fine breeze, and all around

was new, cheerful, yet solitary, bright and inspiriting. The peasants in

the harvest-fields, the herds watching their cattle, gave us a passing

salutation, and when within sight of you, took off their hats, even at a

field's distance. We walked on in great enjoyment, here sitting to look

back on the scenes we had left, or to drink from the glittering waters

that we had to pass.

Just as we were about to enter the woods again, we met an old woman

slowly wandering on from some cottages among the trees by the wood-side.

She had a leathern belt round her waist, and a cord fastened to it, by

which she led her cow to graze in the thickets and by the foot-path,

while her hands were busy with her knitting. A boy, about seven years

old, was leading a kid by a chain, letting it crop the flowers of the

hawkweed in the grass. The old woman saluted us cheerfully; told us that

the boy's father was in America, and his mother gone out to service, and

that he was intrusted to her care. Could there be any thing more like a

scene in the old _Märchen_, or less like one in England?

[From Howitt's Country Year-Book.]

THE MYSTERIOUS PREACHER.

In one of those strolls which I have always loved to take into different

and little frequented parts of these kingdoms, I fell in with a

venerable old man, dressed in black, with very white hair, and of a

mild, somewhat melancholy and intelligent look. It was a beautiful scene

where I first encountered him--in a wood, on the banks of a noble river.

I accosted the old man with a remark on the delightfulness of the time

and place; and he replied to my observations with a warmth, and in a

tone, which strongly affected me. I soon found that he was as

enthusiastic a lover of nature as myself--that he had seen many of the

finest portions of the kingdom, and had wandered through them with

Milton or Shakspeare, Herbert or Quarles, in his hand. He was one of

those who, reading with his own eyes and heart, and not through the

spectacles of critics, had not been taught to despise the last old poet,

nor to treat his rich and quaint versification, and his many manly and

noble thoughts, as the conceits and rhymes of a poetaster. His reverence

for the great names of our literature, and his just appreciation of

their works, won upon me greatly. I invited him to continue his walk;

and--so well was I pleased with him--to visit me at my rustic lodgment.

From that day, for some weeks, we daily walked together. I more and more

contemplated with admiration and esteem the knowledge, the fine taste,

the generous sentiments, the profound love of nature which seemed to

fill the whole being of the old man. But who and whence was he? He said

not a word on that subject, and I did not, therefore, feel freedom to

inquire. He might have secret griefs, which such a query might awaken. I

respect too much the wounded heart of humanity carelessly to probe it,

and especially the heart of a solitary being who, in the downward stage

of life, may, perchance, be the stripped and scathed remnant of a

once-endeared family. He stood before me alone. He entered into

reminiscences, but they were reminiscences connected with no near ties;

but had such ties now existed, he would in some hour of frank enthusiasm

have said so. He did not say it, and it was, therefore, sufficiently

obvious, that he had a history which he left down in the depths of his

heart, beyond the vision of all but that heart itself. And yet, whatever

were the inward memories of this venerable man, there was a buoyancy and

youthfulness of feeling about him which amply manifested that they had

not quenched the love and enjoyment of life in him.

On different days we took, during the most beautiful spring, strolls of

many miles into distant dales and villages, and on the wild brown moors.

Now we sate by a moorland stream, talking of many absorbing things in

the history of the poetry and the religion of our country, and I could

plainly see that my ancient friend had in him the spirit of an old

Covenanter, and that, had he lived in the days of contest between the

church of kings and the church of God, he would have gone to the field

or the stake for his faith as triumphantly as any martyr of those times.

It was under the influence of one of these conversations that I could

not avoid addressing to the old man the following youthful stanzas,

which, though they may exhibit little poetry, testify to the patriotism

which his language inspired:

My friend! there have been men

To whom we turn again

After contemplating the present age,

And long, with vain regret,

That they were living yet,

Virtue's high war triumphantly to wage.

Men whose renown was built

Not on resplendent guilt--

Not through life's waste, or the abuse of power,

But by the dauntless zeal

With which at truth's appeal,

They stood unto the death in some eventful hour.

But he who now shall deem,

Because among us seem

No dubious symptoms of a realm's decline--

Wealth blind with its excess

'Mid far-diffused distress,

And pride that kills, professing to refine--

He who deems hence shall flow

The utter overthrow

Of this most honored and long happy land,

Little knows what there lies

Even beneath his eyes,

Slumbering in forms that round about him stand.

Little knows he the zeal

Myriads of spirits feel

In love, pure principle, and knowledge strong;

Little knows he what men

Tread this dear land again,

Whose souls of fire invigorate the throng.

My friend! I lay with thee

Beneath the forest tree,

When spring was shedding her first sweets around.

And the bright sky above

Woke feelings of deep love,

And thoughts which traveled through the blue profound.

I lay, and as I heard--

The joyful faith thus stirred,

Shot like Heaven's lightning through my wondering breast

I heard, and in my thought

Glory and greatness wrought,

And blessing God--my native land I blest.

Now we entered a village inn, and ate our simple luncheon; and now we

stood in some hamlet lane, or by its mossy well, with a group of

children about us, among whom not a child appeared more child-like or

more delighted than the old man. Nay, as we came back from a fifteen or

twenty miles' stroll, he would leap over a stile with the activity of a

boy, or run up to a wilding bush, covered with its beautiful pink

blossoms, and breaking off a branch hold it up in admiration, and

declare that it appeared almost sinful for an old man like him to enjoy

himself so keenly. I know not when I more deeply felt the happiness and

the holiness of existence, the wealth of intellect, and the blessings of

our fancies, sympathies, and affection, than I used to do as this

singular stranger sate with me on the turf-seat at the vine-covered end

of the old cottage, which then made my temporary residence, on the

serene evenings of that season, over our rustic tea-table, and with the

spicy breath of the wall-flowers of that little garden breathing around

us, and held conversation on many a subject of moral and intellectual

speculation which then deeply interested me. In some of those evening

hours he at length gave me glimpses into his past existence. Things more

strange and melancholy than I could ever have suspected had passed over

him, and only the more interested me in him.

Such had been our acquaintance for some months, when, one evening,

happening to be in the neighboring town, and passing through a

densely-populated part of it, I saw a number of people crowding into a

chapel. With my usual curiosity in all that relates to the life, habits,

and opinions of my fellow-men, I entered, and was no little surprised to

behold my ancient friend in the pulpit. As I believed he had not

observed me enter, and as I was desirous to hear my worthy friend, thus

most unexpectedly found in this situation, without attracting his

attention, I therefore seated myself in the shade of a pillar, and

awaited the sermon. My surprise, as I listened to it, was excessive, on

more accounts than one. I was surprised at the intense, fervid, and

picturesque blaze of eloquence that breathed forth from the preacher,

seeming to light up the whole place, and fill it with an unearthly and

cloudy fire. I was more astonished by the singularity and wildness of

the sentiments uttered. I looked again and again at the rapt and

ecstatic preacher. His frame seemed to expand, and to be buoyed up, by

his glowing enthusiasm, above the very height of humanity. His hair,

white as snow, seemed a pale glory burning round his head, and his

countenance, warm with the expression of his entranced spirit, was

molten into the visage of a pleading seraph, who saw the terrors of the

Divinity revealed before him, and felt only that they for whom he

wrestled were around him. _They_ hung upon that awful and unearthly

countenance with an intensity which, in beings at the very bar of

eternal judgment, hanging on the advocacy of an angel, could scarcely

have been exceeded; and when he ceased, and sat down, a sigh, as from

every heart at once, went through the place, which marked the fall of

their rapt imaginations from the high region whither his words and

expressive features had raised them, to the dimness and reality of

earth. I could scarcely persuade myself that this was my late friend of

the woods and fields, and of the evening discourse, so calm and

dispassionate, over our little tea-table.

I escaped cautiously with the crowd, and eagerly interrogated a man who

passed out near me who was the preacher? He looked at me with an air of

surprise; but seeing me a stranger, he said he thought I could not have

been in those parts long, or I should have known Mr. M----. I then

learned that my venerable acquaintance was one whose name was known far

and wide--known for the strange and fascinating powers of his pulpit

eloquence, and for the peculiarity of his religious views. The

singularity of those notions alone had prevented his becoming one of the

most popular religious orators of his time. They had been the source of

perpetual troubles and persecutions to him, they had estranged from him

the most zealous of his friends from time to time; yet they were such

only as he could lay down at the threshold of Divine judgment; and

still, wherever he went, although they were a root of bitterness to him

in private, he found in public a crowd of eager and enthusiastic

hearers, who hung on his words as if they came at once warm from the

inner courts of heaven.

The sense of this discovery, and of the whole strange scene of the last

evening, hung powerfully upon me through the following day. I sat on the

bench of my cottage window, with a book in my hand, the greater part of

it, but my thoughts continually reverted to the image of the preacher in

the midst of his audience; when, at evening, in walked the old man with

his usual quiet smile, and shaking me affectionately by the hand, sat

down in a wooden chair opposite me. I looked again and again, but in

vain, to recognize the floating figure and the exalted countenance of

the evening.

The old man took up my book, and began to read. A sudden impulse seized

me which I have never ceased to regret. I did not wish abruptly to tell

the old man that I had seen him in the pulpit, but I longed to discuss

with him the ground of his peculiar views, and said,

"What do you think, my friend, of the actual future destiny of the--?"

I made the question include his peculiar doctrines. He laid down the

volume with a remarkable quickness of action. He gazed at me for a

moment with a look humbled but not confused, such as I had never seen in

him before, and, in a low voice, said,

"You were then at my chapel last night?"

"I was," I replied.

"I am sorry--I am sorry," he said, rising with a sigh. "It has been a

pleasant time, but it is ended. Good-by, my dear young friend, and may

God bless you!"

He turned silently but quickly away.

"Stop!" I cried. "Stop!" But he heard or heeded not. I ran to the gate

to lay hold on him, and assure him that his sentiments would not alter

my regard for him, but I observed him already hastening down the lane at

such a speed that I judged it rude and useless at that moment to pursue.

I went down that day to his lodgings, to assure him of my sentiments

toward him, but door and window were closed, and if he were in he would

not hear me. Early next morning a little ragged boy brought me a note,

saying a gentleman in the lane had given it to him. It simply said:

"Dear young friend, good-by. You wonder at my abruptness; but my

religion has always been fatal to my friendship. You will say it would

not with you: so has many another assured me; but I am too well schooled

by bitter experience. I have had a call to a distant place. No one knows

of it, and I trust the name to no one. The pleasure of your society has

detained me, or I had obeyed the call a month ago. May we meet in

Heaven! C.M."

He was actually gone, and no one knew whither.

Time had passed over, and I had long imagined this strange and gifted

being in his grave, when in a wild and remote part of the kingdom, the

other day, I accidentally stumbled upon his retreat, and found him in

his pulpit with the same rapt aspect, uttering an harangue as exciting,

and surrounded by an audience as eagerly devouring his words.

[From Chesney's Expedition to the Euphrates and Tigris.]

ASSYRIAN SECTS.

There are two remarkable sects, one of which, called the Mendajaha

(disciples of John), is found scattered in small communities in Basrah,

Kurnah, Mohammarah, and, lastly, Sheikh el Shuyukh, where there are

about three hundred families. Those of Basrah are noticed by Pietro de

la Valle who says the Arabs call them Sabeans. Their religion is

evidently a mixture of Paganism, Hebrew, Mohammedan, and Christian. They

profess to regulate their lives by a book called the Sidra, containing

many moral precepts, which, according to tradition, have been handed

down from Adam, through Seth and Enoch; and it is understood to be in

their language (the Chaldee), but written in a peculiar character. They

abhor circumcision, but are very particular in distinguishing between

clean and unclean animals, and likewise in keeping the Sabbath with

extraordinary strictness. The Psalms of David are in use, but they are

held to be inferior to their own book. They abstain from garlic, beans,

and several kinds of pulse, and likewise most carefully from every

description of food between sunrise and sunset during a whole moon

before the vernal equinox; in addition to which, an annual festival is

kept, called the feast of five days. Much respect is entertained for the

city of Mecca, and a still greater reverence for the Pyramids of Egypt,

in one of which they believe that their great progenitor, Saba, son of

Seth, is buried; and to his original residence at Haran they make very

particular pilgrimages, sacrificing on these occasions a ram and a hen.

They pray seven times a day, turning sometimes to the south and

sometimes to the north. But, at the same time, they retain a part of the

ancient worship of the heavenly bodies, adding that of angels, with the

belief that the souls of the wicked are to enjoy a happier state after

nine hundred centuries of suffering. The priests, who are called

sheikhs, or chiefs, use a particular kind of baptism, which, they say,

was instituted by St. John; and the Chaldee language is used in this and

other ceremonies.

The other religion, that of a more numerous branch, the Yezidis, is, in

some respects, like the Mendajaha, but with the addition of the evil

principle, the exalted doctor, who, as an instrument of the divine will,

is propitiated rather than worshiped, as had been once supposed. The

Yezidis reverence Moses, Christ, and Mohammed, in addition to many of

the saints and prophets held in veneration both by Christians and

Moslems. They adore the sun, as symbolical of Christ, and believe in an

intermediate state after death. The Yezidis of Sinjar do not practice

circumcision, nor do they eat pork; but they freely partake of the blood

of other animals. Their manners are simple, and their habits, both

within and without, remarkable for cleanliness. They are, besides,

brave, hospitable, sober, faithful, and, with the exception of the

Mohammedan, are inclined to tolerate other religions; they are, however,

lamentably deficient in every branch of education. Polygamy is not

permitted, and the tribes intermarry with each other. The families of

the father and sons live under the same roof, and the patriarchal system

is carried out still further, each village being under its own

hereditary chief.

THE APPROACH OF CHRISTMAS.

The time draws near the birth of Christ,

The moon is hid, the night is still;

A single church below the hill

Is pealing, folded in the mist

A single peal of bells below,

That wakens at this hour of rest

A single murmur in the breast,

That these are not the bells I know

Like strangers' voices here they sound,

In lands where not a memory strays,

Nor landmark breathes of other days.

But all is new unhallow'd ground.

TENNYSON'S "_In Memoriam_".

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

UGLINESS REDEEMED--A TALE OF A LONDON DUST-HEAP.

On a murky morning in November, wind northeast, a poor old woman with a

wooden leg was seen struggling against the fitful gusts of the bitter

breeze, along a stony, zig-zag road full of deep and irregular

cart-ruts. Her ragged petticoat was blue, and so was her wretched nose.

A stick was in her left hand, which assisted her to dig and hobble her

way along; and in her other hand, supported also beneath her withered

arm, was a large, rusty, iron sieve. Dust and fine ashes filled up all

the wrinkles in her face; and of these there were a prodigious number,

for she was eighty-three years old. Her name was Peg Dotting.

About a quarter of a mile distant, having a long ditch and a broken-down

fence as a foreground, there rose against the muddled-gray sky, a huge

dust-heap of a dirty-black color--being, in fact, one of those immense

mounds of cinders, ashes, and other emptyings from dust-holes and bins,

which have conferred celebrity on certain suburban neighborhoods of a

great city. Toward this dusky mountain old Peg Dotting was now making

her way.

Advancing toward the dust-heap by an opposite path, very narrow and just

reclaimed from the mud by a thick layer of freshly broken flints, there

came at the same time Gaffer Doubleyear, with his bone-bag slung over

his shoulder. The rags of his coat fluttered in the east-wind, which

also whistled keenly round his almost rimless hat, and troubled his one

eye. The other eye, having met with an accident last week, he had

covered neatly with an oyster-shell, which was kept in its place by a

string at each side, fastened through a hole. He used no staff to help

him along, though his body was nearly bent double, so that his face was

constantly turned to the earth, like that of a four-footed creature. He

was ninety-seven years of age.

As these two patriarchal laborers approached the great dust-heap, a

discordant voice hallooed to them from the top of a broken wall. It was

meant as a greeting of the morning, and proceeded from little Jem

Clinker, a poor deformed lad, whose back had been broken when a child.

His nose and chin were much too large for the rest of his face, and he

had lost nearly all his teeth from premature decay. But he had an eye

gleaming with intelligence and life, and an expression at once patient

and hopeful. He had balanced his misshapen frame on the top of the old

wall, over which one shriveled leg dangled, as if by the weight of a

hob-nailed boot, that covered a foot large enough for a plowman.

In addition to his first morning's salutation of his two aged friends,

he now shouted out in a tone of triumph and self-gratulation, in which

he felt assured of their sympathy--"Two white skins, and a

tor'shell-un."

It may be requisite to state that little Jem Clinker belonged to the

dead-cat department of the dust-heap, and now announced that a prize of

three skins, in superior condition, had rewarded him for being first in

the field. He was enjoying a seat on the wall in order to recover

himself from the excitement of his good fortune.

At the base of the great dust-heap the two old people now met their

young friend--a sort of great-grandson by mutual adoption--and they at

once joined the party who had by this time assembled as usual, and were

already busy at their several occupations.

But besides all these, another individual, belonging to a very different

class, formed a part of the scene, though appearing only on its

outskirts. A canal ran along at the rear of the dust-heap, and on the

banks of its opposite side slowly wandered by--with hands clasped and

hanging down in front of him, and eyes bent vacantly upon his hands--the

forlorn figure of a man in a very shabby great-coat, which had evidently

once belonged to one in the position of a gentleman. And to a gentleman

it still belonged--but in _what_ a position! A scholar, a man of wit, of

high sentiment, of refinement, and a good fortune withal--now by a

sudden "turn of law" bereft of the last only, and finding that none of

the rest, for which (having his fortune) he had been so much admired,

enabled him to gain a livelihood. His title deeds had been lost or

stolen, and so he was bereft of every thing he possessed. He had

talents, and such as would have been profitably available had he known

how to use them for this new purpose; but he did not; he was

misdirected; he made fruitless efforts, in his want of experience; and

he was now starving. As he passed the great dust-heap, he gave one

vague, melancholy gaze that way, and then looked wistfully into the

canal. And he continued to look into the canal as he slowly moved along,

till he was out of sight.

A dust-heap of this kind is often worth thousands of pounds. The present

one was very large and very valuable. It was in fact a large hill, and

being in the vicinity of small suburb cottages, it rose above them like

a great black mountain. Thistles, groundsel, and rank grass grew in

knots on small parts which had remained for a long time undisturbed;

crows often alighted on its top, and seemed to put on their spectacles

and become very busy and serious; flocks of sparrows often made

predatory descents upon it; an old goose and gander might sometimes be

seen following each other up its side, nearly midway; pigs rooted round

its base, and, now and then, one bolder than the rest would venture some

way up, attracted by the mixed odors of some hidden marrow-bone

enveloped in a decayed cabbage leaf--a rare event, both of these

articles being unusual oversights of the searchers below.

The principal ingredient of all these dust-heaps is fine cinders and

ashes; but as they are accumulated from the contents of all the

dust-holes and bins of the vicinity, and as many more as possible, the

fresh arrivals in their original state present very heterogeneous

materials. We can not better describe them, than by presenting a brief

sketch of the different departments of the searchers and sorters, who

are assembled below to busy themselves upon the mass of original matters

which are shot out from the carts of the dustmen.

The bits of coal, the pretty numerous results of accident and servants'

carelessness, are picked out, to be sold forthwith; the largest and best

of the cinders are also selected, by another party, who sell them to

laundresses, or to braziers (for whose purposes coke would not do so

well); and the next sort of cinders, called the _breeze_, because it is

left after the wind has blown the finer cinders through an upright

sieve, is sold to the brick-makers.

Two other departments, called the "soft-ware" and the "hard-ware," are

very important. The former includes all vegetable and animal

matters--every thing that will decompose. These are selected and bagged

at once, and carried off as soon as possible, to be sold as manure for

ploughed land, wheat, barley, &c. Under this head, also, the dead cats

are comprised. They are, generally, the perquisites of the women

searchers. Dealers come to the wharf, or dust-field, every evening; they

give sixpence for a white cat, fourpence for a colored cat, and for a

black one according to her quality. The "hard-ware" includes all broken

pottery, pans, crockery, earthenware, oyster-shells, &c, which are sold

to make new roads.

"The bones" are selected with care, and sold to the soap-boiler. He

boils out the fat and marrow first, for special use, and the bones are

then crushed and sold for manure.

Of "rags," the woolen rags are bagged and sent off for hop-manure; the

white linen rags are washed, and sold to make paper, &c.

The "tin things" are collected and put into an oven with a grating at

the bottom, so that the solder which unites the parts melts, and runs

through into a receiver. This is sold separately; the detached pieces of

tin are then sold to be melted up with old iron, &c.

Bits of old brass, lead, &c., are sold to be melted up separately, or in

the mixture of ores.

All broken glass vessels, as cruets, mustard-pots, tumblers,

wine-glasses, bottles, &c., are sold to the old-glass shops.

As for any articles of jewelry, silver-spoons, forks, thimbles, or other

plate and valuables, they are pocketed off-hand by the first finder.

Coins of gold and silver are often found, and many "coppers."

Meantime, every body is hard at work near the base of the great

dust-heap. A certain number of cart-loads having been raked and searched

for all the different things just described, the whole of it now

undergoes the process of sifting. The men throw up the stuff, and the

women sift it.

"When I was a young girl," said Peg Dotting--

"That's a long while ago, Peggy," interrupted one of the sifters: but

Peg did not hear her.

"When I was quite a young thing," continued she, addressing old John

Doubleyear, who threw up the dust into her sieve, "it was the fashion to

wear pink roses in the shoes, as bright as that morsel of ribbon Sally

has just picked out of the dust; yes, and sometimes in the hair, too, on

one side of the head, to set off the white powder and salve-stuff. I

never wore one of these head-dresses myself--don't throw up the dust so

high, John--but I lived only a few doors lower down from those as _did_.

Don't throw up the dust so high, I tell 'ee--the wind takes it into my

face."

"Ah! There! What's that?" suddenly exclaimed little Jem, running as fast

as his poor withered legs would allow him, toward a fresh heap, which

had just been shot down on the wharf from a dustman's cart. He made a

dive and a search--then another--then one deeper still. "I'm _sure_ I

saw it!" cried he, and again made a dash with both hands into a fresh

place, and began to distribute the ashes, and dust, and rubbish on every

side, to the great merriment of all the rest.

"What did you see, Jemmy?" asked old Doubleyear, in a compassionate

tone.

"Oh, I don't know," said the boy, "only it was like a bit of something

made of real gold!"

A fresh burst of laughter from the company assembled followed this

somewhat vague declaration, to which the dustmen added one or two

elegant epithets, expressive of their contempt of the notion that _they_

could have overlooked a bit of any thing valuable in the process of

emptying sundry dust-holes, and carting them away.

"Ah," said one of the sifters, "poor Jem's always a-fancying something

or other good--but it never comes."

"Didn't I find three cats this morning!" cried Jem; "two on 'em white

'uns! How you go on!"

"I meant something quite different from the like o' that," said the

other; "I was a-thinking of the rare sights all you three there have

had, one time and another."

The wind having changed and the day become bright, the party at work all

seemed disposed to be more merry than usual. The foregoing remark

excited the curiosity of several of the sifters, who had recently joined

the "company," the parties alluded to were requested to favor them with

the recital; and though the request was made with only a half-concealed

irony, still it was all in good-natured pleasantry, and was immediately

complied with. Old Doubleyear spoke first.

"I had a bad night of it with the rats some years ago--they run'd all

over the floor, and over the bed, and one on 'em come'd and guv a squeak

close into my ear--so I couldn't sleep comfortable. I wouldn't ha'

minded a trifle of at; but this was too much of a good thing. So, I got

up before sun-rise, and went out for a walk; and thinking I might as

well be near our work-place, I slowly come'd down this way. I worked in

a brick-field at that time, near the canal yonder. The sun was just

a-rising up behind the dust-heap as I got in sight of it; and soon it

rose above, and was very bright; and though I had two eyes then, I was

obligated to shut them both. When I opened them again, the sun was

higher up; but in his haste to get over the dust-heap, he had dropped

something. You may laugh. I say he had dropped something. Well--I can't

say what it was, in course--a bit of his-self, I suppose. It was just

like him--a bit on him, I mean--quite as bright--just the same--only not

so big. And not up in the sky, but a-lying and sparkling all on fire

upon the dust-heap. Thinks I--I was a younger man then by some years

than I am now--I'll go and have a nearer look. Though you be a bit o'

the sun, maybe you won't hurt a poor man. So, I walked toward the

dust-heap, and up I went, keeping the piece of sparkling fire in sight

all the while. But before I got up to it, the sun went behind a

cloud--and as he went out-like, so the young 'un he had dropped, went

out after him. And I had my climb up the heap for nothing, though I had

marked the place were it lay very percizely. But there was no signs at

all on him, and no morsel left of the light as had been there. I

searched all about; but found nothing 'cept a bit o' broken glass as had

got stuck in the heel of an old shoe. And that's my story. But if ever a

man saw any thing at all, I saw a bit o' the sun; and I thank God for

it. It was a blessed sight for a poor ragged old man of three score and

ten, which was my age at that time."

"Now, Peggy!" cried several voices, "tell us what you saw. Peg saw a bit

o' the moon."

"No," said Mrs. Dotting, rather indignantly; "I'm no moon-raker. Not a

sign of the moon was there, nor a spark of a star--the time I speak on."

"Well--go on, Peggy--go on."

"I don't know as I will," said Peggy.

But being pacified by a few good-tempered, though somewhat humorous

compliments, she thus favored them with her little adventure:

"There was no moon, nor stars, nor comet, in the 'versal heavens, nor

lamp nor lantern along the road, when I walked home one winter's night

from the cottage of Widow Pin, where I had been to tea, with her and

Mrs. Dry, as lived in the almshouses. They wanted Davy, the son of Bill

Davy the milkman, to see me home with the lantern, but I wouldn't let

him 'cause of his sore throat. Throat!--no, it wasn't his throat as was

rare sore--it was--no, it wasn't--yes, it was--it was his toe as was

sore. His big toe. A nail out of his boot had got into it. I _told_ him

he'd be sure to have a bad toe, if he didn't go to church more regular,

but he wouldn't listen; and so my words come'd true. But, as I was

a-saying, I wouldn't let him light me with the lantern by reason of his

sore throat--_toe_, I mean--and as I went along, the night seemed to

grow darker and darker. A straight road, though, and I was so used to it

by day-time, it didn't matter for the darkness. Hows'ever, when I come'd

near the bottom of the dust-heap as I had to pass, the great dark heap

was so zackly the same as the night, you couldn't tell one from t'other.

So, thinks I to myself--_what_ was I thinking of at this moment?--for

the life o' me I can't call it to mind; but that's neither here nor

there, only for this--it was a something that led me to remember the

story of how the devil goes about like a roaring lion. And while I was

a-hoping he might not be out a-roaring that night, what should I see

rise out of one side of the dust-heap, but a beautiful shining star of a

violet color. I stood as still--as stock-still as any I don't-know-what!

There it lay, as beautiful as a new-born babe, all a-shining in the

dust! By degrees I got courage to go a little nearer--and then a little

nearer still--for, says I to myself, I'm a sinful woman, I know, but I

have repented, and do repent constantly of all the sins of my youth, and

the backslidings of my age--which have been numerous; and once I had a

very heavy backsliding--but that's neither here nor there. So, as I was

a-saying, having collected all my sinfulness of life, and humbleness

before heaven, into a goodish bit of courage, forward I steps--little

furder--and a leetle furder more--_un_-til I come'd just up to the

beautiful shining star lying upon the dust. Well, it was a long time I

stood a-looking down at it, before I ventured to do, what I arterwards

did. But _at_ last I did stoop down with both hands slowly--in case it

might burn, or bite--and gathering up a good scoop of ashes as my hands

went along, I took it up, and began a-carrying it home, all shining

before me, and with a soft, blue mist rising up round about it. Heaven

forgive me!--I was punished for meddling with what Providence had sent

for some better purpose than to be carried home by an old woman like me,

whom it has pleased heaven to afflict with the loss of one leg, and the

pain, ixpinse, and inconvenience of a wooden one. Well--I _was_

punished; covetousness had its reward; for, presently, the violet light

got very pale, and then went out; and when I reached home, still holding

in both hands all I had gathered up, and when I took it to the candle,

it had turned into the red shell of a lobsky's head, and its two black

eyes poked up at me with a long stare--and I may say, a strong smell

too--enough to knock a poor body down."

Great applause, and no little laughter, followed the conclusion of old

Peggy's story, but she did not join in the merriment. She said it was

all very well for young people to laugh, but at her age she had enough

to do to pray; and she had never said so many prayers, nor with so much

fervency, as she had done since she received the blessed sight of the

blue star on the dust-heap, and the chastising rod of the lobster's

head at home.

Little Jem's turn now came; the poor lad was, however, so excited by the

recollection of what his companions called "Jem's Ghost," that he was

unable to describe it in any coherent language. To his imagination it

had been a lovely vision--the one "bright consummate flower" of his

life, which he treasured up as the most sacred image in his heart. He

endeavored, in wild and hasty words, to set forth, how that he had been

bred a chimney-sweep; that one Sunday afternoon he had left a set of

companions, most on 'em sweeps, who were all playing at marbles in the

church-yard, and he had wandered to the dust-heap, where he had fallen

asleep; that he was awoke by a sweet voice in the air, which said

something about some one having lost her way!--that he, being now wide

awake, looked up, and saw with his own eyes a young angel, with fair

hair and rosy cheeks, and large white wings at her shoulders, floating

about like bright clouds, rise out of the dust! She had on a garment of

shining crimson, which changed as he looked upon her to shining gold,

then to purple and gold. She then exclaimed, with a joyful smile, "I see

the right way!" and the next moment the angel was gone.

As the sun was just now very bright and warm for the time of the year,

and shining full upon the dust-heap in its setting, one of the men

endeavored to raise a laugh at the deformed lad, by asking him if he

didn't expect to see just such another angel at this minute, who had

lost her way in the field on the other side of the heap; but his jest

failed. The earnestness and devout emotion of the boy to the vision of

reality which his imagination, aided by the hues of sunset, had thus

exalted, were too much for the gross spirit of banter, and the speaker

shrank back into his dust-hovel, and affected to be very assiduous in

his work as the day was drawing to a close.

Before the day's work was ended, however, little Jem again had a glimpse

of the prize which had escaped him on the previous occasion. He

instantly darted, hands and head foremost, into the mass of cinders and

rubbish, and brought up a black mass of half-burnt parchment, entwined

with vegetable refuse, from which he speedily disengaged an oval frame

of gold, containing a miniature, still protected by its glass, but half

covered with mildew from the damp. He was in ecstasies at the prize.

Even the white cat-skins paled before it. In all probability some of the

men would have taken it from, him "to try and find the owner," but for

the presence and interference of his friends Peg Dotting and old

Doubleyear, whose great age, even among the present company, gave them a

certain position of respect and consideration. So all the rest now went

their way, leaving the three to examine and speculate on the prize.

The dust-heaps are a wonderful compound of things. A banker's check for

a considerable sum was found in one of them. It was on Herries and

Farquhar, in 1847. But bankers' checks, or gold and silver articles, are

the least valuable of their ingredients. Among other things, a variety

of useful chemicals are extracted. Their chief value, however, is for

the making of bricks. The fine cinder-dust and ashes are used in the

clay of the bricks, both for the red and gray stacks. Ashes are also

used as fuel between the layers of the clump of bricks, which could not

be burned in that position without them. The ashes burn away, and keep

the bricks open. Enormous quantities are used. In the brick-fields at

Uxbridge, near the Drayton Station, one of the brickmakers alone will

frequently contract for fifteen or sixteen thousand chaldron of this

cinder-dust, in one order. Fine coke or coke-dust, affects the market at

times as a rival; but fine coal, or coal-dust, never, because it would

spoil the bricks.

As one of the heroes of our tale had been originally--before his

promotion--a chimney-sweeper, it may be only appropriate to offer a

passing word on the genial subject of soot. Without speculating on its

origin and parentage, whether derived from the cooking of a Christmas

dinner, or the production of the beautiful colors and odors of exotic

plants in a conservatory, it can briefly be shown to possess many

qualities both useful and ornamental. When soot is first collected, it

is called "rough soot," which, being sifted, is then called "fine soot,"

and is sold to farmers for manuring and preserving wheat and turnips.

This is more especially used in Herefordshire, Bedfordshire, Essex, &c.

It is rather a costly article, being fivepence per bushel. One

contractor sells annually as much as three thousand bushels; and he

gives it as his opinion, that there must be at least one hundred and

fifty times this quantity (four hundred and fifty thousand bushels per

annum) sold in London. Farmer Smutwise of Bradford, distinctly asserts

that the price of the soot he uses on his land is returned to him in the

straw, with improvement also to the grain. And we believe him. Lime is

used to dilute soot when employed as a manure. Using it pure will keep

off snails, slugs, and caterpillars, from peas and various other

vegetables, as also from dahlias just shooting up, and other flowers;

but we regret to add that we have sometimes known it kill, or burn up

the things it was intended to preserve from unlawful eating. In short,

it is by no means so safe to use for any purpose of garden manure, as

fine cinders, and wood-ashes, which are good for almost any kind of

produce, whether turnips or roses. Indeed, we should like to have one

fourth or fifth part of our garden-beds composed of excellent stuff of

this kind. From all that has been said, it will have become very

intelligible why these dust-heaps are so valuable. Their worth, however,

varies not only with their magnitude (the quality of all of them is much

the same), but with the demand. About the year 1820, the Marylebone

dust-heap produced between four thousand and five thousand pounds. In

1832, St. George's paid Mr. Stapleton five hundred pounds a year, not

to leave the heap standing, but to carry it away. Of course he was only

too glad to be paid highly for selling his dust.

But to return. The three friends having settled to their satisfaction

the amount of money they should probably obtain by the sale of the

golden miniature-frame, and finished the castles which they had built

with it in the air, the frame was again enfolded in the sound part of

the parchment, the rags and rottenness of the law were cast away, and up

they rose to bend their steps homeward to the little hovel where Peggy

lived, she having invited the others to tea that they might talk yet

more fully over the wonderful good luck that had befallen them.

"Why, if there isn't a man's head in the canal!" suddenly cried little

Jem. "Looky there!--isn't that a man's head?--Yes; it's a drowndedd

man?"

"A drowndedd man, as I live!" ejaculated old Doubleyear.

"Let's get him out, and see!" cried Peggy. "Perhaps the poor soul's not

quite gone."

Little Jem scuttled off to the edge of the canal, followed by the two

old people. As soon as the body had floated nearer, Jem got down into

the water, and stood breast-high, vainly measuring his distance with one

arm out, to see if he could reach some part of the body as it was

passing. As the attempt was evidently without a chance, old Doubleyear

managed to get down into the water behind him, and holding him by one

hand, the boy was thus enabled to make a plunge forward as the body was

floating by. He succeeded in reaching it; but the jerk was too much for

the weakness of his aged companion, who was pulled forward into the

canal. A loud cry burst from both of them, which was yet more loudly

echoed by Peggy on the bank. Doubleyear and the boy were now struggling

almost in the middle of the canal with the body of the man swirling

about between them. They would inevitably have been drowned, had not old

Peggy caught up a long dust-rake that was close at hand--scrambled down

up to her knees in the canal--clawed hold of the struggling group with

the teeth of the rake, and fairly brought the whole to land. Jem was

first up the bank, and helped up his two heroic companions; after which

with no small difficulty, they contrived to haul the body of the

stranger out of the water. Jem at once recognized in him the forlorn

figure of the man who had passed by in the morning, looking so sadly

into the canal, as he walked along.

It is a fact well known to those who work in the vicinity of these great

dust-heaps, that when the ashes have been warmed by the sun, cats and

kittens that have been taken out of the canal and buried a few inches

beneath the surface, have usually revived; and the same has often

occurred in the case of men. Accordingly the three, without a moment's

hesitation, dragged the body along to the dust-heap, where they made a

deep trench, in which they placed it, covering it all over up to the

neck.

"There now," ejaculated Peggy, sitting down with a long puff to recover

her breath, "he'll lie very comfortable, whether or no."

"Couldn't lie better," said old Doubleyear, "even if he knew it."

The three now seated themselves close by, to await the result.

"I thought I'd a lost him," said Jem, "and myself too; and when I pulled

Daddy in arter me, I guv us all three up for this world."

"Yes," said Doubleyear, "it must have gone queer with us if Peggy had

not come in with the rake. How d'yee feel, old girl; for you've had a

narrow escape too. I wonder we were not too heavy for you, and so pulled

you in to go with us."

"The Lord be praised!" fervently ejaculated Peggy, pointing toward the

pallid face that lay surrounded with ashes. A convulsive twitching

passed over the features, the lips trembled, the ashes over the breast

heaved, and a low moaning sound, which might have come from the bottom

of the canal, was heard. Again the moaning sound, and then the eyes

opened, but closed almost immediately. "Poor dear soul!" whispered

Peggy, "how he suffers in surviving. Lift him up a little. Softly. Don't

be afeared. We're only your good angels, like--only poor

cinder-sifters--don'tee be afeared."

By various kindly attentions and man[oe]uvres such as these poor people

had been accustomed to practice on those who were taken out of the

canal, the unfortunate gentleman was gradually brought to his senses. He

gazed about him, as well he might--now looking in the anxious, though

begrimed, faces of the three strange objects, all in their "weeds" and

dust--and then up at the huge dust-heap, over which the moon was now

slowly rising.

"Land of quiet Death!" murmured he, faintly, "or land of Life, as dark

and still--I have passed from one into the other; but which of ye I am

now in, seems doubtful to my senses."

"Here we are, poor gentleman," cried Peggy, "here we are, all friends

about you. How did 'ee tumble into the canal?"

"The Earth, then, once more!" said the stranger, with a deep sigh. "I

know where I am, now. I remember this great dark hill of ashes--like

Death's kingdom, full of all sorts of strange things, and put to many

uses."

"Where do you live?" asked old Doubleyear; "shall we try and take you

home, sir?"

The stranger shook his head mournfully. All this time, little Jem had

been assiduously employed in rubbing his feet and then his hands; in

doing which the piece of dirty parchment, with the miniature-frame,

dropped out of his breast-pocket. A good thought instantly struck Peggy.

"Run, Jemmy dear--run with that golden thing to Mr. Spikechin, the

pawnbroker's--get something upon it directly, and buy some nice

brandy--and some Godfrey's cordial--and a blanket, Jemmy--and call a

coach, and get up outside on it, and make the coachee drive back here as

fast as you can."

But before Jemmy could attend to this, Mr. Waterhouse, the stranger

whose life they had preserved, raised himself on one elbow, and extended

his hand to the miniature-frame. Directly he looked at it, he raised

himself higher up--turned it about once or twice--then caught up the

piece of parchment; and uttering an ejaculation, which no one could have

distinguished either as of joy or of pain, sank back fainting.

In brief, this parchment was a portion of the title-deeds he had lost;

and though it did not prove sufficient to enable him to recover his

fortune, it brought his opponent to a composition, which gave him an

annuity for life. Small as this was, he determined that these poor

people, who had so generously saved his life at the risk of their own,

should be sharers in it. Finding that what they most desired was to have

a cottage in the neighborhood of the dust-heap, built large enough for

all three to live together, and keep a cow, Mr. Waterhouse paid a visit

to Manchester-square, where the owner of the property resided. He told

his story, as far as was needful, and proposed to purchase the field in

question.

The great dust-contractor was much amused, and his daughter--a very

accomplished young lady--was extremely interested. So the matter was

speedily arranged to the satisfaction and pleasure of all parties. The

acquaintance, however, did not end here. Mr. Waterhouse renewed his

visits very frequently, and finally made proposals for the young lady's

hand, she having already expressed her hopes of a propitious answer from

her father.

"Well, sir," said the latter, "you wish to marry my daughter, and she

wishes to marry you. You are a gentleman and a scholar, but you have no

money. My daughter is what you see, and she has no money. But I have;

and therefore, as she likes you, and I like you, I'll make you both an

offer. I will give my daughter twenty thousand pounds--or you shall have

the dust-heap. Choose!"

Mr. Waterhouse was puzzled and amused, and referred the matter entirely

to the young lady. But she was for having the money, and no trouble. She

said the dust-heap might be worth much, but they did not understand the

business. "Very well," said her father, laughing, "then there's the

money."

This was the identical dust-heap, as we know from authentic information,

which was subsequently sold for forty thousand pounds, and was exported

to Russia to rebuild Moscow.

SKETCHES OF ENGLISH CHARACTER.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

THE OLD SQUIRE.

The old squire, or, in other words, the squire of the old school, is the

eldest born of John Bull; he is the "very moral of him;" as like him as

pea to pea. He has a tolerable share of his good qualities; and as for

his prejudices--oh, they are his meat and drink, and the very clothes

he wears. He is made up of prejudices--he is covered all over with them.

They are the staple of his dreams; they garnish his dishes, they spice

his cup, they enter into his very prayers, and they make his will

altogether. His oaks and elms in his park, and in his woods--they are

sturdy timbers, in troth, and gnarled and knotted to some purpose, for

they have stood for centuries; but what are they to the towering

upshoots of his prejudices? Oh, they are mere wands! If he has not stood

for centuries, his prejudices have; for they have come down from

generation to generation with the family and the estate. They have

ridden, to use another figure, like the Old Man of the Sea, on the

shoulders of his ancestors, and have skipped from those of one ancestor

to those of the next; and there they sit on his own most venerable,

well-fed, comfortable, ancient, and gray-eyed prejudices, as familiar to

their seat as the collar of his coat. He would take cold without them;

to part with them would be the death of him. So! don't go too

near--don't let us alarm them; for, in truth, they have had insults, and

met with impertinences of late years, and have grown fretful and

cantankerous in their old age. Nay, horrid radicals have not hesitated,

in this wicked generation, to aim sundry deadly blows at them; and it

has been all that the old squire has been able to do to protect them.

Then--

You need not rub them backwards like a cat,

If you would see them spirt and sparkle up.

You have only to give one look at them, and they will appear to all in

bristles and fury, like a nest of porcupines.

The old squire, like his father, is a sincere lover and a most hearty

hater. What does he love? Oh, he loves the country--'tis the only

country on the earth that is worth calling a country; and he loves the

constitution. But don't ask him what it is, unless you want to test the

hardness of his walking-stick; it is the constitution, the finest thing

in the world, and all the better for being, like the Athanasian creed, a

mystery. Of what use is it that the mob should understand it? It is our

glorious constitution--that is enough. Are you not contented to feel how

good it is, without going to peer into its very entrails, and perhaps

ruin it, like an ignorant fellow putting his hand into the works of a

clock? Are you not contented to let the sun shine on you? Do you want to

go up and see what it is made of? Well, then, it is the

constitution--the finest thing in the world; and, good as the country

is, it would be good for nothing without it, no more than a hare would

without stuffing, or a lantern without a candle, or the church without

the steeple or the ring of bells. Well, he loves the constitution, as he

ought to do; for has it not done well for him and his forefathers? And

has it not kept the mob in their places, spite of the French Revolution?

And taken care of the National Debt? And has it not taught us all to

"fear God and honor the king;" and given the family estate to him, the

church to his brother Ned, and put Fred and George into the army and

navy? Could there possibly be a better constitution, if the Whigs could

but let it alone with their Reform Bills? And, therefore, as he most

reasonably loves the dear, old, mysterious, and benevolent constitution

to distraction, and places it in the region of his veneration somewhere

in the seventh heaven itself, so he hates every body and thing that

hates it.

He hates Frenchmen because he loves his country, and thinks we are

dreadfully degenerated that we do not nowadays find some cause, as the

wisdom of our ancestors did, to pick a quarrel with them, and give them

a good drubbing. Is not all our glory made up of beating the French and

the Dutch? And what is to become of history, and the army and the fleet,

if we go on this way? He does not stop to consider that the army, at

least, thrives as well with peace as war; that it continues to increase;

that it eats, drinks, and sleeps as well, and dresses better, and lives

a great deal more easily and comfortably in peace than in war. But,

then, what is to become of history, and the drubbing of the French? Who

may, however, possibly die of "envy and admiration of our glorious

constitution."

The old squire loves the laws of England; that is, all the laws that

ever were passed by kings, lords, and commons, especially if they have

been passed some twenty years, and he has had to administer them. The

poor-law and the game-law, the impressment act, the law of

primogeniture, the law of capital punishments; all kind of private acts

for the inclosure of commons; turnpike acts, stamp acts, and acts of all

sorts; he loves and venerates them all, for they are part and parcel of

the statute law of England. As a matter of course, he hates most

religiously all offenders against such acts. The poor are a very good

sort of people; nay, he has a thorough and hereditary liking for the

poor, and they have sundry doles and messes of soup from the Hall, as

they had in his father's time, so long as they go to church, and don't

happen to be asleep there when he is awake himself; and don't come upon

the parish, or send bastards there; so long as they take off their hats

with all due reverence, and open gates when they see him coming. But if

they presume to go to the Methodists' meeting, or to a Radical club, or

complain of the price of bread, which is a grievous sin against the

agricultural interest; or to poach, which is all crimes in one--if they

fall into any of these sins, oh, then, they are poor devils indeed! Then

does the worthy old squire hate all the brood of them most righteously;

for what are they but Atheists, Jacobins, Revolutionists, Chartists,

rogues and vagabonds? With what a frown he scowls on them as he meets

them in one of the narrow old lanes, returning from some camp meeting or

other; how he expects every dark night to hear of ricks being burnt, or

pheasants shot. How does he tremble for the safety of the country while

they are at large; and with what satisfaction does he grant a warrant to

bring them before him; and, as a matter of course, how joyfully, spite

of all pleas and protestations of innocence, does he commit them to the

treadmill, or the county jail, for trial at the quarter sessions.

He has a particular affection for the quarter sessions, for there he,

and his brethren all put together, make, he thinks, a tolerable

representation of majesty; and thence he has the satisfaction of seeing

all the poachers transported beyond the seas. The county jail and the

house of correction are particular pets of his. He admires even their

architecture, and prides himself especially on the size and massiveness

of the prison. He used to extend his fondness even to the stocks; but

the treadmill, almost the only modern thing which has wrought such a

miracle, has superseded it in his affections, and the ancient stocks now

stand deserted, and half lost in a bed of nettles; but he still looks

with a gracious eye on the parish pound, and returns the pinder's touch

of his hat with a marked attention, looking upon him as one of the most

venerable appendages of antique institutions.

Of course the old squire loves the church. Why, it is ancient, and that

is enough of itself; but, beside that, all the wisdom of his ancestors

belonged to it. His great-great-uncle was a bishop; his wife's

grandfather was a dean; he has the presentation of the living, which is

now in the hands of his brother Ned; and he has himself all the great

tithes which, in the days of popery, belonged to it. He loves it all the

better, because he thinks that the upstart dissenters want to pull it

down; and he hates all upstarts. And what! Is it not the church of the

queen, and the ministers, and all the nobility, and of all the old

families? It is the only religion for a gentleman, and, therefore, it is

his religion. Would the dissenting minister hob-nob with him as

comfortably over the after-dinner bottle as Ned does, and play a rubber

as comfortably with him, and let him swear a comfortable oath now and

then? 'Tis not to be supposed. Besides, of what family is this

dissenting minister? Where does he spring from? At what university did

he graduate? 'Twon't do for the old squire. No! the clerk, the sexton,

and the very churchwardens of the time being, partake, in his eye, of

the time-tried sanctity of the good old church, and are bound up in the

bundle of his affections.

These are a few of the old squire's likings and antipathies, which are

just as much part of himself, as the entail is of his inheritance. But

we shall see yet more of them when we come to see more of him and his

abode. The old squire is turned of threescore, and every thing is old

about him. He lives in an old house in the midst of an old park, which

has a very old wall, end gates so old, that though they are made of oak

as hard as iron, they begin to stoop in the shoulders, like the old

gentleman himself and the carpenter, who is an old man too, and has

been watching them forty years in hopes of their tumbling, and gives

them a good lusty bang after him every time he passes through, swears

they must have been made in the days of King Canute. The squire has an

old coach drawn by two and occasionally by four old fat horses, and

driven by a jolly old coachman, in which his old lady and his old maiden

sister ride; for he seldom gets into it himself, thinking it a thing fit

only for women and children, preferring infinitely the back of Jack, his

old roadster.

If you went to dine with him, you would find him just as you would have

found his father; not a thing has been changed since his days. There is

the great entrance hall, with its cold stone floor, and its fine

tall-backed chairs, and an old walnut cabinet; and on the walls a

quantity of stags' horns, with caps and riding-whips hung on them; and

the pictures of his ancestors, in their antiquated dresses, and slender,

tarnished, antiquated frames. In his drawing-room you will find none of

your new grand pianos and fashionable couches and ottomans; but an old

spinet and a fiddle, another set of those long-legged, tall-backed

chairs, two or three little settees, a good massy table, and a fine

large carved mantle-piece, with bright steel dogs instead of a modern

stove, and logs of oak burning, if it be cold. At table, all his plate

is of the most ancient make, and he drinks toasts and healths in

tankards of ale that is strong enough to make a horse reel, but which he

continually avows is as mild as mother's milk, and wouldn't hurt an

infant. He has an old rosy butler, and loves very old venison, which

fills the whole house with its perfume while roasting; and an old

double-Gloucester cheese, full of jumpers and mites; and after it a

bottle of old port, at which he is often joined by the parson, and

always by a queer, quiet sort of a tall, thin man, in a seedy black

coat, and with a crimson face, bearing testimony to the efficacy of the

squire's port and "mother's milk."

This man is always to be seen about, and has been these twenty years. He

goes with the squire a-coursing and shooting, and into the woods with

him. He carries his shot-belt and powder-flask, and gives him out his

chargings and his copper caps. He is as often seen about the steward's

house; and he comes in and out of the squire's just as he pleases,

always seating himself in a particular chair near the fire, and pinches

the ears of the dogs, and gives the cat, now and then, a pinch of snuff

as she lies sleeping in a chair; and when the squire's old lady says,

"How _can_ you do so, Mr. Wagstaff?" he only gives a quiet, chuckling

laugh, and says, "Oh, they like it, madam; they like it, you may

depend." That is the longest speech he ever makes, for he seldom does

more than say "yes" and "no" to what is said to him, and still oftener

gives only a quiet smile and a soft of little nasal "hum." The squire

has a vast affection for him, and always walks up to the little chamber

which is allotted to him, once a week, to see that the maid does not

neglect it; though at table he cuts many a sharp joke upon Wagstaff, to

which Wagstaff only returns a smile and a shake of the head, which is

more full of meaning to the squire than a long speech. Such is the old

squire's constant companion.

But we have not yet done with the squire's antiquities. He has an old

woodman, an old shepherd, an old justice's clerk, and almost all his

farmers are old. He seems to have an antipathy to almost every thing

that is not old. Young men are his aversion; they are such coxcombs, he

says, nowadays. The only exception is a young woman. He always was a

great admirer of the fair sex; though we are not going to rake up the

floating stories of the neighborhood about the gallantries of his youth;

but his lady, who is justly considered to have been as fine a woman as

ever stepped in shoe-leather, is a striking proof of his judgment in

women. Never, however, does his face relax into such pleasantness of

smiles and humorous twinkles of the eye, as when he is in company with

young ladies. He is full of sly compliments and knowing hints about

their lovers, and is universally reckoned among them "a dear old

gentleman."

When he meets a blooming country damsel crossing the park, or as he

rides along a lane, he is sure to stop and have a word with her. "Aha,

Mary! I know you, there! I can tell you by your mother's eyes and lips

that you've stole away from her. Ay, you're a pretty slut enough, but I

remember your mother. Gad! I don't know whether you are entitled to

carry her slippers after her! But never mind, you're handsome enough;

and I reckon you're going to be married directly. Well, well, I won't

make you blush; so, good-by, Mary, good-by! Father and mother are both

hearty--eh?"

The routine of the old squire's life may be summed up in a sentence:

hearing cases and granting warrants and licenses, and making out

commitments as justice; going through the woods to look after the

growth, and trimming, and felling of his trees; going out with his

keeper to reconnoitre the state of his covers and preserves; attending

quarter sessions; dining occasionally with the judge on circuit;

attending the county ball and the races; hunting and shooting, dining

and singing a catch or glee with Wagstaff and the parson over his port.

He has a large, dingy room, surrounded with dingy folios, and other

books in vellum bindings, which he calls his library. Here he sits as

justice; and here he receives his farmers on rent-days, and a wonderful

effect it has on their imaginations; for who can think otherwise than

that the squire must be a prodigious scholar, seeing all that array of

big books? And, in fact, the old squire is a great reader in his own

line. He reads the _Times_ daily; and he reads Gwillim's "Heraldry," the

"History of the Landed Gentry," Rapin's "History of England," and all

the works of Fielding, Richardson, and Sterne, whom he declares to be

the greatest writers England ever produced, or ever will produce.

But the old squire is not without his troubles. In his serious judgment

all the world is degenerating. The nation is running headlong to ruin.

"Lord, how different it was in my time!" is his constant exclamation.

The world is now completely turned topsy-turvy. Here is the Reform Bill,

the New Poor-law, which though it does make sharp work among the rogues

and vagabonds, yet has sorely shorn the authority of magistrates. Here

are the New Game-laws, Repeal of the Corn-laws, and the Navigation-laws;

new books, all trash and nonsense; and these harum-scarum railroads,

cutting up the country and making it dangerous to be riding out any

where. "Just," says he, "as a sober gentleman is riding quietly by the

side of his wood, bang! goes that 'hell-in-harness,' a steam-engine,

past. Up goes the horse, down goes the rider to a souse in the ditch,

and a broken collar bone."

Then all the world is now running all over the continent, learning all

sorts of Frenchified airs and fashions and notions, and beggaring

themselves into the bargain. He never set foot on the d--d, beggarly,

frog-eating Continent--not he! It was thought enough to live at home,

and eat good roast beef, and sing "God save the King," in his time; but

now a man is looked upon as a mere clown who has not run so far round

the world that he can seldom ever find his way back again to his

estate, but stops short in London, where all the extravagance and

nonsense in creation are concentrated, to help our mad gentry out of

their wits and their money together. The old squire groans here in

earnest; for his daughter, who has married Sir Benjamin Spankitt, and

his son Tom, who has married the Lady Babara Ridemdown, are as mad as

the rest of them.

Of Tom, the young squire, we shall take a more complete view anon. But

there is another of the old squire's troubles yet to be noticed, and

that is in the shape of an upstart. One of the worst features of the

times is the growth and spread of upstarts. Old families going down, as

well as old customs, and new people, who are nobody, taking their

places. Old estates bought up--not by the old gentry, who are scattering

their money in London, and among all the grinning monsieurs, mynheers,

and signores, on the frogified continent, but by the soap-boilers and

sugar-bakers of London. The country gentry, he avers, have been fools

enough to spend their money in London, and now the people they have

spent it among are coming and buying up all the estates about them. Ask

him, as you ride out with him by the side of some great wood or

venerable park, "What old family lives there?" "Old family!" he

exclaims, with an air of angry astonishment; "old family! Where do you

see old families nowadays? That is Sir Peter Post, the great

horse-racer, who was a stable-boy not twenty years ago; and that great

brick house on the hill there is the seat of one of the great Bearrings,

who have made money enough among the bulls and bears to buy up the

estates of half the fools hereabout. But that is nothing; I can assure

you, men are living in halls and abbeys in these parts, who began their

lives in butchers' shops and cobblers' stalls."

It might, however, be tolerated that merchants and lawyers,

stock-jobbers, and even sugar-bakers and soap-boilers, should buy up the

old houses; but the most grievous nuisance, and perpetual thorn in the

old squire's side, is Abel Grundy, the son of an old wheelwright, who,

by dint of his father's saving and his own sharpness, has grown into a

man of substance under the squire's own nose. Abel began by buying odds

and ends of lands and scattered cottages, which did not attract the

squire's notice; till at length, a farm being to be sold, which the

squire meant to have, and did not fear any opponent, Abel Grundy bid for

it, and bought it, striking the old steward actually dumb with

astonishment; and then it was found that all the scattered lots which

Grundy had been buying up, lay on one side or other of this farm, and

made a most imposing whole. To make bad worse, Grundy, instead of taking

off his hat when he met the old squire, began now to lift up his own

head very high; built a grand house on the land plump opposite to the

squire's hall-gates; has brought a grand wife--a rich citizen's

daughter; set up a smart carriage; and as the old squire is riding out

on his old horse Jack, with his groom behind him, on a roan pony with a

whitish mane and tail, the said groom having his master's great coat

strapped to his back, as he always has on such occasions, drives past

with a dash and a cool impudence that are most astonishing.

The only comfort that the old squire has in the case is talking of the

fellow's low origin. "Only to think," says he, "that this fellow's

father hadn't even wood enough to make a wheel-barrow till my family

helped him; and I have seen this scoundrel himself scraping manure in

the high roads, before he went to the village school in the morning,

with his toes peeping out of his shoes, and his shirt hanging like a

rabbit's tail out of his ragged trowsers; and now the puppy talks of 'my

carriage,' and 'my footman,' and says that 'he and _his lady purpose_ to

spend the winter in _the_ town,' meaning London!"

Wagstaff laughs at the squire's little criticism on Abel Grundy, and

shakes his head; but he can not shake the chagrin out of the old

gentleman's heart. Abel Grundy's upstart greatness will be the death of

the OLD SQUIRE.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG SQUIRE.

By smiling fortune blessed

With large demesnes, hereditary wealth.

SOMERVILLE.

The Old Squire and the Young Squire are the antipodes of each other.

They are representatives of two entirely different states of society in

this country; the one, but the vestige of that which has been; the

other, the full and perfect image of that which is. The old squires are

like the last fading and shriveled leaves of autumn that yet hang on

the tree. A few more days will pass; age will send one of his nipping

nights, and down they will twirl, and be swept away into the oblivious

hiding-places of death, to be seen no more. But the young squire is one

of the full-blown blossoms of another summer. He is flaunting in the

sunshine of a state of wealth and luxury, which we, as our fathers in

their days did, fancy can by no possibility be carried many degrees

farther, and yet we see it every day making some new and extraordinary

advance.

It is obvious that there are many intervening stages of society, among

our country gentry, between the old squire and the young, as there are

intermediate degrees of age. The old squires are those of the completely

last generation, who have outlived their contemporaries, and have made a

dead halt on the ground of their old habits, sympathies, and opinions,

and are resolved to quit none of them for what they call the follies and

new-fangled notions of a younger, and, of course, more degenerate race.

They are continually crying, "Oh, it never was so in my day!" They point

to tea, and stoves in churches, and the universal use of umbrellas,

parasols, cork-soled shoes, warming-pans, and carriages, as

incontestible proofs of the rapidly-increasing effeminacy of mankind.

But between these old veterans and their children, there are the men of

the middle ages, who have, more or less, become corrupted with modern

ways and indulgences; have, more or less, introduced modern furniture,

modern hours, modern education, and tastes, and books; and have, more or

less, fallen into the modern custom of spending a certain part of the

year in London. With these we have nothing whatever to do. The old

squire is the landmark of the ancient state of things, and his son Tom

is the epitome of the new; all between is a mere transition and

evanescent condition.

Tom Chesselton was duly sent by his father to Eton as a boy, where he

became a most accomplished scholar in cricket, boxing, horses, and dogs,

and made the acquaintance of several lords, who taught him the way of

letting his father's money slip easily through his fingers without

burning them, and engrafted him besides with a fine stock of truly

aristocratic tastes, which will last him his whole life. From Eton he

was duly transferred to Oxford, where he wore his gown and trencher-cap

with a peculiar grace, and gave a classic finish to his taste in horses,

in driving, and in ladies. Having completed his education with great

_éclat_, he was destined by his father to a few years' soldiership in

the militia, as being devoid of all danger, and moreover, giving

opportunities for seeing a great deal of the good old substantial

families in different parts of the kingdom. But Tom turned up his nose,

or rather his handsome upper lip, with a most consummate scorn at so

groveling a proposal, and assured his father that nothing but a

commission in the Guards, where several of his noble friends were doing

distinguished honor to their country, by the display of their fine

figures, would suit him. The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders and

was silent, thinking that the six thousand pounds purchase-money would

be quite as well at fifteen per cent. in turnpike shares a little

longer. But Tom, luckily, was not doomed to rusticate long in melancholy

under his patrimonial oaks: his mother's brother, an old bachelor of

immense wealth, died just in time, leaving Tom's sister, Lady Spankitt,

thirty thousand pounds in the funds; and Tom, as heir-at-law, his great

Irish estates. Tom, on the very first vacancy, bought into the Guards,

and was soon marked out by the ladies as one of the most _distingué_

officers that ever wore a uniform. In truth, Tom was a very handsome

fellow; that he owed to his parents, who, in their day, were as

noble-looking a couple as ever danced at a county-ball, or graced the

balcony of a race-stand.

Tom soon married; but he did not throw himself away sentimentally on a

mere face; he achieved the hand of the sister of one of his old college

chums, and now brother-officer--the Lady Barbara Ridemdown. An earl's

daughter was something in the world's eye; but such an earl's daughter

as Lady Barbara, was the height of Tom's ambition. She was equally

celebrated for her wit, her beauty, and her large fortune. Tom had won

her from amid the very blaze of popularity and the most splendid offers.

Their united fortunes enabled them to live in the highest style. Lady

Barbara's rank and connections demanded it, and the spirit of our young

squire required it as much. Tom Chesselton disdained to be a whit behind

any of his friends, however wealthy or high titled. His tastes were

purely aristocratic; with him, dress, equipage, and amusements, were

matters of science. He knew, both from a proud instinct and from study,

what was precisely the true _ton_ in every article of dress or equipage,

and the exact etiquette in every situation. But Lady Barbara panted to

visit the Continent, where she had already spent some years, and which

presented so many attractions to her elegant tastes. Tom had elegant

tastes, too, in his way; and to the Continent they went. The old squire

never set his foot on even the coast of Calais: when he has seen it from

Dover, he has only wished that he could have a few hundred tons of

gunpowder, and blow it into the air; but Tom and Lady Barbara have lived

on the Continent for years.

This was a bitter pill for the old squire. When Tom purchased his

commission in the Guards, and when he opened a house like a palace, on

his wedding with Lady Barbara, the old gentleman felt proud of his son's

figure, and proud of his connections. "Ah," said he, "Tom's a lad of

spirit; he'll sow his wild oats, and come to his senses presently." But

when he fairly embarked for France, with a troop of servants, and a

suite of carriages, like a nobleman, then did the old fellow fairly

curse and swear, and call him all the unnatural and petticoat-pinioned

fools in his vocabulary, and prophesy his bringing his ninepence to a

groat. Tom and Lady Barbara, however, upheld the honor of England all

over the Continent. In Paris, at the baths of Germany, at Vienna,

Florence, Venice, Rome, Naples--every where, they were distinguished by

their fine persons, their fine equipage, their exquisite tastes, and

their splendid entertainments. They were courted and caressed by all the

distinguished, both of their own countrymen and of foreigners. Tom's

horses and equipage were the admiration of the natives. He drove, he

rode, he yachted, to universal admiration; and, meantime, his lady

visited all the galleries and works of art, and received in her house

all the learned and the literary of all countries. There, you always

found artists, poets, travelers, critics, _dilettanti_, and

connoisseurs, of all nations and creeds.

They have again honored their country with their presence; and who so

much the fashion as they? They are, of course, _au fait_ in every matter

of taste and fashion; on all questions of foreign life, manners, and

opinions, their judgment is the law. Their town-house is in

Eaton-square; and what a house is that! What a paradise of fairy

splendor! what a mine of wealth, in the most superb furniture, in books

in all languages, paintings, statuary, and precious fragments of the

antique, collected out of every classical city and country. If you see a

most exquisitely tasteful carriage, with a most fascinatingly beautiful

lady in it, in the park, amid all the brilliant concourse of the ring,

you may be sure you see the celebrated Lady Barbara Chesselton; and you

can not fail to recognize Tom Chesselton the moment you clap eyes on

him, by his distinguished figure, and the splendid creature on which he

is mounted--to say nothing of the perfection of his groom, and the steed

which he also bestrides. Tom never crosses the back of a horse of less

value than a thousand pounds; and if you want to know really what horses

are, you must go down to his villa at Wimbledon, if you are not lucky

enough to catch a sight of him proceeding to a levee, or driving his

four-in-hand to Ascot or Epsom. All Piccadilly has been seen to stand,

lost in silent admiration, as he has driven his splendid britchzka along

it, with his perfection of a little tiger by his side; and such cattle

as never besides were seen in even harness of such richness and

elegance. Nay, some scores of ambitious young whips became sick of their

envy of his superb gauntlet driving-gloves.

But, in fact, in Tom's case, as in all others, you have only to know his

companions to know him; and who are they but Chesterfield, Conyngham,

D'Orsay, Eglintoun, my Lord Waterford, and men of similar figure and

reputation. To say that he is well known to all the principal

frequenters of the Carlton Club; that his carriages are of the most

perfect make ever turned out by Windsor; that his harness is only from

Shipley's; and that Stultz has the honor of gracing his person with his

habiliments; is to say that our young squire is one of the most perfect

men of fashion in England. Lady Barbara and himself have a common

ground of elegance of taste, and knowledge of the first principles of

genuine aristocratic life; but they have very different pursuits,

arising from the difference of their genius, and they follow them with

the utmost mutual approbation.

Lady Barbara is at once the worshiped beauty, the woman of fashion, and

of literature. No one has turned so many heads, by the loveliness of her

person, and the bewitching fascination of her manners, as Lady Barbara.

She is a wit, a poetess, a connoisseur in art; and what can be so

dangerously delightful as all these characters in a fashionable beauty,

and a woman, moreover, of such rank and wealth? She does the honors of

her house to the mutual friends and noble connections of her husband and

herself with a perpetual grace; but she has, besides, her evenings for

the reception of her literary and artistic acquaintance and admirers.

And who, of all the throng of authors, artists, critics, journalists,

connoisseurs, and amateurs, who flock there are not her admirers? Lady

Barbara Chesselton writes travels, novels, novellets, philosophical

reflections, poems, and almost every species of thing which ever has

been written--such is the universality of her knowledge, experience, and

genius: and who does not hasten to be the first to pour out in reviews,

magazines, daily and hebdomadal journals, the earliest and most fervid

words of homage and admiration? Lady Barbara edits an annual, and is a

contributor to the "Keepsake;" and in her kindness, she is sure to find

out all the nice young men about the press; to encourage them by her

smile, and to raise them, by her fascinating conversation and her

brilliant saloons, above those depressing influences of a too sensitive

modesty, which so weighs on the genius of the youth of this age; so that

she sends them away, all heart and soul, in the service of herself and

literature, which are the same thing; and away they go, extemporizing

praises on her ladyship, and spreading them through leaves of all sizes,

to the wondering eyes of readers all the world over. Publishers run with

their unsalable manuscripts, and beg Lady Barbara to have the goodness

to put her name on the title, knowing by golden experience that one

stroke of her pen, like the point of a galvanic wire, will turn all the

dullness of the dead mass into flame. Lady Barbara is not barbarous

enough to refuse so simple and complimentary a request; nay, her

benevolence extends on every hand. Distressed authors, male and female,

who have not her rank, and, therefore, most clearly not her genius, beg

her to take their literary bantlings under her wing; and with a heart,

as full of generous sympathies as her pen is of magic, she writes but

her name on the title as an "Open Sesame!" and lo! the dead become

alive; her genius permeates the whole volume, which that moment puts

forth wings of popularity, and flies into every bookseller's shop and

every circulating library in the kingdom.

Such is the life of glory and Christian benevolence which Lady Barbara

daily leads, making authors, critics, and publishers all happy together,

by the overflowing radiance of her indefatigable and inexhaustible

genius, though she sometimes slyly laughs to herself, and says, "What a

thing is a title! if it were not for that, would all these people come

to me?" While Tom, who is member of parliament for the little borough of

Dearish, most patriotically discharges his duty by pairing off--visits

the classic grounds of Ascot, Epsom, Newmarket, or Goodwood, or

traverses the moors of Scotland and Ireland in pursuit of grouse. But

once a year they indulge their filial virtues in a visit to the old

squire. The old squire, we are sorry to say, has grown of late years

queer and snappish, and does not look on this visit quite as gratefully

as he should. "If they would but come," he says, "in a quiet way, as I

used to ride over and see my father in his time, why I should be right

glad to see them; but, here they come, like the first regiment of an

invading army, and God help those who are old, and want to be quiet!"

The old gentleman, moreover, is continually haranguing about Tom's folly

and extravagance. It is his perpetual topic to his wife, and wife's

maiden sister, and Wagstaff. Wagstaff only shakes his head, and says,

"Young blood! young blood!" but Mrs. Chesselton and the maiden sister

say, "Oh! Mr. Chesselton, you don't consider: Tom has great connections,

and he is obliged to keep a certain establishment. Things are different

now to what they were in our time. Tom is universally allowed to be a

very fine man, and Lady Barbara is a very fine woman, and a prodigious

clever woman! and you ought to be proud of them, Chesselton." At which

the old gentleman breaks out, if he be a little elevated over his wine:

When the Duke of Leeds shall married be

To a fine young lady of high quality,

How happy will that gentlewoman be

In his grace of Leeds good company!

She shall have all that's fine and fair,

And the best of silk and satin to wear;

And ride in a coach to take the air,

And have a house in St. James's-square.

Lady Barbara always professes great affection and reverence for the old

gentleman, and sends him many merry and kind compliments and messages;

and sends him, moreover, her new books as soon as they are out, most

magnificently bound; but all won't do. He only says, "If she'd please

me, she'd give up that cursed opera-box. Why, the rent of that

thing--only to sit in and hear Italian women squealing and squalling,

and to see impudent, outlandish baggages kicking up their heels higher

than any decent heads ought to be--the rent, I say, would maintain a

parish rector, or keep half-a-dozen parish schools a-going." As for her

books, that all the world besides are in raptures about, the old squire

turns them over as a dog would a hot dumpling; says nothing but a Bible

ought to be so extravagantly bound; and professes that "the matter may

all be very fine, but he can make neither head nor tail of it." Yet,

whenever Lady Barbara is with him, she is sure to talk and smile herself

in about half an hour into his high favor; and he begins to run about to

show her this and that, and calls out every now and then, "Let Lady

Barbara see this, and go to look at that." She can do any thing with

him, except get him to London. "London!" he exclaims; "no; get me to

Bedlam at once! What has a rusty old fellow, like me, to do at London?

If I could find again the jolly set that used to meet, thirty years ago,

at the Star and Garter, Pall Mall, it might do; but London isn't what

London used to be. It's too fine by half for a country squire, and would

drive me distracted in twenty-four hours, with its everlasting noise and

nonsense."

But the old squire does get pretty well distracted with the annual

visit. Down come driving the young squire and Lady Barbara, with a train

of carriages like a fleet of men-of-war, leading the way with their

traveling-coach and four horses. Up they twirl to the door of old hall.

The old bell rings a thundering peal through the house. Doors fly

open--out come servants--down come the young guests from their

carriages; and while embraces and salutations are going on in the

drawing-room, the hall is fast filling with packages upon packages;

servants are running to and fro along the passages; grooms and carriages

are moving off to the stables without; there is lifting and grunting at

portmanteaus and imperials, as they are borne up-stairs; while ladies'

maids and nursemaids are crying out, "Oh, take care of that trunk!"

"Mind that ban'-box!" "Oh, gracious! that is my lady's dressing-case; it

will be down, and be totally ruined!" Dogs are barking; children crying,

or romping about, and the whole house in the most blessed state of

bustle and confusion.

For a week the hurly-burly continues; in pour all the great people to

see Tom and Lady Barbara. There are shootings in the mornings, and great

dinner parties in the evenings. Tom and my lady have sent down before

them plenty of hampers of such wines as the old squire neither keeps nor

drinks, and they have brought their plate along with them; and the old

house itself is astonished at the odors of champagne, claret, and hook,

that pervade, and at the glitter of gold and silver in it. The old man

is full of attention and politeness, both to his guests and to their

guests; but he is half worried with the children, and t'other half

worried with so many fine folks; and muddled with drinking things that

he is not used to, and with late hours. Wagstaff has fled--as he always

does on such occasions--to a farm-house on the verge of the estate. The

hall, and the parsonage, and even the gardener's house, are all full of

beds for guests, and servants, and grooms. Presently, the old gentleman,

in his morning rides, sees some of the young bucks shooting the

pheasants in his home-park, where he never allows them to be disturbed,

and comes home in a fume, to hear that the house is turned upside-down

by the host of scarlet-breeched and powdered livery-servants, and that

they have turned all the maids' heads with sweethearting. But, at

length, the day of departure arrives, and all sweep away as suddenly and

rapidly as they came; and the old squire sends off for Wagstaff, and

blesses his stars that what he calls "the annual hurricane," is over.

But what a change will there be when the old squire is dead! Already

have Tom and Lady Barbara walked over the ground, and planned it. That

horrid fright of an old house, as they call it, will be swept as clean

away as if it had not stood there five hundred years. A grand

Elizabethean pile is already decreed to succeed it. The fashionable

architect will come driving down in his smart Brougham, with all his

plans and papers. A host of mechanics will come speedily after him, by

coach or by wagon: booths will be seen rising all around the old place,

which will vanish away, and its superb successor rise where it stood,

like a magical vision. Already are ponderous cases lying loaded, in

London, with massive mantle-pieces of the finest Italian marble, marble

busts, and heads of old Greek and Roman heroes, genuine burial-urns from

Herculaneum and Pompeii, and vessels of terra-cotta,

gloriously-sculptured vases, and even columns of verde antique--all from

classic Italy--to adorn the walls of this same noble new house.

But, meantime, spite of the large income of Tom and Lady Barbara, the

old squire has strange suspicions of mortgages, and dealings with Jews.

He has actually inklings of horrid post-obits; and groans as he looks on

his old oaks, as he rides through his woods and parks, foreseeing their

overthrow; nay, he fancies he sees the land-agent among his quiet old

farmers, like a wild-cat in a rabbit warren, startling them out of their

long dream of ease and safety, with news of doubled rents, and notices

to quit, to make way for threshing-machines, winnowing-machines,

corn-crushers, patent ploughs, scufflers, scarifiers, and young men of

more enterprise. And, sure enough, such will be the order of the day the

moment the estate falls to the YOUNG SQUIRE.--_Country Year Book._

[From Hogg's Instructor.]

PRESENCE OF MIND--A FRAGMENT.

BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

The Roman _formula_ for summoning an earnest concentration of the

faculties upon any object whatever, that happened to be critically

urgent, was _Hoc age_, "Mind _this_!" or, in other words, do not mind

_that_--_non illud age_. The antithetic formula was "_aliud_ agere," to

mind something alien, or remote from the interest then clamoring for

attention. Our modern military orders of "_Attention!_" and "_Eyes

strait!_" were both included in the "_Hoc age_." In the stern

peremptoriness of this Roman formula we read a picturesque expression of

the Roman character both as to its strength and its weakness--of the

energy which brooked no faltering or delay (for beyond all other races

the Roman was _natus rebus agendis_)--and also of the morbid craving for

action, which was intolerant of any thing but the intensely practical.

In modern times, it is we of the Anglo-Saxon blood, that is, the British

and the Americans of the United States, who inherit the Roman

temperament with its vices and its fearful advantages of power. In the

ancient Roman these vices appeared more barbarously conspicuous. We, the

countrymen of Lord Bacon and Sir Isaac Newton, and at one time the

leaders of austere thinking, can not be supposed to shrink from the

speculative through any native incapacity for sounding its depths. But

the Roman had a real inaptitude for the speculative: to _him_ nothing

was real that was not practical. He had no metaphysics; he wanted the

metaphysical instinct. There was no school of _native_ Roman philosophy:

the Roman was merely an eclectic or _dilettanti_ picking up the crumbs

which fell from Grecian tables; and even mathematics was so repulsive in

its sublimer aspects to the Roman mind, that the very word mathematics

had in Rome collapsed into another name for the dotages of astrology.

The mathematician was a mere variety of expression for the wizard or the

conjurer.

From this unfavorable aspect of the Roman intellect it is but justice

that we should turn away to contemplate those situations in which that

same intellect showed itself preternaturally strong. To face a sudden

danger by a corresponding weight of sudden counsel or sudden

evasion--_that_ was a privilege essentially lodged in the Roman mind.

But in every nation some minds much more than others are representative

of the national type: they are normal minds, reflecting, as in a focus,

the characteristics of the race. Thus Louis XIV. has been held to be the

idealized expression of the French character; and among the Romans there

can not be a doubt that the first Cæsar offers in a rare perfection the

revelation of that peculiar grandeur which belonged to the children of

Romulus.

What _was_ that grandeur? We do not need, in this place, to attempt its

analysis. One feature will suffice for our purpose. The late celebrated

John Foster, in his essay on decision of character, among the accidents

of life which might serve to strengthen the natural tendencies to such a

character, or to promote its development, rightly insists on

_desertion_. To find itself in solitude, and still more to find itself

thrown upon that state of abandonment by sudden treachery, crushes the

feeble mind, but rouses a terrific reaction of haughty self-assertion in

that order of spirits which matches and measures itself against

difficulty and danger. There is something corresponding to this case of

human treachery in the sudden caprices of fortune. A danger, offering

itself unexpectedly in some momentary change of blind external agencies,

assumes to the feelings the character of a perfidy accomplished by

mysterious powers, and calls forth something of the same resentment, and

in a gladiatorial intellect something of the same spontaneous

resistance. A sword that breaks in the very crisis of a duel, a horse

killed by a flash of lightning in the moment of collision with the

enemy, a bridge carried away by an avalanche at the instant of a

commencing retreat, affect the feelings like dramatic incidents

emanating from a human will. This man they confound and paralyze, that

man they rouse into resistance, as by a personal provocation and insult.

And if it happens that these opposite effects show themselves in cases

wearing a national importance, they raise what would else have been a

mere casualty into the tragic or the epic grandeur of a fatality. The

superb character, for instance, of Cæsar's intellect throws a colossal

shadow as of predestination over the most trivial incidents of his

career. On the morning of Pharsalia, every man who reads a record of

that mighty event feels[D] by a secret instinct that an earthquake is

approaching which must determine the final distribution of the ground,

and the relations among the whole family of man through a thousand

generations. Precisely the inverse case is realized in some modern

sections of history, where the feebleness or the inertia of the

presiding intellect communicates a character of triviality to events

that otherwise are of paramount historical importance. In Cæsar's case,

simply through the perfection of his preparations arrayed against all

conceivable contingencies, there is an impression left as of some

incarnate Providence, vailed in a human form, ranging through the ranks

of the legions; while, on the contrary, in the modern cases to which we

allude, a mission, seemingly authorized by inspiration, is suddenly

quenched, like a torch falling into water, by the careless character of

the superintending intellect. Neither case is without its appropriate

interest. The spectacle of a vast historical dependency, pre-organized

by an intellect of unusual grandeur, wears the grace of congruity and

reciprocal proportion. And on the other hand, a series of mighty events

contingent upon the motion this way or that of a frivolous hand, or

suspended on the breath of caprice, suggests the wild and fantastic

disproportions of ordinary life, when the mighty masquerade moves on

forever through successions of the gay and the solemn--of the petty and

the majestic.

Cæsar's cast of character owed its impressiveness to the combination

which it offered of moral grandeur and monumental immobility, such as we

see in Marius, with the dazzling intellectual versatility found in the

Gracchi, in Sylla, in Catiline, in Antony. The comprehension and the

absolute perfection of his prescience did not escape the eye of Lucan,

who describes him as--"Nil actum reputans, si quid superesset agendum."

A fine lambent gleam of his character escapes also in that magnificent

fraction of a line, where he is described as one incapable of learning

the style and sentiments suited to a private interest--"Indocilis

privata loqui."

There has been a disposition manifested among modern writers to disturb

the traditional characters of Cæsar and his chief antagonist.

Audaciously to disparage Cæsar, and without a shadow of any new historic

grounds to exalt his feeble competitor, has been adopted as the best

chance for filling up the mighty gulf between them. Lord Brougham, for

instance, on occasion of a dinner given by the Cinque Ports at Dover to

the Duke of Wellington, vainly attempted to raise our countryman by

unfounded and romantic depreciations of Cæsar. He alleged that Cæsar had

contended only with barbarians. Now, _that_ happens to be the literal

truth as regards Pompey. The victories on which his early reputation was

built were won from semi-barbarians--luxurious, it is true, but also

effeminate in a degree never suspected at Rome until the next

generation. The slight but summary contest of Cæsar with Pharnaces, the

son of Mithridates, dissipated at once the cloud of ignorance in which

Rome had been involved on this subject by the vast distance and the

total want of familiarity with Oriental habits. But Cæsar's chief

antagonists, those whom Lord Brougham specially indicated, viz., the

Gauls, were _not_ barbarians. As a military people, they were in a stage

of civilization next to that of the Romans. They were quite as much

_aguerris_, hardened and seasoned to war, as the children of Rome. In

certain military habits they were even superior. For purposes of war

four races were then pre-eminent in Europe--viz., the Romans, the

Macedonians, certain select tribes among the mixed population of the

Spanish peninsula, and finally the Gauls. These were all open to the

recruiting parties of Cæsar; and among them all he had deliberately

assigned his preference to the Gauls. The famous legion, who carried the

_Alauda_ (the lark) upon their helmets, was raised in Gaul from Cæsar's

private funds. They composed a select and favored division in his army,

and, together with the famous tenth legion, constituted a third part of

his forces--a third numerically on the day of battle, but virtually a

half. Even the rest of Cæsar's army had been for so long a space

recruited in the Gauls, Transalpine as well as Cisalpine, that at

Pharsalia the bulk of his forces is known to have been Gaulish. There

were more reasons than one for concealing that fact. The policy of Cæsar

was, to conceal it not less from Rome than from the army itself. But the

truth became known at last to all wary observers. Lord Brougham's

objection to the quality of Cæsar's enemies falls away at once when it

is collated with the deliberate composition of Cæsar's own army. Besides

that, Cæsar's enemies were _not_ in any exclusive sense Gauls. The

German tribes, the Spanish, the Helvetian, the Illyrian, Africans of

every race, and Moors; the islanders of the Mediterranean, and the mixed

populations of Asia, had all been faced by Cæsar. And if it is alleged

that the forces of Pompey, however superior in numbers, were at

Pharsalia largely composed of an Asiatic rabble, the answer is--that

precisely of such a rabble were the hostile armies composed from which

he had won his laurels. False and windy reputations are sown thickly in

history; but never was there a reputation more thoroughly histrionic

than that of Pompey. The late Dr. Arnold of Rugby, among a million of

other crotchets, did (it is true) make a pet of Pompey; and he was

encouraged in this caprice (which had for its origin the doctor's

_political_[E] animosity to Cæsar) by one military critic, viz., Sir

William Napier. This distinguished soldier conveyed messages to Dr.

Arnold, warning him against the popular notion, that Pompey was a poor

strategist. Now, had there been any Roman state-paper office, which Sir

William could be supposed to have searched and weighed against the

statements of surviving history, we might, in deference to Sir William's

great experience and talents, have consented to a rehearing of the case.

Unfortunately, no new materials have been discovered; nor is it alleged

that the old ones are capable of being thrown into new combinations, so

as to reverse or to suspend the old adjudications. The judgment of

history stands; and among the records which it involves, none is more

striking than this--that, while Cæsar and Pompey were equally assaulted

by sudden surprises, the first invariably met the sudden danger (sudden

but never unlooked-for) by counter resources of evasion. He showed a new

front, as often as his situation exposed a new peril. At Pharsalia,

where the cavalry of Pompey was far superior to his own, he anticipated

and was in full readiness for the particular man[oe]uvre by which it was

attempted to make this superiority available against himself. By a new

formation of his troops he foiled the attack, and caused it to recoil

upon the enemy. Had Pompey then no rejoinder ready for meeting this

reply? No. His one arrow being shot, his quiver was exhausted. Without

an effort at parrying any longer, the mighty game was surrendered as

desperate. "Check to the king!" was heard in silent submission; and no

further stratagem was invoked even in silent prayer, but the stratagem

of flight. Yet Cæsar himself, objects a celebrated doctor (viz., Bishop

Warburton), was reduced by his own rashness at Alexandria to a condition

of peril and embarrassment not less alarming than the condition of

Pompey at Pharsalia. How far this surprise might be reconcilable with

Cæsar's military credit, is a question yet undecided; but this at least

is certain, that he was equal to the occasion; and, if the surprise was

all but fatal, the evasion was all but miraculous. Many were the sudden

surprises which Cæsar had to face before and after this--on the shores

of Britain, at Marseilles, at Munda, at Thapsus--from all of which he

issued triumphantly, failing only as to that final one from which he had

in pure nobility of heart announced his determination to shelter himself

under no precautions.

Such eases of personal danger and escape are exciting to the

imagination, from the disproportion between the interests of an

individual and the interests of a whole nation which for the moment

happen to be concurrent. The death or the escape of Cæsar, at one

moment, rather than another, would make a difference in the destiny of

many nations. And in kind, though not in degree, the same interest has

frequently attached to the fortunes of a prince or military leader.

Effectually the same dramatic character belongs to any struggle with

sudden danger, though not (like Cæsar's) successful. That it was _not_

successful becomes a new reason for pursuing it with interest; since

equally in that result, as in one more triumphant, we read the altered

course by which history is henceforward destined to flow.

For instance, how much depended--what a weight of history hung in

suspense, upon the evasions, or attempts at evasion, of Charles I. He

was a prince of great ability; and yet it confounds us to observe, with

how little of foresight, or of circumstantial inquiry, either as

regarded things or persons, he entered upon these difficult enterprises

of escape from the vigilance of military guardians. His first escape,

viz., that into the Scottish camp before Newark, was not surrounded with

any circumstances of difficulty. His second escape from Hampton Court

had become a matter of more urgent policy, and was proportionally more

difficult of execution. He was attended on that occasion by two

gentlemen (Berkely and Ashburnham), upon whose qualities of courage and

readiness, and upon whose acquaintance with the accidents, local or

personal, that surrounded their path, all was staked. Yet one of these

gentlemen was always suspected of treachery, and both were imbecile as

regarded that sort of wisdom on which it was possible for a royal person

to rely. Had the questions likely to arise been such as belong to a

masquerading adventure, these gentlemen might have been qualified for

the situation. As it was, they sank in mere distraction under the

responsibilities of the occasion. The king was as yet in safety. At Lord

Southampton's country mansion, he enjoyed the protection of a loyal

family ready to face any risk in his behalf; and his retreat was

entirely concealed. Suddenly this scene changes. The military commander

in the Isle of Wight is acquainted with the king's situation, and

brought into his presence, together with a military guard, though no

effort had been made to exact securities from his honor in behalf of the

king. His single object was evidently to arrest the king. His military

honor, his duty to the parliament, his private interest, all pointed to

the same result, viz., the immediate apprehension of the fugitive

prince. What was there in the opposite scale to set against these

notorious motives? Simply the fact that he was nephew to the king's

favorite chaplain, Dr. Hammond. What rational man, in a case of that

nature, would have relied upon so poor a trifle? Yet even this

inconsiderable bias was much more than balanced by another of the same

kind but in the opposite direction. Colonel Hammond was nephew to the

king's chaplain, but in the meantime he was the husband of Cromwell's

niece; and upon Cromwell privately, and the whole faction of the

Independents politically, he relied for all his hopes of advancement.

The result was, that, from mere inertia of mind and criminal negligence

in his two attendants, the poor king had run right into the custody of

the very jailer whom his enemies would have selected by preference.

Thus, then, from fear of being made a prisoner Charles had quietly

walked into the military prison of Carisbrook Castle. The very security

of this prison, however, might throw the governor off his guard. Another

escape might be possible; and again an escape was arranged. It reads

like some leaf torn from the records of a lunatic hospital, to hear its

circumstances and the particular point upon which it split. Charles was

to make his exit through a window. This window, however, was fenced by

iron bars; and these bars had been to a certain extent eaten through

with _aqua fortis_. The king had succeeded in pushing his head through,

and upon that result he relied for his escape; for he connected this

trial with the following strange maxim or postulate, viz., that

wheresoever the head could pass, there the whole person could pass. It

needs not to be said, that, in the final experiment, this absurd rule

was found not to hold good. The king stuck fast about the chest and

shoulders, and was extricated with some difficulty. Had it even been

otherwise, the attempt would have failed; for, on looking down from

amidst the iron bars, the king beheld, in the imperfect light, a number

of people who were not among his accomplices.

Equal in fatuity, almost 150 years later, were the several attempts at

escape concerted on behalf of the French royal family. The abortive

escape to Varennes is now familiarly known to all the world, and

impeaches the good sense of the king himself not less than of his

friends. The arrangements for the falling in with the cavalry escort

could not have been worse managed had they been intrusted to children.

But even the general outline of the scheme, an escape in a collective

family party--father, mother, children, and servants--and the king

himself, whose features were known to millions, not even withdrawing

himself from the public gaze at the stations for changing horses--all

this is calculated to perplex and sadden the pitying reader with the

idea that some supernatural infatuation had bewildered the predestined

victims. Meantime an earlier escape than this to Varennes had been

planned, viz., to Brussels. The preparations for this, which have been

narrated by Madame de Campan, were conducted with a disregard of

concealment even more astounding to people of ordinary good sense. "Do

you really need to escape at all?" would have been the question of many

a lunatic; "if you do, surely you need also to disguise your

preparations for escape."

But alike the madness, or the providential wisdom, of such attempts

commands our profoundest interest; alike--whether conducted by a Cæsar

or by the helpless members of families utterly unfitted to act

independently for themselves. These attempts belong to history, and it

is in that relation that they become philosophically so impressive.

Generations through an infinite series are contemplated by us as

silently awaiting the turning of a sentinel round a corner, or the

casual echo of a footstep. Dynasties have trepidated on the chances of a

sudden cry from an infant carried in a basket; and the safety of empires

has been suspended, like the descent of an avalanche, upon the moment

earlier or the moment later of a cough or a sneeze. And, high above all,

ascends solemnly the philosophic truth, that the least things and the

greatest are bound together as elements equally essential of the

mysterious universe.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] "Feels by a secret instinct;"--A sentiment of this nature is finely

expressed by Lucan in the passage beginning, "Advenisse diem," &c. The

circumstance by which Lucan chiefly defeats the grandeur and

simplicities of the truth, is, the monstrous numerical exaggeration of

the combatants and the killed at Pharsalia.

[E] It is very evident that Dr. Arnold could not have understood the

position of politics in Rome, when he allowed himself to make a favorite

of Pompey. The doctor hated aristocrats as he hated the gates of Erebus.

Now Pompey was not only the leader of a most selfish aristocracy, but

also their tool. Secondly, as if this were not bad enough, that section

of the aristocracy to which he had dedicated his services was an odious

oligarchy; and to this oligarchy, again, though nominally its head, he

was in effect the most submissive of tools. Cæsar, on the other hand, if

a democrat in the sense of working by democratic agencies, was bending

all his efforts to the reconstruction of a new, purer, and enlarged

aristocracy, no longer reduced to the necessity of buying and selling

the people in mere self-defense. The everlasting war of bribery,

operating upon universal poverty, the internal disease of Roman society,

would have been redressed by Cæsar's measures, and _was_ redressed

according to the degree in which those measures were really brought into

action. New judicatures were wanted, new judicial laws, a new

aristocracy, by slow degrees a new people, and the right of suffrage

exercised within new restrictions--all these things were needed for the

cleansing of Rome; and that Cæsar would have accomplished this labor of

Hercules was the true cause of his death. The scoundrels of the

oligarchy felt their doom to be approaching. It was the just remark of

Napoleon, that Brutus (but still more, we may say, Cicero), though

falsely accredited as a patriot, was, in fact, the most exclusive and

the most selfish of aristocrats.

[From Cumming's Hunting Adventures in South Africa.]

FEARFUL TRAGEDY--A MAN-EATING LION.

On the 29th we arrived at a small village of Bakalahari. These natives

told me that elephants were abundant on the opposite side of the river.

I accordingly resolved to halt here and hunt, and drew my wagons up on

the river's bank, within thirty yards of the water, and about one

hundred yards from the native village. Having outspanned, we at once set

about making for the cattle a kraal of the worst description of

thorn-trees. Of this I had now become very particular, since my severe

loss by lions on the first of this month; and my cattle were, at night,

secured by a strong kraal, which inclosed my two wagons, the horses

being made fast to a trek-tow stretched between the hind wheels of the

wagons. I had yet, however, a fearful lesson to learn as to the nature

and character of the lion, of which I had at one time entertained so

little fear; and on this night a horrible tragedy was to be acted in my

little lonely camp of so very awful and appalling a nature as to make

the blood curdle in our veins. I worked till near sundown at one side of

the kraal with Hendric, my first wagon-driver--I cutting down the trees

with my ax, and he dragging them to the kraal. When the kraal for the

cattle was finished, I turned my attention to making a pot of

barley-broth, and lighted a fire between the wagons and the water, close

on the river's bank, under a dense grove of shady trees, making no sort

of kraal around our sitting-place for the evening.

The Hottentots, without any reason, made their fire about fifty yards

from mine; they, according to their usual custom, being satisfied with

the shelter of a large dense bush. The evening passed away cheerfully.

Soon after it was dark we heard elephants breaking the trees in the

forest across the river, and once or twice I strode away into the

darkness some distance from the fireside to stand and listen to them. I

little, at that moment, deemed of the imminent peril to which I was

exposing my life, nor thought that a bloodthirsty man-eater lion was

crouching near, and only watching his opportunity to spring into the

kraal, and consign one of us to a most horrible death. About three hours

after the sun went down I called to my men to come and take their coffee

and supper, which was ready for them at my fire; and after supper three

of them returned before their comrades to their own fireside, and lay

down; these were John Stofolus, Hendric, and Ruyter. In a few minutes an

ox came out by the gate of the kraal and walked round the back of it.

Hendric got up and drove him in again, and then went back to his

fireside and lay down. Hendric and Ruyter lay on one side of the fire

under one blanket, and John Stofolus lay on the other. At this moment I

was sitting taking some barley-broth; our fire was very small, and the

night was pitch-dark and windy. Owing to our proximity to the native

village the wood was very scarce, the Bakalahari having burned it all in

their fires.

Suddenly the appalling and murderous voice of an angry, bloodthirsty

lion burst upon my ear within a few yards of us, followed by the

shrieking of the Hottentots. Again and again the murderous roar of

attack was repeated. We heard John and Ruyter shriek "The lion! the

lion!" still, for a few moments, we thought he was but chasing one of

the dogs round the kraal; but, next instant, John Stofolus rushed into

the midst of us almost speechless with fear and terror, his eyes

bursting from their sockets, and shrieked out, "The lion! the lion! He

has got Hendric; he dragged him away from the fire beside me. I struck

him with the burning brands upon his head, but he would not let go his

hold. Hendric is dead! Oh God! Hendric is dead! Let us take fire and

seek him." The rest of my people rushed about, shrieking and yelling as

if they were mad. I was at once angry with them for their folly, and

told them that if they did not stand still and keep quiet the lion would

have another of us; and that very likely there was a troop of them. I

ordered the dogs, which were nearly all fast, to be made loose, and the

fire to be increased as far as could be. I then shouted Hendric's name,

but all was still. I told my men that Hendric was dead, and that a

regiment of soldiers could not now help him, and, hunting my dogs

forward, I had every thing brought within the cattle-kraal, when we

lighted our fire and closed the entrance as well as we could.

My terrified people sat round the fire with guns in their hands till the

day broke, still fancying that every moment the lion would return and

spring again into the midst of us. When the dogs were first let go, the

stupid brutes, as dogs often prove when most required, instead of going

at the lion, rushed fiercely on one another, and fought desperately for

some minutes. After this they got his wind, and, going at him, disclosed

to us his position: they kept up a continued barking until the day

dawned, the lion occasionally springing after them and driving them in

upon the kraal. The horrible monster lay all night within forty yards of

us, consuming the wretched man whom he had chosen for his prey. He had

dragged him into a little hollow at the back of the thick bush beside

which the fire was kindled, and there he remained till the day dawned,

careless of our proximity.

It appeared that when the unfortunate Hendric rose to drive in the ox,

the lion had watched him to his fireside, and he had scarcely laid down

when the brute sprang upon him and Ruyter (for both lay under one

blanket), with his appalling, murderous roar, and, roaring as he lay,

grappled him with his fearful claws, and kept biting him on the breast

and shoulder, all the while feeling for his neck; having got hold of

which, he at once dragged him away backward round the bush into the

dense shade.

As the lion lay upon the unfortunate man, he faintly cried, "Help me,

help me! Oh God! men, help me!" After which the fearful beast got a hold

of his neck, and then all was still, except that his comrades heard the

bones of his neck cracking between the teeth of the lion. John Stofolus

had lain with his back to the fire on the opposite side, and on hearing

the lion he sprang up, and, seizing a large flaming brand, had belabored

him on the head with the burning wood; but the brute did not take any

notice of him. The Bushman had a narrow escape; he was not altogether

scatheless, the lion having inflicted two gashes in his seat with his

claws.

The next morning, just as the day began to dawn, we heard the lion

dragging something up the river side, under cover of the bank. We drove

the cattle out of the kraal, and then proceeded to inspect the scene of

the night's awful tragedy. In the hollow, where the lion had lain

consuming his prey, we found one leg of the unfortunate Hendric, bitten

off below the knee, the shoe still on his foot; the grass and bushes

were all stained with his blood, and fragments of his pea-coat lay

around. Poor Hendric! I knew the fragments of that old coat, and had

often marked them hanging in the dense covers where the elephant had

charged after my unfortunate after-rider. Hendric was by far the best

man I had about my wagons, of a most cheerful disposition, a first-rate

wagon-driver, fearless in the field, ever active, willing, and obliging:

his loss to us all was very serious. I felt confounded and utterly sick

in my heart; I could not remain at the wagons, so I resolved to go after

elephants to divert my mind. I had that morning heard them breaking the

trees on the opposite side of the river. I accordingly told the natives

of the village of my intentions, and having ordered my people to devote

the day to fortifying the kraal, started with Piet and Ruyter as my

after-riders. It was a very cool day. We crossed the river, and at once

took up the fresh spoor of a troop of bull elephants. These bulls

unfortunately joined a troop of cows, and when we came on them the dogs

attacked the cows, and the bulls were off in a moment, before we could

even see them. One remarkably fine old cow charged the dogs. I hunted

this cow, and finished her with two shots from the saddle. Being anxious

to return to my people before night, I did not attempt to follow the

troop. My followers were not a little gratified to see me returning, for

terror had taken hold of their minds, and they expected that the lion

would return, and, emboldened by the success of the preceding night,

would prove still more daring in his attack. The lion would most

certainly have returned, but fate had otherwise ordained. My health had

been better in the last three days: my fever was leaving me, but I was,

of course, still very weak. It would still be two hours before the sun

would set, and, feeling refreshed by a little rest, and able for further

work, I ordered the steeds to be saddled, and went in search of the

lion.

I took John and Carey as after-riders, armed, and a party of the natives

followed up the spoor and led the dogs. The lion had dragged the remains

of poor Hendric along a native foot-path that led up the river side. We

found fragments of his coat all along the spoor, and at last the mangled

coat itself. About six hundred yards from our camp a dry river's course

joined the Limpopo. At this spot was much shade, cover, and heaps of dry

reeds and trees deposited by the Limpopo in some great flood. The lion

had left the foot-path and entered this secluded spot. I at once felt

convinced that we were upon him, and ordered the natives to make loose

the dogs. These walked suspiciously forward on the spoor, and next

minute began to spring about, barking angrily, with all their hair

bristling on their backs: a crash upon the dry reeds immediately

followed--it was the lion bounding away.

Several of the dogs were extremely afraid of him, and kept rushing

continually backward and springing aloft to obtain a view. I now pressed

forward and urged them on; old Argyll and Bles took up his spoor in

gallant style, and led on the other dogs. Then commenced a short but

lively and glorious chase, whose conclusion was the only small

satisfaction that I could obtain to answer for the horrors of the

preceding evening. The lion held up the river's bank for a short

distance, and took away through some wait-a-bit thorn cover, the best he

could find, but nevertheless open. Here, in two minutes, the dogs were

up with him, and he turned and stood at bay. As I approached, he stood,

his horrid head right to me, with open jaws, growling fiercely, his tail

waving from side to side.

On beholding him my blood boiled with rage. I wished that I could take

him alive and torture him, and, setting my teeth, I dashed my steed

forward within thirty yards of him and shouted, "_Your_ time is up, old

fellow." I halted my horse, and, placing my rifle to my shoulder, waited

for a broadside. This the next moment he exposed, when I sent a bullet

through his shoulder and dropped him on the spot. He rose, however,

again, when I finished him with a second in the breast. The Bakalahari

now came up in wonder and delight. I ordered John to cut off his head

and forepaws and bring them to the wagons, and, mounting my horse,

galloped home, having been absent about fifteen minutes. When the

Bakalahari women heard that the man-eater was dead, they all commenced

dancing about with joy, calling me _their father_.

[From Howitt's Country Year-Book.]

THE HAUNTED HOUSE IN CHARNWOOD FOREST.

One fine, blustering, autumn day, a quiet and venerable-looking old

gentleman might be seen, with stick in hand, taking his way through the

streets of Leicester. If any one had followed him, they would have

found him directing his steps toward that side of the town which leads

to Charnwood. The old gentleman, who was a Quaker, took his way

leisurely, but thoughtfully, stopping every now and then to see what the

farmers' men were about, who were plowing up the stubbles to prepare for

another year's crop. He paused, also, at this and that farm-house,

evidently having a pleasure in the sight of good fat cattle, and in the

flocks of poultry--fowls, ducks, geese, and turkeys, busy about the

barn-door, where the sound of the flail, or the swipple, as they there

term it, was already heard busily knocking out the corn of the last

bountiful harvest. Our old friend--a Friend--for though you, dear

reader, do not know him, he was both at the time we speak of--our old

friend, again trudging on, would pause on the brow of a hill, at a

stile, or on some rustic bridge, casting its little obliging arch over a

brooklet, and inhale the fresh autumnal air; and after looking round

him, nod to himself, as if to say, "Ay, all good, all beautiful!" and so

he went on again. But it would not be long before he would be arrested

again by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries, hanging from some old

hawthorn hedge; or by clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside, through

the copse. In all these natural beauties our old wayfarer seemed to have

the enjoyment of a child. Blackberries went into his mouth, and nuts

into his pockets; and so, with a quiet, inquiring, and thoughtful, yet

thoughtfully cheerful look, the good old man went on.

He seemed bound for a long walk, and yet to be in no hurry. In one place

he stopped to talk to a very old laborer, who was clearing out a ditch;

and if you had been near, you would have heard that their discourse was

of the past days, and the changes in that part of the country, which the

old laborer thought were very much for the worse. And worse they were

for him: for formerly he was young and full of life; and now he was old

and nearly empty of life. Then he was buoyant, sang songs, made love,

went to wakes and merry-makings; now his wooing days, and his marrying

days, and his married days were over. His good old dame, who in those

young, buxom days was a round-faced, rosy, plump, and light-hearted

damsel, was dead, and his children were married, and had enough to do.

In those days, the poor fellow was strong and lusty, had no fear and no

care; in these, he was weak and tottering; had been pulled and harassed

a thousand ways; and was left, as he said, like an old dry kex--_i.e._ a

hemlock or cow-parsnip stalk, hollow and dry, to be knocked down and

trodden into the dust some day.

Yes, sure enough, those past days _were_ much better days than these

days were to him. No comparison. But Mr. John Basford, our old wanderer,

was taking a more cheerful view of things, and telling the nearly

worn-out laborer, that when the night came there followed morning, and

that the next would be a heavenly morning, shining on hills of glory,

on waters of life, on cities of the blest, where no sun rose, and no sun

set; and where every joyful creature of joyful youth, who had been dear

to him, and true to him and God, would again meet him, and make times

such as should cause songs of praise to spring out of his heart, just as

flowers spring out of a vernal tree in the rekindled warmth of the sun.

The old laborer leaned reverently on his spade as the worthy man talked

to him. His gray locks, uncovered at his labor by any hat, were tossed

in the autumn wind. His dim eye was fixed on the distant sky, that

rolled its dark masses of clouds on the gale, and the deep wrinkles of

his pale and feeble temples seemed to grow deeper at the thoughts

passing within him. He was listening as to a sermon, which brought

together his youth and his age; his past and his future; and there were

verified on that spot words which Jesus Christ spoke nearly two thousand

years ago--"Wherever two or three are met together in my name, there am

I in the midst of them."

He was in the midst of the two only. There was a temple there in those

open fields, sanctified by two pious hearts, which no ringing of bells,

no sound of solemn organ, nor voice of congregated prayers, nor any

preacher but the ever-present and invisible One, who there and then

fulfilled His promise and was gracious, could have made more holy.

Our old friend again turned to set forward; he shook the old laborer

kindly by the hand, and there was a gaze of astonishment in the old

man's face--the stranger had not only cheered him by his words, but left

something to cheer him when he was gone.

The Friend now went on with a more determined step. He skirted the

memorable park of Bradgate, famous for the abode of Lady Jane Grey, and

the visit of her schoolmaster, Roger Ascham. He went on into a region of

woods and hills. At some seven or eight miles from Leicester, he drew

near a solitary farm-house, within the ancient limits of the forest of

Charnwood. It was certainly a lonely place amid the woodlands and the

wild autumn fields. Evening was fast dropping down; and as the shade of

night fell on the scene, the wind tossed more rushingly the boughs of

the thick trees, and roared down the rocky valley. John Basford went up

to the farm-house, however, as if that was the object of his journey,

and a woman opening it at his knock, he soon disappeared within.

Now our old friend was a perfect stranger here; had never been here

before; had no acquaintance nor actual business with the inhabitants,

though any one watching his progress hither would have been quite

satisfied that he was not wandering without an object. But he merely

stated that he was somewhat fatigued with his walk from the town, and

requested leave to rest awhile. In such a place, such a request is

readily, and even gladly granted.

There was a cheerful fire burning on a bright, clean hearth. The kettle

was singing on the hob for tea, and the contrast of the in-door comfort

was sensibly heightened by the wild gloom without. The farmer's wife,

who had admitted the stranger, soon went out, and called her husband

from the fold-yard. He was a plain, hearty sort of man; gave our friend

a hearty shake of the hand, sate down, and began to converse. A little

time seemed to establish a friendly interest between the stranger and

the farmer and his wife. John Basford asked whether they would allow him

to smoke a pipe, which was not only readily accorded, but the farmer

joined him. They smoked and talked alternately of the country and the

town, Leicester being the farmer's market, and as familiar to him as his

own neighborhood. He soon came to know, too, who his guest was, and

expressed much pleasure in the visit. Tea was carried into the parlor,

and thither they all adjourned, for now the farming men were coming into

the kitchen, where they sate for the evening.

Tea over, the two gentlemen again had a pipe, and the conversation

wandered over a multitude of things and people known to both.

But the night was come down pitch dark, wild, and windy, and old John

Basford had to return to Leicester.

"To Leicester!" exclaimed at once man and wife; "to Leicester!" No such

thing. He must stay where he was--where could he be better?

John Basford confessed that that was true; he had great pleasure in

conversing with them; but then, was it not an unwarrantable liberty to

come to a stranger's house, and make thus free?

"Not in the least," the farmer replied; "the freer the better!"

The matter thus was settled, and the evening wore on; but in the course

of the evening, the guest, whose simple manner, strong sense, and deeply

pious feeling, had made a most favorable impression on his entertainers,

hinted that he had heard some strange rumors regarding this house, and

that, in truth, had been the cause which had attracted him thither. He

had heard, in fact, that a particular chamber in this house was haunted;

and he had for a long time felt a growing desire to pass a night in it.

He now begged this favor might be granted him.

As he had opened this subject, an evident cloud, and something of an

unpleasant surprise, had fallen on the countenances of both man and

wife. It deepened as he proceeded; the farmer had withdrawn his pipe

from his mouth, and laid it on the table; and the woman had risen, and

looked uneasily at their guest. The moment that he uttered the wish to

sleep in the haunted room, both exclaimed in the same instant against

it.

"No, never!" they exclaimed; "never, on any consideration! They had made

a firm resolve on that point, which nothing would induce them to break

through."

The guest expressed himself disappointed, but did not press the matter

further at the moment. He contented himself with turning the

conversation quietly upon this subject, and after a while found the

farmer and his wife confirm to him every thing that he had heard. Once

more then, and as incidentally, he expressed his regret that he could

not gratify the curiosity which had brought him so far; and, before the

time for retiring arrived, again ventured to express how much what he

had now heard had increased his previous desire to pass a night in that

room. He did not profess to believe himself invulnerable to fears of

such a kind, but was curious to convince himself of the actual existence

of spiritual agency of this character.

The farmer and his wife steadily refused. They declared that others who

had come with the same wish, and had been allowed to gratify it, had

suffered such terrors as had made their after-lives miserable. The last

of these guests was a clergyman, who received such a fright that he

sprang from his bed at midnight, had descended, gone into the stable,

and saddling his horse, had ridden away at full speed. Those things had

caused them to refuse, and that firmly, any fresh experiment of the

kind.

The spirit visitation was described to be generally this: At midnight,

the stranger sleeping in that room would hear the latch of the door

raised, and would in the dark perceive a light step enter, and, as with

a stealthy tread, cross the room, and approach the foot of the bed. The

curtains would be agitated, and something would be perceived mounted on

the bed, and proceeding up it, just upon the body of the person in it.

The supernatural visitant would then stretch itself full length on the

person of the agitated guest, and the next moment he would feel an

oppression at his chest, as of a nightmare, and something extremely cold

would touch his face.

At this crisis, the terrified guest would usually utter a fearful

shriek, and often go into a swoon. The whole family would be roused from

their beds by the alarm; but on no occasion had any traces of the cause

of terror been found, though the house, on such occasions, had been

diligently and thoroughly searched. The annoying visit was described as

being by no means uniform. Sometimes it would not take place for a very

long time, so that they would begin to hope that there would be no more

of it; but it would, when least expected, occur again. Few people of

late years, however, had ventured to sleep in that room, and never since

the aforementioned clergyman was so terribly alarmed, about two years

ago, had it once been occupied.

"Then," said John Basford, "it is probable that the annoyance is done

with forever. If the troublesome visitant was still occasionally present

it would, no doubt, take care to manifest itself in some mode or place.

It was necessary to test the matter to see whether this particular room

was still subject to so strange a phenomenon."

This seemed to have an effect on the farmer and his wife. The old man

urged his suit all the more earnestly, and, after further show of

extreme reluctance on the part of his entertainers, finally prevailed.

The consent once being given, the farmer's wife retired to make the

necessary arrangements. Our friend heard sundry goings to and fro; but

at length it was announced to him that all was ready; the farmer and his

wife both repeating that they would be much better pleased if Mr.

Basford would be pleased to sleep in some other room. The old man,

however, remained firm to his purpose; he was shown to his chamber, and

the maid who led the way stood at some distance from the denoted door,

and pointing to it, bade him good night, and hurried away.

Mr. Basford found himself alone in the haunted room, he looked round and

discovered nothing that should make it differ from any other good and

comfortable chamber, or that should give to some invisible agent so

singular a propensity to disturb any innocent mortal that nocturnated in

it. Whether he felt any nervous terrors, we know not; but as he was come

to see all that would or could occur there, he kept himself most

vigilantly awake. He lay down in a very good feather bed, extinguished

his light, and waited in patience. Time and tide, as they will wait for

no man, went on. All sounds of life ceased in the house; nothing could

be heard but the rushing wind without, and the bark of the yard-dog

occasionally amid the laughing blast. Midnight came, and found John

Basford wide-awake and watchfully expectant. Nothing stirred, but he lay

still on the watch. At length--was it so? Did he hear a rustling

movement, as it were, near his door, or was it his excited fancy? He

raised his head from his pillow, and listened intensely. Hush! there is

something!--no!--it was his contagious mind ready to hear and see--what?

There was an actual sound of the latch! He could hear it raised! He

could not be mistaken. There was a sound as if his door was cautiously

opened. List! it was true. There were soft, stealthy footsteps on the

carpet; they came directly toward the bed; they paused at its foot; the

curtains were agitated; there were steps on the bed; something

crept--did not the heart and the very flesh of the rash old man now

creep too?--and upon him sank a palpable form, palpable from its

pressure, for the night was dark as an oven. There was a heavy weight on

his chest, and in the same instant something almost icy cold touched his

face.

With a sudden, convulsive action, the old man suddenly flung up his

arms, clutched at the terrible object which thus oppressed him, and

shouted with a loud cry,

"I have got him! I have got him!"

There was a sound as of a deep growl, a vehement struggle, but John

Basford held fast his hold, and felt that he had something within it

huge, shaggy, and powerful. Once more he raised his voice loud enough to

have roused the whole house; but it seemed no voice of terror, but one

of triumph and satisfaction. In the next instant, the farmer rushed into

the room with a light in his hand, and revealed to John Basford that he

held in his arms the struggling form of a huge Newfoundland dog!

"Let him go, sir, in God's name!" exclaimed the farmer, on whose brow

drops of real anguish stood, and glistened in the light of the candle.

"Down stairs, Cæsar!" and the dog, released from the hold of the Quaker,

departed as if much ashamed.

In the same instant, the farmer and his wife, who now also came in

dressed, and evidently never having been to bed, were on their knees by

the bedside.

"You know it all, sir," said the farmer; "you see through it. You were

too deep and strong-minded to be imposed on. We were, therefore, afraid

of this when you asked to sleep in this room. Promise us now, that while

we live you will never reveal what you know?"

They then related to him, that this house and chamber had never been

haunted by any other than this dog, which had been trained to play the

part. That, for generations, their family had lived on this farm; but

some years ago, their landlord having suddenly raised their rent to an

amount that they felt they could not give, they were compelled to think

of quitting the farm. This was to them an insuperable source of grief.

It was the place that all their lives and memories were bound up with.

They were extremely cast down. Suddenly it occurred to them to give an

ill name to the house. They hit on this scheme, and, having practiced it

well, did not long want an opportunity of trying it. It had succeeded

beyond their expectations. The fears of their guests were found to be of

a force which completely blinded them to any discovery of the truth.

There had been occasions where they thought some clumsy accident must

have stripped away the delusion; but no! there seemed a thick vail of

blindness, a fascination of terror cast over the strongest minds, which

nothing could pierce through. Case after case occurred; and the house

and farm acquired such a character, that no money or consideration of

any kind would have induced a fresh tenant to live there. The old

tenants continued at their old rent; and the comfortable ghost stretched

himself every night in a capacious kennel, without any need of

disturbing his slumbers by calls to disturb those of the guests of the

haunted chamber.

Having made this revelation, the farmer and his wife again implored

their guest to preserve their secret.

He hesitated.

"Nay," said he, "I think it would not be right to do that. That would be

to make myself a party to a public deception. It would be a kind of

fraud on the world and the landlord. It would serve to keep up those

superstitious terrors which should be as speedily as possible

dissipated."

The farmer was in agony. He rose and strode to and fro in the room. His

countenance grew red and wrathful. He cast dark glances at his guest,

whom his wife continued to implore, and who sate silent, and, as it

were, lost in reflection.

"And do you think it a right thing, sir," said the farmer, "thus to

force yourself into a stranger's house and family, and, in spite of the

strongest wishes expressed to the contrary, into his very chambers, and

that only to do him a mischief? Is that your religion, sir? I thought

you had something better in you than that. Am I now to think your

mildness and piety were only so much hypocrisy put on to ruin me?"

"Nay, friend, I don't want to ruin thee," said the Quaker.

"But ruin me you will, though, if you publish this discovery. Out I must

turn, and be the laughing-stock of the whole country to boot. Now, if

that is what you mean, say so, and I shall know what sort of a man you

are. Let me know at once whether you are an honest man or a cockatrice?"

"My friend," said the Quaker, "canst thou call thyself an honest man, in

practicing this deception for all these years, and depriving thy

landlord of the rent he would otherwise have got from another? And dost

thou think it would be honest in me to assist in the continuance of this

fraud?"

"I rob the landlord of nothing," replied the farmer. "I pay a good, fair

rent; but I don't want to quit the old spot. And if you had not thrust

yourself into this affair, you would have had nothing to lay on your

conscience concerning it. I must, let me tell you, look on it as a piece

of unwarrantable impertinence to come thus to my house and be kindly

treated only to turn Judas against me."

The word Judas seemed to hit the Friend a great blow.

"A Judas!"

"Yes--a Judas! a real Judas!" exclaimed the wife. "Who could have

thought it!"

"Nay, nay," said the old man. "I am no Judas. It is true, I forced

myself into it; and if you pay the landlord an honest rent, why, I don't

know that it is any business of mine--at least while you live."

"That is all we want," replied the farmer, his countenance changing, and

again flinging himself by his wife on his knees by the bed. "Promise us

never to reveal it while we live, and we shall be quite satisfied. We

have no children, and when we go, those may come to th' old spot who

will."

"Promise me never to practice this trick again," said John Basford.

"We promise faithfully," rejoined both farmer and wife.

"Then I promise too," said the Friend, "that not a whisper of what has

passed here shall pass my lips during your lifetime."

With warmest expressions of thanks, the farmer and his wife withdrew;

and John Basford, having cleared the chamber of its mystery, lay down

and passed one of the sweetest nights he ever enjoyed.

The farmer and his wife lived a good many years after this, but they

both died before Mr. Basford; and after their death, he related to his

friends the facts which are here detailed. He, too, has passed, years

ago, to his longer night in the grave, and to the clearing up of greater

mysteries than that of--the Haunted House of Charnwood Forest.

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

LEDRU ROLLIN--BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

Ledru Rollin is now in his forty-fourth or forty-fifth year, having been

born in 1806 or 1807. He is the grandson of the famous _Prestidigateur_,

or Conjurer Comus, who, about four or five-and-forty years ago, was in

the acme of his fame. During the Consulate, and a considerable portion

of the Empire, Comus traveled from one department of France to the

other, and is even known to have extended his journeys beyond the Rhine

and the Moselle on one side, and beyond the Rhône and Garonne on the

other. Of all the conjurors of his day he was the most famous and the

most successful, always, of course, excepting that Corsican conjuror who

ruled for so many years the destinies of France. From those who have

seen that famous trickster, we have learned that the Charleses, the

Alexandres, even the Robert-Houdins, were children compared with the

magical wonder-worker of the past generation. The fame of Comus was

enormous, and his gains proportionate; and when he had shuffled off this

mortal coil it was found he had left to his descendants a very

ample--indeed, for France a very large fortune. Of the descendants in a

right line, his grandson, Ledru Rollin, was his favorite, and to him the

old man left the bulk of his fortune, which, during the minority of

Ledru Rollin, grew to a sum amounting to nearly, if not fully, £4000 per

annum of our money.

The scholastic education of the young man who was to inherit this

considerable fortune, was nearly completed during the reign of Louis

XVIII., and shortly after Charles X. ascended the throne _il commençait

à faire sur droit_, as they phrase it in the _pays Latin_. Neither

during the reign of Louis XVIII., nor indeed now, unless in the exact

and physical sciences, does Paris afford a very solid and substantial

education. Though the Roman poets and historians are tolerably well

studied and taught, yet little attention is paid to Greek literature.

The physical and exact sciences are unquestionably admirably taught at

the Polytechnique and other schools; but neither at the College of St.

Barbe, nor of Henry IV., can a pupil be so well grounded in the

rudiments and humanities as in our grammar and public schools. A

studious, painstaking, and docile youth, will, no doubt, learn a great

deal, no matter where he has been placed in pupilage; but we have heard

from a contemporary of M. Rollin, that he was not particularly

distinguished either for his industry or his docility in early life. The

earliest days of the reign of Charles X. saw M. Ledru Rollin an

_étudiant en droit_ in Paris. Though the schools of law had been

re-established during the Consulate pretty much after the fashion in

which they existed in the time of Louis XIV., yet the application of the

_alumni_ was fitful and desultory, and perhaps there were no two classes

in France, at the commencement of 1825, who were more imbued with the

Voltarian philosophy, and the doctrines and principles of Rosseau, than

the _élèves_ of the schools of law and medicine.

Under a king so skeptical and voluptuous, so much of a _philosophe_ and

_pyrrhonéste_, as Louis XVIII., such tendencies were likely to spread

themselves through all ranks of society--to permeate from the very

highest to the very lowest classes; and not all the lately acquired

asceticism of the monarch, his successor, nor all the efforts of the

Jesuits, could restrain or control the tendencies of the _étudiants en

droit_. What the law students were antecedently and subsequent to 1825,

we know from the _Physiologic de l'Homme de Loi_; and it is not to be

supposed that M. Ledru Rollin, with more ample pecuniary means at

command, very much differed from his fellows. After undergoing a three

years' course of study, M. Rollin obtained a diploma as a _licencié en

droit_, and commenced his career as _stagiare_ somewhere about the end

of 1826, or the beginning of 1827. Toward the close of 1829, or in the

first months of 1830, he was, we believe, placed on the roll of

advocates: so that he was called to the bar, or, as they say in France,

received an advocate, in his twenty-second or twenty-third year.

The first years of an advocate, even in France, are generally passed in

as enforced an idleness as in England. Clients come not to consult the

greenhorn of the last term; nor does any _avoué_ among our neighbors,

any more than any attorney among ourselves, fancy that an old head is to

be found on young shoulders. The years 1830 and 1831 were not marked by

any oratorical effort of the author of the _Decline of England_; nor was

it till 1832 that, being then one of the youngest of the bar of Paris,

he prepared and signed an opinion against the placing of Paris in a

state of siege consequent on the insurrections of June. Two years after

he prepared a memoir, or _factum_, on the affair of the Rue Transonian,

and defended Dupoty, accused of _complicité morale_, a monstrous

doctrine, invented by the Attorney-general Hebert. From 1834 to 1841 he

appeared as counsel in nearly all the cases of _émeute_ or conspiracy

where the individuals prosecuted were Republicans or

_quasi_-Republicans. Meanwhile, he had become the proprietor and

_rédacteur en chief_ of the _Réforme_ newspaper, a political journal of

an ultra-liberal--indeed, of a republican-complexion, which was then

called of extreme opinions, as he had previously been editor of a legal

newspaper called _Journal du Palais. La Réforme_ had been originally

conducted by Godefroy Cavaignac, the brother of the general, who

continued editor till the period of the fatal illness which preceded his

death. The defense of Dupoty, tried and sentenced under the ministry of

Thiers to five years' imprisonment, as a regicide, because a letter was

found open in the letter-box of the paper of which he was editor,

addressed to him by a man said to be implicated in the conspiracy of

Quenisset, naturally brought M. Rollin into contact with many of the

writers in _La Réforme_; and these persons, among others Guinard Arago,

Etienne Arago, and Flocon, induced him to embark some portion of his

fortune in the paper. From one step he was led on to another, and

ultimately became one of the chief, indeed, is not the chief proprietor.

The speculation was far from successful in a pecuniary sense; but M.

Rollin, in furtherance of his opinions, continued for some years to

disburse considerable sums in the support of the journal. By this he no

doubt increased his popularity and his credit with the republican party,

but it can not be denied that he very materially injured his private

fortune. In the earlier portion of his career M. Rollin was, it is

known, not indisposed to seek a seat in the chamber under the auspicies

of M. Barrot, but subsequently to his connection with the _Réforme_, he

had himself become thoroughly known to the extreme party in the

departments, and on the death of Garnier Pagès the elder, was elected in

1841 for Le Mans, in the department of La Sarthe.

In addressing the electors after his return, M. Rollin delivered a

speech much more republican than monarchical. For this he was sentenced

to four months' imprisonment, but the sentence was appealed against and

annulled on a technical ground, and the honorable member was ultimately

acquitted by the Cour d'Assizes of Angers.

The parliamentary _début_ of M. Rollin took place in 1842. His first

speech was delivered on the subject of the secret-service money. The

elocution was easy and flowing, the manner oratorical, the style

somewhat turgid and bombastic. But in the course of the session M.

Rollin improved, and his discourse on the modification of the criminal

law, on other legal subjects, and on railways, were more sober specimens

of style. In 1843 and 1844 M. Rollin frequently spoke; but though his

speeches were a good deal talked of outside the walls of the chamber,

they produced little effect within it. Nevertheless, it was plain to

every candid observer that he possessed many of the requisites of the

orator--a good voice, a copious flow of words, considerable energy and

enthusiasm, a sanguine temperament and jovial and generous disposition.

In the sessions of 1845-46, M. Rollin took a still more prominent part.

His purse, his house in the Rue Tournon, his counsels and advice, were

all placed at the service of the men of the movement, and by the

beginning of 1847 he seemed to be acknowledged by the extreme party as

its most conspicuous and popular member. Such, indeed, was his position

when the electoral reform banquets, on a large scale, began to take

place in the autumn of 1847. These banquets, promoted and forwarded by

the principal members of the opposition to serve the cause of electoral

reform, were looked on by M. Rollin and his friends in another light.

While Odillon Barrot, Duvergier d'Hauranne, and others, sought by means

of them to produce an enlarged constituency, the member for Sarthe

looked not merely to functional, but to organic reform--not merely to an

enlargement of the constituency, but to a change in the form of the

government. The desire of Barrot was _à la vérité, à la sincerité des

institutions conquises en Julliet 1830_; whereas the desire of Rollin

was, _à l'amélioration des classes laborieuses_: the one was willing to

go on with the dynasty of Louis Philippe and the Constitution of July

improved by diffusion and extension of the franchise, the other looked

to a democratic and social republic. The result is now known. It is not

here our purpose to go over the events of the Revolution of February,

1848, but we may be permitted to observe, that the combinations by which

that event was effected were ramified and extensive, and were long

silently and secretly in motion.

The personal history of Ledru Rollin, since February, 1848, is well

known and patent to all the world. He was the _ame damnée_ of the

Provisional Government--the man whose extreme opinions, intemperate

circulars, and vehement patronage of persons professing the political

creed of Robespierre--indisposed all moderate men to rally around the

new system. It was in covering Ledru Rollin with the shield of his

popularity that Lamartine lost his own, and that he ceased to be the

political idol of a people of whom he must ever be regarded as one of

the literary glories and illustrations. On the dissolution of the

Provisional Government, Ledru Rollin constituted himself one of the

leaders of the movement party. In ready powers of speech and in

popularity no man stood higher; but he did not possess the power of

restraining his followers or of holding them in hand, and the result

was, that instead of being their leader he became their instrument. Fond

of applause, ambitious of distinction, timid by nature, destitute of

pluck, and of that rarer virtue moral courage, Ledru Rollin, to avoid

the imputation of faint-heartedness, put himself in the foreground, but

the measures of his followers being ill-taken, the plot in which he was

mixed up egregiously failed, and he is now in consequence an exile in

England.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

A CHIP FROM A SAILOR'S LOG.

It was a dead calm--not a breath of air--the sails flapped idly against

the masts; the helm had lost its power, and the ship turned her head how

and where she liked. The heat was intense, so much so, that the chief

mate had told the boatswain to keep the watch out of the sun; but the

watch below found it too warm to sleep, and were tormented with thirst,

which they could not gratify till the water was served out. They had

drunk all the previous day's allowance; and now that their scuttle but

was dry, there was nothing left for them but endurance. Some of the

seamen had congregated on the top-gallant forecastle, where they gazed

on the clear blue water with longing eyes.

"How cool and clear it looks," said a tall, powerful young seaman; "I

don't think there are many sharks about: what do you say for a bath,

lads?"

"That for the sharks!" burst almost simultaneously from the parched lips

of the group: "we'll have a jolly good bath when the second mate goes in

to dinner." In about half an hour the dinner-bell rang. The boatswain

took charge of the deck; some twenty sailors were now stripped, except a

pair of light duck trowsers; among the rest was a tall, powerful,

coast-of-Africa nigger of the name of Leigh: they used to joke him, and

call him Sambo.

"You no swim to-day, Ned?" said he, addressing me. "Feared of shark,

heh? Shark nebber bite me. Suppose I meet shark in water, I swim after

him--him run like debbel." I was tempted, and, like the rest, was soon

ready. In quick succession we jumped off the spritsail yard, the black

leading. We had scarcely been in the water five minutes, when some voice

in-board cried out, "A shark! a shark!" In an instant every one of the

swimmers came tumbling up the ship's sides, half mad with fright, the

gallant black among the rest. It was a false alarm. We felt angry with

ourselves for being frightened, angry with those who had frightened us,

and furious with those who had laughed at us. In another moment we were

all again in the water, the black and myself swimming some distance from

the ship. For two successive voyages there had been a sort of rivalry

between us: each fancied that he was the best swimmer, and we were now

testing our speed.

"Well done, Ned!" cried some of the sailors from the forecastle. "Go it,

Sambo!" cried some others. We were both straining our utmost, excited by

the cheers of our respective partisans. Suddenly the voice of the

boatswain was heard shouting, "A shark! a shark! Come back for God's

sake!"

"Lay aft, and lower the cutter down," then came faintly on our ear. The

race instantly ceased. As yet, we only half believed what we heard, our

recent fright being still fresh in our memories.

"Swim, for God's sake!" cried the captain, who was now on deck; "he has

not yet seen you. The boat, if possible, will get between you and him.

Strike out, lads, for God's sake!" My heart stood still: I felt weaker

than a child as I gazed with horror at the dorsal fin of a large shark

on the starboard quarter. Though in the water, the perspiration dropped

from me like rain: the black was striking out like mad for the ship.

"Swim, Ned--swim!" cried several voices; "they never take black when

they can get white."

I did swim, and that desperately: the water foamed past me. I soon

breasted the black, but could not head him. We both strained every nerve

to be first, for we each fancied the last man would be taken. Yet we

scarcely seemed to move: the ship appeared as far as ever from us. We

were both powerful swimmers, and both of us swam in the French way

called _la brasse_, or hand over hand, in English. There was something

the matter with the boat's falls, and they could not lower her.

"He sees you now!" was shouted; "he is after you!" Oh the agony of that

moment! I thought of every thing at the same instant, at least so it

seemed to me then. Scenes long forgotten rushed through my brain with

the rapidity of lightning, yet in the midst of this I was striking out

madly for the ship. Each moment I fancied I could feel the pilot-fish

touching me, and I almost screamed with agony. We were now not ten yards

from the ship: fifty ropes were thrown to us; but, as if by mutual

instinct, we swam for the same.

"Hurra! they are saved!--they are alongside!" was shouted by the eager

crew. We both grasped the rope at the same time: a slight struggle

ensued: I had the highest hold. Regardless of every thing but my own

safety, I placed my feet on the black's shoulders, scrambled up the

side, and fell exhausted on the deck. The negro followed roaring with

pain, for the shark had taken away part of his heel. Since then, I have

never bathed at sea; nor, I believe, has Sambo been ever heard again to

assert that he would swim after a shark if he met one in the water.

[From Howitt's Country Year-Book.]

THE TWO THOMPSONS.

By the wayside, not far from the town of Mansfield--on a high and heathy

ground, which gives a far-off view of the minster of Lincoln--you may

behold a little clump of trees, encircled by a wall. That is called

THOMPSON'S GRAVE. But who is this Thompson; and why lies he so far from

his fellows? In ground unconsecrated; in the desert, or on the verge of

it--for cultivation now approaches it? The poor man and his wants spread

themselves, and corn and potatoes crowd upon Thompson's grave. But who

is this Thompson; and why lies he here?

In the town of Mansfield there was a poor boy, and this poor boy became

employed in a hosier's warehouse. From the warehouse his assiduity and

probity sent him to the counting-house; from the counting-house, abroad.

He traveled to carry stockings to the Asiatic and the people of the

south. He sailed up the rivers of Persia, and saw the tulips growing

wild on their banks, with many a lily and flower of our proudest

gardens. He traveled in Spain and Portugal, and was in Lisbon when the

great earthquake shook his house over his head. He fled. The streets

reeled; the houses fell; church towers dashed down in thunder across his

path. There were flying crowds, shrieks, and dust, and darkness. But he

fled on. The farther, the more misery. Crowds filled the fields when he

reached them--naked, half-naked, terrified, starving, and looking in

vain for a refuge. He fled across the hills, and gazed. The whole huge

city rocked and staggered below. There were clouds of dust, columns of

flame, the thunder of down-crashing buildings, the wild cries of men. He

suffered amid ten thousand suffering outcasts.

At length, the tumult ceased; the earth became stable. With other ruined

and curious men he climbed over the heaps of desolation in quest of what

once was his home, and the depository of his property. His servant was

nowhere to be seen: Thompson felt that he must certainly have been

killed. After many days' quest, and many uncertainties, he found the

spot where his house had stood; it was a heap of rubbish. His servant

and merchandise lay beneath it. He had money enough, or credit enough,

to set to work men to clear away some of the fallen materials, and to

explore whether any amount of property were recoverable. What's that

sound? A subterranean, or subruinan, voice? The workmen stop, and are

ready to fly with fear. Thompson exhorts them, and they work on. But

again that voice! No _human_ creature can be living there. The laborers

again turn to fly. They are a poor, ignorant, and superstitious crew;

but Thompson's commands, and Thompson's gold, arrest them. They work on,

and out walks Thompson's living servant, still in the body, though a

body not much more substantial than a ghost All cry, "How have you

managed to live?"

"I fled to the cellar. I have sipped the wine; but now I want bread,

meat, every thing!" and the living skeleton walked staggeringly on, and

looked voraciously for shops and loaves, and saw only brickbats and

ruins.

Thompson recovered his goods, and retreated as soon as possible to his

native land. Here, in his native town, the memory of the earthquake

still haunted him. He used almost daily to hasten out of the place, and

up the forest hill, where he imagined that he saw Lisbon reeling,

tottering, churches falling, and men flying. But he saw only the red

tiles of some thousand peaceful houses, and the twirling of a dozen

windmill sails. Here he chose his burial-ground; walled it, and planted

it, and left special directions for his burial. The grave should be

deep, and the spades of resurrection-men disappointed by repeated layers

of straw, not easy to dig through. In the church-yard of Mansfield,

meantime, he found the grave of his parents, and honored it with an

inclosure of iron palisades.

He died. How? Not in travel; not in sailing over the ocean, nor up

tulip-margined rivers of Persia or Arabia Felix; nor yet in an

earthquake--but in the dream of one. One night he was heard crying in a

voice of horror, "There! there!--fly! fly!--the town shakes! the house

falls! Ha! the earth opens!--away!" Then the voice ceased; but in the

morning it was found that he had rolled out of bed, lodged between the

bedstead and the wall, and there, like a sandbag wedged in a windy

crevice, he was--dead!

There is, therefore, a dead Thompson in Sherwood Forest, where no

clergyman laid him, and yet he sleeps; and there is also a living

Thompson.

In the village of Edwinstowe, on the very verge of the beautiful old

Birkland, there stands a painter's house. In his little parlor you find

books, and water-color-paintings on the walls, which show that the

painter has read and looked about him in the world. And yet he is but a

house-painter, who owes his establishment here to his love of nature

rather than to his love of art. In the neighboring Dukery, some one of

the wealthy wanted a piece of oak-painting done; but he was dissatisfied

with the style in which painters now paint oak; a style very splendid,

but as much resembling genuine oak as a frying-pan resembles the moon.

Christopher Thompson determined to try _his_ hand; and for this purpose

he did not put himself to school to some great master of the art, who

had copied the copy of a hundred consecutive copies of a piece of oak,

till the thing produced was very fine, but like no wood that ever grew

or ever will grow. Christopher Thompson went to nature. He got a piece

of well-figured, real oak, well planed and polished, and copied it

precisely. When the different specimens of the different painters were

presented to the aforesaid party, he found only one specimen at all like

oak, and that was Thompson's. The whole crowd of master house-painters

were exasperated and amazed. Such a fellow preferred to them! No; they

were wrong; it was nature that was preferred.

Christopher Thompson was a self-taught painter. He had been tossed about

the world in a variety of characters--errand-boy, brickmakers' boy,

potter, shipwright, sailor, sawyer, strolling player; and here he

finally settled down as painter, and, having achieved a trade, he turned

author, and wrote his life. That life--_The Autobiography of an

Artisan_--is one of the best written and most interesting books of its

class that we ever read. It is full of the difficulties of a poor man's

life, and of the resolute spirit that conquers them. It is, moreover,

full of a desire to enlighten, elevate, and in every way better the

condition of his fellow-men. Christopher Thompson is not satisfied to

have made his own way; he is anxious to pave the way for the whole

struggling population. He is a zealous politician, and advocate of the

Odd Fellow system, as calculated to link men together and give them

power, while it gives them a stimulus to social improvement. He has

labored to diffuse a love of reading, and to establish mechanics'

libraries in neglected and obscure places.

Behold the Thompson of Edwinstowe. Time, in eight-and-forty years, has

whitened his hair, though it has left the color of health on his cheek,

and the fire of intelligence in his eye. With a well-built frame and

figure, and a comely countenance, there is a buoyancy of step, an energy

of manner about him, that agree with what he has written of his life and

aspirations. Such are the men that England is now, ever and anon, in

every nook and corner of the island, producing. She produces them

because they are needed. They are the awakeners who are to stir up the

sluggish to what the time demands of them.

The two Thompsons of Sherwood are types of their ages. He of the

grave--lies solitary and apart from his race. He lived to earn

money--his thought was for himself--and there he sleeps, alone in his

glory--such as it is. He was no worse, nay, he was better than many of

his contemporaries. He had no lack of benevolence; but trade and the

spirit of his age, cold and unsympathetic, absorbed him. He was content

to lie alone in the desert, amid the heath "that knows not when good

cometh," and where the lonely raven perches on the blasted tree.

The living Thompson is, too, the man of his age: for it is an age of

awakening enterprise, of wider views, of stronger sympathies. He lives

and works, not for himself alone. His motto is Progress; and while the

forest whispers to him of the past, books and his own heart commune with

him of the future. Such men belong to both. When the present becomes the

past, their work will survive them; and their tomb will not be a desert,

but the grateful memories of improved men. May they spring up in every

hamlet, and carry knowledge and refinement to every cottage fireside!

[From Five Years' Hunting Adventures in South Africa.]

HABITS OF THE AFRICAN LION.

The night of the 19th was to me rather a memorable one, as being the

first on which I had the satisfaction of hearing the deep-toned thunder

of the lion's roar. Although there was no one near to inform me by what

beast the haughty and impressive sounds which echoed through the

wilderness were produced, I had little difficulty in divining. There was

no mistake about it; and on hearing it I at once knew, as well as if

accustomed to the sound from my infancy; that the appalling roar which

was uttered within half a mile of me was no other than that of the

mighty and terrible king of beasts. Although the dignified and truly

monarchical appearance of the lion has long rendered him famous among

his fellow quadrupeds, and his appearance and habits have oftener been

described by abler pens than mine, nevertheless I consider that a few

remarks, resulting from my own personal experience, formed by a

tolerable long acquaintance with him, both by day and by night, may not

prove uninteresting to the reader. There is something so noble and

imposing in the presence of the lion, when seen walking with dignified

self-possession, free and undaunted, on his native soil, that no

description can convey an adequate idea of his striking appearance. The

lion is exquisitely formed by nature for the predatory habits which he

is destined to pursue. Combining in comparatively small compass the

qualities of power and agility, he is enabled, by means of the

tremendous machinery with which nature has gifted him, easily to

overcome and destroy almost every beast of the forest, however superior

to him in weight and stature.

Though considerably under four feet in height, he has little difficulty

in dashing to the ground and overcoming the lofty and apparently

powerful giraffe, whose head towers above the trees of the forest, and

whose skin is nearly an inch in thickness. The lion is the constant

attendant of the vast herds of buffaloes which frequent the interminable

forests of the interior; and a full-grown one, so long as his teeth are

unbroken, generally proves a match for an old bull buffalo, which in

size and strength greatly surpasses the most powerful breed of English

cattle: the lion also preys on all the larger varieties of the

antelopes, and on both varieties of the gnoo. The zebra, which is met

with in large herds throughout the interior, is also a favorite object

of his pursuit.

Lions do not refuse, as has been asserted, to feast upon the venison

that they have not killed themselves. I have repeatedly discovered lions

of all ages which had taken possession of, and were feasting upon, the

carcasses of various game quadrupeds which had fallen before my rifle.

The lion is very generally diffused throughout the secluded parts of

Southern Africa. He is, however, nowhere met with in great abundance, it

being very rare to find more than three, or even two, families of lions

frequenting the same district and drinking at the same fountain. When a

greater number were met with, I remarked that it was owing to

long-protracted droughts, which, by drying nearly all the fountains, had

compelled the game of various districts to crowd the remaining springs,

and the lions, according to their custom, followed in the wake. It is a

common thing to come upon a full-grown lion and lioness associating with

three or four large young ones nearly full-grown; at other times,

full-grown males will be found associating and hunting together in a

happy state of friendship: two, three, and four full-grown male lions

may thus be discovered consorting together.

The male lion is adorned with a long, rank, shaggy mane, which in some

instances, almost sweeps the ground. The color of these manes varies,

some being very dark, and others of a golden yellow. This appearance has

given rise to a prevailing opinion among the boers that there are two

distinct varieties of lions, which they distinguish by the respective

names of "Schwart fore life" and "Chiel fore life:" this idea, however,

is erroneous. The color of the lion's mane is generally influenced by

his age. He attains his mane in the third year of his existence. I have

remarked that at first it is of a yellowish color; in the prime of life

it is blackest, and when he has numbered many years, but still is in the

full enjoyment of his power, it assumes a yellowish-gray,

pepper-and-salt sort of color. These old fellows are cunning and

dangerous, and most to be dreaded. The females are utterly destitute of

a mane, being covered with a short, thick, glossy coat of tawny hair.

The manes and coats of lions frequenting open-lying districts utterly

destitute of trees, such as the borders of the great Kalahari desert,

are more rank and handsome than those inhabiting forest districts.

One of the most striking things connected with the lion is his voice,

which is extremely grand and peculiarly striking. It consists at times

of a low, deep moaning, repeated five or six times, ending in faintly

audible sighs; at other times he startles the forest with loud,

deep-toned, solemn roars, repeated five or six times in quick

succession, each increasing in loudness to the third or fourth, when his

voice dies away in five or six low, muffled sounds, very much resembling

distant thunder. At times, and not unfrequently, a troop may be heard

roaring in concert, one assuming the lead, and two, three, or four more

regularly taking up their parts, like persons singing a catch. Like our

Scottish stags at the rutting season, they roar loudest in cold, frosty

nights; but on no occasions are their voices to be heard in such

perfection, or so intensely powerful, as when two or three strange

troops of lions approach a fountain to drink at the same time. When this

occurs, every member of each troop sounds a bold roar of defiance at the

opposite parties; and when one roars, all roar together, and each seems

to vie with his comrades in the intensity and power of his voice.

The power and grandeur of these nocturnal forest concerts is

inconceivably striking and pleasing to the hunter's ear. The effect, I

may remark, is greatly enhanced when the hearer happens to be situated

in the depths of the forest, at the dead hour of midnight, unaccompanied

by any attendant, and ensconced within twenty yards of the fountain

which the surrounding troops of lions are approaching. Such has been my

situation many scores of times; and though I am allowed to have a

tolerable good taste for music, I consider the catches with which I was

then regaled as the sweetest and most natural I ever heard.

As a general rule, lions roar during the night; their sighing moans

commencing as the shades of evening envelop the forest, and continuing

at intervals throughout the night. In distant and secluded regions,

however, I have constantly heard them roaring loudly as late as nine and

ten o'clock on a bright sunny morning. In hazy and rainy weather they

are to be heard at every hour in the day, but their roar is subdued. It

often happens that when two strange male lions meet at a fountain, a

terrific combat ensues, which not unfrequently ends in the death of one

of them. The habits of the lion are strictly nocturnal; during the day

he lies concealed beneath the shade of some low, bushy tree or

wide-spreading bush, either in the level forest or on the mountain side.

He is also partial to lofty reeds, or fields of long, rank, yellow

grass, such as occur in low-lying vleys. From these haunts he sallies

forth when the sun goes down, and commences his nightly prowl. When he

is successful in his beat and has secured his prey, he does not roar

much that night, only uttering occasionally a few low moans; that is,

provided no intruders approach him, otherwise the case would be very

different.

Lions are ever most active, daring, and presuming in dark and stormy

nights, and consequently, on such occasions, the traveler ought more

particularly to be on his guard. I remarked a fact connected with the

lions' hour of drinking peculiar to themselves: they seemed unwilling to

visit the fountains with good moonlight. Thus, when the moon rose early,

the lions deferred their hour of watering until late in the morning; and

when the moon rose late, they drank at a very early hour in the night.

By this acute system many a grisly lion saved his bacon, and is now

luxuriating in the forests of South Africa, which had otherwise fallen

by the barrels of my "Westley Richards." Owing to the tawny color of the

coat with which nature has robed him, he is perfectly invisible in the

dark; and although I have often heard them loudly lapping the water

under my very nose, not twenty yards from me. I could not possibly make

out so much as the outline of their forms. When a thirsty lion comes to

water, he stretches out his massive arms, lies down on his breast to

drink, and makes a loud lapping noise in drinking not to be mistaken. He

continues lapping up the water for a long while, and four or five times

during the proceeding he pauses for half a minute as if to take breath.

One thing conspicuous about them is their eyes, which, in a dark night,

glow like two balls of fire. The female is more fierce and active than

the male, as a general rule. Lionesses which have never had young are

much more dangerous than those which have. At no time is the lion so

much to be dreaded as when his partner has got small young ones. At that

season he knows no fear, and, in the coolest and most intrepid manner,

he will face a thousand men. A remarkable instance of this kind came

under my own observation, which confirmed the reports I had before heard

from the natives. One day, when out elephant-hunting in the territory of

the "Baseleka," accompanied by two hundred and fifty men, I was

astonished suddenly to behold a majestic lion slowly and steadily

advancing toward us with a dignified step and undaunted bearing, the

most noble and imposing that can be conceived. Lashing his tail from

side to side, and growling haughtily, his terribly expressive eye

resolutely fixed upon us, and displaying a show of ivory well calculated

to inspire terror among the timid "Bechuanas," he approached. A headlong

flight of the two hundred and fifty men was the immediate result; and,

in the confusion of the moment, four couples of my dogs, which they had

been leading, were allowed to escape in their couples. These instantly

faced the lion, who, finding that by his bold bearing he had succeeded

in putting his enemies to flight, now became solicitous for the safety

of his little family, with which the lioness was retreating in the

background. Facing about, he followed after them with a haughty and

independent step, growling fiercely at the dogs which trotted along on

either side of him. Three troops of elephants having been discovered a

few minutes previous to this, upon which I was marching for the attack,

I, with the most heartfelt reluctance, reserved my fire. On running down

the hill side to endeavor to recall my dogs, I observed, for the first

time, the retreating lioness with four cubs. About twenty minutes

afterward two noble elephants repaid my forbearance.

Among Indian Nimrods, a certain class of royal tigers is dignified with

the appellation of "man-eaters." These are tigers which, having once

tasted human flesh, show a predilection for the same, and such

characters are very naturally famed and dreaded among the natives.

Elderly gentlemen of similar tastes and habits are occasionally met with

among the lions in the interior of South Africa, and the danger of such

neighbors may be easily imagined. I account for lions first acquiring

this taste in the following manner: the Bechuana tribes of the far

interior do not bury their dead, but unceremoniously carry them forth,

and leave them lying exposed in the forest or on the plain, a prey to

the lion and hyæna, or the jackal and vulture; and I can readily imagine

that a lion, having thus once tasted human flesh, would have little

hesitation, when opportunity presented itself, of springing upon and

carrying off the unwary traveler or "Bechuana" inhabiting his country.

Be this as it may, man-eaters occur; and on my fourth hunting

expedition, a horrible tragedy was acted one dark night in my little

lonely camp by one of these formidable characters, which deprived me, in

the far wilderness, of my most valuable servant. In winding up these few

observations on the lion, which I trust will not have been tiresome to

the reader, I may remark that lion-hunting, under any circumstances, is

decidedly a dangerous pursuit. It may nevertheless be followed, to a

certain extent, with comparative safety by those who have naturally a

turn for that sort of thing. A recklessness of death, perfect coolness

and self-possession, an acquaintance with the disposition and manners of

lions, and a tolerable knowledge of the use of the rifle, are

indispensable to him who would shine in the overpoweringly exciting

pastime of hunting this justly-celebrated king of beasts.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE OLD CHURCH-YARD TREE.

A PROSE POEM.

There is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet corner

of the church-yard.

And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine

day in the early spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the

fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he was humming a tune to

himself as he wove them into garlands.

And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen; but

the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle

footsteps as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When his work

was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were woven

together in one long wreath, he started, up to measure its length upon

the ground, and then he saw the little girl, as she stood with her eyes

fixed upon him. He did not move or speak, but thought to himself that

she looked very beautiful as she stood there with her flaxen ringlets

hanging down upon her neck. The little girl was so startled by his

sudden movement, that she let fall all the flowers she had collected in

her apron, and ran away as fast as she could. But the boy was older and

taller than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her to come back and

play with him, and help him to make more garlands; and from that time

they saw each other nearly every day, and became great friends.

Twenty years passed away. Again, he was seated beneath the old yew tree

in the church-yard.

It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing, and

the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their

perfume.

But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on tiptoe,

fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his arm was

round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she whispered:

"The first evening of our lives we were ever together was passed here:

we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the same quiet,

happy place." And he drew her closer to him as she spoke.

The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and autumns

have passed away since that evening, in the old church-yard.

A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the

little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he

sings, and is presently followed by others like unto himself, or worse.

So, they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw

stones up at the place where the moon has silvered the boughs.

Those same boughs are again silvered by the moon, and they droop over

his mother's grave. There is a little stone which bears this

inscription:

"HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE."

But the silence of the church-yard is now broken by a voice--not of the

youth--nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry.

"My son! dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in

anguish, whereof may come repentance?"

"Of what should I repent?" answers the son; "and why should my young

ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and

weak?"

"Is this indeed our son?" says the father, bending in agony over the

grave of his beloved.

"I can well believe I am not;" exclaimeth the youth. "It is well that

you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our courses

must be opposite. Your way lieth here--mine yonder!"

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave.

Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a

thick gray fog. The graves in the church-yard are covered with snow, and

there are great icicles in the church-porch. The wind now carries a

swathe of snow along the tops of the graves, as though the "sheeted

dead" were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with a

crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly

mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has overgrown

them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side has just been

thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they move along; the

coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the intervening graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life; and

premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain

ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not the

way yonder that was most opposite to his father and his mother, but even

the same way they had gone--the way which leads to the Old Church-yard

Tree.

THE ENGLISH PEASANT.

BY HOWITT.

The English peasant is generally reckoned a very simple, monotonous

animal; and most people, when they have called him a clown, or a

country-hob, think they have described him. If you see a picture of him,

he is a long, silly-looking fellow, in a straw hat, a white slop, and a

pair of ankle-boots, with a bill in his hand--just as the London artist

sees him in the juxta-metropolitan districts; and that is the English

peasant. They who have gone farther into England, however, than Surrey,

Kent, or Middlesex, have seen the English peasant in some different

costume, under a good many different aspects; and they who will take the

trouble to recollect what they have heard of him, will find him a rather

multifarious creature. He is, in truth, a very Protean personage. What

is he, in fact? A day-laborer, a woodman, a plowman, a wagoner, a

collier, a worker in railroad and canal making, a gamekeeper, a poacher,

an incendiary, a charcoal-burner, a keeper of village ale-houses, and

Tom-and-Jerrys; a tramp, a pauper, pacing sullenly in the court-yard of

a parish-union, or working in his frieze jacket on some parish-farm; a

boatman, a road-side stone-breaker, a quarryman, a journeyman

bricklayer, or his clerk; a shepherd, a drover, a rat-catcher, a

mole-catcher, and a hundred other things; in any one of which, he is as

different from the sheepish, straw-hatted, and ankle-booted,

bill-holding fellow of the print-shop windows, as a cockney is from a

Newcastle keelman.

In the matter of costume only, every different district presents him in

a different shape. In the counties round London, eastward and westward,

through Berkshire, Hampshire, Wiltshire, etc., he is the _white-slopped_

man of the London prints, with a longish, rosy-cheeked face, and a

stupid, quiet manner. In Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire, and in that

direction, he sports his _olive-green_ slop, and his wide-awake, larking

hat, bit-o'-blood, or whatever else the hatters call those

round-crowned, turned-up-brimmed felts of eighteen-pence or two

shillings cost, which have of late years so wonderfully taken the fancy

of the country-chaps. In the Midland counties, especially

Leicestershire, Derby, Nottingham, Warwick, and Staffordshire, he dons a

_blue-slop_, called the Newark frock, which is finely gathered in a

square piece of puckerment on the back and breast, on the shoulders and

at the wrists; is adorned also, in those parts, with flourishes of white

thread, and as invariably has a little white heart stitched in at the

bottom of the slit at the neck. A man would not think himself a man, if

he had not one of those slops, which are the first things that he sees

at a market or a fair, hung aloft at the end of the slop-vender's stall,

on a crossed pole, and waving about like a scarecrow in the wind.

Under this he generally wears a coarse blue jacket, a red or yellow shag

waistcoat, stout blue worsted stockings, tall laced ankle-boots, and

corduroy breeches or trowsers. A red handkerchief round his neck is his

delight, with two good long ends dangling in front. In many other parts

of the country, he wears no slop at all, but a corduroy or fustian

jacket, with capacious pockets, and buttons of giant size.

That is his every-day, work-a-day style; but see him on a Sunday, or a

holiday--see him turn out to church, wake, or fair--there's a _beau_ for

you! If he has not his best slop on, which has never yet been defiled by

touch of labor, he is conspicuous in his blue, brown, or olive-green

coat, and waistcoat of glaring color--scarlet, or blue, or green

striped--but it must be showy; and a pair of trowsers, generally blue,

with a width nearly as ample as a sailor's, and not only guiltless of

the foppery of being strapped down, but if he find the road rather

dirty, or the grass dewy, they are turned up three or four inches at the

bottom, so as to show the lining. On those days, he has a hat of modern

shape, that has very lately cost him four-and-sixpence; and if he fancy

himself rather handsome, or stands well with the women, he cocks it a

little on one side, and wears it with a knowing air. He wears the collar

of his coarse shirt up on a holiday, and his flaming handkerchief round

his neck puts forth dangling ends of an extra length, like streamers.

The most troublesome business of a full-dress day is to know what to do

with his hands. He is dreadfully at a loss where to put them. On other

days, they have plenty of occupation with their familiar implements, but

to-day they are miserably sensible of a vacuum; and, except he be very

old, he wears no gloves. They are sometimes diving into his

trowser-pockets, sometimes into his waistcoat-pocket, and at others into

his coat-pockets behind, turning his laps out like a couple of tails.

The great remedy for this inconvenience is a stick, or a switch; and in

the corner of his cottage, between the clock-case and the wall, you

commonly see a stick of a description that indicates its owner. It is an

ash-plant, with a face cut on its knob; or a thick hazel, which a

woodbine has grown tightly round, and raised on it a spiral, serpentine

swelling; or it is a switch, that is famous for cutting off the heads of

thistles, docks, and nettles, as he goes along.

The women, in their paraphernalia, generally bear a nearer resemblance

to their sisters of the town; the village dressmaker undertaking to put

them into the very newest fashion which has reached that part of the

country; and truly, were it not for the genuine country manner in which

their clothes are thrown on, they might pass very well, too, at the

market.

But the old men and old women, they are of the ancient world, truly.

There they go, tottering and stooping along to church! It is now their

longest journey. The old man leans heavily on his stout stick. His thin

white hair covers his shoulders; his coat, with large steel buttons, and

square-cut collar, has an antique air; his breeches are of leather, and

worn bright with age, standing up at the knees, like the lids of

tankards; and his loose shoes have large steel buckles. By his side,

comes on his old dame, with her little, old-fashioned black bonnet; her

gown, of a large flowery pattern, pulled up through the pocket-hole,

showing a well-quilted petticoat, black stockings, high-heeled shoes,

and large buckles also. She has on a black mode cloak, edged with

old-fashioned lace, carefully darned; or if winter, her warm red cloak,

with a narrow edging of fur down the front. You see, in fancy, the oaken

chest in which that drapery has been kept for the last half century; and

you wonder who is to wear it next. Not their children--for the fashions

of this world are changed; they must be cut down into primitive raiment

for the grandchildren.

But who says the English peasant is dull and unvaried in his character?

To be sure, he has not the wild wit, the voluble tongue, the reckless

fondness for laughing, dancing, carousing, and shillalying of the Irish

peasant; nor the grave, plodding habits and intelligence of the Scotch

one. He may be said, in his own phraseology, to be "betwixt and

between." He has wit enough when it is wanted; he can be merry enough

when there is occasion; he is ready for a row when his blood is well up;

and he will take to his book, if you will give him a schoolmaster. What

is he, indeed, but the rough block of English character? Hew him out of

the quarry of ignorance; dig him out of the slough of everlasting labor;

chisel him, and polish him; and he will come out whatever you please.

What is the stuff of which your armies have been chiefly made, but this

English peasant? Who won your Cressys, your Agincourts, your Quebecs,

your Indies, East and West, and your Waterloos, but the English peasant,

trimmed and trained into the game-cock of war? How many of them have

been carried off to man your fleets, to win your Camperdowns and

Trafalgars? and when they came ashore again, were no longer the simple,

slouching Simons of the village; but jolly tars, with rolling gait, quid

in mouth, glazed hats, with crowns of one inch high, and brims of five

wide, and with as much glib slang, and glib money to treat the girls

with, as any Jack of them all.

Cowper has drawn a capital picture of the ease and perfection with which

the clownish chrysalis may be metamorphosed into the scarlet moth of

war. Catch the animal young, and you may turn him into any shape you

please. He will learn to wear silk stockings, scarlet plush breeches,

collarless coats, with silver buttons; and swing open a gate with a

grace, or stand behind my lady's carriage with his wand, as smoothly

impudent as any of the tribe. He will clerk it with a pen behind his

ear; or mount a pulpit, as Stephen Duck, the thresher, did, if you will

only give him the chance. The fault is not in him, it is in fortune. He

has rich fallows in his soul, if any body thought them worth turning.

But keep him down, and don't press him too hard; feed him pretty well,

and give him plenty of work; and, like one of his companions, the

cart-horse, he will drudge on till the day of his death.

So in the north of England, where they give him a cottage and his food,

and keep no more of his species than will just do the work, letting all

the rest march off to the Tyne collieries; he is a very patient

creature; and if they did not show him books, would not wince at all. So

in the fens of Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, and Huntingdon, and on many

a fat and clayey level of England, where there are no resident gentry,

and but here and there a farm-house, you may meet, the English peasant

in his most sluggish and benumbed condition. He is then a long-legged,

staring creature, considerably "lower than the angels," who, if you ask

him a question, gapes like an Indian frog, which, when its mouth is

open, has its head half off; and neither understands your language, nor,

if he did, could grasp your ideas. He is there a walking lump, a thing

with members, but very little membership with the intellectual world;

but with a soul as stagnant as one of his own dykes. All that has been

wanted in him has been cultivated, and is there--good sturdy limbs, to

plow and sow, reap and mow, and feed bullocks; and even in those

operations, his sinews have been half-superseded by machinery. There

never was any need of his mind; and, therefore, it never has been

minded.

This is the English peasant, where there is nobody to breathe a soul

into the clod. But what is he where there are thousands of the wealthy

and the wise? What is he round London--the great, the noble, and the

enlightened? Pretty much the same, and from pretty much the same causes.

Few trouble themselves about him. He feels that he is a mere serf, among

the great and free; a mere machine in the hands of the mighty, who use

him as such. He sees the sunshine of grandeur, but he does not feel its

warmth. He hears that the great folks are wise; but all he knows is,

that their wisdom does not trouble itself about his ignorance. He asks,

with "The Farmer's Boy,"

Whence comes this change, ungracious, irksome, cold?

Whence this new grandeur that mine eyes behold?--

The widening distance that I daily see?

Has wealth done this? Then wealth's a foe to me!

Foe to my rights, that leaves a powerful few

The paths of emulation to pursue.

Beneath the overwhelming sense of his position, that he belongs to a

neglected, despised caste, he is, in the locality alluded to, truly a

dull fellow. That the peasant there is not an ass or a sheep, you only

know by his standing on end. You hear no strains of country drollery,

and no characters of curious or eccentric humor; all is dull, plodding,

and lumpish.

But go forth, my masters, to a greater distance from the luminous

capital of England; get away into the Midland and more Northern

counties, where the pride of greatness is not so palpably before the

poor man's eyes--where the peasantry and villagers are numerous enough

to keep one another in countenance; and there you shall find the English

peasant a "happier and a wiser man." Sunday-schools, and village

day-schools, give him at least the ability to read the Bible. There, the

peasant feels that he is a man; he speaks in a broad dialect, indeed,

but he is "a fellow of infinite jest." Hear him in the hay-field, in the

corn-field, at the harvest-supper, or by the village ale-house fire, if

he be not very refined, he is, nevertheless, a very independent fellow.

Look at the man indeed! None of your long, lanky fellows, with a sleepy

visage; but a sturdy, square-built chap, propped on a pair of legs, that

have self-will, and the spirit of Hampden in them, as plain as the ribs

of the gray-worsted stockings that cover them. What thews, what sinews,

what a pair of _calves_! why, they more resemble a couple of full-grown

_bulls_! See to his salutation, as he passes any of his neighbors--hear

it. Does he touch his hat, and bow his head, and look down, as the great

man goes by in his carriage? No! he leaves that to the cowed bumpkin of

the south. He looks his rich-neighbor full in the face, with a fearless,

but respectful gaze, and bolts from his manly breast a hearty, "Good day

to ye, sir!" To his other neighbor, his equal in worldly matters, he

extends his broad hand, and gives him a shake that is felt to the bottom

of the heart. "Well, and how are you, John?--and how's Molly, and all

the little ankle-biters?--and how goes the pig on, and the garden--eh?"

Let me hear the dialogue of those two brave fellows; there is the soul

of England's brightest days in it. I am sick of slavish poverty on the

one hand, and callous pride on the other. I yearn for the sound of

language breathed from the lungs of humble independence, and the

cordial, earnest greetings of poor, but warm-hearted men, as I long for

the breeze of the mountains and the sea. Oh! I doubt much if this

Bold peasantry, a country's pride,

is lowered in its tone, both of heart-wholeness, boldness, and

affection, by the harsh times and harsh measures that have passed over

every district, even the most favored; or why all these emigrations, and

why all these parish-unions? What, then, is not the English peasant what

he was? If I went among them where I used to go, should I not find the

same merry groups seated among the sheaves, or under the hedgerows, full

of laughter, and full of droll anecdotes of all the country round?

Should I not hear of the farmer who never wrote but one letter in his

life, and that was to a gentleman forty miles off; who, on opening it,

and not being able to puzzle out more than the name and address of his

correspondent, mounted his horse in his vexation, and rode all the way

to ask the farmer to read the letter himself; and he could not do

it--could not read his own writing? Should I not hear Jonathan Moore,

the stout old mower, rallied on his address to the bull, when it pursued

him till he escaped into a tree? How Jonathan, sitting across a branch,

looked down with the utmost contempt on the bull, and endeavored to

convince him that he was a bully and a coward? "My! what a vaporing

coward art thou! Where's the fairness, where's the equalness of the

match? I tell thee, my heart's good enough; but what's my strength to

thine?"

Should I not once more hear the hundred-times-told story of Jockey

Dawes, and the man who sold him his horse? Should I not hear these, and

scores of such anecdotes, that show the simple life of the district, and

yet have more hearty merriment in them than much finer stories in much

finer places? Hard times and hard measures may have, quenched some of

the ancient hilarity of the English peasant, and struck a silence into

lungs that were wont to "crow like chanticleer;" yet I will not believe

but that, in many a sweet and picturesque district, on many a brown

moor-land, in many a far-off glen and dale of our wilder and more

primitive districts, where the peasantry are almost the sole

inhabitants--whether shepherds, laborers, hewers of wood, or drawers of

waters--

The ancient spirit is not dead,

that homely and loving groups gather round evening fires, beneath low

and smoky rafters, and feel that they have labor and care enough, as

their fathers had, but that they have the pride of homes, hearts, and

sympathies still.

Let England take care that these are the portion of the English peasant,

and he will never cease to show himself the noblest peasant on the face

of the earth. Is he not that, in his patience with penury with him, and

old age, and the union before him? Is he not that, when his landlord has

given him his sympathy? When he has given him an ALLOTMENT--who so

grateful, so industrious, so provident, so contented, and so

respectable?

The English peasant has in his nature all the elements of the English

character. Give him ease, and who so readily pleased; wrong him, and who

so desperate in his rage?

In his younger days, before the care of a family weighs on him, he is a

clumsy, but a very light-hearted creature. To see a number of young

country fellows get into play together, always reminds one of a quantity

of heavy cart-horses turned into a field on a Sunday. They gallop, and

kick, and scream. There is no malice, but a dreadful jeopardy of bruises

and broken ribs. Their play is truly called horse-play; it is all slaps

and bangs, tripping-up, tumbles, and laughter. But to see the young

peasant in his glory, you should see him hastening to the

Michaelmas-fair, statute, bull-roasting, or mop. He has served his year;

he has money in his pocket, his sweetheart on his arm, or he is sure to

meet her at the fair. Whether he goes again to his old place or a new

one, he will have a week's holiday. Thus, on old Michaelmas-day, he and

all his fellows, all the country over, are let loose, and are on the way

to the fair. The houses are empty of them--the highways are full of

them; there they go, lads and lasses, streaming along, all in their

finery, and with a world of laughter and loud talk. See, here they come,

flocking into the market-town! And there, what preparations for them!

shows, strolling theatres, stalls of all kinds--bearing clothes of all

kinds, knives, combs, queen-cakes, and gingerbread, and a hundred

inventions to lure those hard-earned wages out of his fob. And he does

not mean to be stingy to-day; he will treat his lass, and buy her a new

gown into the bargain. See, how they go rolling on together! He holds up

his elbow sharply by his side; she thrusts her arm through his, _up to

the elbow_, and away they go--a walking miracle that they can walk

together at all. As to keeping step, that is out of the question; but,

besides this, they wag and roll about in such a way, that, keeping their

arms tightly linked, it is amazing that they don't pull off one or the

other; but they don't. They shall see the shows, and stand all in a

crowd before them, with open eyes and open mouths, wondering at the

beauty of the dancing-women, and their gowns all over spangles, and at

all the wit and grimaces, and somersets of harlequin and clown. They

have had a merry dinner and a dance, like a dance of elephants and

hippopotami; and then--

To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new.

And these are the men that become sullen and desperate--that become

poachers and incendiaries. How and why! It is not plenty and kind words

that make them so? What, then? What makes the wolves herd together, and

descend from the Alps and the Pyrenees? What makes them desperate and

voracious, blind with fury, and reveling with vengeance? Hunger and

hardship!

When the English peasant is gay, at ease, well-fed and clothed, what

cares he how many pheasants are in a wood, or ricks in a farmer's yard?

When he has a dozen backs to clothe, and a dozen mouths to feed, and

nothing to put on the one, and little to put into the other--then that

which seemed a mere playful puppy, suddenly starts up a snarling,

red-eyed monster! How sullen he grows! With what equal indifference he

shoots down pheasants or game-keepers. How the man who so recently held

up his head and laughed aloud, now sneaks, a villainous fiend, with the

dark lantern and the match, to his neighbor's rick! Monster! Can this be

the English peasant? 'Tis the same!--'tis the very man! But what has

made him so? What has thus demonized, thus infuriated, thus converted

him into a walking pestilence? Villain as he is, is he alone to

blame?--or is there another?

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

[_Continued from Page_ 340.]

CHAPTER IX.

A SCRAPE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

When I reached the quarters of the état major, I found the great

court-yard of the "hotel" crowded with soldiers of every rank and arm of

the service. Some were newly-joined recruits waiting for the orders to

be forwarded to their respective regiments. Some were invalids just

issued from the hospital, some were sick and wounded on their way

homeward. There were sergeants with billet rolls, and returns, and

court-martial sentences. Adjutants with regimental documents, hastening

hither and thither. Mounted orderlies, too, continually came and went;

all was bustle, movement, and confusion. Officers in staff uniforms

called out the orders from the different windows, and dispatches were

sent off here and there with hot haste. The building was the ancient

palace of the dukes of Lorraine, and a splendid fountain of white marble

in the centre of the "Cour," still showed the proud armorial bearings of

that princely house. Around the sculptured base of this now were seated

groups of soldiers; their war-worn looks and piled arms contrasting

strangely enough with the great porcelain vases of flowering plants that

still decorated the rich "plateau." Chakos, helmets, and great coats

were hung upon the orange trees. The heavy boots of the cuirassier, the

white leather apron of the "sapeur," were drying along the marble

benches of the terrace. The richly traceried veining of gilt iron-work,

which separated the court from the garden, was actually covered with

belts, swords, bayonets, and horse gear, in every stage and process of

cleaning. Within the garden itself, however, all was silent and still.

Two sentries, who paced backward and forward beneath the "grille,"

showing that the spot was to be respected by those whose careless

gestures and reckless air betrayed how little influence the mere "genius

of the place" would exercise over them.

To me, the interest of every thing was increasing; and whether I

lingered to listen to the raw remarks of the new recruit, in wonder at

all he saw, or stopped to hear the campaigning stories of the old

soldiers of the army, I never wearied. Few, if any, knew whither they

were going; perhaps to the north to join the army of Sambre; perhaps to

the east, to the force upon the Rhine. It might be that they were

destined for Italy: none cared! Meanwhile, at every moment, detachments

moved off, and their places were filled by fresh arrivals--all dusty and

way-worn from the march. Some had scarcely time to eat a hurried morsel,

when they were called on to "fall in," and again the word "forward" was

given. Such of the infantry as appeared too weary for the march were

sent on in great charrettes drawn by six or eight horses, and capable of

carrying forty men in each; and of these, there seemed to be no end. No

sooner was one detachment away, than another succeeded. Whatever their

destination, one thing seemed evident, the urgency that called them was

beyond the common. For a while I forgot all about myself in the greater

interest of the scene; but then came the thought, that I, too, should

have my share in this onward movement, and now I set out to seek for my

young friend, the "Sous-Lieutenant." I had not asked his name, but his

regiment I knew to be the 22d Chasseurs à Cheval. The uniform was light

green, and easily enough to be recognized; yet nowhere was it to be

seen. There were cuirassiers, and hussars, heavy dragoons, and

carabiniers in abundance--every thing, in short, but what I sought.

At last I asked of an old quartermaster where the 22d were quartered,

and heard, to my utter dismay, that they had marched that morning at

eight o'clock. There were two more squadrons expected to arrive at noon,

but the orders were that they were to proceed without further halt.

"And whither to?" asked I.

"To Treves, on the Moselle," said he, and turned away as if he would not

be questioned further. It was true that my young friend could not have

been much of a patron, yet the loss of him was deeply felt by me. He was

to have introduced me to his colonel, who probably might have obtained

the leave I desired at once; and now I knew no one, not one even to

advise me how to act. I sat down upon a bench to think, but could

resolve on nothing; the very sight of that busy scene had now become a

reproach to me. There were the veterans of a hundred battles hastening

forward again to the field; there were the young soldiers just flushed

with recent victory; even the peasant boys were "eager for the fray;"

but I alone was to have no part in the coming glory. The enthusiasm of

all around only served to increase and deepen my depression. There was

not one there, from the old and war-worn veteran of the ranks to the

merest boy, with whom I would not gladly have exchanged fortunes. Some

hours passed over in these gloomy reveries, and when I looked up from

the stupor my own thoughts had thrown over me, "the Cour" was almost

empty. A few sick soldiers waiting for their billets of leave, a few

recruits not yet named to any corps, and a stray orderly or two standing

beside his horse, were all that remained.

I arose to go away, but in my pre-occupation of mind, instead of turning

toward the street, I passed beneath a large arch-way into another court

of the building, somewhat smaller, but much richer in decoration and

ornament than the outer one. After spending some time admiring the

quaint devices and grim heads which peeped out from all the architraves

and friezes, my eye was caught by a low, arched door-way, in the middle

of which was a small railed window, like the grille of a convent. I

approached, and perceived that it led into a garden, by a long, narrow

walk of clipped yew, dense and upright as a wall. The trimly-raked

gravel, and the smooth surface of the hedge, showed the care bestowed on

the grounds to be a wide contrast to the neglect exhibited in the

mansion itself; a narrow border of hyacinths and carnations ran along

either side of the walk, the gorgeous blossoms appearing in strong

relief against the back-ground of dark foliage.

The door, as I leaned against it, gently yielded to the pressure of my

arm, and almost without knowing it, I found myself standing within the

precincts of the garden. My first impulse, of course, was to retire and

close the door again, but somehow, I never knew exactly why, I could not

resist the desire to see a little more of a scene so tempting. There was

no mark of footsteps on the gravel, and I thought it likely the garden

was empty. On I went, therefore, at first with cautious and uncertain

steps; at last, with more confidence, for as I issued from the

hedge-walk, and reached an open space beyond, the solitude seemed

unbroken. Fruit trees, loaded with their produce, stood in a closely

shaven lawn, through which a small stream meandered, its banks planted

with daffodills and water-lilies. Some pheasants moved about through the

grass, but without alarm at my presence; while a young fawn boldly came

over to me, and although in seeming disappointment at not finding an old

friend, continued to walk beside me as I went.

The grounds appeared of great extent; paths led off in every direction;

and while, in some places, I could perceive the glittering roof and

sides of a conservatory, in others, the humble culture of a vegetable

garden was to be seen. There was a wondrous fascination in the calm and

tranquil solitude around; and coming, as it did, so immediately after

the busy bustle of the "soldiering," I soon not only forgot that I was

an intruder there, but suffered myself to wander "fancy free," following

out the thoughts each object suggested. I believe at that moment, if the

choice were given me, I would rather have been the "Adam of that Eden"

than the proudest of those generals that ever led a column to victory!

Fortunately, or unfortunately--it would not be easy to decide which--the

alternative was not open to me. It was while I was still musing, I found

myself at the foot of a little eminence, on which stood a tower, whose

height and position showed it had been built for the view it afforded

over a vast tract of country. Even from where I stood, at its base, I

could see over miles and miles of a great plain, with the main roads

leading toward the north and eastward. This spot was also the boundary

of the grounds, and a portion of the old boulevard of the town formed

the defense against the open country beyond. It was a deep ditch, with

sides of sloping sward, cropped neatly, and kept in trimmest order; but,

from its depth and width, forming a fence of a formidable kind. I was

peering cautiously down into the abyss, when I heard a voice so close to

my ear, that I started with surprise. I listened, and perceived that the

speaker was directly above me; and leaning over the battlements at the

top of the tower.

"You're quite right, cried he, as he adjusted a telescope to his eye,

and directed his view toward the plain. He _has_ gone wrong! He has

taken the Strasbourg road, instead of the northern one."

An exclamation of anger followed these words; and now I saw the

telescope passed to another hand, and to my astonishment, that of a

lady.

"Was there ever stupidity like that? He saw the map like the others, and

yet--Parbleu! it's too bad!"

I could perceive that a female voice made some rejoinder, but not

distinguish the words; when the man again spoke:

"No, no; it's all a blunder of that old major; and here am I without an

orderly to send after him. Diable! it _is_ provoking."

"Isn't that one of your people at the foot of the tower?" said the lady,

as she pointed to where I stood, praying for the earth to open, and

close over me; for as he moved his head to look down, I saw the epaulets

of a staff officer.

"Halloa!" cried he, "are you on duty?"

"No, sir; I was--"

Not waiting for me to finish an explanation, he went on,

"Follow that division of cavalry that has taken the Strasbourg road, and

tell Major Roquelard that he has gone wrong; he should have turned off

to the left at the suburbs. Lose no time, but away at once. You are

mounted, of course?"

"No, sir, my horse is at quarters; but I can--"

"No, no; it will be too late," he broke in again. "Take my troop horse,

and be off. You'll find him in the stable, to your left."

Then turning to the lady I heard him say--

"It may save Roquelard from an arrest."

I did not wait for more, but hurried off in the direction he had

pointed. A short gravel walk brought me in front of a low building, in

the cottage style, but which, decorated with emblems of the chase, I

guessed to be the stable. Not a groom was to be seen; but the door being

unlatched, I entered freely. Four large and handsome horses were feeding

at the racks, their glossy coats and long silky manes showing the care

bestowed upon them. Which is the trooper? thought I, as I surveyed them

all with keen and scrutinizing eye. All my skill in such matters was

unable to decide the point; they seemed all alike valuable and

handsome--in equally high condition, and exhibiting equal marks of

careful treatment. Two were stamped on the haunches with the letters

"R.F.;" and these, of course, were cavalry horses. One was a powerful

black horse, whose strong quarters and deep chest bespoke great action,

while the backward glances of his eye indicated the temper of a

"tartar." Making choice of him without an instant's hesitation, I threw

on the saddle, adjusted the stirrups to my own length, buckled the

bridle, and led him forth. In all my "school experience" I had never

seen an animal that pleased me so much; his well-arched neck and

slightly-dipped back showed that an Arab cross had mingled with the

stronger qualities of the Norman horse. I sprung to my saddle with

delight; to be astride such a beast was to kindle up all the enthusiasm

of my nature, and as I grasped the reins, and urged him forward, I was

half wild with excitement.

Apparently the animal was accustomed to more gentle treatment, for he

gave a loud snort, such as a surprised or frightened horse will give,

and then bounded forward once or twice, as if to dismount me. This

failing, he reared up perfectly straight, pawing madly, and threatening

even to fall backward. I saw that I had, indeed, selected a wicked one;

for in every bound and spring, in every curvet and leap, the object was

clearly to unseat the rider. At one instant he would crouch, as if to

lie down, and then bound up several feet in the air, with a toss up of

his haunches that almost sent me over the head. At another he would

spring from side to side, writhing and twisting like a fish, till the

saddle seemed actually slipping away from his lithe body. Not only did I

resist all these attacks, but vigorously continued to punish with whip

and spur the entire time--a proceeding, I could easily see, he was not

prepared for. At last, actually maddened with his inability to throw me,

and enraged by my continuing to spur him, he broke away, and dashing

headlong forward, rushed into the very thickest of the grove.

Fortunately for me, the trees were either shrubs or of stunted growth,

so that I had only to keep my saddle to escape danger; but suddenly

emerging from this, he gained the open sward, and as if his passion

became more furious as he indulged it, he threw up his head, and struck

out in full gallop. I had but time to see that he was heading for the

great fosse of the boulevard, when we were already on its brink. A

shout, and a cry of I know not what, came from the tower; but I heard

nothing more. Mad as the maddened animal himself, perhaps at that moment

just as indifferent to life, I dashed the spurs into his flanks, and

over we went, lighting on the green sward as easily as a seagull on a

wave. To all seeming, the terrible leap had somewhat sobered _him_; but

on me it had produced the very opposite effect. I felt that I had gained

the mastery, and resolved to use it. With unrelenting punishment, then,

I rode him forward, taking the country as it lay straight before me. The

few fences which divided the great fields were too insignificant to be

called leaps, and he took them in the "sling" of his stretching gallop.

He was now subdued, yielding to every turn of my wrist, and obeying

every motive of my will like an instinct. It may read like a petty

victory; but he who has ever experienced the triumph over an enraged and

powerful horse, well knows that few sensations are more pleasurably

exciting. High as is the excitement of being borne along in full speed,

leaving village and spire, glen and river, bridge and mill behind

you--now careering up the mountain side, with the fresh breeze upon your

brow; now diving into the dark forest, startling the hare from her

cover, and sending the wild deer scampering before you--it is still

increased by the sense of a victory, by feeling that the mastery is with

you, and that each bound of the noble beast beneath you has its impulse

in your own heart.

Although the cavalry squadrons I was dispatched to overtake had quitted

Nancy four hours before, I came up with them in less than an hour, and

inquiring for the officer in command, rode up to the head of the

division. He was a thin, gaunt-looking, stern-featured man who listened

to my message without changing a muscle.

"Who sent you with this order?" said he.

"A general officer, sir, whose name I don't know; but who told me to

take his own horse and follow you."

"Did he tell you to kill the animal, sir," said he, pointing to the

heaving flanks and shaking tail of the exhausted beast.

"He bolted with me at first, major, and having cleared the ditch of the

Boulevard, rode away with me."

"Why it's Colonel Mahon's Arab, 'Aleppo,'" said another officer; "what

could have persuaded him to mount an orderly on a best worth ten

thousand francs?"

I thought I'd have fainted, as I heard these words; the whole

consequences of my act revealed themselves before me, and I saw arrest,

trial, sentence, imprisonment, and heaven knew what afterward, like a

panorama rolling out to my view.

"Tell the colonel, sir," said the major, "that I have taken the north

road, intending to cross over at Beaumont; that the artillery trains

have cut up the Metz road so deeply that cavalry can not travel; tell

him that I thank him much for his politeness in forwarding this dispatch

to me; and tell him, that I regret the rules of active service should

prevent my sending back an escort to place yourself under arrest, for

the manner in which you have ridden--you hear, sir?"

I touched my cap in salute.

"Are you certain, sir, that you have my answer correctly?"

"I am, sir."

"Repeat it, then."

I mentioned the reply, word for word, as he spoke it.

"No, sir," said he, as I concluded; "I said for unsoldierlike and cruel

treatment to your horse."

One of his officers whispered something in his ear, and he quietly

added--

"I find that I had not used these words, but I ought to have done so;

give the message, therefore, as you heard it at first."

"Mahon will shoot him, to a certainty," muttered one of the captains.

"I'd not blame him," joined another; "that horse saved his life at

Quiberon, when he fell in with a patrol; and look at him now!"

The major made a sign for me to retire, and I turned and set out toward

Nancy, with the feelings of a convict on the way to his fate.

If I did not feel that these brief records of an humble career were

"upon honor," and that the only useful lesson a life so unimportant can

teach is, the conflict between opposing influences, I might possibly be

disposed to blink the avowal, that, as I rode along toward Nancy, a very

great doubt occurred to me as to whether I ought not to desert! It is a

very ignoble expression; but it must out. There were not in the French

service any of those ignominious punishments which, once undergone, a

man is dishonored forever, and no more admissible to rank with men of

character than if convicted of actual crime; but there were marks of

degradation, almost as severe, then in vogue, and which men dreaded with

a fear nearly as acute--such, for instance, as being ordered for service

at the Bagne de Brest, in Toulon--the arduous duty of guarding the

galley slaves, and which was scarcely a degree above the condition of

the condemned themselves. Than such a fate as this, I would willingly

have preferred death. It was, then, this thought that suggested

desertion; but I soon rejected the unworthy temptation, and held on my

way toward Nancy.

Aleppo, if at first wearied by the severe burst, soon rallied, while he

showed no traces of his fiery temper, and exhibited few of fatigue; and

as I walked along at his side, washing his mouth and nostrils at each

fountain I passed, and slackening his saddle-girths, to give him

freedom, long before we arrived at the suburbs he had regained all his

looks, and much of his spirit.

At last we entered Nancy about nightfall, and, with a failing heart, I

found myself at the gate of the Ducal palace. The sentries suffered me

to pass unmolested, and entering, I took my way through the court-yard,

toward the small gate of the garden, which, as I had left it, was

unlatched.

It was strange enough, the nearer I drew toward the eventful moment of

my fate, the more resolute and composed my heart became. It is possible,

thought I, that in a fit of passion he will send a ball through me, as

the officer said. Be it so--the matter is the sooner ended. If, however,

he will condescend to listen to my explanation, I may be able to assert

my innocence, at least so far as intention went. With this comforting

conclusion, I descended at the stable door. Two dragoons in undress were

smoking, as they lay at full length upon a bench, and speedily arose as

I came up.

"Tell the colonel he's come, Jacques," said one, in a loud voice, and

the other retired; while the speaker, turning toward me, took the bridle

from my hand, and led the animal in, without vouchsafing a word to me.

"An active beast that," said I, affecting the easiest and coolest

indifference. The soldier gave me a look of undisguised amazement, and I

continued,

"He has had a bad hand on him, I should say--some one too flurried and

too fidgety to give confidence to a hot-tempered horse."

Another stare was all the reply.

"In a little time, and with a little patience, I'd make him as gentle as

a lamb."

"I am afraid you'll not have the opportunity," replied he,

significantly; "but the colonel, I see, is waiting for you, and you can

discuss the matter together."

The other dragoon had just then returned, and made me a sign to follow

him. A few paces brought us to the door of a small pavilion, at which a

sentry stood, and having motioned to me to pass in, my guide left me. An

orderly sergeant at the same instant appeared, and beckoning to me to

advance, he drew aside a curtain, and pushing me forward, let the heavy

folds close behind me; and now I found myself in a richly-furnished

chamber, at the farther end of which an officer was at supper with a

young and handsome woman. The profusion of wax lights on the table--the

glitter of plate, and glass, and porcelain--the richness of the lady's

dress, which seemed like the costume of a ball--were all objects

distracting enough, but they could not turn me from the thought of my

own condition; and I stood still and motionless, while the officer, a

man of about fifty, with dark and stern features, deliberately scanned

me from head to foot. Not a word did he speak, not a gesture did he

make, but sat, with his black eyes actually piercing me. I would have

given any thing for some outbreak of anger, some burst of passion, that

would have put an end to this horrible suspense, but none came; and

there he remained several minutes, as if contemplating something too new

and strange for utterance. "This must have an end," thought I--"here

goes;" and so, with my hand in salute, I drew myself full up, and said,

"I carried your orders, sir, and received for answer that Major

Roquelard had taken the north road advisedly, as that by Beaumont was

cut up by the artillery trains; that he would cross over to the Metz

Chaussée as soon as possible; that he thanked you for the kindness of

your warning, and regretted that the rules of active service precluded

his dispatching an escort of arrest along with me, for the manner in

which I had ridden with the order."

"Any thing more?" asked the colonel, in a voice that sounded thick and

guttural with passion.

"Nothing more, sir."

"No further remark or observation?"

"None, sir--at least from the major."

"What then--from any other?"

"A captain, sir, whose name I do not know, did say something."

"What was it?"

"I forget the precise words, sir, but their purport was, that Colonel

Mahon would certainly shoot me when I got back."

"And you replied?"

"I don't believe I made any reply at the time, sir."

"But you thought, sir--what were your thoughts?"

"I thought it very like what I'd have done myself in a like case,

although certain to be sorry for it afterward."

Whether the emotion had been one for some time previous restrained, or

that my last words had provoked it suddenly, I can not tell, but the

lady here burst out into a fit of laughter, but which was as suddenly

checked by some sharp observation of the colonel, whose stern features

grew sterner and darker every moment.

"There we differ, sir," said he, "for _I_ should not." At the same

instant he pushed his plate away, to make room on the table for a small

portfolio, opening which he prepared to write.

"You will bring this paper," continued he, "to the 'Prevot Marshal.'

To-morrow morning you shall be tried by a regimental court-martial, and

as your sentence may probably be the galleys and hard labor--"

"I'll save them the trouble," said I, quietly drawing my sword; but

scarcely was it clear of the scabbard when a shriek broke from the lady,

who possibly knew not the object of my act; at the same instant the

colonel bounded across the chamber, and striking me a severe blow upon

the arm, dashed the weapon from my hand to the ground.

"You want the 'fusillade'--is that what you want?" cried he, as, in a

towering fit of passion, he dragged me forward to the light. I was now

standing close to the table; the lady raised her eyes toward me, and at

once broke out into a burst of laughter; such hearty, merry laughter,

that, even with the fear of death before me, I could almost have joined

in it.

"What is it--what do you mean, Laure?" cried the colonel angrily.

"Don't you see it?" said she, still holding her kerchief to her

face--"can't you perceive it yourself? He has only one mustache!"

I turned hastily toward the mirror beside me, and there was the fatal

fact revealed--one gallant curl disported proudly over the left cheek,

while the other was left bare.

"Is the fellow mad--a mountebank?" said the colonel, whose anger was now

at its white heat.

"Neither, sir," said I, tearing off my remaining mustache, in shame and

passion together. "Among my other misfortunes I have that of being

young; and what's worse, I was ashamed of it; but I begin to see my

error, and know that a man may be old without gaining either in dignity

or temper."

With a stroke of his closed fist upon the table, the colonel made every

glass and decanter spring from their places, while he uttered an oath

that was only current in the days of that army. "This is beyond belief,"

cried he. "Come, gredin, you have at least had one piece of good

fortune: you've fallen precisely into the hands of one who can deal with

you. Your regiment?"

"The Ninth Hussars."

"Your name."

"Tiernay."

"Tiernay; that's not a French name?"

"Not originally; we were Irish once."

"Irish!" said he, in a different tone from what he had hitherto used.

"Any relative of a certain Comte Maurice de Tiernay, who once served in

the Royal Guard?"

"His son, sir."

"What--his son! Art certain of this, lad? You remember your mother's

name, then; what was it?"

"I never knew which was my mother," said I. "Mademoiselle de la

Lasterie, or--"

He did not suffer me to finish, but throwing his arms around my neck,

pressed me to his bosom.

"You are little Maurice, then," said he, "the son of my old and valued

comrade! Only think of it, Laure--I was that boy's godfather."

Here was a sudden change in my fortunes; nor was it without a great

effort that I could credit the reality of it, as I saw myself seated

between the colonel and his fair companion, both of whom overwhelmed me

with attention. It turned out that Colonel Mahon had been a

fellow-guardsman with my father, for whom he had ever preserved the

warmest attachment. One of the few survivors of the "Garde du Corps," he

had taken service with the republic, and was already reputed as one of

the most distinguished cavalry officers.

"Strange enough, Maurice," said he to me, "there was something in your

look and manner, as you spoke to me there, that recalled your poor

father to my memory; and, without knowing or suspecting why, I suffered

you to bandy words with me, while at another moment I would have ordered

you to be ironed and sent to prison."

Of my mother, of whom I wished much to learn something, he would not

speak, but adroitly changed the conversation to the subject of my own

adventures, and these he made me recount from the beginning. If the lady

enjoyed all the absurdities of my checkered fortune with a keen sense of

the ridiculous, the colonel apparently could trace in them but so many

resemblances to my father's character, and constantly broke out into

exclamations of "How like him!" "Just what he would have done himself!"

"His own very words!" and so on.

It was only in a pause of the conversation, as the clock on the

mantle-piece struck eleven, that I was aware of the lateness of the

hour, and remembered that I should be on the punishment-roll the next

morning, for absence from quarters.

"Never fret about that, Maurice, I'll return your name as on a special

service; and to have the benefit of truth on our side, you shall be

named one of my orderlies, with the grade of corporal."

"Why not make him a sous-lieutenant?" said the lady, in a half whisper.

"I'm sure he is better worth his epaulets than any I have seen on your

staff."

"Nay, nay," muttered the colonel, "the rules of the service forbid it.

He'll win his spurs time enough, or I'm much mistaken."

While I thanked my new and kind patron for his goodness, I could not

help saying that my heart was eagerly set upon the prospect of actual

service; and that, proud as I should be of his protection, I would

rather merit it by my conduct, than owe my advancement to favor.

"Which simply means that you are tired of Nancy, and riding drill, and

want to see how men comport themselves where the man[oe]uvres are not

arranged beforehand. Well, so far you are right, boy. I shall, in all

likelihood, be stationed here for three or four months, during which you

may have advanced a stage or so toward those epaulets my fair friend

desires to see upon your shoulders. You shall, therefore, be sent

forward to your own corps. I'll write to the colonel to confirm the rank

of corporal: the regiment is at present on the Moselle, and, if I

mistake not, will soon be actively employed. Come to me to-morrow,

before noon, and be prepared to march with the first detachments that

are sent forward."

A cordial shake of the hand followed these words; and the lady having

also vouchsafed me an equal token of her good-will, I took my leave, the

happiest fellow that ever betook himself to quarters after hours, and as

indifferent to the penalties annexed to the breach of discipline as if

the whole code of martial law were a mere fable.

Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, No. 4, September, 1850 · 第 1 / 6 章